Cornwell, Patricia - Andy Brazil 03 - Isle Of Dogs.txt

by Isle Of Dogs (lit)

  Hammer was a little surprised that she hadn't heard from Andy by now. She worried that the silence might indicate a failed connection with the governor. Perhaps he and Macovich had been unable to make contact, or if they had, the results were not helpful. Just as these thoughts were making the rounds in her mind, the telephone rang.

  "Yes," she answered curtly, as if she hated for anyone to bother her.

  "Superintendent Hammer?" Andy's voice traveled over the line.

  "What is it, Andy?" Hammer said.

  He was driving east on Broad Street, where surly teenagers lingered on corners and in front of boarded-up buildings, glaring at the unmarked car with all of its antennas and hidden blue lights.

  "I'm not too far from Church Hill," Andy said as he kept up his scan of shifty-looking people. "If it's not inconvenient," he bravely pushed ahead, "maybe I should drop by and tell you what's going on."

  "Fine," Hammer said and hung up without saying good-bye.

  Hammer did not have the genetic coding to tolerate a waste of time, and as she got older, her resentment of remote communication intensified. She could not abide the clangor of the phone when someone entered her airspace uninvited. She loathed voice mail and played it as quickly as she could before deleting it from her life, usually long before the message ended. Two-way radios were a nuisance and so was e-mail--especially instant messages from buddies she did not choose, who barged right into her cyberspace without being invited. Hammer just wanted quiet. At this stage in her life's journey, people were beginning to make her tired and she was noticing how rarely communication relayed anything that mattered.

  "Tell me what's going on," Hammer said when Andy was scarcely inside the front door, "Did you mention to the governor that Tangier Island is holding a dentist hostage and has declared war on Virginia because of the damn speed traps and NASCAR and possible dental fraud?"

  "I didn't get a chance," Andy reluctantly admitted as he settled on the sofa. "I don't think he recognizes anyone visually, either. He thought I was military and had no idea who Macovich is. I'm just wondering if that's the root of his problem, Superintendent Hammer. Maybe he's legally blind and hasn't seen you since you were sworn in because he never saw you to begin with."

  Hammer had never considered this. "That's ridiculous," she decided.

  "With all due respect. . ."

  She raised a hand to silence him. Whenever anyone led off with all due respect, she knew damn well she was being lied to and was about to be dissed or annoyed. "Just say whatever it is, and cut the respect crap," Hammer told him.

  "Someone needs to inform him that he has to do something about his vision," Andy made the point. "Maybe you should."

  "If I ever talk to him, I'll tell him that and more," Hammer said impatiently.

  Andy made her feel old. His very presence aged her by years, and she had begun reacting with avoidance and wasn't especially warm to him anymore. She had been a strikingly handsome woman all of her life until she'd turned fifty-five, when it seemed to her she instantly accumulated body fat and wrinkles. Her upper lip began to disappear overnight, her hair began to thin, and her breasts began to shrink, all within days. Andy, meanwhile, only got handsomer every time she saw him.

  It wasn't fair, she thought.

  "Are you all right, Superintendent Hammer?" Andy asked. "You seem angry and kind of out of sorts all of a sudden."

  "Just the mention of the governor puts me in a foul mood," she evasively said.

  It was so fucking unfair, she silently complained. Men Hammer's age dated women Andy's age, women who thought bald heads, weathered skin, thick glasses, decreased muscle bulk, migrating hair, special pumps and pills to help raise the level of intimacy, and snoring were somehow a bonus. Oh, how women had been brainwashed, Hammer raged on in silence. Young women bragged to each other about how old their lovers were.

  Just the other day, Windy Brees had been smoking a cigarette outside in the headquarters parking lot when Hammer overheard her telling a friend about Mr. Click. Hammer had briskly walked past Windy and the friend, staring at the pavement, loaded down with files and her briefcase, pretending she was unaware of the conversation. But Windy had a voice that carried, and the entire state police force heard every word.

