Beneath the Cracks

by LS Sygnet

  I changed plans and ended up waving the badge at hospital security after arriving at the last thirty seconds of visiting hours. I slipped into Maya's room. She was sleeping soundly. I didn't disturb her. Instead, I woke the computer left by Forsythe. It illuminated one corner of the room, and I began searching the police records for Jessica Blake.

  She wasn't listed, nor was Jason as Crevan determined last Tuesday, but expanding the search for anyone named Blake arrested yielded one astonishing result. Lucas Blake, alias Batshit Crazy, served two years for possession of methamphetamine with intent to sell.

  My lips rolled inward to mute the cry of surprise. Why would he cooperate with me if he was part of any of this? Then again, he wouldn't be the first low level lackey who didn't have the sense to shut up when the police started asking questions. I thought about his behavior the morning we spoke.

  "Good grief. Was he flirting with me?" Had libido prompted Batshit Crazy to be one of many – how had Uncle Nooky put it – too dumb for their own good and flappin' their jaws?

  Curiosity prompted me to search another name. Jackson, Nicholas.

  This time, I wasn't able to suppress the gasp when his criminal record displayed on the computer screen. There was no long hair and unkempt beard. On the contrary, Nick Jackson didn't look a bit like Uncle Nooky with short hair and a trimmed goatee. I stared at the picture and tried to imagine him without the beard and long salt and pepper hair.

  "Oh my God."

  The picture was Nick Jackson, without a doubt. What stunned me into disbelief was that it conjured the image of the bald man sitting next to me while Batshit Crazy shared too much information, the man who threatened me, the one with the anarchy symbol tattooed on the side of his neck. And if my mind's eye was correct, shaving Uncle Nooky's head and cutting his beard would've revealed a familial familiar face.

  "They're related."

  I backed up the search for the surname Jackson only. The list was longer than two names, but something told me based on the ages of Nick and his kin, that my best bet based only on age would be Kim Jackson. The first name almost made me reconsider. I pulled up the file.

  That was when the rest of the case came into perfect focus.

  My hands started to tremble the deeper I read into Mr. Kim Jackson's criminal record. Drugs, illegal weapons possession with intent to sell, menacing with racial bias, manslaughter…how was this guy not rotting in prison somewhere? If anyone deserved it, he did. Then again, this was Darkwater Bay.

  I remembered one of the last rants I'd heard from my father. He had given testimony in court against a man accused of beating his child to death, and because of a legal technicality, the charges were dropped before the conclusion of the trial. It was one of the murders that New York State tried to tack onto the charges against Wendell, because he had been so distraught to see a child killer walk free, he was a suspect when the wrongfully freed father was found floating in the Hudson River with a bullet in his brain.

  Dad hadn't defended his actions. He hadn't confirmed or denied. Completely circumstantial evidence hadn't convicted him, even on the coattails of being caught after robbing an armored car with Marie.

  That memory, in the context that I recalled it, helped me understand why Dad had done it. Sometimes man's justice fails the victims of crimes. I thought of our homeless men, of Detective Cox, even about Batshit Crazy. Menacing with racial bias. The hate speech spewed at the Kostas family by the bikers. Cyanide.

  I shut the laptop computer and slipped out of Maya's room. Cell phone in hand, I called the lab. Billy answered the phone immediately.

  "Helen! Where are you? They're going nuts looking for you!"

  "I'm on my way back out to Dupree Farm with my car," I lied. "Have you had a chance to look at any of the cassava tubers yet?"

  "Yeah, I was trying to find you at the farm which was how I found out they were freaking because they couldn't find you. Why aren't you answering your phone?"

  "I fell asleep on the drive back to Downey and must've slept through the ringer. What did you want to tell me?"

  "I sent samples off for rapid analysis when I got another idea."

  "What?"

  "I diced some of it and sautéed it."

  "Billy, tell me you didn't eat poisonous plants that weren't properly processed!"

