by M. A Wallace
Judge Russo made a dismissive noise. He said, “I'd like to speak with you about the two requests you submitted earlier today.”
Russo did not have to mention that he did not appreciate being called away from his duties for a post-haste ruling in order that a detective might gather evidence. It had always been the case that detectives gathered as much evidence as they could without consulting a judge. Russo saw that the case was only a few hours old, and yet the detective was already holding his hand out, asking for help.
Ross said, “All right, Your Honor, what do you want to know?”
“I'm okay with granting a request for the president turn over any student names, addresses, and telephone numbers you may deem appropriate for further questioning. You could probably do this on your own with enough searching, but I imagine that you'd like to have it in the official record for when this case goes to trial.”
“That's right, Your Honor.”
“Hmph, the DA won't like that. Suit yourself, I suppose. That request is granted.” He scrawled his signature on one of the forms. “For the other one, you say you're looking for a flashlight that you believe belonged to the victim, one Kevin Bailey, correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I have reason to believe that Miss Shannon Moore, a student at Shippensburg University, may have played a part in the murder. What part, we don't know. The request I submitted to you took place before I interviewed her this morning.”
The judge looked up from behind his small square glasses. He said, “Really? Have you learned anything in the course of that interview that would make you reconsider your position on this matter?”
Ross shifted in the wooden chair, then said, “She's still a suspect, Your Honor. She sustained a dislocated shoulder, among other injuries, as a result of an altercation yesterday with Officer Bailey. In spite of this, she stayed on campus, she says, to move all of her property out of her dorm room. She intends to leave the university and never return.”
The judge looked down at the form again. He said in a musing tone, “That makes the phraseology of this document rather troubling. You have written here, I quote, 'the dorm room and all the property belonging to Shannon Moore.' You say you wish to conduct this search between the hours of 8 p.m. tonight and 8 p.m. Monday night. If I grant this request, am I to understand that you will search both her dorm room and the property she has removed from there?”
“That's correct, Your Honor. We believe she may be in possession Officer Bailey's flashlight.”
“Suppose you find it. How will you identify it so that you can confirm the officer in question owned it?”
Ross leaned forward. He said, “My partner inspected the flashlights the university issues to police officers. It's a model called Police Tactical made by a company called General Edge. It's my understanding that the university orders its supplies from Amazon, because they can't buy them in stores. Each unit is engraved with a number from one to fifteen. The same number is then branded upon each police utility belt. This means if you have the number six, you get number six flashlight, number six Taser, number six spray can, and so on. Each item on the victim's body had the number eight on it. We're looking for a flashlight with the number eight engraved on it. The number should be engraved on the bottom of the unit. It's not hard to miss; no other department in the area uses this kind of flashlight.”
Russo tapped his index finger on the document. Though he had listened without interrupting, he felt his impatience growing. He said, “All right. So then, where is the murder weapon? You've recovered six slugs from the body, correct?”
“That's correct. It will take ballistics a while to identify the bullets. Once we have that, we can start looking for a specific type of gun. For now, it's fruitless to search for firearms on anyone. If we're wrong, and we get the wrong kind of gun, then we embarrass ourselves, the department, and the county. This is all we do for now, Your Honor.”
Russo tried not to roll his eyes. Of all the things he had expected, he hadn't expected to hear excuses. He said, “I'm going to grant this. But I'm going to change your time window. I'm giving you twenty-four hours instead of forty-eight. I don't want you holding anything this girl might own for a day in the hopes of getting an errant fingerprint off it. You'll have to fill out another form and bring it to me if you want it signed.”
Ross did not bat an eye at this, though both of them knew how much time out of his day it would take. He said, “I understand.”
Judge Russo handed over the signed document, then resisted the urge to tell the detective he was dismissed. Though he would be within his rights to do so, he thought that, just for once, he would show the detective how a professional operated. He said, “Thank you for your patience, Detective. I look forward to seeing you soon.”
5
Michael found the necessary form by visiting the district attorney's office on the second floor. He had first gone into an empty area designated for public defenders. After ten minutes of wandering, he found the office marked with the man's named on a gold plaque. Michael traded a few words with the man, poked fun at him for having once been a defense attorney, then left, paper in hand. He went back downstairs to the guard station, where he waited for the judge to summon him once again.
He waited half an hour, during which time he stared at the polished floor, read pamphlets, and daydreamed about the wife he'd once had. When the judge called him in at last, he saw a stern, forbidding expression on the judge's face. For as long as he'd known the man, applying to him for warrants, being a witness in his courtroom, catching glimpses of one his trials from the gallery, he had always known the judge to be perpetually displeased. After his first meeting with the man, he quickly learned that nothing he could do or say would make the judge treat him any differently than he did. He went along with the flow as best as he could while trying not to make a nuisance of himself.
The judge did not offer a comment when he returned. He signed the document and handed it over. Michael left the judge's office feeling that he had accomplished something. He also knew that the clock was ticking from the moment the judge's signature was scrawled upon the page. Since Shippensburg lay between Carlisle and Chambersburg, he decided that he would first go back to the campus to issue the warrants. When he exited the courthouse, he looked around for his partner and found an old man with dirty clothes and a sopping wet beard.
