Shallow Grave Read online

  “Are you ready?” Gorman asked Sinclair.

  “See you back at the ranch.” Jankowski waved as he ambled out the door.

  Sinclair and Braddock followed Gorman to a table at the far end of the room. A white sheet covered what Sinclair knew was Phil’s body. Gorman glanced at a form on a clipboard and handed it to Sinclair. Sinclair copied the coroner’s case number into his notes along with the other identifying information from the form: Roberts, Phillip, male, African American, 48, 6′0″, 190 lbs. Phil had told Sinclair years ago that when he first came to homicide, he weighed 170, the same as Sinclair. The long, irregular hours cut into his gym time, and he put on twenty pounds in the first two years. Phil warned the same would happen to Sinclair, but Sinclair failed to follow the lead of his senior partner’s donut breakfast and fast-food lunch diet. That had been seven years ago.

  Sinclair had never seen a body covered with a sheet at the coroner’s office before but was relieved they’d done so, whether it was out of respect for a police officer or so the other employees who also knew Phil wouldn’t have to see him in that condition. Gorman pulled the sheet down to the neck. They had already made the incision along the top and back of his head to remove the skullcap and examine the brain, but everything had been put back in place. Phil’s smooth mocha-colored skin had taken on a grayish pallor. Gorman gently turned his head to the side.

  “In the back of his head is the hole that we all noticed at the scene,” Gorman said. “It is, in fact, a bullet entrance wound. Notice the extensive stippling around the wound, which would indicate the muzzle was very close, possibly only an inch or two away when the firearm was fired.”

  Gorman placed Phil’s head back on the block, facing upright. Sinclair saw another hole, larger and more ragged, on Phil’s forehead, about two inches above his right eye.

  “This is the exit.” Gorman grabbed the skin where it had been cut at the back of the head and peeled it over the skull, partially covering Phil’s face with the bloody inside of the scalp. “Look closely at the skull.”

  Sinclair leaned in closely while Braddock looked over his shoulder. “I don’t see anything,” Sinclair said.

  “Exactly,” Gorman said. “The bullet didn’t penetrate the skull. I traced the bullet’s path between the skull and the tissue and skin covering the head. There was no penetration. I examined the brain and noticed minimal trauma.”

  “I’ve heard of this happening to soldiers in Vietnam,” Sinclair said, “but never in a homicide case.”

  Gorman smiled. “It’s not as rare as you might imagine. The thing is, you and I don’t see it much because the victims don’t make it to us. I spoke to an associate who works at Highland ER. He’s seen this several times. This bullet hit the skull at an acute angle. If the skull didn’t have skin covering it, the bullet would’ve ricocheted off it. But it penetrated the skin, which provided enough resistance to prevent the bullet from exiting until the bullet’s trajectory, which was still mostly straight, carried the bullet to the front of the head. At that point, the energy of the projectile was greater than the resistance of the skin, so it punctured the skin and exited. Had it been at a slightly lesser angle, it may have never fully penetrated the skin, merely cutting the scalp, which would look a lot like a knife wound. A slightly greater angle and it would’ve penetrated the skull and entered the brain.”

  “But this didn’t kill him?” Braddock asked.

  “I think not,” Gorman said. “Don’t get me wrong, a firearm going off inches from someone’s head with the projectile striking the skull is no walk in the park. It would surely leave someone dazed and possibly unconscious, depending on the caliber and other factors. There could be some degree of traumatic brain injury.”

  Gorman lectured, enjoying the role of teacher. Had this been another case, Sinclair would’ve played along as Gorman slowly laid out his findings and led him to the cause of death. “How’d he die, Doc?”

  Gorman pulled Phil’s scalp back in place and handed Sinclair a large magnifying glass. “If you look in his eyes, you’ll note indications of petechial hemorrhage.”

