Jack Daniels Six Pack (43 page)

I looked higher, and discovered several bruises on her shoulders and arms. Angry, oval shapes. Some had flesh missing.

Bite marks.

Her legs were splayed open, knees bent as if she were giving birth. I noticed some soft tissue damage to the vagina, felt my stomach becoming unhappy, and looked away.

“Where’s her head?” I asked.

“Her head? Um, it was crushed in the wreck.”

“Shouldn’t it still be here?”

“I cremated the head and vital organs earlier today. The family wanted her cremated.”

“Why didn’t you cremate her as well?”

Rushlo scratched the back of his neck.

“I was going to do that later today.” One eye on me, one on Herb. “The crematory is sort of on the fritz, and it works better in sections.”

“Where’s the autopsy report?” Herb asked.

“The autopsy report? I have no idea. It should be around. You’d be surprised how often paperwork gets misplaced.”

He giggled, manic.

“Do you have a cell phone, Derrick?”

“Um, sure. Doesn’t everybody?”

“Is it the kind that you buy phone cards for, so there’s no contract with the provider?”

He opened his mouth, lips forming a yes, but he stopped himself.

“I think I’d like a lawyer.”

“You’re not under arrest, Derrick. Why would you need a lawyer?”

He folded his arms.

“I’m not saying anything else without my attorney present.”

I glanced at the corpse, 90 percent sure it was Eileen Hutton. I recalled seeing a hairbrush when we’d searched her apartment. All I needed was one strand of hair with the end bulb still attached, and I could get a DNA match.

But, contrary to cop shows on television, DNA testing took weeks, even the rush jobs.

In the meantime, we couldn’t arrest Rushlo for anything. I needed something immediately incriminating. We needed to find the TracFone.

“I’m going to call my lawyer now.”

He walked out of the room. I nodded at Herb, who followed. He’d watch who Rushlo called, making sure he didn’t alert whoever his accomplice was.

I pulled on some latex gloves and began by searching the cabinets lining the rear wall. I found tubing, trocars, scalpels, a box of something called “eye caps,” gallon jugs of various fluids, and a few extra scrubs.

The closet held a foul-smelling mop and bucket, some dirty rags, and several containers of bleach. Looking at the bleach, I thought of Davi’s severed arms. Nausea be damned, I went back to the corpse and sniffed her cold hand.

Bleach. She’d been washed down, the same as Davi.

Several stained embalming books sat on the counter, along with a tray of sharp instruments. One drawer was stuffed with a large wad of cotton. Another had several unopened packs of large, curved needles.

In the final drawer, near the back, rested a small metal box with a wire handle. A cash box. It had a combination lock on the front.

I took it out, gave it a tiny shake. Something bumped around inside. Something that didn’t sound like cash.

I picked up a clean-looking scalpel and spent about a minute trying to pry open the top. It held.

I left the prep room with the box, and found Herb and Rushlo in the arrangement office. Rushlo sat behind his desk, looking six kinds of nervous. Herb busied himself searching the bookshelves.

“What’s in the box, Derrick?”

I tossed it onto his desk. The thud made him jump.

“That’s private.”

“We have a blanket warrant. That entitles us to search anything we’re interested in. Open it up.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Did he contact a lawyer?”

Benedict nodded.

“Not cooperating with us is just making it harder on yourself, Derrick. Open the box.”

He folded his arms and tucked his chin into his chest, like a petulant child.

“I’ve got a crowbar in the Camaro. Want me to get it?”

“Thanks, Herb.”

Benedict waddled off. I sat in the chair across from Rushlo, leaning toward him.

“Let me tell you what I think, Derrick. I think you faked that death certificate. I think that woman in the embalming room is actually Eileen Hutton. I think I’ll be able to prove that. The head may be gone, and the fingerprints may be gone, but we’ve got more than enough DNA to make a positive ID.”

Rushlo began to rock back and forth, humming to himself.

“You’re going to be charged with first-degree murder, Derrick. The jury will take one look at the pictures of that poor girl, and you’ll get the death penalty.”

More humming.

“We know about the TracFone. We know you have a partner. Your only chance at getting through this is by giving us a name.”

“I’m not saying anything until my attorney gets here.”

