“Caught in his shorts suggests someone he knew. No defensive or scrimmage wounds. So, no struggle,” the chief added.
“…the bedspread, blanket, and sheets were all pushed down onto the floor. On each nightstand was an empty wine glass. The victim’s prints and one set of unidentified prints were on the glasses. A trace of lipstick was found on one glass.”
Moran interrupted, “So, a female is involved— presumably.”
Goddard continued, “Yes, sexual activity is the obvious inference except there is no trace evidence of recent sex on that bed. There was a hairbrush and a toothbrush with Towson’s prints in the master bath. A second hairbrush and toothbrush with unidentified prints were in a small leather travel kit suitable for a woman keeping a few toiletries at his apartment. We’re going after DNA, of course. Here’s the kicker, the unidentified prints in the bathroom don’t match those on the wine glasses.”
“Wait a minute,” Moran said. “There are two sets of unidentified prints? Tell me again, Goddard, because that doesn’t fit. You said the bed was messed up and a wine glass was on each nightstand. I get that picture so far, but the prints on the wine glasses don’t match the prints found on the female items in the bathroom.”
“Indicating a second woman,” Goddard suggested. “I say woman because of the lipstick trace on the rim of the glass. As expected, there are the usual other unidentified prints around in other places. In the kitchen, CSI found a large shard of a cup under a cabinet recessed toe-kick apparently undetected, out of sight. We figure whoever picked up the other pieces overlooked it. That one piece had an oily film on it, smelled like insecticide. Reid’s prints are on that shard, remember he admitted he dropped a cup.”
“The apartment wasn’t disturbed otherwise, no apparent robbery,” the chief said. “On the face of it, Towson was murdered between two, the time on the service receipt, and six when Tony Hackett went to the apartment to pick him up.”
“M.E. says he has no problem with that timing and thinks closer to six,” Goddard said. “Hackett was to meet Towson to take him to a banquet for a campaign speech. Towson didn’t answer the buzz. Hackett phoned, no response. The maintenance man let him in. Hackett called out, walked around, and saw the body in the bedroom.”
“Did you check out Hackett?” Moran asked.
“He’s in the clear, I believe. He was in Tallahassee overnight Friday,” Goddard said, “and headed back around noon. We checked his phone. He called Towson three times from the Turnpike. Last attempt was around five. He got no answer the last time so was concerned and drove straight to Towson’s. The rest agrees with what the maintenance guy told us.”
“We sent the rug and Reid’s clothing to the lab. We’re waiting for the follow-up report from CSI,” the chief said. “We’re interviewing every occupant of the building.”
“I talked to Tammy,” Goddard said. “According to her, she met Reid at the restaurant around twelve-thirty. Reid left after thirty minutes saying he was going to find Loraine. Tammy went back to her office. So Reid’s whereabouts are unknown from one o’clock until I picked him up at six-thirty.”
“I like Reid for this, but an immediate concern here is Barner,” Moran said. “Get more men on that angle, Chief. If he’s alive, then find him. If he’s dead, find his body. There may be a larger plot. What do you think, Goddard?”
“Barner could be the murderer and he ran. First, he just happens to service the Towson’s apartment a couple of hours before the shooting. And then—he’s missing. Or, maybe he got in somebody’s way and his body is now sprawled out in his house. I’d like to search it.”
“Great idea, but you can’t,” Moran said. “We’d never get a court order to go in there, not this early. And if he’s involved in the murder, we can’t risk any findings being tossed out by the judge.” He turned to Goddard smiling. “Yes, too bad you can’t search his house.”
“If that’s all, I need to get back on the street.” Goddard left knowing exactly where he needed to go next. He looked up Sonny Barner’s address.
Barner’s small house was on a corner lot visible from two sides, exposing any vehicle parked on the street. Goddard drove up a dirt driveway at the rear and parked unnoticed in the ragged carport. At the rear door, he found an undemanding key-in-knob lock. He slid a plastic card along the jam, and the bolt moved enough to open the door.
All he needed was a minute inside. No detailed search, just a quick check, for a dead body or signs of a struggle, and Goddard would be out of there. He walked through the kitchen and dining area to the sparsely-furnished living room at the front. The place was standard bachelor-mess. Two old pump shotguns were resting in the corner of a hall closet. He held them up and smelled them. He didn’t know why, habit he guessed. The murder weapon was a .38 revolver, not a shotgun. Neither had been fired recently. Another door off the hall opened to a small bedroom jammed with boxes, tools, hoses, and containers smelling of chemicals.
He found something interesting in the other bedroom. On the computer desk was a large framed photograph of a naked woman. Beautiful with full breasts, sitting upright and posed looking into the camera, with her hands resting on her spread knees. Looped over one corner of the picture frame like a souvenir, was a real blue bra. Matching panties were hooked on the other side. They didn’t look new.
Goddard started to walk away when he realized something about the photo. He leaned closer. He recognized the woman, at least he recognized her face. It was Tammy Jerrold.
He studied the photo for signs of a paste-up, but it was seamless. Indeed, it seemed to be Tammy posed there. Probably digitized software was used to put her head on someone’s body.
Goddard’s only concern was Barner possibly lying dead in the place. On his way out through the kitchen, he paused at the refrigerator; covered with cards, notes and an interesting newspaper clipping. The old clipping from the society page showed Senator Towson in his tuxedo standing with a group of people and Tammy Jerrold at his side. The image of Towson was crossed out with a red felt-tip. Interesting, but there was no dead body in that house.
Driving back downtown, he was waiting at a traffic light when a lipstick-red Miata dashed across the intersection directly in front of him. He had noticed the little convertible with the top down and bearing Pennsylvania plates earlier that day and had followed it for a while, watching the driver’s short brown hair scattering about in the wind. He knew who was driving. He turned and followed.
Sandy Reid pulled into a space in front of the real estate office. The dark grey Impala she had noticed following her pulled across behind her, blocking her. Easy to spot a cop even in an unmarked car, she thought, they always sit up so straight.
She watched him walk up to the side of her convertible, and open his jacket slightly to show the badge clipped on his belt. Hot looking cop, she decided. Get him a decent sports jacket and he could model for GQ. She looked up at him. “You don’t want to look in my trunk, do you?” He didn’t look amused.
“License, and please remove your sunglasses, Miss.”
“Of course, is it sergeant or lieutenant?” She reset her sunglasses on top of her hair, reached for her purse, and found her license. “Can I get out of my car, please?”
She didn’t mind him throwing glances down her blouse, but he was over six feet, and she wanted to deny him the psychological advantage of standing above her. Besides, her denim skirt had ridden up and a flash of legs about now might be useful; there’s more than one way to swing your legs out of a car. Let him pretend not to notice.