by Chill, David
He pointed to the dumpsters. "I was putting some trash out," he exclaimed. "It's over there."
I walked up the alley and saw what appeared to be a very worn black boot sticking up next to the dumpster. Taking a closer gander, I saw the body it came with. The black frame glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose and his mouth was open. There was no pulse. No sign of life emanated from his body. Raff was dead.
Chapter 7
Here we go again. Paramedics, local reporters, and of course the same law enforcement officials hovering on the scene, asking questions and munching sandwiches.
Detective Barney Sack delegated the task of interviewing me to a subordinate while he talked to Jerry Winkler. A broad shouldered hulk with closely cropped, white blond hair approached me. He had a notebook in one hand and a sandwich in the other. His name was Chuck Bausch and he looked as if he were more preoccupied with his dinner than in doing his job. Taking a large chomp out of a turkey and cheese on white bread, Bausch wiped a small glop of mayonnaise from the top of his chin. He motioned with his right hand for me to follow him into the hallway, his mouth too stuffed with food to be of any use.
"Let's get this done," Bausch said.
"Sure."
"You the one who found the stiff?"
I paused. "Raff."
"Huh?"
"His name was Raff," I said with growing impatience. I may not have been friends with the guy, but he deserved more respect than simply being called a stiff.
"Whatever."
I stared at him. "They run out of doughnuts, officer?"
Bausch looked at me hard and pointed his finger just like Sack had done. Maybe this was a Bay City cop thing. "A real smart ass. I heard about you and your antics. Get cute with me and you'll wake up looking at the dust bunnies underneath the prison bed."
"I'm quivering."
"You ought to be," he said, picking his teeth with a fingernail. "I want to know what happened here tonight, Burnside. Just the facts. None of your smart ass bullshit. You know the routine."
"Routine?"
"Yeah. The routine."
I feigned ignorance. "Time to round up the usual suspects?"
Bausch shook his head. "Again. You the one who found him?"
"Jerry Winkler found him, he's the director here. Somehow I don't think he did it. Unless you're going to bring in that reverse psychology logic Sack used last time. He tried to sell me on the idea Nina Lovejoy could have shot Fairborn."
"That little honey is still a suspect," he said, pointing a finger at me again.
I blinked. "You mean Crystal was released?"
"I mean as of this morning. Your sources are pretty lame there, bud. The wife is in the clear."
"Who do you have in custody now?"
"The case is still open. There may be a link with what happened here tonight. Not that I really give a damn who zapped that bum in the alley, but it may help us in the Fairborn case."
I felt my temperature rising. "Gee officer, do you really think the two murders are related? Just because they happened three days apart at the same location? And that the two dead guys were connected to Second Chance? Gosh, I wish I had your powers of deduction. I never would have considered such a possibility."
Bausch narrowed his eyes. "You're getting on my nerves, pally," he growled. "Just stick to answering the questions. Now, what could that guy Jerry have been doing in the alley? Giving some personal counseling?"
"Why don't you ask him?" I said.
"Because I got the badge," he said, the growl turning onto a snarl. "And I'm asking you. And I don't take no guff from no big mouthed private asshole. Somebody gets out of line with me, I'll rearrange their face."
"If you want to do some good in the world," I said, "why don't you start with your own?"
With that, Bausch threw down his clipboard and came at me, catching me with a left hook to my right ear. I winced and gathered up my reserves as quickly as possible. Fights like these begin and end quickly. Bausch knowingly grabbed my shirt with both hands and tried to jerk it over my head, which would have rendered me defenseless. As he tugged my shirt, I planted my left foot as solidly as I could and swung my right up into his crotch. Not as hard as I would have liked, but he nevertheless let out a yelp that told me my foot had done some damage.
