by Thomas Scott
Virgil dropped the cane pole back in the grass at Pearson’s feet, then reached into his pocket, pulled out his badge and skipped it across the surface of the pond. The badge made it about half way across before it settled and then sank in the murky depths.
“You want my badge? Go and get it.” He turned to walk up to his house, but Cora didn’t let it play.
“You break my heart sometimes, Jonesy. Do you know that?”
4
__________
Ron Miles ducked under the crime-scene tape and stepped up to the apartment door, then stopped in his tracks. He peered inside, saw the crime scene techs—seven of them in all, the most he’d seen at one location in quite a while—caught Rosie’s eye, then backed out so as not to contaminate the area. Shit load of blood, he thought.
Ron had been around. Had spent most of his career as an Indianapolis Metro Homicide cop, so he was no stranger to crime scenes or blood, but still, hell of a way to start a new job, that much blood.
__________
A few minutes later Detective Tom Rosencrantz stepped out of the apartment wearing Tyvek coveralls, shoe protectors and latex gloves. There were bloodstains on his knees, the tops of his shoe protectors by his toes and the palms of his hands. He unzipped the suit, pulled the hood back and stripped out of the gear. One of the techs handed him a biohazard bag and he dropped everything inside and handed it back. “Jesus Christ, I’ve never seen that much blood without a body,” he said to Miles. “You just get here?”
“Yeah. What do you mean without a body?”
“I mean, there’s enough blood in there to do a remake of Stephen King’s Carrie, but there’s no body.”
“Huh. How much blood are they saying?”
Rosencrantz looked over Ron’s shoulder. “You get a new car?”
“Yep, just picked it up two days ago. The guys over at the motor pool set me up with the radios, lights and siren, the works.”
Rosencrantz smiled at him. “Nice.” The car was nice too. A brand new 2013 black over black Ford Fusion. “Get the Police Interceptor motor?”
“You mean engine. Motor is electric. Engine is internal combustion. And yeah, did I ever. Goddamn thing runs like a raped ape. All-wheel drive too.” Miles glanced at the apartment. “So anyway, how much blood?”
“Here comes Mimi. I’ll let her explain it. I guess it’s sort of technical. Plus, that voice of hers…”
Miles puffed out his cheeks. “Tell me about it. She could be one of those phone sex broads. Half the time when she’s talking to me I feel like I’m about to get busted for sexual harassment just for listening.”
“Just half?” Rosencrantz made a rude noise with his lips. “You’re doing better than me.”
“They still have that, don’t they? Those phone sex lines?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Rosencrantz said, his face as flat and blank as a piece of slate.
__________
Mimi Phillips, the Lead Crime Scene technician told them in no uncertain terms—all with a voice that sounded like a 30-second satellite radio spot for a porn flick—that whomever the blood belonged to, they were, without question, as dead as the Pope’s dick. “Double entendre intended,” she added.
“You’re sure?” Miles asked.
Mimi reached into her pocket then folded a stick of gum across her tongue. “No doubt,” she said. “You see, the human body—and these are just averages, mind you, depending on size and so on and so forth—holds about six quarts of blood. The loss of about forty percent or more of that volume will generally require immediate resuscitation. But what you have to remember is the amount of blood loss any one person can withstand is going to depend on their physical condition and cardiovascular shape. Athletes, people who live in high altitudes and the elderly are examples of differing groups that will have differing susceptibilities to blood loss.
“The amount of blood we’re talking about for that to happen…it’s about a two-liter sized bottle of soda pop. What you’ve got in there is at least twice that. If it all belongs to the same person, then, yeah, they’re dead all right. Deader than…”
__________
“How soon before you can tell us if it all belongs to the same person?” Miles asked.
Mimi bit the inside corner of her lower lip. “Hmm, belonged, I think is the word you want there. Not very long at all to type it out. Three days if you want to match the DNA from the personal effects and we rush the shit out of it. You do want the DNA, don’t you?”
“Yes, we do,” Miles said. “Rush the shit out of it.”
Mimi turned to go back to work, then over her shoulder, “Hell of a way to start a new job, huh? Nice wheels though. Bet that baby scoots.”
__________
“You talk to him yet?” Rosencrantz asked.
“Who?”
He gave Miles a ‘Don’t try to bullshit me’ look. “Who, my ass. Have you called him? Anything?”
“Cora asked me not to say anything until she and Pearson had a chance to go over to his place and tell him face to face.” Miles looked at his watch. “They’re probably still there.”
“Three things,” Rosencrantz said. He ticked them off his fingers. “One, if you haven’t figured this out yet, Pearson is a snake and now he’s your snake. I’d get used to it, I were you and I’d watch my back. Two, Jonesy is not only a good guy, but he’s our friend. At the very least you owe him a phone call and when I say at the very least, I mean exactly that. Three, it is my belief that there might be something else going on, politically speaking, that put him out and you in. You may want to spend some time with that, you being the crack investigator and all.”
