Another Word for Murder (29 page)

Al sat up straight and looked at Abe, who nodded in silent agreement with the assessment. “Okay, Herb …” Lever said after a moment. “Let me have it.”

“First off, O'Connell was loaded up with OxyContin to the point of an overdose. That isn't what killed him, though…. Of course, being stoned or drunk isn't necessarily inconsistent with a suicide; a lot of people have to get high as a kite in order to get up the guts to take their own life.”

Lever didn't respond, and Carlyle interpreted the lack of interruption as tacit approval. He continued to catalog his findings. “Cause of death: asphyxiation. But our killer was slick; he knew what he was up to. The angle of the bruises around O'Connell's neck are almost exactly what a suicide by hanging would have produced.” One of Carlyle's ghoulish smiles spread across his face. “But
almost
ain't good enough…. My theory is that our boy was strangled with the same piece of rope he was then left hanging from.”

Lever opened his mouth to ask a question, but Carlyle raised a hand to silence him.

“I know what you're going to say, Al; ropes can slip; angles can shift. But in this case, the garrote was almost too precise—like someone with military training did the job…. However, the real kicker is this: As you can see in the photo I've marked number four, there are faint bruises on O'Connell's arms, just up from the elbows. They were covered by his shirt when we found his body. My belief is that the parallel positioning of the discoloration indicates that he'd been tied, arms behind his back, right up until the time he expired. I also have reason to think he'd been gagged. White cotton samples were detected within his mouth, perhaps from an athletic sock. It was most likely held in place with a ski mask to avoid leaving marks on his face. There's no indication that duct tape, or the like, was used.”

“Our murderer knew what he was up to by faking a suicide,” Lever echoed Carlyle's statement. There was a good deal of resignation in the tone.

“No doubt about it…. Now, although O'Connell's arms were bound, his wrists were not. Obviously, our perp was hoping no bruises would surface on the upper arms after the victim stopped breathing. Also, his hair and mustache were cut
after
death, which is consistent with Jones's findings.”

Al glanced at Abe, who then continued. “We found a number of hair samples in the carpet at Frank's apartment.”

“Any thoughts as to why?” Lever asked Carlyle.

“Why the murder was set up to look like a suicide or why the guy's hair was cut?”

“Either one.”

“Not a clue, Lieutenant. That's your business not mine.” There was a discernible level of glee in Carlyle's voice.

“Boy, oh boy …” Al stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. “You know the longer we walk in these woods, the more lost we're getting, and I have a really bad feeling we may end up with more than
two
cases of homicide before we find the right path out of here.”

Abe nodded. “It's a curve ball, all right.”

“I guess there's a possibility that O'Connell's murder has
nothing
to do with Tacete's death…. ” Lever pondered aloud. “It could have been a drug deal gone south, maybe even a mob hit …”

“It's a possibility, Al,” Abe agreed, although his tone indicated he didn't believe those two scenarios applied. “But let's be realistic; O'Connell was driving the doctor's car around. That only points to one conclusion.”

Lever returned his focus to Carlyle. “Time of death?”

“I'm placing it between two and four
A.M
.”

“And did he die there? Or was the body brought in?”

It was Jones who answered. “I'm guessing he was killed in the apartment. There's no way someone carries a body up those narrow stairs without leaving marks on the corpse or the hallway. Plus, there are neighbors. Bringing a buddy home late at night, drunk or doped up is one thing. Carrying a dead man is another story altogether. My hunch is that Frank was so wigged out on the Oxy that he didn't know where the heck he was…. And he was in no condition to fight back once he felt the noose go around his neck.”

Lever pulled a pen from his breast pocket and made a note in his own file. “Have you been able to match O'Connell's fingerprints with the odd set on the Corvette?”

Abe shook his head. “We're working on that right now. But I'm certain—” He was interrupted by a loud cough from Carlyle.

“Yes, Herb, what is it?” Lever said.

