The Broken Souls (Carson Ryder, Book 3)

by J. A. Kerley

  We entered his office. A desk, couch, couple chairs. A shelf with various memorabilia, photos of music celebrities, three autographed baseballs, an autographed glove. He pointed to the chairs and we sat. Haley followed, picking up a sheaf of papers on his desk.

  “Our regular copywriter, Sharie Dumond, was cleaning old files off the computer and found a file Teesh created. It’s a small file, just a few pages, titled ‘Danbury’.”

  I sat forward. “Danbury?”

  “I think I mentioned Teesh met with DeeDee Danbury a few times, the reporter on Channel 14. The file appears to be her notes from the meetings. I figure Teesh finished writing commercials one day, decided to transcribe handwritten notes into the computer. They’re a little hard to decipher – she transcribed direct and in her own shorthand.”

  “Our names are in the writings?”

  “They resemble class notes, like Ms Danbury was lecturing and Teesh was writing. Here’s the page …”

  I leaned and took the page from Haley’s hand, read the reference.

  MPD Protec’s: Det C Ryder, Det H Nautilus. If trbl. // also SP, Arn Norlin.

  “Anything important, Carson?” Harry asked, peering over my shoulder.

  I shook my head, feeling the letdown. “Not really. I’m sure the message simply means should Taneesha have any trouble with the MPD, her protectors would be you and me.”

  “Trouble?” Haley frowned. “Protectors?”

  “It’s not like it sounds,” I said. “It’s names to drop if she was being given a runaround, maybe needed a little access. Some cops shut reporters out as a hobby.”

  Pace Logan came to mind. I hoped he wasn’t passing that trait on to Shuttles. You don’t hand the press the store, but treat them right and it comes back in one way or another. I’d learned that much even before dating a reporter.

  “How about the other name?” Haley asked.

  “Same things, different jurisdiction. Arn Norlin’s with the state cops. He’s a good guy, Dani’s had an in with Arn for years.”

  “Dani?”

  “Ms Danbury,” I said. “Her name’s Danielle, thus the DD initials and nickname.”

  “You know her?”

  Cornered. “I, uh, she’s my …”

  Harry winked. “Ms Danbury is my partner’s significant other, Mr Haley, if that’s what it’s called anymore. Cop and reporter, oil and water. Somehow those two have been together for a year.”

  Haley smiled. “Congratulations. From what Teesh told me about your girlfriend, you’re a lucky man.”

  I tried to affect a courteous smile, but it felt like I was baring my teeth. Haley said, “Sorry I brought you up here for nothing, but I thought it might be important. I wanted to call before I headed out of town tonight.”

  “Vacation?” Harry asked. I stood and turned away, my face beginning to ache from not screaming.

  “My brother lives in Atlanta. I’m visiting for a couple days, take in a game. Take my mind off things a bit.”

  “Braves?” Harry said. “You a fan?”

  Haley nodded. “I played ball in college, outfield. How about you?”

  Harry pushed up from the chair, juiced. “Love the game. But my experience is Little League, kind of. Know that ball field on the west side of Pritchard? I helped get it running a few years back.”

  Oh Jeez, not that story again …

  Haley shook his head. “Don’t know the field. But I’m not usually out that direction. Hey, you want copies of Teesh’s notes? Just to have them?”

  “Sure,” Harry said. “We’ll add them to the case file. You ever at a game when Aaron was playing?”

  “Let’s go, bro,” I said, grabbing him by the elbow.

  “The kids were hoping for a scoreboard, Carson, nothing fancy, slap up numbered cards for runs, outs. Be nice if that happened.”

  “Umph,” I said.

  Harry slid the cruiser across three lanes, oblivious to the angry horns behind us. He glanced in the rear-view and waved, thanks for letting us in. The baseball conversation with Lincoln Haley had restarted my partner’s soliloquy about creating a ball field with Buck Kincannon.

  “Hey, Cars, let’s take a detour, check it out.”

  “Check what out?”

  “The ball field. I never get over this way. Take ten minutes.”

