Blood of Others (4 page)

“What we’ve got is an old couple
stop to admire the brides on display this morning, noticing that one is covered
in blood. Dead bride in the window.” Parker smelled like fresh flowers.

“Anyone talk to the couple?”

“Nope. Too shook-up.”

“Staff?”

Parker shook her head and sipped
coffee, leaving a lipstick imprint on the lid.

“Suspects?”

“Nothing. What we hear is they
haven’t touched the bride yet. This is a fresh story, guy. Early in the day,
good for my deadline. My desk will feed on this every fifteen minutes. Hey,
Zach.”

“Hi.”

“No school today?”

“No.”

“Bet your Mom doesn’t know you’re
down here with Dad?” Her pretty eyebrows bounced.

Zach shook his head.

“Who’s here from homicide, Sky?”

“Haven’t seen anyone yet.”
Parker’s cell phone rang.

“Hey, Reed!” Levi Kayle, a tanned
Star
news photographer with a goatee, spotted him, then Zach. “Reed,
what’s with your partner? We got child labor laws in this state.”

“Funny.”

Kayle showed Reed his digital
photos on his Nikon. A detective peeking behind the tarp. Stark. “Not great,
but it will work,” Kayle said. “Are you the only writer on this?”

“Don’t know. Nobody’s told me
anything,” Reed said, feeling his shirt being tugged.

“Dad, I gotta go to the
bathroom.”

“Not now, Zach.”

“Dad. I have to.”

“Tom, there’s a coffee shop
around the corner,” Kayle said.

Inside the shop while Reed waited
for his son near the washroom he spotted an elderly couple sitting alone. The
woman was distraught, the man was comforting her. A waitress brought a glass of
water.

“This might help,” the waitress
said.

“What happened over there?” Reed
asked.

“A dizzy spell. Something to do
with that commotion at the boutique. Must be a big deal, there’s a cop in our
office on the phone.”

Reed approached the elderly
couple.

“Everything all right, sir?”

“No, everything’s not all right,”
the man said. “It was horrible.”

Reed approached their table.

“Sir, can you tell me what
happened?”

“We already told you. Are you
another police officer?”

“No. I’m not.” Reed glanced over
his shoulder, then at the woman, staring into her water glass. “I’m with the
Star,
I --”

Gazing at the window, the man
said: “Every morning we walk by that shop. My wife likes to look at the
dresses. We couldn’t believe it. At first we thought it was a terrible joke. A
sick prank. A movie set maybe. I’ve never seen so much blood in my life.
Everywhere. The way she was posed, the way it cascaded, from her face, her
chest. Such horror.”

Water spilled from the woman’s
trembling cup after she sipped from it.

“I’ll never walk by the shop
again,” she said. “Never. As long as I live.”

Reed finished scribbling his
notes thinking these were powerful quotes, raising his head to see his son
standing next to him staring at the couple.

Walt Sydowski
watched his girlfriend Louise
kissing another man on an empty beach and swelled with pride.

“Because you don’t know what
tomorrow will bring.”

Ain’t
that the truth,
Sydowski agreed, watching the TV commercial for estate
planning end with Louise and her “husband” strolling hand-in-hand into a setting
sun. She looked so good up there on the set over the counter of Nick’s. The
busy diner smelled of frying bacon. It made the best
Denvers
and BLTs in town and was a short walk from the Hall of Justice.

Sydowski sipped the last of his
coffee waiting for Louise to return from the rest room. He felt the flare of
heartburn, popped a Tums knowing he’d pay the price for not holding the onions
from his omelet. Or was he reacting to what Louise had dropped on him while
eating her muffin? They met here for breakfast before his shift and her early
appointment downtown with advertising people.

Louise was a vibrant
sixty-two-year-old grandmother and part-time actor who could pass for forty.
They had been dating for close to a year now since meeting at the Seattle bird
show. What she saw in a widowed old battleship like him was a great mystery.
Sydowski nodded to the TV when she returned to their booth.

“Saw you with that other guy
again.”

“Oh, he’s not as cute as you,
Walter.” Her green eyes taking in his wavy white hair, tanned complexion, the
rugged smile which glinted because of his two gold crowns.

Being with Louise felt so good.
At the same time he felt guilty. It was more than six years since his wife
Basha
had died. Over three since Louise lost her husband,
the judge. Living alone in her big place in San Jose. Her daughter was in
Sacramento, her son in Pittsburgh. Sydowski’s two girls lived in the East.

“So, Walt, what do you think of
my idea?”

“About you moving in with me?”

