Pretty Girl Gone (22 page)

I still held to my plan, although it had been pushed back over four hours. Using my map and the address I had gleaned from the Internet, I found Josiah Bloom’s place across from the Nicholas County Fairgrounds. There were no other houses in the vicinity and I wondered why it had been built there. Nor was there a garage, only a strip of asphalt next to the house. The strip was empty.

I knocked on the door and waited. After a few moments I knocked again. I tried the latch. The door was unlocked. I gave it a gentle shove and it swung open. I called Bloom’s name several times. No answer. I stepped inside and was immediately seized by a sense of dread so deep inside me that it felt I had been born with it.

“Mr. Bloom?”

All the shades were drawn, turning the bright winter sunlight into gray shadows. I moved through a tiny living room filled with furniture that didn’t match. There was a TV and a VCR. A long screwdriver had been jammed into the mouth of the tape machine—the sight made me consider returning to the Audi for my gun. Instead, I crossed into the dining room beyond. Through an open door on my right I saw a bathroom. To my left was a small arch and what looked like a kitchen.

“Mr. Bloom?”

I smelled something I couldn’t place. It reminded me of cat urine,
but what was that sweet smell mixed with it? It seemed to come from the kitchen, and smelling it did something to my body. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rising, felt my lungs fight for air. Perspiration welled up under my arms and on my forehead and I swore I could hear—actually hear—the beating of my heart as I drifted toward the kitchen. I found a switch and flicked the light on.

Half of Josiah Bloom’s body was in a chair, the rest slumped over a small wooden table. A puddle of rich, red blood nearly covered the table and dripped into another, much larger puddle on the pale yellow linoleum floor. I gagged when I first saw the small entry hole surrounded by burned and unburned gunpowder in his right temple. I gagged again when I discovered that the bottom left side of Bloom’s head was gone, that his blood, bone, teeth, and brain were splattered on the kitchen wall, cabinets, and floor.

My gag reflex kicked in and I ran to the bathroom. I found the toilet, hovered above it, my body shuddering, until the gagging finally subsided. I took pride in not vomiting—the first time I came across a dead body I had. I rinsed my mouth and splashed cold water on my face.
Contaminating a crime scene, oh this is so smart,
my inner voice told me.
Wouldn’t they be proud of you back at the St. Paul Police Department? Oh, wouldn’t they, though?

“Suicide,” I told my reflection in the mirror. “I drove him to suicide.”

Get over yourself,
my private voice replied.

“Why then?”

The smell of cat urine was far greater in the bathroom and I began to look for the source.
Did Josie keep cats?
I found two large plastic buckets, one filled with empty cough medicine bottles and the other with batteries. The bathtub was hideously stained.

“Well, that might be a reason,” I said aloud.

I forced myself back into the kitchen and examined Bloom’s wound. Next I searched for the gun. I found it in an unlikely location—Bloom’s hand. I looked at it for a long time. Then back at the entry wound.

“Danny isn’t going to like this,” I said aloud before I called 911.

I gave my statement twice, first to Mallinger, then to the medical examiner, a local doctor who moonlighted for the county. Mallinger had made sure that no one entered the kitchen before the ME arrived, including herself.

“An apparent suicide,” the ME announced. “However, there are some inconsistencies. For one, we have a footprint and some smearing in the blood on the floor.” He held up his camera for us to see. “I have several shots of it.”

“That was me,” said I. To prove it, I showed them the tip of my boot, now stained red. “Sorry.”

The ME took a photograph of my boot. Apparently he was a oneman forensics department.

“What else did you do?” he asked.

“I used the bathroom.”

The ME had a disgusted look on his face. Mallinger nodded her head in understanding. She looked like she wanted to vomit herself.

We were outside, standing next to Mallinger’s cruiser. She was pale and I noticed her breath was coming hard. Other officers hung about waiting for instructions, but Mallinger waved them back. I suspected that she had never seen as messy a crime scene before. Unfortunately, I was about to make it worse.

“It wasn’t suicide,” I told the ME.

“Yeah, it was,” the ME said.

“It wasn’t.”

“Since
CSI
everyone’s a criminologist,” the ME told Mallinger.

