Killing Zone

by Rex Burns

  The other cars were familiar, too: blue-and-whites of the district’s Patrol and Traffic Control; the plain brown car of the medical examiner, who was just pulling away after pronouncing the corpse dead; the lieutenant’s unmarked white car; and now the brightly marked station wagons and vans of the television crews and the tiny economy cars that the newspapers gave their people.

  “Any luck?” Stubbs sprinted through the gap in the avenue’s traffic and pulled heavily beside Wager. He grimaced as he spit out his gum and unwrapped another stick. “Jesus, I wish I had some water to rinse out my mouth.”

  That was one of the reasons homicide detectives tried not to puke. “No luck at all. How about you?”

  “A possible on the car. A late-model Lincoln Continental—the kind with the spare-tire-hump molded into the trunk. Dark. Blue or black, possibly dark brown. It was there a little after eleven.”

  “The witness see anybody?”

  “Just the car. She was up with a sick kid and when she looked out again, maybe an hour later, it was gone.” Stubbs eyed the apartments across the street and then the weedy lot. “If that was the killer, he took a big chance. There are a hell of a lot more private places than this.”

  Wager thought so, too. Somebody took a chance that big because it was the only chance they had. “I think they were in a hurry.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Stubbs, “we better be, too. The lieutenant’s getting a little red in the face.”

  Every newsroom in the city monitored the police band and heard the lieutenant tell Stubbs he was coming to the crime scene. So the reporters had come, too; and even this far away and over the noise of passing cars, Wager could hear the garbled squawk of shouted questions.

  Stubbs pushed ahead, his wide buttocks wagging slightly as he cut between the heaving shoulders and elbows of reporters toward the voice saying over and over, “We don’t have a positive identification, yet, ladies and gentlemen, so I can’t say who the victim is. As soon as we know something, we’ll have a statement. The next of kin—Stubbs, where the hell have you been?”

  “Knocking on doors, Lieutenant.”

  “Wager with you?”

  “Yessir.”

  The lieutenant shoved away from the crowd and past the picket line of uniformed police to find an almost-quiet circle of mashed grass near the tape. “Jesus, what a madhouse—God damn it, Sergeant, get that goddamned camera out of the crime scene. And keep those goddamned people back on the sidewalks!”

  He stared hotly while two blue uniforms headed off a television crew and walked them protesting toward the crowd near the street. Then he turned to Wager. “Do you have a positive on the victim?”

  Wager handed him the brown evidence envelope that dangled heavily with the victim’s wallet. “City Councilman Horace Green.”

  “So it’s true. God damn.” He flipped through the plastic windows of the wallet. “Next of kin been notified?”

  “Not yet. You told us to wait for you here,” Wager reminded him.

  Wolfard sighed and pulled his GE radiopack from the holster riding on his hip. “Definite homicide?”

  Wager nodded.

  The lieutenant keyed the microphone and called the number for Chief of Police Sullivan. The dispatcher answered that the chief had signed out for the day. “This is Lieutenant Wolfard in Crimes Against Persons. We’ve got a V.I.P. homicide and the press is already on it. It’s something we want to keep the lid on, and the chief should know about it.”

  “Who’s the victim, sir?”

  “I’ll give him a ten-twenty-five on that.”

  The ten-code was no longer official procedure, but most officers still used it; it marked them as veterans. Ten-twenty-five meant “report in person,” and Wager wondered why, if Wolfard was going to talk to the chief anyway, he wanted the eavesdropping reporters aroused by radio.

  Then he decided that the lieutenant, despite the stone face and outside calm, was sweating with nervousness because Chief Doyle, head of Crimes Against Persons, would be out of town until next week, and that left Wolfard holding the sack all by himself.

  The dispatcher asked Wolfard to wait while he checked; then, a few minutes later, the voice came up to tell them the chief was on his way in.

  “The Administration Building,” Wolfard said to them. “Let’s go.”

  They pushed toward their cars through the newly excited reporters crammed behind the police line.

