The Dead Detective (24 page)

Mort Janlow, the assistant M.E., finished his examination and turned the crime scene over to the forensic unit before joining Harry and Vicky on the small landing outside the front door. “Looks like the same killer—superficially at least,” he said. “I’ll be able to tell more once I get him on the table. But the killer was a strong son of a bitch. The cut went back so far it nicked the spinal column.” He raised a finger. “But that nick in the bone should let us ID the knife as the murder weapon if we ever get our hands on it.”

“You see anything else that we might pick up from the autopsy?” Harry asked.

“Are you talking about fingerprints on skin, something like that?” He watched Harry nod. “Nothing that’s obvious right now. The body looks fairly clean. There’s some loose hair on the scalp and some more on the shoulders. I suspect the killer held him by the hair to pull his head back just before he cut into the throat.”

“Yes, I saw that,” Harry said. “He didn’t do that with Darlene. He held her close to him when he cut her; pressed up against him. You could tell that from the disturbance their feet made in the sand on that small beach and by the blood splatter evidence from the initial cut.”

Janlow nodded. “But he may not have wanted to do that with a man, to keep him close to him like that.”

“Why is that?” Vicky asked.

Janlow gave her a cautionary look, almost as if he thought his next words might embarrass her. “I don’t know anything for certain, but according to the literature I’ve read on the subject, it’s not uncommon for a killer to become sexually aroused when he kills with a knife, or by strangulation, or anything that brings him in close physical contact with the victim. Maybe in this case our killer didn’t want to be close to another man when he began feeling aroused.”

“He didn’t want it because it was sinful.” There was a faraway sound to Harry’s voice, almost as if he was speaking to himself.

“That could very well be,” Janlow said.

“Maybe he just didn’t want to get blood on himself,” Vicky said with a snide edge in her voice.

Janlow took in the exchange, a small smile forming on his thick lips. “Are we having a professional spat, children?”

“Just a disagreement about who our primary suspect should be,” Harry said.

Janlow grinned at them. “More than one suspect strong enough to be a primary? Be grateful when your cup runs over, kiddies.”

“Except you just got through examining
his
primary,” Vicky said.

Janlow raised an eyebrow. “The young minister?”

Harry nodded.

Janlow smiled again. “I’ve heard the department folklore that the dead speak to you, Harry, but with this poor devil you might be asking a bit too much. His voice box is all chopped up.” He let out a low cackle, then turned to the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.

Vicky and Harry also turned and saw Jim Morgan coming up toward them.

“Any luck with Benevuto?” Vicky asked.

“He didn’t answer the door at his apartment, and his car wasn’t in the lot,” Jim said. “I tried his cell phone, but didn’t get any response there either.”

“There are a couple of bars he hangs out in,” Harry said. “I’ll give you the names and addresses.” He paused. “Do you intend to bring him in for questioning?”

“That’s the eventual plan,” Jim said. “Right now I was just going to see if he had an alibi for tonight.”

“Take Vicky with you. If you find him, bring him in. Let’s get the interrogation out of the way when the office isn’t full of his peers. But don’t start questioning him until I get there.” Harry glanced at his watch. “I shouldn’t be here much longer. When forensics finishes I’ll connect up with you.”

Vicky gave him a long look. “If we find him and decide to bring him in, do we cuff him?”

Harry let out a long breath. “It’s your call. If he was my suspect, I wouldn’t. He’s still a cop. But he’s also not supposed to be carrying, so pat him down and make sure he isn’t.”

Marty LeBaron, who headed up the CSI unit, pointed to the prints that marred the light tan carpeting on the apartment floor. “We’ve got a beautiful blood footprint leading out the door. The shoes are an eleven-C, and you can see a nice pattern in the heel of one print. They won’t be hard to identify when we find them. Blood gets absorbed into the soles and heels; you never get it all out. So unless our perp tosses them, we find them, we nail his ass to the wall.”

“So find the shoes, we find the killer. Sounds simple,” Harry said.

Marty grinned at him. “It is simple, so why don’t you get your ass moving and do it.”

“You notice anything under the victim’s fingernails, any fingerprints on his skin, defensive wounds?” Harry asked.

