"We'll have our own team talk to the locals that processed the body, then they'll take a quick look together. Looks pretty straightforward. The key here will be finding something to lead us back to the killer. Frankly, I'm not very hopeful."
"Aside from massive blood loss," he continued, tracing the wide swath of dried blood back to the circular drive, "what is the initial assessment for cause of death?"
"Mr. Ghani has a deep penetration wound at the front of his neck, slightly to the right, which severed his carotid artery instantly, and probably damaged his spine at the same time. Anthony Boudreau, the forensics chief, said the wound indicated the work of a professional…possibly a sick one," she said.
"What did he mean by that?" said Edwards.
"Boudreau said the killer held the knife deep inside Ghani, and scrambled things up pretty bad. He couldn't tell how big of a blade, but based on the tearing around the neck, he's pretty sure the killer fished it around for a while, which he thought was unusual," said D'Angelo.
"Boudreau has a lot of experience with cuts like this?" he said, not convinced that a Portland, Maine based forensics guy would have the extensive experience to make this kind of assessment.
"He worked forensics in New York City for twenty-three years," she commented and paused. "Said the knife attack resembled one of several used by commandos or special forces to instantly disable sentries, but that this particular method was not typically their first choice. He said the most common surprise knife attack put the blade through the back of the victim's neck, high up near the skull, which instantly severed the spinal cord at its highest point. Instant shutdown. Scrambled the brain too, if the knife passed into the skull."
"Sounds wonderful. What's wrong with Mr. Ghani's wound?"
"Nothing, really. This cut kills just as effectively, but doesn't always sever the spinal cord. If it does, the cord is cut below the entry wound. It's an extremely painful death, if the shock doesn't kill you instantly. Boudreau said the Russian Spetznaz specialized in this one. He also thinks this one twisted the knife around more than necessary. I wouldn't want to run into the person that pulled this off," she finished.
"Unfortunately, that's exactly what we need to do," he said.
"I'm going to familiarize myself with the grounds. If you could have the forensics teams start to look at potential seaside approaches, I can send a comprehensive initial report as soon as my team takes a quick look around," he said.
"Do you want me to introduce you to some of the key players on the local force?" she asked.
"That's alright. I'd rather you handled them. If I need anything, I'll go through you," he said, hoping she didn't press the issue.
He hated dealing with the local cops. Absently shaking hands with everyone who had a horse in the race, even if their horse had no chance of winning. He'd have to make pleasantries with Cape Elizabeth's police chief, and hear about how officer "whoever" responded to the call and made sure to preserve the scene. He'd then commit his entire police force of ten officers to help Edwards in any way possible. Please. Same thing for several other towns and two counties, finally graduating to the Portland Police Department, the only people he slightly cared to interact with. He preferred to remain aloof, which would generate more respect in the long run. Plus, he could make D'Angelo feel important, and foster her relationship with the people she'd need to work with long after he departed.
"Okay…let me know if you need anything. I'll be talking with Boudreau," she said, and stepped away.
He watched her walk away, and his eyes were drawn to the front gate of the estate. He watched two women jog by the entrance along Shore Road, slowing as they passed to get a look at the commotion. They were both thin, dressed in athletic shorts and one of them wore a tight pink tank top. The other wore a tight, yellow half-shirt that resembled a jog bra. He loved seeing women in tight athletic gear, which was the primary reason he belonged to a massive chain-operated gym near his apartment in Alexandria, Virginia. He fantasized about having a threesome with these women on the patio of a house like Mr. Ghani's, but suddenly had a thought that interrupted his daydream, which was a rarity for Edwards. Once he focused in on a woman, or two women, it usually took more than a random thought to pull him back to reality.
This thought jumped out at him, and it was related to the women he just witnessed running by the house. Anyone could run in the gate while it was open. Maybe the killer simply walked in after Ghani passed through the gate.
"D'Angelo!" he yelled.
She turned around, already halfway to the forensics van and several officers drinking Dunkin Donuts coffee. He could use some coffee, he thought, but not that stuff. The officer that D'Angelo had sent to pick him up at Portland's Jetport didn't seem to know where to find coffee other than at Dunkin Donuts, and was of no help to Edwards in his search for a proper cappuccino. He should have grabbed one in Portland's sad excuse for an airport, but the line at the small Starbucks kiosk was eight deep, and the workers behind the counter didn't look like the Starbucks A-team, so he passed.
"What?"
"What was Boudreau's estimation for Ghani's time of death?" he yelled.
"6 PM, roughly," she yelled back.
"Thanks," he said.
A broad daylight killing took some nerve. He glanced at the gate again and wondered if the killer hadn't just jogged in behind the Mercedes and stabbed him. He'd counted six joggers already, and that was in the morning, during the workday. There would be twice as many in the evening, after work. Not a bad cover to slip onto the estate. He turned back to the body, wondering if Ghani had an espresso machine.
Chapter Nine
Petrovich steered his BMW over Woodford Street's faded median line and onto Lawn Avenue, barely squeezing his car in front of a battered green Chevy Caprice Classic. He could still hear the Caprice's horn two driveways down Lawn Avenue. He instantly drew annoyed stares from a pair of perfectly manicured stroller pushers, and eased off the gas, nodding an apology in their direction. Still pushing the speed limit of his neighborhood, he rolled cautiously through two stop signs before arriving at his house. The top of his sedan barely cleared the garage door as it lurched into the darkness.
He wasted little time inside the house. Upon returning to his office, after what seemed like an interminable amount of time spent watching Power Point presentations, Daniel found a message, handwritten by one of his assistants on a Zenith memo pad.
"From Jeff Hill, VP, Sanderson Resources: Have further business proposition. Would like to meet and discuss recent acquisition of Newport based assets. Acquisition of Portland assets likely in very near future. My schedule is clear to meet tonight or early tomorrow."
The message was clear. Somehow the Feds had nabbed Sanderson's Newport shooter, and the general wanted him out of town immediately. He had stared at the handwritten note, trying to rationalize any way he could stay, but it served no purpose. He had known since yesterday that their time in Portland might be drawing to a close. The reality started to sink in as he had watched the local news with Jessica earlier that morning.
While sipping coffee and making distracted small talk with his wife during breakfast, he had begun to formulate a rough plan for their disappearance. Unfortunately, Jess would have to stay in Portland for a few days. If the FBI actually found a link to Daniel, then he would need her here to distract law enforcement to buy him as much time as possible. Vanishing would require more than a few plane tickets and their passports.