GD00 - ToxiCity (2 page)

Chapter Three

Julie Romano lived in a tidy brick building on a quiet block off Shermer Road. The lot included a small fenced garden plot, now rangy and gone to seed. As Matt pulled up, he spotted a uniform patrolling the front of the building. It had warmed up since morning and dappled sunshine flickered through the trees. Leaving his jacket in the car, Matt went up to the officer and pulled out his shield. “Detective Matt Singer.”

“Reed Tremble.” Young with rosy cheeks, he must have just joined the force.

“You see a resident manager or janitor on the premises?”

The kid shook his head. “There’s a phone number on the door.”

“Make the call.”

A middle-aged man from Palatine Realty Company arrived carrying a metal ring bursting with keys. He didn’t know Julie Romano, he said, but a check of the files indicated she’d been renting from them nearly ten years. He tried one key unsuccessfully. Then another. Matt shifted his feet. He flashed him an apologetic smile. “Someone stripped the numbers off some of the keys. I guess they thought it was funny.”

Six keys later the front door opened. Matt asked the realtor to send Romano’s records to the station.

As they headed inside he noticed Tremble’s eager face. The kid wanted to go with him in the worst way. Matt understood—this could be the most exciting thing to ever happen on his beat. But he couldn’t risk a rookie trampling through the apartment; it might turn out to be a crime scene. “You stay here and make sure things stay secure. I’ll fill you in before I go.”

Tremble’s face deflated.

Raising his canvas evidence bag onto his shoulder, Matt and the realty agent passed through a small vestibule with six brass mailboxes on the wall. He knew the type of building: quiet and modest, with two apartments on each of three floors. He stepped into an equally small lobby with a console table wedged against one wall. Junk mail was spilled across the table; a framed mirror hung above it. A narrow elevator stood on one side of the table, a stairway on the other. He took the stairs.

Romano’s apartment, Two-B, was at the end of the hall, across from a second flight of stairs that probably led down to a back entrance. The realtor slid the key into the lock. It opened easily.

“Do you need me to come in?” The man asked.

“Actually it would be better if you didn’t.”

“Fine with me.” Raising his palms, the man backed away. “I probably should have you sign for the key, but under the circumstances…” He hesitated.

“I’ll make sure the key doesn’t get into the wrong hands.”

The agent turned and went towards the stairs. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough, Matt thought.

But when Matt stepped inside, he wanted to flee along with the realty agent. Heavy furniture, and too much of it, sat on dhurri area rugs, the kind that K-Mart sold for twenty dollars. Books, china figurines, and other curios, among them clowns, birds, painted pillboxes, cluttered the surfaces.

He wanted to open the windows but settled for a few deep breaths. Opening his bag, he dug out latex gloves and put them on. Then he pulled out his Polaroid. He snapped a few shots of the living room, then, inching past the narrow space that separated furniture from walls, went into the bedroom.

A full size bed with a patchwork quilt was neatly made. A television and VCR sat in the corner, and a crucifix hung on one wall. On another were two standing bookcases filled with hundreds of videotapes, all labeled and alphabetically filed. Without touching them, Matt ran his eyes over the “G”s:
The Godfather, Gone With the Wind, Grapes of Wrath
. Most of them were in cardboard sleeves and looked like they were recorded off television or cable. He checked the deck of the VCR. Nothing.

He took a few shots with the camera, then peered into the bathroom. Decorated in blue and yellow tiles, it was spotless. Two thick blue towels hung on a rack. The fixtures sparkled. Inside the mirrored medicine chest, he found nail polish and remover, toothpaste, an unopened bottle of aspirin, and antacid tablets. Two brown plastic prescription bottles sat on a lower shelf. The prescriptions were for Amoxicillin and Dyazide. The trashcan was empty.

Back in the living room, Matt spotted a small desk in a corner. Next to a blinking answering machine was a photograph in a silver frame. An elderly couple and two younger women, clearly twins. Dark hair framed attractive faces, and they both aimed cheerful smiles at the camera. One wore a dark jumper with a frilly white blouse; the other was decked out in black leather. The woman in the jumper had short, tightly curled hair; the other’s hung in lazy waves to her shoulder.

Matt pressed the button on the answering machine. A red digital numeral indicated two incoming calls, but all he heard were hang-ups. Pocketing the tape, he touched the outgoing message button. “You have reached 555-9823”, a singsong voice pronounced. “Please leave a message and we will get back to you.” He backtracked to the closet. Women’s clothes, not many. But the message on the machine said “we”. A recent separation or divorce? Or a single women’s security system? He looked around again. Despite the clutter, the apartment had a lonely feel.

