01 Storm Peak (37 page)
In other words, nothing.
She edged her way around Roberts—he was a bulky man and it wasn’t the largest of rooms—and returned to the living room.
There wasn’t a lot of spare space here, either. The photographer was doing a series of different views of the body, while two other uniformed officers from Felix’s office searched the room. She watched them for a few seconds, then left them to it. They were both capable men. They knew their job and if there was anything worth finding, she knew they’d find it.
Doc Jorgensen was off to one side, stripping off a pair of surgical gloves. The fingers were stained with the blood from the dead body. Sitting to one side, a dazed look on his face, was the man who had discovered the body some forty minutes ago—a friend of the victim who had come by to go for a beer.
Doc Jorgensen dumped the gloves in a black plastic trash bag, sealed it and put it with the coroner’s kit for safe disposal. These days, anything with blood on it had to be disposed of. He glanced up at her, inclined his head in a friendly gesture of greeting.
“So, what have you got for us, Doc?” she asked.
He hesitated a moment, gathering his thoughts before he answered.
“Cause of death, obviously, one gunshot wound to the head,” he said. “No other visible marks on the body. No sign of any struggle. I’d say he opened the door and the killer just let him have it. Popped him straightaway. Hard to be exact about the time, but I’d say no more than a few hours. Maybe two. Maybe less.”
She glanced at her watch. “So, sometime this morning, you’d say?”
“I reckon. He definitely hasn’t been lying there too long,” the doctor told her. “Be able to make a better estimate later.”
“Any make on the gun at all?” she asked. Jorgensen obviously hadn’t had time for a full autopsy but he was an experienced medical examiner and he’d seen a lot of gunshot wounds over the years. This was, after all, hunting country. He pursed his lips, weighing his answer.
“I don’t think it’s our boy, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he said finally. She raised her eyebrows, signaling for him to go on.
“Well,” he said, “the guy who’s been loose on the mountain used a Walther .32 on poor Walt Davies. This is something bigger. A .38 or a 9 mm, by the look of it.”
“How can you tell that?” she asked. “You haven’t got the bullet yet, have you?”
The gray-haired doctor shook his head. “No-o,” he said precisely. “It’s still in there somewhere. But there’s extensive damage to the back of the skull—I’d say it’s fractured. You can feel the damage there.”
“And the bullet did this?” she asked. He nodded agreement.
“I reckon so. Must have bounced around inside there like a pea in a whistle. Hit the back of the skull from the inside and nearly made it out. Just pushed the bone outward, softened it up some. You can feel it.” He gestured to the body, in case she wanted to feel for herself. She shook her head.
“I’ll take your word on it,” she said, and he smiled grimly.
“Yeah. Anyways, I don’t see a .32 doing that sort of damage. Most of its energy would have been absorbed going in through the front of the skull. And a .45 would have come out the back and taken half his head with it. So that leaves something between the two—a 9 mm or a .38. I’m guessing a .38.”
Again, she invited him to continue with a tilt of her head.
“No shell-casing found so far,” he explained. “All the 9 mms I’ve ever seen are automatics. Would have tossed the shell-case out somewhere.”
She nodded, not convinced. “Could be he picked it up,” she ventured. Doc Jorgensen pushed his bottom lip out in an expression of reluctant agreement.
“Could be,” he said. “But it’s easier to get your hands on a .38 these days than a 9 mm. More of them around. They’re cheaper too,” he added.
“I guess the important thing is, you’re pretty sure it’s not a .32,” she said and he nodded emphatically.
“Bet my ass on it,” he said. “We’ve got us a brand-new killer for this one.”
Lee shook her head wearily. “Jesus. Just what we needed,” she said. “Well, I guess a change is as good as a vacation.”
He smiled at her sympathetically
“How’s it coming with the big case?” he asked. “Jesse turned anything up so far?”
Lee shrugged. “No, goddammit. We just hit a blind alley. Our best suspect turned out to be dead for the last three months.”
“I guess that’s as good an alibi as anything,” the medical examiner said. Gathering up his bag, he took his leave. “I’ll be at the hospital. I’ll do the full examination this afternoon,” he said. “Let you know if anything new turns up.”
She nodded her thanks. “Obliged to you, Doc,” she said. “I’ll be in my office when I’ve finished here.”
He paused at the door. “I’m still betting it’s a .38,” he said.
She smiled at him. A tired smile, but a smile.
“I’ll buy the beers if you’re right,” she said.
“Hold you to it,” Jorgensen replied. He waved, then let himself out. Lee took a deep breath, looked around the busy crime scene and realized that the man who’d found the body was still sitting there, ignored by everyone else in the room as they went about their tasks.
She moved over to him, smiled sympathetically and sat down on the couch beside him.
“I guess this is all a hell of a shock to you—” She consulted her notepad. The town police had filled her in with a few details when she’d arrived. “Mr. Kramer.”
He nodded several times. A nervous, jerky movement of his head. He was still reliving that moment when he’d let himself in and seen his friend lying dead on the floor, blood seeping from the neat, blue-edged hole in his forehead.
“I … walked in and he was just … lying there … you know?” he said. His voice was a little higher in pitch than normal.
“The door was open?” she asked and he shook his head distractedly.
“No. No. Jerry leaves a key on top of the lintel there—outside the door. I let myself in. I always do. And there he was.” He shook his head as the scene replayed itself in his mind again. He looked across to where the body of his friend was still lying. One of the town cops was carefully tracing a yellow chalk outline around the body. Within a few minutes, they’d remove it and take it to the hospital where Doc Jorgensen could carry out his autopsy.
“When did you last see him?” she asked. Kramer shook his head, still dazed.
“Last night,” he said. “Last night at the Town Saloon. We played in the darts tournament there. We do that every week.”
