by Bill Bernico
“Lieutenant Anderson,” Eric said.
“Eric,” Bud said. “It’s Bud Burke. Elliott Cooper and I are out here at the Second Chance Salvage Yard out on Mission Road.”
“I know the place,” Eric said. “What about it?”
“We were out here looking for a window for my Toyota,” Bud explained. “We found a dead body in one of the cars. Better send the crime lab and the medical examiner out here right away.”
“Stay there,” Eric said. “We’re on our way.”
Bud hung up the phone and turned to Slim. “Thanks,” he said. “Do you have any idea how a dead guy ended up in one of your cars?”
Slim stood there with a blank expression on his face. Bud slipped the wallet out of his pocket and flipped it open to his badge and I.D., flipping it closed quickly so that Slim wouldn’t know that it was only a private investigator’s identification and not the cops.
“I didn’t know there was one out there,” Slim said.
“We’ve got to get back out there,” Bud told Slim. “When Lieutenant Anderson gets here, would you send him out to the yard again?”
“Sure thing,” Slim said.
Bud and I hurried out of the office and back to the salvage yard. “Do you remember how to find that same car again?” I said.
“I think so,” Bud said, walking faster now.
We rounded the corner, walking past the row of domestic models. “It has to be close to here,” I said. “I remember seeing that car crusher when you called out to me.” I looked up at the car perched on the forks of the large forklift as it inched closer to the rectangular opening of the compacting machine. I grabbed Bud by the arm and spun him around. “Look, isn’t that the car?”
Bud looked up just as the forklift dropped the car into the crusher. “Yes,” Bud said anxiously and then turned to the driver of the forklift. He yelled, “Stop that machine.” The noise of the crusher was deafening and the driver never even turned around to respond. There was no way he could have heard Bud yelling.
The compactor’s hydraulic arms receded into the pistons as the machine crunched the car into a small mass of metal. The piston pushed the compacted cube of metal out the other end and onto a conveyor belt that carried it away to an area where an overhead crane operator lowered a giant magnet from above and picked up the compacted cube. The cube was dripping red fluid from underneath. I was sure that these operators were used to seeing drippings such as this, but must have thought it was nothing more than brake fluid. The magnet picked up the cube of metal and neatly stacked it on a pile of similar compacted cars.
Outside of the seven-foot fence I heard the whine of sirens and a minute later Lieutenant Anderson appeared in the salvage yard, followed by two uniforms, two crime lab technicians and Andy Reynolds, the county medical examiner.
“Where’s the body?” Eric said as he approached us.
I sighed and pointed to the compacted cube. “In there,” I said. “By the time we got back out here, the forklift driver had already dropped the car, body and all, into the compactor.” I turned to Andy. “I’d say you have your work cut out for you on this one, Andy.”
“I may have to rely on dental records or DNA in order to identify this one,” Andy said.
Eric turned to me. “What were you two doing here in the first place?” he said.
“I was looking for a replacement window for my Toyota,” Bud explained. “And the ironic part was that the car that got crushed with the body in it had a perfectly good window that I could have used.”
“And the body?” Eric said.
“Gone with the window,” Bud said.
“No,” Eric said, “I meant did you get a good look at the guy?”
“We both did,” Bud said, “But his head had been pretty much beaten to a pulp. Neither of us could tell who he was.”
“Notice anything else about him?” Eric said. “Did you see what he was wearing? Could you get a sense of height or weight from where you stood? Hair color, eye color, tattoos, anything?”
“His hair was brown,” I said. “It’s anybody’s guess about the eye color. They were beaten shut. Couldn’t begin to guess on height. He was curled up in womb position in that small back seat. Looked to be about average weight, not fat and not skinny. I did notice his shoes, though.”
“What about his shoes?” Eric said.
“I did notice that he was wearing brown leather loafers,” I said. “I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now that I think about it, he did the same thing to his shoes that I did to mine. I cut off those little tassels that hang from the front.”
“Huh?” Eric said. “Why would anyone do that to their shoes?”
“Can’t speak for him,” I said, “But I did it because they looked stupid hanging there, always off-center. I just figured my shoes would look better without them.”
“And did they?” Eric said.
I extended my right foot out in front of me and pointed down at my shoe. “Guess not,” I said. “Now I’ve got two brass eyelets on the front that look like they don’t belong. Gloria’s always after me to give these shoes away to the second-hand store, but I just can’t. They’re the most comfortable ones I own. It was probably the same reason the victim kept them. We may never know.”
Eric gestured toward one of the uniformed officers who had accompanied him here and then pointed to the crane operator. The officer plucked a silver whistle from his shirt pocket and blew it several times until the crane operator shut down the crane and opened the sliding window on his cab.
“What do you want?” he yelled.
Eric looked up at him. “Come on down here,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”
The window slid shut again and the operator exited the cab through a trap door on the floor of the crane. He descended the ladder to the ground and stood looking at the cops. “What’s going on here?” he said. “I have a lot of work left to do.”
“Looks like you’re done for today,” Eric said. “This is a crime scene now.” He pointed to the forklift operator. “Go tell your buddy to shut that thing down as well. I’ll want to talk to him, too. What’s his name?”