  I can leap from the car, I thought as Harry cut the wheel toward his field of dreams. Open the door, scream “Geronimo” …

  Harry drove a few miles, slowed, craning his head side to side. Modular buildings surrounded by fences and barbwire, a metals-processing operation, a school bus graveyard. Even with windows tight and the AC on recirculate, a hard chemical smell seeped into the car.

  “It’s been so long I don’t remember where it was. Things have changed. I’m all turned around.”

  Harry pulled up in front of a bone-skinny guy wearing nothing but a loose pair of raggedy jeans. His face was patchy, like mange, and he looked in his forties.

  Harry rolled down his window. “Say, bro, you know if there’s a little ball field nearby?”

  The guy stumbled toward us. His face grinned with something like recognition and I saw he had meth mouth: gums dissolved away, blackened teeth showing to the bleeding roots.

  “Haa-i-eeee,” the guy keened, grabbing at Harry’s elbow. “Haaa-i-eeeee.”

  Up close, looking past the ravaged mouth, the guy was maybe eighteen. Smoking crystal methedrine was like gargling with muriatic acid. Plus users scratched their skin apart trying to get at the bugs crawling in their veins. Weight loss left skin hanging like wet cloth.

  “Uh, thanks anyway.” Harry drove away, shooting glances into the rear-view. The guy kept yelling, “Haaa-i-eeee.”

  “That was instructional,” I said.

  “It was around here. I know it was.”

  “Maybe Buckie airlifts the field to Minnesota this time of year, where it’s cooler.”

  “What?”

  “If you can’t find it, you can’t find it. Let’s head back.”

  He tapped his fingers on the wheel, thought. “One more stop.”

  “Harry …”

  We pulled into a rough neighborhood of decaying buildings and dead-eyed people. We passed a school, windows grated. The businesses were typical for the neighborhood: check-cashing outlets, bars, pawnshops, bunkerized groceries where clerks cowered behind bulletproof glass.

  Harry stopped in front of the only festive storefront on the block, a hanging sign proclaiming, DreamCenter Social Services. The façade was a colorful mural, faces of white and brown, tree-lined streets, a man grilling hot dogs, children swimming in a pool, a friendly yellow sun watching over everything. It was as incongruous as Oz in downtown Nagasaki, 1946.

  We checked twice to make sure the car was locked, and headed in the door.

  A woman’s voice trumpeted our entrance. “Harry Nautilus? Harry-damn-Nautilus!”

  Mardy Baker was a big woman, taller than my six-one but shorter than Harry’s six-four. She wore baggy khakis and a T-shirt emblazoned with the words, JOIN THE COMMUNI-TEAM! Improbably, she wore pink high heels, backless and toeless. Her nails, up and down, were painted with gold glitter.

  Ms Baker’s ebullience seemed proportionate to her size. She wrapped Harry in a hug the size of a truck tire, then stared at his bemused face.

  “Lord have mercy, Harry-damn-Nautilus. Whoops, is that blasphemous? I see your name in the paper now and then, Harry. Ain’t you something.”

  Harry introduced us. We were bustled into an office, desk and chair and lots of shelves. Ms Baker thundered down the hall for coffee. I studied the surroundings: upbeat posters on the walls, stacks of handouts advising people to get tested for AIDS, avoid alcohol during pregnancy, obtain a GED, and so forth. There was a colorful rug in one corner, toys on it; where kids could play while she counseled parents, I supposed.

  Ms Baker returned with a carafe of coffee on a tray, creamers, sugar packets. She leaned against the wall and studied Harry.


  “What brings you here, Harry? Just in the neighborhood?”

  “I was talking to Carson a few days back, the old ball-field project came up. We were nearby, so I thought I’d show him. I can’t seem to find it.”

  Ms Baker blew out a breath.

  “Maybe because it’s under a warehouse.”

  Harry’s shoulders fell. “After all that work, equipment, the improvements? What the hell happened?”

  Mardy Baker turned to the window and looked out over the streetscape. “My recollection of those days might not be precise, Harry. Biased, maybe. Not for public consumption.” Her voice seemed to balance resignation and resentment.

  “We look like the public to you?” Harry said.