Miles reached up and flattened his grey hair with the palm of his hand. “I know about Pearson. This won’t be my first interaction with the man. And, I am going to speak with Jonesy, but I thought it might be best to let things settle for a bit. Also, I’m not a political guy. I’m an investigator guy. They tell me to investigate, that’s what I do.”
Rosencrantz held his hands up, palms out. “Hey, I’m not giving you grief, Ron, But this little squad we’ve got here, our MCU, it’s always been run a little…sideways, if you know what I mean.”
“If you mean you make your own rules, keep the intel to yourselves and don’t have too much oversight, then yeah, I’ve sort of noticed that. That might change too.”
Rosie shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. What you said is true, but it’s more than that. You’re suddenly one of the most powerful cops in the state with only two layers between you and the governor himself.”
“And?”
“Have you asked yourself why they wanted you for the job?”
Miles was starting to get a little pissed. “You work for me, do I have that right?”
“Yep.”
“Then how about you do that?”
“Leave the big thinking to you?”
Miles pointed a finger at Rosencrantz. “Now look…”
“Relax, Ron. I’m on your side. No disrespect intended, okay? You’re one of the best investigators I’ve ever known. I just want you to think about the situation. Investigate the ‘why me?’ part of the equation, for your own sake if nothing else.”
“And maybe for Jonesy too?”
“Why not?”
“Because based on what I’ve heard, I don’t think it will do him any good at this point.”
“Maybe it won’t. But I’ve been a part of this group almost since its inception and if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: We get the hard stuff, the political stuff, the good stuff, as Cora likes to call it. But nothing is ever quite what it looks like. Not when you’re this close to the top. Never has been anyway. Not one single time.”
Miles thought about that for a minute. “Maybe this will be different…this one.”
Rosencrantz laughed without humor. “Did you happen to get a look at Jonesy’s files yet? In particular, the one I told you about?”
“Yeah, I did. What about
it?”
“Anything jump out at you?”
“It looked like a good shoot. The department, the union, the lawyers, hell even the OPR said it was a good shoot. Plus, it was over twenty years ago. I had to blow the dust off the paper just to see the ink.”
“Did you know that was the one and only time Jonesy ever fired his weapon on the job?”
“That’s not so unusual.”
“You’re right about that. But let me tell you two things that aren’t in that report. One, did you notice that the guy who almost got his ticket punched by James Pope, the victim so to speak, his name wasn’t listed in the report?”
“Yeah, I did notice that. Who was it?”
Rosencrantz turned his back to Miles for a moment and looked up at the apartment where the crime scene techs were working. When he turned back he said, “Someone with enough juice to get their name pulled from the paperwork. Know anyone like that?” Before Miles could answer, Rosie said something else that made Ron wonder if someone he thought he could trust hadn’t already played him for a fool. “That apartment behind us? The one with all the blood? It belonged to a guy named Nicholas Pope. He was only five or six years old when Jonesy shot his old man to death. He and his twin sister were there, at the shooting. They saw the whole thing. Now it looks like there’s another dead Pope. Might just be a coincidence though.”
Miles rubbed his temples with his right hand, then squinted through one eye at Rosencrantz. “Who did Jonesy save that day when he shot James Pope?”
“It’s not in the report, but it’s not exactly a secret, either. The man he saved was Bradley Pearson.” Then, as if to hammer home his point, he added, “Just out of curiosity, when they hired you, who approached you first? Was it Cora, or Pearson?”
Miles let out a sigh. “It was Pearson.”
Rosencrantz raised an eyebrow at him. “Might want to think about that. Or hell, maybe not. You might be right. Maybe this one will be different.”
__________
Nicholas Pope’s apartment complex had been converted from an old-style traveler’s motel. The conversion process had gone something like this: The original owner of the motel went broke, which is something that happens when you neglect to pay your income taxes. The new owner picked up the building at the subsequent tax sale, fired the housekeeping crew and erected a sign that said ‘Studio Apartments For Rent - No References Required.’ The only actual requirement for occupancy was cash in advance every Friday by five or your personal belongings were tossed out on the lot and the locks were changed faster than you could get to the payday advance loan sharks and back. The building was a two-story, L-shaped structure with units on both the front and the rear. Nicholas Pope’s unit was in the back on the second floor, about midpoint in the short section of the L. The building was old and its occupants generally fit into one of three categories: Poor, transient, or illegal. Most, Ron thought as he looked around the backside of the building, probably fit nicely into all three.
“You going to suit up, take a look?” Rosencrantz asked him.
“No. I think I’ll get with the uniforms and coordinate with the background.”
“Start with the woman in the unit right below Pope’s. She’s the one who made the call.”
“She hear or see anything?”
“Not really. But one of the city uniforms said the blood dripped through her ceiling and landed right on a little statue of the Virgin Mary she keeps on her living room coffee table. She thought it was a miracle.”
Miles shook his head. “Ah, Christ.”
Rosencrantz winced. “Don’t say that around her. She’ll take your head off.”
“How long before she figured it wasn’t divine intervention?”
Rosencrantz thought for a few seconds. “You know, I’m not sure. Probably at least a half-day, based on what Mimi is telling us.”