  "How old is Mr. Click?" Windy's young female friend had asked enviously.

  "Ninety-one," Windy had proudly replied. "I'm just smitten. All I do is wait by the phone." She held up her cell phone and sighed, wishing it would trill.

  "But it's not on," the friend had observed. "You have to push in the power button and turn it on, otherwise it won't ring if he calls." She dug her own cell phone out of her purse and demonstrated.

  "Well, I'll be!" Windy had exclaimed with renewed hope. "I wonder if he knows to turn his on? Because whenever I call his cell phone, I always get this same voice that says he's not available, and it depresses me, because I worry he isn't available in general and that's why I've not heard from him since late last night."

  "I may as well take matters into my own hands," Hammer decided. "I can't wait for the governor to see me while a dentist is held hostage on an island that has declared war on Virginia. Nothing good can come from this, Andy. We must intervene immediately."

  "With all due respect," Andy started to say, but caught himself. "Superintendent Hammer," he started again, "Governor Crimm is a proud man who is addicted to power. If you go over his head, he won't forgive or forget it. He may not recognize it, but he'll deeply resent your getting all the credit."

  "Then what the hell do we do?"

  "Give me forty-eight hours," Andy boldly promised. "I'll somehow get an audience with him and inform him of all the facts." He paused as he thought of Popeye and how empty Hammer's house seemed without the little dog. "I posted a photo of Popeye on the home page of my website . . ."

  "I saw it," Hammer replied. "And you should have asked me first, now that we're on the subject."

  "I'm not going to give up on her," Andy said.

  Hammer's eyes filled with tears that she quickly blinked back.

  "I know how much you miss her," Andy went on, touched by her sadness and determined to make her talk to him about her feelings. "And I know how much you hate it when I do things without permission, but I'm not a rookie anymore, Superintendent Hammer. I have a mind of my own and a pretty good sense of what I'm doing. It seems you're always irritated with me and have no appreciation of anything I do."

  Hammer wouldn't look at him or respond.

  "To be honest," Andy went on, "you seem miserable and mad at the world most of the time these days."

  Hammer was silent. Andy started to get up from his chair.

  "Well, I don't want to invade your privacy," he said, sensing that the last thing she wanted was for him to leave. "But I guess I'll head out and not disturb you any further."

  "That's a good idea," Hammer said, abruptly getting up. "It's late."

  She walked him to the door as if she couldn't wait for him to leave.

  Andy glanced at his watch. "You're right. I need to go," he said. "I have to finish my next essay, you know."

  "Do I dare bring up the subject?" Hammer asked as she walked him out to the front porch, where a tart fall breeze rustled trees that were beginning to turn the first hues of yellow and red. "Will there be more salient comments from your wise confidante?"

  "I don't have a wise confidante," Andy said with surprising sharpness as he went down the steps and passed through the gentle glow of gaslight lamps. "I wish I did," he tossed back at her as he unlocked his car. "But I've yet to meet anybody who fits that description."

  He drove back home feeling out of sorts, and he was startled and suspicious when he climbed his front steps and saw a trash bag on the mat and an envelope taped to his door. There was nothing written on the plain white envelope, which looked like the generic kind available in any drugstore, and the black plastic trash bag clearly had something in it. Andy's law-enforcement instincts instantly went on alert, and he tou
ched nothing and got on his cell phone.

  "Detective Slipper," a voice answered after the phone rang for a long time inside the Richmond police department's A Squad, the division that worked violent crimes.

  "Joe," Andy said, "it's me, Andy Brazil."

  "Yo! What'cha know? We still miss your ugly face around here. How are things with the state police?"

  "Listen," Andy abruptly said, "can you buzz over to my house? Someone's left something strange on my porch, and I don't want to touch it."

  "Shit! You want me to bring the bomb squad?"

  "Not yet," Andy replied. "Why don't you come here first and take a look?"

