Drained, page 6
“Did you speak with the friend?”
“I did. She was the first I called after the local PD. The woman wasn’t much help. She said that Angela was kind of a homebody and she had to persuade her out of the house the prior weekend when they went out. They didn’t meet anyone and ended up going home around midnight.”
“Nothing seemed off from any stories you got with the mother, friend, et cetera?”
“No. Her mother claimed that she didn’t make a lot of money, so she tried to limit what she did, spendingwise.”
Beth looked thoughtful. “So if you’re a graphic artist and spend most of your time on a computer, I’m betting you spend a fair amount of time online—looking at things, social media, whatever.”
“If it’s always in front of you and you have nothing better to do, sure.”
“We should get her computer for a look,” Beth said.
“Not a bad idea. I’ll call her mother back to see what became of it. Maybe she’ll make it available to us. Her mother, Hilary, can’t meet with us until Friday, though. As far as the local PD, the patrol captain I spoke with in district four, where she was found, said we could come tonight. The night shift starts at seven, and he said he would be able to send us out with the two officers that were first on the scene. I didn’t give him an exact time that we’d be there. I figured I’d see where we’re at with the victim’s friends and family first. Aside from that, I called the local medical examiner’s office that handled Kennedy Taylor’s body. It was after hours, so I left a message. I just wanted to see if her remains were still there and check if we could get a viewing. What about you? What did you get?” I asked.
Beth ran her finger down the notepad in her lap. “We have an interview tomorrow at three o’clock p.m. with Kennedy Taylor’s family. It looks like their home is about forty-five minutes from here. I spoke with her father. I guess they are doing some kind of gathering, so their other daughter, who the father said was extremely close with Kennedy, will be there as well. As far as the other victim, we have three numbers for father, mother, and best friend of Jasmine Thomas, our second-to-last victim. I called all three, got three voice mails, and left three messages.”
“Okay.” I jotted down the interview time in my notepad and looked at my watch—a couple minutes after six. “What did you get with the local PD about seeing the other dump sites?”
“We’re set to view the two that happened in the sixteenth district tomorrow evening at eight. The patrol sergeant said he would have someone escort us.”
I nodded. “Well, it looks like we’re just about set on appointments with everyone except those close with Jasmine Thomas. Are you ready to head over to view the dump site?”
“Sure,” Beth said.
“Okay, I’ll call the patrol captain back and let him know we’re on our way.”
“I’ll call for the car,” Beth said.
I dialed the patrol captain, confirmed that we’d be there within the hour, and hung up. I stuffed my notepad and pen in the pocket of my suit jacket hanging over the back of my office chair. Then I stood and pulled my jacket on.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Ready as I’ll get.”
She headed for the door, and I followed.
The valet out front of the hotel had her car waiting when we stepped from the front doors. I handed the guy a tip and hopped in the passenger side. Beth took a seat behind the wheel and looked over at me. “You don’t want to drive?”
“I didn’t think about it,” I said.
“Did you want to?”
“Nope. You’re fine. I guess I’m used to riding shotgun when I’m on duty.”
“Old partner always drove, huh?”
“Technically, he was my boss,” I said, “but yeah, he drove more often than not.”
Beth shifted into drive and pulled from the front of the hotel. She put on her directional to make a left at the lights. “So he was what? A lieutenant?”
“He was a lieutenant. He’s the captain of Tampa homicide now.”
“What was he like?”
“What was he like?” I thought for a moment. “I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to jam years working daily with someone into a few words. Um. Put it this way, aside from being a damn good cop, I could call the guy from any place in the world, at any time, and he’d be there to help.”
“Can’t really ask for more than that,” she said.
“What’s it like being out in the field with Bill and Scott?” I asked. “I assume you’ve worked investigations with them like we are now.”
“Yeah, I’ve been in the field with both Bill and Scott a handful of times each. Ah, it’s kind of hard to describe, for me. When they go out together on an investigation, they come back with stories and such. I’m not sure what the bond that partners have is called.”
“Friendship, maybe,” I said.
“More like brothers. I guess I don’t really see that when I’m out with them. It’s basically do your job and head back. And then that’s the end of it. Maybe it’s because I’m a woman.”
I didn’t really have any insight to provide, so I remained quiet. I definitely didn’t want to get into a conversation about how I felt about working with her—we hadn’t spent enough time together, and any answer I provided would probably be taken the wrong way.
“I’m okay to work with so far, right?” she asked.
Shit.
I needed to answer fast. “Yeah, sure,” I said. “Hell, you’re showing me the ropes. It’s appreciated.”
“Well, I think you’re doing fine so far. I’ll make sure I give you a good report. Ball wanted me to evaluate how you did out here.”
I hadn’t known I was under evaluation, but that made sense, it being my first investigation and all. “Damn well going to do my best,” I said.
She nodded. “I’m sure you will. Yeah, the last guy we brought into the team didn’t do so hot in the field. Ball, unfortunately, had to let him go after his first investigation.”
“Oh,” I said. “Who did he go out in the field with?” I looked over at her.
Beth’s eyes didn’t leave the road in front of her. “Me,” she said.
I nodded but didn’t respond.
