Copyright ©1999 by David M. Scott
I was in my underwear when I heard the screams. I jumped back into my slacks, blouse and jacket, fumbling with the holster on my belt, and opened the door to my cubicle in the dressing room. A young woman with a sales attendant’s nametag on her blouse was trying to calm a plump, middle-aged customer, but the older woman kept whispering "She’s dead! She’s dead!" and pointing into the cubicle next to me.
The attendant’s eyes met mine. "Please go back into the cubicle. We have to call the police."
I held out the leather folder with my ID and the gold shield of the Volusia County Sheriff’s Department. "I’ll save you a quarter. Detective Sergeant Elena Villareal, Homicide Task Force. What’s happened?"
"Take a look," she suggested, pointing a shaking finger at the cubicle. I did. On the floor was a woman – little more than a girl, really, probably in her mid-twenties. Long, blonde hair and a petite, centerfold-quality figure, easy to notice since she only wore a bra and panties. She would have been beautiful if someone hadn’t tightened a belt around her neck. She was still warm to the touch, but I couldn’t get a pulse. Loosened the belt, no respiration. She was gone.
I turned my head as a store security guard came rushing up. "Sheriff’s Department," I said, showing the shield again. "Lock all doors to this store. Right now!" I added, wiping the doubtful look from his face. While he used his walkie-talkie, I dug the cell phone from my purse to call it in. "Tell your people on the door that nobody goes in or out without police ID." He nodded and took off at a trot. There goes my lunch hour, I thought.
I returned to the victim for a closer look. The belt had one of those military style buckles that cinches up on the free end. The girl’s broken fingernails and scratched neck around the buckle testified to her attempts to loosen it. There were carpet burns on her knees from the struggle as she’d gone down. If she’d made any noise, the Muzak from the ceiling speakers would have covered it. Her undies were an expensive brand sold right here in Wyatt’s Department Store. Her feet were bare; a pair of leather sandals sat under the chair.
Several outfits with store tags, one missing its belt, hung on one of the wall hooks. Another hook held a pair of jeans and a sleeveless knit top. Nothing in the jeans pockets. No purse. No ID. Oh, crap.
I stepped back out and closed the door behind me, then asked the clerk, "Do you know who she is?" She shook her head, no.
"Did you wait on her?" Another negative shake.
"Do you know who did?" No, again. I made sure the other cubicles were empty, and herded the clerk and the customer (now breathing better) back out into the store. A couple of uniformed deputies were just coming in the door, with an EMT crew behind them.
"What’s up, Sergeant Vee?" That was Collins; I’d worked with him before. His partner was one I’d seen around, but all I knew about him was his name, Dupree.
"Dead woman in the dressing room. Definitely homicide. I told the rent-a-cops to hold the doors, and the crime scene crew should be here any minute." I waved the EMTs toward the dressing room, warning them not to move her before the crime scene crew did their thing.
"What do you want us to do?"
I thought about it. "First, get everybody in the store right into central aisle here, and I mean everybody. If you have to go into the ladies’ room and drag somebody off the can, do it. Then, I need this whole place searched. Victim had no ID on her, so the perp must have taken her wallet or purse. Call in help if you need to."
Collins got hustling, and I went back to the sales counter. "Y’all got a PA system in here?"
"Yes, ma’am," the woman nodded. "Just dial six-star on the phone there." I did it, ignoring her protests as I climbed up to stand atop the counter.
"Your attention, please. This is the Sheriff’s Department, and we need your cooperation. A felony has been committed and it’s possible that the perpetrator is still in the building. That’s why the security staff has closed the doors. Now, I need everyone, employees as well as customers, to come to the center aisle and stay there while our deputies search the building." Noting the arrival of more uniforms, I continued, "You’re in no danger, as you can see from the armed peace officers. They’re here to protect you. We’re sorry for the delay, but the more cooperation we get the quicker it’ll be over. Thank you." I jumped back to the floor before the crowd could start asking questions.
I got a question anyway. "Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?" I turned to face the angry, middle-aged man in the $600 suit. His eyes widened at the sight of the badge clipped to my jacket pocket.
"My job," I said. "Who are you?"
"I’m James Macaulay Wyatt, and I own this store."
"Well, Mister Wyatt, one of your customers has just been murdered in the dressing room. If you’ll let us get on with our investigation, we’ll try to cause as little disruption as possible." It took a few more minutes and a few more platitudes to calm him down.
Finally, Collins snaked his way through the restless crowd of customers. In his rubber-gloved hands, he carried a small leather purse on a thin strap. "Found this stuffed in the pocket of a winter coat." He dumped the purse on the sales counter and together we took inventory. The usual keys, tissues, lipstick and so on told us nothing, but the wallet held $544 in cash, a couple of credit cards, a Florida driver’s license in the name of Kelli McCord, and one of those "In Case Of Emergency" cards. According to it, in case of emergency we were supposed to call Arthur Black at one of three numbers, home, office or cell phone.
I got answering machines at the home and office numbers, and left noncommittal messages, but the cell phone number got me a brisk "Black here!" I identified myself and told him that we needed him at the store, now. "What for?" he demanded. "I’m on my way to meet with a customer."
