Inferno (CSI Reilly Steel #2) Page 2
‘I see the doc is here already – have you managed to get hold of blondie yet?’ Kennedy asked.
Chris shook his head. ‘She’s in court today, remember? The Walker murder. And she’d have your balls for breakfast if she heard you call her that.’
No better woman than Reilly Steel to put Kennedy in his place, Chris thought wryly, and it was something she did repeatedly. He was glad for more reasons than one that it was she, and not grouchy old Jack Gorman, that was the GFU investigator handling this particular crime scene. She and Chris had become close since teaming up on an investigation earlier in the year that had involved Reilly’s family, during which he had almost been killed
He was pretty certain that, unlike the older investigator, Reilly Steel wouldn’t bat an eyelid at the rather ‘difficult’ circumstances they were facing today. Fearless and unflappable, he knew that some members of the force thought her standoffish. ‘Steel by name, steel by nature,’ he’d heard said about her.
Chris knew however, that behind the cool façade was a woman who’d spent much of her life trying to overcome major demons in her past.
During their first investigation together, he’d discovered a side to her that others rarely saw: fun-loving, warm and sometimes vulnerable. She was a demon on a surfboard (and with a gun), and her driving scared the life out of him. She ate like a horse, yet could barely cook.
And she had a devilishly croaky laugh that made his skin prickle.
Chris and Kennedy pushed through a gate set in a high sandstone wall into a large back garden. A group of uniforms stood nearby, two forensic techs in their protective suits and booties were checking the ground around it, while Karen Thompson, the medical examiner, could be seen kneeling in the grass. Chris’s gaze ran over the area. The house was beautifully kept – double French doors opened onto a tiled terrace, and another door led out onto the garden from what he guessed was the kitchen.
The inspection pipe stood in the grass, half hidden behind shrubbery on the left-hand side of the house; nobody wanted to be looking at the mechanics of human waste removal while they sat on the terrace with their gin and tonic, so the tank must have been strategically placed to be almost invisible from the house. Easily achieved here, as the grounds were extensive.
The detectives nodded briefly towards the uniforms and the lab techs, then approached the doctor. Karen was bent over an exposed manhole cover, a breathing mask covering the lower half of her face, but still barely protecting her protruding nose.
In his four years working city homicide, Chris had experienced some acutely nasty odors, but the location of this particular corpse exacerbated the pungent stench of death with the ripe aroma of human excrement.
Suppressing his urge to gag, he automatically stepped back from the septic tank hatch. The manhole cover still lay a few feet away, where it had evidently rolled after the poor bastard who’d discovered the body had dropped it in shock.
The corpse was vertical, submerged up to the neck in sewage, and bore a horrible, twisted expression, a grimace of deep, soul-crushing despair.
Chris heard Kennedy emit a low curse. ‘Christ, that’s rank!’ he said, putting a hand over his nose and mouth.
Having seen enough, they both retreated hastily from the opening. Quick as a flash, Kennedy reached into his pocket and brought out a packet of JP Blue.
Chris looked at him speculatively. ‘Thought we’d finally agreed that that stuff will kill you,’ he said.
Lighting up, Kennedy glanced back at the tank and shuddered visibly. ‘Looks like there are worse ways to go.’
A couple of minutes later, the medical examiner stood up. Peeling off her slime-covered latex gloves, she slipped the mask away and moved over to where the detectives stood. She coughed, and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘This one’s a real mess.’
‘Bit of an understatement ...’ Kennedy muttered.
‘Anything to go on?’ Chris asked, trying his utmost to keep his nostrils closed.
There was no question that foul play had been involved here; the manhole cover had been replaced and closed over, which wouldn’t have been the case if Tony Coffey had fallen into the tank by accident. He was already trying to picture the scenario of someone dragging a heavy body across the grounds to dump it into the manhole. The only access to the garden was via the gate they had come through; the wall, seven foot high, blocked any other access from the front of the house, and it was unlikely that anyone had come over that with a body.
