by Jack Parker
I sucked on my lower lip, which was still healing. "The boss left Mendoza's car at the cannery for his goons to pick up – without meeting them in person – so he left this note beneath the wipers."
Slyder grinned triumphantly. "My thoughts exactly. I'm willing to bet that there are fingerprints all over this sucker. Let's take it back the station and get CSI to have a look at it. They can dust it and determine whether or not the flakes really came from the same car."
"Do you want to finish checking the place now, or wait and see if it's necessary?" I asked.
He checked his watch, although his mannerisms suggested that he'd already made up his mind. "The way I figure, Stikup, is we take this in now and pray to the Big Guy upstairs that we get something from it. If we don't, we'll send a team back and move from there. Sound good to you?"
I shrugged. "You're driving."
Slyder carefully placed the note in a plastic baggy – being cautious not to drop any of the paint flakes. I packed the phone–notebook from the other drawer and the tape from the answering machine in much the same fashion – just in case. We cleaned up after ourselves as quickly as we could, then headed back down the hall to the living room where we'd left Thawyer's wife.
Patricia was sitting in the same chair we had left her in, but now there was a young boy seated on her lap. I immediately saw the resemblance to his father – the short brown hair, the dark eyes, the pinched facial features. He looked to be no older than six.
Both of them looked up at us as we entered, the expressions on their faces revealing more curiosity than anything. Neither spoke as we came to stand before them. Thawyer's wife blew a cloud of smoke into the air and watched us with curiosity. The boy lay back against her, resting his head on her left breast, and eyed us apprehensively.
Slyder cleared his throat. "Ah, we've concluded our search, Ma'am. I think we've found what we were looking for." He produced the bag of weed I'd found, almost reluctantly. "Detective Stikup found this in a drawer. Do you know anything about this?"
Thawyer's eyes narrowed, but she didn't look surprised. Then she sighed. "Yeah, I knew Fin had some of that lying around – though I didn't know where. Would you mind putting it away? My son doesn't need to see that."
Slyder's cheeks reddened, and he immediately stuffed the bag back into his coat. "We'll be taking this as evidence. I'm…" He trailed off, looking at the boy. "I'm somewhat afraid to ask this, Ma'am, but… er, have you ever…?"
Patricia coughed into her hand pointedly, to say she'd understood the question. "I'm an addicted smoker, Officer, but I don't use anything stronger than cigarettes. When I was younger I got caught with some of that nonsense, but since then I've never done anything." She fixed us with a gaze that was quartered, honest. But that wasn't surprising: she had no real reason to lie, after all, and she had a son to care for. "You have my word."
Slyder nodded, looking mildly relieved. "That's good – I'm glad to hear it. I apologize again for inconveniencing you." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I wish you and your boy well. Thank you for your cooperation."
I tipped my fedora at the pair and followed Slyder out the front door.
Behind us, woman and child watched our departure: the older staring blankly at our backs, the younger with tears in his eyes.
Chapter Fifteen
"You realize we've spent the entire day together, Chief?" I asked as I climbed out of Slyder's squad car for a second time that day.
He glared at me over the roof of the vehicle. "Trying not to, Stikup."
I chuckled, averting my gaze across the snowy lot to where the massive building sat, crumbling as we watched, slouching beneath the years.
The cannery on 322, halfway to the bridge, had closed down years ago and remained abandoned for as long as I could remember. The parking lot stretching across several hundred feet was treacherous because the snow hid cracks in the weathered blacktop. To our right, there were several rusted trailers parked at the cannery's westernmost end, their white sides all but invisible beneath layers of graffiti, and to the left a dark copse of trees bordered the property.
"Lovely décor," I muttered, low enough that Slyder couldn't hear.
We had decided to stop on the way home from Thawyer's. Before we'd departed for Delaware earlier that morning, Slyder had slotted the CSI team for a two o'clock investigation at the cannery. The team was still on–site when we pulled into the parking lot, which had not seen so much activity for more than twenty years. The day had grown somewhat warmer, but the temperature meant nothing when it was so goddamn windy. The gusts were powerful enough to make me lose my balance, and I could feel them like icy razors through my coat.
Slyder and I pulled our collars up over our faces and crossed the lot as quickly as we dared, heading for the north entrance into the cannery where the majority of the CSI team were waiting.
Lieutenant Madley – bundled up in a heavy black coat – shook Slyder's and my hands in turn, and then gestured towards the door. "Why don't we go inside to talk?" she asked, shouting to be heard over the whistling wind. "It's warmer."
No one offered any arguments, so Madley led the way in, through a heavy metal door. Slyder and I followed with the other four forensics officers behind us. We entered into the cavernous, main operating room. It was warmer – barely – but we were sheltered from the winds and that was something.
The blackness seemed to grow thicker the deeper into the cannery we looked, but no one physically ventured any further than the dimly lit entrance area. Abandoned assembly lines, towering shelves and crane–like mechanisms, all metal. I imagined that the place would have been noisy, active, and warm when it had been operational. The faint smell of oil lingered in the air, which – I supposed – came from the numerous gears and machines that operated the conveyers and other moving parts.
