by Andy Straka
“Mr. Pavlicek”—he pronounced it Pavli-sek—”thanks for waiting. Humid, ain't it, for this time a year? … I'm Special Agent William Ferrier, state police.”
We shook. “It's Pavli-check,” I said.
“Rhymes with that basketball player—who'd he play for, the Celtics?”
“Yeah.”
“Must be from up north.”
“Used to be. I've adapted.”
“Good. Well, if you can spare us some more time, I'd like to ask you a few questions.”
“No problem. What happened to the local sheriff?”
“Department's a little understaffed here right now.” He dabbed the back of his neck with a handkerchief. “We're with the Violent Crimes Unit out of Richmond. Been up in Culpeper on some other business lately anyway. So they asked us to come over and help out.”
“Okay.”
“Why don't we sit in my car where it's cooler? I could use some water. How about you?”
“Already had some in my truck, but I wouldn't mind some more.”
I followed him to a pale, unmarked Caprice that bore official state plates, its engine running. A younger man, also wearing a tie, sat in the driver's seat sipping Pepsi from a can and rocking almost imperceptibly to some silent song. Ferrier and I went to opposite sides, opened the rear doors, and climbed into the cool of the back.
“Chad, this here is Mr. Pavlicek. Mr. Pavlicek, this is my partner, Chad Spain.”
His partner bobbed his head in greeting. He was much thinner, with slick hair and a pockmarked face and wore aquamarine sunglasses. Ferrier pulled two containers of bottled water from a cooler on the floor and handed one to me. The backseat smelled like shaving cream.
“Thanks,” I said, twisting off the top.
“Trooper tells me you're a PI from Charlottesville.” He took a long swig from his bottle before refastening the cover.
“That's right.”
“Wouldn't happen to have your license, would you?”
I extracted it from my wallet and handed it to him.
He look it over and handed it back without comment. Then he asked: “And you were out here … what … hunting?”
“That's right.”
“It's out of season, isn't it?”
“Yes,” I said. “For firearms. But falconers can hunt with their birds anytime. As long as the bird kills only for its own consumption. Out of season, whatever remains has to be left where it lies … just like in the wild.”
“Learn something every day. See you also got a permit to carry a concealed weapon.”
I nodded.
“What kind of investigations you involved with down there in Charlottesville?”
“The usual,” I said. “A few skip traces, the occasional runaway, several divorce situations. Haven't ever heard from V.I. Warshawski. Seems like I spend most of my time on the computer these days.”
He grunted. Probably never heard of Warshawski.
“Ever work a murder case before?” he asked.
“Not as a PI.”
“Oh?” His forehead wrinkled. Curious.
“I specialize in greed and lust, not lethal malice.”
“Sometimes one can lead to the other,” he said. “What'd you do before you went private?”
“Homicide. Up in New York.”
His eyes bore into me for a second or two. If he was surprised, he didn't show it. “That a fact? How long ago?”
“Thirteen years.”
“Hear that, Chad? … Homicide … Thirteen years ago in New York … Pavlicek.” He paused. His mind seemed to be searching for something. “… Wait a minute, I remember you. …” The eyes softened. “You're one of those fellas got in trouble over shooting that colored kid up there. Trial was all over the news for awhile. Ain't that right?”
His question hung thick in the cool air for a second, awaiting an answer.
I took the occasion to look out the window. A group of deputies and troopers accompanied by a photographer and a technician were starting back toward the site.
“I always wondered what became of you guys,” he said. “There were three of you, weren't there?”
I nodded.
“I heard two of you had moved down this way. What was that other fella's name? Indian or something, wasn't it?”
“Jake Toronto.”
“That's it—Toronto. He live around here too?”
“Actually, we both ended up a couple hours west of here. Out in Leonardston. Cahill, the officer who went on trial with us, grew up around there. We all got to know one another pretty well during the trial. He sold Jake and me on this place. I moved down with my family almost as soon as everything was over. Toronto came down later. Even Cahill moved back after he retired.”
“Retired?”
“He stayed on the force for a couple years after everything was over.”
“That's right,” he said. “He was the one they let off the hook.”
“Right. Mandatory early retirement with full pension.”
“Sure.”
“How'd you end up pee-eyeing out of C'ville then?”
I shrugged. “Found a job peddling prescription pharmaceuticals for awhile. But I couldn't stand cow-towing to doctors. My marriage broke up. She got our daughter.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he said.
“It happens.”
“That when you moved back over here?”
I nodded.
“And got your private license.”
“Yes.”
“A few steps down from homicide, ain't it?”
“You might put it that way.”
“Funny, the three of you from New York all ending up in Leonardston for awhile.” He stared at me. But he didn't bring up the coincidence of the dead Dewayne Turner being from there.
“We had our fifteen minutes of fame,” I said. “Not the kind I would have picked.”
“I'll bet … well, for what it's worth, a lot of us figured you guys got a bum rap. Be honest though, I'm a little surprised they give you paper to carry concealed.”
“Another state. Another time. I guess distance heals.”
