“Right beside the path.” Felton was back from his car with two large black umbrellas, one he held out to her. “A well-used path. No way she’s not been noticed before today,” he added, voice sagging.
Cold weather, the nearest residence at least thirty yards away; still, onlookers and street kids were unusually absent. Salt and Felton turned to a clattering from the street, a “Bubbles” with his shopping cart piled high with bags of cans. “I’ll ask him.” Felton shrugged and strode up the hill after the can man, who began to push faster.
“Sorrowful,” she said to herself. “Body has been here and no one called—left like a rotting animal.” Salt crossed one arm over her chest, tugging the coat closed.
• • •
Rosie’s mouth and eyes formed O’s when Salt and Felton opened the outer doors to the Homicide office. Ignoring the ringing phone, she pushed herself from behind the receptionist’s desk. “You are absolutely soaked through. Get out of that coat. I’ll heat water for tea.”
They’d waited at the scene for the medical examiner’s investigator and directed the processing of the scene by the techs, who photographed, measured, and collected what little evidence there was. The rain had continued through the bagging and removal.
People of various stripes filled the chairs lining the reception area. Someone was knocking on the double doors asking to be buzzed in.
Felton held out his arms and hands in futile expectancy of the same sympathy Rosie gave Salt. Ignoring him and the rest of the chaos entirely, Rosie followed on Salt’s heels. She’d shown an affinity for and a devotion to Salt since her arrival in the squad a year ago.
“Chopped liver,” Felton mumbled as they threaded their way through the gray cubicles. Small, round Day-Glo-orange stickers were affixed to everything of value in the Homicide office. The last city personnel to inhabit the old building, the squad had been scheduled to move to the new headquarters downtown, but now with the assault on the Spelman students the consensus was that the move would be delayed. Federal agents, in navy golf shirts, khaki pants, and navy windbreakers, their eyes following Salt, were coming and going and sat at the previously empty cubicles. A task force was being formed.
Sergeant Huff met them at Salt’s desk. “Well?”
“Sorry, Sarge,” Felton said. “We won’t know until the autopsy. It’s hard to tell either way—decomp too far advanced, small pink teen or woman’s shirt and shorts. Of course, nothing to identify her, no ID, nothing.”
“Shit. Don’t call me Sarge.”
“Sorry, Sarge.”
As Felton left, Salt sat down at her desk and touched the keyboard. The monitor lit while she stood to hang the dripping coat. She sat back down and tapped the mouse to select the first report template. Sticking his head around the partition, Huff reappeared. “See me before you leave.”
• • •
“Report’s done. ME says the autopsy will be tomorrow. We’ll at least have some idea about her after that.”
Murder books of every color, always stacked all over Huff’s small glass-front office—on his desk, the two chairs, the floor—gave the space a kaleidoscope feel opposite the stark, cavernous empty spaces of the barren building. Salt stood in his doorway. Huff, forty-five going on sixty, was on his second marriage, to a New Age wife who had him on sequential, sometimes concurrent, self-improvement regimens in keeping with whatever ideas were floating around in the social media. He’d been on diets and spiritual retreats. Lately he’d enrolled at some gym owned by a mystic, and before that he’d been doing hip-hop aerobics, which he’d tried to keep secret until someone saw him in the class rhythmically clutching his crotch. But he was still a white guy with a paunch and a receding buzz cut. The only constant in his life seemed to be his love for his wife and an affinity for solving murders.
“How’re you holding up, Sarge?”
“Sit,” he said, pointing to a surprisingly empty chair in front of his desk while uncharacteristically straightening some of the stacks of case files and aligning one pile with the edge. Wary, Salt inched toward the seat. Huff picked up some files from the floor and swiveled his chair to restack them on the shelves behind him. With his back to her he mumbled something.
“I didn’t hear you, Sarge.”
He turned. “You’ve been ordered for a fitness-for-duty.” Avoiding eye contact, he picked up a sheet of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to her. “Don’t kill the messenger.”
“Is this about last night? I had no idea they were waiting for me.”
“No, it’s not that, although you scared the shit outta us. Read,” he said.
It was from the personnel department through the chain of command. “Detective Sarah D. Alt, having met threshold criteria specified by S.O.P. 05-1432 Fitness for Duty and having been involved in two use-of-lethal-force incidents, meeting criteria number 4, is hereby ordered to report to the Psychological Services Unit for referral for evaluation within five days of receipt of this notice.”
“Sarge, those shoots were justified.” Her throat tightened, voice rising to a slightly childlike timbre.
“Christ, I hate this shit. Salt, just make the appointment. What can it hurt? You’re not gonna cry on me!”
“I’m not crying. Jesus, what are you doing?”
He’d been chewing nicotine gum recently and now had five pieces from the foil packet in front of him. Rolling his head around on his neck, he popped one after the other in his mouth. “This is the kind of shit that stresses me—girl talk, psychological bullshit, feelings,” he sneered. “Give me a good old dead body. I just want to work murders and what do I get? Feelings.”
“Sarge, I’ll go.”
“What?”
