Hard Rain - 03 Read online

  I agreed. It wasn’t that we expected to find anything – after three days of forensic teams dusting, taping and luminal-spraying the place for blood-spatter patterns, the chances of us strolling on in and finding clues lying around were snuggling up to zero. But it might help us get our bearings.

  ‘Perhaps this is where I should come in,’ said Captain Cain, clearing his throat. ‘Unless homicide has something else to add?’

  It was pretty obvious they didn’t. Karli and Iyaz flipped their notebooks shut, took their seats and feigned boredom. Iyaz put his hands behind his head and yawned.

  ‘A number of things have turned up in the autopsy, and in discussions with the forensic psychologist,’ Cain began. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Ambassador . . .’

  ‘Of course, please go right ahead,’ said Burnbaum. ‘I’ll get the lights.’

  With the curtains drawn and the room darkened, the picture projected on the wall became sharp and bright. Cain clicked on an item and a nightmare image flashed up. I’d seen this one before, but a five-by-eight in inches rather than in feet hadn’t done it justice. The image showed a man, or what was once a man. The whole was hard to take in – I had to start small. His hand had been dissected into its component pieces and laid out on the floor. Each finger was separated from the hand and the knuckles individually jointed. The hands were removed from the arms, the arms from the body. The legs, feet and toes had been given the same treatment; that is, separated into individual items. The torso had been flayed and the skin peeled back. The clavicles were laid beside the torso, as were the arms and the individual ribs so that the body presented like an exploded diagram. One arm and leg had also been flayed, the skin from both neatly arranged beside the limb it had been removed from like it would have been if it were a spare part in a catalogue. The head was separated from the neck. Blood was splashed everywhere.

  ‘A couple of interesting facts have come to light from the autopsy,’ said Cain, unaffected by the image. ‘The first is that the Attaché was alive when this was done to him.’

  A window rattled softly in its frame. I wondered whether the collective gasp might have been the cause. The blood – so damn much of it. That was the one thing I had figured without having to be told. The poor bastard’s heart had simply kept pumping till it ran out of stuff to push through his arteries.

  Cain continued. ‘The other point of interest is that twelve of the Attaché’s bones are missing.’

  Three

  Captain Cain clicked through a number of other slides of the murdered Attaché until he came to a view marked with various white circles. ‘There are two hundred and six bones in an adult human,’ he said. ‘The medical examiner made an inventory of Colonel Portman’s. The circles and marks you can see on these pictures indicate where the bones have been removed.’

  ‘Jesus . . .’ Trurow leaned forward with morbid fascination.

  Cain continued. ‘Working down the body, he’s missing the C3 vertebra, the right clavicle, the left ulna, the manubrium of the sternum, a true rib and a floating rib, the proximal, middle and distal phalanges of his right hand – the entire middle finger, basically – the right patella, the left lunate bone, and the right medial malleolus.’

  ‘How could the Attaché have been alive when they did this to him?’ asked Masters.

  ‘Well, he wasn’t breathing for all of it. The medical examiner’s unsure about how long into this ordeal he survived,’ replied Cain. ‘But at least he was unconscious. Whoever did this put him under first with chloroform, and lots of it. The chloroform burned the skin clean off the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat. Cause of death was, in fact, drowning in his own blood.’

  ‘What does your shrink consultant make of all this – the way he was killed, the missing bones?’ I asked.

  ‘I have the doctor’s notes to pass on to you, as well as a copy of the medical examiner’s report. Doctor Aysun Merkit – that’s the name of the consulting forensic psychologist, by the way – she thinks this appears to be a ritual killing, full of meaning for the killer. There’s obviously a lot of controlled anger here.’

  ‘So, in other words, the shrink doesn’t have a clue,’ I concluded.

  Cain thought about this before answering. ‘You could say that pretty much nails it, Special Agent, except that she thinks this one is probably just the first.’

  ‘The first?’ Trurow said, horrified.

  ‘Murder, sir. Someone with this much anger doesn’t usually stop at one.’

