Circle of Influence (A Zoe Chambers Mystery) (21 page)

TWENTY

When Pete answered Sylvia’s phone call and said he’d be right there, Zoe offered her goodbyes and ducked out. She didn’t feel like another encounter with him. She especially didn’t want to be around when Rose reported her son missing. Pete would no doubt put the pieces together the same way Zoe had. Thank goodness he didn’t know about Logan and Zoe’s attempts at sleuthing. Or the stolen hard drive.

Before turning onto Route 15, she pulled over and shifted into park. She dug her cell phone from her pocket and punched in the coroner’s office number. He’d been nagging his part-time deputy coroners to attend more autopsies. She’d assisted on two last summer, but the memory of the stench prompted her to dodge his recent requests. Until today.

She got his voicemail.

“Hey, Franklin,” she said after the beep, “this is Zoe. I’m on my way to the morgue. I’d like to observe the autopsy on Jerry McBirney. Maybe even assist. I should be there in a half hour or so.” She neglected to mention the desire to see for herself if that brute McBirney actually had a heart. And if he did, whether it was black. She suspected Franklin wouldn’t appreciate her humor.

Shifting into gear, she turned right onto Route 15 heading south toward Brunswick. As she passed the police station, her thoughts rolled back to Logan. Maybe he’d phoned and left a message on her machine at home. She would pass the farm on her way. It would take only a minute to find out.

She pulled into the farm lane and hurried into the house. The only message was from her boarder Patsy, who was supposed to feed and clean stalls, but who phoned to say she had the flu. That left the work to Zoe. She checked her watch. Quarter to nine. Crap.

She punched in Franklin’s number again. “It’s me. Something’s come up and I’m going to be later than I thought. But I still want to attend the autopsy if at all possible. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

She rushed through the barn chores and changed into clean clothes that didn’t have bits of hay and manure stuck to them. By the time she wheeled the truck back onto the road, her clock read 9:58.

Heavy black clouds rolled in from the west. The radio crackled a weather advisory for late afternoon and into the evening. She punched the power button, silencing the grim predictions. Enough of those played in her brain without any help from the local newscaster.

Paulette greeted her in the back hallway of the Marshall Funeral Home.

“Did Franklin head over to the morgue yet?” Zoe said.

“Oh, dear. I’m afraid he’s been there and back. Detective Baronick showed up here at eight o’clock and asked that the procedure be expedited.”

Eight o’clock? Zoe sighed. Even if she’d come straight into the city from work, she’d have missed it.

The coroner’s assistant gave her an apologetic smile. “He’s in his office if you want to talk to him.”

Zoe found him at his desk, tapping on his computer keyboard.

“I got your messages after the fact,” he said without looking up. “A local politician’s death is high priority where the County PD is concerned.”

“I understand.” Zoe sank into one of the plush chairs across the desk from him. “What did you find out?”

He paused in his typing and gazed at her over his readers. “You were on the crew that brought him in, right?”

“Yes.”

“So you know the basic physical condition of the body.” He went back to his computer. “Mr. McBirney suffered four penetrating wounds to his posterior upper right quadrant. One of the wounds penetrated the intercostal muscles between the fourth and fifth ribs, missing the scapula and puncturing his lung. Cause of death was exsanguination.”

He bled to death. No big surprise. “So they
were
stab wounds?”

“Phillips-head screwdriver.”

“What?”

Franklin stopped typing, leaned back in his chair, and removed his glasses. “From the pattern of the tears in the skin, it’s my determination that the weapon used was a Phillips-head screwdriver.”

Not exactly helpful. Just about everyone she knew had a toolbox and a set of screwdrivers. Even she had one.

“Only one of the wounds penetrated deep enough to be fatal—the one that punctured the lung. The other three attempts hit the scapula and exhibited more tearing, but caused no significant damage. In addition, I found evidence of blunt force trauma to the top of the victim’s skull.”

