Chapter 2 Kobe #3
Dominique rose to his feet, his attention diverting to the body as he cleared his throat. “Detective Haven, is it?”
“You remembered.”
“I’m good with names and faces. We worked the Erlander case together.”
“We did.”
“Did you solve it?”
“Yep. Within a week. I’m just that good.” I regretted the flex the instant it left my mouth.
Dominique nodded, and a thick silence grew between us.
Did I imagine the extended perusal? Was he surprised to see me?
Pleased to see me? I wanted to fill the void, but scrambled, unsure what to say.
How are you getting on? Do you like the city?
Are you settled in? Why Ottawa? Where are you from? Would you like to go for a drink?
A crime scene was not the time to get personal, and I was too much of a stumbling idiot to make a proper advance anyhow.
Rejection was a hard pill to swallow, which was why I tended to avoid putting myself in situations where it might happen.
Besides, I really needed to get a feel for the guy before I made a fool of myself.
One lingering perusal was not a definitive answer.
I focused on the dead man instead, ejecting all thoughts of sharing private time with the handsome doctor.
The wind blew, bringing with it an out-of-place scent that gave me pause and redirected my attention to the case. Was that coconut? Something tropical? Floral? I couldn’t quite discern its properties, so I sniffed again, but the breeze had taken it away.
Rue circled the bench, examining the victim from a different vantage. “Are you thinking strangulation, Doc?” She pointed to the man’s face. “There’s hemorrhaging around the eyes.”
“Petechiae. Yes. It’s also present on the conjunctiva. Considering the injuries to his neck, it is a theory. I can’t say definitively until he’s on my table.”
“Is that a flower spike?” Rue indicated the rose.
“It appears so.” Dominique moved toward his tote of instruments.
“Does it go through the heart?” my partner asked.
“I assume, but until he’s on the table—”
“You can’t tell me for certain. Gotcha. Pre or post?” my partner asked.
“Post.” I spoke before Dominique had a chance to answer. “There isn’t a lot of blood on that white shirt, which means the heart had already stopped pumping when he was stabbed.”
Rue skewered me with a challenging look. “Or the spike could have acted like a stopper, preventing it from bleeding profusely.”
We both looked at Dominique, who held up his hands, warding us off. “I’ll know conclusively once he’s on the table.”
Rue moved closer to the victim and angled her head as she studied the flapping piece of cardstock attached to the ribbon.
The scent hit me again, then faded. Frowning, I glanced around, certain one of the nearby CSIs must have been wearing perfume.
When I couldn’t ascertain its point of origin, I turned to the pathologist. “Do we have an approximate time of death?”
Dominique’s gaze never moved from the victim. “He’s close to full rigor, and although the cold day has dropped his body temperature significantly faster than usual, I’d say roughly between five and seven this morning, but I’ll have a better idea once he’s—”
“On your table. Got it.”
Dominique raised a brow as he glanced sidelong in my direction. “Yes.”
I smiled flirtatiously. “Every pathologist I’ve ever known falls back on that response.”
“Well,” Dominique wet his lips and ducked his chin, “every detective I’ve worked with over the years tends to demand answers before I get my hands dirty.”
“We’re assholes like that. No patience to speak of. Gotta put us in our place.”
Before Dominique could respond—if he was going to respond at all—Rue interrupted. “Haven. Look at this.”
With gloved fingers, my partner held the edge of the cardstock, her brows knit.
I joined her, bending to read the inked scrawl, and was hit with a punch of tropical perfume. I jolted back and glanced at my partner. “Is that you?”
“What?”
“The smell. Can’t you smell that? Are you wearing perfume?”
“No. It’s the rose.”
“Roses don’t smell like coconut.”
“It’s been sprayed,” Dominique said. “The chemical components were quite strong when I arrived. They’ve lessened significantly over the last hour.”
Sprayed? I leaned over the dead man and tentatively inhaled. He was right. The vibrant scent was coming from the rose. Not a natural, floral odor, but artificial. Tropical perfume of some sort.
“Read the tag,” Rue said, redirecting my attention.
I leaned in again as she angled the cardstock in my direction. A heartless bastard.
Handwritten cursive. Straightening, I propped my hands on my hips. “A heartless bastard? What do you think it means?”
“That he pissed someone off? I don’t know.” Rue scanned the crime scene. “What do you make of this?”
