No One Left to Tell (3 page)

The senior CSI, Scott Farrell, jutted his chin in greeting. "Hey, Raven."

"Hey, Scott. You just about ready to bring him down?" she asked as Tony joined them. Her gaze traveled up the wall following the rope that suspended the cross and the body. "Looks like a job for more than one person. What do you think, Tony?"

"Yeah, looks that way. Our priest over there says they haul the cross down for cleaning. That's the only reason it's not permanently attached to the wall. Without the DB, one person can break a sweat just with the crucifix. But with the added weight? Yeah, it's at least a two-person job," Tony replied, watching as two CSI techs strained to lower the body. "So we're looking for more than one suspect with no respect for the church. Two to hoist, but only one to do the carving."

Raven scribbled a note, then focused on the sign pinned to the dead man's shirt. The words were printed in ink. Safety pins fastened the scrolled message.

Seek the truth, Christian!

"No respect for the church, but what do you make of the sign?" she countered. "Religious fanatic?"

"Could be." Her partner sighed. "Zealots are the worst to figure. Maybe digging into the vic's background will tell us something."

Looking over her shoulder to the priest sitting in a pew three rows back, she asked, "We got a witness?" Even from this distance, she saw the man shaking, his eyes avoiding the gruesome sight of the body being lowered.

"No. No such luck. That'd be way too easy," Tony replied, a look of compassion on his face. "That's Father Antonio. He found our DB and called in the nine-one-one. No sign of forced entry. The chapel is usually open at this hour."

Lowering his voice, he added, "The good father is pretty shook up. Once we get the body bagged and off the premises, we'll talk to him. See if he remembers anything new."

She studied the priest. Short, dark hair framed a full face with childlike eyes. Yet after what he'd seen tonight, she felt certain he'd be irreparably marred by his experience. When she started to turn away, he caught her eye for an instant. Raven understood the pain conveyed in that look. She wanted to smile, but couldn't bring herself to do it. A slow nod was all she managed, but it had an impact. The priest returned her gesture, then closed his eyes briefly before sinking into the pew.

"Easy now. Lay him down easy," Tony directed.

With the cross and body lying flat on the floor, a CSI team member snapped countless photos. Raven felt like an interloper into the dead man's final moments. The horrified expression on his face was frozen in time, immortalized as evidence by the camera.

Raven scrutinized the body and noticed something peculiar. "Where's his coat? On a night like this, he should've had a coat." Tilting her head, she tried to get a better look. "And his tie is missing. Expensive suit like that would have a tie."

"Good eye, Mackenzie." Tony nodded. "And the slice and dice with a knife might make it personal."

Once the cameraman left, Raven stepped closer to the body and directed her question to Farrell. "Shouldn't there be more blood? I mean, a wound like that?" Kneeling, she stared dispassionately into the mutilated face of the victim. Her training helped to obscure the horror, but she knew this would be one more image to keep her up nights. "There's no arterial spray, either."

"We'll know more after the autopsy, but yeah, it looks like this isn't the kill site. There'd be more splatter in the church if the cut were made here. And check this out, fresh drain over dried." Scott knelt by her, holding a pencil in his gloved hand. He pointed to the dried stains on the man's suit. "The minimal pooling we see at the base of the cross was probably only made when the body was first hoisted up. What little blood was left at that point. That'd be my guess for now. With the temp in the room, won't have anything definitive on time of death until the ME does the postmortem. But my best guess at this point is two to three hours."

Her partner narrowed his eyes and stared at the face of the dead man, pointing a gloved finger at his temple. "What's this? Looks like some kind of bruise."

The CSI man leaned closer. "'Bout the size of a nickel." Pulling back the shirt collar of the victim, he pointed out, "Looks like there's another contusion here, on his neck. Not prepared to give you an answer on that one. We'll know more from the ME."

"And what's that smell?" Tony asked, sniffing the air near the vic's face and clothes. "Something medicinal or chemical?"

Raven closed her eyes and inhaled, sensing the first thing out of order. "Alcohol. I smell rubbing alcohol." With another whiff, she added, "It's all over his suit."

