Half Dead

by Brandon Graham

  Whistler gives her all his attention. “What hotel? Are you serious?”

  “Meet me for lunch if you’re ready to trade. You’ve got my number.”

  “I’ve got my hands full. Don’t jerk me around.”

  “I’m not.” She walks away, clearly enjoying the moment.

  Whistler wants to avoid the lingering reporters, so he ignores Calvert Greene for the moment. He can see Ezekiel is busy giving assignments to the patrolmen. He looks for the other witness, who has moved from the spot where he stood a few minutes ago.

  Whistler finally finds the guy lying in the back of the open Bug Off van, looking impatient and chewing his fingernails.

  “I’m Detective Diaz.” Whistler coaxes his tablet back to life, ready to take notes.

  “Allen Schmidt.”

  Schmidt seems startled. The little man immediately slides out of the van and knocks the doors closed. Whistler wonders if he’s hiding something. Whistler schemes about how to get a look through the van. Allen doesn’t offer a hand in greeting. His bony fingers hold each other like he’s afraid what they’ll do if left unchaperoned. He avoids looking in Whistler’s eyes. “I read the statement you gave the patrolman. Thanks for your cooperation.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” Still glancing everywhere but at Whistler.

  Whistler taps on the digital keyboard: Prison record? “I know this is inconvenient. We’ll get you through this and on your way as soon as we can.”

  “No problem.” Allen lets his rump knock into the van’s door. The sheet metal gives and rebounds, making a hollow two-part sound, clunk-clunk. “We all got a job to do, right? Nothing personal.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Schmidt.”

  “Call me Allen.”

  “That’s right, Allen. Nothing personal.”

  “Never is,” Allen says, a slight swell of judgment in his tone.

  “Tell me what you saw this morning. In your own words.”

  Allen exhales heavily, fatigued by the repetition of the process. He relents without squabbling. “I went by the Bug Off yard, supplied up the van, and got gas at the Shell where we have an account, you know. Svetlana set that up so we don’t have to spend money and wait on reimbursements. That’s why I don’t have a receipt, if that’s what you want.”

  “I have no reason to doubt you.” Allen’s knee-jerk defensiveness makes Whistler doubt him.

  Allen knocks his butt into the van a few times. Clunk-clunk. Clunk-clunk. Clunk-clunk. He casts a skeptical look into the overcast sky and continues. “I drove straight here. I been picking up the professor since he started. He lives pretty close. He comes here for his morning coffee.”

  “You pick up Mr. Greene, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You work together?”

  “I’m his manager, you might say.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “He’s kind of a squirrel, but I like him. It’s the last week of his training. I’ll miss hanging out with him when it’s over. It’s been kinda nice having another human to talk to. I’m a people person. Not the professor. But he’s a hell of a good listener. Greene, I mean. He doesn’t interrupt much. But don’t let that fool you. He’s got a lot of information in that head of his, loads of stuff rolling around up there. His brain might be in a low gear, but it keeps chugging.”

  “So you like him?”

  “I just said so. I prefer working with Calvert to working with Kaz.”

  “Kaz?”

  “Kaz Gladsky. The boss. He used to be a solid enough guy. We had some good times, shootin’ the shit and telling lies about women we were banging. You know.” Allen shows Whistler his stained teeth.

  Whistler doesn’t want to get roped into a conversation about the fairer sex with Allen Schmidt. But the job is to make him feel at ease, keep him talking. So he says, “I know exactly.”

  Allen smiles wider, revealing more bad teeth, and talks faster. “That’s how it was with employee Kaz. Not now that he’s the big boss. Mr. Gladsky, if you please. Over the last six months, Kaz has changed. He’s more interested in status than friendship. Chalk that up to Svetlana.” Before Whistler can ask, Allen adds, “That’s Kaz’s bride. She was the daughter of the man that owned Bug Off. Back when Kaz was only another employee, we made residential house calls. Honest work. Then Kaz got his hook in the old man’s pretty daughter. There was a wedding. The old man dropped dead. Next thing you know, Kaz is wearing expensive watches and driving fast cars, giving everyone orders and throwing his weight around like a big shot. He wears gold necklaces and bracelets. He and Svetlana started changing to these big hotel contracts, switched from chemical sprays to natural stuff that hardly works, and once Calvert is trained, Kaz will never drive a van again.”