“You think your attorney is going to help you get out of this? You’ve got a murder victim in there. Give me a name.”

Silence.

Benedict returned, holding his pry bar.

“May I?”

I handed him the box. He worked the thin side of the tool into the crack, and then popped the cover open.

It took me a second to understand what I was seeing. At first I thought they were white prunes.

But they weren’t prunes. They were ears.

And the silver hoop earrings in the lobes were mine.

CHAPTER 16

“You should talk to them, Derrick.”

Derrick Rushlo sat in Interrogation Room E, arms crossed, one eye focused intently on the ceiling and the other staring off into space. He continued to hum tunelessly.

His lawyer, a cousin named Gary Pludenza, had been trying for the last hour to get Rushlo to take the deal.

I leaned closer to Rushlo, talking softly so he had to strain to hear me.

“Prison isn’t a nice place, Derrick. I promise, you’re not going to like it. We know you’ve got a partner. Tell us who your partner is, and I can promise you a reduced sentence. Or else you’re looking at life.”

Rushlo kept humming to himself.

“Here, Derrick.” I took my driver’s license out of my wallet and showed him the photo, keeping my thumb over my address. “See what I’m wearing in the picture? Those same silver hoop earrings we found in your office.”

Derrick said nothing, but the humming stopped. I would have liked to say we had his prints on the jewelry, but they’d been wiped clean.

“We know you falsified that death certificate. That’s not Felicia Wymann from Wisconsin. We checked. No one named Felicia Wymann died recently. There was no autopsy.”

I’d mentioned that three times already, trying to hammer it into his head.

“Now look at these.”

I showed him two pictures, one of Eileen Hutton in a bathing suit, and one of the corpse’s right shoulder.

“See the birthmark, Derrick? The pear-shaped one right here and here? It’s identical in both pictures. And soon, we’ll have the DNA tests back, and they’ll prove without a doubt that the woman on that table is not Felicia Wymann. It’s Eileen Hutton.”

Silence. I tried a different tactic, and slammed my palm down on the table. Both Derrick and his lawyer jumped.

“Don’t you get it, Rushlo? You’re going to spend the next fifty years sharing a twelve-by-twelve cell with some body-building rapist who’s going to trade your ass for cigarettes. We found the TracFone. We’ve got you connected to two homicides. Is your partner worth that?”

Pludenza gave me a weak smile. “Can I speak to my client privately, for a moment?”

I stormed out of the room, my anger not entirely playacting. I needed some coffee, but had no idea where the vending machine was. Because Herb and I were convinced Rushlo’s accomplice was a cop, possibly from our station, we’d brought him to the 12th District rather than the 26th. For all I knew, the bad cop might be from the 12th, so we tried to do this on the hush-hush.

I flipped a mental coin and chose to go right. After turning two corners, I found a coffee machine.

Unfortunately, all I had in my wallet were two nickels and a twenty-dollar bill.

“How’s the interrogation going?”

Herb walked toward me, coming down the hall. He held a stack of papers.

“Do you have seventy-five cents?”

“That’s what you need to break him? Seventy-five cents?”

“For coffee, Herb.”

He fished around in his pants pockets and came up with a crusty penny and a stick of gum covered in lint. He ate the gum.

“Nailed the ID on the body,” Herb said, chewing. “Eileen Hutton broke her leg in a skiing accident two years ago. We got her X-rays, and they match with the ones Blasky just took at County.”

Herb offered me the papers. Even though the faxes weren’t perfect, the match clearly was.

“How soon before he finishes the autopsy?”

“He’s almost done—the organs are missing, so it’s going quick. He estimates she’s been dead for about eighteen hours. Neck wound is consistent with some kind of wire or garrote. He’s got pictures and casts of the bite wounds, and is confident he can match them up with a suspect’s teeth. Found semen. Should be able to type it if the guy’s a secretor—Phil said it’s only a few hours old.”

“I thought she was killed eighteen hours ago.”

Herb gave me a pained look, and I put two and two together.

“Rushlo?”

“Yeah. He’s got the new high score on my personal Yuck Scale.”

I got an involuntary image of Derrick, naked and grunting on top of Eileen’s corpse, and immediately buried it. While the concept unnerved me, it didn’t completely surprise me. Being a cop for so long, I had zero faith in humanity.