“Yeah, he didn’t really do anything wrong, per se, and we actually caught the guy, but he just didn’t seem like a good fit to the team. So I let Ball know, and he kicked him loose. I kind of felt bad about it. I mean, the guy moved here from out west. He had a couple of young children. I think his wife was in poor health. It just didn’t work.”
I looked over at Beth again and furrowed my brow. She was laying the story on pretty thick. Beth was looking out the driver’s side window. I caught her reflection smiling in the glass. She was bullshitting me as I expected from her last few comments.
“Sure. You have to be able to work well with your coworkers,” I said. “So the report thing… is that the sheet that Ball gave me that said Peer Evaluation at the top? I just glanced at it before I left Monday, but it looked like I was supposed to fill out what I thought of working with you.”
Her head snapped toward me. “Peer evaluation sheet?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t know. It looked like some kind of official form. It had your name on it and a bunch of questions.”
“And Ball gave it to you?” she asked.
“Yeah. He just said, ‘Fill this out after you’re through.’”
She said nothing.
I gave her a second to stew.
“I was actually kidding about the report and whole coworker getting let go thing,” she said.
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
“You know?”
“Yeah, I saw your reflection in the driver’s window. Try not to smile when you’re feeding me b.s.”
“Oh, you’re a jerk,” she said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We made a brief stop at the police station, met with a pair of officers that had worked the crime scene, and headed out. Beth and I followed Officers Murray and Nelson in their marked patrol cruiser to where Angela Wormack’s body had been found. The patrol car pulled to the side of the street in front of a two-story dark-brown home and turned in to a fenced-in parking lot on our right, which separated the home and a tavern. We pulled in behind the officers’ car and found a spot. I checked the time—we were right at 7:30 p.m.
Beth shut off the car, and we stepped out. I surveyed our surroundings. The tavern’s front entrance was directly before us. Next to the tavern was an insurance office, its entrance also facing the parking lot. I glanced to my right. The brown home we’d passed turning in sat horizontally to the parking lot while the garage off the back faced the lot. Farther down were another business and a duplex, both facing the parking lot.
“Kind of a weird arrangement,” I said.
“Yeah, with houses and businesses sharing a common center parking lot,” she said.
The two patrol officers stepped out of their cruiser. The driver, Nelson, was early thirties and looked as though he’d spent years in the gym. He wore a police-issue mustache and a dark-brown buzz cut. The passenger, Murray, looked to be late twenties and almost as fit as his partner. He was clean shaven, a set of dark sunglasses hiding his eyes. Both men wore Chicago PD uniforms consisting of a dark-blue tactical vest over a light-blue button-up shirt. Each man wore a Chicago PD baseball hat with a badge and checkered stripe embroidered on the front.
“Dumpster back by the Winnebago,” Nelson said. He jerked his chin toward an RV parked next to the duplex near the back of the parking lot.
The two patrol officers walked toward the Dumpster, and Beth and I followed.
The nineteen-seventies RV was a cream color with a tan bottom. An orange-and-yellow stripe ran down the side, forming a W at the front. On the far side of the RV sat a single green Dumpster. We approached.
“We were first on the scene,” Murray said. He pulled his sunglasses from his eyes and slipped them into the breast pocket of his tactical vest. “Right before our shift ended. Maybe fifteen minutes or so.”
“What time is that?” Beth asked.
“Shift ends at seven a.m., so six forty-five,” Nelson answered. “We got the call that someone found a body in the Dumpster. Arrived to the scene and met with the caller. Lives in the right side of the blue duplex there.” He pointed over to the home. “The guy says he was taking out the trash before work and saw the woman inside. He walks us over, and we confirm, in fact, that there is a deceased woman inside.”
“We called in our forensics team. They dusted the Dumpster and dug through what little contents were inside. Got nothing though,” Murray said.
“And none of the residents that live in the houses here”—I pointed—“or the business owners saw anything?”
“This is kind of its own contained area here. We spoke with each resident and business owner. Nobody saw anything,” Murray said.
“We even stopped in here around bar close the following night and asked the patrons and staff if they’d seen anything going on over here the night prior,” Nelson said. “Nothing.”
“No video in this lot anywhere?” Beth asked.
Neither replied but both shook their heads.
“We got into contact with the company that services the Dumpster. Their guy was here around ten a.m. the day prior to the resident finding the body. So we have about a twenty-hour window of when she could have been put in there. We thought we’d be able to trim that time frame down a bit when our guys dug through the couple bags of trash that were inside and found out which home it came from.” Nelson pointed at the brown house facing the street. “We asked when they’d tossed it. The guy said he had his kid take it out around dinner time, five o’clock or so. It didn’t really help us out. The kid was too short to see inside. He wouldn’t have noticed if there was a body in there or not,” Nelson said.
“So, body, no one saw anything, and no evidence left behind,” Beth said.
Nelson removed his hat and wiped his sleeved bicep across his forehead. He put the baseball cap back on his head and snugged it down. “That’s about the extent of it,” he said. “We obviously didn’t know that we were dealing with some kind of serial killer. It was just a woman, dead, in a Dumpster. She didn’t even look injured.”
