Hiding Among the Dead

by Chris Bauer

  “Si, Miñoso, ‘shit,’” Philo said, agreeing, “and if you slip it’ll be more like a coupla hundred feet of ‘ah fuck,’ then a dip in the Delaware. Everyone seen enough? Good. Let’s get to work.”

  The biggest issue for them could have been the temperature. At the moment, it hovered around thirty-five degrees, but that wouldn’t keep the power-washing equipment and cleaning surfaces from freezing when the temperature dropped. The forecast, thankfully, was for daytime highs in the forties over the next week. A heat wave, relatively speaking.

  “Patrick, you and Hank hang out on the floor below here, tie off the rope then toss an end out a window,” Philo said. “Miñoso and I will head down to ground level and attach it to the hoses so you can raise them to that floor. We’ll get all the work lights turned on and the pumps primed so we can start pressure cleaning this bitch. We’ve got a few hours before things start to freeze. Let’s get moving.”

  23

  Grace Blessid took a hit of oxygen and leaned forward in her lounge chair to get closer to the large screen TV. She seethed, her jaw muscles tightening. “You sonovabitchin’ bastard.”

  “Missus Blessid, calm down please. Missus Blessid…!” The young home aide crossed the family room to the TV and was about to turn it off.

  Grace yelled at the screen, then, in halting breaths, at the nurse. “You touch that button, Goldilocks, you’re gone. Move.”

  Hank and Patrick weren’t home yet, were still on the grain elevator job with Philo. The local nightly news on Grace’s TV showed sound bites from a late afternoon press conference, where an attorney for Dr. Francisco Andelmo spoke outside a new urgent care facility in Philadelphia’s Kensington section. Earlier today the district attorney’s office announced the formation of a grand jury to determine if Dr. Andelmo and two other physicians would be summoned to answer charges of illegal organ trafficking and negligent homicide.

  On the screen was a spliced video summary of the attorney’s comments, one sound bite after another.

  “Such an indignity. Doctor Andelmo and his associates are saviors and visionaries…

  “This, folks, is a witch hunt. Evidence shows what the DA’s office won’t accept, or doesn’t want the public to know, that this was not a crime perpetrated by doctors…

  “There is a menace loose on our streets, and it goes by the name”—the defense attorney paused, milking the drama—“of cannibalism! The question is, does it come from psychosis caused by new, powerful synthetic drugs on the street, whose abuse fosters this ungodly, unconscionable hunger? Is it a ritualistic cult? Or could this be the work of a deranged loner, a sick and confused person who has a taste for human flesh? Whatever it is, it’s certainly not the work of these benevolent doctors.”

  The court of public opinion. Andelmo’s attorney lobbied it hard, condemning the grand jury formation. Not lost on Grace was his choice of venue for the press conference. Formerly an ice cream parlor, the closed restaurant was now an urgent care facility and free health care clinic, where according to his attorney “benevolent physicians like Dr. Andelmo have chosen to provide services to the disadvantaged public in an attempt to give back.” Kensington was struggling, with the locals needing to fight the drug trade and gun violence demons every day. The new facility was a sign of neighborhood revitalization. At least this was how the attorney portrayed his client’s investment there, with new, privately held urgent care facilities opening in other Philadelphia areas as well.

  Grace grabbed her phone, called her husband, and filled him in with an earful.

  “Andelmo’s attorney’s in the news, responding to the allegations. He’s an idiot, Hank! He says it’s cannibals. Cannibalism! Like there’s a fucking epidemic! You just watch,” she said, prophesying, “Andelmo knows Patrick’s background. Just watch and see if he gets the authorities to point a finger at him. Bring Patrick home right now, honey, please…”

  Philo, Miñoso, and Hank had worked their way down to floor number five, spraying, scrubbing then squeegeeing the slop into open slots in the walls of the ironclad silo, letting it drain to the floors below it, where the sludge collected. They’d address the dried residue later. Patrick tended to the water-pumper truck at ground level.

