Cracks beneath the surfa.., p.2
Cracks Beneath the Surface, page 2
Dak grinned and pointed to Laurent. “She shot him. In the forest. Through the snow. By the time we got there, he was screaming like a two-year-old.”
“I was hit in the shoulder. More of a flesh wound, but it went deep enough to nick the bone. The doctor released me for limited active duty after my last physical therapy session but said I might be sore for a few more weeks,” Laurent said.
“Don’t get behind the pain.”
“I wasn’t expecting to take so long to heal.”
“The older you get, the longer it takes. For everything. Take some ibuprofen. It’ll reduce the swelling and help with the pain. There’s no need to be a hero.” Dr. Romero took a blood sample. “I’ve got the victim’s body temperature and enough for a preliminary cause of death. Let’s slip her into the body bag and go inside where it’s warm. If you’ll help me load her onto the gurney, I’ll get out of your way.”
“Appreciate it. I’m doing my best not to speculate on the cause of death, but Keke showed me the wound,” Laurent said.
Laurent stood next to the back door of the diner and watched as Dak and Dr. Romero slid Lisa’s body inside a black bag, zipped it up, hoisted it onto the gurney, and locked it into the rear of the coroner’s vehicle. She stepped inside as Dak and the tiny coroner slipped past her into Big Al’s. Laurent shut the door and instantly the hallway felt warmer. “Let’s sit in the eating area.”
Laurent followed Dak and Dr. Romero into the dining room and pulled out a chair. She dropped her headband on the table before sitting down.
“The preliminary cause of death is a stab wound under and to the side of the left breast.” Dr. Romero rolled off her gloves and folded them inside each other. “It looks as though the weapon penetrated on an angle up and toward the victim’s right shoulder, going through the left lung and maybe hitting the heart. I’m placing the time of death between noon and four today.”
“What can you tell us about the murder weapon?” Laurent asked.
Dr. Romero sighed. “I’m pretty sure the wound was caused by a knife. The opening is a slash or a cut. If the knife was pressed all the way in, the part of the knife closest to the handle measures approximately one to one-and-a-half inches wide. Once I get back to the morgue, I’ll be able to give you the length of the knife, if it was serrated, the spacing of the serrations, and if the tip was tapered. That should narrow down the weapon you’re looking for.”
“She didn’t have a chance.”
“When vital organs are injured, the victim’s only chance is immediate surgery, and even then, she would have had a tough fight. You can’t mess with internal organs,” Romero said.
Laurent gazed at the rookie coroner. “I didn’t see any blood when I opened the driver’s-side door. What do you think about that?”
“It’s possible all the blood oozed or leaked from the stab wound and was absorbed by the T-shirt or her jeans,” Dr. Romero said. “Whoever killed her may have blood on his or her hands or gloves. When the knife was yanked out, some blood would have escaped with it. You might find traces on a pair of shoes or pants, possibly the seats, especially if they were cloth, and the floor or the mats, maybe the running board.”
“Good to know. Do you need any more help?” Laurent asked.
“It’ll be Tuesday before I’ve got more information for you.”
Laurent followed the young doctor to the rear door of the diner and watched the coroner’s van pull onto Delaney Street before heading north on Indiana Street. She closed the back door and joined Dak in the eating area. “Get Poulter over here. Have him take Lisa’s computer and the security video back to the office, make a copy, and look at it. Someone stabbed Lisa between noon and four. I know she spent most of the day at Webster Park. I helped her unload the van around eight this morning and I chatted with her around eleven. We’re going to need to track her movements during the Easter egg hunt today. Who was the last person to talk to her before she left? Was anyone else in the van with her? Did someone leave the park before Lisa and wait for her at Big Al’s?”
“Another homicide? Crap. This time, everyone in Field’s Crossing knows the victim.” Dak ran a hand over his bald head. “And likes her.”
“Liked. Me, too.” Laurent sighed. “Dak, pull the work schedule off the board in the employee break room and have dispatch call anyone scheduled and tell them not to come in. We don’t need a bunch of gawking, gossiping employees. After that, start bagging evidence. There’s got to be fifty knives in the prep room. Dust for prints. After I get back from the next-of-kin notification, we’ll work outside before we lose the light.”
