Chain of Evidence (21 page)
“Oh, Christ.”
“Zeller had somehow tracked down his wife’s killer—the Asian Strangler—and, as far as I was concerned, had probably caved in his hat and then tossed him out a window to cover it up.” He looked up at the bare limbs and the gray sky—it all seemed so dead. “I had to cover myself, because the State Police lab would itemize the work done for us in their monthly bill, and Teddy Bragg, meticulous as he is, would see it. So I properly filed the lab report in with the Ice Man file, in case he checked—put it right where it belonged.”
“Oh, shit!” she said.
Good little Boy Scout
, he was chiding himself as he held up a finger to stop her briefly. “I had some thinking to do. The Asian Strangler was dead. A man who tortured and mutilated women. No cost to society. No more concerns about the threat he posed. And I had to think:
What’s so wrong here?
If I was right, Zeller had evened the scales, had done us all a favor, and maybe had found a way to live with the loss of his wife. He was no longer drinking. He was looking better, even talking about teaching down at the university.” He continued, “But I had left quite a trail of evidence. I had to bring it to Kowalski’s attention—to Haite and Rankin—or let it slide. Leave it where it was—divided between the property room and the file room.”
She paled noticeably.
He said strongly, “It was entirely circumstantial. I knew damn well that this was no
grounder.
We wouldn’t get a conviction—not if Walter Zeller was in fact the killer; he wouldn’t leave that kind of trail—”
“Oh, shit,” she said, realizing what she had done by alerting Haite to the Ice Man files.
Dart felt resolved now to tell it all. In a way it felt good to him. “But I did bring Zeller the evidence that I had. I told him what I knew, and what I thought he had done. He must have gone ten minutes without saying anything. Then he looked over at me and told me that it was time to retire. He showed no remorse, no guilt. But he had hate in his eyes—he had wanted to stay on in the department, and he knew that I had ended that.”
She scooted over to him and held him, and he felt the warmth of her through his jacket. “I’ve opened it up again.”
“It’s better, I think. This thing has damned near killed me. And now Stapleton and Lawrence and Payne—all far too close to the Ice Man.”
“Oh, shit,” she gasped.
“It’s him, Abby. I may never prove it—I don’t know how he’s doing it—but I know it in my heart, and that means that I’m responsible for those deaths. You want to talk about motivation to solve a case?”
She leaned back and caught eyes with him. “They’re slime, Joe. Every one of them is pure slime. Trust me on this. There’s no great loss here.”
“Look the other way?” he said, disgusted. “You don’t think I’ve considered that? A jury of one? Uniform justice? Shoot the guy in the alley and it’s easier on everyone? You try that out. It’s not something you can live with and keep coming to work.”
“Bullshit,” she said. “You don’t
know
that you’re right. You can’t prove it—you said so yourself. You need to find Zeller, to collect more evidence.”
To take control
, Dart felt like adding.
“Haite will tear you apart. You’ll be suspended, investigated—and you never will find out the truth.” She added, “Do you think Kowalski will?” She checked her watch. “There’s still time.”
“For what? Me to get out of the country?” he mocked.
“To get the Ice Man files and the evidence and make them disappear.”
“You’re not serious,” Dart said.
“I got you into this.”
“Abby—”
“I
am
serious,” she said. “And damn it, I’m going to need your help.”
The meeting took take place at a dirt cul-de-sac called “the swing,” a dirt track that led to an old tree overhanging the river, used in the summer to swing and splash. In November the place was certain to be deserted.
Dart remembered the location from his rookie year when the swing had been one of his patrol responsibilities. He had come upon a coed group of skinny-dipping teens and had scared them half to death.
To reach the swing, he drove to the East Hartford side, crossing Charter Oak Bridge, and headed north until the treacherous dirt track that led steeply down toward the river, and executed a hairpin turn before descending into the bulb-shaped parking area littered with beer cans. He locked the Volvo and took Mac for a short walk, going slowly so that the old dog didn’t push his arthritic bones. When Dart stopped, drinking in the view of the peaceful river and a gaggle of Canada geese skimming its surface, Mac came alongside and leaned his weight into Dart, catching his chin on Dart’s knee—for Mac, the ultimate sign of affection. He reached down and petted his head. Mac was old, having lived two more years than the vet had given him, and yet it was true: He was Dart’s best friend. The idea of losing him was too much to bear, and for this shared moment of quietude, Dart felt grateful.
