by Faricy, Mike
“Waiting on the analysis reports to come back. Not sure if you got budget cuts happening up there, but we’re dealing with that problem in every department, not to mention one or two more serious issues, you catch my drift.”
“I do, unfortunately, any guess when you might see a report, we talking another week, two?”
“No more like four to six months.”
“Four to sixth months,” I half shouted.
“No one’s called in to say they’re missing a finger. We can do some cross referencing, but it would only be for the greater Denver area. We aren’t hooked into other departments around the state, let alone the rest of the country.”
“Anyone call the Feds?”
“The FBI? On a finger? That’s what we need, a bunch of suits coming in here and screwing up the three thousand plus ongoing investigations so we can see who taped a finger to the door of a bus. Not sure how you guys work up there, but we like to stay as far away as possible from those folks.”
“Any guesses?”
“You mean who taped the damn thing to the door?”
“Yeah?”
“Some jackass, just like the jackass attacked that little girl up there last night. My guess, check him out, he certainly sounded stupid enough.”
“Thanks, we’re doing that,” I said.
“Look, I get a chance I’ll make a call, see if they got any thing, but with the budget cuts and all…”
“Anything you can do would be appreciated.”
Things didn’t seem to go a whole lot better in Chicago. I spoke to a Sergeant Anthony Howe, he had a decided south side Chicago accent.
“St. Paul, hunh, something about that sitting on my desk when I came in this morning. You guys nail that flake been sending fingers to them English broads?”
“We’re working on it, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“You ask me, it’s that piece of shit attacked one of those girls up there last night. Let me question the son-of-a-bitch for about five minutes, I’ll get you answers, the answers ya want. Still got the bastard locked up? Or did he get all lawyered up and he’s out on the street? Probably casing some grade school as we speak. I tell you the court system in…”
“Sergeant Howe, did you process that finger, the one that was sent to the Hastings Hustlers?”
“Yeah, in a manner of speaking.”
“Manner of speaking?”
“I don’t know how things are up there maybe you don’t have a lot of scum bags like we do. With all the bad apples we got down here, some guy mails a finger, folks down here probably just worried he got the right postage on the envelope. You know? What the hell, you guys dealing with an occasional assault with an icicle or something, right?” he laughed at his own joke.
“You said you had the finger processed?”
“The one that got mailed?”
“Yeah, with the correct postage.”
“Hunh? Yeah we sent it in, ain’t come back yet. Like I said, matter of priorities. With the budget cuts and all…”
When I could get a word in edgewise I thanked him for his time. I got the same sort of response in Kansas City, it wasn’t a priority and with budget cuts…
The guy in St. Louis spoke with a lisp, a Detective Sexton. He had the same story as the others, no results, he’d call me when the reports came back, but don’t wait by the phone.
“Look, I’ll give you a call when they come in, but you’re probably looking at months not weeks, budget cuts and all that shit.”
“Yeah, that’s what everyone seems to be fighting.”
“God, it’s getting worse than dealing with the bad guys. So you work with some guy named Manning up there?”
“Yeah,” I said, immediately getting cautious, sensing I was being pushed out onto thin ice.
“That guy as big a jerk as he sounds like on the phone?”
“No, bigger.”
“Figures, some things never change. Look, got a few hundred irons in the fire just a little hotter than this. I run into anything I’ll let you know, okay.”
“Appreciate your time.”
An afternoon wasted.
Chapter Fifteen
I was sitting in The Spot when my phone rang. I had stopped in to check for messages and nurse a Leinenkugel before I went home.
“Haskell Investigations.”
I had to step out the side door to hear as I answered my cell, the juke box was blaring Bob Seger singing about Old Time Rock and Roll.
“Detective Dev Haskell?” the voice asked, not sounding too sure.
“That’s me,” trying not to sound too cautious.
“King Quinn, Denver. We spoke earlier. This your office phone?”
“No, my cell, I’m out at a crime scene right now.”
“Crime scene,” he said, not sounding too convinced.
“Did you find anything for me?”
“No, meaning yes. Nothing turned up in a DNA match, either someone’s not in the CODIS data base or, well that’s just it, they’re not in the data base.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning whoever is missing that finger, they most likely aren’t or weren’t a sex offender or convicted of a violent felony in the past umpteen years.”
“Back to square one.”
“Yeah, I can tell you this much, finger was from a Caucasian male. Aged between twenty-five and forty, and one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“It was frozen, the finger.”
“Frozen?”
“Yeah, not when we recovered it, but it had been frozen.”
“What sense does that make? Why?”
“Maybe this guy has a stash of them, on ice. When he needs one he grabs it out of the freezer and mails it off.”
“Or tapes it to the door of a bus,” I added.
“That too,” he said.
“Of course, that still suggests someone who has access to them, the fingers.”
“Maybe a hospital worker, morgue, undertaker, someone along those lines.”
“Yeah, maybe. Detective, thanks for the effort and the call back. You come across anything else please let me know.”
