by Alex P. Berg
Shay cut me off. “Daggers, I’m sure it’s great, but really, I don’t care.” She stood up. “And even if I did, we don’t have time for chit-chat. We need to get moving.”
“What do you mean? I just got here.”
“Yeah, and if you’d gotten here half an hour ago, you would’ve seen the runner come flying into the Captain’s office and whisper something into his ear. And then you would’ve heard the Captain yell for you and me, only for him to wonder where you were. And you would’ve heard me trying to make excuses for you. I’m not even sure why I was doing that except possibly out of some misplaced loyalty I feel for you as my partner.”
My ears had perked at ‘runner.’ “Was there another murder?”
“Yes,” said Steele.
“Somehow related to yesterday’s case?”
“I can only assume so.”
I glanced at the Captain’s office. I saw neither hide nor hair of the old jarhead. “Where is the bulldog, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” said Shay. “Probably in the can. Which is part of the reason I figured you’d be eager to leave, seeing that as soon as he gets back he’s liable to lay into you like a butcher into a carcass.”
I frowned. “Hmm. I’m not sure about that metaphor.”
“No? How about like a teamster into a pack horse?”
I lifted an eyebrow and twisted my lips. “Not perfect, but better.”
“That’s all I’ve got,” said Shay with a shrug.
“Ok, fair enough,” I said. “Let’s get moving. But we should bring some extra protection.”
“What? Why?” Shay furrowed her brows. “You think this crime scene is going to be dangerous?”
“No, I meant sunblock. Wouldn’t want you to burn those pretty little legs.”
Shay sighed. “Is this going to be your thing all day?”
“Possibly,” I said. “I haven’t decided yet. Depends how quickly the mirth dies off.”
16
My partner led the way to an apartment building on the south side of town. It was in a neighborhood called New Respiro, which I think translates to something like ‘fresh breath of air.’ It’s a bit of a misnomer. If anything, the place smelled like hobo urine and ethnic spices.
Shay only had a brief description of the place—an unspectacular four story stack of bricks that shared a wall with a friend—but I was able to deduce which building contained our stiff. It was the one with a couple of cops hanging around outside the front door.
“Hey, it’s my buddy Phillips,” I said as we walked up.
The lad perked up. “That’s right, sir. You remembered.”
Not really. It was a lucky guess, but I played it cool. “Of course I did. I’ve got a mind like a steel trap.”
“One that needs its springs oiled every now and then,” said Steele.
I frowned, but the blank looks on the bluecoats’ faces indicated they hadn’t picked up on the jab.
“Come on, Phillips,” I said. “Show us what we’re dealing with.”
He nodded and headed inside, leading us to an apartment on the fourth floor. I noticed a few faces glancing at us furtively from behind cracked doors as we mounted the stairs, but not many, and certainly no herds of distressed neighbors whispering in hallways and accosting us for information. That gave me an idea about the kind of neighborhood we were in.
It may seem counterintuitive, but folks in bad neighborhoods, even those who lived their lives as cleanly as possible, feared us. You’d think they’d be thankful when the police arrived—and they were, when their lives were being threatened—but most of the time they hid.
I couldn’t blame them. They understood how the hierarchy worked. Police departments functioned through taxes paid overwhelmingly by the rich, and the rich expected laws to work to their benefit—which for the most part they did, primarily because rich people were the ones who had stuff worth taking. And the poor saps who did the taking were the only ones who regularly got crunched underfoot of the law.
I made a mental note to soften my tone when interrogating the tenants, otherwise they might clam up and treat me to a heaping helping of useless soup.
A beat cop kept watch outside the apartment in question. I was feeling generous, so I let Phillips tag along. I figured he could probably use the seasoning—that, and he was ignorant enough of the inner machinations of our department that Shay wouldn’t have to bother with her dog and pony show in front of him.
The first thing I noticed was the decided lack of things worth noticing. The apartment looked much like I’d expected it to from the outside: on the small side, slightly disheveled, and sparsely populated with furniture on the grungy side of the cleanliness spectrum. Other than general untidiness, however, the place appeared to be undisturbed—certainly nothing like the barroom brawl that had greeted us at Terry’s place. The window, singular this time, was intact, as was the lone table and sofa chair.
Phillips was eager to be of use. “I think the body’s in the bedroom, detectives.” He led the way.
Steele and I followed. It didn’t take long. Chez Dead Guy was only a two-room abode. When I saw the body sprawled across the bed, its paddle-like feet hanging precariously off the edge of the mattress, I muttered the first thing that came to mind.
“Huh. Didn’t see that coming.”
There were a number of reasons for my reaction. The first was the manner in which he’d been murdered—a long, ornate stiletto driven into his heart. The second was his current condition—fully clothed in outerwear, instead of stark naked. And the third was who, precisely, had been murdered.
I walked over to stand by the bed’s headboard. I pulled a piece of paper from my coat pocket, smoothed it, and set it down next to the dead dude’s ugly mug.
“Look familiar?” I asked.
Shay sighed. “So much for that suspect.”
