“Got a pair of tweezers?” asked O’Brien
“Tweezers?”
Dan turned to an investigator standing near the door, “Hey, Jimmy,” he said. “Hand me some tweezers out of your box.”
The investigator dug around in a box twice the size of an average fishing tackle box and handed Dan a pair of long tweezers. Dan gave them to O’Brien.
They watched as O’Brien used the tool to lift something from a ring on Anita Johnson’s left hand. Caught in a prong, barely detectible, was a dark fiber that O’Brien slowly lifted with the tweezers.
“What do you have?” asked Dan.
“Looks like a piece of wool. Probably not from something she’d wear in the summer in Florida. Doesn’t match the carpet color. Maybe it’s dyed black. Hand me a bag.” O’Brien placed the fiber in the bag, stood, and said, “How would a piece of wool get embedded on the woman’s ring?”
“Good question,” Dan said.
The senior detective, Ralph, put his glasses on and leaned over the body. He said, “That was a nice catch.”
“It stood out against the stone, which, at that size, looks like a nice imitation diamond. If it is wool, the fiber might have come from a ski mask.” O’Brien used his pen to point. He added, “There, near the corner of her mouth…the lipstick goes from a horizontal application-the way she applied it-to a vertical serration.”
Ralph said, “Maybe that’s were she sipped her coffee.”
“Maybe,” said O’Brien. “But it might mean she bit the hand of the guy snapping her neck. Check her teeth for skin cells, and if the perp wore plastic gloves, see if any tiny bits of plastic might be between her teeth.”
O’Brien started for the door.
“Where’re you going?” asked Dan.
“To see if our only eyewitness might have seen something.”
Ralph cleared his throat and said, “Who’s the only eyewitness.”
“The postman.” O’Brien turned and left.
EIGHTY-TWO
Dan Grant followed O’Brien to his Jeep. O’Brien pulled out his cell phone. He paced the length of the Jeep for a moment, collecting his thoughts.
Dan said, “Some nice work in there. Superman’s vision got nothing on you.”
“Wish I’d had better vision investigating Alexandria Cole’s death. If I had, we wouldn’t be standing here today with all these people dead. We have a big problem.”
“Tell me about it. The woman’s dead.”
“The problem is that the person who killed her is definitely not who I thought was behind this.”
“Talk to me, Sean.”
“Russo’s confined to a hospital bed. The guy I thought did the hits, Carlos Salazar, is dead. Whoever killed Alexandria has murdered four people in the last three days: Spelling, Father Callahan, Johnson, and now his wife Anita…and perhaps Salazar.”
O’Brien pounded the fender of his Jeep with an open hand. He turned to Dan. “I’ve been chasing a ghost. The real killer just wiped out the last person alive who knew his name. I’m sure he destroyed any letter that Johnson may have sent to his wife.”
“So the son of a bitch who’s gone on this killing spree is as clueless to us now as that stuff the priest left in his own blood.”
“Right now the stuff the priest left in his blood is the only thing pointing us in the right direction.”
“Which direction?”
“Call your office and have someone call the post office. Find out who has this route. We need to know where that person is right now!”
O’Brien pushed the jeep, hitting speeds of near one hundred miles an hour though the back roads of rural Lake County. Dan Grant sat in the passenger side, hands gripped on the door and center console. He said, “Hey, man. If you kill us driving like this, who the hell is gonna stop this perp?”
“What’s the next turn?”
“Should be the next left. Quarter mile up, tops. Dispatch told me that the post office says this mail carrier ends his route on River Lane, a long mile stretch.”
O’Brien turned down River Lane and took out a plastic trashcan someone had set too near the street. “Whoa!” yelled Dan.
“There he is!” said O’Brien, looking at a slight incline where the white mail truck poked along. The postman was opening a mailbox when O’Brien brought his Jeep to a screeching halt directly in front of the truck. Both O’Brien and Dan got out and approached the frightened letter carrier. He reached for his cell. “I called 911! Cops are on their way!”
“We’re here. Fast enough for you? ” Dan said, flashing his shield.
“I didn’t do anything!” the postman shouted.
“Everyone’s done something,” said O’Brien. “But that’s not why we’re here. Do you remember the Johnson’s residence. Lyle and Anita Johnson?”
“Sure. I got three Johnson’s on this route. But I know their box.”
“Do you recall making a delivery there today?”
“Yep. That’s an easy one because Mrs. Johnson was at the mailbox to greet me.”
“What’d she say?” asked Dan.
“Not a lot. Looked a little anxious. I remember the only letter she got today.”
“How so?” asked O’Brien
“Because it was a handwritten letter…large block letters with a guy’s kinda handwriting. None of that stuff is the postal service’s business. But I remember reading something right below the zip code.”
“What was that?” asked Dan.
“S-W-A-K.” he said, almost shyly. “You know, sealed with a kiss. Used to see that all the time. Now, hardly ever. Maybe it’s because of email.”
“Did she say anything to you?” asked O’Brien
“Not really. Mrs. Johnson seemed…seemed anxious, I guess is the best word.”
O’Brien asked, “Did you see anyone around? You know, maybe a delivery person…a car or truck there that you don’t normally see?”
He thought a moment. “No. What happened? Is she okay?”
“She’s dead,” said Dan
O’Brien and Grant were less than a mile away from the Pioneer Village when O’Brien’s cell rang. It was Tucker Houston.
“Sean, state’s refusing to hear it. I’ve got it hand-delivered to the Fifth Circuit. A clerk’s ready to receive it.”
“Good!” said O’Brien. “You can put this in that habeas corpus mix-we have another body. Wife of the prison guard who overheard Spelling’s confession to Father Callahan. Neighbor found her murdered. Now I know Russo didn’t do it.”
“Then who did?”
“Buy me a little more time and I will find out.”
“What this latest murder will buy us is coverage on the whole damn broadcast spectrum. If we can get the exposure we’ll get the ear of somebody’s court.”
