Back on Murder rm-1

by J. Mark Bertrand

  “I’ll have the details once the autopsy’s done,” Bridger says, “but my preliminary conclusion, big surprise, is that he died from a gunshot wound to the head.”

  “Self-inflicted?”

  A cautious nod. “Seems consistent. Clearly a contact wound. Your forensics people can connect the dots once they check the bullet recovered in the door pillar against the ballistics of his side arm. What I see here is consistent with the time the security guard claims to have heard the shot, but if that changes, I’ll let you know.”

  “We’ll need a really thorough tox screen. Alcohol, drugs. Cocaine has been mentioned as a possibility, so I’d like to check for that.”

  He gives me a perfunctory nod, not needing to be told how to do the job. I tell him anyway, just to be thorough. Then, after getting him to commit to a quick autopsy, I let him get on with it, turning my attention to the impatient detectives.

  “Nobody saw anything,” Ordway says with a shrug.

  Lorenz adjusts the sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. “They didn’t hear nothing, either. No gunshot, no nothing. So no help fixing the time.”

  I glance through the tree line at the gray fences and low black roofs. Given the distance and the early morning storm, it’s not surprising we don’t have any witnesses from the neighborhood. Still, it was worth a shot.

  “Here’s what I’m wondering,” Ordway says, picking up on the conversation I’d interrupted with my arrival. “Why’d he choose this exact spot to punch out? Say you were gearing up for your final sayonara — is this where you’d do it?”

  Aguilar rubs his nose. “I’d do it in the bathtub.”

  “The bathtub?” Lorenz says, looking over his sunglasses. “Seriously? Then don’t expect us to respond to that scene — ”

  “What?”

  “- unless you promise to keep your clothes on.”

  Ordway chuckles. “Me? I’ve actually given this some thought, boys. At my age, you do. When my time comes, I’m taking the elevator to the top of the Transco Tower — ”

  “It’s not called that anymore,” Lorenz says.

  “The Transco Tower,” Ordway insists. “And when I get there, I’m gonna leap off into the air and see if I can land right in the middle of the Water Wall, right there on the steps where they take all the wedding pictures. Splat.” He smacks his hands together and gives us a demented grin. “People would be talking about that forever.”

  Aguilar scrunches his nose up in thought. “From the Tower to the Water Wall? I don’t think you could make it that far, not as fat as you are.”

  “But if I did,” Ordway says, “people would talk about it.”

  I put a hand on his shoulder. “As interesting as this is, guys, there’s only one death we need to worry about here — ”

  “No, but think of it,” Ordway says. “Why did he do it here? There’s gotta be a reason. It could be anything, I guess. Maybe he grew up in one of those houses over there, or maybe he was on his way somewhere important and decided to pull over and get it done with.”

  Lorenz gives a dismissive snort. “Or it has nothing to do with the place. He’s drinking, he’s depressed, whatever, and so he’s just driving around aimlessly. What matters isn’t where he’s going on the road; it’s where he’s going in his head. And when he gets there” — he points a finger at his temple, cocks his thumb back — “pop. End of story.”

  I leave them to theorize in peace.

  The captain has long since departed the scene, so I offer Bascombe, who’s conferring with the crime-scene technicians, a ride back downtown. He declines, saying he’ll tag along with one of the guys and leave me to it. I’m relieved. I need some time alone to think through my plan of attack. Since they were close colleagues, I’ll have to talk with both Keller and Salazar, but before I do that, I want some kind of leverage. Otherwise they’re going to give me the same story they previewed for the captain.

  There are only two places I think of to get what I need. Bridger’s autopsy findings, which at the most optimistic estimate won’t be available until late in the day, and Thomson’s art studio. If he had anything worth hiding, maybe that’s where he’d have left it. The keys rattle in my pocket, begging to be used.

  And then Brad Templeton calls. I’d forgotten all about my commitment to him, and my first impulse is to dodge. But the man’s a bloodhound in his own right, and it’s just possible I can put him to work. Like I said, I don’t think everything should be left to the police. Sometimes a private citizen needs to step up.

