ON GROUNDS OF MURDER

by

Ann Lynes

David gasped. I repeated my question.

"A middle-aged woman hung herself from the ceiling fan's stem. The place is a disaster."

David had a knack for understating the situation. Ever since windshield glass flew in my eyes, blinding me in a car accident ten years ago, I relied on David to be my eyes. I had learned from experience that I would do better to add my imagination to his descriptions. But this time his descriptions were a little too abreviated for my taste.

"Well David, I could probably gather most of that myself. You wanna' try to be just a bit more specific?"

"Uhh, sorry. Let's see. Age 50, maybe 55. Gray hair, nice figure, silk gown. Her breasts are hidden by the gown, but you see that post death lividity has made them droop dramatically, probably much worse than gravity normally would have done, so she has been up there for awhile. There is a wooden stepladder below the hanging body. Several of the guys are milling about, the sketch artist is here and I'm sure you can hear the strobes charge up, so you know the photographer is here, too. Reily is over in the corner dusting the vanity, and a uniform is helping Cardinelli go through the trash basket next to vanity. That better?"

I nodded still in thought, and David once again grew silent. It must be a pretty sight in order to shut him down so efficiently. Not that he was a chatterbox, but I usually got more out of him.

I stood in the doorway a while longer, trying to get into the corpse's mind. Why had the woman hung herself? Was her life that bad? Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, I followed the wall to the woman's closet. I fingered a cotton shirt and moved down the length of the sleeve.

I made my way over to the woman's vanity. I fought the urge to sit down in the plush chair my hand found behind me. My hand wandered around the top of the vanity. I felt the bristles of a brush prick my glove. Putting my fingers in between the bristles, I pulled up a clump of soft, thin strands. I held my other hand out, and as usual, my more than capable partner deposited a plastic evidence pouch in between the fingers. I opened the plastic "baggie", dropped the hair in it, then sealed it shut. Holding it out again, I felt David take it away and heard him click his ballpoint to write down the evidence trail data.

I reached up to touch the smoothness of the mirror. I placed my hand on the cold surface. Then on a hunch, I pressed hard against the mirror, harder and harder, until I felt the glass move. It was just a tiny shift, but I knew what it meant. Feeling around the top of the vanity, I located a rather hefty ashtray. "David, does this ashtray have an evidence tag? Does the mirror?"

"Negative on both" he replied, his voice echoing his puzzlement.

I took a step back and swung the ashtray to the mirror. The glass shattered. I heard something behind the glass fall out of the mirror's frame.

"It's okay, guys" David said, probably signalling the guys to go back to what they were doing...cops don't like sounds of breaking glass, expecially at a crime scene.

Picking through the debris carefully, my fingers treading softly across the broken shards, I was able to detect hard lumps through the stiff plastic of a baggie. I looked over to David for confirmation, and I could almost see him nod as he replied to my gesture, "Yep, crystalline. Proably Crack. I handed it to David to be also be placed into an evidence bag. Again I heard the pen click and scratch. Later our test kit would find it to be an extremely potent version of the stuff, enough to push even a veteran snorter like Grace over the edge.

Responding to another well known gesture, David led me over to the bed. My imagination now in high gear, I saw the woman in a long, silk nightgown, sitting on the bed, smoking her little pipe, the crack glowing and steaming with each breath. I touched the sheet. Excessively wrinkled and a little damp.

Making my way along the wall to a room with a dripping faucet and humming refrigerator, my hard-soled shoes clicked against the linoleum. I found my way to a table--round with two wooden chairs. I reached the counter without David's assistance. Feeling around the counter, I made out the form of a microwave. "Greasy," David commented upon touching my finger. After I located the coffee maker, I held the handle of the pot.

In my mind's eye, I could see the woman in her nightgown, rubbing her eyes with her fists. The woman unlocked the front door and picked up the rolled-up Miranda Grove Gazette. She opened the cabinet, taking out her black mug with the gold trim. Opening the side door, she walked out to the lawn chairs sitting near the front door.

For a moment I couldn't place the odd coffee smell. Then it dawned on me what it was. Freshly ground coffee has a much more pungent smell than the processed kind, and despite what Folger's tells us, instant is just not up to the smell of fresh ground.

Returning to the kitchen I said to David, "She had a coffee grinder. She ground her own coffee beans." Lowering my voice I leaned toward where I thought he was standing, waiting for him to get in close in reaction to my cue. "Find the beans, David. Find the Beans!" my voice taking on an urgency despite being a soft whisper.

