At the Scene of the Crime

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

COPYRIGHTS

 

Introduction by Dana Stabenow

 

“Smart Aleck,” copyright © 2008 by Loren D. Estleman

 

“Better Lucky Than Good,” copyright © 2008 by Jeanne C. Stein

 

“The High Life: A Heartland Homicide Story,” copyright © 2008 by Max Allan Collins and Matthew V. Clemens

 

“Rust,” copyright © 2008 by N. J. Ayres

 

“I/M-Print: A Tess Cassidy Short Story,” copyright © 2008 by Jeremiah Healy

 

“A Trace of a Trace,” copyright © 2008 by Brendan DuBois

 

“Five Sorrowful Mysteries,” copyright © 2008 by Julie Hyzy

 

“Mitt’s Murder,” copyright © 2008 by John Lutz

 

“The Retired Arsonist,” copyright © 2008 by Edward D. Hoch

 

“Patriotic Gestures,” copyright © 2008 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

 

“Articulation of Murder,” copyright © 2008 by Michael A. Black

 

“Occam’s Razor,” copyright © 2008 by Maynard F. Thomson

 

“On the Evidence: A Liam Campbell Short Story,” copyright © 2008 by Dana Stabenow

A COUPLE OF YEARS BACK MARTY GREENBERG,
the Anthology King, poked his head up and noticed how popular an obscure little television series called
CSI
was. He wondered if perhaps a book of short stories involving criminal cases that turn on hard evidence found at the scene might be equally popular. He wondered further if I would edit such a collection, and I replied, as to my cost I often do to Marty, why, sure
.
He and John Helfers rounded up a stellar cast of writers and found a publisher, and the result is the book you hold in your hand.

So here, for your enjoyment, thirteen investigations into means, motive, and opportunity that together prove the law of unintended consequences can trip up even the most masterminded criminal, so long as the investigator on the scene is on the ball. I find that kind of comforting.

The scenes of crime are all over the American map, from Brendan DuBois’ story set in a coastal fishing village in New Hampshire, to Julie Hyzy’s in a retirement home in Florida, to Kristin Katherine Rusch’s in a suburb in Oregon, to mine in a wilderness in Alaska. Anything is grist for the investigator’s mill, from forensic dentistry to the rate of nuclear decay. John Lutz uses satellite imagery as part of his crime scene equipment to solve the murder of a retired major league baseball player.

Loren Estleman writes about twins separated at birth reunited by murder, Jeremiah Healy sets his story in a McMansion in an Everygated community, and Edward Hoch writes about an arsonist who may or may not be retired. Maynard F. Thomson tells of a retired medical examiner’s memories of his first murder. Max Allan Collins and Matthew V. Clemens
write about high life in the heartland, and Michael Black’s hero takes a bite out of crime in the Arizona desert. N.J. Ayres writes a haunted memoir set in rural Pennsylvania, and Jeanne C. Stein sets a tough urban narrative in the rare book room of a Denver university.

And then I, just to be contrary, wrote a Liam and Wy story that proves that sometimes it isn’t all about the evidence. Sometimes it isn’t; sometimes it’s all about the hunch, whatever that is, wherever it comes from, and whatever you call it, at the scene of the crime.

Pull on your rubber gloves and your paper booties and come on in.

Coopersmith, the young medical examiner who’d replaced old Doc Wingate, never looked up from the gizmo that looked like a Game Boy he was manipulating. “Neighbor from across the hall. Door wasn’t on the latch and she went in to warn her about that for like the thousandth time.”

“Too bad it didn’t take after nine hundred and ninety-nine.”

The dead woman was identified as Angela Kaybee. She’d worked as a receptionist for a local optometrist, a job that called for a certain amount of good looks, but her protruding eyes and tongue marred the effect. She’d strangled, as most hanging victims did; snapping the neck was a professional’s game.

“Suicide?”

Coopersmith didn’t respond, absorbed as he was with his gadget, which seemed to be designed for measuring body temperature, but apparently it wasn’t working. Sergeant Henry left him, stepping over and around earnest young technicians taking digital photographs and collecting lint in Ziploc bags. Mac Davidoff, his partner, stood out of the way bobbing a tea bag up and down in a cardboard cup.

“Suicide,” Davidoff said in greeting. “I heard you, even if he didn’t. No ligature marks on the wrists. She tied herself to the ceiling fan and kicked over the chair. Sorry we couldn’t come up with something more stimulating, Aleck. This could be your last case.”

Henry bent to look at the body sprawled in its taped outline on the floor. “Wears her watch on her right wrist.”

“I didn’t notice. So you going to travel or what?”

“I thought I’d come down to headquarters every day and sit and tell stories, then drive home real slow in a big car with a hat on my head. Where’s the neighbor?”

“In the kitchen. I was about to send her home.”

