Whispers of the Dead_A Special Tracking Unit Novel

by Spencer Kope

  The mountain’s original name dates to the period after the Presidio of Tucson was built in 1775. For the security of all, a sentinel was posted on the peak to keep a lookout for any approaching Apache raiding parties. Early settlers apparently had little time to waste on coming up with clever names, so the mountain ended up with the utilitarian moniker Sentinel Peak.

  That lasted over a hundred and fifty years, until a 160-foot-tall letter A made of painted basalt rock appeared on the eastern side of the peak. Originally built by students from the University of Arizona in 1916, the A is normally white, but sometimes gets painted green for Saint Patrick’s Day. These days the schizophrenic mountain goes by both names, weighing each equally.

  When Jimmy says the place is amazing, however, he’s not referring to the mountain; he’s talking about the jail. The Pima County Adult Detention Center is impressive, with a double exclamation mark. But then, I’m not a subject-matter expert on crowbar hotels.

  I may have acted dubious last night when Jimmy clued me in on his plans for this morning, but, honestly, I should have thought of this myself. The jail visit worked well in El Paso, why not here?

  This time I’m not going in with expectations of finding IBK’s shine; it’s probably not there. I’d bet money, though, that we’ll find the gray shine of victim number two. If Jimmy’s theory is correct, he’s a local who would have spent time—probably a good deal of time—at this facility.

  His crime would have been significant: we’re not looking for someone who was hooked up for shoplifting, purse snatching, or driving with a suspended license.

  To find him, we need to go through the motions, like before, and check each cellblock, and each common area. That gray shine with mottled carmine is here somewhere, we just need to ferret it out. To fortify our little ruse, Diane contacted Tom McAllister’s office and his paralegal provided a list of all his clients for the last three years.

  After showing our badges twice and explaining what we needed to three levels of supervision, a congenial lieutenant named Doug with a seventies-style cop mustache takes our catalog of names to his office and starts pulling together a list of cells. He warns us that it’ll take about a half hour, so we kill time strolling around the lobby and out onto the entrance courtyard.

  The more I see, the more impressed I am.

  Thirty-three minutes later, Lieutenant Doug returns to the lobby with an Excel printout of names and cells corresponding to our list. Rather than passing off the escort duty to a sergeant or even a corrections deputy, he decides to take us around to the different cellblocks himself. He seems intrigued by our little quest.

  “This is an impressive facility,” Jimmy says as we start up a flight of stairs. “If it wasn’t for the barbed-wire-topped fences and the limited number of windows, you might mistake the place for an office complex. That wall of glass at the main entrance is particularly inspiring.”

  “It’s home,” Doug says with a grin.

  “How many inmates do you house?”

  “Today’s count is 1,823,” Doug replies, “but we can hold almost 2,400 if we have to. Average is in the mid-1,750s. Seems like a lot of capacity, but we had to build a separate minimum-security facility up the road to keep ahead of the curve. Tucson has a population of more than a half million, and once you get outside the city limits, the rest of Pima County adds another 450,000. So even if our criminal element only accounts for one percent of the county population, that’s ten thousand idiots running around doing stupid stuff.”

  Jimmy chuckles. “I’m guessing it’s more than one percent.”

  “You got that right,” Doug replies. “There’s a sharp edge between legal and illegal, and a surprising number of people who want to play right on that edge.”

  Arriving on the second story, Doug points out several cellblocks. “This facility was built in 1984 and was one of the first in the nation to switch to a direct-supervision model.”

  “Direct supervision?” I ask.

  “The whole place has what they call a ‘podular’ design that allows staff to interact directly with inmates within the housing units. It’s supposed to reduce violence against both staff and other inmates, and the empirical evidence suggests that it works as advertised. We certainly don’t have any complaints.”

  “Isn’t that a bit dangerous, putting your corrections deputies right out in the open with the inmates?”

  “It only seems that way. The design allows a clear view into every area of the pod, and the interaction between inmates and staff helps humanize the facility. You’d be surprised how effective it is.”