“Bag his hand, the hand holding the gun,” I insisted. “Bag Bloom’s hand so it won’t rub against anything when you transport the body and test it for gunshot residue.”

The ME glared at Mallinger like he expected the Chief to do something. Only the Chief was still too shaken to appreciate what I was telling her.

“Listen to me,” I said. “The wound—it’s a downward path.” I pressed a finger against my own temple, pointing the finger at my jaw. “It’s an awkward way to hold a gun. Usually, the path of the bullet is upward.” I adjusted my finger accordingly. “There’s tattooing around the wound, but no abrasion collar, which means the barrel wasn’t pressed against the temple when it was fired. Something else. The gun.”

“What about it?”

“It was large caliber.”

“So?”

“He shouldn’t be holding it. The gun should have fallen from his hand.”

“Ever hear of cadaveric spasm?” the ME said. “I’ve seen suicides who go into spontaneous rigor mortis, who grip the gun so tight you have to pry it from their fingers.”

“Only he’s not gripping the gun. It’s just resting in his hand like someone set it there.”

The ME was looking at me now like he was amazed to hear that we
spoke the same language. I’ve met a lot of half-smart people like him before. It was always difficult for them to believe that there were other people in the world just as half-smart.

“I’ll bet if you try to lift fingerprints, you’ll discover the gun has been wiped clean,” I told him.

“Who’s the professional here?” The ME was addressing Mallinger. “He’s getting in the way.”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” I said. “Maybe I am. Will it kill you to find out for sure? If this were Ramsey County you’d have a GSR—a gunshot residue kit. Swab his hand and test it for gunpowder. What would it hurt?”

“What
would
it hurt?” Mallinger asked weakly.

“We don’t have the facilities,” the ME said. “I’d have to send it to a private lab and that’s gonna cost the county a thousand dollars.”

“Is that what we’re talking about?” Mallinger asked. “A thousand dollars?”

“Chief—”

“Bag the hand.”

“I’m telling you—”

“Bag the hand,” Mallinger shouted.

The ME threw up his own hands in disgust.

“Something else,” I said.

“What?” the ME asked.

“This is going to be even more expensive.”

“What?”

I looked directly into Mallinger’s eyes so she would better understand what I was telling her.

“There are signs of methamphetamine cooking all over the place. The odor of cat urine? That’s what it smells like. Ephedrine from the cold medicine, lithium from the batteries—that’s part of the recipe.”

“Are you saying Josie Bloom was cooking meth?” the ME asked.

“Yes. In his bathroom. You can see the stains on his bathtub.”

“No way. Josie wasn’t smart enough.”

“If you can make chocolate chip cookies, you can make meth.”

“Are you sure?” The strength was returning to Mallinger’s voice.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Then where is the lab paraphernalia?” the ME wanted to know.

“Good question,” I told him. “I couldn’t find any of the meth Josie cooked, either.”

“How hard did you search?” Mallinger asked.

“Not as hard as you will, I bet.”

“What should I do?”

“Call the Nicholas County Sheriff’s Department.”

“No, this is my case.”

“This is murder, Danny. Don’t make the same mistake your predecessor did.”

“If the GSR test comes back negative, then I’ll call the sheriff.”

“Look, you’re going to have to call him anyway. After you finish with Josie, you’re going to need someone trained in dealing safely with meth to go over the scene. Then there’s cleanup. For every pound of meth, there’s six, seven pounds of hazardous waste. Josie could have poured it down the drain. He could have tossed it into his backyard.”

“I understand,” Mallinger said. “I’ll take care of it. Thank you.”

“Danny,” I said.

She glared at me like I had just committed a cardinal sin using her first name.

“Chief Mallinger,” I said. “Be smart.”

“If you’re so smart, maybe there’s something you can explain to me,” the ME said.

“What’s that?”

“The screwdriver protruding from Josie’s VCR. What’s that about? Was he hiding his drugs in there?”

“People who use meth, they become so damned paranoid, they
wonder where those people on the TV are. They attack the TVs and VCRs with screwdrivers and hammers to find them.”

“Stay here,” Mallinger said. She sauntered over to her officers and gave a few orders. They dispersed in opposite directions, each happy to be finally doing something, although what they were doing I couldn’t tell you. The ME went back inside the house. Mallinger retired to the inside of her police cruiser and started working the radio.

