by Rick Reed
Jack noticed that Marty’s accent became more pronounced when he was telling a story he figured was particularly interesting, one man to another.
Jack said, “Tell us why Sonny and Sully gave up an exciting career, and why I’m going to reciprocate. That means respond in kind.”
Chapter 19
While Jack and Liddell were talking to Uncle Marty in the Civic Center cafeteria, Engine No. 3 rolled out of Firehouse Station No. 5 on Maryland Street, emergency lights flashing, speeding down St. Joseph Avenue. Engine No. 3 is what is known as a “quint,” a ladder truck that has pumping capabilities. Pump House No. 7 on Barker Avenue and Perry Township Volunteer Fire Department were also en route with pumper trucks.
The fire was in Dogtown, an area along the Ohio River that the city annexed from the county a few years ago. A farmer who lived on Duesner Road, over a mile distant, called in the fire.
Fire Captain Taylor Swenson drove his ten-year-old Crown Victoria, equipped with a bar light and siren that sometimes worked. He was overdue to get a new Ford Explorer, but there were budget concerns and so on. He followed Engine No. 3, saying his usual prayer when responding to a fire call. “God please let me wreck this piece of junk and get a real vehicle.” He added, “Oh, and don’t let anyone get hurt.”
Swenson was a hands-on administrator. He worked his way up through the ranks, worked every position within the department, had seen everything and then some. The procession was passing the Blue Star Casino when another pump truck and rescue truck passed him. He fell in behind them.
In less than two miles they were on Old Henderson Road, which ran parallel to the Ohio River. Thick black smoke rose in the distance and created an intermittent fog across the road. The stilt cabins were the start of the fishing/party structures running along the banks of the Ohio River. Most were built with enough space between to give them some privacy, but many were built like older homes, with just an alleyway separating them.
When he arrived at the scene, Township Volunteer Firefighters and a pumper truck from Station 7 were already laying out hoses. Alleyways barely wide enough to walk through separated three cabins. The cabin in the center was fully engulfed. The quint was a bustle of activity as firefighters rolled hose in the direction of the blaze. Two teams of firefighters dressed in heavy gear risked life and limb checking the structures for signs of occupancy. Like police, a firemen’s first job was to protect lives, even at the risk of their own.
Swenson parked a respectful distance away, put on his white helmet and walked to the quint to meet his crew chief.
The crew chief said, “Three cabins are involved, Captain. I don’t think we’ll save any. No sign of anyone but we’re checking them now.”
Two ancient pickup trucks, one of them with no wheels and resting on cinder blocks, sat in front of the center cabin. The pickup closest to the fire was completely engulfed, its doors open and the front hood lifted, looking like the charred skeletal remains of an ancient beast.
Swenson called dispatch on his cell phone. “Call in Howard,” Swenson told the dispatcher. Howard was Richard Howard, a veteran of EFD and one of the best investigators Swenson had ever known. In his experience, this fire had the earmarks of arson.
No civilian casualties so far. “We’ll save what we can,” Swenson said to the crew chief. “I don’t want anyone taking chances. No one’s hurt so far. Let’s keep it that way.”
The crew chief hurried away, shouting out orders and lending a hand rolling out hose. Swenson watched his people and the Volunteer Firefighters knocking the fire down. One of the pumpers had laid hose to the river to draft water from the Ohio. There was a shortage of hydrants in the river camps.
Along the riverbank, willow trees and river birch leaned over the water, their flaming limbs dripping embers like a child’s sparkler.
The fires were knocked down. The cabins were reduced to wet ashes, with charred telephone-pole-sized stilts sticking up out of the rubble.
Crews began overhauling—sifting through—the ashes. Swenson’s own report to his chief would be on a loss of property only. He turned the scene over to his crew chief. It was the fire investigator’s job to make out the reports and distribute them to the needed agencies. A copy of the report would be sent to the Chief of the Perry Township department.
