Vengeance is Mine - A Benjamin Tucker Mystery (7 page)

Spring in the Triangle had burst into bloom with dogwoods, redbuds, and flowering crabapple and cherry trees. The area was ablaze with azaleas in every color imaginable, and tulips, daffodils, irises, peonies, camellias, hyacinth, wisteria, honeysuckle, hibiscus and wildflowers were in full bloom.

When I got to the task force conference room, there was a crowd milling around the coffee area, but I managed to squeeze through, grab a donut, and pour myself a glass of orange juice. I was a creature of habit and sat in the same chair in the gallery as I had Monday morning. Agent MacKenzie was seated at the big people’s table, wearing a charcoal grey skirt and cream-colored blouse. I was surprised to see her this morning because she’d said she needed to return to Quantico for a few days.

Netter went over the agenda, and I was happy to see that I would go first. I didn’t really like public speaking. Instead, I preferred informal dialogue where I could watch body language and reactions. My presentation was clear, concise, and to the point, and it took only ten minutes. However, my concentration was completely broken both times Agent MacKenzie crossed her legs.

The next report was from Angela Dreckmann, head of the Wake County Crime Lab. She said her deputy, Marie Driscoll, had made significant progress refining the carpet strand analysis. Dreckmann explained how fibers were classified into three basic categories: natural, manufactured, and synthetic. She went on to discuss the distinctions among the categories.

There were two distinct fiber types common to both crime scenes. The first type was a natural fiber: a dyed wool fiber normally used in area rugs. Dreckmann showed a photograph of a slide taken from a comparison microscope. The fibers on the slide were strikingly similar. It was believed these fibers came from a rug Jack Plum had access to, possibly in his place of residence. The CSI team was now comparing the strands to a fiber database in an attempt to identify the manufacturer.

The second fiber type was synthetic: a nylon fiber from the type of cut-pile carpeting that’s been used in most cars since 1974. Further isolation would be accomplished through chemical analysis of the dye to determine the manufacturer and which vehicles were produced with that particular variety of carpeting.

In both instances, forensic specialists had used a microspectrophotometer to measure the wavelength of the reflected light from each strand. It conclusively proved that the strands were identical in color and from the same dye lot. Dreckmann stated that the lab was now performing dispersive X-ray analysis and mass spectrometry, combined with gas chromatography, to yield the chemical composition of each fiber and the dye pigments contained therein.

She then moved to the analysis of hairs found at the two scenes. Dreckmann showed a magnification of a human hair. “Three hairs from the Clancy crime scene, and one hair from the Knudsen scene, appear to be from an individual other than immediate friends and family members of the two victims. The hairs are approximately .07 millimeters in diameter and have an oval cross section, indicating a high probability that the donor is of Caucasian race. The hairs are dark brown in color and very thin, with a straight shaft form. The pigment is natural eumelanin and its distribution is uniform.”

One hair at the Clancy crime scene was intact, with the bulb attached. The CSI team was in the process of extracting nuclear DNA that would be compared to DNA extracted from semen samples found at both scenes. Mitochondrial DNA had also been extracted from all hair samples for comparison.

At this point I started to nod off, but I had absorbed enough of the technical detail to realize that the forensics team was well on its way to developing a genetic and physical profile of Jack Plum. All that was needed was a suspect for comparison. This is where I was expected to contribute to a plausible theory that would narrow the search. Thus far, I had failed to do that.

Bob Dunwood, the chief investigator for the Capital District of the SBI, proceeded next with his report. Dunwood was serious and methodical, with a dry, unanimated, monotonous delivery. His team had been researching possible connections or commonalities between the two victims.

Clancy and Knudsen had gone to different high schools. They went to different dentists, general practitioners, and Ob-Gyns. Dunwood proceeded to list the victims’ doctors. Clancy’s bank accounts were held at the First American Bank of Cary; Knudsen banked at Wells Fargo in Apex. They shopped at different grocery stores. They drove different models of cars and had their automotive maintenance and repairs performed at different shops. Their automobile insurance was through the same company, State Farm, but the agents were in different locations. In fact, Knudsen was her own agent.

