Faye Kellerman: Predator

Decker thought about the theory. “So the perp killed the victim with the gun and a possible whack on the head but didn’t shoot the tiger. Instead, he gave the tiger poisoned meat?”

“Maybe he ran out of bullets. Maybe he did shoot the tiger, but unless the shot was perfect, it would probably take more than a shot from a pistol to bring it down.”

“Do we even know if the tiger was shot?” Decker asked. “It wasn’t walking like it was injured.”

“It sounded pretty pissed off.”

Decker conceded the point. “So you’re figuring that the victim knew the perpetrator and escorted him by the animal to get in. Then the perp shot the victim and gave poisonous meat to the tiger?”

“I have no idea,” Marge said. “Maybe the perp knew the victim and his habits well enough to know how to get around the animal.”

Decker shrugged. “Possibly. Let’s go outside.”

They went into the hallway—hot and humid and stinky. Two uniformed officers were on either side of the door, both of them wearing pained expressions. Detective Scott Oliver looked up from a sheet of paper. He had come down to the scene, dressed in a black suit and a pink shirt. He waved his hand in front of his nose. “I was just about to go out and help Wanda and Drew with interviewing the tenants. We really need to canvass the apartment building.”

“The apartments do need to be canvassed but not by you,” Decker said. “I’m giving Marge and you the vaunted assignment to look for evidence.”

Oliver’s shoulder’s sagged. “Lucky me.”

“Luckier than the victim.”

“What evidence are we talking about?”

Marge said, “The CI found a bullet hole in the body. A dent in his forehead also looks like blunt force trauma. We’re looking for shell casings possibly and a weapon that fits the depression.”

“Have we made an ID for the vic?”

Marge said, “We found a wallet on a dresser with an old ID card belonging to Hobart Penny. It’s hard to tell if the body is him from a small picture.”

“Any driver’s license?”

“Not in the wallet,” Decker said. “I’ve bagged a brush, a toothbrush, and a dirty mug of coffee for DNA evidence.” He turned to Marge. “I know the man was a recluse, but what about relatives? A guy that rich … there must be people we could contact.”

Marge said, “From what I read, he’s twice divorced. The last time he was married was twenty-five years ago. There are two kids from the first wife, whom he divorced thirty-five years ago. The first wife died ten years ago. From what I read, he’s also estranged from his kids because of papa’s odd behavior.”

“Odd is an understatement. What kind of person keeps a tiger as a pet?” When no one offered any psychological insight, Decker said, “How old are his children?”

Marge checked her notes. “The son—Darius—is around fifty-five, wealthy in his own right. He’s a lawyer and some kind of capital venture person. The daughter—Graciela—is fifty-eight. She’s a New York society woman married to a count or a baron.”

“What about the second wife?” Oliver asked. “What happened to her?”

“She”—a flipping of the pages of her notepad—“is still alive … Sabrina Talbot, fifty-eight. The marriage lasted five years.”

“So she was twenty-eight when they married?” Oliver asked.

“Yeah … he was fifty-nine. He gave her a generous settlement, and I read something about his adult children not being happy about it.” Marge looked up. “But this all happened twenty-five years ago. Who holds a grudge for that long?”

“Someone was pissed enough to bash in his head and shoot him,” Oliver said.

Decker said, “I’ll research the family history from the station house. I have access to a computer and it smells a lot better.” He took in Oliver’s sartorial splendor. “You might want to leave your jacket in the car and roll up your pants. Marge has shoe covers for you.”

“Ugh,” Oliver said. “It’s going to be one of those nights.”

“Scotty, it’s already been one of those nights,” Decker answered. “You just arrived fashionably late.”

Marge could almost remember a time when one in the morning meant being asleep. For the last twenty years as a homicide cop, one in the morning meant a phone call directing her to a crime scene, some of them more grisly than others but all of them horrendous. At present, she and Oliver were gathering forensic evidence. Amid the mess and the outrage, there were a few directional arrows that pointed to what went down. When she spotted something shiny winking from a pile of feces, she had a good idea what it was. But that didn’t make the task any more pleasant.

“I don’t really have to do this, do I?” Marge’s question to Oliver was not rhetorical. “I outrank you.”

“But you also love me,” Oliver said.

“Not that much.”

Silence. “Flip a coin?” Oliver suggested.

Marge pulled a quarter from her purse, tossed it in the air, and caught it. “Call.”

“Heads.”

She slapped the coin on the underside of her arm and took away her hand. George Washington was staring up at her. “I’m going to cry now.”

Oliver pretended not to hear, making busy by trying to find a weapon that matched the depression in the victim’s head. Since the coroner’s office had removed the body, he was left with only photographs of the wound. It seemed to be more round than ovoid, about an inch to an inch and a half in diameter. Oliver’s first choice was a hammer. He was attempting to locate a toolbox or a tool drawer.

Cursing her luck, Marge bent down. The smell was atrocious. She wrinkled her nose, and then stuck two gloved fingers into a squishy mound of tiger poop. Extracting the metal, she regarded the slime-coated hunk of steel. “A twenty-two. At least I found something valuable to offset the gross factor. Can you give me a bag, please?”

“Just because you said please.” He handed her an evidence bag. “I guess the logical question was how did a bullet get inside the mound of shit? It doesn’t seem like something an animal would normally eat.”

“Yeah, Decker and I were wondering about why the victim was shot but not the tiger. At least, I don’t think the tiger was shot. We were also thinking about how someone got around the tiger to get to the victim.”

“What’d you come up with?”

“The tiger was drugged by a piece of tainted meat. The tiger knew the perpetrator and didn’t view him—or her—as a threat. The tiger was chained up, so the perp could move in and out without being attacked. Or the tiger was shot, and in all the commotion, no one saw a bullet hole. Let me know if you can think of anything else. I’ll call Agent Wilner in the morning and find out the status of the big girl.”

“Where does one take a stray tiger? Last I heard there was no pound for big cats.”

“There are a few sanctuaries for wild animals. I seem to recall some kind of nonprofit wild animal shelter when I worked in Foothill—around two decades ago, so I don’t even know if it still exists.” Marge dropped the bullet in the bag. “We’ve got a problem.”

“Talk to me.”

“If we already found one bullet in poop, is there other important evidence in poop that we’re choosing to overlook?”

Oliver glared at Marge. He said, “Why don’t we just bag it all and give it to SID?”

“Why don’t I take these two massive piles and you take that one and that one?”

“You can’t assign a rookie to this one?”

“My X-ray eyes are scanning the room as we speak.” Marge turned her head to the left and to the right. “Only you and me, bud.”

“I don’t see why I have to do this.”