Molten Mud Murder Read online

  Chapter Four

  The Tudor-style church stood on the banks of Lake Rotorua. Alexa, who had raced to the cottage to shower and change into a silky gray shirt, black pants, and lavender sweater, arrived ten minutes early and walked in the open front doors. The interior, half full of whispering people, mixed Maori and traditional design. Ocher spirals were carved at the end of each wooden pew. Panels of geometric flax weaving adorned the stark white walls trimmed in bright red. A traditional stained glass image of Jesus in a forest of greens glistened from behind the pulpit.

  Alexa slowly walked toward the colored light flooding through the glass, forming a beckoning path leading to a table of Mary memorabilia. There were her high school and college diplomas. A childhood photo of Mary and Terrance holding hands, a woven flax basket stuffed with envelopes and bills, and next to it, Tiki Man, the wooden statue Mary had had on her desk in Auckland.

  Its iridescent eyes twinkled at Alexa.

  Why did Mary die? She had made promises to Alexa. “We’ll go bungee jumping and great white shark cage diving. And then we’ll hike the Milford Track. People come from all over the world for Milford,” Mary had said and made a reservation for them. “It’s the world’s most beautiful walk.” Alexa resolved to complete these adventures in Mary’s honor.

  After she solved the mud pot case.

  She was alone now in this foreign country. No friends. Tears bullied their way down her cheeks as she turned and found a seat, searching her tote for a tissue. The stab of abandonment made her think of her mother, who had died of brain cancer. Alexa had been six. Only vague memories remained. They had decayed a bit more each passing year until, at age thirty-seven, Alexa could only conjure a dark-haired shadow.

  Deep yoga breaths.

  “May I sit here?”

  Alexa, swiping tears, smiled at a plain-faced middle-aged woman in a black pants suit and scooted over. “Hello. I’m Alexa Glock.”

  “I’m Sylvia Chapell.”

  “How did you know…?” the women said in unison and then laughed.

  “I was her high school friend.”

  “I worked with her in Auckland.”

  “Mary always wanted to leave Rotorua for the big city,” Sylvia said.

  “But she talked about Rotorua all the time.”

  Sylvia shrugged and said, “She’s home now. I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  The church was three-quarters full when a young priest, who introduced himself as Father McKinney, started the service with a prayer in English and then a prayer in Maori. He eulogized Mary Horomia as a seeker and learner. Mary’s cousin Jeannie—the frosty one—joined him and sang the Lord’s Prayer in English and then in Maori. Her voice was plaintive, clear.

  Three men, including Terrance, dressed in white shirts and black coats, joined Jeannie on stage. The men began to dance a slow-motion haka, encircling Jeannie as she chanted in Maori. Their eyes bulged and hands trembled. They stomped their feet and finally squatted, slapped their knees, and stuck their tongues out.

  Mesmerized and confused, Alexa whispered to Sylvia, “Isn’t that a war dance?”

  “The haka is used in all kinds of ceremonies, even funerals,” Sylvia whispered back. “It commemorates any significant event.”

  Father John said some parting words, and then the service was over. Alexa said goodbye to her pew companion, made a contribution to the basket, and found Jeannie.

  “Your singing was beautiful,” Alexa said.

  Mary’s cousin refused to meet her eyes or acknowledge the compliment.

  What is up with this woman? Alexa surveyed the small groups of people talking, some laughing. Most were Maori like Mary, with dark wavy hair, bronze skin, topaz eyes.

  Jeannie finally spoke. “Will you come back to the house for refreshments?”

  “I can’t.” Jeannie’s expression told Alexa she was waiting for an explanation. “I’ve offered my services to the Rotorua Police Department, and I need to attend a meeting in a few minutes.”

  “What services have you offered?”

  “I’m helping with the mud pot case.”

  Jeannie frowned. “Why would you get involved with that?”

