Murder in Just Cause Page 3

  “That,” said Acton, “is very interesting.”

  Doyle continued, “He’s stickin’ to her like a burr, but you may want to speak with Sergeant Ruppe alone, with me listenin’ in.” If the woman lied, Doyle would signal to Acton, and then at least they’d know that she couldn’t be trusted.

  But Acton only replied, “If I questioned the two officers separately, what would be the result?”

  Seeing his point, Doyle acknowledged, “They’d know we were suspicious about somethin’, and they’d both clam up.” Law enforcement officers tended to protect each other and close ranks—even if they were at odds within those ranks. There was an unwritten code of loyalty, and they tended to have each other’s backs, come what may.

  Munoz returned as Acton pulled a pair of gloves from Doyle’s field kit, and the other girl offered, “There’s CCTV in the stairwell and covering the entrance, sir. I will ask the field unit to secure the tape for review.”

  “Do so,” Acton agreed. “Although I’d be surprised if either is of any use. Instead, I’d like to know why the lift is disabled, and how long it has been so. I’d also like to know who called this case in, and when, and whether the victim is known to have lived here.”

  After a moment’s startled silence, Munoz glanced at the body, and then at Acton. “You believe this was an orchestrated body-dump, sir? And that the killer was hoping that no one would bother to look too closely?”

  Acton’s unreadable gaze rested on the corpse, arrayed on the kitchen floor. “We are here too early. Another day, and it would have been difficult to discover that he’d been frozen. Also, he was left on the linoleum floor so that all evidence of defrosting would evaporate. A carpet, on the other hand, would have been damp for some days.”

  “Oh,” said Doyle, as the light dawned. “And that’s why we need to find out who called it in; someone knew that it was all a misdirection play, and wanted us to twig it out.”

  There was a small silence, whilst they contemplated the still, silent figure on the floor. Her brow knit, Munoz asked the obvious question. “Why would the killer go to such pains?”

  Acton replied, “We will soon find out. I imagine that the victim is not what he seems.”

  Thinking this over, Munoz slowly shook her head. “But he is, sir—begging your pardon. I was assigned to kook-detail last week, and the victim was a walk-in kook. He spoke of all number of mad conspiracies.”

  Acton was silent for a few beats. “Was the interview taped?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “Please hold off on securing it, Sergeant—and hold off securing your report on his interview. Instead, let’s ask for a report on the disabled lift. I would also like to see the initial log report from Dispatch with respect to this homicide.”

  “Yes, sir.” With the air of someone who was a bit chastened that she hadn’t thought of this herself, Munoz stepped aside and pulled out her mobile.

  Doyle stood beside Acton as he watched the Coroner’s team—now being very thorough in their endeavors—for a thoughtful moment. “What about Sergeant Peterson, Michael?” Doyle asked him in an undertone. “He’s the one who wanted a detective to have a look. D’you think he knows somethin’? Mayhap he’s the one who called it in.”

  “We shall see,” was the only response she was to receive.

  Doyle added, “Munoz says he’s from some famous police family, if that makes a difference.”

  Acton met her eyes for a moment. “So is she.”

  Doyle stared at him in surprise. “She is?”

  “I believe she is his sister.” With a careful stride, Acton entered the room to speak to the Assistant Coroner.

  Chapter 4

  He was packing, and wearing a vest, and if they wanted to try to take him out, they’d have a jolly good fight on their hands.

  Whilst Doyle hovered in the doorway, she tried to gauge her husband’s reactions as the Assistant Coroner gave him her report. She decided—with some relief—that he seemed nearly his normal self, as he listened intently to the woman. He was troubled by what he was hearing—although nowadays, the poor man’s default setting was “troubled” as a matter of course, which was unsettling all on its own. Indeed, she’d gone back to work a few days earlier on the hope that it would help—that it might encourage him to ease his mind back to their old familiar routine; how things had been before the baby was born.

  Acton rose, and carefully stepped back toward the entry door, where Doyle and Munoz awaited further instructions. He asked Munoz, “Were there drugs on the table, when you arrived?”

