Uniformed police officers and yellow crime tape closed off the alley that ran alongside the east side of the restaurant. The west entrance to the delivery area behind the building was also cordoned off. Andie showed her credentials and was allowed to pass through the outer perimeter, but she was stopped before she reached the Dumpster. MDPD was in charge of the crime scene, and the perimeter-control officers were determined to make certain that no one, not even the FBI, contaminated it. Andie caught the eye of Lieutenant Dawes, who recognized her from the task-force meeting. He went to her and provided an update, the two of them separated by taut yellow police tape.
"You sure it's Reems?" said Andie.
"Positive" said Dawes.
"How long has he been dead?" said Andie.
"Don't know yet."
Dawes had the look and demeanor of a homicide detective who had seen far too many murders. He was tense and angry, his teeth and right hand stained from chain smoking, a clenched fist of a man. Andie sensed that he knew more than he was willing to share, which wouldn't have been the first time in the history of American law enforcement that a homicide detective chose to be tight-lipped around the FBI. Her questions had to be more pointed to draw anything out of him. "Rigor mortis set in yet?"
"Yeah."
"Beyond the neck and jaw?" she asked.
"It would appear that way."
"Full body?"
"Not yet."
"What about lividity? Any blanching to the touch?"
"I'd say it's fixed."
"So, you can set a preliminary on the time of death at six to eight hours." She checked her watch. "Between one and three a.m., roughly."
"That's a fair guess."
"Can you tell if the body was moved here from somewhere else?"
"Not yet," said Dawes. No elaboration.
"Well, what does your ME say about the bloodstains and lividity patterns?"
"No signs that the body has been moved."
Andie said, "So Reems was shot exactly where he was found, in the Dumpster. Are you thinking suicide?"
"Still under consideration."
"Did you find a weapon nearby?"
"Yeah. But it hadn't been fired."
"Blood spray on his hands?"
"Nope."
"Where's the entry wound?"
"Between the eyes."
"Not your typical self-inflicted gunshot," said Andie. "Any powder burns or starburst at the point of entry to suggest a close-contact wound?"
"No."
"Doesn't sound like suicide to me. Any witnesses to talk with?"
"One possibility."
"Who?"
"Reems stole a car to get here. Owner is a nineteen-year-old woman. She was locked in the trunk, semiconscious when we found her. She's at Jackson now. Maybe she can tell us something."
"Got a name?"
Dawes gave it to her, and Andie wrote it down. Then she glanced toward the Dumpster, where the forensic team was busy searching for fingerprints and collecting other evidence. "Mind if I have a closer look?"
"Sorry. We're doing a footprint and tire-track analysis, and I'd like to keep traffic to a minimum."
"Understood," she said. "Anything of particular interest?"
He seemed to think about it for a minute, as if trying to decide whether her performance thus far had earned an answer to such an open-ended question. Andie hated this game – boy cop tells girl cop absolutely nothing until she dazzles him with her knowledge and lures him into sparring with her. But Dawes was old school, and her persistence seemed to be getting through to him. Whatever worked.
"Hard to say," he said. "There's lots of foot traffic behind a restaurant. But one set of footprints appears to come down the alley, stop about twenty feet away from the Dumpster, and then turn around and head back."
"You're thinking he was shot from twenty feet away?"
"It had to be from some distance. There's no exit wound."
"What kind of ammunition?"
"I can't be sure until the ME extracts the bullet from his head. But the wound looks a little too large for.22-caliber, so I can rule out that much."
"Plus, if it was.22-caliber, the shot probably would have been fired at close range to penetrate the skull. Like the classic Mafia hit, where the.22 is right up against the skull and the bullet rattles around inside the skull, no exit wound, turning the brains to scrambled eggs. That would have left residue."
He seemed surprised that Andie knew that – or at least a little chagrined that he hadn't said it first. "Exactly," he said. "So with a larger wound and no powder burns at the point of entry, I'm saying it's not a.22."
"But if it was a bigger round – say, a.38 or a 9-millimeter – and fired at close range, it probably would have passed right through the skull. You're telling me it didn't do that."
His expression showed less surprise than simple annoyance that Andie was keeping up, or perhaps even a step ahead of him. "Right. So twenty feet sounds about right to me," he said.
"Did you find a shell casing?"
"Not yet. Shooter may have picked it up and taken it with him."
Andie's gaze drifted back toward the crime scene. She was trying to imagine what it would have been like behind the restaurant after dark. "What's the lighting situation like here?"
"Just that one street lamp on the west end of the building."
"Any stray bullets found in the wall or anyplace?"
"No"
Again, Andie turned her attention back to the Dumpster, mentally placing herself at the scene of the crime. "So the killer fires a single round from twenty feet away in bad lighting. Hits Reems right between the eyes. He's so confident that it's a kill shot, he doesn't even approach the Dumpster to inspect his work. He just picks up his spent shell casing, turns around, and leaves the same way he came."
"Are you hinting at a professional job?" said Dawes.
Andie shrugged. "At least someone who knew what he was doing."
"A guy like Reems could know a lot of people like that."
"That's probably true," said Andie.
They watched as the assistants from the medical examiner's office rolled the gurney toward the Dumpster to collect the body. Andie said, "The manhunt is over, and now begins the search for his killer."
"Well, at least your work is done."
"It's never done," said Andie. She thanked him, stepped away from the police tape, and then reached for her cell phone. Their last date had ended with a certain air of finality, but for some reason she still had Jack Swyteck's number programmed into her directory.
Only just beginning, she thought as she placed the call.
Chapter 13
Theo met Jack at the Latin American Cafeteria, a landmark Coral Gables restaurant that specialized in hot pressed sandwiches made on Cuban bread. An early lunch had been Jack's idea, and he was waiting at the busy counter when Theo arrived.
Like every other customer but Jack, Theo wanted to dine in air-conditioned comfort and watch the knife-wielding chef carve up the roast pig and cured hams like a skilled samurai. Jack said he needed to speak to Theo in private, however, so they placed their order inside and endured an isolated table in the sunshine. The outside seating area had lost its shade trees in the last hurricane season, and even though summer was technically a month away, it felt like a sticky August afternoon. The wait for their food came with a view of noisy Coral Way and endless waves of heat rising from the paved parking lot. Theo couldn't stop wiping his brow with a napkin, but Jack seemed content. They were indeed alone, save for a handful of old Latinos who were dressed in their Sunday guayaberas and standing at the takeout window, sipping tazas of Cuban coffee and arguing about everything from politics to beisbol.