“These are all from the first body part? The leg?”
“Not all. The last two are from the second set of remains. You can tell which is which by the case number.”
“Okay, tell me what answers you’re looking for?”
“An approximation of time of death. Because of the condition of the remains, it’s been difficult to even map out a time frame. Also, I’m waiting for results from the lab I hope will give us a clue as to who the victim is, but at this point the tox screen may not show much and DNA will take a while. I don’t know if there’s anything we could learn from these.”
I indicate the samples and am surprised when she smiles at me brightly.
“This is perfect.” Confused, I shake my head. “I’m guest teaching students in the Forensic Studies program. If I can take these and turn them into part of my lesson plan, I could use the college lab to do a little digging for you. It would be much easier to come up with answers for you when I have the right tools.”
I hesitate for a moment. The idea a bunch of students will be handling the evidence is not sitting well with me.
“My hands will be the only ones touching the samples,” she says, as if I’d been thinking out loud. “The students would watch at a distance. This’ll give me access to a top-of-the-line laboratory and I might be able to extract some information to help you with identification.”
That seals the deal.
Jay
“Be my guest.”
Saadi Kumar, owner of a small halal meat processing plant on the north side of town, leads us to the commercial vacuum sealer.
“Take all the samples you want. You will find nothing wrong.”
Despite his compliance, the man is clearly not happy we’re here. I can’t really blame him; his company has been the target of a few acts of vandalism we believe is racially motivated.
“Mr. Kumar, yours isn’t the only business we’re visiting,” I try to explain. “In fact, you are one of the last ones on my list.”
He gives me a long, silent stare before walking over to the machine. He opens a compartment on top to expose the roll of heavy-duty plastic inside.
The crime scene tech I brought along collects a sample and within minutes we’re back in the parking lot.
“I just bought that sealer two months ago,” Kumar says, shaking his head. “After that last break-in we’ve had to have security around the clock.”
The man suddenly looks tired beyond his years.
A few months ago, someone gained entry to the small plant and poured buckets of what turned out to be pig’s blood over some of the equipment. From what I understand the insurance company wouldn’t replace the equipment. Technically it could still be functional after a good cleaning, but Kumar would lose his halal certification. He must’ve bought that new sealer out of pocket.
A thought occurs to me.
“What happened to the old equipment?”
“Sold it.”
I pull out my notebook. “Remember who you sold it to?”
He shakes his head and averts his eyes. “Put up an ad. Guy showed up with a cargo van and a wad of cash. I didn’t ask questions.”
“Can you give me a description?”
“I don’t want any trouble.”
“I understand,” I say patiently. “But we’re trying to solve a serious crime and your recollection of events could be helpful to our investigation.”
He stares at me hard during the pause that follows.
“Young,” he finally concedes. “White, dark hair, maybe five foot ten. I’m guessing mid-twenties.”
“Anything else? Glasses, facial hair, distinguishing marks?”
“No. Although he did have bad skin.”
“What do you mean ‘bad skin’?”
He taps a finger to his cheek. “Like pockmarks.”
“Acne scars?”
He shrugs. “Possibly.”
By the time I walk out to my truck, I know the van was an unmarked white Chevy. Kumar wasn’t able to recall the license plate, but he did get some frozen beef from the cooler which he said had been packaged with the old equipment.
It isn’t much and may well be a dead end, but at least we have something to sink our teeth into because we were starting to spin our wheels. I hand the sealed package to the crime scene tech to take to the lab and I head back to the station with the new information.
“Doc was looking for you.”
Blackfoot watches me with an eyebrow raised as I approach my desk.
“She called here?” I check to see if she tried to reach me on my cell. I just entered my number in her phone last night. I already had hers.
“Where else would she call?” Keith comments with feigned innocence, but the tease is obvious underneath.
“What did she want?” I respond with a question of my own, hoping to distract him. Ramirez is following the interaction from a few desks away with growing interest.
“She says she wanted to give us a heads-up she handed over some samples to an entomologist. She’s hoping for some news by the end of the week.”
“That’ll be helpful. I may have a new lead as well.” I continue to relay my visit with Saadi Kumar and Blackfoot starts feeding information into the computer as soon as I pass on the descriptions of the buyer and the cargo van.
“Fuck,” he mumbles. “Seventy-three white Chevy cargo vans registered in Durango alone. Did he have a bead on age? That would help narrow it down.”
I shake my head. “He said he didn’t see any rust, for what that’s worth, but he did notice there were no windows on the side or back doors. That may narrow it down.”
“We’re going to have to go down the list and check for ownership. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find an owner who fits that physical description.”
“Hate to burst your bubble,” Ramirez contributes. “But I’m betting most of the registered owners will be businesses.”
“Got any better ideas?”
Tony throws his hands up at the sharp tone of Blackfoot’s retort.
“Just sayin’…”
“Well, instead of wasting our time stating the obvious, why don’t you give us a hand tracking these down?” Keith points at the printer already spitting out a long list.
“Fine. I have my hands free after solving my last case.”
“Rub it in, asshole.”
The words are harsh but Blackfoot’s half-grin is evidence this is all part of their regular banter. These two guys worked together long before I joined the Durango PD. They were only recently split up when I was assigned to Keith so he could show me the ropes.
“Good work, Rookie,” he mumbles, as he divides the stack of papers into three smaller piles and hands one to me.
The praise feels good, especially from a seasoned guy like Blackfoot. He’s another guy content to do the job he loves. A couple of years ago he’d been forced to jump in as chief of police. Even though the job could’ve remained his, he didn’t waste any time finding himself a permanent replacement so he could go back to his desk in the bullpen.
I admire that. Heck, I admire him, so despite the ‘rookie’ jab the compliment means a lot.