A Plain Vanilla Murder, page 5
Sheila turns her head away from Miller, looking out of the window and allowing herself a small smile. Strangely (or perhaps it isn’t strange at all), the farther she gets from her office, the lighter and more energetic she feels. While she loves policing, she doesn’t love sitting behind her desk, which is what she does, now that she’s chief—and especially now that she’s pregnant. She didn’t go into police work because she wanted to be stuck at a computer keyboard, or slogging her way through an endless landscape of meetings and memos and budgets. She became a cop because she has a tremendous respect for the law—not for laws, necessarily, but for the Law with a capital L. Being a police officer means helping to preserve order in an otherwise disorderly and chaotic world. Helping to enforce the laws that bind people together, preserve their rights and uphold their obligations—although experience has taught her that justice is never as clear and simple out in the world as it is on the pages of the Texas Penal Code. She doesn’t deny that the administrative job she’s doing is important. Without all those stacks of paper, the constant memos and emails and meetings, the cops on the street can’t do what they do. But none of that yields the deeper satisfaction of hands-on police work. Deep down and enduringly, she misses it.
Ironic, she thinks. She had wanted the PSPD chief’s job, and she got it. She wanted a baby and she got that, too. Now what? What she has is a tedious desk job and a baby coming in forty-nine days, on top of which she is losing her super-competent assistant and gaining an inexperienced young thing who has to be told to wear blouses that the guys can’t see through.
Miller is driving fast, heading north up Lampasas on the east side of the CTSU campus, above the river. Pecan Springs is located halfway between Austin and San Antonio, on the long-inactive Balcones Fault, where eons ago, a series of earthquakes erected a palisade of limestone cliffs. To the west of the palisade rises the rugged Texas Hill Country, famous for its upland string of spring-fed rivers and river-fed lakes, cupped like brilliant blue sapphires in the cedar-clad hills. To the east, on the other side of I-35, lies the blackland prairie: once fertile farms and pastures, now a patchy hodge-podge of small towns and sprawling subdivisions separated by shopping malls and office parks.
Pecan Springs is different things to different people. Some see it as a cozy bedroom community, a serene place to come home to after a stressful day at work in Austin or San Antonio. For others, it is a safe, comfortable enclave in which to raise kids, or a promising place to start a small business or go to college. Still others are lured by its potential for big-money commercial investment, especially along the I-35 corridor, where property doubles in value every time it changes hands.
Sheila gets that, all of it, and understands how everybody manages to see a different piece of the same small town. There is nothing cozy or comfortable about her Pecan Springs, though. What she sees are the daily crime reports, with domestic violence and property crimes topping the list, and too many opioid deaths. One way or another, drugs—both supply and demand—are behind most of the crime in Pecan Springs. It wouldn’t surprise Sheila to discover that the professor’s death was drug-related.
They’ve reached the top of the hill and Miller stops for the light at Bandera, as a gaggle of students—long-legged girls in short shorts, guys in ragged jeans with heavy backpacks—crosses the street in front of them. The Plant Sciences building is on the other side of the intersection, on the left. Brick, with three wrap-around tiers of mid-century modern windows, it was built shortly after World War II, when CTSU was still a small teachers’ college. Even from here, Sheila can see Fairlee’s greenhouse perched like a shiny hat on the building’s roof, several people clustered around it.
“Park there,” she says, and points to the curb cut nearest the main entrance. Miller makes a left, swings the Impala into an empty visitor’s slot, and they get out. A uniformed campus police officer—young, mid-twenties, Sheila guesses—is standing beside the main entrance. The name badge on the pocket of his uniform shirt says Wakeland, Boyce.
Miller flashes his PSPD badge and says, “Chief Dawson and Detective Miller, here to see Director Maxwell.”
“Yessir, Chief,” Wakeland says, snapping to attention.
Stone-faced, Miller corrects him. “This is Chief Dawson.” He gestures to Sheila.
The officer colors. “Sorry,” he mutters. His surprised glance goes to Sheila’s belly and he pinches his lips together. Without another word, he leads them into the building and past the Plant Sciences departmental office. He is heading for the stairs when Sheila says “I know the elevator is slow as molasses, but let’s take it.”
