Rolling Thunder

18

“I’m going through the call data now,” says Denise Diego when Ceepak and I hit the house. “Should have something to show you guys in ten, twenty minutes.”

She’s at the vending machine. Refilling her Doritos stash. Fueling up on Red Bull.

“Thanks,” says Ceepak. “Would you like a soft drink, Danny?”

“Sure.”

We grab a couple of cold Cokes.

“So what do you think of Skippy’s evidence?” I ask.

“Extremely circumstantial,” says Ceepak. “I would imagine that many of the male patrons of The Rusty Scupper have asked Ms. Baker to pose with them. I am given to understand that the same sort of snapshots are often taken at Hooters.”

True. I have two of those and one of Gail. I keep them hidden in a shoebox up in my closet.

“Skippy used to date Gail,” I say.

“Indeed. I recall he was quite infatuated with her.”

Yeah. That’s who he was gabbing with when he was a summer cop and Ceepak yanked the phone out of his ear.

“So, why does he want us to think his father was having an affair with Gail Baker?” I ask.

“Because he and his father have ‘issues.’ I fear he is attempting to take advantage of Ms. Baker’s death for his own purposes.”

Wow. Not cool, Skip. Not cool.

I follow Ceepak into the dispatcher room where Mrs. Rence sits at a wraparound desk cluttered with computer monitors, punch-button consoles, and three-ring binders filled with police codes and emergency protocols.

“Welcome back, boys,” she says when she sees us. “Detective Botzong will call at eighteen fifteen hours.”

I smile. Mrs. Rence, who is what they call an empty nester, took this civilian job when her last kid shipped off to college. She’s only been with us a couple of months but has already learned how to use the military time clock. I think Ceepak gave her lessons.

“Shall I put the call in the conference room when it comes through?” she asks.

“Roger that,” says Ceepak. “And Dorian?”

“Yes, John?”

“We call it the interview room.”

“Really?”

“Ten-four.”

“Sorry. Too many years working for the electric company.”

“It’s all good,” says Ceepak.

Mrs. Rence (we all call her that because, well, she looks like someone’s mom) opens a little wire-bound notebook. Jots down “Interview Room” under a list of other terms: Dee Wee (driving while intoxicated), the house (the stationhouse, where we are now), Loo (slang for “Lieutenant” that cops actually like).

“Dorian,” says Ceepak, “do you know how we can get in touch with Sergeant Dominic Santucci?”

“He clocked out at fifteen hundred hours,” she reports. “He’ll probably be working his side job tonight.”

Side job? I thought he was going home to catch the Yankees.

Mrs. Rence flips through a purple binder where she has everything organized inside plastic flaps. I think she might be a scrapbooker on weekends.

“Here’s his card. ‘Italian Stallion Security.’ This business number here is really just his cell phone.”

Ceepak jots the number down.

“Thank you, Dorian. And thank you for not only learning your job so quickly but for doing it so well.”

“You trying to butter me up so I’ll bring in another loaf of pumpkin bread?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She laughs. “I’ve got work to do here. So ten-whatever, youse two.”

We set up shop in the interview room, which is really just a room with a long table, a one-way mirror, a couple of chairs and a speakerphone. It’s also where we store the Christmas lights in the off-season, which, in certain parts of New Jersey, means you take ’em down at Easter, put ’em back up after Halloween.

The phone burps. Ceepak punches the speaker button.

“This is Ceepak.”

“I have Detective Botzong for you. Please hold.”

We do. We sit and stare at the phone like it’s a dog we expect to roll over or something.

“Ceepak?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Bill Botzong. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem.”

“We have a lot to talk about. My team’s moving fast. You guys pick up anything at your end?”

“We’ve talked to the few neighbors currently in residence on Tangerine Street.”

“And?”

“All we have so far is a dog barking at three A.M.”