“You want me to do it? You look a little peaked,” Dak said.
Laurent shook her head.
“Then take the damn ibuprofen.”
CHAPTER FOUR
LAURENT PARKED ON Cardinal Street and sat, engine idling. Was it only six weeks ago she had done this exact same thing? Tell Owen and Theresa Gattison their daughter was dead? How was Keith DuVal going to react to the news of his wife’s murder? She shut off the engine, wincing slightly at the pain. She had stopped at the twenty-four-hour pharmacy and bought more ibuprofen. Picking at the plastic seal with her teeth, she opened the bottle and pulled out the cotton ball. Why do they make it so hard to get the pills out? She downed four ibuprofen with a swig of tea from her Yeti and climbed out of the police SUV.
Lisa and Keith Duval owned a home in the residential area west of downtown Field’s Crossing. To the east was Field Street, which was lined with businesses and was the main north/south street with Big Al’s Diner occupying an entire block on the south end of town close to the school campus.
Laurent glanced down Cardinal Street. The houses had been built one by one, no tract housing or subdivision-looking homes. A few mounds of dirty snow were heaped at the end of driveways, shoveled there after the long winter. The weak April sun was trying to break through the cloud cover, and a chilly wind snuck down Laurent’s collar. She shivered. She was ready for spring, ready to shed the heavy winter clothing, ready to plant more annuals and perennials in her flower garden. But the nighttime temperatures were still falling into the thirties, and it was too soon to plant.
Laurent stopped on the sidewalk and looked at the DuVal house. It was painted the same color as Big Al’s Diner. Barn red with white trim and black shutters. The driveway was shiny black asphalt. She remembered the grumbling among Field’s Crossing residents when the popular diner had closed for a week to put in a new parking lot. It looked as though any exterior upgrades to the diner were also done to the owner’s house. Looks like one of the many farmhouses I was raised in.
She trotted up the front stairs and knocked. Stepping to the side, Laurent glanced into a large ceramic pot, empty, awaiting spring planting. She counted twenty pots of varying sizes on the front porch. Did Lisa grow her own herbs? Was that the secret to making mouthwatering sandwiches? A two-person swing hung from one end of the porch, lightly dusted with snow. As the front door opened, Laurent’s stomach tightened.
Keith DuVal was in his mid-to-late fifties. A potbelly hung over the waistband of flannel pajama bottoms and his terry cloth robe hung open, the ends of the belt stuffed into the pockets. The almost-white wifebeater T-shirt was stained, the neckline stretched allowing a few gray chest hairs to show.
It’s Easter Sunday. Did he go to dinner at Aubrey’s looking like that?
“Thank you for seeing me,” she said.
“Come in. Aubrey called me looking for Lisa and then called back and said she called you. I guess it can’t be good news.” Keith folded his arms across his chest and spread his legs wide as though he was getting ready to take a blow.
Shutting the door behind her, Laurent paused and took in the cluttered mess. The neatness and tidiness on the exterior didn’t match the interior. The tired carpet in the living room showed worn, well-traveled paths around furniture, and the cushions on the couch were faded with torn or ripped seams. The newest item in the living room was a huge flat-screen TV above the brick fireplace. The sound bar on the mantel was covered in dust and a cobweb hung from the ceiling and stuck to the corner of the TV. College basketball blared and the smell of bacon and beer hung in the air.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?” Laurent asked.
“Spit it out.”
“Your wife’s dead. I found her body at Big Al’s this afternoon.”
“Shit.” Keith looked down, his arms falling to his sides. “You’re sure it’s her?”
“Both myself and Deputy Aikens recognized her, but as next of kin, I’ll need you to make the positive identification. Not now.”
“Serves her right. Killed with her own knife.” Keith plopped into a worn leather recliner.
“Why do you say she was killed with her own knife?”
“You told me.”
“I said she was dead. You said she was killed.”
