‘Miss?’ the operator repeated urgently. ‘What is the nature of your emergency?’
Sternly Lucy cleared her throat. Called on years of training. Forced her voice to steady. ‘This is Dr Trask from the Medical Examiner’s office. I need to report a murder.’
Monday, May 3, 6.00 A.M.
Detective JD Fitzpatrick studied the small crowd gathered behind the yellow tape. Neighbors, he thought. Some still wore bathrobes and slippers. Some were old, some middle-aged. Some cried. Some swore. Some did both.
He ventured close enough to listen in as he approached the crime scene. This was the time to listen, when shock had their tongues loose.
‘What kind of animal could do that to a helpless old man?’ one of the younger women was demanding furiously, her hands clenched into fists.
‘He never hurt anyone,’ the man next to her said in a bewildered tone.
‘Goddam gangs,’ an old man muttered to no one at all. ‘Not safe to leave your house any more.’
JD noted the well-maintained grass of the small community park. There was no evidence of gang presence here, but he’d seen it clearly enough on the drive in. This had been a pocket of safety for these residents. A sanctuary that the ugliness outside hadn’t yet touched. An illusion, he knew. Ugliness was everywhere.
Now the dead man’s neighbors knew it too. It didn’t take a gang to do a murder. One perp was enough, especially if the victim was elderly and vulnerable.
‘This is going to kill Barb,’ an old woman cried brokenly, leaning against another old man. ‘How many times did I tell her to put him in a home? How many times?’
‘I know, honey,’ the man murmured. He cradled her gray head against his shoulder, shielding her eyes from the scene. ‘At least Lucy’s here.’
The old woman nodded, sniffling. ‘She’ll know what to do.’
Barb was probably the wife or daughter of the dead man, but JD wondered who Lucy was and what it was that she’d know to do.
Two uniformed officers stood inside the yellow crime-scene tape, shoulder to shoulder. One faced the neighbors, the other the crime scene. Together they were a barrier, blocking the view of the victim as best they could.
CSU was already here, snapping photographs and processing the scene. Between the cops and CSU, nobody in the waiting crowd could see much of anything now, but JD knew that many of them had seen enough before the scene had been secured.
The two uniforms pointed to a third cop standing next to Drew Peterson, the leader of the CSU team. The cop was Hopper, JD was informed. The first responder.
‘Thanks.’ JD stepped around the two uniforms, steeled for what he’d see. Still he fought a grimace. The victim sat in a chair fixed to the pavement, his body sprawled over a park chess table, his head and face beaten so severely that he was unrecognizable. Who would do that to an old man? Why?
The victim wore a beige trench coat, buttoned to his neck, belted around the waist. His hands were shoved in his pockets. There didn’t appear to be any blood on his coat or around the chair. The only blood visible was dried on the victim’s face and scalp.
Officer Hopper approached, a grim determination in his steps. ‘I’m Hopper.’
‘Fitzpatrick, Homicide.’ After three weeks on the unit, the words still felt strange in JD’s mouth. ‘You were first on?’ he asked and the officer nodded.
‘This is my beat. The victim is Jerry Pugh. Sixty-eight year old Caucasian male.’
‘So you knew him. I’m sorry,’ JD murmured.
Hopper nodded again. ‘Me too. Jerry was harmless. Sick.’
‘He had dementia?’ JD asked and Hopper’s eyes narrowed in surprise.
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘The lady on the front row said she told Barb to put him in a home.’
‘That’s Mrs Korbel. And I imagine she did. So did I. But Mrs Pugh – that’s Barb – wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it, I guess. They’d been married forever.’
‘Who found the body?’
Again Hopper looked surprised. ‘She did.’ He pointed to the other side of the crime scene where a woman stood alone, watching. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable. But there was a fragility to her, a palpable tension, as if she was barely holding on.
She was tall, five nine or ten. The long hair she’d pulled back in a simple ponytail was a reddish gold that flickered under the bright CSU lights, like little licks of fire. She was very pretty, her features so classically fine that her face could have graced a statue. Or perhaps it was because she stood so motionlessly that he thought so.
