'And he came in with what appears to be a note in his pocket. What police investigator would allow that? What police department is working this, for that matter? There's no mention of one,' I said, next pointing out that the head was bagged with a garbage bag tied with a shoelace.
'What does the note say?' asked the detective, who wore a belted dark coat, cowboy boots, and a gold Rolex that I was certain was counterfeit.
'I haven't touched it,' I said. 'I thought it wise to wait until you got here.'
'I think we'd better look,' he said.
With gloved hands, I slid the envelope out of the pocket, touching as little of the paper as I could. I was startled to see my name and home address neatly written on the front of it in black fountain ink. The letter also was affixed with a stamp. Carrying it to the counter, I carefully slit it open with a scalpel and unfolded a single sheet of stationery that by now was chillingly familiar. The note read:
HO! HO! HO! CAIN
'Who's CAIN?' an officer asked as I untied the shoelace and removed the trash bag from the dead man's head.
'Oh shit,' the detective said, taking a step back.
'Holy Christ,' Marino exclaimed.
Sheriff Santa had been shot between the eyes, a nine-millimeter shell stuck in his left ear. The firing pin impression was distinctly Glock. I sat down in a chair and looked around. No one seemed quite sure what to do. This had never happened before. People didn't commit homicides and then deliver their victims to the morgue.
'The night-shift security guard is upstairs,' I said, trying to catch my breath.
'He was here when this was delivered?' Marino lit a cigarette, eyes darting.
'Apparently.'
'I'm gonna go talk to him,' said Marino, who was in command, for we were in his precinct. He looked at his officers. 'You guys poke around down here and out in the bay. See what you find. Put something out over the air without tipping off the media. Gault's been here. He may still be in the area.' He glanced at his watch, then looked at me. 'What's the guy's name upstairs?'
'Evans.'
'You know him?'
'Vaguely.'
'Come on,' he said.
'Is someone going to secure this room?' I looked at the detective and two uniformed men.
'I will,' one of them said. 'But you might not want to leave your gun sitting there.'
I returned my revolver to my purse, which I carried with me. Marino stabbed the cigarette in an ash can, and we boarded the elevator across the hall. The instant the doors shut his face turned red. He lost his captain's composure.
'I'm not believing this!' He looked at me, eyes filled with fury. 'This can't happen, it just can't happen!'
Doors opened and he angrily strode down the hall on the floor where I had spent so much of my life.
'He should be in the conference room,' I said.
We passed my office and I barely glanced inside. I did not have time now to see if Gault had been in there. All he had to do was get on the elevator or climb the stairs, and he could have walked into my office. At three o'clock in the morning, who was going to check?
Inside the conference room, Evans sat stiffly in a chair about halfway between the head and foot of the table. Around the room many photographs of former chiefs gazed at me as I sat across from this security guard who had just allowed my workplace to be turned into a crime scene. Evans was an older black man who needed his job.
Evans was an older black man who needed his job. He wore a khaki uniform with brown flaps over the pockets and carried a gun that I wondered if he knew how to use.
'Do you know what's going on?' Marino pulled out a chair and asked him.
'No, sir. I sure don't.' His eyes were scared.
'Someone made a delivery they wasn't supposed to make.' Marino got out his cigarettes again. 'It was while you was on.'
Evans frowned. He looked genuinely clueless. 'You mean a body?'
'Listen.' I stepped in. 'I know what the SOP is. We all do. You know about the suicide case. We just talked about it on the phone…'
Evans interrupted, 'Like I said, I let him in.'
'What time?' Marino asked.
He looked up at the ceiling. 'I guess it would've been around three in the morning. I was next door at the desk where I always sit and this hearse pulls up.'
'Pulls up where?' Marino asked.
'Behind the building.'
'If it was behind the building, how could you see it? The lobby where you sit's in front of the building,' Marino bluntly said.
'I didn't see it,' the guard went on. 'But this man walks up and I see him through the glass. I go out to ask what he wants, and he says he has a delivery.'
'What about paperwork?' I asked. 'He didn't show you anything?'
'He says the police hadn't finished their report and told him to go on. He says they'll bring it by later.'