County Sheriff’s Office was busy mucking out its own barn.”
“Meaning?”
“Couple of their superstars got nailed for taking bribes.”
I remembered now. Both deputies had gone to jail.
“Partly it was timing. The initial lead retired some months into it. That’s when the case bounced to Hull. Mostly it was the fact that no one found dick. No physical evidence, no eyewitnesses, no cause of death.”
“Who did the post?”
“Some hack who didn’t bother to visit the scene.”
I wasn’t surprised. The
Charlotte Observer
had done more than one exposé on the failings of the North Carolina medical examiner system. A scathing series ran in 2013 after an elderly couple and an eleven-year-old boy died three months apart in the same motel room in Boone, and it turned out the culprit was carbon monoxide. The local ME had neither visited the motel nor filed a timely report after the first deaths. Another series shocked the public in 2014. Murders classified as accidental deaths, accidents as suicides, misidentified bodies delivered to the wrong funeral homes.
When interviewed, the state’s new chief ME attributed problems in the system to inadequate funding. No kidding. Except for Mecklenburg County, local medical examiners were paid a hundred dollars per case. And since the state didn’t require it, many had little or no training in forensic pathology. Some weren’t even physicians. The new boss was trying to bring about change, but without increased financial support, her chance of success was unlikely.
“No one kept pushing?” I asked.
“Estrada’s mother got deported to Mexico shortly after the kid vanished. There was no
señor
in the picture.”
I finished my burger and thought about Mama’s three girls, Koseluk, Estrada, and Donovan. One dead, two missing. Files ignored because no one was pushing.
Ryan rejoined us, carrying a hint of cigarette smoke into the booth.
“Tinker was at the scene last night?” I asked.
Slidell snorted loudly, then went back to working his gums.
“The SBI’s taking the position that the investigation will benefit from sharing information and resources at the state level.” Ryan’s first spoken contribution.
“There’s no way the SB-fucking-I will share piss-all.” Slidell jammed the toothpick into the remains of his slaw. “They think a clear on these cases is their ticket to a makeover. And that don’t include us.”
“What does Tinker think about these other three vics?” I asked.
“That asshat couldn’t think his way through a fart without coaching.” Slidell’s outburst caused several patrons to glance our way.
“He’s not convinced they’re related,” Ryan said.
“Leal?”
“That one he’s saying maybe.”
“What happens now?”
“I kicked what we got up the COC.” Slidell was using shorthand for “chain of command.” “Now we wait.”
We were returning to our cars when Slidell’s mobile sounded. He answered, and as he listened, his face grew red. Finally, “A couple extra whiteboards ain’t gonna clear this thing.”
Disconnecting with a furious one-finger jab, Slidell turned to us. “We’re screwed.”
CHAPTER 12
THE RULING WAS that the Leal homicide would continue to be viewed as a one-off, so there would be no task force. Slidell was getting space but not extra personnel. He was to cooperate with Tinker and use Ryan ex-officio. If the investigation tossed up stronger links to the other cases, the situation would be reassessed.
While Ryan and a seething Slidell headed back to the law enforcement center, I returned to the ME facility. The press vans were gone, in search of bloodier pastures.
Leal’s ring wasn’t in autopsy room one or lying in a Ziploc on Larabee’s desk. A quick scan of his paperwork turned up no mention of jewelry.
I thought a moment, then gloved, went to the cooler, and checked every inch of Leal’s body bag. Found twigs, leaves, some gravel, but no ring.
I phoned Larabee. Got
“Meaning?”
“Couple of their superstars got nailed for taking bribes.”
I remembered now. Both deputies had gone to jail.
“Partly it was timing. The initial lead retired some months into it. That’s when the case bounced to Hull. Mostly it was the fact that no one found dick. No physical evidence, no eyewitnesses, no cause of death.”
“Who did the post?”
“Some hack who didn’t bother to visit the scene.”
I wasn’t surprised. The
Charlotte Observer
had done more than one exposé on the failings of the North Carolina medical examiner system. A scathing series ran in 2013 after an elderly couple and an eleven-year-old boy died three months apart in the same motel room in Boone, and it turned out the culprit was carbon monoxide. The local ME had neither visited the motel nor filed a timely report after the first deaths. Another series shocked the public in 2014. Murders classified as accidental deaths, accidents as suicides, misidentified bodies delivered to the wrong funeral homes.
When interviewed, the state’s new chief ME attributed problems in the system to inadequate funding. No kidding. Except for Mecklenburg County, local medical examiners were paid a hundred dollars per case. And since the state didn’t require it, many had little or no training in forensic pathology. Some weren’t even physicians. The new boss was trying to bring about change, but without increased financial support, her chance of success was unlikely.
“No one kept pushing?” I asked.
“Estrada’s mother got deported to Mexico shortly after the kid vanished. There was no
señor
in the picture.”
I finished my burger and thought about Mama’s three girls, Koseluk, Estrada, and Donovan. One dead, two missing. Files ignored because no one was pushing.
Ryan rejoined us, carrying a hint of cigarette smoke into the booth.
“Tinker was at the scene last night?” I asked.
Slidell snorted loudly, then went back to working his gums.
“The SBI’s taking the position that the investigation will benefit from sharing information and resources at the state level.” Ryan’s first spoken contribution.
“There’s no way the SB-fucking-I will share piss-all.” Slidell jammed the toothpick into the remains of his slaw. “They think a clear on these cases is their ticket to a makeover. And that don’t include us.”
“What does Tinker think about these other three vics?” I asked.
“That asshat couldn’t think his way through a fart without coaching.” Slidell’s outburst caused several patrons to glance our way.
“He’s not convinced they’re related,” Ryan said.
“Leal?”
“That one he’s saying maybe.”
“What happens now?”
“I kicked what we got up the COC.” Slidell was using shorthand for “chain of command.” “Now we wait.”
We were returning to our cars when Slidell’s mobile sounded. He answered, and as he listened, his face grew red. Finally, “A couple extra whiteboards ain’t gonna clear this thing.”
Disconnecting with a furious one-finger jab, Slidell turned to us. “We’re screwed.”
CHAPTER 12
THE RULING WAS that the Leal homicide would continue to be viewed as a one-off, so there would be no task force. Slidell was getting space but not extra personnel. He was to cooperate with Tinker and use Ryan ex-officio. If the investigation tossed up stronger links to the other cases, the situation would be reassessed.
While Ryan and a seething Slidell headed back to the law enforcement center, I returned to the ME facility. The press vans were gone, in search of bloodier pastures.
Leal’s ring wasn’t in autopsy room one or lying in a Ziploc on Larabee’s desk. A quick scan of his paperwork turned up no mention of jewelry.
I thought a moment, then gloved, went to the cooler, and checked every inch of Leal’s body bag. Found twigs, leaves, some gravel, but no ring.
I phoned Larabee. Got
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