  “What do you know about an hpd officer named Reginald Keller? He runs some kind of Homeland Security-related squad downtown.”

  “Never heard of him,” Templeton says. “Should I have?”

  “I want you to do me a favor, Brad. Take a look at this guy and see what you find. My contact in Internal Affairs leads me to believe he’s the subject of ongoing investigations, which means there’s a story there for you.”

  “Not the one I’m after, though.”

  “Think of it as something extra. My captain’s put me back to work, so there’s nothing I can do for you at the moment on the other thing — ”

  “You’re off the task force?”

  “I’m keeping a hand in,” I say, not wanting him to wriggle off the hook. “Do this for me and you’ll not only get the IAD story but I’ll give you what you need on Hannah Mayhew, too. It’s a twofer. You can’t beat that.”

  The wheels are turning on Templeton’s end of the line and I know better than to keep talking. After some audible groans and sighs, he finally relents. I repeat Keller’s name and give him Salazar, too, along with everything I know about Comprehensive Risk Assessment. By the time he’s finished writing, there’s an energetic note in his voice.

  “You’re gonna follow up on this, right?” I ask.

  I hear his pen rat-tat-tatting against the receiver. “You take care of me, man, and I’ll take care of you.”

  “Deal.”

  On the way over, I try Cavallo’s phone, hoping to make my apologies for ditching the task force. Not that I’d had a choice, not really, but I didn’t want her thinking I was ungrateful, especially for the good advice last night.

  It’s not Cavallo I’m abandoning, though. It’s Hannah.

  Detectives are reassigned all the time. I took a shot at the Mayhew case and struck out. I did what I could for the girl, and now it’s up to Cavallo. That’s the logic, anyway. Only this isn’t about logic. I’m turning my back on the girl. Moving on. Like it never mattered in the first place. Like it was just another job. The phone rings, Cavallo doesn’t answer, and in my mind the luminescent face of Hannah Mayhew starts to dim.

  I leave a message and hang up.

  The address is on Morgan Street, a couple of blocks north of Westheimer between Montrose and Bagby, a tight-packed warren of blocks where newly built modernist houses and condos sit cheek by jowl with run-down duplexes and wood-paneled apartment blocks. The sidewalks disappear and reappear, some patches of road pristine and others as fissured as a polar ice cap of concrete. Hipsters and homeless mingle on the block, shiny Volvos and Mini Coopers parallel parking alongside aging rust buckets.

  The place I’m looking for is a two-story redbrick affair with tattered awnings over the ground-floor windows. Seventy-five years ago it could have been a factory or a warehouse, but now it has that long-abandoned look, with grass growing up through the sidewalks and the wood-trimmed window splintered with rot. The signs of occupation are slight, the sort of markers left by squatters rather than developers. The original front door, approached by a short flight of cracked steps, has been replaced by a glass commercial entrance with hand-painted lettering announcing the morga n st. café amp; art collective. Near the handle, a series of adhesive credit cards assure the cash-strapped of a ready welcome, and a taped-in sign indicates free Wi-Fi.

  Inside, the impression is better. Glossy concrete floors, zinc-topped café tables and aluminum chairs giving off a dull sheen under the trac
k lights. The corners house overstuffed leather chairs, most of them occupied, and a series of rickety bookshelves bursting with fat paperbacks. As I make my way to the counter, a tooled mahogany buttress reclaimed from some old building — possibly this one — repurposed without being restored, no doubt intentionally, several students glance up from their laptops, making me as the Man.

  A large square table, another refugee from bygone days, hosts a half-dozen middle-aged ladies crowned in various stages of blond, each of them clutching a copy of the same book. They pause in mid-discussion, turning to watch me pass. Judging by the volume of ink on skin, the multiple piercings, they’re doing their best to keep up with their daughters.