The back of my shirt was pulled partway over my shoulders, but I managed to ball my left hand into a fist and let fly with a mean little punch. I hit him square in the right cheek and he grunted with pain. Actually, we both expressed some agony as I was quickly reminded that this was the wrist I strained trying to fend off Rusty Haas. Moving backwards, Bausch unexpectedly threw a right hand which caught me on the jaw. It didn't hurt so much as it served to give his crew a few more seconds to respond. Before I could do anything further, I was tackled by two burly plainclothes cops who slammed me to the floor and pinned my arms behind me. A pair of handcuffs were painfully applied, and at that point I would have given anything to be a one-armed man. My left wrist was searing with pain; if it wasn't broken, it was at least sorely sprained.
One of the cops hoisted me up by the elbow and I saw Bausch glaring at me with a murderous look. For a minute I thought he might actually hit someone in handcuffs.
"You just made a big mistake, pally," he roared at me. "Maybe a few days in the tank'll smarten you up."
Before I could come up with an answer, a deep voice boomed. "If there was a mistake, officer, it was made by you. I would strongly advise you to let this man go free."
I looked around and saw the looming figure of Virgil Hairston. He was pointing a large finger at the hunched over detective.
Barney Sack intervened quickly. "Who the hell do you think you are?
"I think I'm the one who's going to make that officer lose his job when half of Bay City reads about police brutality," he declared. "A cop who attacks a citizen for speaking his mind and then has him arrested for merely defending himself? You go through with putting this man in jail and I'll make you the sorriest bunch in town."
Sack looked around nervously and told Bausch to stop holding his crotch. "You with the Tribune?"
"You bet I'm with the Tribune. And if you don't take the cuffs off of that man immediately, your department will regret it for a long time."
Sack looked sheepish. "Okay," he finally managed. "Let him go."
The cop who lifted me up got out a key and slowly snapped the cuffs off, giving me a dirty look all the while. I rubbed my wrist delicately and looked at Hairston. He winked discreetly at me and smiled.
"The pen is mightier than the sword," he whispered.
My wrist was beginning to throb and felt as if it were a wet rag that had been wrung dry.
"Depends on whose wielding it," I pointed out.
*
A different officer took the rest of my statement, and not surprisingly it went a lot smoother. Hairston jotted down what he needed from the police P.R. rep and we soon adjourned to a little Mexican restaurant down the street. Hairston ordered carnitas and frijoles, and I had to scan the menu carefully before settling on two bottles of Dos Equis Amber.
"I keep hanging around with you and my cholesterol level may rise by osmosis," I said, eyeing the gooey plate with a mixture of envy and trepidation.
He rubbed his belly with his free hand. "I like to eat," he said, "and make no excuses."
"As do I. But getting handcuffs slapped on my wrists tempers some of my appetite."
"You don't seem to have much of an appetite for good relations with the police either."
"We see things from different perspectives. They exist to maintain order. Justice isn't always properly served."
"That's where you come in?"
I shook my head. "Not very often. Only when it affects me personally."
"Why'd you leave the police force? You could accomplish a lot more on the inside."
I took a long swallow of beer. It was cold and strong and had a slightly bitter quality which suited my palate just fin
e.
"Well I left because they told me to leave. There was an incident, which I don't care to describe right now, that caused me to reconsider my values. And some of the top brass didn't appreciate a cop with an attitude. My new employer is far more lenient that way."
"Most people would like to work for themselves," he said. "I envy you."
"You forget the part about a steady paycheck, plush surroundings and health insurance. And the occasional physical altercation that comes with my line of work. Few things are as they seem."
"True enough."
"The police uncover anything on Raff?" I queried.
Hairston shook his head no. "I think they'll shitcan the investigation. One dead vagrant is nothing for them to sweat over, at least that was the impression they left me with."
"Have they found a link between Raff and Wayne?"
"No, other than the obvious. They didn't say how long it would take to determine the murder weapon."
"Autopsy report could be ready quickly if they push it. Depends how busy the coroner is. Or how bad the police want to know."