Chris turned towards the rear. The back garden was huge – about half an acre, he guessed – and was either walled or fenced on all sides. To the north was a small patch of orchard, to the east a wooded area, and to the west the road, separated from the garden by a tall hedge. Whoever brought Tony Coffey here had most likely come via the house, or through the gate from the gravel driveway. ‘How long’s the body been down there?’
Karen shrugged. ‘I won’t know for sure till I get him cleaned up and take a proper look, but I’d guess he’s been dead for two or three days at least.’
‘Someone certainly worked really hard to put him down there,’ Kennedy said.
She turned her huge saucer-like eyes on him. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’
‘How’s that?’ Chris asked.
The ME grimaced. ‘Well, I’m almost positive that the poor man was submerged alive .’
Reilly shifted down through the gears, revved hard, and moved the GFU van out into the opposite lane and past two slow-moving cars. The spray from their tires temporarily blinded her, but she knew she had time to make the maneuver.
She kept her foot to the floor, and enjoyed the muted roar of the engine, the low rumble as the acceleration kicked in. Despite a rocky beginning, driving on the left – the opposite of back home in California was now becoming second nature to her.
She zoomed past another car, cut back into her lane, then slowed just a little for a sweeping left-hand bend. She felt the van’s grip transmit through the firm leather seat as she took the curve at speed, the g-force keeping her pressed firmly against the seat.
Part of her knew that driving like this was childish, but it put a smile on her face, and reminded her that there was more to life than peering down a microscope and speculating on the motives and methods of criminals.
Given the nature of the job, it was essential that she found some down time when she could live for the moment, forget the job, and allow her brain simply to relax. Surfing was how she used to get her kicks, but there wasn’t much opportunity for that around Dublin, so fast driving had naturally become a substitute adrenaline rush. For Reilly, California was now figuratively, if not literally, a thousand miles away, and Dublin was gradually becoming home.
She glanced at the sat nav – the house was just ahead – and wished guiltily that the journey could take just a little longer, and include a couple more tight bends.
The police at the gate of the house waved Reilly in, and she pulled up beside the detectives’ silver Ford. She glanced round and nodded in satisfaction. Everyone was already there – she had called ahead, and her team from the GFU was expecting her.
She slipped a contamination suit over her clothes – she was by now an expert at getting changed in the narrow confines of the van and could do it in 30 seconds flat – and having traded her heels for trainers, she grabbed her forensic kit and climbed out.
A uniform waved her over to the walled back garden, and immediately Reilly began assessing the environment; asking questions, narrowing options, and beginning the process of analysis.
Kennedy and Chris looked up as she appeared.
‘Hey, Miss Baywatch is here!’ the older detective joked.
From anyone else it might have come across as sexist and derogatory, but Re
illy knew Kennedy well enough by now to understand that the teasing was good-natured, and he’d say anything to wind her up.
She didn’t mind in the slightest and, in truth, was just glad that the detectives she worked with were supportive of her. It had taken a while, particularly with the older guys on the force including Kennedy, but Reilly figured she’d done enough to prove her worth in her first year at the helm of the GFU.
Besides, she flat-out refused to waste energy on a battle of the sexes, having seen many of her female Quantico buddies back home crash and burn trying to overcome the inevitable prejudice that existed in such a male-dominated field.
They were guys, she was a woman – deal with it.
She always enjoyed working side by side with Chris; to her he was the best kind of investigator: logical, open-minded and willing to approach a case from any angle, however unlikely it might seem. Unusually for a detective, he had little ego, and possessed a calm, quiet strength that always managed to put those around him particularly witnesses instantly at ease. She guessed his dark good looks probably played a part in that, too. In short, Chris Delaney was the kind of guy you could trust with your life, and Reilly hadn’t met too many of those.
