A Blade Away Read online

  Beyond the clothing and choice of noose material, there was still something wrong with the picture. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something just wasn’t right. It wasn’t the way the man was dressed. In the circles I hang with, that type of thing was pedestrian. It was more in the way he was hung. The obvious assumption was suicide, but the way the man was strung up made me think that someone else had a hand in his death.

  “Skip, give me a hand here,” I said as I picked up a chair and set it to the side of the hanging man.

  “What are you doing?” Skip stood his ground.

  “Testing a theory, now get over here.” I spoke with a little too much bile in my throat—a combination of the smell and the choking anger the chief had left behind.

  Skip strolled over as he spoke. His hands were like flippers waving in the air. “I was only asking what was going on in your little detective mind.”

  I had obviously hurt his feelings. “I’m sorry. It’s just that there’s something wrong here.”

  “You mean, other than the fact that the dangling cross-dresser was wearing red pumps with black hose?” He laughed at his own joke, again. I didn’t.

  “It’s the way he was hung. I mean this guy is big. There’s nothing underneath him to indicate a typical hanging. No chair, no stool, nothing. And I am supposed to believe that he just hauled himself up by his hose, tied the hose to a ceiling beam, and waited for the grim reaper to finish his makeup? Uh-uh, I’m not buyin’ it. Something else happened here, something that we can’t see.”

  Skip stood on the other side of the body. The look on his face was pure concern. “Jamie, you heard what the chief said—he’s calling this suicide. You go against him, and your ass will start dreaming of its virginity again. Oh wait, your ass never let go of its virginity.” Some things will never change.

  “Well, the chief is wrong,” I insisted.

  “And you intend to prove it.” Skip knew me all too well.

  I looked over at Skip. “What’s your point?”

  “The last time someone stood against that man, they were burned at the stake. I don’t want to see the only partner I’ve ever trusted, let alone a dear friend, go up in smoke. Please, use your head, Jamie.” Skip was sincere again. Damn him and his sincerity.

  “I can’t turn my back on this. The chief came in here, took a quick look around, and proclaimed this a suicide. There’s no way this man hung himself. You know it, and I know it. And if it’s so obvious, why would the chief just toss it off as suicide? Normally, I may not be as bold about this but…well, it might involve something very close to both of us.”

  Skip looked shocked. “Impeccable taste and a sensitive touch?” So much for sincerity.

  “No, beast. The man was a cross-dresser. Ergo…” I drew out the last statement, hoping my partner could pick up on the obvious. We stood there for a moment, the dead cross-dresser between us, as Skip thought it over. When it finally registered, his eyes grew as wide as half dollars.

  “You’re saying he could be family?”

  “Well, if not directly related, he could be distant.” I actually doubted this theory but knew that it would at least win Skip over. “A lot of my friends are gay, and I don’t much care for seeing one of them dead. I don’t like taking the chance that I’ll come in a place like this and see a familiar face hanging from the rafters. Now, could you help me for a minute?”

  “Of course, Jame.” Skip was serious now. He only called me “Jame” when he meant business. “What do you need me to do?”

  “First of all, hold this chair steady while I climb up on it. I need to reach the beam he’s tied to. And no peeking up my skirt.”

  “Bitch, you’re not wearing a skirt.” Skip whispered under his breath.

  “I heard that.” I nearly laughed.

  Skip questioned me on my theory. I had to know how difficult it would be to hoist someone up to that height. It was pretty easy to reach the beam, but that didn’t really prove a hell of a lot. In fact, the only thing it did prove was that it wouldn’t have been too difficult for someone of average height and strength to pull off this lynching. The dead man started swinging. “Skip, you mind not teasing the dead?”

  “Sorry, my fat ass hit his pumps, and damn what fine pumps they are. Those things musta set him back at least two fifty, maybe three hundred bucks.” The shoes were pretty immaculate. In fact, the entire get-up was stunning. Except…

  “Skip, take a look at this.”