  “Wager—Hey, Gabe!” The shout jabbed through the rising volume of voices. “Wager, it’s me, Gargan. Was it Councilman Green? Come on, Wager, was it?”

  “Hello, Gargan.”

  A television camera swung toward him, its alert light a bright mark of interest.

  “Wager, goddamn it, come on, man! This is real news!”

  “Good-bye, Gargan.”

  The sedan’s doors slammed against the still shouting voices and the steady, glassy winks of camera lenses. Wager bumped the horn a couple of times and then eased forward, the car’s fenders nudging through dodging bodies.

  “Jesus!” Stubbs wiped at his neck, his breath a mixture of fresh chewing gum and old vomit. As they pulled free of the shouting faces he rolled down the window to let out the trapped heat. “I hate those damned television cameras.”

  Wager pulled close behind the lieutenant’s car as it angled across the lane of traffic toward the office towers that framed the vacant sky marking the old Brown Palace Hotel. In the rearview mirror, the television and newspaper reporters piled into their cars and darted after them. “That’s why we have lieutenants and captains.”

  “You think it’s funny, don’t you?”

  Wager felt the skin of his cheeks grow taut with a grin. “I could refer all questions to you, Stubbs.”

  “Hell, no!”

  CHAPTER 2

  THURSDAY, 12 JUNE, 1827 Hours

  That was also the lieutenant’s warning when, after escaping the column of press vehicles by driving into the police garage under the Headquarters and Administration Building, they stood in the oversized elevator that carried the three of them up to Chief Sullivan’s office. “Better refer all questions to me; it goes with the territory.” Wolfard ran a hand through his thinning hair. “And God knows there’s going to be a hell of a lot of questions about this one.”

  “Yessir.” Wager smiled.

  The thin chime of the elevator signaled the fourth floor, and they turned down the carpeted hallway lined with cases that displayed memorabilia to interest the chief’s visitors: a series of badges dating back to the 1880s, assorted prison-made knives and daggers that looked clumsily efficient, a historical collection of handcuffs and other restraining devices, a roster of the state’s hundred or so officers killed in the line of duty, and photographs of Denver’s slain policemen. The only interesting police equipment in that case was a badge taped in black; that would be enough for any cop who glanced at the proudly stiff faces of the photographs. Civilians wouldn’t understand, anyway.

  The chief’s large desk was backed by the standing flags of country and state, city and police; a scattering of upholstered furniture softened the lines of the room. Chief Sullivan, in civilian clothes and a shirt open at the neck, rose from the edge of his desk to shake hands with each of them in the formal way he had. Then he motioned them toward chairs. One of the stories about the man was that he had been appointed to the job because he looked like a movie star who played a cop on television. That might have been the case—to Wager, politics moved in strange ways and no mayor was unaware of images. But this wasn’t television and every chief made changes, some good and many bad. In fact, a lot of the directives coming out of Admin were pretty dumb and seemed to be only for the purpose of making changes. But the office of Chief of Police was far above Wager’s pay grade, and the games played there were generally on paper, so they didn’t often have any real impact on his activities. Not until now, anyway.

  “Want to tell me about it, Douglas?”

  Wolfard told him about C
ouncilman Green.

  The chief’s lean face turned to the sheer curtains that blurred the view across the roofs and toward the shiny gold dome of the state capitol up the hill. The window’s glare etched baggy lines under his eyes and his head wagged once at some thought.

  “Notify his wife yet?”

  “We didn’t,” said Wolfard. “We came straight from the scene. We thought maybe you might want to do that.”

  The chief nodded. “Doyle’s still on leave, isn’t he?”

  It was Wolfard’s turn to nod. “He gets back Monday.”

  “That’s right—Monday.” A deep breath lifted and dropped his shoulders. “We’d better take care of notification. Some reporter’s probably on the way over there already …” He spoke briskly into the telephone, Wager catching a few of the murmured words: “City Councilman Horace Green … the mayor … police chaplain … two uniformed officers as soon as possible … No, now—right now.” He added, “And have them tell her I’ll be over as soon as I can.” As he hung up, the light flashed, and he picked up the telephone with a note of irritation. “Yes? … No, tell them we have no comment yet. We’ll call a press conference when we have some information.” He set the receiver down. “They’re calling already. Now, exactly what do you have so far?”