Netter finished the meeting with his status report. There had been seventy-three tips phoned in to the hotline, and his investigators had prioritized them as they were received. Most of them were from citizens believing that a neighbor, ex-husband, or son-in-law was the Headless Corpse Killer. Twenty-two of the tips included the description of a suspicious vehicle driving in the caller’s neighborhood. License plate numbers provided were being checked against DMV databases for registration information.

Netter turned off the projector. “Most of you probably know that the memorial for Carla Knudsen will be held this afternoon at one o’clock at the First Baptist Church in Apex. The burial will follow immediately at Sacred Haven Cemetery, also in Apex.”

He continued. “Plum placed Clancy’s severed head on her gravesite fifteen days after her murder. Chief Grissom of Apex has authorized stakeout personnel to watch Sacred Haven Cemetery twenty-four seven. Plum would be crazy to try such a stunt again, but we’re not missing any opportunity where we might have a chance to grab him.”

Agent MacKenzie stood and faced us. “Some of us will be in attendance,” she said, “including me. Sometimes perpetrators like to show up at the funerals of their victims, so they can watch loved ones grieve. If you attend, please make note of anything that catches your attention.” The meeting ended.

The room began to clear, and I joined Lieutenant Netter and Detective Cox by the coffee area. Cox pointed toward the M.E. “Boy, that Huffman is one strange lookin’ dude,” he said.

Netter laughed. “Yeah, he doesn’t even have to get dressed up for Halloween. There are a lot of strange ones in this group—like the guy from the SBI with his left eye pointed slightly off to one side. You can’t tell where the hell he’s lookin’.”

“Well, that Lainie MacKenzie is certainly a sultry lookin’ babe,” I said. “A woman that beautiful and not wearing a ring has to be a lesbian.” I chuckled, but the uncomfortable look on their faces as they turned and swiftly walked away told me she was standing directly behind me. I turned around and looked into the sultry blue eyes of Lainie MacKenzie.

“You’re Benjamin Tucker, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Uh … no,” I said sheepishly. “He left earlier. I don’t think he’ll ever be back.” She didn’t smile at my ill attempt at humor.

“I read your book and was very impressed,” she said. “I hope you’ll write about this case after it’s over. Of course, it’d be nice if you left the lesbian part out.” She turned and left.

Netter and Cox, who had been watching from the front of the room, returned, snickering. “Way to go, Tucker,” Netter said. “Am I going to see a sexual harassment complaint coming my way?”

“I don’t think so … at least not yet,” I said. “I sure stuck my foot in it that time, didn’t I? Man, you should have seen the look on her face. She looked like she wanted to put my balls in a meat grinder.”

Cox put his hand on my shoulder. “Well, Ben, I hear lesbians are like that.” The two of them left the room, laughing at me.

CHAPTER 10

After a bathroom stop, I got in the Jag and split for Triangle Electronics. Twenty minutes later, I had a camcorder small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, and I plugged its charging cable into the twelve-volt power accessory outlet in the console.

After a quick stop for gas, I wolfed down a Quarter Pounder with cheese, French fries, and a Coke. I normally didn’t eat in my car, but I needed to keep the engine running to charge the camera battery.

When I arrived at the First Baptist Church a few minutes past noon, there were only four other cars in the parking lot. Once inside, I went directly into the sanctuary and walked up and down and back and forth for a few minutes, casing the joint. I found the perfect spot for the camera alongside a potted plant on a windowsill, about thirty feet from the pedestals that would support Knudsen’s casket. The camera battery was only about half charged, but it would have to do. I aimed it in the direction of the guests and turned it on.

I turned around to leave and almost ran into Agent MacKenzie, who was standing right behind me again, with a grey trench coat draped over her arm.

“Crap!” I blurted. “You scared the hell out of me.”

She looked over my shoulder. “What are you doing? Are you recording this memorial?”

“Yes. Do you think that’s morbid?”

“Of course it’s morbid! But so is murdering someone and removing their head.” She pointed to the camera. “Good idea, Tucker. I want a copy of that video.”

“Absolutely.”

She looked toward the church entry, and I looked at her fine figure. “People are starting—” She stopped and turned around. “What are you looking at?” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Were you checking me out?”