Carlyle tapped his wristwatch. “It's five o'clock. If you're done with me, I'd like to leave here at a decent hour today.” Without waiting for a reply, the medical examiner stood and pushed his report closer to Lever. “It's all in there, Lieutenant. If you have any questions, I'll be back at nine tomorrow morning.” Carlyle then turned and walked out the door.

After he left Jones said, “No one would ever accuse Herb of being a workaholic, would they?”

Lever chuckled and stubbed out his cigarette. “Yep, he's a happy camper when people have the good sense to get murdered nine-to-five.” Then he leaned back in his chair once more, raised his arms, and placed his beefy hands behind the back of his head. “I got an interesting little tidbit back from Craigor Autobody about an hour ago. That's the body shop in the Boston area that's across the street from the gas station where Frank fueled up the Explorer. The guy at Craigor said O'Connell brought the vehicle in for a paint job immediately after he'd left the filling station. He paid in cash. The car went in white, came out red. A real quickie. Frank had it back in four hours.”

“So that confirms Rosco and Belle's theory.”

“Yeah, but there's more. Craigor is known for quick turnaround time, but it's an appointment-only shop. Frank scheduled the paint job almost three weeks prior to bringing it in on Thursday.”

“Which supports the notion that this was a well-orchestrated crime.”

Al chortled. “It gets better, my friend. Apparently, the same vehicle was brought in nine months ago for body work on the right front fender. The owner said she hit a deer.”

“She?”

“She. The Explorer's registered to Karen Johnson Tacete, remember?”

“And nine months ago?”

“What the man said, Abe.”

“You're not going to tell me he was still able to describe the woman after all that time, are you, Al?”

“‘A babe. Blonde. A gorgeous blonde.' Exact words.”

Silence hung in the room. Neither Lever or Jones looked at each other; instead, they stared into the middle distance, but it was clear from the intense concentration apparent on both faces that they were pondering the same thing.

“A deer, huh?” Abe finally muttered. “And she didn't go to a local shop?”

“It kinda makes you wonder, doesn't it?”

“Nine months ago was when the Snyder kid was killed…. ”

“That's what I was thinking, too.”

Jones fell silent again as he drummed his fingers on the table. “I know it's a real longshot …”

“Since when did that stop you, Abe?”

“Let me see if I can lift any DNA from the vehicle.
If
the tires are still the same, and
if
it's the crime vehicle …” Jones let his words trail off while Lever brought his hands back down to his lap, another thoughtful expression crossing his face.

“Which brings us back to, Who killed Cock-Robin?” he said. “What do you make of all this, Abe? Any theories?”

“Are you talking about Tacete, O'Connell, or the Snyder boy?”

“Take your pick.”

Jones reached for Carlyle's folder, opened it, and began leafing through the photos and papers. “Leaving the Synder situation alone for the moment … let's go back to Frank, and let's assume he was involved in Tacete's death…. I realize Frank's sister claims he wouldn't have hurt Dan, but, from my point of view, the evidence refutes that statement. I would also guess there were at least two people involved in the doctor's kidnapping and death and that O'Connell either had an accomplice—or that someone else masterminded the scheme and solicited his help. And that
other
person then killed Frank. Maybe it was a matter of a deal gone sour … or maybe someone was trying to cover their tracks.”

“But why was so much of the cash left in O'Connell's apartment?”

“To make us believe that Frank was a lone ranger; i.e., the perp hangs himself because of his terrible remorse. Case solved; the party's over.” Jones brushed the palms of hands together two or three times to emphasize the point. “No more police investigation. Whoever killed O'Connell must have been banking on the NPD dismissing the death as what it originally appeared: a drugged-up murderer checking out.”

“Which means that whoever was working with Frank didn't need the money that desperately. So what did they want?”

“A dead Dan Tacete seems the logical answer; Frank's
supposed
suicide may have been part of the plan from the git-go.”

Lever reached for another cigarette, but Abe held up his hands. “This room's awfully small, Al. Could you hold off on that one? For me?”

Lever grumbled and returned the pack to his shirt pocket. “If your theory's true, Abe, and I'm inclined to agree with you, then we have a wealthy killer on our hands—which
could
lead to the partner, Jack Wagner.”

