Chapter 20
I pulled into the parking lot of Newman’s Fine Furniture and spotted four of our Midwest patrol cars parked in the fire lane in front of the big stand-alone building.
I pulled my unmarked Explorer into a parking spot in the mostly empty lot.
How a store as large as Newman’s—or really, any of the other half dozen giant furniture stores within walking distance—stayed in business was always a mystery to me.
The profit margins had to be enormous, because I never saw cars in the parking lots of any of them.
I left the car and walked toward the store’s main entrance. Amy and I had been in the store about two years before when we were looking for a new bedroom set. We’d ended up going with something from one of the stores across the street.
I reached the front doors, and while they appeared to be automatic, they didn’t open.
I cupped my hands around my face for a look inside but saw nobody.
The hours on the sign indicated that the store should have been open, yet I imagined they’d opted to keep the doors locked due to whatever had happened.
I banged on the glass, but nobody came. Before I started dialing the numbers that I had for the guys from Midwest, I figured I would do a lap around the building to see if I could find anyone.
Leaving the front of the store, I walked around the right-hand side then to the back.
Behind the building, an alley ran down to a loading dock with a pair of overhead doors.
To the right of the alley was a thick tree line behind a chain-link fence separating the furniture store from some other big commercial building.
Just shy of the loading dock sat a pair of patrol cars, and a couple of uniformed officers were walking about. I started in that direction.
As I approached, more officers grouped near the far side of a dumpster about thirty feet in front of the loading dock. I also saw Donaghy’s unmistakable red hair.
“Harrington,” Donaghy said. “Over here.”
He waved me toward the group at the dumpster, but the dumpster itself blocked my view of what they were looking at.
As I walked up to the guys from Midwest, I fired off a quick text to Colt saying that the crime scene was behind the building.
When I reached Donaghy, I also got an immediate view of why we’d been called out.
“What the hell is this?” I asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Donaghy said. “But I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s not your average homicide.”
I stared down at the body of a man, judging by the boots, jeans, and what I could see of the person’s shirt and hands.
The body had been placed in a seated position with the man’s back against the side of the dumpster and his legs outstretched.
A black contractor bag had been pulled over the man’s head, shoulders, and midsection.
Only a few inches of his forearms and hands were visible, and there appeared to be a tear around the bottom of the head area, exposing a dried-blood-covered chin.
Duct tape had been used to secure the bag tightly around the body.
Worse than whatever was going on with the top half of the remains being wrapped in a bag was the fact that an envelope taped to the bag read “Police.” The single word was spelled with individual letters clipped from some magazine or publication.
“I need to call Halloway before we do anything.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed the captain.
“Yeah,” he answered.
I stepped away from Donaghy and the officers.
“We’ve got a body here, half wrapped in a garbage bag. There’s an envelope attached to the body. It’s addressed to the police.”
The captain paused. “I’ll be right there. Don’t touch anything. Don’t open the letter. Some nut might have put anthrax or some crap in it.”
“Yeah,” I said.
The line went dead. I rejoined Donaghy and his guys, dropping my phone into my pocket as I did. “Halloway is on his way. Nobody has touched the body or envelope, have they?”
“None of us, I think.” Donaghy looked at the other three officers, who were standing beside us. “Any of you guys touch anything?”
He received nos all around.
“Who ripped the bag by the face?” I asked. “Or was that how this was found?”
“Andrews was the first on scene. Let me see.” Donaghy stepped out from behind the dumpster. “Andrews!” He waved someone toward us.
An average-sized officer who looked about thirty lifted the sunglasses from his eyes as he joined us. “What’s up?”
“Is this guy as we found him?” Donaghy asked. “With the bag ripped around his face?”
“As found,” Andrews said. “I didn’t touch him.”
“Who called this in?” I asked.
“An employee inside. He said that he was tossing something in the dumpster and saw this guy’s feet. Came around the corner here and saw this. Called 911 right away.”
“All right. Do we have video back here?” I asked.
I glanced at Donaghy, who was shaking his head.