“Sure thing, Detective.” He said the last word like he wasn’t quite sure but played the party line just in case. “Give my best to all those English girls.”
“I will.”
“And Detective Manning.”
“I will.”
“Just kidding, don’t,” he said and hung up.
Actually, the smart thing to do would be to call Manning in homicide, give him the information I’d just received and let him follow it up. Instead, I called the guy in St. Louis with a lisp, Sexton. He didn’t speak too kindly about Manning and I hoped to maybe use that to my advantage. I left a message.
Next I phoned Jimmy McNaughton, just to touch base. I treaded carefully, he may be in touch with Manning, though I doubted it.
“What can I do for you?” Jimmy asked, he sounded preoccupied.
“Just keeping you up to date. So far none of those fingers match up to anyone in our data bases here.”
“Your contact with the police tell you this?”
“Manning? No, actually he’s got a lot on his plate right now. I went ahead and contacted the other departments, Denver, St. Louis, Chicago and Kansas City. Wanted to see what I could learn from them.”
“And what’d you learn?”
“Just what I said, they can’t get a match to anyone here. I thought if we could find where the fingers came from it would help in finding out who sent them.” I purposely didn’t tell Jimmy about the finger in Denver having been frozen.
“Felicity was released this noon from your Regions Hospital,” Jimmy said.
“Oh, I hope she’s okay.”
“Probably best for both of us not to comment at this stage. I did get a visit from three of the girls.”
“A visit?”
“Seems they wanted to withdraw their statements.”
“The stateme
nts about what happened between Emma and me, that bullshit about groping and attacking her. Fantastic, they came to their senses and said nothing like that happened, that it?”
“Not exactly, they said they were too far away and maybe just joined up in the heat of the moment. Thought better of it and as much as they’d like to see you brought to justice, upon further reflection they didn’t see enough to sign a statement.”
“It’s a start, I’ll take it. Listen Jimmy, I’m going to check back with the other departments I spoke with today. I hear anything else, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”
I went back inside, finished my beer and went home.
Chapter Sixteen
I was on my laptop, supposedly doing a search on frozen fingers and anything that might point to a copycat situation. In actuality I was drinking beer and watching a porn video titled No Boys Allowed, hoping to learn something about women’s sports teams. Thus far I’d learned a lot, none of which could be applied to women sport teams in general or the Hastings Hustlers specifically. The cell phone broke my concentration.
“Haskell Investigations.”
“Hello Dev, Justine.”
I deleted the sound to hide the nonstop moaning and tore myself away from the computer screen.
“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”
“Justine, hi, hello, thanks for calling. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, a lot better than yesterday. I just got off the line with our manager, she got a call from the Hustlers, and Emma Babe, her name’s actually Felicity Bard, anyway, she’s been released from the hospital.”
This wasn’t news to me.
“Well good, I hope she’s doing well,” I said, trying to sound sincere all the while visualizing me tripping the little bitch and pushing her down the front steps of the Saint Paul Cathedral.
“Oh yeah, I guess she’ll be fine. But, the reason I called is some of the girls over there have changed their story.”
“Changed their story?”
“Yeah, you know swearing to things they said they saw you do.”
“Things they saw me do, like assault Emma Babe and grab her by her boobs, that sort of thing?”
“Well yeah.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Any help I can get in not becoming public enemy number one is always appreciated.”
“I guess fourteen of the girls have said they really didn’t see anything.”
“Fourteen, that’s great. Didn’t see anything? You mean they weren’t watching or that it didn’t happen the way your pal Emma said it did?”
“They said they were too far away, but at least they’ve withdrawn their statements, that’s the important thing. And, she’s not my pal.”
“There were seventeen signed statements, so just Emma and two others still have statements out there. Right?”
“Yeah, I’m guessing she’ll stick to what she said, but it has to be encouraging.”
“It’s very encouraging, now if we could just get things back on track and find out who is stalking Harlotte Davidson.”
There was a long pause.
“Look, Dev, sorry if maybe I sort of jumped to a little conclusion, you know about you grabbing Emma and all.”
Sexual assault, stalking, predatory behavior, battery, a little conclusion, I thought.
“I understand, Justine. I think under the circumstances I may have done the same. The good news is its working out and people are coming to their senses.”
Another long pause.
“Well, I just wanted to be the one to let you know. Hopefully we can dodge the legal bullet.”
“That would be nice.”
I thought about asking her over for a half dozen beers, maybe try out my shower in the morning, but decided it might not be the best move right now. Besides I’d already downloaded No Boys Allowed.
Chapter Seventeen
I heard back from the cops in St. Louis and Kansas City the following afternoon. I told them about the frozen finger and no DNA match out of Denver. Neither one seemed particularly interested. Amazing they had bigger fish to fry than worrying about what some idiot did to a traveling team who had already come and gone.
I searched online for anything remotely looking like a copycat incident and found absolutely nothing. Justine phoned me late in the afternoon.