“Our lives are here. We’re right
for each other.”

“I am trying to get my old man to
move in with me.”

“John loves it at the villas in
Pacifica and he doesn’t want to leave. What is it really, Walt?”

He didn’t know. Maybe he was
afraid of a life change, of betraying Basha’s memory. Was he nuts?

“Cripes is that Reggie? Reggie
Pope?”

Louise followed his attention to
the street and a man rummaging through a trash can.

“We were partners once. Give me a
minute.”

Sydowski hurried outside.

It
was
Reggie Pope.
Unshaven, reeking of booze, hair matted, clothes dirty, tattered, probing a
trash can with a stick.

“Reggie? It’s Walt.”

How many years had it been since
Sydowski last saw him? Since Reggie had been shot? Reggie had been in
Narcotics, pursuing a dealer in a crack house when he fell through a broken step,
dropped his weapon, trapped. Reggie’s partner, Ben somebody, had frozen,
allowing the dealer to shoot Reggie in the spine. The last Sydowski heard, the
partner had been reassigned to some computer-desk job somewhere and was
pretending to still be a cop. But Reggie had faded away. Seeing him like this
now, Sydowski was at a loss. The stick came out of the trash. It was a cane.
Leaning on it, Reggie seemed to take a long time turning to face Sydowski. Eyes
avoiding his.

“Christ, Reggie, what happened?”

“Hello, Walt.” Reggie said. “It
hasn’t been good. Not good. I took a bad turn. The POA tried to help but I got
addicted to the pain pills. Took it all out on Fran. She left me. Gets most of
the pension. That’s how it is.”

“Reg, we didn’t know. Man, I’m
sorry.”

“I got a room in the Loin. It’s
clean. I get by.”

“Want to come in for some
breakfast? Coffee? On me. Come on, we’ll talk and --”

Reggie noticed Louise. “You got
better things to do. I have to go. Walt, you promise me you won’t tell the
guys.”

“Reg, they’ll want to know.”

“You promise me, Walt. You do
that.”

“If you take this.” Sydowski gave
him four twenties from his wallet.

Reggie took them and limped down
the street with Sydowski standing there watching him disappear.

“You going to be okay, Walt?” Louise
said.

“Yeah. I forgot to pay our
check.”

“I took care of it. Just when you
left, the waitress said your lieutenant is trying to reach you.”

“Leo? But I got my new cell phone
--”

An older unmarked Caprice Classic
screeched to a halt, double-parked in front of Nick’s. Dash cherry revolving.

Inspector Linda Turgeon got out.
Ponytail bouncing, the jacket of her powder-blue pantsuit flapping, revealing
her shoulder holstered gun as she rushed to Sydowski.

“Got him, Leo,” Turgeon said into
the phone pressed to her ear while reaching into Sydowski’s shirt pocket for
his bifocals, snapping them open, slipping them on his head. “Leo. I
have
showed him how to use his new one.” Turgeon reached into Sydowski’s jacket
pocket, fished out his slim cell phone. “We’re on our way, Leo.” She snapped
her phone shut, held Sydowski’s before his face, tapping her glossed fingernail
on a small green button.

“This is the
on
button
Walt. Press it when you’re
on
duty.”

Sydowski studied his new phone
through his glasses. “Thought I had it on.”

“Get in. We caught one at Union
Square.”

“Call me later.” Louise raised
her voice.

The car doors slammed and its
tires squealed. Sydowski returned Louise’s wave as the
Chevy
disappeared in traffic.

“Your honey back there is a
fine-looking woman.” Turgeon took Seventh, grabbed the car’s radio mike to tell
the district units they were coming. “Too good for you.” She sipped coffee from
her take-out cup, glancing at Sydowski. “What’s with you?”

Sydowski folded his glasses into
his shirt pocket as they moved down Market, buildings, city blocks rolling by.
He reflected. Over twenty years in the detail. What was he at now, four hundred
homicides? The highest clearance rate in the state.
“You can retire any
time, Walt,” his Lieutenant Leo Gonzales would remind him, unlit cigar clamped
in his teeth. “Take care of your old man, your birds. Go fishing in British
Columbia. Beautiful up there. You don’t need this job any more, Walt.”

But he did. Being a homicide
detective was how he defined himself. He thought of Louise. His old man, his
girls. Reggie Pope popping up like a ghost. Sydowski rubbed his face. “It’s a
long story, Linda. What do we have at the Square?”

“Body in a wedding gown,
displayed in a bridal boutique.”

“A wedding gown.” Sydowski
crunched on another Tums. “This day just keeps getting better.”