He continued on and reached the edge of the river, where a thin shelf of bone white ice stretched twenty yards toward the main current. Rocks had been tossed through the ice, puncturing it with small dark holes that had bubbled river water and then scabbed over.
As darkness settled in, from across the river came the lights of the water treatment facility and the power generating station.
Dart couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched, paranoia tickling at the edges of his rational mind. And yet the area appeared to be clear.
As he climbed back up to the parking area, Mac at his side, he heard the sound of Gorman’s arriving car.
Bud Gorman, Dart’s friend whose job involved tracking a person’s credit history and spending patterns, was dressed for the cold, his big ears protruding from beneath a knit cap. Dart didn’t think of the man as possessing a nervous disposition, but this spying did make him jumpy—his nose twitched like a rabbit’s. “That’s an old dog,” he said.
“What did you find out?” Dart asked, knowing to keep this business. Gorman was a talker.
“Walter Zeller drew unemployment for two months, March to early June, three years ago.”
“After he retired,” Dart said.
“I suppose so. July through December the same year, he worked for something called Proctor Securities.”
“Yes, I remember,” Dart said.
“He pulled in six hundred forty-three a week, after withholdings. We have record of the usual phone and utility bill payments, some credit card activity for this same three-month period. Lived at—”
“Four-twenty-four Winchester Court.”
“Yeah.”
“Come the first of January last year, his credit records move to Seattle, as you indicated. He leaves his account here open to cover some automatic withdrawals. But here’s the strange part about the Seattle side,” he added ominously. “I show virtually no financial activity, except for some electronic fund transfers—automatic deposits—his pension. Each month, a single withdrawal is made against this account—my guess is a certified check or bank payment that is probably then mailed to whatever location Zeller has specified.”
“The amount?”
“Twenty-three hundred. The same every month. The only other withdrawals appear tax related and, again, are not drawn on account checks but paid into the bank funds instead and drawn from there.”
“And that’s all you show?”
“The man is out of the system, Joe. He’s existing in a strictly cash environment is my guess. If he’s spending cash, then I can’t trace him.”
No one can
, Dart thought, wondering if that was the point.
To show Dart that he had done a thorough job, Gorman added, “Credit card activity up to January was retail mostly. Department store records show jeans, boots, shirts, socks, and underwear—strictly basic stuff.”
“Weapons? Airline tickets? Train tickets? Hotel rooms?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Gasoline?”
“No. Nothing. That’s what I’m saying—he’s strictly cash.”
“You mentioned taxes?”
“He filed all taxes as a resident of Washington State, but no financial trail indicating that he spends any time there.”
“Or anywhere else,” Dart reminded.
“True. That’s right. It’s almost as if he’s disappeared.”
He has
, Dart thought.
“And if he had a bank account in some other state?”
“I’d know. Same with credit cards, department store accounts—I can track anything that requires his social security number.”
The night swallowed them in an envelope of darkness. The air was wet and accompanied by a bone-chilling cold that cut through Dart’s jacket and sweater. Mac, sitting alongside Dart, leaned his weight warmly against Dart’s right leg. The detective reached down and petted the dog and pulled on his ears, which Mac loved.
“And if he could get around the social security number? Obtain a false number?” Dart asked.
“That’s a hell of a lot more difficult than it used to be.”
“But if he could?” Dart asked, thinking,
New social security number, driver’s license, bank accounts, credit cards
…
“We’d never find him,” Gorman replied, his disappointment obvious. “Right?”
“Yeah,” answered Dart. “I think that’s just the point.”
Bragg said, “You’re as nervous as a fox in a chicken coop.”
“It’s the chickens that should be nervous,” Dart said.
“Whatever.” Bragg was often trying to sell himself as the country farmer that a boy from Brooklyn could never be. There was a new leak in the small closet that Bragg used for a lab. The area smelled strongly of photo chemicals from the huge developer in the next room.
