Mayhem, Mystery and Murder

by John A. Broussard

  “University’s really can’t do much medical research without government grants. None were forthcoming for this kind of research. I visited several pharmaceutical companies, and money was again the bottom line. None of them were interested in funding research to produce a drug, which would be of value only to a few impoverished people in a remote part of the globe.

  “BioGem did want me to go to work for them, but only if I was willing to follow my earlier leads on blood enhancement. That was a year ago, and that’s when I hatched out my scheme. I was almost positive I was on the track of a multi-million dollar medical discovery. The strategy was well-thought out, if I say so myself. I intended to do just what I did—complete the research, sell the results to the highest bidder and then use the money to work on what I really wanted to work on. Incidentally, Cartlett vastly underestimated Sera Labs know how. In fact, they did too. They were much closer to the answer than they realized.”

  Lewison’s face broke into the semblance of a smile. “But to come back to strategy. The strategy was good, but the tactics were obviously poor, or you folks wouldn’t be here. And I imagine that’s what you have questions about.”

  Before Van Damm could speak, Jackson said, “You were the burglar at BioGem, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, but with no intention of taking anything. I assumed that it would look like some knowledgeable burglars were looking for my research results once my own home was ransacked.”

  “It did.” Van Damm broke in, then asked, “When did you destroy all the computer equipment?”

  “The day before, when those trucks were roaring up and down in front of the house. I didn’t think anyone would figure that one out. Congratulations? I do have a question of my own, though. How did you trace me to here?”

  “Supplies”

  Lewison’s face lit up. “Of course! Such a simple thing. I completely overlooked that. Any more questions?”

  “Why did you pay six months rent ahead of time?” Van Damm asked, and Jackson grinned as he remembered when she had first asked him that question.

  “I wanted to leave something for Mrs. Francisco to pay for cleaning up. Knowing her, though, I’m afraid she’ll just keep things as they are, won’t rent the house hoping I’ll be coming back. She used to bring me some of her biscuits once in a while. You can’t believe how hard and inedible they were. I couldn’t hurt her feelings by refusing.”

  On the way back to the city, Jackson was the first to break the ensuing silence. “Well?”

  “There’s not much point in telling the chief we found Lewison. He has bigger fish to fry, and he as much as told us so. Are you going to tell Cartlett?

  “Nope. BioGem can fight it out with Sera. They’ll both end up in court, no matter what, and my guess is that they’ll also both end up making several fortunes out of what Lewison discovered.”

  “There is one person I do have to talk to, though.”

  “Who’s that?” Jackson asked, glancing over at his passenger.

  “Mrs. Francisco. I won’t be exactly explaining why, but I am going to tell her she can go ahead and clean up the house and rent it out.”

  MURDER BY A BLACK MAN

  Lieutenant Turlow Jackson looked around with satisfaction at his new corner office. He knew that a generation back it would have been difficult for a black patrolman to make it beyond sergeant. To also end up with the best of the offices assigned to the lieutenants on the force would have been simply unheard of back then.

  Homicide Lieutenant Leola Van Damm entered without knocking. The tall blonde grinned at the picture presented by Jackson leaning back in his chair surveying his surroundings. “How is the alpha male feeling today now that he has a fancy den?”

  He returned the grin. “Watch it! You’re letting your envy show. Be glad you aren’t back out in the ward room occupying one of those cubicles.”

  As she sat, her expression became more somber. “Don’t laugh. It’s possible I’ll be ending up there. I’ve just had a load dumped on me, and I may not be able to handle it in a civil fashion.”

  No question was needed, since it was obvious Van Damm was going to continue. “Chief Wajinsky has assigned Sergeant Bretna Brown to me.”

  “What? The African Princess? I thought she was working Vice.”

  “She was. But haven’t you heard? The Chief took her off it.”

  “Why?”

