Agnes Hahn (22 page)

The tape started again. It had to be something worse than that. Did Ella say too much, or was she about to say too much? Something that needed to be silenced. Old man, did you molest all of your daughters? Is that why Gert and Ella took Agnes, and why she doesn’t remember anything about her years before that? And why didn’t they take Lilin, too?

He stopped the tape before another cycle. Someone was coming down the hall.

“What do you think?” Bransome’s voice filled the room. “Does he look like the type to suffocate his own sister?”

“Too hunched to see his face. Besides, I don’t know the look of siblicide. But I did notice his right hand has the shakes. He’s probably the one who wrote the letter to Agnes.”

“I didn’t catch that. Good job. I’ll have Saroyan work it up for the evidence file. Anything else?”

“Did he sign in?”

“No.”

Jason chuckled, remembering the difficulties he had at the entrance to the home. “I bet he walked in and greeted the receptionist like he lived there. No need for a disguise.”

“My thoughts, too. You want to take a ride?”

Jason spun around on the wheeled chair. “What’s up?”

“I’m heading down to Inverness, to meet up with the Marin County people. They talked with some guy at the post office there. He steered them to a small house just outside of town. They’re planning to invade the place this morning. They offered to wait until we showed up, and I accepted. You want in?”

Jason didn’t answer right away. It was the first time he’d seen a hint of a rounded edge in Detective Bransome’s demeanor. But a quote came to mind, source unknown: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Bransome didn’t do anything without an objective in mind. But an opportunity was an opportunity. “I’m in.”

“Good. We have to go right now. You’ll be my cameraman. Just snap everything I tell you to. And don’t go off on your own. Let me be the lead.”

The house was really just a cabin—two rooms and a bathroom. The living area had a full kitchen along one wall, and was sparsely decorated with a table and two chairs, a couch and coffee table, and a rabbit-eared television. A double bed and chest of drawers nearly filled the small bedroom. The bathroom had a toilet, sink, and shower stall, so cramped a man could sit on the commode and wash his face in the sink at the same time.

The view out the front windows was beautiful. Through a part in the trees and shrubs across the road, the narrow band of pure blue water that was Tomales Bay reflected glimmers from the late morning sun. The area was quiet, pristine, not yet choked with condominiums and BMWs.

Bransome threaded a beige, canvas satchel over his head, onto his shoulder, and under his left arm. The bag had six small, mesh pockets on the front, and at least two large pockets in the back. It appeared to be homemade.

Each chamber bulged with goodies. A pocket-sized spiral notebook, evidence cards, various types and sizes of bags, fingerprint dusting kit, forceps and tweezers, metal probes, tape measure, assorted other implements Jason didn’t recognize, and who knows what in the large, rear pockets. A sense of kindred preparedness warmed Jason’s core.

Bransome pulled a quad-ruled sketchpad from one of the rear compartments and began sketching the main room. He pushed the tape measure around and between the pieces of furniture, jotting figures onto the diagram.

“Don’t just stand there. Take photos from all four corners.” He tossed a notepad to Jason. “Number all of the photos, even if the flash doesn’t go off. Make a notation for each photo. Subject, direction, things like that. We’ll do the other rooms next. When we finish that, I’ll start taking evidence, and I’ll give you a tag number for each photo. Match that number with your negative number sequence.”

Bransome preferred film to the convenience of modern digital cameras. He’d explained it as a distrust for the latter’s long-term storage potential. More like a lack of confidence. And with the editing power of programs like PhotoShop, a crooked cop could create evidence at the push of a mouse. That was the distrust part.

The camera was a ten-year-old Nikon. Heavy, but nearly indestructible, as suggested by the numerous scratches and dings covering the body. The lens was a macro, capable of everything from an “infinity shot” to a close-up in which a single fingerprint filled the entire frame. And there were no worries about holding the camera steady for the close photos. Bransome’s pride was a telescoping unipod that stretched to nearly five feet, and collapsed to around twelve inches. The camera mount had a ball-and-socket joint that could be locked in any position with the twist of a knurled ring. He had explained he had it custom-made years ago, complete with a leather case that clipped on a belt, or on a satchel.

Two Marin County officers charged into the cabin and opened cabinets and drawers.

Bransome grimaced. “Do you people mind ransacking the place after I finish doing some police work? You’re contaminating the evidence.”

The officers pulled back to the front porch and mumbled something inaudible.

Bransome was methodical, but he worked faster than the flash recharge time of the camera Jason wielded. “Hold on” was Jason’s main means of communication. In return, Bransome used a restricted repetition of three exclamations to punctuate his work. So far “shit” was leading “nice” by at least a twenty-to-one margin, and there hadn’t been a single “holy crap” since he bagged a matchbook right after walking in the door.

He dusted and lifted prints from every surface. Each time, he requested a photo, recited a number, jotted a notation in his notebook, then filled out an evidence card before attaching the lifting tape to the card.

“With all the dust, there may not be enough oils left for good prints, particularly if they’re more than a week or two old,” Bransome said. “At least we have heat and humidity working for us. Still, we’ll have to take a lot of them, hoping for a few good ones. We may have to smoke some of them. I’ll leave them for last. We’ll take the paper and cardboard back with us and ninhydrin them at the station.”

