Read Online Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) by Julie Kramer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julie Kramer
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Worthless. None of the other stations even showed up, figuring it just another gang killing.
“Your station was apparently the only one to send a live team,” the chief said. “Any idea why?”
“Different news judgment or crew availability,” I answered. “Happens frequently. News coverage is subjective.”
That really wasn’t the entire truth. The homicide had been delegated to me as a punishment, but I was too proud to let that gossip loose in cop circles.
The murder was the kind of no-brainer live shot given to new hires or that would have been busted down to a thirty-secondvoice-over because of its geography. I had been promised a day off the street to work on an in-depth report about nurses stealing drugs from patients, but Bryce and I had clashed during the news huddle, and when word of the homicide came over the police scanners, he ordered me out the door and sandwiched my live shot in the second block of the newscast. Definitely, a dis.
I hadn’t given the homicide another thought since then. Neither had the assignment desk. And until now, the cops hadn’t acted like they gave a damn either.
“No one on the scene mentioned the corpse lacking teeth,” I said. “That might have turned it into a lead story.”
“That word didn’t come until the autopsy,” Delmonico responded.
“Even later,” I said, “that fact would have guaranteed another round of publicity.”
My initial reaction was that the cops seemed to have been trying to keep this homicide quiet. Sacrificing media coverage for a closemouthed approach meant forgoing tips from the public. But why? Unless they already had a suspect in mind. “Any leads?”
“Just the postmark,” Delmonico said.
He spread several large photographs across the chief’s desk. They came from an exterior surveillance camera and each showed the same post office mailbox. Vehicles appeared beside the box in most of the pictures. While the plate numbers were visible, who was driving and what they dropped in the slot remained a mystery.
In three photos, people carried manila envelopes similar to the one the teeth came in. An older man walking a small dog. A teenage girl in a sweatshirt. A figure in a hooded winter parka who couldn’t be recognized as either a man or a woman.
“Do any of these cars or people look familiar?” he asked.
“No. But I’m going to guess this was our sender.” I pointed to the mysterious puffy coat. “He or she seems overdressed forthe weather. The other two people aren’t wearing heavy coats or hats.”
“That may be,” the detective said. “Do you recognize any of these names?”
He read off a list that I assumed were the owners of the vehicles. None meant anything to me, but they might not have even been driving.
Delmonico put the post office photos back in a file. Since our conversation wasn’t yielding much about the perpetrator, I wanted to focus on our murder victim. I glanced at Leon Akume’s mug shot while tapping my fingers against the table.
“Was he identified through fingerprints?” I asked.
No one volunteered anything.
“If he has a mug shot on file,” I continued, “he should have fingerprints on file, too. Unless his fingers were cut off?”
Delmonico shook his head. “No, that didn’t happen.”
I started to think out loud. “So why did our killer yank the man’s teeth, if not to thwart identification?” If the law men knew, they weren’t saying, so I went for a gruesome question. “Were they removed before or after the victim died?”
That detail wouldn’t be public record, but cops often leaked juicy aspects of a crime to the media for goodwill. I figured my brief ownership of the evidence gave me standing to inquire.
The chief cut in, not giving his detective even a chance to reply. “I think we’ll hold tight to that piece of information just now.”
I understood. The answer to my question fell under the category of Things Only the Killer Would Know. The fact that the
“Your station was apparently the only one to send a live team,” the chief said. “Any idea why?”
“Different news judgment or crew availability,” I answered. “Happens frequently. News coverage is subjective.”
That really wasn’t the entire truth. The homicide had been delegated to me as a punishment, but I was too proud to let that gossip loose in cop circles.
The murder was the kind of no-brainer live shot given to new hires or that would have been busted down to a thirty-secondvoice-over because of its geography. I had been promised a day off the street to work on an in-depth report about nurses stealing drugs from patients, but Bryce and I had clashed during the news huddle, and when word of the homicide came over the police scanners, he ordered me out the door and sandwiched my live shot in the second block of the newscast. Definitely, a dis.
I hadn’t given the homicide another thought since then. Neither had the assignment desk. And until now, the cops hadn’t acted like they gave a damn either.
“No one on the scene mentioned the corpse lacking teeth,” I said. “That might have turned it into a lead story.”
“That word didn’t come until the autopsy,” Delmonico responded.
“Even later,” I said, “that fact would have guaranteed another round of publicity.”
My initial reaction was that the cops seemed to have been trying to keep this homicide quiet. Sacrificing media coverage for a closemouthed approach meant forgoing tips from the public. But why? Unless they already had a suspect in mind. “Any leads?”
“Just the postmark,” Delmonico said.
He spread several large photographs across the chief’s desk. They came from an exterior surveillance camera and each showed the same post office mailbox. Vehicles appeared beside the box in most of the pictures. While the plate numbers were visible, who was driving and what they dropped in the slot remained a mystery.
In three photos, people carried manila envelopes similar to the one the teeth came in. An older man walking a small dog. A teenage girl in a sweatshirt. A figure in a hooded winter parka who couldn’t be recognized as either a man or a woman.
“Do any of these cars or people look familiar?” he asked.
“No. But I’m going to guess this was our sender.” I pointed to the mysterious puffy coat. “He or she seems overdressed forthe weather. The other two people aren’t wearing heavy coats or hats.”
“That may be,” the detective said. “Do you recognize any of these names?”
He read off a list that I assumed were the owners of the vehicles. None meant anything to me, but they might not have even been driving.
Delmonico put the post office photos back in a file. Since our conversation wasn’t yielding much about the perpetrator, I wanted to focus on our murder victim. I glanced at Leon Akume’s mug shot while tapping my fingers against the table.
“Was he identified through fingerprints?” I asked.
No one volunteered anything.
“If he has a mug shot on file,” I continued, “he should have fingerprints on file, too. Unless his fingers were cut off?”
Delmonico shook his head. “No, that didn’t happen.”
I started to think out loud. “So why did our killer yank the man’s teeth, if not to thwart identification?” If the law men knew, they weren’t saying, so I went for a gruesome question. “Were they removed before or after the victim died?”
That detail wouldn’t be public record, but cops often leaked juicy aspects of a crime to the media for goodwill. I figured my brief ownership of the evidence gave me standing to inquire.
The chief cut in, not giving his detective even a chance to reply. “I think we’ll hold tight to that piece of information just now.”
I understood. The answer to my question fell under the category of Things Only the Killer Would Know. The fact that the
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