“I’m not retired yet, Mac. Let me finish the job.”

“Okay. Don’t get testy.”

“It’s not you, it’s these techno-poops. They didn’t used to be such pains in the butt.”

“That TV show spoiled ‘em.”

“What TV show?”

“You’re kidding. How could you miss it? It’s either that or funny home videos on every channel.”

“I think I saw one once. The CSIs all carried guns and badges and went around interrogating suspects. Makes you wonder what all the real cops are doing.”

Alexander Henry had been with the department thirty years, twenty-two of them with the detective division. He had a reputation among his contemporaries as a wizard who connected scattered leads into working theories when logic alone failed. They called him “Smart Aleck,” with varying degrees of affection.

“Hey!”

Trying to avoid a hefty young woman on her knees with an aerosol can, Henry bumped into Coopersmith, still thumbing buttons on his handheld device. “Sorry.”

“I wish you gumshoes would go out and get a doughnut or something until we’re finished here.”

The sergeant found a middle-aged woman worrying her hands at the table in the apartment kitchen. He introduced himself. “You were right to cut her down. A lot of people assume they’re dead already.”

“I watch TV. I used a knife from the kitchen.” She shuddered.

“Did you know Miss Kaybee well?”

“No. She wasn’t that sort of neighbor. But we’ve had some burglaries here. Some of the younger residents don’t lock their doors and it gets around that the building’s an easy mark. When I saw her door wasn’t even closed—”

“Was she right- or left-handed?”

“I—I don’t know. I don’t notice that kind of thing.”

He smiled. His warm, weary smile was his best interview technique. “That’s because you’re right-handed. We lefties have to mess with tools designed for the other hand several times a day, so we’re sensitive to a thing like that.”

“How did you know I’m right-handed?”

“You wear your watch on your left wrist. People tend to wear it on the one they don’t use as much, to avoid banging it against things. Miss Kaybee has hers on her right wrist.”

“I didn’t see her all that much. She was rude the last time I told her she should lock her door. I don’t think she was a nice person. Is it important what hand she favored?”

“Probably not. I’m supposed to ask these things is all.”

“Well, if it is, I’m sure the criminalists will figure it out. They’re so dedicated.”

“Yeah, we’re lucky to have ‘em.”

 

Back at headquarters, Davidoff rapped on Henry’s desk. The sergeant was staring at a safety poster that had been on the same wall for ten years. “You’re not retired yet, you said. Plenty of time to daydream when you’re out fishing every day.”

“I don’t like fish.”

“There’s always catch and release.”

“What’s the point?”

Davidoff shook his head. “We got a positive ID on Angela Kaybee from her boss, the optometrist. Of course, that’s just for the paperwork. Her DNA matches the hair and skin cells all over the apartment.”

“Prints?”

“She had no criminal record in this state, so there’s nothing on file, but we printed her postmortem. They matched with the partials all over the apartment and a honey of a full set on a bathroom glass. Pretty soon we won’t have to take civilians down to the morgue anymore. I won’t miss that part of the job.”

“Pretty soon there won’t be a job. The wonks will vacuum up everything we need and spin it in a dish and e-mail the results straight to the prosecutor. Department’ll gut all the interview rooms and put in handball courts.”

“What do you care? You’ll be living on your pension.”

“Did you ask the optometrist if she was left-handed?”

“How could I forget? You’ve been obsessing over it. He said she was a rightie. He’s a southpaw himself, so he noticed.”

“Any chance someone else dressed her after she was dead and put the watch on the wrong wrist?”

“CSIs would’ve reported that, but you can ask.”

“Did you play the despondent card with the optometrist?”

Davidoff smiled. “Did you ever notice live people aren’t ever despondent, only sad or depressed? They’re only despondent after they clock themselves.” He shook his head. “He was too preoccupied to judge. He was working up his nerve to fire her. She was rude to patients and he suspected her of dipping into petty cash.”

“Her neighbor said she was rude too. It’d be a nicer world if people hanged themselves because they were rotten human beings. If she was a thief, she might have a criminal record in another state.”

“We’re doing a search, that’s routine. It won’t matter to the investigation. We know who she is without having to check any prints she might have on file, and the techs says all the evidence is consistent with suicide.”

“Toxicity report?”

“You’ll have it when we get it.”

Henry looked at the safety poster. “Don’t we usually compare DNA with samples from blood relatives, just to plug all the holes in ID?”

“No relatives yet. Prescription medicines in her cabinet gave us her doctor. Family history in her records lists a mother, deceased. Nothing on her father. She wrote down Düsseldorf, Germany, under place of birth.”

“No one said anything about a German accent.”

“We’re doing a computer search on the mother. That ought to clear up plenty.”

“Computers and test tubes,” Henry said. “Maybe this time next year we’ll all be fishing.”