Time of Death (26 page)

Judge Martinez was in the downstairs dining room at Balaban’s having white wine and what looked like grilled salmon. He also had a lady companion who was not Mrs. Martinez.

Judge Martinez seemed to be in a hurry to get rid of Schultz for some reason. He listened to the explanation for the warrant, interrupted saying, “Yes, yes,” and signed it right there on the white tablecloth.

Schultz took a couple of officers and an ETU over to May’s home. Mary Beth answered the door, and in a few minutes had produced a sleepy May in silk pajamas and robe down at the front door to acknowledge the serving of the warrant.

“You want to look at what? My storage building?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. Specifically at your garden cart.”

“I don’t understand, but Detective, you didn’t need a warrant. You could have just asked me. And you didn’t have to wake me up for it. That shed isn’t going anywhere.”

“Just keeping everything legal, Mrs. Simmons. You know those lawyers.”

She shrugged. “I’m going back to bed. If you have any questions, Mary Beth can come and get me. Again.”

Schultz considered her demeanor. She showed no concern for anyone looking around in the shed. Either she wasn’t the killer, or she was a brilliant actress, or a complete nut case.

There was a padlock on the door of the storage building that was removed by one of the officers with a massive bolt cutter, and bagged to be tested for fingerprints. The double doors opened, and Schultz swept his flashlight quickly around the interior. He didn’t have any reason to think a bad guy was hiding in there, but it was procedure. The place was filled with rakes, shovels, and wicked-looking, long-handled pruning shears. And the cart.

It was about seven feet long. The carrying bin in the back took up about five feet, leaving a couple of feet for a driver’s seat and steering wheel. Shining his flashlight over the rails into the bin, he could see a little leaf debris but nothing else. No obvious bloodstains and certainly nothing to swab and test.

“Bring that spray stuff in here,” he said to one of the crime scene technicians, who was getting set up in and around the shed. A photographer was at Schultz’s elbow, already snapping pictures with a flash.

A tech named Vic Besle, according to his tag, came up carrying a bottle of Luminol. “We don’t just squirt this everywhere. The chemical reaction can damage other evidence.”

“Just use a little of it in one corner,” Schultz said.

Vic seemed reluctant. Schultz made a grab for the bottle, which the tech quickly moved out of reach. “Hey!” Vic said.

“Gimme that!” Schultz said, getting impatient.

“Okay, okay, just one corner.”

Vic reached over the wood slats, stretched a little to position the bottle, and misted Luminol into one corner.

Schultz flicked off his flashlight. In about five seconds, a ghostly, greenish-blue glow lined the slats and flared in the corner. The glow was the result of a chemical reaction between the iron in hemoglobin and the Luminol, a reaction that produced light.

“Looks good, but not presumptive,” Vic said. “We’ll need more testing. Luminol reacts with other things, like bleach or plant materials, which would seem to be an issue here.”

“Since when did you guys start talking like that? Presumptive this and that.”

“I’m a chemist,” Vic said. “I’m moonlighting.”

“Well, Mr. Moonlighter, I’d bet my balls that’s blood. Photographer, get a picture of this.”

Vic sighed and moved away.

Schultz’s cellphone rang. It was Dave, from the barn on Hank’s property.

“We had the St. Ann PD get in touch with Hank,” he said. “The tough part was finding a ladder to get up to that beam. St. Ann brought in the fire department. They were happy to help out.”

“Cut to it, Dave. Rope fibers or no fibers?”

“Rope fibers, Boss. Hank says he’s never had a rope over that beam.”

“Damn, we’re making some progress here. Now if we only knew whodunit.”

Was May the killer? The inner sense that Schultz relied upon wasn’t jangling in the least.

DURING HIGH SCHOOL, I
don’t have many dates. That doesn’t bother me much, except that my parents are always wondering aloud why their precious baby isn’t popular anymore. In seventh and eighth grade, I was the one setting the pace, getting asked out every Friday and Saturday night, having any boy I wanted, breaking hearts right and left.

Did I have to put out? Not seriously. The junior cocks never emerged from behind the prison of their zippers, although they certainly flung themselves against the bars. All the boys knew they weren’t going to get past tit fondling with me. I did teach more than my share of boys how to unfasten a bra.
Enjoy what you get, boys, then go home and jack off.
It should have gotten me labeled a cock tease, but my womanly tits were such hot property that no boy wanted to ruin his chances for a quick squeeze and suck by saying bad things about me.

