Code 61

TWENTY-FOUR

Tuesday, October 10, 2000

08:35

“Where's your phone?” I asked the director.

He led me back toward the main part of the building. “What's wrong with this world today?” he asked.

“Lots,” I said.

“Don't let anybody touch anything,” I said to Byng. “After I make a call, I'm going to get my camera, and then take a bunch of photos. Stay around.” The last thing I wanted was to have an esthetically offended funeral director pull the stake out. As I dialed, it occurred to me that we had about three or four hours before the funeral.

“Sheriff's Department,” said Sally.

“It's me, Houseman. Get Hester up here, and don't let Lamar know anything about my being here until I can talk to him personally. Call Doc Z., tell him we're going to have a question. Then get Dr. Peters, the forensics man, on the phone and ask if he can call me up here. Tell him it's very urgent.”

“Right. What's going on?”

“Not over the phone,” I said. Then it came to me that mothers, even estranged ones, might want to pay a visit on the deceased before the funeral. “Hang on a second.” I put my hand over the receiver and raised my voice so the funeral director or his wife could hear, wherever they had chosen to be to give me privacy on the phone. “Mr. Marteen? Could you come here a sec?” He appeared almost instantly. He hadn't been too far, probably within earshot. “Can you tell me if any relatives will be here much before the funeral starts?”

“Many times they are. I don't know about this one.”

“And what time is the funeral?”

“Eleven. And the luncheon is at St. Elmer's, as well.” Habit.

“Thanks.” I talked back into the phone. “Look, you better have Lamar give me a call up here right away.”

“Okay.”

“We gotta move really fast on this one,” I said. “Later.”

I hung the phone up. “We might have to delay the funeral a bit,” I said to Mr. Marteen. “Maybe not. Will you come here and see if you think we can close the lid with that damned thing still in her?”

“How will I explain that?”

It was a fair question. “Just tell them it's at the request of the family,” I said. “After all, everybody got a chance to see her yesterday at the wake.”

“It's the family I was referring to,” he said dryly.

“You mean her mother?”

“Yes. How on earth can I tell her that she can't see her daughter one last time?”

I didn't really think that was going to be a problem, but you never know what a relative will do.

“You have a blanket? A nice one?”

“Yes.”

“Can't you tell her that it's part of the process, you know, to sort of cover her up? Just expose the face for the good-bye?” I thought it might work. The head of the stake only protruded about three inches, and if you were to wrinkle the blanket sufficiently…

He thought about that. “We do have to tell her. We really do,” he said finally.

He was right. Now I was going to have to tell Lamar and lay this additional task on his shoulders.

I looked at Marteen. “Let me make a call. Sheriff Ridgeway will handle Edie's mother for us.”

I really hated to make that call. Lamar, bless him, said he'd get to his sister's house right away.

“What they do to her, Carl?” His voice was tight with anger.

I told him. Sort of. “They slipped something into the coffin,” I said. “No point in going into the details. It's just that there's been some discoloration and stuff, and it's best to have the lid closed. If your sister has to see her, Mr. Marteen here will just explain that they always cover them up to the chin with a special blanket or cloth.” It was true as far as it went.

Mr. Marteen and I went to Edie's coffin, and very gently let the lid close. Just by gravity. “We have to close it carefully,” I said. “We can't use any pressure or anything, or it will change things just a bit for whoever comes for the lab work.”

He looked questioningly at me.

“Court, Mr. Marteen. You'll have to testify to this in court. That we didn't use any pressure to close the lid.”

The next fifteen minutes were pretty busy. First I had to photograph everything. I was very relieved the lid would close easily, and we were going to have to have a closed-casket ceremony. Better than none, I thought. I had Mr. Marteen remain there throughout, as an independent witness. Not a time to take a chance with the evidence.

I did photos inside first. It was backward procedure, but it was done that way to get things around the casket finished up and set back in place as soon as possible. I'd be able to take my own sweet time looking at the exterior evidence.

Just as I was heading for the back door, Hester came in the front.

“What's so urgent?”

I took her to the back room, and warned her. “Somebody's mutilated Edie's corpse,” I said.

“Oh, no… ”

“Yeah. A stake in her chest.” I said it as matter-of-factly as I could.

“You have to be kidding me. Jesus H. Christ,” she said softly. “What in hell is going on here?”

I raised the newly closed casket lid, and she looked in. We stared for a few seconds, neither of us really sure what to say next.

