he saw the M.E. remove his glasses and wipe them with
a tissue. Mitch walked over to him. "What’s the scoop, Abe?"
Abel Moskowitz, a diminutive man with a bald head and squinty eyes, slid his glasses into his jacket pocket. "Looks like the cricoid was crushed, so it’s pretty safe to assume she died from strangulation. Judging by the marks on her neck, I would guess the murderer, most likely a man, had very large, very strong hands."
"Approximate time of death?"
"Somewhere between midnight and 2:00 a.m. I’ll have a more accurate time after the autopsy." His voice was impersonal, almost monotonous.
"Was she raped?"
"No. But she put up quite a fight." He pointed at half a dozen lacerations across her neck. "These are fingernail scratches, probably her own as she attempted to free herself." He removed his disposable gloves and dropped them into a paper bag. "I’m done here, Mitch. Send her down whenever you’re ready." Snapping his bag shut, he gave Mitch a cursory nod and left.
Two ambulance attendants stood nearby, waiting for instructions. "Bag her," Mitch told them. "The bedding, too." He watched as the body was wrapped in the black satin sheets and deposited in a body pouch.
"Hey, Mitch."
He turned around to see his identification technician, Roy Johnson, motion to him. Mitch pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and drew them on as he walked across the room. "What have you got. Roy?"
Johnson pointed at a video camera on the dresser. "I found this baby tucked into that air return up there." He nodded toward a rectangular opening above the bedroom closet. "And then I found this. It was taped under the bottom dresser drawer." He handed Mitch a videotape.
Mitch tilted his head to read the side label. The letters E.L. were written in a slanted, feminine scrawl. "Dust it, will you, Roy? Then maybe I should take a look at it."
Mitch watched as Johnson examined the tape with a flashlight, covering every inch of it. Then he dipped the tip of a large fiberglass brush into the powder and very gently dabbed it all over the tape.
"You getting anything?"
"Only a couple of prints," Johnson replied without looking up. "But they look pretty clean." He pressed a strip of special pressure tape on the dusted surface and lifted it in one quick motion. Then, with a speed and dexterity that explained why he was considered one of the best ident technicians on the East Coast, he pressed the tape to the edge of a lifting card, snipped it from the roll and immediately labeled the card. The whole process hadn’t taken more than two minutes.
He handed the videotape back to Mitch. "It’s all yours."
Having already spotted a sophisticated entertainment center across from the bed, Mitch walked over to it and slid the tape into the VCR. As the image of a naked couple lying on a big brass bed came into focus, Joe, who had sneaked up behind Mitch, chuckled. "Hey, that’s the lady of the house. Looks like she was into home movies, huh?"
"Guess so." As the woman rolled on top of her partner, the man’s face suddenly came into view. "Well, I’ll be damned," Mitch murmured.
"What?" Joe edged a little closer. "You know the guy?"
"That’s Eric Logan. Megan Hollbrook’s fiancee."
Joe gave a low whistle. "Eric Logan. Sure, I recognize him now. He was married to that attorney, wasn’t he? The
one who defended Fuente in that last case you investigated? What’s her name?"
"Kate Logan."
"Right." McCormack’s gaze, as if pulled by a magnet, returned to the screen where the action was definitely heating up. The officer chuckled again. "Could it be that our little filmmaker was also into blackmail?"
"Somebody say the word ‘blackmail’?"
At the sound of the thin, nasal voice, Mitch’s jaw tightened. He shut the VCR off, removed the tape and handed it back to Johnson. Although a close relationship between the police and
a tissue. Mitch walked over to him. "What’s the scoop, Abe?"
Abel Moskowitz, a diminutive man with a bald head and squinty eyes, slid his glasses into his jacket pocket. "Looks like the cricoid was crushed, so it’s pretty safe to assume she died from strangulation. Judging by the marks on her neck, I would guess the murderer, most likely a man, had very large, very strong hands."
"Approximate time of death?"
"Somewhere between midnight and 2:00 a.m. I’ll have a more accurate time after the autopsy." His voice was impersonal, almost monotonous.
"Was she raped?"
"No. But she put up quite a fight." He pointed at half a dozen lacerations across her neck. "These are fingernail scratches, probably her own as she attempted to free herself." He removed his disposable gloves and dropped them into a paper bag. "I’m done here, Mitch. Send her down whenever you’re ready." Snapping his bag shut, he gave Mitch a cursory nod and left.
Two ambulance attendants stood nearby, waiting for instructions. "Bag her," Mitch told them. "The bedding, too." He watched as the body was wrapped in the black satin sheets and deposited in a body pouch.
"Hey, Mitch."
He turned around to see his identification technician, Roy Johnson, motion to him. Mitch pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and drew them on as he walked across the room. "What have you got. Roy?"
Johnson pointed at a video camera on the dresser. "I found this baby tucked into that air return up there." He nodded toward a rectangular opening above the bedroom closet. "And then I found this. It was taped under the bottom dresser drawer." He handed Mitch a videotape.
Mitch tilted his head to read the side label. The letters E.L. were written in a slanted, feminine scrawl. "Dust it, will you, Roy? Then maybe I should take a look at it."
Mitch watched as Johnson examined the tape with a flashlight, covering every inch of it. Then he dipped the tip of a large fiberglass brush into the powder and very gently dabbed it all over the tape.
"You getting anything?"
"Only a couple of prints," Johnson replied without looking up. "But they look pretty clean." He pressed a strip of special pressure tape on the dusted surface and lifted it in one quick motion. Then, with a speed and dexterity that explained why he was considered one of the best ident technicians on the East Coast, he pressed the tape to the edge of a lifting card, snipped it from the roll and immediately labeled the card. The whole process hadn’t taken more than two minutes.
He handed the videotape back to Mitch. "It’s all yours."
Having already spotted a sophisticated entertainment center across from the bed, Mitch walked over to it and slid the tape into the VCR. As the image of a naked couple lying on a big brass bed came into focus, Joe, who had sneaked up behind Mitch, chuckled. "Hey, that’s the lady of the house. Looks like she was into home movies, huh?"
"Guess so." As the woman rolled on top of her partner, the man’s face suddenly came into view. "Well, I’ll be damned," Mitch murmured.
"What?" Joe edged a little closer. "You know the guy?"
"That’s Eric Logan. Megan Hollbrook’s fiancee."
Joe gave a low whistle. "Eric Logan. Sure, I recognize him now. He was married to that attorney, wasn’t he? The
one who defended Fuente in that last case you investigated? What’s her name?"
"Kate Logan."
"Right." McCormack’s gaze, as if pulled by a magnet, returned to the screen where the action was definitely heating up. The officer chuckled again. "Could it be that our little filmmaker was also into blackmail?"
"Somebody say the word ‘blackmail’?"
At the sound of the thin, nasal voice, Mitch’s jaw tightened. He shut the VCR off, removed the tape and handed it back to Johnson. Although a close relationship between the police and
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