  “My! You really must be caught up with your new surroundings… not mixing with the boys and girls anymore, so you don’t know what’s going on. The Chief said he had to take her out of Vice. He said if she went out as a decoy in hot pants with that figure of hers, any john’s lawyer would immediately scream entrapment, and the jury would believe it.”

  Jackson guffawed. “She is a looker, no question about that. But why should that bother you. She’s sharp and a hard worker. I think she’ll be a good addition to the homicide division.”

  “She also has a chip on her shoulder, specifically there for my benefit.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure, except that race has something to do with it. She hasn’t exactly had the happiest of relations with white superiors. And the fact that you and I are an item isn’t helping any, especially since I suspect she has the hots for you. Probably jealous as all hell. I think she’s especially resentful we’re not trying to hide the fact we’re sharing bed and board.”

  “Aw, c’mon. She hardly knows me. Granted that I’m God’s gift to the ladies, there are plenty of other unattached males on the force who would be more than happy to serve her purposes.”

  “OK, God’s gift, I’ll keep an open mind. And I’ll treat her like any other sergeant who’s worked with me, but I’m not about to take any guff off of her.”

  “I hear you. Soul sisters can be a real pain, sometimes. You can tell the African Princess that for me.”

  “Tell her yourself, Low. You know as well as I do that I would never be able to call her the African Princess to her face, but you could. Race relations or the lack of them are going to be a problem for generations to come.”

  Jackson got up, closed the door to his office, leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth, then said, “As far as we’re concerned, the generations have come and gone.”

  The concern slipped from her face as she reached a hand behind his neck and pulled his face back down to hers.

  ***

  There was no indication of any animosity when Brown reported to Van Damm the following morning. The lieutenant rose and shook hands with her new sergeant, actually managing a smile of welcome while doing so.

  “I’m afraid it’s going to be a dull week, Sergeant. We’ve got a mass of paperwork to get through, a half-dozen left-over cases we’re still working on, which seem to be going nowhere, and maybe even traffic duty if the construction work on the L-4 is still going on during rush hour.”

  The answering smile was reassuring. “You must be kidding, Lieutenant. I’ve been watching ‘True Crimes,’ on TV, and I know homicide divisions spend all of their time doing exciting things like catching murderers.”

  The banter was relaxing. Van Damm began to hope for the best. As the day progressed, the best seemed to be a distinct possibility. Brown pitched in, seemed to be already familiar with much of the routine and swiftly reduced the untidy pile of paper on her desk to something approximating manageable proportions. Van Damm decided the real test would come at an actual crime scene, and the test came just before quitting time.

  “42nd and Westford. Grocery store.” she said cryptically as dropped the phone, shrugged into her overcoat, and started by Brown’ desk. “Robbery in progress, reported shooting.”

  The two officers piled into a waiting squad car with Brown behind the wheel. Van Damm had to admit to herself that she had acquired a good chauffeur, as the sergeant maneuvered swiftly and efficiently through traffic that was crawling through the growing darkness and the remnants of the morning’s snowfall. Since the scene of the crime was only two blo
cks away, it wasn’t surprising that they arrived even before the patrol car, which pulled into the lot as the officers—guns drawn—entered the store.

  There was no robber, but there was a victim. The lieutenant’s first thought was to check to see if the man was still alive. Her second was that there was no need to even consider that possibility since much of his skull and part of his gray matter was missing. Van Damm turned to warn off the patrolman who was just entering the store. “Secure the area, hold off the crowd, and see if you can find out who made the call. I’ll have help on the way.” As she unhooked her phone, she watched Brown, her service pistol still gripped in her hand, moving slowly toward a stack of milk crates.

  Even as she gave swift instructions to the operator, she could hear the reason for Brown’s search. A growing whimper was coming from behind the crates. Within moments Brown had holstered her automatic, and was squatting down to hold and soothe a crying child.

  It was difficult to estimate the child’s age. She was small, but since she was Asian, Van Damm could only guess at her being four or so.

