Bradley gave me his hand and I shook it. He didn't smile. He didn't have to. I saw his badge on the front of his waist. His name was spelt D Y K E S. I grinned, and looked him in the eye.
"Detective Dykes," he said. He was sucking on a mint.
I nodded and shook his hand. He had a soft handshake like clutching a small bean bag.
"I didn't get that from the spelling," I said, smiling. He had pronounced it like everyone had up to this point as 'Dax'.
He didn't smile, but Jackson let out a chuckle. Dykes looked over at him unimpressed, then he looked back at me.
"It's pronounced, 'Dax'," he said like it was a fact he'd known all his life.
"I get it. I mean where else could you go with it. Dykes obviously won't work, 'Dicks' is just as bad, but 'Dax', now that's a stretch."
"If you're going to keep taking the piss out of my name, we're gonna have a problem, me and you. It's Norwegian," he said, "of Viking origin." We weren't holding hands anymore.
I nodded, pretending to be impressed. Jackson had a big smile on his face. He also had a gold tooth that was his left upper incisor.
"Detective Jeramie Jackson," he said, "he's Bradley by the way."
"I got that, thanks," I said, shaking his hand.
Jackson had a plain face. It was round and undistinguished. The only thing that stood out was his haircut and his incisor. He looked to be in his forties.
"How long you been on the job?" I asked.
Jackson was the chatty one.
"Almost twenty-five years for both of us. Bradley here's been in homicide six years, this is my fifth."
I nodded.
"You ready to go?" asked Dykes.
I nodded, and I walked with the three of them out the front door to their obviously unmarked police Crown Vic. It was the same shit brown as my LeSabre. I felt sad for some reason. Dykes got into the driver's seat. He pulled out a roll of Lifesavers and popped another one in his mouth.
"Dykes says he never got teased about his name in school," said Jackson. "Apparently his family has been pronouncing it 'Dax' for a long time."
"That's the proper pronunciation," he said. I detected no emotion in his voice.
Jackson was turned around to look at me in the backseat. Dykes was driving. I nodded at Jackson.
"I get it," I said, "nobody calls me Tony except my mother, and that's only when she's happy."
Jackson laughed out loud, and turned around to face the front.
"You guys been partners long?" I asked.
I saw the back of Jackson's head nod up and down.
"Since I got on homicide," he said. "Dykes taught me everything I've since forgotten. Lane tells me you're the best."
"The best at what?"
"You've got a good record. That's why they've paid for you to come out here."
"I did alright, when I did my dime in LA."
"Ten years in homicide?"
"No, seven years. Had to work the street for three years."
"Shit, man, you serious?"
Jackson turned around and looked at me. He was still grinning at me with that gold tooth. I nodded at him.
"Man, I never heard of that." Then he looked over at Dykes. "You ever heard something like that?"
Dykes shook his head. Jackson turned back round to look at me.
"Took me nineteen years to get into homicide," he said. "Seven years on the street, then vice, then domestic violence, then major crimes and then and only then I got onto homicide. What did you do?"
"I guess I got lucky," I said. "I'm good with puzzles."
"Or you kissed the right ass," he said.
I gave him a look, that told him I'd kiss him with a knuckle if he didn't mind himself.
"I'm just kidding with you. Just never heard nothing like it."
I didn't hold any hard feelings.
"Neither had LAPD, haven't since either."
Jackson was facing forward again.
"So what happened after ten years?" he asked.
"I fell out of favor with the brass."
Jackson nodded his head thoughtfully.
"You a fan of the game?"
"Not really, but if it means anything I was gonna put a Benjamin on your team here."
Jackson nodded.
"Why's that?"
"The Lovable Losers had the sorriest story I'd heard. I'm a sucker for sad luck stories."
Jackson laughed again.
"Yeah, well it's gonna be a good one, though we'll probably lose because of this murder of The Baller."
"The Baller?"
"Yeah, that was Ensor's nickname."
"I thought it was someone who played basketball?"
"Yeah, it is, but it's also been used to mean anyone making it out of the streets and into the pros at baseball too."
"So Ensor came from the wrong side of the tracks?" I asked.
"No man, it's just a nickname. Starts off from that meaning but then just comes to be a nickname. He's made a good living out of playing ball, but he's also known for his strikeouts, and you know how a batter doesn't usually strike at balls, well, because he's got, had, so many strikeouts fans started figuring that batters thought they were seeing balls. So he became The Baller. Anyway, shit, takes the magic out of it having to explain it to you."
"So you're a big fan?"
"Nope, just know the game a little."
"What about Silent Red over here, the Viking?" I asked.
I saw Dykes look over at me from the rearview. He didn't have an expression on his face.
"He doesn't much like nicknames," said Jackson. "But damn if I don't like Silent Red the Viking."
Jackson laughed. Dykes didn't say anything.
"You mad at me?" I asked the man in the rearview mirror wearing black cop shades. Still nothing.
"He ain't mad," said Jackson, "he just doesn't say much 'til he's sussed you out."
"I figured you might be mad they're bringing in outside help to piss on your parade."
"Nah man, that's all good. Gonna be our collar anyhow."
"True."