Keith shrugged. “The security at the diner sucked. Everyone in town had a key. It was only a matter of time before someone decided to rob her. She must have got in the way.”
Laurent stepped further into the living room and perched on the edge of the sagging couch. And waited. No tears from Keith DuVal. Was he in shock? Overwhelmed? How did Keith DuVal know his wife was killed with a knife? Did he kill her? “Can I call someone for you?”
He lifted his head. “Are you going to Aubrey’s house?”
“I was planning to. Would you rather I call and ask her to come here?”
“No. No.” He waved a hand. “Go on. I’ll be fine.”
“May I ask a few questions?” Laurent pulled her notebook out of her pocket and clicked her pen. He’s not upset. May as well get a feel for the guy.
“Shoot.”
“When did you last see your wife?”
“Friday after she got home.”
“Time?”
“After nine. We had a big-ass fight. I filed for divorce a year ago, and we were still arguing over the damn details.” Keith clenched a fist.
“What details?”
“She wanted half of my 401(k) but wouldn’t give me any money from Big Al’s.”
Laurent jotted a note. Keith and Lisa were getting a divorce. “How long have you been married?”
“Thirty-five years.”
“How long have you owned Big Al’s?”
“There’s the hitch. Lisa claims my name isn’t on the title and I own no part of the diner and I told her that’s bullshit. You couldn’t have bought it without me. The bank used this house for collateral. Don’t tell me I get nothing from that goddamned restaurant!” Keith’s knuckles were white.
“The divorce was about money?” Laurent asked.
“It sure as hell wasn’t about anything else. We haven’t slept together for the last ten years.”
“You argued about Big Al’s and the divorce. Then what happened?” Laurent asked.
“She got in her big ol’ Escalade and left.”
“Where’d she go?”
“I’m assuming either Aubrey’s or Vickie’s.” Keith leaned forward, opened the drawer on the side table, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “At least now I can smoke in the house.”
“Who’s Vickie?”
“Victoria Scott Wright. Lives on Corn Belt Road on the south side of town. Lisa slept there a lot.”
“How often?”
“How the fuck do I know? She never bothered to tell me a goddamn thing,” Keith snapped. “I’m done answering questions. I got people to call.” He shoved to his feet.
Laurent closed her notebook and stood. “I’m sorry for your loss. I always enjoyed chatting with your wife.”
“You and the entire town. Too bad she gave all her energy to complete strangers.” Keith turned his back on her and stalked into the kitchen. “Don’t bother going to Aubrey’s. I’ll call her.”
Laurent closed the front door behind her and jogged down the stairs. That was weird. No grief. Only anger mixed with greed. With his wife dead, there was no more fighting in court. Keith would get it all. How much money are we talking about? Enough to kill? Wonder where he’s been all day. I don’t remember seeing him at Webster Park.
CHAPTER FIVE
“WHERE DO YOU want to start?” Dak asked. “Poulter is fast-forwarding through the security video and should be back soon.”
“Let’s start at the van and work outward. Van, driveway, diner,” Laurent said. “The light is fading fast. It’ll be dark by seven o’clock. Dak, see if you can find the light switches for the outside lights around the entire building. After that, wind crime scene tape through the handles on the front door. We’ll make the rear entrance the only ingress and egress until we can finish investigating the inside of Big Al’s. Call Caleb Martin from public works and ask him to bring some sawhorses so we can block off the circular drive. He probably headed to his folks’ house for Easter dinner after he finished at Webster Park.”
“Ten-four.”
Laurent stared at the chalk outline of Lisa’s body. The woman had always been kind to her and all of Field’s Crossings’ first responders, frequently waving away payment for her fabulous sandwiches. She plucked her pant leg away from her skin and the scent of blood floated up. She pulled out her cell phone. Better call Starr. Tell her I’m not going to be there for dinner and to forget about the sour cream. Maybe she’ll bring me a clean pair of pants.
The exterior lights flicked on.
“Caleb said he’d be here in a half an hour or so.” Dak held up the digital camera. “Let me make a complete circle around the van and then I’ll start on the interior of the vehicle.”