  Alexa didn’t answer. She found Mary’s mother and Terrance, shaking hands or pressing forehead to forehead and nose to nose of departing guests, on the front steps. She joined them, giving a quick hug to each. She looked from Lorette’s eyes to Terrance’s and said, “Mary was so kind to me, and you both have been too.” Terrance didn’t answer and looked out at the lawn. Alexa followed his gaze. Kala and Kyle were running on the grass in the shadow of a huge angel statue.

  “Will you come back to the house with us?” Lorette asked, her eyes heavy with grief.

  “I’m sorry but I can’t. I have a meeting at the police station. I’ve been offered temporary work on the mud pot murder.”

  Clouds drifted above, pushed by a stiffening lake breeze. Alexa pulled her sweater tighter. The angel statue had open wings and a beatific smile, but Terrance’s face had gone stone-cold.

  “Be watchful, Alexa from America,” he said. “In Maori culture, boiling the head of an enemy is the ultimate revenge. It is the most potent curse one Maori can make to another, Upoko kōhua. People in the community think justice has been served and don’t want Pākehā mucking about.” Terrance stared into her eyes. “You should not interfere.”

  Mucking about. Mary’s brother had a chip on his shoulder.

  * * *

  Circling the station lot twice, she squeezed the Toyota between a Channel Five van and an SUV, or ute, as the Kiwis called them. She grabbed her autopsy notes and hurried inside to where the press conference had been held. Reporters and news crews, talking among themselves and on cell phones, were filing out as Alexa snaked in, hating that she’d missed it. She was excited to share her news with DI Horne and found him at the front podium arguing with a man. A blond woman in a bright-blue suit stood next to him.

  “You have no right to withhold the name of the deceased,” the man with a Channel One cap said.

  “As stated, we do not have a positive ID on the victim,” Horne said and turned to the woman. “Your Worship the Mayor, thank you for coming. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I expect to be kept up to date, Detective Inspector Horne,” she answered, the vermilion border of her lips colored in by bright-red lipstick.

  Horne spotted Alexa. “Ms. Glock. We meet again.” His eyes lingered a second too long at Alexa’s dressy outfit, and then he glanced at his watch. “Can you accompany me to my office?”

  Not waiting for a reply, he turned and walked to the stairwell. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said, holding the door and following her in. “I always take the stairs.”

  “I do as well.” Alexa took them two at a time, conscious she was being followed.

  His office was on the second floor, in a corner, surrounded by glass. Horne motioned to a chair as he settled behind his desk after closing the door. There was a knock, and then the door popped back open. A uniformed cop said, “Senior, I have something.”

  “Can it wait, Officer Walker?”

  The man stepped inside. “You probably won’t want it to wait.”

  “Officer Walker, this is Ms. Glock. She’ll be filling in for Byers.”

  “How’s it going?” he said to Alexa and then turned back to Horne. “I heard Byers had to rush back to Auckland?” He patted at a wayward cowlick at the crown of his ginger-colored head.

  Horne nodded but kept silent.

  The young officer blushed. “We’ve a witness who said she saw a car leaving the mud pots early Sunday morning. On the phone now.”

  “Okay, good. Get her to the station.”

  The officer started to leave when Alexa said, “Wait a minute.” She turned to Horne. “We need to get a search team back to the mud pots.” She opened her pad
and scanned it unnecessarily. “Dr. Hill determined that the victim was killed by blunt force trauma, most likely a rock, before being dumped into the mud pot. We need to search for the weapon.”

  “Sun’s about to go down, Senior. Should we wait until morning?”

  “No,” blurted Alexa.

  “No.” Horne said, frowning at Alexa. “Might rain tomorrow. Take lights. Find that rock.” The officer nodded and left.

  “The perp probably threw it in the mud pots,” Alexa said.

  “Well…maybe he didn’t. Other things on his mind. So you’re telling me the victim walked down to the mud pots and then was killed? Why would he willingly do that?”

  “Sounds as if he knew the murderer. But why were they there? At the mud pot? Late at night?”

  They stared at each other, digesting, speculating.

  Alexa broke the silence. “Do you mind telling me if I’ve been hired?”

