Bury Me With Barbie Page 9

  While attempting to get more information, Sabeana had replied with as much tact as possible.

  SMOSS: Dearest Sally, all of us here are so sorry for your loss. You said Time was found dead and mentioned she was bloodied, but how did she die? Was she bludgeoned to death like Hailey? And when will you know if you can go into her home and see if any dolls are missing?

  Sally’s had not yet replied.

  Caresse knew that Time’s collection not only included some of the best examples of the earliest Barbies and outfits but superlative examples of later dolls as well.

  If the killer had struck again, this time they were not focusing on any one Barbie doll, friend, or era.

  The killer was totally unpredictable.

  And greedy, Caresse thought.

  25

  Military explosive ordnance disposal personnel from Naval Air Station Whidbey Island arrived at Time Taylor’s home in Oak Harbor after it had been assessed that she died in an explosion involving a toxic substance. Neither the local police nor the toxicology expert they brought in from the University of Washington had ever been called to a crime scene of this precise nature before. It was eye opening, unsettling, and abhorrent.

  It was critical for personnel operating in and around the contaminated entryway to remain cognizant of the dangers presented by skin contact with any toxic substances. They were less concerned with inhaling airborne contaminants since they were standing outside in the light but chilly breeze.

  Investigators treated the victim as a Jane Doe, pending confirmation of her identity. Prior to the collection of evidence, the photographer, sketch preparer, and evidence recorder took stock of the crime scene.

  Evidence recovery personnel and specialists in and around the porch area wore safety glasses, gloves, and protective clothing as they worked. Methodically, technicians began bagging bits of plaster of Paris and glue, cardboard, toilet paper, aluminum foil, tiny rocket engine fragments, and primer wire. Because it was impossible to submit the entire wall of the archway as evidence, samples of the stucco were removed with sharp, clean instruments, and transferred to leak-proof plastic bottles. Hanks of Time’s wispy blond hair were carefully collected with clean forceps to prevent damaging the root tissue. Each chunk of hair was then packaged separately in an envelope with sealed corners. Tissue, bones, and teeth were collected with gloved hands and clean forceps. Tissue samples were placed in clean, airtight containers without formalin or formaldehyde. Teeth and bone samples were wrapped in clean paper.

  Time’s bracelet-style Seiko wristwatch was recovered and bagged. It had stopped running when hit by flying debris at 11:47 a.m.

  When technicians finished lifting prints from the screen door, they discovered the lock had been filled with glue. Using a thin tool, they filed and scraped the keyhole, depositing shavings of hardened glue in a bag they marked as evidence.

  Investigators followed the trailing wires that fell behind the potted plants and discovered the large battery hidden in the shrubbery.

  “Remote control,” Detective Mel Brinkman surmised. “The killer had the igniter. That explains those little rocket engines.”

  “So something poisonous hit her from all sides,” his partner Keenan Francis guessed.

  “She had open wounds from the detonated rockets, and the poison they carried entered her bloodstream,” Brinkman replied.

  Francis got the picture. “Like chemical darts.” He paused and thought before he spoke again. “Isn’t that a rather convoluted way to kill someone?”

  “Creative,” Brinkman replied. “Insanely creative.”

  Time’s Taurus was parked in front of her house.

  The UPS man who had called 911 sat on the curb by his truck, too weak to stand. The package he had been attempting to deliver remained on the lawn near the front walkway. Investigator Adam Puchalski sat down next to him and attempted to get him to talk, but the man was too shaken to speak.

  “You were on the porch,” Puchalski said. “I’m gonna need to see the bottom of your shoes.”

  Without answering, the man lifted his left foot. Puchalski bent over and looked. Embedded in the tread of the man’s running shoes were bits of skin, plaster, glue, and toilet paper. Gently, Puchalski untied the man’s left shoe, took it, and debated removing the evidence from the grooves with forceps. He realized he should get photographs first, so he told the man he would be back. He stood up slowly, casting a glance backward, and headed off to find a photographer.