"Think it'll be a .32 again?"
I nodded. "If I had any money, I'd lay odds it was. I don't believe in coincidences. Raff knew something and he had to be shut up."
"Sounds like someone's getting nervous."
"It happens when the stakes are high. Murder One carries a pretty steep penalty, particularly when it's a politician that gets smoked. Whoever did this is trying to cover their tracks."
Hairston chewed thoughtfully and shook his head. "This is the most excitement I've seen in Bay City since they passed rent control back in '79."
"That was probably less bloody."
"You might be surprised."
I finished my first beer and reached for the second bottle. In a ritzier establishment, champagne might have been in order. It wasn't every day you get to slug a cop and walk away from it.
"So what's the story on Crystal Fairborn?" I asked.
"Charges dropped," he said, through bites of his shredded pork. "That dried blood on Crystal's steering wheel turned out to be her own blood, not her husband's."
"Interesting," I remarked. "How'd it get there?"
"Said someone tried to run her off the road last weekend and she cut her hand on the dashboard during the collision. They also ran some tests on that business card you found sitting in Fairborn's lap. Crystal's fingerprints weren't on them. Plus, Crystal said she wasn't even at Second Chance that night, and she even passed a polygraph test."
"And the eyewitness...?"
"Interestingly enough, she passed the polygraph as well. I guess those things aren't foolproof."
"True, but they're better than gut feeling. Amy's actually one person I haven't been able to talk with yet."
Hairston looked past me and offered a wry smile. "Now's your chance. She's been waiting there for a few minutes."
I turned around and saw Amy Flanders standing in the doorway. She was a fair skinned, buxom woman with short dark hair that fell across her forehead in bangs. Not unattractive, Amy had a tough look about her, like she had been around the block and then some. There were some men who liked that in a woman, but for me it was not very attractive. She wore a black cotton skirt with a gold striped blouse that revealed some cleavage. A gold necklace with a small heart dangled near her breasts. About a dozen thin gold bracelets hung from her wrist, looking as if they would surely fall off, but magically were able to defy gravity. I waved her over.
"I was told I'd find you guys here," she said as she reached our table.
I rose and put out my hand. "I think we met the other night. I'm Burnside."
"Yes, I remember. And you're Mister..."
"Hairston," he answered, not bothering to rise.
"Right. It's nice to, well, I guess it's not nice to see you again under these circumstances. Can I, uh, join you?"
"By all means," I said. "I've been trying to get in touch the past few days."
"I know," she sighed, sitting down. "That's why I stopped by, I heard you might be here. I apologize for not getting back to you. This whole thing has upset me terribly. Wayne, as you might know, was a dear, dear friend. I've been in such terrible grief since this... thing happened. And now tonight. It's so horrible."
A waitress in a colorful off the shoulder dress came by and asked if we'd like anything else. Amy ordered a Margarita and Hairston asked for a Corona without the lime. I considered a third Dos Equis but finally passed. It was time to punch the clock again.
"How did you know Wayne?" I asked.
"I work for Liebross Motors," she told me. "I sold Wayne his Lincoln Navigator last year. We've remained friends."
"Did you know his wife very well?"
"Not exceptionally well. It was Wayne I knew. Of course, I knew of his wife, I mean everyone knows Crystal. I've been volunteering with the mayoral campaign and she's there a lot, obviously."
"So you're sure it was Crystal you saw leaving the Center the other night. No mistake?"
The waitress sat a Margarita down in front of her. The rim was lined with salt, and Amy took a lick of it before tipping the glass and enjoying a lengthy sip.
"I'm pretty sure. But I can't be a hundred percent positive. Not entirely, no." she said. "It was dark and all that. But it sure looked like her in the alley. And she was in a big hurry to get out of there."
"You know that the police cleared her today," I said.
Amy nearly choked on her drink. "They did?" she asked in disbelief. "Who on earth do they think did it?"
