Page 9

9

Stella put her hand over her nose and tried to breathe through her mouth. It helped, but not by much. Lowering her hand, she stepped away from the alcove where Patrick Marrion’s body had been found.

The smell—a combination of old urine, decomposing garbage, and something sharp and acrid she couldn’t identify—stung the back of her throat.

Now she could taste it, which seemed worse.

Kerrick’s Alley was in the center of town, a few blocks from the Sheraton and a short walk from the Tennessee State Capitol. The wind added a whiff of the nearby Cumberland River to the toxic odor.

Piles of garbage lined both sides of the alley. Dumpsters stood with their flaps open in surrender. Green slime oozed out of deep puddles in the potholed concrete, spreading their slimy fingers up the wall. If police tape wasn’t still attached to the rail guarding an outlet pipe from careless drivers, Stella doubted she’d have found the place at all.

Stacy crouched in front of the spot where Marrion’s body had been propped. She pulled on a nitrile glove, lifted a sheet of damp cardboard that stood against the wall, sniffed one end, and let it drop. The cardboard landed with a soft squelch.

Stella was impressed at Stacy’s attention to detail. Digging around in dumpsters certainly wasn’t the most pleasant or glamorous aspect of their job. She knew that from personal experience. But nothing got in the way of a thorough investigation.

Her mind cast back to the summer, the last time she found herself in a similar situation, when she was investigating the murder of Martin Lin’s sister. Her heart twinged with sadness for her late colleague.

Still, she had a job to do, and wallowing in her grief wouldn’t help anybody, least of all the family of Patrick Marrion. “Good vintage?”

“No.” Stacy stood up and stepped away. “Recent, I’d say. No more than a day or two. Looks like this public bathroom returned to service as soon as the police tape was removed.”

“Nice. Not what you were looking for? Because forensics has been all over this place.”

“I was hoping they’d missed something. The pictures had no blood. Not a drop. That’s strange, isn’t it? At least, when you compare it to what happened up north.”

“Mm.”

The crime scenes in Claymore Township had been full of blood, the bodies bled out and left at the crime scenes, as though the blood itself was part of the killer’s tableau. Without the gore, the killing would’ve lost much of its meaning.

But Stacy was right. The lack of blood here was yet another difference between this unsub’s M.O. and that of the Claymore killer.

Stella examined the whitewashed wall. The CSI team hadn’t missed any drops of blood spattered between the mold. There weren’t even any scratches suggesting forensics had scraped off paint and brickwork to conduct an analysis.

“So he was definitely killed elsewhere.”

Stacy nodded. “Uh-huh. And the body was dumped here out of the way.”

Stella frowned. Their theory that this might be the work of a copycat was losing traction. A lack of blood at the scene. The fact that the victim wasn’t found strung up in a tree. A lack of cuneiform. A second location. It was all so different from the Claymore killer.

There was only one real similarity—albeit a major one—the fact that Patrick Marrion had been completely exsanguinated, after having been strung up like a slaughtered cow. The scratches on the victim’s back might be another similarity. But they still didn’t know if those were made intentionally.

“But we’re not really out of the way. This is the middle of the city. Bring a car up here, and you could drop a body without anyone noticing. But people come through here. Someone was going to find that poor young man eventually. And sooner rather than later.”

“It does smell here, though.” Stacy waved one flap of her coat. “The stench of the garbage would hide the smell of the body and keep regular looky-loos away.”

“People would still see it. They dump garbage. They empty their bladders. Not sure what the M.E. told Hagen and Ander about the time of death, but I can’t imagine the body sat out here more than a few hours before being found.” Stella paced away from the wall.

Something about the scene didn’t add up.

“Usually, when someone dumps a body, they put it somewhere it won’t be found. Or at least won’t be found until they’re a safe distance away.”

“Or dumps the body in a spot that would get rid of trace evidence.” Stacy pointed east. “The Cumberland River is just a few blocks from here. Why not there?”

“Exactly. And there’s no shortage of hiding places outside the city, where a corpse could lie for months before anyone found it. My sense is that you only transport a body here, to an alley in the middle of Nashville, when you don’t want to get caught dumping it but do want the victim found.”