He hesitated before rummaging through the desk. He didn’t have a warrant. He reminded himself the woman was dead; he wasn’t invading her privacy. He reached down and opened the one drawer. Inside were neat files of manila folders, alphabetically arranged with color-coded labels. He thumbed through insurance policies, the title to her Saturn, and several appliance guarantees.

He moved to the kitchen, a tiny space with counters running along opposite walls. Two bowls and some utensils lay in a drain-board near the sink. A double-door oak cabinet held dishes, pots and pans. Another contained spices, many of whose names Matt didn’t recognize. He shot some pictures, stripped off the film and was laying the prints on the counter when he noticed a brown envelope wedged between the counter and the wall.

Opening the clasp, he drew out a five by seven sheet of thick white paper. He turned it over. It was a black and white photograph of an empty field. Prairie grass in the foreground stretched to a line of trees and bushes in the back. But the shot was grainy and he couldn’t pick out any other details. Nothing indicated where—or when— the photo had been taken. He checked the envelope. No markings. He put the picture in an evidence bag, labeled it, and was slipping it into his backpack when the buzzer sounded. He pressed the intercom button.

“Tremble?”

“Yeah, Detective. There’s a woman down here who says she knows Romano. Wants to talk to you.”

Matt glanced around the apartment. “Bring her up.”

Moments later he opened the door to Tremble and a fiftyish woman whose heavy make-up and dyed blonde hair couldn’t hide the years of hard living on her face.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He stepped into the hall and showed her his badge. “How about you?”

“Annie Sears. I’m a friend of Julie’s. What’s wrong?”

He slipped his badge in his rear pocket. “Julie Romano is dead. I’m sorry.”

The woman didn’t say anything for a while. Then, “Why is it always the good ones?”

Matt didn’t answer.

She crossed herself, then pulled out a cigarette and matches from a black bag and started to light a match.

“Ma’am, you can’t smoke in here.”

“Sorry.” She looked around, as if searching for someplace to drop her match. “I just—Julie’s a lamb. The sweetest girl you’d want to meet. This can’t be happening.”

“How do you know her?”

The woman dropped the unlit match on the floor in the hall. “I wait tables at Adam’s Rib. You know, down the street?” A barbecue place that sold ribs by the slab, it was a popular hangout. Matt didn’t eat there, but other cops did. “Julie used to come in. We got to be friends. That’s why I’m here.” She dug into her bag again. “I borrowed this. I was just dropping it off.”

He looked at the videocassette she pulled out. “Klute.” Jane Fonda and Donald Sutherland.

“How long have you known her?”

“Oh, I guess about a year.”

Matt retraced his steps to the kitchen and put the cassette on the counter. He turned around to find the woman had followed him in and was peering over his shoulder at the Polaroid’s he’d shot. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, you can’t come in here. You’ll have to leave.”

The woman eyed him with a sidelong glance. “Of course. I’m sorry.” He walked her back to the hall. “She was a twin, you know.”

“So I gather.”

“You should see them together. Spitting image up here.” She pointed to her face. “But otherwise different as night and day. Joanne, I think her name is.” She smiled brightly. “Like I said, Julie had this terrific collection of movies. Every hit you could think of. I always kidded her about opening her own store. Maybe on the internet.”

He nodded.

“She was a teacher, you know. At the high school. Taught math.”

“Sounds like you knew her well.”

She shrugged. “She’d come in. We’d talk. You know how it is.” She looked around the apartment. “So what happened? Did someone kill—”?

“When did you see her last?”

“Oh, I guess it was a week or so ago. She brought the tape to the restaurant. Around dinnertime.”

“Could I have your address and phone number, Mrs. Sears? In case we want to follow up?”

“Of course.” She rattled off an address and phone number in Mount Prospect, a suburb to the west. He wrote it down and nodded to Tremble. “This Officer will see you downstairs.” The kid led the woman to the elevator.

“Tremble?” Matt said as the elevator door opened. “You start canvassing the neighbors, okay? I’ll brief you downstairs.”

Tremble’s chest swelled, and he raised a hand as if he was going to salute. The elevator door closed.

Matt was packing up when his cell phone chirped. It was Brewster at the morgue. Based on the marked rigor in her torso, the ME was estimating time of death at eight to twelve hours prior to this morning. Which would make it between seven and eleven last night. Well before she went through the blade of the truck.

As to cause of death, the pathologist was stumped. Although the formal autopsy wouldn’t be until tomorrow, a quick inspection showed no gunshot wounds or contusions. And no assault, sexual or otherwise. But he had found traces of vomit and excrement. He’d open her up tomorrow and take a look.

