“No.” He formed a circle with his hands about the shape of a mouth. He centered it around the puncture wounds. “Right size.”
“You think somebody bit her?”
“I think something bit her.” He wondered for a moment if he had a Bundy-, Ramirez-, or Dahmer-style copycat on his hands. Since there were no outward signs of sexual violence, a distinct part of their modus operandi, he would scratch that from his list, even though the attack was gruesome enough for any notorious serial killer.
The two detectives stood. Bill tugged off his gloves, flipping them inside out. He scanned the park. “Where the hell is the coroner?”
The patrol officers shook their heads. “Been a crazy shift, detective.”
“Yeah?”
“Three domestics and two assaults in the last two hours. Now this shit.”
Bill had walked the beat. Grand Rapids wasn’t a rough city, but they still had their share of gangs and crime, usually fewer than ten homicides a year, always worse in the summer. It was almost always gang violence or a domestic situation but never like this. Not in his experience.
“Did somebody call this in?”
Zimmer nodded. “Yeah.” He opened his shirt breast pocket.
“What’s their information?”
The young police officer removed an interview card and flipped a couple pages in his booklet. His eyes darted along the page. “A, ah, Ms. Tess called it in.” He frowned. “Umm, you know I can’t read this.”
Bill spoke slowly. “Zimmer, do you have an address or phone number for Ms. Tess?”
Zimmer flashed him a nervous smile. “Well, you see here.”
Bill cocked his head to the side in irritation. “And?”
“She’s in county.”
Westman smiled. “County lockup?”
The patrol officer stuck a finger underneath his patrol cap and scratched his head. “Public intox.”
“Public intox? Jesus. Get the body to the morgue.”
Zimmer’s radio buzzed and he pushed a button on the side.
“Unit 1804, we have reports of gunshots on Fulton and College. Can you respond?”
Zimmer’s eyes widened. “We’re with the Jane Doe at Crescent Park.”
“Copy, we have other units on the way.”
Bill smiled. “You boys stay safe out here. World’s going to hell in a handbasket.”
“You too.”
Bill and Westman walked to the street curb. “So our only eye witness is in the drunk tank?” Westman hopped into the driver’s side.
“You can’t pick your family and you can’t pick your witnesses.”
Westman turned on the engine and took them onto Lyon Street. “Sure can’t.”
THE DETECTIVE
Grand Rapids, MI
The two detectives walked down the center of the Kent County Jail. The building had a modern appearance but had been built in the early 90s. The exterior reminded Bill of a circular World-War-II pillbox looking like it belonged defending a coastline rather than acting as a county jail. A stout sergeant in a brown uniform with chevrons on his sleeves like upside down Vs led them down the center between cells lining the walls.
A man banged on his metal bars. Shoving a hand painfully through the white-stained metal, he growled at them. Westman gave him a haughty look. “Whatcha looking at?”
The man continued pushing his arm through the cell door, stopping at his shoulder. He spit and snarled, his face pressed against the bars.
The sergeant ignored the man. “Been doing that all morning. Bit one of the deputies. Had to send him over to the hospital.” His confident steps padded the shiny floor. “I’m already down three correctional officers today. Got two working overtime to cover and you guys are bringing in the dirt bags faster than I can process ’em.”
In Bill’s experience, when people complained loudly, they were telling the truth or were grossly exaggerating. Bill knew John Stotts from their many dealings together over the years. John’s use of hyperbole to describe every situation as dire was commonplace for him. He elected to ignore John’s complaints as standard quibble. “Drugs?”
“Dunno. Didn’t pop on any tests, so the hospital sent him back. No priors. First time here.”
“New undetectable street drug?”
“That’s your department, detective. I just hold ’em until it’s time to let them back out.”
They passed through some doors into a central control room for the jail. Three deputies sat inside monitoring the various sections through a series of CCTV cameras. The sergeant stopped at the next door that led to the other side of the facility where they held female prisoners. His hand hovered over the handle waiting to be buzzed through and he sighed.