“The body was pretty clean. There were some fibers on the back of his shirt. Probably left there when the perp first came up behind him; also some hairs that weren’t his. But it was less than we usually find. We’ll sort it all out back at the lab. As far as skin prints go, nothing. It’s my guess the perp wore latex gloves.”

“So you’d say it was a pretty clean crime scene? Like somebody who knew what they were doing?”

“What are you trying to say, Harry?”

“I want to know if the crime scene looks like it was handled by someone who knew how to keep the level of evidence down.”

“Like a cop?” Marty’s eyes narrowed.

“Some people are looking real hard at a cop,” Harry said.

“I can’t say that, Harry. And I sure as hell wouldn’t testify to that.”

“Ease up, Marty.” Harry placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not trying to nail a cop for this. I just want to be able to answer any questions that come up.”

Marty looked away momentarily. “It could have been someone who knows crime scenes,” he conceded. “For everything except the footprints, that is. It took a real asshole to leave footprints like that. The clown never even made an effort to clean them up. If he had, we probably never would have gotten that heel print.”

“Maybe something scared him off,” Harry speculated.

“The way this guy killed these two people, he doesn’t strike me as the type who scares easy.”

“You wouldn’t think so,” Harry said.

Vicky and Jim found Nick Benevuto in one of the bars Harry had suggested, a Hooters wannabe joint located on 66th Street just off Ulmerton Avenue. Nick was seated in an obscure booth nursing the same drink he had ordered when he arrived an hour earlier. He was dressed in a black silk short-sleeved shirt, open at the collar, and tan slacks with a razor crease. Vicky thought he was living up to his nickname: Nicky the pimp.

“What the fuck do you two want?” he asked as Vicky and Jim stopped at his table. “Or are you just here to feed off what’s left of me? Fucking vultures.”

“We need to know where you were earlier tonight,” Vicky said.

Jim had placed himself so he blocked Nick from making a quick exit from the booth, and Vicky was off to his side so she had a clear field of fire. Nick looked at each of them; saw the way they’d positioned themselves.

“This a bust?”

“We just need to ask you some questions,” Vicky said.

“Ask away.”

“Where were you tonight?”

“I was home. I just came out about an hour ago, wanted to have a couple of drinks. No big surprise. They suspended my ass today.”

“Jim went by your place about two hours ago. Nobody answered the door.”

“I never heard the door.” He glanced up at Morgan, contempt filling his face. “Maybe your rookie partner went to the wrong door.”

“Your car wasn’t in the parking lot,” Morgan said.

“Then I’d already left, asshole. What else can I tell you?”

“So you were at home between two and five this afternoon?” Vicky asked.

“That’s right.”

“Was anybody with you?” Jim asked.

Nick held up his right hand. “Yeah, Mary Fist. I’m sure you know her well, jerkoff.”

“That’s not necessary,” Jim said. “We’re treating you with respect; you can treat us the same way.”

Nick let out a barking laugh. “I got a problem there, boyo. I don’t respect either one of you. So I guess I’d have to fake it.”

“Then fake it,”

Vicky snapped.

“Fuck you,” Nick snapped back.

“On your feet and assume the position,” Jim said.

“What? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Do it,” Jim ordered. “Do it or I’ll charge you with resisting the lawful command of a police officer.”

“You arresting me?”

“You’re going in for questioning,” Vicky said, seizing control back from Morgan. “Let us pat you down for weapons and we won’t use cuffs.”

“Why you cunt …”

“Now,” Morgan growled. His raised voice made several patrons turn to watch them.

The sudden attention seemed to embarrass Benevuto. “Alright, alright,” he said in a softer voice. “But can we do the pat down in the parking lot?”

“As long as you behave yourself,” Vicky said.

Morgan gave her a look that told her he thought it was a mistake to grant Benevuto’s request.

Benevuto reached into his pocket and then froze when he saw Morgan and Vicky tense. “I just want to pay for my drink,” he said. He removed a wad of folded bills held by a money clip, pulled out a ten, and placed it next to his half-finished drink. “I suppose you don’t wanna wait for me to get change.”

“Leave the whole thing,” Vicky said. “It’ll make the waitress remember you.”

Nick was alone in the interrogation room when Harry arrived at the office. Vicky and Jim filled him in.