Vomit? Excrement? Matt was glad he’d shot the pictures. Maybe he should call in some techs.

Chapter Four

Matt wanted to drive over to Romano’s parents’ home, a small colonial in west Wilmette, but he was detoured by a meeting with Sean Doyle, Glenbrook’s Chief of Police. With a wrinkled face, pugnacious chin, and sour expression, Doyle looked like a bulldog past its prime. Matt followed him into his office, a featureless room with grey walls, grey blinds, and grey carpeting.

“We’ve decided not to activate the task force.” Doyle tamped the bowl of his pipe. A recent innovation in suburban law enforcement, The Major Crimes Task Force allowed villages on the North Shore to share manpower and resources on important cases. Officers in over a dozen villages had standing orders to drop everything if called to serve. The catch was that it had to be convened within five to eight hours of the crime’s discovery, or it couldn’t be activated at all. Nine hours had passed since they’d found Romano’s body.

“Close the door.” Doyle leaned his elbows on the table.

Matt closed the door, and sat down. Doyle reached into a drawer for a match, struck it on the desk’s surface, and lit his pipe. “I persuaded the mayor we could handle this ourselves. With you as lead.” He made a few sucking sounds. “I made the right decision, didn’t I?”

Doyle would share the credit if Matt solved this case and none of the blame if he didn’t; still, he was handing Matt a huge opportunity. Matt took a breath, inhaling the scent of pipe tobacco. “Yes, sir. You made the right decision. But we’ll need help.”

“Use Brewster, the uniforms, outside consults, whatever. And I want to be kept informed. Regular updates. None of this left side doesn’t know what the right side is doing. And make nice to everybody, understand?” He nodded, as if to signal their meeting was over.

Matt rose and headed for the door. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“I’m sure you’ll earn it.” Curls of smoke drifted into the air.

***

Several cars were parked in the driveway at Romano’s parents. Skirting a red Blazer, Matt headed to the door, which was open. He rang anyway.

The woman who greeted him was clearly one of the girls in the photograph, but grief had distorted her face. In tight jeans and a sweatshirt, she looked haggard, her face almost opaque. Lines cut deep into her forehead.

“You must be Joanne. I’m Detective Matt Singer. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

The woman stared at him, her expression blank.

“I’m investigating your sister’s death, and I want you to know that we won’t rest until we find out what happened to her. May I come in?”

She led him into the living room, modestly decorated in shades of beige. A crucifix hung on a wall.

“How are your parents?” he asked.

“The doctor just left.”

Matt nodded. Tranquilizers, booze, whatever it took.

“Look, I’ve already talked to one cop. Do we need to do this again?”

“It’s never the right time,” Matt said. “But you might remember some detail you didn’t include before. I’ll try to be quick. Can you ask your parents to come down?”

Joanne didn’t seem happy about it, but she went up the stairs. Matt heard a soft knock and muffled words. Five minutes later Mrs. Romano, a tiny, white-haired lady, probably in her seventies, came down. She leaned unsteadily on her daughter’s arm. Whether that was from age or the drugs the doctor had probably pumped into her, Matt wasn’t sure. Mr. Romano, tall and stooped, followed the women. Both sat stiffly at the dining room table.

Matt started with the easy questions. As far as the family knew, Julie was in good health.

“Was she taking any medications?”

Mrs. Romano answered. “She had kidney stones several years ago. She took water pills—diuretics. They were supposed to help prevent them.”

That explained one of the prescriptions in her bathroom. “What about other substances? Drugs? Alcohol?”

Mrs. Romano shook her head. “Julie was an angel, officer. Never got into trouble. Called every day. Visited three or four times a week. Why, just last Friday, after school, she took me over to Fields to get a new blouse.” Mrs. Romano looked reproachfully at Joanne.

The sister’s jaw tightened.

“What about friends, Mrs. Romano?”

“Oh, Julie had lots of friends. She was always talking about them, wasn’t she dear?” She gazed at her husband. Mr. Romano nodded, a vacant look unfolding across his face. Matt had the feeling it was a reflexive habit honed by years of marriage.

“Have any names?”

The older woman’s brow furrowed. She turned to her daughter. “You tell them, Joanne. You know them better.”

Joanne frowned. “Me?” She looked at Matt. “We didn’t travel in the same circles,” she said.

“Well, maybe you and I can make a list when I’m finished with your parents.” He went on. “When did Julie start teaching?”

“About ten years ago,” Mrs. Romano replied.

“Only math?”