“Butler,” the crane operator said. “Harold Butler.”
Eric wrote the name down on his pad. “And your name?” he said to the crane operator.
“Cunningham,” he said. “Leroy Cunningham. Now what’s all this about a crime scene?”
“You’ll find out when I’m ready to tell you,” Eric said. “I’ll want to talk to Harold first.”
The forklift operator walked over to where Eric and the other cops were standing. “What’s going on here?” he said. “We’ve got cars to process.” He took off his hat, revealing a shock of red hair.
“You’re Butler?” Eric said.
“Yeah,” Butler said. “Harold Butler, but everyone here calls me Red. I guess you can see why.”
“Red Butler,” Eric said, jotting both names down on his pad. “I suppose you don’t know anything about the body that was in that last car you dumped into the crusher.”
Butler looked like he’d swallowed a goldfish. “What body?” he said.
Eric pointed to the red pool that had formed next to the freshly cubed car. “The one inside that block of metal,” he said.
Butler’s face went pale. He swallowed hard and smoothed his hair back on his head before putting his hat back on. “Sometimes bums break in here, looking for a place to sleep,” Butler explained. “I can’t go through each car before I pick it up.”
“Frankly, I don’t think you give a damn, either,” Eric said.
“Huh?” Butler said.
“Forget it,” Eric said, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I knew he’d thrown that last comment in solely for my benefit. It was well known that I was an old movie buff and that comment would have meaning to only me among all the people present, kind of like Bud’s comment about the body being gone with the window.
“Who’s the boss around here?”
Eric said.
Butler gestured with his head toward the office. “That would be Barry,” he said. “Barry Simmons. He’s in the office in the back.”
“Wait here,” Eric said and then motioned to the officers to make sure everyone stayed put. “Tape this area off. No one gets near either machine.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer said.
Eric, Bud and I returned to the salvage yard office. Eric asked Slim, the guy behind the counter, where he could find Simmons.
“Hang on,” the counter guy said. “I’ll get him for you.”
Slim returned in thirty seconds, followed by a man in overalls and work boots. He had a fat, stubby cigar clenched between his teeth. He stepped up to the counter and looked us over. “I’m the owner here,” Simmons said. “What do you guys want?”
Eric held his badge up in front of Simmons’ face. “The name’s Anderson,” Eric said, “Lieutenant Anderson from the twelfth precinct. I want to talk to you about a dead body found in one of your wrecks out there in the yard. I don’t suppose you know anything about how it got there, do you?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about no dead bodies on my property,” Simmons said. “Where’d you see this body anyway?”
Eric shifted from one foot to the other. “I didn’t see it myself,” he said, gesturing toward Bud and me. “They saw it, though, and right now it’s compacted inside one of your crushed cars out there.”
“He’s right,” Bud said. “There was a medium-sized guy with brown hair laying in the back seat of a Toyota sedan and your forklift driver dumped the car, body and all, into the crusher.”
“I saw him, too,” I said. “And when the coroner gets through sifting what’s left of him out of that metal cube, we’ll have a name to go with the body.” I looked around the office and then glanced out the window. “Don’t you have security for your lot?”
“Security?” Simmons said.
“Yeah,” I said, “Like guard dogs. I haven’t seen any dogs on the premises. How do you keep trespassers off your property?”
“I had a dog,” Simmons said. “But the county made me get rid of him when he bit some son-of-a-bitch breaking into the yard. How’s that for justice? He breaks the law and I have to pay him for damages my dog did to him.”
“So what do you do now to make sure no one’s stealing from you?” Eric said.
Simmons reached under his counter and pulled out a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum. He laid it on the counter and looked to Eric for a reaction.
“I take it you have a permit for that thing,” Eric said.
Simmons reached under the counter again and came up with a small, folded piece of paper, slapping it on the counter next to the revolver. “You bet your sweet ass I do,” Simmons said. “And if I catch anyone coming after me out there, well, I just may have to defend myself, won’t I?”
“Put that thing away,” Eric said, gesturing toward the gun. “You still haven’t answered my question about how that guy got inside one of your wrecks.”
“I can’t be here twenty-four, seven,” Simmons said. “I have to sleep sometime, don’t I?”
Eric didn’t answer.
“You will let me know when you find out who he was, won’t you?” Simmons said to Eric.
“You’ll be the first to know,” Eric said. “Don’t leave town. I’ll be in touch. Meanwhile, keep everyone behind the crime scene tape until my lab guys are finished processing out there.”
“How long’s that gonna take?” Simmons said. “I’ve got a business to run. I’m losing money for every car I can’t process.”
“Shouldn’t take my men more than a day or so to finish collecting evidence,” Eric said.
“A day?” Simmons nearly screamed. “That’s three grand out of my pocket.”
“Would you rather I shut you down altogether?” Eric said. Simmons didn’t answer. Eric turned and headed for the office door. Bud and I followed him back out to the bleeding metal cube. The pool of blood had spread a foot or more away from the stack of metal masses before it stopped.
