As was usually the case with corpses at this stage, flies were everywhere—most thickly concentrated on the mouths, eyes, and ears. The apartment’s two front windows were wide open, likely an effort by Torres to mitigate the stench.
There were two empty glasses, open bottles of vodka and raspberry liqueur, and two glittery purses on the coffee table in front of the couch—along with a number of hypodermic needles. Gurney counted eight, all used and empty. Their labels indicated they were of the preloaded type containing propofol.
“Blaze Lovely Jackson and Chalise Jackson Creel,” said Torres. “At least that’s what it says on the driver’s licenses in those purses. Sounds like they might be sisters.”
Gurney nodded. “Have you called the ME’s office?”
“Thrasher said he could be here in twenty-five minutes, and that was twenty minutes ago. I called Garrett Felder, too. He’s on his way.”
“Good. You’ve been through the apartment?”
“A general look-around.”
“Anything get your attention?”
“One thing, actually.” Torres pointed to a small desk against the wall opposite the couch. He opened the top drawer all the way. In the back behind a ream of paper there was a plastic zip-top bag containing what appeared to be a stack of twenty-dollar bills. Gurney guesstimated the total, if they were all twenties, to be at least three thousand dollars.
He frowned. “Interesting.”
“The money?”
“The plastic bag.”
“The bag? Why—?”
Torres’s question was truncated by the sound of a car door closing in the street below.
49
Shortly after Thrasher’s arrival, Garrett Felder came trudging up the stairs with his evidence-collection equipment, followed by Paul Aziz with his camera. While the three donned their Tyvek suits, Torres acquainted them with the basic facts of the situation, after which he and Gurney took a low-profile position, mostly observing the technical work in progress and being careful not to get in the way.
From time to time Felder and Aziz expressed their dismay at the odor that had permeated the apartment. Thrasher acted as if it didn’t exist.
After watching them for a while, Torres took Gurney aside and informed him that he’d been contacted earlier that day by the lead singer of an obscure old rock band. “He told me he’d heard a news report a few days ago that members of a white-supremacist group called Knights of the Rising Sun were wanted by the police in White River. That would have been when Turlock and Beckert were publicly linking the KRS website to the Jordan-Tooker murders and to the Gorts. Anyway, the news reporter included the website address in the story. The rock-band guy got curious and went to the site—because he remembered the phrase ‘knights of the rising sun’ was in one of his old songs.”
Gurney chimed in. “And on the website he found the video of him and his band performing that song. But he didn’t know anything about any white-supremacist group and his band had never given anyone the rights to the video.”
Torres looked baffled. “How on earth do you know that?”
“It’s the only way it would make sense, considering the fact that the whole KRS business was a fabrication. I figure the website creator found the old video somewhere—maybe on YouTube—copied it, and used it. I’d also bet that the band’s actual name has the phrase ‘white supremacist’ or words to that effect in it.”
Torres stared at Gurney. “He told me his band, as sort of a joke, was named ‘The Texas Skinhead White Supremacy Heavy Metal Rockers.’ But how could you possibly know that?”
“Once it was apparent that the KRS thing was a form of misdirection, I asked myself how I’d go about creating a phony website like that. Rather than trying to invent the content from scratch, I’d do an internet search of terms like ‘white supremacist’ to see what was out there—what I could adapt or just plain steal. The next step—”
Thrasher interrupted their conversation. “Cadaver van’ll be here momentarily. Time of death I’d put in a window of forty-eight to seventy-two hours ago. I may be able to be a bit more precise when I get them open—day after tomorrow if nothing unforeseen occurs. Meanwhile it looks similar in both cases to the chemical preamble to the Jordan and Tooker homicides. I would expect our lab tests to reveal alcohol, metabolites of midazolam, and signs of propofol toxicity.”
“Why midazolam?” asked Gurney. “Aren’t the other benzodiazepines more readily available?”
“Generally, yes.”
“Then why—”
“Anterograde amnesia.”
“What’s that?”
“One of the special effects of midazolam is to impair the creation of memories. That might be advantageous to a perpetrator in a criminal situation—in case the victim survived. There could, of course, be other reasons for its selection. Up to you to sort that out.” He pointed at one of the bottles on the coffee table. “While you’re at it, I suggest you get an analysis of that raspberry liqueur.”
“Any reason in particular?” asked Gurney, his annoyance rising at Thrasher’s habit of doling out information in pieces rather than laying it all out at once.
“Midazolam is available as a syrup. Has a bitter taste. A strong, sweet liqueur might be an ideal delivery vehicle.”
“I take it there’s no chance of this being a double suicide?”
“I wouldn’t say no chance. But damn little chance.” Thrasher stepped out of the living room into the little foyer and began removing his Tyvek suit.
Gurney followed him. “By the way, I got your phone message.”
Thrasher nodded, peeling off his latex gloves.
“I’d like to know what this excavation mystery is all about,” said Gurney.
“When can we sit down and talk about it?”
“How about right now?”
Thrasher produced an unpleasant smile. “The subject is a sensitive one. This is neither the time nor the place.”
“Then pick a time and place.”
Thrasher’s smile hardened. “Your house. Tomorrow evening. I’m speaking at the annual dinner of the Forensic Pathology Association in Syracuse. I should be passing through Walnut Crossing on my way there around five.”
“I’ll see you then.”
Thrasher rolled up his Tyvek coveralls, removed his shoe covers, stuffed everything in an expensive-looking leather bag, and left without another word.
Gurney returned to Torres in the living room, intending to resume his explanation of the likely KRS website creation process, when Garrett Felder came over, smartphone in hand, obviously excited.
“Look at this!” He held up his phone so Torres and Gurney could both see the screen. It displayed side-by-side photos of two thumbprints. They appeared to be identical.
“Clean, shiny, nonporous surfaces are a godsend. Look at these prints! Like they get on TV. Perfect!”
Gurney and Torres peered at them.
“There’s no doubt these two came from the same thumb,” continued Felder. “Different time, different place. But the same thumb. Print on the left I just lifted from the plastic bag of twenties in the desk drawer. Print on the right I lifted yesterday from an alarm clock in the loft of Dell Beckert’s cabin. It also matches a bunch of prints on his furniture, his faucets, his UTV.”
“Do we know for a fact those prints in the cabin are Beckert’s?” asked Gurney.
Felder nodded. “Confirmation yesterday from AFIS—from their file of active LEO prints.”