  The UPS man, whose name was Don Chambers, had been on the job for twelve years. Until that Monday arrived, he had been quite content with his line of work. Now, as he sat on the curb, missing a shoe, he wondered if he would ever be able to get the vision of the large blond woman, transformed into a bloated creature with craters of skin missing over her entire body, from his mind. Her eyes had been opened, but not by choice. She was missing her eyelids, eyebrows, and forehead. She had lost so much blood she was in a thick, slick, dark pool.

  Raw meat, he thought. She looked like something ready to be hacked up by a butcher.

  Working on the assumption that the vic was indeed Time Taylor, investigator Editha Moran did the necessary background check and learned Time’s father had been killed in prison and her mother died of liver cancer. She also confirmed Time had been arrested once for possession of marijuana, owned the home she lived in, lived alone with two poodles, and drove the Taurus that was present at the scene.

  Another investigator, Patty Graybill, began to canvass the neighborhood. She went door to door, asking anyone who answered if they had seen anyone suspicious in the neighborhood that morning.

  Outside, in the arched entryway, technicians removed Time’s tattered baggy pants, shirt, and Birkenstock sandals. The sandals and clothing would be bagged, and she would be transported nude to the coroner’s office, where her official cause of death would be determined.

  Inside, detectives found two crumbs of bacon the poodles had missed in the front hallway. They combed through the pastel living room with meticulous precision and then headed up the plush, peach-carpeted staircase. After analyzing the bathroom, they moved to the study and discovered the smashed curio cabinet. Shards of glass covered the floor, flung as far as the stacked cardboard boxes across the room.

  Two clear impressions of footprints remained in the carpet, directly in front of the cabinet. They would need a photographer as well as someone to dust the smashed cabinet for latent prints.

  Time’s friend from work, Sally, pulled up a distance away from the crime scene vehicles and patrol cars. She ran up to the house and Brinkman and Francis approached to block her path.

  “Sorry, Miss,” Francis said to the heavyset brunette. “You can’t go any closer.”

  “Do you know who lives in this house?” Brinkman asked.

  Despite the chill in the air, he was sweating profusely. He removed his shades to wipe his eyes.

  “Time. Time Taylor—my friend from work. We work at Burger King right around the corner. When she didn’t come back, I thought I’d run over here and—”

  “See if anything was wrong,” Francis finished for her.

  “Why did she come home?” Brinkman asked.

  “Oh, she does that every day,” Sally said. “To check on the dogs. Is she okay?”

  “Does Miss Taylor have any relatives in the area?” Francis asked, already knowing the answer.

  “No,” Sally said, looking at the ground. “We’re her family. Her friends.”

  “We may need to talk to you further,” Brinkman said, pulling out his pad and pen. “Can I get your contact information?”

  “Sure,” Sally’s voice quavered. “But why? Is anything wrong?”

  Francis put his arm around her, offering comfort.

  Sally was crying now, sensing the gravity of the situation.

  “She was my best friend.”

  “Do you know why anyone would want to hurt her?” Francis probed gently.

  Sally looked up. Her face wa
s blank.

  “Money? There was supposed to be some money her father hid in the house before he was sent away, but we looked and I swear, we never found it.”

  “Anything else? Does she have anything of value anyone would want?”

  “Just her dolls,” Sally said. “I would have to look and see if they’re all there.”

  Francis and Brinkman exchanged a quick glance. They had heard about the cases in Oswego and Tuscon. Was this related? Anything was possible.

  26

  Zivia Uzamba lived in the exclusive Canyon Gate community in Vegas.

  Close to midnight on her second night in town, P.J. Google mapped the route to Zivia’s home and made a beeline to her neighborhood. The city was awash with visitors mesmerized by flashing neon signs and attractions. She blended in with the heavy traffic effortlessly.

