High Strung Page 9

  Ketchum and his team had inspected the float, the only known crime scene, and found the usual: candy; spilled beer, wine, booze, and milk punch; vomit; stray doubloons and beads; a stray high heel; and several bras no doubt tossed onto the float by overly exuberant balcony spectators. No blood. No headless body. No krewe member wallet.

  The only confirmed clue they had to work with was the victim’s head. It was at the Medical Examiner’s office, Ketchum’s next stop.

  “Hey, Jeff. What’d you find out about our head case?” Ketchum said as he opened the ME’s exam room door. The ME was working on a fresh cadaver. This one seemed to have his head.

  “Very clean decapitation, if there is such a thing. A few hit-and-miss wounds. Looks like the killer might have jumped him from behind and there was a struggle. Not sure if the killer was shorter than this guy or if he had to sort of squat down and or lean backwards to get the job done, but the death blow was high to low, front to back. The weapon was metal, but probably not a usual blade instrument like a knife, hatchet, or axe, since the sever was so smooth. No chopping or hacking marks. Might be wire. I’ll know for sure when I get the lab reports back. They are working on some fibers, too.” Jeff the medical examiner always came up with useful information.

  “So the bad guy might be either shorter or not as strong as the victim, or both? Right?”

  “Yep. Strong hands, though. Might have cuts or injuries to his hands, as well, especially if he used a wire.”

  Ketchum knew all about wire and criminals. Prisoners covet wire. They mold it into jailhouse shivs, sharpen it to cut people with it, sharpen it and use it as a puncturing weapon, and give each other jailhouse tattoos with it.

  “Whadda ’bout the ashy stuff on his cheek?”

  “The ashy stuff looks like bone debris.” Jeff turned to look at Ketchum to make sure he heard him. He did. He was taking notes in his steno pad.

  “Hmm. Bone dust. Like cremains?”

  “Yep. Had to be a very high heat to burn bone down to this consistency. Not like a backyard barbeque or trash barrel.”

  “What about the teeth? Or lack of teeth? The deal with the teeth is just plain-ass bizarre. He probably removed them to avoid ID by dental records.”

  “Yeah. Makes sense, but what doesn’t make sense is, considering the minimal trauma to the mouth removing the teeth, this guy didn’t use just any old set of toolbox pliers. For lack of a better term, it was done with, uh, finesse. Nice job.” Jeff held back a smile, not wanting to show his slight admiration of the handiwork by a madman.

  “Finesse.” Ketchum shook his head and picked up his copy of the formal report from the desk. He waved with it at Jeff on his way out. “Appreciate it. Keep me posted on anything else about our killer with finesse.”

  Ketchum went to his car and turned the AC on full blast as he scanned the medical examiner’s report. The medical examiner’s examination of the head revealed the victim was a Caucasian male. Between forty to fifty years old. Weight of the head: ten pounds, two ounces. No teeth present. Trauma to the gums due to forcible tooth extractions. Bloody fluid in the mouth. Old scar tissue in the nose and deviated septum most likely caused by sustained cocaine use. No drug residue. Iris of both eyes, blue. Shoulder-length, natural color, salt and pepper, straight hair. Slight beard. Four hit-and-miss three-to-eight-centimeter slice marks across the throat and chin, showing a possible struggle. Superficial diagonal cut on right ear lobe two centimeters long with small amount of bloody fluid present along the length of the cut. Bloody fluid present in the nostrils. Bruising on left cheekbone and left eye socket. Head severed on a slight front-to-back downward angle with a smooth, sharp motion, possibly by either a guillotine-type object or thin, high-tensile object. Part of a fingertip found in the hair at the top of the head. Fibers in the hair, on the face, and at the slice wound. Small amount of ashy substance on right cheekbone. Cause of death: exsanguination. Manner of death: Homicide. How incident occurred: Decapitation by another person. Date of death: between March fifth and fourteenth.

  Ketchum had to start on some foundation questions: Who is he? Local? Tourist? Where is the rest of his body? What sequence of events led him to the float? Are there other severed head cases in other jurisdictions?

