by Lee Lamothe
“Who took him in? Was he chained up?”
“Nope. Hambone from Homicide and a little woman, ugly. Scratching at her head. They were just going in when we pulled up.”
“Sally Greaves.”
A red Porsche Carrera came up around the Chrysler and slid expertly into the duty sergeant’s vacant slot. A woman got out and trotted in flat slapping heels up the handicap ramp into the Jank. It took Ray Tate a minute to recognize her. The beautiful blonde lieutenant with the glasses and the dreamy smile, but without the glasses or the smile. Half of an impossible love story that illustrated the possibilities of life. Of anyone’s life, of everyone’s life. It would be great, he thought, to know her and Sally Greaves well enough to be able to have a thoughtful conversation with her about their hearts’ processes. Through the glass doors he saw her flap her badge at the night desk team, then rush through the security arch. Moral support for Sally.
“Okay, let’s head up, get this guy in chains.” He thought for a few moments, getting off the blonde and onto the dead ladies. He had to get his mind right. “When we go in upstairs, I go first. I’m gonna go hard, set the tone. Brian, you’ve got a shotgun in your vehicle? Get it.”
When Brian Comartin returned, Ray Tate led the way up the ramp. Inside the doors he badged the security team.
“You can’t bring that in here,” one guard said, staring at Brian Comartin’s shotgun. “Not naked. You’ll have to bag it.”
“Chief’s special squad,” Ray Tate said. He felt himself getting wound up. “Our motto is, Fuck You. How many guys you got on tonight?”
“Six, usually, but we still got guys out. We’re four tonight. We got one guy racking out.”
“Wake him up, get him out. I’ll need one of you. You pick.”
“What’s going on? A lot of heavy hitters through here tonight.”
“I need a guy to come up to Intelligence, let the people in the conference room see him, then stand outside the door. Light duty.”
“I’ll take it.” He came around the counter, yawning. “Sounds almost like police work.”
The door to the conference room was ajar. Inside, sitting at the top of the table, Ray Tate could see Ansel Partridge, sipping at a cup of coffee, relaxed back in his leather armchair as if he were sitting in his living room with buddies, planning some radical social engineering. He looked like the inflated essence of brutal. Pounding a little woman to jelly would be his standard pick-up line. Yellow foolscap notebooks were stacked in the centre of the table with a scattering of yellow pencils.
Ray Tate told Marty Frost to pull her piece but keep it down her leg and Djuna Brown to stay out of sight. “If we need you to spark him off later, better if you come as a surprise, okay?”
She gave him a wan smile. “But when we beat him later, I get to help out?”
“You got dibs.” He made a fond smile. “Here goes.”
As he came through the door, Ray Tate heard Ansel Partridge laugh at something. Sally Greaves and Hambone Hogarth were seated side-by-side to his left, mid-table.
He took the shotgun from Brian Comartin, shouldered up and walked quickly down the room. He stopped ten feet from Partridge, took stance, racked the shotgun and put it up into his face. “You. Up. Turn around. Hands on your head.”
The front desk officer said, “Holy fuck.”
“Go outside, secure the door. We need you, we’ll call you.”
Ansel Partridge looked at him dreamily, glanced with good humour at Sally Greaves, and slowly rose. He clasped his hands at the back of his neck and turned to face the wall.
Sally Greaves stood up. “Hambone …”
Hambone Hogarth said, “Ray, Jesus …” But he was smiling, and sat back in his chair as if watching a complex routine by his favourite hilarious comedians.
“This is a murder suspect unsecured,” Ray Tate said. “I fear for officer safety and the security of this building. Brian, search him and chain him in back. Marty, you take the top chair at the top of the table, inside the door. You’re the writer.”
“Don’t you fucking move.” Brian Comartin went through his lessons. He didn’t cross the shotgun. He put Ansel Partridge through, backing him off the wall with his forehead touching, told him to put his hands down behind his back, one at a time, then chained him up, and patted him down hard. He put him back in his chair with a thump and glanced down the room at Marty Frost; she batted her eyelashes in admiration, holstered her gun, and took out her notebook.