  ‘So we might have a serial killer on our hands?’ the general asked.

  ‘There’s a good chance,’ agreed Cain.

  ‘Wonderful,’ he said, throwing his hands up in the air.

  I was tempted to say that one episode did not make a serial, but I kept it to myself. ‘Does Doctor Merkit have a view on why the Attaché might have been broken down into bits?’

  ‘No, although she thinks the airplane-kit symbology might well be significant. He was the Air Attaché, after all.’

  ‘And those missing bones? Any theories about why they’ve been taken?’ asked Masters.

  ‘Doctor Merkit believes they’ve been harvested.’

  ‘Harvested?’ Trurow echoed.

  ‘For later use, sir,’ said Cain.

  I looked at Trurow. He was peering out of those glasses with the concentrated frown of a man trying to see something way off in the distance.

  ‘The doctor’s certain they’re going to turn up,’ said Cain.

  ‘With subsequent victims?’

  ‘More than likely, Special Agent Masters, yes. As I said, Doctor Merkit believes a killer with this much rage usually doesn’t stop at one.’

  ‘Any theories about why those bones in particular?’ I asked.

  The captain shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid not, though that’s an angle we should look at.’ He made a quick note about it on a pad.

  ‘And what about the way the body was cut up?’ I pressed.

  ‘Not sure what you mean, Special Agent.’

  ‘Does the medical examiner think it was done by an amateur or a pro?’

  ‘Definitely by an amateur rather than by, say, a surgeon. And it would have taken the best part of three hours – even using a jigsaw.’

  I was now certain of two things. One, that this Q & A had been squeezed dry; and two, that I’d asked by far the best questions.

  When he was sure there was nothing more to clarify, Cain turned off his laptop and handed out copies of the reports. Masters and I took one each, as did the Turkish flatfoots and the two army CID types.

  The spell broken, General Trurow stood up and informed us, ‘Well, a tragic and frightening business.’ He turned to Masters. ‘Keep me on top of your progress going forward. We need to effect a speedy resolution on this one.’ Hand shaking followed, and then he departed.

  First out the door. I won the bet. I took twenty bucks out of my right pocket and stuffed them in my left. ‘His work here is done,’ I muttered under my breath.

  ‘What was that?’ Masters shot back.

  ‘I said, “Isn’t this fun?”’

  She gave me the please-be-here-with-someone-else look. I obliged and made my way across to Cain, who was untangling power leads, packing up. ‘That was some slide show, Captain,’ I told him.

  ‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘A nasty business.’

  ‘Did the Attaché have an enlisted aide or a PA?’ I asked. ‘Was anyone handling his correspondence, keeping his diary for him?’

  ‘No. Apparently he was a hands-on kind of guy. Sent his own emails, answered his own phones, tied his own shoelaces.’

  ‘What about his office? He have one here?’

  ‘Yes, he did. He also had one in the embassy at Ankara, though he seems to have spent as much time as possible here. He preferred Istanbul – liked his home in Bebek, from what I can gather. The office is down the hall, on the right. His name’s on the door. It’s all yours. I locked it to keep out the inquisitive.’

  He
held out a key and then dropped it in my hand.

  ‘There’s not much there,’ he continued. ‘A few mementoes and vacation photos.’

  ‘Files?’ I asked.

  ‘Some, but from the looks of things, Colonel Portman was a believer in the electronic office.’

  ‘His emails?’ I enquired.

  ‘Once you get settled, I’ll forward the file to you.’

  Cain and I exchanged cards. ‘So why did Portman have a manservant if he was such a do-it-yourself kind of guy?’ I wondered aloud.

  The captain sucked air through a side tooth. ‘Don’t know. That’s getting beyond my turf. Maybe he drew the line at housework.’

  Understandable – wasn’t too keen on the dusting myself. ‘With a crime like this, I’m surprised there’s so little forensic evidence. As in, none. Their forensics people up to the job?’