Zoe’s mind flashed back to another head injury. “Blunt force trauma? The same as Ted Bassi’s?”

“Not really.” Franklin placed his palm on top of his head. “There was no fracture in this case, but the victim suffered a subdural bleed perimortem. Non-life threatening.”

“So he was stabbed
and
hit on top of the head?”

“There were also some soft tissue injuries to the victim’s face.”

Zoe cringed as she recalled swinging the bridle, striking McBirney with the bit.

“The patterns of bruising would be consistent with a beating.” Franklin made a fist.

“Someone punched him?”

“Repeatedly. There was also one other contusion that caused some minor soft tissue damage that was inconsistent with the others. I’d say it happened some time earlier as healing was already evident.”

Ah. That would be her contribution.

“This man suffered a violent assault. Possibly multiple assailants.” Franklin stared past her and frowned. “And yet, he exhibited no defensive wounds. It doesn’t appear he fought back.”

“Maybe he didn’t have a chance to.”

“Perhaps.” Franklin slipped his reading glasses back on his nose and rested his fingers on his keyboard. “In any case, I’m afraid Vance Township has another homicide to deal with.”

Pete stood inside the doorway of the rear entrance of the Helping Hands Store in Dillard. Mrs. Zellers, who managed the charitable second hand shop, fussed with an errant strand of gray hair that refused to stay in its bun. “The lock’s been broken, and there’s mud all over the floor. I mopped before I closed up last night. I can’t believe someone would break in here and steal from us.” Her voice quivered.

Concentrate
. A breaking-and-entering call might seem minor to Pete after his previous stop at the Bassi residence, but to Mrs. Zellers, it was huge. “Is anything missing that you’re aware of?”

“That’s what’s so odd. The money box wasn’t touched. Not that I leave much here anyway. But the muddy tracks don’t go anywhere near the front counter.”

“Is there anything else he might have taken?”

She hoisted her shoulders in a mammoth shrug. “Not that I can tell. I’d have to do inventory, but most of our stuff is donations and not worth much. I just don’t understand.”

Pete leaned over and squinted at the lock. He pulled his glasses from his pocket and jammed them on his face. The tiny scrapes around the keyhole leapt into focus. No pry bar gouges like the ones on his evidence room door.

The muddy tracks Mrs. Zellers complained about were grayish white against the old dark wood flooring. Salt. Not mud. But they did offer a little more to work with. Several distinct tread patterns were evident. He excused himself to go back to his SUV for the camera and his fingerprint kit. If he was lucky, he might get something more than a smudge from the doorknob.

As he trudged through the sloppy parking lot, his mind drifted back to the meeting with Rose, Sylvia, and Allison. Two frantic women and a girl, who had already lost a husband, a son, and a dad, were now forced to report a missing teenager.

Logan was seventeen. Pete suspected any other kid that age would be hanging out with friends, oblivious of his parents’ concerns, trusting in his own immortality. But Logan wasn’t any other teen. He’d just buried his father. And the prime suspect in that case had turned up dead the same night the kid disappeared.

Pete opened the back of the SUV and pulled out the canvas bag with the bulging pockets. Then he slammed the door and lugged the bag back to the store.

He’d asked them all the standard-issue missing-person questions. He knew what the kid was wearing the last time Rose had seen him—blue plaid flannel shirt, jeans, blue and white Blue Demons high school jacket, winter boots. He knew the car Logan was driving—his mom’s silver Ford Taurus. The three women—grandmother, mother, and sister—had provided him with a list of friends and hang-outs.

While he’d let the Bassi women believe he’d pay special attention to the case because of his friendship with Sylvia, in truth, he feared he might be looking for a killer.

Mrs. Zellers hovered nearby as Pete dusted for prints. He held little hope he’d find anything clear enough to prove useful. He photographed the salty tread marks. Nothing noteworthy about them. Work boots would be his guess. About a size ten and a half or eleven.