Eric stepped up to where the officers were keeping an eye on the crime scene. He turned to the two salvage yard workers. “Might as well find something else to do for the rest of the day, boys,” Eric told them. “You’re not doing anything else here until the scene has been processed.”
Leroy and Red walked back to the office, supposedly for further instructions from Simmons.
Bud turned to Eric. “Do you need us for anything else, Eric?” he said.
“Why?” Eric said. “You have someplace you need to be?”
“I’d still like to find a window for my car,” Bud said. “I’m sure there has to be at least one more out there and if I want to find it, I have to start looking again.”
“Yeah, go ahead,” Eric said, shooing Bud away like a pesky fly.
Bud and I left the crime scene and resumed our search up and down the aisles of this metal jungle. “Can you beat that?” Bud said.
“Beat what?” I said.
“This whole thing,” Bud said. “Imagine if that guy hadn’t already been dead. That would have really hurt, don’t you think?”
“I can’t begin to imagine,” I said, not looking at Bud when I answered. My eyes were still scouring the cars for a window. “Is that the right one?” I said, pointing to a Toyota.”
“Right make, wrong model and year,” Bud said. “I need an ‘89 window.”
“And just how will I know an ‘89 when I see it?” I said.
“I’ll give you a little hint,” Bud said. “See those two numbers on the windshield, written with a grease pencil? That’s the year. Makes it easier to spot what you’re looking for.”
“So that’s what that is,” I said. “I thought maybe they gave each car its own number.”
“Never mind,” Bud said. “I found an ‘89 over here, and it’s the right model. Now if the back passenger side window is intact, I’m in business.” He checked the window and found it all in one piece. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, like a fly on a sugar pile. “Elliott, would you go back to the office and get one of Simmons’ men to take it out for me? I’ll wait here so you don’t have to search for this damned thing again.”
“I’ll be right back,” I said and headed back to the office.
Eric had gone, leaving Andy Reynolds and the two officers at the scene. On my way back to the office I stopped to ask Andy how he was planning to process the crushed cube of metal.
“Eric went back to the precinct to get a flatbed truck,” Andy explained. “We’ll have the crane operator lift it onto our truck and take it back to the lab.”
“How are you going to get it off the truck and into the lab?” I said.
“There’s a small motorcycle factory half a block from the precinct,” Andy said. “I’m sure we can get them to bring their forklift over and drive the cube inside for us.”
“Well, good luck with that whole thing,” I said and continued on my way to the office. I looked between the office building and a garage and noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. I walked over to that area to investigate. It was just a stray cat, but while I was between the buildings checking it out, I could hear voices coming from inside the office. I recognized Simmons’ voice and he was chewing someone out.
“You idiot,” I heard Simmons say. “I thought I told you to get rid of that body and now look at the mess I’m in.”
“Sorry, boss,” the other man said. “I wasn’t planning on leaving him in there.” It sounded like Cunningham, the crane operator. “It was Butler. He threw that car in the crusher before I could move the body. How was I supposed to know he’d take that Toyota next?”
“Don’t look at me,” Butler said in his defense. “You should have told me that’s where you put Jake.”
“Shut up, both of you,” Simmons said. “We’ve got to find a way to get that cube out of there before they come and haul it away. Think.”
I didn’t hear any other voices for
a long moment but figured I had enough to go to Eric with and eased myself back out from between the buildings. As I came around the corner I bumped into Red Butler. He had a snub-nosed .38 pointed at my belly.
“Come on, snooper,” he said. “Back in the office. I’m sure Mr. Simmons will want to talk to you.”
I followed Butler’s orders and stepped into the office. Cunningham was talking with Simmons when we came in. “What’s this?” Simmons said.
“Caught him listening outside,” Butler said. “He was between the buildings. He must have heard everything.”
Simmons reached beneath his counter again and produced his .357 Magnum again. This time he pointed it at me. “You remember what curiosity did to the cat, don’t you?” he said, giving me a sinister look.
“Did curiosity kill Jake, too?” I said.
Simmons shook his head. “You got a smart mouth, you know that?” he said and then turned to Butler. “Take him in the back room and tie him up. Make sure you gag him, too. I don’t want him warning anyone else until I can think of what to do with him.”
Simmons turned to Cunningham and tossed his head to one side. The two men went into a huddle and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. It didn’t matter anyway, because a minute later I was bound hand and foot to a chair in the back room. Before I could protest, Butler stuck a wadded up rag in my mouth and slapped a piece of duct tape over it. Butler left the room and closed the door. I could hear mumbling out in the office, but couldn’t make out what was being said. A few minutes later I heard the sound of two cars colliding in the street. I assumed it was the street in front of the salvage yard.
Simmons ran back to where the two officers stood watch over the crime scene. He looked at Andy. “Are you a doctor?” Simmons said.
“I’m a medical examiner,” Andy said. “Why?”
“There’s been an accident out on the street,” Simmons said. “I thing someone’s been hurt. Can you take a look?” He turned to the officers. “I think one of the cars may catch fire and I’m afraid traffic out on Mission Road may run into those cars. Please, help them.”
