Popping the trunk of her Audi, Vick fished through the box filled with files of active cases. She found Wayne Ladd’s file, and soon was studying it in her car. DuCharme climbed in and fastened his shoulder harness.
“Ready when you are,” he said.
She ignored him, and continued to read. Wayne Ladd had murdered his mother’s boyfriend by sticking a bayonet through his heart. The boyfriend was a bartender with a history of abusing women. When the police had arrived at the boyfriend’s house, Wayne had been standing over him clutching the weapon, his clothes soaked with blood. He had confessed at the scene, and shown no remorse.
Vick found the description of the bayonet buried in the report. The murder weapon was a Swiss Sig 1957 Pattern Bayonet, made of tempered steel, with a nine and a half inch blade. The detective who’d written the report had checked the bayonet’s history, and discovered that it was a collector’s item, and cost three hundred dollars on the open market.
Vick closed the report, deep in thought.
“Find something?” DuCharme asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to arm wrestle you?”
“Wayne’s bedroom didn’t have a single military item in it, yet the bayonet was a collector’s item. The murder weapon belonged to someone else.”
“You don’t think Wayne is a killer, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re pissing in the wind. The kid had a motive, and he confessed. Case closed.”
Vick slapped the file shut and tossed it into the backseat. DuCharme was right; she was grasping at straws. Only the smug look on the detective’s face was too much to bear. That, and the knowledge that Linderman had moved the investigation forward, and was close to catching their killer, while she had done nothing.
She fired up her engine and backed down the drive.
Chapter 21
The Broward Sheriff’s Office Evidence Unit was situated a block off Sunrise Boulevard inside a soulless industrial park. The size of a small airplane hanger, the warehouse housed over a quarter million pieces of crime-related evidence, and was responsible for maintaining the integrity of evidence before trials.
The reception desk was empty. Vick and DuCharme scribbled their names on a sign-in sheet and waited for assistance. DuCharme whistled like he was doing bird calls.
“You are so easily amused,” she said.
“Two o’clock. Everybody must be on break,” the detective said.
“Do they all take a break at the same time?”
“Sure. They’re three-ninety-fives.”
“Is that their job classification?”
“Uh-huh. They make nothing, and give nothing in return.”
Vick tapped her toe impatiently. It was not unusual at police evidence warehouses for things to get misplaced or simply disappear, never to be seen again. She hoped this wasn’t the case with the murder weapon in Wayne Ladd’s case.
She wanted to see that bayonet. During her training at Quantico, she’d learned a great deal about weaponry. The Swiss made some of the finest weapons in the world, and proudly marked their products with serial numbers. If Wayne’s bayonet contained a serial number, she’d have a good chance of tracking down it’s previous owner.
An evidence tech appeared behind the desk. Blond and skinny, he didn’t look old enough to be shaving. He grinned at Vick while acting like DuCharme wasn’t there.
“Afternoon. Can I help you?” the tech said cheerfully.
Vick and DuCharme both displayed her ID.
“We need to get a piece of evidence from storage,” Vick explained.
“Wow. You’re with the FBI. I always wanted to be an FBI agent,” the tech said. “Do you like your job?”
“The hours are long and the pay stinks,” Vick said. “Otherwise, it’s a great life.”
The tech laughed under his breath. He slid a request form across the desk.
“Fill this out, and I’ll go find your evidence myself,” the tech said.
“Why, thank you.”
DuCharme filled out the form. Protocol dictated that only a Broward detective could request evidence from the Broward Evidence Unit. Vick made sure that DuCharme wrote the case number in bold letters so the tech didn’t bring them the wrong item. When DuCharme was finished, Vick handed the tech the sheet.
“Sit tight. I’ll be right back,” the tech said.
“What a loser,” DuCharme said when the tech was gone.
“I thought he was kind of cute,” Vick said.
“Is that the kind of guy you like? Young and stupid?”
“Yes. The dumber the better.”
The tech returned with the murder weapon. It was inside a plastic bag and looked like a kid’s toy. Vick removed the bayonet from the bag, and balanced it on her palm.
It was not a toy. Over a foot long, and heavy. Knives could be used for different things, but a bayonet’s purpose was to take human life. It made her think that whoever had given the bayonet to Wayne had expected him to kill with it.
Knowing the bayonet had gone straight through a man’s heart gave Vick pause. She spied a serial number printed on the neck in tiny letters. She’d hit pay dirt.
“I need to examine this,” she said to DuCharme.
“I’ll sign it out,” the detective replied.
DuCharme played with the bayonet while Vick drove to police headquarters. He’d already forgotten about the tech, and hummed softly to himself. She wondered if it was his upbringing or lack of education that made him so unbearable to be around. She thought he might cut himself with the blade, but didn’t say anything.
Back in her temporary office, Vick got on the Internet, and did a Google search for Swiss Sig distributors in the United States. There was only one, located in San Francisco. She went to their web site and scrolled through the pages. There was no phone number, just an email address, and she fired off a letter to the president, asking for his help. In the letter she included the serial number off Wayne’s bayonet, along with her own contact information.
“You done?” DuCharme asked. He sat on the other side of the desk, rattling his car keys. They hadn’t eaten lunch, and he acted hungry.
“Not yet,” Vick replied.
“Soon?”
“Hard to say.”
“Want to get a bite to eat?”
Vick’s cell phone rang, saving her. It was Linderman.
“Hey, Ken,” she answered.
“The reception issue has been cleared up. The sting is on,” Linderman said. “Crutch will be given a slave phone tonight. If he contacts Mr. Clean, the slave phone will tell us the phone number Mr. Clean is using, and his physical location. I want you to get a team of agents to together, and be ready to run him down.”
Vick felt her heartbeat quicken. “Yes, sir.”
“I don’t want the Broward cops to know about this. That includes DuCharme.” He paused. “Is he still working with you?”
“Yes.” Her voice was a monotone.
“Get rid of him right now. That’s an order.”
“Will do.”
“I’m counting on you, Vick. This may be our last chance to catch Mr. Clean.”
“I won’t let you down.”
The call ended without Linderman saying goodbye. Vick folded her phone while looking across the desk. DuCharme had a loopy grin on his face. Rising from her chair, she shut the door, then leaned against the desk and faced him.
“Ready to go?” the detective asked.
“I’ve got some bad news,” she said. “We’re no longer working together.”
He frowned. “Is that what that phone call was about? Someone called, and told you to get rid of me?”
“It’s my decision. I should have told you earlier, at the library. I can’t have you undermining me or questioning my decisions. You’re hurting my investigation.”
“What? You’re too good to be questioned? Is that it?”
“I never said that.”
“We’re supposed to be a team.”
“This is my investigation, not yours.”