Shock Treatment (28 page)

“Yeah, I know.” Brass winced. “We need to find out if Jill has an alibi for tonight.”

“Not to mention Roger Park,” Catherine said. Jill wasn't the only suspect with a motive for killing Debra. “Maybe he's tying up loose ends?”

She found herself hoping that Park was to blame. If their suppositions were correct, Park was already responsible for one death. She wouldn't mind putting him away for Debra's murder as well.

Her gaze was drawn to the ugly exit wound in Debra's brow. “Any sign of the bullet?”

“Way ahead of you,” Greg reported. He moved down the walkway to a swaying palm tree. The beam of his flashlight exposed a gaping wound in the tree trunk, around eye level. Shredded bark circled the impact site. “The security guard spotted the bullet hole after he got the lights back on. We haven't had a chance to extract the slug yet.”

“No rush,” Catherine said. Great care had to be taken to avoid damaging a bullet when it was being recovered; they wouldn't want to compromise any identifying marks by scratching it themselves. If necessary, they might have to cut out a chunk of the tree trunk to keep the bullet intact until they got it back to the lab. “What about any casings?”

“Haven't even looked yet,” Nick admitted. “We've been busy with the body.”

“Works for me.”

She gave Dave the go-ahead to transport the body to the morgue. While Greg and Nick helped him load Debra onto a gurney, she tried to trace the trajectory of the bullet in her mind. Visualizing Debra standing in front of her on the walkway, Catherine lined up the shot with the tree farther down the path. Her index finger filled in for the gun
as she imagined the killer shooting Debra from behind, the bullet passing through the woman's skull to strike the unlucky palm tree. Catherine glanced down at the pavement beneath her feet.
Assuming no ricochets,
she deduced,
the shooter would have been standing right about . . . here.

She started retracing the killer's steps back toward the main parking lot. If the shooter had indeed driven away, that was the way they would have headed. The beam of her flashlight swept across the ground before her in slow, deliberate arcs. The streetlights around the tennis court lit up much of the surroundings, but nocturnal shadows still cloaked the greenery outside the pathway. Her eyes and flashlight carefully probed the neatly trimmed lawn and foliage, which were showing signs of the winter's rigor. Bare branches and brown grass reminded her that spring was still months away. Nick and Greg joined the search, spreading out from the crime scene in ever-expanding circles.

A row of shrubs ran parallel to the walkway. A metal waste bin was filled with empty soda cans, plastic water bottles, soiled diapers, napkins, fast-food wrappers, and other debris. Catherine made a mental note to have the trash bagged and processed, just in case the killer had tossed something incriminating away. It was amazing the things people would toss in convenient garbage cans and Dumpsters sometimes. In the past, she had recovered guns, knives, gas cans, and even the occasional cadaver from the trash. She shuddered to think how much valuable evidence had been lost to landfills.

And how many missing persons.

A metallic glint caught her attention, only a few feet away from where Debra's body had fallen. She replaced her winter gloves with latex ones, then knelt to investigate. “Eureka,” she murmured as she spotted the distinctive gleam of a brass shell casing nestled in the bushes. In her experience, shooters rarely stuck around to clean up after themselves. They were usually in too much of a hurry to get away. “I knew you had to be around here somewhere.”

Despite her excitement, she took the time to thoroughly document her find. Snapshots captured the location of the casing, as well as its proximity and orientation to the crime scene. She sketched a map of the park grounds in her notebook, noting the approximate distances involved. As was to be expected, the casing was on the right side of the path, facing toward the distant tree; most firearms ejected their empty cartridges to the right. Not until she was sure she had enough coverage did she gently retrieve the casing and place it in a clear plastic bag. Scooting away from the shrub, she stood up and walked back toward the tennis court.

“That was fast,” Greg commented. He broke off his own search to join her. “You got something.”

“A brass casing, to go along with the bullet in that tree.” She held the transparent bag up to the light. Unfortunately, the explosive heat of the gunshot would have burned away any fingerprints, but hopefully there were still things they could learn from the shell. Ejector marks on the brass indicated that it had been fired by an automatic. “Looks like a 9 millimeter round.”