Madley spoke, and her voice echoed eerily in the vast, empty space. "Our search was somewhat inconclusive, sir," she began, addressing Slyder. "The snow was as much a help as a hindrance: we were able to find where the car had been hidden – on the other side of those trailers – by the tracks in the snow, but if there's any type of evidence left behind, it's so miniscule that we'll have to wait until the ice thaws to find it. I doubt that any of the thieves actually ventured inside here, mainly because we had to break the padlock on the door in order to enter ourselves. There are numerous broken windows, but I think it's more likely that they left the money just inside one of those loose vents outside. Some of them appear to have been tampered with recently."
Slyder listened wordlessly, his black eyes glittering as he took in their surroundings.
After a long pause, in which he said nothing, I turned to Madley's team and jerked a thumb at the black expanse of factory behind us. "Anyone for manhunt? Great place to play."
One of the officers chuckled – I decided immediately that I liked him – but the rest looked at me with expressions I couldn't quite read in the darkness.
"Detective Stikup and I found some significant evidence going through Finigan Thawyer's residence," Slyder told the team, as though I'd said nothing out of the ordinary. "I'd put money on us not finding anything here – even if we wait until spring. But what Stikup and I found earlier might just prove to be the breakthrough in this case."
"Excellent," Madley said tonelessly. She didn't ask what it was we had found, probably because she would be the one to look it all over herself.
Slyder took one last look around at the man–made cave, then clapped me on the shoulder and steered me towards the door. "You're right," he said amicably. "This would be a good place for manhunt."
Behind us, I could almost hear Lieutenant Madley rolling her eyes.
* * *
I walked into the office an hour and a half later, singing at the top of my voice.
The first song on my lips was Victory in Jesus, so I belted it out as I threw open the front door and stepped into the hall. I was on the third verse (Or is it the fourth? Hell, there are so many.) when Jill stepped o
ut of her office, an inquisitive look on her face.
"What happened to you?" she asked, making a face.
I grabbed her by the arm and waist and spun her around – this was difficult in the narrow hallway – but I accomplished it, still singing at the top of my voice. More conservative pastors might have considered it sacrilegious, but if David could dance naked before the Ark of the Covenant, then I could do it in my office.
Laughing now, Jill allowed me to perform several more dancing steps – all executed rather poorly – and then collapsed into the embrace I offered. "What happened?" she asked again.
I released her from the hug but kept my hands posted on her shoulders so she couldn't escape. "I've solved the case!" I cleared my throat, and then clarified. "Well, not completely. Just wanted to say it. Anyway, Chief and I found some pretty good evidence that might just put the bad guys away. Once SPD ID's some fingerprints, we can tie up the loose ends and make an arrest!"
She smiled wearily, perhaps less excited than I had hoped she would be, but hell – it had to be surprising. "Chance, that's wonderful!"
I started to agree, probably about to quip something about my Holmes–ish thinking capacity, but it was then that I noticed she was crying. My joy died instantly with my smile as I suddenly saw how red and swollen her eyes were. It wasn't all that surprising that I'd missed it, of course: men are notoriously imperceptive, after all – even Private Investigators.
"Woah, woah, woah!" I said. "What's the matter?"
Jill looked down at the floor and didn't speak. I heard her sniffle and a tear trailed noiselessly down her cheek. Her silence spoke volumes, but there were no details.
"What happened?" I asked, softly.
Another tear escaped her left eye, and her chin quivered as she fought to say something. Then, she put her face into my chest and broke down. I put my arms around her, resting my chin on the crown of her head. At the same time as I was more than willing to be there to comfort her, I felt myself beginning to panic. I'd never excelled at talking to women about feelings – in fact, all past encounters had ended in spectacular disaster. With a track record like that, the World Series didn't look so promising.
And so, I let her cry herself out. Sometimes silence is the best remedy, after all. We stood there, alone in the narrow hallway, together and yet worlds apart.
After several minutes, her sobs began to die down, so I ventured an inquiry again. "What's wrong, Jill?"
She heaved a sigh, then pulled away, wiping her eyes on the backs of her hands – as though that would make everything better. "Sorry," she murmured, stepping away from me. "I'm sorry, Chance."
"Hey – stop it!" I steered her backwards into my dark office by her shoulders. The awkward move made her smile, and that was something. Once we'd cleared the threshold, I gently pushed her onto the couch and stood over her.
"Sit," I ordered, even though she was already sitting. "Relax. I'll light a fire so we can see, and you can tell me what's on your mind."
Jill nodded after a moment, but didn't really agree to the deal. She said nothing.
Is that good or bad?
