Grosse Pointe Pulp

by Dan Ames

  He ignored me and said, “Where the hell have you been?” This time, I definitely heard a siren.

  “Data entry. It’s a part-time job I had to take in order to pay for your restaurant expenses,” I said. “I get three cents a word.”

  “Good, don’t be afraid to work extra hours.”

  “Thanks for the advice. Where are you, by the way?”

  “Hey, have you talked to your sister lately?” he said.

  “Define lately.”

  “Like . . . today?”

  “No,” I said, wishing he’d get to the point. “Nate, where are you? What’s going on?”

  He laughed, a low, deep chuckle, obviously relishing the news. What reporter doesn’t love breaking a story?

  “Once again, she’s proven why she’s chief of police,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “She found him.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy.”

  “What guy, Nate?” I was already on my feet, grabbing my car keys and heading for the door when he gave me the news.

  “Ellen found the guy who killed Jesse Barre.”

  28

  It was about as bad as Grosse Pointe gets: a third floor walk-up facing Alter, the street that divides my fair city and the urban decay that is Detroit proper. I don’t say that with any degree of snobbishness; that’s just the way it is. In fact, the average Grosse Pointer would love nothing more than to have a thriving, vibrant city next to its borders. But that wouldn’t be happening any time soon. For now, it was duck pâté on one side, duck-for-cover on the other.

  The building itself was an ugly structure that probably hadn’t met a housing code since Nixon took office. You certainly wouldn’t find it on any of the brochures at the Grosse Pointe Hospitality Center.

  The coroner’s van was already outside.

  I parked the lovely white Sunbird right out on the street. I sort of hoped someone would steal it—that way I could share the embarrassment a little bit.

  I climbed the steps and walked inside, where I saw my sister standing in the doorway. She had her hand on the butt of her gun and was watching the coroner and crime scene technicians doing their thing. She turned to me as I got to the top of the rickety steps.

  “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” she said. No place was sacred when it came to my sister giving me crap.

  “Your buddy Nate call you?” she said. Ellen lifted her chin, and I saw him outside, talking on a cell phone. He was eating what looked to be a corndog. I looked around to identify the possible source of the corndog, maybe a diner or something. Nothing. You had to admit, the guy was pretty impressive.

  “My instincts brought me here,” I told her.

  “Your instincts are about as sharp as the vic’s,” she said, and gestured toward the inside of the house. She walked off in that direction, and I followed. She hadn’t invited me to tag along but she wasn’t telling me to take a hike, either. I wasn’t sure why she put up with me. On good days, I believed she liked having me around to watch her back. On bad days, I was certain she did it for me out of pity. The successful sister, chief of police, pitying her disgraced, deadbeat PI brother. The duty of the sister just as important as the duty of the law. Maybe there was a little bit of both in her reasoning to let me hang out. I doubted I would ever know. I sure as hell knew Ellen wouldn’t tell.

  I followed her deeper into the apartment. I wouldn’t have imagined it possible for the inside of this place to look worse than the outside, but that was the case. The smell was bad, of course. My sense of smell, always reasonably astute, told me that the death hadn’t happened terribly recently. Maybe not long after Jesse Barre had been killed.

  We got to the doorway to the living room, and I said to Ellen, “Who is the vic, by the way?”

  She stopped outside the room where crime scene technicians were finishing up. Flashbulbs were still popping. I saw fingerprint dust spread all around, and the coroner was in the process of removing the body.

  “His name was Rufus Coltraine,” she said.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Released from Jackson a few months ago.” Jackson, as in Jackson State Prison.

  “What had he been in for?” I said.

  “Armed robbery. Assault. Attempted murder.”

  “Nice guy.”

  “See what’s over in the corner?” she said. I stepped past her. There, propped up against the wall, was an astonishingly beautiful guitar.

  A Jesse Barre Special. I knew it instantly. The incredible grain of the wood. The styling of the frets, the craftsmanship that was so apparent in every wormholed inch of the thing.