“She taught algebra, plane geometry, and trig.” The mother’s gaze wandered.

“Her personnel file says she was hired by the high school six years ago.”

“I – that sounds about right,” Mrs. Romano said.

Hang on a few more minutes, Matt thought. “What about before that?”

“She subbed.”

“Julie was in her forties, correct?”

The mother nodded.

“What did she do before she started teaching?”

“She was a book-keeper.”

Matt thought of the neatly arranged files. “She changed careers?”

“She said book-keeping was dehumanizing. Too many numbers—not enough people.” Mrs. Romano’s lip quivered. “She loved people. Especially kids.”

But she didn’t have any of her own. “What about a boyfriend? Was there someone special in her life?”

“Not that I was aware of. Joanne?” She turned to her daughter.

“Julie didn’t date much,” Joanne said.

“She was the shy one,” Mrs. Romano said. “Religious too. They are—were very different girls.”

Joanne’s face turned crimson.

Matt cleared his throat. “Did anything unusual happen to her recently?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did she receive any unusual packages or letters? Strange phone calls? Visitors?”

Mrs. Romano shook her head again, but Joanne pressed her lips together. Matt pulled out the brown envelope and extracted the photograph he’d found. “Does this mean anything to you?”

Mrs. Romano studied it, shook her head, and passed it to her husband. Mr. Romano glanced at it briefly, then handed it to Joanne.

She looked it over. “I don’t recognize it. Was it Julie’s?”

“This is a copy of a photo I found it in her kitchen.” Matt had realized the detour by Doyle wasn’t a complete waste of time. It had given him a chance to scan a copy of the photograph of the field. “Was Julie the outdoors type? Perhaps a hiker or camper?” “Are you kidding?” A wan smile tugged at the sister’s mouth. “Julie was lucky to know what season it was. She was always inside, you know, recording or watching her movies.”

“Did she have plans to go away this weekend?”

“Not that I know of.”

“She the neat type? Always make her bed? That kind of thing?”

“Julie? You’re kidding. She was a slob.” Joanne’s eyes softened. “We used to share a room and I would always be telling her how mother would kill us if she— “She bit her lip. Mrs. Romano leaned over and patted her daughter’s arm.

Matt remembered the spices in the cabinets. “Did she like to cook?”

Joanne looked up. “If you call opening a can of soup cooking.”

Matt frowned. He asked a few more perfunctory questions, then handed a card to Mrs. Romano. “If anything else comes to you, anything at all, please call.”

A vacant stare was his response. Joanne helped her mother out of her chair and out of the room. Mr. Romano followed. When Joanne came back, the air felt less tense.

“So, what’s going on that you didn’t want your parents to know?” Matt asked.She sat and folded her hands. “Julie didn’t have many friends. And I don’t have a clue who they are.”

“But your mother said —”

“Julie was gay, Detective.”

Matt closed his notebook.

“I’ve known for years, but Mom and Dad don’t.” She paused. “I don’t see any reason to tell them now, do you?”

Matt didn’t respond. “So—whatever she told your mother —”

“Was fantasy. Made up. So Mom and Dad would think she was ‘normal’.” Joanne sniffed. “Whatever that means.”

“Did she have a significant other?”

“There was someone a long time ago, but it ended. She didn’t go out much. You saw all those movies. She wasn’t looking, if that’s what you mean.”

“How did she meet people?

She hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“So there was no one special in her life now?”

“Well, she never said so—” She squeezed her hands.

“But?”

“Julie could never pull the wool over anyone’s eyes. You could read her a mile away. At least I could.” She blinked, fighting back tears. “The last time I saw her, Friday, I think, she was all smiles. Bubbly. You know, the way you get when you have a secret you don’t want to tell?” Matt nodded. “When I asked her what was up, she giggled.”

“And?”

“That’s it,” Joanne snapped. “Look, Detective, I don’t give a shit about her sexual orientation. But whoever made mincemeat out of my sister has to pay for it. I want them crucified.”

“We don’t know for sure that it was a homicide.”

“Bullshit. You think she said, ‘let’s see… what can I do for kicks tonight? Oh, maybe I’ll shred myself to bits in a dumpster?’ Come on.” She stood so forcefully that the chair wobbled behind her. “Someone tossed her in there, knowing what would happen to her. If she wasn’t already dead, she would be soon enough.”

***

The sister had a point, Matt thought on his way home. He didn’t know much about the case, but anyone who had suffered as gruesome a death as Julie Romano deserved a thorough investigation. He tried to swallow, but his throat was thick. He knew that feeling. It would be with him until he found Romano’s killer.