He brightened noticeably when I mentioned Diogenes, trying to get him to relax.
“Sure, I know Di,” he said. “Terrific chef. Don’t know why he sticks it out in Detroit when any restaurant in four counties would have him.” He looked around. “This one, for instance. They’d give me the boot for Diogenes Cortes any time.”
His statement, dismissing Detroit as a destination for a great chef, didn’t endear him to me. I was used to Detroit getting kicked in the butt, but it still made me angry and, on the spot, decided against using a shot showing this guy to his best advantage. His jutting forehead, peeking out from under his hat, would take center stage. I always expected creative types to be less prejudiced than normal folks and when they weren’t it made me especially angry.
I finished half an hour later, after taking a few shots of the dining room and several of his signature dishes. Was anyone else getting tired of food being arranged like miniature Eiffel Towers and drizzled with a green cilantro/basil sauce? Was any meal served without garlic “smashed” potatoes? My steak at the Rattlesnake Club had come imbued with these touches—charging extra for the sauce, in fact. What ever happened to sauce-less food? Was food spread out across a plate considered vulgar now? Did it have to have height to matter or did piling it up hide the scant amount?
The image of a spread-legged woman lying prone on a plate came into my head. Could I use this idea? Would such a photograph be more than amusing or kitschy?
The magazine running this particular story was more interested in photos than words, and I was lucky to have this assignment. Hum had guaranteed the use of at least three shots in the word-starved story. It’d be a nice credit to add to my resume and would probably spawn similar assignments. I hated Hum though. Years ago it’d been called Detroit’s Hum, but when the U.S. car industry began to embarrass people with its rust, its dullness, its flagging sales, the magazine altered its name. Hum was only interested in the one-percent. It discussed, illustrated, and advertised what appealed to that group—its subscribers fantasizing they lived in Aspen or Beverly Hills or Palm Beach rather than outside Detroit.
I called Bill a few minutes after I finished. “Took long enough,” he said.
I could hardly hear him over the traffic on Telegraph Road. “What?”
“Never mind. Do you know who was here?” He sounded out of breath. “Well, an hour ago now.”
My heart sank. What was the title of that book by Kate Atkinson? When Will There Be Good News? “Who?”
“Inspector Saad.” The name came out of his mouth like a hiss. “Violet, why didn’t you tell me what was going on at dinner last night? You sat in the restaurant like all was good in Violet-land, and there you were smack in the middle of a murder investigation. Sometimes you plain scare me.”
Hadn’t someone else said those words to me recently?
“I’m only a character witness, I think. It’s nothing to do with me.” The traffic on Telegraph Road made telling a lie easier because I couldn’t hear my own voice. “Not really.”
“It didn’t sound like Saad thought so. Flat out asked me if you’d ever suggested anything of a criminal nature—to procure, his words, not mine—these photos. He made me feel like one of those ghouls who dug up bodies for medical students in the Middle Ages. Had to show him the paperwork on the bodies you’d shot.” He laughed humorlessly. “Shot with a camera, that is.”
“Did he suggest I asked you to do something illegal?”
I was pacing back and forth in front of the restaurant. Me—a person of interest apparently. Several patrons exited, looking at me worriedly. I walked over to my car and got in, leaving the door open for air.
“Not specifically,” Bill continued, “but the suggestion was there. Bodies besides the ones coming to me in the usual way. He’d read the police files on all the photos you’d taken and asked a lot of questions about the homicides.”
Homicides? Which ones were homicides? I quickly flipped through my files. There’d be three: the boy dumped at the casino, the rapper, and the bartender at Slack’s Shack. Cajuan Grace, the rapper, had been murdered in plain sight so he wouldn’t count. Or was there another murder I was forgetting? Certainly they couldn’t be counting the guy at the mall—Albert Flowers, was it? They’d arrested someone on the spot. Did they think I was using my wiles to get Bill or Derek, or the guy who killed Cajuan Grace, to murder men so I could photograph them? The other three deaths: the guy from England, the fireman, and the paraplegic who died from West Nile, weren’t murders at all.