  The view out the broken windows at night was vibrant, the cityscape a lifelike organism, pulsating with electricity capable of lighting up the darkest heart, but only if a person was in the mood. Hank, on the phone with Grace, rubbed his forehead while he listened. “Uh-huh, uh-huh…” Soon as she finished: “We’ll leave now, honey. Patrick will be fine. See you in a bit.”

  “What’s up?” Philo asked him.

  “Andelmo might get indicted. His idiotic lawyer says the police should be looking for a roving cannibal.” Hank smirked at the assumption, then his shoulders slumped. “I need to get Patrick home, Philo. Grace is worried.”

  Philo was, too. Hearing about the press conference, his blood pressure rose, the hairs on the back of his neck joining it.

  Patrick—his trespass at Elfreth’s Alley—this was so totally a setup, for reasons unknown, although now it might be making more sense. The trespass would remain their secret, Patrick and Philo’s, something Philo reinforced before they left the jobsite. No confessions to Hank or Grace, and certainly not to the police. Not now, maybe never at all. As long as there was no proof he was there.

  They packed up the step van, would leave the other vehicles behind for their return visit tomorrow for a full day’s work at the site. The van warmed while they strapped themselves in.

  Philo’s phone buzzed against his thigh; an incoming text.

  Hello Mr. Trout. Det. Ibáñez. Where can I find Patrick Stakes?

  24

  Pressure cookers. The Boston Marathon and other terror attacks had generated more scrutiny of them. Having a restaurant acquire one on Kaipo’s behalf had been the M.O. in the past, eliminating any connection to her. Personal trainers and massage therapists had no use for industrial-size pressure cookers, but restaurants did.

  Have new monster cooker, will travel.

  She arrived at Welkinweir Estate, a 150-acre secluded oasis with an arboretum and an historic manse house overlooking a lake in Pottstown, Pennsylvania, an hour outside Philadelphia. An ecology-minded non-profit maintained the property’s diverse wetlands and woodland habitats, and it also made a few bucks from the idyllic grounds, the property serving as a wedding venue during late spring and early fall. The estate would host the first wedding of its wedding season in May, less than two months away.

  Olivier assured her the grounds would be empty on the weekend, no ecologists, no public. Kaipo circled the perimeter of the three-story stone farmhouse on foot and breathed in the chilly, early spring air. She descended a steep trail to the lake, needing to maintain her balance down the slope. It was easy to see the venue’s attraction, so breathtaking, with panoramic views in multiple directions.

  Kaipo returned from her trek to the lake and entered the farmhouse. Olivier had related what happened, having witnessed it. Mr. Lanakai, divorced father of one, wanted the Welkinweir venue for his daughter’s wedding, scheduled for October of next year. Unfortunately, the date his daughter wanted had already been booked. Olivier recounted the exchange for Kaipo’s benefit.

  “Unbook it,” Mr. Lanakai told the wedding coordinator.

  “Sorry, sir, no can do,” the coordinator said, his rebuttal pleasant, adding a sympathetic smile. “A main line Philadelphia socialite family has that date. Maybe another date?”

  “Unbook it,” Mr. Lanakai repeated. “I’ll make it worth your while, or I’ll make you regret you didn’t let me make it worth your while.”

  “That’s good to know, sir, even funny, but no, marching in here and going all old-school mobster on me just won’t cut it, so—”

  The wedding coordinator’s body lay eviscerated on the kitchen floor. White male, fifties, short gray hair, good-looking from the neck up. From the neck down, who could know, his throat slit, his disemboweled organs glo
pping up the kitchen tile, with Kaipo needing to steer clear of the stickiness. A tantrum kill, Olivier had termed it. Not meant to send a message, not meant to instill fear in the man’s replacement, whoever that lucky person might be. And apparently with no interest in harvesting his internal organs either, considering they were all here, curing on the kitchen floor. No, Mr. Lanakai had simply produced an ancient Hawaiian, shark-toothed dagger he kept in a sheath under his jacket, performed the disembowelment, then cut the man’s throat while Olivier watched. The 1750 farmhouse had its ghosts, a bronzed plaque noted inside its ballroom. The wedding coordinator was now queued up to join them.

