Cutting Loose, page 6
He learned early that, if he wanted a private life, he would have to be circumspect with his opinions. The cool guys grew their hair to a certain length and espoused the right ideas to get some action. He, too, humiliatingly, felt the need to grow his hair to a length that was, if not long as such, at least not short. He despised himself for it, but there was no fighting one’s hormones. When he went to the Police Academy, he told himself, screw it, he was who he was, and had it cut to the length he was happy with. The pervading sense, for many people he knew, was that they were unaccountably on the wrong side of history, fighting the future; but he never shared the sense of dislocation of so many of his friends.
He was never cool, and that was fine. In spite of his background, he had a look that was not urban. People would assume at first, to his surprise, that he was a country boy. Later, he accepted that there was something about him that suggested such a background, and he relaxed into that view of him―not that he was much given to self-doubt: from the start, he faced the world standing on his own two feet, and he knew his certainty about himself gave him a strength other kids lacked. It gave him an ease, a feeling that he had his place in life.
In his teens, he had an altercation that brought the local sheriff and two Texas Rangers to his door. He had fired a revolver at a burglar and winged him, but chose to affect ignorance of it when they came calling. To his surprise, the police were good-natured about it, and said they would not pursue the matter. As they were turning to leave, the older Ranger paused. The moment that followed went so deep for Emmett that it seemed afterwards to be happening forever in the present.
The Ranger turns back to him. He cocks his head to one side and says, “Kid, have you ever considered a career in law-enforcement?”
Where does that question come from? Is it something the Ranger sees inside this teenager?
Emmett just says, simply, “Yes.”
The Ranger gives him his card, and tells him to keep in touch. The name on the card is Otis Halwell.
He became a street cop in San Antonio, put in the years, and learned the hard reality of life for most people who figure on police dockets. The experience he gained gave him new insight into himself and his own background. He no longer wrote his family off as white trash, and he learned that the road trodden by his own mother had been hard and lonely; that there was a landscape of suffering and abuse that had been endured The clear-cut opinions he had held in the past had been modulated by her story, and by that of many other people he had met in the course of his work.
In his youth, she had lived in a haze of alcohol, and that had never changed. The booze gene was in her side of the family, and he knew he had inherited it. He liked a drink, and would occasionally have more than was enough to get a buzz on, but there was a line that he had the strength not to cross; perhaps he had side-stepped the Capps genes―the bad star trailing their lineage. He came from a long line of low achievers, and his parents had seemed to fit neatly into that family tradition. They had filled the horizon: he could not see past them, and perhaps that was the same for every kid. Part of growing up, he knew, involved putting one’s own parents in perspective and trying to find a larger picture which gave them context. One thing was certain: his mother had earned the right to the booze.
One particular day, after a grueling session in court, he took a call at home. It was Otis Halwell, who had kept in touch with him over the years.
“Emmett, how’s it going?”
“Fine.”
“Look―I’ve been thinking. You’ve put in your time.”
Emmett knew immediately what he was saying.
“It’s what, seven years?”
“Yeah.”
“So―uh―Emmett . . .” Halwell cleared his throat. “I got a thought.”
“Yeah?”
“Put in your papers.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Sure.”
He became a Ranger.
“Emmett―good morning,” said Dr. J. D. Cullen, standing in stark white light beside an autopsy table. Two assistants stood to one side, and beside them was Dan, the photographer, and a colleague, Emile, who had a cine camera. All were scrubbed and gowned.
“I hardly recognize you without your Stetson, Emmett,” said JD.
“Yeah, I know.”
Swing doors were opened by morgue assistants pushing the metal barrel on a low, flat-bed trolley.
“So, gentlemen. Let us begin.” JD lifted a finger to the cameramen. Everything he did and said from that point would be on record.
“Because the barrel has been opened, and because of its size, it has been kept in a refrigerator not generally used for cadavers. This, clearly, is a special case.”
Metal tracks were suspended below the ceiling, into which hooks on rollers were fitted. The morgue assistants fixed chains between the barrel and the hooks, and slowly winched it up and along toward a table made from angle irons next to the autopsy table.
“This part,” said JD, “is both a forensic and an engineering maneuver―to position the barrel and to extract the body while disturbing evidence as little as possible.”
After that, he was silent as the work progressed. It was a bizarre, slow-motion ballet in which everyone moved with the synchrony that the task demanded. JD stood to one side with hands behind his back and watched. Finally the barrel was lowered to the strengthened table, then laid on its side and fixed in place with wedges. The contents of the barrel were not in a liquid state, and the process of extraction could begin.
“So,” said JD. “The hope must be that saponification will enable the decedent to emerge smoothly. Theory and practice, though, do not always coincide.”
The morgue assistants inserted long metal spatulas.
“The body appears at this stage to have been inverted. Jim, please, I think there . . . .”
An assistant inserted a gloved hand. “We got movement, sir.”
“Well, then, I think the clench spatula―”
Another assistant inserted an instrument some three feet long.
“Tell me when you are ready,” said JD.
The assistant made exploratory movements with the instrument, then said, “Okay, sir.”