At the shop Sydowski and Turgeon
pulled on white surgical gloves, slipped on shoe covers, and began a case log
in their notebooks. The patrol officer briefed them while raising the yellow
police tape protecting the scene.

“Who made the find?” Sydowski
said.

“Retired jeweler and his wife on
an early morning walk. We got them waiting at a coffee shop.”

“After you, Walt.” Linda
indicated the door. “You’re the primary.”

For a moment after they had
entered, Sydowski and Turgeon stood in respectful silence, taking inventory of
the shop, the floors, walls, merchandise. The horror in the display window.
Sydowski grunted, stepping up and into the display, careful to keep clear of
the blood pool, notebook poised as he positioned himself in front of the body
to study it.

Barefoot in blood. Blood browned
on the front of the elegant wedding dress. Hands clasping flowers, bouquet of
white sweetheart roses. Female, white, late twenties, early thirties. What had
she been doing in the hours before her death? Average build. He estimated her
at five-four, one hundred twenty. Body secured at the shoulders with belt-like
strips of white fabric to the rods of two heavy steel bases. Front upper
abdomen saturated in blood. Reddish brown. Damp, dripping in spots. Dried in
others. Dozens of incisions pierced the gown in the heart area. Stabbing?
Frenzied attack?

Sydowski swallowed.

Her head was bowed. Tiara atop
her dark brown hair. He lifted the veil to a pulpy mask of bloodied tissue,
white teeth bared in a macabre grin, terrified eyes, frozen open. Wide. Locking
on to his.

He looked into them.

A wedding gown. Brown eyes. His
daughters had brown eyes.
Dancing with them at their weddings. With his
wife. Dancing with his girls. Their glorious white gowns. Their smiles. Brown
eyes glistening. Laughter. Love.
Blood. The odor wasn’t too bad. She
couldn’t have been dead long. Did she know death was upon her? Did she feel it?
Did she scream? What was her final thought?

“Walt.” Turgeon stood beside him.

Sydowski could not take his eyes
from the victim’s, as if searching them for help, a clue, anything.

“Walt?”

“Her face is gone, Linda. Peeled
from her skull.”

By midafternoon
Sydowski and Turgeon were
still at Forever & Ever. During that time, techs from Crime Scene and Photo
arrived. Voices subdued, they searched, collected, and retrieved evidence while
recording the event. Apart from the din from the street and the ringing of the
store’s phone, which went unanswered, they worked in near silence.

Silver graphite fingerprint
powder was everywhere, patched on doors, windows, change rooms, the coffee
room, sink, washroom, toilet, walls, telephone, cash register, computer, office
equipment, light switches as if muddied school children rampaged through the
shop.

Then the forensic pathologist
from the medical examiner’s office arrived -- Julius Seaver, a tall thin man with
red hair cropped short to his skull. Dressed in a dark suit, city star and name
tag fastened to his breast. Seaver never smiled but had a reputation for
exceptional on-scene work. Sydowski briefed him and he went to work. Seaver was
relieved someone had the foresight to cover the scene from public view. At the
outset of his preliminary investigation, Seaver advised Sydowski that they
should look for a knife, scissors, scalpel, or bladed instrument as the weapon.

But nothing of significance had
been found, except the lone shoe. It belonged to no one associated with the
store. It was a left, a woman’s casual polyester oxford. Cotton lining,
rubber-sole. Size six. Consistent with the victim. It showed little wear.
Unlaced. It was located outside the third change room, its position measured,
photographed, videotaped. Bagged. The lab would scour it for trace. The
thinking was it belonged to the victim.

Who was this woman? Why her? Why
here? Why this gown? The most expensive order? Because it fit? Why that dress?
The Carruthers order? Turgeon had reached Maggie Carruthers. She was alive.
Very.

“Yes, it’s tragic, Inspector,
but what about me? You tell Veronica she better get me another gown, or I am
going to sue.”

Earlier Lieutenant Gonzales sent
down more people to canvas the area. He was in court all day, stepping out to
call for updates on the case, which one Bay Area radio station was calling “Who
Killed the Bride?”

Sydowski and Turgeon searched the
store several times. Basement, main floor, office, work area, storage rooms,
attic, roof. They’d requested a search of dumpsters and trash cans within a few
blocks for a weapon, the victim’s clothing. Anything that might have been
tossed.

Access to the rear alley was
sealed. A traffic cop had moved Turgeon’s Caprice there and Sydowski sat in it,
alone, reviewing his notes. At this stage, they had nothing. No wallet, no
identification, no weapon, no clothing, no signs of a struggle, no missing cash
or merchandise. Nothing.

