Slices of Night - a novella in 3 parts

by Alex Kava; Erica Spindler J. T. Ellison

  “What kind of problem?”

  “The kind that comes with the chief of police attached.”

  “I thought you went home.”

  “I was heading that way, but saw a cordon by Legislative Plaza where the protesters have been camped. Looked like something we might be called in on. I was right.”

  Taylor took a seat, opened her notebook. “What’s going on?”

  “They found one of the Occupy Nashville folks dead, right at the steps to the War Memorial Auditorium. Stab wound to the chest. Nice and neat, too.”

  Taylor groaned.

  “It gets better.”

  “What?”

  “The victim? It’s Go-Go Dunham.”

  “Oh, son of a bitch.”

  “Yep. You wanna head on down here?”

  “I’ll be there in ten. Who all’s there?”

  “A shit load of protesters right now. Someone got in touch with her Dad, so he’s on his way. I called you first. I know you’re gonna want to tell the chief.”

  “Oh, Marcus, you’re just too kind.”

  “You know it,” he said, and clicked off.

  Normally Taylor’s captain, Joan Huston, would be handling the chief, but she was out on paid leave – her first grandchild had just been born, and she’d taken some time to go be with her daughter.

  Taylor hung up the phone and grabbed her leather jacket from the peg behind her door. She shrugged into the well-worn coat, retied her hair in a ponytail, grabbed her radio and set off. She took the stairs to the chief’s office two at a time.

  Virginia “Go-Go” Dunham was the twenty-two year old daughter of Joe Dunham, the founder of one of the biggest healthcare companies in Nashville. His latest headline-grabbing venture was building environmentally friendly dialysis centers, ones designed to be both pleasing to the patients and capture major tax breaks from the government. The trend had caught on — his designs had been patented and utilized to build similar centers across the country. Dunham was a pillar of the community, a regular at all the major charitable events, a contributor to the mayor’s election fund, and an all-around connected guy. His one and only daughter, Virginia, known as Go-Go, had felt living up to her dad’s squeaky-clean image too much trouble, and as a difficult youngster quickly mired herself in the social drug scene. She’d earned her moniker at fourteen, when she’d been busted dancing at Déjà Vu. This was before the new ordinance forbade touching the dancers, and nubile, blond, busty Go-Go had taken full advantage of the situation. She was pulling down three grand a night, and putting the vast majority of that right back up her nose.

  Several stints in rehab and a few busts later, she was supposed to have cleaned up her act. No longer a regular fixture on the nightclub scene, she’d gone back to school, earned a degree and taken a job working for her dad.

  If she was still straight, how in the world had she managed to get herself dead?

  Lights were on in the chief’s office. This wasn’t going to go over well. He was a close, personal friend of the victim’s father. As close and personal as anyone could be when they’re involved in political endeavors together. Dunham and the mayor were fishing buddies; she knew the chief tagged along on occasion.

  The offices were empty and quiet, the admin gone home for the day. Taylor was about to knock on the chief’s closed door when he called out, “I hear you lurking out there, Lieutenant. Come in.”

  She followed his instruction.

  Chief DeMike was a veteran of the force, promoted to the head spot from within, and a welcome change from the previous incarnation, a man as corrupt as the day was long. DeMike’s hair was white, his face ruddy, with cheeks and jowls that would swing in a stiff breeze. He looked a bit like an overweight Bassett hound masquerading as Santa Claus in dress blues. But he was good police, and had always been fair with her.

  “You’re here about the Dunham girl?”

  “You already know?”

  DeMike pulled a cigar out of his humidor and started playing with it. “Sugar, I know everything in this town.”

  Taylor raised an eyebrow.

  “Sorry.” He snipped off the end of the cigar, then rammed it into the corner of his mouth. He couldn’t smoke it in here, not that he hadn’t before, but Taylor knew it was a comfort gesture.

  “Joe’s been notified. We need to head down to the scene. He’s going to meet us there. He’s expecting a full show, so you should be prepared.”

  “I am. Not a problem. But tell me, who made the call to Mr. Dunham? Seems a bit quick to me.”