  Without any fanfare, Lieutenant Doug leads us through a pair of security doors, letting the first door close and lock before opening the second, and we find ourselves in the common room of the first pod.

  Doug explains that the pod is only partially populated at the moment because most of the inmates have assigned jobs. For some, it’s working in the kitchen or laundry; some are assigned a manufacturing job; and others attend classes or mandatory treatment programs.

  The inmates in the common room give us barely a glance before returning to their card games, textbooks, letters, or other pastimes.

  My glasses have been safely stowed in my pocket since we arrived, and, as expected, I haven’t seen a sign of IBK’s ice-blue shine. Honestly, I’m not even looking for it anymore, I’m that convinced we won’t find it. I’m focused instead on victim number two, the one who’s cooling his heels—literally—at the Pima County Medical Examiner’s Office.

  We visit pod after pod, putting on a good show of examining each targeted cell before checking off another name on our makeshift list. An hour into our search, and with two-thirds of the jail already eliminated, it’s suddenly in front of me, and to my left and right: gray essence mottled with carmine. The colors are cast upon the floor and fixed furnishings of Main 4C, layer upon layer of it. When I focus, the neon effect is powerful and omnipresent … but flat.

  Our gray fellow is dead … wherever he is.

  But we already knew that.

  Judging by the clarity of the shine, he was here sometime in the last six to twelve months. He visited almost all of the individual cells during that time, but he lived in just one, and his bunk isn’t hard to find. You can see the history of his handprints on the upright bar where he helped boost himself up.

  I forgo the 187 trick I used in El Paso and just ask Doug for the list straight-up; he doesn’t even question it. After all, we’re the Feds. Fifteen minutes later, Jimmy and I are walking out the front door with a list of ten people who occupied that bunk in the last year; just ten.

  That should make Diane happy … or sad; I don’t know. Sometimes she seems a bit disappointed when the information we provide doesn’t challenge her enough. The tougher the quest, the more she appears to enjoy it. I once told her she had a masochistic tendency and she threatened to beat me with a hose.

  I think she was confusing masochism with sadism.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Southbound I-10, Tucson—September 5, 10:42 A.M.

  The state tree of Arizona must be either the palm tree or the light pole—and I’m leaning toward the light pole. Aside from the occasional water tower, the poles seem to be the tallest structures we pass as we make our way south on Interstate 10 back to the motel.

  A surprising number of low-water plants thrive in this climate and add their greens and yellows to the gray contrast of the highway. There are a wide variety of small trees, including acacia, rosewood, ebony, and mesquite. The palm trees are the most fascinating. Some are close, but most are seen at a distance, lording over parcels of Arizona brown.

  It’s a climate and terrain far removed from the Pacific Northwest, which is not just my home by accident of birth, but by inheritance and choice. Because of this, I’ve never been much for the drier climates of the southwest. Still, they never fail to surprise me, and whenever I’m down here I find incredible beauty hidden in plain sight.

  * * *

>   Jimmy’s driving, but his mind is far away, absorbed in theories of murder past, present, and future. Engaging him in conversation would be pointless, and since the road noise is tediously familiar, I turn the radio on and hit the scan button. It rotates through several channels before landing on a song that instantly sits Jimmy up in his seat. He punches the scan button quickly to lock in the channel and then cranks the volume, shooting me a wicked grin.

  It’s Queen.

  “Bohemian Rhapsody,” to be precise.

  Like trained seals, both Jimmy and I instantly break into song. To say that our contribution to the classic Queen ballad is music would be an affront to music, but traditions must be maintained and so we bellow out the words at the top of our lungs.

  When we get to the Wayne’s World part of the song, we start bobbing our heads just like in the movie. It’s a tradition that goes back to our first assignment together.

  I remember our first meeting.