“Good job,” he yelled to the firefighters, and was walking to his car when one of the line firefighters yelled to him.
“Captain! Over here.”
Swenson waded through the wet ashes. The back of the center cabin had had an upper deck with parking beneath. The telephone-pole stilts there had burned through and the cabin had collapsed onto a vehicle, a small car.
Chapter 20
Uncle Marty had told Jack there were rumors that Sonny and Sully left their jobs under a cloud of suspicion. Uncle Marty denied knowing anything more than that an Internal Affairs investigation was coming their way. He unconsciously ran a hand through his hair again and wiped the hand on his slacks. “I don’t know for sure what the Internal Affairs thing is about.”
“Are you talking criminal charges?” Jack asked.
“I’m telling the truth. I don’t know any specifics.”
I’m telling the truth is like saying “Honest to God.” Or “I swear.” He waited for Marty to continue.
“Honest to God. I don’t know for sure,” Marty said.
He’s lying his ass off.
Jack said, “Come on, Bigfoot. This guy has got shit in his mouth. We can get the ‘truth’ from Boston P.D. We don’t need to trade favors.” Jack got up to leave.
Marty said, “Something tells me you’re going to need me before this is over. I can either work with you or by myself. I’m good at what I do. You ever heard that saying, ‘Keep your friends close, and keep your enemies closer?’ I’m not saying I’m an enemy, but even if you think I am, you should keep me close on this.”
Jack thought about it and said, “Here’s a better one. ‘With friends like you, who needs enemas?’”
Marty grinned like a kid. “Okay, I get you. But I wasn’t lying. I was just saving something back to trade in case you reneged on our deal. I figure if anyone can find Sully—besides me, that is—it will be you guys. I’ll tell you what I know if you let me know when you find Sully, and give me five minutes with him. How about that?”
“First of all—Uncle Marty—we don’t have a deal. You’re not in a position to trade with us. We’ll get the information. We’ll find Sully. So here’s my deal. You tell us everything you know about Sully and Sonny right now. You tell us what you suspect happened to Sonny. And if you find Sully first, you tell us before you approach him. If you don’t, I’ll arrest you for obstruction of justice and whatever else I can think of. And I can think of a lot,” Jack said. “That’s the best deal you’ll get out of us.”
“That’s not a deal,” Marty said. “You should at least buy me dinner before you screw me. Know what I’m saying? That ain’t even worth me putting lipstick on.”
He ran the hand through his hair again and wiped it on his leg. “Okay. In the interest of me not going to jail on some trumped-up charge, I’ll come clean.”
Jack sat back down.
“Okay. A reporter friend of mine back home approached me a couple of weeks ago. They were asking questions about Sonny and Sully and heard Internal Affairs was interested in talking to them. That’s who told me Sonny was killed. I was already here to find Sully. You know how reporters are. If there’s dirt they want to wallow in it. Especially dirt on a cop. My reporter friend is no different. But time to time I get stuff I can’t get through normal channels.”
Jack said, “Go on.”
“Like I said, I don’t know the details, but this reporter seemed to know an IA investigation concerning Sonny and Sully was in the works. The reporter knew I’d been sent to Evansville. Don’t ask me how. I don’t like being in the news, if
you catch my drift?”
“You can save me some time, Marty. What is the Internal Affairs investigation concerning? And why now? These guys have been gone from BPD for five years.”
Marty said, “All I know is it has something to do with an old case. Sonny and Sully worked a murder five years ago. I don’t know the details, like I said, but the Boston D.A. is interested. This has to be big to get the D.A.’s fur up.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. Marty was right about that. If the District Attorney’s office was investigating Sonny and Sully, it could only be a criminal investigation.
“Are you here to make sure Sully doesn’t talk to Internal Affairs?” Jack asked.
“I told you I didn’t kill Sonny,” Marty said. “I wasn’t here. You saw my airline ticket. I’m here to make sure my employer gets paid. That’s all.”
“Does Sully have something to do with Sonny’s death?” Jack asked.
