Blood Rust Chains

by Marco Etheridge

  A heat rose between his fingers, bringing Quinn back. The butt of the cigar made a dull thud as he threw it into the can. Go to hell, you ghostly bastards, and good riddance. He rose from the chair, stretching out the kinks in his back. The gravel of the roof sounded a dull crunch under Quinn’s boots as he walked to the south edge of the roof. Quiet as a mouse, my friend. We don’t want to call attention to our sanctuary. A car passed on the street below. The sidewalks were empty. Music rolled out into the night from multiple sources, different beats and timbres. Quinn turned away from the roof edge, throwing a long look at the door to the stairway. He shook his head and crunched back across the roof to his chair. Let’s just stay up here, shall we? Out of sight, out of mind, out of trouble.

  Settling back into the old chair, Quinn fished another cigar out of his pocket and fitted a pair of ear buds into his ears. He cued the music on his phone and tapped at the screen, letting the wash of sound fill his head. Isolated from the rest of the night, he cut and lit his second cigar. Letting his head fall back, he stared up at the faint stars, watching the smoke roll up towards them. Quinn’s mind wandered, following the smoke into the stars, into the music, into the ghosts. Time fell away.

  Chapter 12

  James

  James Watson’s sightless eyes stared into the narrow gap of sky between the two brick walls. His dead limbs lay in an awkward jumble, angled in ways that weren’t a natural or pretty sight. One stiff stocking foot pushed against the bricks of the building adjoining the walkway. Beneath James Watson’s broken skull, an aura of congealing blood spread across the concrete walk. The shadowed light in the passageway made the blood look almost black. A man was crouched over the body, examining the pale neck and fixed jaw. Another man, tall and lean, stood on the concrete just outside the pool of James Watson’s life blood.

  The tall man spoke, his words close and loud in the confines of the passageway. “So how long do you figure he’s been laying here?”

  The crouching man did not look up from his work. “Based on the rigor mortis around the jaw and neck, I’m going to say a minimum of four hours. See how his mandible is all rigid.” The man pointed the end of a pen at the dead man’s jaw, tapping the pen against the pale flesh. “It was cool last night, so the body temperature is not going to be dead accurate.”

  “Lowest form of humor Blaine,” muttered the standing man.

  “Yes it is Detective,” said the first man. He looked up at the cop standing over the scene. A small grin was still playing across his face.

  “Okay, four hours minimum. And the civilian that found the body called it in at about 7:30. That means the latest time the victim hit the pavement was 3:30 in the AM. Our dead man is fully dressed but no shoes and no coat. Are you going to be able to get me a little closer on the time of death?”

  “Sure thing, once they get our boy on the slab. But that four hours, that’s a bare minimum. Body temp puts it earlier, and from the looks of the state of that blood pool, also earlier. And see how the rigor is already working down to the chest?” The pen made a cheap tapping noise against the dead man’s flesh.

  “So why didn’t you say that in the first place?” The detective rubbed at the knot that was starting to throb at the base of his neck. This corpse wasn’t the only thing getting stiff.

  “Okay, easy Detective Barnes. At a bare minimum, this guy has been cooling off down here for at least four hours. That much I can say for certain. But looking at the body temp, the progress of the rigor mortis, and the color of that blood, I’m going to guess that we’re talking more like eight hours. When they get him on the slab we can narrow that down to within a half hour, more or less, but we need to open him up to tell you that for sure.” While Blaine spoke, a strange little grin crept across his face.

  “You like this work a little too much, you know that?”

  “I love my job Detective.” Blaine turned his attention back to the corpse of James Watson.

  “Yeah, don’t we all. Lots of pictures, okay? And don’t bag him until I call down, right? I’m going to go upstairs and see what Woo’s got.”

  “You got it Detective Barnes. Go See Woo.” Blaine chuckled out loud. The tall detective winced at his partner’s nickname.