  “What hon?” He knew it burned me up when he called me that. It made me think he was my grandma or something.

  “Look at these earrings.” I said.

  “What about ‘em?”

  The earrings were out of place. Of the entire outfit, there wasn’t a single item that wouldn’t set the average person back a paycheck or two. Except for one thing—the earrings. Everything on the man looked handpicked by someone with absolutely refined taste. Whoever threw the dead man’s outfit together obviously knew exactly what to wear and how to wear it. But the earrings were way out of place. It was almost as if they were an afterthought. No one who cared about going to such lengths to match their shoes and purse, and their lipstick and nail polish, would put on earrings that went with absolutely nothing and cost the same.

  “And this means…..?” Skip obviously couldn’t hear my train of thought.

  “That someone with a keen sense of fashion killed him and then dressed him. But the killer didn’t get a complete picture and wound up with the wrong earrings. Either that, or someone without such knowledge killed him and just got lucky with some of the details. Or maybe he was killed after he had already dressed himself; he forgot the earrings and the killer added them as an afterthought.” I was staggering myself with the possibilities.

  Skip was silent for a moment. “But why does that lead you to believe he didn’t do it all himself?” It was a fair question.

  “A cross-dresser with taste like this would not leave a single detail undone, particularly if he was going to off himself after getting all dolled-up. No, he’d want it perfect. And I bet his closet will prove my theory.” Skip quickly moved to the closet, pulled the door open, and revealed a wardrobe that would put the entire Versace family to shame.

  “Holy mother of gay…” Skip stood gawking. It was almost an uncomfortable moment as I wondered just what was going on his mind.

  “Skip, step away from the closet.” I didn’t think he’d move. “Skip…step…away…from…the…closet.” He was entranced like a debutante about to choose her coming-out gown. “Skip!” My voiced echoed off the walls of the little apartment. Skip was frightened back into reality. He turned quickly, as if to admit to some guilt or other.

  “I wasn’t thinking what you think I was thinking. I wasn’t.” His voice was choppy. He was thinking exactly what I thought he was thinking. It didn’t matter.

  “Call in the coroner. Tell him I want a complete autopsy done on this man. I want to know exactly when, and how, he died.” Sure, it seemed obvious, but I didn’t want to miss a thing. If I was going up against the chief, I wanted to go in dressed to the nines.

  “Jamie, you’re forgetting one thing. The chief is not going to let you request an autopsy on this case. Remember, he called the case a suicide, and he meant business. Do you really want to risk your promotion when you’re this close?”

  “And you’re forgetting one thing – you slept with the coroner, who happens to be very much in the closet. So pull some strings, get me an autopsy, and let me worry about how the chief will react.” My heart took a nosedive into my stomach just thinking of missing out on the promotion to Homicide. But my job was to protect and serve every citizen of this city, no matter how lost or forgotten.

  “You’re a bad seed, Jamie! A bad seed,” Skip hissed at me, but he pulled out his cell and dialed up the C, as he liked to call him. I decided I’d take a last look around the apartment for clues. There had to be something. If this man was murdered, it couldn’t have been random.
There had to be a reason.

  In one corner a computer sat on a cluttered desk. There was a gentle humming coming from underneath the desk, so it must have been on. I so desperately wanted to check on its contents, but I knew the forensics team would want to dust the place down, and a mouse is always a key location for prints. There were a lot of computer books around the desk. Most of them were about the Linux operating system. Yeah, I’m a closet geek. This put him ahead of the pack with most computer geeks. There were also some books on Web design. The guy probably had a website or an on-line journal out there that chronicled his life. “My life as a cross-dresser!” I could see it now. Slinky pictures of him lounging around in black silk evening gowns. He would have used the site to vent, to let the world know of the woman that lay dormant inside the masculine skin. Why is everyone and everything so damned dramatic?

  Skip was still chatting with the C. Was he flirting? The whore! I pulled out my own cell and gave the head of forensics a buzz. Saul was one of those old-school gents who believed that chivalry would never die. As a woman, it was pretty easy for me to wring favors out of him, even without rank. The phone rang about six times before Saul’s throaty voice answered.