“I knew Sully was on his way here. I don’t know about the murder.”
Jack wanted to point out that Marty had just told them he didn’t know Sully was in Evansville until after he was told that Sonny was dead. Marty changed his story to fit his mood, kind of like a politician.
Mindy said Sully came to Evansville two days ago. Sully said he got into town yesterday. Now Marty was saying Sully left Boston the day before that. Two of them were lying. Maybe all three.
“If I had to put my money on someone killing Sonny, I’d bet on Sully. He and Sonny weren’t as close as people might have you believe. I’m sure this IA thing had them worried, and I assure you they knew about it too.”
“How can you be sure they knew about the investigation?” Jack asked.
“I just know. Besides, the reporter told me she called Sonny a couple weeks back. She’s very thorough. She would have called Sully too.”
Jack didn’t necessarily agree with all of what Marty just said. Police departments’ Internal Affairs units were forced by police policy to review every complaint or possible violation of police procedure, no matter how small. Some ended with a suspension from duty, very few resulted in dismissal or criminal charges. However, the D.A.’s office was only limited by the statute of limitations.
It has been said that the criminal justice system is built on a wedding cake model. Only the top layer of the cake, the celebrity layer, gets the true procedural protections intended by the U.S. constitution. The rest are dealt with in an expedient manner. Think of O.J. Simpson, Casey Anthony, and George Zimmerman. Now think of a town drunk breaking into a department store to get out of the cold. You know who will get the best lawyer and the highest caliber of police effort? The truth was, not everyone is treated equally under the law.
“What’s this reporter’s name?” Jack asked, and was surprised when Marty gave it up without trying to trade.
“Danny Diego.”
Liddell took a notebook out of his pocket and wrote down the name.
“Do you think he’ll talk to us?” Jack asked.
“You ever know a reporter that didn’t like to talk to a cop?” Marty asked, with a smirk playing on his face. “And she’s not a he. Danny is short for…hell, I don’t know what her name’s short for, but here’s her number.” Marty took his cell phone out, found her number and gave it to Liddell.
Jack’s questions about the ties to the casino or Marty’s employer were reticently answered or minimized. The tabletop was filled with empty paper cups by the time they finished talking.
“I appreciate you coming to see us,” Jack said.
“I’ve worked with the authorities before,” Marty said. “No offense, but they usually act like they have a stick up their ass. You guys are okay. We’ll make a good team. I think we’ll both get what we want.”
“No offense—Marty,” Jack said, “but we’re not a team.” And I don’t give a rat’s ass if you find Sully. Just stay out of our way.
“Keep my gun in my pants. Got it,” Marty said and stood. He handed business cards to Jack and Liddell. “My room number at the hotel, work number, and my personal cell number are on there. The work number gets you my secretary. A guy named John Smith.” He raised his hand and said, “Swear to God. That’s his real name.”
Marty held his hand out and said, “How do I get in touch with you?”
Jack didn’t offer him a business card or shake his hand, both of which would imply they were working with him. Jack said, “You found us. Just call 911 and tell them it’s Uncle Marty for Jack.”
Marty took his hand back. He said, “You’re both honorable men. I know you’ll do the right thing. Me, I’m not so honorable. I’m doing this because I owe you for flushing that piece of shit that killed my nephew. I always repay a favor.” Marty turned and walked away.
“And collect a debt,” Liddell said when Marty was out of earshot.
Liddell asked, “You don’t believe him, do you?”
“Does the Pope shit in the woods?” Jack asked, using one of Bigfoot’s aphorisms.
“Do you want to talk to the reporter, Danny? Or should I talk to Boston PD Internal Affairs?” Liddell bumped his palm against the side of his head. “What am I saying? The only time you talk to Internal Affairs is when you’re in trouble.”
“Let’s go back to the office. I’ll talk to the reporter. Only because I’m better with news media types.” Jack hated talking to news people but he hated talking to Internal Affairs more.