“Maybe. Wilson Abercrombie's an acquaintance of mine. You know him?”
Abercrombie was the chief of the Charlottesville City Police, and right now, not a very popular one. He was an acquaintance of mine too, but I didn't want to get into on what terms.
“We know each other.”
“Un-huh.” He took another swig of water, smacked his lips. “So you were out here hunting. How'd you find the body?”
I repeated what I'd told the trooper.
He listened without expression. Then he said: “Falconry. I was interested in that when I was a kid. Had a book that told all about knights and nobility, shit like that. They rode around on horses with those big birds on their arms, didn't they?”
“Right.”
“Like the look of your animal too. What kind is he?”
“She … is a red-tail hawk.”
“She got a name?”
“Armistead.”
“Armistead,” he said. “I like it. Named her after one of Lee's general's, did you?”
“To tell you the truth, I just liked the way it sounds.”
“Huh. Well, I'd love to come out with you sometime. You know, see you and your hawk do some work. She must be some hunter.”
“You want a master falconer, the guy to see is Toronto. I'm still an apprentice. He's my sponsor.”
“S'that right? You two still buds then?”
“You could say that.”
“He work with you?”
“Not officially. Sometimes he lends a hand.”
“So you're over in Leonardston a lot.”
I could see where he was going. “Some,” I said.
“How about the other guy. What's his name—Cahill? You still pals with him too?”
“His nickname's Cat. We keep in touch. But if it's falconry you're interested in, Jake's your man. He's been into it
for awhile. Flies a goshawk—much faster bird than my red-tail. A fierce hunter. You ought to check it out.”
He nodded vacantly. “I may just do that …” he said.
“You see the turkey vulture out there near the body?”
“Was that what that was? I was going to ask you about that.”
“A lot of people, when they see them soaring, confuse them with hawks. But there's a big difference. Vultures feed on carrion. That's probably what this one was doing.”
“Weird, huh? Ugly thing too. But I suppose it's a good thing we have ‘em around. What do you think killed it?”
“Don't know. My guess would be disease. But if I were you, I'd have a vet or the folks from the wildlife hospital over in Waynesboro take a look at it.”
“Thanks for the tip,” he said with a tinge of sarcasm.
I waited for him to write down the information.
“You know the owners of this land?” he asked.
“I'm out here with permission. It's been in Cahill's family for a long time. Belongs to an uncle of his, an insurance agent up in Warrenton. I phoned him after I called you guys. He should be showing up soon.”
“Good,” he said, handing me back my licenses. He pulled out a clipboard with a form attached, and started to write again. His partner in front, still rocking, clicked the keys on a laptop propped against the dash.
I looked out the window again, thinking about Nicole. Had she been friends with this guy Turner? I had never heard her mention his name. Leonardston was still a small town. Jake or Cat or her mother might know.
George Rhodes, Nicole's stepfather, had been killed in a tragic boating accident a couple of years ago. Say what you will, at least George had been there for Nicole when she needed a daddy. I was more like an alien, picking up my daughter for brief visits one weekend a month.
Ferrier finished his notes. He said he had written up a summary of my statements, handed the paper to me, and asked me to read it. I did.
“If you agreed with everything, sign at the bottom of the form,” he said. I signed with a pen he had given me and gave it back along with the notes.
“So you've been out here hunting before?” Ferrier said.
“Couple of times.”
“When was the last time?”
“Two, maybe three weeks ago.”
“See anything suspicious at the time?”
“Nothing I can remember.” I was glad he assumed I had been alone.
“From the condition it's in, body's been out here at least a week,” he said absently. “That would put the murder sometime around the middle of the month.”
He leaned over the seat to his partner. “Well I think that's all I've got for you right now, Pavlicek. How about you, Chad? You got any questions?”
Agent Spain shook his head.
“We've got your statement then,” Ferrier said. “But I'd like to get your work and home phone numbers in case something else comes up.”
I pulled out a business card and he attached it to his clipboard. I gave him my home number, which he wrote on the back. Then he handed me a card of his own with his home number penciled in next to the state police line.
“Since you're a colleague,” he said, “or at least a former one, you need anything, anything at all, just give me a call.”
“Thanks. Do you mind if I ask you guys a question though?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“How can you be certain this was a murder?” I was hoping that hole in the young man's side might somehow have been self-inflicted. Since there was no weapon that possibility was as remote as a snowstorm appearing. But I was still hoping.
Ferrier shrugged. He glanced at his partner, who handed him the paper bag I had seen the trooper use earlier at the crime scene. “Corpse had a wallet with ID on him. Rare, but it happens. If everything else checks out with Forensics, which I'm pretty sure it will, no doubt we're gonna call this a kill. Already checked with the local sheriff's department where the boy's from too … Kid was a known drug dealer, name of Dewayne Turner. Reported missing a couple of weeks ago. Way things are now, between D.C., Richmond, and Norfolk, seems like we get a few like this every month.”
A dealer. Did that mean Nicole was into drugs?
“He could have driven out here to do himself in,” I offered, trying not to sound too eager.
