By then the young woman in question was squatted next to the body, pants pulled taut across the gentle curve of her backside, a detail that didn’t escape any of her appreciative audience, except maybe Doc Baker. Attempting to follow the M.E.’s barked orders on angle and focus, she lost her balance and tipped to one side, scrambling to right herself in the railroad-track dirt and debris.
I didn’t envy her. It’s not so bad working with Dr. Howard Baker. He accords detectives a certain amount of grudging respect. But I think it would be hell on wheels working for him, especially as a lowly peon.
At last Baker got up off his hands and knees and strode over to us. By now our little group consisted of Al Lindstrom; the two uniformed officers; a pair of criminalists from the Washington State Patrol Crime Laboratory; Sergeant Lowell James, Seattle P.D.’s night-shift Homicide squad leader; and myself.
“How’s it going, Dr. Baker?” Sergeant James asked.
James is a soft-spoken black man whose careful observance of protocol and keen instinct for detail has moved him steadily and deservedly forward in the department while his less able counterparts are still squawking about racial discrimination and quotas.
“Have anything for us yet?”
Baker shrugged. “The officers found a wallet, probably his, on the ground next to the body. No money, but they tell me there’s an uncashed payroll check. He has a pearl earring in his right ear.”
“Doesn’t sound like robbery, then,” Big Al put in.
Baker nodded. “You’ve got a driver’s license for a change. Picture looks about right, although it’s hard to tell for sure. His face is pretty badly messed up. The name on the license and the paycheck is the same, Richard Dathan Morris. Address is 1120 Bellevue Avenue East.”
I took out my notebook and jotted down the name and address. “You handling this case, Beau?” Baker asked.
“Looks that way. Big Al and I wound up pulling call duty after we finished our regular shift at midnight.”
The medical examiner nodded. “All right. The paycheck is written on the account of some outfit called Westcoast Starlight Productions. We also found a union card from IATSE Local 15.”
“Wait a minute. Hold up. What’s the name of the union ?”
“IATSE. International Alliance for Theater and Stage Employees.”
“And the other thing. What was that?”
“Westcoast Starlight Productions.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Beats me,” Baker replied. “You’re the detective.”
“Anything else?”
“A matchbook from the Edgewater Inn. It was under the body. I can’t tell yet if it was something that belonged to the victim or if he just happened to land on it.”
“Any ideas about the cause of death?” Al asked.
“No sign of booze. At least, no noticeable sign of booze or drugs, either one. He has some puncture wounds.”
“Knife?” I asked.
Baker frowned and shook his head. “Definitely not a knife. But I’m not sure what. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
“Is that what killed him, you think?”
“The punctures? I doubt it. None of those injuries look that serious.”
“So we wait for the autopsy?” Al added.
Baker smiled a cantankerous, superior smile. “You got it,” he answered lightly.
“And when will you schedule that?” Sergeant James asked.
“ASAP. The minute we get him into the office. It’s too late to go back home to bed. If we finish up soon enough, maybe I can take off early this afternoon.”
The photographer had completed her picture-taking and had moved quietly to the outskirts of the group. There she waited patiently for a break in the conversation.
I confess to some slightly lecherous mind-wandering when I looked at her closely. She was a small-boned girl, slightly built, but the curves were there in all the right places and proportions. She wore beige cords, cinched tight around a delicate waist. At first glance my thought was that a strong wind would blow her away. She had large, luminous gray eyes and a somewhat waiflike appearance. A beguiling smudge of dirt from the railroad bed darkened one cheek, and a meandering wisp of hair had broken loose from a supposedly businesslike knot at the back of her neck.
“I’m finished now,” she said.
Doctor Baker wheeled on her. “Well, it’s about time.” He grunted as if the delay was somehow all her fault. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.
“Let’s load him up and move him out,” Baker continued, calling to his waiting technicians. “No sense wasting any more time.”