“Don’t forget underneath the van. I’m gonna sweep the drive.” Laurent slowly shuffled toward the street. Bits of gravel, a few dead leaves, scrape marks from the snowblower, a flattened pop can. She bent over. Dog poop. Stepping around it, she reached Delaney Street, backtracked, and searched the other half of the circular drive. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Laurent heard the crunch of a vehicle and swung around to see Starr’s GMC Yukon pulling up on Delaney Street.
“What happened? You’re not gonna make it for dinner?” Starr’s armful of bangles jangled as she handed clean jeans out the window.
“Lisa’s dead.” Laurent tucked the jeans under her arm.
“No shit. Heart attack? She was carrying some extra weight.”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Then why do you need clean pants? Is that blood?”
“Nothing gets by you. Thanks. I’ll call later if it’s not too late.” Laurent waved. She jogged into the diner and changed in the public washroom and placed her blood-soaked pants into an evidence bag before rejoining Dak.
“Exterior complete,” he said.
“I’ll open the driver’s door and wait until you’re done before I start searching.” She swung open the door and stepped back. As Dak snapped pictures, she studied the inside of the catering van. It was well used. The floor mats were filled with bits of white paper, a French fry, twigs, and a straw was lodged alongside the gas pedal. The dashboard was dusty, and a pair of sunglasses perched in the cup holder. The victim’s purse and jean jacket lay on the passenger seat.
“No one drove from the park to the diner with her,” Laurent said.
“Why do you say that?” Dak asked.
“If someone rode back with Lisa, she’d have put her purse and coat on the floor between the seats.”
“You don’t know that.”
“That’s what I would have done. That’s what Starr would have done. I’d never ask a passenger to hold my purse,” Laurent said. “But we won’t rule out that there might have been someone in the passenger seat. My assumption could be wrong.”
Dak snorted. “You’re right and you know it. Mimi’d do the same.” He paused. “Why aren’t there any sliding doors on the sides of the van?”
“Shelving. Let’s open the rear doors and take a look.” Laurent glanced toward Delaney Street as Poulter parked on the street blocking one end of the circular drive and waited until he joined her and Dak. “What did you see on the security tape?”
“I checked the exterior cameras first. It started off with a bunch of kids and Lisa loading the vans with trays of eggs. Then some of the kids left, but two boys stayed behind. Lisa drove one van, and the two boys were in the other van. Then, there’s a big gap of nothing and then those same two boys come back, park the van, and walk out of sight of the camera. And then the camera shut off. One o’clock. That’s when Big Al’s closed today.”
“Dr. Romero puts the time of death between noon and four today. With the camera shutting off at one, we might be able to narrow the time of death between one and four.” Laurent tapped the flashlight against her leg.
“We were just about to look inside the rear of the vehicle.” She strode to the back of the catering van, opened one side, and pulled it wide, the smell of eggs wafting out. Laurent liked hard-boiled eggs, but now the odor would be associated with Lisa’s murder. Gonna be a while before I eat another hard-boiled egg.
Dak and Poulter joined her, all three flashlights splaying over the inside of the van. Both sides were lined with adjustable stainless-steel wire mesh shelves and connected to the wall behind the driver and passenger seats. The center aisle was shoulder-width, and the floor was a non-skid bare metal.
“That answers one question,” Poulter said. “You can’t get from the driver’s seat or the front passenger seat into the back of the van. The only way is through these doors. Someone could hide here, and no one would know.”
“Somebody had to close the rear doors. Is it possible to shut them from the inside?” Laurent ran her flashlight over the interior rear door.
“Looks like.” Poulter pointed to a handle. “Probably a safety feature so you can’t get locked inside, like a walk-in cooler.”
“Wouldn’t she notice if someone was hiding back here?” Dak asked.
“Depends. After all the eggs were hidden at Webster Park and we put the trays back, the doors were closed. Were they locked? Did someone hide in here? Would Lisa or any of her staff open the rear door and look inside before driving off? I wouldn’t,” Laurent said.
