Redemption

Chapter 11

There was no place on earth colder than a morgue.

At least Decker was thinking that as he looked down at the body of Meryl Hawkins on the metal table. The ME had drawn back the sheet so that Hawkins’s emaciated body was completely exposed. On one side of Decker stood Jamison. On the other was Lancaster.

The ME said, “As I noted, the cause of death was a small-caliber soft-nosed or dumdum bullet. It deformed after cleaving through the skull and then cartwheeled through the soft tissue, breaking up more as it did so, just as it’s designed to do.” He pointed to the man’s brain that was sitting on another table. “You can see that it did considerable damage. Hawkins would have died instantly. Round was still in the soft tissue. In fragments. That’s why I can’t give you a more exact answer as to caliber.”

“And no way to do a ballistics comparison if we do find a gun to test?” said Lancaster.

“Afraid not. As I said, it’s just metal slivers and chunks dispersed over a wide area of the brain. Like a bomb exploded. Really no spiral lands or grooves from the gun barrel left to match it to, unfortunately.” He added, “There were also traces of polyurethane foam and microbeads embedded in the wound and brain tissue.”

“What?” said Jamison, looking puzzled.

Decker said, “The killer used a pillow to muffle the shot.”

“Cheap version of a muzzle suppressor,” added Lancaster. “The burn marks on his forehead would have been even more pronounced if the killer hadn’t used the pillow. It was pretty close to a contact wound.”

“They must’ve cleaned up the trace and taken the pillow with them,” said Decker. “There was no sign of it in the room.”

Decker pointed to the man’s forearms. “They’re healed now, of course, but that’s where the scratches were, presumably from Abigail Richards trying to fight him off.”

Lancaster added, “After he was arrested and jailed, we noted the wounds on his arms. Hawkins said he’d fallen down and scraped both arms. He’d cleaned them up and bandaged them before he was arrested. If any of Abigail Richards’s DNA was on him, that probably would’ve removed it. In fact, we found none. But we did find his DNA on her.”

Jamison said, “And that seems to be rock-solid evidence of his guilt. I mean, he was there. She tried to fight him off. He was good for the murders.”

“Yeah,” said Decker. “And all we have against that is a guy who said he was innocent and now he’s dead.”

Lancaster said, “Do you think it could be that Hawkins did commit the murders but wasn’t alone? He had an accomplice and now that accomplice killed him before he could reveal his identity?”

“He’s had thirteen years to do that,” pointed out Decker. “And you’d think Hawkins would have fingered an accomplice at his trial, if for no other reason than to cut a deal. And there’s something else.” He told Lancaster about his rain theory. He added, “Rain residue and other trace from the storm should have been found at the crime scene but wasn’t.”

Lancaster seemed taken aback by this. “I... I never focused on that.”

“Neither did I, until now.”

“Crap, Decker.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s that on his forearm?” asked Jamison.

The ME, a short, balding man in his fifties, pulled an overhead lamp on a long flex arm closer and turned it on, hitting that spot.

“Yes, I noted that,” he said. “Let’s take a closer look.”

The marks on Hawkins’s arm were black and dark green and brown. A casual observer might have concluded that they were bruises. Only they weren’t. Closer inspection under the intense light revealed clearly what they were.

“It’s a tattoo,” said Decker. “Or several tattoos.”

“That’s what I concluded too,” said the ME. “But poorly done ones. I mean, my daughter has one and it’s far nicer than these.”

Decker opined, “That’s because these were done in prison with very crude instruments and whatever they could find to use as ink.”

“How do you know it wasn’t done before he went to prison?” asked Jamison.

“Because I saw his forearms thirteen years ago. Several times. No tats.” Decker leaned down and looked at the marks from a few inches away. “Looks like they used paper clips or maybe staples. That tat looks like they used soot mixed with shampoo for the ink. The other two seem to be Styrofoam that’s been melted. Those are pretty popular choices for inmate tats.”

“Didn’t know you were such an expert on prison tattoos,” said Jamison.

“Decker and I have visited our share of prisons over the years,” noted Lancaster. “Seen a lot of convict skin with body art. Some cool, some hideous.”

Decker was still looking at the tat. “It’s a spiderweb.”

“Trapped,” said Lancaster.

“What?” asked Jamison.

“Symbolizes being trapped in prison,” explained Decker. “It’s referring to their prison sentence.”

“That looks like a teardrop,” observed Jamison, pointing to the mark near the crook of the elbow.

Decker nodded. “Right, it is.”

“What does that mean?”

Lancaster and Decker exchanged a glance. He said in a subdued tone, “Sometimes, it denotes that the person has been raped in prison. Usually it’s inked on the face, where everyone can see it.”

“Damn,” said Jamison.

Decker closed his eyes and felt sick to his stomach.

And I helped put you there because maybe I didn’t do a thorough enough investigation.

Jamison was watching Decker and put a hand on his arm. His eyes popped open and he abruptly moved away from her. He didn’t notice her hurt look at his reaction.

Lancaster examined the last mark that was to the right of the teardrop. “I’ve never seen one like that before, though,” she said.

“Looks like a star with an arrow going through it,” said Jamison. She looked at Decker. “Any ideas?”

“Not yet,” he replied. He looked at the ME. “How far along was his cancer?”

The ME shuddered. “Advanced. If the bullet didn’t get him, my guess is he had a few weeks left. Actually, I’m surprised he was still able to function.”

“He said he was on street meds,” said Jamison.

“The tox screens will show what was in his system. He had nothing in his stomach, no food or anything, I mean. I would imagine his appetite would have been negligible at that point. But he must have been a strong man to keep going with that level of cancer in him.”

Decker said, “Well, maybe wanting to prove his innocence gave him that strength.”

“Anything else of interest?” asked Lancaster.

“We’ve got his clothes over there in those evidence bags.”

Lancaster looked at Decker. “He also had a small duffel. We’ve got it at the station. Nothing much in it, but you’ll probably want to go through it.”

Decker nodded as he continued to stare down at the body.

Three tats. The spiderweb looked to be the oldest. That made sense. When Hawkins had first got to prison, he was probably pissed beyond belief, if he was indeed innocent. The web tat would have been one of his few ways to vocalize that anger. The teardrop tat probably came soon thereafter. Fresh meat in prisons did not remain fresh for long.

Then there was the unidentified one. Star with an arrow through it. He would have to find out what that one meant. Because that one looked to be the most recent. Decker could tell because Hawkins had recently lost weight, probably because of his illness. The other two tats showed signs of his shrinking weight, and the corresponding change in the width of his forearm. The star, though, evinced no signs of this. And the markings looked fresher too. He might have had it done right before he left prison, in fact.

And if he’d had this tat put on close to when he was released it might have held some significance for him at that time.

And since Decker had missed there being no muddy footprints in the house, he was determined to not miss anything else on this case.

Homicide detectives rarely got do-overs. He wasn’t going to screw this one up.

Again.