Read Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) Online
Authors: L. J. Parker
Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery)
BAYLIN HOUSE
Cassandra Crowley
Mystery #1
A novel by L. J. Parker
Published by Double-L
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This book is a work
of fiction. All of the characters and some of the locations, as well as
activities which take place in the story, are purely fictional creations of the
author’s imagination, and not meant to resemble anyone living or dead.
Text Copyright © 2013
Double-L Resources
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted by any means of printed or electronic media,
without written permission from the author or author’s designated
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Published by Double-L
Resources, Las Vegas, NV
1st Kindle Edition February 2013
2nd Kindle Edition July 2013
Wednesday, July 17, 2006
San Miguel was a neighborhood no one ventured into by
accident more than once. This was south of the river where pot-holed streets, half-dead
trees, and sagging adobe haciendas were home to the lowest income level for
two-hundred miles.
Little attention was paid to anything down here unless it
caught fire. And the man was not on fire; he was merely dead.
He lay curled on his side in the unlocked trunk of a Dodge
sedan parked behind the trash bins at the QuickStop Market. He drew no interest
until the stink of death and decomposition was too much to ignore, and Kenneth
Nguyen, the store’s owner, phoned Cordell Bay Police Department to complain.
“It can’t wait forty-eight hours; it’s already been here longer than that. It’s
driving my customers away!”
Patrol Officer Randy Bledsoe answered the dispatch call. He
drove to the convenience store location, found the trunk lid unlatched and the
decomposing body inside. He immediately taped off the area with yellow crime
scene tape and called in his report of possible homicide. Within minutes, the CSI
team and the Coroner were on their way, with Cordell Bay Homicide Detectives
Pete Gorduno and Rob Baxter not far behind.
Gorduno drove his unmarked police sedan into the convenience
store lot and parked in front of the entrance. Gorduno knew this neighborhood
well; he was born a few blocks from here 62 years ago. As he got out of the car,
he hiked his belt a little higher on his paunch, and pointed a thumb toward the
yellow crime scene line at the side of the building. “Check with Morales and
Kirkland,” he said to Detective Baxter in the passenger seat. “I’ll go inside
and find the store owner.”
Baxter gladly stepped out and uncoiled his 6’4” frame from
the low-seated sedan. He stretched his back, raising one broad shoulder and
then the other, twisting his spine to relieve muscles screaming at him. Even a
dozen years younger than Gorduno, he had a bevy of aches and pains when he sat
cramped too long. Baxter normally drove the tan and white Ford Expedition
assigned to him. Today it was in the garage having new tires mounted, so he was
riding with Gorduno.
Outside the car, he leaned down to retrieve his badge wallet
lying next to the strobe light on the dash. Then he ambled toward the taped
line.
The CSI team was packing their gear to return to the lab. Morales
looked up at the familiar . . . click . . . click . . . click . . . of metal on
asphalt: a titanium leg brace under Detective Baxter’s left shoe often
announced his approach.
“Hola, Detective,” Morales said in greeting. “You can take
over as soon as Kirkland’s done.”
Baxter glanced toward the back of the car. Cordell County
Coroner Jeff Kirkland was leaning into the car’s open trunk. His assistant was
unfolding a vinyl body bag onto a scissor-leg gurney.
“Finished already?” Baxter asked Morales.
“Not that much to do,” Morales replied, shaking his head. “So
far it could be natural causes.”
“Natural Causes in the trunk of a car . . ?”
“It wasn’t locked. Victim wasn’t trapped. No sign of
struggle inside.”
“Maybe the body was stashed post mortem?”
“Kirkland doesn’t think so. Anyway, the vehicle will be at
the impound lot for a while if we need to look for anything else.”
“Damn,” Baxter said, shaking his head. “Find anything we can
use?”
“No plates. No registration inside. I called Motor Vehicles
for a record search on the VIN; should have something back later today. Trunk
lock is busted from the outside; no prints on it. Also no rust, so the damage
is recent. We got fresh prints off the driver door handles inside and out,
window cranks, gear knob, and steering wheel. Everything else is covered with
too much dust.”
“Too much dust . . ?” Baxter’s eyebrows arched. The fine
layer on the car’s hood wouldn’t be a problem. He bent to look inside at the
dashboard, the passenger seat, the back seat; there was a thick layer of dust on
the interior surfaces, as if the car had been left somewhere a long time with
the windows down. Any prints retrieved from under that layer could be months or
years old.
