Proof Positive (2006) (15 page)

Steve Hooper was feeling lucky. Yesterday, a college basketball team he'd bet on had come back from ten down to beat the spread. Tonight, he and his partner, Jack Vincenzo, had stopped for coffee, and on the way out of the restaurant, Hooper had won twenty-five bucks on a scratch-off ticket. Now, the dispatcher was talking about an anonymous report of an assault in an abandoned lot. But this was no ordinary lot. It was a lot that Hooper knew intimately, a lot he cruised every so often in hopes of catching its sole occupant doing something illegal so he could roust him and beat the shit out of him for resisting arrest.

So far, he'd had no luck. Usually, Jacob Cohen was either out scavenging for food or huddled in his car on the odd occasions that Hooper drove by, but tonight if there really was criminal activity on Hobart and Queen Anne he would have an excuse for creating a dialogue with his favorite pervert. And who knew where that might lead?

Hooper and Vincenzo had been out in the rain, looking for a witness in a homicide, and they were not far from the lot. Hooper radioed in that he'd take the call. He didn't ask for backup, because he didn't want any witnesses if he had the opportunity to fuck Cohen up. He wasn't worried about Vincenzo filing a complaint. Like Hooper, the thick-necked ex-MP had a loosey-goosey attitude toward the rights of the accused.

That's Cohen's lot, isn't it? Vincenzo asked as soon as Hooper got off the radio.

The same. I knew it wouldn't be long before that asshole screwed up.

Hooper parked up the block from the lot, and he and Vincenzo approached on foot. If there was something to the call, he didn't want to alert Jacob to their presence. It was still raining, but the downpour was now just mist and drizzle. Hooper cursed the weather anyway. His suit was going to look like shit by the time he was through, and he'd have to send it out to be cleaned and pressed.

A wooden fence cut across the back of the lot. The detective peeked around it. Except for rats, nothing was moving. Hooper gave his eyes time to adjust to the dark before letting them roam across the rubble, looking for something unusual. He missed it the first time. On his second scan, he spotted someone kneeling next to a white, lumpy object.

What's that? Hooper asked his partner, pointing.

Vincenzo squinted into the darkness. He used to have twenty-twenty vision, but recently he was wondering if he might not need glasses for reading.

Cohen wears those hooded sweatshirts, doesn't he? Vincenzo asked.

Yeah.

Whoever it is, he's kneeling next to Man, it's hard to say, but that could be a person.

Hooper drew his weapon and edged onto the lot before moving in a crouch across the uneven ground. A rat, disturbed by the lawman's approach, scudded past an empty beer can, sending it spinning.

Jacob, who had been in a trance, had no idea how long he had been kneeling next to the body. The scrape of tin on rock was loud enough to break the spell. The hood of his sweatshirt swiveled toward Hooper.

Freeze! the detective shouted as he closed the distance. He hit Cohen on the side of the head, and Jacob went down. Vincenzo had his cuffs out. He wrestled Jacob onto his stomach, wrenched his arms behind his back, and secured his hands.

Motherfucker, Vincenzo heard Hooper say, his voice barely above a whisper. Vincenzo had been oblivious of anything but Jacob while he was subduing him. He turned toward the body.

Holy shit, Vincenzo said reverently.

Both detectives were too stunned to feel anything but awe. They had both seen a lot of violence, but this was way over on the high end of the bell curve. Then a dark rage seized Vincenzo and he started to raise his fist. Hooper caught his partner's arm.

No, Jack. We' re going to do everything by the book tonight.

Vincenzo glared at Hooper, who shook his head. He was as outraged as Vincenzo by the violence that had been inflicted on the poor woman who lay at his feet, but his anger was under control.

No smart-ass defense attorney is going to get one inch out of us, Jack. We will be choirboys here, fucking choirboys. We don't touch him, we don't question him unless he says it's okay, and we don't search his shithole of a car without a warrant. Hooper stared into Jacob's eyes. This fucker is not walking.

Vincenzo's arm dropped. He knew his partner was right. If he hit Cohen, he'd be trading a possible dismissal for a moment of satisfaction.