I don't know why, but I wanted David to find the beans. Then realizing I was still just standing there, I made my way through the rest of the house. Nothing exciting--a couch, a recliner, and a small desk. "I want to talk to the neighbors."

David led me out the side door, to apartment two. Knocking on the door, David greeted the resident, "I am Detective Geridelli, and this is Shania Roberts. We are investigating the death of your neighbor Grace."

"Can you come sit outside a moment?" I asked the resident, who introduced himself as Mac Gatlan. Sitting down in one of the lawn chairs, I smiled at the resident. "What did you know about Grace?"

"Grace had coffee every morning with my wife Marina." The man's voice sounded resigned and tired. I imagined his sad eyes, the dark circles under them, and his wrinkled cheeks and forehead.

"Can I speak with your wife?" The delay in his answer, and the creek of the lawn chair as fidgeted set my alarms going. I felt a lump form in my stomach. My palms sweated. Something was wrong.

And still he didn't speak. "Mr. Gatlan?"

"She disappeared two months ago."

"Did you know that your neighbor was doing drugs?"

"Grace kept mostly to herself." He paused, taking in a deep breath. "The only person she talked to was my wife."

"How did she act toward you?"

I could heard the tapping of his shoe against the sidewalk. Again he didn't speak for a few minutes. I knew he was still there; I heard him breathing. I repeated my question.

"She was extremely friendly. When Marina went to work, Grace would come over to borrow one thing or another," he finally replied.

Which brought up another question: were Mac and Grace having an affair? Was Mac playing with crack as well? I wasn't sure it was relevant to the case, so I decided against asking. All I could come up with was,

"How did your wife disappear?"

"Grace and Marina went on a road trip." He stood up. "They always took trips to Red Grove Mountains, so I wasn't concerned." I could tell he was pacing by the fluctuation of his voice. "Until Grace returned without Marina."

"Grace was the last person to see Marina, then? What did you tell the police...did you file a missing persons report?"

"Yes, In fact, Grace, the police, and I combed the entire area. Obviously we didn't have any luck." Now his voice had a slight tremble to it.

I didn't know what to say next. "If you remember anything else about Grace, please call me." I reached into my pocket and handed him my business card.

While David and I walked over to apartment five, he commented, "That guy was pretty nervous."

"Was it nervousness David, or was it grief. Some people won't admit the impossible to themselves, and it comes across as guilt. Don't confuse the two." At the other apartment, we were greeted by what David later described as a short, balding man with tatoos up his arms. "A Class A felon," he whispered in my ear.

With the introductions out of the way, I offered the man a seat in one of the lawn chairs. "What can you tell me about Grace?"

"She was a self-righteous criminal." He laughed as I detected nicotine being lit. Suddenly he coughed so hard, I thought he was dying. "She was in State Prison for five years. A friend of mine was her cell mate."

"For what?" I asked without hesitation.

"Robbery and attempted murder." He hacked again. Less severely this time. "Paroled on good behavior."

"What makes you believe these claims about her past?" I wondered briefly if Marina's disappearance was in anyway related to Grace's death. Maybe Marina disappeared intentionally, to come back and hang Grace. But what reason would Marina have to do such a malicious crime?

"She treated me as though I was poor. Giving me clothes, money, leftover food." He sat down in the remaining chair for I heard the metal feet scratch against the concrete. "Expecting favors in return. Little things, big things, whatever." I could feel his lies easily now. He was talking to a cop. It was clear in the tone of his voice and the hidden words lying there between us. "Hey I'm not interested in busting you, big guy. I just want to solve a murder. So what kind of favors?"

It didn't take him long to believe me, I can be very convincing sometimes. "She had me score some crack for her."

"Then you are aware of her drug habit?" I leaned forward, awaiting his answer.

"Yeah. I spent two years in State Prison because of her."

I smiled at him. "Her relationship with Marina--how was that?"

"Marina is a sweet woman, always looking for the good in people." He paused for a moment. I felt one of his ashes burn my pant leg. "She is a sucker for a hard-luck case. She hired me at her restaurant after I was paroled. That husband of hers, well I ain't much on losers, but then again I can't brag so much, can I?"

I rose to my feet. "Thank you for trusting me. I won't let you down." I handed him my card also.

David and I went back into Grace's apartment, into the kitchen. "We have to find the coffee beans." I felt around for the cabinet doors, groping my way around the inside. Unlocking containers, feeling, smelling, and tasting the contains. "I think they may be a clue to a bigger mystery."

