Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

12

Tamara Elkin was leaning over the body when Jesse stepped into the bedroom. He winced at the sour background odor of vomit. He’d been to countless crime scenes and witnessed bodies in all manner of decay, but rarely had he been as hungover as he was just then. Tamara turned to him, saw the look on his face, and smiled.

“What’s the deal?”

“I can’t say much without opening her up, but she definitely didn’t die in this bed.”

“Anything you can say other than that so we can get started? Right now, I’ll settle for an educated guess.”

“There’s what looks like tape residue around her mouth, wrists, and ankles. There are some fibers stuck to the adhesive on the dermas proximate to her mouth, so if I had to venture a guess, I’d say whoever ransacked the house shoved some kind of gag in her mouth, then taped over it. She most likely vomited into the gag, but I can’t say now whether that led directly to her death. She does have a split lip, which she received premortem. See the bruising there.” Tamara pointed her gloved index finger at Maude Cain’s face.

“Was she beaten or—”

“I can’t be sure, but it doesn’t look as if she was sexually assaulted and the bruising there around her mouth seems to be the only apparent damage. There’s one other strange thing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Someone cleaned her up a little and changed her clothes before placing her in here like this.”

“Cleaned her up. Maybe to cover an assault?”

“I don’t think so, but I’ll know for sure when I get her on the table.”

Jesse considered the things Tamara had just told him. Some killers, most often serial killers, presented bodies in certain ways either to satisfy some fantasy or obsession or as a display for the police. Sometimes it was a function of remorse. At this point, before the autopsy and forensic results were in, it was unwise to draw conclusions about motive. But Jesse knew his own gut, and what his gut told him was that this was more of a train wreck than the handiwork of some Hannibal Lecter wannabe. He was thinking it through when he heard heavy footfalls on the staircase.

“Hey, Doc. Hey, Jesse,” Lundquist said, standing in the hallway just outside the bedroom. “Is it all right if I come in?”

Jesse saw echoes of Suit in Lundquist. A tall, sturdily built man with reddish hair, warm blue eyes, and a boyish aw-shucks smile, Brian Lundquist seemed as if he would have been right at home showing his prize pig at the Minnesota State Fair. Similarities in appearance to Suit notwithstanding, Jesse knew Lundquist to be an excellent detective, a cops’ cop. You didn’t rise to the rank of detective lieutenant because you were unfailingly polite or friendly. And they didn’t make you acting head of Homicide because you were somebody’s pal.

“Why don’t you fellas talk somewhere else while I finish up in here?”

Jesse nodded to Lundquist that he was coming out.

“Okay, Doc. Lundquist and I will be downstairs if you need us.”

When Jesse stepped out of the bedroom, he extended his right hand to the detective.

“My forensics unit’s outside, Jesse. All I’m waiting on is your say-so.”

“Get ’em in here.”

After Lundquist had given the go-ahead, Jesse detailed Tamara Elkin’s preliminary findings. He explained that he thought the old woman’s death didn’t seem, at least on the surface, to be a purposeful act. Lundquist kept his thoughts to himself as they went down to the basement to talk the crime scene over with Peter Perkins, and Perkins got right to it.

“They had her tied up to this lally column with duct tape,” he said, pointing at the tape still stuck to the metal pole. “I also think she probably died here.” He pointed at stains on the slab at the base of the pole and held up an evidence bag containing the sock used to gag Maude Cain. “As to the mess upstairs... I don’t know.” He held up another evidence bag, this one containing the strip of tape used to cover the old woman’s mouth. “Looks like there’s blood on this, too.”

Jesse spoke up. “ME says there’s tape residue on the vic’s mouth and that her lip was split. All right, Peter, the state Forensics Unit is here. Go upstairs and fill them in. Lend them a hand.”

When Perkins reached the top of the stairs, Lundquist asked the question Jesse knew was coming: “What do you think went on here? The upstairs looks like a demolition team got hold of it, and it doesn’t look any better down here.”

Although Jesse knew homicide detectives were supposed to follow the evidence, it didn’t mean their brains didn’t work overtime once they got a good look at the crime scene. He had learned the hard way about the danger of falling in love with any single scenario before the evidence was in. Even then, he had seen colleagues ignore the facts in favor of their predetermined scenarios. He’d done it himself, but experience had also taught him not to completely ignore his gut. He looked around at the mess that was the basement. He remembered his first thought at seeing the chaos and blood upstairs.

“You’ve seen the house, how it was torn apart? The person or persons that did this were looking for something and they didn’t know where to look for it. It takes a long time to go through a house like this, and they had to keep the Cain woman out of their hair while they searched. Maybe they got a little rough with her to see if she knew where it was before tearing the walls apart. My guess is the vic’s death was, if not exactly an accident, unanticipated. Same as the delivery guy showing up.”

“But neither thing stopped these perps from ripping the place apart.”

“What’s that tell you?”

“That whatever they were looking for is worth a lot of money.”

“At least they think it—”

Before Jesse could finish, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at the screen and excused himself.

“What is it, Molly?”

“The mayor’s car is coming up the street.”

“I’m heading out.”

“Trouble?” Lundquist asked, as Jesse moved to the stairs.

“Uh-huh.”

“The press?”

“Worse.”

Lundquist laughed a joyless little laugh. “Only thing worse is a politician.”

Jesse laughed, too. “You should have been a detective.”