In Saad’s mind, the body parts on Belle Isle might count as a fourth murder. Well, of course they did. And in this case, I was linked to the body or its parts before it was safely ensconced in a mortician’s house. It might look like my appetite for corpses was rapacious. Like I might go after men with a machete or chainsaw. “Did he seem satisfied with what you told him?”
“Who knows? He managed to twist it around whenever I opened my mouth.” Bill sighed. “I don’t think he actually believes you had anything to do with these deaths. But he does think you’re strange. A kook. I could tell from his questions he thinks you’re a magnet for trouble—someone who might ignite Derek Olsen.” He paused. “You might want to back off taking photos of dead men till they close the book on the body parts. They sent divers in the river two days in a row to look for a torso but came up empty-handed.”
Didn’t anyone understand I couldn’t “back off” this project—that it was now or never? I was closing in on September now with the show just a few months away. Of course, Bill didn’t know about the show.
“He probably thinks Derek has the torso secreted away.” Or did Saad think I had it? Or that I knew where it was? Why did the hands and feet turn up together? Had I ever asked Derek? Yes, he’d said he swam out to get the second foot. But it seemed unlikely the hands and foot were lying on the beach on Belle Isle in a heap—or spread in a row—unless someone wanted them found like that. Arranged them.
“How long do you think they’ll stick with it? The investigation?”
Bill closed his eyes to think. “From my limited experience of handling the bodies of murder victims and from my years of watching endless TV crime dramas, I think they’ll poke around for a few more days, maybe a week, and the case will go cold until new information turns up. Or new evidence. The Detroit Police Department has suffered huge cuts and it’s not a high profile case despite its visceral appeal. If no one comes forward to identify the body parts, if no one puts in a missing person’s report, it’ll disappear from the front page.” He paused. “For all the cops know someone could’ve dumped the parts off a freighter passing through Detroit. They could have floated over from Canada. Obviously they have no missing person report that matches up.”
“It’d already moved back to a page eight story this morning.”
He paused, spoke to someone else in the room, and came back on the line. “Detroit police resources are limited as I said. Unless the media makes it their business it’ll probably die down quickly.”
“I can only hope.”
I tried Derek again. This time his mother was out. Her perky voice on the machine begged me or anyone to leave a cheery message. Instead I did what I’d vowed not to do and drove down to Belle Isle again. The clouds overhead looked ominous, and the line of cars exiting the island was another warning of the coming storm. There were no boats on the river. Would Derek stick out a big storm here or run home?
He wasn’t at his site. In fact, the site was only a remnant of its former self. The body parts were gone, of course, but other objects seemed to be missing too. I looked for the metal rocket—the hood ornament—from the car, but it’d disappeared. So too the dog’s jaw and almost everything of interest. Even the doll’s head had vanished.
“Looks like people have decided to have themselves a souvenir.”
The voice had a discomforting familiarity. I turned around and saw Inspector Saad. “That’s what happens when your artwork hits the front pag
e and is easily carted off. I bet Tyree Guyton suffered the same fate over on Heidelberg Street.” Instead of his slick suit and buffed shoes, Joe Saad had on khaki pants, a blue oxford shirt, and running shoes. I liked him better like this.
“Did you follow me?”
He shook his head. “Been down here all day with the harbormaster. He heads the police presence on the island.”
“How many cops are stationed here anyway?”
He looked at me with renewed interest, and I could’ve kicked myself for asking such a pointed question.
“Depends. Six, ten, twenty. When the State takes it over that will probably change.”
Was he being vague on purpose? “Have you found anything else? Learned anything new?”
“Only nasty stuff about you.” He laughed on seeing my expression. “Guess that wasn’t what you wanted to hear.” He raised his eyes, watching the clouds race across the sky. I looked up too. “You must watch enough TV to know I can’t share the kind of information…” His voice trailed off—either due to the wind or propriety.
