by Alex P. Berg
Cairny glanced at me as I entered her sphere of interaction. “Daggers. You came back.”
“I always do,” I said. “I’ve been told I’m like a lost dog in that respect.”
“You look way too well fed for that analogy to work.”
I lifted a brow. “Are you saying I’m fat? I’ll have you know I’ve lost a good ten or fifteen pounds since the summer.”
Cairny kept her eyes trained on the corpse. “What do you want, Daggers?”
“Have you seen Quinto?”
“Not recently. Anything else?”
“I don’t suppose the body we misplaced magically reappeared?”
Cairny set her big moon eyes on me, a viscera-encrusted scalpel in hand. “I take it your return trip to see the army investigator didn’t go so well?”
I snorted. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“Interesting.” She blinked and dove back into her autopsy.
“I don’t suppose you have any additional insights you’ve gathered since our last conversation?” I asked.
“Actually, I do.” Cairny pushed her scalpel into the dead guy’s chest cavity, using it as a pointer. “See here? I found some waxy accumulations in this man’s ventricles, which indicates—”
“Cairny, I meant about Lanky. My dead guy.”
The dark-haired coroner tilted her head. “Oh. No. Sorry.”
“Ok. Thanks anyway. Stay frosty, Cairny.”
Based on the look she gave me, I don’t think she got my particular bit of morgue humor. Then again, the looks Cairny gave everyone were usually off.
I excused myself and spent the next hour combing the precinct for anyone and everyone who might’ve spent time in and around the morgue during the period after which Phillips delivered Lanky to our subterranean storage facility. I talked to beat cops and runners, street urchins and detectives. I even found the janitor I’d suspected of having cleaned the morgue, but he didn’t have anything useful to tell me other than to grumble about the continued deterioration in quality of his detergent brands. While several people remembered Phillips’ delivery earlier this morning, nobody could recall any group of people carrying a body out of the morgue.
The more I investigated, the less I found, and I became more and more certain something nefarious had taken place with Lanky’s body. After all, corpses didn’t plum disappear by themselves, and as much as I disliked the guy, I had to admit Agent Blue probably didn’t take back the body—which meant my simple case of hobo beating gone sour had morphed into something far more complicated. But as compelling as the questions of how the body had been removed and who did it were, the most head-scratching part of it all was why anyone had bothered to take it.
I pictured Lanky in my mind’s eye, specifically the wound he’d suffered on the back of his head. First appearances indicated the man had been beaten to death. If so, perhaps whatever weapon had delivered the killing blow was so distinctive we’d be able to identify it right off.
I supposed that might be possible, but it would suggest we’d come so close to our killer already that we’d spooked him or her into an otherwise insane course of action—to break into a police station and steal a dead body. And try as I might to think of any organization capable of pulling off such a feat, I couldn’t come up with anyone that fit the bill other than the army. But our three hungover GIs couldn’t have done it themselves, not in their state, and not while in custody—if we believed Agent Blue. But even if I was right and Lanky’s disappearance was a convoluted government plot, why steal him? What was Agent Blue, or the Sergeant Major above him, trying to hide?
As I filled my brain to near bursting with conspiracy theories, my paranoia got the best of me. I headed to the precinct’s second floor and searched out our sketch artist Boatreng, a short, bald-headed man whose artistic needs went sorely unmet by the police department’s demands. I found him at his desk, shading the left side of a drawing on his pad, something depicting a dark alley and a man in black under a night sky. At least, that’s what it looked like to me. It wasn’t particularly detailed yet. And many of shapes seemed somehow off.
“Nice piece,” I said as I walked up.
Boatreng eyed me dubiously. He and I weren’t exactly on the best of terms, but we’d made quite a bit of headway since Shay’s arrival. We could go for whole stretches of conversation now without anyone frowning or snarling.
“You like expressionism?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Beats me. I couldn’t even define it if you asked me to. But that drawing of yours looks cool. Gives me a grizzled, dark sort of feeling.”
