Smoke-Filled Rooms: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  I handed him the light. He shone it on the blood drops. They were quarter-sized, irregular. Something had dripped, not gushed. The dripping had been slow, but steady.

  A dead body didn’t bleed. But a saturated shirt would drip like that. Or a knife.

  Johnson moved the flashlight out like I had done, examining the drops as they moved down the walk. The sirens were so close that I expected to see the lights any moment.

  A knife. A personal instrument, nasty, frightening. Deadly. Faced with a knife, I’d do anything to keep it away from me. Anything at all.

  I frowned. “Hey, Detective, think we can get a peek at his hand?”

  “You already seen it.”

  “The right hand. I want to see the left.”

  Johnson cursed, but he turned toward me. He shone the light on the hand.

  The fingers weren’t broken and there were no cigarette burns on the back.

  “Nothing,” Johnson said.

  “That’s the problem.” I clenched my own hand to keep myself from grabbing the boy’s and turning it over. “He was knifed.”

  “No defensive wounds,” Sinkovich breathed.

  “Except maybe on the palm.”

  I nodded.

  Johnson studied me. I saw, in that instant, a respect that he hadn’t shown before. “We’ll catch it before they zip him up.”

  Then he went back to examining the blood drops. I wished he hadn’t taken my flashlight. I wanted to see if there were more drops in the grass.

  Voices rose inside the building. I heard Marvella telling people to calm down.

  The sirens screamed onto the street, accompanied by red-and-blue lights. Anyone who hadn’t awakened when Johnson arrived was awake now.

  In a few minutes, this place would be a madhouse.

  Johnson ignored that. He made it to the curb, then shone the light on the grass, the street, and the sidewalk again. He crouched, but said nothing.

  Cars pulled up all around his, four squads and another sedan, parking in haphazard positions. Sinkovich watched, arms crossed. He didn’t look pleased.

  Officers in uniform got out the squads. Two white men in suits climbed out of the sedan. Johnson gave me a quick glance, a sad sort of vindication of his earlier statement, then walked over to them.

  One of the men in suits gave instructions to the officers, making a motion with his hand.

  “Guess we’ve just been dismissed,” Sinkovich said.

  “You wanted the case?”

  He snorted. “Me? In this neighborhood? I’d have as much success as those two guys are gonna have.”

  He indicated the new arrivals. I stood slowly. I hadn’t expected that much awareness of Sinkovich. I had been underestimating him all night.

  “You’re homicide?”

  “I wish. I’m in vice. Most of the bodies I see still have a rubber hose tied to their left arm.”

  “Must get old.” I couldn’t believe I was chatting with a white cop over the body of a dead boy. It felt surreal, almost unnatural, and I wasn’t sure how to stop the conversation.

  “It’s why I’m here. I volunteered for this. Johnson’s right. In the House, it’s called harassment detail.”

  “You were following Malcolm.”

  He glanced at me. “I was following his little friends, but they just hang out on street corners. Things didn’t get interesting until yesterday when you strong-armed your way into things. Then when you took him today, I thought I’d follow, see what it got me.”

  He glanced at the boy, his expression a mixture of sadness and disgust. I understood his thoughts. It had gotten him to another dead end.

  The crime-scene officers moved us aside. They weren’t as cautious as Truman Johnson had been, and I remembered what my old partner Loyce Kirby once told me: More clues were destroyed by careless investigators than by criminals.

  I moved to the grass behind the stairs, where I was certain the murderer had not been. Sinkovich joined me. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, but I waved them away.

  There was a bang inside the building, a door slamming or something falling. Marvella’s voice rose again. “Wait! Wait! Let them—”

  And then a woman appeared in the doorway. Malcolm was beside her, grabbing her arm. Over his shoulder, I could see Franklin, his eyes swollen with sleep.

  The woman shook off Malcolm and took a hesitant step out of the building. She was fully dressed, which surprised me, her orange cotton sundress wrinkled and stained with sweat. I knew even before I saw that same square chin that she was Brian’s mother.