“Of course not,” I said.

“Yes, you were! You were checking me out. And in a church, no less! Don’t you have any shame?”

“I wasn’t checking you out,” I said defensively, “I was just looking to see if you were wearing a sidearm.”

She laughed. “Yeah, right, on my ass? Cause that’s where you were lookin’. Anyway, people are starting to come in.”

I walked to the back of the church and sat where I could watch each person as they entered. Surprisingly, Special Agent MacKenzie sat beside me. At ten minutes before one, Lieutenant Netter and Detective Cox entered and sat in the back on the opposite side. They looked over at Lainie and me, and I winked at them. Their faces said, “What the fuck?”

The service lasted an hour and ten minutes. During the entire time, my eyes were glued to the grieving family, especially the parents. It was as if I had traveled seventeen years back in time, reliving Christine’s memorial. The choir even sang the same damn hymns, haunting me with every key played on the organ.

I waited for almost everyone to leave before retrieving my camera. Lainie had hitched a ride to the church with Netter and Cox, so I offered her a ride to the cemetery. She accepted.

When we got to the Jaguar Lainie stopped and raised her eyebrows. “This is your car?” I unlocked the doors. “Wedding present from my wife,” I said. “Or at least her money bought it. I believe it was actually picked out and purchased by her chief legal counsel. One day it just showed up in front of our guesthouse with a big red bow on it. I never did find out what happened to my old Corolla. It was just gone.”

We got into the car, and Lainie checked it out. “This is the most beautiful car I’ve ever seen,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s loaded, and … it’s supercharged.” I raised my eyebrows twice and put on my sunglasses.

Everyone else had left the church by now, so I gunned it a little to get to the cemetery in time. As I parked in a remote spot under a large oak tree, it struck me what a beautiful day it was to be laying someone to rest. I killed the engine and looked at the video camera. “Damn,” I said. “The battery’s almost gone. But we have plan B.” I grabbed my briefcase from the backseat, opened it, and took out my digital camera. “We can still get digital photographs.”

“Don’t you think people will be upset with you?”

“I want you to stand off by yourself, but within almost everyone’s view. When I rub my nose, you let your hair down and flip your head a couple of times. I guarantee no one will notice what I’m doing. They’ll all be looking at you.”

“Won’t they think that’s a little … inappropriate?” she asked.

“Yep.”

CHAPTER 11

I dropped Agent MacKenzie off at the Cary PD and drove back to the estate. Our gardener, Hector, was meticulously adding a layer of pine straw to the planting area behind the pool. Hector was Roberta’s 30-year-old nephew, and he was a master at his craft. The grounds of the Marshak estate were the envy of the area.

I parked and walked over to him.

“Hello, Mr. Ben,” he said.

“Hi, Hector.” I admired the mulching job. “Everything’s lookin’ great.” I ran my hand through my hair. “Listen, Roberta said something the other night and I was wandering if you could tell me what it means. I think she said … ‛
perro callejero
’.”

He nodded. “
Si
. Don’t worry, Mr. Ben. I will take care of it.”

I frowned. “But what does it mean?” I asked.

“It means she has seen a stray dog. Don’t worry. If I see it … I will grab my shovel … and I will chase it away.”

I nodded. “Thanks, Hector.”

Mumbling to myself, I entered the guesthouse from the garage through the connecting door. It had been a little wet at the cemetery, and I had grass clippings on my shoes, so I removed them before I stepped inside.

After changing into some jeans and a T-shirt, I began the tedious task of downloading the cemetery photographs and organizing them into folders on my computer.

I was temporarily rescued by the familiar sound of Oscar scratching at the front door. He scurried in when I opened it and waddled over to his water bowl to get a drink. Julie was always buying Oscar little outfits, and he had his own small chest of drawers in her bedroom. Today he was wearing a black T-shirt that said
Bark for Jesus
on the back. I shook my head.

“Now that’s about the silliest lookin’ thing I’ve ever seen,” I said to him. “Although it’s hard to beat the bee outfit.” He looked at me and wagged his little butt.

Julie knocked and poked her head in. “Hi, Ben. Is Oscar in here?” Oscar barked once and tore across the room to her.