  “No, sir. The neighbors may have got to them, of course.”

  “I would be very surprised,” Acton said, “if there are any neighbors.”

  The two girls were silent for a moment, and then Doyle ventured, “It’s part of the set-up, d’you mean? No witnesses to see them plantin’ the body?”

  “No one’s come out to have a look,” Munoz agreed. “It does seem strange.”

  “Should I run his prints?” Doyle asked.

  “We don’t need an ID,” Munoz reminded her. “He’s my kook, and they vetted him when he came in to headquarters.” She paused, trying to remember. “His name was Bettis, I think. Mark or Matt Bettis.”

  Acton crossed his arms and allowed his gaze to wander over the shabby flat. “What was your impression of him, Sergeant?” When witnesses came forward—particularly voluntary ones—the police officer taking the interview was always supposed to assess the person’s credibility, since a paper report may not reflect the innate sense that another person would take away from the encounter.

  “Not credible,” Munoz said immediately. “He’d a wild story—I lost interest pretty quickly, and he seemed frustrated that I wasn’t very sympathetic.”

  “You don’t want to encourage them,” Doyle noted fairly, and then subsided when her husband met her eyes. So—I’m not to defend Munoz when she’s being called on the carpet; right, then.

  Acton pulled his mobile to make a call. “DI Williams,” he said into the phone. “Is there any chance you could spare a moment to meet us here at the projects? We will need to pull a few resources away from the Cavanaugh matter, if they can be spared.”

  After listening for Williams’ response, he rang off and then scrolled for another number. “Ms. Chaudhry,” he said to his assistant. “I will need a copy of DS Munoz’s interview tape as well as her report on a walk-in witness from—” he glanced at Munoz.

  “Thursday last,” Munoz filled in.

  “Thursday last,” he continued. “A Mr. Bettis, I believe. If the report is unavailable, please do some digging on the servers. And I would appreciate it if you do not leave a footprint.”

  He rang off, with Doyle silently contemplating the alarming fact that Acton felt it possible that Munoz’s kook-report had been scrubbed from the records.

  Munoz, who was no doubt contemplating the same thing, felt compelled to say, “I know the circumstances surrounding this homicide look strange, sir, but the victim seemed your average kook. He was one of those who thought immunizations were a government plot to kill people.”

  This was actually a recurring theme amongst the kook-community; that the placement of fluoride in the water, or inoculations, or the use of pesticides—take your pick—was a nefarious government plot to do away with the citizenry. Any use of “chemicals” was to be viewed with the utmost suspicion—it seemed to be part and parcel of the general paranoia that came with a damaged mental condition.

  “It does seem evident,” Acton pointed out, “that the victim died shortly after giving his report to you, and that great pains have been taken to disguise this fact.”

  This seemed inarguable, and both girls were silent for a moment, contemplating this strange and undeniable truth. “I’ll check in with the patrol officers,” Munoz offered, clearly feeling that she wasn’t showing to advantage, here.

  “Let’s wait for them,” Acton said. “I would like to hear their report, also.”
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  This seemed to indicate that Acton wanted Doyle to listen-in to any reportings, and she was relieved that he hadn’t forgotten her uneasiness about the two—although in light of the revelations thus far, her uneasiness was justified, and anyone could see that the patrol officers shouldn’t be allowed to depart without some close questioning.

  Acton said to Munoz, “If you would, please inform the Assistant Coroner that we are going to need a thorough report—have the lab run every test, with no expense spared.”

  Doyle made a wry mouth. “I imagine the Assistant already knows this, since you are standin’ here, big as life.”

  But Munoz was more than willing to be useful, and stepped into the doorway to confer with the Coroner’s personnel.

  Doyle took the opportunity to ask her husband, “What is it you’re thinkin’, here?”

  “I don’t like this,” he said abruptly, and it was the truth.

  “How d’you want to handle the two sergeants?”

  Between the two of them, Doyle and Acton had various strategies they deployed during questioning—depending on how hard Acton wanted to go after the subject—because it had to be done in such a way that it wouldn’t raise any suspicions that the ordinary-appearing DS Doyle was actually calling them out for lying.

