January 13, 2008
Churchill sat at the cramped desk where a bulky nineteen-inch CRT monitor rested. Before laying her Murder Book down, she cleaned up the mess left by the previous users of the workstation: a half-empty Styrofoam cup, fast-food wrappers, unused napkins, and plastic stir sticks. A wastebasket sat only ten feet away, but these slobs couldn’t be bothered to use it.
A message on her BlackBerry caused it to vibrate. Retrieving it from her jacket pocket, she smiled. It was from Marcus, her hubby. Five years her senior, they had started dating when she was in the academy, and he was still a patrol officer. Detective Captain Marcus was now a 15-year veteran of Homicide, working out of West Bureau, while she was at Central.
Lately, they barely saw each other—hot-bunking it, they joked—but their marriage was solid, coming up on their twentieth anniversary. The SMS was short but sweet: You got this, babe. FYI, I killed the catfish and okra. Sorry, couldn’t help it.
She typed a colon followed by a right parenthesis, and the OS interpreted it as a smiley face. She received a winky face in return. The intimacy between them still hadn’t waned, and she thanked the good Lord for that and all her blessings.
Getting back to work, she tossed her colleagues’ crap in the wastebasket, wiped the desk clean with a napkin, and then fired up the PC. She’d seen enough homicides of hookers to know that most of the cases went unsolved, mainly due to a lack of resources. The serial-killer angle dramatically changed the dynamics.
Laying down her Murder Book, she opened the three-ring binder to view the ME’s preliminary reports. With the browser open, she navigated to the NamUs website.
The system was far from perfect, as evidenced by her difficulty logging in with her badge number and the case’s UP entry. Still, only six months into rollout, it was a damn sight better than NCIC’s clunky filters. Ten seconds after inputting Jane Doe Number Three’s biological profile, she got a hit.
NamUs case number 2322, she read. Sonseeahray (Morning Star) Naiche, age eighteen, race Native American, nickname Sami. The profile pic showed a smiling girl with a baby face, wearing bright red glasses, residing in Tuskahoma, Oklahoma, Pushmataha County, last seen six months back in McCammon, Idaho. The rest of the file didn’t help much, but the “forever and a day” tattoo on Sami’s lower back grabbed her attention—exact script and cursive flourish, entered by a frantic mother post-disappearance.
She hit a few keystrokes to see if DNA samples were available. They were—a buccal swab from the mother, uploaded last fall.
She reached for her BlackBerry, which had the Medical Examiner’s office on speed dial, and hit it. Matsu answered after a few rings.
“Churchill, what’s up?”
“I got a hit on NamUs on Jane Doe Hillside.”
“Tramp stamp?”
“Indeed.”
“So what do you need?”
“I need the DNA analysis from the femoral draw expedited. That possible?”
“Sure.”
“Great! When can I expect the results?”
“Turnaround time, maybe six to eight weeks, maybe longer.”
“Seriously?”
***
“That goddamn prima donna—does he know we’ve set up a task force, that you’re spearheading it?” her LT growled, his frustration evident. She was seated across his desk in his office, disrupting his lunch: a deli sandwich with a Diet Coke.
“I mentioned it to him.”
“Mentioned it to him?”
“LT, I’m doing yeoman’s work, trying to gather the facts and solve a murder. This inter-agency crap is above my pay grade.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to him.” She rose to leave.
“Stay put.”
She sat down. Her lieutenant picked up the phone and hit speed dial.
“Matsu, you old Ginsu warrior, how’s the golf game?” Her LT smiled, laying on the phony charm. “Listen, I need a little favor. My lead detective needs a DNA analysis ASAP on—” He placed his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “What vic?”
“Jane Doe Number Three,” she answered.
“Jane Doe Number Three,” said her lieutenant. “Yeah, the one found at Hillside—no head, no hands… Yeah, yeah, it’s official. We got ourselves a serial killer, and she’s leading the charge.”
