A Simple Act of Violence (13 page)

‘There’s glitches,’ Miller said. ‘There’ll be an explanation. We’ll find out what happened on this, okay?’

‘And let me know, would you? I’m interested in this one.’

‘I’ll let you know what I can,’ Miller replied. ‘And I really appreciate your help.’

Marilyn Hemmings shrugged her shoulders. ‘You asked for my opinion, that’s all. So there was a different sequence, or a different way he did the same things. Can I stand up in a court of law, put my hand on a Bible and swear that the guy who killed the first three was not the guy who killed Catherine Sheridan? No, I can’t. Can I answer your question about what my intuition tells me? Yes, I can do that, and my intuition tells me that it was someone else.’

‘And that someone else would have had to have access to the confidential case records in order to have made the killing and the positioning of the body that similar,’ Roth said.

‘Sure he would have. As far as I understand, the newspapers haven’t detailed the position in which they were found, and they haven’t said anything about the lavender,’ Hemmings replied.

‘They haven’t, no,’ Miller said.

‘Which means we are dealing with someone inside the police department, forensics perhaps, the medical crew that attended any of the crime scenes . . . or someone inside the county coroner’s office.’

‘Or someone,’ Roth added, ‘that has access to our systems.’

There was silence for a moment as each of them absorbed the implications of what was said, and then Hemmings rose from her chair and extended her hand. Miller shook it, Roth too, and then she showed them down the corridor to the exit.

As Miller reached the end of the walkway he glanced back, saw Marilyn Hemmings watching him through the porthole window in the door. Hemmings nodded once, smiled awkwardly, and then she disappeared.

 

 

 

 

Washington - embroiled in the mid-terms that had raged for months. Vicious Republican advertising, slander and libel and worse. Democrats coming back with everything they possessed. Millions of dollars spent on ensuring Bush’s stranglehold on Congress was maintained. No-one wanted to read about serial killers and brutal murders. No-one wanted to take their eyes away from the battle that was occurring right there in their own arena. Miller and Roth were insignificant in the face of this, but for Miller there was nothing that compared to the sense of urgency he felt when confronted with the Sheridan autopsy report. It brought it all home with a crash.

It was after four. Roth and Miller sat at adjacent desks in their office. As Miller finished reading each page of Catherine Sheridan’s autopsy report he passed it along. With each new detail he could see every aspect of the crime scene - the way she’d been positioned on the bed, the ribbon around her neck, the neat bow, the blank name tag, could smell the heady intoxication of lavender, beneath that the smell of something dead.

Principally it was the same MO as the first three. The ribbon and the luggage tag were generic brands. Fingerprints and epithelials on neither. No hairs, no fibers. Confirmation that the victim had engaged in sexual intercourse at some point earlier on the Saturday. No signs of rape. No internal bruising or lesions. Presence of Nonoxynol-9 correspondent with use of a condom. No internal secretion to determine DNA of the sexual partner. Presence of soap residue in the pubis and between the victim’s toes suggested that she had showered or bathed post-coitus.

‘You okay?’ Roth asked.

‘I’m okay,’ Miller replied.

‘So she was going to die anyway, it seems.’

‘Everyone’s gonna die anyway,’ Miller said. ‘Doesn’t change the fact that someone killed her, and we have nothing new but the fact that she had sex with someone . . . and that she doesn’t really exist, of course.’

Roth did not reply.

‘I need to see the house,’ Miller said. ‘I need to see it properly. Crime scene and forensics people look at the environment, they don’t look at the characters around it.’

‘You really think there’ll be something that could point us toward the guy?’

‘The one she had sex with, or the one that killed her?’

‘Either, both . . . could be the same person.’

‘I hope to God there’ll be something on the guy.’

‘And if there isn’t?’

‘Then we’re no further forward or back than where we are now. There’s nothing to lose.’

Miller handed the autopsy report to Roth as he rose from the desk, almost as if the feel of the pages disturbed him.

 

Greg Reid’s car was still parked outside the house. It was nearly six. The day had darkened already, the cold had settled in, and standing there on the driveway - the old neighbor’s house in view, the crime scene tape still adhered to the frame of Catherine Sheridan’s front door - Miller felt a sense of disquiet and unease. The lights and noise and confusion of Saturday night had gone, but the feeling was still the same.

There is something else here,
he thought.
I have been here before. A place like this. A place where one thing appeared to be something else.

Who was she with? Miller asked himself again. Between the library, the delicatessen and home, where was she before the old man looked up from the gameshow girls and saw her entering her house for the very last time?

‘Robert?’

Miller started nervously.

‘You coming in?’ Roth asked. He was standing right by the front door, had peeled away the crime scene tape from one side of the jamb and was holding it up.

‘Sure,’ Miller said, and followed Roth inside.

 

Natasha Joyce dialled the number she’d found and waited patiently. She was placed on hold, asked to select a department, and then she waited again.

Finally she found someone who seemed interested enough to listen to her, and once she’d detailed her request he said, ‘And your relationship to the deceased, ma’am?’

‘Relationship? He was my fiancé.’

‘No legal relationship then,’ the man interjected matter-of-factly.

