“Why?”
“I don’t know. You have to understand, I might not know what I’m talking about here. It’s not something my dad and I talk about very often, but I think he feels like if he could have gotten me out, then your dad would still be alive.”
“But you know that’s not true. It took two men to get you out.”
“Yeah, try telling that to him.”
“I will.”
“Yeah, well, good luck with that. He’s not exactly the easiest guy in the world to talk to sometimes.”
“So says the son.” I looked at her, a reply forming, when the phone rang again. Sandy dug her feet into my lap for a second, then swung them off and went to the kitchen. She answered my phone like it was the most natural thing in the world, spoke into the receiver for a moment, then handed it to me, a hint of a smile sneaking across the corner of her mouth. “It’s your dad.”
“How do you know that?”
“Caller I.D.,” she said. Then with a playfulness in her voice I was grateful to hear, she added, “Detective.”
I laughed at myself and took the phone. “Morning, Pops. What’s up?”
“Hey Virg. Your boss is looking for you. She tried here out of desperation. Said she couldn’t get a hold of you. Anyway, sounds like something big might be happening with your case. She wants you to call her right away. Say, who’s that just answered your phone?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I dialed Cora’s number then put the phone on speaker so Sandy could hear the conversation. When she answered her words were clipped and the frustration in her voice at not being able to reach me was evident. “Know where the Safeway off of Morris Street is at?”
“What’s going on, Cora?”
“Woman named Elle Richardson is dead. Shot in the middle of her forehead. Ron Miles is already there and says the crime scene weenies think it’s the same shooter. If you’re not doing anything you might want to swing by. And by the way, Pate’s lawyer is raising holy hell with the Governor as we speak so you may have touched a nerve somewhere. Things are happening, Slick. You might want to get in the game.”
“We’ll get right over there,” I said, then wished I’d been more careful with my choice of words.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” Her voice seemed to relax a little, but as is often the case with Cora, she didn’t wait for an answer. “Your phone sounds sort of funny. Do you have me on speaker or something? Hey, one other thing, I’ve got everyone else’s paperwork from yesterday’s cluster fuck outside the Governor’s place, but I’m still waiting on Small’s. Tell her to get it to me, will you? Or did I just do that?”
Sometimes a conversation with Cora can leave you feeling a little like a bug in a blender.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later we were dressed and in my truck, the bubble light flashing on the dashboard. When we pulled up to the crime scene, TV was there, along with a few print people. When we got out of the truck, the cameras turned our way. I looked at Sandy and said, “I hate it when the news beats me to the crime scene.”
“Well, they don’t really have a life,” Sandy said.
A very tall and skinny female reporter and her cameraman caught us just before we ducked under the crime scene tape. “Detective Jones, what can you tell me about this latest murder? Our information is the victim is a nurse, just like one of yesterday’s victims. Do the nurses of our city need to be concerned, Detective? Is it the work of the killer you’ve been hunting in connection with the death of Franklin Dugan?”
Hunting. Good word.
I don’t mind the press, really. They have a job to do like anyone else. In fact, it has been my experience that as a detective, if you treat the press with dignity and respect, they in turn, will reciprocate in kind, thereby establishing a mutually beneficial relationship between all concerned parties.
Sandy and I ducked under the crime scene tape. “No comment,” I said.
The reporter put a pout on her lips. “Come on Jonesy…”
“Not now, Becky,” I said. Sandy and I took a few steps away and then I stopped her. “Go find Miles, will you?” I said. “I’ll be right there.”
Sandy looked at me, a quiz on her face. “Sure. What’s up?”
“I’ll be right there.”
* * *
“Did you know I’d be here Beck, or did you just get lucky?”
“I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Becky said.
I think she was trying to look surprised, but with all the plastic surgery she’s had in an attempt to maintain the appearance of a twenty-two year old, it was hard to tell. I stood there for a moment and watched her try to blink.
“Who’s the cutie?”
I wanted to ignore her and walk away, and I even started to, but as most anyone who has ever been divorced will tell you, negative intimacy is a powerful force, one that often leaves you wondering about the status of your own mental faculties. I turned back around to say something to Becky. I wanted to put her in her place, but something else caught my eye. A taxi slowed in the street behind us and as I watched it go by I saw a man in the rear of the cab turn his head away at the last second. How many people when driving by a crime scene turn their head and look away? Answer: none. My eyes followed the cab, darted to Becky for a second, then back to the cab which was already turning the corner at the end of the block. When I looked over at Becky again I could not think of one single thing I ever liked about her, but I was not afraid to admit that probably said more about me than it did her. I watched the cab turn the corner, stuffed my hands in my pockets and headed to where the victim lay, all the while questioning my past preference in women.
Something about that cab, though.
* * *
I slipped on a pair of latex gloves, walked up and saw Sandy leaning over the body. She turned and faced me as I walked up. “Just like Cora said, Jonesy. Caught her right between the eyes.”