She wore a windbreaker, running shorts and a pair of hi-tech running shoes. That she’d been allowed proximity to the scene suggested she was more than a simple bystander, but he’d never seen her before. That face he’d remember.
Those legs he’d certainly remember.
‘Who is—?’ he started to ask, then she turned and met his eyes.
And in a flash of painful memory, JD knew exactly who she was. ‘Dr Trask,’ he said quietly. Lucy Trask, the ME. Lucy will know what to do. ‘She found him?’
‘Just before dawn,’ Hopper said. ‘The doc . . . well, she’s a nice lady, that’s all.’
JD found he had to clear his throat. ‘I know. Where is Mrs Pugh?’
‘My partner Rico went to find her. He got no answer when he knocked on their apartment door. The super was waiting with the key. By then the whole building was out here. Everybody but Mrs Pugh. Rico searched the apartment, but no sign of the missus. Her car’s not in the parking lot.’
‘No sign of foul play in the apartment?’
‘No. Rico says it looks like she left. There were a couple extra bowls of cat food on the kitchen floor, and all the kitchen appliances were unplugged. The super’s getting emergency contact info off the rental agreement now.’
JD had been listening to Hopper, but hadn’t taken his gaze off Dr Lucy Trask. She’d looked away, but not before he’d seen the devastated grief in her eyes.
He looked back at Hopper. ‘Get Rico on the radio. Tell him not to call the emergency contact. Give the info to me. I don’t want anyone else informing the wife.’
Hopper frowned. ‘Barb Pugh isn’t involved. She’s almost seventy.’
‘I hear you.’ It was unlikely that an old woman could produce that kind of damage. ‘But I have to proceed like she is involved until I know differently.’
Hopper’s frown lessened slightly. ‘All right. I’ll get Rico on the radio.’
‘Thank you.’ JD crouched next to the victim, studying him up close. Someone had done a real job on Mr Jerry Pugh. The weapon used had been blunt and hard. The attack had been relentless. Every feature of the man’s face had been crushed.
Rage, he thought. Or maybe a drug-induced frenzy. He’d certainly seen enough of that in Narcotics. This was no garden-variety mugging. Someone had totally lost it.
CSU’s Drew Peterson crouched beside him. ‘Hey, JD. You got here fast. You finally sell your place way out in the burbs?’
JD and Drew had been assigned to the same precinct right out of the Academy, but they hadn’t seen much of each other since Maya died. JD hadn’t seen much of anyone since then. His assignment in the Narcotics division had mercifully swallowed him up. But this move to Homicide was a clean break. A fresh start. And as much as he pitied the poor old man slumped over the chess table, JD was looking forward to the change.
‘Not even a nibble.’ After a frustrating year on the market, JD was about to give up trying to sell the house he’d once shared with his wife. ‘You find anything?’
‘Not a lot so far. We just finished taking pictures. The ME has to do their thing, then we’ll get started. Where’s Stevie?’
‘On her way.’ As soon as she lined up someone to watch her little girl. JD’s partner Stevie Mazzetti normally had all her bases covered when they were on call, but her childcare backups had backfired today. He didn’t mind covering for Stevie. Her need for being
covered was rare. She was a good cop. And JD owed her a lot.
JD pointed to the grass around the chess table. ‘He wasn’t killed here. No blood on the grass or on the beige overcoat. Any idea how he got here?’
‘My best guess, by wheelchair. I found tracks in the grass. We’ll take impressions if we can. Chair’s gone, though. Whoever dumped him here took it with them.’
‘No tire tracks from the path to this table,’ JD said. ‘He was dragged or carried, which would have left somebody pushing an empty wheelchair from the scene. If he was dragged, he might have grass on his shoes.’
‘If he does, it’s stuck to the soles. Did you see his shoes?’ Drew asked.
JD leaned to see beneath the chess table. The victim’s wingtips were new and had been shined recently. ‘No scuffing. Doesn’t look like he was dragged.’
‘Do you know how much those shoes cost?’
‘A lot.’ The shoes appeared to be very expensive. Maybe even custom-made. JD looked over his shoulder at the apartment building. It wasn’t low-rent, but it certainly wasn’t the Ritz. ‘I guess what he saved on rent, he spent on shoes. I wonder what Mr Pugh did for a living, before the dementia.’