  Tiny blood vessels in Phil’s eyes appeared to have burst, which was a classic indication of asphyxiation. Sinclair handed the magnifying glass to Braddock, who shook her head. With another victim, she would’ve looked at the body closer—however reluctantly—when suggested by Dr. Gorman. It took every bit of detachment Sinclair was capable of not to think of the body in front of him as Phil. He understood why Braddock wouldn’t even try to do the same.

  “When we unearthed the body from the grave, the plastic garbage bag was covering his face and upper torso. The torn area at the back of his head was probably done after the fact by animals. An unconscious man would be unable to free himself from the plastic bag.”

  “If someone wanted to kill a man and the first bullet only stunned him, why not just put another one in his head rather than suffocating him with a plastic bag?” Braddock asked.

  “Maybe they thought the shot killed him,” Sinclair suggested. “We know how head wounds bleed. He was probably unconscious, so they might’ve just bagged what they thought was a dead body and transported it for disposal.”

  Both Braddock and Gorman nodded their agreement.

  Gorman pulled the sheet off Phil’s body and went back to work. “I want to get a closer look at the lungs and neck area before I confirm a preliminary cause of death as asphyxiation, and of course, nothing will be final until we get the tox screen back in three to four weeks.”

  “Hey, Doc,” Sinclair said, “I know you don’t like to do this, but could you estimate the time of death?”

  “It’s inaccurate. It’s more of a guess than a scientific estimate.”

  Sinclair held Dr. Gorman’s gaze but said nothing.

  “Since I was at the scene and felt rigor and some body warmth still remaining, I’d say between six PM and midnight, plus or minus a few hours either way.”

  On their way out of the morgue, Sinclair and Braddock stopped at another examination table where all of Phil’s personal effects had been laid out. Sinclair fanned through his wallet, hoping to find a scrap of paper with a name or phone number, but the wallet contained nothing but his ID, cash, and credit cards. Sinclair never suspected robbery as the motive, but the only crooks that would bypass cash and a Rolex watch were those who already had more money than they knew what to do with or those who were in over their head and too distracted to grab it. The garbage bag was draped over the end of the table. Next to it were two cotton rags about fourteen inches square, which looked like the kind of dark-red shop rags that every mechanic used, except in a light-blue color. Both had stains that could have been either grease or blood.

  “Hey, Doc,” Sinclair said to Gorman, “where’d these rags come from?”

  “They were inside the garbage bag. The deputies deduced they might’ve been trash that was already in the bag when your subjects decided to repurpose it, or maybe the killers used them to wipe blood from their hands and then threw them in the bag along with the deceased.”

  Sinclair thanked Gorman and walked outside, where he and Braddock stripped off their protective clothing. The last remaining feelings of sadness that he’d been pushing down ever since he saw Phil’s ID at the scene suddenly changed. The possibility that some asshole would throw dirty rags into the bag with Phil’s body, treating both like trash, really pissed him off.

  Chapter 8

  On the drive back to the PAB, Sinclair called communications to send the first available tech to the coroner’s office to pick up the garbage bag and rags. While Braddock typed up the lab request forms, Sinclair started on a press release.

  News From the Oakland Police Department

  On June 3, at 1023 hours (10:23 AM), Oakland police officers were dispatched to a report of a citizen who discovered a human body partially buried in a shallow grave in a City of Oakland recreational camp on Skyline Blvd. Responding officers interviewed the citizen, who said he was riding a bi
cycle on park trails when he made the discovery. Preliminary investigation indicates the victim was shot at another location and transported to this scene. The victim’s name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin. Anyone with any information is urged to call Sergeants Sinclair or Braddock of the Oakland Homicide Unit at (510) 238-3821.

  Sinclair e-mailed the release to the twenty people on the distribution list and put a hardcopy on the lieutenant’s desk and another on the unit admin’s desk, while Braddock e-mailed the lab requests to the crime lab and printed out a copy.

  Normally, the criminalistics section admin accepted and logged hand-carried forms to insulate the criminalists from constant interruption by investigators begging for priority work, but when Sinclair and Braddock walked to the counter, a fingerprint examiner and a DNA technician came out of the back room and said they’d get right on it. Sinclair had heard that before, but on this case, he believed it.

