Half-mile walk to the spot. The flap was man-sized, snipped neatly and put back in place, wires twisted with precision. It had taken a careful eye to spot it in the darkness. Milo said, “Who found it?”
The uniform with Quan raised his hand. Young, thin, swarthy.
Milo peered at his badge. “What led you to it, Officer Dalfen?”
“I was scoping the western perimeter.”
“Find anything else?”
“Not so far.”
Milo borrowed Dalfen’s flashlight and ran it over the fence. “What’s on the other side?”
“Dirt road,” said Swig. “Not much of one.”
“Where does it lead?”
“Into the foothills.”
Milo untwisted the wires, pulled down the flap, crouched, and passed through. “Tire tracks,” he said. “Any gates or guards on this side?”
“It’s not hospital territory,” said Swig. “There has to be a border, somewhere.”
“What’s in the foothills?”
“Nothing. That’s the point. There’s no place to go for a good three, four miles. The county clears trees and brush every year to make sure there’s no cover. Anyone up there would be visible by helicopter.”
“Speaking of which,” said Milo.
By the time the choppers had begun circling, nine sheriff’s cars and the crime-scene vans had arrived. Khaki uniforms on the deputies; I saw Swig tense up further, but he said nothing, had started to isolate himself in a corner, muttering from time to time into his walkie-talkie.
Two plainclothes detectives arrived last. The coroner had just finished examining
Dollard, searching his pockets. Empty. Milo conferred with the doctor. The paper scrap in the staff elevator had been retrieved and bagged. As a criminalist carried it past, Swig said, “Looks like a piece of slipper.”
“What kind of slipper?” said one of the detectives, a fair-haired man in his thirties named Ron Banks. Milo told him.
Banks’s partner said, “So all we have to do is find Cinderella.” He was a stout man named Hector De la Torre, older than Banks, with flaring mustaches. Banks was serious, but De la Torre grinned Unintimidated by the setting, he’d greeted Milo with a reminder that they’d met. “Party over at Musso and Frank’s-after the Lisa
Ramsey case got closed. My buddy here is good pals with the D who closed it.”
“Petra Connor?” said Milo.
“She’s the one.”
Banks looked embarrassed. “I’m sure he cares, Hector.” To Milo: “So maybe he rode down in that elevator.”
“No inmates allowed,” said Milo. “So there’s no good reason for there to be a slipper in there. And Dollard’s key ring is missing, meaning Peake lifted it. The rest of the techs were in a meeting, so Peake could’ve easily ridden down to the basement, found a door out, and hightailed it. On the other hand, maybe it’s just a scrap that got stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe.”
“No blood in the elevator?” said Banks.
“Not a drop; the only blood’s what you just saw in the room.”
“Clean, for a throat cut.”
“Coroner says it wasn’t much of a cut. Peake nicked the carotid rather than cut it, more trickle than spurt. Came close to not being fatal; if Dollard had been able to seek help right away, he might’ve survived. Looks like he went into shock, collapsed, lay there bleeding out. No spatter-most of the blood pooled under him.”
“Low-pressure bleedout,” said Banks.
“A nick,” said De la Torre. “Talk about bad luck.”
“Peake didn’t have much muscle on him,” said Milo.
“Enough to do the trick,” said De la Torre. “So who cut the fence? Where’d Peake get tools for that?”
“Good question,” said Milo. “Maybe Dollard carried the blade he was cut with. Maybe one of those Swiss Army deals with tools. Though there’d be no way for Peake to know that, unless Dollard had gotten really sloppy and let him see it. The alternative’s obvious. A partner.”
Banks said, “This is some big-time premeditated deal? I thought the guy was a lunatic.”
“Even lunatics can have pals,” said Milo.
“You got that right,” said De la Torre. “Check out the next city council meeting.”
Banks said, “Any ideas about who the buddy might be?”
Milo eyed Swig. “Please go down to your office and wait there, sir.”