  Over the counter, the menu’s inscribed in chalk on four large blackboards suspended from the rafters. I missed my morning coffee, so the first order of business is testing the house blend. The girl on duty is short and lithe, upholstered in nubby fabric from the developing world, dreadlocks tied back, a stack of tribal bangles protecting her wrists. But her glasses say ARMANI on the side.

  The coffee is better than good. After two gulps I’m seeing the world with new eyes. My elbow on the counter, I scan the room, realizing I’m one of only three men present. Everyone else is female and white, affecting an affluent version of grunge. The girl behind the counter hovers a few feet off, seeming uncertain how to deal with my lingering presence.

  “You have some studios here, is that right?”

  She raises a pierced eyebrow, like she wasn’t expecting someone in a jacket and tie to know about the studio space, or even art in general.

  “Umm,” she says. “Yeah.” Her ringed thumb indicates a set of double doors to the right of the counter. They’re painted the same matte black as the walls, so they blend in nicely apart from the crack of light running between them. “There aren’t any shows or anything today, though. And the studios are actually private.”

  “Nothing is actually private.” I slide a card across the counter, then finish the last of the coffee.

  She holds the card close, staring at the words through her designer glasses. It’s a while before she processes the significance.

  “You’re a cop?”

  “I’m a homicide detective.” I dangle the keys to Thomson’s studio, a long silver door key and a shorter brass one that looks like it might fit a padlock. “I need to take a look inside.”

  “My manager’s not here,” she says.

  “That’s okay. As you can see, I have the keys.”

  “Well, but. . I mean, don’t you need a search warrant?”

  I lean across the counter, making eye contact. “Not actually.”

  The double doors swing open at the first push. As I pass through, I half expect her to rush after me, but mine are the only footsteps along the tiled floor. The featureless hallway turns right, then dead-ends at a locked door. This is where the building renovation seems to have ended. Through the glass panel over the lock I see a long corridor of raw sheetrock lit by a string of exposed bulbs, the walls pierced by a series of garage-style openings sealed off by the same segmented metal pull-downs that secure self-storage units, each with a shiny padlock at its base.

  The silver key opens the door. The pull-downs are numbered sequentially, but only some of them are labeled. Near the end of the corridor, one of the doors is slightly raised and I can hear music playing on the other side. Sarah McLachlan. That one I steer clear of. I check the names on the other doors for Thomson’s, but he isn’t listed, which means I have to go one by one, testing the brass key in every padlock.

  I’m a quarter of the way down when the music stops and the raised door rattlesnakes toward the ceiling. A small black-haired woman peers out, wiping her hands on a pair of paint-mottled jeans.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “Sure.” I cast a hopeless glance along the corridor. “You wouldn’t happen to know which one of these belongs to Joe Thomson?”

  She leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms skeptically.

  “Joe’s not here. Nobody is but me.”

  “I know he’s not here,” I say, walking toward her. “I’m not looking for him, just his studio.”

  Her eyes dart to my hand, where the keys glisten. She’s in her twenties, attractive in a candid, wide-eyed way, her hair wrapped in some kind of scarf, maybe to keep it clear of the paint. The baggy plaid shirt and loose-fitting jeans give her a squared-off look, hiding any figure she might have. Her feet, mostly concealed under a puddle of denim, appear to be bare.

  “Are you a friend of his?” she asks.

  I hand her one of my cards, giving her a moment to look it over. “Could you point me to the right door, please, ma’am?”

  “I don’t understand,” she says, still looking at the card.

  “A little help here is all I’m asking for.”

  “I mean, what do the police want with Joe? Has he done something? He’s such a nice guy, always helpful. He’s, like, my art buddy. I can’t believe he’d do anything. .”

  Her reaction doesn’t seem right. There’s nothing strange about one cop showing up on another’s doorstep, no reason to assume there’s any guilt involved. Unless.

  “Ma’am,” I say. “You realize Joe’s a cop, right?”

  She blinks. “What do you —? No, I didn’t realize. How could he. . I mean, we shared a. . No, never mind what we shared. He’s a cop? Joe? You’re not making this up?”