Her LT listened to Matsu rant for a while, nodding in agreement, smiling, and making faces. After the ME was done, he said, “I know it’s a pain, and I feel for you, Matsu, I do, but this is coming all the way from the top. I’m just taking orders from the Chief.” He listened again to a shorter tirade and then said, “Appreciate it, buddy. Let’s tee off soon, and say hello to the missus.”
Her lieutenant hung up the phone, his determination clear. “And that, Churchill, is why they pay me the big bucks.”
She stood up.
“When will I get the DNA results?”
“Two weeks tops.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“You’re welcome. Now get out of here and close the door.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
She let her LT enjoy his lunch in peace and walked back to her cubicle, the reality of leading a chase for a serial killer sinking in. It wasn’t the headache she’d imagined, but something invigorating—especially now that she had a decent lead. It struck her that if the vic’s DNA matched the mother, she’d have to give a courtesy call to the tribal PD.
***
January 23, 2008
“They match,” said Matsu dispassionately.
“Incredible! Excellent! Thanks!” She pressed the red End Call key on her BlackBerry. Thank you, dear Jesus. The call came at 1 p.m., right around the time she’d take a drive to do a little canvassing—when in fact, she was finding a quiet spot to park and take a catnap. A human being could only operate on four to five hours of sleep a night for so long.
For two weeks, she and Santos had been canvassing the downtown streets, interviewing shop owners, cabbies, homeless people—anyone who could be a potential witness. But they both knew they were only spinning their wheels. For a while, she’d been thinking that the whole thing was just a PR stunt to keep the public calm. Now it felt different. Now they had a name and a face—a human being to seek justice for.
She reached for the Murder Book lying in the passenger seat and opened it. Flipping to the page with contacts, she found the mother’s phone number, which was listed in the Missing Persons file. It was three p.m. in Oklahoma. She punched in the numbers on her BlackBerry device, listening to the mechanical brrring. A woman answered.
“Hello?” The woman had a distinct accent—a Rez accent.
“Mrs. Naiche?”
***
January 24, 2008
She waited in the hallway, sipping coffee, watching the occasional corpse roll past, hearing snippets of conversation, laughter, weekend plans. Not her. It was the thirteenth day in, and her days and nights would continue like this for Lord knows how long. Usually, by now, she and Santos would be working four to seven cases. Not this time; this file could go on for months. Not that she was complaining—soon her paychecks would be phat, as the kids liked to say, as her African American posterior.
Yes, despite the tragic circumstances, a part of her was pretty pleased at the moment. When the victim’s mother entered the hallway, those happy thoughts shrank.
“You Detective Churchill?”
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, she thought, seeing the cleavage-revealing tank top and tribal ink—the bedazzled Motorola RAZR in her hand. Don’t judge, lest ye be judged, woman.
“I am,” she said, showing her shield. The woman looked at the double doors down the hall and put her phone away.
“Is she there?”
“Yes. Are you ready to ID her?”
“No, but what choice do I have?”
“Okay.” Before they headed down the hall, she pulled a printout from her Murder Book—a high-res photo of the tattoo from the autopsy. “Mrs. Naiche, I know this is hard, but let’s start with this. It’s a close-up of the ink on her lower back. Does it match what you remember on your daughter?”
The mother studied it, her face crumpling as she nodded. “Yeah… that’s Sami’s. ‘Forever and a day.’ She got it last summer. I didn’t approve; I wanted her to remove it. I told her it made her look like a skank. She said it was for her boyfriend, that piece of shit. We fought like cats and dogs over it—I was so pissed. Shortly after, she ran away, she and that loser.”
“The loser have a name?”
“Nashoba.”
“Nashoba?”
“It means wolf. But the little punk isn’t anything like that; he’s weak and stupid. I have no idea what Sami saw in him, other than that he was tall.”
“No, I meant—uh, what was Nashoba’s last name? I might want to talk to him.”
“Colbert.”
“You have any idea where he might be?”
“He’s back in Tuskahoma, living three houses down from me with his drunk of a father. If you think he did this, forget it; he came home about a week after they ran away. The Tribal Police questioned him, and so did my brothers. He said that Sami left him after he ran out of money in Idaho. He wanted to go back, she didn’t, so she hitched a ride with a trucker heading west. A witness at the truck stop corroborates his story.”
