Blood

by Fox, Stephen

  Fritz paused again but, after a brief delay, marked the spot for posterity, and moved on. The elderly man growled. At this rate they would never get back to the apartment.

  The black-and-tan dog looked up nervously as his ears picked up loud voices arguing. Knowing that anxious dachshunds have a tendency to bark, Frank picked him up and tried to stop him before he started. “Shush, Fritz! They’re not bothering you.” But by now the squabble had begun in earnest, and so did the barking. Standing there, woofing dog in hand, Frank couldn’t help but hear the bitter words tossed about by the teenagers. They were far enough away so that Frank couldn’t catch all of the words, but the venom in the voices was clear.

  A pause in the yelling made Frank look toward the teenagers. The boyfriend had turned and was walking back the way he had come. The girl was sobbing and walking blindly ahead. The retired engineer stood on the opposite side of the street, so she wasn’t coming straight at him, but her floundering brought her closer to his position.

  Frank bent down to place the squirming dog back on the ground. “Now behave yourself, and finish your business,” he whispered. “I want to get home.” He turned again to look at the girl at just the second that a dark figure popped out of the bushes, and grabbed her.

  Chapter 2

  For a second Frank stood still, paralyzed with amazement. Then leaping into action the ex-Green Beret ran for the site, yelling at the top of his lungs. Jogging and tennis kept him in decent shape, and he still loved a good fight.

  The shadowy figure had his hands full of squirming female body. Trying to keep her quiet at the same time was a serious job, so when the yell came from behind him, he nearly panicked. Making a split-second decision, he twisted the head of the figure in his hands as far as he could. The neck gave with an audible snap. Dropping the lifeless body, he positioned himself, ready to strike, when he noticed they were no longer alone. Lights turned on in nearby apartments, and figures peered out of windows and around corners. Deciding that the risk was too great, the dark form slipped into the shadows and vanished.

  Frank reached the spot quickly and checked the girl. No pulse. He turned to the bushes, but too late. Not a sign of the attacker remained. Voices called behind him. He turned to see nearby neighbors hurrying to the scene. One more scan of the area revealed nothing, so he turned back to the girl’s body to keep the spectators from trampling the crime scene.

  Sergeant Lee Carlton opened the driver’s side door of the cruiser and got his well-rounded girth behind the wheel. Assigned to team with Beckman while Johnson was under suspension, the two had spent the last hour involved with a horrible accident at the intersection of Abercorne and Derenne. It seems an old Mercury station wagon, filled with little girls late for dance class, was nearing the intersection to make a left as the light turned red. A young mother with two small kids in an Aerostar van tried to rush her son to soccer practice. Both drivers assumed the other was going to stop for the light. The ensuing crash spun both cars into neighboring vehicles. Two people had to be transported to Memorial Hospital. One little girl would never get to her clogging practice. Her mangled body lay covered with a sheet in the back of the ambulance, which had just roared away from the scene. The gaping hole in the windshield of the mother’s car proved a grim reminder of the need for seat belts. Directing traffic, comforting the victims until the ambulances and tow trucks arrived, then cleaning up the mess and filling out the paperwork were the less-than-glamorous parts of the job, but the chores came with the territory. Finally it was done.

  Carlton loved it when he was paired with Sam Beckman. Most of the other guys on the squad were into health food and diets, and usually put up a squawk when Carlton wanted to go to William’s Seafood, one of the finest seafood places in Savannah. But Beckman enjoyed fried catfish, and could usually eat nearly as much as Carlton. They tried to eat there at least once a week and both had been anticipating expanding their belts a little tonight, but it was not to be. As they started to pull out in traffic the radio blared. “Unit 7, unknown disturbance at Forsyth Park at the Liberty Street entrance.”

  Sergeant Carlton swore, “Damn! Here we go again! Third time this week I’ve missed supper.” They pulled out of the parking lot, siren splitting the traffic in front of them.