  The ME had taken a print from the fingertip found in the hair and sent it to the national fingerprint database. Was it the victim’s or the killer’s?

  A forensic artist would do a rendering of the head the following day. Ketchum would take it, the gruesome photos, and a basic description, and send them to law enforcement agencies around the country. “Maybe someone has a body without a head!” Ketchum thought cheerfully. “A torso would tie this whole thing up. Or a missing persons report might hit.”

  Meantime, he would check the television stations for film of the float and the parade route and check the Crescent City Imperial Hotel’s video. “Hmm. Better go get a fresh can of high-test coffee and another fifth,” he thought. “I might have a long night of boring video watching. I’d hate to nod off the one second that shows some guy with an extra head.”

  Chapter 7—Skedaddle

  “Cafton Merriepennie, please,” said the authoritative alto female voice when Cafton answered his private, unlisted phone. He didn’t recognize the Midwestern voice. The formal name request told him this person was a stranger. The time, eight a.m. sharp, told him this was business.

  “This is he,” Cafton answered cautiously. He took a small spiral ring notebook and pen out of his desk drawer, and cradled the phone between his shoulder and jaw, preparing to jot down notes, if necessary.

  “Mr. Cafton, this is Leigh Gilmer. I am an investigator for Wardgray Insurance Company. Do you have a moment to talk?”

  “Possibly,” he responded flatly. Cafton never committed to anything without knowing first what it entailed.

  “I just need about ten minutes of your time, Mr. Merriepennie. This is about a vehicle collision that happened yesterday morning on Hillsboro Road. Your name and phone number are on the police report as a witness. Do you recall the collision?”

  Leigh hated making these calls. People didn’t like to get involved. She totally empathized. She was a very private person and would hate getting one of these calls. Yet it was her job to get witnesses to participate so she could determine the facts surrounding auto insurance claims. Invariably, the people involved in the claim had diametrically differing accounts of what had happened. The police report usually detailed second-hand information, since the police were rarely on the scene when an accident happened to witness it first-hand, so they could only notate what they observed and found out after the crash. More often than not, among two victims and police there were three versions of the accident. It was Leigh’s job to separate fact from fiction and then to determine liability, if any.

  “Yes. I recall the accident.” Cafton maintained his disaffected tone.

  “We insure the gentleman in the import car, and I am working on his insurance claim. If you have just a few minutes, I would very much appreciate if you would let me take a recorded statement from you.” She lightly tapped her Recorded Interview Form with her pen, waiting for permission to click the recorder button on.

  “Okay, but I don’t know that I can be a lot of help.” Cafton hoped to dissuade the intruder with his disinterested attitude and lack of information. No such luck. In fact, Gilmer was pleased he did not seem to have formed an opinion about the accident, so his answers would probably be unbiased.

  Gilmer had heard the same deflection a thousand times before. She already had her customary response teed up. “I understand, but I would be most appreciative if I could get you on record about it, even if it’s that you know nothing. May I start recording?”

  “Really, there wasn’t much to it. Simple fender bender. But if you must, then let’s get this over with.” Cafton yawned quietly and sighed loudly. He wanted off the phone and to get back to his to-do list for the day. He wasn’t crassly rude, but he wasn’t going to offer anyth
ing that might trigger a longer conversation.

  Click. “This is Leigh Gilmer speaking with Cafton Merriepennie. It is eight-oh-four a.m. on March fourteenth, 1980. This is case number 19801802, G. Brooks, claimant. Mr. Merriepennie, are you aware I am recording this conversation, and do you give me permission to do so?” Gilmer spoke with the gravitas of Atticus Finch addressing the jury in the Tom Robinson trial. Serious, but with an extra dose of clarity, as if she were used to talking to fourth graders.

  Cafton almost reflexively said, “I do,” but managed to stop himself. “Yes. Yes on both questions.”

  Gilmer’s first question seemed designed to assure Cafton’s objectivity. “Do you know either of the people who were involved in the collision?”

  “No.”

  “Can you describe the cars involved in the collision?”