We sat in silence the rest of the way. That wasn't too long. Already by the time I'd shut up, I could see Wrigley Field's stooped shoulder up ahead. It looked like the home of a team that had gotten used to being the bridesmaid, and never the bride. Dykes pulled into the parking lot off of North Clark Street. We all got out. I looked around. This was hallowed ground, if you were a baseball fan. I wasn't. For me, this was a crime scene. I took it all in, just like any other crime scene.
Problem with this one was the location. Outdoors, a huge place. Dollars to donuts evidence would be hard to come by. We walked towards the main entrance.
"We're gonna show you the scene first. That cool?" asked Jackson.
"Cool," I said.
Jackson walked with an easy gate. Dykes walked like he was a robot.
"So you never lost a case?" asked Jackson. "That's what we heard."
"I've lost plenty, if that's what you mean. Sometimes the DA has his head up his ass. Never left a case unsolved if that's what you mean."
"Yeah, that's what we heard. Over two hundred. Is that right?"
"This'll be two hundred and thirty-three, all going well," I said.
"If we get the collar," said Dykes.
"He speaks," I said, grinning at him. Nothing. He was going to be a tough nut to crack. Jackson was all smiles. He was easy.
"Hot damn," Jackson said, "two hundred thirty-three. We'll make sure this one gets solved."
"It will," I said.
Dykes stopped as we got into the entrance. He turned to me, taking his shades off and looking me straight in the eyes with pale blue eyes that looked the color and distance of lost skies.
"How can you be so sure?" he asked. "If there's something I hate worse than murders it's arrogant cops."
"It's not arrogant if you can back it up," I said.
"Look," I continued, standing and looking up at him. "You guys are overworked, chasing leads al
l over this Windy City as the direction changes. I get it. But ninety-nine times out of a hundred murders happen for simple reasons. And thank God for that. Very seldom are we dealing with random events. And when we are, you've just gotta find the impetus that pushed it."
"So you think you've figured this out already?" asked Dykes.
I nodded.
"Somebody had a beef with Ensor," I said. "Likely a whole bunch of people. We've just gotta figure out the best beef with the best sauce."
Jackson shook his head.
"Sauce?"
"Yeah," I said, turning to look at him. "Sauce. The person with the beef but also the spicy temperament to follow through. Let's see what we got."
I turned to go. Dykes and Jackson led me through the concourse and out onto the field. Wrigley Field wasn't designed to be anything other than a baseball field. As such, it was nothing but concrete and steel and urinals. Plus the prerequisite cameras in this age of surveillance and the nanny state.
We got out onto the field and walked towards the catcher's box. I looked up towards the pitcher's mound.
"That's further than I realized," I said, looking towards the pitcher's mound. Jackson followed my gaze.
"Yeah. Sixty feet and six inches from the back of home plate," he said.
I looked at him and grinned.
"You are a fan," I said.
He turned and grinned at me.
"I having a passing interest," he said.
"How high is it?" I asked him.
"Can't be more than ten inches higher than home plate."
"Why do they call it home plate?" I asked. "Guys eating lunch here before they go to bat?"
I grinned at him. He slapped me on the shoulder.
"I have no idea, but that's actually a pretty good question," he said.
We walked off towards the left, towards third base where the Lovable Losers had their dugout. Just before we got there, Dykes stopped and turned towards the stadium, where the fans would be gathered in a couple of days.
"This is where Ensor was found," he said.
I looked at the grass. There was nobody there. There was also no chalk outline. I sighed.
"I don't see anyone," I said.
"You've got to imagine," said Jackson. "We all see dead people."
I game him a sad soft smile. It was a try, but it wouldn't have made it to home plate.
"Hell, I don't even know what the guy looked like except what I've seen on TV and in the papers."
"That's what he looked like," said Dykes.
I grinned and nodded.
"That's helpful," I said. "Case solved. It was really James Ensor who was found here dead. Great."
"Walk me through the scene?" I asked.
Dykes took a few steps forward.
"He was lying here face up. His face was towards the dugout here, almost parallel with it. His right arm was twisted at an odd angle due to it having been broken. His head was looking off that way."
Dykes waved towards the stands.
"His right knee was pointing towards the stands too. His left leg was straight out. A baseball was found a couple of yards from his right hand. His baseball hat was off to the right of him too. Double tap in the chest. Close range but no GSR. Either shot would have been fatal from what the coroner tells us."
Dykes looked over at me and then at Jackson.
"Anything else?" he asked his partner, as he stood with his hands on his sides.
Jackson shrugged.
"What else was around here. I figure he was out practicing, right?"
Dykes nodded, and pointed off to our left, away from the dugout.
"Right. About seventy feet away was a pitcher's net. It had around a dozen balls dotted around it."
"So he was practicing. How many balls exactly?" I asked.
"Is that really important?" Dykes asked.
"Probably not," I said, "but it tells me how diligent your people are."
Dykes shook his head and looked over at Jackson.
"We're thorough, that's why we're amongst the best in homicide," he said.
"That's swell," I said, "so we're all the best standing in Wrigley Field having a pissing contest."