  Beckman spotted the still form on the ground as soon as they turned the corner near the entrance. Exiting the car, he did a 360-degree scan of the scene, his hand on the stock of his revolver, while Carlton approached the body cautiously. A few neighbors looked on, standing back from the body as if it was going to leap up any minute and grab someone. After checking for a pulse in the girl’s neck, he called back to his partner, “Get on the radio and tell the Medical Examiner they’ve got some more business.” He flipped on his powerful flashlight and scanned the bushes.

  By now the lights had attracted a crowd. One little old lady with blue hair shuffled up squealing, “I saw him! He grabbed her; then that man yelled and ran up and he dropped the girl and then—“

  Carlton interrupted, pulling out his note pad, “Slow down, Ma’am. We need the facts. Can you describe the person who did this?”

  “No, he was all in the shadows. I only saw a shape for a few seconds.”

  “Could you tell us which direction he went?”

  Her arms danced wildly. “He just melted into the bushes. I never saw anybody move so quickly. He just dropped her, turned and vanished! He was so—”

  Beckman returned from the car and interrupted, “Can you tell us who was the first person on the scene? You mentioned someone yelling.”

  The elderly woman sniffed. “Yes, well, Mr. Rodriguez over there got there first. He yelled and this evil, horrible figure came out of nowhere and—”

  Again the hands waved everywhere. Carlton tried to calm her down, and get a lucid account of the slaying. Beckman walked over to the elderly man who was talking to another uniformed officer. More uniforms from the other arriving units kept the crowd away from the scene until the medical examiner and homicide squad could get there to do their grisly jobs.

  The gray haired man seemed too calm to the officer. “I’m Officer Beckman. Could you tell us what happened here, sir?”

  “Certainly, officer. My name is Frank Rodriguez. I live at 1545 Heckle Street, three blocks south of here. At about 9:50, I was walking my dog approximately thirty yards south of the crime scene. I first noticed the victim walking toward us about two blocks north of here. She was involved in a very loud argument with an unknown male, black, approximately the same age, five-six, five-seven, blond, wearing a white shirt and dark tie, with white sneakers. The couple proceeded to the south, toward me. The disagreement reached a climax, and the boy started walking back northward. The girl continued to the south, crossing Pine Lane. At that time a person jumped out of the bushes and grabbed her, one arm around the waist and the other over her mouth.”

  Beckman wrote the information into the notepad, but his mind was racing ahead. The description seemed too quick, too precise. “Could you give me a description of the assailant, please?”

  “Not much of one, I’m afraid. He was between six foot and six two with a medium build. I can’t be more accurate because he was in a slightly crouched position. The light was too poor to tell whether he was black or white, or even if he was male or female. I assume he was male because of the brute strength he exhibited in snapping the girl’s neck.”

  “I see. And what happened next?”

  “Well, I yelled and ran toward the scene. As the man saw me coming he dropped the girl and ran back into the park. I went to the girl and saw she was dead. Then I scouted the immediate area looking for any signs that he was still around, but there was no trace of him. After that I came back to guard the integrity of the crime scene.”

  Beckman didn’t know whether to buy the story or not. The detailed account smacked of an alibi to him. For a minute he thought the old guy might be an ex-policeman, but the way he had trampled around the crime scene put that theory to rest.
“Did anyone else see the attack, sir?”

  Rodriguez seemed amused by the suspicion in the man’s voice, and his officious manner. “I’m sure I don’t know, officer. Unless you count Fritz!”

  “And where would I find this Fritz?”

  “A neighbor of ours saw him and took him back to our apartment.”

  “And does this Fritz person have a last name, sir?”

  Frank’s patience was beginning to fray. “Officer..,” he peered at the policeman’s nametag in the dim light, “Berkman is it?”

  “Beckman, sir.”

  “Officer Beckman, Fritz happens to be my three year old miniature dachshund, who was with me at the scene, and can verify every detail I have given you. For your report I would describe him as being approximately nine inches tall and weighing about ten pounds. His hair color is black-and-tan with brown eyes. You can interview him at 1545 Heckle Street. You might want to stop and get an interpreter before the interview, however, unless you speak fluent dachshund.”