  “How’d he die?” I said.

  “Nobody taught him portion control.”

  Ellen didn’t have to give me her version of what had happened—it was obvious. The recently released Mr. Coltraine, like so many convicts unable to adjust to life outside, instantly reverted to his criminal past and went on the prowl. He spotted a lone woman working late at night, and he broke in and gave her a little bit of what he learned in prison. So he killed Jesse Barre. A crime of opportunity. Mr. Coltraine snatched a couple of guitars, bought some crack or heroin or whatever he was into to celebrate, and had just a little too much of a celebratory toot.

  End of story.

  I looked over the scene before me in the living room. It was a dump in every sense of the word. Stains on the floor, holes punched in the drywall.

  Apparently Mr. Coltraine had fallen off the rickety, gutted couch onto the living room floor. Truly a party gone bad. Plastic baggies, spoons, and other paraphernalia were carefully marked on the floor.

  And a couple feet away was a guitar. My sister walked over to it, stepping carefully. I followed suit until we both stood over it, looking down.

  It was a beauty, all right. The wood had a grain I’d never seen before. Almost like a sixties rock concert poster, full of weird vibes and deep patterns you could almost fall into. It was beautiful. A work of art.

  “Can you say, ‘Case closed’?” Ellen said.

  I looked at the guitar again, this time more closely. I had learned a little bit on my studies when I took the case. I recognized the incredible grain of the wood, naturally. I recognized the grain and styling of the neck as well. The bridge. The pick guard. And I knew what the fancy stuff was.

  However, there was one giant flaw in the guitar.

  I didn’t see Shannon Sparrow’s name on it.

  I remembered what Clarence Barre had told me about the guitar Jesse was building for Shannon Sparrow. He had said that Jesse put a little brass piece of metal somewhere near the top that bore Shannon Sparrow’s name. Like the one on B.B. King’s guitar that says “Lucille.” I saw no such mark.

  I looked at my sister.

  “Something’s not right,” I said.

  The other people in the room, the crime scene technicians and a few fellow officers, didn’t really stop, but it seemed to me that things got a bit quieter.

  “What did you say?” Ellen asked me.

  “My client told me that Jesse had built a guitar for Shannon Sparrow,” I said. “It was her masterpiece. She was making it for Shannon to play at the free concert she’s putting on here in Grosse Pointe. With Clarence Barre’s help, I’ve looked for it everywhere. It’s gone. It had to have been stolen during the robbery. And this guitar isn’t it. Her father described it to me—”

  “How did he know?” Ellen interrupted me. “Did he see it?”

  “I don’t know. She might have told him about it.”

  “So he didn’t actually see the guitar himself?”

  I turned to her. “Look, Ellen. I don’t know what he saw or didn’t see. All I’m telling you—”

  “You’re not telling me anything. And you know why? Because you don’t know anything. Come back and talk to me when you do.”

  That’s thing about my sister. She’s as stubborn and pigheaded as anyone. She’d pieced together what happened.
She was going to clear the case and wasn’t ready to look at a different viewpoint. Which was fine. It was that single-minded, tenacious approach to things that had made her a success. But maybe once she’d had a chance to settle down, she’d be more receptive to alternate theories. Doubtful, but I am a highly positive man. The Norman Vincent Fucking Peale of Private Investigators. That would look great on my business card. Note to self.

  She turned back to me. “Look, even if it isn’t the guitar, who cares? So Rufus here stole two guitars, sold one, took the money, and got high. He kept the other one for a rainy day. Unfortunately, the drugs were too good, and he never got around to selling his nest egg.”

  I nodded. “Sure,” I said. Here was where I should tuck tail. Pick it up again later. Of course, I never follow my own good advice.

  “You have to admit, though, ol’ Rufus might have had a little trouble selling a highly recognizable guitar like a Jesse Barre Special to anyone.”

  “Yeah, fences are usually pretty picky,” she said.