Boatreng smiled. “Well, that’s expressionism for you.”
“You mind doing a sketch for me?” I asked.
He nodded. “Point me in the direction of the witness.”
“You’re looking at him.”
Boatreng lifted an eyebrow. “You witnessed a murder?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “But our victim has, um…gone missing. And I’d like to get a reference of the guy while he’s still fresh in my mind. Two, actually. I’ll need you to draw me a spare.”
Boatreng snorted. “Not a problem. Have a seat.”
The sketch artist flipped to a new page in his pad, and I sat. After three-quarters of an hour of questioning and drawing, I walked away with two nearly identical renditions of Lanky’s face exactly as I remembered it, complete with his mud-caked beard and altercation-induced scrapes. I took the drawings back with me downstairs to the pit, eager to share them and my newly forged theories with my partner.
That’s when I recalled the state of our relationship. I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the inevitable, but apparently fate had other plans for me.
18
I returned to my desk, drawings in hand, but rather than being faced with my partner’s thin lips, cool azure eyes, and cheeks made rosy by pent frustration, I found myself staring at her empty chair and the manila folder from the army base, which appeared untouched from when she’d left it. I glanced in the direction of the form office before remembering she’d probably never gone there in the first place.
A slurp and a hearty clearing of a throat brought my attention across the pit to Quinto’s backside. I walked over to find the big guy seated at his desk, surrounded by administrative documents and with a steaming mug of dark liquid at his elbow. An earthy smell worked its way into my nose alongside a hint of something spicy—perhaps anise. Either Quinto had developed a taste for licorice, or he’d found a new favorite variety of tea.
“Holy cow,” I said as I approached. “You weren’t kidding about the paperwork earlier.”
Quinto gave me a resigned glance. “You of all people should know how the Captain operates. Your partner goes missing, and all of a sudden, the skies part and ten years worth of back-catalogued crap falls on your head. All of which, incredibly, needed to get done yesterday.”
I shook my head. “You’d think if anyone would be exempt from that treatment, it would be you. I mean, honestly, what’s the worst that could happen to you if you went out alone? You took on a seven foot tall werewolf and barely came away with a scratch.”
“That scratch required stitches,” said Quinto as he ran his hand across the forearm in question, “but I don’t think the Captain’s policy has anything to do with physical danger. I think he’s more concerned with what goes on up here when we’re alone.” He tapped the side of his head.
I snorted. I didn’t think Quinto had anything to fear from what lingered in his mind. Me, on the other hand…
“Speaking of which,” I said. “Have you seen Steele recently?”
“Yeah. About twenty minutes ago. I think she left.”
“Really?” I glanced at the windows on the far side of the Captain’s office. The day’s light was fading, but with winter approaching, that didn’t necessarily mean it was time to cut and run. Besides, Steele never left work before I did, not with her can-do attitude and my aversion to putting in more than six hours a day
unless I absolutely had to.
Quinto slurped his tea, bringing my attention back to reality. “Everything…ok between you two?”
I blinked. “Huh? Yeah, yeah. Sure.”
I introduced my hands to my coat pockets, and Quinto took another sip of tea, possibly as a way to give his own enormous mitts something to do.
“So,” he said, eventually breaking the silence. “How’s the case going?”
I grunted.
“That bad, huh?”
I nodded. “I haven’t made any progress at all with the three army enlistees. And Lanky’s disappearance is driving me up the walls—mostly because it puts me at square one regarding his identity and the manner of his death.”
“Have you considered it might’ve been a clerical error?” asked Quinto. “His disappearance, I mean.”
“C’mon, big guy. You think he got transferred to a different morgue without anyone here knowing? Really?”
“It’s possible,” said Quinto. “Have you talked to the Captain about it?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I’m afraid of how he’ll take it. You know he’s a stickler for security. Or, alternatively, he’ll think I’m nuts and that there’s a perfectly rational explanation for everything.”
