Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

Which was something he couldn’t say about Scotty. His obsession with Fitzpatrick was starting to wear thin. The guy really needed to get a life. Or a new girl. None of which explained why Scotty needed her assigned to this case, because God only knew the guy had no trouble picking up the phone to find out what the hell she was working on at any given day and time. Bad enough Carillo had to deal with his own wife and her daily diatribes about alimony, lawyers, and anything else she could torment him with.

They were nearly to the Hill City turnoff when Fitzpatrick’s cell phone rang. She answered with a brisk “Fitzpatrick,” listened for a moment, then, “What do you mean there is no note? I was specifically told one existed, that it was booked into evidence… That’s bullshit, and you know it.” She flipped the phone closed, looked out the side window, her body rigid. “Idiots.”

“Something wrong?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

And sure as shit, she didn’t say one word for the rest of the trip. Just the way he liked it. Unfortunately he had to break the silence when they got to Hill City, because one thing he hated was surprises, and he wanted to know what the hell to expect. When she informed him, he figured she was exaggerating a bit by saying Detective Rodale hadn’t made much progress on the case because the victim was a woman, Rodale didn’t like women, and especially didn’t like FBI women. As they walked into the station, what went through his mind was that she was laying it on a little thick.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Carillo said, when they walked out fifteen minutes later, undeveloped photos in hand.

“Didn’t believe me, did you?”

“Someone needs to take that idiot’s big fat rodeo belt buckle and shove it down his throat.”

“You volunteering?”

“Wouldn’t waste my time.” He handed her the film, then unlocked the car. “Two weeks. He’s been sitting on this for two fucking weeks, and never once pulled it out to develop it.”

They got in the car, drove to the downtown area, looking for a one-hour photo developer, and found one on the main strip, El Camino Real.

Back in their vehicle, Fitzpatrick thumbed through the pictures while he drove to the crime scene. The park was a grassy area with a few oak trees and a covered picnic area adjacent to a marsh that gave way to the bay. A steady wind swept off the gray choppy water, bending the reeds in the marsh. Nice place for a summer barbecue beneath the covered picnic area, but in the winter probably unused by any but school kids looking for a quiet place, out of view of the cops, maybe drink a few beers in their cars. Too damned cold, otherwise, with the constant wind.

Of course the cold was to their advantage. It kept the people out, which meant there might be something left at the crime scene. Then again, the rain that came down the other night undoubtedly washed out any tire tracks and other trace evidence that might have remained, assuming the PD didn’t run over everything in their haste to get to the body.

Carillo parked at the far end of the lot, away from where the parking spaces butted up against the picnic area. They’d walk the lot first, a grid pattern, hoping to find something. First, though, they sat in the car, viewing the photos, trying to determine where the body was found-about ten feet into the marsh past where the grass ended. There was a shot taken from the parking lot, showing a female uniform standing out in the reeds, pointing down to the body.

“She’s the officer who found the victim,” Fitzpatrick told him as she handed that photo over. “Said that Detective Rodale wasn’t going for a forensic artist, because the victim was just a hooker. She went around his back to get me to do the drawing.”

He held up the photograph so that he could view it against the backdrop of the bay. “Looks like we need to be about thirty yards past the covered picnic area,” he said, then tucked the photo in his pocket. “Guess we’re going to get muddy.”

“ You’re going to get muddy,” she said, handing him the next photo. “ I brought waders in my gear bag.”

“Good partner would’ve warned me there was mud.”

“Ah, but we’re not partners. You don’t even like me.”

“Got a lot on my mind. Divorce, heavy caseload.” He stared out the window, tried to shrug it off like it was no big deal.

She handed him the next photo, asking, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why don’t you like me?”

He was going to kill Scotty for this. “Look, it’s nothing personal. There’s a lot of people in the office I don’t like to work with.”

A few seconds of silence, and he thought, Thank God that’s over. Then, “But specifically why don’t you like to work with me?”

“Jesus, Fitzpatrick. You turning this into one of those Kumbaya things?”

She shoved a photo at him, clearly perturbed. “I just want to know. I’ve been here six months, and no one stands around my desk and jokes.”

He studied her to see if she was really serious. Apparently she was. “Okay, I’ll bite. You’re like the fucking Eagle Scout of FBI agents. Pollyanna with a gun, a rule book, and no sense of humor.”

“I have a sense of humor.”

He noted she didn’t dispute the other two claims, and wondered if maybe he’d been a bit too hard on her, when she seemed to be staring at the next photo a little too long. And just when he was about to apologize, tell her it wasn’t all that bad, she started humming the tune to “Kumbaya, My Lord.” He laughed. “Touche, Pollyanna. E for effort and T for truce?”

She looked over at him, said nothing for a second or two, seemed to consider it, then, “Fine. Truce.”

“Just don’t expect perfection right away.”

“ No worries there,” she said, handing him the last photo, a close-up of the victim lying in the marsh, her filmy pale eyes staring up at nothing. She was wearing a once-white shirt, now stained with blood, mud, and dirt.

They got out, and Carillo popped open the trunk, while Fitzpatrick scraped her hair back into a ponytail, fighting against the salt-tinged wind. They each had a bag of gear in the trunk, and he handed hers out to her.

She put on her waders, then stood there for a moment, looked out over the marsh toward the area where the body had been found. If anything, she seemed preoccupied, more than she should have been, even after their strange talk, and he wondered if that phone call she’d received was part of it. He moved beside her, stared toward the water, heard nothing but the wind drumming in his ears. “Let’s get started,” he said.

They traversed the parking lot, looking for anything that might have been missed, before making a sweep of the grass, seeing several muddy-water-filled scars left in the turf, indistinguishable for any purposes of tire identification. The wet grass quickly soaked through his shoe leather as he walked the distance to the covered picnic area. It was there that he looked over and noticed some muddy tire tracks on the cement, as though a vehicle had pulled up beneath the shelter.

His gaze followed the smeared, now dried mud, wondering if it was from a police vehicle, perhaps a CSI pulling in to get out of the rain, he thought, noticing the tracks went right up to a table.

Fitzpatrick stopped at the edge of the cement, bent down to get a closer look, perhaps to see if there was a distinguishable pattern that could be photographed. He followed the tracks to the table, scarred with graffiti. Something dark appeared to have been spilled across the surface of the table, and had seeped into several deep and seemingly fresh gouges in the wood before it had dried.

His stomach turned as he realized what he was looking at.