The man came out from underneath the shelter of an awning to tug at Michael's sleeve. The man said, “Brother, hey brother, you're a lawyer, aren't you?”
Michael pulled his sleeve back. He said, “No, I'm a detective. I'm here on business.”
The man's eyes lit up. He hopped from one foot to the other while the contents of his backpack rustled. He said in a sing-song voice, “Oh ho, ho ho! A detective. Now isn't that just the bee's knees? You're just the man I was looking for.”
Michael's first instinct was to lean in close so he could smell whether the man had alcohol on his breath. But the stench, even drowned in the rain, forced him to stay back. He said, “How is it that you were looking for me if you didn't know what I do for a living?”
The man waved a finger in front his face. He said, “Now aren't you clever. Suppose you'd have to be, eh? Well, I've got news for you. Something you might be wanting to hear. Yes?”
From inside the car parked across the street, Billy tapped the steering wheel to make the horn sound in an almost polite way. Michael's first instinct was to leave the man alone, let him go where he would. He decided, though, that he would spite his partner just a little bit by continuing the conversation.
He said, “You got something to say, let's hear it.”
“Well, as it happens, and mind you, this is something I saw likewise without meaning to, there was a suitcase sitting on a bench. It sat there forgotten for a handful of minutes until someone else came along to get it. Now I just wonder who owned that suitcase and what was in it. Isn't that interesting?”
Michael's attention suddenly focused dire
ctly on the man. He knew the homeless man described a drop—the transfer of important, confidential, or stolen property from one party to another. Though he didn't think any of what the man said had any relation to his case, he nevertheless thought it might prove worth looking into, if the Carlisle police were up for it.
He said, “Tell me what you saw before the suitcase was left there. Who carried it? Did you see what the man looked like?”
The man waved a hand in front of his face, as if to ward off his own scent. He said, “Naw, naw, I ain't never seen him too good. He wore a black poncho, you see? Against the rain? He came out of a car that said Shippensburg Campus Police on it. Now what do you suppose they was doing all the way up here?”
Michael froze. An officer from the campus police making a drop to an unknown party or parties? His mind reeled with the possibilities, chief among them being that Bailey really had been smuggling contraband—perhaps not alone. He said, “And you saw the briefcase being picked up, correct? Could you describe that person for me?”
The man looked up to the sky, as if trying to find guidance from the clouds. He said, “Well, he wore a business suit, you see. Had sunglasses on. I thought to myself, I thought, now isn't that just the weirdest thing? Man wears sunglasses in the rain. He was normal-looking, I guess.”
“Tall, short? Thin, fat? Old, young?”
“I suppose, if I have to say, he was thirty-five, normal height. Maybe six-foot even? Normal body size, too. Couldn't really tell if he worked out or not. I remember he had a bald head. That was the weirdest part. Who shaves their head in December? Let it grow out now, then shave it off at the end of May. That's what I would do.”
Michael said, “A bald man wearing a business suit and a pair of sunglasses. Where was the suitcase? Sitting on a bench?”
“Oh, no sir, not as to that. I was standing in front of Donnie's when the lady comes out with a broom trying to shoo me off, like I was a raccoon looking for scraps in a trashcan. All I was doing was taking my ease out from the rain for a spell. Is that a crime now?”
“Not so far as I know. I'm no expert on the law, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't have any right to request that you relocate yourself when you're on a public sidewalk.”
“Well, maybe so. Who knows? The point is this. The first man, the one who comes out of a police car, he goes into the movie theater. Except there's nothing showing until Tuesday when they do the benefit whatever. So he orders his ticket, or gets told he can't get one, and leaves without the suitcase. I'm sitting there thinking to myself, now ain't it the case that abandoned property can just be claimed by old person? Wouldn't you know it, lickety spittle, there comes some hot shot what’s-his-face to take what's been abandoned. Firstly, I thought to myself, well ain't nothing to that, he got there before I could. So I made my way down to the soup kitchen and ate lunch. Only while I did, I got to thinking, now what if they had arranged it that way? You see what I'm saying? CIA microwaves and stuff.”
Michael asked, “Where's this movie theater located? You said across from Donnie's? Where's that?”
“That might be on High Street, two blocks up from the gilded paradise called Dickinson. You can't miss the theater. Looks like it belongs to the 1950s. Shame they can't show what-fors and you-know-whats on the screen. Probably costs too much. You go in there, tell 'em that Harold Sparks sent you. They'll give you...well, they won't give you jack squat, beg your pardon.”
“That's all right. Just down High Street you said? Where can I reach you if I want to speak with you again? Are you staying anywhere?”
“Oh, just give a shout. Like, hey yo, Harold! Might be you can find me at the Salvation Army for a late lunch every day except Sundays. Then you gots to hit up all the churches. I never know which one I'll end up in.”
“All right, I'll come by the Salvation Army if I want to speak with you again.” Michael pulled out his wallet and handed over a twenty-dollar bill. He said, “Buy yourself something with this. You know what I mean.”
