Wisdom of the Bones

by Paul Christopher

  ‘See the owner?’

  ‘No. Lots of times people come in here, ask to use the bathroom and then I tell them we don’t got one so they sometimes go and take a leak, even take a shit under the expressway. Pretty dark under there, even during the day.’

  ‘Get the licence number?’

  ‘I was going outside to get it, call the tow truck to haul sumbitch off, but when I looked out he was gone.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Nine-thirty, about.’

  ‘White?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Ray thanked the man, put down a dime for the Big Red and headed for the door. There was an upturned wooden milk crate on the left and there were still a few copies of the Dallas Morning News piled up on it with the headline KENNEDY SLAIN ON DALLAS STREET. There was a smudged-looking picture of Johnson on the left and a larger one of Kennedy on the right. Strangely, the Kennedy picture was a line drawing, not a photograph. Ray thought about buying one, knowing that it would quickly become a collector’s item, but then he realised how stupid that was. He stepped out the door, still carrying the Big Red. He looked to the right. The underpass was like the entrance to a cave. He took a swallow of the soda then balanced it on the roof of the Bel Air. He unlocked the car, unlocked the glove compartment and took out his big, rubber-covered police Eveready. He locked up the car, picked up the bottle and headed down the narrow extension of the street that ran below the expressway. He flipped on the flashlight, holding it a little away from himself and moved the beam back and forth.

  The street extension dead-ended with a concrete barrier that looked as though it had been put together when the expressway was being built. To the left and right there was nothing but garbage-strewn muddy ground. A derelict car had been turned on its side, the stuffing of its seats torn out, the windshield and the windows smashed and the hood missing. There was also a rusted fifty-gallon drum covered in soot a few feet away from one of the concrete overpass abutments. Probably a makeshift fireplace for bums when the weather got bad.

  Ray lowered the beam of the flashlight, playing it across the waste ground directly at his feet. This was the logical place for his kidnapper–killer to knock out or gag his victim without being seen but so far he hadn’t seen any evidence of a struggle. Or had the child struggled, had the man somehow lured her here? He also kept his eye out for fresh tyre tracks; the 7-Eleven manager’s description of the white Corvair van was interesting. Had his man parked it then headed into the welcoming shadows of the underpass to somehow ‘prepare’ for his victim? And how did he know she’d be coming at all? Or maybe it was just a crime of opportunity, picking his spot then waiting for a victim to fall into his trap. Too many things to check, too many people to talk to for too little information.

  He went deeper into the darkness, wheeling around with the flashlight. He remembered Chief Curry giving some kind of speech a few years back, quoting some big-shot detective, probably a Fed, who’d said that a criminal always brings something to a crime and always leaves something behind. It was meant to be profound but, if you thought about it, the idea was pretty stupid. So what if he leaves something behind? Unless it had his name and address on it, what use was it to a cop like Ray? Fingerprints, hair samples, even blood samples were no good to you if you had nothing to compare them with. Even the van was probably a red herring, nothing more than what Dwayne the manager had said – some poor guy who needed to take a leak or drop a load real bad and didn’t want to do it in public.

  He’d gone twenty yards under the expressway and come up empty. A few feet ahead of him was the dead-end street on the opposite side. He turned around and headed back towards the 7-Eleven. On a whim he stepped over to the fifty-gallon drum and pointed the beam of the flashlight down into it. His heart sank. Clothes and not old and worn rags either. He took the copy of Millie’s incident report out of his pocket and put the light on it. According to the report, Zinnia Brant had been wearing a tartan skirt, a white blouse with a green sweater over it, white ankle socks and navy-blue-and-white saddle shoes. He shone the light back into the drum. Resting on some half-burned trash there was everything on the list as well as a pair of soiled white underpants that smelled strongly of urine. He couldn’t see any blood anywhere. The shoes were on top of the pile. He took a pencil out of his inside pocket and used it to lift the saddle shoe up where he could shine the light on the scuffed leather sole. There was no mud or any other evidence that the girl had crossed the muddy ground beneath the expressway.

