restaurant.The west entrance to the delivery area behind the building was also cordoned off. Andie showed her credentials and was allowed to pass through the outer perimeter, but she was stopped before she reached the Dumpster. MDPD was in charge of the crime scene, and the perimeter-control officers were determined to make certain that no one, not even the FBI, contaminated it.Andie caught the eye of Lieutenant Dawes, who recognized her from the task-force meet-86
James Grippando
ing. He went to her and provided an update, the two of them separated by taut yellow police tape.
“You sure it’s Reems?” said Andie.
“Positive,” said Dawes.
“How long has he been dead?” said Andie.
“Don’t know yet.”
Dawes had the look and demeanor of a homicide detective who had seen far too many murders. He was tense and angry, his teeth and right hand stained from chain smoking, a clenched fist of a man. Andie sensed that he knew more than he was willing to share, which wouldn’t have been the first time in the history of American law enforcement that a homicide detective chose to be tight-lipped around the FBI. Her questions had to be more pointed to draw anything out of him.“Rigor mortis set in yet?”
“Yeah.”
“Beyond the neck and jaw?” she asked.
“It would appear that way.”
“Full body?”
“Not yet.”
“What about lividity? Any blanching to the touch?”
“I’d say it’s fixed.”
“So, you can set a preliminary on the time of death at six to eight hours.” She checked her watch. “Between one and three a.m., roughly.”
“That’s a fair guess.”
“Can you tell if the body was moved here from somewhere else?”
“Not yet,” said Dawes. No elaboration.
“Well, what does your ME say about the bloodstains and lividity patterns?”
“No signs that the body has been moved.”
Andie said, “So Reems was shot exactly where he was found, in the Dumpster. Are you thinking suicide?”
LAST CALL
87
“Still under consideration.”
“Did you find a weapon nearby?”
“Yeah. But it hadn’t been fired.”
“Blood spray on his hands?”
“Nope.”
“Where’s the entry wound?”
“Between the eyes.”
“Not your typical self-inflicted gunshot,” said Andie. “Any powder burns or starburst at the point of entry to suggest a close-contact wound?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t sound like suicide to me. Any witnesses to talk with?”
“One possibility.”
“Who?”
“Reems stole a car to get here. Owner is a nineteen-year-old woman. She was locked in the trunk, semiconscious when we found her. She’s at Jackson now. Maybe she can tell us something.”
“Got a name?”
Dawes gave it to her, and Andie wrote it down. Then she glanced toward the Dumpster, where the forensic team was busy searching for fingerprints and collecting other evidence. “Mind if I have a closer look?”
“Sorry. We’re doing a footprint and tire-track analysis, and I’d like to keep traffic to a minimum.”
“Understood,” she said.“Anything of particular interest?”
He seemed to think about it for a minute, as if trying to decide whether her performance thus far had earned an answer to such an open-ended question.Andie hated this game—boy cop tells girl cop absolutely nothing until she dazzles him with her knowledge and lures him into sparring with her. But Dawes was old school, and her persistence seemed to be getting through to him. Whatever worked.
88
James Grippando
“Hard to say,” he said.“There’s lots of foot traffic behind a restaurant. But one set of footprints appears to come down the alley, stop about twenty feet away from the Dumpster, and then turn around and head back.”
“You’re thinking he was shot from twenty feet away?”
“It had to be from some distance.There’s no exit wound.”
“What kind of ammunition?”
“I can’t be sure until the ME extracts the bullet from his head.
But the wound looks a little too large for .22-caliber, so I
James Grippando
ing. He went to her and provided an update, the two of them separated by taut yellow police tape.
“You sure it’s Reems?” said Andie.
“Positive,” said Dawes.
“How long has he been dead?” said Andie.
“Don’t know yet.”
Dawes had the look and demeanor of a homicide detective who had seen far too many murders. He was tense and angry, his teeth and right hand stained from chain smoking, a clenched fist of a man. Andie sensed that he knew more than he was willing to share, which wouldn’t have been the first time in the history of American law enforcement that a homicide detective chose to be tight-lipped around the FBI. Her questions had to be more pointed to draw anything out of him.“Rigor mortis set in yet?”
“Yeah.”
“Beyond the neck and jaw?” she asked.
“It would appear that way.”
“Full body?”
“Not yet.”
“What about lividity? Any blanching to the touch?”
“I’d say it’s fixed.”
“So, you can set a preliminary on the time of death at six to eight hours.” She checked her watch. “Between one and three a.m., roughly.”
“That’s a fair guess.”
“Can you tell if the body was moved here from somewhere else?”
“Not yet,” said Dawes. No elaboration.
“Well, what does your ME say about the bloodstains and lividity patterns?”
“No signs that the body has been moved.”
Andie said, “So Reems was shot exactly where he was found, in the Dumpster. Are you thinking suicide?”
LAST CALL
87
“Still under consideration.”
“Did you find a weapon nearby?”
“Yeah. But it hadn’t been fired.”
“Blood spray on his hands?”
“Nope.”
“Where’s the entry wound?”
“Between the eyes.”
“Not your typical self-inflicted gunshot,” said Andie. “Any powder burns or starburst at the point of entry to suggest a close-contact wound?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t sound like suicide to me. Any witnesses to talk with?”
“One possibility.”
“Who?”
“Reems stole a car to get here. Owner is a nineteen-year-old woman. She was locked in the trunk, semiconscious when we found her. She’s at Jackson now. Maybe she can tell us something.”
“Got a name?”
Dawes gave it to her, and Andie wrote it down. Then she glanced toward the Dumpster, where the forensic team was busy searching for fingerprints and collecting other evidence. “Mind if I have a closer look?”
“Sorry. We’re doing a footprint and tire-track analysis, and I’d like to keep traffic to a minimum.”
“Understood,” she said.“Anything of particular interest?”
He seemed to think about it for a minute, as if trying to decide whether her performance thus far had earned an answer to such an open-ended question.Andie hated this game—boy cop tells girl cop absolutely nothing until she dazzles him with her knowledge and lures him into sparring with her. But Dawes was old school, and her persistence seemed to be getting through to him. Whatever worked.
88
James Grippando
“Hard to say,” he said.“There’s lots of foot traffic behind a restaurant. But one set of footprints appears to come down the alley, stop about twenty feet away from the Dumpster, and then turn around and head back.”
“You’re thinking he was shot from twenty feet away?”
“It had to be from some distance.There’s no exit wound.”
“What kind of ammunition?”
“I can’t be sure until the ME extracts the bullet from his head.
But the wound looks a little too large for .22-caliber, so I
Similar Books