Brass finished conferring with the security guard. His hands were tucked into the pockets of a heavy overcoat to keep warm. “I'm heading out to pick up Jill for questioning,” he told Catherine. “You coming?”

“Definitely.” She wanted to keep on top of the human element here. Handing the bagged casing over to Greg, she peeled off her latex gloves. “You and Nick finish working the scene here, then meet me back at the lab.”

“Will do.” Greg took custody of the shell, then looked over at the pavement where Debra's body had been found. A bloody smear was frosting over in the cold. He frowned at this brutal new development. “You really think Jill Wooten shot
another
person?”

“Could be,” Catherine said. “For a ‘harmless' cable show,
Shock Treatment
is racking up quite a body count.”

“I'll say,” he agreed. “Who knew reality TV could be so . . . real.”

Catherine wondered if he was rethinking his viewing habits.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Not to mention fatal.”

This time Jill Wooten got the full interrogation room treatment. They could not afford to go easy on her, not if she had actually killed her ex-roommate.

“Debra is dead?” she asked again, as though she still couldn't believe it. “No kidding?”

“This isn't another hoax,” Brass said firmly. “Debra Lusky's body was found in Sunset Park earlier this morning.”

“Oh my God.” Jill drooped in her seat, the wind
knocked out of her. She wore a red cotton poncho over the T-shirt and sweat pants she'd had on when Brass and Catherine had knocked on her door less than an hour ago. He had been surprised to find her still up, given that it was the wee hours of the morning. She was definitely wide awake now, though. She clutched a steaming cup of coffee as she processed the news of her one-time friend's death. Jill's face was pale, but her eyes were dry. Her voice, when she spoke again, was halting. “I honestly don't know how I feel about that.”

Brass found himself in the position of trying to assess her acting skills. Jill certainly appeared stunned by Debra's murder, but he couldn't forget how furious she had been at Debra less than twenty-four hours ago.
At least,
he noted,
she's not pretending to be completely broken up about it.

Was that a point in her favor?

“I'll bet,” Catherine said, sitting in on the interrogation. “You two weren't exactly the best of buds anymore.”

“You know we weren't,” Jill said. “Still . . . oh my God. I can't believe she's really dead.”

“Lot of that going around.” Brass took out his pen and notebook. “I have to ask, where were you around midnight tonight?”

Jill tensed up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . you think
I
did this?”

“We're just considering every possibility,” he said blandly, avoiding either sympathy or accusations. “You
did
have a motive.”

She didn't deny it. “Yeah, I guess so. You got me there. But I didn't do it, I swear.”

“So where were you tonight?”

“At midnight?” She didn't need to search her memory. “At home, right where you found me.”

“Sleeping?”

“Hah!” She laughed bitterly. “I haven't had a good night's sleep since . . . you know when.” Her haggard appearance lent credence to her claim. Dark shadows haunted her eyes, and her hair was a mess. Good bone structure notwithstanding, she wasn't likely to get many modeling jobs these days—unless they were for insomnia cures. “I was watching TV. Just had a movie on in the background. About the only way to avoid stumbling onto a news story about what happened.”

Brass could believe it. The media was still having a field day with the
Shock Treatment
shooting. Even people who had never heard of the show before were following the story—and demanding that the authorities get to the bottom of things. Matt Novak had achieved in death the fame and celebrity that had largely eluded him in life, while cheesecake shots of Jill, taken over the course of her modeling career, were all over the tabloids and internet.
Just wait until the news about the sex tape leaks,
Brass thought.
The media will go thermonuclear.

He prayed he could wrap up the case before then.

“Can anyone confirm your alibi?” he asked.

“Not really,” she admitted. “I was home alone all night, hiding from the press.”

Too bad the paparazzi weren't keeping watch outside,
he thought.
Then we'd have some way to verify that.