Quinto rolled his eyes in a way that made me think he also believed the latter. “Well, don’t worry about it, Daggers. We’ll sort through it in the morning, I’m sure.”
“We?” I asked.
Quinto shrugged. “What? I’m optimistic about how quickly I can get through this paperwork. Captain’ll let me come with you guys if I do.”
I nodded and returned to my desk, secretly thinking the only way Quinto would reach his goal was if his desk spontaneously combusted. After seating myself in my chair, I tried to engage my mental faculties in more harebrained theorizing, but I couldn’t focus. My thoughts kept drifting to Shay.
Why had she left so early? Had I crossed a line, and if so, which one? Professional, or personal? Yes, I knew I’d acted like a jerk throughout parts of the day, but wasn’t that one of my charming, affable qualities? One of the things that made me irresistible?
I glanced at her empty desk, and my eyes fell upon the manila folder. Feeling the need for a distraction, I reached over, grabbed it, and helped myself to the contents. First in line was Sergeant Timmy’s file, four sheets held together by a paper clip, which appeared to be presented in the order of: personal information, a perfunctory psychiatric evaluation, citations of exceptional service, and indictments for the exact opposite.
I scanned the pages in order.
First page. Full name Timothy Robin Holmes. Robin? Really? Had his parents secretly desired a girl? Born in New Welwic. Raised on the southeastern side. Twenty-seven years old. No disclosed allergies or preexisting medical conditions. Fingerprints were attached.
Flip.
Second page. A fairly unspectacular psych eval, full of the sorts of things you’d expect from an army sergeant. Bull headed, liked to hit things and boss people around, but followed orders. Not much of an intellectual.
Flip.
Third page. One single commendation, for exceptional performance on an athletic challenge performed during basic training, something imaginatively called ‘The Gauntlet.’ Not a single mention of his performance as a sergeant, however. That was a little surprising.
Flip.
Fourth page. Jackpot. Four incidents and complaints. Two of them involved physical altercations with other recruits, once as a private and the other as a corporal. The other two incidents had occurred during Timmy’s stint as a sergeant.
The first involved a case of neglect. Apparently someone in Tim’s charge had overheated, collapsed, and nearly died during a training exercise. At the bottom of that summary was a stamp reading ‘Closed, Nolle Prosse,’ which meant the prosecutor in charge of the case had decided not to file charges. In all likelihood, no one could prove whether or not Sergeant Holmes had pushed the soldier to the brink of death or if the soldier had pushed himself there.
The last incident was recent, only three months old. A private Bernadette Chesterfield had filed a complaint against Timmy for ‘promoting a hostile work environment’ and ‘using language unbefitting the workplace.’ Another stamp had been affixed to the bottom of the synopsis, this one bearing the word ‘Withdrawn’ and a date two months past.
I made some mental notes before moving on to the remaining two files in the folder. If I hadn’t been particularly impressed with the wealth of information available on Sergeant Holmes, then I was downright disappointed with the files on privates Chavez and Delvesdeep.
I supposed it was to be expected. Both were relatively new enlistees, having joined five months back, on the exact same date no less. Both also hailed from the same town, a flyspeck on the map a few days north of the city by boat. I assumed the two had known each other prior to enlisting.
While I didn’t glean much about the pair from the army documentation, I did note the psych evals listed Chavez as ‘argumentative’ and Delvesdeep as ‘aloof’ and ‘potentially uncooperative.’ Which got me to thinking—who, exactly, did the army turn away? Of the three evaluations I’d read, not one had been filled with glitter and affixed with gold stars.
I replaced the pages in the manila folder and set the pile back in its rightful spot on Shay’s desk. A long shadow stretched across the floor, and as I looked up, I spotted Quinto standing beside his chair, shrugging into his enormous purple duster that contained enough fabric to clothe an entire village in loincloths.