  Stubbs glanced at Wager, who answered, “Not much. He was apparently killed late last night. One round to the back of the head. They’ll probably do the autopsy tomorrow, but that’s the only visible wound. The lab crew’s still over there; they hadn’t found much by the time we left. I don’t think they’re going to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just a guess. But I think he was brought there and dumped.”

  “Evidence?”

  “It’s pretty close to the street and to some houses, and nobody heard a thing last night.”

  “Motives?”

  “None that we could see right there. His wallet was on him.” Wager nodded at the envelope Wolfard still held. The lieutenant looked down at it with slight surprise and quickly set it on the chief’s desk. “It looked like it had a couple hundred dollars. His watch and a couple gold rings were still on him—a big diamond ring with some kind of lodge symbol. There didn’t seem to be any sign of a struggle, but the medical examiner can tell us more about that.”

  The chief’s hand darted to the telephone again and buzzed the secretary. “Call the medical examiner’s office and tell them we have a rush case and I’d personally appreciate it if they got on it right away.” He covered the mouthpiece. “What’s the case number?” Wager told him and he repeated it to the woman and then hung up. “Anything else?”

  “No witnesses. No one living in the area saw anything last night or this morning. The body was found by a kid playing in the lot this afternoon.”

  The chief, perched on the edge of his desk, frowned at the gray carpet. “No time is good for something like this. But with a fifty percent rise in the annual homicide rate already …”

  Wager knew the new statistics; both major papers had been full of them for a week: fourteen cars a day stolen, a rape a day, an overdose every sixth day, a murder every five days, three forgeries a day … The list went on, and Wager—looking at the top of the chief’s bowed head—wondered why, with that kind of jump in crimes, the man had promoted officers off the street to desk jobs. Even Wolfard could do more good on patrol. Perhaps, especially Wolfard.

  The telephone flashed again and the chief picked it up with a clipped “Yes!” Then, with a slightly warmer voice, “No, Mr. Mayor, we have a positive identification by the investigating officers, but nothing else. I’m talking with them right now … I think that would be a good idea; I suspect the press has already gone over there, so she probably heard about it from them. In about fifteen minutes—fine.” He cradled the telephone and stared at them for a long moment. “You’re going to be interviewing the family?”

  It was a dumb question. Wager only said, “Yessir.”

  “You can put it off until after the mayor and I have a chance to express our sympathies. We’ll tell the family to expect you a little later.”

  “Yessir.”

  Lieutenant Wolfard cleared his throat. “Chief? You want to take Lieutenant Elkins along?”

  Elkins, one of the highest-ranking blacks in the department, served as liaison between the police and black community groups. The chief said, “Good thinking, Douglas,” and punched another series of buttons on the telephone. Wager figured Wolfard had just gotten a leg up on his promotion to captain.

  “You through with us, Chief?” Stubbs spoke for the first time and glanced at his watch. “We ought to get back—the lab people should be finishing up soon.”

  “Right.” But his glance held them a moment longer. “You two keep the reporters out of this. Green was popular with his people. I don’t want this blowing up into a riot, but a lot will depend on how the press plays the story. Refer all questions to Lieutenant Wolfard or to Chief Doyle when he gets back. I don’t want you two making any loose comments to the press that might stir people up unnecessarily. Understand me?”

  They understood.

  The gray eyes shifted to Wager alone, and the eyelids drooped a little as they always did when the chief wanted his listener to pay particular attention. “You’re the assigned detective on this one, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  The heavy-lidded eyes weren’t sleepy; like a lot of politicians’, they masked what the man was thinking. But Wager had a good idea what that was, and the chief’s next words told him he’d guessed right. “You’ll be very careful interviewing the victim’s family members, Wager. And all politically sensitive witnesses as well. Very careful.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep Lieutenant Wolfard and Chief Doyle fully informed. And I will be very interested in the case, too.”