  “You got lucky. I called your past supervisor in Raleigh. Does Dr. Winget always get to work so early?”

  Alexa shook her head to switch gears to the NC State Crime Lab. “She was always in when I arrived each morning.”

  “Didn’t think she would be because of the time difference. What is it? Eighteen hours?”

  “Something like that, depending on daylight saving time. We’re living in the future here,” Alexa said, her fingers playing with a pearl button on her blouse.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Alexa dropped her hand to the folder on her lap. Something about this man made her say stupid things.

  “She recommended you.”

  “I’m glad.” Alexa thought of her former boss. A stickler but always fair. They had stayed in touch after Alexa left for the dental lab.

  “Byers has to stay in Auckland. Our loss. I’ve worked with him before, and he’s good. We can contract-hire you for the case if your license checks out. Our secretary, Ms. Welles, has paperwork for you.”

  “Do you have a lab and technicians?” She had once worked a case using a mobile crime van; it was better than working from the trunk of a patrol car but not much.

  “Complete lab in the basement. One full-time technician, a newbie.” He glanced at his watch again. “She’s probably left for the day.”

  “Do we know who our victim is?”

  “No missing people reports have been filed. I hope to God he wasn’t a tourist. The mayor will have a fit.”

  “I’ve got dental X-rays since the fingerprints aren’t viable. I’ll start by contacting local dentists.”

  “What else?” Horne asked, his face darkened by stubble and worry.

  “Our man had steak and kūmara the evening he was killed. But Dr. Hill doesn’t want to use the contents in the stomach as time-of-death indicator because of the extreme heat of the mud. He had a gold crown, so I know dental records exist somewhere. But wait…” Alexa suddenly thought of the crime scene, of how blood is a fluid and responds to the laws of physics. “Sir, I should go back to the scene with your officers. Even if we don’t find the murder weapon, any blood spatter will yield evidence. Perhaps handedness.”

  “Handedness?”

  “Lefty or righty.”

  “All righty.” Horne’s left eyebrow twitched. “Post the dentals first. Call me if there’s a match.” He handed her a password for the lab computer.

  “Camera, sir. I’ll need a camera with lights and a crime kit.”

  “Go down to the equipment room for a camera. And then you can check out the lab, post the dentals, grab a kit. And I’ll let Walker and crew know you’ll be joining them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My team calls me Senior.”

  * * *

  Why were labs always in basements? Alexa was curious to see what kind of crime lab she had to work with. The one in Raleigh had been state of the art with new equipment and highly trained researchers, lots of them rookie eager beaver graduates of NC State’s Forensic Sciences Institute, one of the best in the country.

  Door was locked.

  After running back upstairs to find someone with a key card, Alexa impatiently gained access. The lab would do. A row of cabinets, work stations, two open cubicles, and multiple microscopes surrounded her. Two doors, one labeled Trace and the other Biological/Toxicology, were closed. A door to a large supply closet and another work station was open. Alexa felt like an intruder in someone’s private space but brushed the feeling aside and sat down at one of the computers.

  The central tenet of forensics odontology was that postmortem teeth can be identified by antemortem dental records. That was, if the person had records. Alexa had learned dental care was publicly funded for Kiwis until their eighteenth birthday. From the dental profile Alexa completed at the autopsy’s end, she knew that this man’s care had continued past then. The gold tooth was proof. But lately, he had slacked off. The cavity had probably been bothering him. And teeth grinding, or bruxism, often indicated anxiety. What was mystery man worried about? She spent thirty minutes sending a mass email with attached postmortem chart and X-rays to dentists registered in the greater Rotorua area. Maybe there would be a match in the morning. If not, she’d go countrywide. Then international.

  She found a storage room in the lab, picked out the equipment she would need, and left.

  In the Toyota, Alexa realized she was ravenous. It was six thirty p.m. and she had skipped lunch. She pulled out of the station lot, determined to find fast food. Mickey D’s, she had noted in Auckland, had invaded Kiwi land like kudzu.

