Ron indicated the two women as he approached. “Joe, this is Cindy Berger and Melissa Snow of Rescue, Inc. Melissa’s a paramedic and the crew chief.”
I shook hands and addressed Melissa Snow. “How did this go down?”
Dave Raymo interrupted. “I called ’em.”
I didn’t like Raymo much. He was more interested in the trappings of being a cop than the job itself. He had a special grip on his pistol, a fetish for tight-fitting leather gloves, a goofy haircut somewhere between a flat top and a Mohawk, and a swagger I thought grotesque for a public servant. He’d come to us from Massachusetts a half year ago, and I suspected he’d be moving on before another year went by.
“I got a call to check out a missing person complaint,” he continued. “Some old lady said her daughter wasn’t answering the door or the phone or anything else, and she was worried something had happened. When I got here, I looked through the windows, saw the body on the floor, called for backup and Rescue, and then we entered the premises. When the ambulance got here, I already knew they wouldn’t be needed, but I thought what the hey, and had ’em check both bodies out. CYA, you know?”
There was a breeziness about his manner that made me doubt his story. “So you also found the child?” I asked, clumsily pulling the overalls on over my coat.
Raymo hesitated and finally blurted. “Yeah, I saw the crib.”
Melissa Snow explained further. “I found him in the back bedroom. I noticed some toys lying around and went looking.”
I glanced from one to the other, registering what wasn’t being said, and decided to deal with it later. “This might sound dumb,” I said to her, “but you’re sure both people are dead?”
Raymo rolled his eyes. “Wait’ll you see ’em.”
We both ignored him. Snow answered, “The child is cold and stiff-I’m guessing hypothermia there. The woman’s head is almost severed from her body, and the blood’s frozen.”
“Where’s the victim’s mother?” I asked Raymo.
He jerked his thumb at the nearest patrol car. “I put her in my unit.”
“She okay?”
“Yeah. She didn’t see anything-too short to reach the window. You can’t see the real gory stuff from there anyhow-that’s why I called Rescue. Wasn’t sure she was dead.”
I crossed the lawn and climbed the rickety porch steps again, accompanied by Willy and J.P., all three of us looking like bulky ghosts. Ron stayed behind. “Did either of you touch anything inside?” I called out to both women as an afterthought.
They shook their heads, Melissa adding, “We were wearing gloves anyway.”
“Okay. Thank you very much. We might be asking you for fingerprints, hair samples, and shoe impressions later. Just so you know.”
As they left, I gestured to Ron. “Could you check out the mother? See how she’s doing and get a statement.”
He nodded as I pointed to Raymo. “Switch cars with Washburn and go back to the office to write up your report. We won’t be needing you anymore.”
His expression showed he took my full meaning. He turned away without comment and stalked off, stiff with anger.
Willy laughed softly. “Asshole.”
I wasn’t in the mood. “Then don’t start acting like him.”
He smiled and held the door open for me, unrepentant. “Yes, Mother. You know he’s going back on patrol-show you who’s boss.”
“I know.”
The building’s interior was as cold as the outside, although much better lit. We stood in a short, narrow entrance hall as J.P. unfurled a roll of brown construction paper and began laying it before us like a red carpet, ensuring nothing of value would be picked up by our shoes and carried out of the house. It was a little compulsive, given that we were already wearing surgical booties, but he didn’t get to do this often.
The woman was lying between an obviously ransacked living room and the kitchen, still as a fallen mannequin. As described by Melissa Snow, her head was almost detached, and blood surrounded her like hemorrhaged syrup. The biting cold seemed suddenly to sink in deeper.
J.P. took a series of photographs before getting to one knee just clear of the frozen pool. “Multiple stab wounds to the chest,” he reported, not bothering to look back at us, his head enveloped in vapor from his breath. “Defensive cuts to the hands and forearms. Fingernails look intact-might be some of her attacker’s tissue there. Hard to tell right now.” He glanced up at the walls. “Given the blood-spatter pattern, it looks like she put up a fight but never ran. It all happened right here.”
Willy Kunkle was flashing a light into the darker corners nearby. “Probably an acquaintance attack, and she was either a real slob, or somebody was looking for something.”
“Any weapon?” I asked J.P., flexing my cold fingers inside their thin latex gloves.
He took a slight hop over the body into the kitchen beyond. “Nothing obvious,” he said, looking around. He began taking more pictures.
Catering to his tidiness, I took the roll of paper and prodded it down the hallway to the back of the house with the tip of my white-swathed boot, leaving Willy and J.P. behind.
Past a communal bathroom and some disgorged closets, there were two bedrooms, both with lights on. One was obviously an adult’s-a woman’s clothing was strewn about; cosmetics, jewelry, and a hair dryer were scattered across a scarred bureau and a night table. The bed appeared permanently unmade, but again, all the drawers and closets looked like they’d been rifled. The other room was the child’s. I entered it first.
The baby lay in its crib, a beaten-up hand-me-down planted in the middle of the room. Melissa Snow had implied it was a boy. Its one thin blanket appeared slightly disturbed, so I assumed for the moment she’d checked that fact out personally. The room didn’t reflect any signs of care or affection. The walls were bare of decorations, even the torn-out magazine pictures I’d seen in other such homes. The blanket was dirty, as were the floor and windows, and the rest of the floor was buried under boxes, suitcases, and laundry bags, of the kind usually reserved for attics or garages-all, as elsewhere, had clearly been tossed around. There was so much junk that the crib looked imperiled in its midst, as if four crests of rolling flotsam were about to close in on it from all sides and swallow it whole like a small boat beneath a tidal wave.
I heard heavy, hurried footsteps approaching down the hall, and turned as an out-of-breath Sammie Martens appeared at the door, still pulling her gloves up over the cuffs of her overalls.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said.
I looked at her carefully and took my time responding. “I thought you were on the sick list.”
Her face, already pink from the cold and exertion, deepened in color. “I’m feeling a lot better.”
“Does this mean you’ll be sticking around?”
She opened her mouth to answer and then paused. I could tell, however, that her immediate reaction had been anger. “Yes. Sorry if I caused any problems.”
I stepped aside so she could get a full view of the dead baby. “You haven’t, Sam. I just want to know if we can count on you.”
This time, the anger showed. “I never let you down before.”
I motioned her to approach the crib. “The paramedic thinks hypothermia. There’s a wood stove in the front-probably the only source of heat. You see Ron when you came in?”
“In the unit, talking with some woman.” Her eyes were fixed on the crib’s contents.
I gestured up the hallway. “The victim’s mother, supposedly. I’m hoping she’ll know something about all this-a few names, at least.” I glanced back at the baby, as peaceful as if it were still asleep, aside from a waxy pallor. “Christ. What a world,” I murmured.
Sammie hesitated and then said, “I am sorry, Joe. I know I’ve been a little flaky.”
I looked up at her, embarrassed myself. “Don’t worry about it. I came down too hard on you. We can talk later. I’ll leave you three to it for now and have Ron organize the canvass, neighbor interviews, record checks, and everything else. Make sure J.P. covers all the angles, okay? There’s no rush. I’ll make sure someone comes by later with hot coffee and something to eat.”