“You call Dr. Zimmer?” she asked, in a toneless voice.

“Yes. Told the office to tell him it was very urgent.”

“Who do you think? Chester? Peale?”

“Don't know. Chester'd be the logical choice. Being the mighty hunter and all, this should be the thing he does, shouldn't it?” I was far from sure, but he seemed like the reasonable suspect.

“It could be,” she said. “But, why would somebody do this, Carl?” She looked at me for the first time since I'd opened the coffin lid. “There's no such thing as a vampire, and… Anyway, there's no indication whatsoever that Edie ever even pretended she was one.”

“I don't know. But I will.” And I was sure that I would. A murder investigation, with its associated procedures, was rare in Nation County, and I was relatively unfamiliar with it. Burglary investigation, on the other hand, was my thing.

We hadn't been outside for more than five minutes, when I had the following information securely fixed in my notebook: A. Entry had been gained through the unlocked window, as described to me by Officer Byng. B. Unknown to Byng, who'd done a cursory check outside, the screen had been removed from the high window, and that had not been unlocked. The aluminum-framed screen was around the north side of the building, in some bushes. It had been bent, pried, and the screening material itself had been torn. All of that would have been unnecessary, if the suspect(s) had simply pried up near the wire latch. C. There were traces of blood on the screen frame, and on some of the strands of torn wire. D. The suspect(s) had approached the rear door, which had been locked, and had left some small pry marks near the lock, but right over the key mechanism. Not in the right place, they'd produced no result, and entry had not been gained. E. There were three identifiable footprints in the dirt under the window where they'd gained entry. Two left shoe, one right shoe, of identical pattern. F. There were shallow trench marks about a quarter inch wide and deep, and about three feet long, in the ground under the window. They indicated that either a box or a crate had been placed under the window to permit the suspect(s) to climb high enough to effect entry. G. There was a heavy-duty, blue plastic milk crate across the blacktopped alley, that proved to have similar dirt on the top edges. As would be expected if it had been inverted for use as a step.

All this was very positive, and I was pleased. The icing on the cake, however, was provided by one Rosalind O'Banion, a sixty-eight-year-old white female, who lived across the street from the funeral home, and who had shuffled over to watch the excitement. She was wearing a blue and white checked bathrobe, with a raincoat over it, and a gray stocking cap on her head.

“What's going on, Bingo?” she said, addressing Byng.

“Never mind, Rosy.” He was pretty short, I thought. I didn't think that she'd come all the way across the street, dressed like that, just to stare. Her house offered a fine view, and she could have sat down with her coffee and watched from there in comfort.

“We've had a little incident here, ma'am,” I said. Like I say, burglaries are my thing, sort of, and I knew from much experience that witnesses were worth their weight in gold. Rosy might have a bit of potential. “Can you tell me anything about it?”

“No,” said Rosy.

Well, so much for that.

“If you do remember anything, or hear anything, would you let us know?” Not quite a brush-off, and it left the door open.

Rosy looked at me closely, and I figured that since I wasn't in uniform, it really hadn't sunk in that I was a law enforcement officer. “Aren't you the cop who busted Quentin Pascoe a while back?”

The worst sexual abuse case I'd ever worked. “Yep, that was me.”

“The son of a bitch,” she said, “is my brother-in-law.” She thought for a moment, and then said, “Well, it probably don't mean shit, but… ” Music to my ears.

Rosy was the cleaning lady for one of the local taverns, and had just been leaving her house last night to clean the place when she'd seen somebody in the alley. He'd been coming toward her, from the funeral home direction, and just stopped cold when he saw her. He'd apparently stood stock-still, and didn't utter a sound. She walked about fifteen feet from him, following her usual path to the tavern, and he still hadn't moved a muscle, nor said a word.

“I didn't speak nothin' either,” she said. “Just walked by him like he wasn't there.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“I think so. I can't put his name on my tongue, but you know him, too. The short one.”

I'd need a bit more than that. “Uh… ”

“The short one, the one from up at the Mansion. Oh, you know… ”

“Male or female, Rosy?”

She snorted. “He's a male, I think,” she said disparagingly. “Comes into the tavern once in a while, I think for no good. You know the one, with the thing in his nose,” she said, and pointed to the bridge of her own nose. “Right here.”

I looked at Hester, who was grinning widely.

“Kid named Toby?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure. Toby. Toby, uh, Chalk or something, oh, it'll come to me… ”

“Gottschalk?”