Beth nodded.
Something caught my attention from the corner of my eye. I looked at the Winnebago. The sun-faded curtain in one of the side windows of the RV moved. “You guys ever check the RV here?” I asked.
The two patrol officers looked at each other.
“Um, no, I don’t think so,” Nelson said.
“It looks like someone is inside of it,” I said.
“In that old heap?” Murray asked. “That thing looks like it’s been sitting there for ten years.”
“Could be,” I said. “Could also be someone living in it.”
I walked to the RV’s side door and rapped my knuckles on the metal. I heard footsteps inside but didn’t receive an answer at the door, so I banged my fist on it again. “FBI, open up.”
That was the first time I’d announced myself as such—the phrase didn’t yet sound natural in my ears. A moment later, the doorknob turned, and the door pushed open. A large, overweight man appearing in his sixties stood in the doorway in his underwear. Gray hair covered his chest, belly, and legs. His head was bald. A white beard took up space on his chin. In his right hand was a beer in a Chicago Bears koozie, in his left hand, a cigarette.
“Help you?” he asked.
I flipped open my bifold and showed him my FBI badge. “Agent Rawlings with the FBI. I have a couple questions. Mind putting on some pants for me, sir?” I said.
“I’m in my house. I’ll damn well stand here in my underwear if I want.”
I shrugged and stuffed my credentials back in my suit jacket. “Whatever. Do you live in this vehicle?” I asked.
“Yeah, and I pay to park here. So what of it?”
Beth took up a spot to my side and looked through the doorway at the man.
“Mind putting some pants on for me, please?” she asked.
“What’s the matter, princess?” He took a pull from his cigarette. “You don’t like the view?” he asked.
“Pants.” Beth snapped her fingers. “Now, or I’ll find something we can arrest you for. I don’t think you’ll be a fan of the Cook County Jail, arriving like that. Some people there might be fans of you, though if this is how you’re taken in.”
“Ugh, fine.” The man disappeared from the doorway.
I looked at Beth.
She shrugged and ran a hand through her dark hair. “What? I don’t want to stand here and stare at his hairy gut.”
I smirked.
He came back to the doorway a moment later in some orange-striped sweatpants and a T-shirt. “What do you two want, anyway?”
“Did you see or hear anything going on over by this Dumpster maybe a month or so ago?” I asked.
“I assume you’re talking about the body they fished out of there?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I can’t be sure,” he said. “Which is why I didn’t bother talking to the cops that were here.”
“Why don’t you tell us what you’re not sure about,” Beth said.
“Well, I got woken up by a noise late the night prior to the cops digging around. Or early that morning, depending how you’re looking at it. It sounded like someone dumping something in the Dumpster. Well, it was either that or raccoons. I didn’t get up to look.”
“What time was this?” I asked.
“Maybe about four in the morning.” He lifted one arm and scratched at his exposed armpit with his other hand, holding the beer. “Might have been a few minutes after that. I don’t know. Middle of the night.”
“And you didn’t get up to look?” Beth asked.
“No. Why would I get out of bed to watch someone throwing out the trash in the middle of the night?”
The guy did have a point.
“Other than what you heard, anything else?” I asked. “See any strange people or cars that weren’t normally around here?”
He shrugged. “We have a bar in the lot. Different cars in and out of here every day and night.”
My cell phone vibrated against my leg in my pocket. I slipped the phone out and looked at the screen but didn’t recognize the number.
I excused myself from Beth and the man then answered the call. “Agent Rawlings.”
“Mark Green, Cook County night shift medical examiner. I got your message regarding the remains of Kennedy Taylor.”
“Yes, hello. I’d like to view the body if possible.”
“Well, it’s already gone from our facility. We released the remains to a crematorium yesterday at the family’s request.”
“Any idea if the remains have actually been cremated?” I asked.
“No idea. Not much to see there either way, aside from a few needle marks. We could give you the results from the autopsy if that helps.”
“I already have it. I guess I was just looking for a little personal insight into the remains.”
“The body was drained of blood. Needle marks in arms, legs, and neck. Tox screen showed Rohypnol.”
“That much I know. Nothing else stood out?” I asked.
“Not really. Stomach contents—”
I cut him off. “Contained alcohol and some kind of pasta that was barely digested.”
“Yeah. Exactly. How did you know that?”
I told him the stomach contents had been the same with previous victims. We spoke for another few minutes, but he didn’t have anything else for me. I hung up and walked back to Beth. The door on the Winnebago was closed, and she was standing with the two officers.
“Done with underwear guy?” I asked.
“Yeah, he doesn’t know anything. Who was on the phone?” she asked.
“Medical examiner that handled Kennedy Taylor.”
“And?”
“The body was already sent over for cremation. Nothing new.”
Beth and I thanked the patrol officers for meeting us and headed back for the hotel. We pulled up to the valet at the front entrance a bit before nine o’clock. Beth and I had put in a full day plus with the traveling. We walked through the front entrance and climbed the stairs toward the lobby. Beth stopped halfway up the flight of steps and dug her hand into the front pocket of her blazer. She pulled her phone out and hit the button to talk.