She raised her eyes slightly. “I know, fancy word. I’m a big fan of CSI.”
“Gotcha.”
“So, can I see Sami now?”
She slipped the photo away.
“If you’re up for it, but I’m warning you, it’s not…”
“I have to see her. I have to.”
She sighed. “Okay, let’s go this way.” Together they walked down the hall to an office, where the morgue tech—a Filipino male—sat, inputting data into a ten-year-old computer.
“Busy?” she asked. He looked up from the screen and got to his feet.
“For you, Detective? Never.” Leading the way, he pushed through the double doors, with her and the victim’s mother right behind, to stop before a row of stainless-steel shelves. With appropriate decorum, he pulled one open. Mrs. Naiche glanced down, her hand reaching for comfort.
“Oh, Jesus… that’s her. That’s my baby,” she broke down in tears. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, Sami, my baby—you hear me? I’m so sorry! I looked everywhere for you, everywhere, I did.” Her wailing was inconsolable. She could do little but act respectfully, giving her distance.
Out in the parking lot, Mrs. Naiche’s demeanor was that of a warrior woman, with a cigarette in her hand; she paced back and forth, furious.
“I want to take her back with me. I don’t want to leave her here.”
“How long will you be in town?”
“I’d like to leave tomorrow if I can.”
“I don’t know if they’ll release her that quickly. I understand the need for you to bring your daughter home and give her a proper burial, but…”
“But what?”
“But this is an ongoing investigation, and her body can provide us with clues—clues to catching the person who did that to her, and to two other girls.”
Mrs. Naiche dropped the cigarette on the ground and crushed it with her foot. Her face was a look of resolve.
“Detective. Do what you have to. But just get this guy. Get the sick bastard. And when you do, invite me to his execution, so I can watch him die a slow, painful death.”
***
“I don’t mean to be a bother, but the mother was asking about her daughter—when she’ll be released.”
“Not anytime soon,” the Filipino man said. “I’m supposed to prep her and the others for shipping.”
“To where?”
“To another lab up in San Francisco.”
“San Francisco? Why?”
“More tests, I guess—specialized tox work they can’t handle here with the backlog.”
***
She entered the autopsy suite uninvited. Matsu stood over a corpse in his early twenties, covered with tattoos, the top of his head blown off from what appeared to be a shotgun blast. Glancing her way, she waved the transfer papers in his face.
“You authorize this?” Matsu turned from the autopsy table, took the documents from her hand, and studied them.
“Yes, I authorized it. Three less stiffs to deal with? The better.” The Chief ME handed the papers back. “I’ve got more than enough bodies to deal with.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?”
“You would have been!” Matsu snapped back. “Eventually.” Calming down, he said, “You know that this lab was the first of its kind in the country, established in 1920, pioneering the way in all matters of forensics? Look where we’re at now. We’re using twenty-year-old equipment and operating on a budget that barely covers the fiscal year. I’ve got fucking cracks in the foundation from the Northridge quake over a decade ago, and we still haven’t gotten around to fixing it. Shit, this whole thing could come down on our heads right now! So what do the big boys upstairs do? Pour resources into this grand institution, with its long history of public service? Fuck no. The fiscal geniuses upstairs decide to outsource the work to a goddamn private lab up north. You know how much it costs to truck three stiffs up the I-5? And then you wonder why this city is broke. Well, screw them, screw you, and screw every detective coming in here thinking their case is the only case that counts!”
She backed off; her manner softened. “Okay, okay. I apologize for flying off the handle like that. It’s my blood sugar. Maybe I need a Snickers bar. It’s just…”
“Yeah, I know. You care about your job. A little advice, Churchill: Don’t make the job your life. Me? Five more years, and it’s sayonara, baby. I’m on the links where I belong. I’m done fighting for this place.” Returning to the table, Matsu picked up a bone saw. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. This poor gangbanging soul needs my undivided attention.”
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