by Jodi Compton
“Yes,” I said, recognition kicking in. Hennig was a Bureau of Criminal Apprehension technician. I’d seen him at crime scenes, brushing fingerprint dust onto doorways, making casts of footprints, never drawing attention to himself.
“What can I do for you guys?” I said, feeling the little flutter of anxiety in my stomach that Diaz caused.
“Gil came down with me to get your car,” Diaz said. He held up the piece of paper. It was a warrant. “You’re welcome to look this over.”
I took the warrant from his hand and scanned it. It allowed testing for hair, fiber, prints, and blood. The work would be done at the BCA’s crime lab. Hennepin County had its own laboratory, but this wasn’t a Hennepin County case, and the BCA did testing for smaller jurisdictions, like the one Diaz served.
“If there’s anything you need from the car, why don’t you get it now?” Diaz suggested. “The warrant covers contents of the car, but we’ll be flexible. Officer Hennig will just need to watch, and he’ll need to briefly inspect whatever you remove.”
“I don’t need anything,” I said. There were tire tools in the trunk, the first-aid kit, and a few other emergency items. Cassettes in the glove compartment, and two $50 bills for towing in case of breakdown. I had no doubt the money would still be there when the Nova was returned to me.
Hennig spoke. “I’ll need the key, then.”
My fingers were clumsy. After perhaps sixty seconds, a period that seemed much longer with the two men watching me, I scraped the Nova’s key between the tight double coils of the key ring and out to freedom.
Hennig walked over to my car, not needing me to point it out for him. In a moment, a tow truck had pulled in behind it, and they were hooking it up.
“I know this is an inconvenience,” Gray Diaz said. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
“No,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Really,” Diaz said. “It’s no trouble.”
I shook my head. “I have a friend who’s just about to get off work,” I said. “I’ll get a ride from her.”
“Are you sure?” Diaz said as we started walking toward the elevators, the direction from which I’d come.
“Positive,” I said.
Back upstairs, I disappeared into the women’s room. I wasn’t sure exactly where Diaz had gone, but I didn’t want him to see me standing around, obviously without a friend I intended to hit up for a ride.
The restroom was unoccupied. I rested my haunches against the counter in silence.
Shorty had never been in my car, but of course Diaz couldn’t know that. He knew that Stewart had been at the Sportsman bar, where I’d spoken to him, and shortly thereafter had been dead in his burning house. For all Diaz knew, Shorty could have been in my car in the interim, either alive as a passenger, or dead in the trunk. I could have killed him elsewhere and transported the body back to his house to burn it in a weak cover-up attempt.
The problem was, while Shorty hadn’t been in my car, his blood had been. I’d been at the scene and even knelt beside him as he bled out, trying to persuade him to tell me a story that would otherwise have died with him. Stewart had told me what I needed to know, and all the while his warm blood had soaked into my clothes. Later, when Gen and I had gotten to her sister’s farmhouse, we’d washed our bloody clothes in the basement machine, and carefully gone over the porch and house, making sure no trace of Blue Earth had followed us there to implicate us. The next day, I’d gone to a carwash and given the Nova the most thorough cleaning, washing, and vacuuming it had ever suffered at my hands.
That didn’t mean, though, that Henning and his peers wouldn’t find anything. Many criminals attempted such cleanups, but good technicians still found what was left behind. Evidence could survive a long time under the right circumstances. It was entirely possible that technicians could find blood in the car and identify it as Shorty’s.
There was a rustling noise, of motion, in one of the bathroom stalls. The door opened and Roz, the MPD sergeant, came out. She stopped short and looked at me with frank surprise. I must have been looking at her the same way. There’s not a lot of reason for sitting or standing around a restroom in silent inactivity for ten minutes, and that’s what we’d just caught each other doing.
“What’s up?” I said lamely. I noticed that her eyes seemed red-rimmed.
“Ah, I’m not even supposed to be here,” she said. “I had to put Rosco down today.”