“You look sick, Teddy. You feel allright?”
“Fine.”
“Pale. You smoke too much.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m
worried
about you,” Dart objected. “Or doesn’t that count?”
“No. It doesn’t count.” He said, “You worried about that crippled dog of yours, too. He turned out fine.”
“He’s not crippled.”
“See what I mean?” Bragg bumped Dart’s shoulder with his own. “Look closer,” he encouraged.
Dart leaned over the lab counter and pressed his eye closer to the loupe.
“It’s the organic matter from the Payne suicide. It’s called a bald cypress. It grows here, but it’s not considered common by any means.”
Samantha Richardson joined in, “The Paynes do
not
have a bald cypress on their property.” Dart had forgotten all about her, she had remained so quiet. She was dressed in blue jeans, a white shirt, and a forest green sweater vest. She was wearing wire-rim glasses. It was the first time that Dart had seen her in glasses.
“Sam followed up on this at my request,” Bragg informed him.
“Why?”
“We both know why, goddamn it,” Bragg answered angrily. “Lang made all that stink about the Ice Man—Nesbit—and although that got nowhere, Haite sees the unusual number of suicides, and he’s looking for a possible connection. It’s Lang’s fault, not mine. Don’t blame me.”
“Or me,” Samantha chimed in.
“I got bigger fish to fry than this,” Bragg complained. “But he wants each and every piece of evidence on
every
one of these suicides followed up on. If there
is
a connection, he wants it. Don’t blame me! Christ, he’s got Kowalski running around like … like …”
“A fox in a henhouse.” Dart completed.
“Fuck off.”
“Thank you.”
“So we’re reworking the Lawrence evidence, the Nesbit stuff, Stapleton, Payne—it’s a shitload of work.”
Mention of the Ice Man—Nesbit—caused Dart a flash of panic, but he concealed it. Bragg’s explanation was filling in some gaps. Haite had sent Dart a memo inquiring about a complete blood workup on Payne. So far, Dart had avoided an answer.
“And this is about the only unexplained trace evidence at the Payne suicide,” Richardson completed.
Bragg added, “And Haite—like me, like you—sees the possibility that these bald cypresss might have been left by a visitor, and he—like me, like you—wants to know who that visitor might have been and what the fuck he was doing there.”
“I see,” said Dart, thinking,
I know who it was. I know what he was doing there. But Haite, of all people, is not going to believe it without a hell of a lot more evidence.
“No bald cypress there,” Dart said to Richardson.
“Not at the Paynes’, no.”
“Which is where you come in,” said Bragg. “’Cause there’s only the two of us here, and I got other fish to cook.”
“To
fry
,” Dart corrected.
“Fuck off.” To Richardson, Bragg said, “Tell him.”
“HHS has a listing of all bald cypresses in Hartford, East Hartford, and West Hartford.”
“HHS?”
“The Hartford Horticultural Society. They keep track of rare species.” She reached back to the counter and handed Dart a fax. “Only eleven in the area.”
“Which is where you come in,” Bragg repeated.
“You want me to go hunting down
trees?
” Dart asked, perplexed.
“Trees, rock salt, and potting soil,” Bragg reminded. “We lifted all three, in combination. It’s a definite signature. And it’s not
me
,” Bragg objected, “but your wonderful Sergeant Haite who wants this. You want to take issue, take it upstairs.”
“No, thanks.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“I could help after work,” Richardson offered Dart.
“No, you couldn’t,” Bragg countered.
There was something in the woman’s eyes that said this had nothing to do with bald cypress leaves, and Dart felt it clear to his toes. “I’d like that,” he said, not knowing where his words came from.
“Good,” she said.
“Not good,” Bragg complained.
“Fuck off,” Dart said, though in good humor, and Bragg cracked a smile.
The detective folded the fax neatly and slipped it into his pocket. He could feel Richardson’s eyes still boring into him as he left the lab.
It felt good.
At seven-thirty on a cold November night, an hour and a half after the day shift ended, Dart and Samantha Richardson were out hunting down the registered locations of bald cypresses. Sam took East Hartford, and the greatest concentration—seven—of the trees. Dart took the city.