  Zivia’s husband, a bodyguard for rapper Lil Beef, had been arrested before a hip-hop awards ceremony by federal authorities charging him with possession of six unregistered machine guns. T.I. was once arrested on similar charges, with much more media attention.

  In honor of Lil Beef, his entire entourage was encouraged to subsist entirely on hamburgers and steak and call themselves anti-vegetarians. Rick Uzamba vowed to continue the all-beef regimen after he posted a four million dollar bond, largely consisting of equity on his $8.5 million Las Vegas residence. He was escorted home, committed to house arrest for a year.

  Zivia complained on the Best Barbie Board that Rick was driving her crazy, eating massive amounts of ground beef mixed with a little bit of pasta and sauce and then falling asleep in his music room with his headphones on and a white paper napkin shoved in the neckline of one of his many Lil Beef tour t-shirts. This happened nearly every night, she said, so P.J. wasn’t worried that he would deviate much from his given routine on a random Wednesday night.

  It would be important for P.J. to take care of Rick first, to get him out of the way. She had no idea which room either he or Zivia would be in. The estate was massive, consisting of nine bedrooms, six bathrooms, a kitchen, living room, screening room, bowling alley, music room, doll room, and den.

  Wherever Rick was, it was likely Zivia would not be with him. If Rick had a drink, P.J. was prepared to spike it courtesy of her baggie full Dormicum tablets, courtesy of Darby.

  She had four strips of fifteen-milligram blue oval tablets. They were now in the left breast pocket of the plaid flannel button-down shirt she wore as a light jacket.

  Just in case Rick didn’t have a drink nearby as he ate and listened to music, P.J. also had a handful of ten-milliliter sealed glass vials of Dormicum that she’d poured into two separate hypodermic needles and put in her right breast pocket, needles upward. Darby had her practice administering water into oranges via hypodermic, and by the time his trash was full of bloated Sunkists, she felt competent at using the needle.

  As a backup to the drugs, P.J. brought sharp wire with her. If it came to strangling, wire would be her choice because it lacked bulk. The wire was not specific enough to be traced, but to be safe Darby had secured it from a friend of a friend living in Boston.

  P.J. parked down the street and walked toward the house, which did not have a security gate at the foot of the driveway. Walking along the hedges toward the back of the house, she saw a series of sliding glass doors leading into expansive rooms filled with marble support columns, Travertine floors interspersed with stretches of rose-colored carpeting, and wide, open windows. As was often the case when the front of a house was shut tight, the back area, which included tiered Cocobolo decks, a hot tub, a pool, gardens, umbrellaed tables, and lounge chairs, was open and inviting because shrubbery lent the illusion of privacy and security.

  Standing in the shadows of the hedges in her over-sized men’s sneakers (if it doesn’t fit, you must acquit), P.J. saw that Zivia was in an upstairs bathroom.

  The window was open and she heard the sound of running water. Logically, the bedrooms were all upstairs, and it was unlikely she would return downstairs anytime soon. On the BBB, Zivia had shared how much she enjoyed lengthy showers and hot baths with salts, aromatherapy candles, and the soothing music of Five for Fighting.

  On the backside of the house, one room away from the sliding glass door leading into the corner room, P.J. saw flickering lights sparking off the windowpane. Creeping along the length of the backyard, she realized it was reflection off the big screen TV Rick was watching. The huge window helped her judge the room’s layout and her prospective entry point. His back would be toward the door to the room as he relaxed in his recliner, headphones off and lying near a speaker. It was not music he was listening to tonight; the speakers were cranked and a Sin City played across the screen.

  Rick had a folding table set up alongside his chair, blanketed with dishes and a tall, iced drink. So much for Rick’s pact to only eat steak and BK burgers (hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, hold the mayo, hold the bun). Traces of ravioli, gnocchi, and clams swimming in red sauce remained in dishes pushed to the edge of the table, in danger of spilling onto the carpet.

  On the floor stood a bottle of Captain Morgan’s spiced rum, which he reached for now, tipping the bottle into his glass, refilling it to the rim.