  “You don’t think the changes are for the better?”

  “Kaz has become the kind of guy I hate. Let me tell you this story. I’m going to be honest because you’ll find out soon enough. I was in prison.”

  “I had no idea,” Whistler underscores his note to check for Allen’s record.

  “Well, in the joint I read People magazine if I got the chance. I read one story about that Irish singer Bono. You know Bono?”

  “I know who you mean.” Whistler is impatient. But he keeps his expression neutral, knows to let Allen keep talking as long as he’s in the talking mood.

  “Bono was sucking up to Americans by saying in Dublin people would gather at the pub and say, ‘You see that bastard up on the hill in that big house? We hate that bastard. Let’s finish our pints and go kill him and take what’s his.’ But in America, people gather in bars and they say, ‘Did you see that big house up on the hill? One day I’m going to have a house like that. One day I’ll be that guy.’ Bono was sayin’ Americans don’t resent people who make it. Americans are dreamers. Which may be true, but I think it’s mostly bullshit. I guess I got too much Irish in me ’cause I can’t be happy for Kaz. I want what he has. I’ll be honest, I’m bitter about it. Why him and not me? Huh? You know that feeling?” Allen smiles. Whistler figures the ex-con is thinking of driving fast cars and screwing younger women, owning his own business. Essentially becoming exactly what he hates about Kaz.

  Allen says, “In the joint I knew an accountant who poisoned his wife for the insurance money. Real nice guy named Gary. He never seemed like he belonged in prison. Even when he told me how he killed his wife and why he did it, I didn’t believe him. Too good at talking to be a killer. Too smart to be in prison. He’s one of the guys I’ve missed most since I was paroled. Calvert is like Gary.”

  Whistler tries to redirect. “Let’s get back to this morning. You got gas at the Shell station, but with no receipt because of Svetlana’s new system of bookkeeping. You came here to pick up Mr. Greene, same as other days. Then what?”

  “That’s right. I backed the van in here.”

  “What time was that?”

  “It was three minutes to six.”

  “You are certain of the time.”

  “Well, there’s a fucking clock right on the dash isn’t there? Besides, after being inside, I like to keep a routine. The structure helps hold my day together. You understand me?”

  “Go on.”

  “It was kinda miserable out here. Calvert wasn’t in front of Coffee Girl. The ‘Open’ sign was turned on, spilling red light out on the sidewalk. But the lights were off inside. I started thinking that Calvert was going to be late, that he’d gone and gotten cocky about things now that his training is almost over. I killed the engine to save gas, you know, for the environment. I hadn’t eaten yet, so I took out my pepper and egg sammich and ate it up. I gave Daisy the last bite.”

  “Who’s Daisy?”

  “She’s a bitch we use to find bedbugs.” Allen enjoys the confusion his statement makes, before adding, “We use dogs to sniff out infestations. You know, like a truffle pig.”

  “Daisy is in the van right now?”

  “Where the hell else would she be?”


  “Go on.”

  “So I turn around to shove a bite of food through the door of Daisy’s cage. She gets all stupid and starts thumpin’ her fuckin’ tail. She won’t let up and it’s makin’ me crazy. I’m about to get pissed off at all the noise and Calvert being late, when I catch something moving. Over there across that little dog park, I see a man go running past. Next thing, the door to Coffee Girl knocks open, and Calvert comes out big as life, with that woman’s body in his arms. Her ass was startin’ to sag because the professor’s grip was slipping. He was about to dump her on the sidewalk. I sat there, stunned at first. I couldn’t make any sense of it.”

  “What did Greene do?”

  “I’ll never forget it. Calvert’s eyes were big and shiny as saucer plates. He was lookin’ for help, I guess. Or checkin’ for witnesses. It would be hard to say for sure because I don’t live in his head. He saw the van, sank down on the spot, and held that woman’s body to him like he would never let her go. He started yowlin’. That’s when I snapped out of it and got my ass in gear to call nine-one-one.”

