To Die For (3 page)

Bentley asked about Norma's typical routine. Jeri said if she wasn't somewhere with her best friend Alice, she usually stayed home and watched TV. If she was not going out, she wore a nightgown. Sometimes she would throw a blanket over her legs if it got cold, and she often fell asleep in her recliner. If she was going out or had just come back, she'd be in street clothes. Jeri said that Norma always wore slippers, even if she went out, but she never went out at night. If she was expecting a visitor, Norma would leave the front door unlocked because it was hard for her to get around. Otherwise, it was always locked.

And there was something else—Jeri said she'd left Norma's Medicare check on the kitchen counter. Had they seen it? Both Greco and Bentley said they had not seen it, but they would take note of it.

In the most diplomatic of terms, Bentley asked them to start thinking about someone in the family. Was there someone they knew who could have done something like this? This provoked quite a reaction from Jeri, a cross between shock and indignation.

“Absolutely not!” she said. “I know my family!”

Bentley said he didn't intend to offend them, but that the perpetrators in these types of cases usually come from within. There was no sign of forced entry and a frail, elderly woman was unlikely to have a high-risk lifestyle. Jeri and Russ said there had been a family fuss a few months ago over a grandson who had borrowed Norma's car and abandoned it in another city. It ruffled a few feathers because someone else had to retrieve the car. Bentley and Greco said they would check it out, but thought that it did not sound like something that would result in a murder, particularly one this gruesome.

The DA and the detective expressed their condolences again, said good-bye to the Armbrusts and ducked back under the crime-scene tape surrounding Norma's condo. Working a homicide usually means a lot of standing around waiting for the criminalists, the photographer and the coroner to do their jobs so you can do yours. That's where cops toss around their ideas about how they think the crime unfolded. It is sort of like playing the old board game “Clue.” It was Colonel Mustard in the den with the knife. No, another detective says, you're forgetting this clue. It was Mrs. White in the kitchen with the candlestick. Everyone pitches their theories, partly to pass the time, partly to help solve the crime and partly as a catharsis to make sense of it all.

Bentley thought that it was obviously an inside job. Someone had to know how to get in and out of this place, past the guards and the security. Greco was an Air Force brat. He used to sneak in and out of military complexes all the time as a kid and never got caught. But he didn't say anything to Bentley. Who was he to disagree with an experienced DA?

What stuck with Greco was Jeri. Why was she still taking care of the old woman? Neither she nor Russ were even related to Norma. Jeri's marriage to Norma's son had ended many years ago, she'd said. Were they financially benefitting from taking care of her? Would they benefit if she were to die? And why did Jeri waltz in with groceries, plunk them into the fridge and leave without popping her head in the door? Pretty odd behavior for a caretaker. And their demeanor was very calm, almost icy. There seemed to be little feeling behind the tears.

Greco was excited. He might have a suspect.

*   *   *

The criminalists were bringing the evidence out of the condo in brown paper bags. Like a scavenger hunt, where ordinary household objects achieve inflated importance during a fevered search, so goes the criminalist's quest for evidence. In death, the tiniest scrap—a thread, a blood smear, a hair—can solve a case if it tethers a killer to the crime. The criminalists bagged the obvious items: the trash basket containing blood-spotted mail, Norma's pillboxes, the afghan and her purse, along with some hair strands found near the kitchen sink and hanks of carpet and patches from a throw rug. Evidence item number one, of course, was the shoe print. The bags were placed in the trunk of Greco's car. He would book the bags into evidence when he returned to the station later that night. As they went through the house collecting evidence, the techs dusted for prints, but didn't find any suitable for comparison.

After waiting for hours outside, Greco, Bentley and Deputy Coroner Jim Camp re-entered the condo and headed for the upstairs den. The afghan had been removed from around Norma's feet, exposing her light blue house slippers and extremely swollen ankles, a poignant contrast to the relative youth and strength of the killer, assuming he wore Nikes. Cooksey and his assistant were taking tape lifts from Norma's clothing, just like using scotch tape to pull lint and hair from clothing. Greco had never seen a tape lift and watched for a moment as the criminalist expertly swept the tape over Norma's clothing, stuck the tape to labeled evidence cards, then sealed them together in a clear plastic bag before moving to the next item of clothing. When they were done with the clothing, Cooksey took a small tool, similar to what manicurists use, and thoroughly scraped underneath Norma's fingernails, just in case she tried fighting her assailant and inadvertently collected some DNA by scratching him. He also clipped her nails extremely close. The nail scrapings and clippings were bagged and labeled.