The body belonged to Creepy McGee. His shoulder-length black hair, hawk-like nose, and baggy under eye skin made for rather distinctive features. I thanked my lucky stars he hadn’t been stripped down like Terry had. Who knew what sort of foul, tangled mass of shudders and nightmares lay under the guy’s baggy clothes.
“At least Yates did a good job recollecting his face,” I said, “though he sold him short on his height. I’d wager this dude’s at least six six, maybe six eight. And look at those flippers! You know what they say about guys with big feet, don’t you Steele?”
“Daggers, I don’t—”
“That they’ll suffer from crippling arthritic foot pain when they’re older. But luckily that’s something Creepy McGee won’t have to worry about. You know, because he’s dead.”
Shay sighed as she turned to our eager young police pup. “You said your name was Phillips? Has anyone been in here since you first arrived, or changed anything on the scene?”
“No, Detective,” he said, his ears perking up. “I may only be a beat cop, but I’ve picked up enough about detective work to know not to disturb anything until you guys arrive. We saw the body and cordoned the place off.”
I stifled a smile. With that sort of eager beaver attitude, the young kid would be a detective in no time—by which I meant about six to ten years. Things moved slow in a bureaucracy.
Shay started analyzing the room—not in her hands out to the sides, fingers twinkling, I’m delving into the threads of time sort of way, but with a steady, constant gaze. I took the opportunity to investigate the murder weapon more closely.
Similar to the knife that had been used to spear Terrence, the stiletto protruding from Creepy’s chest was long and thin, but the style of weapon indicated a difference in manufacturer. This weapon’s thick hilt stuck out, and the steel gleamed more dark gray than silver. The blade didn’t feature a single inlay or embellishment, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t well-crafted. Even though they were illegal, I’d seen enough bladed weapons in my day to tell the difference between something crafted by a dope and a master. This was definitely one of the latter.
> I leaned in. Tiny ice crystals studded the base of the blade, and an airy, white vapor circled and licked it. I decided to sacrifice a finger in the name of knowledge, pressing it to the steel.
“Yeow, that’s cold!” I pulled it back and curled my hand into a fist.
Shay didn’t have any sympathy for my half-witted methods. “You think, Daggers?”
She’d probably noticed the ice on the blade from the start. She’s a smart girl, that Shay, and she has good eyes.
I let her finish her assay of the room before interrupting again. “So, are your super senses tingling?”
Shay gave me a look.
I clarified. “Did you find anything?”
“Possibly,” she said. “Step back from the bed for a second. It looks like there’s something down there.”
“What?” I asked. “Dirty skivvies?”
“No. A white piece of cloth. I can’t reach it, though. Do you have Daisy with you?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course I do.”
“Well, hand her over. I can use her to fish it out.”
Phillips looked at us like we were crazy. He wasn’t familiar with my sensitive steel head knocker of the female persuasion.
“Fine,” I said as I pulled her out. “But don’t scratch her.”
“Seriously, Daggers?” said Steele. “I’ve seen you pound on hardened lock steel with this thing. It’ll be fine.”
“That may be true, but she likes it when I’m rough.” I grudgingly handed her over.
Shay poked around underneath the bed and pulled out a crumpled white scrap.
“You don’t really think the killer dropped a monogrammed handkerchief while he was here, do you?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said Steele. “But I—”
She recoiled, tossing the cloth across the room as she fell on her rump.
I reacted without thinking, meaning I didn’t have time to prepare a witty quip. “Are you ok? What’s wrong?” I knelt beside her.
Shay looked chagrined. “I’m fine,” she said, though she took the hand I offered to help her stand back up. “That rag got dosed with something. The smell shocked my system, that’s all.”
I stepped to the rag, bent over, and used my hand to waft some air toward my face. Shay was right. The rag emitted a strong chemical smell.
“Yup,” I said. “Ether, probably. Bet our killer used it to knock Creepy out. I guess that’s why there’s no mess in the apartment this time. I wonder why we didn’t smell it when we walked in.”
“The fumes stick close to the floor,” Shay said, as she dusted her hands off on her shorts. “They’re heavier than air.”
Phillips had progressed from a look of confusion to one of confusion and admiration. “Wow, you guys can tell that stuff just from looking at a rag?”
My estimation of the kid was dropping. Maybe he wouldn’t make detective rank after all. “Well, there was a sense of smell involved, too. It’s not magic. You pick up things as you go along—like what knockout juice smells like. And a cursory understanding of chemistry helps, as I’ve learned from being around this one.” I shot a finger toward Shay. She looked flattered, either due to my acknowledgement that she was useful to have around or my admission that I’d actually learned something from her.
I walked back to my partner, retrieved Daisy, and tucked her inside my coat. I took another look at the dead guy, then rubbed my chin.
“You want to let me in on whatever’s going on up there?” said Steele, tapping her head.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. It’s just that this is all rather…interesting.”
“I’m assuming you mean something other than the icy dagger, because you’ll recall we found one of those yesterday, too.”