I grimaced, uncomfortable, and turned to the task I'd appointed to myself. There was just enough kindling left in the grate to make a substantial fire, so I lit a match and tossed it in with some lighter fluid. The warmth flooded the room as the blaze grew, and I got up and crossed to the sofa. I removed my trench coat and tossed it over the arm of the couch, then grabbed a folding chair from the corner and sat down in it backwards, facing Jill.
For a moment, I waited, unsure of what to say, then attempted a joke. "Welcome to Stikup Psychiatric Facilities. Please spill your guts even though I've never met you before in my life and couldn't possibly care less about your problems, but I do have a Ph.D. I'll send you a bill for two million within the next three days."
Jill managed a feeble smile that died seconds after being born.
I winced, but not because she hadn't found my lame joke amusing. I'd overdone it anyway. "That was supposed to make you laugh."
"I'm sorry," she whispered. Then she looked up at me with those beautiful eyes of hers – now glassy and tired – and swallowed heavily. "You ready for me to drop the world's weight on you?"
I gave a half–smile. "Call me Atlas."
She again, then reluctantly began her tale. "My… My father died last night. Sclerosis of the liver. He's been dying for years, but the past few months were the worst. My mom called me with the news while you were out."
Ah. I bit my lower lip, empathizing. "I'm sorry, girl."
Her lower lip trembled and she didn't meet my gaze. "But I'm not."
Of all the answers I had been expecting, that was not one of them. The way she said it nearly rocked me back in my chair. "I'm… not sure I follow you."
Jill refused to meet my gaze. Something like anger was burning in her eyes, burning holes in the carpet at my feet. "I'm not sorry that my father's dead."
I blinked several times, trying to make my brain comprehend what was being said. I couldn't, so I finally said, "What?"
More tears leaked out of her eyes. "Chance! Don't say it like that – that's why I'm so upset! I'm upset because I feel so… callous. I don't miss my father, but I want to. I want to feel sad and miserable that he's gone, but I don't. I'm… I'm mad at myself for not really caring."
I sucked in a breath. "I'm not sure I totally understand."
She swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. "I don't either," she admitted. "It's like this, Chance. My father and I had a terrible relationship. He would come home early, early in the morning – after work, he would go out drinking. No matter how late it was when he'd come back, he'd storm into the house and demand dinner, so my mother and I would quickly get out of bed and put together some sort of meal for him – whatever we had on hand. If he didn't like it, he would go into a storm of drunken rage. Sometimes he… he would hit both me and my mother."
I didn't say anything, letting her continue uninterrupted.
"His behavior affected my older brother, Phillip, and eventually he started going out with my father after work each day. Then they would both come back sour, drunk, and mean. I used to dread their coming home, but there was nothing I could do to stop it." She worked her jaw for a moment, then resumed the narrative. "When I was almost sixteen, my brother and father went out on their nightly routine. They stayed out longer that night than either Mother or I expected. When my father came home, my brother wasn't with him. He was sullen and didn't say anything to either of us – just went right up to bed. Both my mother and I knew something was wrong, but we knew better than to ask. The next morning – Father came down to breakfast, but wouldn't eat. He just kept staring at the seat that my brother usually sat in. His unusual silence scared me more than his temper ever had. Finally, my mother couldn't stand it any more. So she asked him what was wrong."
Jill stopped because her throat had seized up. For a moment, she sat in silence, then inhaled deeply to steady herself and continued.
"I was surprised that my father answered – even more surprised by the helpless tone in his voice. He told my mother that he had… had killed my brother. They had gotten into a disagreement on the way home. Vehement words quickly evolved into blows, and my father…"
She drew her lower lip into her mouth, making no effort to stem the tears flooding down her cheeks, leaving faint trails of melted cosmetics. "My father strangled Phillip that night," she gasped. "Blinded by rage over their… petty disagreement."
I made a sudden motion with my hand – about to reach out for her hand, but then decided against it. Instead, I settled for a comforting pat on the knee. "Jilly, you don't have to go on. I know this is painful for you."
She grabbed my hand before I could retract it and held it tightly, shaking her head violently. "No, no – I need to get it out. You're the very first person I've ever told this all to."
After a long pause, she picked up the story where she had left off. The words s
eemed to come easier now – now that the most horrifying aspect of the story was past. "I think that the event actually brought my mother and father closer together. He stopped drinking and going out every night and spent more time with her. Maybe he got religion, I don't know. But I was even more afraid of him then than I'd ever been before, so I tended to keep my distance. He also kept away from me too. I guess he was afraid to get to close – afraid that maybe he would kill me in a fit of rage too. I don't know. I don't know how he didn't go jail either – I don't remember. I think the jury just didn't find him guilty. I didn't care, though. Losing Phillip mattered more to me than him getting his dues.
"For the rest of my years at home, we never really spoke, if you know what I mean. Small talk, awkward jokes, whatever. But there was always an animosity between us that never went away. After I went off to college, my mother kept in touch, but my father practically ignored my existence. No phone calls, only cards for the holidays and my birthday, and I think my mom signed his name on those."
