Endangered Species (8 page)

9/22

0748

E
LIZABETH HAD LEFT
a short message on Wager’s home telephone answerer, and it told him he didn’t need to apologize for last night. “I saw the knifing on TV—call when you can.” He did, the next morning before heading for the office.

“That bar is a real trouble spot.” Her voice reflected Wager’s disgust. “But Henderson doesn’t seem to grasp that.”

The bar was in Councilman Henderson’s district, and as long as he wasn’t worried about it, no one else on the council was going to raise the issue. And as Wager had told Max, he didn’t try to tell Elizabeth how to do her job. “Want to meet for lunch?”

“Just a minute.”

He could picture her opening the well-worn pocket calendar to read the cramped entries in the hourly slots. “I can’t—the hospital budget hearing starts this morning. It’ll run over—it always does.”

“I’d rather work a homicide.”

“If we don’t get that place straightened out, that’s just what you’ll be doing. But try explaining that to the mayor!”

“You try, Councilperson—that’s why you get all those freebies. I’ll see you tonight.”

Wager’s first chore when he reported in was to answer questions from Bulldog Doyle, chief of Crimes Against Persons.

“This apparent arson death, Wager, what’s new on it?” Even this early in the morning, Doyle had a cigar smoldering on his desk. The column of smoke rose straight up to form a pool of blue haze just under the ceiling. The mayor, after jogging through one of his marathon races, had stood around in his running shorts and proclaimed that all city buildings were now no smoking areas; in reply, Doyle had placed a sign on his desk:
THANK YOU FOR HOLDING YOUR BREATH WHILE I SMOKE.
Wager brought the chief up to date and showed him a copy of the artist’s composite of “John Marshall.”

“Douglas and his people are going over the scene?”

That was one of the things Wager had just told the man. Maybe the mayor had something; maybe cigar smoke affected the hearing. “Yessir.”

“OK. Keep me informed on it.” Doyle’s tone held Wager a moment longer as his finger tapped another folder. “This is Axton’s report on that homicide last night.”

Wager nodded. Officially, he hadn’t been there, so his name didn’t show in the report.

“Max did a fine job on this one. Suspect apprehended and booked within four hours of the incident report. Damn good job.” Now, said the tone, with that gentle comparison, Wager could go and do likewise.

At least Doyle wasn’t comparing him to Ross, Wager’s favorite screw-up in Homicide. And Wager couldn’t do worse than Ashcroft—he was on temporary assignment at the FBI school in Quantico.

Shoving those thoughts out of his mind, Wager sent a query to Missing Persons on the girl described by the letter carrier. It was a weak gesture—in the first place, Missing Persons didn’t even take reports until a citizen had been gone for seventy-two hours; in the second place, somebody would have to complain that the girl was missing. Wager didn’t think anyone would, not right away. Maybe in a month or so, after phone calls or letters were unanswered. But it was a loose thread, the kind that would irritate until Wager had done something about it, so he did.

Then he sat down to the morning’s messages and queries, official notices of changes in procedure or personnel, requests from other police departments for information on this or that. Despite Doyle’s needling, Wager was a hell of a lot more concerned about the fire victim than the chief was. But he took care of the queries first—somebody at the other end was waiting, just as, at this end, he was waiting for answers from somewhere. Then he sorted through the routine and time-wasting items quickly so he could get back to the Jane Doe. “Marshall”’s picture was sent out on local distribution for help identifying and locating the man. He listed him as a murder suspect, in the hopes that urgency would catch some cop’s eye. Most likely, the picture would only end up on bulletin boards in the districts’ squad rooms; Wager had only to lift his eyes and see his own department bulletin board with a half-dozen ID photos and artists’ sketches of murder suspects possibly in the Denver region.

He tried again to telephone the final John Marshall on his list. Like last night, the tape recorder gave its jolly little party and asked him to leave a message. This time Wager did, identifying himself and asking Mr. Marshall to call as soon as possible and at any hour. Then he leaned back to stare at the ceiling and sift through aspects of the case. Among the other puzzling things was the dead end on the man’s employment: none of the neighbors knew where he worked. But he had to get his money from somewhere. And, chances were, he had to spend it too. Wager checked his watch—a little after nine: too early to pester Doc Hefley again, and Archy Douglas wouldn’t turn in his report until he finished mapping the crime scene. Lifting his radio pack from the charger on his desk, Wager shoved his name across the location board and headed for the garage.