Ray Tate cleared the shotgun sleeve onto the table, left it racked open, and picked up the shell and pocketed it. He sat down, smiling pleasantly at Sally Greaves and Hambone Hogarth. “Marty, in the room we’ve got me, Brian, you, Ansel Partridge —”
“Wait,” Sally Greaves said. “Wait. Not in a notebook. You can take notes on paper, but nothing on the numbered pages. Once this foolishness is over and Ansel walks, you give me the notes. If you decide to charge him, we’ll sign them off and staple them in the book.”
Marty Frost said, “Ray?”
“Okay. Do it that way.”
She picked up a yellow pad from the table and sat back down at the long end, opposite Ansel Partridge. He stared down at her and licked his lips.
“Okay, me, Comartin, you, Sally Greaves, and Robert Hogarth. Ansel Partridge.” He turned to Partridge. “I’m going to read you something, your rights. Don’t stop me, even if you’ve heard them before. Humour me.” He read the poem. “You got it all? Want to hear it again?”
“Nope. I’m hip.”
“Okay. I’m Sergeant Ray Tate, chief’s special squad. The short strokes are, we’re investigating the murders of three black women, and the attempted murder of a fourth. We believe you may have involvement in those events. Do you understand what I’m saying? That we’re investigating you as a suspect in three murders? The victims were black. You’re a racist. If this is a deemed a hate crime there’ll be enhancement add-on that will make you eligible for the death penalty. Do you want to reconsider exercising your right to a lawyer?”
“I’m sure,” Ansel Partridge said, nodding, “the victims will be missed by loved ones back in Africoon.”
“I’m saying again, you’re aware this might lead to a death penalty resolution if you’re found guilty.”
“Yep. The needle.”
“Right on that one. The long yawn.” Ray Tate folded his hands on the table. “First, what’s your name? Your birth name?”
Ansel Partridge glanced at Sally Greaves, then said, “Ansel Skineard.”
“Related to Lynyrd Skynyrd? You play music?”
“Only on people.” He smiled in appreciation of himself.
Sally Greaves said, “Ansel.”
“You want to spell it for the record, Ansel? And give me your date of birth? Home address.”
Ansel Partridge spelled his name. He was thirty-two years old. He had no fixed address that he wanted to talk about.
Ray Tate nodded at Marty Frost. She made a note and handed it out the door to Djuna Brown, who stayed out of sight.
“Are you a racist, Ansel? Belong to any groups?”
“American. I’m a proud American. A proud, white American male. I’m not a racist. I love, embrace, and believe in the white race.”
“Criminal record?”
“Nothing heavy. Some actions, you know? You’ll have of file on me in there for some assaults, a gun a couple of times.”
“You pull any time? Serious time?”
“Nope. Few days here, few days there.”
“Those look like long-term prison tattoos to me, you got the yard muscles thing going on.”
“My cover.”
“We’ll get to that.”
“No,” Sally Greaves said. “We won’t.”
“Well, let’s wait and see, okay? You have a job, Ansel?” He almost said, “You a workingman?” He got that itchy feeling again. Like déjà vu. “What’s your trade?”
“Patriotic American white male. Full time.” He smiled wi
th a glitter. “I do a lot of overtime.”
“You work nights on that job? Around town, down by the river?”
“Well, Oh-Bah-Ma Hu-Sane’s America needs help all the time, everywhere.”
“Good man.” Ray Tate took some three-by-five photographs of the murder victims in life and in death from his pocket. “You know any of these women? Bumped into them, maybe, when you’re out defending the flag?” He separated the living images from the others and arrayed them on the table. “Beat them to death, that kind of thing?”
Ansel Partridge glanced at them indifferently. “All look the same to me.”
“Those are the before pictures.” He tapped the remaining photos, but kept them face down. “These after ones are a little different.”
“Can I have a peek? Just in case, you know …” He made a beatific grin. “Well, you know. For later.”
“Later, maybe, if you’re good.” He boxed the edges of the photographs into one stack and left them face down on the table. He looked over Ansel Partridge’s torso. “You still working out? You do any boxing, anything like that? The guys that took you out of Chinatown the other night, they said you were a scrapper.”