Mr. Cohen, Hooper said, his voice tight with hate, I'm going to read you your Miranda rights. Please stop me if you don't understand what I'm saying. I want to be sure that you fully understand your constitutional rights.

Jacob didn't move and he didn't speak. The voices were whispering to him again, and he couldn't understand a word of what Hooper was saying.

Bernard Cashman parked across from the lot and sat in the dark for a moment. Sweat beaded his brow, his heart was beating rapidly, and his mouth was dry. This was the big test, and he didn't feel up to it. His brain felt like mush, his muscles ached from fatigue, and simply keeping awake required almost all of his energy. He tried to remember the last time he'd had any sleep, but that simple calculation was almost too much for him.

Cashman forced himself out of the pickup and walked to the rear to get his gear. He felt as if he were moving through a thick fog. Adrenaline and caffeine were the only things keeping him awake. When he was through working the crime scene and everything was under control, he would crash, but until then he had to stay sharp, and he wasn't certain that he could pull it off.

The criminalist had just locked the truck when Ron Toomey drove up. Toomey, a tall, lanky redhead, had been working at the crime lab for three years. Cashman had been teamed with him before and found him competent if unimaginative.

The rain had stopped, but it was still damp and cold, and a stiff wind was blowing. Cashman hunched his shoulders and ducked his head as he walked over to his fellow criminalist.

What are you doing here? he asked while Toomey was collecting his gear.

Carlos sent me over.

Where's Mary? Isn't she on call tonight?

She was a no-show at work and she didn't answer her phone.

Is she sick? Cashman asked.

Beats me. Toomey looked up at the sky and shook his head. I wish Mary had picked another night to fink out.

Cashman followed Toomey as he trudged across the lot. A tarp had been erected over the body to protect it and the crime scene. Cashman hoped that the rain hadn't washed away evidence that would implicate Jacob Cohen.

What have we got? Toomey asked Steve Hooper, who was supervising several uniformed officers.

Hey, Ron, Bernie, Hooper answered as he pointed at the body. Looks like a rape-murder. He nodded toward a marked car that was parked next to the curb on Hobart. Perp's in the back. We got him cuffed and I got a man with him. You want to go over him for evidence we can do it at the jail after he's booked in.

Have you searched him? Cashman asked.

Just a pat-down for weapons. There's a crowbar and a knife on the ground next to the vic. I haven't touched them. The perp lives in that abandoned car. A search warrant is on the way. You can go through the car as soon as it gets here.

You seem pretty certain you' ve got your man, Cashman said, keeping his voice neutral.

No question. We found him right next to the body and I know this fucker. He hates women. You'll see that when you take a good look at the corpse. Hooper shook his head in disgust. This guy is really sick.

Why don't you take away the tarp, Toomey said. Hooper signaled two of the uniforms. Cashman took out his camera and started taking pictures of the scene as soon as the tarp had been removed. Then he photographed the body.

As soon as Cashman was finished taking pictures, they bagged the crowbar and knife. Then Toomey and Cashman knelt by the corpse.

This is bad, Toomey muttered. He studied the face, and Cashman held his breath. Toomey frowned but didn't say anything. Cashman exhaled. Toomey hadn't recognized the victim as a coworker and neither had Hooper or Vincenzo, who knew Mary. They probably hadn't stared at her for too long. Cashman had done such a good job destroying Mary's features that even someone used to working with homicide victims would not want to look at her face more than was necessary.

While Toomey and Cashman worked the crime scene, news vans from two television stations parked on Queen Anne. The police were keeping the gawkers on the sidewalk, and a TV reporter was interviewing some of them. Cashman looked over his shoulder and saw Hooper walking toward the reporters. He returned his attention to Mary, examining his handiwork with a professional eye.

Bingo, Toomey said.

What do you have? Cashman asked.

Two pubic hairs. They' re plastered to her thigh with blood.

Cashman suppressed a smile as he watched Toomey use tweezers to remove the hairs and place them in an envelope. At Cohen's trial, Toomey would testify that he had found the hairs and matched them to the defendant.

The search warrant arrived while the criminalists were still working around the body. Cashman saw Jack Vincenzo walking it over after taking it from the uniformed officer who had transported it to the scene. He stood up.

We' ve got the warrant for the car, Vincenzo told them.