Stacy breathed in slowly. She seemed to regret her choice immediately and coughed, beating her chest with one hand. “So the unsub’s sending a message.”

“Looks that way. I just wish I knew what it meant. And that he’d just sent an email with bullet points instead.” Stella wanted to twist the gold stud in her ear, but her nitrile gloves had been through some things this morning. She kept her hands by her side. “Well, let’s think through the steps of getting a corpse here. What do you need?”

“A vehicle.” Stacy held up one gloved finger. “Even light bodies are heavy.”

“So we need to personally review the footage out on the street and anything pointed to this alley to see if we can find a vehicle.”

“You’d need to cover the body somehow, don’t you think? This area is still pretty trafficked. Someone would notice you hauling a naked corpse around.”

“Maybe he wasn’t naked when he was transported?”

Stacy waved a hand around the garbage-strewn area. “I’ve seen a lot of things around here, but not one set of discarded clothes. The unsub could’ve taken the clothes with them though.”

“Or they used…garbage bags? Rolled him in carpet or blankets?” Stella scanned the hopelessly contaminated area. “We’ll never find fibers here. We should double-check the M.E.’s report to see if he found any kind of material.”

Stacy held up two gloved fingers, then they both almost gagged at the sight of something slimy on her middle finger. “So far we need transportation and some way to temporarily cover the body.”

Stella bit her lip as she pondered her options as a hypothetical body-dumper. “As a killer, I wouldn’t want to leave trace evidence, like DNA or fingerprints. So I’d probably wear gloves.”

“But wouldn’t you take those with you too? I mean, if you were going to take the corpse’s clothes?” Stacy pulled off her be-slimed glove and tossed it into the open dumpster.

They both froze.

“Unless…” They both glanced at the dumpster. “Unless the glove got gross, and I just discarded it.”

Stella shook her head. “He wouldn’t put it in this, though. Too close. Too risky.”

Stacy nodded and turned in a circle. “Where?”

“When was the trash taken?” Stacy pulled a fresh pair of gloves from her pocket.

“It doesn’t get picked up until tomorrow. I checked.” Stella climbed up and peered into the dumpster, just to be sure. It was a mess of plastic bags, beer bottles, sandwich wrappers, and loose trash.

Nothing stood out.

No way the gloves would be here. Forensic teams were thorough. If they’d missed something like that, they’d never hear the end of it.

Stella turned toward the next dumpster down at the other end of the alley. “Let’s try that one.”

Stacy nodded. “Makes more sense. If he dumped them, he wouldn’t risk putting them right next to the body.”

They approached the second dumpster. Stacy pulled the lid open while Stella peered inside.

The pile was less disturbed. A couple of bags had torn, but for the most part, the trash was settled, undisturbed.

Then—

“There.”

Stacy pointed toward a mound of black bags. Between two of them, a small piece of blue latex was exposed.

“No shit!” Stella’s exclamation echoed in the alley, but she didn’t care. She pulled an evidence bag out of her pocket.

With Stacy holding her belt to keep her steady, she sat on the edge of the dumpster and leaned forward. She placed one blue glove in one evidence bag and the second one in another.

“Let’s not get excited.” Stella tamped down on her excitement even as she sealed the bags. “This might not go anywhere.”

Once again, Stacy yanked off her gloves and tossed them in the dumpster. “Just let me ride this high, Stella. Getting fingerprints from the interior of the gloves would be such a gotcha. True detective work.”

She washed her hands with cinnamon-scented hand sanitizer before pushing them into the pockets of her coat. Her long fawn-colored trench likely cost more than most of Stella’s wardrobe. It might’ve even cost more than some of the items Hagen possessed.

“Let’s get out of here.” Stella tucked the evidence bags in her coat pocket. “Maybe we can find our potential vehicle on local surveillance footage. I’m feeling lucky.”

Stella headed toward River Street, eager to put the site and the stench behind her. A pile of carpet cuttings and stained blankets rustled as she passed them.

She jumped back. Her hand flew to her gun. The blanket on top of the pile fell, revealing a face dark with dirt, a mess of gray- and-black hair, and a scraggly, unkempt beard that burst out in matted curls.

The man snarled. “Whaddaya want?”