  While the Iron Is Hot

  Whistler forgets about Moe’s possible lead. During the interview, Allen Schmidt managed to be both forthright and shady as hell. Whistler is suspicious but decides the best move is to keep from tipping his hand to Schmidt and gather all the information he can before passing any judgments. He walks away from the Bug Off van and moves around the crime scene to delegate assignments. He scans the witness statements some more and talks to the officers who took them.

  He puts Ezekiel in charge of evidence and asks him to continue organizing a canvas of the area. “Listen, Ezekiel, I don’t know how the press got here so fast. I don’t like it. It’s too late to change it. But I need to get our hero Calvert Greene and his creepy coworker to the station in separate cars. They gave statements but I need to ask follow-up questions where I will have their undivided attention. I’m going to see about a warrant for that van. If I can’t get it, I’ll try and get permission from the owner. Let’s have it gone over before they get back from the station.”

  “White van. I get it. But a warrant may be a stretch. What’s probable cause?”

  “I’ll put Ruther on it. That’s what he’s there for. Be ready for the go-ahead. Schmidt said they use a dog to find bedbugs. With Schmidt and Greene being interviewed, somebody ought to check on that dog. I mean heat and what not. Dehydration. We are talking about a living creature. What other choice do we have?”

  “I get it. We’ll see how it shakes out. The witness the press got to, Greene, has already asked about the dog. I wouldn’t bet on having that excuse. Besides, I love dogs. It wouldn’t be right to do an animal that way.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Meanwhile, I’ll work the scene. I’ll call once we finish. You try for the warrant.”

  “Have the dumpsters up and down the alley searched for latex gloves. Schmidt says the suspect ran down the block behind that park. If this is the same guy, we are looking for black gloves. I’m going to ask Ted to at least go over the medical files. He’s familiar with Anna Beth and will know what to look for. He may catch something. If he’s willing, I’ll have him actually go look at Rosa Zhang’s bruising. If we don’t get the warrant, if the dog doesn’t do it for you, maybe we can find another reason to take a look in the van. Something suspicious in plain sight.”

  “Try for the warrant. A warrant would be best. I’m telling you, a high-profile case you want to play by the books.” Ezekiel says. “Don’t ruin the conviction before it even starts.”

  “Of course,” Whistler says. He walks away and calls Ruther. “The victim’s name is Rosa Zhang. She was opening her business for the day when she was attacked. I’m sending a couple witnesses to the house, and I want to do the interview. Calvert Greene is the one who stopped the attack. I haven’t been able to talk to him. The press was all over. The other guy is Allen Schmidt. He’s got a record of some kind. He’s slimy. Cool them in different rooms.”

  “I can do that.”

  Whistler remembers Ruther’s reputation for being the best interrogator in the city. He’s on a roll, doesn’t want to lose his train of thought. He plows ahead, “From an initial walk-around, it looks like the assailant came from the storage room. The back door wasn’t bolted. Alarm was switched off. Two cold shots of espresso and freshly brewed coffee on the back counter. I’d guess Zhang was busy. Never saw it coming. Greene walked in, the attacker had her on the floor behind the counter, the lights still off.”

  “Seem strange Greene walks in like that?”

  “He’s a regular customer. It’s worth a conversation. The “Open” sign was on, the front unlocked. It happened at opening time. According to his statement, Greene walked in, the perp bolted and got clean away. Greene is a little off. Either shaken or hiding something. I’m not sure. We need to look into him. He works for an extermination company, Bug Off. He and his partner, this Schmidt, drive a white van.”

  “I’ll get their records. What’s the victim say?”

  “Nothing. She’s unconscious and on her way to Rush Medical. I sent Suzuki to get a statement when she comes around, get the lowdown from the doctors. In the meantime, Ezekiel is at the scene, and I’m getting Ted to compare Anna Beth’s injuries to Zhang’s. He’ll cross all the “Ts.” I’m going to talk to the rest of the first responders before I leave. I need to get a copy of the video channel 13 aired. Can you have that sent to the house?”

