“Intuition. Inspiration. Divine perception. It doesn’t matter,” I spoke quickly. “Trust me on this. He took his glove off.”
CHAPTER 7
With some colorfully worded urging from Ben, the medical examiner finally agreed to check the body for latent fingerprints. Still, neither she, nor Detective Deckert, seemed inclined to believe my claim about the glove, and I couldn’t really blame them. I could provide no evidence to back up my statement, and they really had no idea who I was. I often thought that life would be much easier if I could just say, “Hey, I’m a card carrying Witch, see?” and show an ID badge. Of course, that would only work if the rest of the world were disposed to saying, “Oh, well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?”
We spent a few additional minutes looking over the interior of the restroom, and I took several more pictures, including some of the body, shot in haste to avoid another bout of vomiting. Deckert pointed out the remains of Karen Barnes’ Jack Russell terrier heaped in a corner. The animal’s skull was crushed, apparently from having been repeatedly dashed against the cinder block wall. Grossly violent yet still a much more merciful death than faced by its owner. Dr. Sanders bagged the remains of the dog at Ben’s request, and then we followed her back out into the stormy night. Detective Deckert and I tagged along behind as Ben drew up next to her.
“What are the chances of getting’ some preliminaries back tonight, Doc?” Ben asked.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No,” he answered bluntly. “Did I sound particularly funny to you?”
The rain had slowed momentarily, but the earlier downpour had flooded the low-lying sidewalk. The wheels on the gurney containing Karen Barnes’ body made sadly mournful swishing noises as they rolled through the puddles.
“Who’s going to authorize this?” Dr. Sanders stopped in her tracks and stared angrily back at Ben. “Remember, I’m only here in a consulting capacity.”
“Look,” Ben softened, “I’m sorry about the wisecrack. It’s been a long day, and right now I’m not seein’ the end of it.”
“I know,” she answered, calming. “Same here.”
“Listen, no offense,” he addressed the county coroner. “But do you have any problem with allowin’ Doctor Sanders here do the autopsy?”
“None taken. It’s unusual,” he answered with a weary nod. “But it’s okay with me. I don’t suppose it would be a problem with the right paperwork.”
“Submit whatever ya’ need, and I’ll sign off on it,” he told him with a tired smile.
“Where can I reach you?” Doctor Sanders queried.
“Right now I’m not sure where I’ll be. You can try to catch me at my office, and if you don’t get an answer then beep me. The number’s on my card.”
“Okay.”
Deckert and I had stopped behind them and allowed Ben to do the talking. We stood in the light rain and watched as Doctor Sanders and the county official loaded what was once a living, breathing human being into the back of the coroner’s hearse. The hatch-like door slammed shut with a dull finality as if audibly marking the end of Karen Barnes’ existence.
Farther in the distance, across the parking lot and behind the police barricades, a small city had grown. Microwave dishes and retractable towers were pointed skyward, extending from the roofs of numerous news vans. Bright lights shined surrealistically through the night, igniting the falling raindrops into fleeting fiery gems. Primped, pressed, and preened reporters staunchly clutching umbrellas faced cameramen and rehearsed their expressions of concern.
“Fuckin’ vultures,” Ben muttered.
He and Detective Deckert traded cards and set up a meeting time for the following morning, as they were both assigned to the Major Case Squad. We shook hands and parted, leaving Deckert to wrap up everything at the scene while Ben was to go get the ball rolling with the rest of the MCS. We had barely made it halfway to the van before we were ambushed.
“Detective Storm, Detective Storm, can I have a word with you.”
A lithe, young beauty in a neatly fitted trench coat and high heels was sauntering quickly toward us. Her hair was fashionably coiffed and honey blonde, the exact shade of which I was certain could only be available from a bottle. The cameraman behind her suddenly switched on an intense spotlight and bathed us with its harsh glow. As we squinted against the glare, the woman stopped before us, effectively blocking our path.
“I’m here on the scene with Detective Benjamin Storm of the Saint Louis City homicide unit. Detective Storm, does the fact that you’re here mean that the Major Case Squad has been called in?” she spoke rapidly into a microphone and then thrust it forward into Ben’s face.
“Go away Brandee,” Ben told her. “I’m not in the mood for this right now.”
Ben started around her, but she quickly sidestepped, her high heels clicking on the pavement.
“Is it true that this homicide is related to Wednesday evening’s murder of Ariel Tanner?” Again, the microphone bearing the stylized logo of her station shot forward.
“Talk to the public relations officer,” Ben returned flatly.
“And you sir, your name is?” She shoved the microphone toward me.
Before I could get “no comment” past my lips, Ben reached out and removed the microphone easily from her dainty hand. With a quick snap, he disconnected the line cord and handed the device back to her.
She looked at him, dumbfounded for a moment, then angrily stamped her foot as her luminous, blue eyes grew large, clearly revealing an empty void behind them.
“I said,” Ben, told her, as he brushed past, “go away Brandee.”
We heard her wheel about as we continued across the lot to the van. She let out a frustrated shriek that was rapidly followed by the sound of the disconnected microphone as it roughly impacted the pavement near us and skittered by.
“I’m going to get this story, Storm!” she screamed after us. “You’re not doing this to me again!”
By the time we climbed into the van, Brandee Street was berating her stony-faced cameraman, her arms flailing wildly as he simply stared at her.
“What’d she mean ‘you’re not doing this to me again’?” I asked Ben as he started the van. “And what the hell is she chewin’ his ass for?”
“Brandee Street has never, I repeat, NEVER gotten a story from me,” he answered, pulling his plastic poncho over his head. “As for ol’ Ed out there, she probably just caught him addin’ to his collection.”
“His collection?” I puzzled, removing my own rain slicker. “You know that guy?”
“Hell yes, all the coppers know Ed. He’s been a cameraman for years. As to the collection, he tapes reporters when they throw temper tantrums. He’s got a whole library of ‘em… calls hers ‘Brandee Whines’.”
“Seems like they would try to get him fired.”
“Oh, they have,” Ben, continued. “Ed’s got a couple of things goin’ for him though. First, he’s the best cameraman in the state. Second, a real good union.”
“Bet that pisses them off,” I mused.
“Uh-huh. Drives ‘em nuts. I’ll have ta’ give you a call next time Ed wants to get together for some beers and ‘movies’.”
“Count me in.”
We pulled out of the parking space in silence. The windshield wipers tapped out an irregular swooshing tempo as they displaced the rain, only to have it return a second later. We slowly started past the news vans, enduring the bright lights that were quickly brought to bear on us. I was sure that Ben felt some extra heat coming from the savage glare Brandee Street was throwing at him as we hooked around her vehicle.
“So,” Ben said as he nudged the van along, exiting the small city of reporters. “You went off into ‘la la land’ there for a minute.” He shot me a quick glance then returned his eyes to the road. “That where you got that whole glove thing from?”
