Speak for the Dead (4 page)

Memory. He tugged a brittle tip of a lily leaf and ground it to powder between thumb and forefinger. Maybe that was why the hair was combed and the head set like a bit of statue in the living green of the streamside: memory. And if that was it, then maybe she and her killer had been here before—or had somewhere shared some garden. Wager scooped a pinch of damp earth from the lily bed and sniffed its crisp cleanness. What kind of person? It was easy to shrug and answer, “Some nut.” The evidence—Doyle’s evidence—pointed at some nut. But in the back of his mind, Wager questioned if it was that simple.

The aggregate walk bent toward a small rectangle of water that reflected mounds of sculpted earth rising like miniature Mayan temples. At first, he had not liked them because they were too angular to be natural. But as he wandered between their straight lines and open faces, they gave a sense that the flower beds were much, much larger; and they blocked the surrounding houses, streets, and apartments to create hollows of sky and privacy. At the highest part of the gardens, the main fountain gushed and splattered to fill the cool air with its sound. The water flowed through the grounds in lines and pools, ending at a final level near the patio where a knot of men gazed over a retaining wall at something on the west side. Wager went toward them.

Two uniformed officers glanced up. Wager identified himself to the corporal in charge. On the other side of the waist-high wall, two more officers dragged a grappling hook through a small, deep hole filled with scummy water and bordered by high weeds. Their shoes made sucking sounds as they moved.

“Nothing?” asked Wager.

“Not a goddamned thing. We’ll be through here in a few minutes.”

The final third of the grounds, weedy and unkept, sloped west toward the rusty gate and Cheesman Park across the street. On the garden’s south edge, multi-windowed backs of mansions rose over a low hedge. Access could have been made there, but it was less likely; a person would have to cross private land, probably with a plastic bag in hand, past somebody’s guard dogs or silent alarm system, and then scramble through the hedge. “Your people have gone along the tree line down there?”

“No trace of nothing.”

Wager turned back toward the conservatory. In front of the main entrance, a group of senior citizens craned their necks. The lab people’s cardboard sign “
CRIME SCENE KEEP OUT
” closed the admission window, and Wager heard an old woman’s cracked voice ask over and over, “What? Why won’t they let us in? What?”

Mr. Sumner, white hair now tamed, met him in the lobby. “We were supposed to open at nine, Inspector. We’re an hour and fifty-one minutes past that. How much longer is this going on?”

“It shouldn’t be much more. Did the medical examiner get here yet?”

“I really have no idea. The ambulance took the thing away, but there’s still someone in the conservatory.”

“Is Dominick Mauro here yet?”

Sumner gave a short, disgusted sigh and looked once more at the customers held outside the gate. “In Greenhouse One.”

A lab man crouched to flip a fingerprint brush lightly at the outside handles of the emergency door.

“Any luck?” asked Wager.

“Plenty—and all bad. When you get this many prints, you know none of them mean a thing.”

“Nothing inside?”

“No. The alarm system for this door hasn’t been tampered with, and there’s no sign of forced entry anywhere. My guess is somebody used a key.”

That was Wager’s guess, too. He turned in to the warm air of the first greenhouse; in the far corner, on folding chairs drawn up to a table with a large coffeepot and hot plate, sat three men. “Is Mr. Mauro here?”

“I’m him.” The man closest to the pot stood. An inch or so taller than Wager and perhaps ten years older, Mauro had a thick round body that didn’t show signs of softening. His nose had long ago been broken and moved slightly away from center.

“Detective Wager, homicide. Can I talk to you?”

“Why not?” He shoved a chair with his foot. “Sit down.”

The other two men were unsure whether to go or stay. Then, without saying anything aloud, they decided it was their coffee break and Wager was the intruder. They sat and pretended not to hear his questions.

“Were you the last one to leave yesterday, Mr. Mauro?”

“No. It was my day off.”

“On a Tuesday?”

“I worked last Sunday. Me and Sal change off weekends; whoever works Sunday gets next Tuesday off.”

“Who locks up when you’re not here?”

He bobbed his head at the two men in overalls. “Leon or Joe. They’re the senior gardeners.”

“They have keys, then?”

“Not their own. They use the emergency master—it’s over there, locked in the keyboard.”