Girls that age today do oral sex on command, like trained dogs. Trained bitches. They’re afraid if they don’t, their guys will go find a better-trained bitch, and they’ll be sitting home alone on the weekends, a fate worse than zits.

In my first couple of years of high school, I start to lose interest in all that groping. It’s too much trouble to put on girl-clothes and shave my underarms and legs when sloppy T-shirts and jeans are so much easier and cover stubble. I have to wash my hair, too, and I put that off for days, until I have grungy hair. A boy kisses me and complains that I have bad breath. I guess I have grungy breath, too, because I haven’t brushed my teeth for a week. Or is it two? My mother starts to notice that my shampoo and toothpaste aren’t going away fast enough. I solve that by dumping a capful down the sink and squeezing the toothpaste tube down the sink, too.

So what happened to Miss Popularity? She faded away, a puddle drying up in the sun. A puddle with greasy hair.

Trying to prove to my parents that I can get a date for the senior prom, I take the initiative and ask Gregory Royalview, a boy who doesn’t seem to have any other prospects. Then I join the other girls, talking about gowns, hairdos, and of course, shoes dyed to match, with clip-on bows.

On the night of the dance, Greg calls me and says he is going with someone else. I hadn’t realized that it was
me
who was the last resort. I thought that honor was his. I keep up pretenses in front of my parents. I secretly call a cab, give a vague excuse why my date isn’t picking me up, and spend the night watching movies, excuse me,
films,
at a late-night artsy-fartsy theater across town. When I get home, my parents are asleep, and as far as they know, I’ve been to the prom. I hang up my gown in a plastic storage bag, but I never forget dear old Greg.

No doubt about it, it’s time to make Greg pay. I can’t believe I’ve waited so long. It all seems so easy, and it feels good to let the inhibitions slip away and do whatever I want. This has nothing to do with becoming a Rich Bitch. It’s just scratching an itch.

Greg and Cheryl Royalview are having lunch when I ring the doorbell. This is my riskiest effort yet. I can’t stand on the porch in daylight too long, and I can’t wear the black Lycra and keep my face covered. I’m potentially the object of any nosy neighbor’s furtive glances, and I’ve already had to deal with The Busybody. It’s such a thrill, doing this. I put my eye up to the peephole and have a sudden vision of my left eye transfixed by a long knife pushed in from the other side. In my vision, Greg says, “I told you I was going to the prom with somebody else! If you can’t get that fact into your head, I’ll just have to put a knife into it instead.”

Instead of a knife, Greg’s pale blue eye appears in the peephole. We look at each other, me looking for a gleam of recognition and him trying to figure out if I’m the type to do a home invasion.

Fortunately he is a poor judge of character based upon pupil and iris. The door opens and Greg, the little shit, doesn’t invite me in. Didn’t he recognize my eyeball? Was the whole thing so trivial to him that he can’t even remember my name?

No matter, I force my way inside at gunpoint. Cheryl is the first to go, dispatched with a quick shot to the head. The red circle in her forehead is an imitation of the “O” her red lips form right before I pull the trigger. As a killing method goes, it’s pretty basic, but my motto is if it works, do it again and again.

Greg, seeing his wife blown away in front of him, is understandably belligerent, but I’m prepared for that. I use a taser gun on him. His legs go out from beneath him, and while he’s on the floor I quickly get rope around his wrists and ankles. It doesn’t take long before the taser shock wears off, but by then he’s spread-eagled on the floor, arms and legs tied to immovable objects. I straddle him and let my imagination take over. It occurs to some portion of my mind that I’m no longer hurting people only when they’re sedated and can’t experience it. Looking back on it, that seems too considerate. Besides, I’ve taken a liking to the process.

And in the new order of things, what I want, I get.

P
J WAS ABOUT TO
call a cab to get home when Schultz dropped by her office with the cart and rope fiber news. She stood up behind her desk and did a little victory dance.

“Hey, babe, you can dance for me anytime,” Schultz said. “How about I tuck some money in your underwear?”

She sat down heavily in her chair. “Leo, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, but I haven’t had the time.”

“About what?”