“No, that's not right. Is it? Maybe it is,” she said, reflecting. “Maybe so.”

“But you know him to live up at the big house on the bluff, south of here, right?” I had to make sure, but there was no doubt in my mind who she meant.

“Hangs about with that Huck girl, and the other, smaller one, a lot. Him.”

“Did you see anything else?” interjected Byng, trying to be helpful.

“You're the one with the shiny badge, Bingo,” she said. “How much help you need?”

“Thanks, Rosy. Thanks a whole lot,” I said. “Big help, but now, don't tell anybody you talked to us, okay?”

“Quiet as a mouse,” she said.

“Promise?” I smiled.

“On a stack of Bibles,” she answered.

I figured that ought to buy us about ten minutes. But I was happy.

But Toby, for God's sake. I would have bet heavily on William Chester. Well, maybe Toby was just the lookout for somebody. Sure.

Hester and I rode up to the Mansion together, leaving the funeral home just as one of the area TV vans pulled up to get set to cover the funeral. Close.

I used her cell phone to call Lamar. I told him what had happened, sort of. He sounded angry and sad, but I think it helped when I told him we were on our way to bag a suspect.

“Let me know when you get him in custody,” he said.

“You got it.” I handed the cell phone back to Hester. “He wants us to let him know when we've got Toby.”

“My pleasure,” said Hester. “Hey, go slow through here. I want to see if there's any sign of the old lift track from the top of the hill to the landing.”

I slowed, just past the silica mine, and we looked as closely as possible at the cliff faces and the ravines between them. There wasn't much to see, except a possible segment of a pathway up on the side of the bluff, just barely discernible among the trees. It seemed to disappear about fifty feet up the slope, among some boulders and old fallen timber.

“We should wait for winter,” I said. When all the leaves have fallen, and the first light snow comes, tracks in the hills stand out like white lines on a dark field.

“If we haven't found what we're looking for before the first snowfall, Houseman,” said Hester, “we're in real trouble.”

“Yeah.” I looked back, over my shoulder, toward the possible path. “I sure as hell wouldn't want to try that in the dark,” I said.

“Me, either. You could fall a good fifty feet onto those boulders. Especially if you were in a hurry.”

It was food for thought, though. There had been a clear way down there once, according to Old Knockle. There could be, still.

Hester used her cell phone to call Harry, over in Conception County, as I drove. She told him about the staking, and asked where the body of the late Randy Baumhagen was being kept. It was apparently in Harry's jurisdiction, because she cautioned him to keep an eye out on a funeral home.

Calling Harry had completely slipped my mind. That sort of thing bothers me, because it means that I'm not getting enough time between events to process information correctly.

“I'm about a hundred percent certain that he's up here,” I said, as we turned off the paving and onto the gravel that led to the Mansion. “He's pretty predictable.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Where else can he go? Just remember how predictable he is, when he runs into the woods on us again.”

“Good point.” I turned onto the long drive, heading up the hill. I slowed way down, so that the occupants of the Mansion wouldn't be alerted by the roar and rush of the car. “I just hope he's got the right tread pattern on his shoes, and that he's got a cut somewhere we can see,” I said, remembering the blood on the screen. Please, God. Please.

It's always amazed me how thieves and burglars tend to go home. I've never had one take off for parts unknown to me, at least not one who lived in Nation County. Itinerants didn't count, nor did the traveling pros. I was pretty certain we'd find Toby at home.

When we pulled up, Huck and Melissa were standing over a bonfire of burning leaves a little distance from the house. From the absence of the numerous piles Melissa'd raked when we'd been there before, it looked like they were just finishing up the yard work.

We got out of the car, and I waved. They didn't wave back, but Huck started over toward us, pulling off her gloves and stuffing them in the pockets of her hooded gray sweatshirt.

“Surprised to see you two,” she said.

“Surprised to be here,” I answered. “Where's Toby?”

“Toby? Uh, inside, I think. He was in the kitchen a minute ago. Eating.”

“Thanks,” said Hester. “Want me to give you a second?”

“Yep,” I said. “About five, then go.” I headed at a quick walk around the right side of the house, toward the back door at the kitchen, where Toby had exited before. Huck looked confused, and started to follow me. Hester went straight for the front door.

As I passed Melissa, she said, “What are you doing?”

