Blood Stains

by Sharon Sala

  Bodie waited until the elevator started down, and then shoved his hands in his pockets and headed back to his desk. The only cake left was the piece he’d started eating earlier. He polished it off, dumped the remnants of the makeshift party into the trash and got on his computer. Her story had been nothing short of amazing, and he already had an itch to know more—about the case…and the woman herself.

  Still full of nervous energy, Maria didn’t know what to do next. She craved answers and action, which was understandable. While this was all news to her, twenty years had come and gone. Whatever clues might have been followed, and whatever witnesses could have come forward, were obviously absent. There were no easy answers to be had. All she could do was wait and see what Detective Bodie Scott came up with. She slid behind the wheel, started the car and drove away.

  She was on her way back to the hotel when she realized she’d missed her turn and was on 6th Street instead of 7th.

  “Dang it,” she muttered, and began looking for a place to turn around. She pulled off into a parking lot, made a quick U-turn and started to backtrack when a building sign across the street caught her attention. The business sold restaurant equipment, including some from restaurants that had been liquidated. Immediately she thought of the mission, and the tiny stove and refrigerator that Henry was using to feed so many people. Before she could talk herself out of it, she began looking for a place to park.

  The CD player was stuck on “Washed in the Blood of Jesus.” The phrase “oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord” kept repeating. Henry sighed. It was exactly what he felt like saying today.

  But feeling sorry for himself wasn’t going to solve a thing, even though everything here was wearing out, including the music. The only thing truly alive in this place was the Spirit of the Lord, and sometimes even Henry had a hard time finding it.

  Suddenly the ladle scraped against the bottom of the soup pot. He sighed. Now the soup was all gone. All he could do was apologize to the next hungry person who was going to go without.

  “I’m sorry…that’s all for today. The soup’s gone,” he said gently.

  The disgruntled murmurs were understandable. He’d been hungry plenty of times in his life. It hurt him to have to turn away hungry people, but he could only do so much, and there had been slim pickings in the pantry today. He was going to have to start making some calls this afternoon to a few of the charities he knew that might make donations. If they didn’t come through, he didn’t know what was going to happen tomorrow or in the days to come. His steps were slow as he carried the last empty soup pot over to the sink.

  Tyrell was at his usual station, washing dishes. He heard the regret in Preacher Henry’s voice as he handed over the pot and knew the old man was worried. Short of holding up a liquor store, which wasn’t on his list of things to do to get him out of this neighborhood, he was at a loss as to how to help.

  Then someone knocked behind them. They turned to see a man standing in the doorway with a clipboard in his hand.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for Preacher Henry.”

  “That would be me,” Henry said.

  The man gave the kitchen a quick glance and then tapped his clipboard.

  “I have a delivery for you at this address. I’m assuming you’ll want it all set up in here.”

  Henry frowned. “I’m sorry. We didn’t order anything.” Then he thought of their food shortage, and wondered if God had worked a blessing and someone was donating some food. “Exactly what is it that you’re delivering?”

  The man checked the clipboard. “I have a commercial-grade cookstove, a double-wide refrigerator, a Deepfreeze and some dishes to unload. Where do you want them?”

  Henry frowned. “That’s definitely a mistake. We didn’t order any—”

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t make myself clear. The items are a gift. I was supposed to give you this letter, as well. So…do you want to keep that little stove and fridge, or do you want us to haul them off for you?”

  Henry didn’t know what to say. “Just a minute,” he said. “Let me read the letter.”

  Curious, he opened it. As he read, shock spread throughout his body.

  Preacher Henry, please accept these items as a gesture of appreciation for the kindness you showed to a stranger. At one time in his life, my father, Andrew Slade, was a preacher. He would have been amazed at all you accomplish. I’m donating these things to the mission in his name. You are an amazing and generous-hearted man, and I know you will put them to good use.

  Please give my best to Tyrell.

  Maria Slade

  A check for five hundred dollars fell from the letter into his hands.

  “Praise the Lord,” Henry said, and slid the check in his pocket as he turned to the delivery man. “Bring in the appliances. I’ll figure out how to hook them up later.”

  “No worries there, Preacher. We’ll be hooking everything up. It’s already in the orders.”

  Henry broke into a smile. “Hallelujah!! Bring them in, bring them in.”

  Tyrell could tell something big was happening.

  “Hey, Preacher Henry. What’s goin’ on?”

  “You remember your dishwashing partner from yesterday?”

  Tyrell frowned. “You mean that skinny white woman?”

  Henry grinned. “She was hardly skinny…just tall. Taller than you,” he added.

  Tyrell frowned. “Man…like it matters. I’m still growin’.”

  “Yes, well, that skinny white woman just gave us a commercial-grade cookstove, a double-wide refrigerator, a Deepfreeze and some dishes, plus money to buy more food.”

  Tyrell’s mouth dropped. “Why you reckon she went and did something like that?”

  Henry laid a hand on Tyrell’s shoulder as his voice softened.