“Unlikely. No weapon. And I doubt if they'll find any residue on his hands either. Something else out there make you think so?”
“No. Just speculating out loud, that's all.”
I looked at my watch. Time for me to leave.
I pushed opened the door and a saunalike heat washed over me. In that split second I saw Ferrier reach between the front seats to replace the bag containing the wallet. His hand drew my attention to another, as-yet-to-be-sealed bag, lying in the same spot, its open end facing me.
It must have been the other object I had seen the deputy pick up near the body, something I had missed. They were in bloody pieces now and with such a brief glance I almost didn't recognize them. A pair of clear broken sunglass frames with metallic lenses that had popped off. Oakleys, the same style and color as the ones Nicole had been wearing on our hunt the month before.
I stepped out and leaned against the door, looking back into the car.
“We appreciate you showing us where to find the body and waiting around to answer our questions,” Ferrier said.
“Only wish Armistead and I hadn't been the ones to find him.”
“I know how you feel … Oh and Pavlicek, next time you go hunting with that bird of yours?”
“Yeah?”
He smiled. “Let's hope she finds smaller prey.”
3
You begin to doubt yourself in front of lawyers. Men whose livelihood—often it seems, whose very existence—depends on every twist of word. Who could stand before the real bar of justice, if there were one in this sorry world? Not I. Not anyone I have ever known.
“So you say. Detective Pavlicek, that it was dark?” The attorney with the Brooks Brothers’ suit rested his wing-tip on the dais beneath the stand.
“That's correct.”
The unarmed fourteen-year-old Toronto and I shot to death was named William Balazar. He had been a straight-A student at New Rochelle High School. His grieving parents hired New York's most flamboyant, telegenic lawyer to torture us with what would be a protracted lawsuit for wrongful death.
“But not dark enough that you could not see what you thought was a gun?” the attorney continued. He looked perfectly comfortable in this environment, his eyes clear and unyielding behind his tortoise-shell glasses, his demeanor respectful but probing, immaculate in his colorful tie.
“Yes.”
“And could you not also discern, in that light, that the figure standing a mere twenty yards away was an African-American?”
“Yes.”
He paused for a few seconds, as if to let the impact of this supposedly grand revelation sink in.
Cahill had never dropped the throw-down, of course. My career and Jake's were effectively over, despite the fact that Officer Singer was dead and a police review board, as well as the D.A.'s office, had cleared us of any criminal wrongdoing. With tensions boiling everywhere at the time, the last thing the NYPD needed was a couple of detectives branded as trigger-happy racists. It didn't help matters any that even with a sterling solve rate, Jake and I had managed to develop something of a checkered reputation within the department.
Even Toronto's mixed heritage couldn't save us—at various times he had described himself as part mulatto, part Indian, and he didn't care, he said, to find out what else. The city's leading minority activist stated publicly we both looked white to him.
“So I ask you now. Detective Pavlicek, to tell the court—I am sure you and Detective Toronto have searched your souls on this—would you have made the same decision? Would you have still pulled the trigger if William Balazar had been white … ?”
Agent Ferrier chuck
led as I nodded and closed the door. I turned and began walking in the direction of my truck. A dreamy heat rose through the fumes from the line of assembled vehicles. The medical examiner was gone, already headed with his entourage toward the site. Cat's uncle, the farm owner, showed up as well, and I spoke with him briefly, explaining what had happened, before pointing him in the direction of Ferrier's car. A van from a Charlottesville TV station pulled up to the barricade. I checked on Armistead again and hopped into the truck.
Rehashing the past with the state police detective had reminded me of a copy of a letter I'd left folded in my glove compartment several weeks before. I reached in among my pile of road maps and pulled out the envelope.
It was from an old acquaintance in New York, a diminutive ballistics expert named Rashid Fuad, who had worked with Toronto and I on a few cases long ago. Addressed to Cat Cahill on NYPD stationary, it said Fuad was writing to inform Cat that the department, after all these years had managed to make a tentative link with what they thought might be the weapon used to gun down his old partner. Seems the boys in Fuad's department had been messing, on an experimental basis, with a kind of hot-shot, state-of-the-art imaging software, where the computer was supposed to analyze and compare digitized photos of gun barrels and evidence taken from crime scenes, looking for matches. They had been diligently going about the laborious task of archiving all their old black-and-white images into their computer when, lo and behold, in the years-old Singer/Balazar case, the machine had spit out a match.
Not that it amounted to much. All the brilliant program told us was that a bullet fragment taken from Singer's body matched the barrel of a nine-millimeter Glock that had been test-fired in an unsuccessful attempt to match it with evidence from a completely unrelated case the year before Singer's death. The handgun in question was even legal. It had been registered to a now-deceased lackey who had worked for one of the major dope pushers in New York, a greasy slob named Boog Morelli. No one had a hard time speculating that the shooter who'd managed to disappear the night of Singer's killing, an eighteen-year-old pimp and sometime crack dealer from the Bronx, had links to one of Morelli's goons.
