The thick purple ring of broken blood vessels looked like a tattooed necklace. “Let’s assume she was strangled with two hands on the stocking,” Steve said. “After she died, one end was tied to the bed to look like an accident. Given the force and speed it took to knock her out, she had no time to resist.”
“Correct. And that’s why her hands aren’t bruised and her fingernails aren’t broken even though we’ve taken scrapings for DNA.”
“So, she knew the attacker and let him in,” Steve said, as the image came together. And Ottoman nodded him on. “With her consent they go into the bedroom and engaged in some kind of sexual activity that did not involve intercourse. And during that the assailant suddenly strangles her and sets an accidental autoerotica scenario, then covers his tracks and leaves.”
“That would be my guess,” Ottoman said.
If he was correct, Farina’s murder was premeditated, organized, and compulsive—not impulsive. In his mind he saw a faceless killer going through the place, wiping clean surfaces he might have touched, maybe even returning his own champagne glass to the cabinet, and pressing Terry’s dead fingers on the bottle to make it look as if she drank alone.
While Ottoman continued, Steve looked down at Terry’s face. Slitted open, her eyes, once bright blue, were now dead gray globes of jelly. If Ottoman was correct, the last thing those sad smoky eyes had taken in was the face of the person who did this to her–who came into her bedroom, took pleasure in her nakedness, then wrapped that stocking around her neck and pulled until she passed out of this life. If only those dead jellies could project their last light.
The thought quickened his pulse. And out of the black, that sensation winged its way in and nearly came to roost but turned and sliced back into the gloom.
“What would you estimate for the time of death?” Neil asked.
“Between three P.M. and three A.M.”
“Twelve hours. Is that the best you can do?”
“I’m afraid so. The AC was turned to sixty degrees, which slows down the pooling of the blood, and, thus, postmortem lividity and decomposition. The temperature of her skin when she was found was room temperature, but her liver was sixty-four degrees. It takes about eight to twelve hours for the skin to reach ambient temp, but three times longer at the center of the body, which is why we measure the liver. That means her body temp dropped a little over thirty-four degrees. The rate of algor mortis is a decrease of one point five degrees per hour…”
Steve felt as if he were being lectured by the caterpillar in
“I’m saying she was dead for at least twelve hours, although it would help to know if the bed was turned on massage mode, but I doubt there’s any memory in the electronics.”
“Livor mortis begins within half an hour after death.”
“Yes. And that’s the point. If she were strangled in one position—say on her back or front—then moved to where she was found, it must have happened pretty fast since the discoloration is consistent with her position. The other unknown is why the low AC temp.”
“The temperature on Saturday was in the sixties,” Steve said.
“That’s right,” said Ottoman. “There was no reason to turn the AC all the way down.”
“So, what are you saying?”
Ottoman grinned full teeth. “I’m saying that the killer was creating an alibi.”
7
“It still doesn’t feel right,” Neil said. “Got a sex scene without sex.”
“You’re still thinking accident?” Steve asked.
“Because I’m having trouble with someone she knows showing up for sex, strangling her instead, then setting up an asphyxia scene. It’s too much of a stretch. Plus there’s no physical evidence another person was there.”
They were back in the squad car with Neil driving back to headquarters at One Schroeder Plaza at the corner of Ruggles and Tremont near the Northeastern University campus.
“The champagne and lights are circumstantial. Same with the ligature trauma. She could have twisted. Nylons stretch. Plus I don’t see any motive.”
“That’s what we have to work on.”
The traffic was light at this time of the day. The plan was that Neil was going to make calls to the victim’s credit card and telephone companies plus follow-ups on neighbors of the deceased while Steve would question Farina’s colleagues at the Kingsbury Club on the North Shore.
“You seem pretty convinced.”
Steve could hear an edge of accusation. “Because Ottoman made a convincing scenario.”
“Hell, you were convinced from the get-go.”
Steve didn’t know what Neil was getting at. “Only after I looked things over.” They didn’t say anything for a while as Steve could sense Neil turning something over in his head. The rim of his ear was red and he chewed away on his stirrer.
“I don’t know,” Neil finally said. “You seem to have all the answers is all.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m saying. You walk in an hour late, and one-two-three you put together a whole fucking homicide theory, and now you got the M.E. and D.A. in agreement.”
“I’m not sure what’s bothering you.”
“I don’t know either.” Neil rubbed his face. “Maybe I’m feeling a little put out is all. Mangini, C.S.S.—I thought we’d pretty well figured it out. Then you bring up the ligature inconsistencies.”
Steve felt his throat begin to tighten. “Yeah?”
“I don’t know. Mangini should have picked up on that. Me, too…and the lights thing. It’s just that I’m feeling like the south end of a mule.”
“I get it. You’re feeling bad only because you’re an inferior criminal investigator.”
Neil made a humphing chuckle. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Look, how many hangings have you had?”
“Not many.”
“Course not. You’re up in Gloucester where they throw themselves in the water. Besides Boston’s got more rope and stockings.”
Neil smiled and nodded. “Yeah.”
“Hey, man, we’re partners. We’re working this together, okay? There’s no one-upsmanship bullshit.”
Neil nodded. “Maybe you called it.”
“And maybe not. We’ve got lab stuff still to come. We’ve got an investigation to mount.”
“Yeah.”
Steve felt himself relax a little in whatever reconciliation had been established. But he wasn’t sure if Neil was sitting on something else.
They had been partners for less than six months, so Steve was still getting to knowing Neil, who had been rehired from Gloucester on the North Shore. He had said that low pay, boring assignments, and minimal overtime made him leave. So he took the civil service tests, scored high, got hired, did time on the streets, and was eventually promoted to homicide. But the real reason for the move was his wife’s death three years ago.
Neil wanted to be out of Gloucester and all reminders of his loss. Also, he wanted a fresh start for his sixteen-year-old daughter, Lily, who had behavioral problems. So part of Neil’s emotional makeup was family baggage. That and a fierce competitiveness which sometimes surfaced as pit bull finesse.