I served Steele my best furrowed brow-and-frown combo platter. “What’s interesting are the similarities and differences between this murder and yesterday’s. The positioning of the body on the mattress, the type of murder weapon, and the placement of the weapon in the body are all virtually identical. That screams of a serial killer to me. But Terrence was naked, and Creepy isn’t. If we were dealing with a serial killer, you could bet the bodies would’ve been staged exactly the same way, which would mean stripping Creepy here after death.”
I swept a finger around the room. “The other interesting thing is that Terry’s place was trashed, and this place isn’t. Now I know what you’re thinking. The killer used ether to knock Creepy out, and that’s why he didn’t put up a fight. But you can’t just jam an ether-soaked rag under someone’s nose and expect them to crumple to the floor like a sack of potatoes—that’s a common misconception popularized by hack authors of cheap crime novels.”
“Like that guy who wrote your Rex Winters series?” asked Shay.
I gasped. “You take that back right now, young lady!”
Steele crossed her arms. “I know how ether works, Daggers. What’s your point?”
“My point is the killer knew this guy.” I jabbed a finger at Tall and Skinny. “He needed to be in a position to administer the rag when Creepy wasn’t paying attention and hold it in place for a good ten or fifteen seconds. And if the murderer knew Creepy, he probably knew Terry, too—which should make tracking him down even easier. All we need is to find where our two stiff’s lives’ intersected, and the killer shouldn’t be far away.”
“Phillips,” I said, turning to the young bluecoat. “I need you to take care of all this. Get the body to the morgue, and make sure someone keeps an eye on that dagger. If it warms up, I want to know. Before we do that though, I need to talk to whoever alerted you to Creepy’s breathing problems. Can you handle that?”
Phillips stood at attention and nodded. “Yes, sir. Follow me.”
I smiled. Phillips was a good guy, but another decade in the force would change that. Then he’d be a cynical jerk like me and finally be promoted to detective.
17
Seeing as Creepy’s murder appeared to have been on the silent side of things, I deduced someone must’ve stopped by his place, found his body, and alerted the fuzz. I just didn’t expect that someone to be a kid.
We sat on a porch staircase about a block east of the crime scene, the kid, Sid, hanging out next to me. I’d abandoned my hard-ass routine as soon as Phillips introduced us to the witness, which shocked my partner.
It shouldn’t have. Interrogating witnesses is an art unto itself, and squeezing information from kids is a delicate business, especially kids who’ve witnessed something as traumatizing as a violent death. You have to tread carefully and make sure they never perceive the situation as their fault. Otherwise, they have a habit of clamming up, and once that happens, good luck getting any further information out of them.
Sid took a swipe at his choppy black locks, which reminded me of those I’d seen on Creepy’s head. He was eight, maybe ten years old, and he didn’t seem as traumatized as some. Of course, he hadn’t witnessed the murder itself, only the aftermath. That helped a little.
Phillips, the smooth talker that he was, had extracted a few choice pieces from the kid before we arrived. Apparently, the dead guy’s name was Octavio Clapper, and Sid was his nephew.
“Thanks for talking with us, Sid,” I said, trying to infuse my voice with some empathy. “My name’s Jake. I’m a detective with the police department. This is my partner, Miss Shay. Do you mind if we ask you some questions about this morning?”
There was a bit of a shake to Sid’s voice—a quiet uneasiness—but he was willing to talk. “Um, yeah. Sure, I guess.”
Another thing I’d learned about interrogating kids was to avoid direct questions. It was usually more effective to let them tell the story the way they perceived it and to pare down their stories to something more specific later.
“Could you tell us what happened today?” I asked. “Start wherever you think would be a good place. I’ll stop you if I need any clarification.”
“Um, ok.” Sid shifted a little on the staircase. “Well, I was goin
g up to my uncle’s place this morning. I’d gone up to see him last night. We’d hang out sometimes, just me and him. My parents didn’t really approve of me being around him, even though he’s family. They thought he was kind of weird, and he was sometimes. He’d have these moods where he’d get really depressed or quiet all of a sudden. I don’t know why, but I liked him anyway. He told me cool stories, like about dragons and battles and stuff like that. All made up, but he was really good at it. I could talk to him, like about anything, you know? Like if my mom or dad were yelling at me about something, he’d listen.
“Anyway, I went over to his place last night, since I didn’t have anything to do. He let me in, but he was acting strange. Like he was sort of nervous about something. Told me to leave after a bit. I didn’t really think anything of it. I figured it was just one of those nights when he was having one of his moods. So I left. But on my way down the stairs, I passed this guy coming up. He had on a dark cloak, and, um…”
Sid paused. I tried to be encouraging. “It’s ok. You can tell us.”
“Well, it’s just that, there was something about him that felt…wrong. Like I didn’t feel safe around him. So as soon as I passed him on the stairs, I ran home as fast as I could. I didn’t tell my mom or dad because I figured they’d tell me not to spend so much time at Uncle Octavio’s place, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I guess…I was a little scared. I didn’t sleep very well. And then this morning I thought, what if that guy was going to my uncle’s place? I know there wasn’t any reason for me to think that’s where he was heading, but I had a bad feeling, you know? So I ran over there as soon as my parents would let me, and that’s…when I found him.”
