Blood Stains (7 page)

Bodie frowned. The lieutenant wasn’t in the habit of cursing. “What is it?”

Carver pointed to a name on the paperwork. “See this? Frank McCall was the lead on the case.”

“Yes, sir. How does that matter?”

Carver sighed as he handed the file back. “He’s in the pen at McAlester doing twenty-five to life.”

“Seriously? What for?”

“Dirty cop. Suppressing evidence, planting evidence. You name it. He got caught planting evidence, but by the time it all unwound, there were dead informants and some drug runners in the mix. Long story short—one bad cop makes everyone else look dirty. We spent years overcoming that black mark.”

All of a sudden the file in Bodie’s hands felt somehow heavier—explaining why so little info was actually in there.

“Were all his cases compromised?”

Carver shrugged. “It was hard to tell.”

Bodie fingered the edges of the file. “Are you afraid that opening this case will bring up the old dirt?”

“Who knows, but it doesn’t matter. If he suppressed evidence in this one, as well, we’ll eventually find out.”

“As will the media,” Bodie said.

“You let me worry about the media,” Carver said. “You’re gonna need all you’ve got and then some to solve this, when all you’ve got is a witness with amnesia and a missing pimp who’s had twenty years to get good and lost. And FYI…if we have something big break, just know your cold case will have to take second place.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now go do your thing,” Carver said.

“Yes, sir.”

“And close the door when you leave. I’ve got a handful of phone calls to return and not nearly enough patience.”

Bodie left, quietly closing the door behind him. He liked his job, but he had no aspirations to move higher up the food chain.

Five

B
odie had been at his desk for what felt like hours, going through the cold case file, making notes and phone calls. He’d run another search through their database for Tank Vincent, without success, and had given the task of trying to find the man to a rookie whose partner was out sick. He’d just put the file aside, knowing he’d done all he could do from his desk until he got confirmation on the requests he’d put out, when his partner, Dave Booker, showed up.

“Hey, Bodie, we caught a murder-suicide. Grab your hat.”

Bodie picked up his Stetson and settled it firmly on his head.

“I have my hat. You got that fancy gold pen?”

Dave grinned. “You know my wife gave that to me for my birthday. I have to use it. Otherwise it would hurt her feelings.”

“That’s bull,” Bodie said, grinning back. “Your pen cost more than my hat. I’m driving.”

Dave shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Fill me in on the way,” Bodie said, as they headed for the parking lot.

It didn’t take long for Dave to relate the tale.

A distraught daughter had found her aging parents dead, along with a suicide note.

As Bodie arrived at the address, they realized the media had already descended on the upscale neighborhood.

“Son of a bitch,” Dave muttered, as Bodie maneuvered their car around a news van. A uniformed officer waved them forward. Bodie parked beside a van from the crime lab.

“Do we have the daughter’s name?” Bodie asked, as they headed for the house.

Dave checked his notes. “Terri Ray.”

Bodie nodded. When they entered the house, the medical examiner was still there, and the forensic team was still gathering info. It was up to the detectives to piece together the last twenty-four hours of Robert and Julia Baker’s lives. After a scan of the murder scene and a few questions to the M.E., Bodie found the responding officer and took his statement.

The officer ran through his facts, including the daughter’s story. According to her, Robert had left a note explaining how he’d emptied an entire bottle of sleeping pills into Julia’s glass of warm milk, then watched her fall asleep as they lay on their bed watching home movies. In the suicide note, Robert stated that he was waiting for the moment when Julia would take her last breath, at which time he planned to put a gun to his head, because he didn’t want a life without her.

It was a tragic story, but for their daughter, it was nothing short of devastating. When Dave and Bodie found her, she was in the living room, still trembling from the trauma of her discovery, seemingly unaware of the tears that kept running down her cheeks. Her eyes were wide and fixed as she watched the police tramping through the rooms of her childhood home. She appeared on the verge of hysterics. The sooner they got her statement and got her out of there, the better.

“I’ve got the neighbors. You get the daughter,” Dave said.

Bodie moved toward the sofa.

“Ms. Ray…I’m Detective Scott from Homicide. I just have a few questions.”