  "Of course I didn't. I did however, test them after cooking, which should've reduced the amount of cyanide even a little bit, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, it didn't. The cooked cassava was just as toxic as the fresh tubers. Is it possible that your mad scientist was trying to create cassava root that would remain lethal no matter how much someone tried to process it for safe consumption? I know it sounds crazy. I mean, a hell of a lot of people use this stuff as a staple in their diets, don't they?"

  The final piece of the puzzle fell into place. "Dear God."

  "Helen?"

  "Do me a favor. Call Briscoe and Conall and tell them to come back to Darkwater Bay immediately. I think you just solved the case."

  "I did?"

  "Make the call."

  "Where should I tell them to meet you?"

  "Uncle Nooky's Bar and Grill." I hung up before Billy had time to respond.

  The string of Harley Davidson motorcycles along the curb was maybe a quarter as long as it had been twenty-four hours ago. I no longer wondered how these guys could afford to hang out in a bar all day long. They weren't yet aware that they'd all been fired.

  I pushed the door open to the rundown establishment. Again, the din dropped to a low murmur at the sight of me, possibly in part because of the damaged bikes lined up in the street. Uncle Nooky was behind the bar. Our eyes locked and held for a moment before he grinned.

  "You back to buy more Heineken, Eriksson?"

  "Not tonight, Nick." I perched on a stool and leaned over the bar. "I came to see you."

  "I'd be delighted to hear it if it weren't for the fact that we're back to being all formal and shit again. I thought you were over that, Eriksson."

  "Tom Denton is dead."

  "You don't say. How'd the dumb bastard die? Did he harass other folks like he did us?" Nooky chuckled and gouged his elbow into the gut of the bald man I immediately recognized as Kim Jackson.

  He was too rotund to be the man we observed on the surveillance video at division, the one who poisoned Denton. So which one did it? My eyes scanned the room and saw more baldness than hair. Shit.

  I refocused on what I did know, could prove. "He wasn't so dumb after all, as it turns out."

  "Well, he never showed it around here. Let me pour you a drink – on the house."

  "You got anything non-alcoholic?" I arched one brow in a silent challenge.

  "Can't say that I do, and the water outta the pipes in this place tastes like it comes all the way up from Mexico." Another chuckle and his sense of humor elicited the same from those within earshot. "So if you aren't here to drink, and you're not here for more information about Tommy Denton, and you're calling me Nick again, I guess that adds up to official police business, huh."

  "There was another victim discovered down the street last night. Did you hear about it?"

  "Some homeless sap again?" Nooky poured a beer and took a long swig. He belched loudly. "Was that how it went, Helen?"

  "I think we both know better than that."

  The bar grew too quiet, colder, unfriendlier if such a thing were possible. Several patrons got up and left. The rumble of bike engines outside offered an eerie backdrop to the struggle underway inside.

  "If we're playing twenty questions –"

  "We're not, Mr. Jackson."

  "Well now, I haven't been called mister anything for a very long time. We must be getting super official now," he sneered.

  "Do you know someone named Jessica Blake, drives a delivery van for a local dry cleaning company?"

  "Can't say that I do, but I doubt Blake is all that uncommon a name."

  "Yes, I'd have to agree with you
. In fact, I had the same thought myself. However, Jessica Blake's brother sold methamphetamine. I believe she knew a lot of people who sold or even used meth. I can prove she helped borrow a police uniform and that whoever used it, left a whole lot of sweat when he wore it into Downey Division Saturday morning to kill Tom Denton. Call me crazy, but I thought it was just a little too coincidental that a woman named Blake helped kill Tom Denton after another man named Blake identified Denton just a few days before when I asked about him in this very bar."

  "Okay," Uncle Nooky's grin was agreeable. "You're crazy."

  "I started wondering why Tom Denton had to die. I mean, he was the goose that laid the golden egg. The man was a walking, talking gold mine for someone like... Mr. Blake, a man who liked to use methamphetamine."

  Some of the smugness bled out of Uncle Nooky's face. "If he was so damned important to Mr. Meth, my money's on the fact that he didn't do jack shit to Denton."

  "Then the body last night – poor old Batshit Crazy. He just had to open his mouth, didn't he? Surely the rest of this neighborhood knows to keep their mouths shut. And then a cop of all people comes in here, and Batshit starts singing like a canary."

