William Heffernan: The Dead Detective

Last in line was Jim Mabrey, a fifty-five-year-old former assistant editor for the Tampa Tribune, and now the department’s public information officer. Mabrey would probably have been competent at his job if he was allowed to do it unimpeded. But that was never the case where the press was concerned. Especially in a politically charged situation, where one ranking officer or another always thought they knew how to best handle the media. Mabrey was tall and paunchy, with thick salt-and-pepper hair, a large nose, and heavy bags under his eyes, all of which made him look a bit like a bassett hound. He considered his job part of his retirement, and looked at it with a world-weary eye. If the higher-ups didn’t want him to do the job the right way, he would do it the way they wanted and smile all the way to the bank.

“Okay,” Rourke began, as the quartet came to a halt in front of Harry and Vicky, “you’re in charge of the crime scene, Harry. Tell us where we can and can’t go.”

Harry gave Rourke a look that asked if he really wanted an honest reply. Rourke gave him a stern look of warning in return.

“I really don’t want anyone to go any further than this,” Harry began. “The more people allowed in, the greater the chance of compromising the scene.” He inclined his head toward Vicky. “My partner and I can fill you gentlemen in and show you the Polaroids we took of the body.”

Rourke let out a heavy sigh, knowing what was coming.

Rothman glared at Harry, bristling at the rebuke. “I’m going in and you’re taking me,” he snapped.

“You’re the chief,” Harry said.

“That’s right, I am,” Rothman replied.

“Then why don’t you follow me and step exactly where I step,” Harry said as he turned and started back into the swamp.

That’s my partner, Vicky thought, as she fought back a smile. Mr. Personality.

Rothman uttered a string of expletives. Harry assumed that one of the chief’s highly polished, dress cordovans had slipped into a soft spot in the swamp’s surface. His back was to the chief, so it was safe to smile without risking the man’s ire, but Harry knew he would have done it even if they were face-to-face. He decided to find another soft spot on the way out, one that would take the chief down to his ankle.

When they reached the body Harry stopped four feet away and extended an arm to keep the chief from stepping any closer. Then he dropped his arm and pointed to the mask that rested on the victim’s chest.

“The mask was on her face when we got here,” Harry said. “So I think it’s safe to assume that we’re the only people, aside from the killer, who know her identity. I’m hoping we can keep it that way a bit longer.”

The chief let out a grunt. “That won’t be easy, detective. The media turned this woman into a national celebrity over the past year. We try to hide who it is, they’ll have our livers for lunch.”

“I just need the department to hold it back until we clear the crime scene,” Harry said. “We stand to lose a lot of evidence if an army of reporters and photographers come marching through here or start hovering overhead in helicopters.”

The chief’s eyes hadn’t left the victim’s body, and now seemed concentrated on the thong underwear that had been pulled aside, exposing Darlene Beckett’s trimmed pubis. “You guys pull that underwear away like hat?” he asked.

“No, sir, that’s the way we found her,” Harry said. “About keeping her identity quiet…” he started again.

“You think she was raped?” the chief asked, ignoring him.

“We can’t be sure until the M.E. conducts an examination. I think she had sex recently, but I don’t see any indication it was rape. About her identity…”

The chief let out another grunt. “We can seal off the trail and keep the press out,” he snapped. “I can get as many men in here as you need to get it done.”

“Chief, there are 8,000 acres in this preserve, and as many ways in. We can’t seal off the whole thing. And we can’t stop helicopters from flying over and telling reporters on the ground where we are. These guys are resourceful as hell when they smell something big. The only way to keep them out is by not telling them until we’re ready.”

Rothman glared at him, his voice turning to ice. “You tell Captain Rourke how many men you need. He’ll tell me, and I’ll send them. That’s what I want from you, detective. End of subject.”

Harry gritted his teeth but kept silent. Nothing he could say to this man would make any difference. Behind him he could hear Vicky briefing the others about the crime scene. She might as well do it on a bullhorn, he thought.

“I’ve seen enough,” Rothman said. “I’m ready to go back.”

Harry stepped past him and began the long circle around to the hiking trail. “Try to step in the same footprints you left coming in,” he said over his shoulder.

Rothman ignored him. Harry tightened his jaw and looked for another soft spot that would swallow Rothman’s shoes.

Harry, Vicky, and Pete Rourke stood next to the pond and watched the two deputies who had been guarding the body lead the brass out.

“Lovely day for a walk in the woods,” Vicky said.

“Don’t you start on me too,” Rourke warned. “We have what we have, and we deal with it.”

“Yes, sir,” Vicky said.

Rourke turned to Harry. “Okay, Doyle, let’s get it over with. Say what you have to say.”

Harry looked at him, his face expressionless. “I’d like to keep all information about the mask and the mutilation away from the media as long as possible.”

Rourke drew a long breath, but it was clear his frustration was not directed at them. He kept his gaze on Harry. “I’ll do what I can, and I’ll do it as forcefully as I can.” He waited for Harry to respond and when he didn’t, continued: “While you were in there with the chief we got a call from the deputy at the head of the trail. The crime scene unit is here. They’re working their way back right now. When I get to my car I’ll call the M.E. and tell him to stop screwing around and get his ass out here; I want that broad’s body out of here as fast as possible. I’ll also tell him to keep his mouth shut. The damn woman’s as much trouble dead as she was alive.” He gave each of them a sharp look. “Now get to work and process the goddamn scene.”

Harry sent Vicky to interview the woman who had found the body and the park ranger who was the first officer on the scene. Then he took his crime scene case and went back in to the body. Squatting beside Darlene Beckett he studied the wound in her throat. Because of the depth and the angle of the cut he decided she had been attacked from behind, that the killer had pulled back her head and drawn the blade across her throat. The cut also appeared to have gone from right to left, indicating the killer had used his left hand. It could also mean that fingerprints from the killer’s right hand might be found on the woman’s face.

Next he studied each of the woman’s hands. There was no clear indication of anything beneath the nails, but as they’d noticed earlier, two nails on the right hand were broken. Clearly Darlene Beckett had tried to fight off her killer. A more detailed examination of what might still be lodged beneath her nails could prove valuable, but that was the medical examiner’s job. Harry took two paper bags out of his crime scene case and bagged each hand, making sure nothing that was still under the nails would be lost when the body was transported to the morgue. In the process he noted that rigor mortis had fully set in. Right now he needed to know an approximate time of death, and he knew rigor was the least likely way to get it. He tried a simpler, more accurate test and inserted a hand into Darlene Beckett’s underarm. It was cold and clammy to the touch, telling him she had died eighteen to twenty-four hours ago. That time period would be narrowed during the autopsy, when the M.E. examined the contents of the gastrointestinal tract. He also checked for postmortem lividity and found that Darlene Beckett had probably been transported on her back after being killed.