She quickly swiped at her eyes and blew her nose as he sat beside her.

The shock of what she’d found was still evident in her eyes. The pupils were dilated, her eyelids red and swollen. When they shook hands, he could tell by the cold, clammy feel of her skin that she was close to passing out.

Bodie clicked his pen. “Your parents’ names are Robert and Julia Baker. Is that correct?”

She nodded.

“What alerted you to the fact that something might be wrong?” he asked.

“I was supposed to run errands for Dad today. He made lists. I filled them. You know…buying groceries, dropping off clothes at the cleaners or picking them up. Whatever they needed, I shopped for, or else I stayed with Mother while he shopped. This morning he didn’t answer either their home phone or his cell. I came over because I was worried.”

“So you found them. I understand there was a suicide note.”

“Yes.”

“Did you touch it?”

She closed her eyes. Bodie imagined she was reliving the moment of discovery. Her voice started to shake as she spoke.

“Yes, I picked it up and read it after I found them like…like that. Then I laid it back down and called the police.”

“How long had it been since you’d heard from your parents?”

“I talked to Dad last night. I always call and check on them before I go to bed. They are…were…both in their late eighties.”

“Did he seem despondent?”

She nodded. “Yes, but it was nothing new. Mother has…had Alzheimer’s. Up until last Sunday he’d been coping.”

Shit. Alzheimer’s.
The same ugly disease Grandma Scott had died from. The scene was beginning to add up.

“What happened last Sunday?”

“That morning, when Mother woke up, Dad said she didn’t know him. She got scared and started crying, telling him to get out of her house. It nearly killed him. He called me, sobbing, saying that she was afraid of him and asking what did I think he should do. Of course I came right over. By the time I got here, Mother had calmed down. I suggested the possibility of putting her into a nursing home.”

“I take it he refused,” Bodie said.

Terri nodded. “He got very angry with me for even suggesting it. I stayed for a while longer, and as time passed, they slid back into their little routine. I thought that the crisis had passed. Obviously I was wrong.”

Her face crumpled as a fresh set of tears began to fall.

Bodie sighed. The whole thing was a tragedy.

“Is there someone you can call? A family member…a friend?”

Terri ran a shaky hand through her tousled hair. “My husband is in Iraq. Our son is away at college. I called our priest. He’ll be here shortly.”

No sooner had she said the words than the doorbell rang.

“That’s probably him,” Terri said. “Do you need me anymore?”

Bodie nodded. “No, ma’am.” Then he handed her his card. “If there’s anything I can do, feel free to call.”

She slipped the card into her pocket and walked out of the room with Bodie right behind her.

He caught a glimpse of a man in dark clothing with the expected flash of a white clerical collar. There was a cluster of mumbled words, followed by a fresh set of harsh, agonizing sobs as the priest took Terri Ray into his arms.

Bodie paused on the way out the door.

“Excuse me, Father. I’m Detective Scott. She has my card,” he said, then felt obliged to add, “and my sympathies.”

The priest nodded. “I’m Mrs. Ray’s priest from St. Mary’s. I’m going to take her home.”

Even though the incident appeared to be an open-and-shut case, protocol demanded the investigation proceed until the evidence proved cause of death, which was now in the hands of the crime lab. By the time Bodie and Dave headed back to the department, it was already evening.

“That was a tough one,” Dave muttered, as Bodie braked for a red light.

Bodie nodded.

“Would you do that?” Dave asked.

“Do what?” Bodie asked.

“What that man did…to himself and his wife.”

Bodie frowned. “My gut reaction would be no, but as my Dad used to say, ‘Don’t judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes,’ so I guess my answer should be…I don’t know.”

“Yeah. Me, neither,” Dave said.

The light turned green. Bodie accelerated, and they moved through the intersection. By the time they got back to the precinct, it was nearing 6:00 p.m. Bodie checked his messages and found one from Shorty Carroll, a retired detective from the vice squad. He’d called Shorty earlier about the cold case, but the man hadn’t been home, so he’d left a message for him to call. Now they were playing phone tag. Bodie hoped Shorty would still be there when he called back. If anyone knew about hookers and pimps from twenty years ago, it would be Shorty.