  “It was, after all, stolen,” I said. “If a fence got caught with it, he’d lose his investment. So not anyone would be willing to take it.”

  “Yes, people dealing with stolen goods are highly risk-averse,” she said.

  “But let’s say he found a fence.”

  “Which he probably did, if in fact, he had this Shannon Sparrow guitar. Maybe he never took it. You can’t prove he did.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “If Rufus Coltraine had stolen two guitars that link him directly to a homicide, and he finds a fence who’ll buy them, would he really decide, ‘oh, what the heck, I’ll keep one’? Even if it means life in prison? For a rainy day?”

  “Why are you so sure he sold anything?” she said.

  “How the hell else did he get money for that much heroin? The guy was just out of prison.”

  “Jesus Christ, John, who knows how much money Jesse Barre had on her when she died.”

  “No way did she have enough to buy that much heroin.”

  “That’s beside the point! You’re not making any sense.”

  “The hell I’m not.”

  “You’re telling me that criminals aren’t that stupid?” my sister said. “You’re saying that they’re too smart to leave evidence lying around? Who are you kidding? There are murderers in prison now because they left their driver’s license at the scene of the crime! Armed robbers who kept the video from the surveillance camera so they could watch themselves and show it off to their friends. Prisons are full of guilty criminals who are some of the stupidest fucking people on Earth. Don’t build a case by turning Rufus goddamned Coltraine here into a Rhodes scholar.”

  Now, not only was it quiet in the room, it was pretty much empty. Nobody wanted to get caught in the crossfire. Or catch my sister’s verbal shrapnel.

  “Ellen—”

  “I’ve got a dead ex-con with a history of breaking and entering as well as assault, with evidence that puts him at the Jesse Barre crime scene. If you want to make up some bullshit to keep the gravy train rolling with Mr. Barre, that’s up to you.”

  It was a low blow, but I let it go. I was used to them from Ellen now. Besides, I knew how she worked. Right now, she was running the scenarios through her mind, trying to figure out any angle. She had to act like that, had to show everyone that she was in charge and that she was doing her job. In her own way, she’d actually encouraged me to continue.

  I turned and went back down the stairs.

  29

  I knew a guy in college who’d been planning on going into law enforcement too. He was a beast of a guy, six feet six inches, nearly 400 pounds. His name was Nick Henderson, and his terribly original nickname was “House.” He ended up not being a cop. In fact, he never finished college, never even got his degree because he beat the shit out of some frat boy. The Delta Chi ended up with a fractured skull, and House ended up having all kinds of legal problems. Anyway, he’s now a guard at Jackson Federal Prison, located appropriately in Jackson, Michigan, an hour or so west of Detroit. Probably the better place for him than on the suburban streets of America. His brand of justice was perfect for a maximum security prison.

  After a few minutes of searching for the number, calling the prison, and getting transferred a couple times, I finally got hold of him.

  “House,” I said. “It’s John Rockne.”

  There was a brief moment while I could practically hear him searching his mental Rolodex. It sounded a little rusty. Finally, he said, “Hey, man, how ya’ doin’?”

  His tone was warm enough even though we’d never been really good friends. Still, a guy that size, you never want to make an enemy.

  “Good, good. How are you?” I said.

  “Drinkin’ beer and crackin’ skulls, my friend.”

  “Good times,” I said. Good Lord.

  He laughed and said, “What’s up? You need a job?”

  He’d obviously heard about the end of my career a few years back. Apparently he thought my failures had continued. Maybe that was his impression of me from way back then.

  “No, I actually wondered if you ever knew an inmate named Rufus Coltraine,” I said. “He just turned up dead and may have something to do with a case I’m working on.”

  “What do you mean you’re working on it?” he said.

  “I’m a PI.”

  “Oh.” In the background I could hear some shouting and the occasional slam of a metal door. It was beyond me how someone could choose to work at a prison. It was a dirty job, but I guess someone had to do it. And I guess no one was better suited for it than House.

