three and a half actually.’
‘He has to have been an informant, either that or he turned something over for this McCullough guy. Maybe he gave up the dealer or something.’
‘If he was a CI there’d be a flag on the file,’ Roth said, feeling that this was so very hard to believe. Frowned, leaned forward, peered at the small print on the screen.
Miller smiled knowingly. ‘And we have the most up-to-date and organized file system in the world, right?’
‘So we go ask McCullough.’
‘Check him out . . . he still at the Seventh?’
Roth closed down the King file, opened up other things, typed McCullough’s name, waited a while. Turned and looked at Miller who was standing at the window with his back to the room. ‘He’s gone.’
Miller turned. ‘Gone? Dead gone?’
‘No, out of the department. Quit in March 2003.’
‘How many years did he do?’
‘Let’s see . . . 1987. That’s sixteen years?’
Miller nodded. ‘Lost his twenty-year pension. Who the hell quits four years from a twenty-year pension? You can burn out and do four years behind a desk on disability, for God’s sake. That’s one helluva lot of money to throw away after sixteen years on the job.’
‘Unless he had to quit,’ Roth suggested.
Miller shrugged. ‘Who the fuck knows. Not important right now. What is important is that we find him. We need to speak to him. This is a direct link between Catherine Sheridan’s murder and a previous arrest.’ He looked toward the window and shook his head. ‘Jesus,’ he said, more an expression of surprise than anything else. ‘We have to find this McCullough . . . need to get Metz onto it, anyone who isn’t onto something else more important.’ Miller walked across the room and sat down at the desk. ‘So what do we have? Chloe Joyce says she recognizes the Sheridan woman. We find out that Catherine Sheridan went down to the projects to speak with Darryl King five years ago. We can’t speak to him because he’s dead. However, he was arrested about two months before he died by this Sergeant McCullough from the Seventh. And King’s case number corresponds to the number left with the pizza company by Sheridan’s killer—’
‘Could it be that McCullough was the one who went to the projects with Sheridan?’
Miller shook his head. ‘I’m not going that far. I’m wondering why Catherine Sheridan went to see Darryl King in the first place, not just once but twice, maybe three times. And those are just the times she didn’t find him and ended up seeing this Natasha Joyce woman.’
‘You figure Catherine Sheridan had a habit?’
‘Coroner will know,’ Miller said, taking his jacket from the back of his chair. He found it hard to comprehend what had happened. He had left Natasha Joyce’s apartment annoyed and frustrated. He had walked away with the name of a dead guy, and the dead guy had come back to life in a five-year-old case. The pizza number was not a phone number, it was a case number, it was a lead, it was a great deal more than anything else they had, and it unnerved him.
Less than a mile away, there beneath the county coroner’s office complex, assistant coroner Marilyn Hemmings stood over the body of Catherine Sheridan and showed her assistant, Tom Alexander, what she’d found.
‘You see it?’ she asked.
Marilyn Hemmings was in her early thirties, young for the job perhaps, but had dealt with sufficient questions regarding her capability for such a position to warrant an edge of cynicism and hardness. Nevertheless she was an attractive woman, but the attraction came more from the air of independence she exuded. Washington’s city coroner was officially on sabbatical until January, and Marilyn had stepped into his shoes with certainty. Today that certainty was evident as she peered into the well of Catherine Sheridan’s chest.
‘A question,’ Tom Alexander said.
‘Which is?’
Alexander shrugged. ‘Just curious I s’pose. How long she would
‘He has to have been an informant, either that or he turned something over for this McCullough guy. Maybe he gave up the dealer or something.’
‘If he was a CI there’d be a flag on the file,’ Roth said, feeling that this was so very hard to believe. Frowned, leaned forward, peered at the small print on the screen.
Miller smiled knowingly. ‘And we have the most up-to-date and organized file system in the world, right?’
‘So we go ask McCullough.’
‘Check him out . . . he still at the Seventh?’
Roth closed down the King file, opened up other things, typed McCullough’s name, waited a while. Turned and looked at Miller who was standing at the window with his back to the room. ‘He’s gone.’
Miller turned. ‘Gone? Dead gone?’
‘No, out of the department. Quit in March 2003.’
‘How many years did he do?’
‘Let’s see . . . 1987. That’s sixteen years?’
Miller nodded. ‘Lost his twenty-year pension. Who the hell quits four years from a twenty-year pension? You can burn out and do four years behind a desk on disability, for God’s sake. That’s one helluva lot of money to throw away after sixteen years on the job.’
‘Unless he had to quit,’ Roth suggested.
Miller shrugged. ‘Who the fuck knows. Not important right now. What is important is that we find him. We need to speak to him. This is a direct link between Catherine Sheridan’s murder and a previous arrest.’ He looked toward the window and shook his head. ‘Jesus,’ he said, more an expression of surprise than anything else. ‘We have to find this McCullough . . . need to get Metz onto it, anyone who isn’t onto something else more important.’ Miller walked across the room and sat down at the desk. ‘So what do we have? Chloe Joyce says she recognizes the Sheridan woman. We find out that Catherine Sheridan went down to the projects to speak with Darryl King five years ago. We can’t speak to him because he’s dead. However, he was arrested about two months before he died by this Sergeant McCullough from the Seventh. And King’s case number corresponds to the number left with the pizza company by Sheridan’s killer—’
‘Could it be that McCullough was the one who went to the projects with Sheridan?’
Miller shook his head. ‘I’m not going that far. I’m wondering why Catherine Sheridan went to see Darryl King in the first place, not just once but twice, maybe three times. And those are just the times she didn’t find him and ended up seeing this Natasha Joyce woman.’
‘You figure Catherine Sheridan had a habit?’
‘Coroner will know,’ Miller said, taking his jacket from the back of his chair. He found it hard to comprehend what had happened. He had left Natasha Joyce’s apartment annoyed and frustrated. He had walked away with the name of a dead guy, and the dead guy had come back to life in a five-year-old case. The pizza number was not a phone number, it was a case number, it was a lead, it was a great deal more than anything else they had, and it unnerved him.
Less than a mile away, there beneath the county coroner’s office complex, assistant coroner Marilyn Hemmings stood over the body of Catherine Sheridan and showed her assistant, Tom Alexander, what she’d found.
‘You see it?’ she asked.
Marilyn Hemmings was in her early thirties, young for the job perhaps, but had dealt with sufficient questions regarding her capability for such a position to warrant an edge of cynicism and hardness. Nevertheless she was an attractive woman, but the attraction came more from the air of independence she exuded. Washington’s city coroner was officially on sabbatical until January, and Marilyn had stepped into his shoes with certainty. Today that certainty was evident as she peered into the well of Catherine Sheridan’s chest.
‘A question,’ Tom Alexander said.
‘Which is?’
Alexander shrugged. ‘Just curious I s’pose. How long she would
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