“I’m going to send Jim Morgan down to observe the posts. Vicky and I are going to canvass the neighbors, and then I’ve got to get Pete Rourke to buy us some time. If news about this confession leaks to the media, all hell is gonna break loose.”
When Harry returned to the condo Nick’s body had already been loaded on a gurney. He told the morgue attendants to take a break so he could make a final examination of the body, then undid the straps holding down the covering sheet and pulled it back.
Nick’s features were even more grotesque lying on his back. His bulging eyes had begun to cloud, and the facial features seemed even more distorted. Beneath the clouding in his eyes Harry thought he could detect a strong sense of fear. He leaned in closer studying them more carefully. Yes, it was there. He was certain of it. He had seen many suicides by gunshot. Fear had been there when the fatal wound was to the victim’s torso and death was not immediate. But not when death came quickly. Not when death came from a head wound. Everything he had read, every psychologist he had ever questioned about suicide, agreed that a great sense of calm came to the victim when that final decision had been made. From that point fear was seldom a factor. But Harry felt fear here. Nick had not been seeking his own death. It was not something he welcomed.
Who was it, Nick? Who scared you before you died? He placed his latex-covered hands on Nick’s chest but no sensation came to him. He looked up and saw members of the CSI team watching him. Marty LeBaron was smiling.
“Doing your dead detective thing, Harry?”
Harry ignored him, turning his attention back to the body. Staring down at Nick’s swollen, deformed face he recalled the first time the cop had been braced about his relationship with Darlene Beckett. He had been peppered with questions from the four of them-Rourke, Vicky, Jim, and Harry, himself. The questions had produced concern, embarrassment, and anger. But beneath that montage of emotions there had been a hint of fear as well. It was the same fear Harry had seen so many times with suspects he was out to nail, suspects who had come to the realization that nothing they said or did would get them off the hook.
Was that it? Was that what he was seeing in Nick’s dead eyes? He wondered if it was that simple-that in the last moments of his life, Nick had realized that there was nothing he could do to stop his own killer. It had to be, Harry decided. If Nick had taken his own life, his final emotion would have been a sense of resignation, perhaps with a touch of relief-a final release from all the pressure that had driven him to that end. But fear? There would have been some, certainly, but fear would not have been a major part of that final equation.
Harry and Vicky came up dry with Nick’s neighbors. Only a few had heard the late-night music and only the woman who lived next door had made any attempt to stop it. The music apparently had only been loud enough to disturb people in the adjoining apartments-and to cover the sound of one very loud pistol shot.
When they returned to the crime scene the CSI team was just packing up their gear. Mary LeBaron approached Harry with a handful of Polaroid photos in his hand.
“Something new?” Harry asked.
“Yeah, one more complication you’re not going to like,” Marty said. “Or maybe you will.” The photos showed a pair of brown wing-tipped shoes shot from every conceivable angle. “We found them way back in Nick’s closet. I haven’t compared them to the photos from the Waldo murder scene, but I’m pretty certain they’re going to match.”
“Are the shoes the right size?” Harry asked.
“Eleven-C, the same as Nick’s other shoes.”
Vicky took the photos and began looking through them. “So if these are the shoes from the Waldo crime scene, it means he wore them home and saved them for us to find, rather than drop them in some dumpster, right?”
“Right,” Marty said.
“If he wore them home there should be some blood on the driver’s-side floor of his car,” Harry said. “Is there?”
Marty LeBaron gave him a slow smile. “I happened to check that. There was no blood evidence in Nick’s car.”
“So the shoes were planted,” Vicky said.
“I can’t prove that, but it sure would be my guess.”
Harry thought over what he had been told, letting various possibilities run through his mind. “I’d like you to hold back on this for a day,” he finally said.
“Why?” Vicky and Marty spoke the word in unison.
“I want to keep this between us-you and me and Marty and Mort Janlow. It will just be for a few days. But right now I don’t want to tell Rourke or any of the other detectives on the team. I don’t want even the smallest chance that any of this will leak to the press.”
Pete Rourke sat behind his desk and listened to Harry’s plea for more time. Vicky sat next to Harry, uncharacteristically quiet.
“Why don’t you buy it as a suicide, Harry? All the physical evidence fits.”
“We don’t know that yet. We haven’t gotten a CSI report, and Mort Janlow still has the autopsy this afternoon.”
“Harry, I haven’t talked to Mort or Marty LeBaron, but I gotta tell you, as of right now everything I’ve seen points straight at Nick. Plus, there’s the confession.”
“Unsigned, just sitting on a computer,” Harry argued. “Nick was a good detective, Pete. He knew that type of confession wasn’t very solid. He could have easily printed it out and signed it. The printer was working and loaded with paper. But he didn’t.”
“Maybe he just didn’t give a rat’s ass,” Rourke said. “Maybe he just wanted out of this world and didn’t give a damn what he left behind.”
“Then why confess at all? Why rent a movie and watch half of it? Why blast gospel music to cover the sound of the shot?” It was Vicky, and hearing her suddenly list Harry’s concerns startled both men. “There’s even the question of a pillow that might have been used to help silence Nick’s Glock.”
Rourke nodded slowly. “Who’s covering the autopsy?”
“Jim Morgan,” Harry said.
“Alright, if Mort has even the slightest doubt, I’ll hold the confession. Just keep your fingers crossed that somebody else doesn’t release it for me. What are you and Vicky doing in the meantime?”
“I’m going to check in with Mort and then I want to take another look at Bobby Joe’s church.”
“Why take another look at Waldo’s church? You still think there’s a tie between the killer and that church?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Harry said.
“What makes sense, Harry, is that you just don’t like churches,” Rourke said.
“Do I get the time I need, or not?”
Rourke scratched his chin. “For once-and maybe the only time in your police career-the brass is on your side. They don’t like the idea of one of our own being tagged as a damn serial killer, so when I told them that you didn’t buy Nick for the murder, they told me to give you time to prove it.” He watched a smile form on Harry’s lips, then wiped it away with his next words. “You’ve got seventy-two hours, Harry, and not a minute more. And that’s straight from the top. When it’s up, no matter what Mort comes up with, Nick’s confession goes to the media.”
CHAPTER TWENTY — ONE
Jim Morgan looked a bit queasy, his well-tanned face now showing a hint of gray.
“First autopsy?” Harry asked as he stepped up beside him.
Jim nodded, but didn’t speak, afraid his voice might crack if he did.
“I don’t like them much myself,” Harry said. “I’ve seen dozens and each one is as bad as the first.”
Mort Janlow was leaning over Nick Benevuto’s open body cavity preparing to remove the heart. He looked up at the two detectives. “No puking,” he said with a faint grin. “You have to puke, you go outside.” He looked at Harry and the grin widened. “That especially goes for you, Harry.”
Janlow began removing each organ in turn, weighing it, examining it for abnormalities; then setting it aside for further examination later.