“Yeah, yeah, I boxed a little. Back in the day. But they only wanted blacks from shacks, not whites with rights.”
There was a timid tap at the door. Marty Frost leaned to open it, then nodded to Ray Tate. He said, “One minute,” and went out. Djuna Brown showed him her notes. “Assault, assault, gun, gun, possession meth, we got a rape, two weeks ago, no disposition.”
“Can we put a car under him?”
“Driver’s licence, no plate attached to his name.”
“Okay. Get the badge number of the arresting officer on the rape. Get his off-duty phone number from downstairs and give him a call. Get what you can, particularly the date. If Ansel used the beat-down to get it up, like Sally says our killer might’ve done, we’re close to getting him. And we need the race of the victim and the general circumstances.”
“Okay. How’s it going? He going for it?”
“We haven’t done alibis yet. We’ll take him in there, let him wander around, see how he lies.” He stepped back into the conference room, closing the door. He sat and took out the Kool menthols. “I got the shotgun, I declare this a smoking facility.” He offered the package around. Hambone Hogarth and Sally Greaves didn’t respond. “Ansel? Light up?”
“Don’t smoke,” Ansel Partridge said. “Respect the body as you respect the nation.”
“Except the meth, right?” He lit up and blew some cool smoke at Ansel Partridge. “The all-American white trash ride? How much are you shooting. Like, each hour?”
“You found out about that, huh? Bogus. I was working an op when —”
“Ansel, stop.” Sally Greaves said, “Ray, he was working a drug conspiracy. He got scooped up and was charged. We let the charge stand, for now. We have to keep him dirty in case we have to pull his bail and put him back in the jail, do some operating on the conspirators. Open case ongoing. Off limits.”
“Like the Volunteers?” Ray Tate laughed. “He’s pretty dirty on that. That was nice.”
“You agreed, Ham, we’re not here for that op. That op is off limits, too, pending. We’re here for murders.”
“Yeah, c’mon, Ray, get on focus.”
“Sure.” He smoked his cigarette as though he was enjoying it. Ansel Partridge didn’t react. “That rape, that was an op, too, I guess.”
Ansel Partridge shrugged. “She’ll recant. They always do.”
“Ansel?” Sally Greaves had a tone in her voice. She wasn’t warning him to shut up; she was genuinely surprised. She said to Ray Tate, “That didn’t show up when we vetted him. That must have been after. I didn’t know about that.”
“Must be really recent, then, Sally. How about that? Guy’s a fucking drug addict and a rapist. Nice white trash specimen you got here. We’re looking right now, and if the victim there was black and beaten … Well, you said it yourself before, our killer might use the beatings to get his dick hard for doing the rape victim.” He needed a few minutes to figure out how to steer Ansel Partridge around. It was more difficult than it seemed, to run an interview with natural flow. He wondered if it was time to let Marty Frost do her thing. “Kids, I need a health break. We’re gonna get some coffee. Marty, you want to babysit Ansel here?”
Sally Greaves shook her head. “If Officer Frost is staying, then I’m staying.”
“Sally, she isn’t going to talk to him. Promise. Marty, not one word, okay? Not even small talk. Don’t ask if he needs to piss, have a nap, or wants to beat you to death to get his dick hard. Just sit. We come back, you can go out, get coffee or personal maintenance, whatever.” He picked up the shotgun but left the photos stacked on the table. “Don’t fuck this up, Marty. We’re close.”
Ansel Partridge said, “Bullshit, close.”
“I want it in her notes,” Sally Greave said. “And she notes that, too, that I requested it. She writes ‘interview in abeyance’ and notes the time. Then we all sign it and we can step out, taking the notes with us.”
When Marty Frost finished the notation, Ray Tate, Brian Comartin, Hambone Hogarth, and Sally Greaves signed the ruled line under the last notation. Everyone left the room, Sally Greaves taking the foolscap pad, leaving Martinique Frost and Ansel Partridge at opposite ends of the long table.
Sally Greaves was pleased to see Djuna Brown standing in the anteroom.
“Sergeant Brown,” she said, “a pleasure to see you again.”