  “Saul, it’s Jamie. Yeah sweetheart, I’m doing well, and yourself? Look, I have a big favor to ask. There’s a new case that’s going to filter down to you guys. The chief has already called it a suicide, but there’s no way. The victim is a thirty- to forty-year-old male cross-dresser.” I paused for Saul’s all-too-obvious reaction of silent thought. “There’s a computer at the crime scene. The guy was into Linux, which means your techies will be all over the computer. I want his mouse and keyboard dusted first thing, and then I want to have a look at what’s on his hard drive. Can you do that for me?” Saul was not only a sucker for a strong woman, but for an interesting case, as well. Saul was the only man to ever break nearly every code of conduct and remain on the force. It didn’t hurt that he had been on the job longer than anyone, and that there were certain key systems that only he knew how to operate. Job security, he called it.

  Saul agreed to my request. “Great! I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Skip was still giving the C lip treatment. He had taken a seat and was flapping his crossed leg up and down. This only meant one thing—Skip was trolling for a date. Whatever. So long as he got me the autopsy, I didn’t care if he married him, or had his children.

  I took a look around the desk again. Trapped underneath one of the books was a wallet. I pulled out an examination glove and pulled it on. The rubber snapped loudly; I gave it an extra snap for Skip’s pleasure—he did so love the little things in life. He looked over and winked. I carefully lifted the book and pulled out the wallet. The open wallet revealed the personal information we should have had when we first arrived. The victim’s name was Walter Jameson. The address on the license didn’t match the address of the apartment. This meant either a separation or a secret hideaway for a closeted queen. There were pictures of children, a girl and a boy, a picture of a woman, probably his wife, a family picture, and finally a picture of the victim dressed en femme, with his arm around another man, who was also dressed as a woman. An affair? That would give a possible motive. Wife finds out her husband is having an affair with another cross-dresser and decides to have the husband killed. It was cut and dried. I would have to take the picture of the two men down to the lab and have them run a photo analysis on the second man to get a possible ID. This other person would have to be questioned.

  “I’ll give you one guess what I managed to swing.” Skip’s voice was flying my way. He had either gotten lucky with the coroner or been hung up on. My guess was the former—Skip always seemed to get his way.

  “Let me see—dinner and a movie? No, that wouldn’t be your speed. A drink and sex with our good county coroner?” I smiled a dry-heave kind of smile, like my words were going to enjoy a vomit chaser.

  “No, beast. I got you your damned autopsy. Why do you always have to assume…?”

  “Is that all you managed?” I raised my eyebrows.

  “Well…no. I’m meeting him for dinner tomorrow, after which, we are going to creep out to the Iroquois overlook and—”

  “Say no more, Cher.” I got the picture, and it was one that would probably never leave my head.

  “I love you, too,” Skip replied sarcastically. “The body is to be brought down from its…current …well…position and brought to the morgue. He should have the results tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You mean Dracula is working tonight?” I prodded.

  “Oh, you’re impossible sometimes.” Skip winked. “But I love ya, anyway. Now, how are we going to get this big-ass queen down? Too bad she’s dead, or we could ask her to just flit her lil’ wings and—”

  “Now who’s impossible?” My sternest look was shot at Skip. It did no good.

  “I’m just being realistic.” I gave Skip a the truth hurts shrug.

  Skip slowly shut his eyes and turned his head in defiance. His pout was in overdrive. “What do we do with the Queen of the Dead there?”

  As if on cue, the coroner’s assistants arrived. They were lovingly called Igor and Renfield because of their odd infatuation with their job. Their obvious creep factor made them rather difficult to work with.

  Igor and Renfield scurried around the scene like rats in a dump. It was their ritual. Everyone had their own rituals. Sometimes, the ritual was the only thing that got you through an investigation, especially when death was involved. The two assistants sniffed, poked, and nosed their way around, each whispering into their respective tape recorders. Finally, they met at the body and took their pictures and notes. Igor turned to me. “Would you mind getting the body down for us?”