“We’ll run tests to measure mold and salt to narrow down the
geography for you. If it’s from around here we’ll find green spores. Salt dust will
tell us closer to the coast, but that could be anywhere from Houston to
Brownsville.”
Baxter sucked in a thoughtful breath. “Okay. If we’re lucky it
will match the address you get on the VIN and we won’t have to look any farther.”
“Yeah, if we’re lucky,” Morales agreed. “Poor old geezer
probably wasn’t supposed to drive anymore and got lost. He doesn’t look like he
belongs around this neighborhood.”
Baxter gave a resigned grunt. It was not his favorite part
of the job to notify family of a loved one found dead in a place like this.
He turned his face away and took couple deep breaths of
fresh air, and then joined the Coroner at the rear of the car.
Kirkland had already photographed and examined the body in-situ
where it lay inside the trunk. Baxter scratched notes into his pocket notepad
while Kirkland read to him from a clipboard tablet, “WMA, 60-65 years,
69-inches tall, approx. 185-lbs. Subject wearing khaki trousers, poly-cotton
shirt, canvas shoes, no socks; condition of clothing is near-new, mildly soiled.
Subject’s hair color gray, bald on top, fresh trim sides and back, not
concurrent with homeless population known to inhabit this area. Preliminary
exam shows no obvious signs of violence – no stab wounds or bullet holes, no
blood; just the usual body fluids expelled upon death, which indicate it is
unlikely the body was moved from another location after death occurred. Estimated
time of death based on condition of body and environment is between noon and
midnight Sunday, three days ago. That’s all I can tell you until we autopsy.”
“Got it,” Baxter confirmed, writing
TOD Sunday PM
at
the top of his page.
Then he peered into the trunk. The dead man lay on his side,
knees bent, one arm wrapped around a lightweight jacket wadded together as if
he was using it for a pillow to keep his head off the trunk floor, other arm
positioned with his hand wrapped around a tire iron. Maybe he was hiding from
someone and expected to need it.
On his left arm was a wristwatch – Seiko brand, not cheap,
one of the moderately priced models like Tillman’s Department Store keeps
locked in the jewelry counter. The fingers of the right hand were visible where
they curled around the jacket. Little finger wore a hammered silver pinky ring,
gold-rimmed chunk of polished turquoise the size of a lima bean.
Baxter made another note in his little book.
Kirkland reached in with his gloved hand to remove the
jacket from the dead man’s grasp. He grunted when he had it loose, squeezing
something square and flat through the fabric.
“We may have a little more luck than usual,” he offered, and
dug into the pocket. He retrieved a flat wallet and flipped it open.
“Driver license?” Baxter asked hopefully.
“No, but an ID card might be just as good. It says Brady
Irwin, 3219 Saint Ignatius Avenue, Cordell Bay, Texas. No phone number.”
“State Issued ID?” Detective Baxter couldn’t see the actual
card behind the plastic holder. The way sunlight reflected off the shiny
surface, he was surprised Kirkland could read it.
“Hand written ID card that comes with any cheap wallet. This
one doesn’t look very old.” Kirkland poked into the wallet’s slot pockets;
empty. He opened the side fold; six one-dollar bills lay flat inside.
“Definitely not a robbery,” Baxter said, and penned a symbol
near his earlier note.
Detective Gorduno slid under the tapeline with two men
behind him. “This is Kenneth Nguyen, owner of the store, and Brian Stupak,
cashier on weekdays,” Gorduno told Kirkland. “Brian’s agreed to see if he
recognizes the deceased.”
Kirkland and Baxter stepped back to make room. The cashier
held his nose to get close enough to peer into the deep trunk. “Yeah,” he said
with a shrug, “I’ve seen him around here off and on the last two or three weeks.”
“Two or three weeks?” Baxter and Kirkland both echoed in
surprise.
Gorduno leaned forward and scrutinized the trunk to see for
himself. He agreed; the man’s clothes did not look like he had been wearing
them for three weeks, so he must have gone home between visits – and he must
have had a reason to keep returning to this neighborhood.
“Does he hang out with anyone in particular?” Gorduno asked.
“Anybody ever call him by name?”
The cashier shook his head. “He’s one of the loners. Doesn’t
even talk when he comes in the store; just pulls something off the rack and puts
his money down. Always exact change, too. Puts it down and walks out like I’m
not even there.”