A small steel cabinet with a glass door hung just inside the entry. It was secured by a combination padlock.

“It’s that first key,” added Mauro.

“They use the master to lock up the conservatory, then lock it in this greenhouse when they go home?”

“That’s it.”

“How many people know the combination to that padlock?”

“Only them, I guess. I don’t know it, anyway.”

“Can I talk to you two a minute?”

The elder of the two—lean, with large rimless bifocals—looked up. “Couldn’t help hearing—me and Joe worked yesterday, but it was me that locked up. Leon Duncan is my name.” He held out a hand that looked too wide for its thin wrist.

The second man stuck out his broad hand: “Joe Mazzotti. It’s a terrible thing. Really terrible.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Lord, no!” said Duncan. “We just heard about it when we come in to work.”

Wager copied their names and addresses into his notebook. “Can you tell me what you did when you locked up last night, Mr. Duncan?”

“Sure I can. Mostly because there’s not much to it. Nick, here, he’s got the hard end of the job when it comes to locking up. Me, I just look through the conservatory and the bathrooms and lobby to make sure nobody’s there. Then I lock up. We never had anybody get locked in yet; but if they did, they’d sure have a time getting out. No, no, wait. If they was in the conservatory itself, they could get out the emergency doors, but them bells would set off a racket.”

“Yes, sir. Did you—?”

Duncan didn’t hear him. “If they was in the lobby section, now, they’d have the devil of a time, wouldn’t they, Nick? All them doors is latched with a key and you can’t open them without one, inside or out.” Behind the bifocals, the eyes frowned. “But the telephone’s in there, ain’t it, Nick? They could always call somebody and get out that way. If they had a dime.” Another pause. “I don’t know what they’d do if they didn’t have a dime.”

The other groundskeeper nodded, and Wager got the feeling that was the most Mazzotti ever had a chance to do. “Yes, sir. Do you check out the other areas, too? Gift shop? Library?”

“No, I don’t. Because those folks are supposed to shoo everybody out themselves, and I can’t recollect ever finding their doors unlocked. I guess if I did, I’d look and see, though.”

“What do you do after you lock the outside door?”

“After? Well, I put the key back in the cabinet and lock the greenhouse. Can’t be too careful, what with them heads running around and everything.”

“Yes, sir. Did anybody ever find the master key missing? Do you know if anybody ever lost one?”

“Well, I tell you—I been here almost eighteen years now, and the conservatory was built in 1966, that’s ten years ago, and there ain’t been no keys missing since then.”

“How many people know the combination to that padlock?”

“Two. Me and Joe; that’s all. That’s all that needs to know. Anybody else wants a key to something, they can always find me or Joe.”

Wager turned back to Mauro. “What’s your routine when you lock up?”

“I make sure the temperature and humidity’s right in the conservatory; then I check the water timers and secure the conservatory doors. Then I check the education wing. Like Leon said, they’re supposed to lock their own areas, but I check just in case; they’ve screwed up more than once over there. Then the thermostats in the lobby area … windows in the offices and gift shop. Then I mop the toilets and the lobby. Then I leave.”

“See?” said Duncan. “He has a lot to do when he locks up.”

“Yes, sir. Do you use the north doors, too, Mr. Mauro?”

“Yeah. There’s only one set to lock.”

“Do any of you know any females matching the victim’s description—maybe twenty-five, short blond hair, regular features?”

“Do I know any?” answered Duncan. “Well, I see them around, you know, in the supermarket and such. But I sure don’t know any.”

Mauro and Mazzotti shook their heads.

“Could I have your address, Mr. Mauro, in case I have to get in touch with you again?”

“It’s 1308 Garfield. Upstairs.”

Upstairs. In that neighborhood, it meant a room or small apartment in a private home. “Do you live alone?”

“Yeah.”

Wager wondered if his weariness made Mauro seem distant and almost sullen. God knew he was too tired now to come up with any more questions, and when he reached that stage the whole world seemed sullen. But at least by now his mind told him he had done enough, and he knew it would finally let him sleep. “Thanks a lot.”

On his way back to the car, he glimpsed the lab technicians taking down the “
CRIME SCENE
” signs and saw the senior citizens finally line up at the admission window—and thought he heard a cracked female voice ask, “What? What do they want now?”