  She didn’t say a word. Her eyes grew larger. Malcolm reached for her again, and she shook him away. Marvella had come outside, and Franklin stood in the doorway. The teacher from the attic apartment leaned against Franklin’s back.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” one of the officers said to her. “I’m afraid you can’t come out this way.”

  But she took a step closer, her gaze trained on the body covering the stairs.

  Johnson was still talking to the other two detectives. The techs were concerned with cordoning off the area around the body. Only Malcolm, Marvella, Sinkovich and I really knew what was going on.

  She extended a shaky hand toward the boy, slowly easing down so that she could touch him.

  “Brian?” she said. “Brian, honey?”

  The officer who had first spoken to her, a white man with a head full of gray hair, looked up. His eyes closed for the briefest second, and then he reached for her.

  “Brian?”

  The officer put his arms around her, apparently planning to get her back into the apartment, but she screamed and started hitting him. The shift was abrupt and startling.

  “That’s my boy! What’re you doing to my boy? Lemme go! That’s my boy!”

  Malcolm raised a hand as if he wanted to help, but the officer kept forcing her backward. She screamed harder. The other crime-scene officers stopped. One of them started up the stairs, stepping over the boy’s body.

  “Hey,” I said. There was more anger in my voice than I expected. What were they thinking, handling her like that? “Let me.”

  The officer stopped. She was struggling, getting the best of the man holding her. Malcolm had backed away.

  I climbed onto the porch from the side. Sinkovich followed me but was wise enough to stay back. The woman was flailing at the officer. I grabbed one of her fists. The other hit me alongside the head with enough force to make me grunt.

  “Let me,” I said to the officer, and this time he backed away. His movement surprised her, knocking her off-balance. I pulled her the rest of the way toward me, into my arms, burying her face in my shoulder.

  “You don’t want to see this,” I said.

  She struggled. The woman was stronger than most men. “You don’t understand. That’s my boy. That’s my Brian.”

  “Not anymore.”

  My words were soft, but she heard them and froze. She raised her gaze to mine as if she were assessing the truthfulness of my words. Her expression cleared and then she looked over my shoulder. From her vantage, all she would be able to see would be his side, his arm resting across his stomach, his damaged hand, and his sneaker trailing off his foot.

  A shudder ran through her. “No.” The word was firm as if she would not allow this to happen, not to her, not to her son. Then she looked at me as if it were my fault.

  “No,” she said again.

  I recognized the emotion. I had felt it not an hour earlier when I had mistaken her son for Jimmy.

  I slipped an arm behind her back, turning her, leading her inside.

  “It’s not possible,” she said in a tone that recognized what had happened. “He just hasn’t come home yet, that’s all. I haven’t even reached his dad. He’s probably there. His dad’s. You know.”

  They’re gone, Brian had said to me. David’s gone. Even my dad’s gone. Everybody’s going away but me.

  And then he had kicked the ground with a bare foot, a lonely
little boy facing an even lonelier future.

  I couldn’t look back at him now.

  “He’s there, right?” Her voice was hollow.

  “Let’s go inside, Mrs. Richardson.”

  She bowed her head and let me take her through the door. My neighbors crowded the hallway. Franklin leaned against the banister, and the teacher sat on the stairs, head in his hands.

  A woman I’d seen around the building took Brian’s mother into her arms. I stood there for a moment, feeling useless, feeling guilty, and then my gaze met Franklin’s.

  I saw fear in his eyes.

  I nodded once, just to let him know I saw him, and went back outside.

  * * *

  The sky was pink toward the lake. More cars had arrived while I’d been with Mrs. Richardson. A photographer was taking pictures of the body. The two detectives watched, arms crossed. Malcolm leaned against the building. Sinkovich still stood in the corner and the crime-scene officials had cordoned off the stairs.

  No one spoke. There was nothing any of us could say.

