Scared Stiff (15 page)
Chapter 22
W
ithin a few minutes of leaving the funeral home we pull up in front of the police station. I tell Bjorn I won’t be long and hint that he might want to wait in the van, but he’s having none of it.
ithin a few minutes of leaving the funeral home we pull up in front of the police station. I tell Bjorn I won’t be long and hint that he might want to wait in the van, but he’s having none of it.
“I’m coming in,” he says. “I need something to eat and maybe they’ll have some snacks or something.”
I can’t believe he’s still hungry after scarfing down two huge slices of Dairy Airs cheesecake and who knows how many cookies with Irene.
“And I’m sure they have a bathroom in there, don’t they?” he goes on. “ ’Cause my bag is feeling kinda full.”
Resigned to having Bjorn as my sidekick, I head into the station with him in tow. Sitting behind the glassed-in reception area is the day dispatcher, a woman named Stephanie whom I know well. She greets me warmly and says hi to Bjorn as well, who nods and asks, “Do you have any vending machines here?”
“In the squad room,” Stephanie says, hitting a buzzer that opens the door to the inner sanctum. As soon as we step through she hands me a cell phone and says, “Here you go. It’s a bit sticky with something and I meant to clean it off for you but didn’t get to it yet. It seems to be working okay, though. How did you know I had it?”
“I didn’t,” I say, taking it. “How did you get it?”
“One of the guys found it in your car when they towed it to the impound lot.”
“Thanks.” It is indeed sticky and I grab a tissue from a box on Stephanie’s desk and try to wipe it down. Instead, all I manage to do is cover it with fuzz.
“So if you didn’t know about the phone,” Stephanie asks, “what brings you here?”
“I need you to run a license plate for me.”
“I need to eat something,” Bjorn adds. “And empty my piss bag.”
Stephanie’s eyes grow big at that and she wheels her chair a few inches back.
“I’ll help him,” I assure her. “While I do that, can you look up this plate for me?” I take a pen and paper from her desk and write down “HOT 44D” and “cherry-red convertible” on it. “I don’t know the make of the car but it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out.”
Stephanie nods, takes the paper, and turns to her desk while I steer Bjorn into the back. We stop in the restroom, a unisex room with one toilet, one urinal, and a sink. The urinal height is perfect for Bjorn’s catheter bag and it doesn’t take me long to empty and recap it. I stop at the sink, wet a paper towel, and use it to clean off my phone. A minute later we are on our way to the squad room and as soon as we enter, Bjorn makes a beeline for the refrigerator. On the door is a set of those magnetic poetry words and several lines of them have been put together. One reads
HAVE CAR AND GUN DON’T LIKE TO RUN
. Below it, with
TASER
handwritten on a blank magnet is
LET’S PLAY TASER TAG
. Just above the door handle is another one:
EAT IF YOU DARE
.
HAVE CAR AND GUN DON’T LIKE TO RUN
. Below it, with
TASER
handwritten on a blank magnet is
LET’S PLAY TASER TAG
. Just above the door handle is another one:
EAT IF YOU DARE
.
“I wouldn’t eat anything out of there if I were you,” I warn Bjorn. “God knows how long some of that stuff has been in there.”
He ignores me and opens it anyway. I’m surprised to see that it’s relatively empty; someone must have gotten ambitious and cleaned it out recently. Its only contents are a half pint of cream, a couple of sodas, a package of hemorrhoid suppositories, and a box of bullets.
Bjorn and I scratch our heads over the contents for a moment before he grabs a can of Mountain Dew and closes the door. It’s not the best choice; the caffeine in the Mountain Dew is a diuretic, meaning his leg bag will be refilling in no time, but I let it go. He then turns to the snack machine and fishes some change out of his pocket.
“Damned inflation,” he grumbles. “I remember when you could buy stuff out of these machines for a dime.” He proffers his hand and shows me that he has one quarter, one nickel, three pennies, and a lint-covered cherry Lifesaver. “I don’t think I have enough,” he says mournfully.
I fish out my wallet. “Here,” I tell him, handing him a dollar bill. He puts his change back in his pocket, pops the linty Lifesaver in his mouth, and takes the money. The dollar is enough for two purchases and Bjorn opts for a bag of nacho cheese-flavored tortilla chips and a package of Oreos.
Back at the front desk, Stephanie starts to fill me in but is waylaid when her radio to the 911 center goes off.
“Officer needs assistance at the medical examiner’s office, 400 E. Sixth Street. Code 10-103f and 103m
.”
.”
“What the hell?” I say. I stand and listen as Stephanie responds and then dispatches all available officers on duty to the site. “What’s 103f and 103m?”