  “But that’s not procedure,” I protested.

  “Well, you see, I’m afraid of heights, and Renfield dislocated his shoulder last night playing racquetball. So, we’re at a bit of a disadvantage.” His dirty smile played across his yellowed teeth.

  I started to protest again, but then I decided that it wouldn’t do a bit of good.

  “Oh, and make sure you don’t spoil the state of the body. The autopsy and all…” Igor smiled his nastiest smile. News sure travels fast here.

  Because the body had been dead for an indeterminate amount of time, it was critical to keep from damaging either the outer or inner structures. There was only one way to ensure that the body would come down without snapping any more bones than necessary. Skip and I would have to strap the body to a backboard.

  “Get the board and the straps, and I’ll clear the floor,” I instructed Skip, who knew I was about as thrilled with the event as he.

  “I don’t want to do this. The last time I did this, I got oozed on. I hate doing this. I don’t want to do this.” Skip was flushing. He had a weak tummy.

  “Look, Mary, you’re going to help me, or I swear every family member you have in this town will know about your little secret!” That would shut him up for sure.

  “You wouldn’t!” Skip thought for a moment. “You would. I hate you.” I knew he didn’t. “Tell ya what—why don’t I go get the board?” Skip turned to leave, and I heard “bitch” under his breath.

  “Beast.” Skip started laughing as he hit the door.

  Igor and Renfield were listening and getting some sort of sick and perverse pleasure from the exchange. Christ, they were creepy.

  The body. It had almost become absurd how we had ignored the body. But there he was, hanging by the ceiling in what most would see as abject mockery of what the human male could or should be. It was funny how easy it was to take certain things for granted at given times. Like the old adage “boys will be boys.” Whoever coined that phrase must have never known how fallible that statement actually was.

  Regardless of how anyone felt about the hanging man, he had to come down. My guess was that he weighed nearly two hundred pounds, and the closest thing to a ladder I could find were the chairs we had placed on either side of the hanging man’s legs. They
would have to do. We would tie the body to the board, cut the hose, get the body down, and wait for the coroner to arrive. The coroner would be our relief on this night. I couldn’t wait to get home and soak my dogs in a hot bubble bath. Of course, I knew that my mind wouldn’t let go of this case, thinking of the many different plots and twists that could have led to the man’s death. They would unravel soon enough; that is, unless the chief decided to pull his infinite rank and wisdom, and call this a suicide, like he had threatened. I didn’t buy it, though. There was no way this was a suicide, unless it was an assisted suicide, and even that seemed unlikely.

  Skip arrived with the board, and we managed to clumsily pull the body down without undue damage or oozing. Shortly after the coroner arrived (and I managed to pull Skip away from some serious covert flirting), we left the scene and headed back to the precinct. There was some serious chatting to do—specifically regarding how to get around the chief. Skip knew I wouldn’t leave this one alone, so he was dead set on making sure my back was covered.

  Back at the station, it was pretty much business as usual…except for the unusual snickering and staring. Of course, I assumed that everyone had heard about the most recent case and my lashing out at the chief. I felt like a leper, but then, I typically felt that way in this man’s army.

  Fortunately, the rest of the day was uneventful. Skip and I agreed on a little therapy shopping and dinner so we could unwind and let go of the day. It was just another of our little routines.

  THREE

  For a policeman of the great city of Louisville, Kentucky, mornings are not the most glamorous. Remember those scenes in Barney Miller with all the fat, greasy detectives hanging around the coffee pot eating stale-looking doughnuts and smoking pack after pack of cheap cigarettes? That’s our station. One would think that in this day and age, smoking inside a public building would have been outlawed. Well, it was, but being the providers of the law itself, many officers didn’t think the law necessarily applied to them. Therefore, non-smoking officers avoided the coffee talk and cigarette breaks and opted for the privacy of their own offices. I was usually part of the own office crowd.