Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

“Why?”

“Bobby Escobar. All of a sudden, Sheriff’s Homicide decided they need to inspect his office, sent their own techies over, but they won’t say why. They’ve been all over us since six a.m.”

“Who’s the lead detective?”

“New replacement, Irvin Wimmers.”

“I know Irv. Good man.”

“I think they’re here just to cover their asses. Anyway, want me to reel Rieffen in at any particular time? Or whatever the hell her name really is.”

“When’s she expected back?”

“Four, five, depending on particulars and drive-time.”

“Let’s aim for five.”

“You got it,” said McClellan. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Milo phoned Sheriff’s Homicide Detective Irvin Wimmers and asked for a meet when Wimmers had time.

Wimmers said, “I’ll make time, Milo. How about now?”

“You don’t even know what it’s about, Irv.”

“You’re calling me is what I know. How many of the same conferences we been to? Denver, D.C., Philadelphia -that fun one in Nashville, all those slides on decomp. When we see each other, we generally sit down for coffee. We get back to L.A., how many times do we call each other?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you how many,” said Wimmers. “Once. That Compton hatchet case, you clued me in on that old file one of your retired guys worked, we ended up nailing the bitch for turning two husbands to hamburger, not just one. So I’m figuring you’ve got something else useful to tell me. Maybe about Escobar? Say yes, it would make my day.”

“It is about Escobar, Irv, but it could turn out to be nothing. Did he have a predictable schedule at the crypt?”

“He had no schedule at all,” said Wimmers. “Going to school, not working there anymore, but they let him keep his key, gave him a little closet office for working on his master’s thesis.”

“What was he researching?”

“The technology of negligent evidence transfer-people screwing up with fingerprint brushes, careless fiber collection, that kind of thing. What’s on your mind, Milo?”

Wimmers listened to the bare-bones recap, said, “That’s pretty freaky-okay, this is something I need to sit down and think about. My partner’s due in soon and I been up since five, need to eat or I’m gonna pass out. Where you calling from?”

“The office.”

“You got the time for meeting about halfway? I know a place, you’ll like it.”

Ruby’s Theatre of Turkey operated from a storefront on Eighth Street just west of Wilton.

Monumental birds dunked into deep-fryers, carved to order, served up glistening.

Irvin Wimmers was a black man taller and wider than Milo, with a pencil mustache and a soul patch and a gleaming shaved head furrowed longitudinally. He wore a double-breasted cinnamon-brown suit, a long-collared maroon shirt, a narrow olive tie patterned with orange battleships.

The platter in front of him held a crisp, brown turkey quarter, chunky cranberry sauce, okra, collard greens, a sweating heap of macaroni and cheese. A side plate hosted biscuits the size of baseballs, sodden with what looked like redeye gravy. Leave your Louisville Slugger at home, the turkey leg would be a fine substitute.

Milo said, “Thanksgiving came early, Irv.”

Wimmers said, “My philosophy, celebrate anytime you get the chance. So how’s it going, City Boy?”

“It’s going.” Quick handclasps. Milo introduced me.

Wimmers said, “I heard about you, Doc. Ever think of coming over to the county side? We’re the one’s really out for truth, justice, and the American way.”

I smiled.

“Unspoken like a true shrink-sit down, guys. Want me to order you half a bird?”

“Quarter’ll do fine, Irv.”

“Each?”

“Both.”

“On a diet, Milo?”

“God forbid.”

Wimmers rumbled amusement. “What’re you drinking? The iced tea’s good, they throw in some pomegranate juice, supposed to be healthy, slow us down from rusting.”

“They’re outta that,” said Milo, “I’ll take WD- 40.”

Wimmers lumbered to the counter, returned with a pair of twenty-four-ounce glasses of red-brown tea. “So you’re thinking this crooked C.I. had something to do with Bobby Escobar?”

“I can’t prove it, Irv, but I’m certain she wiped away a semen stain because it belonged to her boyfriend. And Bobby’s specialty was monkeying with evidence, meaning he coulda been sharp-eyed, seen something.”

“From what I hear, Milo, he was definitely sharp-eyed. Back when he worked as a C.I., he used to get on people’s nerves for being a little too gung-ho, you know? The kid in class who points out the teacher forgot about the test?”

Milo said, “How far was his office from that fridge-closet where they stack up the tagged bodies?”

“Right across the hall,” said Wimmers. “Hmm, ain’t that cute? So let’s frame this: I told you Bobby didn’t have a set schedule but before I drove here I called his wife and she said between school and a part-time job at a medical lab, it wasn’t unusual for him to come in at midnight, stay for a while. Which is exactly what he was doing the morning he got killed. Same for the two days preceding, which was the period when Rieffen would’ve done her tampering. So maybe she sneaks in late to do her mischief, figures no one’s there. But Bobby’s in his office, behind a closed door, typing on his laptop. She goes into the fridge, does her bad thing, just happens to encounter Bobby as he pops out.”

Milo said, “She was official, had a badge, someone else might’ve ignored her. But Bobby got curious.”

“Only problem, Milo, from what I’ve learned about Bobby, he sees something hinky, he reports it. There’s no record he ever did.”

Milo said, “Maybe he left a note on someone’s desk, Rieffen saw it, snatched it.”

“Guess so,” said Wimmers. “But try proving that.”

I said, “Even if Bobby suspected something and checked in the fridge, how would he have found her out? We’re talking evidence removal, how do you confirm the absence of something?”

“Then why bother killing him?”

“Maybe he gave her a look that unsettled her. Or made a comment. Not enough for him to report, but more than enough to get Rieffen worried. She told Monte, he decided to fix the problem.”

“Homicidal boyfriend,” said Wimmers. “Can’t believe she actually finagled herself to process a murder she’d done. That’s gotta be a first.”

“Didn’t take much finagling,” said Milo. “She offered a trade to another C.I. The tipoff is she never bothered to claim her share.”

“Too good to be true,” said Wimmers. “Man, this girl’s a piece of work. Now all we have to do is prove it.”

“What brought you back to Escobar’s office today?”

Wimmer pushed cranberry sauce around his plate. “What brought me back was my perception of the case. It wasn’t mine, initially. Two rookies caught the call, got pulled off to do gang stuff and wrote up the prelim as a robbery gone bad. Given the neighborhood and Escobar’s wallet being gone, that made superficial sense. But when I looked closer, it started to fall apart. Escobar’s cell phone was right there, on the passenger seat. So was a bunch of bling on his person, all inherited from his dad, who was a pawnbroker. I’m talking a big gold ring with a diamond, a gold I.D. bracelet, a gold-and-diamond earring. Stuff that would’ve been easy to fence. Plus, Escobar was sitting behind the wheel of his car when we found him but most of the blood was outside and when I revisited the scene, I found what looked to be drag marks.”

“He got shot outside and put back in?”

“How many armed robbers you know gonna take the time to do that? To me it smelled staged.”