  “I can’t say I know anything about him, John,” he said. “I think he was in Cell Block D, and I spend most of my time down on A and B.”

  “Do you know anyone who works on D?” I said. “Someone who might talk to me?”

  “Hmm. You could try Joe Puhy. He’s the guy on D and could probably tell you all about Coltraine. I don’t know how much he’ll cooperate, but offer to buy him a couple beers. That might do the trick.”

  “Okay,” I said. “How can I get hold of him?”

  “I can transfer you if you want.”

  “All right,” I said. “Thanks a bunch, House.”

  “Sure. Good luck, man. Keep in touch.”

  “I will,” I said, and then I heard a beeping and slight static. After twenty seconds or so, a tired, slightly grizzled voice said, “Puhy.”

  I introduced myself, told him that House had transferred me to him, told him about the premature ending to Rufus Coltraine’s life, and then asked if he knew anything about his former inmate.

  “What do you want to know?” he said. With a voice that wasn’t exactly Welcome Wagon caliber.

  “Did he seem like the kind of guy who would run out and OD as soon as he got out?” I said.

  “Who fucking knows what they’ll do once they get out?” he said. “Some of the most normal, well-adjusted guys go out and commit a murder just to get back in. Quite a few even kill themselves.”

  I could see Puhy was a real student of human behavior.

  “If you had to guess, Mr. Puhy,” I said. “Would overdosing on heroin seem like behavior consistent with Coltraine?”

  “Nah, I guess not,” Puhy said. “He was into music and that kind of shit. But you never know. They get a taste of freedom, they want to taste a few other things too. I’ve seen so many guys who’d changed their lives inside, and then a few months later, they’re back after going on some kind of drug or violence spree.”

  “Did anyone ever come and visit him?” I said.

  “Not that I know of. He didn’t have any pictures of family in his cell,” he said. “I think they were in Tennessee or something. I thought that he would go down there when he got out. But I don’t think he got any letters that I can recall.”

  “Anything interesting about the people he hung around with?”

  “No, but he was a pretty social guy.”

  “What kind of musi
c did he play?”

  “A mixture. Blues. Rock. Some jazz. He was pretty good.”

  “Did he play the guitar?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Just a hunch.” So Rufus Coltraine was a musician, gets out of prison, kills a woman who makes special guitars, maybe sells one, buys drugs, and overdoses. On the surface, it made a certain kind of sense.

  “Yeah, he was pretty serious about the music,” Puhy said, warming up slightly to the subject. “I think he had something going on. Like he could do something with it once he got out. But I don’t know if that was just a pipe dream or what.”

  Maybe Rufus felt like he needed a special guitar or two to make his big break. What had Shannon Sparrow said to me, about how well Jesse’s guitars recorded?

  “Look, I gotta get back to work,” Puhy said.

  “Do you mind, if I have any more questions, if I call you back?” I said to Mr. Puhy.

  Puhy hesitated.

  “Maybe we could meet and I’ll buy you a few beers,” I said.

  “No problem,” Puhy said. “I’ll be around.”

  I started to say goodbye, but all I heard was the sound of a metal door slamming and then a dial tone.

  •

  It was rare that a case of mine collided with a case of my sister’s. I was usually involved before crimes happened. The husband cheating on the wife. The guy getting disability, going for the bocce championship in Windsor. You get the idea. My sister, on the other hand, showed up after the cheating husband was run over by the cuckolded wife. Or after the guy on disability took a potshot at the insurance investigator.

  But when our cases ran together, there were a few benefits. I got to use Ellen’s resources, chief among them: computer databases, addresses, phone numbers, and unofficial police approval to bend a few rules. I’d gotten help with parking tickets as well. Free coffee and the occasional donut too.

  I parked the white Sunbird in the farthest corner of the police department’s parking lot and went inside. Ellen was in one of the briefing rooms, so I waited in her office. She’d told me recently that she missed being on patrol, that it was getting harder and harder to keep in shape considering how much time her ass was planted in the chair. The price of being in upper management, I guess.