Final justice - W.E.B. Griffin [82]
Without a word Joe D'Amata opened his leather-bound notepad, turned to the last page of the tablet, and scrawled a note for himself: Sex Crimes, unsolved rape in area, Lt. Sawyer, Det. Domenico, Ellis.
There was another female detective in the apartment, sitting on the couch beside a well-dressed, somewhat distraught-looking man.
She stood up when she saw them.
Sergeant Payne had an unprofessional thought: Now, that's a very interesting member of the opposite sex.
"Captain, I'd rather not have anybody in there until we get the search warrant and the Crime Lab," the very interesting member of the opposite sex said.
"The warrant's on the way," Matt said. "And we're just going to stand in the door for a quick look."
"Take a good long look," the man on the couch said, as he stood up. "If you cops did what you're supposed to do, my sister would probably still be alive."
"I'm very sorry for your loss, sir," D'Amata said.
"You're sorry? That does Cheryl a lot of fucking good."
"Who are you?" Detective Olivia Lassiter asked, almost a challenge.
"Joe D'Amata, Homicide," D'Amata said. "I've got the job. This is Harry Slayberg, and Sergeant Payne."
D'Amata and Slayberg nodded at Detective Lassiter as they walked around Matt to the bedroom door.
"Who are you?" Matt asked.
"Lassiter, Northwest Detectives," she said.
D'Amata and Slayberg stood in the doorway of Cheryl Williamson's bedroom and looked around--without entering--for about sixty seconds. Then they stepped away from the bedroom door and started looking around the living room. Captain Smith went to the bedroom door.
"Jesus," he said, softly.
Matt saw that D'Amata and Slayberg had rubber gloves on their hands, wondered why he hadn't seen them put them on, and pulled a pair of his own from his pocket.
He was about to walk to the door when the apartment door opened again and two men entered. Payne knew one of them, a balding, rumpled man in a well-worn suit, Dr. Howard Mitchell of the medical examiner's office. He had with him a photographer, a young man Matt could not remember ever having seen before.
Matt found it interesting that Dr. Mitchell had come to the scene personally. Usually technicians from the M.E.'s office worked a death scene, and the M.E. did not; he either supervised the autopsy or did it himself.
Probably, Matt decided, Mitchell's appearance had something to do with a Special Operations job he'd heard about, one that had almost been assigned to him, although in the end it had been assigned to Detectives Jesus Martinez and Charles T. McFadden.
It had begun when a highly indignant citizen, the nephew of a woman who'd fallen down her cellar stairs and broken her neck, had gone to his district and told the desk sergeant to report that he'd just gotten Aunt Myrtle's last Visa bill. Aunt Myrtle didn't drink, couldn't drive, and there was no way she could have charged $355 worth of booze at Mickey's Liquor Store in Camden, New Jersey, on the day of her death.
The report had worked its way through the bureaucracy to the Roundhouse, where it had been discussed by Deputy Commissioner Coughlin and Chief Inspector of Detectives Lowenstein.
They agreed there was something about it that made it seem more than a simple case of credit-card fraud. And since it crossed state lines, it became a federal offense, which meant it was in the province of the FBI. Although both Coughlin and Lowenstein held the FBI in the highest possible respect, they also suspected that a credit card fraud involving only $355 would not get the FBI's full attention.
"Give it to Peter Wohl," Lowenstein said. "Not this job. Get him to see if there have been other reports of other things missing from other recently deceased citizens."
Coughlin had--unnecessarily--told Peter Wohl that if somebody at funeral homes, cops at the scene, or maybe even from the M.E.'s office were taking things they shouldn't, he would rather learn this