“So's you ain't trying to insult me by telling me I stink to high heaven? Well, I know it, just thank you for not calling me out on it. Man gets tired of hearing his own faults, yeah?”
Michael turned away, then said, “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.”
6
The single employee working at the theater turned about to be the janitor who had made it his business to scrub away all the dried-up gum underneath the seats. He came out into the lobby looking harried. The description he gave of the two men proved to be much the same as Harold's. The first man, wearing a poncho, had inquired about the next show. The janitor had told the man to read the marquee, it was all there. The man had his back turned to the janitor, which the janitor had thought odd.
Another man came in shortly thereafter—a bald man wearing sunglasses and a business suit. He wanted to purchase a ticket to the next show. When asked which show he wanted to see, the man had said, “The next one.” The janitor did not recall if a suitcase had been left behind or not. He did not linger in the lobby. There was too much work to do.
Michael handed the man his card and left. When he got back into the car, Billy said, “All right, I've sat here quiet as a duck for the last twenty minutes. You mind telling me why you had to speak to that homeless guy, and why we're here at the theater?”
Michael explained about the drop, and what he thought it might mean.
“Golly, are you for real? Shippensburg Campus Police in a smuggling ring? I've heard some crazy stuff in my day, but that one takes the cake. They must be some kind of fools to come out here in a conspicuous vehicle like that. It's too easy to remember.”
“Only if you're a cop, Billy. Think about it. No one remembers what township they're in. Sometimes they don't even know what county they're in. When you ask people what department services their area, they give you a blank stare. They honestly don't know. There are so many small little areas around here, all served by different police forces. If you're not familiar with police work yourself, then a police car is just a police car. What difference does it make if it's from Shippensburg or Carlisle or Lower Allen? A marked police vehicle is probably the most inconspicuous vehicle there is. You can spot an unmarked car from a long way away because you're looking for the deception, not the plain truth. Maybe that's what they're thinking, maybe not. Either way, there should be a record somewhere of the vehicle being taken off campus grounds.”
Billy started the car up again. Hot air blasted out from the vents along the dashboard. He said, “What do you suppose we do if we go there and find there is no record of the vehicle having been taken out?”
“You mean if the department lost track of one its vehicles, if it has a rogue cop in its midst?”
“Yeah, that. I think I know what you're going to say, but I want to hear it anyway.”
Michael said, “In order to determine if the vehicle was taken with permission or not, we'll have to inform the chief. He'll know the score instantly just from that. If he's honest, then we won't have to do anything.”
“Whoa, whoa. The chief? 'If he's honest?' You hear yourself, Mikey? Just what do you believe happened, anyway?”
“I don't know what I believe. That's what's so bothersome. All I have is suppositions based on guesses.”
Billy glanced from Michael to the road in front of him. He said, “Oh well, if that's all it is, then I guess I don't have to be worried. Sounds like you're up to your old tricks again. Before you know it, we'll have the case solved and that will be that.”
Michael sighed, wishing that he shared his partner's confidence.
Chapter Five
1
President Lorraine Clifton managed to grab a nap in the morning before she woke up with a pounding headache that she knew was due to drinking too much caffeine while not eating enough food. She felt so terrible, in fact, that she went to the bathroom, not sure if she would throw up. She stared at the toilet bowl for several long moments before she put the lid back down and came face
-to-face with herself in the mirror while she sanitized her hands. She saw herself with all her imperfections and flaws laid bare before her.
Strands of hair stood up on end, the result of her having slept on the living room couch. Wrinkles had been scattered across her face, next to her eyes, poking out from the sides of her mouth and across her forehead. Her teeth had taken on the faintest of yellow stains, despite all her efforts to keep them white as pearls. Her lips were cracked and dry. A red, angry cold sore sat at the corner of her mouth, one that had developed only recently. Her fingernails, which she had let grow until the smallest white crescent moon shapes protruded from her fingers, felt brittle when she tapped them against the sink. She felt wearier than she could ever remember feeling. She could not, like Zoe Lupinsky, boast that she looked younger than her age. Lorraine looked older than her age. She was fifty-four years old, though she her outward appearance suggested that she was in her sixties.
She remembered the days she'd spent at the University of Maine, a quiet school that had never drawn national attention or had done anything of note that she had been able to find. She had been admitted in 1978, then young and fit, with long, flowing brown hair that came down past her hips. She had imagined herself as a lawyer, a doctor, or even an astronaut. While her mother had always told her that women must mind their place, she had found that she could become anything she wanted. It had not mattered to her then, in her freshman year, that she only had the vaguest notion of what she wanted to do with her life. It was enough for her to be able to do something, anything other than being a homemaker for a man who worked eight hours a day, five days a week.
She recalled those days as a golden time in her life. She'd had to work at a part-time job to make ends meet, but she had been able to do it. Sitting in front of a typewriter for four hours at a time was not beneath her, then or now. She'd had friends, and hope for the future. She'd had a place in the world that she understood, and had been willing to embrace everything yet to come. She remembered her college career as one filled with an unshakable optimism.