“The 103 is code for a disturbance, the f means there’s a fight, and the m means there might be a mental patient involved.”
A mental patient at my office? I briefly wonder if it might be Arnie but quickly dismiss the idea. He’s a bit off the radar but I’m pretty sure he’s not insane.
Steph’s phone rings and I wait impatiently while she answers it. As soon as she hangs up she says, “That was one of the officers over at your office calling to fill me in. Apparently there is some kind of family squabble going on with the Heinrichs’ offspring and it’s getting kind of dicey.”
Great. The spoiled rich kids. Just what I need.
“Oh, and here’s the report on that tag you wanted,” she adds, handing me a piece of paper. “The car belongs to a lady over in Smithville.”
I mutter a curse under my breath. Smithville is a half hour away and not within Bjorn’s jurisdiction. Apparently reading my mind, Bjorn says through a mouthful of Oreo crumbs, “Hey, I don’t mind if you do the driving.”
“What about your dispatcher?” I ask him.
He shrugs, swallows, and wipes some excess crumbs off his lips with the back of his hand. “I’ll take a few days off and we can use my car. But you’ll have to pay for the gas.”
I nod and say, “That seems fair. Shall we plan it for tomorrow then?”
Bjorn nods; at the moment his mouth is too full to talk. But as soon as he swallows he looks at me with a puzzled expression and says, “Who are you again?”
Chapter 23
A
s we pull up to the main entrance of the ME’s office, I see that the street is crowded with TV vans and reporters. Clearly the Heinrich tragedy has piqued the public’s interest, not surprising given their wealth and social status. I have no doubt their story will be a feature in newscasts for the next several days, and fodder for magazine articles for weeks to come. When I spy Alison amidst the crowd I have to smile, knowing she must love all this attention. This is the second time in a month she’s had insider status on a huge national story. With any luck some big-city news station will offer her a plum position, getting her out of my hair and away from Hurley.
s we pull up to the main entrance of the ME’s office, I see that the street is crowded with TV vans and reporters. Clearly the Heinrich tragedy has piqued the public’s interest, not surprising given their wealth and social status. I have no doubt their story will be a feature in newscasts for the next several days, and fodder for magazine articles for weeks to come. When I spy Alison amidst the crowd I have to smile, knowing she must love all this attention. This is the second time in a month she’s had insider status on a huge national story. With any luck some big-city news station will offer her a plum position, getting her out of my hair and away from Hurley.
Not wanting to run the media gauntlet, I pull the cab around back and park in the secured garage. When Bjorn and I finally make our way to the front lobby, we find it packed with people: two regular-duty cops, Hurley, Cass, Izzy, and six other people, five of whom are yelling and gesturing at someone else. There aren’t any media people that I can see, but a few of them are peering through the glass in the front doors, trying to see what’s going on. Fortunately for us, the glass is tinted, making it easy to see out but impossible to see in.
I take a moment to admire the extremely well-fitting jeans Hurley is wearing, and wish for a moment that I was Barbara Eden and could nod all these other people out of here. Then, reluctantly, I shift my focus to the rest of the room.
Standing in front of Cass’s desk are three women. Two of them are Barbie doll twins: personal-trainer thin, artificial D-cups, dyed-to-blond perfection, dressed in designer clothes, artificially tanned, skillfully made up, and adorned in jewelry that costs more than I make in a year. They are screaming at a third woman: a mousy, wallflower type dressed in shabby chic and clutching a pocketbook the size of a small suitcase. The odds may be two to one, but there is a fierce light in the mousy woman’s eyes that makes me think she could easily prevail.
On the adjacent wall is a uniformed police officer who is doing his best to keep two men apart. One of the men, a lanky blond guy with a dark tan and a sun-etched face, is dressed as if he’s ready to hop on a sailboat. The other is heavy-set, balding, and wearing a suit and tie, though the jacket has a worn-to-death sheen to it. I suspect his shirt was at one time white, but several faint stains have blurred the original color beyond recognition. As the officer does his best to keep the two men from coming to blows, they glare at one another with obvious venom—their faces suffused red with anger and their fists clenched tight. If the cop between them fails, I’m putting my money on Mr. Frayed Suit since Sailor Boy has a spoiled, soft look about him and is only half the other man’s size. I am about to award Sailor Boy a couple of grudging points for moxie when I realize it’s more likely he’s being driven by drunken stupidity. He has the bloodshot eyes and slightly bulbous nose of a long-term drinker.