I hustled to catch up to him before he vanished. “Hey, big guy. Headed out?”
“Yup,” he said. “Taking Cairny to a new restaurant a few blocks south of the station. A place called Flimflame. Heard of it?”
I bit down on my tongue. I’d planned on asking Quinto if he wanted to join me at Jjade’s, my watering hole of choice. “Um…no. Can’t say I have.”
“Well, I’ll let you know how it is,” he said. “If it’s good, maybe we can all head there sometime. Though we should wait until Rodgers returns. You know how he gets about being left out.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
Quinto gave me a nod. “Anyway. See you tomorrow.”
“Right. You, too.” I paired my farewell with a halfhearted wave.
Thumping footsteps dogged Quinto’s departure, and I found myself standing in the pit, surrounded by polished wood and gleaming metal, chatting cops and coffee-fueled investigators and the Captain’s lingering aura, but still feeling very much alone.
19
A chill morning fog hung to my shoulders and prickled the skin at the base of my neck as I marched down Schumacher onto 5th. I grumbled under my breath, but I didn’t fight it—not only because doing so would’ve marked me as loonier than a brace of ducks, but also because the cold mist seemed like such a fitting complement to my mood.
I pushed through the station’s heavy double doors, letting traces of fog sweep in behind me, and headed toward my desk. Quinto’s empty chair gave me a wink and a smile as I passed, relishing in its temporary liberation from the big guy’s weighty hindquarters. Steele’s chair couldn’t give me the same salutation, but then again, it probably liked the attention it got.
Shay sat, back to me, her still-curled chocolate brown hair spilling over a maroon jacket, one that featured full length sleeves, a notched lapel, and a heavier weave than yesterday’s version. A cream-colored scarf curled in a tight spiral in the spot where I’d last seen the army admissions folder reside, and an umbrella rested against the side of the desk, its oiled fabric dry and its clasp still attached. Though the skies threatened, so far all we’d gotten was fog.
Shay heard the thumping of my feet and turned to face me. Her cheeks were smooth and the line made by her mouth flat, but other than the cool air about her, I didn’t detect any hints of malice. I took that as a good sign.
“You’re in early.” She glanced at my face and did a double take. “You look terrible, by the way.”
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I frowned. “Thanks…?”
“Oh come on. You know what I mean. It’s early—” She glanced at the windows, where a stray ray of light had burst through the low cloud cover. “—at least for you—but it’s not that early.”
I settled into my seat. “I suffered through some extenuating circumstances.”
Steele tilted her head and lifted a brow. “Of the projectile vomit variety?”
“What? No.” I sniffed my coat. “Is that what I smell like?”
Shay shook her head. “You’re emitting your usual aroma—”
I wondered what she meant by that comment.
“—but I assumed based on past events. Given your appearance, I figured…Jjade’s, heavy drinking, and the inevitable conclusion of the first two.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Clairvoyant,” I said. “But you’re batting one for three this morning.”
“You tried a different bar?” said Shay. “How adventurous of you.”
I snorted. “Your unshakable belief in my alcoholism is reassuring, but no. I went to Jjade's. I did not consume any potent potables. And I did not get sick afterwards.”
Shay smiled an evil grin. “So you’re telling me you look this bad because you didn’t drink?”
“I look like this because of when I got up.”
“Daggers, really. I know you’re in your own league in that regard, but it’s not that early.”
“I’ve been up for over two hours,” I said.
“You have?” Shay’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I picked up bagels, cream cheese, and coffee, not to mention some kolaches, and went over to Rodgers’ place. Checked in with Allison—who’s doing fine, by the way, thanks for asking—and had breakfast with her and the kids.”
Shay blinked. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” I said. “I’ve known Rodgers for almost a decade, and I’ve always been fond of Allison—in a purely platonic way, mind you. It’s the least I could do to drop off food along with my condolences.”