  On the elevator down to their floor, Stubbs’s narrow shoulders bobbed. “Jesus. My first homicide. Why would I feel happier if Ross and Devereaux had gotten this one?”

  “It’s just another case,” said Wager. “It’s just like any other homicide.”

  “I hear you. But I don’t believe you.”

  1915 Hours

  The police lab detectives weren’t ready yet to give them any solid facts. “We couldn’t find the slug or any trace of it. What we’ve got, Gabe, is some cigarette butts, scraps of paper, crap like that. But most of it looks like it was already there. We’ll know something for sure by tomorrow morning.”

  “The chief asked the medical examiner to do the autopsy right away.”

  “I get you. And we’ll work on this stuff all night if we have to,” said Adamo. “But we can only do so much so fast. When we have something, we’ll call.”

  Finishing the paperwork that the preliminary report required, Stubbs glanced at the clock. “The city offices are closed. We’ll have to do those interviews in the morning.” He stretched and his stomach gave a little gurgle of despair. “In fact, it’s four hours after quitting time—Nancy’s stopped calling to find out if I’m coming home. You ready to hang it up?”

  “Green’s wife hasn’t been questioned yet. The chief and the mayor should be there by now. They won’t stay long.”

  Stubbs’s face showed its weariness as he gazed a long moment at Wager. “Axton’s got the night duty, Gabe. He can handle that interview.”

  “It’s my case.” Wager corrected himself, “Our case. And Axton’s got about twelve homicides of his own.”

  “Who’s got twelve?” Axton loomed in the doorway, his head dipping slightly as it sensed the lintel. “How you doing, Lester? Don’t let this hard-charger talk you into working two shifts. He doesn’t know when to quit.” Max winked at Stubbs. “He’s kind of loco about it, you know?”

  Max wasn’t the only one who thought Wager was crazy for doing what it took and sometimes more. He held up the report for Max to see. “Councilman Horace Green, recently deceased.”

  “Uh oh.” The big man read the first two pages. “
They hitting the panic button yet?”

  “Still trying to find it.”

  Max glanced at the file drawer holding his “Open” cases. “What do you want me to cover?”

  Wager shook his head. “I’m going over to interview the family. If I need help, I’ll call.”

  Stubbs shoved back from his desk with a resigned sigh. “I’ll go, too. What the hell, I’m supposed to be learning the business.”

  Max laughed. “You sure as hell got a good case to learn on. And a good man to teach you.”

  It was a quiet ride through the ebbing traffic. A few office workers still straggled toward the cooler lawns of the suburbs, and the first of the night traffic began coming back to town for dinner and the theatres. Overtime was nothing new to Wager, and Stubbs better get used to it, too. And he’d better get used to not being paid for it. Stubbs had called his wife and told her he would be even later than he thought, and to go ahead to his son’s parents’ night without him. He’d try to finish up in time to meet her there. “I can’t help it, Nancy—it’s the job. I told you what it might be like when I transferred, remember?” To Wager, he explained, “Kenny was hoping I could make this one. Being on the day shift, and all.”

  “I can handle the interview myself.”

  “I said I’d go. Let’s do the damn thing and get it over with.”

  They swung onto Martin Luther King Boulevard and joined the column of automobiles speeding past the long islands of grass and low trees that separated the lanes.

  “Got any ideas about motive?” asked Stubbs.

  “No. But I have been wondering why, if he was killed last night, the family didn’t report him missing.”

  “Did you check with Missing Persons?”

  “I did. No report at all on an adult, black male.” Just the usual teenaged kids who most likely were runaways, and two Caucasian females, neither of whom had been missing for seventy-two hours yet, so no formal report could be taken.

  “You think his family might have something to do with it?”

  The odds used to be that way: “Kith and kin killed one again.” But the last year or two had seen a growing number of stranger-to-stranger homicides, usually in the course of a robbery or a fight. Sometimes impulse, or thrill, murders. Now it was only about fifty-fifty that a victim knew his slayer, and that made things a hell of a lot tougher for the police. “We’ll find out.”