Holding center stage in the middle of the room is Hurley and another man. In stark contrast to the other groupings, these two appear to be carrying on a reasoned and calm conversation. The third man, who is as tall as Hurley and built with a sinewy strength, has dark blond hair, brown eyes, and an air of calm self-assurance. He is dressed in casual slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing a pair of sexy looking tanned and muscular forearms. After a few seconds of study, I gauge his age to be somewhere around my own—in his mid-to-late thirties—and guess that he and Ms. Mousy are the oldest ones in this group.
Bjorn, who is standing beside me taking it all in, says, “Is there a vending machine in this place?”
I’m beginning to think Bjorn might be infected with a tapeworm but decide not to say anything. If I do, I know he’ll have me handling his poo as well as his pee and I don’t want to go there. So I fish in my purse, hand him some change, and direct him down a hallway off the lobby. “Halfway down that hall,” I tell him. “By the bathrooms.”
“Oh, good,” he says, taking the money. “That will work out well because I need to go lay some cable.”
I shoot him a puzzled look. “Lay some cable?”
“Yeah, you know, punch a dook?”
I stare at him, confused.
“Pinch a loaf?” he says.
With that one I finally catch on, but before I can indicate so, he throws his hands up in the air and yells, “I need to take a shit. Okay?”
The entire room falls into a sudden, awkward silence and everyone turns to look at me and Bjorn. We stare back for a few beats and then Bjorn turns and shuffles off down the hallway. Though it seems his outburst provided a distraction, rather than calming the crowd, it gives one of them an opening for an attack.
Ms. Mousy takes her suitcase-sized purse and smacks the crap out of the closest Barbie doll twin, who shrieks and lunges at the woman with her hands extended like claws—albeit well-manicured claws flawlessly painted in Mojave Desert Red. I half expect the other Barbie doll to join in but instead she grabs her twin and pulls her off Ms. Mousy.
“Let’s take a breather, shall we?” the second, saner twin says to the other two women. “We’re all adults here. Why don’t we try to behave so?” Her voice is smooth, silky, and very sexy. I see Hurley staring at her with keen interest and feel a sudden pang of jealousy.
“I agree,” says the man standing by Hurley. “Clearly we’ve been drawn together under some less-than-ideal circumstances. Let’s try to do the best we can with it and honor the dignity of our respective parents, shall we?”
Like the woman I assume is his sister, this guy’s voice is luscious: mellifluous, rich, and a bit sultry. There is also the faintest hint of an underlying British accent, suggesting he spent some time there. Between the voice and his demeanor, he manages to gain control of the room, at least for the moment. All eyes are on him. Mine are on him, up and down him, and all around him. Two can play at this infatuation game and this guy is worth a goggle or three.
As if sensing my ogling he turns and looks at me, making me blush.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he says, walking toward me with one hand extended. “I’m Aaron Heinrich.”
“Mattie Winston, Deputy Coroner,” I return, taking his hand. We exchange a brief shake, but as I’m about to let go he tightens his grip ever so slightly and smiles at me. “You’re far too pretty to be doing this kind of work,” he says. Coming from anyone else it would have sounded stupid and sleazy but he manages to make it sound sexy and flattering. I blush deeper and say a silent prayer of thanks to Barbara.
“I’m . . . um . . . not sure one’s looks . . . um . . . matter with this job,” I stammer. “But thank you.” From the corner of my eye I can see Hurley scowling at us.
“Well, Mattie Winston,” Aaron goes on. “Perhaps you can lend a voice of sanity to our proceedings here today. As you may have guessed, we are the Heinrich and Conklin families.” He gestures toward the Barbie twins and says, “These are my sisters, Katrina and Grace, and this gentleman over here”—he shifts his attention to my left and nods at Sailor Boy—“is my brother, Easton.”
Sailor Boy winks at me. I nod politely toward the twin Barbies but make no effort to approach them since Aaron still has a warm but firm grasp on my hand.
“These other two people,” Aaron continues, “are our stepsiblings, Sarah and Tom.”
Both stepsiblings look mad enough to spit fire and I fear that neither of them will be easy to deal with. I’ve already seen Sarah attack one of the Barbies with her purse, and if it wasn’t for the cop standing between Easton and Tom, I’m pretty sure Easton would be out cold by now.
The Heinrich sibs are a little harder to gauge. Easton has a clueless look about him that makes me think he’s the youngest and easiest going. The twins, however, are a toss-up. The sister named Grace, who ironically is the one showing the least of it at the moment, looks like she wants to kill someone. Based on the way she is glaring at Sarah, I’m guessing she’s visualizing a big bull’s-eye on the other woman’s forehead.