  He sat on his front steps in the dark, because his porch light wasn't on a timer and the lights were off inside to save on his electric bill. Richmond police headquarters was downtown but not far from the Fan District where Andy's tiny rented row house was located. Detective Joe Slipper rolled up fifteen minutes later, and Andy realized how much he missed some of his old friends from his former job as a city cop.

  "Damn good to see you," he said to Slipper, a short, pudgy man who always reeked of cologne and had a taste for slick designer suits that he got dirt cheap at a local men's discount shop.

  "Shit," Slipper said as he probed the trash bag and blank envelope with a Kel light. "This is really weird."

  "You got any gloves handy?" Andy asked.

  "Sure." Slipper pulled a pair of surgical gloves out of a pocket.

  Andy put them on and tugged the envelope off the door. It was sealed, and he slit it open with a pocket knife. Inside was a Polaroid photograph, and Andy and Slipper were stunned as the flashlight revealed a shocking image of Trish Thrash's nude, bloody body at Belle Island. Slipper nudged the trash bag with his foot.

  "Shit," he said. "Feels like clothes in there."

  He opened the bag and carefully pulled out a black leather biker's jacket, jeans, panties, a bra, and a T-shirt with the logo of what appeared to be a Richmond women's softball team. The clothing appeared to have been cut with a razor blade and was stiff with dried blood.

  "Christ," Andy said as he broke out in a cold sweat and thought of what had been carved on the murdered woman's body. "I got no idea what's going on here, Joe."

  Slipper quietly and somberly returned to his car and got out evidence bags and tape. He sealed everything inside paper bags and suggested he and Andy talk, neither of them having any idea that Unique was hiding in the shadows across the street, watching the entire drama.

  "How about we sit in your car?" Andy suggested because he didn't want Slipper inside his cluttered dining-room office with its research materials on Jamestown, Isle of Dogs, pirates, mummies, photographs of Popeye, and all the rest.

  "Sure." Slipper shrugged, slightly puzzled. "What? You hiding a woman in there?"

  "I wish," Andy replied. "Nope. It's just the place is a friggin' mess and I'd rather not be distracted at the moment. If you feel better coming inside, that's fine, of course. You can even search the place if you want."

  "Hell, no, Andy," Slipper said. "Shit. I got no probable cause to search your house, even if you give me permission. Come on. Let's go sit in that piece of shit the city gives me to drive."

  "I don't know what the hell is going on, Joe," Andy kept saying.

  "Well, I do," Slipper answered as they climbed inside his old unmarked Ford LTD and shut the doors. "It certainly looks like our killer left this shit and is jerking us around. You know, I worked that fucking scene, and it's obvious to me the photo was taken before we got there. Not to mention, when we responded, there was no sign of her clothes, and we searched the entire island."

  Andy was in turmoil. Did the killer somehow know that he was Trooper Truth? Is that why Trooper Truth was carved on the body and now evidence was left at

  Andy's house? But how could anyone except Hammer possibly know the real identity of Trooper Truth? It made no sense, and Andy feared that if he openly discussed the situation with Slipper, the detective would tell other cops and Andy's literary career would be over and Hammer would be fired by the governor. Worst of all, Andy might become the prime suspect.

  "Jesus Christ," he said with a frustrated sigh. "Joe, let me tell you right off, I had nothing to do with this case. 1 never heard of the victim until you called Hammer earlier today. I'd never seen the victim, and I sure as hell didn't murder her or anyone, if that's what you're even remotely entertaining, and I think we should be really honest with each other, Joe."

  "Damn right we'll be honest," Slipper replied, staring out the windshield at the dark, empty street, and Andy could tell by Slipper's refusal to look him in the eye that the detective didn't know what to think and was, in fact, suspicious.

  "Do you know anything about Trooper Truth?" Slipper asked.

  "I know the name was carved on her body, because you told Hammer and she told me," Andy said. "Certainly, I know about Trooper Truth's website, just like everybody else does."

  "You've read his shit?"

