out.”
Leonard glanced at the man for a moment, forcing him to look away. When she responded, however, it was as if his comment had been purely professional. “I’m not that hopeful. I was told she’d only been living there a few weeks, and that the apartment has seen a half dozen occupants in the last year. My guess is we’ll end up collecting as many samples as we’d find in the average bus station, half of which we’ll never connect to anyone.”
“So, you don’t have anything hot right now?” I asked. “Like the proverbial bloody footprint?”
She smiled and pointed to the cop, in part, I guessed, to ease him off the hook. “Just the tabby cat’s, and we have a few thousand of those.”
I turned to Sammie. “Robin’s people let you poke around, too, right? You find any documents or clothing or personal items that might have belonged to anyone other than Duval?”
“Hard to say,” she answered. “The clothes she was killed in were men’s, as were half the rags in her closet. Looks like she wore whatever she could get her hands on. There’s nothing obvious belonging to somebody else, and the only documents I’ve found so far are pretty routine: mostly welfare or parole related, along with some junk mail.”
“Did I notice a phone up there? Seems like a luxury for someone living at rock bottom.”
Sammie tried to hide her embarrassment at not having made the same observation, a reaction that was typical of the high standards she set for herself. “Yeah. I’ll get a warrant for the records.”
“What about Marty’s car?” I asked Ron. “Anyone ever see it around here?”
He shook his head. “Not that we know so far.”
“You check if he got any tickets recently? According to Skottick, he’s been driving it for a month or so. Probably won’t help us even if he did get one, but you never know.”
“Will do,” Ron answered neutrally, possibly thinking I was grasping at straws.
“I assigned a couple of people to search the car like you asked, by the way,” Robin Leonard said. “Haven’t heard anything back yet. I wanted to wait for the full crew to be finished here before we tackle his apartment.”
I checked a list I’d taken from my pocket. “Thanks. You put a guard there, Ron?”
“’Round the clock. I also made sure all our guys have been briefed to keep a lookout for Gagnon. What did you get out of the computer?”
“Not much,” I admitted. “I went downstairs to check your in-house files, too. I was hoping if I ran checks on both Duval and Gagnon, I might get some overlaps, some common ground to cover. But nothing came up. I just got more people to look for. I’m afraid we’re all going to be knocking on a lot of doors.”
In the slight pause following that, Sammie asked, “You think Marty killed her?”
“I have no reason to think he didn’t. It’s more likely that the guy who punched out Skottick killed her trying to find Marty, but who can tell? Whoever did it, Marty seems to be the key. And,” I added, “if nothing else, at least we know what he looks like.”
Sammie let out a sigh. “Assuming he isn’t dead, too.”
· · ·
The next several days were spent coordinating dozens of separate activities, all dedicated to locating Marty Gagnon. His apartment and car were disassembled, everyone we could find who knew him or Jorja Duval was interviewed, as were—again—Walter Skottick and Don Matthews. We even called William Manning in New York for more details and gave his background extra scrutiny. Neighbors were questioned, regular delivery people stopped and quizzed, and every scrap of paper found in our searches was analyzed for any lead at all. The medical examiner in Burlington was asked to conduct an especially thorough autopsy, which request stimulated both a frosty reaction and the simple result that Jorja Duval had died of a single cut to the neck—no defense wounds, and only slight bruising to the upper arms.
We had cooperation in all
Leonard glanced at the man for a moment, forcing him to look away. When she responded, however, it was as if his comment had been purely professional. “I’m not that hopeful. I was told she’d only been living there a few weeks, and that the apartment has seen a half dozen occupants in the last year. My guess is we’ll end up collecting as many samples as we’d find in the average bus station, half of which we’ll never connect to anyone.”
“So, you don’t have anything hot right now?” I asked. “Like the proverbial bloody footprint?”
She smiled and pointed to the cop, in part, I guessed, to ease him off the hook. “Just the tabby cat’s, and we have a few thousand of those.”
I turned to Sammie. “Robin’s people let you poke around, too, right? You find any documents or clothing or personal items that might have belonged to anyone other than Duval?”
“Hard to say,” she answered. “The clothes she was killed in were men’s, as were half the rags in her closet. Looks like she wore whatever she could get her hands on. There’s nothing obvious belonging to somebody else, and the only documents I’ve found so far are pretty routine: mostly welfare or parole related, along with some junk mail.”
“Did I notice a phone up there? Seems like a luxury for someone living at rock bottom.”
Sammie tried to hide her embarrassment at not having made the same observation, a reaction that was typical of the high standards she set for herself. “Yeah. I’ll get a warrant for the records.”
“What about Marty’s car?” I asked Ron. “Anyone ever see it around here?”
He shook his head. “Not that we know so far.”
“You check if he got any tickets recently? According to Skottick, he’s been driving it for a month or so. Probably won’t help us even if he did get one, but you never know.”
“Will do,” Ron answered neutrally, possibly thinking I was grasping at straws.
“I assigned a couple of people to search the car like you asked, by the way,” Robin Leonard said. “Haven’t heard anything back yet. I wanted to wait for the full crew to be finished here before we tackle his apartment.”
I checked a list I’d taken from my pocket. “Thanks. You put a guard there, Ron?”
“’Round the clock. I also made sure all our guys have been briefed to keep a lookout for Gagnon. What did you get out of the computer?”
“Not much,” I admitted. “I went downstairs to check your in-house files, too. I was hoping if I ran checks on both Duval and Gagnon, I might get some overlaps, some common ground to cover. But nothing came up. I just got more people to look for. I’m afraid we’re all going to be knocking on a lot of doors.”
In the slight pause following that, Sammie asked, “You think Marty killed her?”
“I have no reason to think he didn’t. It’s more likely that the guy who punched out Skottick killed her trying to find Marty, but who can tell? Whoever did it, Marty seems to be the key. And,” I added, “if nothing else, at least we know what he looks like.”
Sammie let out a sigh. “Assuming he isn’t dead, too.”
· · ·
The next several days were spent coordinating dozens of separate activities, all dedicated to locating Marty Gagnon. His apartment and car were disassembled, everyone we could find who knew him or Jorja Duval was interviewed, as were—again—Walter Skottick and Don Matthews. We even called William Manning in New York for more details and gave his background extra scrutiny. Neighbors were questioned, regular delivery people stopped and quizzed, and every scrap of paper found in our searches was analyzed for any lead at all. The medical examiner in Burlington was asked to conduct an especially thorough autopsy, which request stimulated both a frosty reaction and the simple result that Jorja Duval had died of a single cut to the neck—no defense wounds, and only slight bruising to the upper arms.
We had cooperation in all
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