Drop Dead Perfect (An Ellen Harper Psycho-Thriller) (5 page)

“Enough, Sanchez. So, what do you mean about not liking what you’ve seen so far?” asked Brice.

She was relieved to talk about what they had found. She didn’t want to get into another altercation with Sanchez or spend more time studying Brice’s face. At least at that moment.

“Once in a while these cases can be suicide. Someone gets into their best outfit, then swallows pills or ends it some other way. They even leave messages like this one.”

Ellen held up the bag with the “NOT HER” sign.

Detective Rogers frowned, but stayed silent.

“That didn’t happen here. Her neck was broken at the C3 and C4 vertebrae, and she has bruises on both sides of her jaw.”

“Time of death? Or do you need the ME tech to figure that one?” asked Sanchez.

“No. The film over her eyes develops to this stage after a few hours, even if her eyes had been closed. That and the level of rigor, considering the outside temperature, I would say six to eight hours.”

“She was reported here less than an hour ago. So in light of that information, that obviously means she wasn’t killed here. I mean the killer wouldn’t dress her up, then kill her. That could get messy and the killer wanted her to look good, in my opinion,” said Brice.

“I agree with that. Also—”

Just then, Oscar rushed up beside her, clutching her arm. He barely looked at the detectives.

“I found something else you need to see,” he interrupted, excitement in his voice.

“What?” asked Ellen.

“Just follow me, all of you. Now.”

CHAPTER-7

He stood to the left of the last Chicago PD cruiser, cell phone glued to his ear.

“I know. I’ll do what I can. Just wait for my call. We’ll get it handled.”

“You better,” said a calm, arrogant voice on the other end. “I did what you asked. Now it’s your turn.”

“I . . .
I know. I’m grateful. But if I do this wrong, we’ll both be in deep shit, okay?”

“I’m pretty sure your level of shit, as you say, will be far greater than mine. Nevertheless, this unfortunate set of circumstances could compromise my position. But that’s why I have you. You’re not going to let that happen, are you?”

“No,” he whispered, “I’m not.”

“Make sure you don’t.”

The line went dead. So did a little more of his heart. This man meant business, but that was all right. So did he.

He put the phone back in his pocket and headed for the yellow tape that protected Clara Rice from the outside world.

CHAPTER-8

Bending to one knee, near the tall elm tree just inside the farthest area marked by the yellow crime-scene tape, due west of the body, Oscar pointed to a small shred of plastic protruding from the ground.

Ellen dropped to his side and took out her magnifying glass.

“What the hell is that?” Brice Rogers asked softly.

“You mean besides an old, empty plastic bag, half buried because of the winter melt?” said Sanchez. “Come on, Oscar. We don’t have time for this crap.”

Oscar shook his head. “How did you ever make it to
detective, Sanchez? You gotta look closer.”

“Bite me. It sure wasn’t by digging up old bags and goofy shit like this. You scrawny punks are all alike with the smartass remarks that you can’t back up.”

“I can back it up. Just look closer, detective, like I asked, and see if you see what we see. And, for good measure, maybe later, if you’re a good girl, I’ll teach you how to look scrawny.”

Sanchez crossed her arms. “What the hell does that mean, you
little—”

“Enough Sanchez. Look and don’t talk,” said Brice, staring at his new partner. “We’re working a case. If you can’t get that through your head, go home. I don’t have time for petty-ass vendettas or this street
macho junk, clear?”

“Clear.
Sorry.”

Her eyes said otherwise.

Brice kneeled and pointed. “Have you seen this before?”

Ellen
moved close. She was no more than three inches from the half-inch tip of clear plastic standing ridged in the dark soil. It was dirty, but definitely not old. She leaned back and took in the area around the bag. The ground had been disturbed, as if someone had dug a hole, buried something, and then covered it up.

“No, detective. I don’t think so. Good catch, Oscar,” said Ellen. “We’ll need to be careful, and I want all of the soil bagged . . . but we need to get started.”

“Get started to do what?” asked Brice.

Turning to answer him, she hadn’t realized how close
he was to her. The faint scent of his aftershave was an experience she hadn’t enjoyed from a man, any man, in a long time, not to mention the way those eyes scanned her face. The man was just plain hot . . . and she had noticed, again. That’d been a while too.

“Ahh, digging. We need to get started digging,
” she answered, gesturing toward the general area, sweeping her hand back and forth.

“See there? The ground is freshly disturbed. You can tell, even though the spring weather has caused more moisture to form as the underground frost melts. Someone has dug a hole and dropped something in it, leaving this corner of a new, not old, bag showing and then covered it.”

Brice nodded, running his hand over his chin. “That leads to a few questions. The main one: was the corner of the bag left above ground on purpose? Along with that, will digging this up endanger someone in the process?”

“Yeah. What if it’s a freaking bomb or something like that? Maybe even some biohazard, dirty-bomb thing that could kill everyone in the city,” said Sanchez, her eyes intense.

Ellen tugged on her earring and then stood up, her anger threatening to make a sudden appearance.

Now I remember why I punched the wench.

Exhaling slowly, Ellen concentrated on the image of Clara Rice’s face. How her loved ones would react when they discovered she was dead. Perspective. That was another thing the department psychologist had repeated to her. Deal with what was important at the time. Not emotional, but factual. It was difficult, but that line of thinking was actually working, somewhat.