“Try to do an inventory of your stock, and get back to me if you find anything missing,” Pete told her as he packed the camera in his bag.

“Of course.”

“And…” He pointed at the lock. “Get that changed. Now.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Chief.”

He tossed his bag in the back of the SUV and climbed behind the wheel. His full attention returned to Logan Bassi, and he shuffled through the notes he’d taken an hour ago. He had damned little time. He needed to find the boy before Baronick caught wind of the disappearance. Once that happened, Logan would be assigned the official role of murder suspect instead of missing person. Sylvia and Rose would go on the defensive and clam up. And a seventeen-year-old kid would become the center of a Monongahela County Police Department manhunt.

Pete hated the thought of being the one to arrest Logan. Sylvia would despise Pete until her dying breath. But the kid stood a better chance with someone who knew him than with one of those county boys.  

Maybe Logan wasn’t guilty. But then why the hell was he running? Or was he? Were Rose’s fears plausible? Had something happened to him, too? Pete had a gnawing sensation in his gut that either way, this would not turn out well for any of the Bassi family.

Zoe parked in front of the Bassi house. Rose’s car—the one Logan had borrowed—wasn’t there. Crap. She punched his number into her cell phone, but the call went straight to voicemail. What teenaged kid turns his cell phone off?

Sylvia answered the door. Dark bags draped beneath her bloodshot eyes. Deep creases etched her forehead. She’d aged ten years in the last twenty-four hours.

“Have you heard anything?” Zoe tossed her coat over the back of a kitchen chair.

“Nothing. Rose is out of her mind. I don’t think she’s slept in a week.” Sylvia led the way to the living room. “And on top of everything else, Allison is sick.”

“Sick?”

“She’s come down with the bug Rose’s mom had earlier in the week. Poor kid’s been locked in the bathroom throwing up for almost an hour.”

Zoe glanced around the empty room. “Where’s Rose?”

“Here.” She appeared in the hallway, looking even more haggard than she had a few hours earlier. “I was making some phone calls. No one’s seen or heard from Logan.”

Zoe crossed the room and enfolded her friend in a hug.

Rose shrank against her. Then she pulled away. “This can’t be real. None of it.” She shuffled to the couch and collapsed onto it.

Zoe sat next to her, and took one of her hands in both of hers. “What did Pete say?”

Sylvia settled into one of the armchairs flanking the couch. “He gave us a speech about teenagers and how they lose track of time.”

“And he said Logan’s too old for an Amber Alert,” Rose said.

“But he took all the information and is going to look for him.”

Zoe understood what Pete was up to even if Rose and Sylvia were too distracted or too unwilling to face it. Logan was a suspect in McBirney’s death. Pete would use the missing kid angle to look for him without alerting anyone else. Especially that Detective Baronick guy.

“So did you get a chance to watch them cut Jerry McBirney’s heart out?” A hint of Sylvia’s old sparkle glimmered in her eyes.

“I was too late.”

“What a shame.”

Rose made a face. “I can’t imagine watching something like that anyway.”

As if to punctuate the sentiment, the unmistakable sound of retching drifted from the back hallway.

“Poor Allison.” Sylvia shook her head.

Someone pounded on the door, and all three women jumped.

Rose’s shoulders sagged. “It’s not Logan. He wouldn’t knock.”

“I’ll get it.” Zoe beat Sylvia to her feet and headed for the kitchen. She peeked through the curtain and feared she might join Allison cuddling up to the toilet.

Detective Wayne Baronick.

Zoe hesitated. She should warn the others.
Don’t mention Logan’s missing
. On the other hand, if the detective already knew, he’d find their evasion highly suspicious. But did they really want the entire county police force looking for a frightened kid? A police force that not only didn’t know and care about Logan, but who believed him capable of murder?

Baronick pounded again. “Mrs. Bassi, it’s the police. Please open the door.”

“The police?” Rose staggered to her feet.

