The Marble Heist Murders - A Detective Bass Mystery

Day 2

—Day 2—The next morning Bass filled in his partner on the case.

He stood in front of Macky’s desk and watched him shuffle papers and slam drawers. Bass was not used to sudden outbursts from his partner; it was not part of Macky’s nature. His face that morning was angry and scrunched up. His thick, solid features had become unusually flushed. His forehead was red as well, up to the line where the dense Scottish mass of graying hair began. Macky’s only typical aspect that day was his suit. Without any pre-arrangements, Macky had always taken to wearing grays into the office, most likely to complement his changing hair color. Bass had undertaken a simpler routine of wearing only browns, even though his own hair was beginning to gray.

“Hodgins was there,” Bass explained, standing idly to the side. “I didn’t think I needed to call you.”

“We’re partners, aren’t we?”

“It was after ten. You’ve got your daughters.”

“They’re used to it. They’ve grown up with me leaving in the middle of the night.” He slammed another drawer shut. The desk was metal and the drawer closed with a cheap, tinny rattle. The noise drew attention from the detectives on the other side of the room.

Macky continued, “You don’t like Hodgins squeezing you out of cases and I don’t like you squeezing me out of mine.”

“That wasn’t the intent,” Bass replied.

“We’re in this together. Three years more of seniority means nothing in this force.”

“Two years,” Bass corrected.

Macky slammed another drawer shut. “If seniority meant anything, Hodgins would be licking both our boots.”

Bass had no idea how to escape this argument, other than surrender. “Then get upset. Maybe I was wrong. I don’t care.” He pulled over a chair from the desk across the aisle and sat, leaning forward as his hands pressed down on his knees. “Listen, I’ve got the dogs scheduled for this afternoon, that’s all that matters to me.”

“Dogs?” Macky asked.

“Yeah,” Bass replied. It was his stab at a joke. There was only one dog. They both knew that. Pluralizing the animal made the K-9 force seem larger, like what other cities their size had. “Joe and that mangy German shepherd of his,” Bass continued.

“I guess that qualifies.” Macky said, his tone of voice softening.

“That’s the easiest way I know how to search for drugs. Sergeant Phillips got the family information from the apartment manager, so she’s handling that end. And, according to the manager, our victim, John Patrel, twenty-five and single, lived there for a year and a half and was no problem whatsoever.”

Macky had calmed now. More of his old self showed. “He must have been someone’s problem.”

“He worked for a drug company. He could have been making something, or selling—”

“Or knew someone who was,” Macky interjected.

“Or known something.”

“Like a whistle blower?”

“Preliminary ballistics says it was a twenty-two rifle. Relatively common if you’re a small game hunter.”

"For deer hunting?"

"Not usually. But if he was a sportsman, he might also be a deer hunter. He would have used something like a .308. It's something to think about."

“Could that guy who Hodgins was watching have been meeting him, meeting Patrel?”

“There were no signs of anyone else being in Patrel’s apartment that night. If they met, they didn’t meet there.”

“Maybe that’s why the guy went there? To shoot Patrel…from the roof?”

“You mean that guy Hodgins was following? Why shoot someone there on a rainy night? Don’t you think he would have noticed the squad cars from the roof, even in the rain?” Bass asked. “How could he carry in a rifle? Hodgins would have seen it.”

Bass relaxed and leaned back in his chair while he waited for his partner to think things through, then he said, “There’re too many questions to make that scenario work. Hodgins is probably right. He usually is. That shooting probably was just a coincidence.” After a minute, Bass added, “I’ll check with the dogs this afternoon. Are you going to handle his place of employment?”

Macky nodded. “I guess so.”

Both Bass and Macky knew only three crimes stemmed from a workplace: hiding a bad product, embezzlement, or infidelity. An upward career move? No one ever killed for more work. Less work? Maybe, but never more work. More money, more s*x, more drugs, more honor, more prestige, but never more work.

When Macky left for the office of L. L. Pharma, Bass went back to the apartment building. A forensic van was at the scene, parked next to the curb. Its roof reflected the sunlight streaming through the tree branches above at an angle and reflected off the top of the blue and white van. Bass knew that by the afternoon, you could fry an egg on the van’s roof. He parked and went over to the markers that had been set out the previous night by the team. The sidewalks were still wet and the police tape, which had been sagging earlier, had been readjusted, tightened, and extended out between several trees. The cool breeze coming in from the lake several blocks over felt refreshing. He looked for Jed, the man in charge of forensics. Another member of the team directed him to the roof, where Bass could see two other men standing near the parapet.

The lobby door had been propped open. Bass took the elevator up. He crossed the wet pea gravel on the roof. “Jed around?” he asked.

“Eighth Street,” one of them replied.

Bass noticed the plastic forensic kit sitting on the parapet. “Anything new?” he asked.

“No. This was clearly the line of sight,” the taller member of the team replied. “There’s disturbance in the gravel, but not much.”