Dykes nodded at Jackson who took out a notebook. Jackson reefed through a few pages.
"Baker's dozen," he said.
"What?" I asked.
"Baker's dozen, thirteen, that's how many balls were by the net."
"See, that wasn't hard."
"You could have counted them yourself with the photos," said Dykes.
I grinned at him.
"Except I haven't been hired as your accountant."
Dykes didn't say anything. He was tough as Brazil nut shells and just as smooth. He looked back down towards his feet.
"Blood on the grass suggests he was shot here and not moved," he said.
He looked at the ground as if Ensor might as well be lying there. He wasn't. I checked. In another location we might have been a couple of clowns kicking tires and talking cars. But we weren't.
"What kind of bullet did we find?" I asked trying to join the conversation with the royal and archaic we. Dykes looked up at me.
"Nine millimeter Luger."
"Type of gun?"
"Don't know that yet," said Dykes, taking another Lifesaver spearmint candy from the roll and popping it in his mouth. The roll was half eaten by this point. He hadn't offered me nor his partner any. I nodded at him.
"And what time was this at?" I asked.
"Lane never told you?" asked Dykes.
"I'm asking you."
Dykes nodded at Jackson and turned round and kicked at the grass where the imaginary Ensor was. Jackson didn't need his notebook for this one.
"Coroner puts it between eight and nine pm."
I nodded at him.
"That was Monday night right?"
Jackson nodded.
"Nobody was here when he was found?" I asked.
Looked like Jackson and I were having a private conversation now.
"Not that we know of. Most of the guys were leaving when Stark..." Jackson looked at his notes again. "Darian Stark came out to see if Ensor was gonna join them at the bar that evening."
"You took his statement?"
Jackson nodded again.
"Says what you'd expect from him. Found the body like Dykes says. Checked for pulse and then placed the 911 call."
"What time did that call come in?"
Jackson glanced at his notes. Flipped his pages back and forth a bit.
"Nine thirty-three."
I nodded.
"And he has an alibi?"
Jackson shrugged.
"Haven't looked into that yet. Haven't interviewed any of the teammates yet. You think he's a suspect?"
"Everyone's a suspect Jackson, until they alibi out. Plus, I bet he's got skin in the game too. What position did he play?"
Jackson didn't have to look at his notes. He's not a baseball fan, you understand, but he knows some things about the game.
"He's a relief pitcher. A left-handed specialist. The Cubbies like to bring him in sometimes when Ensor needs a break and it throws the other team for a loop."
"How's that?"
"Well, he's a leftie. Ensor's right-handed, so it takes a bit of an adjustment to hit against a leftie."
I nodded, and turned to look towards Dykes.
"This is the only practice area here. Right out here at this iconic field," I said, waving out towards the stands and towards the main entrance behind the pitcher's box.
Jackson grinned at me.
"Nah man, you're thinking about the bullpen. They moved that under the bleachers. You enter up there."
He pointed to it with the notebook in his hand. It was way off to the right of us at the end of the bleachers.
"You want to see it?"
"Not unless it's part of the crime scene."
Dykes turned around again, his black aviator glasses still on his face. I was squinting at him. I c
ould have used a pair of sunglasses but I didn't have any. I should have brought my fedora, but I forgot.
"It's not part of the crime scene," said Dykes.
He pulled out his diminishing roll of Lifesavers and carefully unwrapped the outer layers from it. He thrust it out at me.
"Take one," he said.
I did. I was polite that way. Jackson smiled and nodded.
"Alright," said Jackson, "we can all be friends now."
I looked at him as Jackson took a spearmint candy with the hole in it.
"When he offers you a spearmint that means he likes you."
Jackson was smiling big and wide like he was proud of the two of us. I nodded at Dykes. He nodded back. I felt special. Almost like I'd been invited to the prom.
"How do you know the bullpen isn't part of the crime scene?" I asked.
"Because we looked, and CSPU looked and found nothing," said Dykes.
"CSPU?" I asked.
"Crimes Scenes Processing Unit," offered Jackson helpfully.
"SID," I said.
"Huh?" grunted Dykes.
"Scientific Investigation Division at LAPD. Same thing," I said.
Jackson nodded. Dykes looked at me as if I'd spoken something in Greek which had just wasted a moment of his life.
"So Stark would do better if Ensor wasn't in the picture. Is that fair?" I asked, looking at Jackson. The fan who wasn't. He nodded.
"Yeah, you could say that. But you could say that about any of the pitchers for the Cubbies," he said. "They'd all have better chances of getting noticed."
I frowned at him.
"How many pitchers do they have?"
"Over twenty last I counted."
I looked at him as if he'd just told a bald faced lie to a priest during confession.
"Nah man, that's serious. For games they'll have half of their players on the roster being pitchers. Pitchers is the meat and potatoes of baseball. Check this out. Our deceased, Ensor, he cost the Cubbies around twenty percent of their player payroll."
I shook my head sadly.
"But a good pitcher is worth every penny," said Jackson. "It's much harder than it looks. It's hard on the body, the arm especially, and they've gotta be good each and every game to earn their keep. Plus they've gotta be diversified with the kinds of balls they can throw..."
Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 55