‘He was the father of my daughter. That counts for something, right?’

Natasha could tell the man was trying to be sympathetic, trying to be understanding and compassionate to this poor black bitch on the phone. ‘The truth, ma’am? Not really, no. I know it seems unfair, but as far as accessing legal records is concerned, as far as actually getting the police or whoever to open a case file . . . I’m sorry, but it can’t be done.’

‘I just want to know where he was found. He was the father of my child, for God’s sake. He died somewhere and I don’t even know where he died . . .’

‘Give me his full name, ma’am.’

‘King . . . Darryl Eric King.’

‘Date of birth?’

‘June 14th, 1974.’

‘And the date of his death?’

October 7th, 2001.’

‘Oh . . . 2001, did you say?’

‘Yes . . . October 7th, 2001.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, ma’am, then I really cannot help you.’

‘What?’

‘Public records database is archived after five years. Any information I might have here at the public records office was archived last month and then the systems were cleaned of that information completely.’

Natasha Joyce was silent for a moment. ‘You can’t be serious,’ she said, her voice flat and monotone and disbelieving.

‘Yes, I’m sorry, ma’am, that is most definitely the case.’

‘So if I wanted to find out which police precinct dealt with it?’

The man hesitated. ‘I don’t know, ma’am . . . seems like a needle in a haystack to me. You’d probably have to call every precinct house in the city . . . or maybe you could call the police department administration unit at the mayor’s office. They might be able to help you.’

‘Do you have the number?’

‘Sorry no, you’ll have to call Information for that.’

‘Okay . . . the police department administration unit.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re very welcome . . . you have a nice day now.’

The line went dead.

Natasha Joyce stood there for a moment, the receiver burring in her ear.

‘Mom?’

She turned suddenly.

Bleary-eyed and tousle-haired, Chloe stood in the hallway, her hand on the door handle, her head tilted to one side.

‘Mommy . . . I’m hungry.’

Natasha smiled. ‘Okay, sweetie . . . I’m making dinner. Be ready soon, okay?’

Chloe smiled. ‘Okay.’

Natasha lowered the receiver into its cradle. She stood there for a moment with a cold sense of unease in the lower half of her gut.

 

The same sense of unease that Robert Miller felt, standing in the kitchen of the Columbia Street house.

Somewhere upstairs he could hear Al Roth talking to Greg Reid.

Miller felt a strange sense of familiarity. Only once had he stood within these walls, and then for nothing more than an hour, but he felt as if the place had found its way inside him.

He looked at Catherine Sheridan’s cupboards, her oven, the refrigerator. He took from his pocket a thin latex glove, slipped it over his right hand, and opened the door of the refrigerator. He found cold cuts, a bowl of chilli covered with Saran wrap, a plastic container of milk in the door compartment, its expiry date two days past. A half bottle of Chardonnay, the cork wedged firmly in the neck. All of it sufficient for one person.

He turned around, tried to see everything and nothing, tried to identify anything at all that appeared out of place. He paused by the back door and looked out through the glass window into the narrow yard. He tried the handle but it had been locked.

He remembered how she looked when he came over here. Catherine Sheridan was an attractive woman. From what he’d seen of her clothes she dressed well. Miller imagined her as self-confident and assured. And then someone did this thing to her - this violation, this sickening act of degradation - and left her for the world to see, there on the bed positioned on all fours, as if he’d wanted her to watch him as he walked away. And then there was the ribbon. A thin white ribbon tied neatly with a small bow at the nape of her neck. The name tag with no name. And the smell of lavender, overpowering and sickly-sweet.

Miller tried to blanche his mind of the image. He believed he would recall it clearly for the rest of his life.

He heard Roth and Reid making their way down the stairs, went out into the hall to meet them.

‘Mr Reid,’ Miller said.

‘Detective,’ Reid replied.

‘I hope that you’ve been home since we last saw you.’

Reid smiled, said nothing.

‘You have anything for us?’

Reid held out a plastic baggie, inside it a thin slip of newspaper. Miller took it, turned it toward the light.

‘Looks like it’s from the Post,’ Reid said as Miller inspected it.

‘Where was it?’

‘Beneath the mattress in the back bedroom.’

‘Caught there, or did it look like it had been placed there?’

‘Like it had been placed. It was flat, like it was placed on top of the wooden slat and then the mattress was lowered down onto it.’

Miller peered closely at the small shred of newsprint. ‘Unofficial results show he has a clear lead over his four rivals,’ he read. ‘Supporters took to the streets yesterday signing his campaign anthem, “Give Peace A Chance” by John Lennon. A victory would give Venezuelan president, Hugo Chavez, a strong ally in the region but the U.S. administration has already cast serious doubt on the transparency of the—’ Miller looked up. ‘Of the?’

Reid shrugged. ‘Any clue?’

Miller shook his head. ‘No idea. Some South American election thing.’

‘I think it’s the Post . . . looks like their typeface,’ Reid said again, and then added, ‘Have something else for you.’

He backed up, headed toward the front door and leaned down to take something from a case. When he returned he had another baggie, within it a plain manila envelope.