  "Yes," Andy said. "And I can't see that there's anything in the content of those essays that might be somehow linked to Trish Thrash, do you?"

  "Gotta agree with you there," Slipper confessed. "I mean, I don't see any connection between Jamestown, mummies, and all the rest, to what appears to be a blatant hate crime targeted at gay women. And I gotta admit, Andy," Slipper said, finally looking at him, "half the city cops always assumed you was gay, and you never have seemed to care or have a thing about gays."

  "I don't," Andy replied sincerely. "I don't have a thing about anybody except bad people."

  "Yeah, that's always been my impression." Slipper shook his head, mystified. "But why the hell would the killer leave this shit at your house, for Christ's sake? I'm wondering if it could be some person you've arrested before or somehow had contact with, maybe when you was working for the city? Is your address listed in the phone book?"

  "No, Joe, it's not. Mind if I ask you something?"

  "Sure."

  "Have you considered that maybe the Trooper Truth link isn't that the killer reads Trooper Truth but that maybe the victim did and somehow the killer found that out?"

  "You know, I'm kind of embarrassed to tell you that I didn't think of that," Slipper said with interest and a spark of hope. "Damn good thought. I'll follow up on that right away, go back and talk some more with the people she worked with."

  "Maybe with some of the people who played on the softball team that's on her T-shirt," Andy suggested. "What you might want to consider is not asking about Trooper Truth directly, because you don't want people knowing the detail about what was cut on her body, right?"

  "Hell no. Only the killer and us and the M.E. know that. So we need to keep that to ourselves in case we ever get a suspect and he confesses to it, right?"

  "Exactly, Joe."

  "So how do you think I could find out about Trooper Truth without mentioning him directly?"

  "How about this for an idea," Andy said. "Trooper Truth gets e-mail."

  "He does?"

  "Yes. It's right there on the website that you can contact whoever he or she is and so on. Why not send an e-mail to Trooper Truth and ask for his or her help? He--let's just go ahead and call him or her a he--can post something on his site and see if people who might have known Trish Thrash will respond."

  "Like what?" Slipper scratched his chin. "What do we want him to put on his site?"

  "Okay," Andy said, thinking. "Try this: The police are looking for anyone who knew Trish Thrash and might know her hobbies, passions, what she read, and if there was anything or anyone of late that she talked about a lot."

  Slipper was taking notes and asked Andy to repeat the statement again.

  "And I would add," Andy suggested, "that the informers don't have to identify themselves, otherwise some people won't feel comfortable stepping forward. And I'd offer a reward for any tip that leads to an arrest."

  Slipper started the car engine and turned on his headlights while Unique crouched behin
d a tree in the dark, her molecules rearranged into invisibility and her Purpose throbbing as she imagined appearing at the blond cop's door one night.

  "My car's broke down," the Nazi scripted. "Can I use the phone?"

  The cop would let her inside, and when he turned his back for even a second, Unique would, as instructed, become invisible and slip up behind him, slashing his throat all the way through his windpipe so he couldn't scream and would drown in his own blood. Then, the Nazi said from her dark space, Unique would slash his pretty face, cut out his eyes and tongue, castrate him, carve a swastika on his belly, and photograph the fruits of her Purpose, as usual. Finally, she would take his clothes, which Unique would deliver to whomever the Nazi directed.

  "I know you've already thought of this," Andy was diplomatically suggesting, "but I'd get the DNA lab to analyze the envelope, assuming the killer licked the flap, then have the profile run through the DNA database to see if we're lucky enough to get a cold hit. Also have the blood on the clothes checked for DNA. Sometimes the killer cuts himself. I'd also get Vander to do his thing with the Luma-Lite and Super Glue in hopes there are latent prints on the trash bag and the envelope and Polaroid, which he can then run through AFIS. Of course, get trace evidence to check for fibers, hairs, and whatever on the clothes in the bag, and before any of this is done, don't forget to let Doctor Scarpetta see everything."