pronounced it. The wrong way.
“How’s the search of the vic’s apartment going?”
“Nothing obvious yet. Did Chuck tell you about Alison York?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you believe that shit? I guess you never know, huh?”
No, you never did. I thought back to the shock of finding my ex-husband Roger atop his extramarital conquest on our dining room table.
“Lucky for all of us, we can avoid what could have been an even worse scene,” he went on. “I just called Central. Matt put in OT on the swing shift Sunday, working the protest crowd. Chuck’s going to talk to Matt about the details, but it looks like he’s clear.”
“So we finally find Percy’s dirty little secret, and we’ve still got nothing.”
When victims’ messy entanglements are responsible for getting them killed, we usually get a whiff of it right away. Last year, we had a family mowed down in a home invasion in Sellwood. According to the family’s neighbors, coworkers, and fellow parishioners, they were plain old regular folks. A quick sweep of the house revealed otherwise. Plain folk don’t hide forty grand and nearly a kilo of heroin in the sofa cushions. Needless to say, the discovery helped MCT narrow the investigation considerably. In the odd case where the victim isn’t hinky, developing a theory to guide the investigation is a lot tougher.
“We’re still digging,” Johnson said. Of course they were. The truth was, until you knew who did it, everything about the victim’s life remained in question. After all, which was more likely: that the case truly was the statistically improbable random killing, or that the police just hadn’t stumbled across the right dirt yet?
“Anything helpful?”
“Well, we’ve got the super I told you about this morning.”
“The one with the generic description of two white guys in the lot.”
“You got it. Peter Anderson. The guy’s seriously stressed. The condo owners are paging him incessantly, wanting every light in the parking lot replaced in case it burns out. Meanwhile, we’ve got him downtown looking through the books.”
“Needle in a haystack,” I said, recognizing that it wasn’t anything Johnson didn’t already know.
“I’m trying to get someone in ATTF to work up a montage of some likely candidates, but I’m not holding my breath.” It was a good idea. Members of the specialized Auto Theft Task Force could help. With the bureau’s fancy state-of-the-art X-imaging software, officers could now search a database of mug shots electronically, pulling up photos of perps with similar crimes with a few keystrokes. The problem was that Ray had no idea which known car thieves were most likely to get violent with a victim.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“I just don’t know anyone over there anymore. You know how it goes.”
If interdepartmental cooperation at the bureau was anything like it was in the DA’s office, I wasn’t surprised that ATTF hadn’t dropped everything for a faceless member of the MCT. I offered to call Heidi Moawad, ATTF’s assigned prosecutor. I was pretty sure she’d help me; she had a reputation as a good egg, and I’d shared my friendlier side with her at a couple of tipsy happy hours. Most importantly, I had saved her two weeks ago from walking out of the courthouse elevator with a bra hanging out of her gym bag. We’re talking serious female bonding.
“If all else fails, what about bringing in a sketch artist?”
“Too early. We don’t usually get into something like that until everything else has dried up and all we’ve got left is an eyewitness and no suspect. We’re sort of in the reverse situation right now. Lots to look at still, and a witness who may not have seen anything helpful.”
“All right, keep me up-to-date. I need to go brief Frist.”
“Damn. Tell him to give you some breathing room already. It’s been six months.”
“Yeah. How about you tell him for me?”
Russ was still waiting for assurances that
“How’s the search of the vic’s apartment going?”
“Nothing obvious yet. Did Chuck tell you about Alison York?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you believe that shit? I guess you never know, huh?”
No, you never did. I thought back to the shock of finding my ex-husband Roger atop his extramarital conquest on our dining room table.
“Lucky for all of us, we can avoid what could have been an even worse scene,” he went on. “I just called Central. Matt put in OT on the swing shift Sunday, working the protest crowd. Chuck’s going to talk to Matt about the details, but it looks like he’s clear.”
“So we finally find Percy’s dirty little secret, and we’ve still got nothing.”
When victims’ messy entanglements are responsible for getting them killed, we usually get a whiff of it right away. Last year, we had a family mowed down in a home invasion in Sellwood. According to the family’s neighbors, coworkers, and fellow parishioners, they were plain old regular folks. A quick sweep of the house revealed otherwise. Plain folk don’t hide forty grand and nearly a kilo of heroin in the sofa cushions. Needless to say, the discovery helped MCT narrow the investigation considerably. In the odd case where the victim isn’t hinky, developing a theory to guide the investigation is a lot tougher.
“We’re still digging,” Johnson said. Of course they were. The truth was, until you knew who did it, everything about the victim’s life remained in question. After all, which was more likely: that the case truly was the statistically improbable random killing, or that the police just hadn’t stumbled across the right dirt yet?
“Anything helpful?”
“Well, we’ve got the super I told you about this morning.”
“The one with the generic description of two white guys in the lot.”
“You got it. Peter Anderson. The guy’s seriously stressed. The condo owners are paging him incessantly, wanting every light in the parking lot replaced in case it burns out. Meanwhile, we’ve got him downtown looking through the books.”
“Needle in a haystack,” I said, recognizing that it wasn’t anything Johnson didn’t already know.
“I’m trying to get someone in ATTF to work up a montage of some likely candidates, but I’m not holding my breath.” It was a good idea. Members of the specialized Auto Theft Task Force could help. With the bureau’s fancy state-of-the-art X-imaging software, officers could now search a database of mug shots electronically, pulling up photos of perps with similar crimes with a few keystrokes. The problem was that Ray had no idea which known car thieves were most likely to get violent with a victim.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“I just don’t know anyone over there anymore. You know how it goes.”
If interdepartmental cooperation at the bureau was anything like it was in the DA’s office, I wasn’t surprised that ATTF hadn’t dropped everything for a faceless member of the MCT. I offered to call Heidi Moawad, ATTF’s assigned prosecutor. I was pretty sure she’d help me; she had a reputation as a good egg, and I’d shared my friendlier side with her at a couple of tipsy happy hours. Most importantly, I had saved her two weeks ago from walking out of the courthouse elevator with a bra hanging out of her gym bag. We’re talking serious female bonding.
“If all else fails, what about bringing in a sketch artist?”
“Too early. We don’t usually get into something like that until everything else has dried up and all we’ve got left is an eyewitness and no suspect. We’re sort of in the reverse situation right now. Lots to look at still, and a witness who may not have seen anything helpful.”
“All right, keep me up-to-date. I need to go brief Frist.”
“Damn. Tell him to give you some breathing room already. It’s been six months.”
“Yeah. How about you tell him for me?”
Russ was still waiting for assurances that
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