“Don’t call me babe,” she said.

He blinked. “You don’t like it?”

“No, I think it’s demeaning. It’s also a pig.”

He looked at her suspiciously. “Is this some kind of cops-as-pigs joke? ’Cause if so, it’s a new one on me.”

“I’m serious. Babe is an oink-oink pig in a movie,” she said.

“I don’t mean it that way,” Schultz said. “I say it to be, you know, sweet.”

PJ was getting annoyed. She hadn’t expected this much discussion. She would ask, he would agree, and that would be that.

“It doesn’t seem like you say it in a sweet way all the time. Even if you do, I’d prefer you find some other term for me, especially in front of team members.” Irritation was plain in her voice.

“Well, shit, why haven’t you said anything before? I didn’t know it bothered you.” Schultz responded in kind, and raised the stakes. He pointed at her as though lecturing a child.

There was no use trying to explain that she’d tried several times to tell him, only to be cut off by circumstances. “Do you agree to stop?” The words came out in a very sharp tone. She was ready to escalate the cold war.

Schultz threw up both of his hands in surrender. “Hell, yes. If I slip up, I guess you can bust my balls.”

“Not funny,” she said, and sighed. Her anger bubble had abruptly burst. “Leo, let’s put the brakes on this. I shouldn’t have brought it up tonight. I could have found a better time, when we’re both not so tired.”

“I got rough edges,” he went on, as though she’d handed him a live grenade instead of an olive branch. “I’m not all smooth and polished the way you are, Doc. You’re just going to have to make allowances,” he said. “Or not. See if I care.” He got up and left the office, slamming the door on his way out.

Elbows on the desk, she cradled her head in her hands.

Handled like a true professional, Dr. Gray. Professional what, I don’t know.

She straightened her desk, which meant rearranging the piles of clutter that were always there, made a phone call, and then looked up cab companies on her computer. Finding several, she closed her eyes, made a stab, and picked Laclede Cab. She was hoping there were cabs this late at night. St. Louis wasn’t exactly the City that Never Sleeps. In fact, its bedtime seemed to be around 11:00 p.m.

Before she could make the call, her door opened and Schultz was there. He stared at the floor rather than meet her eyes.

“Come on, I’ll take you home.”

PJ asked if he would drop her off at Lilly Kane’s house. She’d called and found Lilly watching
Casablanca
on TV. Schultz agreed but made her promise to take a cab home even though it was less than a dozen blocks to her house from Lilly’s.

Over milk and crumb cake at the kitchen table, PJ talked with Lilly and caught up on her son’s school week. Megabite spread out to her full length on the table in front of PJ, determined to sponge up as much attention as possible. The cat rolled over and ended up on her back, with her paws kneading the air, her tummy offered up. PJ obliged, running her fingers through soft belly fur like a comb, and being rewarded with a satisfied rumbling. If she held her hand just right, she could feel the cat’s heart beating under her finger.

As far as Megabite was concerned, life was good.

PJ shared that assessment while she was in Lilly’s comfortably cluttered home. She could hear her son’s light snores coming from down the hall, and that was as calming as the cat’s purr.

It didn’t take long for Lilly’s two cats, Peanut and Butter, to get into the act. After bumping their owner’s chin several times, they sat down, tucked their paws in, and pretended not to be watching Megabite.

Lilly wanted to know all about the dagger incident. She didn’t seem nearly as perturbed as PJ, and indicated that if the jerk came looking for Thomas while she was around, said jerk would have his reproductive equipment blown off. Lilly’s ex-husband was a cop, and she’d learned to shoot, and shoot well. She also held a fourth degree Black Belt in tae kwon do. PJ found herself wishing that the jerk would tangle with Lilly.

Not wanting to keep her friend up too late, PJ left in less than an hour. She was ready for some serious pillow time. Her ribs were sore and so were her bruises, which were now a charming yellowish-green around the edges, while the centers were still purple. As her contusions changed color while healing, it was a reminder of the underlying process. Blood had been released from capillaries and trapped under her skin. The hemoglobin decays over a couple of weeks, and the breakdown products give a bruise its progression of colors. White blood cells charge to the scene and slowly remove the products of decay, causing the bruise to fade and disappear. In her experience, white blood cells were the opposite of teenage boys, who create but do not take out garbage.