Katrina, on the other hand, has the same calm, refined expression her brother Aaron has. Her face reveals nothing and I’m at a loss to gauge how difficult or easy it will be to work with her.
With introductions out of the way, Aaron turns his attention back to me and says, “It’s a sad thing that brings all of us here today. I understand you have found the bodies of our father and his wife, Bitsy.”
“Based on evidence we found with the bodies, it does appear that way,” I tell him. “But I’m not sure if their identities have been confirmed yet.” I look over at Izzy, who is standing behind Cass’s desk. He looks like he wants to run and hide somewhere, but to his credit he takes a step closer. After swallowing so hard that his Adam’s apple looks like the weight on one of those strong man things at the carnival, he introduces himself and volleys this first question.
“I’m Dr. Rybarceski, the medical examiner. I performed autopsies on the victims we found and can tell you that the bodies have been identified as those of Gerald and Bitsy Heinrich.”
“Can you tell us how they died?” Aaron asks.
“It appears they both died of injuries sustained in the motor vehicle crash. That’s only a preliminary finding, however, as we still have some test results we are waiting on.”
“Were they killed instantly?” Katrina asks. Sarah shoots her an evil look that impresses me. That stare could melt icebergs.
“It doesn’t appear so,” Izzy says carefully. “There was evidence to suggest they both survived the initial crash, but I can’t be sure how long at this point.”
The evil stepsiblings all exchange pointed looks and then Grace fires away with another question. “Can you tell which of them died first?”
Izzy takes a deep breath before answering. “Perhaps we can once we analyze all the evidence a bit more. But at this point I can’t answer that question.”
“Well, when can you?” Grace asks, sounding impatient. “We need to know.”
“It will probably take a few days at least,” Izzy says. “Maybe longer. We need to analyze certain fluids and examine, um, the insect activity.”
If anyone has any concerns that the idea of bugs munching on the dead bodies of their parents would bother anyone in this group, we are quickly enlightened.
“Well, get on it then,” Grace says irritably, and the others all nod. “Do whatever you need to do with what you’ve got and get us an answer.”
Izzy looks like he wants to snap back at the woman but to his credit he manages to maintain his composure. “May I ask why this information is so important to you?” he asks.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Grace says, rolling her eyes and placing her perfectly manicured hands on her hips. Aaron holds one hand up to shush her and smiles at Izzy.
“It seems there are some issues with the wills,” he explains. “As you may or may not know, Bitsy wasn’t my father’s first wife. I think he knew some of us didn’t approve of her or their arrangement so when he married her he changed his will. Now it says that if he dies before Bitsy, she inherits the bulk of his money. But if Bitsy precedes him in death, the money goes to us, Gerald’s children.
“Bitsy had a will as well, and it states that her entire estate will go to her children, Sarah and Tom.” He gestures toward the two-some as he says their names, then sighs heavily. “There are millions of dollars at stake here,” he says, turning his gaze on me. “And where that money goes will be determined by who died first. If Bitsy survived the crash longer than my father did, then she inherits his money and it all goes to Sarah and Tom. But if my father survived longer, it goes to us. You see our dilemma here?” He bestows that charming smile of his on me again and I find myself smiling back before I know what hit me. To add to my delight, Hurley sees it and his scowl deepens.
Izzy says, “I can’t promise you that we’ll be able to distinguish the times of death with the degree of accuracy you need. Often the best we can do is narrow it down to a chunk of hours.”
Sarah is the one to roll her eyes this time and she stomps her foot in anger. “Goddamned spoiled rich brats!” she mutters. “You don’t need the money. The trust fund your father set up already gives each of you an annual income that’s greater than most people will see in a lifetime. You’re just being greedy.”
Katrina glares at Sarah and grits her teeth. Grace says, “It’s not your money to begin with, you stupid bitch. Your mother was nothing but a cheap gold-digging whore who bewitched my father so she could get her hands on his money.”
“My mother is not a whore!” Sarah screams.
“You’re right,” Grace says, smiling smugly and catching Sarah off guard. “At least not anymore. All she is now is worm food.”
“Fuck you!” Sarah screams. She launches herself at Grace, grabbing a chunk of that dyed-perfect hair. Katrina jumps to her sister’s defense, which forces Tom to abandon Easton and join the fray to assist his outnumbered sister. Easton watches for a second, shrugs, and then joins the melee.
The air fills with shrieks of anger and a cacophony of cuss words. Within seconds the group becomes a blur of swinging hands, kicking feet, ripped clothing, and flying chunks of hair. The two uniform cops do their best to break it up and regain control but it’s clear they have their work cut out for them. Then one of them heightens the interest by taking out his Taser.
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