"I'll run an analysis on that, skin and clothes," the CSI man offered. He gave direction to one of his techs. "No sign of defensive wounds, but let's get those hands bagged. We may get some trace under his nails."

"Robbery's not the motive. Check out his Rolex." Feeling for the man's wallet, Tony found it tucked in his breast pocket. "And he's still got his money and credit cards, but no gun in his holster. Guy might've used it, though." Directing his next comment to the CSI man, he asked, "What about gunshot residue? We'd better check for GSR on his hands. See if he fired it recently."

With the dead man's jacket open, her partner found an ID badge with photo clipped to his belt. "Our vic is Mickey Blair." Concern registered on his face when he looked at Raven. "And it looks like things just got more complicated."

Tony held the badge for her to see, and Raven sighed. "Well, how'd we get so lucky? We'd better let the chief know."

"Let me know what?" The booming voice of Chief Sanford Markham echoed down the aisle. With the press out front, the man never failed to take full advantage of a good photo op.

The tall, elegant black man walked toward them, dressed in a tux with a long wool coat and scarf buffeting in his wake. Raven always suspected the man had been born on Krypton, a distant relation to Superman with his x-ray vision and supernatural hearing. And now it would appear Chief Markham had a life outside the office, something she couldn't claim. In reflex, she stood at attention when he neared.

Tony had been slower to react, but quicker on his reply. "The man worked for Dunhill Corporation as security. Nothing like a high-profile murder investigation." '

"This man might only be a foot soldier. Maybe it doesn't have to be high profile," Chief Markham contended, his eyes taking in every detail of the scene. "In fact, I insist on it. This type of case can get ugly fast. I want low profile with every
i
dotted and every
t
crossed."

"Everything by the book, yes, sir," Tony replied, with a glance toward Raven. "Like always."

"Not just 'by the book,' Detective. I know Fiona Dunhill. She can be a tough woman if she chooses to be, and politically well-connected."

"What are you suggesting, sir?" Tony's body stiffened.

"I'm not suggesting anything except to get the job done quickly, and with a little finesse, Detective Rodriguez. Make sure you cooperate with Mrs. Dunhill to the extent possible, without compromising the case. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir. Crystal." Tony waited for the man to turn and head toward the exit before he muttered, "Clear as mud."

"I heard that." Without missing a step, Chief Markham lifted his hand and shook a finger in admonishment. He kept walking, but bellowed over his shoulder, "And can you two dress a little more professionally when you talk to Fiona Dunhill? Quit taking fashion tips from Vice and Narcotics."

Raven's jaw dropped. She glared at the back of the chief's head as he left the chapel. Very uncharacteristic for a murder scene, a low rumble of laughter echoed through the room. It ended when she tried to catch the offenders. Even Father Antonio had been distracted enough to break his solemn expression with a faltering smile.

Tony only shrugged, checking out her attire. "Personally? I've always liked your taste in sweatshirts." With a grin, he tugged at the brim of her cap. "And your Cubs cap is way cool. A sure sign of a bleeding heart, always rooting for the underdog."

Her father's Cubs ball cap and her family home, a small bungalow on the fringes of the northern suburbs near Lincolnwood, northwest of Wrigley Field, had been part of her inheritance. Sergeant John Mackenzie had died in the line of duty fifteen years ago when she was nearly seventeen. With her mother dead just after her birth, she'd been practically raised by the Central Station House, without a female influence in her life. Coming from a long line of police officers, Raven had little choice but to pursue law enforcement as a career. It was a connection to her father—a bond they shared that transcended his death.

"You're not exactly Mr. GQ, Tony. Look at you." She fought to hide a smile. His Menudo concert T-shirt was his prized possession. She didn't have the heart to make fun of it. "I guess between the two of us, we're walking billboards."

"Don't be slammin' my tee. I love Menudo," he mumbled under his breath, hand over his heart in mock sincerity.

"I know, Tony." She indulged the man with a pat on his shoulder.

"Ricky Martin was in Menudo. Did you know that, Raven?" he whispered, adding a conspiratorial wink.

"Yes, Tony. And I'm livin'
'La Vida Loca.'"
She nodded, humoring him. She made some final notes in her book, but couldn't resist a quick glance down at her attire.