  Ray carefully put the shoe back in the drum and retraced his steps to the parking lot of the 7-Eleven. Using the payphone at the end of the building he called in to Homicide for a couple of specialists to come out and handle the evidence for him. The dispatcher picked up on the fifth ring and told Ray there was no one available since all the technicians were handling the Kennedy evidence, bagging and boxing it for shipment to the FBI lab in Washington.

  ‘So what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Bag it and box it yourself, Detective.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Ray whispered and hung up the phone. He went back into the 7-Eleven and Dwayne gave him an empty Lay’s Potato Chip box with the ‘Betcha Can’t Eat Just One’ slogan on the side. He also convinced Dwayne to hand over a dozen sack-lunch-sized bags as well.

  Ray went to the rack of housewares hanging on a pegboard by the freezer and found a pair of corn tongs and a pair of dishwashing gloves in a plastic bag. He brought both items to the front counter.

  ‘You’ll have to pay for those.’

  ‘Fine. Just give me a receipt.’

  Dwayne totalled it up on the cash register. Ray paid out of his own pocket and put Dwayne’s receipt for the items in his wallet.

  ‘I guess you found something,’ said Dwayne.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No body?’

  ‘No.’ Ray dropped the tongs, the bags and the rubber gloves into the potato chip box.

  ‘Nothing to do with Mr Kennedy, I suppose,’ Dwayne said. ‘Now that would be something.’

  ‘No,’ Ray answered, heading for the door with the box in his arms. ‘But stick around, I’ve got some more questions.’

  ‘Not going anywhere until eleven.’ Dwayne smiled. ‘Just like the name says.’

  ‘Good.’ Ray went outside and back into the underpass. He put on the gloves and, using the tongs, lifted the various pieces of clothing into the box. He bagged the stained underwear and each shoe, then took the box back to his car and put it into the trunk, locking it carefully. He put the flashlight back into the glove compartment and went back into the store.

  He spoke to Dwayne again. ‘This Corvan or whatever you call it, where was it parked?’

  ‘On the right and that had me a little pissed too. He was parked so you couldn’t get another car in beside him.’

  ‘He was hogging an extra space?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Ray took out his notebook and his pencil and made a quick sketch.

  ‘That about right?’ he asked, showing the sketch to Dwayne.

  The 7-Eleven manager nodded. ‘Except there were more cars in the lot.’

  ‘The high school kids?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You know anything about these vans?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Windows?’

  ‘No. The model with windows is called something else. Greenwood or Greenbrier or something.’

  ‘Panel doors?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Left or right?’

  ‘I think both sides. That’s one of the features.’

  ‘Double or single?’

  ‘Not sure. Double, I think.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure they’re double.’

  ‘Slide or do they hinge?’

  ‘Hinge.’

  ‘How much could you see of the van from the counter?’ Dwayne leaned over the counter and peered out through the door. ‘I could tell it was still there. I could see the driver’s side.’
<
br />   ‘Bumpers chrome or painted?’

  ‘Painted.’

  ‘The panel doors on that side were closed?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘What did the little girl buy?’

  ‘Loaf of Mrs Baird’s and a German’s bar,’ Dwayne answered. His eyes went wide. ‘I’ll be damned. I remember her clear as anything now.’

  ‘Sometimes works like that,’ said Ray. ‘Memory trick.’ He waited for a moment. ‘Anything else you remember? Her coming in, her leaving?’

  ‘You’re right, she had braids. Talked a little quiet. Knew how to count her change.’

  ‘What’d she give you?’

  ‘Dollar bill.’

  ‘What did she do with the change?’

  ‘Held it in her hand, bag with the bread and the chocolate in the other arm.’

  ‘How soon after she left did you go out and check on the van?’

  ‘’Bout five minutes after.’

  ‘How often you sweep up out in the parking lot?’

  ‘Whenever it needs it.’

  ‘When did it need it last?’

  ‘Couple days ago.’

  ‘No cleaning up since last night.’