His first stop was a Payless Drug on a busy street four blocks from the fire. Three young women tended cash registers at the front of the store. Two shook their head, but the one whose red plastic name tag said
ANGELA
studied the picture carefully. “I think I seen him, maybe.” She tossed back a strand of long black hair from her face as she bent over the sketch. “He’s been in a few times. What’d he do?”

“He may know something about a fire. Did he come in alone or with anyone?”

The girl thought back, her eyes a clear brown as she stared without seeing along the aisles of brightly packaged products. “Alone, mostly. Once he came in with a girl. Blond. Nice-looking.”

Wager had her describe the girl as well as she could. “Do you remember what he bought?”

A slow shake of her head. “Some magazines—he always bought four or five magazines. That’s why I remember him. But I can’t remember what else. Stuff.”

“Can you remember what kind of magazines?”

“Newsmagazines.
Time
.
Newsweek
. And these nature magazines. You know, save-the-elephants kinds of things.”

“Did he pay by check or credit card?”

“I can’t remember for sure. Cash, I think—I don’t remember looking at his ID.”

“Can I have your name?”

“What for?”

“In case I need to come back and talk to you again.” Or in case she needed to spend a session with the police artist drawing a likeness of the victim. Wager smiled, “It just reminds me who to ask for.”

“OK. Angela Cruz.”

He thanked the girl and drove down the street to a Safeway, whose parking lot was already crowded with cars. No one in that busy store recognized the picture. Wager moved to the next block and a string of neighborhood shops divided by the walls of a long, flat-roofed brick building. Part of the wide sidewalk had been scooped away to make room for angle parking to serve the complex. The corner store, with iron bars welded over the display windows, sold liquor. The owner thought he remembered the face. “I try to know my customers, man. I been held up three times, and it helps to remember faces. Yeah, this dude comes in now and then. Beer and wine—but good stuff. The imported stuff. I don’t carry much of it, but that’s what he wants.” He explained to Wager, “Not much call for fancy stuff—my customers want the most for the buck: Gallo jug wine, Pabst. This dude’s a Sam Adams. I remember him.”

“Did he pay by check or credit card?”

“Cash. Always cash.” He elaborated. “A lot of times on payday I cash paychecks with a purchase. But never for this dude. That way I get to know my customers better. Learn their names, find out what they like to buy. Small businessman, these days he’s got to be in the service business too. If he’s not, he’s in no business at all.”

“Does he ever come in with anyone?”

“Yeah, once. Week or two ago. With this young guy. Never saw him before, though. Anglo. Maybe six one, good build—looked like a outdoors type. Talked with a accent.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know. Out East, maybe. New York, something like that.” He explained, “They were buying for a party or a celebration. I figured the tall kid just got in from somewhere and they were having a party for him.”

“Anyone else?”

He lifted a pair of heavy glasses with thick lenses and rubbed at the red dents they left on the bridge of his nose. “Not that I remember. Mostly he comes in alone.”

Wager got the store owner’s name and jotted the information in his little green notebook. Marshall hadn’t talked to the owner about anything—the weather, the price of beer, his job. Just picked up what he wanted, paid cash, said thank you, and left. But he left in a dark-colored Toyota sedan, Colorado license number BAC 881. “I kind of jot these things down, you know? Car pulls up out front late at night, I just automatically jot down the license number. I told you I been held up three times?”

“You remember this license number?”

“Yeah. Funny. ‘BAC’—my name, Baca. Eight eight one—adds up to seventeen, my oldest daughter’s age. It just clicked, you know?”

Wager radioed Motor Vehicles from his car and waited until the reply came back: “Registered to a Roger B. Taney, 3514 Wyandot Street, Denver. No warrants.”

“I need a description of the vehicle and any previous owners.”

“We’ll have to get back to you on that, Officer.”

“Anytime soon.”

“Ten four.”