“Whatever you say, ma’am,” Wakeland replies, with barely muted snark. When they get out on the third floor, he points to the left. “Down that hall, up the stairs. On the roof.”
“Thank you,” Sheila says. She and Miller walk past a phalanx of closed office doors to the end of the hall. A sign on the wall beside the stairs says Dr. Fairlee’s Greenhouse/Lab. By permission only. When they reach the top of the narrow stairs, the door opens into the glare of the bright afternoon sun, and Sheila blinks.
The greenhouse is some twelve or fourteen feet wide and twenty feet long. The outdoor temperature is in the upper eighties on this sunny afternoon, and the door in front of them is propped open. Inside, hoses snake across the damp gravel floor, shade cloth protects some sections from the too-bright sun, and fans are circulating the warm, moist air. The place is jam-packed with green and blossoming plants, most of them orchids, in an incredible variety of exotic colors and erotic shapes. There are also shelves lined with rows and rows of glass vials and small jars in which tiny green plants are growing.
“Helluva good place to grow pot,” Miller says, sotto voce, and Sheila nods. Marijuana is illegal in Texas, but three or four plants might be safely concealed in this lush green forest.
An open center aisle runs the length of the greenhouse, and two people stand near the far end. Five or six feet away, a body lies on the floor.
“Director Maxwell,” Sheila calls and steps forward, careful not to trip over the tangle of hoses on the gravel. The last thing she needs is to do a belly flop.
Denise Maxwell turns. Trimly uniformed in navy blue, she is a black woman, late twenties, with an erect posture and a combed-out short afro that emphasizes the sharp angles of her face, which are softened by a smile.
“Chief,” she says, and holds out a hand. “Thanks for coming.”
“Glad to, Denise,” Sheila says. She gestures to Dylan. “Dylan Miller, our lead detective.”
The man standing with Maxwell is short and portly, gray-haired with gold-rimmed glasses, in his early fifties. He is wearing a rumpled dark suit and a pained expression. Maxwell says, “This is Dr. Selms, the chairman of Plant Sciences. Carl Fairlee is—was—one of his faculty members.”
“Good to see you again, Dr. Selms,” Sheila says, remembering conversations with him when she was chief of security. And remembering that he had wanted the building left unlocked past midnight so students could use the Plant Sciences library on the first floor. She wonders if he still insists on that. She glances toward the body, sprawled face-down on the greenhouse gravel floor. “Sorry for the occasion.”
“Chief,” Selms says. His glance flicks to her maternity top and back to her face. “I’m not sure why Ms. Maxwell thought it necessary to bring in the Pecan Springs police. Carl’s suicide is campus business. Tragic, of course. I hope we can keep it quiet.”
“I think we all just want to be sure there are no questions,” Sheila says, but Selms is shaking his head.
“I simply don’t understand,” he mutters. “How could Carl do it here, of all places?” He raises his arms in frustration and lets them drop. “And for God’s sake, why? Was he sick? Was he on something? Drugs, I mean. Was he—”
He breaks off and turns to Maxwell. “I’m acquainted with Carl’s wife, Maggie—his ex-wife, I should say. She owns that garden center on the east side of town. Sonora, it’s called. I want to let her know about this, so she can tell their children before word starts getting around.” His tone is peremptory. He isn’t asking permission.
Maxwell nods. “It’s kind of you to offer, Dr. Selms. No details, please. Just tell her there’ll be a full investigation. We’ll be in touch with her shortly.”
“And what about the Plant Sciences faculty?” Selms is sweating heavily. He pulls out a large white handkerchief, takes off his glasses, and mops his glistening face. “People can see that something is going on, and I really must make an announcement. I’ve already gotten a couple of urgent calls from the dean’s office.”
“I understand,” Maxwell says. “Go ahead and update Dean Clayton. It would be best to simply tell her that the body has been found, without going into detail, and that the PSPD is here.” Tactfully, she adds, “She will likely prefer to let the provost and President Richmond know before they release the news to the faculty.”