“I don’t recognize the voice,” Sylvia said. “It’s not any of
our
boys.”

“It’s Detective Baronick,” Zoe mouthed. Then she swung the door open, but stood blocking the entrance. “Hello, Detective.”

He eyed her. “Zoe, isn’t it?”

She suspected he knew very well who she was. “This isn’t a good time.”

“I promise to be brief.” He stood his ground, grinning at her. 

Maybe he’d catch what Allison had.

Zoe stepped aside, letting the detective enter. She followed him into the living room. Over his shoulder, she made a zip-the-lips motion at the two women. If only they were psychic and could read her thoughts.

“Have you found my son?” Rose blurted.

Crap.

Zoe circled around the detective to stand between Rose and Sylvia. Baronick’s face was frozen in that toothy smile. His version of a poker face, Zoe imagined.

“Your son’s missing?”

Zoe caught both women’s hands and gave them a wrenching squeeze. If they’d been sitting at a table, she’d have kicked them in the shins.

Sylvia winced and eyed her. Zoe gave a slight head shake.

“Didn’t Chief Adams let you know? Logan’s been missing since yesterday afternoon,” Rose said.

“Really?” Baronick dragged the word out.

Zoe pictured a python being thrown a rat.

“And Chief Adams knows about this?”

“We spoke to him earlier,” Rose said.

Zoe cleared her throat. “But the chief doesn’t believe he’s missing so much as he’s being a typical teen. Probably having a grand time with his buddies and forgot to call home.”

She met Sylvia’s gaze. The older woman’s eyes had narrowed, her jaw clenched.

Bingo. She got it.

“I’m sure that’s all it is. He’s with a friend,” Sylvia said, her voice as smooth and rich as bourbon.

Rose shot her a look.

“He’ll be home before long. I’m certain of it,” Sylvia told the detective.

“You think so? Well, that’s good.” His eyes shifted to each of them. “Actually I was hoping to have a chance to speak with Rose about a few things. Alone. But since you have company, maybe we can meet another time.”

“Oh, that’s not a problem,” Zoe chimed in. Let him stay there and chat up Rose a while. Zoe wanted to get a head start on finding Logan anyhow. Giving Sylvia’s hand a gentle pat, she said, “We were just leaving.”

“We were?” Sylvia said.

“You just got here.” Rose’s mouth and brow were pressed into a dazed frown.

“I’ll stop by later.” Zoe released Sylvia’s hand and pulled Rose into a hug. “Walk us to the door?”

Baronick wasn’t smiling any more. He scowled as he watched the interaction between the women. “While I’m in the area, I’d like to make time to speak with both of you, too. Is there a time I could stop by your homes that would be convenient?”

Sylvia puffed up her ample bosom. “I’m heading home now to take care of a few things. Two doors down, but I’m sure you know that.”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

“Then stop in when you’re done here.”

Zoe wondered if Baronick knew that Sylvia’s purse should be registered as a lethal weapon.

“Thank you.” The smile was back. “I’ll do that.”

Zoe tugged both Sylvia and Rose into the kitchen with her.

“What’s wrong with you two?” Rose said in a ragged whisper as they pulled on their coats.

Zoe put her arms around her and spoke into her ear. “He thinks Logan’s disappearance makes him look guilty of McBirney’s murder.”

“What? That’s absurd.”

Sylvia shushed her and joined in a group hug. “Just don’t say anything. He’s working on a murder case. Two murder cases. His only interest in Logan is as a suspect.”

They pulled apart and made a silent pact with their eyes.

“Call me if you need anything,” Sylvia said.

“I’ll stop by later.” Zoe patted Rose’s arm.

“Um. Excuse me,” Baronick called from the living room. “Zoe, you didn’t tell me when would be a good time for us to talk. I’ve been looking forward to getting to know you better.”

His smile brought back the python image to Zoe. Only now,
she
was the rat.