"Do you know a woman named Kelli McCord?"
"Yeah, she lives with me," he said. "What’s the matter? Did she get herself arrested? What for?"
I had to tell him. "Miss McCord is dead, Mister Black. I’m sorry."
There was a moment of silence, then he said, "Oh, God. I’ll be right there. Fifteen minutes, max." He disconnected.
I turned to find Deputy Dupree spreading a collection of small objects on the counter. "This is all the junk we found in the search, Sergeant. Amazing what you find in trash cans." It certainly was an odd assortment. Half a dozen pens, a toy action-figure of Lieutenant Worf from Star Trek, an old Lotto ticket with the name "Stavros" and a phone number scribbled on it, a store employee’s name tag, a bent fingernail file, one shoe – size five and a half, open-toed blue pump with a Cuban heel torn halfway off, a small bag of marijuana, a Zippo lighter with the crest of Michigan State University, a guitar pick, and a .25 caliber Lorcin automatic pistol, fully loaded and not recently fired, judging by the lack of gunpowder smell.
I considered the items. "The grass and the gun were probably dumped by people afraid they’d be searched. Fingerprint them both and run a serial number check on the pistol. Call in and have somebody trace the Stavros phone number, see who it is and if they have a record. Bag the rest of it for later, except for this." I pulled on a rubber glove from my purse, picked up the name tag and beckoned to the owner. "Mister Wyatt, whose is this?" I turned the tag so he could read "Wanda" across the front.
"That’s Wanda Bork’s," he said. "She’s on evenings, she won’t be here until four."
"Any idea why her name tag would be in a trash can?"
The sales lady, who’d followed Wyatt over, chipped in, "That was on my counter this morning, right next to my tag. We always leave them in that little box there." I followed her gesture, and saw a small box with a couple of tags in it.
I thanked them and handed the tag back to Dupree. "Have the crime scene crew take prints from this, stat, then get Collins over here."
Wyatt’s face was concerned. "You don’t think Wanda had anything to do with this, do you? She’s not even here!"
"Relax, Mister Wyatt. Thanks to that name tag, this may all be over in a few minutes." I turned as Collins and Dupree walked up. "Guys, I want you to organize all these customer into lines and take their names and addresses. While you’re doing that, there’s something I want you to look for." They looked mystified when I explained what we were seeking. "Think about it, guys. How did the killer get into the cubicle with her?" The light dawned in their eyes. "Now, get to it and call me if you find it."
While the deputies organized the customers, I went back to the dressing rooms to check with the crime scene crew. They didn’t have anything new to tell me, so I authorized them to get the body ready for transport, just as a deputy stuck his head in to tell me that Collins wanted me.
Collins and Dupree had been working at one of the sales counters, taking names from the customers in two lines. At the head of Collins’ line stood a woman in her forties, her heavyset body neatly clad in black slacks, a white blouse and a red linen jacket. She looked furious. As I got closer, I could see that Collins had a good eye. The evidence was there, so insignificant that you’d never notice unless you were looking for it.
"What the hell is this?" she barked. "I didn’t do nothing. You got no right to keep me here, and I’m gonna lose my job if I don’t get back to work."
I ignored her temper. "What is your name, ma’am?"
"Carol Stone."
"Can I see some ID, please?"
"I already gave them my address," she argued.
This was going to be an uphill battle. "Ma’am, you can show us your ID, or I can take you into custody and have you searched. You choose."
She pointed an angry finger at me. "You just try it, and I’ll have you sued for false arrest. You can’t arrest me or search me without probable cause. I know my rights."
"You want probable cause?" I asked. "Okay. Here it is, on the lapel of your jacket. See those two holes? That’s where you pinned the name tag you took from the counter, so that girl would think you worked here and open the cubicle door for you."
"You’re crazy!" she cried.
"You still don’t want to show me some ID?"
She folded her arms, hugging her purse to her chest. "I know my rights."
I considered the situation. We had a young, pretty victim living with a man, a middle-aged female suspect whose ring finger still showed the marks of a wedding band recently removed. Arthur Black, Carol Stone – "Blackstone"? People often use word association when they choose an alias. I had a strong feeling that the solution would be arriving soon, and I was right. The deputy watching the door called out, "Sergeant Vee, are you expecting someone named Arthur Black?", and our suspect’s face took on a deer-in-the-headlights expression. I waved the tall, well-dressed man over, and saw surprise explode across his face as he saw the woman next to me.
"Carol? What the hell are you doing here?"
What Carol was doing at that moment was trying to snatch Deputy Dupree’s pistol from his holster. We’re all trained for that move. Dupree just put his hand over hers and pushed down, keeping the weapon in place while Collins dragged her off and cuffed her.
One of the techs came up a laid the name tag in the palm of my gloved hand. He told me they’d pulled a beautiful set of prints from it that matched some prints on the dead girl’s handbag, and they weren’t the victim’s prints. Bingo. Means, motive, opportunity and a chain of physical evidence were all there. I turned to Carol Black, aka Carol Stone, and held up my hand to stop her ranting against her ex-husband. "You got tagged, all right. You’re under arrest on a charge of murder. You have the right to remain silent…"
I love shopping. You never know what you’re going to find.