  Jimmy was handpicked for his position by FBI Director Robert Carlson. He had some skill as a tracker, even back then, and a master’s degree in psychology. Uncle Robert said he was a natural profiler, which is true, but I guess I always suspected he was chosen so he could monitor me—make sure I don’t walk off into that dark abyss that tends to follow us from case to case. We met at Hangar 7 on a cold January afternoon. The two-story office complex at the back of the hangar hadn’t been built yet, nor had Betsy been delivered. Basically it was a giant, empty, poorly lit hangar, and we sat around a folding card table on four folding chairs: Director Carlson, Jimmy, me, and Dad.

  This was still months before Diane joined the unit.

  * * *

  As we sat at the flimsy card table and Director Carlson tried to explain shine, Jimmy started glancing around at the empty hangar. Maybe he thought he was being punked; maybe he thought Director Carlson was an imposter and this was some type of trap; I don’t know, but you could almost feel his apprehension—and you couldn’t really blame him.

  I was asked to leave the hangar three times, and three times I came back in and showed Jimmy everywhere he walked, everything he touched, even the dance step he did in the northeast corner.

  It only convinced him that we had cameras hidden everywhere in the hangar and that I was watching his every move from a monitor outside.

  The fourth test convinced him.

  He insisted that I sit in the corner of the hangar with my coat zipped up and wrapped around my head. When I exited the corner and pointed out every single step and half step he took, he just sat down at the card table and stared at his hands.

  It’s a lot to take in, particularly for someone with Jimmy’s extremely rational mind-set. He eventually accepted it, but only because he could find no alternative explanation and had no choice. It created an uncomfortable dynamic between the two of us. I was an illogical construct in his rational world.

  The singing was Jimmy’s idea.

  He figured that since we were strangers in a strange situation, the best way to team-build was to tear down some of our natural inhibitions. His proposal was simple: when certain songs came on the radio, we would sing along.

  And no humming or lip-synching.

  It had to be loud and forceful, from the gut.

  As to the selection process, our first day in the car together solved that. We agreed that every third song that came on the radio would go on the list. Since the station we were listening to played hits from the seventies, eighties, and nineties, we ended up with a cornucopia of thirty-seven tunes that kept us singing almost anytime the radio was on.

  That lasted about three months before we pared it down to just “Bohemian Rhapsody,” “Der Kommisar,” “Livin’ la Vida Loca,” “Sweet Emotion,” “Stairway to Heaven,” “Pass the Dutchie,” and “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

  I’m not particularly fond of the last one.

  As stupid as the whole thing sounds, it worked.

  Our mutual humiliation at having to sing “Karma Chameleon” while stopped at a light at a busy intersection helped forge us into more than a team; it made us brothers.

  Plus, we got some laughs along the way.

  And some stares.

  So when “Bohemian Rhapsody” comes on the radio, there’s no dread or embarrassment or hesitation. Jimmy and I jump right in, singing at the top of our lungs. It brings with it a heartwarming sense of nostalgia and kinship, like walking through the front door of your childhood home after a long absence and smelling warm apple pie fresh from the oven.

  We sing and we don’t care who looks or stares. And when the song ends we both have a long laugh.

  It feels good.

  It feels right.

  Best Western, Room 310—September 5, 12:14 P.M.

  I’ve never been in the military and don’t pretend to know what it’s like, but I think I can relate to the hurry-up-and-wait syndrome. If Jimmy and I kept track of how much time we devote to the different aspects of each case, I’m betting at least a quarter of it is spent in motel rooms, police station lobbies, conference rooms, and dozens of other locations, just waiting for something to happen.

  We could be waiting for a report, an escort, a local detective, a doctor, a coroner, a priest, a ride. It all comes down to just killing time. A good book helps. Jimmy sometimes plays games on his phone, but I just can’t get into that; seems like a waste of time—but I guess that’s the point.

  Right now we’re waiting for a call from Diane … and waiting.