Kennedy glanced at her contamination suit. ‘I thought you were giving evidence this morning – tell me you didn’t wear that to court?’
Reilly winked at him. ‘Haven’t you learned yet? I always wear this – even to bed.’
Chris guffawed and Kennedy hitched up his trousers. ‘Helluva of an image,’ he muttered to himself, but at least it had the desired effect of shutting him up.
Reilly looked around, her eyes taking in the scene. ‘So what do we know?’ she asked. ‘Anything helpful?’
‘Dead guy is a journalist, Tony Coffey, well known on the tabloid scene,’ Chris told her. ‘Plumber came to check on a blocked toilet this morning, opened up the septic tank and ...’ He grimaced.
Reilly’s eyes were wide. ‘The body was found in the septic tank?’
He nodded. ‘I know. Nice, isn’t it? And a forensic nightmare for you, no doubt.’
‘I’ll say.’ Her mind was already racing with the inherent difficulties of processing a scene like that. Every piece of potential evidence soaked in filth ... ‘Well, seeing as we’re all here, I’m guessing the guy didn’t fall in there by accident.’
‘Right.’ Kennedy pinched the stub of his cigarette out between his fingers, and dropped the residue into his pocket – he knew better than to contaminate Reilly’s crime scene. He rubbed at his eyes. ‘Manhole cover was on and, according to the doc, the poor fucker was alive when he was put in there; may have been stewing in it for two or three days.’
Reilly winced. ‘What a way to make a guy suffer.’
‘I know.’ Chris agreed. ‘The question is, why?’
The answer was something that would have to wait for the moment, Reilly thought, looking again towards the golgothic pit that was the septic tank. She gulped. For possibly the first time in her career she wasn’t champing at the bit to start processing a scene.
Chris followed her gaze as if sensing her reluctance.
‘Body’s still in the tank. Karen reckons it’s going to take a bit of work to get him out.’
‘Well, good luck to whomever gets that task,’ Reilly muttered. ‘Have you talked to anyone yet?’
He shook his head. ‘We arrived only about ten minutes before you. We’re heading to the house now to talk to the wife, see what she knows. We’re thinking he was most likely brought in through the gate or from the house, but we need to cover all the options.’
Reilly nodded. ‘I’ll have my guys sweep the perimeter, let you know what we come up with.’
‘Thanks.’
‘The plumber’s still around too; I think I saw a van on the way in?’
‘Don’t miss a trick, do you?’ Kennedy grumbled good-naturedly. ‘All right, Steel, work your magic. We’re off to do the dirty work.’
Reilly looked again at the tank and shuddered. A gentle geyser of putrid mist spewed from the opening.
Nope, this time the dirty work was unquestionably all hers.
Chapter 4
Reilly hefted up her kitbag and headed back towards the opening of the tank. The November sky was darkening, and heavy rainclouds drifted menacingly across the fields from the east.
She approached the tank and nodded a brief greeting to the ME before getting down to business. The stink from the opening was so strong that, for once, Reilly didn’t get a whiff of Karen Thompson’s favored perfume, Red Door by Elizabeth Arden.
Smells were Reilly’s thing. She’d discovered a long time ago that her sensitive nose had some sort of weird talent for cataloging scents, particularly perfume. And while it often came in handy for the job, today she was cursing that particular ability.
‘How soon before you get the body out?’ she asked.
Despite the circumstances, Karen Thompson looked typically calm and unruffled, and Reilly marveled at the woman’s strong stomach.
‘Shouldn’t be too much longer – I’ve got a team on their way now,’ the doctor replied, fixing her big, almost oversized eyes on Reilly. ‘I pretty much have to sit on my hands till then so if you want to get in there before they arrive, be my guest.’
Reilly nodded, grateful for the opportunity to inspect the area around the manhole before it got trampled even further. Between the uniforms, the wife and the plumber, there was already a lot of disturbance, to say nothing of what it would be like after they’d hauled the corpse out. But such contamination was nothing new and Reilly did love a challenge ...