He yelled over his shoulder. “Today, Simon.”
Buuzzzzz sounded out overhead followed by the door making an audible click. The sergeant pushed it in, gesturing as he walked through. “Right over here.” He led them to a holding tank. Three benches outlined the room containing four women who looked way down on their luck.
A couple of prisoners lay sprawled out on the cold floor in a drunken mess. Dirt and grime blanketed their clothes and exposed skin. One woman sat on a bench, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her fishnet stocking-clad legs crossed beneath a short skirt. The last woman sat on the ground, her close cropped-haired head between her naked knees.
John glanced at Bill. “Which one of these fine citizens you want?”
Bill rested a hand on the bars. “A Ms. Tess?”
The sergeant took his baton off his belt. He knocked it on the metal bars like he was courting them. “Which one of you ladies is Ms. Tess?”
One of the drunkards on the floor stirred, her fingers shifting as she showed signs of life. Westman crouched down. “Hey. You Tess?”
The intoxicated woman mumbled something and spit on the floor, passing back out. Westman stood back up and pointed at the scantily clad woman. “You Tess?”
“I’ll be whoever you want me to be.” A sultry smile curved on her lips.
“I bet you would.” Westman mouthed, “Fucking A.” She was a noncredible witness at best. Unless they pulled some substantial DNA off the victim, this would hamper a conviction. Bill’s focus was on finding the bad guy and removing him from the equation before he hurt someone else. Building a bulletproof case would come later.
Bill took his turn. “Can you tell me what you saw in Crescent Park this morning?”
“I didn’t see anything.”
The short-haired woman in the corner perked up at the mention of Crescent Park. Her hair was disheveled but in a way that you knew it normally was slicked back along the top of her skull. It also let you know she was having one hell of a morning. Her almost ebony eyes regarded the detectives with suspicion.
“Jesus, you two, I’m Tess. That hussy doesn’t know shit.” The three men focused their attention on her. “Anything with tits and an ass and all you swinging dicks just follow dumbly behind.”
The other woman pointed at her. “You shut your mouth, you little chickenhead bitch.”
The sergeant’s tone grew patronizing. “Hey!” He aimed his baton at them in turn. “Nuff of that or I’ll throw you in a real cell.”
The woman with very little clothing sneered. “Suck my dick.”
“You see who did this?” Westman flipped his phone around, showing them a picture of the body.
The vulgar woman averted her eyes away from the screen. “Talk to her. Like I said, ain’t seen shit.”
Westman nodded sarcastically. “Now you’re quiet.”
Tess pushed herself off the floor. A slender woman with boyish features, she wore a dirty camouflage jacket with a sable shirt underneath and frayed light blue denim shorts. Thick black military-style boots adorned her feet. She ambled over to the detectives, moving like she had a horrible hangover.
She stopped near the bars. “Who are you?” she said, folding her arms beneath her flat chest.
Westman smirked. “
We ask the questions, sister.”
She rolled her eyes and gripped the bars as if to steady herself from a spinning room. “Real tough from the other side of the cell, brotard. Why don’t you let Clinty Eastwood here do all the talking?”
Bill stifled a laugh. “Not one person in my entire life has referred to me as Clint Eastwood.” Sure, he was over six foot. He’d like to have thought he was good-looking, but in his younger days, the best he could squeeze out of someone was cute. He knew he didn’t look like some dreamy movie star. Broad enough shoulders he supposed, but a dashing handsome western action hero he was not.
“Could’ve fooled me.” She put her face closer to the bars. “Older men are so much more refined.” She gestured with her chin at Westman. “Much more attractive than a bro with a hair flip and a hard-on for benching.” Her eyes shifted from his over to Westman as if she ratted him out.
Bill could smell the alcohol on her breath mixed in with a night of cigarettes and lack of dental attention. “Debatable. I’m Detective DeYoung and my bro counterpart is Detective Westman.”