  “Already investigating, Lieutenant? Good. I like that. He told me one of her friends called him. Apparently, she’s been camping out down there with the protesters.”

  He stood, the bulk of his weight tossing his chair backward against the windowsill with a crash.

  “I thought she’d been walking the straight and narrow of late.”

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant. Head on down there and find out. I’ll arrive with due pomp and circumstance in a few.”

  Taylor nodded gravely, trying not to smile. “Yes, sir.”

  When the first siren lit up the night, he was four blocks away, at Rippy’s on Broadway, sipping a Yuengling, a pulled pork sandwich smothered in sweet and tangy BBQ sauce and corn cakes with butter on order, waiting for Stover to show. The wail made pride blossom in his chest. It had gone gloriously. She’d never seen him coming. As he predicted, she’d shuffled off after about an hour toward the port-a-potties, and when she’d drawn near, he’d straightened his spine, let the knife slide into his hand, and stepped from the bushes. He’d become so adept at his trade that the contact he’d had with her was, on the surface, just an incidental bump. As he’d said, “Excuse me,” he’d slid the knife right up under her breastbone directly into her heart. A clean cut, in and out, no twisting or sawing. Precision. Perfection.

  He was half a block down the street before she hit the sidewalk.

  He was so good at this. Granted, practice does make perfect, and he’d had quite a bit of practice.

  He allowed himself a smile. He’d managed to salvage a very annoying day, and give himself something wonderful to think about tonight. Something to chase away the annoyance of having to play charades with Stover tonight.

  Stupid bastard. Who was more successful in their chosen fields?

  Now JR, stop worrying about that. Think about what you just did, how you’re sitting right under their noses, having a nice little Southern dinner. Think about the edge of the blade, colored rust with the girl’s blood, sitting in your pocket. Think about the way the tip fed into her flesh, and her eyes caught yours, and she knew it was you who was ending her life. These are appropriate thoughts. You can’t look back to the bad things. Just stay focused on the here and now.

  Stover arrived with a bellow.

  JR played his part, accepting the rough handshake, making small talk, eating, drinking, pretending, all the while sustaining himself with thoughts of his light-eyed beauty, lying on the sidewalk, her heart giving one last gush of blood to her body.

  After what seemed like hours, Stover called for the bill, belched loudly without covering his mouth and announced, “We need women.”

  The idea was repugnant to him. Women were not for defiling oneself, they were for the glory of the knife. Glory be. Glorious. Glory glory glorious.

  Perhaps he’d had one beer too many.

  But this presented his best chance of escape. So he acquiesced, and followed Stover into the night. The street outside the restaurant was hopping, busy with tourists and revelers even on a Monday. Downtown Nashville was a twenty-four/seven world, and they slipped into the throngs without causing a second glance. Because he fit right in. He always fit in now.

  Taylor arrived at the crime scene ten minutes after Marcus’s call. The site was just down the street from the CJC; she could have walked it if she wasn’t in too much of a hurry. But tonight she was. Containment would be key. The Occupy Nashville protestors had been causing an uproar do
wntown for two weeks now. Bills were being passed to stop their ability to gather freely, face-offs between the protestors and other groups had turned the mood on the steps sour, and even the people of Nashville who agreed with their agenda were beginning to turn against them.

  The real beneficiaries of their protest were the homeless who spent their time hanging out in the little park on Capitol Boulevard, burrowed in between the downtown Library and Legislative Plaza. Strangely enough, the hippies and the homeless looked remarkably alike, so do-gooders answering the call of the protesters by traveling downtown to bring food and blankets didn’t necessarily know the difference. The homeless weren’t stupid, they took full advantage of the situation. They were being fed, clothed, and warmed daily, sharing smokes and tents with the protestors. Taylor didn’t think that was such a bad thing, but she did wish the folks who’d rallied to the call would think to provide this kind of succor to those less fortunate on a more regular basis. If Twitter could take down a despot, surely it could help keep Nashville’s homeless clothed and fed.

  But that wasn’t her problem right now. She needed to contain a huge local story before it got blown into a political mess.