  “’Cause she has a good heart, boy, and despite the way she looks, she’s about as lost as those people we feed every day.”

  At that point the first of the appliances was wheeled in on a dolly. Within a couple of hours, the old cookstove was gone and the new one set in its place. The double-wide refrigerator was humming as it began to cool down, and a chest-style Deepfreeze was doing the same. The last of the delivery turned out to be three large boxes of restaurant-style crockery and pans.

  “Wow,” Tyrell whispered, as he looked around at the gleaming appliances. “This place looks like a real restaurant now.”

  “Wow is right,” Henry said, as his eyes filled with tears. “So…what are you doing for the next couple of hours, Tyrell?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “I’m going to Sam’s Wholesale for some groceries. I might need me a helper to carry the stuff.”

  It was Tyrell’s habit not to show his true emotions, so he shrugged, stifling a grin.

  “I reckon I got time for that.”

  Henry clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s what I like to hear. Let’s get crackin’.”

  Maria would have liked to have seen the expression on Preacher Henry’s face when the appliances were delivered, but if she had, he would have felt obligated to praise her, and she hadn’t done it for the praise. She’d done it for Andrew for taking her out of danger—for not walking away and leaving her behind.

  Armed with her map, she continued to drive around the neighborhood, hoping there would be something in the area where the Hampton Arms had been located that would seem familiar.

  Bodie was at his desk running names through the computer. Without a physical description, it was difficult to pin down who Tank Vincent really was. There were a large number of perps with the last name Vincent, but Bodie couldn’t get a link between them and pimping, and had been unable to get a hit off the street name Tank. He sighed. Twenty years was a long time ago. The info he was looking for probably hadn’t even been entered into a database—or the man from the mission who’d given Maria Slade the information had been wrong.

  Now what?

  “Hey, Bodie…someone from records sent this up.”

  A
file slid across his desk.

  “Thanks,” Bodie muttered.

  He fingered the tab. Sally Blake.

  Immediately his thoughts turned to Maria Slade. There was a real strong possibility that nothing would come of this, but for her sake, he hoped he could help. Now that the file was in his hand, the task he’d set for himself had become real. It was time to let Lieutenant Carver know what was happening. He kept hold of the file, shoved his chair away from the desk and headed for his boss’s office.

  On most days Phil Carver liked his job. He was proud of having made lieutenant five years ago, and had an eye on the captain’s job, but that was down the road. However, there were days like today when he would have liked a do-over.

  The morning had begun with a blowout on the way to work. By the grace of God, he’d managed to avert an accident and pulled off to the side of the road. By the time he got a tow and had a police cruiser come pick him up at the garage, he was an hour and a half late getting in to work. There were a handful of messages on his desk from the captain, and one from a councilman he went to church with, which meant the councilman’s teenage son had most likely been arrested again. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called to intercede, even though he’d firmly explained months ago that since the incidents were no longer the boy’s first offense, he was going to go through the system like everyone else.

  There was a knock at his door. He looked up to see Bodie Scott at the door and waved him in.

  “Morning, Lieutenant. Got a minute?”

  Phil shoved the stack of paperwork to the side. “Yeah, sure, what’s up?”

  Bodie handed over the file. “This. Thought I’d give you a heads-up before I got into this too deep.”

  Carver began frowning as he flipped through the file. It’s a cold case. Why did you dig this up?”

  “I had a woman come in today who claimed to be the daughter of the deceased. She also claimed she’d witnessed the murder.”

  “Then what’s the problem? Find the person she’s accusing and we’ll go from there.”

  “There’s a slight problem. The trauma of seeing her mother murdered caused amnesia. She’s forgotten the first four years of her life.”

  Lieutenant Carver rolled his eyes. “What the hell? It’s not even summer yet, and they’re already coming out of the woodwork. So she’s claiming to have witnessed a murder but doesn’t remember there was a murder. How does that work?”

  Bodie began to explain. By the time he was through, Carver was beginning to understand what was at stake.

  “Did you get a hit on this pimp?”

  Bodie shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Twenty years is a long time. If he’s dead, then you’ve got nothing.”

  Bodie kept remembering the tears in Maria Slade’s eyes and the determination in her voice.

  “We just got started. I’ve got the woman, and maybe being back here will trigger some memories.”

  “She was four. How much of your life do you remember from that age?”

  “It’s not the same thing. I didn’t see my mother get murdered. Besides, I’ve got a feeling about this.”

  Carver grinned. “You and your hunches.”

  Bodie shrugged. He’d been teased about them before. “So…we good to go on this?”

  Carver frowned, then nodded. “For now. See what you can find out. Keep me updated.” Just as he was about to close the file and hand the file back, he noticed a name that set his nerves on edge. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

  Bodie frowned. The lieutenant wasn’t in the habit of cursing. “What is it?”

  Carver pointed to a name on the paperwork. “See this? Frank McCall was the lead on the case.”

  “Yes, sir. How does that matter?”

  Carver sighed as he handed the file back. “He’s in the pen at McAlester doing twenty-five to life.”