A sly smile fixed on her lips. “How about you get me out of here and we can talk?”
Westman laughed. “How about you talk and we’ll get you out?”
“She seems all right, John. We can take her. I won’t let her go until she blows zeros.”
The corrections sergeant shook his head. “She blew .14 about an hour ago.”
“.14?” He looked back at Tess in surprise.
“They dumped her in here at .22.”
Bill eyed the scrawny woman, impressed she could hold more than a single beer. “You like to have a few cocktails?”
Her voice took a saucy tone. “Sure, if that’s what you want to call it.”
“Did you see the woman in Crescent Park?”
She smiled sweetly, her voice deepening. “Can you get me out of here?”
Bill sighed. “We’ll come back later, John.”
“She should be good sometime this afternoon.”
The men turned to leave. “Wait, wait. Jesus, Clinty Boy. Hold your horses.” The men stopped and turned.
Her voice sobered. “I saw her. I saw it happen.”
“You saw the attack?”
Tess’s face paled like she was about to be sick. “Yeah.”
Bill turned toward the sergeant. “On second thought, we can take her now.”
John tilted his head. “We ain’t supposed to let them go early.”
“You owe me.”
John’s eyes narrowed in offense. “I don’t owe you.”
Bill cocked his head. “John. Christmas Eve ’05? Remember you were working that night?”
Realization flooded over John’s face as if it had just happened earlier in the day. He stuttered. “I was working.”
“No, you weren’t. You were dealing with an out-of-town relative. I’m not sure Fay would like to hear about them.” John had been having an affair and would have been caught without an alibi, one Bill had provided both his wife and Bill’s previous wife.
“Okay, Bill. I remember.” John held up a hand. “We’ll get her on out.”
THE DETECTIVE
Grand Rapids, MI
In their unmarked police silver Dodge Charger, Westman drove them down the Interstate 196. Also known as the Gerald R. Ford freeway, it was named after the 38th president that had grown up in the area.
“Shouldn’t there be more traffic for a Thursday morning? Rush hour?”
Bill nodded, looking at the warehouses, office buildings, and dimly lit parking garages they had passed on the left. On the other side of the highway, homes stood that had been there since the 20th century, layered in city blocks by every decade as the city had grown. “Yeah, should be.”
It was a short jaunt from the jail back to the station, but the journey could be lengthened to inject a certain amount of informal questioning along the way.
“So, Ms. Tess, can you tell me what you saw?”
She lounged in the backseat of the car, her head resting on the seat. “I saw something attack that lady.”
“Something?” Westman said.
Her voice grew deeper and mocking. “Yeah, brosif. Something attacked her.”
Westman’s eyes darted angrily in the mirror. “I’ll turn this car around.”
Bill gave him a fatherly glance to knock it off. He peered with a single eye over his shoulder. “What was it? A dog?”
Tess stared out the window. “It looked like a person.”
“White, black, Hispanic?”
“White, I guess. It was dark and everything was a little fuzzy.”
“About what time?”
“2:30-ish.”
Westman chimed in. “What were you doing out then?” Usually, officers would settle into cover or contact roles, and clearly, Westman wasn’t caring what kind of rapport or lack of rapport he built. For a moment, Bill wondered if the younger detective was attracted to her, encouraging him to blindly engage the woman.
“What do you think, Pinky? I was getting after it at the bar.”
Bill cleared his throat before Westman could continue. “So a white man attacked this woman at approximately 2:30 a.m.?” He pulled out an interview pad and started to jot down short notes.
“Yeah, he was dressed, I dunno, like a homeless dude. Shaggy, messed up hair, dirty clothes. He just looked messed up like he was on drugs or something. Strung out. Dude was fucked, couldn’t walk straight. That’s why I was on the other side of the street. Saw this fool stumbling a half-mile away. This girl here knows to avoid that mess. That hippie chick didn’t.”
