Chapter Eight
March turned into April but unlike the weather, the case went cold. If Darja’s killer was the pimp they couldn’t prove it. Of any boyfriend or stalker there was no trace. SID found no forensic evidence, no semen, no finger prints, no tire tracks, no fibers. Unlike the cops on TV shows, here no one discovered a scale from a Honduran Hog-Nosed Viper conveniently tucked into the victim’s pocket or a shard of plastic between her teeth that could only have come from an exclusive series of American Express Platinum cards. None of the identifiable men in the trick book had a record as a homicidal maniac or sexual deviant. Either Darja had a very secret and very malevolent enemy or there was a new serial killer on the loose who liked to shred his victims with a wood chipper. Neither theory gained much traction.
As feared Johnny-Boy’s files resisted all of Chris’ efforts to break their encryption. Of course, he tried the usual gambits, Johnny-Boy’s date of birth, his social security number, his driver’s license number and thousands of permutations and combinations of them. Unless he came up with some new data or a scrap of paper on which Johnny-Boy had helpfully written the password, they had hit a dead end.
Eventually, as they both expected, they caught a new murder and Darja’s file was pushed to the back of Big Jim’s desk.
Chris was just about to pour his morning coffee when his cell phone rang.
“Death never sleeps,” Big Jim said. “We’ve caught a new one.” Chris looked at the clock on the microwave - 6:55 a.m. “Meet me at Engleside Middle School, 1395 Forester.” The line went dead. Chris slurped down a couple of mouthfuls of coffee then headed for his car.
Engleside Middle School was in The Valley, a solid middle-class neighborhood of four bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath split-level ranch houses serviced by strip-malls full of Safeways, Starbucks, and Walgreens with a healthy mix of nail salons and taquerias thrown in for good measure.
In addition to three black-and-whites and Big Jim’s department Malibu the teachers’ lot also contained a Crime Scene SUV, an EMS bus and a very large fire engine. One of the uniforms on crowd control waved Chris toward the playground in the center of the open rectangle of single-story classrooms. Big Jim stood at the base of a flagpole set into the asphalt basketball court fifty feet from the Principal’s office. Chris stood next to Big Jim and stared up at a man’s body hanging at half-staff.
“According to one of the teachers, that’s Brian Truman, the principal,” Big Jim said.
“Jesus!”
“They spotted him just after sunrise. I’ve put in a call for more men. We’ll need to make sure the kids don’t see this — What?”
“Brian Truman — that name rings a bell but I don’t know why.” Chris shrugged. “It’ll come to me. When’s the Coroner’s guy supposed to get here?”
“I told them it was urgent, but you know them. He’ll get here when he gets here.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way we can cut him down?”
“Nobody moves a body until the Coroner signs off on it. Until then. . . .” Big Jim shrugged.
Chris stepped back and noticed one of the Crime Scene guys taking pictures.
“Can I borrow that for a second?” Reluctantly, the tech handed over his new Canon DSLR with a 10X lens. Chris cranked the zoom all the way and studied the body — a white male, late thirties, early forties, gray sweat pants, blue sweatshirt, black running shoes. Under some filmy covering his face was red and bloated as if blood had continued to flow into the head but had been unable to drain it back out. Silver tape fastened the plastic bag around his neck. The birds had not yet gotten to the eyes, probably because the sun had only risen a few minutes ago. Now in full light a couple of crows were beginning to circle the pole. Chris returned the camera and headed back to Big Jim.