  She went to her desk and sat, both hands clasping her coffee cup. “Things went along great for the first year. Money arrived as promised, the teams grew, maybe seventy kids. The next season came close to rolling around …”

  Harry turned my way. “I had to bow out after things got cruising. I’d just moved from Vice to Homicide. It was a bloody summer, new gangs springing up, gunning and running. I was working three drive-bys at once.”

  Ms Baker continued. “Harry’d set everything in motion, made the connections.”

  “What changed?” I asked.

  “I went back to the well, drew up a formal budget request, called Mr Kincannon. I could never get him on the phone: on vacation, out of town, in a meeting. One day a lawyer type showed up, buttery smooth, polite as Miss Manners. He had some suggestions for the upcoming season.”

  “Like?”

  “The teams had names like Panthers and Gators and Bears, names picked by the kids.” Ms Baker smiled. “Of course, they really wanted names like Stone Killers, Bloody Warriors, and Ninja Mutants, but we gave them a list to pick from, a bit less extreme.”

  “The lawyer guy wanted Stone Bloody Ninjas?” I wondered.

  “He suggested company names like Panorama Advertising, Magnitude Construction, Clarity Broadcasting.”

  I nodded. “All names of Kincannon investments, I assume. Still, if they’re fronting the money …”

  “Sure, corporate sponsorships. I said, fine, we’ll re-name the teams. A few days later, there was another suggestion.” She paused. “This one a bit more …intrusive.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  Ms Baker looked at Harry. “Remember when the city wanted to put the industrial waste transfer point over by the Saylor Street projects?”

  “Bitter fight. The company handling it didn’t have a rep for integrity. Chem-Tron?”

  “Chemitrol. The lawyer guy showed up with charts and graphs suggesting the transfer station was a great opportunity for the neighborhood: jobs, training, education …money spreading out like a tsunami.”

  Ms Baker took a sip of her coffee and frowned. I didn’t think the frown came from the taste of the coffee. She continued.

  “I dug around. Discovered the specifications we weren’t given. The projections. The amounts of chemicals traveling our streets. I read up on the industry itself, similar installations. Guess what?”

  “Facts were slanted a bit?” I suggested.

  “A dozen people could handle the duties of the station, four needing degrees in chemical engineering. The others answered the phone and filed.”

  “Eight minimum-wage jobs,” I said.

  “It was the usual bullshit: all frosting, no cake.”

  Harry leaned forward. “What went down from there, Mardy?”

  “Mr Lawyer showed up with all these fancy-ass fliers in favor of the transfer station, wanted the kids to distribute them in the community.”

  “Warm and fuzzy,” I noted. “A good photo op.”

  “Mr Lawyer suggested organizing a parade for the station. All we had to do was show up, moms and dads and kids and aunts and uncles, get the cleanest people we knew to come …”

  “The cleanest people?” Harry said.

  “Not a second thought about what he was saying.”

  “Scumbucket,” Harry whispered.

  Ms Baker said, “All parade permits would be handled, all news media in place. Mr Lawyer even had scripts. ‘A step ahead for our children,’ ‘Children are the future when parents have jobs,’ ‘Chemitrol Means Community Control.’ Our clean people were to chant this lying shit like fucking parrots – pardon my French. I told the guy he could wrap his fliers with barbwire and stick ’em where the sun don’t shine. A little more politely than that, maybe. Not a lot.”

  “The money dried up?” I said.

  “The field got padlocked. Within a week it was all over.”

  “You never heard from Kincannon?” Harry’s voice was a rasp.

  “I thought about making a stink. But then I realized they could point to a bunch of bats and gloves and uniforms and we’d come off like whining ingrates. Of course, the uniforms got dirty and torn, the equipment fell apart. And without a decent place to play, the kids lost interest.”

  Mardy Baker closed her eyes, rubbed them with her fingertips.

  “I thanked God a thousand times for sending such good-hearted people here. The next year they were at the door with their hands out, our payback time.”

  “I understand something,” I said to Harry. “Clair said few of the truly wealthy give with both hands. I thought she meant the Kincannons were exceptions, using both hands to ladle out the lucre. She really meant one hand passes out the goodies, because the other one’s busy grabbing something back.”

  Ms Baker looked at me over her coffee.