I looked at the victim’s body. A pool of blood had formed under her head. A shopping cart and it’s contents lay next to her, the groceries scattered about. “I see that. Where’s Miles?”
Sandy stood, then turned to face me. “You okay, Jonesy? What was that back there?”
I looked at her, trying to process too many things at once; the discovery Sandy and I had made together just hours ago, our love making, another shooting victim, the cab that just went by. It was a lot of information. “What?” I said.
“Who was that?”
“I don’t know. Just someone in a cab. It was weird. How many people have you ever seen that look away from a bunch of cop cars?”
Sandy frowned, tilted her head. “What cab? What are you talking about? I’m talking about the woman. Who was that?”
“Oh, that,” I said. “Uh, her name is Becky Connor.”
Sandy chewed on the inside of her lip. “Well, I don’t like her. She seems kinda…brassy.”
I puffed my cheeks, then blew out a breath. “Let me tell you.”
“Oh, you will, boss man, you will.”
“Well, uh, as long as we’re on the subject,” I said, “I guess I should tell you something.”
“Yes…”
“You know, just so it’s out there.”
“What?” Sandy asked, a note of skepticism in her voice.
I looked down at my feet, not quite sure how to say it. I did not know if it would matter to her or not. “Well, you see, the thing is…”
* * *
“You were married to her?”
“Well, yeah, but the key word here is was. As in I was married to her, but now I’m not.”
“You never told me you were married.”
“I’m not.”
“But you were,” she said.
“Right. But I’m not now.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You didn’t ask. Besides, I thought you would have detected it, Detective.” I watched her expression and picked up a hint of jealousy. Just
a whiff. The fun kind though.
I hoped.
“Besides,” I said. “It was a mistake. I was just waiting for the right woman to come along.”
Just then, an overweight bald man in a cheap suit walked in eating a double cheeseburger. He held the burger with three fingers, the other two pinching the cardboard container underneath the sandwich as a drip tray. He held an unused napkin in his other hand. He had caught the end of our conversation. “Hope that wasn’t her.”
I looked at him without saying anything. Sandy said, “Excuse me?”
The fat man took another bite of his cheeseburger, chewed three times, pushed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth like a wad of chewing tobacco, and spoke with his cheeks puffed full of food. He pointed the empty box at me, but spoke to Sandy. “He said he was waiting for the right woman to come along. I was just commenting that I hoped it wasn’t this one here,” he said as he waved his napkin at the body. Then he turned and faced me. “How’s it going, Jones man? Crime Scene been here yet?”
* * *
Wally Wright, Deputy Coroner of Marion County, placed his napkin in the empty box and then shoved the box into his suit pocket. Ron Miles walked up behind him, and the four of us, me, Sandy, Wally, and Ron all adjusted ourselves into a little circle. Miles nodded at me and Sandy, but spoke first to Wally. “Took you long enough.”
“Yeah well. Traffic. What can you do?”
Miles wrinkled his nose, sniffing the air. “You said you were going to bring me something to eat.”
“Didn’t have time to stop.” Wally took a few steps over toward the body, looked down, then back toward the group. “Are you all done here? Where’s your crime scene people? I’ve got shit to do.”
Miles shook his head. “God damn, Wally. We’ve been waiting on you for a preliminary assessment.”
Wally took in a deep breath, belched, then let out an exasperated sigh. He squatted down next to the body, and when he did the bottom of his jacket rode up on his waist and revealed his ass crack. A mole rode high between his cheeks, and the entire thing looked like a hairy, upside down exclamation point. His left hand pulled something out of his pocket, then went to his mouth. He stood, visibly swallowing as he did. “GSW to the head. Probably dead before she hit the ground. Maybe I should have been a cop. Okay if I get the gurney now?” He walked away, not waiting for an answer.
Miles looked at me. “Was that a French fry he pulled out of his pocket? I think it was a French fry. He said he was going to bring me something to eat.”
* * *
Sandy looked at me, then Ron. “Did you get a chance to look at the security tapes?
Miles shook his head. “Not yet.”
Sandy turned to me. Want me to take a look?”
“Yeah,” I said. “See what you can see. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Ron and I watched Sandy walk away. We looked at each other for a moment, then Ron said, “You getting any of that?”
“Course he is,” Wally said as he pushed a gurney in front of him. “It might as well be tattooed on his forehead. I really should have been a cop. You guys are something, you know that?”
* * *
Ten minutes later I saw Sandy as she headed back over to where Ron and I stood. Her face was gray and the corners of her mouth were turned down. “What’s the matter?” I said. “Are you alright?”
She held up a CD. “Got the shot on tape, Jonesy. It’s bad.”
“Well, we sort of knew that,” I said, and I soon as I did, I regretted it. “Aw, jeez, that was a shitty thing to say wasn’t it? I’m sorry.”
Sandy looked at me for a second like she might not be sure, but then I saw her soften up. “No no, you’re right. I just…“
“Yeah, I know. What’s on the disc? What does it show?”
“Everything. Everything except what we need that is. Picture isn’t good enough to get the plate. Not even close. I don’t know, maybe the lab can do something with it, but I doubt it.”