  Indeed, Acton had cautioned her—and more than once—that no one should be allowed to twig on to the fact that she was a human truth-detector, and Doyle could only agree; it was not hard to imagine the catastrophic consequences if such a thing were known. This priority was more important to Acton than any one case, and so they always had to proceed rather carefully. It helped, of course, that any seemingly-amazing insights could easily be laid at Acton’s door—since he was renowned for his case-solving abilities—rather than the door of his none-too-bright Irish sidekick.

  That her perceptive abilities should remain secret she’d instinctively known all her life, and therefore, she’d never spoken of it to anyone—not even her mother—until the very first day she’d met Acton, strangely enough. I knew I could trust him, she thought; it’s a testament, is what it is.

  “Let’s take it very gently,” he replied. “I don’t want to go after what they know about this—not as yet.”

  She nodded, and then glanced up at him with sympathy. “Did you manage some sleep?”

  “Some.” Due to her truth-discerning abilities, he was very deft at turning a plausible answer that didn’t truly answer the question. “I will work through it, Kathleen; please don’t worry.”

  She paused, and then asked, “And how’s our Edward?”

  “Napping.”

  “Good man,” she teased gently. “His father should take a leaf.”

  He smiled slightly in acknowledgement, and then she moved so that her back shielded them from view. “Let’s check-in on the boyo, shall we?”

  “No need—and we’re on-duty.”

  “Whist, I need a quick peek myself,” she wheedled. “It feels crackin’ strange, not to have him clingin’ to me like a barnacle.”

  Needing no further urging, he pulled his personal mobile from his inner jacket pocket and turned it so that she could see the screen, also. The phone was set to an application that showed the camera-feed from the nursery at home, along with the baby’s heartbeats and breathing patterns, based on sensors which were located beneath the mattress.

  “Still sleeping,” he said.

  “A shame he can’t give you some of his,” she teased gently, as he pocketed the mobile again. Acton had been having nightmares, every night without fail for some weeks, now. He wasn’t someone who needed a lot of sleep in the first place, but lately he’d only caught snatches before startling himself awake, and then sliding out of bed to go check on the baby.

  After days of coaxing, she’d finally managed to get him to admit that he kept dreaming that Edward was drowning in a river, and that he was helpless to save him.

  This, of course, arose from a scare they’d had on a recent holiday in Dublin, when an evildoer had tried to throw Edward into the River Liffey. The attempt had been roundly thwarted and with no harm done, so at first Doyle thought Acton’s dreams were only a remnant of the experience—and that the memory would fade over time. However, the nightmares continued unabated, and it seemed that no amount of reassurances—or the fact that Lord Acton’s infant son was constantly surrounded by good and reliable people—seemed to help. They’d even taken the baby into their own bed, but that experiment seemed only to have made it worse.

  Being as her husband was a complicated man, Doyle wasn’t certain how to best deal with this crisis, and wished she’d paid closer attention in the forensic psychology classes at the Crime Academy. She was further stymied because she couldn’t very well ask anyone for advice—the last needful thing would be to allow someone to discover that the famous Chief Inspector Acton could probably merit his own chapter in a psychology textbook.

  Her thoughts were interrupted as Munoz returned from her discussion to report, “The Coroner’s people think it’s an overdose, but they’ll need to do a tox screen to find out about the particulars. No post mortem bruises, or other obvious wounds, as yet.” This was a preliminary observation, as bruising oftentimes appeared later, after rigor mortis had come and gone—although Doyle wasn’t certain if the freezing acted to interrupt the usual sequence of decomp.

  “Have them check for fibers,” Acton said. “I imagine the victim was carried in a blanket.”

  At his signal, the two patrol officers then came forward, and Acton shook hands with both of them before addressing the female sergeant. “I believe we met at the induction ceremony,” he offered, in what was for him a semi-friendly fashion.