  ‘Did they overlook anything, do you mean? Who knows. They use similar techniques to us . . . You want my opinion?’ Cain added. ‘I think the killer was either real lucky or real good.’

  ‘Hmm . . . what I’m not sure of is what we have here, exactly,’ I said. ‘A murder with a robbery on the side, or a robbery masked as something else. What’s your feeling about this manservant?’

  ‘I like your theory about the fingerprints. If you’re right, he’s running because he’s scared, not because he’s guilty.’

  The captain had packed his gear and was ready to leave just as Masters came over. I left them to it. I noticed that the CID guys had already slipped away. I also noticed that they’d asked nothing during the debrief. Was that because the only thing between their ears was white noise, or because they’d enjoyed a pre-brief?

  I crossed the room to where Karli and Iyaz were eyeballing the exit, getting ready to leave. ‘Looks like a tough case,’ I said.

  The older of the two, Karli, did the talking. ‘We will get there.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I replied. Funny how two positives together can cancel each other out. ‘In the meantime, did this manservant of Colonel Portman’s have any priors?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Karli scratched his cheek with a finger.

  ‘A record – previous arrests.’

  ‘No. He had not before been in trouble from the police.’

  ‘You have anything on him?’ I asked. ‘A picture, even?’

  ‘Yes, we have pictures of him – we took from his home. We also took employment records, tax returns, bank-account statements –’

  ‘A photo would be useful, and a few other details like a name to put to the face.’

  ‘We will send these things to you here.’

  ‘You were about to tell me you have his cell-phone records?’ I prompted.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you have his number?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You tried calling it?’

  ‘His phone?’ asked Karli.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Karli and Iyaz looked at each other with dumb smiles on their faces like I’d just told them that in the next life they were coming back as plastic surgeons. ‘No. It’s a good idea. We will try it.’

  I didn’t for a moment think this manservant guy would pick up, but in this game, you never know.

  ‘Special Agent Masters and I are going to visit the crime scene this morning,’ I told them.

  ‘The crime scene is . . . er . . .’ Karli turned and said something in rapid-fire Turkish to Iyaz.

  His partner gave him the answer. ‘Cleaned.’

  ‘You’ve called in the cleaners?’ I confirmed.

  ‘Yes.’

  I did a count-back. The timing was about right for the murder site to be returned to its former state. The weather was cool, but still, left any longer and the local insects would be busting down the door just to roll in the smell. I thought about all the blood splashed around – those cleaners would have some serious kick-ass spot removers on hand. I was thinking this because I also just happened to glance down and notice a ketchup stain on my shirt, which I must have picked up on the plane on the way over. ‘How about late morning – say, eleven-thirty?’

  Karli nodded. ‘We will meet you there at that time.’

  I like having my hand held, but only when it belongs to someone female, interested and moustache-free. ‘No need. Just leave the key under the mat,’ I said.

  ‘A gendarme will let you in,’ Iyaz replied.

  ‘Fine.’ I looked around the room. Ambassador Burnbaum was shaking hands with the Turkish general. I walked on over.

  As I approached I heard General Mataradzija say, ‘I must go.’ Then he saw me and said, ‘A terrible business. You catch these peoples, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I assured him.

  ‘Good morning and good luck.’ He gave me a friendly smile and I watched him and his adjutant head off in Masters’ direction to say goodbye.

  ‘The general’s a good man and a fine leader,’ Burnbaum said, following my eye-line.

  ‘Sir, I wonder if we could ask you a few questions in private,’ I ventured.

  ‘Of course. Captain Cain and the general are both on their way out. We can talk here.’

  I glanced up and saw both men, together with Colonel Gokdemir, leaving the room. Cain looked at me and tipped his forefinger to his head as if to say, ‘We’ll catch up later.’

  Burnbaum went to the door and closed it as Masters and I pulled up chairs to the antique desk. I sat down and again took in the massive painting on the wall, the one with the triumphant soldiers, the big cannon, the crumbling stone walls and the mound of dismembered bodies and limbs under the victors’ feet.