  I’m deep into The Frozen Dead, an intriguing novel by Bernard Minier, when there’s a knock at the door. Jimmy doesn’t budge from his game, so I replace my bookmark, set the paperback aside, walk to the door, and check the peephole. It’s Les. He’s cradling a sealed letter in his hands. The stationery is lavender and brown.

  “You don’t have a stamp, by any chance?” he asks as I swing the door wide.

  I’ve always liked Les. He and Marty are yin and yang, and not just because they’re pilot and copilot. Les is quiet and reserved; steady and reliable. With his perfect head of salt-and-pepper hair he looks the part of a seasoned pilot. He and Beth have been married twenty-six years and have three sons and seven grandkids.

  Marty, on the other hand, is ex-Army: a former chopper pilot with combat experience in both Iraq and Afghanistan. He was married—briefly—but later swore off matrimony for all eternity … until his second marriage. That lasted about as long as the first. He’s gregarious even on his worst days, and always upbeat.

  The only problem with Marty is that his mouth only has two gears: fast and faster. There’s no neutral—the guy just can’t stop talking. I don’t know how Les puts up with him on long flights. Maybe it’s because Les does very little talking himself and doesn’t seem to get frazzled by much; maybe he can just sit and listen. Or, more likely, he just tunes Marty out and the talkative copilot is so busy yapping that he never notices.

  Like I said, yin and yang.

  I hold the door open and wave Les in, then retrieve my leather bag from the closet and fish through the buckled pockets until finding two books of stamps. I pick one and hand it to Les. It’s a heart stamp that the postal service calls Sealed with Love.

  It was either that or one from the Harry Potter collection.

  “Hey, Jimmy, look at this,” I say in my best golly-gee voice. “Les is writing a letter to his wife. How romantic, huh? And what a great idea; wherever did you come up with that idea?” Les just chuckles and gives a wave good-bye, slipping into the hall before Jimmy can put up a defense.

  Closing the door, I walk slowly back toward my seat. “Considerate guy, that Les,” I say, thumbing toward the door. Picking up some of my stationery off the table on the way, I wave it in the air and add, “Look at this, some paper and envelopes. Isn’t that odd?”

  Jimmy finally looks up from his game and is about to say something when the phone goes off in his hand. He’s startled and nearly drops it on the floor, but manages to catch and answer it in one swift m
ovement.

  Jimmy contacted Diane an hour ago and gave her the dump on our jail visit. From the half-conversation spilling out in three- and four-word sentences, I can tell she’s whittled the list of ten down to just two—again.

  She’s good.

  Some might be skeptical of such an audacious claim; some might question her analysis. On the other hand, some know better. If she says she eliminated eight of the ten candidates without ever leaving her office, then she eliminated eight of the ten candidates.

  Period.

  After an entire minute of supreme patience, I motion for Jimmy to put the phone on speaker, but he keeps brushing me off. I can be annoying when I want to be—or so I’m told—and persist until he holds a hand up in surrender.

  “Hold on, Diane. I’m going to put you on speaker.” He pauses a moment as Diane adds something to their semi-private conversation. “Pestering doesn’t even come close to covering it,” Jimmy replies a moment later, giving me a withering look. He presses the speaker function and sets the phone on the bed. “Go ahead, Diane. You’re on speaker.”

  “Do you want me to repeat everything?” she asks.

  “No, just skip to the possible victims,” Jimmy says.

  “Right,” she says, and I hear a shuffling of papers. “The first is fifty-one-year-old Cecil B. Thompson, a transient with dozens of arrests for trespass, urinating in public, sitting or lying on the sidewalk, public drunkenness, that sort of thing. His last arrest was three weeks before the feet turned up on McAllister’s living room floor.”

  “What did they book him for?”

  “Defecating on the hood of a parked police cruiser.”

  “Good grief,” I mutter in disgust.

  “Yeah, he admitted to ‘dropping the kids off at the pool,’ as he put it, but claimed he was using a public toilet. Honestly, I don’t think the guy has been sober in thirty years.”

  “I’m guessing he’s not high on your probability ladder?” Jimmy says.