“Brice is right to have some concern, but not too much. The hole is small, too small to contain anything as far reaching as Sanchez expressed anyway. It looks like whoever did this was in a hurry. The ground’s not smoothed over, and he or she displaced some old leaves and failed to return them. If this is related to Clara’s murder, what’s in the bag could have been an afterthought, a detail that the killer had forgotten to take care of right after staging the body.”

Standing, Brice nodded. “Makes sense. But you’re also saying this might not be related to the case. If that were true, then why would someone do it?”

“Only one way to find out,” said Ellen, looking at her partner. “Ready, Oscar?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Let’s have at it.”

“Will do, Ellie. We’ll take it real slow. I’d also like a cop or two nearby in the event we need a little help hauling the evidence bags to the truck, just in case we find a small bomb that could destroy an area two city blocks wide.”

“What? I thought you said that wasn’t gonna happen
!” yelled Sanchez.

Oscar blinked innocently at the detective, his mischievous grin forcing Ellen to laugh out loud.

Sanchez bit her lip. “Real funny, dipshit. I was going to volunteer to hold your girly hand and help out, but you can kiss my—”

“Relax, Bella. He was just having some fun. We’d like you to stay here and make sure everything is done right, okay? But first, I’m going to call in and report to the captain,” said Brice.

“Okay. Whatever. I’ll wait for you. But I reserve the right to shoot both of them if they mess with me anymore.”

“You’ll have to file a discharged-weapon report if you do. That would look like hell on your first day in this district,” said Brice, flashing a quick smile.

Great smile.

“That’s a good point, Rogers. I can shoot them another day.”

“Suit yourself. At any rate, we need to get out of these people's way, so I’m going to call in to get some next-of-kin information and a little more background on the victim. I’ll also get the blues going with door-to-door interviews. I’m sure Oscar and Ellie, ah, FT Harper, want to see what’s under the ground as badly as I do.”

The sound of her name coming from his deep voice sounded nice. Very nice. She didn’t know what was going on, totally. Only that, maybe, she was taking a step or two toward recovering from the hurt she’d been dealt at the hands Joel Harper. For the first real moment or two in over a year, she was . . . aware. Not just double-look aware, but the kind of thoughts that you think about when drinking hot cocoa and getting ready to wrap up the day.

“You’re right. We do. I’m calling for two more FT teams to help with the rest of the area so we can take advantage of the light. Three teams are not enough,” answered Ellen.

Brice Rogers looked at her a little longer than he needed. His quick smile made another appearance.

“Okay, we’ll be back shortly. Come on, Sanchez. I need your help for a minute.” He headed toward his car.

She watched him go, and then turned to her partner.

“Let’s get started, Oscar. I need to go back to finish processing the body too.”

Ellen reached for more gloves in the front pocket of her jeans when Sanchez grabbed her arm and stopped her. “Listen, bitch. You might think you’re better than me, but you ain’t. You’re gonna pay for embarrassing me. I have to behave for now, but you and I ain’t done, got it?” she hissed.

Jerking her arm away, Ellen bent down to the shorter detective. “You’re totally capable of embarrassing yourself on your own, and I couldn’t agree with you more—we’re not done. But right now, we’ve got a problem. Pull your head out of your ass and start thinking like a detective.”

“There you go again. What does that mean?”

“It means we’ve got evidence to collect; that’s what FTs do. But think for a minute. What if the killer did plant that bag on purpose and wants us to think otherwise? With that kind of attention to detail, that could mean the killer’s going to do this again. That means a possible serial killer in the making. Do
you
get
that
?”

Sanchez’s mouth dropped open. She recovered, started to speak, then gave Ellen a contemptuous look and hurried after Brice.

Ellen shook her head and then dropped beside Oscar.

“Wow. She needs to get laid,” he said.

“Damn it, Oscar. We’re working here. Don’t put that image in my head.” She wrinkled her nose at him, grinning.

“Funny girl. But you’re right. I have to think before I speak. Now I’m going to have more
nightmares than normal.”

“I know what you mean. We’ll worry about Sanchez later. Let’s get this done.”

Fifteen minutes later, they had six evidence bags filled with the dark dirt, evenly encircling the deepening hole. Each one contained small particles of unidentified material that would have to be analyzed, which was part of the protocol that she’d helped write last year. Cases had been solved with lesser leads. She prayed this one would be cut from that cloth.

Reaching the last thin layer of soil, Ellen slowly uncovered the content of the plastic bag just as
Sanchez and Brice returned, both looking over her shoulder without speaking.

They’d been right. The bag was dirty, but definitely new.

With one handful to go, Ellen suddenly stopped. She took her magnifying glass from her pocket and moved closer.

After fifteen seconds of dead silence, Brice broke it.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, yet. I’m making sure, one last time, that there are no wires leading away from the bag. I think we’re good,” answered Ellen.

Gently gathering the last handful of dirt, the object in the bag became clear. It pulsed a tiny blue light, went dim, and then repeated the action.

Looking at Oscar, then glancing to Brice, she slowly lifted the bag out of the ground and looked closely at the cell phone housed inside.

A moment later, the phone’s background image appeared, and it took Ellen’s breath away.

Even through the smeared dirt, she could see the picture of Clara Rice sitting in a chair dressed in nothing but underwear, screaming, her face a portrait of unimaginable terror.

“Shit,” said Sanchez.

“Holy Mother of God,” whispered Oscar.

“I don’t think God had anything to do with this one,” said Brice softly.

He was right. It was now abundantly clear just how much evil was involved with this murder.

Ellen’s own words began echoing in her head.

A serial killer in the making . . .

CHAPTER-9

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Holly. I truly am. You were very special. One of a kind.”