“I’ll go. I’ll make the appointment. Don’t get your panties in a twist. You’re right. It isn’t personal.” She laid the order on his desk, picked up a pen, and signed on the line showing receipt of the order. “You got my copy?”
“It’s completely confidential.” Huff flipped his chair upright and handed Salt her copy. “Uh, thanks.”
“See, you got yourself all worked up for nothing.” Salt stood.
“I did?”
“I’m good, Sarge. I’m good.” She turned to go.
“Don’t call me Sarge,” he mumbled.
Salt dropped the order on Wills’ desk as she passed him. He was at her cubicle within seconds. “What the fuck?”
Felton came over. “Sarge said you got ordered to see the shrink.”
“Oh, Salt, you shouldn’t worry. I’m sure the doctor will say you’re sane.” Rosie rushed up, brushing past Felton, and grabbed Salt in a dramatic, consoling embrace.
“I got sent once.” The group turned, surprised to see the normally taciturn Gardner, Wills’ partner, approaching. They waited for him to elaborate. He did not.
“Maybe they should just put a notice in the daily bulletin. So much for confidentiality.” Water dripped from the hem of her soaked coat.
“Can we testify or something on your behalf?” Rosie fiddled big fingers along the pearls at her thick neck.
The Things, ever curious, joined them. “Are we having a meeting?” Barney asked.
“Salt’s being sent to the shrink,” Rosie announced with a deep sigh.
• • •
The legs of the chair Felton was pulling scraped gratingly on the beat-up linoleum tiles. He sat down next to Salt. “Here’s the list for the task force,” he said, handing her the memo. Of course there was Chatterjee as lead, another morning-watch detective, Wills, Gardner, and Huff from Salt’s watch, and they split the day-watch partners Best and Hamm, with Best going to the task force, plus their lieutenant. There were five agents from the FBI and two from the ATF, all of whom it seemed now stood along the walls of the break room, having declined offers of chairs.
Ten or more detectives shambled in for the late news. Sc
raping the sorry plastic chairs again, they gathered around the TV. The lead story. Screen filling with the young women holding candles that cast an upward glow on their faces. Their jackets and coats open over their T-shirts, they sang “This Little Light of Mine” with lots of harmony and call and response. Then the moment they fell on the pavement in front of the fountain’s wall of water, the camera view falling and shaking with them, the lens recording the bodies of the prone women.
The taste of burning oil returned to the back of Salt’s throat.
THE MORNING OF
Salt left Wills in her bed still asleep. Sipping on a first cup of coffee, she walked out into the early morning with the dogs, Wills’ two Rottweilers and her border collie mix, Wonder. Both she and Wills were catching cases and there were nights or days when Salt stayed at Wills’ house in the city closer to the job. But when they had time Wills brought the dogs down to her house. Wonder was exuberant, enjoying his Rottie girlfriends, racing them through the defrosting pasture and leaving silvery trails in the glittering grasses.
The new white fence around the front half acre made the old house look impressive, gave it an estate-like aura, implying large harvests, money crops, orchards, and colonial relationships. But Salt loved the fence she and her friends and a neighbor, Mr. Gooden, had built. She loved the ability it gave her to let her five sheep keep the grass cropped. Built shortly after the Civil War, the house had belonged to her family for generations. The addition of the fence implied a history grander than her experience of it. Now the front of the square box-like house begged for a railed wraparound covered porch and portico to soften its appearance and to make the front entrance inviting.
Having walked to the roadside border fence farthest from the front of the house, Salt propped one foot against the low rail, drank from the steaming mug, and watched the dogs tear through the field. The autopsy would begin right about now. That pink shirt. Salt pulled her quilted-wool shirt close, hugging herself against the cold morning.
Wonder suddenly halted mid-chase, his black fur shimmering in the sun. He assumed the typical border collie stance of attention, ears on alert and trained toward the house. Wills appeared from around the south corner. The dog scampered with his pack to gather around Wills, who waved and beckoned to Salt. “Biscuits in the oven,” he called.
• • •
The air in the kitchen was fragrant with the cold smells from outside brought in by Salt and the dogs and the warm smells from the oven. The old house was typical of many nineteenth-century Southern homes, little insulation and drafty doors and windows; homes built more to conserve cool rather than heat. North Georgia and Atlanta, at the foothills of the Appalachians, could and did turn cold at times during the winter, even getting a little dusting of snow once a year or so.
Post breakfast, she asked, “Are we having a tree this year?” They sat at the paint-chipped table over second cups of coffee, dogs sprawled around the kitchen floor.
“No talk of Christmas before Thanksgiving, right? Besides, that’s a can-o-worms.” He reached for the honey pot, garnishing the last biscuit.
“Worms? Christmas? Neither one of us is observant, but that’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” She raised her eyebrows, smiling, happy he was here, this morning after.
“Would we have a tree at both our houses, Salt? Or just here? One at my place?”
Salt leaned over, frowning into her cup. “Worm can. You’re right.”
Salt lifted her eyes to meet his. “Biscuits were perfect.”
He was staring at his plate.
“I’m sorry about the other night,” she said.
Wills raised his steady brown eyes. “Rationally I know it’s not your fault.” He stopped and looked up at the ceiling as if petitioning a higher power.