A reasonable question, considering. I held my finger to my lips. “Shhh, you should see in a second or two,” I said. “Just both of you stay back.” I continued, stooping so I wouldn't be seen from the interior as I was passing the windows on the south side of the house, and reached back under my jacket and pulled out my gun.

I noticed that Huck stopped at that, and that Melissa moved closer to her.

I reached the back door, just as I heard Hester's muffled voice say, “Toby, you're under arrest!”

The back door flew open, I raised my gun up at arm's length, and greeted the emerging Toby with “Freeze!”

He stopped so fast, he slipped on about the third step, lost his balance and fell over backward, grabbed for the rail, missed that, and slid down toward me like a little log in a chute. It all happened in the blink of an eye, and he was as shocked as anybody I've ever seen. He looked up at me, open mouthed, and tried to speak, but only managed to make a wheezing sound, while looking cross-eyed into the muzzle of my pistol.

Hester appeared at the top of the steps, also gun in hand.

“You were right,” she said. “Predictable.” She nodded toward him. “Check him, I think he has a knife on his hip, and then check out the hands,” she said.

I reached down, fumbled for a second, and pulled a folding Case knife from the sheath on his left side. I put it in my pocket, and looked at his hands. Band-Aids on three fingers of his right hand. Well, well. They were multicolored and had some sort of printing on them. I looked closer. “Buzz Lightyear?” I said. “Cool. What'd you cut your fingers on, Toby?”

Silence.

I glanced at his feet. Tennis shoes. Good so far. “Hold up your foot,” I said. He looked at me strangely, but did. The same pattern that I'd seen in the alley.

“Get up to your knees,” I said, “turn around so that you face the steps, and put your hands over your head.”

He did, still not speaking.

I put my gun in its holster, and pulled my handcuffs out of my back pocket. I took his left hand by the wrist, snapping the handcuff on, and pulled it down and to his rear. I grabbed his other hand, and brought it close enough to the other to slip a cuff on that one, too. I put one hand on his arm, and pulled him to his feet.

“You're under arrest, like she said,” I told him.

He spoke for the first time. “For what?”

The universal answer to my statement. “Burglary,” I said.

He then inserted his foot into his mouth. “I didn't steal anything,” he said.

I turned him around. “You have the right to remain silent… ”

“It must have been the old hag,” he said, swallowing his foot with that one. His attorney would probably call that a “statement against interest.” But old Toby apparently felt compelled to speak, no matter what. That's a fine trait in a suspect.

We took Toby directly to my car, past the astonished Huck and Melissa, and put him in the backseat.

“Watch your head, Toby,” I said, and shut the door. Hester motioned toward the porch. The four remaining residents were all standing on the porch, looking down on us.

“And then,” said Hester, sotto voce, “there were four.” She motioned me up toward the front of the car, and well out of Toby's possible hearing. “I don't know how to ask this,” she said, “so I might as well come right to the point. Are you sure we had a burglary? I was thinking about that when I confronted Toby in the kitchen just now. Doesn't the code say you have to unlawfully enter a premises, with 'the intent to commit a felony, theft, or assault'? For a burglary… ”

“Hmm.” She was right in her quote, of course. It was felony, theft, or assault. The question being, was mutilating a corpse a felony? “Well, we may have just made a very strong trespassing arrest,” I said. “Very strong.”

“I mean,” she said, “sticking a stake in a corpse damned well should be a felony, but I don't know if it is.”

“It may not even be illegal,” I said. “It may never have been considered in Iowa before this.” I don't mind being near the leading edge, but I dearly hate breaking new ground. But, realistically, how many times could it have come up in Iowa before today? I knew it was illegal to exhume, but poor Edie wasn't even buried yet.

“This could be another very long day,” I said.

“Where are you taking him?” came a loud voice from the porch. It may have been Melissa, but by the time I looked, I couldn't tell.

“Jail,” I said, as loudly. Just to be polite.

“Tell him,” said Kevin, “that we'll call his attorney.”

Hardly necessary, at that point. Veiled threat?

“Will do,” I called back, got into the car, buckled up while Hester leaned back and buckled Toby in, and we were off.

I picked up the mike. “Comm, Three.”

“Three, go.”

“PBX One, advise him we have a suspect in custody, and are ten-seventy-six the jail.” I'd told Lamar I'd let him know right away.

“Ten-four, Three. He's called twice, and will have your assistant go with the seventy-nine to the location.”