‘The doc will know,’ Drew said. ‘She lives in the building too.’
‘She knew him personally?’ he asked, and Drew nodded again. That explained both her grief and why she was running here, in this particular park. She still stood motionless, staring at the body, and sympathy tugged at his heart. ‘That had to have been a huge shock. She’s not going to do the exam, is she?’
‘No. She called for techs and a rig. She appears to be holding it together.’
‘But not by much,’ JD murmured. ‘I’m going to interview Dr Trask, then see if we can find the vic’s wife and any witnesses. Call me over if you find something.’
‘Will do.’
Lucy Trask straightened when she saw him coming. Her eyes were dry, but her face was very pale. She fixed her gaze on the dead man in the chair, not glancing up.
‘Dr Trask? I’m Detective Fitzpatrick.’
‘I know,’ she said tonelessly. ‘You’re Mazzetti’s new partner. Where is Stevie?’
‘On her way. Can I ask you a few questions?’
‘Of course.’ She spoke, but her lips barely moved.
‘Why don’t we go sit in my car? You’ll be more comfortable there.’
Her jaw tightened. ‘No. I’ll stay here. Please, just ask your questions, Detective.’
There was a thread of desperate fury in her voice. She had the smallest trace of an accent. It wasn’t quite Southern, but she wasn’t from the city. At least not originally. ‘Okay. You knew the victim?’
She jerked a nod, but said nothing.
‘I’m sorry, Dr Trask. I know this is beyond difficult. You found him?’ he asked and she nodded again. ‘When?’
‘At about five thirty. I was running. I saw Mr Pugh in his chair.’ She recited the words, as if giving a report. ‘I thought he’d wandered away from his apartment again.’
‘Because he had dementia,’ JD said and her glance swung up to his. Her eyes were a clear, piercing blue, not easily forgotten. At the moment they churned turbulently with grief and anger and shock, but he knew they were capable of great warmth and compassion. He’d remembered her eyes for a long time after the day he’d first seen her. The only time he’d seen her.
And he’d only seen her eyes. The rest of her had been masked and gowned. He hadn’t seen her face, but he’d never forgotten her eyes.
‘Mr Pugh had Alzheimer’s disease,’ she confirmed.
‘How often did he wander away from home?’
Her shoulders sagged wearily. ‘Recently, three or four times a week. Barb has to sleep sometime. When he wandered off at night, I was usually the one to find him.’
‘And you would take him home?’
‘Yes.’ She said it so quietly he barely heard the word.
‘He would go willingly with you?’
‘Yes. He wasn’t violent.’
‘Some Alzheimer’s patients are,’ JD noted.
Her chin lifted a fraction. ‘Some are. He wasn’t. We were able to calm him.’
She had more than known the victim, JD realized. They’d been close. ‘You were out early this morning.’
‘Yes. I always run before dawn.’
‘Did you see the victim sitting there when you started your run?’
She looked angry. ‘No. If I had, I would have taken him home right then.’
‘So he wasn’t there when you started your run?’
Her eyes flickered, as if now understanding his question. ‘Oh. No. He might have been, but I wouldn’t have seen him. I start from the other side of the building and run the perimeter of the neighborhood before cutting back through the park on my way back.’
‘Did you see anyone else?’
‘Only the other runners. I don’t know any of their names. Officer Hopper might.’ She looked toward her building. ‘Where is Officer Rico? He went to check on Barb.’
‘It looks like she’s gone.’
Trask’s gaze shot up to him, wild panic in her eyes this time. One slender hand grabbed his arm in a vise-like grip. ‘Gone where? Gone dead?’ she demanded and he immediately regretted the words he’d chosen.
‘No, no,’ he soothed, covering her hand with his. Her skin was like ice. He pulled her fingers from his sleeve and sandwiched her hand between his palms, rubbing them to warm her. ‘It appears she left. The apartment is empty and her car isn’t in the lot.’
Panic became disbelief and she stood there, her hand motionless between his. ‘No. Barb would never leave him alone like that.’
‘But she is gone.’