  She was an experienced detective, fourteen years on the job with Metro, so she knew better than to jump to conclusions, but if Go-Go was with the protesters, and had been stabbed, chances were she’d been murdered by one of her fellow demonstrators. And that news was going to go national.

  As she parked, she took in the scene, one she’d been privy to too many times. Sixth Avenue was blockaded between Church and Charlotte, blue and white lights flashing crazily upon the concrete buildings, reflecting off the black glass of the Tennessee Performing Arts Center. Thankfully TPAC didn’t have anything tonight, the building’s lobby was dark and gloomy. She could see the focus of attention midway up the street, just below the steps to the Plaza.

  “Lieutenant!”

  Tim Davis, the head of Metro’s Crime Scene unit, waved to Taylor. She waved back and headed his way, watching the crowd as she walked down Sixth. The area had been cordoned off, that’s what Marcus had seen driving home, but a large crowd of people had gathered on either side of the crime scene. Yellow tape headed them off, but frightened eyes peered down from the Plaza, and across from TPAC a small horde of people had formed, staring curiously up the street in hopes of seeing something tawdry.

  Tim was overseeing the evidence gathering. She was glad to see him on duty. Tim was meticulous, and if there was evidence to find, he’d make sure it was bagged and tagged.

  “Hey, man. What’s up?”

  “Marcus told you it was Go-Go?”

  “Yeah. Damn shame. What’s the evidence tell us?”

  “Single stab wound to the chest. I’ve been collecting everything around, but the ground’s littered with crap from the protesters. Messy bunch of people.” His nose wrinkled in disapproval. Tim liked things straight and clean. It’s what made him so good at spotting objects that were out of place.

  “We’ve got cameras here, don’t we?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a call into TPAC, their security footage will give us the best chance of seeing what happened.”

  “Good. Let me know if you find anything else. Is that Keri working the body?”

  “Yeah. Sure do miss Sam.”

  “You and me both, my friend.” Sam was Dr. Samantha Owens, Taylor’s best friend and the former head of Forensic Medical, the lead medical examiner for the Mid-State of Tennessee. She’d recently moved to Washington, D.C., and Taylor missed her dreadfully. She understood. God knew she understood. If she’d been faced with the kind of loss Sam experienced, she’d have run away too. But she couldn’t help missing her like hell.

  “Have you heard from her?”

  “I did, a couple of days ago. She’s doing well. Found a place she likes.”

  “Good. Next time you talk to her, give her my best. I’m going to start running some of the evidence we collected. I’ll shout if we get anything that looks relevant.”

  Taylor glanced at her watch – 5:15 p.m. The chief would be down here soon, she needed to hurry up and get him some info he could use for a presser. The chief did so love to be on air, and if they timed it right, he could make the 6:00 news.

  Keri McGee was on her knees next to the body. Taylor joined her.

  “Yo,” Keri said.

  “Yo back. What do you have for me?”

  “A whole lot of nothing. No trauma to the body, outside of the stab wound, of course. I’m about finished here, actually. She’s only been dead for a little while, no more than an hour. She was found quickly. Was she living on the streets?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Newspaper in her shoes and socks. They do that for warmth. And she hasn’t bathed in a while. Not that that’s any real indication, a bunch of these folks have been camping down here for days.”

  Taylor took her own inventory of Go-Go. That the girl hadn’t bathed recently was quite evident. She looked like she’d been living rough: her skin was brown with dirt, she had no jewelry on, no watch, just a small red thread tied around her right wrist. From her matted hair to her grubby clothes, Go-Go was downright filthy. She didn’t look much like the other protesters, who despite their attempts to blend in still glowed with health.

  “I want to talk to whoever found her.”

  “Over there,” Keri said, pointing at a young man who was hovering nearby. “I’m about ready to take her back to the morgue. Fox will autopsy her in the morning, along with everyone else we loaded up on today.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks.”