  “Yes. Well, the fancy imported sports car was red, and the piece-of-junk sedan was brown.” Cafton was not exactly sure of the makes of each car, so he answered her question without adding any more information.

  “For the sake of clarity, I will refer to the vehicles by color from now on. Is that acceptable to you, Mr. Merriepennie?”

  “Yes.” Cafton was making notes about his answers, mostly to double-check them and make sure he remembered correctly.

  Then Gilmer asked about half a dozen specific time, location, and weather questions, which Cafton matter-of-factly answered.

  Next, she drilled down to the heart of the interview, the facts about the timing of when the brown car scooted in front of the red car and slammed on the brakes. This would tell her who was at fault and possibly give her some insight as to why.

  “Mr. Merriepennie, can you describe the traffic control devices nearest to the collision?”

  “Yes, there was a traffic light at the intersection about twenty-five feet before the place where the crash happened.” Cafton closed his eyes, visualizing the scene.

  “Thank you. Please describe, if you recall, who had which color light when the collision occurred.” Cafton could tell that Ms. Gilmer was taking notes, too. He thought it was interesting she was asking open-ended questions, not just “yes” or “no” questions. She wasn’t cutting corners; she wanted facts, not just support for her customer. Cafton respected that.

  “Well,” he began, reliving the crash in his mind. “I had just stopped and was sitting still at the red light, so I assume they had the green light, or maybe the yellow. I don’t have any recollection of how long after the wreck the light turned green for me, because the crash interrupted my concentration on it.” He squinted and looked upward and to the right, scouring his visual memory of the scene.

  Gilmer wrote claimant - green/yellow in her notes.

  “Did you observe any environmental reason why the brown car would have applied his brakes? A pedestrian? An animal? Another vehicle in the way? Debris in the roadway?”

  “No, no, nothing around anywhere. Other than me. I was the only other car in the area of the crash, and I was not even on the same street. I was perpendicular to them, at the crossing street, Woodmont, waiting on the light. No one was around them at all. No one was in their lane or the lane beside them, or in the oncoming lanes, for probably ten seconds after the wreck. It was very early in the morning, so traffic had not picked up yet.”

  Gilmer jotted no vehicles/animals/pedestrians.

  “Was there anything else that could have possibly caused the collision, in your estimation? Weather, the sun, fog, water, road conditions?” Gilmer checked off boxes on the form.

  “No. Nothing. It was a beautiful, clear morning. Dry roads. No fog. They were headed west on Hillsboro, which means the sun was behind them. I doubt the sun would have blinded anyone, anyway. It was barely up.” To his surprise, Cafton was enjoying the conversation and the analysis of the crash. He loved mysteries and conundrums and figuring things out. Gilmer noted west, dry, no distractions on her form.

  “What did you hear when the collusion occurred?” Gilmer listened intently for his answers, but she also thought she heard a faint purring from time to time, so she listened even more closely. He must have a cat in his lap, she thought, and smiled to herself.

  “Tires squealing. That first got my attention, so I was looking at the cars when they collided. First, tires squealing for just a split second. Then more squealing for maybe one or two more seconds.” He closed his eyes, trying to recall the sequence and noises. “Then a loud crunch/thud and glass breaking, crumbling. Then something like metal dropping on the asphalt.”

  Cafton moved Dagwood away from the phone and back into his lap. He was surprised he had absorbed so much information, especially considering he had been lost in thought about Dangcat missing and going to the label when the accident went down.

  “So you heard two distinct tire squeal events. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. Now that I think about it, that’s odd. But, yes, first one short squeal, probably the guy in front, then the longer squeal like the guy behind him trying to stop. Then the crash was immediate. Then stuff dropping off a car into the road.”

  Gilmer noted, short skid, long skid, ck police report for skid mark lengths, calculate speeds.

  “Mr. Merriepennie, if you had to determine, based on what you witnessed and heard firsthand, which vehicle would you say caused this collision?” This was the money question.

  “I know people who rear-end someone are usually at fault, but honestly, the brown car looked like he caused the red car to hit him.” Cafton had vaguely noticed that the morning of the crash, but he had not given any more thought to it.