“Then what happened?”
“When she got close, he tackled that lady and started to bite her.”
“So you’re telling me that a white homeless man killed that lady by biting her?”
“That’s what I said.”
“You were just walking by when this attack happened? Can anyone vouch for you?”
“Yeah.” Her arms folded over her chest. “And no, I was by myself.”
“Who’s the last person to have seen you?”
“Fuck if I know. Some long-haired bartender down at McFadden’s trying to get in my pants.”
“So no one can corroborate your story?”
“I mean I paid my bill.”
“You ever been arrested before Tess?” Westman said.
Her eyes narrowed. “Wait. You don’t think I was a part of this.”
Bill and Westman exchanged glances.
“Shouldn’t I get a lawyer or something?”
Westman eyed the mirror. “I dunno. Do you need one?”
She shook her head. “I thought you had to read me my rights and shit.”
“You were the only person at the scene of the crime,” Westman said.
“Clint, can you believe your little beefsteak boy? Come on. I ain’t talking.”
Bill held up a hand. “You aren’t under arrest, Tess.” He flipped open a printout of her record. “But you do have a few run-ins with Grand Rapids’ finest. Possession, drunk and disorderly, misdemeanor breaking and entering, simple assault and battery.”
“And that makes me guilty? That guy straight up murdered her, and you guys are talking about picking me up on a weed charge?” She shook her head in anger. “Jesus, get a fucking life, you losers.” She turned her head away. “I’m done.”
“No need to get angry, Tess. We’re just trying to get to know you a little bit and figure out what happened.”
“Shouldn’t you buy me dinner before you take it to me?”
Bill looked over at Westman and mouthed “honey over vinegar” to him. “Any distinctive marks on the attacker? Scars, tattoos, facial hair?”
“I don’t want to talk.”
Bill glared at his partner. They needed her to give them any information she had right now. If the investigation implicated her later, then so be it. Investigations were a tiresome collection process not some hour-long television show. “Tess, you aren’t a
suspect. We are trying to figure out who did this so we can stop them.”
She sighed. “It was hard to see. Maybe a beard. I was drunk, but you already locked me up for that.”
The radio in the center console flared on. “Units, we have an officer down near Crescent Park. Shots fired.”
The radio kicked on as numerous units answered the call from different quadrants in the city. Westman hit the accelerator. The Charger responded with a resounding growl, chewing up the road beneath. He weaved them through opposing traffic with ease.
Bill held the receiver to his lips. “This is Detective DeYoung. We are diverting to scene.” Bill turned to Westman. “Go past exit 78 to 77C. We’ll come at it from the other direction.”
Westman reached over and tapped a button on what looked like a remote control in the car. He hit the sirens and they illuminated the outside of the vehicle in flashing reds and blues.
“Damn. This thing can move,” Tess said.
Westman pushed the accelerator, glancing at her in the mirror. The inertia from the speed kept them pressed snugly in their seats.
The radio crackled. “Scene is under control. Suspect has been detained. Everybody is accounted for.”
Westman let the car decelerate gradually as Bill hit the code on the remote, turning off the lights. “Copy, dispatch.”
Westman shook his head. “Just when we were about to have some fun.”
“We can put you back on patrol, detective.”
Westman gave him a difficult look. “Yeah, yeah. Doesn’t mean a man can’t remember the good old days.”
Bill laughed. “You’re hilarious.”
“That’s two in the last twenty-four hours. What the hell is going on out there?”
Bill looked out at the streets of the concrete city center straddling the Grand River. “I don’t know. It’s never been like this. Not here. Grand Rapids is a safe town.”
Westman took them down an exit ramp, curling them onto the street the department resided.
A trio of people sprinted down an alley, their heads turning every few seconds to look behind them. Bill scrutinized them for a moment. He twisted in his seat and peered down the block. There was a man farther away, but he wasn’t moving fast, barely a walk. Petty crime? Kids?
The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 117
