[Wednesday, February 17, 08:00]
"Hey, Stella," Hawkes stuck his head into layout, holding up a sheaf of photos, "I finally got around to your case."
The detective set down her magnifying glass. "Please tell me you have something," she said, trying to keep the whine from her voice. After leaving Flack behind at the hospital yesterday, she had come back to the lab and laid out every shred of evidence they had for Juliana's case. If there was a way to break this case without Juliana's testimony, she was determined to find it. Stella had pored over each item until she could barely focus. After catching a bit of sleep, she had come straight back, hoping this morning would give her some new insight. But so far, no luck.
Hawkes winced. "I don't have much." He lined up the photos on the table, a series of gruesomely detailed shots of Juliana's wounds. The rulers in frame were rigid and clinical, a stark against her bloody injuries and pale skin. "Dimensions of the wounds point to a fairly typical knife," he began, placing a thumb and forefinger on each end of an injury in the image. "I'd say three to four inches long, about an inch wide. We could be looking for a small hunting knife or a large pocket knife."
Stella glanced at the pocket knife on the table to her left and drummed her fingers on the lighted surface. Fingerprints and DNA on it had only come back to Vladimir Markelov, who had already been cleared.
Following her gaze, Hawkes reached over and picked up the weapon. "Not unlike this, but duller." He set it down and picked up the magnifying glass, enlarging the most detailed image in the array. "The bottoms of the stab wounds are U-shaped, not V-shaped. Whatever knife the attacker used, it was a dull blade, not well maintained." He chose a different picture, zoomed out, showing the entirely of Juliana's back. "Depth of the injuries could have been caused by an average man or a strong woman. The three stabs are also close together, that says fast and angry."
Stella nodded. "That matches both the hate crime and the estranged husband theory."
The man scanned the hospital's report, refreshing his memory. He skimmed the words, deciphering all the technical terms with the ease of long practice. "Our vic got very, very lucky," he breathed. "The knife somehow missed everything vital." Sheldon turned another page. "Says here she's 6'3", 180 pounds, that means she had a little more blood to lose. A relatively high total blood volume and her physique," he gestured to the photo of her back, athletic, with the musculature of an avid swimmer, "likely contributed to her survival. Your average woman would have bled out by the time dispatch got unis on scene. Our vic likely had time to try looking for help." He gestured at the last few images he hadn't discussed. "Abrasions on her hands and face are exactly what you'd expect from falling over. And that's how Flack found her."
"You think she would have been able to move," Stella reiterated. "To get up and go for help. Even after the attack?" That was news.
Hawkes nodded. "Sure, the wounds aren't that bad. Relatively speaking," he amended. In this line of work, 'bad' really was on a different scale than how most people defined it. "Even if she passed out initially, I expect she would have regained consciousness sometime before unis arrived. But it was late at night in the Bronx, maybe she couldn't find anyone to help her. Collapsed, and the kid who found her called it in."
She shook her head, puzzled. "Everything at the scene indicated we found her where she fell, right after the attack." Mac had determined the spray paint was dry before the rain started. The killer staged the location where he wanted to attack Juliana with his message on the wall. And when they found her, she was lying right next to it, not three steps away.
He shrugged. "I could be wrong. Pictures and reports can only tell me so much. She can probably tell you a lot more."
Stella sighed. "That's just it, she won't talk." She swept her arm over all the documentation he had brought with him. "Is there anything here that's distinctive enough to help narrow down the weapon or the attacker?"
"Sorry, Stella."
"We're out of leads," she said hopelessly. All together the evidence barely took up half a table. Most cases usually needed at least two light tables.
Hawkes gathered his papers back into the folder and set it aside. "Walk me through it. Fresh eyes, right?"
"Right. Okay." She took a deep breath to clear her mind. She pointed to Juliana's clothes and the contents of her purse. "Rain contaminated the scene, we didn't get anything usable off her clothes. Her purse was still closed, we ruled out robbery. Danny processed her, but the guy got the jump on her. Juliana didn't get to fight back." Her hands wandered over to the blade. "The knife belongs to a Vladimir Markelov, but he says he lost it and his alibi checks out." Next was the hate message and the fingerprint. "John Miller touched the paint when it was wet, so we know he was in the alley. But he works at the visa office. He was offended by the slur and touched it, but he was on his way home before the rain started. No alibi, but no motive either. And the paint is generic." The woman pointed to Grayson Bailey's picture that was lined up with Vladimir's and John's along one edge of the table. "Now the estranged husband looks really good for it. Grayson was making brunch with his mistress when we got to his place. Fancy condo in Manhattan. He has no alibi."
"And the warrant?" No way they weren't pursuing one already.