“Yeah, I saw it last night.” Bass peered over the edge of the roof and studied the crime scene below. “Find anything down there?”

“Nothing there either.”

“Could the shell casing have fallen over the side?” Bass asked.

“Not likely. With that type of rifle, it could easily have been picked up by hand. One shot? Bolt action? It could have stayed in the rifle.” He pointed to an area below, ground level, four feet from the building. “We’ve looked down there just the same, in case he tossed it. Didn’t find anything.”

“No prints?”

“No prints.”

Bass scanned the rooftop. The dozen fan vents looked like chrome mushrooms. The gear room for the elevator and the side by side roof entrance were built with the same white painted brick as the building. “We checked that door last night,” Bass said, referring to the elevator equipment room. “It was locked. He had to have gone back down the stairs. Officers were up here within five minutes. You get any prints off the door that led here?”

“No. The knob was busted off.”

That means he didn’t have keys, Bass thought to himself. He was not satisfied though. None of the answers were any good. They were the truth, but not what he was looking for.

From Bass’s vantage point on the roof, he could see most of the cityscape southward and sections of the lake’s blue horizon on the other side of the treetops. “Nice view,” he said.

“Nice breeze,” said the other man. “It’s going to be hot again today.”

“And humid,” Bass added. “The rain didn’t help much.”

Bass was already feeling the sun’s rays sink into the fabric of his brown suit. He turned back to the taller of the two men. “See the manager this morning?” Bass asked.

“Yeah, he’s downstairs.”

Bass took the elevator to the lobby. As the doors opened, he smelled the lemon scent of cleaned floors. He spotted a mop bucket in the hall and then found the young manager around the corner, dressed in an old pair of blue jeans and a yellow polo shirt.

Bass introduced himself again. “You have any hunters in this building?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the manager replied, setting the mop aside. He moved away from the wet area on the blue tiles.

“He’d be a middle-aged or older man,” Bass said, and then added, “Most likely.” Bass had always believed that it was older people who hunted deer, rarely young people the age of the manager, not nowadays, not from the city anyway: in Bass’s wry estimation, city people hunt each other, not deer.

The manager shook his head. “I really wouldn’t know.”

“How about gun clubs? Rifle ranges? Skeet shooting?”

“I don’t know,” he said again. “That’s out of my area.”

“You do this full-time?”

“It seems that way,” the manager replied. “It’s supposed to be part-time. My wife’s the worker in the family. She has a job at the mall.”

“Downtown?”

“Yeah.”

“That must make you feel like crap.”

“I’m going to law school, part-time.”

Bass smiled. “Good,” he said. “We need more lawyers.” He had nothing else to ask but the manager’s phone number.

The “dogs” were not scheduled for another hour. Bass spent the remaining time talking with the forensic team after they had come down from the roof. With their work complete, they were anxious to pack up and leave.

The men stood next to the van.

“We can’t tell you anymore,” one of the men said. “There just wasn’t anything left. I doubt there would have been even if it hadn’t rained.”

“Joe is bringing over the dog shortly,” Bass continued. “You going to wait?”

“No.”

“But—” Bass cut his words short as he watched them put the last of their gear into the van.

“Everything inside the apartment is dusted. If the dog finds anything, bag it, and bring it over to the lab. You may not have anything better to do than loiter around here, but we’ve got our assignments. We’re needed on Eighth Street.” The man climbed into the van.

“Fine,” Bass said, his hand gliding the van door shut.

Bass spent the remaining time sitting in the car, reading reports and chewing on one of the protein bars he kept stashed in the glove compartment. He was pleased when he saw the dog van pull up in front of the building. He motioned to the driver and went over to the truck. Joe, the officer in charge, was leashing up a German shepherd.

“I’ll walk you up,” Bass said.

“This is Pamela,” Joe said, patting the side of the dog. “If there is anything up there, she’ll find it.”

The two men and the one dog then went up the steps to the lobby.

The manager opened the apartment door for them. Bass thanked him and took the keys, saying that they would lock up afterwards. He dropped the keys into his suit pocket and accepted the forensic gloves handed him by Joe, who then began the search, slowly leading the dog around the room. They started with the outer perimeters, those items which were against the wall, and slowly moved inward. The dog hesitated near a built-in hutch in the dining room, but then she continued her search. Bass stood aside and watched as Joe led Pamela into the kitchen, the bathroom, and the bedroom. When they came out, Bass said, “Try that cabinet again.”

“I was thinking of that too,” Joe replied.

He maneuvered the dog back to the hutch and opened the glass doors. Each shelf had only a couple items: several short vases, a glass ashtray, several paperbacks, some work related file folders, a baseball on a stand, and a little walnut box with oak leaves carved on the outside. Joe held the paperback books in front of the Pamela’s nose. No reaction. Then he opened the walnut box and held it to the dog. This time Pamela reacted.

