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The area was already being photographed by members of the medical examiner’s office, although I would take my own pictures in a few minutes as well. As he led me down a long hallway, I was able to see several other rooms inside the house, including the enormous kitchen that looked as if it had recently been renovated, brand new appliances and granite counters just a couple of the amenities.
There were at least two other rooms and a half bath leading to an open door at the end of the hall. I didn’t need to be told this was where the murder had taken place, the stench more pronounced.
Before we had a chance to walk in, one of the interns I’d met only days before came running out, already gagging from what she’d seen. As the girl bumped into me, forced to place her hand on my arm, I was surprised to see a spot of blood from her glove left behind. While that would ordinarily piss me off, the scene possibly contaminated, once I walked inside, I understood how impossible it was for the girl not to get blood on her person or clothes.
The bedroom was covered in blood. The ceiling. The bed. The floor. Everything. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the killer had pitched it against every surface to make a point.
However, the sight of the dismembered body gave credence that all the liquid had come from the victim. At least someone had the forethought of opening the doors enough to allow fresh air into the room. Without it, no one would be able to tolerate the stench for long.
“You were quick on the scene,” I told the medical examiner who was already hard at work taking photographs of the horrific situation herself.
Kathleen Simpson had recently moved to Sitka less than a year before from her illustrious job in Los Angeles. She’d wanted a quiet environment, a less chaotic place to call home. Since then, she and I had become fast friends, our quirky and often sick sense of humor part of the reason we’d gotten close so quickly.
She was also damn good at her job and we were lucky to have her given the former medical examiner had retired at the age of seventy-two.
“Yeah, well, your deputy made certain I knew about the gruesome scene since he knew how much I loved solving horrific crimes. The bastard woke me out of a good sleep.” She lifted her head, grinning as she usually did in these limited situations. Other than the recent overdoses, she’d only been on duty for one additional murder right after her arrival. She had commendations up the yin yang for her work in helping the San Francisco police solve several difficult cases in her career.
“Well, this one is certainly right up your alley. However, your intern not so much.”
She huffed. “Good help is hard to find.”
I pulled out gloves, taking another look around the room. “What do you know?” I crouched down close to the torso seconds later, doing my best to keep from walking in the blood and other liquids.
“Well, the guy is dead,” she teased, waiting until I gave her a dour look. “It appears he was killed four days ago by the instance of bloating and rigidity of the body. From what I can tell, and don’t quote me on this, he was shot in the head then dismembered. I’m not certain what the killer was attempting to do since the man appears to have died instantly from the up close and person encounter.”
I glanced at the man’s severed arms, both in two separate pieces. “Are those rope burns on his wrists?”
“Yeah, I was getting to that. I also saw signs of torture. It would appear the man had been held captive for some time. Notice the burns, cuts, and abrasions on portions of his body.” Kathleen pointed out various areas on the man’s torso. Whatever the victim had endured had been horrific.
“Groovy,” I said in passing, glancing up at my deputy who remained just off to the left. “Any idea of the victim’s name?”
“The house was registered to a Carlos Desposito, but I’m unsure yet as to whether this man is one and the same, given what little I’ve learned about the owner would put him in his sixties,” Damon said as he glanced at his small iPad.
“That’s not this guy,” Kathleen said, stating the obvious. “He’s somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-two but appears to be either Puerto Rican or Mexican in origin.”
I nodded, scanning the perimeter. “Any sign of a break in?”
“None,” Damon said from beside me.
“So the man knew his killer or met him here. What about the drugs?” I stood to my full height, exhaling from the sight of so much carnage. I’d had all kinds of shit happen in my career since I’d started as a beat cop in LA, moving to Phoenix to get away from a city I loathed before getting this job, but this was by far the worst. And the most complex. The person responsible had indeed left a sign, but unlike a serial killer taunting the police for kicks and giggles, I had a feeling this was gang related, a warning sent to all those not to interfere with their business.
That meant this could happen again.
“In the bathroom. And there’s a sign.” Deputy Woods led me into an oversized bathroom complete with a massive whirlpool tub, a glass window looking out onto the ocean over the fixture. On the counter was a small baggie of pills, some of them crushed. The substance was highly toxic, responsible for hundreds of deaths up and down the West Coast recently.
“Bag and tag it. Do not touch the powder or the pills,” I told him.
“You got it. It looks staged, left on purpose.”
“That’s because it was. This was left for us to find. The question is why.”
I walked closer, immediately pulling out my phone and taking several photographs. The mark written in blood on the window was huge, definitely a statement and if I had to guess, also without a doubt gang related. However, it wasn’t like any small gang I’d ever investigated. My gut told me it was a serious cartel or crime syndicate. Although I’d keep my determination to myself until Kathleen had time to work her magic.
The last thing we wanted to do was to let this get out to the public.
“Put a lock down on this. No reporters. No visitors. No comments. You got it?” I asked Damon.
“Yes, ma’am. I already figured that’s what you’d tell me.” He grinned and I shook my head.