  “Where to now?” Braddock asked, her finger poised over the elevator buttons.

  “To Intel.” Sinclair was hopeful. When he was new in homicide, Phil had taught him to document every step of an investigation. Phil was as diligent about this as any investigator he’d ever met. He couldn’t imagine Phil losing those habits when he left the unit. “We’re going through every inch of Phil’s office. He’s probably left notes or scraps of paper lying around on his desk or tucked into a drawer that might contain some clue about what he’s doing. If we have to, we’ll get the bolt cutters from property and cut the padlocks on his file cabinets.”

  They walked down the fourth-floor hallway, and Sinclair pressed the buzzer next to a metal door marked only with the room number. Sinclair looked up at the security camera and winked. A moment later, the door opened, and Fletcher appeared with his finger to his lips. He was back in his plainclothes attire: jeans, black T-shirt, and leather vest. With his shoulder-length hair, he looked like he’d fit in perfectly at a Hells Angels motorcycle rally. He leaned close and whispered, “IAD’s here.” His breath smelled of cigarettes.

  The other three officers were sitting at their workstations. Fletcher leaned against one of the file cabinets that lined a wall in the main room and pointed at the closed door that led to Phil’s office. Above him, a red light blinked in the motion detection sensor.

  Sinclair opened the door without knocking. A diminutive Filipino woman sat in front of Phil’s computer, and a pudgy white man sat at Phil’s desk, paging through a stack of file folders.

  “What the fuck are you doing in my murder victim’s office?” Sinclair said.

  Lieutenant Jules Farrington leaped up, knocking the wheeled desk chair in which he’d sat into a bookcase behind the desk. Farrington had been in Sinclair’s academy class and, as far as Sinclair was concerned, should’ve never graduated. He trailed the group on every run, scored the lowest in every pistol and shotgun qualification, and during defensive tactics, got his ass kicked by every other recruit in the class, including two female officers about half his size. He had reddish-blond hair and a complexion the same shade as the reams of printer paper his IAD section churned out daily. After he had spent his mandatory two years in uniform, Farrington bounced from internal affairs to inspector general and back several times, making sergeant and then lieutenant by acing the promotional exams and kissing the ass of everyone above him in the department. “Jeez, Matt, you startled me. You know profanity is a violation of the manual of rules.”

  “Well, shit, Jules, I’m entering an extension of a murder crime scene, only to find someone ransacking it.” Sinclair pointed at the dark-haired woman. “Who’s that?”

  “She’s with the city’s IT department.”

  “She’s hacking into my victim’s computer, destroying the integrity of what might be evidence.” Sinclair glanced at Braddock, who remained stone-faced. “I’ll ask again, what the hell are you doing here, Jules?”

  “I know we’re friends, Matt, but especially in the presence of others, you should address me as ‘lieutenant.’”

  Sinclair smiled, knowing it probably looked like a smirk. Farrington was a dweeb, but a dangerous one. He definitely wasn’t a friend, but Sinclair didn’t want to turn him into an enemy. Satisfied he’d put him on the defensive, Sinclair raised his eyebrows and waited for an answer.

  “I’m under orders from the chief to go through all files, paper and electronic, to safeguard any sensitive information that might be present. I’ve also been appointed as the acting commander of the intelligence unit until a new supervisor can be selected and transitioned in.”

  “It’s highly likely that Phil was murdered by someone connected with a case he was working,” Sinclair said. “I need to go through all of this before you muddy the waters.”

  “I’ll provide you any information I uncover that’s relevant to your investigation.”

  “How the fuck do you know what’s relevant?” Sinclair barked. He then lowered his voice a notch and continued, “At this stage, I don’t even know what might be relevant. That’s how murder investigations begin. But you wouldn’t know that because the only people you’ve ever investigated have been other cops.” Sinclair felt Braddock’s hand on his arm.