  Johnson was walking the yard in a grid pattern, flashlight trained on the grass. I watched him, knowing I could be helping him, yet unable to move.

  An ambulance had pulled up, lights off, no siren. It parked as close to the curb as it could get. One of the orderlies got out of the side, then opened the back. Two others came out with a gurney covered by a black bag.

  Malcolm winced.

  The men started to bring the gurney up the curb, but Johnson stopped them, pointing to the blood stains. He called the photographer over, and had him shoot that area before allowing the orderlies to wheel the gurney toward the body.

  I stepped off the stoop near Sinkovich. He glanced at me, his mouth a thin line. His shift had probably ended long ago. I wondered where his relief was—if he had any relief. He didn’t have to stay, but he had.

  I wondered if he had seen anything in his afternoon vigil before he had decided to follow us. I’d have to ask later, when this was all over.

  Johnson followed the orderlies to the body. The photographer took a few more shots, then changed his roll of film. He moved to the side so that he could shoot the back of the body and the area it had rested on.

  One of the orderlies unzipped the body bag, folding it open. Then he bent down, gently slipping the shoe on the boy’s foot, and picked him up.

  The body didn’t change position. It was in full rigor. There was no blood on the back of the shirt, no obvious exit wound at all. But there was a long copper-colored stain that covered the boy’s right shoulder. Rust? Dried mud? Paint? It wasn’t blood, that much was clear. But I wasn’t close enough to see what it was.

  They set the boy onto the bag, and started to zip it when Johnson stopped them.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Detective,” one of the white detectives said. “Let’s get this done.”

  But Johnson ignored him. I moved toward him, not a lot, but enough so that I could see what he was doing. He reached the arm, but he couldn’t lift it—the rigor got in the way—so he pushed the shirt away from the hand and peered at it.

  “What’re you looking for?” the other detective asked.

  Johnson let the shirt fall. He glanced at me, and shook his head so minimally that I doubted anyone else could see it.

  No defensive wounds. The boy had been knifed and hadn’t defended himself.

  Or hadn’t been able to.

  The sky was even lighter now. “One more thing,” I said.

  Johnson looked at me, and I touched my wrist.

  “Who’s that guy?” the first detective asked.

  Johnson looked at the child’s wrists, raised his eyebrows slightly and stepped away. The orderly zipped the body bag. A vibrant boy had been reduced to a small black lump.

  The second detective walked toward Johnson. “What were you looking for?”

  “Answers,” he said.

  * * *

  We were silent until the ambulance left. Then the detectives ordered all the civilians to remain in the building until they were interviewed. Johnson went back to walking his grid and Sinkovich headed toward his car without a backwards glance.

  I led Malcolm inside. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

  An apartment door at the end of the hall stood open. I could hear Mrs. Richardson’s voice, thick with tears, saying, “I don’t know how it happened, Barry. He just didn’t come home. You can’t blame me for this….”

  “I’m not hungry,” Malcolm said.

  “I know. Come upstairs anyway.” I owed the boy. He had done much more than I expected, had found Daniel, assisted with Elijah, and then had been a solid presence throughout the long night. I was keenly aware of the fact that his former friends had asked him where he was going to sleep. I didn’t want him to be alone, not after this.

  Malcolm didn’t argue. He gazed down the hall. Mrs. Richard’s voice was still carrying.

  “…don’t know where they’re taking him. Barry, please. He’s just a little boy…”

  “Come on,” I said.

  We walked up the stairs together. There were voices coming from inside a number of apartments. Marvella’s door was ajar, but I didn’t hear her. I suspected she was downstairs with Mrs. Richardson.

  I opened the door to Franklin’s apartment. He stood in the window, watching the street below. He still wore his robe, although on his feet he wore a pair of dress shoes. I hadn’t even noticed in all the confusion.

  Malcolm tensed beside me. I hesitated for a split second, wondering how this meeting would go. Franklin had pinned Malcolm to the wall the day before, after all.

