A Detective Bass Collection

Chapter 1-3

The assistant examiner rose when the two detectives entered the room. “Want to take another look?” he asked.

“No,” Macky said. “They look the same.”

“Dead,” Bass added.

“We’re going to need someone to identify the body,” the examiner continued. “The office did a quick check and didn’t come up with anyone with his surname in our area. When you locate the family, have them give us a call.”

“Will do,” Bass replied. He watched the paramedics strap the bagged body onto the gurney’s dark padding. Once the victim was secured, they stood the gurney upright to maneuver it vertically through the door and around the narrow hallway.

Bass and Macky followed them to the open space between the large room and the anteroom. They watched the gurney being lifted down the steps and rolled out through the double set of doors. The wheels crackled as the gurney rolled across the flagstone path outside.

After that, the pulsing red and blue lights ended almost unnoticed. Slowly, cautiously, the new group of onlookers returned to browsing the tables.

Macky went into the room. Bass followed him. Both surveyed the scene one last time, trying to soak in the room’s objects, the placements, the circumference. Bass ran his hand across the cover bindings of a section of books which had their spines placed upright.

Macky pulled out a thick paperback with a glossy yellow cover, a Grisham novel. “Something to occupy your nights?”

Bass laughed.

Macky slid the book back in the opening before the other books could expand into the gap. He lifted out another. “This should keep you awake. A Koontz novel.”

“You read them?” Bass asked.

“No,” Macky replied. “One of my daughters does. She likes it, too.”

Bass recognized only a few of the names on the book spines. The authors he did recognize were from books written ten or fifteen years ago and reissued numerous times in paperback. The hardcover books on the shelves along one wall also had names he didn’t recognize.

“The only ones I know are what I read in high school,” Bass said. “I saw a Twain on the last table. Hamlet over there.” Bass pointed to an area across the aisle.

As he browsed more, he came up to a woman about his age. She was standing fast, not budging from her place as she carefully examined each book title in succession. She had lavender polished nails and she placed a fingertip on each of the spines as if to absorb the book’s content through her finger. And then she went on to the next book.

“You enjoy this?” Bass asked.

She looked up with a start, broken from her trance. “What do you mean?” she asked. A mixture of annoyance and confusion showed in her tone.

“Were you here earlier? Before the police were called?”

“I just got here a few minutes ago,” she replied. “A man outside said it was okay.”

From her crisp, modest attire, Bass surmised that she was from the suburbs, or at least from the outer boundaries of the city. Bass didn’t continue the conversation, nor did she. He excused himself when she stepped around him to continue.

Bass made it to the far end of the room before Macky met up with him.

“Think we’ve seen enough?” Bass asked.

Macky agreed.

They strolled into a wider area of the hallway which was the original part of the church. After a turn to the right, the hall led into the expansive sanctuary. Beyond the pews were the communion table and a large cross on the end wall. Rows of dark wooden beams arched the ceiling. Gothic iron candle holders adorned the columns flanking the pews.

Bass and Macky passed in front of the communion table and pulpit, and then through a small side door that led to another room. Robes and shoes and stacks of scriptures lined one wall. And then there was another door.

Macky grasped the knob and tried to turn it. When it didn’t open, he asked, “What do you think?”

“If we can’t get in,” Bass said, “I doubt the killer could either. But I suppose we’ll have to check, anyway.”

“Prints?” Macky asked.

“We’ll find yours, that’s for sure,” Bass replied.

They returned, leaving the sanctuary and going back down the hallway. They ended up in the large room again. Bass saw a uniformed officer standing near the exit. Bass started to approach until he noticed Bill sitting at the card table with the cashbox. Bass asked him, “Who has keys to the room off to the side of the sanctuary?”

“That’s the reverend’s office,” Bill said.

“We need it opened.”

“His office? But the reverend isn’t here.”

“Who has keys?” Bass asked again, this time louder and more direct. “You?”

“No. Shawn does. That’s Mr. Morton. He’s in the kitchen.”

