The Silent Widow
‘Indeed there would.’ Jenny’s smile broadened. ‘Which is why I think her nails were cut and the fingers scrubbed. Post-mortem.’
‘Jesus.’ Goodman winced.
‘But he missed a spot?’ Johnson asked brightly. ‘Lucky for us.’
‘I hope it will be,’ said Jenny. ‘Like I say, the sample was tiny. It was also … strange.’
Both men waited for her to elaborate.
‘The cells were unlike anything I’ve seen before. They appeared to be from rotten flesh.’
Goodman raised an eyebrow. ‘Rotten?’
‘Yes, rotten.’ Jenny cleared her throat awkwardly. ‘From something … someone … dead.’
Detective Johnson’s eyes narrowed. ‘You think this chick was killed by a dead guy?’
‘No,’ Jenny replied, deadpan. ‘That would be impossible.’
‘So what are you saying?’ asked Goodman.
‘Simply that the cells I recovered were unusual. And that I can’t guarantee whether the quality or quantity of what we found under that nail will yield a meaningful DNA match to a possible suspect.’
‘Maybe our killer’s a zombie.’ Mick Johnson nudged the ME playfully in the ribs. ‘The living dead are among us!’
Jenny laughed. ‘I’d say you’re proof of that, Mickey. I’ll let you know when I have any more, but that’s all she wrote for the moment, boys. You take care now.’
Standing outside the Boyle Heights Coroner’s Office, the two detectives digested the ME’s bizarre findings in silence. Johnson’s zombie comment was obviously a joke. But exactly how had Lisa Flannagan wound up with a corpse’s flesh under her fingernails?
Realizing someone had to say something, Goodman tried to focus on the facts.
‘So, we’re looking for three sites,’ he observed. ‘Torture. Murder. Disposal.’
‘Uh huh,’ Johnson nodded. ‘Three sites.’
‘I guess we focus on that first.’
‘I guess we do,’ Johnson agreed.
There were a whole bunch of things that irritated him about his slick, young, ambitious partner. But Mick Johnson had to give Lou Goodman credit for an ordered mind, even in the craziest of circumstances.
They were back in their car and about to drive away when Jenny Foyle came rushing out the building towards them, flapping her arms like a lunatic.
Johnson wound down his window. ‘Did you forget something? What else you got for us, Jenny? Vampire teeth-marks on her neck?’ he quipped.
‘Ha ha.’ Panting from exertion, the ME shoved a single sheet of paper into Johnson’s hand. ‘Looks like you got lucky, Mick. DNA results just came back. Turns out your zombie has a name.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lou Goodman drove alone to Pacific Palisades. He and Johnson had agreed long ago to divide and conquer on their homicide cases. Goodman always handled the rich, high-class, educated types, while Johnson bonded with the ‘great unwashed’, as Lou only half-jokingly called the blue-collar witnesses. The system didn’t work perfectly. Johnson was great with low-income whites, and over his years in the drug squad had developed a decent working relationship in some of the rougher Latino communities. But he was old school LAPD when it came to black neighborhoods. He didn’t like them and they didn’t like him.
It was a problem.
But not today’s problem.
Today
’s call was up in the wonder-bread-white community of Pacific Palisades. The wide streets and multimillion-dollar mansions were very much Lou Goodman’s territory. He was in his element.