  The woman smiled, but Doyle was aware that she was agitated, and not at all happy to be reminded of this. “We did sir; it is kind of you to remember.”

  “Sergeant,” he nodded to Officer Peterson, again in a semi-friendly fashion. “Did we meet there, also? Forgive me if I do not remember.”

  “No, sir—I wasn’t there.”

  This was of interest, because Doyle knew that Acton was well-aware that he hadn’t yet met the male sergeant, and—strangely enough—the question had elicited a strong reaction, carefully hidden under the officer’s tight-lipped demeanor. Anger, perhaps?

  Acton glanced along the deserted balcony. “Report, please.”

  “No response from knocking-up the neighbors, sir,” Sergeant Ruppe responded. “I suppose that’s not a surprise, in this neighborhood.”

  “Who called it in, do we know?” Acton’s casual gaze rested on the open doorway.

  “Anonymous tip, sir.”

  Doyle brushed her hair from her forehead, in a signal to him that the woman was lying.

  “I suppose that is not a surprise, either,” Acton replied. “Do we have an ID?”

  This question was superfluous, since Munoz had already ID’d the victim, but nevertheless, Acton waited for a response.

  “No, sir—there was no ID on him,” Sergeant Ruppe answered, and it was the truth. She added, “But I think the victim is an informant.”

  Doyle brushed her hair back yet again.

  Acton raised his brows. “Oh? Do you recognize him, Sergeant?”

  “I do, sir. I’ve seen him around the station-house.”

  As this was another lie, it seemed to be a deliberate attempt to divert the investigation. Informants were often helpful to the police in that they were willing to grass on their mates in exchange for a payment, or for leniency the next time they were nicked for a crime. It happened most often in drug cases, since the user tended to be desperate to finance his next hit—no matter the consequences—and therefore, it was an unfortunate truism that informants tended to suffer for their turncoat behavior, sooner or later. It would be an easy solution to this homicide if the victim was an informant who’d been duly punished for his sins.

  Acton turned his thoughtful gaze toward the body on the floor. “Then we may have a motive, I suppose.”

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p; “It would seem so, sir,” Sergeant Ruppe agreed—a little too readily—and Doyle brushed her hair from her forehead again.

  “Thank you,” Acton said. “I would like a report by close of day, if possible.”

  A bit surprised that Acton had released the two, Doyle watched them walk away, and then Acton turned to Munoz. “If you have a moment, Sergeant.”

  Oh-oh, Doyle thought; I hope Munoz isn’t in trouble. On the other hand, it seemed unlikely that Acton would have Doyle there as a witness if he were planning on giving Munoz a dress-down, so it must have been something else; underneath his professional manner, Acton was quite grave.

  Her husband bent his head and was silent for a moment, before he addressed Munoz in a quiet tone. “I am concerned that this situation may have been an ambush, Sergeant, with you as the target. I would suggest that you stay away from stairwells or any other vulnerable places until we’ve investigated further—and make certain you always have another officer with you on any assignment.”

  Doyle could sense Munoz’s extreme surprise, which was equal to her own. “Yes, sir,” Munoz replied steadily.

  Acton raised his head to meet her eyes, very seriously. “Let’s keep this between us, for now.”

  “Yes, sir,” the other girl said again, and Doyle could feel her jolt of alarm.

  Chapter 5

  It looked like he’d bit. Thank God, thank God, thank God.

  “Thanks for getting me in trouble, you two.” Detective Inspector Thomas Williams stood with Doyle and Munoz on the crime scene balcony as Acton stood at a small distance, giving final instructions to the Assistant as her team zipped up the body-bag for transport. The three young detectives were friends, having come up through the ranks together at the Crime Academy.

  Doyle made a wry mouth. “How were we to know, I ask you? We thought it was your average burn-out, doin’ himself in, and that we’d be home in time for tea.”

  “I’m the one who’s in trouble, not you,” Munoz reminded them. “I’ve got a dead kook—they’re probably going to think I did him in, myself.” Following orders, neither girl had mentioned Acton’s ambush theory to Williams, even though Doyle knew it was uppermost in their minds.