  “You just get me a solid ToD, okay Mr. Smartass?” He turned away from the body and walked towards the street. Muttering to himself, he slid past the visual barrier that the uniforms had set up between the two buildings. A patrol officer stood outside the blue plastic screen. “No one in or out, right?”

  “You got it Detective.” The officer standing guard looked to be about twenty years old.

  Jesus, where do they get these kids anyway, thought Barnes. Damn, I’m getting old. He walked around the front of the building, noting the two squad cars, a forensic van, and his unmarked, all of them blocking the narrow street. Plus one unit in the alley. Hail, hail, the gang’s all here. The neighbors are going to love this, the complaining bastards. What a morning. He walked through the open front door of the building and punched a button on the elevator. Never walk when you can ride, he thought.

  Walking up the hallway on the fourth floor, he saw another uniformed officer outside the door of 410. Thankfully the man was almost his own age and someone he knew. “Morning Sergeant. Please tell me that we have everything locked down.”

  “Everything’s good Detective. I’ve got one man in the parking lot, one out front and three men canvassing the tenants.”

  Barnes nodded with grim satisfaction. That’s the way to get things done. “Great, good work, thanks Sergeant Watts. Has anyone else been into the the victim’s apartment besides Detective Woo?”

  “Not a soul since I got here. I was second unit on the scene. The responding officers got the barriers up around the victim and then I came upstairs. The door to the apartment was open when I got here.”

  “Open as in unlocked, or open as in standing open?”

  “The door was open about four inches or so. So I would say the door was ajar.”

  “And you did not enter the apartment.”

  Sergeant Watts smiled a grim smile. “You know I didn’t Bob. Knocked on the door jam, announced Portland Police, no response. No idea if we’re dealing with a suicide or a murder, so I got the scene secured and put the uniforms to work.”

  Through the open door of the apartment, Barnes saw a man taking slow steps, stopping, making notes on a pad in his hand. The man looked at Barnes and nodded. Barnes returned the nod and turned back to the Sergeant.

  “Okay Jake, thanks. We’ve got this end handled for now. Why don’t you check on the rest of the crew, see if anyone’s turned up a living tenant.” Barnes turned away and entered the apartment, mindful not to touch or brush against anything.

  Detective Woo did not acknowledge his partner’s entry into the room. He stood resolutely still in one spot on the worn wooden floor of the apartment, moving his intense gaze around the room. He held the notebook in one hand and a pen in the other.

  “What have we got Partner?” Barnes stopped just inside the end of the entry hall. He knew better than to walk into his partner’s space on a crime scene.

  Detective Charles Woo’s face was a smooth mask of concentration. Without taking his gaze away from the objects in the room, he spoke.

  “Not much, but not nothing. What about the body?”

  “Ghoul Number Two is working on him right now. He figures maybe eight hours.”

  “Blaine, huh?” He saw the look on the older man’s hard face. “Forget it, he gives everyone the creeps. Goes with the job.”

  Detective Barnes stood where he was, waiting for Woo to continue.

  The younger man seemed to come to some conclusion. He folded the notebook closed and slipped it into his suit coat pocket, tucking the pen in after it. His movements were controlled and precise. He turned to face Barnes. Without consulting his notes, he began to speak.

  “Eight-oh-two, we arrive at the scene. You go to check the body, I come up here. Eight-oh-nine
, I check in with Sergeant Watts. The door to the victim’s apartment is unlocked and standing open about four inches. Watts says he hasn’t been inside. We knock again, do the call-out. No response. Not much of a surprise since we believe Mr. Watson lives alone. Eight-ten I enter the apartment. The first thing of note is that our Mr. Watson is a very tidy man. I would say very well organized. Books just so on the shelves, no visible dust. The first item out of order is that one of the french doors to the balcony is fully open. The other door is closed and latched. The second thing I’m sure you’ve already seen.” Woo pointed to a spot on the floor of the living room.