"Flack's still working on it." She drummed her fingers on the table again. "But what's really holding us back is Juliana. She's not talking, police protection or no." The woman understood Juliana's fear and hesitation, and no doubt Flack's harsh words had pushed their victim deeper into her silence. Juliana knew something about the attack, but thanks to Flack, she would probably refuse to speak to the NYPD ever again. Stella was still furious with him.
Sheldon spread his hands and leaned on the table, his eyes roving over the items before him. "So, it's back to the evidence. Wait a minute, why was she wearing two coats?"
"That one's Flack's." Stella explained. She was doubtful that he would want it back after all this. It had been three days since they had found Juliana in that alley, and the blood had dried deep into the fabric. The bloodstains were going to be impossible to get out. "He used it to stem the bleeding and keep her warm when he got there."
He smiled to himself. Flack had done exactly the right thing. The cop often made a point of reminding the scientists that his only diploma was from high school, but he didn't give himself enough credit for the bits of science and medicine he had picked up over the years. Hawkes frowned, his attention drawn to the business cards that Stella had lined up neatly next to the wallet. There were at least a dozen, most of them worn and feathered around the edges. All except one. Only one was bright white, with straight edges and crisp corners. Pierre Dubois, Director of Human Resources, Penguin Random House Publishing. The man read some of the older cards, one by one. The names and languages varied, but the same words kept reappearing. Advocaat. Anwalt. Avocat. Hawkes grabbed a card for each foreign word and made his way to an unoccupied computer, punching them in. Three times, the translation lawyer came back. He fanned out the cards in front of the screen. "Her wallet's full of lawyers' business cards, like she meets a whole lot of them to discuss translation services." He returned to the light table and selected the one for Pierre Dubois. "So why does her newest card belong to someone from HR at a publishing house that she didn't work for?"
Stella took it from him, tapping it against her hand, a smile slowly forming on her face. A lead. She had been over the business cards four times, but she had been looking for fingerprints or trace. She hadn't thought to read the cards or examine their state of wear. Thank goodness for Sheldon's fresh eyes. "Recruitment gone wrong?" she mused. Maybe a business deal had turned very sour.
"Maybe you should ask Pierre," the man suggested, raising an eyebrow.
"You driving or me?" she asked as she began packing the evidence away with fervour.
He helped her with the task, making sure that each item was placed in the appropriate bag or box and tightly sealed with red tape. "You're going to have to go with someone else," he apologized. "I still have the floaters' reports to write up."
"Danny?" Stella called, as he passed the layout room, busy reading a tablet.
He slowed his brisk pace and backtracked a few steps. "Yeah?"
"Want to go for a ride?" She tucked the business card in her pocket and pushed the lid back on to the box. Stella nodded her goodbye to Hawkes, who headed back to his desk to start on the write-ups.
Danny set the tablet down and rubbed his hands together eagerly. His other case was waiting on a tox report anyway. "Where we goin'?"
"To follow a new lead, thanks to Doc." She patted her pocket. Stella strode down the hall and straight into Mac's office. The door was open, which always meant he was available. By the time she realized Flack was also in the office, updating their boss on the case, it was too late to turn around.
"... Aquatic Centre were worried sick that she hadn't shown up for a swim in three days," Flack was saying. He turned to her as she walked in, then hurriedly faced Mac again, seeing her displeasure with him plain on her face. His hope for forgiveness was immediately dashed. "Uh, Grayson Bailey did say that Juliana ran like clockwork and the staff at the pool agreed, but they had nothing else useful to say," he recounted. He glanced his notes, even though he already knew what they said. Stella's foul mood washing over him was making him jumpy. "The tea house, on the other hand, did have something. The lady who owned the place didn't really speak English," he said, exasperated, "but I managed to get that in the three days before Juliana was attacked, some guy sat with her. She said it seemed like business, not romance. Now get this. The morning before she was attacked, Juliana argued with the guy, left papers on the table, and didn't finish her tea. Apparently, unfinished tea means 'big big problem'," he quoted. "She said the man was 5'6" to 5'8", Caucasian, dark hair and beard. Insists he was named 'Pear'." Flack frowned skeptically. His memo book clapped shut and went back into his pocket.
"Pierre Dubois," Stella supplied smugly, pulling out the business card and stepping forward to show Mac. "Sheldon noticed his card was the odd one out in Juliana's wallet. He's head of HR at a big publishing house. Not Translatie. Business deal gone bad, possibly. We're going to head to his office."
Mac nodded his permission.
Stella turned on her heel and headed to the elevator, eager to make a break in the case. Upon hearing Flack following her, she spun around and held up a hand. "Danny and I are going," she said curtly, before resuming her path.
Behind her back, Danny winced and gave Flack a helpless gesture before hurrying into the elevator as well.
"Something I should know?" Mac asked the detective who was standing stock still in his office, having only made it two steps before Stella had rounded on him.
Flack rubbed the back of his neck and blew a sigh. "I'll sort it out. Just give me some time."