Bass nodded to the officer. “Go get him and check the room.”

Bill led the way as the officer followed.

Bass and Macky waited for the two to return.

The large room, containing most of books, was crowded now. The low murmur of talk blended in with the whir of the air-conditioner. The reality of a young man being murdered in the back room seemed to have been forgotten.

“About ready to wrap up?” Macky asked.

“Yeah, I guess. As soon as they come back. Where to next?”

“I was going to review some of the details at the North Avenue site.”

“Go ahead. The kid lived nearby. I’ll check his place out. Then I’ll go in and start the paperwork.”

“Tired of fresh air?”

“Just tired. I want to sit down for a while.”

“Suit yourself.”

The uniformed officer and Morton returned. “Nothing’s there,” the officer said. “The room’s empty. No one.”

“Thanks,” Bass said.

Bass and Macky went outside. With little else being said, Bass got into his Crown Victoria, an old police squad car, bought used and then repainted. Macky was a Buick man. His personal car was several years old and dark blue.

Lestiw’s apartment was five blocks away. Bass drove anyway, appreciating the Crown Victoria’s air conditioning. The manager let Bass into the lobby and then took him up to Lestiw’s apartment. He unlocked the door.

“I’m busy showing apartments,” the manager said. “Just close the door behind you.”

“Wait,” Bass said. He reached out and took hold of the man’s arm. “Tell me about his visitors?”

“He didn’t have any, I don’t think. If he did, they were as quiet as he was.”

Bass let go. “You have his family details?”

“In the office. I really have to go. I have appointments waiting.”

Bass dismissed him and went into the apartment.

It was a small, one-room studio. The sparse furnishings stood out coldly against the stark white walls. There was a twin-size bed with a pair of socks on the floor next to it. One lone straight-back chair faced a window. A flat screen television and a small bookshelf made of bricks and boards had been pushed up against one of the white walls. The books appeared to be old paperbacks: calculus, algebra II, an anthology of some sort. High School? College? Bass wondered. A pile of CDs lay on the carpet next to a plastic CD player. CDs? He also wondered.

Bass checked the bathroom. Several disposable razors lay on the sink’s edge, one toothbrush stood upright in a water glass. On the lower shelf of the medicine chest was a bottle of cologne and a bottle of contact lens solution. The flat, white lens container was on the shelf above. A bath sponge attached to a cord hung around the shower nozzle, and a threadbare towel draped the shower curtain. The tile grout needed cleaning. Bass noticed that, too.

“Not much here,” he said to himself, and went back into the main living area.

A small dinette table was in an alcove. Wedged between the salt and pepper shakers were various sized envelopes. Bass thumbed through them. “All bills,” Bass said, again to himself. He noticed that some bills were paid, others were not. Bass found a check stub from Lestiw’s employer. He made a note of the address and slid the stub back in with the other envelopes. The wastebasket next to the table contained old advertisements and crumpled tissues.

He checked the closet. It contained a few shirts; evenly placed in an orderly fashion. The slacks hanging down showed the same length. Below them were a pair of sneakers, a pair of black shoes, and work boots. Lestiw was wearing brown loafers at the time of his death. Bass remembered that, too.

After another scan of the room, Bass spotted a bit of black plastic under a pillow on the bed. He lifted part of the sheets and found a small laptop. They would have to do something with it, he thought, thinking of the forensics department.

He concluded there was nothing more to see in the apartment. He didn’t think the kid had much stuff, or much of a life.

He went to find the manager.

“I’m going to have forensics come over and check out the apartment,” Bass said. “There’s a computer there and they’ll need to take it back to the lab. Keep out until after they give you the okay.”

The manager quickly nodded and returned to his prospective tenants.

Bass returned to headquarters and did his portion of the paperwork.

The next day, Sunday, Bass came in to review the preliminary reports that piled up overnight. The only one of interest was a preliminary from forensics. The knife used was a kitchen knife, similar to the brand and type used in the church’s kitchen. But they found no prints on the handle, blade, or anywhere. And, the blood matched the victim’s.