“But?” she prompted.
“I do not understand why it keeps happening—you getting into tight situations, time after time. Maybe the psychological eval is a good idea,” he said.
It was her turn to be quiet, to look away. Wills had been supportive through the aftermaths of the lethal-force encounters for which she was now under scrutiny.
Already dressed for work in a short-sleeve white shirt, a tie with a crime scene motif, and cotton slacks, he untied the white baker’s apron from around his thick chest, hung it on the pantry door, came around to her, stepping carefully between dogs, and encircled her in his arms. “Okay, Blue Eyes, we’ve both got a lot on our plates right now, what with the task force, our other cases, and now this fitness-for-duty evaluation. Are you worried about the shrink thing?” he asked into her hair.
“Yes.”
“Your dad?”
“I know what a psychiatrist will make of that. He’ll wonder how I was ever hired in the first place—daughter of a cop who committed suicide.”
“If he’s any good, he’ll understand how sometimes people get stronger at their broken places. If he doesn’t, then maybe he’s not fit for duty.”
“What if my broken places are still bleeding?” Wills pulled her to standing, holding her tight. His chest smelled warm and of baking flour. “Where will we celebrate the holidays, Wills?” She leaned back in his embrace, close to his five-ten height, their eyes almost level.
“That’s the thing. I want us to think about what are we doing here. I’m renovating my house in town. You’re making improvements to this place. You’ve got the sheep. It’s almost an hour’s drive between our homes,” he said. Wills lifted the gold St. Michael’s pendant he’d given her by its chain from between her breasts. “You do hoodoo, mang,” he said, imitating Howlin’ Wolf, blew on the saint for luck, kissed Salt, and called his dogs to follow him to his car out back.
Wonder stood at the door watching and listening as his adopted pack left, then turned his gold eyes inquiringly to her—his old eyes amber, the color of fossilized resin produced by trees to clot their wounds.
• • •
She’d taken the dog for a five-mile run along the rural two-lane that fronted her property and led from the expressway to the one-traffic-light town of Cloud. They’d done the gathering, feeding, and watering of the five sheep. She was showering when her phone rang.
When she called Wills back, he sounded as though he was walking, his breath jerky. “Turn on your TV.” He panted.
“Hold on. I’m drying off.”
“Huff has me calling the entire watch. They want everyone in ASAP. Day watch and morning are being called in, too.”
“What?”
“Spelman students, students from the Atlanta University Center, the other Atlanta colleges and universities joined in a spontaneous march last night to show solidarity or defiance of the assault on the Spelman women.”
Salt wrapped the towel around herself and padded to the kitchen, where she switched on her small TV, fitted into an old side cabinet. A local anchor was reporting, “Students from all over Atlanta—Morehouse, Emory, Georgia State, Georgia Tech—came to stand with the Spelman students.” The screen images were hard to make out. The flashing lights of emergency vehicles cast the surrounding scene into contrasting dark. Figures could be seen, hurried and frantic, waving arms back and forth, running silhouettes backed by news lights behind or beside them. “Video has surfaced showing a white man, a passenger in a black truck, aiming and shooting the Spelman women . . .” the scroll beneath the news footage read.
“The students are angry,” Wills said. “National press, cable channels, social media are already on the story. And the feds got word from one of their informants in an Aryan Nation group, the one with their headquarters west of the city. The informant says that group’s all stirred up: meetings, training. There’s a worry for the students demonstrating.”
“Did the informant have anything about who did the shooting? When does Sarge want us in?”
“No, nothing on the shooters. We’re due in now.”
“I’ve got the psychiatrist appointment.”
“Call Sarge. Oh, and in case I forgot to tell you. I love you.” Wills hung up.
“You, too,” she replied to the dimming phone in her hand. She left the TV on, went to get dressed, and then called Huff.
“Shit. Shit. Shit. Salt, I’ve got two other calls holding.” He inhaled deeply, as if drawing smoke into his lungs.
“Wills called but I’ve got that psychiatrist evaluation at noon.”
“I need you here. I need girls to represent. The brass said they wanted all female personnel front and center on this.”
“I’m happy to cancel the shrink.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Let me think.” He exhaled.
“Are you back smoking, Sarge?”
“Jesus. Go to the appointment and then get here ASAP.”
“Let me remind you that I just caught the body yesterday—” she was saying, but Huff had hung up.
“In other news . . .” The scene changed behind the TV anchor, then zoomed to a full-screen shot of the mayor and rap producer “Flash Daddy” Jones standing behind a wide ribbon, each with their hands on large, oversized scissors.
APPOINTMENT
Salt thought about stopping somewhere to buy a scarf or some accessory that might soften her appearance, minimize her height, brighten the outfit she now saw as austere—black jacket, gray slacks, white shirt, and black leather athletic shoes. She’d kept her curly, almost black hair short since the shooting two years ago that had left a scar under one ringlet on her forehead and parted her hair halfway, visible only when it was wet. She wanted to appear normal, sympathetic, wanted to signal to the psychiatrist that there was more to her than being just a cop.
Old Bones Page 2