  "There was a reason people called him Batshit Crazy. There's a reason we all got our nicknames, detective."

  "I might've never found Tom Denton without that tip. I frankly prefer Batshit Crazy's given name to his moniker around here. Do you know what that name was?"

  "I haven't the foggiest idea."

  "His name was Lucas."

  Uncle Nooky snorted. "Sounds like a pretty faggoty name to me. No wonder he liked bein' called Batshit Crazy."

  "Lucas Blake." I paused and watched both men behind the bar. The level of tension, not to mention interest in what I had to say grew exponentially. "I expect that people in Darkwater Bay are used to – how did you put it, Nick, paying a donation to the police – and going about their business without a worry in the world. I didn't take the bait when you cleverly suggested that's why I came into your bar the other day. But I'm a woman. What could I possibly know? You weren't really concerned as much as your bald friend was when Lucas Blake told me about Jake Cox, the man you called Preacher. But when we detained Tom Denton Friday night, you started worrying about what he might tell me. What choice did you have?"

  "You should be writing fiction, Eriksson."

  "The mistake was how you had him killed, Nick. It linked whoever killed Denton to the murder of Lucas Blake. With Denton's profession, didn't you consider that we might want to take a look at his research at Dupree Farm? Once we got a warrant, it was just a matter of time until I found Denton's other research project. The guys from the crime lab are still out there tearing the place apart. They've gathered a lot of finger prints and physical evidence. How long do you think it'll take before one of those prints matches yours?"

  He was faster than he looked. Kim Jackson pulled a Smith and Wesson .44 caliber double action revolver out from under the bar so fast, I didn't have time to react until it was too late. He didn't speak, but Uncle Nooky wasn't so quiet.

  "The bitch of this situation is, detective, I actually took a liking to you. Why couldn't you just leave it alone? They were bums, and nobody murdered them for fuck's sake. They were just stupid and thought they were owed a cut of what was cookin' in the basement. When they died for nosing into shit that wasn't owed them, we just put 'em back in the trash. Exactly where we found 'em." Nick shook his head.

  "What about Detective Cox? His death was no accident." I raised my hands and started inching backward.

  "You stay put," Kim rasped. "Nooky never lied to you. Denton was an idiot. The man barely knew how to tie his own shoes unless I was there to tell him how to do it. Hell, I even had to tell him to convince Dupree to hire my guys for security out there."

  "Dupree went along with it because he believed that Denton would be successful with the research he was actually hired to do," I said. "Very clever, Mr. Jackson. Oh yes, I know you and Nick are related. I'm curious how you and Denton hooked up in the first place. He was a respected scientist at one point in his career."

  "Believe it or not, Dr. Eriksson, I'm an educated man myself. You think Tommy had the stones to run that lab? He didn't. It was mine. All I needed was a secure location and a way to make sure that nobody who actually worked at the dairy farm stumbled onto my research. As for the meth..." Kim shrugged. "A convenient means to an end."

  I recalled his age from his criminal record, noted the appearance of years that the wear and tear of the lifestyle added to Kim Jackson's physical appearance. "You went to college with Denton. You knew he was vulnerable, knew he wasn't well."

  "Yes I did, and saying he wasn't well is very generous of you, detective. So you see, when I told you the man was a moron, I meant it. Maybe in a relative sense, but it's true all the same."

  "You're not gonna kill me in front of all these witnesses, Kim."

  "Call me the chemist. Get it? Kim, Chem." He cocked the hammer on the revolver, turning the trigger into a hair-trigger. "And why aren't I going to kill you, doctor? Only a fool would let you walk outta here. Since your brothers in blue are nowhere to be seen, if I were a betting man, and I am, I'd think that they don't even know you're in here tonight. No way would they let you come back alone. And since you asked before, here's the answer. This is what happens to cops who nose around into things that aren't their business."

  "People will talk. You can't intimidate everyone in this bar –" my eyes darted around the room, meeting nothing but hostility and bloodlust. "They'll put it together just like I did, Kim. Just like Jake Cox did. The state police already have the lab, the evidence implicating you."