  “Sergeant, I’m going to ignore your insubordination and tone because I respect your accomplishments and know you’re under stress. However, I have my orders, and if you want them countermanded, you need to see Chief Brown. You shouldn’t even be in this office. Please step out so we can resume our work.”

  Sinclair took a step toward Farrington. Braddock tugged him back. Farrington reminded him of the Pillsbury Doughboy—soft and chubby. His tough talk was a joke. If he didn’t have rank on him, Sinclair would’ve knocked him on his ass. Sinclair turned his back and stepped into the doorway.

  “And Sergeant,” Farrington said, “the officers in the unit have been ordered not to talk about any active or past intelligence case without checking with me, so if you’d like to question them about anything, I’d like you to do so in my presence.”

  Once Farrington closed the office door, Sinclair faced it and raised his middle finger.

  *

  Lieutenant Maloney listened intently and jotted a few notes on a yellow pad as Sinclair briefed him on his interaction with Farrington. It took every bit of self-control—and Braddock’s calming presence and firm grip on his arm—to keep from busting back into Phil’s office and kicking Farrington’s ass. The asshole had to know what he was doing was wrong, but people like him never questioned an order from a superior. Sinclair felt himself calming down a notch by the time he finished.

  Maloney set his pen on his desk. “Despite what we all think about Farrington, he’s only obeying orders. You need to be careful around him. He has no qualms about initiating an IA complaint himself when he sees a violation of department rules and regulations.”

  “He’d look like more of a dick than he already is,” Sinclair said, “making a complaint against the investigator assigned to find a cop killer.”

  “Farrington was acting unnecessarily righteous,” Braddock said. “Cops on the street all know Matt’s the best one to handle the murder of a fellow officer.”

  “Yes, and that’s why Farrington probably won’t make a complaint,” Maloney said. “But let’s focus on the issue at hand. The chief is obviously concerned that something Phil was doing will get out. We need to assure him that our only concern is finding out who murdered Phil.”

  “I kept his little secret about Preston Yates—what more proof does he need?” Sinclair asked.

  City Councilmember Yates had become a suspect in the murder of Dawn Gustafson, the first victim in the so-called Thrill Kill Murders that occurred last December. Dawn was an escort who became Yates’s mistress and got pregnant with his baby. Sinclair had initially suspected that Yates killed her to protect his secret and to stop her from shaking him down for more financial support. When Sinclair discovered the motive for the murders had nothing to do with Yates, Chief Brown told him to drop that part of his
investigation. Although he personally thought the public should know the kind of man they elected, Sinclair agreed that playing politics was better suited to the chief and buried the details of Yates’s extracurricular activities.

  “You did,” Maloney said. “And I’ll bring that up when I see him. In the meantime, what other avenues can you pursue while we’re waiting for the chief to open up Phil’s case files?”

  Braddock leaned forward in her chair. “Fletcher said Phil might’ve been working with people at the DA’s office or some Feds on cases they weren’t privy to.”

  Maloney rubbed his temples. “Okay, but tread softly. I don’t want it to look like you’re going behind the chief’s back to find out what Phil was working.”

  “Which is what we would be doing,” Braddock said.

  “I’m good at playing dumb.” Sinclair smirked. “We’re merely looking into anything Phil was working that might have been reason to kill him. If we stumble into something the chief was trying to keep from us but happened to be the motive for the murder, should we ignore it? The chief would look pretty stupid if he told us to drop it.”

  “Keep me informed so I can run interference,” Maloney said. “Phil was my friend too.”

  “Has the chief notified his wife yet?” Sinclair asked. “We still need to talk to her.”

  “The chaplain called just before you came in. She handled the news as well as one could expect but said there was nothing in Phil’s personal life that could be a reason for someone to kill him. She’d like twenty-four hours before you contact her for an interview.”

  Sinclair got up from his chair. “I’ll start reaching out to my Fed contacts.”

  “And I’ll go upstairs and beg for an audience with the chief,” Maloney said, “and try not to get myself fired in the process.”