She bent down and peered closely at the ground. As expected, the area around the manhole opening showed signs of heavy traffic. Blades of grass were bent and crushed into the damp earth by several sets of footsteps going back and forth across from the gate to the tank. There had been some heavy rain recently, and the various footprints had left deep indentations in the soft ground. Reilly would have her GFU colleagues collect everyone’s shoeprints later for elimination, but for now she wanted to see if there was anything of immediate interest.
She cast her gaze around, trying to understand what had been done, get a feel for it. It seemed to her that there were several ways into the garden: from the house or the gate behind her; over the hedge from the road to her left; through the woods to her right; or across the orchard straight ahead.
She tried to put herself in the perpetrator’s shoes, tried to imagine what the murderer had been thinking. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to kidnap the journalist, never mind the effort of dropping him into a septic tank. If the guy had been alive at the time, like Karen suggested, choosing to murder him in this way was making a point, a very visible one. The killer would have planned it all out, have known where the septic tank was, have had every detail figured. Reilly was prepared to put money on his coming in the normal way, through the gate.
She scooted round to the side of the lawn, took a new path out towards the septic tank, walking lightly, and checking the grass in front of her as she moved. As she had expected, there were no signs of footprints from the direction she was travelling. She stopped about two meters from the limestone opening.
Trying to muster courage and steel herself for the inevitable, she paused for a moment and gazed up at the gray sky. She needed to be calm and composed when she looked at the body, her mind neutral, assessing everything ... unaffected.
She stepped closer to the opening and peered inside it.
Tony Coffey’s face floated gently on the scummy surface, framed by a thick, viscous soup of gray foam. His eyes were open, staring upwards, the moment of his death captured forever in his ghastly grimace.
What had the poor guy been thinking, Reilly wondered. What goes through your mind as you slowly drown in sewage or choke on lethal fumes, all alone in the dark confines of a tiny space surrounded by human filth? Did he know his murderer? Did he have any idea why he was being subjected to such punishment
?
She bent down to take a better look at the area below. The tank itself looked old ancient, actually and she figured it must have been there for decades, perhaps part of the original friary. The original waste system was just as old, as was often the way with these period houses, and the entire lower portion of the tank was hewn directly into living rock, with heavy limestone blocks stacked above it, creating large walls over which giant crosspieces were laid.
Between the layers of limestone were delicate frets of a soot-like substance, as if the whole thing had been constructed with burned or burning wood between the stones: plenty of dark little corners in which Reilly hoped trace evidence might lurk.
They’d be draining the tank once the body was removed, but until then ...
Catching a whiff of methane that almost made her dizzy, yet again Reilly bemoaned her delicate nose. Normally when working a scene all her senses were hyperaware, but this time she was definitely going to have to do without her trusty nose.
Taking one last gasp of fresh air, she slipped on a gas mask to shield her from the toxic fumes, and kneeled down properly on the damp grass. If she felt the cold wet ground through the knees of her contamination suit as she tried to look past the purple-splotched face of the body, she barely registered it. Her focus was now entirely on collecting evidence, finding clues as to how this had happened, and who might be responsible.
Not for the first time, Reilly wondered how in the world she had ended up here – on this occasion hovering over an open sewer with only a putrifying corpse for company – instead of spending her days sitting at a desk and exchanging pleasantries and coffee with colleagues, like most normal people.
Faced with a situation like this – with such a disgusting horrific mess – wouldn’t most sane people throw up and run away screaming? That fact that she could face it all with such equanimity made her wonder what kind of person that made her. As bad as the killer if this was just another part of the day job? Or as bad as ...? A thought surfaced unbidden and, attempting to banish the notion from her mind, she flicked on her torch, and began carefully examining the rim of the manhole opening. It was wet, rusting and crusted with a thick layer of dried scum.