  ‘Nuh-uh.’

  ‘All right. You’ve been a help.’

  ‘Glad to be of service,’ said Dwayne. Ray let himself out of the store, cursing under his breath. Here were the first pieces of hard evidence he’d had in the case since the death of Jennings Price. He took out his notebook again and made a few quick adjustments to his sketch. If the child was heading home with her bag of shopping she’d probably avoid cutting down through the cars belonging to the teenagers and would instead go as far along as she could and turn down between the brick wall of the housing row next door to the 7-Eleven and the apparently empty white van. With both of the panel doors opened Zinnia Brant would be hidden from view for the few vital seconds it would take for her assailant to pounce. Once he had her inside the van the rest would be easy.

  A quick grab at the girl, a hand over her mouth and drag her into the van, unnoticed from the street or the store, and that would be that. Maybe some sort of gag or chemical to knock her out. He could strip off her clothes, take them to the drum under the expressway and be gone within moments without leaving a trace.

  Ray followed his hypothetical track until he stood at approximately the point where he thought the little girl might have been taken. There were half a dozen old oil stains on the ground but nothing else. Between the brick wall of the building next door and the parking lot there was a two-foot-wide strip of earth that might have once been intended as a bordering garden but it had long since gone to weeds. There was also a scattering of paper garbage, including a Baby Ruth wrapper and the wax-paper wrapper for a package of Bazooka Bubble Gum. Halfway down the border strip there was a torn triangle of paper with a brown outer wrapper – the top of a German’s chocolate bar. Ray looked in the dirt and grime on the edge of the border and spotted two pennies and a half-buried nickel and a half-buried dime. Zinnia’s change. He found a crumpled Kleenex in his back pocket, unfolded it and picked up the shreds of evidence, including the coins. There was no doubt in his mind that this was where Zinnia Brant had been kidnapped but he knew the evidence was effectively useless. He couldn’t get even one police technician to come down, the Department of Motor Vehicles was closed and tomorrow was Sunday so it was going to be at least forty-eight hours until he could even begin to look for the white Corvair van.

  He took the refolded Kleenex back to the Chevy, opened the trunk and carefully put the Kleenex into the box with the other evidence. He closed the trunk again then walked back to the phone booth. He looked up the number he wanted in the Yellow Pages then dialled. It was answered on the first ring.

  ‘Friendly Chevrolet.’ A buttery woman’s voice.

  ‘Billy Harcourt there?’

  ‘Sure is. Who’s calling?’

  ‘Ray Duval.’

  ‘Hold on.’ There was a clunking noise as the receiver was put down and then the receding sound of high heels on linoleum. Ray leaned back against the booth, fatigue finally catching up to him. What he really wanted to do was take a run by Inky’s, pick up Rena and a bag of food and go home, but he still had a lot to do.

  ‘Bill Harcourt.’ Hale and hearty with a cigarette and coffee grate.

  ‘Ray Duval.’

  ‘The Bel Air.’

  ‘That’s me. I’m surprised you’re open; no one else is.’

  ‘I’m a Republican.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So what can I do for you, Ray? Trading-in time? We’ve got some sweet deals.’

  ‘More like a favour.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Do you sell Corvair vans?’

  ‘Corvans or Greenbriers?’

  ‘Corvans.’

  ‘Not many.’

  ‘I need to find out the name of everyone who’s bought a white Corvan in the Dallas–Fort Worth area.’

  ‘You kidding?’ Harcourt laughed. ‘Corvan’s have been on the market for a couple of years now.’

  ‘There can’t have been that many white ones.’

  ‘Be surprised, Ray.’

  ‘Can you ask around?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose I can do that. When do you need to know?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with Kennedy, does it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I don’t want anything to do with that shit. Give me a phone number, I’ll see what I can find out.’

  ‘I owe you one.’

  ‘That you do. Trade in your old heap to anyone else and your name is mud, sir.’

