Back In The Harness
Many many thanks to Jim for describing the evidence at the scene for me. He did all the heavy lifting. Thanks, Jim!--Maer
From Irina DiSanti’s journal
Thursday, 21 Jul 2011
US Post Office
311 Main Street, Natchez MS
1530hrs, local time
I’d just finished filling out the paperwork for the CCW with the desk sergeant when another uniformed officer came over with a manila envelope. He wordlessly handed it to me and I spied my name penned on it. It matched the Sheriff’s handwriting. I nodded my thanks and opened it up. Photocopies were inside and I added the sheet of notes Mayfield had given me and closed everything up. I’d look at them later. The desk sergeant was waiting. I signed the bottom line, swearing an oath that the information printed thereon was as accurate and as truthful as I could make it, and the desk sergeant took it right back for Mayfield to notarize.
I was out of there less than three minutes later with a newly-minted concealed carry license and papers officially deputizing me to serve the Adams County Sheriff Department. Mayfield may have warned me people did things slowly here but even I was a bit dazed by how fast things had gone. So I stood blinking on the sidewalk like a sun-struck idiot, wondering what I’d do next.
Car. Envelope. In that order.
My rental was where I’d left it, parked in the lot facing South Wall Street. I got inside, turned the engine over, and cranked the AC on full blast. I double checked the writing on the envelope. Neat block letters printing my name graced its front. As the car cooled down, I went through the contents. They were photocopies of the files on the murder string. They did much to fill in what he’d dashed off during our interview and I glanced quickly through the pages. A note from Mayfield ordered me to keep the contents a secret from the Agency. The Sheriff was keeping his cards close to his chest. Fine by me. He also tended to be thorough. A note on the Post Office attack had been included and I caught the address. 311 Main Street. Closing my eyes, I put it on my mental map of Natchez.
That’s two blocks north of here.
I buckled up and put my car into drive. Five minutes later, I’d parked in the empty lot next to Biscuits & Blues and had my trunk open. I pulled a pair of nitrile gloves from a side compartment of my large bag and stuffed them in my pocket. No point in advertising unless I had to. I locked everything up and turned to face the building beside the restaurant: the Main Street office of the USPS.
There was a grassy median surrounding it to the front and side, and walking to the rear of the building where the attack allegedly took place, I could see the grass continued along the back. A tree blooming with some sort of white flowers stood sentinel at the rear corner of the building and looking back toward Main, I could see it offered decent concealment from the foot traffic on the sidewalk 30 yards away. A short run of hedge running along the edge of the empty lot added additional cover. I could see why it had been chosen as the site of the attack. Yellow crime scene tape circled the tree trunk and anchored itself on the chain link yard fence 15 feet away. At the far corner of the building, a similar cordon had been set up on the Wall Street side of the property. I stood in the shade of the tree and surveyed the ground beyond the tape.
The grass had been torn up and trampled into a muddy mess. A camera was mounted at the near corner tight against the roofline and I could see from here that someone had hit the lens with black spray paint. Asphalt paved a short run behind the building to Wall Street and a concrete curb kept the grass from crawling across it. Leaning to one side I could see a line of mud like a tub ring on the inner surface of the curb, a scant inch or two above the grass. It had rained heavily in the early hours of the morning, or so Mayfield’s notes had said, and I knew that the blood evidence would have been severely damaged by it. Most of it would have washed away but even so, blood is tenacious stuff—as luminol has proved time and again. There would be blood clinging to the underside of every blade of grass it touched, carried there by the rain flowing over it. There would be traces at the concrete curb where the rain had puddled before running off. I glanced down at my feet, reckoning I was probably standing in the dip that channeled the run-off to the storm drain several yards away. If we tented the area and flipped on that magic little black light, I had no doubt I’d see the path the blood took all the way to the sewer.
I stepped clear of it and eyeballed the back wall of the building.
It was brick like the front and sides, in muted shades of tan and grey. The grassy verge wasn’t very wide, maybe seven or eight feet deep. The wall was close enough to get spattered by blood during the attack. The pattern seemed consistent with that caused by a short knife or several short knives, like a hunting knife or switchblade. One swath of blood seemed consistent with a large blade, like a hatchet or a cleaver.
That gave me pause. A hatchet or a cleaver would leave a big hole in a victim, letting out a massive amount of blood. Looking at the struggle writ large in the rucked-up grass and mud, I could see the victim had been on the ground about four feet away from the rear wall of the building. So why wasn’t there more blood on the wall? I looked up again.
No overhang. Maybe it washed off?
The camera stared blindly down at me. I wondered if there were any other cameras in the area that might have caught sight of the people involved. Rather than walk past the tape and ruin the crime scene further, I circled the front of the building to the other side and checked the street out. A building on the opposite corner announced itself as a conference center. An ATM sheltered beneath the center’s brick colonnade and I crossed the street to check its sight lines.
Good enough to catch pedestrians and the street. Not good enough to see behind the post office. I would have to see if Mayfield’s notes had anything to say on the matter. I returned to my car and debated getting out my camera. It was nearly four on a weekday and rush hour would be starting soon. Did I really want to explain what I was doing to passersby?
No. Get settled. Go over the paperwork. It might have what you’re looking for.
Half an hour later, I was back at the same B&B the Agency had booked for me before, and chatting up the hostess. The Agency had set up a tab to tide me over until I could find a place to live. To judge by the hostess’s expression, the arrangement must have been a generous one. She’d just served her afternoon welcoming tea and nothing would satisfy her but to have a tray sent up.
My suite overlooked the back yard and I could see she’d kept up with her gardening. I closed my door, kicked my shoes off, and booted up my laptop. I opened up a blank document, attached a filename, and pulled the photocopies from their envelope. I had a lot of information to wade through before I slept tonight. I grabbed a pen and got started.
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