Joan Pickart - Body of Evidence

“Each bag is tagged,” she told the person in charge, even though nothing that wasn’t tagged could be logged in. “I’ll be picking up several of the bags during the next few days for further testing.” Maggie was mostly referring to Franklin Gardner’s collection of ice picks. They were suspiciously lacking in fingerprints-possibly wiped clean by Franklin ’s attacker-and two had trace amounts of blood. She needed more time on them.

She was walking out to her car when it dawned on her that Josh Benton hadn’t called. Feeling slighted personally was one thing, but professionally? No way, she thought. Her work today had accomplished a great deal, and she fully intended on staying right in the middle of this investigation. Instead of going home, she drove to the Detective Bureau, parked her car and walked in. Sometimes the place was pure bedlam. This evening, it was merely busy.

Maggie collected her written messages on her way past the duty officer, gave them a quick look and saw nothing that couldn’t wait, then proceeded to the desk she had been assigned two months ago. It was in a room crammed with file cabinets and about twenty other desks. The only items on hers were a telephone and a silent, blank-faced computer.

Passing up her desk, Maggie went in search of Detective Benton. His desk, she had discovered, was in a different room, one that was divided into tiny cubicles. It wasn’t the Ritz, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was something Maggie aspired to herself one day. It wouldn’t happen for years, she knew, but it gave her pleasure to think of that far-off event.

The door of Josh’s private space was open. Maggie peered in and saw Josh talking on the phone. He saw her, as well, and waved her in. She chose a chair and waited for him to finish.

He finally did, and while putting down the phone he asked her, “How’d it go at the lab?”

“Routinely,” she replied. She laid some papers on his desk. “Reports of my preliminary exam of the victim in situ. I haven’t finished with the ice picks, but there are no prints on them, not even a smudge. Wiped clean would be my guess, but two of them show trace amounts of blood. Type O-positive on one, animal blood on the other. Another guess is that that one was used to pry frozen steaks apart, or some kind of meat. If it becomes important, I can, of course, run further tests and identify the specie of animal. As for the other, do we know Franklin Gardner’s blood type?”

“O-positive,” Josh said calmly.

Maggie’s gaze locked with Josh’s. “Then that ice pick could be the murder weapon.”

“Could be,” Josh concurred. “On first look, the M.E. agreed that cause of death could be the head wound, the chest wounds or both, which we already surmised. But we won’t know anything for sure until we get his autopsy report, which he hasn’t yet faxed over. I asked for a rush job, but you know how that goes.”

“Did you mention the media interest in the case?”

“Pulled every string I could. But our most recent murder victim isn’t the only one in Chicago whose name makes the general population genuflect,” Josh said dryly. “Anyhow, the report could come in anytime.”

“How about fingerprint analysis of the apartment? Those guys lifted dozens of specimens from doorways, tables, the bar and on and on. Do we have anything in writing from that direction yet?”

“No. They said they would have some results by tomorrow. I was told that two captains drove out to the Gardner mansion to inform Franklin ’s mother of his death.”

Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Captains? I thought you would go, so you could see her reaction. Were you told how she took the news?”

“Are you thinking that Franklin ’s mother might have something to do with his premature demise?”

“Don’t look so skeptical. Anything’s possible. Everyone Franklin knew is a suspect until we know otherwise. There was no sign of forced entry into either the building, the private elevator or the penthouse. Franklin admitted his killer himself, so it had to be someone he knew…or hoped to know. What about his love life? Did he have a girlfriend…or more than one? Maybe the reason he was killed twice, as you so delicately put it earlier today, was because it was a crime of passion. You know, where the killer is so emotionally wound up that he or she doesn’t know when to quit.”

“You have a good imagination.”

“Can’t be an investigative cop without one.”

“It helps…but it can also hinder. We do our best work with provable facts.”

“When they’re available, yes, but when they’re not we had better be able to connect the dots…or the circumstantial evidence…all on our own. How about the housekeeper? Did anyone interrogate her yet, and is she being permitted to stay at the apartment? Nothing should be disturbed…or cleaned…in that place.”

“Really?” Josh drawled. “Gosh, I didn’t know that.”

Maggie’s face reddened. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to patronize. But what did you do with Miriam Hobart?”

“Threw her into the deepest, darkest dungeon in Chicago. What else would I do with the housekeeper of a murder victim?”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“You’re way too serious, Maggie. Lighten up.”

Maggie got to her feet. “I don’t think it’s possible to be ‘too serious’ about a homicide. I’m going home.”

Josh rose. “How about us eating dinner together first?”

Maggie’s pulse quickened, although the way she looked couldn’t possibly be sparking any foolish ideas in Josh Benton’s head. She’d gotten up in the middle of last night and come to work without a speck of makeup on her face and barely a hairdo. Even so, she looked worse now than she had then, because the wear and tear of the day had to show on her face.

“Sorry, but if you’re through with me, I’d like to go home.”

“I’m not through with you, Maggie,” Josh said quietly. “Don’t even think it.”

His tone of voice threw Maggie much more than the words he’d said. Odder still was the strange look on his face, as though he hadn’t meant to sound like the big bad hunter after the little red fox. But surprised or not, they both knew exactly how he had sounded, and Maggie narrowed her eyes at him while he proceeded to put on a tough, almost belligerent expression. It was, Maggie decided, an I-dare-you-to-make-something-out-of-it expression. A cop’s expression, distant and challenging.

She was too tired to take on another challenge today, not even a personal one that she would have loved to pursue at various times during the past ten years.

Deciding to ignore the sexual innuendo she’d just heard in his voice-for the time being, at least-she spoke rather coolly. “If there’s anything else we should discuss this evening, I will, of course, sit down again. If not…?”

Josh wondered what in hell had come over him. This was Maggie, Tim’s kid sister.

“Yeah, go on home. There’s nothing more we have to do tonight. Unless you’re handling other cases that need attention.”

“I have several in process, but I’m up to speed on them. They’re not nearly as urgent as the Gardner homicide, anyway. Well, if that’s it for the day, I’ll say good-night.”

“Oh, there is one thing. Have you worked with Colin Waters?”

Maggie had started to leave, but she turned at the door, wearily leaned her shoulder against the frame and shook her head. “No, but I know who he is. Why?”

“I’ve brought him in on the case. Orders from the powers-that-be are to get this one done fast. Colin is one of the best investigators we have. I talked to him earlier today, and he and his partner, Darien Wilson, are already working on it. Just thought you should know the latest. I’m sure they’ll be glad to read your prelim report.”