  “One hand gives, the other hand takes,” she said. “Damn if that don’t sum it right up.”

  A deflated Harry retraced our route in, passing by the warehouse, a cheap frame-and-metal structure squatting on two acres of asphalt, the cyclone-fenced lot now home to industrial equipment – trailers, crane assemblies, scaffolding. He stared as an equipment truck pulled from the building, a small dozer trailered behind, Magnolia Industrial Developments painted on the truck’s door.

  Harry pointed. “There’s where it was, the field. Know who owns Magnolia Developments?”

  “The Kincannons,” I ventured.

  “Bastards.”

  Harry drove down the street where the meth head had stood, doing ten miles an hour, looking back and forth, stopping to scan down alleys.

  “Looking for something in particular?” I asked.

  “The meth-head guy, the kid with the mouth like cancer. Haaa-i-eee. I figured out he was trying to say my name. He must have been one of the ball players from back then, one of the kids. It’s the only way he could have known me.”

  “I’m sorry, bro,” I said.

  “I swear if Buck Kincannon was in front of me right now, cop or no cop, I’d nail that son of a bitch to the side of a barn, stand a hundred feet away, and teach myself how to shoot a bow and arrow.”

  I had been trying to figure when and how to tell Harry about Dani. This seemed appropriate.

  “Harry?” I said.

  “What, brother?”

  “Ms Danbury’s getting screwed by Buck Kincannon.”

  I saw Harry’s hands squeeze tight on the wheel, like choking it.

  “Lotta that going around,” he said.

  CHAPTER 18

  Harry and I returned to Mobile and silently pored through Rudolnick’s records. Our simmering funk made us a threat to others, set off by an errant word or gesture – one of Pace Logan’s wise-ass remarks, for instance – but since we’d both been wounded by Buck Kincannon, we were safe with one another.

  After an hour of reading psycho-terminology, Harry pitched a stack back in the box. “How about we get Terry Baney to talk to the trucker, get a sketch made to pass out on the streets?” he suggested.

  Terry Baney was the departmental artist. “Sketch? The perp doesn’t have a face to draw, Harry. We got one eyewitness, right? According to our wit, the perp looks like a Wookiee. Or maybe a yeti.”

  “If you saw a yeti walking down the street, you’d rem
ember it, Carson. Right?”

  An hour later we were in the flower-lined hospital room of Arlin Dell. He’d been disconnected from most of the machines. The truck driver scowled, thinking our request strange.

  “All I saw was hair, like I told you,” Dell said. “Remember Cousin Itt on The Addams Family? Draw him, just leave off the top hat.”

  “It was a bowler hat,” Terry Baney corrected. He sat in a chair beside Dell’s bed, a drawing pad in one hand, a thick pencil in the other. Harry and I leaned against the wall.

  Dell rolled his eyes. “Bowler hat, top hat, whatever.”

  Terry Baney was forty-three and looked like a man more at home with actuarial tables than drawing materials – slight, bespectacled, pomaded hair, a pink hue to his scrubbed cheeks. He wore a suit fresh from K-mart’s bargain rack; his only artsy touches were a bolo tie and silver belt buckle dotted with turquoise. But the man had a gift, an ability to coax fragments of recollections from witnesses, transforming them into representations that held not photographic exactitude but something almost better: emotive content.

  Baney drew three shapes on his pad, a flattened circle, a circle, and a vertical oval. He turned the pad to Dell, tapped the drawings with his pencil.

  “Which of these was the basic shape of the perpetrator’s head?”

  “Come on,” Dell scoffed.

  Baney smiled nonchalantly, kept the drawings in front of the trucker.

  Dell thought a moment. “The middle one. Maybe more square, like a box.”

  Baney ripped the page off, tossed it to the floor. He drew a squarish circle, began adding lines indicating hair shape.

  “The hair, did it fall straight down like this?” He scribbled vertical lines from the oval. “Or did it fluff out to the sides, more like this?” Baney radiated lines out at an angle, creating a delta form.

  “That one. It was fluffed out.”

  “Did it fluff out straight? Or was it curly hair, the boingy stuff, like this?” Baney drew curling lines.