  Brown’s softly whispered, “It’s okay! It’s okay!” seemed to be working. The sobs, which had never been very loud, turned into mild hiccups. Van Damm maneuvered herself between the corpse and the child as Brown lifted her and started for the door. The child looked over the sergeant’s soldier and said, distinctly, “Black man shoot.”

  ***

  It took a good twenty minutes to sort out the crowd that had gathered just beyond the yellow tape. Brown was sitting in the squad car distracting the girl while the scene-of-crime crew had arrived and gone to work with a minimal amount of instruction. One of the patrolmen had found the caller, a woman who owned a dry cleaning establishment next door to the grocery store.

  Van Damm opened the rear door of the warm car, slid into the seat and filled in the sergeant on what information they had so far. “The cash register was locked. He couldn’t have gotten anything. That’s probably why he shot the owner. The only one who saw the perp is her.” She nodded over the seat toward the child. “The victim is her stepfather, name of Leung-il Pak. He’s an old-timer in the neighborhood. Went back to Korea six months ago and married the widow of a nephew. She’s the mother of the child. Works as a cook at a Korean restaurant. I’ve sent a car out to pick her up and take her to the station where we’ll be getting mug shots out for the girl. I’ve got a Korean interpreter on the way.”

  The lieutenant interrupted the protest she saw coming. “We have to move fast, while the memories are still fresh.” Turning to the child, she asked, “What’s your name, Honey?”

  Dark brown eyes fixed on the blue ones, then one word: “Jane.”

  ***

  Of the six people viewing the computer screen, Jane was the most relaxed. Brown’s face still reflected the disapproval she’d felt at rushing the widow and child off to the station. The mother was quiet and seemed baffled by the proceedings, even though the interpreter was doing his best to explain the need for her and her daughter’s presence. “Probably still in shock,” Van Damm thought. The station artist operating the computer was having trouble with the program, while the lieutenant watched impatiently for reactions from the child as each set of pictures flashed on the screen.

  A wild set of dreadlocks prompted a “funny clown” from Jane. After almost a half-hour of viewing, the child’s attention began to wander and the lieutenant had to concede they were getting nowhere. Reluctantly, she yielded to Brown’s suggestion that it was time to take mother and daughter home.

  ***

  Jackson had waited for her and dished up the take-out as soon as she had shed her coat and jacket.

  “Looks like you’ve had a tough one,” he commented, as she began eating without really tasting.

  “A tough one and a bad one.” Describing the incident, she ended by saying, “Brown’s really resentful. I knew she was going to be a problem, but I didn’t think she’d be this irrational.”

  Jackson gave her a questioning look as he replenished his sweet and sour pork from one of the cartons.

  “She insists that Jane is totally unreliable as a witness. She says there’s no way you can believe it when the kid says a black shot her stepfather.”

  “You said the kid’s only four. What do kids know about race at that age?”

  “She’s almost five, and a really sharp five at that. Besides, she’s proved she can distinguish races.”

  “How so?”

  “She speaks fairly good English. Puts sentences together. And the Korean interpreter says her Korean is really amazing.”

  “Well?”

  “When she talked to her mother or to the interpreter, she always spoke to them in Korean. When she spoke to me or Brown, she immediately switched to English.”

  “Doesn’t prove much. You spoke to her in English. So did Brown. She’s just replying in kind. Proves she’s smart, but not that she recognizes race.”

  “She spoke to the police artist in Korean the moment she saw him.”

  Jackson’s eyes opened wide. “Jimmy Miyamoto?”

  Van Damm nodded as Jackson continued. “You’ve sure got a point there. Not only does he not know Korean, he probably doesn’t even know the meaning of sayonara. But there’s no question but that he’s Asian.”

  “Exactly. Jane saw a black man shoot her stepfather. Brown is in complete denial of that fact and is resentful that I’m working on that assumption.”

  “Well, there’s one way to make her come around.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Find the killer.”

  “I’m working on it. Believe me, I’m working on it.”