“No video back here?” I asked again, not quite believing that in the current day and age, a big-box national retail chain wouldn’t have cameras behind their building.
“There was a camera back here, but it has been offline for a couple weeks or something, the manager said. They had a request in with their corporate office to have it fixed.”
“Convenient,” I said. “What about any other cameras?”
“They have cameras inside and in the front of the store, plus the parking lot,” Donaghy said. “We haven’t gone through any footage yet, though.”
“Okay. Where is the guy who called it in?” I asked.
Donaghy pointed toward the building. “Inside. I think he’s giving a statement. I didn’t catch the guy’s name.”
“All right. I need to talk to him and then a manager or whoever has access to the cameras.”
“I’ll take you in,” Donaghy said.
“Nobody touch this,” I told the two officers who were still nearby.
“I’ll make sure,” Officer Andrews said.
Donaghy walked me into the back of the furniture store, which was basically a giant warehouse.
Commercial metal-shelving units ran from floor to ceiling, each holding countless giant boxes of furniture.
Pallets of more furniture in boxes, covered in cling wrap, appeared to have just been delivered.
A couple of offices sat off to our right, and I could see a pair of officers inside of one of them.
“Kincaid!” Donaghy called.
Jeff Kincaid, inside of the office, looked out at us. Kincaid had been with Midwest for close to ten years. In his later forties, he had graying hair and a wide build. I didn’t recognize the other officer in there with him.
With a wag of Donaghy’s finger, Kincaid left the office and walked toward Donaghy and me.
“That’s the guy who called this in, correct?” Donaghy asked.
“Yeah, Evan something,” Kincaid said. “Harrington, how are you doing?”
I shook Kincaid’s hand. “I’m still kicking. How about you?”
“I’m a new grandpa. Our daughter just had a baby boy,” he said.
“Ah. Congrats.”
“Pretty excited, yeah,” he said. “Did you guys need something? Or just want to know if that was who called it in?”
“Both,” Donaghy said. “Where did that manager go?”
“I think he went with Officer Rey to get a look at what they have on video. Did you need me to go hunt him down?” Kincaid asked.
Donaghy looked at me to field the question.
“Let’s just find out where that’s taking place,” I said. “I’m going to go have a quick chat with this guy, and then I’ll be wanting to have a look at whatever video they have.”
Officer Kincaid confirmed.
I stepped toward the office and put eyes on the guy seated inside with the remaining officer. “You said that this guy’s name was Evan?”
“Yeah,” Kincaid said. “He’s a little different.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Either he’s in shock or is just kind of socially awkward. I don’t know. I’m sure you’ll pick up on it quick.”
I gave him a nod. Being in shock after finding a body wasn’t really anything out of the ordinary.
Donaghy joined me as I walked to the office.
“This is Officer Wester in here with the guy,” Donaghy said. “He’s a transfer from up in Ocala. He’s been with us for a couple months now.”
“Got it,” I said, and we stepped into the room.
After a quick introduction to both the officer and the guy who was seated, Donaghy and Officer Wester gave me the room.
The 911 caller was Evan Coker. He looked about fifty and wore a maroon polo shirt with the store’s logo embroidered on the left chest, and a name badge right below it said he was a “trainee.” The man’s eyes had locked on me since I’d entered the office.
“Probably weren’t expecting this when you took the job here, eh?”
“Huh?” he asked.
“It says ‘trainee’ beneath your name.” I pointed.
He looked down at his name badge then looked up at me without any expression whatsoever on his face. “Oh yeah. No, I wasn’t expecting this.”
The words sounded weird in my ears, and in just the couple of seconds of being in the room with him, I caught what Kincaid was talking about. I grabbed a chair across from the guy and pulled out my notepad from my jacket.
“Can I get your full name, address, and phone number?” I asked.
He gave it to me.
“Got it,” I said. “Can you take me through this quick?”
“Um, sure. Did you still want me to write down what happened?” he asked.
“Yeah, but after we’re done talking,” I said.
“Okay.” He gently set down the pen he’d been writing with. Then, he immediately adjusted the pen so it sat square with the edge of the piece of paper.