Stella stepped away. Her shoe landed on something wet and slimy, and she slipped.

Stacy caught her elbow. She took Stella’s weight and lifted her up. “We’re FBI, sir, and we have a few questions. How are you doing today?”

The man looked at them suspiciously and said nothing.

Stella was undeterred by his nonresponse to Stacy’s question. Maybe their investigative luck had just given them a witness, but she needed to build some sort of rapport. “Can we get you anything?”

The man narrowed his eyes at Stacy and then turned to Stella. “I can take care of myself. Don’t need no charity.”

Maybe he didn’t want any charity. But he certainly looked like he needed it.

“I’m going to grab some granola bars and a couple bottles of water. Let me take those bags to the SUV.” After Stella handed off the evidence bags, Stacy trotted off.

Stella refocused her attention on the man. “This where you sleep?”

He pulled his blanket toward him, gripping it with one hand, as if he thought Stella might take it. His left eye twitched. “What’s it to you? I sleep where I like.”

“Is that right? Were you sleeping here on Friday night?”

“Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t.” He spoke fast, as if even his words were something he didn’t want to give away easily.

Stacy trotted back and crouched next to Stella, who caught the corner of her colleague’s trench coat before it touched the ground. Stacy took it from her with a grateful smile and held out the goodies. “What’s your name, sir?”

The man eyed Stacy carefully. He took a swig from a beer can. “Fett is what they call me.”

Stella frowned. “Fett? What’s your full name?

“Fett. That’s all I am now. Fett.”

His eye twitched again.

“Fett, we need to know if you were here on Friday night. If you saw anything unusual or out of the ordinary.”

“Wasn’t here. Saw nothing. Heard nothing. Know nothing. That’s me. Now, leave me alone. I got nothing.”

Stella pulled her lips into a thin line. Fett seemed like a hard nut to crack. “Do you sleep here most nights?”

Fett grunted and nodded.

Stella pushed forward. “And how about other people. Anyone else stay in this alley? Any regulars?”

This time, Fett shook his head. “I leave well enough alone. Like I said, I don’t know nothing.”

Stella attempted a smile. “Okay, I’m going to assume you were here Friday night. What time do you usually get to sleep?”

For the first time, Fett grinned. “Hell, lady, I don’t know. I’ve got no bedtime.”

“But what time did you get to sleep on Friday night?”

The grin was still on Fett’s face. “Ma’am, I can’t remember what happened yesterday. Now, if you want to know what happened five years ago or twenty years ago, I could talk your ear off. But last Friday? Hell, I got no idea.”

Stella pulled her phone out of her pocket and loaded up a photograph of Patrick Marrion from when he was still alive. “Do you recognize this man?”

Fett’s grin faded. “I don’t know. White people all look the same to me.”

She arched an eyebrow at his pale skin beyond the dirt and put her phone away. It seemed like they weren’t getting anywhere with Fett. They weren’t even getting his name. And she wasn’t sure if he wasn’t being cooperative because he was talking to the law or because he saw something and didn’t want to say.

Or because he’d done something.

“Sir, I need to know if you?—”

“They’re watching.” Fett lifted a finger and swiveled his eyes from side to side. “They think I can’t see, but I know they’re there.”

Stacy pulled on Stella’s elbow.

Stella stood.

Stacy led her down the alley and spoke quietly. “I don’t think we’re getting anything out of this guy. Even if he told us something, we couldn’t trust it.” She shook her head. “There are just too many people like this, left to cope alone on the streets.”

Stella didn’t reply. She’d seen people like this receiving treatment recently, up in Claymore Township. But at least they weren’t sleeping on the streets.

Something else bothered her now. Fett had said they were being watched. Stella knew that kind of paranoia wasn’t unusual, but she’d felt it, too, a strange coldness on the back of her neck that made the hairs stand up. Maybe he had seen something.

She turned to ask him who was watching them, but Fett was already on his feet, holding his bundle of blankets in one hand. He stumbled toward Commerce Street, pulling his coat tightly around him. Stella let him go.

The beer can stood by the wall. Stella pulled on a glove and dropped it into an evidence bag. Maybe the forensic lab could tell them who Fett was—right along with whoever had left their blue latex gloves behind.

Maybe they were one and the same.