“He was in this car?”
“Never saw it before until I came in Monday morning, and I’d
remember if I did. My dad has one just like it only different color.”
“So the guy was in a different car when you saw him around
here before.”
“Not any car that I ever saw.”
Baxter made another string of marks in his notebook. He and
Gorduno would have to spend some time out here knocking on doors after Kirkland
supplies them with a photo to show around.
“When’s the last time this guy came in?” Baxter asked.
Stupak shrugged. “He was here Thursday, but I was off for
three days after that.”
“Who was on duty when you weren’t here?”
“James Raglan works Friday and Saturday,” Mr. Nguyen
answered. “I work Sundays myself, and yes, the car was here all that time. James
left me a note about it. He thought somebody parked it Friday night to ride
around with friends and hadn’t sobered up enough to come get it.”
“Got an address and phone for Raglan?”
“I called his house and left a message for him to come down
here right away, but he usually goes up to San Antonio during the week to visit
his kids. He might not get the message until tomorrow afternoon.”
Gorduno turned away from the trunk to take a deep breath,
and hiked his belt again. “You said the car has been parked here since
Saturday?”
“Late Friday night,” Nguyen corrected. “It was already here
at six o’clock Saturday morning when James opened up.”
Baxter held his notebook for Gorduno to see “TOD Sunday PM”.
Gorduno nodded; the car was here at least thirty-six hours
before Time-Of-Death, but not during the rest of the ‘two or three weeks’ the
victim was seen in this area.
To Nguyen, he said, “First seen here Saturday morning and still
here Sunday morning.” It was not a question.
“Yes,” Nguyen confirmed anyway. “I noticed it when I drove
in. Then I read the note that James left, and came out to check it myself. It
didn’t smell bad then, and it was empty as far as I could see. I don’t think
the trunk was open, but I didn’t actually look at that. I just cranked up the
windows and locked the doors.”
“You were inside the vehicle?” Detective Baxter grimaced. On
the outside chance this was a homicide, Mr. Nguyen had just admitted
contaminating the evidence. Baxter wondered if Nguyen knew his admission had also
added his name to the suspects list. Maybe he did it on purpose to excuse his
prints being there.
“I had to do something,” Nguyen insisted. “I don’t want a
stolen vehicle claim on my insurance.”
“Yes sir, we understand your concern,” Gorduno soothed.
Baxter made a couple more notes.
“You won’t mind letting us take your fingerprints so we can
eliminate them from others we collect. Our CSI team can handle it while they’re
here so you won’t have to come into town right away.”
Nguyen paled. “Fingerprints? . . . I . . . well . . . I
thought . . . I mean I didn’t—.”
“You didn’t know it was a crime scene,” Gorduno suggested,
nodding. “We understand that. You’re not being accused of anything, Mr. Nguyen;
we just need to save time by eliminating your prints from what we have to chase
down.”
The CSI people left a half-hour later with their labeled
samples and two sets of fingerprint cards from Nguyen and his clerk. That was
ten minutes after the Coroner and his assistant left with the body. Gorduno and
Baxter stayed behind another hour, intending to interview any customers who
visited the store while they waited for the transport truck to haul the car to
the impound lot.
But there were no customers while the police were around. To
Nguyen’s continued dismay, not so much as a pack of gum sold at his store in
over three and a half hours. He hoped the neighborhood bums had plenty of cash
to pay for their beer and cheap wine this evening to make up for it.
Gorduno growled under his breath as the truck drove away. CBPD’s
Public Information Officer was not available; Gorduno would have to handle the
press himself. His rancor for media people was palpable. Too many of them
gathered gossip from anyone who would talk to them, and sold their made-up
stories to any junk network that wanted to fill airtime.
So he was primed accordingly for the ghouls when he walked
to the gate at the impound lot and met the small gathering of coiffed heads with
microphones, and kept his disgust in check to perform the nuisance exercise in
a manner that would make the Mayor proud.
No, he could not release the name of the victim until the
family was notified. No, he could not tell them what facts had been discovered
in the investigation so far; the media could get that from the PIO when the
information was ready for release. No, they didn’t have exact cause of death;
that would come from autopsy. Yes, he was assigned to Homicide Division, and
yes, the body was found in the trunk of the impounded car, but that was not by
itself an indication of homicide. No, he could not release the name of the
car’s registered owner. Yada, yada, yada . . .