"They're still unsure. Let me ask you something. The back exit at Second Chance leads to an alley around the corner. Why were you there?"
"Going to my car. Hey look, what do you want from me? I've already cooperated with the police."
I held up my hands. "Sorry. I've had a rough day. I didn't mean to offend you." If I had intended to, I thought to myself, I would have left little doubt.
"Okay," she pouted. "I'm still a bit brittle over this whole thing. I didn't mean to snap at you."
"Sure," I said as patiently as possible. "Did you see anyone else leave through the alley the other night?"
"I thought I saw Crystal. And I thought I also saw that homeless man who works at the Center. Oh yeah, and the girl who dresses like a street walker, Nina, I think her name was. She dates that guy who was there tonight."
"Mel?" I asked.
"Right. A real letch," she said, making a face. "I went out with him once. Thinks he's hot 'cause he owns a liquor store. What do I care if he owns a business? I've met men who could buy and sell him without blinking an eye. He and that slut Nina deserve each other."
"Let's think back to the alley the other night," I said slowly. "I want you to try and remember who came out first."
Amy answered without hesitation. "It was Nina, no question."
"And then?"
"Then another woman, it looked like it was Crystal. She was in a big hurry."
"How much time elapsed?"
"I dunno. A minute maybe."
"And then Raff came out?"
"Yeah," she said. "Maybe thirty seconds later."
"When did you hear the shots from the gun?"
She shook her head. "I didn't. There was a lot of conversation outside. I didn't hear about the shooting itself until the next day when the police called me."
"So if we assume that this young lady got it right," Hairston pondered, "there were three potential people who could have killed Wayne Fairborn. Two, if you exclude Raff."
"Not quite," I said. "There are those dumpsters sitting in that alley. They're about five feet high and plenty wide enough for someone to hide in until the coast is clear."
"So that expands the suspect list beyond Crystal and Nina," he sighed.
"Just a tad," I said.
"But why would they kill Raff?" Amy asked. "He didn't do anything."
"It may be about what he had seen or heard. And what he could say if he got the opportunity."
/>
"So Raff might have been there..." Hairston started.
"... and overheard Wayne being killed," I said, finishing the thought. "And perhaps he even knew what led up to it."
"So he had to be silenced."
"Yes," I said.
We paid the check and walked outside. Amy lit a cigarette and headed down a side street for her car, and Hairston and I walked silently down the quiet boulevard, thinking our thoughts. As we passed a doorway, we happened to walk by a man lying in the street and sobbing. He appeared grimy and broken. An empty bottle of whiskey lay next to him. Maybe he was mourning something as well.
Chapter 8
The funeral of Wayne Fairborn had a somber, reserved tone to it. There was no church ceremony and the graveside service, conducted by a Presbyterian minister, was brief and to the point. As the casket was lowered into the ground I felt a sense of loneliness more than grief. I thought of Wayne's goals and his sense of purpose in life. I thought of his good natured humor and his understanding that life was about people and not about money.
The feeling of sadness lingered beyond the funeral, and as I sat in my empty office with the sparse furnishings I felt the solitude even more. A picture of Gail Pepper sat on my desk, the bright, incandescent smile shining into my heart. Gail wasn't due back until Thanksgiving, a holiday that seemed like an eternity away. The moments Gail and I spent together were special and magical. The memories were like a salve which I could pull out and coat myself with when I was feeling low. Usually these memories made me feel warm. On this day however, they only served to remind me of what I did not have.
At the funeral I spoke briefly with Wayne's brother Peter, and he told me we could talk soon. That was fine by me; interviewing people was the last thing I wanted to do today. He expressed anger over the police department's lack of progress in finding Wayne's killer. Crystal came up and hugged me without saying a word, the expression on her face needing no further embellishment. I told her to call me if she needed anything. I recognized a few other people from Second Chance including Rusty and Sara, who tendered glares rather than hugs.