As they worked, Greco glanced around the condo thinking how clean and tidy it was. It was well organized, pleasant. There was no doubt that an older person lived there. The towels in the bathroom were hung right where they should have been. The beds in the guest room were made. This could be my grandmother's house, he thought.

His eyes came to rest on the phone cord that had been ripped from the wall. There was no jack in the study area where Norma must have spent most of her time; an extra-long phone cord had been strung from a bedroom down the hall to reach her recliner. He saw the cord, but no phone.

Greco wondered why the killer had used two knives. Downstairs in the kitchen, the paring knife from the same set was sitting on the kitchen counter, as if pulled from the butcher's block and left there because it was too small. Did the killer stab her in the chest, then go back downstairs, leaving the blood swipe on the chair on the landing, pick up the second knife and finish her off with the neck wound? He doubted that the killer had brought both knives upstairs at the same time. Norma was probably still breathing, he thought, and the assailant returned to the kitchen for the second knife.

When the criminalists were finished, they stayed so that they could do tape lifts on Norma's clothing after she was rolled out of her chair. Deputy Coroner Camp donned latex gloves and moved closer to Norma's body to get a good look at the wounds. Greco, Bentley, the supervising sergeant and the two criminalists formed a solemn half-circle around the bloodied figure in the recliner. Greco stepped next to Camp and caught the faint but unmistakable smell of death. Camp, looking closer at the body, said that it looked as if there might be more than one chest wound. The others were hidden by Norma's black sweater. There was a solemn, collective nod.

Greco had already told Camp that he wanted him to remove both knives there instead of waiting for the autopsy, so he could get them checked for fingerprints as soon as possible. Camp wrapped his gloved hands around the far edge of the wood-handled fillet knife embedded in Norma's chest and gently tugged. It was stuck. He grasped harder, pushing his fingers into the knife to form a vise grip and tried to wiggle it slightly, then tried pulling it again. It gave. With slow, back-and-forth sawing motions, he finally worked the knife out of her chest and gave it to Cooksey's assistant to mark and place into an evidence bag. He turned his attention to the other knife. At closer look, Greco could see the tip of the knife blade jutting out on the other side of Norma's neck. It slid out easily.

Just then, Norma's head flopped forward as if the knife blade had been the only thing supporting it. Everyone froze. Camp jerked his head to look at the body. Like a surgeon handing an instrument to a nurse, Camp handed the bloody knife to the assistant, then gently placed his gloved hands on Norma's forehead. With everyone's eyes on Norma, Camp slowly pulled her head back to expose the neck wound. There was a quiet gasp as her chin seemed to lift forever skyward, unhinged from the rest of the body, exposing the deep chasm of the throat almost to the bone.

“Whoever did this almost cut her head off,” Camp said quietly.

Staring in horror, Greco felt his stomach turn in shock. It looked like the only thing holding her head on was some bone and a flap of skin at the back of the neck. He couldn't believe it. Why would someone do this to an 86-year-old woman? Around him, faces were grim with disgust.

To break the mood, someone began another “Clue” discussion, this time related to the sequence of the wounds. It didn't last long. The consensus was that the attacker had first stabbed Norma in the chest, and the neck wound was the final, fatal injury. Greco offered his thoughts about the killer leaving the bloody smear on the chair on the way downstairs to retrieve the second knife.

But there was something else.

Greco had been standing close to Camp, who was awkwardly standing slightly to the left of Norma's chair in order to retrieve the knives. Greco doubted if the killer had cramped up against the railing to perform the killing. The knife had been embedded on the right side of Norma's neck at a distinct upward tilt. If the killer had been facing Norma in her chair, the knife wound would have been on the killer's left side.

Just perhaps, Greco thought, the killer was left-handed.

*   *   *

Two days earlier, Joanie Fulton looked at the blonde figure asleep on her couch. It looked like she was having a bad nightmare, murmuring and crying out. Dana had been drinking straight vodka since she came over that night. She'd even brought her own bottle, Smirnoff, her favorite brand. Ever since Dana lost her job, she'd been pretty much on edge, but Joanie had tried to be supportive. Joanie tried to shake her out of the nightmare and get her to go home; Joanie and her family were going to bed. Dana didn't stir. Dead drunk. Joanie covered her with a blanket, tossed the empty vodka bottle in the trash and went to bed.