  Gilmer remained silent, giving Cafton plenty of time and silence to expand on his statement.

  “Yes, I believe the man in the brown car may have intentionally pulled in front of the red car and then slammed on his brakes. There was really no way for the red car to avoid hitting him,” Cafton continued.

  Bingo! There it was. Gilmer made a check mark on her form and wrote swoop and squat. “Okay. Thank you. You have been very helpful. Unless you have something more to add, or have any questions for me, I will end this recorded statement now.”

  “No, I have nothing more,” Cafton said, feeling oddly disappointed the interview was over.

  “Very good. Thank you. The time is eight-seventeen a.m.” She snapped the tape recorder off. “Thank you for your time and information, Mr. Merriepennie.”

  “You’re welcome. I don’t know how much help I was, though. Maybe I should be more aware of my surroundings from now on.” Cafton laughed, hoping to extend the conversation and change the tone of their interaction.

  “No, sir, you were very helpful.” Gilmer took a deep breath. “Uh, before I let you go, may I ask you another question, totally off the record?” Her voice softened, and she became Leigh the person, instead of Gilmer the investigator.

  “Sure!” Cafton was delighted.

  “Are you Cafton Merriepennie of Merriepennie Music?” Cafton’s delight instantly turned to familiar frustration tinged with disappointment. He gently moved Dagwood out of his lap and stood up, preparatory to ending the phone call as soon as possible. Not again, he thought. He was having such a good time, and now it was about to be ruined. No matter where he went or what he was doing, some wannabe singer or songwriter would try to pitch him or shove a demo off on him. He couldn’t enjoy a private dinner, or see a movie, or even go to the restroom at the symphony without someone who “just happened” to have a demo cassette on them, and “would reeeeeaaaaalllllly appreciate it” if he would listen to it, and who emphasized they weren’t “just another” singer or songwriter, and he wouldn’t be “sorry.”

  Cafton’s looks were so distinctive that, in person, there was no deniability. His name was so unique that even on the phone there was also no deniability. He cued up his usual, thanks but no thanks, polite denial of her request and suggestion she drop the demo off at the label.

  “Yes,” he responded, back to his flat demeanor and shifting his weight from one foot to t
he other, very eager to end the conversation.

  “I am so happy to meet you!” Gilmer lit up with personality. Cafton rolled his eyes and studied his cuticles until he could gracefully hang up. Here it comes, he thought.

  Gilmer continued, “I saw you at the humane shelter fundraiser last month. You helped us raise a lot of money that will save a lot of lives! I just want to thank you.” Gilmer sounded truly grateful. She had rescued hopeless and homeless cats and dogs all her life, but just in the last few months had become officially involved with the shelter as a board member.

  Cafton was sort of stunned, mute for a second, trying to change emotional gears. That was not what he had expected. “Oh, yes. Sure. Animal rescue is a passion of mine. As you know, we are their voice.” Cafton relaxed again. A fellow rescuer! The rescue community was full of kind, compassionate, generous people. His mood instantly changed to warmth and camaraderie. She had just become a friend. “Are you a rescuer, Ms. Gilmer?”

  Cafton sat down. Dag, assuming Cafton’s change of position was to resume petting him, jumped into his lap for the petting to recommence.

  “Please, it’s Leigh, not Ms. Gilmer. Oh, yes. Not an organized rescuer, but when I see something, I do something.” Leigh actually did more than “something,” but she didn’t want to take advantage of Cafton’s time generosity.

  She couldn’t see that, for the first time in a long while, Cafton was smiling. He was so tired of phonies, users, bullshitters. They were a waste of breath to him. But she seemed different. Real. Not only did she talk the talk, it seemed like she walked the walk. And she didn’t seem at all interested in his music business. Fabulous!

  “Yes! That’s just the right thing to do, isn’t it? My cat, Dagwood, who I rescued from a parking lot when he was just a tiny fella, is head-butting me right now!” Cafton laughed and put his head down so Dagwood could ram his forehead instead of the phone receiver.