  The remains of a flower arrangement lay strewn on the floor in a small puddle of water. The shards of a broken vase were scattered around the flowers, partially on the wooden floor and partially on a long narrow Persian rug. The rug had soaked up some of the water, creating a darker red on the densely woven fabric. The vase had fallen from a long low side table placed against the back of a tweed upholstered sofa. The sofa and side table formed an extension of the entry hall, a walkway along one side of the living room. The walkway led to the kitchen area, and then beyond to the french doors. To the front of the sofa was the main part of the living room. Directly under the side table, the carpet was bunched up into several folds, as if pushed by a heavy footfall. The side table was also out of place, pushed out at an angle from the back of the sofa.

  “So, possible sign of a struggle?” Barnes moved a bit farther into the room and looked at his partner.

  “Possible. Or possibly an accident. But taking into consideration the way our victim seemed to keep house, I don’t think he was the sort of guy who left broken vases untended.”

  “Noted. What else do we have?”

  “Literally nothing. Nothing so far. Everything else seems to be in order. The balcony is clean, no signs of anything out of the ordinary. It’s tiny, just wide enough for a chair turned sideways. There are two wicker chairs with cushions, a few plants at either end, and a space between the two chairs. The balcony has a solid wall all the way around it. There is only one spot that the victim could have gone over the wall. Right between the two chairs, directly opposite the open door.”

  “So what are we looking at here? Suicide or something else?” Barnes felt the knot behind his neck starting up again.

  “You already know the answer to that one. Look at this place. This guy was very, very attentive to detail. If the condition of this apartment is any indication, he was a planner. Someone contemplating suicide does not throw themselves off of a fourth storey balcony. Not nearly high enough, no certainty. When was the last time you saw a low altitude suicide?” Woo’s smooth face was impassive as he looked his partner in the eye.

  Barnes sighed. “Yeah, I knew it was too good to be true. Okay, I got it, we have to earn our keep. So we’re looking at a possible accident victim or a murder.”

  “I would have to put it the other way round. Murder victim or possibly an accident. We’ve got an open door, which allows the possibility of entry by someone other than the victim. We’ve got the broken vase on the floor. Granted, it’s thin, but it could be evidence of a struggle. Again, pretty thin in my book. Take those two things away, I’d say you’ve maybe got a clumsy fall victim. Add those two items back in, that theory gets more doubtful.”

  “So what do we know about this guy?”

  “Quite a bit, actually.” Detective Woo noted the sharp response on his partner’s face. “No, nothing that’s going to make this easier, but there are some interesting details. James Watson, sixty-four years of age, retired high school teacher. No criminal record, and I do mean none. Not even a parking ticket that we know of. Records is still checking for me.”

  “So, a good citizen. Great. Then why do we know this guy?” Barnes was already getting exasperated with the dead Mr. Watson. Robert Barnes was a detective who liked things clean and explainable. Junkies with guns, that was good. A vengeful wife standing over a dead abusive husband was one of his favorites. Gang Bangers, he loved Gang Bangers. Simple crimes, simple motives. Not upright, but very dead, Joe-Citizens.

  “It seemed the victim liked to call in complaints. He was just short of a regular with the 911 operators. Not enough to get flagged, but enough that we have notes on him.”

  “Really. Okay, tidy retired guy who likes to call the cops. What, noise complaints?”

  “He had a few of those, one call on a car prowl that turned out to be nothing, but there was one very interesting call. Officers responded to a vandalism call put in by the victim. And get this, it was on Tuesday of this week. Two days ago. In this case, his car was actually damaged. We had officers here on the scene. It seems our Mr. Watson accused one of his neighbors of causing the damage.”

  Barnes let out a low whistle. “So, we have a possible motive. An angry neighbor. It’s even thinner than our broken vase here, but a lot of thin stuff can add up to thick. Okay, break it down for me Partner.”

  A small smile broke across Woo’s impassive face and disappeared just as quickly. Charles Woo did not smile often. When he did, Barnes paid attention. Detective Woo was one of the quietest men on the force. When he said something, it was because he had something to say. His quiet manner had earned him the nickname See-Woo, because you usually saw Woo a long time before you heard a word out of him.