“Could coincide with the body dump,” says Botzong. “The M.E.’s initial time-of-death estimate is one A.M. Friday. Our guy kills Ms. Baker, cuts her up, stuffs her into the suitcases, goes looking for a spot to drop the bags. He picks, for whatever reason, Tangerine Street. Gets there about three in the morning. The dog hears the pickup truck-”

“Your sure it was a pickup?”

“Carolyn Miller is. Probably a Dodge Ram, she says. See, a guy working a rake, he has to stop raking at some point. This guy, he did it all the way back to the running board on the side of his truck, or so we suppose. Carolyn found tire tracks in the sandy edge of the street where he couldn’t rake because he was too busy driving away.”

“Do you have a model number?”

“BFGoodrich G-Force T/A KDW 205/50ZR 15s. They got this unidirectional racing stripe-style tread design and an increased interior groove offset for snow and sand traction.”

Wow. Ms. Miller is good.

“Any of Ms. Baker’s known acquaintances pickup truck jockeys?”

“Negative,” says Ceepak. “So far, we have talked to Dr. Marvin Hausler, a local dentist, who had been overheard on several occasions making derogatory remarks about Ms. Baker. He and she had been romantically involved for a brief period of time. The dentist, while harboring deep-seated resentment toward the victim, has an alibi.”

“You buy it?”

“Yes. It is a rather embarrassing admission, one I do not think he would offer were it not true. He told us he was with a hired call girl from an escort service on Thursday night into Friday morning.”

“Yeah,” says Botzong. “They don’t usually go with that one unless it’s true.”

“We have some other leads,” I toss in, just because I feel like we’re letting the team down. They’ve got a time-of-death estimate and Carolyn Miller on the tires; we’ve got nothing except a yippy dog, a disgruntled dentist who drills hookers for free, and a digital cheesecake photo of Mr. O’Malley posing with Gail “Bikini Babe” Baker.

“We are also attempting to contact Officer Santucci, one of the initial responders to the crime scene,” says Ceepak. “He is currently off the clock. We’ll talk to him about the missing T-shirt.”

“Good,” says Botzong. “But it may not have been in the bag when he went rummaging through it searching for ID. Analysis of her jeans and undergarments suggest Ms. Baker was naked when she was dismembered. The bloodstains on the fabric are passive transfers. Pool pattern. The clothes were most likely placed into the suitcases on top of the severed limbs. They soaked up blood like a sponge would.”

“They were not spattered?”

“Correct. Therefore, the clothes were not present during the dismemberment process, which …”

There’s a pause as Detective Botzong shuffles through some papers.

“… was most likely done with a Lenox twelve-inch, thirty-two-teeth-per-inch, bi-metal hacksaw blade with their Tuff Tooth design. Virtually unbreakable. A ten-pack costs fifteen dollars and twenty cents at Home Depot.”

“So,” says Ceepak, “the missing T-shirt may still be at the scene of the crime.”

“Right. Or in the doer’s memory box. He might be one of these psycho souvenir takers.”

Ceepak and I give each other a quick glance. We’ve dealt with one of those before; he was playing Whack A Mole up and down the island with buried body parts.

“We’re also talking to Continental Airlines,” says Botzong.”

“About the partial baggage tags?” asks Ceepak.

“You saw those, huh?”

“Yes. During our initial survey of the crime scene.”

“You’re good, Ceepak. Anyway, we have half a bar code and half a number. Not much to work with, but the airline’s seeing what they can dig out of their computers.”

That might be our lucky break. The tags could tell us whose suitcases we’re dealing with. We know they’re not brand-new; somebody used them on a trip. Most likely, our killer checked them on a Continental flight because you only have suitcases with remnants of baggage stickers if the bags belong to you.

“Cause of death?” asks Ceepak.

“Blunt force impact. Somebody clobbered her in the back of her head repeatedly. Something hard and small. Maybe a hammer.”

I sip my Coke. Hope it will settle my stomach.

“There’s some good news,” says Botzong. “Dr. Kurth assures us Ms. Baker was not sexually molested.”

Ceepak nods. “Good to know. Any trace of the killer on her body?”