“Necrophilia isn’t a crime, right?” I asked.

“If not, it should be. He hasn’t cracked yet?”

“Hasn’t said a word. You want to take a shot?”

Herb nodded. We walked back to the interrogation room and Herb popped his head inside.

“Ready to deal?”

The lawyer sighed, loud and long.

“I’m sorry, Detective. He refuses to say anything.”

Herb sat in the chair across from Rushlo, and I stood behind him, wearing my no-BS face.

“We just got some X-rays, Derrick. They confirm the woman is Eileen Hutton. We’re going to charge you with first-degree murder. I’ve spoken with the assistant state’s attorney, and if you make a statement and name the partner, we’ll go easy on you.”

Rushlo began to hum again. I felt an urge to whack him upside the head.

“Are you not talking because you’re worried about your partner? Or are you embarrassed to admit what you did to Eileen after you received the body?”

Rushlo’s lawyer furrowed his brow.

“What do they mean, Derrick? What did you do to the body?”

I dropped the papers on the table. “We have evidence that your client had sexual relations with the corpse, roughly two hours ago.”

I’d never seen a lawyer look so completely disgusted. In a way, it was refreshing.

“Derrick—I think you need to get other representation.”

Rushlo turned to him, panicked.

“You’re my cousin! You can’t desert me!”

“I don’t know if I can handle this, Derrick. My specialty is DUIs, not humping dead bodies.”

“I don’t have anyone else!”

The lawyer gathered up his things and stood.

“I’ll make some calls, see if I can find someone. Don’t say anything without counsel present.”

He made a sick face, then left the room.

I wanted to keep going at Rushlo, but no lawyer meant no questions. We booked him, taking prints and mugs, and tossed him into a holding cell.

“Dammit, Herb. I really don’t think he’s going to give up his partner.”

“We can check Rushlo’s background. Try to narrow it down.”

“That will take time. And meanwhile, we’ve got a crazy cop running around, slicing up call girls.”

“How about a mole ploy?”

I considered it.

“What if one of the cops here is the killer? Maybe that’s why Rushlo is so scared.”

Herb rubbed his mustache.

“Bring in someone from the outside? Stick a wire on him, stick him in the cell, maybe he could get Rushlo to give up a name.”

“Do you know anyone other than cops? Someone who would know how to get information out of him?”

“I know a few retired cops. I could make a few calls. How about you?”

I shook my head. “No one.”

“How about your ex-partner? That McGlade guy?”

“No. He’d find some way to make everything worse.”

“We’ve only got tonight, Jack. Tomorrow they’ll ship Rushlo to the county lock-up. We wouldn’t be able to get a mole in there.”

“McGlade is an idiot.”

“He used to be a cop. Plus he owes you one, from the way they depicted you in that awful TV movie. Remember how they made you into a binge eater, constantly shoving things into your mouth? That must have been humiliating.”

I thought about McGlade’s suspended PI license, and knew I could use that to get him to help. But, dammit, it was using a machine gun to kill a gnat.

“If the choice is working with Harry, or letting a maniac run free, I’m not sure which is the worse of the two.”

“Call him.”

“Maybe I can dress up as a man and do it myself. I can paint on a mustache with mascara.”

“Call him.”

“Ah, hell.”

I needed to dial directory assistance to get McGlade’s number. As his phone rang, I silently hoped he wouldn’t pick up.

“This is Harry McGlade, World’s Greatest Private Detective, featured in the television movie
Fatal Autonomy
. Talk to me.”

I swallowed a gallon of pride. “Harry, it’s Jack.”

“Jackie! Calling to give me good news about my license?”

“Sort of. I need a favor.”

“Consider it done, sugar. I had no idea you wanted to ride the Harry Rocket, but I’m more than happy to give you a taste. I usually like them younger, though.”

“Even if you tied me down, McGlade, I’d chew off my own arms to get away. I need you to run the mole ploy for me.”

“Gimme details.”

I filled Harry in, lowering my voice when a pair of cops walked past.

“And if I help you out with the stiff-sticker, you’ll get me my license back?”

“You have my word.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour, ready to be wired. See you soon.”

Harry hung up. Herb gave me a pat on the shoulder.