“Alright, good, good. Send it back to the shop with Crime Scene and see what they can do. I’m going to have Rosencrantz and Donatti come out here. We need to figure this fucking thing out.”
“All right. What are you doing?” Sandy asked.
“I’m going to church.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Most people who know me think the reason I became a police officer was as simple as the fact that my father was one, and while there may be a measure of truth in their suppositions, I think the reasons are deeper than even I sometimes understand.
The days of my youth were spent much like any other mid-western teenager. Murton and I would attend our high school’s football games on Friday nights in the fall, the autumn air cool and thick with the aroma of red and white striped boxes of salted corn popped over the heat of gas fired oil pans at the concession stand. At half-time the marching band would perform and the sounds of the bass and snare drums would thunder off the out-buildings and reverberate through the grandstands like gunfire from a war not yet fought by children who, in reality, were only months away from sacrificing their lives for a cause they would never have the opportunity to know as both futile and unwarrantable.
My grandfather would often accompany me to the games, then end up by himself as Murton and I walked the grandstand area to visit with our friends. Sometimes when I looked back to where he sat my eyes would catch his gaze only to discover he was watching me and not the game. It was those times that I would leave Murton to his teen-aged conquests and go back to sit with my grandfather and watch the game with him, our words few, but our bond as strong as ever. Less than two years later, on the very night Murton was ripping open sterile gauze packs and pressing them into my wounds while my blood seeped between his fingers, half a world away my grandfather died in his sleep of heart failure. He was sixty-nine years old.
For months after I returned home from the war I carried an immeasurable sense of loss and anger around with me over the events of the war, my injuries, and the loss of my grandfather while I was away. I was mad at myself for being gone when my grandfather died, mad at Murton for the loss of the men in our unit, and in truth, mad at my grandfather for abandoning me. I was even mad at Murton for saving me. If you have ever been close to someone who has been the victim of a violent encounter then you know what I am talking about. The sudden shock and distress that comes with the knowledge of harm and injustice done to a loved one is something you carry with you for years, if not forever. I became a police officer because those feelings are ones I hoped to help put to rest in others, perhaps even myself.
I found the broken down church in Broad Ripple easily enough. Cora, had indicated to me that the building looked like it was being held together by bailing twine and when I arrived I had to admit that her assessment was not very far off the mark.
The building was originally constructed well over a hundred years ago and although it was larger than a small country chapel, the resemblance was unmistakable. The entire structure was made up of red brick and clapboard, the latter having long ago lost its protective coat of top paint, the boards now rotted and sagging at their joints. The nail holes wept reddish brown stains which left vertical tracks in the wood that looked like blood. A traditional steeple sat atop the main entrance to the church and the iron cross that stood like a spire against the morning sky leaned slightly askew and was held in place with guy wires attached to its base. The wires were pulled taught and were pinched against sagging gutters at the roof’s edge, then attached to steel bands that encompassed the perimeter of the structure. When I looked closer I discovered it was not the cross that angled out of plumb from the steeple, but the entire steeple itself that was out of square and sitting precariously on top of its base, perched to one side like the leaning tower of Pisa. I parked my truck a safe distance from the structure and walked inside, my gaze held to the steeple until I was at the front steps of the building.
As I opened the door and stepped inside I heard the sounds of ch
ildren laughing and jumping about from the second story and I have to admit I wanted to warn them of the structural integrity of the building and perhaps even admonish them for the danger they were placing themselves in by dishing out more abuse than the building was capable of accepting. I listened as a pipe organ played from the chapel area, the notes bellowed with a hallowed, laborious effort that sounded both painful and redemptive all at the same time.
I followed the sounds of the children up the main stairwell and when I poked my head into to classroom I gave witness to one of those moments that make me happy to be alive. There were about twenty or so pre-school children in the room, the tables and chairs all pushed against the walls, and the teacher, a young girl of college age stood at the front of the room where she acted out a one person play of some sort. I don’t know what the play was about, but the children seemed thoroughly amused at her attempt to entertain them. She was playing two separate parts and every time she switched roles she would move to the other side of the room in an overly dramatic fashion and try to disguise her voice. She was not a very good actor, but she certainly knew how to entertain children. When she saw me standing in the doorway, she stopped mid sentence and still in her character’s voice said, “And how may I help you today, kind sir?”
The children all turned and looked at me laughing and clapping as if I were a part of their play. I thought about throwing my arms open wide and in my best theatrical voice announcing the purpose of my visit, but in the end I just smiled and told the young lady I was looking for Amy Frechette.
The woman threw both her hands to her breast, her eyes wide, and said, “See children, see, the stranger in our midst seeks out our fearless leader, even though he mispronounces her last name. Come, come, let us show him the way. The children all jumped up and followed the woman to the doorway. She winked at me and walked down the stairs, the children marching and clapping along with her and a few seconds later I followed them down. I did not march or laugh or jump or clap, but I probably should have. You only live once.
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