Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [5]
“Cordon it off,” Johnson ordered a patrolman, who went to his car for a roll of yellow crime scene tape. Klayman turned at the sound of other vehicles coming up the alley. Both were white mini-vans; one had EVIDENCE TECHNICIAN written on it, the other OFFICE OF THE MEDICAL EXAMINER. The two detectives didn’t need to discuss what they would do next. Johnson returned inside the theatre to round up everyone who’d been there when the body was discovered, while Klayman took charge of the crime scene itself, making sure nothing was touched or moved, and working with the evidence technicians and ME as they went about their routines.
Klayman went to where the uniformed cop held the vagrant at bay against the brick wall. “Who’s he?” Klayman asked.
“An unemployed gentleman,” the cop said, grinning. “Claims he’s with the FBI.”
“That so?” said Klayman. “What are you holding him for?”
“Eyewitness. Says he saw who killed her.”
“Ease up,” Klayman said. The cop released his grip. Klayman stepped closer to the bearded man. “You saw it happen, sir?”
“You bet I did,” the man said, wiping spittle from his mouth and beard. “Saw it plain as day.”
“What’s your name?”
“Joseph Patridge. That’s the name I use undercover.” His smile revealed missing teeth; the smell of whiskey curled Klayman’s nose.
“What’s your real name, when you’re not undercover?”
“John Partridge.”
“I see.” To the uniformed officer: “Take him downtown, material witness.”
“Okay.”
The evidence technician took pictures of the deceased from many angles with a digital camera, then took positions from which he could photograph the surrounding area. Klayman crouched next to the ME, who was gently moving the girl’s jaw to determine the level of rigor mortis.
“She’s dead,” Dr. Ong said. What was obvious to the casual observer didn’t become official until the ME had decreed it so.
“What do you figure, time of death?” Klayman asked.
“Not stiff as a board yet, Detective. Legs still flexible. Less than eight hours. Maybe six.”
“She look like maybe she was moved here from where she was killed? Dumped here?”
Ong pressed fingertips against the girl’s abdomen, exposed because her purple shirt had ridden up to her neck. Klayman observed that there was no discoloration from pooled blood, or livor mortis, on her stomach, indicating that she’d fallen on her back when struck and had stayed in that position. Ong shook his head. “No livor on her belly. I’d say the deed was probably done right here.”
Klayman stood and slowly took in the broken macadam and concrete surrounding the girl. He asked Ong from his standing position, “Blow to the head?”
“Appears that way. More than one. Head, the face. She was beaten quite badly.”
Klayman summoned one of the evidence technicians with his index finger. “See those prints over there?” he asked, pointing to areas of crumbled concrete where two footprints were visible in the gray dust. “Get those.”
Inside, Mo Johnson had instructed those gathered on the stage to separate. When they were a dozen feet apart from one another, he asked the group, “Anybody know who she is? Was?”
Their reply was affirmative. “Nadia,” some of them said. “Zarinski.” “Nadia Zarinski.”
Johnson raised his hand to cut off the chorus. “Just one at a time. You?” He nodded at Johnny Wales.
“Nadia Zarinski,” Wales said.
“She work here?” Johnson pulled a small pad from his jacket pocket and started writing.
“She was an intern,” someone else said.
Johnson kept his attention on Wales, his expression urging him to continue.
“Nadia was an intern. I mean, not really an intern. Not here. She’s a paid intern in Senator Lerner’s office. She sort of volunteered here once in a while, a night or two now and then. She liked being around the theatre.”
“Paid intern?” Johnson said. “I didn’t think interns got paid.”
“Yeah. Well, she did. Get paid. By Lerner’s office.”
“Who could do such a thing?” Mary asked.
“Anybody got any ideas?” Johnson asked.
Silent shrugs.
“I want an informal statement from each of you. Has anybody