  “Seriously? What for?”

  “Dirty cop. Suppressing evidence, planting evidence. You name it. He got caught planting evidence, but by the time it all unwound, there were dead informants and some drug runners in the mix. Long story short—one bad cop makes everyone else look dirty. We spent years overcoming that black mark.”

  All of a sudden the file in Bodie’s hands felt somehow heavier—explaining why so little info was actually in there.

  “Were all his cases compromised?”

  Carver shrugged. “It was hard to tell.”

  Bodie fingered the edges of the file. “Are you afraid that opening this case will bring up the old dirt?”

  “Who knows, but it doesn’t matter. If he suppressed evidence in this one, as well, we’ll eventually find out.”

  “As will the media,” Bodie said.

  “You let me worry about the media,” Carver said. “You’re gonna need all you’ve got and then some to solve this, when all you’ve got is a witness with amnesia and a missing pimp who’s had twenty years to get good and lost. And FYI…if we have something big break, just know your cold case will have to take second place.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now go do your thing,” Carver said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And close the door when you leave. I’ve got a handful of phone calls to return and not nearly enough patience.”

  Bodie left, quietly closing the door behind him. He liked his job, but he had no aspirations to move higher up the food chain.

  Five

  B odie had been at his desk for what felt like hours, going through the cold case file, making notes and phone calls. He’d run another search through their database for Tank Vincent, without success, and had given the task of trying to find the man to a rookie whose partner was out sick. He’d just put the file aside, knowing he’d done all he could do from his desk until he got confirmation on the requests he’d put out, when his partner, Dave Booker, showed up.

  “Hey, Bodie, we caught a murder-suicide. Grab your hat.”

  Bodie picked up his Stetson and settled it firmly on his head.

  “I have my hat. You got that fancy gold pen?”

  Dave grinned. “You know my wife gave that to me for my birthday. I have to use it. Otherwise it would hurt her feelings.”

  “That’s bull,” Bodie said, grinning back. “Your pen cost more than my hat. I’m driving.”

  Dave shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Fill me in on the way,” Bodie said, as they headed for the parking lot.

  It didn’t take long for Dave to relate the tale.

  A distraught daughter had found her aging parents dead, along with a suicide note.

  As Bodie arrived at the address, they realized the media had already descended on the upscale neighborhood.

  “Son of a bitch,” Dave muttered, as Bodie maneuvered their car around a news van. A uniformed officer waved them forward. Bodie parked beside a van from the crime lab.

  “Do we have the daughter’s name?” Bodie asked, as they headed for the house.

  Dave checked his notes. “Terri Ray.”

  Bodie nodded. When they entered the house, the medical examiner was still there, and the forensic team was still gathering info. It was up to the detectives to piece together the last twenty-four hours of Robert and Julia Baker’s lives. After a scan of the murder scene and a few questions to the M.E., Bodie found the responding officer and took his statement.

  The officer ran through his facts, including the daughter’s story. According to her, Robert had left a note explaining how he’d emptied an entire bottle of sleeping pills into Julia’s glass of warm milk, then watched her fall asleep as they lay on their bed watching home movies. In the suicide note, Robert stated that he was waiting for the moment when Julia would take her last breath, at which time he planned to put a gun to his head, because he didn’t want a life without her.

  It was a tragic story, but for their daughter, it was nothing short of devastating. When Dave and Bodie found her, she was in the living room, still trembling from the trauma of her discovery, seemingly
unaware of the tears that kept running down her cheeks. Her eyes were wide and fixed as she watched the police tramping through the rooms of her childhood home. She appeared on the verge of hysterics. The sooner they got her statement and got her out of there, the better.

  “I’ve got the neighbors. You get the daughter,” Dave said.

  Bodie moved toward the sofa.

  “Ms. Ray…I’m Detective Scott from Homicide. I just have a few questions.”

  She quickly swiped at her eyes and blew her nose as he sat beside her.

  The shock of what she’d found was still evident in her eyes. The pupils were dilated, her eyelids red and swollen. When they shook hands, he could tell by the cold, clammy feel of her skin that she was close to passing out.

  Bodie clicked his pen. “Your parents’ names are Robert and Julia Baker. Is that correct?”

  She nodded.

  “What alerted you to the fact that something might be wrong?” he asked.

  “I was supposed to run errands for Dad today. He made lists. I filled them. You know…buying groceries, dropping off clothes at the cleaners or picking them up. Whatever they needed, I shopped for, or else I stayed with Mother while he shopped. This morning he didn’t answer either their home phone or his cell. I came over because I was worried.”

  “So you found them. I understand there was a suicide note.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you touch it?”

  She closed her eyes. Bodie imagined she was reliving the moment of discovery. Her voice started to shake as she spoke.

  “Yes, I picked it up and read it after I found them like…like that. Then I laid it back down and called the police.”

  “How long had it been since you’d heard from your parents?”

  “I talked to Dad last night. I always call and check on them before I go to bed. They are…were…both in their late eighties.”