  "And if I'm not around for them to catch, there's not a damn thing they can do about it. Let 'em try. They can call the DEA and bring the feds in – no pun intended – 'til the cows come home. They'll never find me. You think this is the only operation I've got going?"

  My throat was suddenly dry, not to mention the chill elicited by thoughts of other greenhouses of process-resistant cassava roots. Everything he said was true. He could pack up and be out at sea or across the border before my body was found – and Briscoe and Conall would arrive too late. Only the crime scene tech had any idea where I'd been initially. Nick and Kim wouldn't be stupid enough to leave my car anywhere near the bar. And not the least of my worries was Kim's choice of weaponry. The Smith and Wesson .44 caliber would tear through my body like a hot knife through butter. Large bullet at close range with high velocity spelled certain death. The fact that he could twitch and I'd be dead in a second didn't help my capacity for reasoning.

  "Listen to me, Jackson. You don't have to do this. A few murders are one thing, but the genocide you've planned with those cassava roots will turn you into a hunted man. You'll have law enforcement agencies all over the world looking for you. You don't want to kill me."

  "I think it's exactly what I want to do." He smiled pleasantly and jerked his right index finger.

  Chapter 36

  The first tickle of awareness was more of a dull ache – in my left shoulder to be precise. My eyes felt weighted, lids too heavy to open. I tried anyway. A slit of blurry reality came into view. It was dark. There was a noise though – an annoying blip.

  Where was I? How did I get here? I struggled hard to focus, to grasp anything tangible that might give me a clue. We'd been at Dupree's farm, in the lab Denton used. Have I been exposed to something? The cassava root maybe. Was I poisoned? Why can't I remember?

  I tried to move. The dull ache blazed into white hot pain. I moaned. My eyelids fluttered. There was movement in the shadow. Who was there? Something warm brushed my cheek.

  "Helen?"

  The resonance was familiar. Soft. Feminine. "Maya?" My voice felt and sounded like shards of gravel had been packed into my throat.

  "Shh… Don't try to talk. I'm right here. You're safe."

  "What happened? How did I get here?"

  Light spiked the dark room. It hurt
my eyes. I pinched them shut quickly, but not before a blurry form slipped through the doorway.

  "You're in the hospital. We have all the time in the world to talk about what happened. Right now, I want you to rest."

  "You should talk," I mumbled. "Who was here?"

  "I'm here – Ken is too."

  "Hey Eriksson," another voice spoke from my left side, Ken Forsythe's.

  "Did you just get here?" Who went through the door? What aren't they telling me? This pain... poison wouldn't make me feel like I've been...oh my God. "I was shot," I whispered.

  "Yes. You just got out of surgery a couple of hours ago. The doctor says you'll make a complete recovery, Helen."

  "Kim Jackson – he shot me."

  Maya and Ken let me talk.

  "I have to get out of here! I solved the case and no one knows –" Another thought – very disturbing – how many homeless men had Jackson returned to where he found them that we hadn’t discovered?

  "Helen, Kim Jackson is dead. We know you solved your case."

  "But we've got to find Jessica Blake. She's the key to the whole thing. She proves the link between the Jacksons and Tom Denton's murder."

  "Helen, did you hear what I just said?" Maya's voice was gentle, soothing. "Kim Jackson is dead. It doesn't matter if you can build a case against him now or not."

  "I shot him?"

  Neither of them answered.

  "Please tell me what happened."

  "I think that your fellow detectives would prefer to know what you're able to remember on your own, Helen," Forsythe said. "When you tell them, I'm sure Conall and Briscoe will be happy to fill in the blanks for you."

  "I presume he hit my shoulder."

  "You're in pain," Forsythe said. "I'll let the nurse know."

  I waited for the door to close. "Maya, you've got to talk to me. Forsythe isn't here to keep you from telling me the truth. How did Kim Jackson die?"

  "I believe it was a head shot," Maya said.

  "Billy got ahold of Tony and Crevan." My tone was a dull sound that contrasted sharply with the pain in my shoulder. "They sent backup, didn't they?"