Now, that might have sounded kind of cryptic to the normal person, but anybody with any savvy now knew that a coroner or medical examiner was going to a scene, that the boss had called twice, and that my assistant was being called out. I had to admit, though, that even I was thrown by the last bit. I didn't have an assistant.

“Uhh, Comm, Three?”

“Three?”

“Ah, who's my assistant this week?” As soon as I said it, I knew she had meant Borman.

“Eight.”

Borman, all right. Well, we'd see if this examination of a mutilated corpse would get his act on track.

“Ten-four, Comm.”

Toby was quiet for about the first quarter mile, and I was starting to get worried. As it turned out, I shouldn't have been concerned. His tendency to talk overcame all caution.

“It had to be done,” he said.

“Toby,” said Hester, “let's not discuss it. You've been advised of your rights, and we'd feel a lot better if you waited until you had an attorney present.”

That was partially true. Sure, we'd like Toby to rattle on, but we had the old problem that, even if he said he waived his rights to the attorney, we could lose a suppression hearing later. If that happened, everything he said, and everything we'd found out based on that, could be ruled inadmissible. It happened just often enough to make us very leery about questions without attorneys there. I mean, we knew we'd be right, but that sometimes did very little good in court. There, it came down to the briefing and arguing abilities of two attorneys. We would have nothing at all to say about that. This was, well, safer, I guess.

It was also pretty damned prudent, because the more I searched my memory, the more convinced I became that there was no statute on the Iowa books about mutilating corpses.

Toby, thwarted in his first attempt to enlighten us, switched to philosophy.

“It doesn't make any difference, anyway,” he said. He fidgeted.

I glanced at Hester, who was half turned in the front seat, to keep an eye on Toby since we had no cage in an unmarked car, gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Keep quiet, Carl.

I did, and so did she. That bothered Toby, who began to tap his feet against the back of her seat.

“Well, it doesn't, does it? Make any difference. I can't make any difference. You can't make any difference.” He couldn't quit.

Hester and I, being in the process of making a difference in Toby's life, said nothing.

“Oh, fuck you two.”

I grinned. I just couldn't help it. The tapping of his feet got more intense.

“What's so funny, cop?” He did try. He sort of had to, I guess.

Hester said, pointedly to me, “Well, most of the leaves are off the trees, now, aren't they.”

“Yep,” I answered. “Sure are. Ought to slow the tourist trade a little.”

“Ought to slow the tourist trade,” said Toby, mockingly.

“Especially,” said Hester, “if it rains again tomorrow like they say it will.”

“Are you fuckers stupid or what?” Toby was getting a bit angry, which is not what we wanted. Without a cage, we'd have to stop and restrain him if he started thrashing about in the rear, and he could get hurt. So could we, but it was a lot less likely.

“Nope,” I said. “Not stupid, Toby, just not particularly interested. That's all.”

“Just not particularly interested,” came the mocking reply. “I staked the bitch, and you tell me you're not interested? Bullshit you're not interested!”

I glanced at Hester. “Just irrepressible, isn't he?” But I was also beginning to think he was a little high.

She smiled. She held out her personal tape recorder, down low in the seat, where Toby couldn't see it.

“We said we'd prefer not to hear about that, Toby,” said Hester, “until your attorney can be present.”

“Attorneys,” proclaimed Toby, “don't know shit.” His voice was lowering, though. He just wanted to talk, and didn't care to whom. The foot tapping ceased.

“Most don't,” I agreed, grinning in the knowledge that his attorney would likely hear this tape, “but you might get lucky and get a smart one.”

He seemed to think that over for several seconds.

“I doubt it.” He sounded a little sullen. “Hey, I'm not mad at you guys,” said Toby. “Really.”

“We know that, Toby,” I said. “Never thought you were.” Big mood and attitude swing there. Toby was on something. No doubt.

“I been under a lot of pressure,” he said.

“Things do have a way of piling up on somebody,” said Hester.

“You got that shit right,” said Toby. “What do you do, if somebody who's gotta be obeyed tells you to do something, right? What do you do?” His voice was becoming agitated again. “I'll tell what you do,” he said. There was a pause, and then he said, in a more moderate tone, “You fuckin' do it, because you fuckin' better do it, you know?”

“Depends on who it is,” I said, “but we all have to get in line once in a while.”

“When it's Dan Peale, you do,” he said.

I was glad we'd just gotten onto a paved road, otherwise I might have gone in the ditch. You don't get a gift like that every day.