“Rosco?” I said.
“My first K-9 partner,” she said.
“Oh, hell,” I said. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah, well, it was for the best. He could hardly eat anymore. I fixed him ground steak the day before yesterday and he just looked at it, didn’t touch it. I knew it was time.” She waved a hand in the air. “I thought there was something I could be doing down here, to get my mind off it, but there’s nothing.” She sighed. “What about you?”
“Looking for a ride home,” I said. “I don’t have a car.”
Roz didn’t comment on the fact that I was “looking for a ride home” by standing around alone in a restroom. She said, “I might as well give you a lift.”
We went down to the garage in silence. Then, behind the wheel, she said, “You want to get a drink instead?”
***
“Okay, okay. No, wait,” I heard my own voice saying. “Okay, I’ve been pissed on four times, but I’ve only been thrown up on once. I’m very proud of that.”
“You’ve been pissed on four times?” Roz demanded, over the bar noise.
“One of those times deserves a, what do you call it, an asterisk,” I clarified, my hands wrapped around an empty highball glass. “This suspect was strapped down to a stretcher by EMTs, he’d been hurt in a fight in a biker bar. None of us even saw how he managed to whip it out, much less aim for my leg. He was like a ventriloquist with that stuff.”
Roz and I had initially wanted to go someplace dark and quiet, but had chosen a lively urban-professional bar instead, because we didn’t want to run into fellow cops, and the Friday-night happy-hour food would be better.
We drank to Rosco, and over the next few hours drank nearly enough to toast her other seven dogs. When the chips and seven-layer dip the bartender had set out wasn’t enough, we split a basket of seasoned potato wedges.
She asked about Gen. I asked how her trainee, Lockhart, was coming along. She told me she’d never believed that bullshit about me being involved in some murder down in Blue Earth. I told her I’d never credited the rumors about her being a lesbian. Roz told me she was a lesbian. I bought the next two rounds.
After a blurry length of time, Roz told me the story of Rosco’s finest hour.
“So we’re all out in the sticks, searching for this dangerous escaped convict- this is four-thirty or so in the morning, and it’s still pretty dark. Rosco’s got a scent, and he runs until he stops at this tree. Then he doubles back, and runs around the tree again. He’s all excited.
“We think this guy’s up the tree, so everyone runs over and points their weapons and flashlights up at the branches. But there’s no one there. Rosco’s still circling the tree, barking at me, and I can’t figure what he wants. The BCA guys are getting kind of pissed, like Rosco’s screwing up. They want me to pull him back onto the trail, and I have to tell them: you don’t lead these dogs, you follow them. Then Rosco jumps up with his front paws on the tree and barks again, like to say, I’ve done my job, now you take over, stupid.” Roz peered at me, owlish from drink. “You know what it was?”
“The guy was hiding in the tree?”
“That’s right. In the tree,” Roz said, squeezing my arm for emphasis. “He’d climbed up into the branches to look around, and the tree was dead and the trunk hollowed out, and when he was climbing back down, he either slipped or he decided to hide in there.” She sipped at her beer. “He couldn’t get back out, and just about froze to death in the night. He was unconscious. But they thawed him out and put him on trial, and sent him to pri
son for life.”
“A happy ending,” I said.
“Yeah,” Roz said. “What time is it?”
“Little after nine,” I said.
“I don’t think I can drive,” Roz said.
“’Kay,” I told her.
“Dammit, this whole thing was supposed to be me giving you a ride home,” Roz insisted.
“’S all right,” I told her.
In the end, Roz’s girlfriend, Amy, ended up taking a cab downtown in order to drive her home. Amy assured me it was no trouble to give me a lift, too. She didn’t recognize the address I gave her. But Roz did.
“You live in a housing project?” she said, incredulous.
18
A loose-limbed teenage boy ambled by in the hallway of the 26th floor of the north tower. His eyes met mine and flicked away; he went on to the apartment at the end of the hall. I was in front of 2605, where I’d knocked on the door, but gotten no answer. I tried again.