H
E CAME BACK
on duty a bit before midnight. The two-tone brown office on the third floor was empty, as was the twenty-four-hour board that held bulletins, urgent messages from other shifts, replies to queries. No one from Wednesday’s day or evening tours had questioned the apartment dwellers overlooking the Botanic Gardens. Or, if they had, there was nothing to report. Wager repeated the query for Ross and Devereaux, and added, “Let me know who you miss; I’ll pick them up.” He hoped that would gig Ross into not missing anyone.

From the top drawer of the filing cabinet, the one labeled “
ACTIVE: CURRENT CASES UNSOLVED
,” Wager drew out the “Deceased Unknown” jacket with his initials on its lip. The folder held only a Xerox copy of the offense report filed by Officer Bauman; so far, the lab had come up with nothing. He read over both sides of the legal-sized sheet, especially the narrative section, but there was nothing that the policeman had omitted in talking to Wager. He telephoned the laboratory.

“Lab. Baird speaking.”

“This is Wager. You people got anything yet on that head?”

“We have some photographs is all. The day shift took some impressions of the teeth and started the dental check, but you know how long that’ll take. Besides, it hasn’t been listed as a definite homicide.”

The classification of death hadn’t crossed his mind, but Baird was right—a homicide tag meant top priority and could save time. “Why not?”

“We don’t know for sure how she died. There was nothing in the brain to indicate cause, and no marks on the skull. It’s possible that it was natural causes.”

“Jesus Christ—do you really think that?”

“Nope. But that’s all the evidence says, Wager. The pathologist thinks the head was severed right after death, maybe within an hour. He’d have to see the rest of the body to be certain, but he can’t declare the actual cause of death with what we have.”

“Was a knife used?”

“It looks that way. The folds of skin indicate a cut made from behind and between the fifth and sixth cervical vertebrae, but the doc says that whoever did it sure as hell wasn’t a surgeon.”

“Why?”

“They tried to cut straight through instead of angling the blade. He found scratch marks on the lower tip of the fifth vertebra where the blade sawed before slipping between the bones. Apparently the victim was face down on a hard surface, and that compressed the vertebrae. Which makes sense—he wouldn’t have to look her in the face while he hacked away.”

“The doc thinks it was a man’s arm?”

“A strong woman could do it. But most likely a man.”

Wager jotted the information in his green notebook. “Could the doc get an idea of the time of death?”

“He needs the rest of the body to be certain.”

Which no one had located since the head had been found this morning. His next call was to missing persons; after a dozen rings, a woman officer answered.

“This is Detective Wager in homicide. Has anybody reported a missing female, Anglo, around twenty-five, short blond hair?”

“Do you have a description of her clothing, sir?”

“No. All we got is the head.” He was getting tired of saying that.

“What? Oh, yuk! Is that the one they found at the Botanic Gardens? I read about that in this afternoon’s paper.”

“Yes. The report probably came in during the last two or three days.”

“Just a minute.” It took her longer than Wager thought it should; she was probably covering four or five offices for the graveyard shift and didn’t know the missing-persons layout. “Detective Wager? We have maybe a dozen reports on missing teen-aged girls in the last week, and three for elderly women. But nothing in that age group.”

“If anything comes in, would you let me know?”

“Yes sir. I’ll put it in the request file.”

And that, he thought, would be the last anyone ever heard of his request. He drained a cup of coffee from the machine in the hall and then headed for the records section. Chances were against him on this, but it was a thread and, like all the others, had to be tugged. A tall brunette, whose starched blue police shirt swelled out nicely, smiled at him. Wager filled request slips for Solano, Duncan, Mauro, Mazzotti, and Sumner, and pushed them with his I.D. card across the small shelf toward the hovering breasts that bore the chrome name tag, “J. Fabrizio.”

“Just a minute, please.”

Beneath the dark uniform skirt, her slender legs slowly unveiled as she leaned further and further over the open trays of records. From around the large center block of pillars and wiring boards that was the communications center of records strolled a tall uniformed cop, another one whose blond curly hair looked too long for Wager’s liking. He said something to J. Fabrizio, his voice lost in the clatter and humming of teletypes, police frequencies, typewriters, and the inevitable radio music; but the hand he placed on the curve of her hip spoke more than words. She pulled straight, the profile of her mouth saying “not here.”