“Are we all happy?”
“Yes, sir,” they both said.
“Then , in concert, gentlemen, if you would . . .”
After some initial hesitation, the contents slid out virtually as one.
Dan said, “Oh, shit,” and turned away. It had the look of a vast, pale brown amoeba.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said JD. “So, let us see what we have.”
He looked at first without touching.
“A female, clearly. In a constricted, fetal position, and with the inversion we noted earlier. Dark hair. Of slim build. Age cannot yet be estimated. Marked presence of adipocere owing to anaerobia. Ancillary artifacts that can be removed will be removed. I see a purse, perhaps. There . . . a bolus of fabric, and what seems to be undergarments. These artifacts will be bagged and tagged as we proceed. The decedent is not clothed. The limbs should be pliable, so we shall begin by straightening the body. There is much to be done.”
Dan, calm once more, had returned to the job.
With a strange gentleness, JD and his assistants began their task. The face, which soon became visible, had a waxiness that defined death with total clarity. How could this person lying on the table have ever imagined a world in which she would appear in such a situation–a person who must have laughed, and loved, and dreamed about the future–there, dead and naked, being examined and probed like a laboratory specimen? The finality of it was like a blow.
“Jim, please―rotate the torso to the right just a tad.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now, I think, those can be removed. Sean―would you?”
“You bet, sir.”
Sean took the undergarments, put them in a clear bag, and wrote a number on it in black marker.
“And now, Sean, the―let us say―purse.”
“Yes, sir.”
Emile and Dan moved around the medical team, recording the gradual process. JD carefully removed a cellophane folder.
“Another item. Sean―if you would.”
“Got it.”
“Jim, please support the legs under the ankles.”
“Yes, sir.”
JD held the torso in position. “And Sean―the knees. So, Jim, move backward, extending the legs.”
Emmett felt a tightness in his chest as the legs began to move.
“Excellent,” said JD.
Dan moved to one side to get a long view, and Emmett saw, for just a moment, and for the first time, between Jim and Sean, the body, prone and straightened. She had been beautiful: in spite of all that had happened to her, that was clear. The limbs were long and well-formed. The waist was still shapely. Her beauty, perhaps, should not matter. But there, in that cold light, Emmett told himself he would find who had killed her.
“Well,” said JD. He turned the head an inch or two to the right. “The accretion here―” He moved some of the adipocere. “There was a slight indentation that I noted earlier. Now we can see quite clearly a hole in the coronal suture. I have little hesitation in suggesting that this is a bullet hole. A mid-size caliber, I would surmise, .38 or thereabouts. The projectile may or may not be present, either in the cranium or close by. We shall see.”
JD palpated the skull.
“Interesting. I believe I can actually feel what may well be the bullet protruding slightly through the occipital fontanelle. A high-powered bullet would have pierced the skull. That suggests a mid-powered cartridge. We will need to turn the cranium somewhat to look more closely.”
He turned the head to the right, then took a pair of forceps from a tray.
“Yes,” he said, feeling with them. “Unquestionably metal. The apparent angle suggests the bullet has tumbled. I think we need our camera colleagues to move in here, if they would be kind enough―”
Dan and Emile moved to record the back of the cranium.
“Thank you. Now―I believe―” He felt with the forceps and presently produced an object in its jaws.
“I have little hesitation in saying that this is, indeed, a .38 bullet.”
He held it for a moment in the forceps, studied it again, then dropped it in a tray.
“Emmett,” said Mack Travis. “The Gottfrieds.”
“Yeah?”
“Back from Europe. It’s a hike to Selma, Alabama, unless you want our guys there to talk to them.”
“Uh―I believe I’ll give them a call first. Take it from there.”
“Sure.”
The bullet that JD had retrieved had received a full analysis. He studied it, there, on his desk, sealed in a transparent evidence bag. The basic cartridge in that caliber was the .38 special, which would have penetrated the skull if fired from close range, so either the perpetrator was not using a round from the well-known makers or he was loading his own. The configuration of the bullet was too generic to give clarity.
The phone rang and Emmett picked up.
“Emmett? Burt here. We’ve got prints.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. Step on down.”
Emmett, hanging up, said, “Mack, we got lucky.”
Burton Willems raised a hand when Emmett and Travis entered the Basement, as the forensics lab was called. Willems’ lean build, pale skin and wispy hair gave him an ascetic, scholarly look that was not far from the truth, though there was a suggestion there of wiry strength.
“What we’ve got–”
Travis and Emmett looked at the prints on Willem’s desk.
“They’re clear,” said Willems. “I’ve come across this before. The airless environment in fact serves to preserve a lot of evidence. If she was a straight citizen, she won’t be in the system. A match―well . . .”
Emmett knew Burt was right. If the decedent had been selected by some low-life for no other reason than her looks, the likelihood of her being in a file was remote.
“But, of course, there’s more,” said Willems. “The artifacts that were there along with the body. We’ve taken a good look at them. There’s clothing, there’s a purse, there’s a file of documents. Let’s walk over and take a look.”
A technician stood as they walked across to his workplace, where the items were laid out.