The call from MVD hadn’t come by the time he reached his office. But there was a short message from Doc Hefley: “Apparent cause of death on Jane Doe 9-21 a blow to skull.” Wager dialed the morgue number; the secretary put him through to the pathologist. “She didn’t die of smoke inhalation, Wager. The carboxyhemoglobin level was normal—lower than normal for downtown Denver, actually: three percent. No particulate matter of a carbonized nature in the bronchi, no blistering of the trachea or bronchi. It’s strong presumptive evidence that she was dead before the fire started.”

“Somebody dumped her in the closet and then torched the place?”

“All I can say is that she stopped breathing before the fire started. How she got in the closet is your problem.”

“Did you find any trace of flammables on the skin or clothes?”

“That’s the lab’s job, not mine, and it’ll take a while. You’re goddamn lucky to get the blood results so soon. Wouldn’t have if I hadn’t pushed for them.” He added, “That fracture at the base of the skull is the only trauma I’ve found. But the hyoid and thyroid cartilages are too charred to rule on strangulation, and I haven’t yet examined all the internal organs, so I don’t know about poisons or an overdose, so don’t ask me.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Right. Now maybe you’ll stop by God pestering me and my staff, and we can get our work done.”

“Doc—”

“Jesus.”

“That lower-than-normal carboxy-whatever. Does that mean she was new to Denver?”

“Right, Wager—that’s good. She didn’t breathe as much of our fine city air as someone who’s been here a long time. But I can’t tell you how long that is. Not much work’s been done on that, and there’re a lot of variables. Satisfied?”

“One more thing—”

“Jesus H. Christ.”

“Identification. What can you help me with on that?”

“Not much. We’ll need a forensic dentist. From what I could tell, the teeth were well cared for, and I suspect she had some damned expensive orthodonture work done. But it’s not my field.”

That meant more delay and expense. The nearest forensic dentist was in Kansas City, and Wager would have to get the DA’s approval to bring him in. “Any way to tell the color of hair and eyes?”

“The lab’s working on what hair samples I could find. There was nothing left of her eyes.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Right. Now don’t call me—I’ll call you.”

And it’s always a pleasure doing business with you too. Wager hung up the telephone and, on the Jane Doe file, whited out “Unknown” on the line headed “Cause of Death” and inked in a red “Homicide.” He scribbled a note to Doyle and put it in the chief’s box. Let him wheedle the DA for the forensic dentist—that’s what administrators were for. Then he tried MVD again.

“Yes, Detective Wager. I just tried to call, but your line was busy.”

“What do you have?”

“The tag belongs to a 1985 Toyota Corolla.” The woman repeated the title number and VIN number slowly so Wager could copy them. “The previous owner was Vance’s Used Cars, 15587 East Colfax. The vehicle was bought by the present owner on 12 July of this year.”

“The title clear?”

“That’s affirmative.”

He thanked the woman and once more headed for the garage.

The 15000 block of East Colfax was beyond the Denver city-county line, in Aurora, and outside Wager’s jurisdiction. But the salesman who looked up from the small desk to glance at his police ID didn’t seem to know that. “In July?”

“The twelfth.”

“I can look it up.” The man was somewhere in his early thirties and had sideburns that came down below his ears. A large pimple made an angry red mark on one side of his chin, and he squeezed at it gently with his left hand as his right thumbed back through the pink sheets in a loose-leaf folder. “Yeah. Here it is.” He read for a moment and then said with relief, “The paperwork’s in order, Officer. As far as the paperwork shows, that vehicle wasn’t stolen.” He turned to the folder to show Wager. “See?”

Wager read the bills of sale. The car had been bought from one Rita Pace on July 6 by Vance Autos. It was sold for a quick profit on the twelfth to Roger B. Taney. “It didn’t stay on the lot long.”

“That’s the idea, Officer. That’s how I stay in business: low markup, fast turnover, volume sales. The finest used cars in the metro area, and warranted too, every one of them. Satisfaction guaranteed.”

“Is this Taney?” Wager showed him a copy of the sketch.

“By golly, that looks like him. He had sunglasses on when I saw him, but the face sure looks like him.”

“Did he pay cash or check?”

The man looked in another ledger. “Cash.”

“That’s a lot of cash. What was it, three thousand?”

“A little more. Forty-one. Four hundred off the original asking price—the customer got a good deal on that one. I remember that vehicle. A real cherry—low mileage, real good condition.”