Bodie took a seat and quickly returned the call.

The call was answered on the third ring.

“Hello.”

Bodie leaned back in his chair. “Hey, Shorty. This is Bodie Scott from Homicide. We met back at Carl Finley’s retirement party a couple of years ago.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember you,” Shorty said. “The cowboy.”

Bodie grinned. His penchant for boots and Stetsons had quickly earned him the nickname.

“Yeah, thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”

“No problem. What’s up?”

“I’m working a cold case. It’s a homicide from twenty years ago, when you were still with the department, but there’s not much in the file to go on.”

“So what’s the name of the vic?”

“Sally Blake. She was a twentysomething hooker who was murdered in her room at the Hampton Arms.”

“That old hotel used to be over on the north side?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry, the name doesn’t ring a bell,” Shorty said.

“I wasn’t calling you about the vic. I’m running down leads, and a name popped up that I thought you might know. It was the name of her pimp. A man named Tank Vincent.”

“Vincent…Tank Vincent? I don’t think… Oh! Wait. I do remember him. Great big good-looking guy at the time. Think a young Nick Nolte and you got the gist. Had his hair bleached blond, and wore it straight and long, like a woman’s. Hung way below his shoulders. Yeah, I remember Tank. He came by the name honestly. Had the upper body strength of a weight lifter.”

Bodie’s pulse kicked up a notch. Bingo.

“In that case, I don’t suppose you know what he’s up to now? He isn’t coming up on any of our databases, and I was afraid he might be dead.”

“Oddly enough, I ran into him about five years ago when I was fishing down at Lake Eufaula. He was running a bait shop. Couldn’t believe my eyes when I walked in to buy some stink bait. I almost didn’t recognize him. The young Nolte had morphed into a bad version of the older one. We had a beer and a couple of laughs. But after I hurt my back in 2008 I haven’t been able to make the drive anymore. Don’t know whether he’s still there or not.”

Bodie was taking notes. The thrill of the hunt was kicking in.

“I don’t suppose you remember the name of that bait shop?”

Shorty laughed. “Yeah. It was one of those real memorable names. Bait and Beer.”

Bodie grinned. “Thanks, Shorty. Take care.”

“You, too,” Shorty said, and disconnected.

Bodie hung up the phone, then turned to his computer, pulled up the phone records for Eufaula and began scanning the yellow pages for a bait shop called Bait and Beer. He found one, then began looking for the owner by cross-checking against a list of businesses with liquor licenses, which the owner would have needed to sell beer. When the name Samuel Gene Vincent popped up as having a liquor license for Bait and Beer, he printed out the info. Then he tapped into the Oklahoma Department of Motor Vehicles, found a corresponding name with an accompanying photo and printed that out, as well. Now he had a picture and an address. Shorty was right. Vincent did bear a striking resemblance to present-day Nick Nolte.

He slid the info into the cold case file, along with his notes, and headed for the parking lot. He planned to contact Maria Slade tomorrow, but he was too hyped to go home. He wanted to show her the DMV photo and see if it rang any bells. He pulled the card she’d given him out of his pocket, dialed her cell phone and waited for her to answer.

Maria was just about to go downstairs to the hotel restaurant when her cell phone rang. The caller ID came up as the Tulsa Police Department. Suddenly there was a knot in her stomach. She answered quickly.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Slade. This is Detective Scott.”

Maria sat down on the side of the bed. “Yes? Is something wrong?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

She sighed. “Oh, okay, it’s just that I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight, so of course the first thing I thought was that you’d changed your mind. Sorry. That’s how my brain’s been working these days.”

“No problem. Say, listen…would it be all right if I came by? I have a couple of things I want to show you.”

“Yes, of course.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s after seven. I was about to go downstairs to dinner.”

“I haven’t eaten since breakfast…except for some cake.”

Maria grinned. “You’re welcome to join me, but won’t your family be expecting you at home?”

“No wife. No kids. No dog. And remember that cake all over my desk when you came in?”

“I guess,” Maria said, unwilling to admit she’d been so nervous she hadn’t seen anything but his face.