“Phil,” said Willems. “Spell it out for our colleagues.”
“You bet. All right,” said Phil, a gray-haired veteran wearing a lab coat. “The prints from the body were partial but there are enough points of reference to marry them to the full prints we have from the purse and documents. If she’s in the system, we’ll have a hit. The objects in the purse are not, on the face of it, probative, other than the prints, though that’s plenty. Lipstick, a notebook with some pages ripped out―right there―a pencil, a ballpoint pen, some hair clips with no hairs attached. Nothing that tells us for sure who she is. Maybe it was gone through by the perp. Possible we could find who made the notebook, and when. The fabric, the silk, we’re working on that. The particular quality of the silk, it can vary a lot. The pattern is paisley, what they call in India the mango pattern–that’s where it originated. This one has blues and whites on a coral background. A lot of it is imported but, who knows? We may find a manufacturer and outlets over here. I’ve seen crazier things happen.
“Then there’s the file.”
With gloved hands, he spread them out.
“So. What’s here. A transparent polypropylene folder, millions like ‘em. The rest of it is mostly memorabilia. A couple of drink mats with dates hand-written on them. A postcard from Acapulco signed ‘Jim’. Just vacation chat on it. Says he’s working on his tan, losing a few bucks at a casino. Then a circular from a used-car place, with no date. The typeface looks a little old-fashioned. A check from somewhere, the print is faded, looks like a restaurant―that word there may be ‘service’. And that―I may be wrong―is a C, which may be the start of ‘Cash’. We’re still working on it. Looks like she played guitar–there’s a plectrum there. And two sheet of music, a Chet Atkins arrangement of Mr. Sandman, and Earl Scruggs’ version of Georgia Buck. That’s about it. Prints―that’s where it gets interesting.
“Like I say, our decedent’s prints are there, and we’re running them down. But there’s more. A couple of hours ago, I found prints on this. . . .”
He pointed at a Polaroid photo of a man standing by a rail, looking at a valley beyond. A hat and the angle of the head hid his identity. The writing was illegible.
“These ones aren’t hers. And they’re good . . . crisp and clear.”
“Uh huh. That’s great,” said Emmett.
“Could be there’s more to find yet.”
“Sure. But we can run with this. Thanks, Phil.”
Next day, Dan, standing in the doorway, said, “Emmett? I got it.”
“Great. That was fast. Come on in.”
Dan dropped an envelope on Emmett’s desk, and Travis walked over as Emmett drew out a photo.
“My God,” said Travis, looking over his shoulder.
“It was tricky to get the lighting right. The mortician worked to get the face okay for the camera. Man, that guy and JD. I couldn’t do their jobs.”
“Me neither,” said Emmett, looking at the image. It gave him a jolt to see her there, looking somewhere over his left shoulder, her features calm and composed, her expression uncannily natural. The mortician had done an astonishing job of returning her to life, and it was not only the face that convinced; he had washed and dressed her hair so it fell easily on her shoulders. The lighting managed to avoid too close an examination of the surface of the eyes, but they had caught, somehow, a pinprick of light that gave life to them. Dan had used muted color, but there was enough to show a hint of lipstick and makeup. It could have been a studio portrait.
“It gives me the shivers,” said Dan. “Seeing her there.”
“Dan, you’ve done good.”
“Thanks.”
“You want to put it out there, Emmett?” said Travis.
“I’m thinking maybe sit on it till we’ve processed everything.”
“Sure. This picture, plus her prints. Odds are getting better.”
Emmett, looking at that photo, hoped that, in spite of her end, there had been some good times in that brief life. Dan had made several copies, and Emmett placed one of them in the murder-book box file; closing the lid on it seemed to consign her forever to the past.
“Mack, when did the Gottfrieds get back?”
“Yesterday, one pm.”
“Okay. I need to make that call, in case they hear about it and get a story in place. I want to hear a genuine first response.”
“You think they’re good for this?”
“Common sense says no.”
“Right.”
“I mean, who sells a place and leaves a dead body in the garage?”
He had to call twice before getting an answer.
“Yes? Jay Gottfried here.”
“Mr. Gottfried, Texas Ranger Emmett Capps speaking.”
There was a pause, then Gottfried said, “Really? Okay. Well, uh, how can I help?”
“Sir, I know you’re just back from vacation, so . . . there’s a matter maybe you haven’t heard about yet. It’s got into the media.”
“Yeah? What? Here, Selma way?”
Emmett could read puzzlement in the voice.
“No, sir.”
“Okay, well, you’ll have to enlighten me, Ranger . . . Capps, did you say?”
“Yes, sir. It’s a matter going back a few years. To Masonville.”
“Masonville? Really? That’s―what, six years.”
“Yes, sir. You sold your house there to the Krugers.”
“Uh huh. Yes, I did.”
“Sir, it’s likely I or a colleague will need to fly out there to talk with you.”
“Okay.”
Emmett could hear sudden caution.
“Mr. Gottfried, sir, how long did you live there?”
“Nine years or so.”
Gottfried said nothing after that and simply waited for Emmett to continue.