Good for you, Denise, Sheila thinks, admiring Maxwell’s finesse. Bureaucracy first, faculty later. And Selms won’t be making the announcement.
Selms suppresses a sigh. “I suppose you’re right. Well, I’ll go make the calls.” He glances briefly at Sheila. “If you want me, Chief, I’ll be in my office.” He nods to Miller and bustles up the aisle toward the door, obviously glad to be gone.
“Glad you could come,” Maxwell says to Sheila, with the slightest emphasis on “you.” She casts a sidelong glance at Miller, which he pretends not to see. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two pairs of disposable Tyvek booties, handing one pair to Sheila, who pulls them on. She considers kneeling on the gravel to get a closer look at the body, then rejects that idea. She can probably get down, but getting up would be difficult, like a rhino getting up from a nap. Anyway, she can see what she needs to see by simply stepping closer.
Fairlee is lying on his stomach, arms flung out, head turned awkwardly to the right. He is a long-limbed, lanky man, dressed in khaki pants and a blue plaid shirt, his ginger hair pulled back in a limp ponytail. A handgun with a suppressor lies a few inches from his outstretched right hand. Sheila can see the entrance wound, a small, neat hole just above the right temple. It is filled with a black bubble of dried blood and surrounded by a barely visible reddish-brown area of abraded skin. Blood has pooled under and around his head, soaking into the gravel, so there must be an exit wound on the left side of the head.
Sheila frowns, leaning closer. She is looking for the round imprint of the gun barrel, which she has seen on suicide victims in cases where the gun was pressed against the skin—and not seeing it. She is also looking for soot and stippling, the powder tattoo. She is not seeing that, either. Still, she’s aware that suppressors can produce atypical entrance wounds, so that’s not conclusive.
Miller has no problem getting up or down and is already squatting on his haunches on the other side of the body. He pulls a hand lens out of his jacket pocket and peers through it at the entrance wound. After a moment, he glances up at Sheila and gives a slight, quick shake of his head. He’s looking for—and not seeing—the same things she looked for and didn’t see. But he glances at the suppressor, and she knows what he’s thinking.
Sheila turns to Maxwell. “How about filling us in, Denise?”
“Fairlee’s RA—Logan Gardner—found the body at three-fifteen this afternoon. The two of them were supposed to meet downstairs, in the prof’s office. When Gardner found the office door locked, he came up here to the greenhouse, spotted the body, and called it in to security. Officer Wakeland was here at three-thirty-two. I was in a meeting on the west side of the campus. I arrived at three-forty-eight.”
Automatically, Sheila looks at her watch. It is 4:50.
“Selms was here when I arrived,” Maxwell adds. “With Gardner and Officer Wakeland. The RA is waiting downstairs. He’s been cautioned not to talk to anybody.”
“RA?” Miller asks. “What’s an RA?” He is now looking closely at the gun, still lying on the ground.
“Research assistant,” Sheila says.
Maxwell nods. “Gardner is a graduate student, working on his PhD. Says he spends a lot of time here in the greenhouse. I understand that he and Fairlee were involved in some sort of plant breeding project. Something to do with orchids.”
Sheila asks, “Suicide note?”
“If there is one, I haven’t found it. But I haven’t checked Fairlee’s office downstairs.”
“You’ve called Judge Davidson?” Miller asks. He is taking photos with his cell phone.
In Texas counties that don’t have a coroner or a medical examiner, a justice of the peace is required to rule on all unattended deaths and decide when and where an autopsy must be performed. After decades of service, Maude Porterfield finally retired—“older than God,” as she herself says, “but still kicking”—and Arthur Davidson was recently elected to replace her. Davidson’s chief qualifications are twenty years as Pecan Springs High School head football coach, twenty-four years as First Baptist deacon and church youth leader, and three years as director of the church choir. No legal or law enforcement experience.
“I put in a call to Davidson after I called your office.” Maxwell’s mouth quirked. “He took the afternoon off to go fishing. Somebody had to drive out to the lake to fetch him.”
Sheila rolls her eyes. “He doesn’t have a cell?”
“Apparently not.” Maxwell is straight-faced.