“Nothing. No hair, no lint, no prints. I’m thinking he was wearing Saran Wrap. Knew what he was doing. However, we did find some interesting evidence in Miss Baker’s hair and under her nails.”

Ceepak flips over a page in his notebook. “Go on.”

“Shampoo and soap. My team tells me the shampoo is Johnson’s No More Tears No More Tangles Plus Conditioner for Straight Hair.”

The whole name goes into Ceepak’s book.

“Doesn’t help us much,” says Botzong. “They sell the stuff everywhere. Likewise with the soap. Irish Spring Original, what they call their Ulster Fragrance.”

That seems strange. Irish Spring is typically a guy soap, although the ads used to have this lovely Irish lass saying, “Manly yes, but I like it, too.” I never met a real woman who did.

“She was probably holding the soap when our doer came at her from behind,” Botzong continues.

“How so?” says Ceepak.

“She really dug her nails into it. Gouged the bar. We found the soap burrowed up under all four fingernails on her right hand.”

“So, your hypothesis is that the assailant broke into her home and surprised her while she was showering?”

“No,” says Botzong. “We inventoried her home when we went through it. She used Pantene and Dove. I’m figuring she knew the guy who did this. Went to his place. Maybe she wanted to clean up before or after they did what they went there to do.”

“He probably dismembered her in the shower as well,” says Ceepak. “He would be able to wash away the evidence.”

“Right. We find the shower, we’ll find blood, I guarantee it,” says Botzong. “You can’t scrub it away completely. We get in there with Luminol and a UV light, we’ll find residue.” He pauses. “Of course, the scenario doesn’t make much sense.”

“Because Dr. Kurth estimates the time of death to be one A.M. Friday?” says Ceepak.

“Exactly. Maybe she’d take a shower that late, but shampoo? I don’t know. Her hair was long, down past her shoulders. Wouldn’t dry right away. And who hits the sack with sopping wet hair, especially if it’s not your own bed or pillow?”

“Good question,” says Ceepak.

There’s a knock at the door. Denise Diego. She waves a sheaf of papers to let us know she’s found something.

“Detective Botzong?” says Ceepak.

“Yeah?”

“We have just been joined on this end by Officer Denise Diego, who has been running down Gail Baker’s cell phone records. We, of course, have not had time to analyze or filter her findings.”

“That’s okay. Give it to me raw.”

Ceepak motions for Diego to come into the room. Gestures toward the speakerphone. The floor is hers.

“Okay. There’s a lot of data in the dump. Ms. Baker worked her cell to the max. Calls. Texts. E-mails. On my first pass, I concentrated on her final twenty-four hours.”

“Good call,” says Botzong on the voice box.

“Thank you, sir.”

“What’d you find?”

“Couple things. First-she made dozens of calls to the same number, an M. Minsky, here in Sea Haven.”

“That’s Marny,” I say. “One of her best friends.”

Another item goes on the To Do list.

“What else, Officer Diego?” says Ceepak.

“A couple of calls to Mike Charzuk.”

“The trainer at the gym,” I say.

“What time?” Botzong asks.

“The last one was eleven forty-five P.M. Thursday.”

“When did we issue Ms. Baker the warning ticket, Danny?” asks Ceepak.

I try to remember what I wrote down. “Like, eleven.”

“So, she most likely contacted the personal trainer immediately afterward.”

“Why would she do that?” asks Botzong. “Why call her calisthenics coach?

“They were, you know, talking about hooking up,” I say. “Maybe they finally did.”

“Someone else for you guys to talk to.”

“Roger that,” says Ceepak. “He is definitely on the list.”

And moving up. If he talked to her that late, the hookup may have ended with a hammer and hacksaw in the shower.

“Anything else?” asks Ceepak.

“That’s it until right after midnight. Twelve-oh-five A.M. she sent a short text message.”

“Short?”

“Not much data in the transfer. That was the last time she used her phone.”

“To whom did she text?”

Diego runs her finger down two different sheets of paper, looking for a match.

“Area code 609. Another local number. Mr. Patrick O’Malley.”