  Ordering a Quarter Pounder, fries, and a drink at a McDonald’s near the station, Alexa removed the pickles and decided to eat while driving. She turned the heat up in the car—springtime temperatures dropped quickly as the sun set—and navigated thirty minutes of wrong-side-of-the-road driving to the thermal park, allowing herself a victory smile for landing a job. Of course, it was at the expense of a murdered man.

  My team calls me Senior. Alexa’s smile widened.

  * * *

  In the mud pot parking lot, Alexa pulled a protective jumpsuit over her funeral clothes, glad for the extra layer. There was nothing she could do about her black pumps. She vowed then and there to store a spare pair of work shoes in the trunk. Boots for the boot. She gathered the equipment—camera bag, hand-held flash, tripod, and Maglite—and started down the path. Horne had assured her the team had the crime scene kit with them.

  Darkness had descended; the path was barely discernible as it curved toward the boiling slurry. Alexa paused to let her eyes adjust and then proceeded slowly, the camera bag nudging her side. The whisper of plops and glops ahead and a scritch from behind spooked her.

  Probably a possum.

  Alexa stopped and looked over her shoulder. Nothing. Her heart was racing. Deep yoga breaths. She started again and in a few minutes made it to the second viewing area above the pots where she had stood just that morning.

  Macbeth’s witches worked below. Three ghostly figures, illuminated by spotlights, humongous shadows attached to each, shifted silently.

  Get control of yourself.

  “Hello,” Alexa called. “Detective Inspector Horne sent me.” She wondered if the police officers were trampling evidence. At least they were wearing suits. She brushed aside the fact that she herself might have contaminated the area that morning. “Could you come up this way?”

  The three figures looked up and then conversed with each other. “We’re working,” one of them finally yelled.

  “I need to speak with all of you. Up here,” replied Alexa. She stooped to pull booties over her pumps and tried to banish thoughts that a search at this point, on ground already trampled by geologists, EMTs, and detectives and now a trio of Rotorua’s finest, was futile. Assume nothing, Dr. Winget had always reminded her staff.

  “Shite,” one of them said, stumbling. Alexa thought it mig
ht be the cop who had knocked on Horne’s door.

  The trio started climbing the bank. “Who does she think she is?” another voice, male, said. Reaching the platform, all three scowled at her. Alexa recognized Officer Cooper, the Maori cop. Next to her was the ginger-haired cop who had barged into Horne’s office. The third guy, towering over his colleagues, was the one who had been with Byers and Horne this morning. She remembered his glare.

  “I’m Alexa Glock, and I’ve been assigned to handle the forensics investigation. Which of you is in charge?”

  “I remember you. You trespassed this morning,” said tall guy.

  “I asked who was in charge,” Alexa repeated.

  “I’m the senior officer.”

  “Your name?”

  “Abel Rangiora. This is Officer Walker, and you already met Officer Cooper.”

  Alexa nodded.

  “Everything is under control.”

  The senior officer had swirly dark hair, a wide nose, and a strong jaw. Hunky. Probably around thirty, Alexa guessed, Tongan, maybe, because of his size. But he could also be Maori. “How are you conducting the search?” Nighttime scenes, no matter how sufficient the lighting, were fraught with chances to err. Evidence seen in sunlight was easily missed and trampled on in the dark. Luckily, it wasn’t raining.

  “When we arrived, we set up the lights,” Rangiora said. “We then divided the safe areas into sections. We’re in section 2A.”

  “Find anything?”

  “No weapon.”

  “I’m impressed with how you’re conducting the search. But let me get down there and scout around for blood spatter.”

  “We’ve taken photos already. Obviously.” Rangiora squared his formidable shoulders.

  “I need to get to ground level and examine the soil for any darkening, which probably won’t show up in your photos. There’s BLUESTAR spray in the kit, right?” Alexa squared her own shoulders and jutted her chin.

  “We’ve searched half the scene already,” Rangiora countered.

  “For the murder weapon, yes. I want to crawl around now, look for spatter.”

  “Yeah nah.”