Then Cicero opened the door, wet-haired, a towel held half-crumpled in one hand. His shirt was damp where he’d obviously pulled it on hastily, without adequately drying the skin underneath.
“Is this a bad time?” I said.
“No, no,” he said. “Come on in.”
Inside, a smell of Ivory soap and steam had drifted into his living room. I said, “Sorry, I’m empty-handed tonight.”
“You don’t have to bring me anything to come over here,” Cicero said. “But am I right in guessing that while you didn’t bring a bottle this time, you haven’t been abstaining tonight? I thought I detected a semiliquid s in your-”
A knock on the door interrupted him. Cicero rolled to the door and opened it partway.
“I burned my arm,” a female voice said.
Cicero rolled back, and his patient entered. She was a thin white woman with lank brown hair, dressed in a disjointed ensemble of spaghetti-strapped satin camisole over sweatpants, and she held a wet paper towel to her arm.
“How’d this happen, Darlene?” Cicero asked.
“Cooking,” she said, and looked at me. But I saw her eyes, and knew from her pinpoint pupils that drugs were probably at the root of whatever kitchen accident she’d had.
Cicero turned to me. “Sarah, would you mind waiting in the other room?”
I nodded agreement and withdrew into his bedroom. If I knew him, this would take longer than just cleaning the burn and putting a topical salve on it; I doubted he’d missed her contracted pupils any more than I had, and he would probably follow treatment with advice on where to seek drug-dependency counseling.
The blinds of the window were up, as always, and the lights of Minneapolis lay below; I went over to look down. Cicero ’s voice and Darlene’s were faint through the bedroom door. Other than that, nothing. It was surprising how thick the walls of this building were. There were people around us, but I heard none of their activities. Other than hearing Fidelio bark once, my visits here had been like coming to someplace high atop a mountain. Normally, it was peaceful. Tonight, it was unnerving.
Roz had been a great distraction, as had the noise and crowd of the bar and the war stories we’d told each other. But now the question I’d been pushing from my mind came back to me, unappeased. What would happen if the BCA found Stewart’s blood in my car?
To be questioned as a primary suspect in Royce Stewart’s death had been painful. To see the distrust in the faces of some of my colleagues, and the perverse approval in the eyes of others- that had been distressing. But ultimately, I’d always had an escape clause where Shorty was concerned. I’d always known that if I were arrested or indicted, Genevieve would come back and tell the truth. I’d still be a conspirator in Shorty’s death, but not an accused murderer.
Now an unhappy possibility had arisen. Was it possible that Genevieve’s confession wouldn’t be enough? If all the physical evidence pointed to me, and so did all the witness testimony from Blue Earth, would a grand jury weigh Gen’s unlikely claim of guilt against the preponderance of evidence, and send me to trial instead? Once that happened, there would be very little to keep a jury from convicting me.
When I’d first been questioned by detectives from Faribault County, lying to protect Genevieve had seemed natural and right. Now I wondered if I hadn’t dug for myself a deeper hole than I’d ever realized.
The bedroom door opened, and I turned from the window.
“Hey,” Cicero said from the doorway, “sorry about that.”
“It’s your job,” I said.
“Are you hungry?”
I realized that I was. “How did you know that?”
“Med school,” Cicero said. “We’re taught to catch malnutrition early. What did you have for dinner?”
“Four whiskey sours, three beers, and half a basket of potato wedges,” I admitted.
“If there’s a more balanced meal than that, I haven’t heard of it,” Cicero said. “Let me make you some coffee and see what I’ve got in the way of food.”
I frowned. He was far from rich; I wasn’t even sure he was solvent. “You shouldn’t waste your food on me,” I said.
“Enjoy it and it won’t be a waste,” Cicero said.
He fixed me a tomato-and-avocado sandwich with a cup of coffee; we went back into his bedroom while I ate.