  Kaipo unclothed the body, gathered up the man’s phone and his pocket calendar while eliminating anything that could place Wally Lanakai or his people at the scene. After twenty minutes of circular saw work trimming the body to size, she let the pressure cooker do its thing. She settled into a tall chair at the kitchen counter in her Tyvek suit. She retrieved her e-reader and read.

  Olivier’s admonishment about a certain third party resurfaced in her head: “He knows you exist.”

  Meaning Patrick Stakes, the war-dancing, crime-scene-cleaning gofer. A transplanted Hawaiian with brain damage. Regardless of whoever he might have been before, Mr. Stakes was a nobody now, even to himself. A biohazard jockey cleaning up sudden-death bodies. He was of no significance to her, and yet Kaipo’s random act of kindness had somehow become a problem for Ka Hui. Listening to Olivier, she would face unpleasant repercussions if she didn’t pay him mind. But why?

  She set aside her e-reader and retrieved the Blessid Trauma website on her phone. She found the page dedicated to Patrick Stakes, chronicling the search for his identity. His face and his identifying info, height, weight, hair and skin color, the location where he was found, the hospital that treated him, his likes, dislikes, and hobbies, she studied it all. And there it was.

  “I like riding the bus at night around Philadelphia. I know all the routes, all the stops.”

  The guy at the end of the street two weeks ago, watching her exit the Elfreth’s Alley residence. Bitter cold, in the snow, in the wee hours of the morning, waiting for the bus, and watching her exit.

  He’d seen her where she shouldn’t have been, leaving a crime scene. So far there’d been no repercussions, for her or Ka Hui. In the past, circumstances like this called for a particular solution: eliminate the witness. This time the orders from Ka Hui were to back off. Why?

  As if on cue, a text from Olivier, checking in.

  Is it safe?

  Her response text was she was still on site, there’d been no complications, the porridge was still cooking, and the kitchen could handle disposal of the waste with minimal difficulty.

  Excellent. A bonus for you. An invitation to dinner this weekend from Mr. Lanakai. Details later.

  Not what she wanted to hear. Wally Lanakai had made overtures like this before, the horny bastard. Problem was, saying no wasn’t an option. She was still on site and could put off responding for a few hours, although this new beast of a pressure cooker was crushing it time-wise.

  Back to Patrick Stakes. An innocent bystander; a lost soul worthy of a nudge that might help him learn his identity. Not that simple, she knew now. He was off limits per Ka Hui; an untouchable.

  But this untouchable was someone who could identify her.

  25

  Philo approached the only cop he recognized in the squad room, Detective Ibáñez. “Where is Patrick Stakes?”

  “He’s being interrogated,” she said. “Have a seat.”

  “I’ll stand.”

  Philo was at the Sixth District police station, Old City, at seven a.m., the morning after Detective Ibáñez’s text to him. Patrick was in an interrogation room with the precinct’s detectives. The detective sipped coffee at an empty table, Philo hovering, irritated.

  “I called you back, Detective. Then I texted you. I got no follow-up from either, heard nothing until your boys showed up at six this morning and scared the shit out of him and the Blessids. Grace Blessid is a sick woman. I would have brought Patrick in.”

  “People are brought in on our terms, not yours, Mr. Trout. He’s now a person of interest.”

  “What investigation?”

  “The Elfreth’s Alley murder.”

  Fuck. “What makes him a person of interest?”

  “I can’t share that with you, Mr. Trout.”

  She didn’t have to, but Philo knew. It was Dr. Andelmo and his cannibalism assertion. The police were likely running the theory down, probably got a set of fingerprints from Patrick for the asking this morning, then checked to see if they matched any prints taken from the site and bingo, they’d apparently found something, evidencing his trespass.

  “I call bullshit, Detective. This was a divide-and-conquer thing this morning, so you’d have Patrick to yourselves. You guys know he’s limited. You also know how sick Grace is, which meant he’d have no support down here after they brought him in.”

  “The Blessids called you, didn’t they?” she said, her eyebrows tenting. No hair bun today for the detective, her dark hair gathered into a short ponytail that now listed starboard, with the tilt of her face. “That makes you the cavalry, right?”

  “I was in the navy, Detective, but close enough. I called an attorney. He’s on his way.”