“Were you going to say you couldn’t share information with a suspect?”
The word “suspect” hung in the thick air.
He didn’t answer, instead asked, “Do you know where Derek Olsen is, by the way? No one’s seen him in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Not even his mother.” How long had it been since I spoke with the woman?
“Nope. But Derek doesn’t always come home at night according to Mrs. Olsen. Has the occasional sleepover—probably when he’s too strung-out to make it home, or perhaps when he gets lucky.” He sighed. “I didn’t see much sense in worrying her so I didn’t push it.”
“He probably freaked out when he saw all these people. Derek wouldn’t like being the subject of such scrutiny. I don’t know him well, but—” I looked around again. “If he sees what’s happened here, he may never come back. His work would be his only reason to return and now it’s ruined. Couldn’t the cops stop it?”
But why would they? They probably saw Derek’s work as a pile of junk—the work of a madman or murderer. I remembered how much respect I got from the cops on Belle Isle all those months ago.
Maybe he’d have to come back eventually though; where else would he be permitted to build structures on the shoreline. Because that’s what he did. That was his personal art form. I understood this. It wouldn’t be easy for him to change his medium now. Fuck with an artist and no telling what might happen to their work. It applied to me too. I’d heard of an artist whose studio burned down and he turned to writing novels, a more sustainable product, although a dubious choice in the current environment.
“Well, don’t you take off,” Inspector Saad said. “I’m sure we’ll need more help before this mess is wrapped up. With Derek out of the action—even temporarily—you’re our chief witness.”
“Swell.” I made a face. “Do you expect to wrap it up soon?”
I was looking for assurances that this would eventually end, and I could go back to my work. Not that I didn’t appreciate the fact I’d gotten myself into this jam. But time was galloping by. Five photos to go, but I was sidelined till this case was solved. Maybe I’d have to solve it myself.
“I always expect to wrap a case up quickly,” Saad said, starting back toward the road and his car. “Don’t always get what I expect though.” He turned around as he opened his car door. “Better get off this island, Miss Hart. There’s a tornado warning in effect. Not the best place to sit one out.”
We looked up at the sky simultaneously, noting the racing clouds, the strange color.
After he left, I looked around for a few minutes, wishing I had the proper camera with me. Nature seemed to be putting on a pretty good show and maybe a few nifty shots of a storm would diversify my portfolio, make me look like a harmless picture-taker instead of a lunatic. It was rare I didn’t have my Canon along, but I hadn’t expected to come here when I left the house. That idea occurred to me only after the call from Bill, when I needed to track down Derek and pin him to his structure if need be. I’d like to know exactly what he’d told Saad. Where the hell was he?
The park was being blasted by the winds from the coming storm; it looked pretty damned cool. Deserted plastic or paper picnic items and children’s playthings were sailing across the sky like Dorothy’s cow. A tablecloth hung from a tree limb, and several boats had broken away from their mooring at the Yacht Club and set sail. A table umbrella was inside out and looked ready to take flight. One or two park denizens were strolling around unconcerned and half-lit, but aside from them the place was deserted except for the stream of cars heading onto the mainland.
I was halfway to the car when I spotted Derek’s geobag back in its old spot. He must have dragged it up there recently. On impulse, I walked across the field, covering my head to protect it from blowing debris. There was something odd about the bag. When I got closer, I saw what it was. Two legs and two arms poked out underneath, making it look like a giant turtle. Closer still, I recognized the outfit, especially the footwear—an untied pair of army boots. It was Derek underneath. Heart pounding, I crouched down and took his wrist. Nothing. He was already cold, rigid, silent. Why hadn’t the intrepid detective found Derek? All of those cops roaming the island, looking for that torso, turning over every rock, but no one had turned this one? The irony of what I mistakenly thought was a body weeks before becoming one now was not lost on me despite my panic.