David helped me ransack the cabinets above the sink, below the sink, and above the refrigerator. I checked almost every cabinet with no success. I sighed before opening the last bottom cabinet, nearest to the window. Inside I found a large Tupperware container. When I popped the lid, I found thousands of small, smooth, seed-like objects. "I found it!" I called over to David who slammed one of the cabinet doors. One above the refrigerator, from the sound of it.

I poured the beans in a large plastic bag, spilling a few on the floor that David helped me pick up. "Have the officers take this to the lab. I have a theory."

"Where are we going?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"Red Grove Mountains."

"That's a three hour drive."

"A drive that might turn up an important clue." I took out my cellular phone. My fingers flew across the numbers, barely reading their braille inscriptions. I called the Police Department.

Explaining my theory to Rick Vickers, I had the Police dispatch several helicopters in the Red Grove Mountains area. The pilots were looking for anything that looked remotely odd. "Meet me at the Municipal Airport, and I'll give you a ride," Rick offered on the other end the receiver.

I agreed, knowing David would feel better about going to Red Grove Mountains by helicopter than by car. He hated to drive for longer than fifteen minutes.

Later above the Red Grove Mountains area, the helicopters combed the area section by section. Ground crews were enlisted to do searches on foot. I wished I were down there. I couldn't hear anything for the roar of the helicopter engine.

Finally, using the description of some of the spots Marina's husband described to us, we decided to have the pilot set us down.

After David and I slipped on some fairly flexible sneakers, Rick opened the helicopter door.

Next, David led me through the bottom of the mountainous terrain first. Finding nothing on the ground, we climbed the first mountain. Well it felt like a mountain to me. David claimed it was approximately fifteen feet tall. Right.

One hand, then the other. One foot, then the other. I kept climbing with David coaching me each step of the way, until he finally told me to stop. Sweat dripped from my face and cheeks as the hundred degree sun beat down on me. He climbed below me to watch out for any dangers. I felt a strong impression as I sat down on the first plateau, huffing.

I imagined two women climbing up this mountain. The one woman was dragging along behind, getting slower at each step. She clutched her stomach from time to time as she inched up the mountain. By the time they reached the first plateau, she was out of breath. Sitting down, the younger woman fell over. The older woman checked for a pulse. Then I knew what happened next.

Wheezing a bit, I spoke out loud to David, "The body is here on this plateau somewhere. Come on!" I exclaimed grasping David's hand as I pulled him to his feet. We walked around for an hour. We checked behind trees, large piles of rock, a small indention in the mountain. In a clump of trees on the far end of the plateau, David found a body. From the stench, I knew we didn't have to check for a pulse. Definitely dead. I called for the medical helicopter to pick up the cadaver.

"Is this the body of Marina?"

I bowed my head reverently. "I believe so," I sighed, pulling on the latex gloves. I touched the victim's face-- her crooked nose, her high cheek bones, and small ears. I was ninety-nine point nine percent positive it was Marina.

          *                    *                 *

"The beans turned out to be Castor beans," Kincaid told me in his normal monotone.

I envisioned him leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he had for every conversation we'd had for the last twenty years.

"The autopsy concluded the victim--thirty-eight year old Marina Gatlan--had blood in her stool and vomit. She was poisoned."

"By prolonged exposure to the Castor beans instead of coffee beans."

"Uh Huh." Kincaid flipped through the pages of a book, probably his Appointment journal. "She was killed by Grace."

"I believe Grace took her own life, sir, because," I took a deep breath before continuing. I didn't know how he would react to my theory, "she was seeing hallucinations of Marina's ghost." I leaned forward. "The sheets were wrinkled and the bedroom was ransacked like she'd been wrestling with a demon. Her sheets were wet even after the long period of time before her body was discovered. She did not sleep well at all."

Kincaid laughed, "Anything's possible with drugs." He stood up, clutched my hand to shake it, and ushered me to the door. "Well that was wrapped up fairly cleanly. But tell me, why didn't you pop Gatlan or the ex-con next door?"

"Oh that was easy, Commissioner. She was making it with every guy on the floor to get her crack supply. Everybody liked the deal, except Marina. Maybe she found out and had put her foot down. So if Mac Gatlan couldn't supply Grace with her Thursday supply, then maybe Grace decided to fix both problems with one quick solution."

The commissioner chuckled softly, and said as I was leaving, "Glad I keep you around, Roberts. Thanks to you, we closed another tough one."