I nodded. “Might not be from this burg. What did you learn about the Greenleaf property?”
Rinaldi pulled a small leather-bound notepad from the inside breast pocket of a jacket jarringly different from that of his partner. Navy, double-breasted, very high-end.
A manicured finger flipped a few pages.
“The property changed hands rarely after purchase by a family named Horne in the postwar years, and only among relatives. We’re talking World War Two, here.” Rinaldi looked up from his notes. “We can check older records should circumstances warrant.”
I nodded.
“Roscoe Washington Horne owned the house from 1947 until 1972; Lydia Louise Tillman Horne until 1994; Wanda Belle Sarasota Horne until her death eighteen months ago.”
“Ye old family plantation,” Slidell snorted.
Rinaldi continued from his notes.
“Upon Wanda’s death, the property went to a grandnephew, Kenneth Alois Roseboro.”
“Did Roseboro live in the house?”
“I’m looking into that. Roseboro sold to Polly and Ross Whitner. Both are transplanted New Yorkers. She’s a teacher. He’s an account manager with Bank of America. Transfer of title took place on September twentieth of this year. The Whitners are currently living in a rental apartment on Scaleybark. It appears that major renovations to the Greenleaf house are planned.” Rinaldi closed and tucked away the tablet.
There was a moment of silence. Slidell broke it.
“We made the papers.”
“I saw the article. Is Stallings a regular at the
“Not one we know of,” Rinaldi said.
Slidell’s faux Ray-Bans slid into place.
“Shoulda shot that little gal on sight.”
Lunch consisted of a granola bar bolted down with a Diet Coke. After eating, I found Larabee in the main autopsy room cutting on the Dumpster corpse.
I filled him in on my progress and on my conversation with Slidell and Rinaldi. He listened, elbows flexed, bloody hands held away from his body.
I described the brain. He promised to take a look later that day. I was back with the cauldrons by two.
I’d been sifting for twenty minutes when my cell phone sounded. The caller ID showed Katy’s work number.
Degloving one hand, I clicked on.
“Hi, sweetie.”
“Where are you?”
“The ME office.”
“What?”
Lowering my mask, I repeated what I’d said.
“Is it really Satanists?”
“You saw the paper.”
“Nice pic.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“My guess is fraternity prank. This town’s
“What’s up?” I asked, recognizing the sound of discontent.
Katy had, this year, completed a bachelor of arts degree in psychology, an accomplishment six long years in the making. In the end, graduation hadn’t been spurred by academic passion, but by threats of parental termination of funding. It was one of the rare issues on which Pete and I had agreed. Six is a wrap, kiddo.
The reason Katy lingered so long an undergrad? Not lack of intelligence. Through five majors, she maintained a grade point average of 3.8.
Nope. It wasn’t due to a shortage of brainpower. My daughter is bright and imaginative. The problem is she’s restless as hell.
“I’m thinking of quitting,” Katy said.
“Uh-huh.”
“This job is dull.”
“You chose to work for the public defender’s office.”
“I thought I’d get to do-” Expelled air. “I don’t know. Interesting stuff. Like you do.”
“I’m sifting dirt.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Sifting dirt is tedious.”
“What dirt?”
“From the cauldrons.”
“Beats sifting papers.”
“Depends on the papers.”
“Finding much?”
“A few things.” No way I’d mention the photo or the brain.
“How many cauldrons?”
“Two.”
“How far along are you?”
“I’m still on the first.”
“If you’re striking out, switch cauldrons.”
Typical Katy. If bored, move on.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Jesus, you’re rigid. Why the hell not?”
“Protocol.”
“Switching back and forth won’t change what’s inside.”
I couldn’t disagree with that.
“How’s Billy?” I asked.
“A peckerhead.”
OK.
“Buy you dinner?” I asked.
“Where?”
“Volare at seven.”
“Can I order the sole?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there. Assuming I haven’t died of boredom.”
I resumed screening.
Snails. Rocks. Puparial cases. Roaches. A dermestid beetle or two. A millipede. That was exciting.
By three I was yawning and my thoughts were wandering.
My eye fell on the other cauldron.
I’d already shot stills and labeled evidence bags. New ground would perk me up, I told myself. Sharpen my observational skills.
Lame.
Why the hell not?
Better.
After cleaning both the trowel and the screen, I inserted my blade.
And immediately hit pay dirt.