  ***

  The plans they had had for eating out the following evening went by the board as Van Damm clearly wasn’t feeling well. “Maybe some soup,” she suggested. Even then, she barely touched what Jackson had prepared from their meager store of supplies.

  “What happened? You really look beat. Even more than last night. More problems with the African Princess?”

  Van Damm nodded and winced. “She pulled an end run on me. She wanted to call in Jane and her mother again for another session. That should have made me suspicious, since she was so opposed the first time. As it turns out, she’d heard about a service station holdup a few months back where the perp wore a black ski mask. So, without telling me, she has Jimmy mock up a perp with one on the computer. When the picture flashed on the screen, Jane immediately said “Black man.’”

  “Sounds good to me. The kid probably did see a masked man doing the shooting. A masked man wearing a black ski mask.”

  “Ridiculous. When we asked her if that was the man who did the shooting, Jane just wouldn’t answer. It’s obvious she was just responding to the mask when she said ‘Black man’ and wasn’t saying a man with a mask did the shooting. Well, Brown didn’t say much, but I could tell she was gloating. And, in the meantime, I had a splitting headache and still do.” She pushed the barely touched soup aside.

  “Two Tylenol and bed rest.”

  Van Damm tried a smile. “O.K., Dr. Jackson. I’ll take you up on your prescription, after a hot shower. I just ache all over, and that bed sounds mighty nice about now.”

  By morning, Van Damm was feeling considerably worse, and Jackson was visibly concerned. “Headache, stiff neck, nausea, a temperature of a hundred-and-one. I don’t need a medical degree to know you’re going to the clinic, and no arguments.”

  There were no arguments. A concerned nurse called a doctor out immediately to deal with a Van Damm who was by then almost unable to walk and showing signs of delirium. Jackson paced nervously in the waiting room until the nurse returned. “I’m sorry, but it’s much too soon to tell what she has. It may just be a bad case of flu, but we’re doing blood tests and will know more in an hour or so.”

  It was less than an hour when the doctor came out to give the worried Jackson a preliminary diagnosis. “It looks like meningitis, but I think we’ve caught it in time. She�
�s under heavy sedation at the moment and we’ll be moving her to the hospital where we can monitor her closely. You really can’t do anything for her, and there’s no crisis looming.”

  Reluctantly, Jackson left his cellphone number and headed for work after exacting the promise that he would be notified immediately if there was any change.

  After checking several times during the day, Jackson finally got word from the hospital that Van Damm indeed had meningitis, but was out of danger, conscious and able to receive visitors, if only for a very short time. He broke speed records getting there.

  It was a very tired looking pair of blue eyes that peered out at him from the pillow. Even so, she reacted to his expression. “You look worse than I do, Low. Really, there’s nothing to worry about. Doc’s given me massive doses of antibiotics, and the bugs are in full retreat. He’s going to keep me here overnight and maybe through tomorrow. Then I can go home and you can nurse me back to health. How’s the force getting along without me?”

  He smiled as he held her hand, which now seemed amazingly cool after the high fever of that morning. “We’re bearing up under your absence. There’s a hostage situation out in the warehouse district—a holdup that went awry.”

  “Why aren’t you there?”

  “They don’t need me. The hostage specialists are out with their bullhorns and have the situation well in hand.”

  “Anyone there from homicide?”

  “The African Princess.”

  “She’s probably only too happy to be there without me.”

  Jackson looked uneasy, before saying, “She’s happy for another reason. The perp is wearing a black ski mask. She’s going to keep me informed.”

  The nurse who’d been hovering in the background broke in. “Just a few more minutes, Lieutenant.” His phone rang as she was speaking. Van Damm looked up expectantly, but the conversation was mainly at the other end. Hanging up, he said, “That was Brown. The hostage situation is over. Was over minutes after I left. Sharpshooter picked him off. When they carted him off to the ambulance, he thought he was dying. Confessed to a whole series of robberies, including the Korean grocery store. She’s on her way up right now, by the way.”