paused. “Here it is.”
“What did I tell you?” Scotty said in a triumphant tone. Then to Big Fred, “Go pull it for Detective Smith here. He’ll be
taking it with him. And make sure he signs the log for it.” As Big Fred ambled off, the smaller man turned to Smith and extended
his hand. “I sure hope this helps in some way. I’d like to see whoever killed her caught.”
Smith shook Scotty’s hand and thanked him profusely for his help.
When Scotty had gone, Big Fred came back carrying a cardboard box about three feet long, sealed with duct tape and written
on with black Magic Marker. He set the box heavily on his desk and patted his pockets.
Smith began to hand his pen to Big Fred, but the other man shook his head, extracting a packet of cigars with the plastic
tips. He held out the package to Smith, who declined.
Big Fred shrugged, peeled off the cellophane wrapper, and began fishing around in his pockets once again. Smith wished he’d
brought a lighter, but spied a book of matches among the sea of papers on the desktop. He pointed to them and Big Fred smiled,
the cigar dangling from the middle of his lips.
“Thanks, I been looking all over for them,” he said, striking one and holding the flame to the end of the cigar. After a few
seconds of copious puffing, he shook out the match and exhaled a plume of gray smoke. “So you think this’ll help catch who
done her?”
“Don’t know right now,” Smith said.
“Yeah, I figured it might be important. Them other guys seemed real interested on the phone, then they never came back. The
captain was calling and bugging them, I guess.” Big Fred tapped the page. “Just sign right here and it’s all yours.”
Smith scribbled his name, collected the evidence sheet, and hoisted the box onto his shoulder. It was heavier than it looked.
“Want me to get you a cart or something?” Big Fred asked.
“No thanks, I can handle it,” Smith said. But by the time he’d waited for the elevator he’d switched shoulders two times and
had the beginning of a crick in his back. He could also feel himself perspiring through the underarms of his shirt.
I sure hope this damn thing amounts to something after all this, he thought.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Random Victim
They spent the next day tracing down and assembling all the loose ends that Murphy and Roberts had glossed over: the insurance
angle, Miriam Walker’s lack of a will, the bank records preceding her death, the make and model of the trunk she’d been found
in, interviews with all the friends and associates that had been listed, her final appearance at the Women Against Domestic
Violence meeting…But as they sat in the office with the fading midafternoon sunlight streaming through the sole window,
a sense of lassitude settled over them. Nothing had been appreciably accomplished by any of their efforts. Ryan had thumbtacked
a set of the crime-scene photos on the bulletin board. He tapped a pen against his teeth.
“Well,” Ryan said, “the boss wants to see us for an update. Anybody got any brainstorms before we go face the music?”
“It seems strange that she was a lawyer and had no will,” Hart said.
“Actually, she was a judge,” Ryan said. “Next comment.”
Leal saw Hart blush. “Or somebody took it,” he said, standing and walking over to the photos. “Maybe we should take another
look at the original scene.”
“Be my guest, Sherlock,” Ryan said.
Leal studied the photos for several seconds more.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” he said. “Look at the distance from the road to the location of the trunk in the water. It’s
got to be what, at least fifteen feet or so?” He saw the other three looking intently at the photos, too. “A trunk that size
with a woman’s body in it would have to weigh, what? Close to a buck and a half? That indicates a two-man job.”
“Yeah, nobody could’ve thrown the fucking thing that far,” Ryan said.
“What did I tell you?” Scotty said in a triumphant tone. Then to Big Fred, “Go pull it for Detective Smith here. He’ll be
taking it with him. And make sure he signs the log for it.” As Big Fred ambled off, the smaller man turned to Smith and extended
his hand. “I sure hope this helps in some way. I’d like to see whoever killed her caught.”
Smith shook Scotty’s hand and thanked him profusely for his help.
When Scotty had gone, Big Fred came back carrying a cardboard box about three feet long, sealed with duct tape and written
on with black Magic Marker. He set the box heavily on his desk and patted his pockets.
Smith began to hand his pen to Big Fred, but the other man shook his head, extracting a packet of cigars with the plastic
tips. He held out the package to Smith, who declined.
Big Fred shrugged, peeled off the cellophane wrapper, and began fishing around in his pockets once again. Smith wished he’d
brought a lighter, but spied a book of matches among the sea of papers on the desktop. He pointed to them and Big Fred smiled,
the cigar dangling from the middle of his lips.
“Thanks, I been looking all over for them,” he said, striking one and holding the flame to the end of the cigar. After a few
seconds of copious puffing, he shook out the match and exhaled a plume of gray smoke. “So you think this’ll help catch who
done her?”
“Don’t know right now,” Smith said.
“Yeah, I figured it might be important. Them other guys seemed real interested on the phone, then they never came back. The
captain was calling and bugging them, I guess.” Big Fred tapped the page. “Just sign right here and it’s all yours.”
Smith scribbled his name, collected the evidence sheet, and hoisted the box onto his shoulder. It was heavier than it looked.
“Want me to get you a cart or something?” Big Fred asked.
“No thanks, I can handle it,” Smith said. But by the time he’d waited for the elevator he’d switched shoulders two times and
had the beginning of a crick in his back. He could also feel himself perspiring through the underarms of his shirt.
I sure hope this damn thing amounts to something after all this, he thought.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Random Victim
They spent the next day tracing down and assembling all the loose ends that Murphy and Roberts had glossed over: the insurance
angle, Miriam Walker’s lack of a will, the bank records preceding her death, the make and model of the trunk she’d been found
in, interviews with all the friends and associates that had been listed, her final appearance at the Women Against Domestic
Violence meeting…But as they sat in the office with the fading midafternoon sunlight streaming through the sole window,
a sense of lassitude settled over them. Nothing had been appreciably accomplished by any of their efforts. Ryan had thumbtacked
a set of the crime-scene photos on the bulletin board. He tapped a pen against his teeth.
“Well,” Ryan said, “the boss wants to see us for an update. Anybody got any brainstorms before we go face the music?”
“It seems strange that she was a lawyer and had no will,” Hart said.
“Actually, she was a judge,” Ryan said. “Next comment.”
Leal saw Hart blush. “Or somebody took it,” he said, standing and walking over to the photos. “Maybe we should take another
look at the original scene.”
“Be my guest, Sherlock,” Ryan said.
Leal studied the photos for several seconds more.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” he said. “Look at the distance from the road to the location of the trunk in the water. It’s
got to be what, at least fifteen feet or so?” He saw the other three looking intently at the photos, too. “A trunk that size
with a woman’s body in it would have to weigh, what? Close to a buck and a half? That indicates a two-man job.”
“Yeah, nobody could’ve thrown the fucking thing that far,” Ryan said.
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