  ‘Mud it is,’ said Ray. ‘I promise you’ll get it, one way or the other.’ He read off both his office and home phone numbers and then hung up and went back to his car. He sat behind the wheel, rubbing a hand across his chest and waiting for his breathing to slow. Every day now, less and less activity caused more and more tiredness. The water pills were turning his kidneys into tight, hot wedges of agony in the small of his back. The wet, rustling sound was there each time he drew breath now. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, pushed the cold, true thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on the job at hand. He took out his notebook, checked Jack Ruby’s home address and started up the car.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Number 223 South Ewing Street was a run-down, coloured brick two-storey apartment building called Marsala Place. It was built around a concrete courtyard with a swimming pool in the centre. It was also less than half a dozen blocks from the location at 10th and Patton where Oswald had supposedly shot Tippit, the uniformed cop, the day before, twenty minutes or so after the Kennedy killing.

  Jack Ruby’s apartment was on the second floor, forcing Ray to climb the long set of white-painted fire-escape-style steps bolted to the side of the building. He paused at the top of the stairs, holding on to the rust-nubbled railing waiting to catch his wet, rasping breath and for his heart to slow down.

  When he could breathe again and the wheezing, whistling sound receded, he went down the open second-floor balcony until he reached number 207, at the far corner. He could hear music coming from inside and the sound of voices. Sounded like something scratchy by Benny Goodman. The voices were muted. Ray took a couple of deep breaths and rapped on the door, hard.

  The music stopped so quickly it sounded as though someone had been waiting with his finger over the phonograph needle. The voices dropped away almost as fast. He could hear padded footsteps, as though someone was walking over wall-to-wall carpeting. The door opened a foot. It wasn’t Ruby. Instead he was facing a red-faced man with a crew cut wearing a soiled pair of khakis and an undershirt. His fat cheeks and double chin were bristly from not shaving and his eyes were as red as his cheeks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My name is Ray Duval. I’m a detective. I’d like to speak to Jack Ruby.’

  ‘Wait.’

  The man turned away from the door
and for a moment Ray could see beyond him into the living room. The television was on. It should have been the new Phil Silvers show or The Defenders but it was just more Kennedy footage. There were half a dozen men in the room, one of whom got up quickly, turning away as though he had to use the bathroom. If Ray hadn’t known better he would have sworn it was his old partner, Ron Odum.

  He did recognise two of the men sitting on the scrappy couch in front of a coffee table loaded with beer bottles and bowls of snacks: Joey Civello, the man rumoured to be head of the mob in Dallas, and Charlie Sansone, a fellow DPD detective working out of Narcotics.

  Suddenly Ruby was in the doorway and stepping out onto the landing, pulling the door shut behind him. ‘Detective Duval,’ he said with a smile. ‘You dropped by my humble home.’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt. Looks like you’re having a party.’

  ‘Just a few friends over for drinks.’ He paused, taking Ray’s elbow and leading him away from the door. ‘So what can I help you with?’ He paused again. ‘Unless this is a social call.’

  ‘No, it’s not a social call.’

  ‘Then why don’t we go down and talk by the pool.’

  Ray wasn’t about to insist on barging into Ruby’s apartment but Civello and a Dallas narcotics dick was an odd combination. Sansone was too well known to be working undercover.

  Ruby led the way down a flight of steps in the middle of the landing that went down to the concrete courtyard surrounding the pool. He pulled up a couple of aluminium and plastic-webbed garden chairs, facing each other, a foot or so from the edge of the water. Ray sat down, glad enough to be outside in the cool of the evening, but feeling the heavily chlorinated pool water stinging his nose and eyes.

  Ruby slapped his hands down on his knees and smiled, the spread lips fattening his cheeks like a squirrel. ‘So then, Ray, what’s on your mind?’

  ‘It’s Detective Duval, Mr Ruby.’

  ‘Fine.’ Ruby’s lips closed in a surprisingly effeminate moue of hurt feeling.

  Ray took out his notebook and flipped through the pages. He came to the transcribed list he’d been given by Valentine. He handed the open notebook across to Ruby, who looked down at the page.