Bransome walked to the refrigerator and dusted the door and handles. More photos, more notes. He opened the lower door. The only items were old bottles of ketchup, mayo, and apple juice, all half-full. The freezer was empty.

One of the Marin boys peeked in the front door and after a quick look around, spoke in a timid voice. “You mind if we take off for a while? We’re in the way right now. Looks like it’s going to take you some time. The place is secure.”

Bransome didn’t look up. “Come back in two hours. I’ll be about done then.”

Once the officers’ SUV fired up, Bransome exhaled with a loud wheeze. “Donut withdrawal.”

“Just what I was thinking.” Jason snapped a picture on Bransome’s nod. Their collaboration had settled into an efficient interaction that didn’t require verbal orders. “The first murder occurred down around here. Did these jokers work it up?”

Bransome lifted another print and logged it in his notebook. He nodded for a photo. “Don’t blame them. They’re not the crime scene people. They probably don’t get much of this sort of thing around here.” He let out a muffled grunt. “You have to understand. The second thing we do after we pin on the badge is go out and piss on the boundaries of our jurisdiction. That creates problems when there’s multicounty cooperation. When a leader is appointed for a multicounty task force, someone pops a champagne cork and someone else impales a voodoo doll.”

Interesting dynamic. The officers were Bransome’s brothers. Jason nearly chuckled. And not his. Bransome was free to chew them out, but he circled the wagons when an outsider shot an arrow.

Jason lowered the camera to the floor. “What’s the first thing?”

“What first thing?”

“You said the second thing you do is piss on the boundaries of your jurisdiction. What’s the first thing you do when you pin on the badge?”

Bransome dusted another smudge. “Donut. We eat a donut.” No flinch in his expression.

The more he watched Bransome work, the more Jason was impressed. Details he wouldn’t give a second thought commanded intense scrutiny from the experienced eyes and hands of Detective Art Bransome. Jason grinned when Bransome went on all fours, his face inches from the filthy shower stall floor.

“Holy crap.” His tweezers pulled a matted wisp of gray hair from the shower drain.

“DNA?”

Bransome turned his head and smiled. “Hope so. We didn’t get a decent sample from the envelope flap of Agnes’s letter.” He paused with the tweezers held inches above the drain and nodded for another photo. “Saw a brush in the medicine cabinet. I’ll get some from there, too.”

The roar of the SUV engine approached and cut as Bransome dropped the hairbrush into a bag.

“Perfect timing. They can trample the place all they want now. Bet you the bottle of ketchup ends up in one of their refrigerators.”

Jason snickered. “The apple juice probably won’t make it that far.” A cringe snuffed the chuckle.

Bransome smiled.

Jason ran out of small talk within the first ten miles of the return trip, so they settled into the mutual silence of reflection. At least Jason was reflecting—on how he had misjudged Bransome as a bungling back country yokel. Thorough police work appeared to come naturally to him, to the point that it was effortless, without emotion. Yet, he was emotional about his cases. Their interactions from two years ago bore that out, as did their early dealings on this case. But why was he being so accommodating now? Were they really working together, or was this Bransome’s way of keeping an eye on him? The quote about friends and enemies came back to him.

Bransome lunged, startling Jason. The detective’s burly arm thrust backward and grabbed a bag from the backseat. The cruiser swerved, then corrected.

Bransome brought a clear bag to his face, anchored it between his teeth, and pulled it open with his free hand. He held the opening out to Jason.

“Pork rinds?”

Jason peered into the bag. A familiar pile of curled, fried pork skins stared back.

“I love those things. But I usually eat so many of them I get a stomachache.” Jason reached his hand in the bag and pulled out a modest handful.

“Shouldn’t eat them alone. The next step is heroin.” Bransome chuckled.

Jason crunched into one and watched Bransome jab his huge hand into the bag and come out with a fist’s worth of the contents. Three of the rinds went into Bransome’s mouth, two fell to his lap, one fell to the floor of the cruiser, and five still remained in his paw.

Jason watched the detective clear his hand in two mouthfuls and pick off the escapees on his lap before the second swallow.

Bransome reached for the floor with his right hand and the cruiser banked hard to the right. He straightened and brought the car back from the road shoulder. He kicked with his left foot, kicked again, and then reached to the floor, this time with his left hand. He brought up the pork rind, now dusted an even brown on one side—it probably carried a little of Mendocino and Marin Counties on its surface. Bransome blew hard on the rind and wiped it on the breast of his shirt three times before popping it in his mouth. He turned to Jason and spoke, pork rind dust showing his breath. “The five-second rule is waived with pork rinds. It’s international law. A real man doesn’t let a single one go to waste. The ultimate conundrum is if one falls in dog shit.”

Jason reached into the bag again and pulled out another modest handful. “What’s the solution?”

Bransome laughed. “It depends on whether anyone is watching and if there’s a hose nearby.”

Jason added to the air pollution with a hard, dusty laugh.

The next mile passed with the alternate sounds of crunching and crinkling of the bag. The contents were already half-gone.

Bransome looked over at Jason. “I guess I was wrong about you. I didn’t have you pegged for a pork rind man.”

“My dad used to sneak a bag into the grocery cart when my mom wasn’t looking. He wouldn’t get away with it very often. When he did, we’d grab my brother and sneak off to our tree fort. We’d knock the bag down straight and chase it with a shared quart of Pepsi. Then we’d all practice burp talking.”