“And what time did Mr. Marrowes leave? Did you see him leave?” she asked.
Again, Kramer nodded assent. “Wasn’t till late. Maybe one, one thirty. Said he wasn’t working today so he’d sleep in late. We arranged to go back to the Saloon for lunch today. That’s what I was doing here.”
Lee doodled on the notepad in front of her. So far there seemed nothing worthy of note.
“You known the victim long, Mr. Kramer?” she asked. Kramer considered the question briefly
“Year or two, I guess. We met working together on ski patrol last season. Don’t see much of each other in the summer. I usually look for work up north in summer.”
“You’re in the ski patrol?” she asked.
Again she got the nervous nod from the man. “Both of us”—he paused, then amplified the statement—“I’m on the professional staff. Jerry, he’s—” He stopped himself. “He was a volunteer.”
Lee nodded to herself. Most ski patrols were organized that way. A small cadre of professionals, supplemented during the high season by amateur volunteers. The volunteers were repaid with a season ski pass, a free uniform and a lot of time on the mountain. It was a popular job. But it didn’t leave a lot of time to earn a living, which might explain the empty wallet.
“So I guess Jerry—Mr. Marrowes—was a little hard up for cash?” she suggested. It was often the case with people working in ski towns. But she was wrong.
“Hell, no. He made good money in the summer. Worked on one of them oil rigs down in the Gulf of Mexico. They make good money there. Plenty enough to see him through the winter. And this place didn’t cost him much in rent,” he added.
Lee looked around the small room with its worn carpet and cheap, second-or third-hand furnishings.
“I guess not,” she agreed. “So you’d think it unusual that there was nothing in his wallet when we found it?” she asked. Kramer for the first time lost his dazed look. He was definitely surprised to hear that news.
“Can’t be,” he said emphatically. “Jerry was the big winner in the tournament last night. You know,” he added, “we all throw in ten bucks a head and the winner takes it all. He must have walked out of the saloon last night with close to two hundred bucks on him.”
“Well, it surely wasn’t there this morning,” Lee told him.
He shook his head sadly. “Two hundred bucks. You think someone killed him for just two hundred bucks, Sheriff?” he asked. Lee snorted briefly.
“Folks been killed for a lot less than that,” she said. Kramer raised his eyes to her sadly.
“I guess that’s true,” he said.
“So … anyone in that darts game get mad because he won?” she asked carefully. But Kramer saw the track she was heading down and blocked it indignantly.
“No way, Sheriff! This wasn’t done by any of those boys!” he said. “Hell, we’re all friends. Known each other for years, most of us.”
“Still,” Lee said gently. “Maybe someone lost big and got mad …”
But Kramer was positive in his denial.
“No one lost big!” he said heatedly. “All’s we put in is ten bucks apiece. Ain’t none of us can’t spare that much! It’s just a bit of fun, Sheriff, that’s all. Just fun. Nobody’s going to get mad over ten lousy bucks!”
She put up a hand to calm him down. “Okay. I understand,” she said. “We’ve just got to look at all the possibilities. How about other people in the saloon? Anyone see him walk out with that money?”
Kramer spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Well, hell, I guess most people did. Or could have if they’d been looking. We didn’t make any secret about it.”
Lee sighed. “So I guess we could be looking for anyone who was in the Old Town Saloon last night,” she said. Kramer agreed with her.
“I guess,” he said.
“Or for anyone who might have talked to someone in the Old Town Saloon,” she added. Kramer was watching her apologetically, as if he felt maybe this was his fault. She smiled at him, closed her notebook and slid it into her inside pocket.
“Sorry Mr. Kramer,” she said. “Just sounding off a little. Maybe you’d like to go with one of the officers here and let him take down a full statement?” She indicated the two town cops, who had just about finished turning the room over.
“Fine,” said Kramer. “Anything I can do to help, Sheriff.”
She smiled again and stood up.
“I may talk to you again later on,” she said and he shrugged.
“As I say, anything I can do to help.”
“Okay, Mr. Kramer. Be seeing you.”
She nodded to the two cops and made her way to the door. In the vestibule, she noted the parka hanging outside the front door and an old, battered pair of Timberlands. Marrowes’s, she guessed.
She made for the door, but paused. An ambulance was stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and the two paramedics were hustling the gurney out of the rear. They’d come for the body. They heaved the gurney, leaving its legs collapsed to negotiate the stairs, then hurried up to the apartment. Lee stood aside to let them through. She wondered what the rush was all about. Marrowes certainly wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.
As she made her way down the stairs, she heard the familiar rattle of a worn four-cylinder motor and turned to see Jesse’s Subaru pull in behind the ambulance. She gave him a tired wave and went to meet him.
“Heard we had another one,” he said. She shook her head.
“Doesn’t look like it,” she replied. “Take a look if you like, but it seems like a totally different MO.”
He hesitated. She knew he was desperate for any new lead at all in the case.
“You sure?” he asked and she shrugged.
“Well I’m not one hundred percent sure,” she said, “but it’s a different gun, according to Doc Jorgensen, and there’s two hundred bucks missing from the dead guy’s wallet. Two hundred bucks that maybe fifty people knew he was carrying,” she added. She saw Jesse’s shoulders slump.
“Who’s the victim?” he asked. “Another out-of-towner?”
“Not really. He worked on ski patrol.” She checked her notebook. “Jerry Marrowes. You know him?”
He frowned, running the name through his memory.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” he admitted. “He a pro or a volunteer?”
“Volunteer,” she answered and he nodded, understanding.
“That explains it. There’s a lot of new guys in this year. I don’t know half of them anymore. Maybe I’ll take a look anyway, now that I’m here.”
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