Hours later, Dana stirred and winced when she looked at the clock. She swung her legs over the couch and sat up, her head reeling. She ran her hand through her chin-length blonde hair and sat for a moment until her eyes adjusted to the dark. She got up on wobbly legs and scanned the living room for Joanie's purse. Not there. She looked in the kitchen and found it on the counter. Dana dug out Joanie's wallet, slipped out a $20 bill, left quietly out the front door and drove away.

CHAPTER TWO

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1994, 9 A.M.

Who would kill this old woman? What kind of a person would savagely slice through her neck? Greco winced at his recollection of the nauseating image from the day before as he sipped stationhouse grind out of a Styrofoam cup. He stared at the neatly printed handwriting in his notebook, his mind racing. Here's this quiet, rich community and a nice, elderly lady attacked in her own home—no sign of a break-in—with her neck nearly sawed off. Her purse had $170 in cash, plus a lucky hundred-dollar bill from one of her sons that she always carried. It looked like a few drawers had been pulled out, but the apartment wasn't ransacked. The killer had ignored the nice-looking ring on the victim's finger.

None of it made sense. How was he going to pull it all together? Greco knew there was bound to be publicity and tremendous pressure to solve the case, given the clout from the wealthy, elderly residents who comprised the majority of Canyon Lake. Anything he did would be scrutinized. Particularly if he screwed up.

Last night he had returned to the station with the evidence in his trunk, booked it, and gone home exhausted. His wife was sympathetic. But he lay in bed unable to sleep, partly out of shock over seeing the violent crime scene and partly out of worry. He desperately wanted to solve this case. He'd just turned 28; this was his second homicide.

Greco had never wanted to be a cop. His dream was to be a lawyer. He'd met Darlene when both of them were working as cashiers at a drug store. She was 18, he was 21. That was December. By July, they were married and expecting their first child. Greco needed a steady job to support his new family and he thought about being a cop. No one he knew was in law enforcement, but he liked the way Hollywood movies portrayed cops getting into stuff, as he put it. They were their own bosses and did their own thing. That appealed to him. Cops seemed to get paid well, and didn't have to sit at a desk all day.

Within a year, Greco had graduated from the local police academy and was snapped up by the Riverside County Sheriff's Department. It had initiated its standard, six-month background check when the Perris Police Department also offered him a job. Although the Perris PD was much smaller, its background check took just two weeks and the agency promised he'd go straight to the streets, instead of the county jails, where all new hires for Riverside County had to work for two years. Greco chose Perris. That was in June 1988.

Greco was a hard worker, very driven and devoted. Assigned to the stolen vehicle unit, he attacked his job and recovered so many stolen cars that the state Highway Patrol honored him with nine performance awards in his first four years as a patrol officer. He got so good at spotting fingerprints and using them to track down suspects that he received another state police award five times. He won the city's Award of Valor for helping to rescue parachutists whose airplane crashed on the runway of the Perris Airport in 1992. Greco rose quickly through the small department, becoming a training officer and then a corporal—a two-striper.

At that time, another officer from a neighboring county, James McElvain, joined the department. Greco considered himself a hard worker, but so did McElvain, and the two engaged in a friendly rivalry. McElvain moved from patrol to the department's two-man detective unit, working crimes against property—burglaries, vandalism and bad checks. Several months later, McElvain asked Greco to help him with a routine pick-up. He wanted to bring in a parolee for questioning in a forgery. It would take about an hour. McElvain had been warned by the suspect's parents that he didn't want to go back to jail. When McElvain identified himself as a police officer, the parolee lunged at him, and they wrestled for McElvain's gun. Horrified, Greco hit the parolee in the back of the head as hard as he could with his .45 Smith & Wesson. But it wasn't like TV, where the bad guy sinks to the ground. The parolee acted like nothing happened. Greco struck him again, harder, just to make him let go of McElvain, but the parolee continued struggling. The fight escalated and McElvain yelled, “He's got my gun!” Greco froze for an instant. McElvain screamed again, “He's got my gun! He's got my gun!” and Greco fired once at the parolee, killing him. The parolee's girlfriend later testified that he would have killed both officers, having told her that he would “do anything” to avoid going back to prison. An Internal Affairs investigation, a standard procedure for officer-involved shootings, cleared Greco of wrongdoing: the shooting was declared a justifiable homicide. When the family sued, the city's attorneys settled rather than going through the expense of a trial. Greco and McElvain weathered the investigation and lawsuit and became close friends.