I stood outside and shivered.

There was no traffic on the county road, and I was surprised when a battered SUV arrived, shuddering to a stop behind the ME’s van. Kevin Salisbury stepped out of the SUV in a hurry, afraid he was missing something. Like the ME, he carried his own camera.

“Whaddaya got?”

“Are you talking to me?”

Salisbury glanced about, looking for someone to talk to. Finding no one, he returned to me.

“The police scanner said there’s been a shooting.”

“The ME’s inside. You should talk to him.”

“Yeah.” Salisbury made for the house. Mallinger stopped him.

“Whoa, Kevin,” she called as she left her vehicle. “Where are you going?”

“I want to go—”

“No, no, no. Come here.”

Mallinger took the reporter aside and spoke to him like she had been doing it her entire life. For his part, Salisbury furiously wrote down her words in a notebook. After a few minutes Salisbury raised his camera. Mallinger shook her head. From his body language, I had the impression he was pleading with her, apparently without success. After a while, Salisbury began taking photos of the house, but he didn’t attempt to enter it.

Mallinger rejoined me at the car.

“I don’t want you speaking to Kevin,” she said. “Okay?”

“Not a word. I promise.”

“I appreciate it.”

We watched the reporter circling the property, looking for an angle to shoot from that would make his photos seem ominous.

“What do you think happened?” Mallinger asked.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“I already don’t like it.”

“I think Josie’s death is connected to the murder of Elizabeth Rogers.”

“How could it be? That was thirty years ago.”

“I spoke to Josie last night. He made some reference to—When I asked him about the night Elizabeth was killed, he said, ‘Oh, what did we do?’ When I pressed him, he said, ‘I can’t tell you.’ Then he passed out. I came here today to learn what he meant.”

“Do you honestly think someone killed Bloom to keep him from telling a complete stranger a secret that he’s managed to keep to himself for over three decades? That’s kind of a reach, isn’t it?”

“This morning I went to see Dr. Dave Peterson in Mankato. He was willing to talk to me yesterday. Now all of a sudden he’s too busy to even say hello. That’s when I did something foolish.”

“No. Foolish? You?”

“I left a note telling Peterson that I was going to ask the BCA to reopen the investigation. The next thing I know, someone runs my car off the highway and puts a bullet in Josie Bloom’s head. If it wasn’t for the deep snow in the ditch, I’d be as dead as he is now.”

Mallinger shook her head.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Chief—”

“I buy the first part. You started asking Josie a lot of questions, his partners found out about it, panicked, and kill him. I’m willing to accept that. Bloom was a weak sister and he was getting weaker. I think he was killed because his accomplices were afraid he would tell you something
about their operation, and that’s as far as it goes. The thing on the highway this morning—there’s no evidence that that was anything more than road rage. The fact that you’re asking questions about Elizabeth Rogers, that doesn’t mean anything.”

“You can’t just eliminate the possibility.”

“Sure, I can. You know, the guys in the truck, that could just as easily have been the two punks you punched out in front of Fit to Print. Did you ever think of that?”

“You know about them?”

“It’s my town.”

“C’mon, Chief.”

“I’m lazy, McKenzie. I admit it. I don’t like to work hard. That’s why I want to be chief of the Victoria City Police Department instead of going to a bigger city. I was looking forward to a long, uneventful career. Now this.” Mallinger sighed deeply and massaged her temples. “We’ll test Josie’s hand for gunshot residue. If it comes back positive, we’re going to call it a suicide brought on by drug abuse.”

“If it’s negative?”

“If it’s negative—ah, dammit. Wait here.”

Mallinger disappeared into the house. The ME was following her when she returned ten minutes later. He smiled broadly as he approached Salisbury, as if speaking to the media was the most fun he could have. Mallinger flagged down one of her officers and spoke to him. The officer nodded his head like he was taking instructions.

“Come with me,” Mallinger said as she approached her cruiser.

“Where are we going?”

“To our tiny, antiquated law enforcement center. I’m only doing this to get it out of the way, understand? We’ll take a hard look at Elizabeth Rogers’s file to see if there’s anything that even remotely supports this goofy theory of yours.”