“And you, Miss Greaves.” She made a hesitant smile. “I hope this isn’t too stressful for you. If it wasn’t so many murders.”
Ray Tate, passing behind them on his way to the washroom with Hambone Hogarth and Brian Comartin, gave her a definite nod and tapped the wedding finger of his left hand. He mouthed, “Go.” Aloud, he said, “Coffee on the way.”
When they were alone, Sally Greaves said, “I looked into your background, Sergeant Brown. I hope you don’t mind. A habit. I’ve put my mailman through, my dry cleaner, the owner of the local bistro. You never know.”
“No. No, I don’t mind. Was it interesting for you?”
“That lesbian thing? That you pretended to be gay so you could work and be left alone by the men? Pretty creative. But you weren’t gay, and now you’re hooked up with Ray Tate. That must be a chore, for you. He’s killed two men, black men. Doesn’t it concern you, that he might be a racist? Aren’t you a little concerned?”
Djuna Brown made a disappointed little smile. “You don’t have to come at me this way. Ray’s okay. I think you know that, already.” She gave Sally Greaves a sad look. “You don’t have to try to do me like this. I know what I know about Ray, same as you know what you know about the blonde lieutenant.” She saw the look of surprise on Sally Greaves’s face. “The rings. The gold snake and the ruby apple. You want to hide it from other people, but not deny it from yourself or each other.”
They sat side by side on a leather couch.
“You’re very observant. Very … keen.” Sally Greaves was almost disarmed. She stared at Djuna Brown as if at a canny creature she thought she might have to be careful around. “So, you know.”
“I don’t care. Can I be frank? Okay. You are what you are, and you look like what you look like. You accept it and you demand that everyone else accepts it, too, whether through fairness or fear. I can tell because you don’t try to hide it. You enhance it. Fine. I look like I do and I try to enhance it, too. Men and women? For some reason I attract them both. I have to accept that. And I have to be very careful. I can’t make a mistake with anyone, send conflicting signals. With Ray I know I’m on the right path for me. I look at you and I see an unattractive woman, but a woman in love. But you must have something. You’ve attracted love. Did you ever imagine?”
Sally Greaves looked at her closely with a hint of bitter suspicion. “I saw, from the corner of my eye, he, Tate, made a signal at you a moment ago. W
hat was that? To work me?”
“Yep. Ray mouthed it to me. ‘Go,’ he said. But he knows I won’t. I can’t. That’s not my style. That would be like surrendering who I am to a State paycheque. A welfare case in a round hat and a uniform. That’s not me.” She liked Sally Greaves and felt it was important for her to know she wasn’t being worked. She felt sorry for her, but she liked that she was willing to confront others and that was admirable. “I’m going to talk, here, and let you know how things are with me. I don’t want you to say anything, okay? When I’m done, we’ll sit here and wait for the coffee. I won’t ask you a question about this case. I can’t stand that you think what you think I’m doing. Someone more secure than me wouldn’t care, I guess. But I’ve made some mistakes. I’ve been shaken. Ray saw me make those mistakes. He looks at me different than before. I think he’s okay, now, but you know what? He can’t ignore what he knows, what he’s seen. He’ll love me, he can’t help that, but he’ll never look at me the way he looked at me before I shamed myself.”
“What did you do?” Sally Greaves made her face into concern and patted her hand. “Would it help to talk about it?” But her heart wasn’t really into it.
Djuna Brown laughed. “Nice try.” She took a deep breath. “I spent the last year after I left Ray down here up in Indian country. You think being a dyke is a tough go in the city? Try being the only black up north with knuckle-draggers, crazy Christians, and poor Natives with nothing left to lose. And being a sergeant where the troops have to do what you tell ’em. So, I got nobody to take my back. I’ve been beaten shitless while those fuckers working for me drove in the other direction and yawned. At least you’ve got the gorgeous lieutenant you can go home to. I made a mistake going back up there, I know that now. I went home alone every night. It was good, I think, for the people I police, that I was there for them, but every night I cried.” She looked into Sally Greaves’s eyes. “I was lonely. I … withered.”
Sally Greaves stared at her. “You look like you’re going to cry. You’re not much of a cop, are you?”