  But there wasn’t much I could do. I was already committed.

  “Franklin,” I said. “Meet Malcolm.”

  For a moment, Franklin didn’t move. It was almost as if he hadn’t heard me. He continued to stare out that window as if the fire escape held answers.

  I knew what he was thinking. The same thing I had been thinking when I was helping Mrs. Richardson. He had a son the same age as Brian. It could have been any of our boys.

  Then Franklin turned. His gaze ran over Malcolm and I think it took a moment for the boy’s presence to register. I could feel Malcolm’s tension grow. He vibrated with it.

  Finally, Franklin nodded. “You were some help tonight.”

  For a moment, I thought he was talking to me. Then I realized he was talking to Malcolm.

  “Good work. I don’t think things would have remained calm without you.”

  Malcolm’s hand went involuntarily to his cheek—his bruised cheek—and then he seemed to realize what he had done. He let his hand fall. “Thanks.”

  “We haven’t eaten,” I said. “You got pancake fixings?”

  “Waffles,” Franklin said. “I’m the king of waffles.”

  It was a statement that sounded practice, like a joke he had with his family. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  His voice trailed off. We were all silent for a moment.

  “What did they all do to that kid?” Malcolm asked into the silence. “Those marks on his face—”

  “Burns.” I pushed the door to make sure it was tightly closed. It was.

  “Why? Why would anyone do that?”

  Such a tricky question. There were a thousand rationalizations, and I was certain that the killer could have given us one. But ultimately, there was no answer. There was no real why.

  “Let’s get some breakfast,” Franklin said, apparently deciding that no answer was the only answer he could give.

  He shuffled toward the half kitchen, looking fifteen years older than he had the day before.

  “You want some orange juice?” I asked Malcolm. He seemed shaky, as if the nerves that had held him through the night were finally failing.

  “I should go.”

  “Where?” I said. “It sounded like by helping me, you lost your only home.”

  Franklin looked over his shoulder, startled, but to his credit, didn�
�t say anything.

  Malcolm shrugged. “There’re places I can stay.”

  “I’m sure. But it’ll take you a while to get there. Have breakfast with us, and then we’ll discuss the rest of your day.”

  Franklin turned back toward the cabinets, reaching inside for a flour canister.

  Malcolm was silent for a moment. Then he sighed. He looked as exhausted as I felt. “Can I wash up somewhere?”

  I led him toward the bathroom, grabbed a towel and washcloth out of the tiny linen closet, and gave them to him. He took them, then disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Franklin had moved from the half kitchen to the middle of the living room, cradling a large bowl with one arm. In his other hand, he clutched a wooden spoon, using it to mix the batter.

  “Still doing it, huh, Smoke?”

  My entire body ached. After the meal, I would have to get some rest or I wouldn’t be able to function at all. I had a hunch that now, more than ever, I needed to be sharp.

  “Doing what?”

  “Taking in strays.”

  I couldn’t tell if Franklin approved or not. “I wouldn’t offer your home without your permission.”

  Franklin gave me a half smile. He stirred harder, as if moving quicker got rid of some of his angry energy. “I didn’t mean that. I was just wondering how the two of you became partners overnight.”

  Partners. I guess, in an odd way, we were. “He helped me find a young boy.”

  “Brian?”

  “No.” I went to the refrigerator and poured myself some orange juice. It was a thin and unappetizing orange; someone had put too much water into the concentrate. But I drank it anyway, knowing that I needed something in my stomach.

  “You’re detecting again?”

  “Marvella asked for my help. I was able to do her friend a favor. It seemed minor. Still does, after last night.”

  Franklin nodded. He came into the kitchen and set the bowl on the countertop. Then he rooted in a drawer for a thick silver waffle maker. It looked both expensive and well used.

  He set it beside the bowl, poured some oil in the center, closed the lid, and plugged it in.

  “That little boy,” Franklin said softly. “It could have been Keith or Jimmy or—”