I took in the details within the cordoned off area—the fallen cellphone, the earbuds, the running gear, the tracks in the dirt—and tried hard to ignore the handsome pathologist, who spoke to the photographer and glanced surreptitiously in my direction.
And yes, he was watching me. I was not imagining it.
“Premeditated. Male suspect. Over thirty-five. Our victim heads out for a routine morning jog. The perp lies in wait, familiar with his route because he’s been watching him for a while.
This trail is likely not populated that early in the day at this time of year.
Not many walkers when it’s freezing. Heck, the river isn’t suitable for skating yet, either. ”
“Hence why he wasn’t discovered until this afternoon,” Rue added.
“Exactly.” Gesturing to the fallen earbuds, I continued. “The man’s hearing was compromised by music or whatever he was listening to, so he didn’t hear the perp come up behind him.”
I pointed to the half-inch-wide banded mark circling the man’s throat. “This wasn’t done manually. He’s been garroted with a rope or a scarf.” I indicated multiple abrasions on the neck. “He fought back.” I circled the bench and scanned the ground.
Locating the various markers along the path, I moved toward them and stopped, getting a feel for their pattern.
“Over here. Our guy was stopped in his tracks and stumbled backward. One, two, three steps.” I gestured to the ground.
“He’s surprised but instantly tries to defend himself, clawing and scratching at the obstruction around his neck.
You can see heel marks where he kicked and flailed.
Those are Nike prints. He was off balance, stumbling.
Our perp needed to keep tension on the rope.
They were strong. The treads of the second person are more defined.
See here? He’s solid on his feet. Steady. In control.”
“Why he?” Rue asked.
I paused, staring at the ground, then to the bench and the dead man. “Despite his age, our victim is fit. I’d guess he’s between five eleven and six one. A solid hundred and eighty or a hundred and ninety pounds. Probably has some muscle under those joggers.”
“You don’t think a woman could take him down?” I didn’t miss Rue’s challenging tone.
“I’m not saying that. Many could, but we can’t ignore facts.
Most women are smaller than our victim. He has a weight and height advantage over a majority of the female population.
She would have to be extremely fit and agile to pull this off.
The element of surprise would only take her so far.
Plus, if he went down over here, she would need the strength to move him to the bench and heave him up into a sitting position. ”
“Maybe she’s determined.”
“Could be. It’s not impossible. All I’m saying is, this man would not have been easy to subdue.
Another thing to consider.” I motioned to the ground.
“These treads are from at least a size ten shoe. Men’s.
They are close to my size by the look of them.
I don’t know many women with feet that big, do you? ”
Rue remained silent.
I added one more detail to my argument. “The method fits a man. Strangulation isn’t typical for women.” Before she could argue, I held up my hands. “I’m not saying women never strangle victims, but statistically, the odds are less favorable.”
I was not stupid, as much as my boss and partner sometimes liked to think. I went to university. I studied criminology. I knew my shit.
“Fair enough.” Rue scanned the scene. “So, our victim is out for a morning run. Our allegedly male perp garrotes the vic. There’s a struggle before our vic falls unconscious and dies about here.”
She tapped the ground with her shoe. “Our perp drags him to the bench, heaves him into a sitting position, impales him with a flower spike through the heart, labels him a heartless bastard, and leaves him for us to find.”
I stared at the dead man, noting his upturned palms and curled fingers resting on his thighs. Meditative. Contemplative. Why?
“It’s a theory.” The scenario played out inside my head. Every step carefully planned. A heartless bastard.
Rue, as though reading my mind, said, “The message reads as feminine. Do you know what I mean? Someone who’s been hurt or jaded by a cheating husband. An affair gone wrong.”
“Perhaps. Why not a male lover?”
“I suppose.”
The heat of someone’s acute focus warmed my cheek.
I shifted my gaze from the victim to find Dominique staring pensively in my direction.
Again. His rapt attention licked tingling heat up my spine, sending shivers over my scalp.
Perhaps I was imagining it, but his focus felt tangible, like an explorative touch over sensitive skin.
“What do you think, Doc?” I asked.
Dominique rubbed his lips together as his calculated gaze flicked over the scene once, twice, and returned to me. “I think you’re incredibly observant, Detective Haven.” A barely perceptible smile hooked one side of his mouth, and my heart did a two-step.