“Good girl,” Joe said, and patted Pamela’s side. He handed the box to Bass, saying, “Pot, most likely.”

Bass opened the box, tilted it, sniffed it, then went over to the window and held it to the light. He turned it so that he could see the inside. He noted flecks of greenish brown in the corners. “Bag it,” he said, handing it back to Joe. “I’ll drop it off at forensics.”

Bass locked the room then and the trio went down to the lobby. After Joe got Pamela secured in the back of the truck, Bass left.

It was past two o’clock when Bass returned to the office. Macky was still out. Bass opened the yellow pages to gun clubs and started phoning.

No one wanted to give up their membership lists. After a half dozen phone calls he gave up and closed the phone book. For a brief minute he searched his mind for someone who would be more cooperative. He thought of the state’s Department of Natural Resources. They issue hunting licenses.

Bass picked up the phone and made a call. He would have the information in a day they told him. When he put down the phone he saw his partner, Macky, enter.

“Anything good?” he shouted across the room.

Two of the officers working at their desks turned around and aimed their annoyed looks at Bass.

Macky came over and leaned on the desk opposite Bass. “Patrel was a salesman for L. L. Pharma, alright. Good worker. Did what was expected of him. No beef with the company or any beef with his co-workers.”

“The dog found some pot,” Bass said, filling his partner in on the morning activities. “Forensics has it now. What does L. L. do?”

“Mostly sedatives and painkillers,” Macky said. “Wholesalers selling to retailers. Patrel was on a team that contracted with drug developers to become their manufacturer when the drugs go on the market.”

“They market the drugs?”

“No. Strictly manufacturing and shipping. They have a nice little enterprise in a suburban office park. Three buildings, a two-story office and a couple smaller ones for shipping.”

“Sounds profitable,” Bass said. “How good is their record keeping? Think any of their pain killers got lost or misdirected?”

“Two things to that: one, they seem up and up, although that hasn’t stopped people from trying; and two, they don’t deal in the heavy painkillers.”

“Non-narcotic?”

“Non-narcotic.” Macky opened one of the brochures he was holding. “Something called clonodine. And also naproxen. They wouldn’t mind moving into mild opiates if they had a chance. That’s what I was told.” He held up three brochures. “These are from their publicity department. I also spoke with personnel, and Patrel’s records showed that he was a good employee.”

“The company is large enough to have a personnel office?”

“Mid-size, I would say.” Macky looked at Bass, waiting for a response. Bass eased back in the chair. Macky continued, “So this might have something to do with Hodgins’s case?”

“What we know is that Hodgins isn’t investigating a homicide. Otherwise, there would be a person’s name on the case file.”

“White collar crime? You can’t get much whiter than L. L. Pharma,” Macky said.

“Yeah, Patrel did have a lot of white shirts in the closet,” Bass quipped. “But then our White Collar Crime Unit would be leading the investigation.”

“Unit? You mean, John?”

“It’s a unit when they have a case.” Bass looked across his desk. “John,” he shouted to one of the men who had previously turned around. “What are you working on?”

“My lunch,” John replied, this time without turning around.

Macky chuckled and said, “But Hodgins would know if this shooting had anything to do with him.”

“I suppose. It really must have pissed him off when it screwed up his bust.”

“There was that pot you found at Patrel’s place.”

“You have white-collar drugs and then you have grimy-collar drugs, often taken by the same people. Depressed, anxious. Wanting to escape.”

“You think Patrel needed to escape? His life seemed pretty set for a young person,” Macky said.

“Maybe. But maybe he didn’t know how good he had it.”

Macky smirked. “They should have daughters. Then they’d really have a reason to escape.”

“How was Patrel’s bank account?”

Macky returned to his desk, shuffled through a folder of papers, then slipped out one sheet, which he brought over to Bass.

“Direct deposits of his payroll check. That’s it. Twice a month. A little over a thousand a shot. Expenses? I assume this is rent.” Macky pointed to a number on the paper, and then continued. “Car payments. Automatic deductions for college loan repayments.” Macky stopped, looking at the number. “Crap, is this what I have to look forward to?”

Bass laughed. “So Macky, you’re saying Patrel was a typical twenty-five-year-old single man? Don’t you think people like that only get killed by accident?”

“Are you saying the shooter was really aiming for the other guy? The one Hodgins was waiting for?”

“I don’t know.” Bass sighed. “Focusing on the victim isn’t getting us anywhere. We should be concentrating on the shooter. The rifle he used is somewhere in that apartment building. Our officers knocked on every door last night doing their canvassing and they searched the rest of the building from top to bottom. There was no place else to stash a rifle but in an apartment.”

“His own place, if we’re lucky,” Macky added. “An accomplice’s, if we’re not.”

“The state’s Department of Natural Resources is sending me a list of deer hunting licenses issued to local residents. We can see where that leads us.”

“You better hope it does,” Macky replied. “All we got now is crap.”