Death at the Wheel (40 page)

“Cape Elizabeth.”

“Surprise, surprise.” His cousin Sam, chief down in Cape Elizabeth, wouldn't take kindly to
his
citizens parking on the streets and getting blow jobs. Burgess didn't either. “Speaking of hospitals, our
friends from down the street are taking a damned long time, aren't they? You get that tape up while I look
at our victim.”

“Car's locked, sir,” Aucoin said.

“Locked? How'd you get into the car? Break a window?” Aucoin's uncomfortable squirm was all the answer he needed.

“How do you know he's dead?”

“Oh, he's dead all right. Doesn't look like he died happy, either.”

“Jesus Christ, Aucoin. You must be damned gifted if you can declare death through a closed car window. How long you been on the force?”

“Seven months, sir.”

“A word of advice,” Burgess said. “Don't start cutting corners. It's the quickest way to screw up any investigation...” He held up a hand to ward off the young officer's protest. “I know it's a miserable night. No one wants to get out of the car on a night like this. But the scumbags count on that. We don't wanna be playing the game their way.”

Wind-whipped tears had turned to ice in the young cop's mustache. “Keep moving,” Burgess said. “It helps. For starters, get me a scraper, okay? And don't make any new tracks.” He strode over to the car, sliding on black ice under the powdery snow. The night was empty but not quiet. Wind rustled frantically through a nearby oak and shrieked around the buildings. Ice had re-formed on the window where Aucoin had cleared it. He grabbed the scraper. “Give me a big perimeter, okay? And watch for footprints.” Aucoin, hunched and miserable, crunched away.

He scraped the window, then took his flashlight and peered in, running the beam slowly over the still figure. The sharp light distorted the taut face into planes of yellow-white and dark crevasses. Maine wasn't exactly a hotbed of homicide, but Burgess had been a cop a long time, in Vietnam before that. He'd seen his share of ugly bodies but this was a contender. Dr. Pleasant hadn't gone quietly into that good night. Death had left its mark in the wide, horrified eyes, cocked head with straining neck cords, that metal rod protruding between the teeth like a fire-eater whose act has failed.

Early forensic scientists had believed the dying eye recorded the assailant's picture like a photograph and tried to find a method to recover it. Faces like Pleasant's, with the awful anticipation frozen there, had fueled those theories. The seat was pushed away from the steering wheel and half reclined, like a dentist's chair. He could hear his dentist's voice. Open wide.

He wondered if the rod had gone through the victim's neck. What the ME would say about the cause of death, assuming the man was dead. Burgess didn't doubt it, but he had to make sure. As a police officer, he had the authority to declare the man dead. He could confirm, for the record, that the victim had no pulse or respiration, so no extraordinary measures would be taken to save his already lost life and screw up the crime scene.

He raised his flashlight, wincing at the desecration of such an expensive car, broke out enough of the window to slip a hand through, and opened the door. He exchanged leather for latex and touched the victim's bare chest. Despite the heater's best efforts, the car wasn't warm. Pleasant was already cooling, his skin gone a waxy yellow. He had no detectable pulse, wasn't breathing. His pupils were fixed and dilated. The blood which had dripped from the corners of his mouth onto his scarf was still wet and red, but coagulating.

This was when training and experience came together, when keeping an open mind and open eyes were essential. Burgess surveyed the rest of the body and the car's spotless, characterless interior—black leather, gray carpet. No change, phone, CDs, glasses, cups, papers or briefcase. Only a dark overcoat, folded carefully on the rear seat, which the drape suggested was cashmere. The car smelled faintly of pizza.

He noted things for the report, things to be collected, the strange choice of weapon, already framing the pictures, though he no longer took them. Who was this man? Why had he been here? Who had been with him? What had happened in this car? And why?

What would he say to the widow? It was a difficult conversation at the best of times. Getting caught—or killed—with your pants down was hardly that. Mrs. Pleasant—and a wedding ring suggested there was one—wouldn't want to know how her husband's body was found. His shirt unbuttoned and his pants unzipped. He wore no undershirt and there were garish lipstick stains around his nipples. His penis, upright and hard with post-mortem tumescence, still awaited its anticipated release. A party atmosphere despite the lack of decorations. On the passenger's seat were two crumpled twenties and a ten. Party favors? One clenched hand held many strands of long blonde hair. Otherwise there were no marks on the hands. No signs of a struggle.

He was supposed to wait for the ME, the photographer, and the rest of the crime scene team before he touched anything, but any second now, the wind might whip in and snatch those hairs away, hairs that, for all he knew, might be a vital clue. Making a mental note to bag the hands, he pulled out an evidence envelope, untangled some hairs from the clutching fingers, and dropped them in, carefully recording the necessary information.