I slid back onto my heels and started bawling—wailing almost; nobody heard me over the wind. There was no way I could look at his death as unrelated to the course I’d set into motion. He’d paid the price for my ambition. I’d dragged him along with me like a human geobag. I thought of his mother’s cheery voice on the phone, of how he’d tried to bring me a find worth photographing, of how he finally had. I cried until I knew I had to do something about it.
Detroit Free Press: A man dressed in camouflage fatally shot and killed two people inside the Gratiot Avenue branch of Bank of Detroit today. It was the second deadly bank shooting in less than a week. The victims were Barbara Rousch, 53, from Eastpointe, a teller at the bank, and Ancil Battle, 28, of Indian Village, who worked for the bank as a loan officer. The gunman was apprehended by four police officers as he left the bank.
(August 2011)
It was Inspector Bates, Saad’s female partner, who interviewed me first—this time in a small room at the harbormaster’s offices on the island. From what I managed to overhear, Saad was off on another assignment. It took Inspector Bates about thirty minutes to arrive. The lieutenant manning the office and I tried not to stare at each other. He must’ve been ordered not to engage me in any conversation because he seemed reluctant to say boo. I spent the time reviewing my activity over the last few weeks and came out smelling like the skunk I was.
I was soaking wet by the time I’d found a cop and dragged him over to Derek’s body. The officer made sure he was dead, but left the rest of the spot untouched, putting a yellow crime scene strip around it. The strip blew away twice before he managed to secure it with a rotted picnic bench and a tire iron and spare tire from his squad car. Since Derek was still weighted down by the geobag, he probably wasn’t going anywhere; but the crime scene itself was victimized by the storm. Any clues would certainly be washed or blown away.
I dried off my hair with another grungy towel the cop tossed me. He also supplied me with coffee from the oldest pot I’d ever seen. It had the burnt taste of Bunny’s coffee, a concoction I’d first tried as a child. It’d kept me from drinking coffee till college when I discovered it could actually taste good.
“Probably don’t wash the pot out often enough,” the lieutenant said, seeing my grimace.
I smiled and took a reassuring sip. The lieutenant poured himself a cup and sat down in front of his computer screen. His coffee cup, visible from my chair, featured a photo of a black kitten asleep in a basket of colored wool. Had he inherited it from a cheerful woman? Or
maybe he was more secure in his masculinity than most men. He turned around, found me watching him, and tossed over yesterday’s newspaper. The Tigers had lost to Cleveland, the problems in the Middle East showed no sign of ending well or soon, housing starts were down, as was the Dow, and there was another death in Detroit. I tossed it aside, not bothering to read the story about the murder, wondering if I’d photographed my last death.
The rest of the cops stationed on the island were out—scouring the acres for clues or trying to cope with the weather. The storm was in full force now, and I listened to the sounds of cracking tree branches, fire sirens, a lonely foghorn. Alarm systems in cars went off regularly too. The crackling of electrical lines was more menacing. What would happen if the lights went out? Would I be required to sit here in the dark? Had Derek been rescued from the underside of that bag yet? The image of his frail body beneath such a weighty bag haunted me. If only I had never run into him that day weeks before, he’d still be alive. Or would he? Wouldn’t finding those body parts have taken him in the same direction? I wasn’t sure.
When she arrived, I saw Inspector Bates had taken on a completely different demeanor than with our earlier meeting. No more the placid female ceding to her dominant male partner. In fact, she looked irritated to be called down to the island, not offering me a cursory smile or greeting. It was all business and the officer with her, another woman, took on the steno duties, sitting right behind us.
We went over the circumstances recounted in my earlier interview with Saad a dozen times. I insisted again I hadn’t encouraged Derek to scour the island for body parts, much less procure them through disreputable means. This bordered on truth. Finally, Bates moved on to today’s events. Even to my ears, it sounded strange I’d hung around after speaking with Inspector Saad—even as the storm was kicking up. And, even more odd, that I’d managed to magically stumble upon Derek’s body on an island this large when no one else had seen him.
Shot In Detroit Page 16