She had to admit she'd been influenced by Tony's usual fashion choices. The man worked undercover and came from the ranks of Narcotics. And being called at all hours, Raven paid little attention to her work clothes. She usually pulled her dark hair into a quick ponytail and poked it through the back of a ball cap. If she needed to deliberate over a case, she'd usually turn the cap around, rally style. Her good-luck ritual. It helped her think more clearly.

Over the years, she'd sacrificed fashion for function, working in a male-dominated career. Wearing makeup and donning anything remotely feminine always drew unwanted attention. These days, her fashion accessories included her badge, handcuffs, cell phone, a nine-millimeter Glock tucked into her shoulder holster, and a .38 strapped to her ankle. Being a gear freak, like most cops, she ordered more equipment and clothing from Galls law enforcement Web site than she did from any hoity-toity fashion catalog.

"Come on. Back to work." Tony's voice summoned her. "You done here, Raven?" After a quick nod from her, he gave the order, "Go ahead. Bag him."

When the gurney rolled down the center aisle, with her partner following, Raven wandered toward Father Antonio and sat beside him. Someone had given him a cup of coffee. The Styrofoam cup shook in his hands every time he sipped.

"The caffeine will probably keep me up tonight, among other things." He raised the cup, but stopped and lowered it again, avoiding her eyes. "Sorry. I don't know what I'm saying anymore."

"It's okay, Father. I understand. I'm Detective Raven Mackenzie. And that's my partner, Detective Tony Rodriguez." She shook the hand he offered. Tony waved from a distance, then joined them. He sat in the pew in front.

"Tell me what happened, Father Antonio," she began.

"Not much to tell. I came here to take confession. Got to the chapel just after dusk, maybe a quarter after seven. I was running a little behind my schedule, so I wasn't paying much attention, I'm afraid. That's when I found . . ." His voice trailed off. He took another sip of coffee. The dark, steaming liquid quaked in his grip. With the cup now held in his lap, Raven stared down into the dark ripples of his coffee when he spoke.

"I was praying when I heard the dripping sound. I thought we had a roof leak in the chapel." He tried to find humor in his assumption, but his laughter sounded more like a choked sob.

With the priest's last remark, Raven found the eyes of her partner, to see if he'd caught the same thing. But his face was unreadable.

She persisted, "Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary, Father?"

"It was dark," the priest replied. His eyes stared straight ahead, as if he were reliving the moment. "The chapel lights are usually on, but they weren't when I came in."

"And did you know the deceased, Father? Did he come to church here?" she asked.

"No. But I didn't—I couldn't look at him." The priest shook his head, struggling to block the memory.

"Can you think of anything else?" she prompted.

The young cleric shook his head, staring into his coffee cup.

"Well, if something comes to you, anything at all, call me. Even the smallest detail might help." Raven handed him her business card. Touching his arm, she got him to look her in the eye. "Be sure to get some help in dealing with this, Father. Don't try and do it on your own. Call me if you need a referral."

"Thank you, Detective. I appreciate your concern. I'll call if I think of anything."

Father Antonio stood and shook their hands. Two other priests escorted the young man back to the rectory. She and Tony watched him walk away.

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?" She glanced toward her partner.

"Depends on if you're thinking Starbucks and a Krispy Kreme would taste pretty good right now and that you'd like to get home before midnight. But if you're thinking that, I'd say we been partners too long," he bantered. When she narrowed her eyes, giving her best sarcastic look, he asked for clarification. "Enlighten me."

"I was just thinking about that whole blood-dripping thing, and how he heard that. I think our good father had someone watching over him tonight." When Tony looked puzzled, she explained. "The vic's blood was still dripping. That means Father Antonio barely missed the killers making their renovation to St. Sebastian. I think that whatever made him late probably saved his life."

Raising his eyebrows in agreement, he pursed his lips and nodded. "Interesting observation, Mackenzie. Well, you know what they say? He works in mysterious ways."

"Maybe Father Antonio's guardian angel will bring us good luck." She punched Tony's arm affectionately. "Now let's go tackle some paperwork. With us talking to Fiona Dunhill tomorrow, I got a feeling a mountain of paper, stale coffee, and secondhand smoke from the bullpen is gonna seem like heaven."