“Let’s tell Davidson to order an autopsy,” Sheila says. A few years before, there had been an attempt in the Texas legislature to require autopsies in all apparent suicides. Inspired by the case of a Texas woman whose philandering husband nearly got away with staging her murder to look like a suicide, the bill had been supported by the Justice Court Judges Association. It would take the heat off local JPs, many of whom—like Davidson—have little experience with forensics or criminal investigations. But it hadn’t gotten out of the Criminal Jurisprudence committee. Autopsies cost too much. Poor counties couldn’t afford them.
“Good idea,” Maxwell says.
“But I want it done locally,” Sheila adds. “At Adams. Otherwise, we could be waiting for a week.” One of the docs at the Adams County Hospital does autopsies on occasion, but most bodies are sent to Austin, to the Travis County Medical Examiner’s Office on Sabine Street, adjacent to the University Medical Center Brackenridge. The TCME has five full-time medical examiners and serves a forty-two-county region in Central Texas. It is competent and expert, but out-of-county bodies get in line behind the local traffic, which can mean that the autopsy report is delayed by several days. If you’re in a hurry, or if you think it’s a simple autopsy without much toxicology testing, the body should go to Adams.
“Local is good,” Maxwell says. “I’m in favor.”
Miller lifts Fairlee’s arm, testing for rigor, then rises to his feet, straightening in an easy, graceful motion that Sheila envies. “Rigor’s passed,” he says. “He’s been dead for more than six or seven hours.”
“It’s hot in here,” Sheila points out. “Makes it harder to judge.”
“There’s that,” Miller agrees. He nods at the gun. “Glock 43. Suppressor.”
“Yes,” Sheila says. “So it is. A little unusual, don’t you think?”
Suppressors, also called silencers, are an after-market modification, legal in Texas only in the past couple of years. But if you buy one, you have to register it with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, pay a $200 transfer tax, and wait for eight or nine months before the paperwork clears. It’s a costly and cumbersome process.
“It’s one of the reasons I called you guys,” Maxwell says. “I looked around and found a cartridge.” She points to it, lying on the gravel several feet away. She has marked it temporarily by turning a small empty pot upside down beside it.
That’s my girl, Sheila thinks approvingly. She says, “Anybody know offhand if the gun belongs to Fairlee?”
Maxwell replies, “Selms says that he’s known the man for a couple of decades and is amazed that he owned a gun.”
Maybe especially a gun with a suppressor, Sheila thinks. Most casual gun owners don’t see the need. “So what’s the other reason you called us?”
Maxwell straightens her shoulders. “Fairlee reported a break-in weekend before last, here at the greenhouse. Officer Wakeland looked into it and took a few photos. The door was jimmied, but nothing appeared to have been taken.”
“You thought that was unusual?” Miller asks. He is taking photos of the spent cartridge.
“Not in itself, no,” Maxwell replies. “But early the next morning, I got a phone call from Fairlee. He’d had more time to look around, he said. He discovered that whoever broke in had gotten away with a plant.”
“A plant?” Miller sounds skeptical.
Maxwell nods. “An orchid. A ‘demon orchid,’ he called it. Apparently, part of the blossom looks like a devil and the petals look like claws. For some reason—I don’t get why, exactly—it is supposed to be valuable. Unusual. Rare, even. It was from Colombia.” She pauses. “It was apparently in some sort of glass case, a terrarium, according to Fairlee. He was pretty upset about the theft, and not just because the orchid was worth a lot of money. He said there were other valuable plants in the greenhouse, and he was angry because now he had to worry about security.” Another pause. “He said he had a suspect in mind.”
“Did he tell you who?” Sheila rests a hand on her belly. The baby is moving restlessly, pushing against her bladder. She knows she has to locate a bathroom—How far away? On the ground floor, maybe?—in the next few minutes.
Maxwell shakes her head. “He said it was a personal matter, and he didn’t want the university involved. I got the impression that he suspected another faculty member. The theft happened on a Sunday night and the building was locked, so it had to be somebody who had a key.” She hesitates. “He said he was taking care of the matter himself. I warned him it was a bad idea to get confrontational on this and asked him again to give me the name of his suspect.”