  Rick himself was an African-American Hulk, so strangling him was out of the question. He looked strong enough to reach back and flip her over his head within seconds of having the wire around his neck, sending her crashing to the floor. At 5′8″ and 120 pounds, she didn’t stand a chance.

  The folding table was positioned slightly behind one armrest so Rick had to reach back to get what he wanted—a definite plus. P.J. evaluated that she could hide behind his massive chair and doctor his drink without being seen.

  Rick sat there, his huge arms bulging on the armrests, and chuckled. On the flat screen that filled much of the west wall, Dwight dunked Jackie Boy’s head in the toilet and told him never to bother Shellie again.

  P.J. had seen Sin City years ago and figured it was only halfway over. She hypothesized that she had about an hour before he would bother to get up, unless he had an unreliable bladder.

  As if on cue, Rick reached back for the remote on the table. He wiped some sauce off of it with the tip of his napkin bib before freezing the movie on a headshot of Benecio del Toro. Then he got up, ran a hand through his dreads, stretched his arms, and rhythmically tapped the Jesus figures hanging from his neck.

  P.J. was transfixed by his jewelry. All of it looked like it was made of real gold, all of it looked like it was encrusted with real diamonds, and all of it looked heavy. Dare she deviate from her routine and grab some bling?

  P.J. looked at her empty duffel, felt the tablets and syringes in both breast pockets, and checked for her car keys in her jeans pocket while thinking how fun it would be to risk selling some gold on the street for quick cash. Of course, Darby would be dead set against it, but she was still so irritated that he was dating the blond cashier bimbo that she didn’t really care at this point. In fact, she felt like being contrary just to spite him.

  Rick went to the east wall of the room and pushed on a door that led into a bathroom. Because the window that faced the backyard was open, she heard him take a leak and flush the toilet.

  After Rick returned to his chair, plopped himself down, and resumed the movie, P.J. began to move stealthily toward the corner of the house, where a screened sliding glass door was ajar.

  The screen was not latched. Gently, carefully, she slid it across its track and stepped inside onto a linoleum area suitable for wiping one’s shoes when coming in from out back, using light from the backyard lampposts in the evenings to see in the dimly lit room.

  She bent down to remove the size nine men’s basketball shoes and the three pairs of athletic socks that secured them to her slim feet. Beyond the blank wall to her left, she could hear the movie.

  P.J. had plenty of time.

  The wall to the right was filled with empty shelving. Straight ahead, there was a wall filled with L
il Beef photos, a shrine to the man and his music.

  That was all to be expected, given whose home she was in. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for one thing that left her stupefied.

  She was standing in a room with no door.

  27

  For Caresse, going to the Madonna Plaza for her next County Times date beat the stuffing out of trying to find a parking space downtown during midday, evening, anytime.

  The shopping center was across the street from the famous Madonna Inn, a San Luis Obispo landmark, equidistant between San Francisco and Los Angeles. Head 200 miles south for the land of fast cars and movie stars. Head 200 miles north to gaze at the Golden Gate Bridge.

  The shopping center itself boasted a collection of clothing, shoe, and sporting goods stores. Adjacent to the stores sat Taco Bell and Applebee’s. Fortunately for her, it was the latter she was heading to for dinner at 7 p.m. that first Wednesday in February.

  His name was Carl, and he was eight years older than she was, with dark hair and a mustache. Squeezed into the cramped restaurant foyer, he took her hand in both of his when she asked if he’d been waiting long. She looked into his eyes and felt a professional vibe, like she was meeting him for business. He said he worked for a real estate appraisal company in SLO, but he dreamt of making a living as a guitarist.

  She was not fully present; her mind was on Chaz. She had dropped him off at her friend’s house for a sleepover and was missing him. She was only halfway through the number of dates she figured she needed for a good story. Aiming for six encounters, she was booked through Saturday and would write her article on Sunday.