After I was mostly done, Cicero asked, “So, why were we drinking tonight?”
“Why is it that doctors always say we when they mean you?” I asked him.
“It suggests empathy,” Cicero said. “You weren’t celebrating, were you?”
“No,” I said.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, really.” I lifted the mug of coffee as if it would protect me from his curiosity.
“Like hell. What’s wrong?”
I licked a drop of tomato-stained mayonnaise from my finger. “That was a really good sandwich,” I said.
“Thank you. What’s wrong?”
I sighed. “It’s complicated,” I said. “It has to do with what my husband went to prison for, and… I just thought I was doing the right thing, and now I’m not so sure. Maybe you can understand that. What am I saying, of course you can.” I gave him a knowing look. “That’s how you lost your license, isn’t it? Assisted suicide. You helped a terminally ill patient to die, right?”
Cicero lifted an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”
“It wasn’t hard to figure out,” I said. “Compassion. It’s your fatal flaw.”
“Sexual misconduct,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“I lost my license for sexual misconduct with a patient.”
“You’re joking,” I said.
“Sarah,” he reproved me, “why on earth would I make a joke about something like that?”
Chastised, I took refuge in my coffee once again. I drank, then spoke more carefully. “But it was a misunderstanding, right?” I said. “A false accusation?”
“No,” Cicero said. “It was sexual misconduct, period.”
I wanted to say, That’s not possible.
“She came into the ER one night on a suicide attempt,” Cicero said. “She was tiny, barely five feet tall, with waist-length blond hair. I could see that the suicide attempt was ambivalent. She’d cut her wrists, but only shallowly. I got her admitted to the crisis unit, and during the process, she told me her story.
“She was British, had come to New York at 16 to study ballet. There was a rift in her family: her mother was dead, and she didn’t talk much anymore to her father and sister. She’d wanted to start a new life in the States, but things didn’t go well. She’d started to struggle with her weight, which meant anorexia and amphetamines, and then alcohol and downers to cope with all the stress. She had a series of boyfriends, none of whom treated her well, and when her career evaporated, she’d married the worst of them, a man with a more serious drug problem than she had. She had two babies in quick succession, and quit drugs for her children’s sake, but her husband never did, nor was he fait
hful. One day she woke up and realized she was trapped in a strange city and a loveless marriage, with two small children and no viable skills. That was when she decided her kids would be better off without her.
“She was obviously troubled, but to me it seemed that something in her was struggling to survive, suicidal ideation or not. I was hopeful about her case, but after I got her a bed in the psych ward, I didn’t hear anything about her again.
“She never forgot me, though. One night, about six months later, she left me three phone messages at the ER. I called her and found out that she was in crisis again. Her husband, who’d been a needle user, had told her he was HIV positive and didn’t think he could support her or the kids anymore, then took some cash and the car and left. She hadn’t heard from him in two days. She couldn’t come in to the ER, because she had no car and no one to watch her babies, but she badly needed someone to talk to, in person, not over a crisis line. She asked if I could come over.”
Cicero rubbed his temple, remembering. “I can remember to the minute how long I had before I got off work. Forty-two minutes; there was a digital clock hanging in the corner. I looked at it and told her I’d be there soon.”
It wasn’t right that I was feeling angry at this woman. My anger should have been focused on Cicero. I could see how he must have appeared to her: tall, competent, caring, handsome, and sworn to first do no harm. But instead I felt a spark of anger at the unknown, needy, grasping woman who I knew was about to drag Cicero into a trap that would cost him his job, his license, and eventually his legs.
“On the way over,” Cicero went on, “I’d been thinking about what I would tell her: that she had to get tested for HIV, places where she could get help taking care of her children. But she didn’t want to talk about her problems when I got there. She was composed, making tea in her kitchen in this long white nightgown. She didn’t seem crazy, and she didn’t seem suicidal. If she had, everything would have gone differently.”
I felt a little chill when Cicero said the word suicidal, realizing where this story might be going.
