From the corner of my eye, I see the chief looking at his watch and bet myself he’ll be on the phone to them before leaving the building.
‘What else did you find?’
‘It’s more what I didn’t find.’ A carefully plucked eyebrow arches upwards. ‘There wasn’t a drop of blood on her body. Whoever killed her washed the body and dressed her before placing her at the dump site.’
The chief and I don’t speak as we consider the implications of her words.
‘There was very little blood left in her body. When you look at the pictures of her in situ and on my table you’ll see there’s next to no blood lividity.’ She glances at the chief and then me. ‘She’s been drained and then cleaned up. I found traces of soap in her wound. I’ve sent samples to the lab but it’s my guess she was killed at home and the froth will prove to have come from the bottle of shampoo in her bathroom.’
I nod agreement at her logic. ‘I didn’t pay attention yesterday, but what was her hair like?’
The chief fixes me with an incredulous stare but I turn to Emily for my answer.
Her eyes might be red from lack of sleep but they shine at my question. ‘It was flat, unstyled, yet clean.’
‘Like it had been washed, dried and just left?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Any traces of make-up or cosmetics on her face?’
‘No.’
‘Was she wearing underwear?’
‘No, but you’d be surprised how often our visitors aren’t.’
I look at Emily first and then the chief. ‘Well, at least we know her killer is a man.’
It takes him a fraction of a moment to catch up but when he does he gives me a curt nod.
‘You’re right. A woman would attempt to put on her cosmetics or style her hair. A man wouldn’t bother.’
‘Unless it’s a woman double bluffing you.’ The negativity of the words is matched by Emily’s tone.
The chief’s scowl would scare a mountain lion. ‘The hell with double bluffs, we work on the understanding this is a man. What else you got for us?’
‘The time of death is interesting.’
‘Why?’ Both the chief and I speak at the same time.
She grimaces a little and tilts her head to one side. ‘I can’t give you an exact time without knowing how long she was on the bench and where she was before that. But my best estimate is between eighteen and thirty hours before she was found.’
Emily stops talking to answer her cell. ‘Hello… Yes… I see… Is that a definite? … Of course I trust you… You don’t have an address for her, do you?’
The pen in her hand scrawls the address onto a stick-it label.
Finishing the call she looks at us. ‘Your Jane Doe’s name is Evie Starr. She’s fifty-eight and lived at four-sixty-three Park Way.’
Park Way runs north–south through Casperton, three streets east of Main. Four-sixty-three will be at the south end of the road.
‘Don’t suppose they gave you a next of kin?’
Emily shakes her head at the chief’s question.
‘Thanks anyway. I appreciate you working through the night.’
I trail the chief as he stalks through the corridors towards the car park. Both of us have cells pressed to our ears. We relay the same information to different people and make similar requests. I’d bet my dime to the chief’s buck Alfonse gets the information first.
The chief finishes his call and waits by his car for me to end mine.
‘Jump in. I’m going to her house and want you there.’
‘You sure you want a civilian there when you tell the family?’
I don’t want to go with him. The last place I want to be is at Evie Starr’s house when the police turn up to inform the family.
It will be messy. There will be tears, recriminations and questions we don’t yet have answers for. Nothing we can say or do will bring her back to them.
The chief is experienced enough to know what I am thinking. ‘Don’t worry, I had Darla check the electoral register. Mrs Starr lived alone. Darla’s going to let me know the next of kin as soon as she’s got an address for them.’
I guess Darla must be the person who mans the police switchboard. Or considering the quality of Casperton’s Police Department, she could be a civilian secretary who’s earned his trust and respect through the quality of her work.
As I climb into the chief’s car, I wonder just what I’ve signed up for. Does he see me as a partner? A sounding board? Or just another pair of eyes to verify his own thoughts and instincts?
There is one problem we need to address before we get too far involved.
‘Chief. You’re aware a lot of the information Alfonse and I may produce won’t be admissible in court?’
‘You mean the stuff your buddy finds out by hacking into private areas?’
‘He prefers to call it executing a thorough investigation.’
The chief takes his eyes off the road to look at me. ‘I don’t give a damn what he calls it. There’s a killer or killers attacking the residents of Casperton and I have to stop them. We’ll deal with admissible once we’ve made arrests.’
His pulling of his cell from a pocket signals the matter closed.
39
I pull on the nitrile gloves the chief has given me and follow him towards the house. The gloves feel odd on my hands and there is the faint smell of talcum powder coming from them.
Evie Starr’s is the last house before the road ends and scrubland begins. The garden is neat and tidy but there are the first signs of neglect on the house. Paint is starting to peel from the clapboard walls. The windows are clean but they too need a coat of paint.
My best guess is she’d lost her husband a year or two ago and her family haven’t stepped in enough to help her with all the household maintenance.
‘Do I need to tell you not to touch a thing and take care where you step?’
I give him a stare which tells him that if he does, he’ll be looking for another consultant.
He goes to the front door and tries the handle. Nothing happens, so we move to the back of the house. I’m in front of him so I try the back door.
It opens.
The chief brushes past with his gun drawn. I stay back and take in my surroundings. The kitchen is just like a million others. Or what they would have been like thirty years ago. The only hint of modernity is the coffee machine. The air smells old – not in a bad way, it just carries the memory of a thousand and one home-cooked meals.
Hearing no gunshots, I trace the chief’s footsteps. The lounge is less dated than the kitchen but it’s still not modern. Even the TV is old enough to drive.
I move into the hallway. The newel post at the bottom of the bannister has a pile of coats hanging from it.
The chief appears at the top of the stairs. ‘You’d best come up.’
At the top of the stairs he directs me to a bedroom and puts a hand on my shoulder when I reach the door.
The bed clothes are the dark burgundy of congealed blood. There’s a smell in the air like a butcher’s shop but without the harsh tinge of cleaning fluids.
A closet in the corner is open; various clothes and outfits are strewn on the floor.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see what he wants. A gloved finger is pointing towards an open doorway.
Stepping forward I look inside the door and see a bathroom. The shower has blood stains on all four sides although the tray at the bottom is clean. A plastic bottle lies on the carpet, its open top leaking blue shampoo into the fabric.
Towels lie scattered on the floor as if dropped by a child.
I turn to face the chief. ‘This what you expected to find?’
‘Pretty much.’ He massages his temple with the heel of a hand. ‘Doesn’t mean I’m happy to find it though.’