  ‘Do you know what that painting’s all about?’ asked Burnbaum, noting my interest in it.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Special Agent Masters?’

  She studied it. ‘I think the man in front leading his army over the bones of the conquered is the first Ottoman sultan, Mehmet II, who took the city from the Byzantine rulers after smashing down the walls with the biggest cannon the world had ever seen.’

  ‘Ah, you’re a student of history.’

  ‘Actually, a student of the Lonely Planet guidebook, sir. I spent some vacation time in Turkey three years ago.’

  I looked sideways at Masters and thought, Lady, you just keep the surprises coming. She’d given me no hint that she’d been to this city before.

  ‘Do you like Istanbul?’ the Ambassador asked her.

  ‘Very much, sir. I met my fiancé here, in fact.’

  I blinked. Like I said, the surprises kept coming. This day was getting better by the minute.

  ‘It’s a very romantic city – magical,’ Burnbaum agreed.

  Yeah, and I was sure that wherever the Attaché was, he was also thinking about what a romantic, magical city Istanbul was. It was time to get back to the business at hand before Masters segued into her wedding plans. ‘Mr Ambassador,’ I began, ‘do you know whether the Attaché had received any death threats?’

  Burnbaum shook his head. ‘No, not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Would he have informed you if he had?’

  ‘I doubt it. He was the kind who wouldn’t have taken threats seriously.’

  ‘What was he working on?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Mr Ambassador, we both know the Air Attaché to a strategically vital country like Turkey is a handpicked individual with certain skills. What had he been up to that wasn’t noted in his diary? Specifically, had he been involved in anything clandestine?’

  Burnbaum stroked his pink chin with ageing fingers, liver spots dotting the back of his hand. ‘Not as far as I know, Special Agent. He was primarily occupied with the job of facilitating the upgrade of thirty F-16 Falcons to a new Block specification for the Turkish Air Force. Emmet was helping the local industry navigate through the worst of the red tape so that the upgrade could happen with a minimum of fuss.’

  ‘Nothing else?’ I enquired when it seemed nothing else was forthcoming.

  �
��Well, he did express some concern about the case of a young Turkish woman allegedly raped by a US Air Force crew chief down at Incirlik Air Base. I’ve seen the file. It’s an open-and-shut case against our man, I’m sorry to say – right down to the DNA evidence. The only problem is that the woman has brothers, and revenge is a recreational activity in this country.’

  My face evidently betrayed the fact that I might’ve attached some significance to this last bit of information, because the Ambassador added, ‘Emmet had only just pulled the file to go through it. I could be wrong, but I doubt he’d managed to begin the interview process before he was killed.’

  ‘So that’s it?’ Masters asked, back on the job at last.

  Smelt like dead ends to me, but I said, ‘Can we get a look at the case file for the rape charge?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll have it ready for you in an hour. Also, you’ll need a base to work from while you’re in Istanbul, so I’ve arranged for you to have this office.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The sultan in the painting behind the Ambassador, striding across all those dismembered bodies, distracted me. The scene was reminiscent of Captain Cain’s photos. I sure hoped the room hadn’t been themed for our benefit.

  Four

  The Air Attaché’s office had a similar view to the one we’d just left down the hall. It was roomy. There was a modern desk – nothing fancy – a water cooler, a two-seater couch and a six-drawer filing cabinet. On the desk was a thin LCD computer screen and keyboard, a laser printer, an older-style, well-worn fighter pilot’s helmet, Rolodex, a pad of Post-its and a couple of pens. I gave the Rolodex a roll. Next I tapped the keys on the keyboard, in case his computer was just sleeping. The screen stayed black.

  The walls without the view were bare, except for one with a pin board. On the board were a couple of photos of the murder victim. One showed him with his oxygen mask hanging free, taxiing in or out – I couldn’t tell – and a further photo of him shaking hands with another officer who, like Portman, was wearing a flight suit. Behind the two men was a crisp line-up of F-15 Eagles, the air-to-air variant. It was a happy occasion and both men were smiling.