  “He was.”

  “Was? He’s not anymore?”

  “No,” I say. “He’s not anymore. Now, can you tell me which door is his?”

  She holds the card in both hands, thumbs squeezing it into a parabola. Without speaking, she nods toward the lockup directly across from hers. I stoop to the ground, fitting the lock inside, twisting until the hook unclasps. The lock fits tightly. Once I work it free, the door springs up a couple of feet, then sinks several inches. I give the handle a good yank, lifting the metal skin clear.

  “The switch is on the wall,” she says.

  I flick the lights on. Thomson’s studio is narrow, not more than twelve feet across, but it’s almost twice that length. One wall is covered in shallow gunmetal shelving units that hold, in addition to a few cardboard boxes, an inventory of crude busts executed in plaster, clay, and in a few cases stone. Vaguely human heads on rustic pedestals, mostly looking — intentionally or not — like victims of blunt force trauma, with swollen lips and cratered eye sockets and half-formed ears. I stand there looking at them, uncertain what I’m seeing.

  “Joe’s heads.”

  I turn. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Roland March.”

  “My name’s Jill,” she says. “Jill Fanning?” Turning the name up at the end like it’s a question. Either she isn’t sure who she is, or she thinks maybe I will have heard of her.

  “These heads, that’s what he made?”

  There must be thirty of them at least, lined up with methodical precision like cans on the grocery store shelf. On its own, I doubt any of them would be that remarkable, but it’s another story taken together. A kind of primitive power resides in their collective stare. This was therapeutic? Somehow I doubt it. Not so much the work of a man chasing away his demons as courting them, but then I’m no critic of art.

  Turning from the sculpted glare, I take in the rest of the studio. The opposite wall houses a series of tables — folding metal jobs with dust-covered tops, a couple of tall, narrow wood platforms straight from the planting shed, some boards propped between sawhorses. Chisels and hammers of various sizes litter the surfaces, along with awls, files, and a rust-red saw.

  A couple of scrap-metal sentinels stand in back, figures composed haphazardly of random parts. The welding gear sits in the corner. As I approach to inspect it, Jill Fanning gives one of the iron figures a tap with her knuckle, sending a vibration through its limbs.

  “He’s been experimenting with this stuff recently. It’s nice to see him branching out.”

  On one of the
tables I find a black sketchbook underneath a smooth kidney-shaped rock. The pages are filled with portraits — creaky, literal-minded, two-dimensional sketches that hover somewhere in the gray zone between folk art and simple inability. The pictures are all of the same woman, round-faced with flowing black hair, full lips and closed eyes. If the misshapen heads elicit revulsion, these earnest attempts at photo-realism induce pity. I turn the book so Ms. Fanning can have a look.

  “I’ve never seen these before,” she says, taking the sketchbook in hand, flipping the pages slowly. She bites her lip.

  “I think they’re meant to be you.”

  She laughs. “I doubt that.” Then, frowning. “They don’t look like me, do they?”

  I answer with a noncommittal shrug. But yes, they do. Stephanie Thomson’s suspicions come to mind, the fear that her husband had gotten involved with one of his fellow artists. Maybe there was more truth to this than she realized.

  “How often would you say Joe was down here?” I ask, glancing into a couple of boxes on a nearby shelf, which contain mostly clay-covered books and abandoned tools.

  She’s still transfixed by the sketches. “I don’t know. Maybe once or twice a week. I’ve been here constantly — I’ve got a show coming up — and I’ll typically see him early in the morning, sometimes late at night. He’s unpredictable, I guess you could say. The way it seems to work for him is, he gets this inspiration and rushes over here to do something about it.”

  “Always the same inspiration, it looks like.” I pick up one of the heads. It’s surprisingly light. Plaster dust transfers to my hands.

  “He’s one of those people who can’t get it to come out right. So he keeps doing it, different variations, like he’s obsessed, you know? There’s a shape in his mind, a certain face, and he keeps trying to capture it again and again.”