Jones only shrugged.

“What?” Al asked incredulously. “It goes like this—” Lever began ticking off his reasons on his fingers. “Wagner's sick and tired of working with Tacete. We know that for a fact. But if he breaks up the business, he loses half his customers—who follow Dan to a new location…. Then Jack happens to meet his receptionist's lowlife brother and decides to set him up—while supplying Frankie as much OxyContin as he wants. Wagner also has enough cash to buy the second Corvette without breaking stride—”

“You don't know how much I'd love to take that bet,” Abe interrupted with a laugh. “But I'm too fond of you…. I've already gone there, Al. Wagner's still in the Army Reserves. His fingerprints are on file. He's one of the first people I checked out. The prints on the 'Vette aren't his.”

“Okay, so they belong to Frank; that doesn't change my theory. I still say Jack Wagner's our boy. Who else would leave that much cash in O'Connell's apartment? And the garrote? Carlyle described it as ‘military'; and you just said Wagner's in the Reserves.”

“As a
dentist
, Al.” Jones smiled and shook his head. “Not Special Forces. And dentists aren't supposed to strangle people—no matter how much they squawk about root canals…. But here's my theory. I'm a passionate guy, remember, and murder's very often a crime of passion. I say go back and question Karen Tacete. You might want to ask her why she went up to Beantown nine months ago while you're at it.”

“What about this missing Rob Rossi?”

“Ever hear of a love triangle?”

CHAPTER 35

Belle and Rosco turned into Karen Tacete's driveway shortly after six
P.M
. Al Lever's brown sedan had preceded them by half a minute, and Al was in the midst of exiting his unmarked NPD vehicle as Rosco pulled to a stop and set the emergency brake. “I hate doing this good cop/bad cop routine,” Belle grumbled aloud as she watched Al shove the driver's door closed and begin ambling toward them.

“Better than doing an all bad-cop act,” was Rosco's wisecracking retort.

“Har, har. Very funny …” Belle produced a resigned sigh. “First Bonnie, now Karen…. Why can't I just be a crossword editor, without having crime investigation added to my job description?”

“You're the one who refers to herself as ‘an operative with the Polycrates Agency'; or was it sub-contractor?”

“Twice, Rosco! I've only used that term two times! … Okay, maybe a little more … but the last I heard cruciverbalists weren't moonlighting as criminologists.”

“Well, cheer up, then. You've discovered an important niche market—Belle Graham, the Celebrated Cruci-crimi-verbologist.”

“Cruci-crimi-verbologist isn't a word.”

“Maybe it should become one. Why don't you submit it to the O.E.D?” Rosco chuckled while Belle suppressed a second lengthy sigh, his lighthearted tone failing to win her over.

“Okay,” she muttered after another quiet moment, “no point in postponing the inevitable.”

By this time Al Lever had reached their car. Rosco and Belle climbed out of their seats; the two men shook hands, and Al turned to Belle. “I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help in all this…. I know it's not easy, Karen being your buddy and everything…. So, all I can say is thanks. Really. From the bottom of my heart.”

Belle smiled at him, her grousing all at once a thing of the past. She kissed him on the cheek. “What a secret softie you are, Al.”

“That's not the scuttlebutt at the NPD.”

“I'll keep the good news to myself, then,” was Belle's teasing reply. “There's no point in polishing up a reputation that's been so carefully scoured into a dull and rusty finish.”

The three walked toward Karen's house. “She knows we're coming, right?” Rosco asked Al.

“Correct. But she's not happy about it. In fact, the only reason she agreed to meet this evening was because Belle would be joining us.”

“So much for
my
popularity,” Rosco jested, although his tone had taken on a serious edge. “And she was offered an opportunity to have a lawyer present? I'm more than a little surprised she opted to pass. It doesn't sound like the wife of a professional, if you ask me.”

“Her position appears to be ‘bereaved and innocent widow done wrong by the slackers in the police force.' Why would she need a lawyer?”