They walked through the Civic Center and ran into Captain Franklin coming out of the detectives’ office.
“I’ve got something for you,” Franklin said.
* * * *
What Captain Franklin had for them sent them out of the station in a hurry. Jack and Liddell rolled up behind Captain Swenson’s Crown Vic.
“What a mess,” Liddell said. “I hate fire crime scenes. You can’t get the smell out of your clothes.”
“Do you still have boots in the trunk?” Jack asked. They’d taken Liddell’s car. He kept rain boots in the trunk, a pair for both of them. When they were going to a fire scene, Jack always suggested they take Liddell’s car, because of the boots and he hated to smell up his own car.
Liddell watched firefighters sloshing through black, ankle-deep muck and said, “I guess we’d better get the boots on.”
Liddell popped the trunk and they pulled on the boots. He spread a sheet in the trunk and another on the front floorboard for when they returned to the car.
The smell of steam and smoldering wood made their eyes water and burn. Captain Swenson got out of his car wearing a heavy coat, boots and an eight-point uniform hat.
“Captain Franklin says you have a crispy critter,” Jack said to Captain Swenson. “Crime scene is on the way.”
“I know they’re busy with the murder from this morning, but you’re going to need them here,” Swenson said.
A black Chevy Suburban pulled past them and parked in front of the chief’s car. Little Casket had arrived.
Sergeant Walker’s SUV parked behind the Suburban. Walker waved at them and busied himself gathering equipment and pulling on rubber boots and latex gloves.
The Suburban’s door opened and a young man nearly the size of the Suburban squeezed out through the opening. He made tentative eye contact with the men and hurried around to the passenger side of the Suburban. Little Casket used the Suburban’s chrome step bar to climb down. The giant reached out to help her and she slapped at his hand.
“Hands off, Igor,” Little Casket said, and his arms dropped to his sides. She looked at the men gathered and said, “What?” To her helper she said, “Come on, Igor. Chop chop.”
Jack wasn’t surprised Little Casket called her driver Igor. She had a nasty temperament and was equally rude regarding the living and the dead. But in this case his size and appearance must have prompted the name. The guy was a behemoth but he seemed pleasant and respectful
—or scared. He was somewhere in his late teens or early twenties at best, with dark skin and blond hair worn in a tall crew cut. He topped Liddell’s six-foot-six by at least two inches, maybe more, and had at least forty pounds of muscle on Liddell. His shoulders were broad, and the sleeves of his parka were bulged to bursting. Jack’s first impression was of a young Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, a Samoan-Canadian WWE-wrestler-turned-actor.
“You forgot my bag, didn’t you? Go back to the Suburban and get it. We need some equipment.” She pointed to Igor’s feet. “I don’t suppose you brought any rubber boots to work?”
He said nothing and she flapped a hand at him dismissively.
When he was gone, Jack asked, “Who is that?”
Little Casket said, “You got wax in your ears. That’s Igor. My helper. For a while anyway. He’s on internship from Ivy Tech College. This time they sent me one big enough to do the heavy lifting. They keep sending these little girls who think they’re going to be all CSI: Miami. Most of them faint dead away when they see blood, puke when they see gore, chip their French nails if they touch something, or don’t like wearing caps because it messes up their hair. They don’t grow ’em tough anymore. Mommy and Daddy tell them they can be anything they want. They don’t tell them how hard it is to feed themselves.”
“Not everyone can be as tough as you, Lilly,” Jack said. “But I think you calling him Igor is insensitive even for someone as—experienced—as yourself.”
Walker retrieved his camera and boots from the trunk of the crime scene wagon and stood back watching the banter between Jack and Lilly.
Lilly trained her horn-rimmed glasses on Jack. Her mouth drew down on the sides. “You want me to call him Aloysius, or maybe “hey Dummy”? Maybe I should imitate you—being that you’re so sensitive and all—and call him Bigfoot.”
“She’s got you there, pod’na,” Liddell said.