  “I’ll make the call,” Ruther says.

  “Also, about the van. That makes two attacks with a white van at the scene. You think we can rush a warrant?”

  “On what grounds? What are you looking for? What do you mean ‘on the scene’?”

  “On the scene. Driven by witness number two to pick up witness number one. Black gloves, a pair of heels, and an elastic hair band from Anna Beth. If it’s the same van, we could find her DNA and have our killer. Case suddenly closed.”

  “It’ll take time to run it up the flagpole. I’m likely to get my ass chewed for asking. But I’ll make the ask. I’ll try to sell it.”

  “Do what you can. I’ll be there to talk to Greene and Schmidt.”

  “It’s your baby.”

  “Thanks, Boss.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  Indigestion for Lunch

  It’s three o’clock and Moe is waiting on Whistler. Being kept waiting is one of her pet peeves. Since she arrived, she’s been working on her laptop, swigging suds, and ignoring the time. Now she’s run out of work to occupy her overactive mind. She’s getting increasingly irritated. To relax, she attempts to enjoy the dark interior of Legends. The blues bar sits a few blocks north of its previous location along South Wabash. The new iteration is sanitized and tourist friendly, less authentic than it once was. Moe is careful how she thinks about things. She reframes her judgments about the bar. The new location is less broken-in than the place I first visited. She’s comfortable with the reassessment. Truth is, she’s avoided stopping in since they moved, a silent protest against creeping gentrification. The spot was Whistler’s choice because it’s not far from his office and not a cop bar.

  She and Whistler played together at family barbecues from the time they could walk, wearing nothing but saggy diapers and sporting matching toddler tummies. Now, because of their chosen careers, they are at odds. She believes the police feel entitled to act with impunity and box out the press in an attempt to hide nefarious actions. Conversely, she knows Whistler worries that the press, and by extension Moe, second-guess events after the fact and intentionally make cops look bad. Despite that, she hopes they can come to terms. She tries not to take it personally when he treats her as a necessary evil. He acts like his job is important and mine is just frivolous. As if a free press isn’t the cornerstone of any healthy democracy. Her irritation wins out. She finishes her second bottle of Blues Brew and slams it on the table, preparing to leave.

  Whistler rushes in the front door. She
settles back in her seat. At least he has the sense to look like he’s in a hurry.

  There is no cover charge to listen to local musicians tinker on stage in the afternoon. Neither is there a bouncer on duty. The metal detector sounds, and Whistler shows his badge. The woman at the front counter waves him in, gun and all. Moe stands so he can find her at the far end of the long, dark room. It was the least conspicuous spot she could find. He jogs a little to get to her.

  “Sorry I’m late. Can’t stay long. I’ve got a meeting with the squad. Thanks for texting. I was so scrambled I forgot about your lead.”

  “No worries,” she says, attempting to sound casual. “I made use of the time, finished my article, drank a couple beers. Want one?”

  “I shouldn’t. Yes. One beer. When I finish, I gotta get back.”

  Moe waves to the server, watches her swivel her hips in time to the walking bass of the two-piece on stage. The server is named Molly. Moe thinks she’s straight, but she’s been flirting with Moe: complimenting Moe’s boots, her hair, her cheekbones, and lingering for conversation each time she was near the table. Moe understands it’s to run up a tip. She’d done her time as a server during college. Moe has enjoyed the mock flirtation. Now that Whistler is here, Molly isn’t sure who to flirt with. She keeps it basic. “Need another beer?”

  “Make it two, please.” Whistler takes charge, seems unaware that the server wasn’t addressing him. “And a burger. You do burgers, right?”

  “How do you want it?” Molly asks.

  “Medium well. Cheddar. That’s all. No tomato or onion.”

  “It comes with fries. You can substitute onion rings for two dollars.”

  “Fries are fine. How long will it take?”

  “Not long.” Molly struts away.

  “Moe. If you have something on the case, just tell me.”

  In reply, she opens her laptop and passes it across the table. “Read this. If you see problems, let me know. I want to get it right.”