  Beckman shrugged. “Just doing my job, sir.”

  Rodriguez’s voice softened. “I understand, officer. You have to treat every statement with a little skepticism. I’m not trying to make your job any more difficult. Rest assured I’m on your side.”

  “Owens.” Lieutenant Morris looked up from the note he had scribbled on the notepad. “Take Wilson and check out the homicide in the park.”

  Detective Gail Owens leapt to her feet. The Lieutenant wanted her to lead the investigation. She grabbed her purse, collared Bill Wilson and rushed out the door before Morris changed his mind.

  Rising through the ranks quickly, Owens had only had her gold shield for a few months. This would be her chance to head an investigation, and she resolved not to screw it up.

  They pulled up behind the black-and-white. Beckman met them and filled them in. Then he went back to securing the scene and left them to their inquiries. Owens went to interview Rodriguez again, while Wilson checked with the other bystanders.

  Like Beckman, Owens grew suspicious of Rodriguez’s account. None of the other bystanders could verify his story. Even the old lady who first said she saw someone revealed that it had happened so fast, she wasn’t sure what she saw. The detectives got what information they could and took Rodriguez to the station for further questioning.

  Captain Jim Underwood walked into the station at seven on the dot. As usual, Lieutenant Morris waited for him just inside the door, clipboard in hand. Underwood shook his head. Morris was a wonderful police officer, very conscientious, never leaving anything to the imagination. But he had a streak of Barney Fife that made for problems.

  “Good morning, Captain.” A morning person, Morris bounced through each day. Several officers had threatened to kill him in the past, as he bubbled around the station house. Once, while he was still a patrolman, a couple of his co-workers locked him in a holding cell, and had refused to let him out until ten o’clock, which they considered a reasonable hour.

  “Good morning, Ben. Slow night?”

  “Oh, average, or maybe a little more. Assorted assaults and burglaries. Two homicides. But nothing out of the ordinary.” He cocked his head and looked at the captain. “Why do you ask?”

  Underwood looked at his junior officer and grinned. “This is the first Friday night in a month that I got a whole night’s sleep. Apparently someone is growing into his job.”

  Morris turned red but beamed. “Thank you, sir. Here is a copy of the log, as well as a quantitative list of complaints for the shift. All the reports have been completed and are on your desk. However, copies of the two homicide reports are attached to the log, as you have requested.”

  “Thanks, Ben.” The captain scanned quickly through the log, but nothing stood out as a potential problem. He looked over the first report. A family disturbance. The husband had knocked his wife around the house, for the umpteenth time. After losing two teeth, she had picked up a knife and plunged it into his chest. The woman had then waited an hour before calling police. In her words, “I didn’t want them ambulance guys to bring him back.”

  Underwood started to dismiss the other report at a glance, but stopped and read the report more carefully. Something seemed wrong with the scenario.

  He looked again at the report. Owens and Wilson had caught the squeal, with Owens leading the team. A suspect had been questioned but released when his story checked out. He read it once more before he realized what was bothering him. “Lieutenant, have Owens and her partner interview the witnesses again. Tell them to ask each bystander if the suspect was wearing a mask. Also have them do another canvas of the neighbors for any other clues or witnesses.”

  “I thought this was just a mugging, sir. What are you seeing that we don’t?”

  “Just a hunch, Morris. The M.O. doesn’t fit. Why would the perp kill the girl? He didn’t take time to grab her purse, which only had twenty-three dollars in it anyway. She wasn’t a threat to him, unless she could identify him, and in the dark and scared, she probably couldn’t tell us more than his skin color, if that. Yet, while witnesses are running toward him, instead of just dropping her and running, he takes the time to snap her neck. This is more than just another mugging. Sounds like cold-blooded murder,” his grimace grew larger, “or we have a lunatic on our hands.”

  The captain’s morning went well. Everything in the IN basket was moved to the OUT by 10:30. Underwood spent the next hour pulling correspondence from his basket marked WHENEVER and dictating responses to school children doing social studies projects and organizations wanting equipment and services.