Then, just as Miles was about to go talk to the woman, a car turned the corner around the back side of the building going much too fast, its tires squealing in protest. The driver slammed on the brakes and locked up the wheels, but it was too late. The car slid into the side of Miles brand new squad car with the sickening sound of crumpled sheet metal and broken glass. The driver jumped from her vehicle and half ran, half stumbled toward the stairs that led to Nicholas Pope’s apartment. She began to scream, “My brother, my brother. Where’s my brother?” One of the uniforms caught her by the arm, but Nichole Pope was a little faster and a little stronger than the cop expected and when she tried to pull free, they got tangled up in each other and they both ended up on the ground in a heap.
Rosencrantz looked at Miles, then at his car, then back at Miles. “Probably shouldn’t have parked there. My car is out front, across the street. Welcome to the MCU, Ron.”
5
__________
Virgil left Cora and Bradley and carried his broken fishing pole and medical supplies back up to the house. When he walked inside he heard Sandy as she moved about between the bedroom and the bathroom. He set the pole on the countertop that separated the kitchen from the living room then placed the medical supplies into the refrigerator. When Sandy came around the corner her blonde hair was still wet from the shower, slicked back across her head. She walked over and got up on her toes and kissed Virgil.
“I was getting ready to come out and sit with you, but then I saw Cora and Pearson pull in. What did they want?”
Sandy was employed by the Indiana Law Enforcement Academy as their Director of Training. Prior to that she worked for Virgil as a field investigator for the MCU. She transferred to her current position after Cora discovered they were dating. She would have taken the job anyway, but the way it was handled still rubbed Virgil wrong when he thought about it. He pulled out two stools from under the counter and sat down. “Can we talk for a minute?”
“Sure. Don’t want to be late for your appointment, though.”
“We’ll be okay.”
Sandy sat down next to him. “What is it? What did Cora have to say?”
“Plenty.”
“What do you mean?”
Virgil removed his hat, set it on the counter and ran his fingers through his hair. “Cora came for my badge, Sandy. She brought Pearson as her witness.”
Virgil watched Sandy’s lips start to move, but she didn’t speak. Her face turned red and after a few seconds she stood and looked out the front window toward the drive. “I’ll be right back.”
“Sandy, wait. Don’t do anything. There’s more I need to tell—”
But she had already stopped listening. She cinched her robe tight and walked barefoot out the front door. By the time Virgil made it to the porch she was halfway down the front drive waving her arms at Cora and Pearson as they backed out toward the road. They were far enough down the drive that Virgil couldn’t make out what she was saying, but he didn’t need to. Sandy was bent forward from her waist and was leaning almost all the way into the car, her finger pointed directly at Cora. The glare at the top of the windshield prevented Virgil from seeing the look on Cora’s face, but he could see her hands on the steering wheel and it looked like if she gripped it any tighter it might snap in half with the same ease as the cane pole after Pearson’s misstep. After a few seconds Sandy stepped back from the car, pointed to the road, then stood with her hands on her hips until Cora backed the rest of the way out and drove away.
When she stepped up onto the front porch the bathrobe slipped open just enough to expose the swell of her breasts and the light sprinkle of freckles across her chest. They went back inside and all Virgil really wanted to do was take her to the bedroom and make love to her…to tell her of his conversation with his dead father…to ask her to help pull himself up from the depths of a place in which he sank a little lower with the passage of every waking hour. But none of that happened. “I wish you hadn’t done that,” he said.
“What? Why on earth not?”
Before he could answer, Sandy noticed the cane pole in pieces on the counter. “
Oh, Virgil. What happened?”
“Pearson broke it. It was an accident, I’m sure. You’re the best, baby. You know that, don’t you?”
He’d hoped to make her smile, to somehow lighten the load he had managed to put them under, but it didn’t work. “What are we going to do, Virgil?”
Good question. “About what?” Virgil said with a feigned indifference. Even as he said it, he knew his cavalier, drug–induced attitude had broken the moment. He watched the hurt, frustration and embarrassment as it played across Sandy’s face. Then, without saying a word she walked into the bedroom and closed the door, leaving him alone in the kitchen with a bottle of pills, a busted fishing pole, and a ruined career.
__________
An hour later, they rode to the hospital in complete silence. When they pulled to a stop in the parking lot, Virgil shut the engine off and turned toward Sandy. She wore a lightweight dress that matched her blue eyes along with square-toed, short-heeled cowboy boots. The dress hung above her knees, the fabric tight across her breasts and loose around her hips. It was a perfected look and it had a tendency to turn a few heads. Virgil wore jeans with a hole in one knee, a cartoon T-shirt and flip-flops. That turned a few heads as well, though for entirely different reasons. “What did you say to Cora?”
“Nothing that she didn’t already know,” Sandy said.
“I’m not sure I know what that means.”
Sandy huffed. “It means you think she walks on water but I’ve always thought she’s just another administrator who watches out for herself above all others. Look what happened when she found out we were dating.”
“It seems to have all worked out.”
