Garreth sighed. Damn. If only he could remember something more. Like who worked the case.
Loud footsteps brought his attention around to the door. Earl Faye and Dean Centrello stormed in.
He raised his brows. “You two didn’t wreck another car, did you?”
Faye flung himself into his chair. Centrello snarled, “You know the Isenmeier thing? Turkey tried to cut up his girlfriend? Well, we have everything set to arrest the dude, statements from the neighbors and a warrant in the works. Then the lady says it’s off. She refuses to press charges. Seems he asked her to many him.”
“Save the warrant,” Schneider said. “You can use it next time.”
“Lord, I’d hate to see this fox chopped up.” Faye rolled his eyes. “Everything she wears is either transparent or painted on. The first time we went to see — ”
Kolb cocked a brow at Garreth. “Comes a pause in the day’s occupation that is known as the fairy-tale hour.”
Faye frowned but continued talking. Garreth listened with amusement. Faye was walking proof that the art of storytelling remained alive and well. If short on anecdotes, he waxed eloquent on women or sports, or described crime scenes in graphic detail. That thought nudged something in Garreth’s head. He suspended all other thought, groping for the nudge. Only to be interrupted by the telephone. His feeling of being close to something faded.
With a sigh, Garreth reached for the receiver. “Homicide, Mikaelian.”
“We’re starting the autopsy on your floater, Inspector.”
Garreth gathered a handful of wintergreen candy from a sack in his desk to eat downstairs…the pungent odor of the candy his best defense against the morgue smell.
6
Not every room in the ME’s office echoed. The autopsy room with its row of trough-like steel tables did not. It always sounded horribly quiet…no footsteps or casual chatter, only the droning voices of the pathologists dictating their findings into the microphones dangling from the ceiling and the whisper of running water washing down the tables, carrying away the blood.
Ho had already opened the abdominal cavity and removed the viscera when Garreth came in and stood at the head of the table, hands buried in his suit coat pockets. She nodded a greeting at him, never breaking her monologue.
The water ran clear this time, Garreth noticed. Even that in the sink at the foot of the table, usually rosy from the organs floating in it awaiting sectioning, sat colorless. The doctor examined the organs one at a time, slicing them like loaves of bread with quick, sure strokes of her knife and peering at each section…and tossing some slices into specimen containers. She opened the trachea its full length and snipped apart the heart to check each of its chambers and valves. As Garreth watched, a crease appeared between her eyes. She moved back to the empty gray shell that had been a man and went over the skin surface carefully, even rolling the body on its side to peer at the back. She explored the edges of the neck wound.
The neck had another mark, too, Garreth noticed, one that had been hidden before by the dead man’s shirt. A thin red line ran around, biting deep on the sides. Strangulation, too…or something on a chain ripped off?
“Trouble?” he asked.
Ho looked up. “Exsanguination is indeed the cause of death. However…”
Garreth waited expectantly.
“Not because his throat was cut. That occurred post-mortem. So did the broken neck.”
Deja vu struck him again. Victim bled to death but the knife wounds and broken neck were inflicted after death. Garreth strained to remember more details, something that would identify the case.
“He didn’t bleed to death internally and I can’t find any exterior wound to account for — ”
“What about the bruise?” Garreth interrupted. There had been something else strange about that bruise on the other man. Now, what had it been?
“…for a blood loss of that magnitude,” the doctor went on with a frown at Garreth, “unless we assume that the punctures in the jugular vein were made by needles and the blood drained that way.”
That was the other thing about the bruise! “Two punctures, right? About an inch and a half apart, in the middle of the bruise?”
She regarded him gravely. “I could have used your crystal ball before I began, Inspector. It would have saved me work.”
Garreth smiled. Inside, however, he swore. He remembered that much, those facts, but still nothing to help him locate the case in the files, not a victim or detective’s name.
The remainder of the autopsy proceeded uneventfully. Lack of water in the lungs established that the victim had been dead before entering the water. The skull and brain showed no signs of bruises or hemorrhage to indicate that he might have been struck and knocked unconscious. The stomach contained no food, only liquid.
“Looks like he died some time after his last meal. We’ll analyze the liquid,” the doctor said.
Garreth bet it proved alcoholic.
When the body was on the way back to the freezer, Garreth prepared to leave. He had missed lunch but with no appetite perhaps he should just go on to the convention center. At least the fog had burned off, leaving a bright, clear day.
Before leaving the ME’s, he used one of their phones to call up to Homicide, to John Leyva, their clerk in the outer office. “Has the Denver PD sent me descriptions of some men’s jewelry?”
Papers rattled, then: “No,” Leyva said, “but a Mrs. Elvira Hogue wants you to call her.”
One of the witnesses to the Mission Street bodega shooting. Garreth reached for his notebook. “Thanks…I have the number,” he said as Leyva started to read it off…and dialed it as soon as he broke communication with Homicide. “Mrs. Hogue? This is Inspector Mikaelian. You wanted to talk to me?” She had good news he hoped.
“Yes.” Her thin, old-woman’s voice came back over the wire. “I saw the boy who did it, and I learned his name.”
Garreth pumped a fist. Yes, good news! “That’s great!”
“You remember I told you I’ve seen him in the neighborhood before? Well, he was here this morning again, bold as brass, talking to that Hambright girl up the street. I walked very close to them and I heard her call him Wink.”
“Mrs. Hogue, thank you
“You catch that skunk. Senor Campera was a nice gentleman.”
Garreth headed for Records to check the name Wink through the moniker file.
They came up with a make, one Leroy Martin Luther O’Hare, called Wink, as in “quick as a,” for the way he snatched purses in his juvenile delinquency days by sweeping past victims on a skateboard. Purse snatching had been only one of his offenses. Wink added burglary and auto theft to his yellow sheet as he approached legal adulthood, though he had not been convicted of either charge.
Garreth headed for his personal car in the parking lot — a Prussian red Datsun ZX he and Marti had given each other their last anniversary — and with Wink’s photograph tucked among five others of young black males for a photo lineup, drove to Mrs. Hogue’s house.
She quickly picked out Wink. “That’s him; that’s the one I saw this morning and the one I saw coming out of the bodega after I heard the shooting.”
Garreth called Serruto.
“We’ll get a warrant for him,” the lieutenant said.
Garreth visited Wink’s mother and girlfriend, Rosella Hambright. He also talked to the neighbors of both. No one, of course, offered any help. Garreth gained the impression that even Wink’s mother hardly knew the person Garreth asked about. The neighbors denied any knowledge of comings and goings from Mrs. O’Hare’s or Miss Hambright’s apartment.
“Hey, man, I gots enough to do chasin’ rats over here without watchin’ someone else over there,” they said, or else: “You wrong about Wink. He no good, but he no holdup man. He never owned no gun.”
Garreth dropped word of wanting Wink into a few receptive ears whose owners knew he would reward good information, then he headed for the Westin. He would see Serruto about staking out the mother’s and girlfriend’s