He backed out of the car, slamming the door, just as the crime scene van, an unobtrusive Taurus full of detectives, and an ambulance pulled up. He hoped they wouldn't have to wait long for someone from the ME's office to arrive and release the scene so they could work it. He wondered whether, having met Pleasant briefly in the past, he ought to let someone else work the case. That was something he and the lieutenant could work out later. He was here, the body was waiting, and it would be a pity to drag anyone else out into this icebox of a night.

He shoved the envelope into his pocket and went to meet them.

 

 

 

 

Excerpt from

 

Steal Away

 

by

 

Katharine Clark

 

© 1998, 2011 by Katharine Clark

 

 

 

 

 

The Taking

 

It wasn't a long ride from the school to his house, but David had played baseball at recess and after lunch and he was tired. He was ready to kick off his sneakers, take off his socks, and curl up on the window seat in the kitchen while his mom fixed him a snack. She'd promised peanut butter cookies today and she'd better not forget. Not that she forgot a lot of things, but sometimes, if she got wrapped up in her work, she'd forget what time it was and, just be starting his snack when he got home.

He lifted his head and sniffed the wind, wondering if he was close enough yet to smell something if she was baking. He hadn't liked what they served at lunch and he was hungry. His front tire hit a pothole. He skidded, nearly fell, and regained his balance, getting off far to the side to let the car behind him pass safely. His mom was always nagging at him to get way off to the side when cars came. It was hard to hear with his helmet on, but he didn't take it off. A lot of the kids did, when they thought they wouldn't get caught, but David had just started taking long rides and he didn't feel safe without it.

The car didn't pass. It slowed down until it came to a stop beside him. The woman inside rolled down her window and leaned out. David edged farther away from the van. His mother had given him at least a million lectures about strangers. "David," the woman said, "something awful has happened to your mother and your father. You're in great danger. You've got to come with us."

David just stared. He'd never seen her before in his life. She was older than his mom and she looked nervous and not very friendly. He looked toward the front of the van. Was there room to get past it and ride away? No. That was silly. Cars could go a lot faster than bikes, even though he could ride very fast. He'd have to go into the woods. He didn't like the idea. The woods were scary, especially if you were alone, and they were full of mosquitoes.

The sliding door on the van's side slid open. "David," the woman repeated, using his name like she knew him, "I'll explain it all to you once we're on our way. You've got to come with us. You can't go home. A very bad man who didn't like something your daddy did as a lawyer came and hurt your daddy and your mommy and he's waiting at your house to hurt you. Now jump in. Hurry!"

David edged closer to the van. She sounded serious, worried. But she hadn't given him the password and he was never to go with anyone who didn't know the password. He waited.

The woman looked annoyed. "Come on. Hurry up." She looked nervously over her shoulder. David didn't move. "Oh, for heaven's sake, David, rutabaga."

It was okay then, he thought. "What about my bike?"

"We'll take the bike, too. Come on!"

A man in the van reached out his hand. David took it, was lifted off his feet and into the van. The heavy door slammed shut behind him and he heard the click of a lock. The man jumped behind the wheel and the van drove off, the wheels spinning loudly through the gravel as the van turned around and headed back the way David had come.

"Hey. Wait! What about my bike?"

"There was no time. Someone was coming. It might have been him. We'll get you another one, I promise." The woman sounded sad, like she really had wanted to bring the bike.

His new bike. Brand-new. He bit his lip, not wanting to seem like a baby crying over his bike, but he watched it until he could see the shiny red no longer. There was a pebble in his shoe. He untied it, took it off, shook the pebble out. His hands were trembling too much to re-tie the laces. He left the shoe sitting on the seat beside him. "Is my dad all right?" he asked.

The woman shook her head. "I'm sorry, David," she said. "I didn't want to tell you this
way..."
She did look sorry.

"Is this the way back to the highway?" the man interrupted.

"Yes," the woman said sharply. "David, your dad and your mom are..."

She looked at the man but he wouldn't meet her eye. David filled the silence with all his worst imaginings and then she confirmed them. "Dead, David. They're both dead. I'm so so sorry." She reached back with a wrinkled hand and patted his knee. Carefully, like she was not used to children.

She must be wrong, he thought. In a minute she'd probably explain what she really meant. He distracted himself by thinking about happy things. When he looked out the window, he saw that they were almost to the place where the kid in his mom's stories, Cedric Carville, had thrown all those things out of the car. He picked up his shoe. Hefted it. Flexed his arm muscles.
As
they whirred around the curve, he opened the window and threw his shoe at the sign, watching the red sneaker spin end over end, landing just a few feel short. Not bad! A few more tries and he'd be able to hit the sign.