Jerking her hand free, she took a step back, the remaining color draining from her face. ‘No. Absolutely not. She would not leave him of her own free will. Somebody must have taken her. Oh my God.’
‘She unplugged all the kitchen appliances,’ JD said and watched as his words penetrated her disbelief. ‘Did she do that when she traveled?’
Trask nodded, numbly. ‘Yes. But I won’t believe she left him alone. She was devoted to him.’
‘Sometimes people under stress do things they wouldn’t normally do,’ JD said carefully. ‘Caring for a spouse with Alz—’
‘No,’ she interrupted, fury giving her voice authority. ‘No. For God’s sake, Detective, Mr Pugh couldn’t even dress himself. He couldn’t even tie his . . .’ She faltered suddenly, her brows furrowing.
JD leaned in closer when she didn’t finish the sentence. ‘Tie his what?’
But she was already moving toward the body. ‘His shoes,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘He’s wearing shoes with laces.’
JD hurried after her, ready to pull her back if she got too close, but she stopped, crouching where he had minutes before. Something had clicked and she was no longer numb. Now there was an energy around her. The air all but hummed.
Fascinated, he crouched beside her, staring at her profile as she stared at the victim’s feet. Color had returned to her face, her cheeks pinking up before his eyes.
No, he could never have forgotten her face.
‘Mr Pugh hasn’t worn regular shoes in five years,’ she murmured, dragging his attention back to the dead man in the chair. ‘He wears an orthopedic shoe with Velcro. Barb’s fingers were too stiff to tie his laces.’
‘Maybe he had two pairs,’ JD said, but she shook her head.
‘These are Ferragamos. Mr Pugh never had that kind of money, and if he had, he wouldn’t have spent it on shoes.’
‘What did he do for a living? I mean . . . before the Alzheimer’s?’
She glanced up at him, her eyes sharp. Alert. And relieved. ‘He was a high-school music teacher who bought his shoes from J.C. Penney’s. This is not Jerry Pugh.’
She sounded utterly certain. ‘What makes you so sure?’ he asked.
‘These shoes are the wrong size,’ she said. ‘These are size ten. Mr Pugh wo
re size twelve.’ She closed her eyes, pursing lips that trembled. ‘Oh God. Oh God. Wears. Wears a size twelve. He’s still alive. This isn’t him. This isn’t him.’
‘Are you all right, Dr Trask?’
She nodded, trembling, her hands clenched into fists. ‘I’m fine.’
He wasn’t sure about that, but hoped she’d know if she were about to faint. ‘How do you know Mr Pugh’s shoe size?’ he asked, unconvinced.
‘I see a lot of feet in my business, Detective. I know my sizes.’
He pictured the bodies in the cold room at the morgue, with just their feet sticking from beneath the sheet, tags on the toes. ‘I guess you do. But how do you know his?’
She moved her shoulders a little uncomfortably as she stared at the victim’s battered face. ‘In February I found Mr Pugh sitting right here, in his chair. He’d left the house without his shoes and his feet were almost frozen. I called 911, massaged his feet and covered them with my coat. I know what size his feet are. This man’s are too small. This man is not Mr Pugh.’
‘That was very kind of you, massaging the feet of an old man,’ he murmured.
‘It was what anyone would have done.’
He doubted that. ‘You call him “Mr Pugh”, but you call her “Barb”. Why?’
That took her aback, he could see. She hesitated. ‘Old habits die hard, I guess,’ she finally said. ‘I didn’t realize I did that.’
‘How long have you known Mr Pugh?’
‘Twenty years. He was my teacher. In high school.’ She said the phrases haltingly, as if reluctant to divulge the information. Briskly she rose, and he followed. ‘This man is not seventy years old. If I hadn’t been distracted, I would have seen that.’
‘You had a right to be distracted,’ JD began, but she waved his words away.
‘He might be fifty, if that. He’s taller than Mr Pugh too, by a good two inches.’ She leaned over the dead man’s head carefully. Dried blood was thickly crusted over the scalp. ‘He’s bald, like Mr Pugh. Or his head’s been shaved. I’ll let you know which when I get him on a table.’
‘Okay, let’s assume you’re right and this man is not Jerry Pugh. What made you originally think he was?’