Clarice Hay, the night manager,
had left at eight. Veronica Chan had completed the gown at nine, activated the
security system, and left. Julie Zegler had been alerted to the body by the
first officer who was flagged by the retired jeweler and his wife.

Chan swore to Sydowski she had
activated the security system. Zegler confirmed that she had to disarm it. No
forced entry. But no outside sharing of the key code. How did he get in? The
security cameras were on a recorded loop. But they had recorded nothing. It was
strange.
Nothing.

How does he get her in a gown
that was here and displayed without signs of a struggle. How did he do it?
Drugs? Persuasion? A sex game or dare, a fantasy rider? At the threat of a
weapon?  He has control. He’s out of control. Brazen. She knows him?
Jealousy? Envy? Revenge. Wound tracks around the heart? Someone’s heart was
broken. The face? God, her face. Maybe he’s scarred. Maybe he thought she was
two-faced? Or it’s rage for a lie? Maybe she jilted him. Humiliated him? Left
him at the altar? This is payback? So he manipulates her corpse, poses her for
the world to know, then takes her face.

Barney Tighe tapped on Sydowski’s
window after helping canvas neighboring businesses. “Nothing yet, Walt. Went
through some security camera recordings for the front and rear. Nothing. Woke
up a few night watchmen from the office buildings. Nothing again.”

“We’re going to pull district
patrol logs, talk to the guys on duty last night, and hit the private firms,
you know the drill.”

“So how bad is it?”

“Bad.”

“You thinkin’ he brought her here,
or done her here?”

“Not thinking anything right now.
Seaver’s going to give me a heads-up from the coroner’s crew before they finish
and move her.” Sydowski checked his watch. “Should be any time now.”

Tighe nodded.

“Hey, Barn, you remember Reggie?”

“Reggie Pope? Sure. Where’s he at
now?”

“Downtown somewhere. Whatever
happened to his partner?”

“That mope? Ben Wyatt?”

“Yeah. Now I remember him. What
happened with him?”

“He got a rough ride. Took stress
leave, then bounced between districts. Taraval, Ingleside. Why?”

“I saw Reggie the other day. It
got me thinking.”

“How’s he doin?”

“Don’t know. We didn’t talk
much.”

Turgeon emerged from the shop.
“Seaver’s done.”

Turgeon and Sydowski met him in
the back of the boutique, amid the brushstrokes of the fingerprint
investigator.

“We’ll get her prints and an
odontologist
, to help with identification,” Seaver sighed,
going to his notes. “None of this is confirmed, Inspectors. But I’d put time of
death within last six to eight hours.”

“Cause?”

“Likely multiple stab wounds.
Easily forty, almost all to the heart. All deep. This is overkill. A frenzied
attack.”

“Sexually assaulted?”

“Appears not.”

“Location.”

“It appears she died here. In the
window.”

Turgeon was puzzled. “But how did
he get her in the dress without a sign of a struggle, no blood tracks?”

“I’m speculating but it looks
like the killer or killers planned it. Very organized. Ritualistic. Like it has
some meaning,” Seaver said.

Sydowski made notes. “What about
her face?”

“It appears he took it with him.”

Turgeon shook her head. “Jesus.”

“But why?” Sydowski said as his
cell phone rang. It was his lieutenant.

“Walt, anything more?”

“Just a bad feeling that’s
getting worse.”

“The merchants want the street
opened up.”

“Bless them for caring.”

“What’s the read on it so far?”

“He brings her here, gets her in
a gown that was here, then does her. Stabbing. Displays her.”

“Got a name yet?”

“Working on it.”

“What’s next?”

“We’re going to head back to the
Hall soon. Interview the staff, see if they remember anything unusual. Go
through client and staff lists. Check with records. See if anybody lights up.
Any histories, court-orders, threats, assaults. It’s a start, until we get a
name. Or a break.”

“Walt, I want to put a small team
on this. It’s your file, but I’ve got a green light to pull in some
investigators from General Works. To help with anything. I’ve set a case status
meeting for tomorrow morning.”

“Fine. I’ve got a lot of other
areas to cover.”

“What’s your gut tell you, Walt?”

“That I should have held the
onions on my omelet this morning, Leo.” Sydowski munched on a Tums, studying
the white gowns, remembering his wife, their daughters’ weddings and happy
times.

“Tell me, Walt.”

Sydowski saw the coroner’s
deputies carefully placing the victim into a body bag.

“I don’t think this is a one-time
deal, Leo.”