  A charming little old lady came into his office threatening to sue for false arrest. After all, she hadn’t actually had her husband killed. She just hired somebody else to do it. But they hadn’t really done it so no harm, no foul, right? Right?

  A patrolman brought in another man, ninety-two years old, who complained that the officer was harassing him. Pulled over for driving twenty-eight miles per hour on Interstate 95, the elderly man gave the officer his driver’s license. Upon inspection the patrolman discovered that the license had expired in 1971. The officer called for a tow truck and politely explained to the gentleman that he couldn’t drive the car home. Now the retired milkman who had stopped working in 1968 demanded that the police department pay for the towing charge.

  Just before noon Commissioner Williams came by and the two men went to lunch. Williams drove and they decided on Carey Hilliard’s. They were just finishing a great meal when Williams noticed a familiar figure walking toward them.

  “Look out! We have trouble.”

  Underwood turned to find Mayor John Roukasis coming up behind him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mayor. We’re almost done, but you are welcome to join us.”

  The newcomer frowned. “Save the amenities, Captain Underwood. I understand we have a serious problem at the station.” The mayor looked dapper, as usual, in his custom tailored suit. Tall and aristocratic, he loved to stick his prominent Grecian nose in the affairs of all of the city’s departments. Pulling on his pencil-thin mustache, as he usually did before he raked some underling over the coals, he reminded Underwood of Snidely Whiplash, the cartoon villain. How he ever got reelected three times was beyond comprehension.

  The mayor continued. “Why wasn’t I informed of the situation?”

  Williams snorted. “I’d say you were very informed, especially about what goes on in our department. Could you be a little more specific about which of our many problems you are talking about?”

  “Why, the missing prisoner, of course.” Roukasis looked smug.

  Captain Underwood fielded that question. “We cannot discuss an ongoing investigation. When Internal Affairs completes their investigation, they will give us the results. Then, if we feel you should be apprised of the situation, we will share the results with you.”

  The mayor’s smirk turned into a growl. “If you feel …? Who do you think you’re talking to, you jackass? I’m the mayor of this city, and …”<
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  Underwood raised a hand. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mayor. I mean no disrespect. But as I said, I cannot comment on an ongoing internal investigation. When the investigation is complete, I will compile the results and personally present them to you.”

  Roukasis sniffed. “I need to have this wrapped up before the media gets wind of it. Too many leaks, you know.”

  “You’ll have the results as soon as we do, Your Honor.”

  The commissioner jumped in. “And speaking of leaks, your honor, how did you find out about that little problem?”

  A smirk appeared on the mayor’s face. “I have my ways. Now what is being done to make sure that your ‘little problem’ doesn’t happen again?”

  Captain Underwood and the commissioner looked at each other and shrugged. Williams took the question. “We can’t prevent it unless we can discover how the escape was performed. Until then, we would be wasting a lot of valuable department manpower and time in guesswork.

  Roukasis shook his head in disgust. “Well, keep me informed of developments.” He hurried over to join a group of city and county councilmen, where he could get a little more respect.

  Heading back to the station, progress was slowed by construction on Liberty Street. Underwood mused that no matter where he went lately, he seemed to run into some form of road work and the inevitable delays.

  Finally managing to make their way back, somewhat the worse for wear, Underwood found Detective Owens and her partner sitting outside his office door. She jumped to her feet as he approached. “Captain, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

  “Come in, Gail. Bill. Give me a chance to catch my breath.”

  The woman followed Underwood into the office. Tall and slender, she had a fluidity in her movements that reminded Underwood of a cat. A nose that was too big for her face, bushy eyebrows, and ears that stuck out when she wore her hair pulled back overshadowed her grace, which was always. Detective Owens would never be a prom queen, but, as Underwood looked at her, he realized that a little makeup, a more flattering hairdo, and some grooming would do wonders for her looks. Not that it would ever happen; Gail Owens was not into grooming. The daughter of a thirty-year policeman, she had never wanted to be anything other than a cop.