I was staring out my office window watching women get off the bus across the street. Thirty—something girls, city or state workers I guessed, finished at four and able to bus to and from work. Perhaps wisely, not a one of them ventured into The Spot. My cell phone pulled me back to reality.
“Haskell Investigations.”
“Hi Dev, Justine.”
“Justine, what’s up?”
“Just got a call from our manager, the last two girls have withdrawn their statements, so it’s just Emma holding out.”
“She’ll stick to her story, but she’s standing all alone if it ever goes to court. My guess is it’s not going anywhere at this stage. If they went to all the trouble of withdrawing their statements, they aren’t going to switch back again in a courtroom. I’m guessing they won’t charge me.”
“That’s a relief,” she said, then waited.
“What’s next?”
“They’re still trying to put together some semblance of a schedule. We might be having a bout in the next few nights just to help them out. I don’t know, seems like everything just sort of up and fizzled.”
“Well, no offense, but I think I’ll watch the next bout from the stands. Keep me posted when it’s happening.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that, well look, I better run.” She waited a moment, giving me time to say something. “See ya,” she said finally and hung up.
I wasn’t ready to ask Justine over and I wasn’t sure I ever would be. I looked absently out the window and debated about getting an early start over at The Spot when my cell phone rang. No doubt Justine calling with some sort of sweet offer.
“Haskell Investigations,” I said, sounding busy, too busy.
“Hey, have you even started looking through those applications I sent you?”
“Andy?”
“Yes Andy, who else gave you a stack of job applications to verify? Don’t tell me you’re screwing up two companies owned by some poor guy with the same name as me.”
“Actually I’ve got them finished, I can get them over to you tonight, if you like.”
“I like. We can’t get anything done over here until we have them. The phone has been ringing off the hook with well intentioned, desperate folks calling to see if they’re getting a second interview.”
“I’ll have them to you in an hour.”
“That would be nice. Any surprises?”
“Actually, no, nothing out of the ordinary. Couple of dates maybe extended but I’d put them down as honest mistakes. No one listed themselves as CEO when in fact they were the receptionist, if that’s what you mean.”
“See you in an hour,” Andy said and hung up.
Chapter Eighteen
It didn’t sound like much fun. Andy was the third generation to run what was still a family business. C. Lindbergh Memorials had been founded by Andy’s grandfather, Carlyle, a stone mason. Carlyle Lindbergh, had the good fortune to start his business in 1926. One year before Charles Lindbergh, ‘Lucky Lindy’ (no relation) set off on his epic flight across the Atlantic. In 1928 Carlyle cleverly added the logo of a plane rising up into the clouds.
C. Lindbergh Memorials started out carving tombstones. Andy’s father expanded the line to include wooden coffins. Andy took the operation big time, handling everything from toe tags and body bags to embalming supplies and mortuary makeup.
I was standing at the receptionist counter when Andy saw me from his office.
“Send that idiot in here,” he yelled.
“He’ll see you now, sir,” the receptionist said. She was a middle aged woman with large front teeth and broad hips that
seemed out of proportion to the rest of her body. It was just after five and she stuffed two Tupperware containers into a gigantic purse, then shut down her computer and waved goodbye.
“Any surprises?” Andy said, watching me pull three stacks of applications from a briefcase and place them on his desk.
“No, like I said on the phone, very straightforward. I’ve noted any discrepancy with a Post-It-Note but it was all very minor sort of stuff.”
“Sounds like it was pretty easy on your end.”
“I still had to make the calls. Still had to call back when someone was busy. You’ve got over three hundred applications, three hundred and seven to be exact.”
“Sign of the times, God I’d like to hire dozens, they all interviewed well, but it’ll only be one or two,” he said shaking his head, then looked at his watch. “It’s after five, want a bump?”
“Maybe just one.”
Andy’s expansive office was what I guessed any CEO’s would be like, well, if you discounted the huge painting of tombstones over the couch against the far wall and the oak panels sporting various coffin handles arrayed along the window sill. I always thought it would be funny if Andy’s phone played Taps or Amazing Grace, but kept that suggestion to myself. His desk was covered with files, reports and pictures of his family. I settled into the comfortable leather chair opposite his desk and waited.
He reached around to a wood box sitting on the credenza. The thing was polished burled wood, inlaid with mother of pearl and fancy veneer designs, a gorgeous little bit of craftsmanship. There was a brass plaque on the top of the box with Andy’s name exquisitely engraved. He opened the hinged top and pulled out a bottle of Jameson, then two cut crystal glasses.
“Gee, and to think I knew you when you used to drink beer right out of the tap.”
“Nice, isn’t it? It’s one of our better sellers, gorgeous little thing.”
“You’re selling liquor cabinets now?”
“No, you kidding? It’s an urn.”
“An urn?”
“For ashes, you know, after a cremation. Holds a fifth and a couple of glasses rather nicely, don’t you think?”
“That’s your name on the thing?”