I'll take the car, Cashman said to Toomey, keeping his tone casual. You finish up here.

Vincenzo led him across the lot to the Buick, which balanced on the rims, canting downward on the driver's side. Cashman took out a flashlight and played it over the inside. On the front seat was a black plastic garbage bag secured with a red cardboard-and-wire tie. Rain beaded the outside of the bag. Cashman photographed the interior of the car. Then he handed the camera to Vincenzo and climbed into the front seat.

Cashman untwisted the tie. The bag was filled with crumpled clothes. He checked on Vincenzo. The detective was standing up straight. His head was over the roof of the Buick and he couldn't see what Cashman was doing inside the car. Cashman fished around in the garbage bag until he found two T-shirts. He stuffed one shirt inside the other. After sneaking another look at the detective, the criminalist took the vial with Mary's blood and splashed it on the front of the outside shirt. If he hadn't stuffed one shirt inside the other, the blood would have soaked through to the back of the shirt and a clever criminalist would realize that no one was wearing it when the blood was spattered on the front. It wasn't unusual for homeless people to wear layers of clothing, especially in cold weather, so finding blood on the front of the inside shirt shouldn't arouse suspicion. After emptying the vial of blood and putting it back in his pocket, Cashman mashed the top shirt together in a way someone would who had stripped off the shirt, crumpled it up, and tossed it in the garbage bag.

Jack, he shouted, after stuffing the T-shirts back into the bag.

Vincenzo ducked down. Cashman pointed at the shirts. Give me the camera.

While Vincenzo watched, Cashman documented the discovery of the T-shirts. When he was through, he handed the camera back to Vincenzo, took the T-shirts out of the garbage bag, and put them in an evidence bag.

There were two more garbage bags in the back of the Buick. Cashman crawled into the backseat and went through them. One contained food. The other contained books. Most of them were religious. There were the Old and New Testaments, a Koran, books about Eastern religions. Some of the books were literature. There were Dostoyevsky's Brothers Karamazov, Herman Hesse's Siddhartha, and works by Sartre and Camus. Cashman saw nothing that he could use to tighten the noose around Cohen's neck.

Toomey was done with his work about the time that Cashman finished up. They talked to Hooper and Vincenzo. Then Cashman turned the T-shirts over to Toomey. He told Toomey how he'd had very little sleep in the past few days and asked him to log in the evidence. As soon as Toomey walked away, Cashman climbed into the cab of his pickup and breathed a sigh of relief.

Mary Clark was dead. Jacob Cohen was in custody, charged with her murder, and the case against him was airtight. Cashman had committed the perfect crime. Best of all, the murderers and rapists he'd taken off the street would remain behind bars. Cashman smiled. The people of Oregon were safer because he had acted decisively to protect them. He would drive home content and sleep the sleep of the just.

Chapter
20.

AMANDA HAD NOTHING ON HER CALENDAR UNTIL AN ELEVEN o' clock hearing that she'd already prepared for, so she didn't set her alarm when she went to bed. Even so, she woke up shortly after six, her usual time. After a fruitless attempt to get back to sleep, she did twenty minutes of calisthenics, ate a healthy breakfast of cold cereal and berries, then set out for the office on foot under a sky streaked with drab gray clouds.

The weekend was coming up, and Amanda had nothing to do. She thought about calling one of her girlfriends, but most of them were married or seeing someone. It was one thing to double-date and another to be a fifth wheel.

While Amanda waited for the light at Burnside, she thought about her brief meeting with Mike Greene at Art Prochaska's preliminary hearing. Was Mike really interested in seeing her again? The few dates that Amanda had been on with Mike had taken place during a terrible period in her life, when she was recovering from the trauma of her escape from the Surgeon, a serial killer who had kidnapped her so he could torture her to death. Her nerves had been scraped raw, and Mike had treated her with kid gloves. Knowing what she'd been through, he had never pushed her to have sex. Amanda had been grateful for the consideration Mike had shown her, but their time together was more like time spent with a good friend than a lover. Then Amanda had ended the relationship abruptly, without giving Mike an explanation. It had not been fair to him, but Amanda was so stressed out that she wasn't thinking clearly or acting appropriately. It had not been her finest hour.