“So when was the last time you saw Debra?”

“That morning at WaxWorkZ.” She cracked a
pained, humorless smile. “When you stopped me from kicking her sorry ass. That was the last time I saw her, and the last time I
ever
wanted to see her.”

“We spoke with Debra yesterday,” Catherine said. “She said she'd been trying to get hold of you.”

“
Trying,
” Jill stressed. “That doesn't mean I was taking her calls. Or answering her emails.”

“Not even tonight?” Catherine showed her a cell phone in a plastic baggie. David Phillips had taken the phone off Debra's body before escorting it to the morgue. “According to her cell phone, she tried calling you several times this evening, only a few hours before her death.”

Catherine wasn't bluffing, Brass knew. Judging from the phone records, Debra had started calling Jill almost as soon as she'd left this very interrogation suite. Had they arranged to meet later on, perhaps at Sunset Park after midnight?

“Yeah, sure,” Jill said. “But I was screening my calls, especially where she was concerned. There was nothing she had to say that I wanted to hear.” Her eyes moistened, and she choked up a little. “To be honest, I feel kind of bad about that now.” For the first time, guilt showed upon the hollow angles of her face. “You think I should have given her a chance to apologize . . . ?”

Her voice trailed off as it sunk in that Debra was never going to have another chance to make amends. Brass wondered if Jill would feel better or worse if she knew that her friend had possibly tricked her into killing Matt Novak for her.

“That's not for me to say,” he told her. He was a detective, not a priest.

“I don't suppose you own another gun?” Catherine asked. “Maybe a 9 millimeter automatic.”

“Not a chance,” Jill insisted. “I'm done with guns . . . for good.” She leaned across the table. Damp emerald eyes implored Brass and Catherine. “Please, you've got to believe me. I was pissed off at Debra. I still am. No way was I ever going to forgive her for what she put me through. But I didn't want her dead.”

“That's not what you said the last time we talked,” Catherine reminded her. She took out a handheld digital recorder, which was already keyed up to just the right moment. She hit Play and Jill's angry voice, taped only yesterday, emanated from the recorder:

“Oh, my God, that bitch! She knew I had the gun, but she still set me up for that show! I'm going to kill her!”

Jill blanched at her words. “No, you don't understand! That was just crazy talk. I didn't mean it!”

“I want to believe that,” Brass said sincerely. “But we're going to need a bit more proof.”

Jill appeared desperate to clear herself. “Like what?”

“Give me your hands.” Catherine prepared to test Jill's hands for gunshot residue. “And please roll up your sleeves.”

She swabbed Jill's hands and lower arms, concentrating on the palms and the webbing between the thumb and trigger finger. She then inserted the swab into a small plastic cube. A plunger button broke open a glass vial inside the cube, releasing diphenylamine, a chemical reagent that would react to the presence of any particles that might have
clung to Jill's skin. A positive result would turn the swab blue.

It did not change color.

“Negative,” Catherine announced.

“See,” Jill said, vindicated, at least in her own mind. “I told you, I didn't kill Debra.”

Brass was relieved by the results of the test, even though he knew that it wasn't conclusive proof that Jill was innocent. At least four hours had passed since the murder, plenty of time for Jill to wash the GSR from her hands. And the instant hands-on test was only the first step in eliminating her as a suspect. Her clothing would also have to undergo chemical and microscopic analysis back at the lab. But at least the GSR test had not caught her red-handed.

There's still a good chance she's not our shooter.

“We'll need a sample of your hair as well,” Catherine said. “Plus, whatever clothes you were wearing tonight.”

“Geez,” Jill complained. “You're going to end up with my entire wardrobe before this mess is over.” She shrugged in resignation. “Whatever. You're not going to find anything.”

No longer afraid of being arrested, she sank back into her chair. The enormity of Debra's fate seemed to creep up on her again. She sniffled and wiped her eyes. “I don't understand. Why would anyone want to kill her . . . besides me, that is.” She looked to Brass for answers. “If it wasn't me, then who?”