  “Of course you did. Look, Mr. Trout, sit, have some coffee, relax. Far as I know, he hasn’t been accused of anything.”

  “I don’t get it,” he said analyzing her, and still not sitting. “Why text me asking how to find him if they already knew where he was?”

  “The text was premature on my part. They knew where he’d be, just weren’t ready to make a move until today. My bad for contacting you.”

  She sipped, returned her takeout coffee to the table, her look sly, as in you’re not buying this, are you, and by the way, you shouldn’t.

  Philo processed her answer and her body language—what the hell was she saying, and why was she sharing this? He sat.

  “He’s brain damaged, Detective. You guys are trained to get confessions, not necessarily the truth. Before they’re done with him, they’ll have him confessing to every fucking crime at every scene Blessid Trauma ever worked.”

  “Your prerogative to call an attorney, Mr. Trout, and you did, but I don’t think they’re going to charge him. Call it a hunch.”

  The door to the interrogation room opened. A detective exited first, then Patrick behind him, disoriented, then another detective. Philo hustled over. The first thing he noticed was Patrick wasn’t cuffed.

  “You’re free to go, Mr. Stakes,” a detective said. “Thank you for cooperating. Please stay where we can find you.”

  His arm around Patrick, Philo ushered him past Detective Ibáñez, still seated, her smug expression saying see, told you.

  “Rear exit,” she volunteered, thumbing them toward a door. “The media got a tip that an arrest in the Elfreth’s Alley murder was imminent. They’re out front. Seems the tip they got was wrong. Imagine that.”

  Philo guided Patrick, squeezing his shoulder. When they were out of the detective’s earshot: “You want a cheesesteak? You look like you could use a cheesesteak.”

  “It’s eight thirty in the morning, sir.”

  “Pat’s is open twenty-four seven, right? I’m hungry. You?”

  “I could eat, sir.”

  Outside the precinct, next to Philo’s Jeep, Philo had one question for him. “So they were good with your explanation?”

  “Yes, sir.” Patrick cleared his throat, ready to orate.

  “‘I went in the house,’” tears rimmed his eyes, then came a subdued mewling. “‘I didn’t see Philo or the detective. I sat in a chair to get warm, touched some stuff on the table next to me, just picked it up, some mail, I don’t know why, sir. When I was warmed up enough I, ah, left to wait for Philo and the detective outside. They never knew I was in the house.’”

  “Perfect,” Philo said, clapping h
is shoulder. “You did great, Patrick.”

  “Just a little white lie, sir, right? I didn’t kill no one in that house, sir. Just a little white lie so people know I didn’t do it, right, sir?”

  “Exactly.”

  Patrick strapped himself into the passenger seat. Philo closed his car door for him, had him roll the window down. “Give me a minute, Patrick. I’ll be right back.”

  Back inside the station, Philo found Detective Ibáñez speaking with the interrogating detectives. “I need a word with you, Detective.”

  “Over here,” she said, pointing to a corner.

  Philo started, his voice low. “Look, I’m a little lost here. The text you sent me last night,” he lowered his voice even more, “I mean, this isn’t even your jurisdiction. If I didn’t know any better—”

  “That’s enough, Trout,” she said, her hand up. “No more about it. Like I said, my bad.”

  Her text had made a difference. After it, and after getting nothing back from his response to her, Philo stayed at Patrick’s place and coached him. By midnight Patrick had gotten his story straight, complete with the whimpering and the tears, believable because for Patrick, the emotion was real.

  “I don’t know what the hell just happened in there, but all I can say is you guys arrived at the right answer.” He scoured the squad room. “And without his attorney present. A no-show. Last time I use him.”

  “Look. Chunks were torn out of the body,” she said. “They asked Mr. Stakes to give them a sample of his bite. He cooperated. When the lab checks it out, I’m figuring his bite won’t match. Plus, the other evidence that he was in the house—”

  “Fingerprints.”

  “I’m not at liberty to confirm or deny that. But his story on how that evidence got there now has corroboration as being plausible.”

  This took Philo aback. “Corroboration? This still isn’t working for me. What corroboration, by whom?”