“So he has no alibi for the time period when Bobby Joe was killed,” he said when they had finished.

“None,” Vicky replied. “And when we found him he was dressed in clothes that looked like they’d just come from the cleaner. I checked with Rourke and got an idea of what he wore to work today. It didn’t even come close. I’d like to get a warrant to search his condo.”

Harry held up a hand. “I don’t think we have enough probable cause for a warrant. Let’s interrogate him first, see what you come up with, and then we’ll decide where we go from there.”

“Are you going to question him?” Jim asked. There was an edge in his voice that Harry picked up on—as though he feared Harry might try to steal Benevuto away now that his own suspect was dead.

Harry shook his head, and glanced at each of them in turn. “I’ll watch through the glass. The interrogation is all yours.”

Vicky and Jim huddled outside the interrogation room, setting up strategy, as Harry entered the viewing area. He took a chair facing the one-way window. Nick Benevuto was seated no more than ten feet away, isolated and alone. Harry saw a lonely, beaten man, not the same pushy, thoroughly obnoxious detective he had worked with for more than five years. All the cockiness was gone from his eyes and Harry knew that any manifestation of it that he managed to force out would be little more than false bravado.

Nick’s head snapped around to the sound of the door opening and he watched Vicky and Jim enter and take chairs opposite him across a small metal table. There was a mix of relief and irritation in his eyes. Harry understood it. Suspects did not like to be isolated, especially in a small, closed, windowless room. They felt threatened by it. But they were equally threatened by the interrogation that followed. It was a confusing mix of emotions. Nick showed that now. He glared at his fellow detectives with open disgust. It was a feeling, Harry knew, that would never fully disappear, no matter the outcome. And he had little doubt that there would also be a dose of it for him as well.

Speaking to no one in particular, Vicky gave the date, the time, the location, and the names of all persons present; then advised Nick that the interrogation was being tape recorded, and that he had a right to have an attorney present.

Nick waved the statement off. “I don’t need a lawyer. If I decide I do, I’ll tell you your interrogation is over.”

“Fair enough,” Vicky said.

“Let’s start with Darlene Beckett,” Jim began, indicating that he would take the lead in the interrogation.

It was a smart move, Harry thought. Nick’s attitude toward women would keep him from dealing with Vicky with any degree of openness. On the other hand, by taking the secondary role, she could jump in and force an issue whenever an irritant was needed.

“Start wherever you want,” Nick said. “You can start with Marilyn Monroe. I didn’t kill her either.”

“You already admitted that you had a sexual relationship with Darlene. Isn’t that true?”

“I slept with her a couple of times. I was trying to get her to turn snitch for me, and I was trying to get close to her. I got a little too close. It was a mistake.”

“How many mistakes did you make?” Jim asked.

Nick glared at him. “Do you mean how many times did I fuck her? It’s okay, kid, you can say the word. Your tongue won’t turn black and fall out.”

Harry saw Jim’s jaw tighten, but he kept his cool. “How many times?” he asked again.

Nick gave out a little snort. “Three, four, I didn’t keep count. To tell you the truth, for all her looks she wasn’t that great.”

“Then why did you keep going back?” Vicky snapped.

Nick seemed pleased that he had irritated her. “I didn’t say she was terrible. I might even go back to a bitch like you for a second or third roll in the hay. Who knows?”

“Not on the best day of your life, slimeball,” Vicky retorted.

Jim raised a hand, calling for an end to it, and Nick laughed out loud. First round to the suspect, Harry thought.

“According to the younger Reverend Waldo you were pressing Darlene for sex, but it never happened,” Jim said. “At least that’s what she allegedly told him.”

“And?”

“Who’s telling the truth, you or him?”

“Was he fucking her too?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“No it’s not, rookie,” Nick barked, taking charge again. “If he was fucking her, why would she admit that she was balling me too? She might say I wanted to fuck her to make him jealous, but why tell him she’d already spread her legs for me?”

“Jealousy, that’s an interesting point,” Jim said. “You didn’t know that she was sleeping with him—with Reverend Bobby Joe Waldo?”

“I assumed she was sleeping with anybody who had a dick. That’s the kind of broad she was. For crissake, she slept with fourteen-year-old kids, didn’t she?”