  “Two officers responded. Mr. Watson was inside the building. He called 911 three times in total. He was on the phone the third time when the officers arrived.”

  “Not a patient man, I take it.”

  “It would seem not. He takes them down to the car, shows them the damage, then insists on talking to one of the officers back here in the apartment. During that conversation, he accuses one of his neighbors of vandalizing his car.”

  “Okay. Who were the responding officers, do we know that yet? And what happened to the car exactly. I know you’ve got the name of the neighbor.” Barnes fished a notebook out of his own suit coat and began writing.

  “We’ve got some of it. Just a sec.” Woo reached into his pocket to consult his notes. “The responding officers were Drake and Perkins. You know them?”

  “Perkins, yeah. If it’s who I think it is, he’s a monster. Six-six at least, huge Black man that puts the fear of God into folks. Nice guy.”

  “I like him already. This next bit, the car, that gets stranger. James Watson owned a 1986 Saab 900 Turbo. Seems he was very fond of it. Someone vandalized the hood of the car while it was parked out back in the lot. This is the strange part. The words ‘Not Polite’ were etched into the hood.”

  “What do you mean etched into the hood. Like scratched, or what.” Barnes stopped scribbling, his pen hovering above the blocky scrawl. He looked up at his partner.

  “I don’t have anything more than what’s in the report. Perkins and Drake are off-shift.”

  “And the neighbor?”

  “That we’ve got. A Mr. Quinn Boyd, lives in 302. The officers interviewed Mr. Boyd that night. According to the report, he arrived at the building while the officers were here. Had a solid alibi for his whereabouts during the evening. It seems that our dead Mr. Watson was very exact about the time window for the vandalism. Seven to nine PM is what is noted in the report. Mr. Boyd willingly accounted for his whereabouts during that time. So the officers let him walk. What do you think?”

  “I think a lot of things, most of which I don’t like. But that’s usually the case. Okay, what do we have? A dead guy lying on the pavement ruining my quiet morning. Not a suicide in either of our books.” Barnes paused, looking over his notes. “Our dead guy seems pretty adept at pissing people off. This vandalism thing, it sounds like a very specific attack, a serious fuck-you. We don’t think that our Mr. Boyd messed up our dead guy’s car, but it is reasonable to assume his being accused of it might have given Watson’s neighbor a case of the chappy ass. That puts two possible people on the pissed off list, the car vandal and Mr. Boyd. Damn, this dead guy sounds like a real bitch, and he’s giving me a head
ache.”

  “Another day in paradise Detective Barnes,” deadpanned Woo. “So, action items. I’ve got notes to set up an interview with Perkins and Blake so we can go over the incident with the car vandalism. And obviously we need to talk to 302.”

  Barnes sensed movement behind him and swung around to face the door. He saw Sergeant Watts walking up the worn carpet of the hallway. “Perfect timing Jake, I’ll be right out.” He turned back to Woo. “I’m going to go see what the interviews are turning up. And I’m going to check on 302. I’m assuming your going to stay here, right?”

  There it was again, that flash of a smile. “You know I am Bob.”

  Detective Barnes walked out of the apartment.

  “What do you have for me Jake?” He was glad to have a senior officer running down the footwork.

  “Six tenants contacted so far on floors one and two. Ten units to a floor, so it’s taking a little time. Nothing out of the ordinary, no one knows or heard anything. I would venture a guess though, if I’m not overstepping.”

  “Never Jake, tell me what you think.”

  “From the little bit the boys have heard, your dead body was not the most popular person in the building.” Sergeant Watts’ face remained impassive.

  “Interesting. Good to know, thanks. Has anyone gotten to the third floor yet?”

  “No, it’s taking awhile as I’m sure you can guess. The guys are just finishing up on the second floor. Why? You got something?” The Sergeant’s eyes were alert and sharp.