  Taylor took her turn with the kid who’d found the body next. He couldn’t be a day over twenty, with a snippet of a beard, dark hair and dark eyes, shoulders hunched into a hooded The North Face fleece. Taylor appreciated the irony. The kid was protesting capitalism wearing a two hundred fifty dollar jacket. His face was streaked with tears.

  “Hey there. I’m Lieutenant Jackson, homicide. What’s your name?”

  “Derek Rucka.”

  “How do you know Go-Go?”

  “She’s my girlfriend.”

  “Really? You’re dating? She doesn’t seem to be in very good shape for a girl with a man.”

  He looked down. “She was my girlfriend. We broke up a few weeks ago. She took off, and I hadn’t seen her until today. I was down here with the gang and I saw her smoking on the steps. We chatted.”

  “About what?”

  “Her coming home. She, well, if you know her name, you know her history. Go-Go is bipolar. She’s been doing really well, too, working for her dad. That’s where we met. My mom is on dialysis. But she stopped taking her meds about a month ago, and things went downhill pretty quickly.”

  “So you were out here trying to save her?”

  He shook his head miserably. “No. Not at all. I didn’t know she was out here. I certainly didn’t know she was on the streets. I’d have come looking sooner.”

  “So today of all days, you just happen to run into her, and then boom, she’s dead? Is there something you want to tell me, Derek?”

  The boy’s face flushed with horror, and his mouth dropped open. “What? No. I didn’t do anything to her. We just talked. Shared a bowl. That’s it.”

  “So you admit to doing drugs with the decedent?”

  The kid nodded, his head moving vigorously on its slender stalk. “Yeah. But I promise, that’s all we did.”

  “I think you should probably come down and talk to me a little more, Derek. Okay?”

  The bowed shoulders straightened and the tears stopped. His voice grew cold. “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not right now. We’re just going to have a little chat.”

  “I know my rights. You can’t detain me unless you have cause.”

  Taylor narrowed her eyes at the boy.

  “Don’t give me a reason, kid. I’m not in the mood. We can do this hard or we can do this easy. You just admitted to using an illegal substance on state property.
You want to go down on a drug charge, I’m happy to make that happen for you. Or you can come in and have a nice friendly chat. Your call.”

  She stepped back a foot and fingered her cuffs. Rucka swallowed and shoved his hands in his pockets, head cast downward in defeat.

  “Okay then. Come with me.” Taylor led the kid to her car, put him in the back seat. “I’ll be back in a minute. You just hang out.”

  Of course, one of the reporters saw this, and shouted across the tape at Taylor frantically. “Lieutenant, do you have a suspect in custody?”

  Taylor ignored her. She wasn’t about to get in a conversation with a reporter, not when the chief was on his way. She returned to the body, watched as Keri McGee took samples and bagged the girl’s hands.

  “Anything?” Taylor asked.

  “Not really. Nothing that’s leaping out. I have hairs that don’t match the body, debris, but that’s not a surprise, considering she’s out in the crowd like this. She’s wrapped up like she’s wearing a sari. I’ll get her back to the morgue, and we can get her peeled down to her skin, run everything and see what’s out of place.”

  One of these things is not like the other ...

  Oh, great. Now she was going to be singing that stupid song for the rest of the night.

  Taylor didn’t blame Keri for wanting to get the girl out of the limelight as quickly as possible, especially with the chief making an appearance. It was practically record speed for a homicide investigation, but Keri was a stellar death investigator. Taylor trusted her to know when it was time to move on to the next step.

  Go-Go would be posted in the morning along with any other unfortunates who found their way to the tables of Forensic Medical. In the meantime, Taylor had a job to do. She started toward the perimeter when Keri shouted to her.

  Taylor turned and saw Keri waving her back.

  “What’s up?”

  Keri handed Taylor a small leather wallet. “Found it under her layers of blanket. Don’t know why I didn’t see it when I rolled her.”

  “Hers?”

  “Not unless her name is James Gustafson.”

  Taylor flipped the wallet open. It was all the standard stuff: a driver’s license and a few credit cards, plus some cash. The photo showed a pale man, forty-one, blue on brown, five foot ten inches. His address showed him to be from Virginia.