Sable Alley

by Bridget Bundy

  “What else does the government want to know?”

  “Your past, which includes the name of your tribe and your parents. It’s the law that you keep your records up-to-date, Detective Kipling. I’m sure you understand as a police officer.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, standing up.

  Mr. Scott reaches into his pocket and brings out a business card. “The moment you think of your tribal nation, I would appreciate a phone call, and I’ll see you tomorrow around six in the evening.”

  “Why so late?”

  “I don’t want to interfere with your work, and I have a class to teach in the morning. Are you working a case?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Perfect. Give you time to get the job done and to consider the consequences of lying to the government. Tomorrow when you come by, I’m sure you’ll be better prepared to answer my questions.”

  His warning doesn’t get by me.

  I put his card in my back pocket and exit the room.

  Chapter Five.

  “Where have you been?” Robinson asks as I plop down in the chair.

  I almost tell him about the appointment with the citizen auditor, but I know what he’ll say. Not going there with him.

  “Went home and took a shower,” I answer.

  “For two hours?”

  “Yes, Robinson, for two hours.”

  “You’re wasting time, Kipling. You need to be canvassing for witnesses, getting statements, looking over your paperwork and crime scene photos. You have to retrace her steps and question her friends, families, and coworkers. You have the victim’s name, right? Where does she live?”

  “The Crow Building, apartment six-twelve.”

  “You should be checking her place out. Have you, at least, notified the family of her death?”

  “No,” I cringe, knowing I messed up.

  “Where do her parents live?”

  “They died in a ferry accident a few years back, but she has a sister that lives in Exeter.”

  “You should have notified her sister first. What are you doing here?”

  Without hesitation, I get my things together.

  “Listen up before you go. This is important. When you visit the sister, make sure you find out if anyone else is in the home. Ask them to come out so you can meet them. When it’s time to give notification of death, apologize and just tell them. Watch their reactions. Who cries. Who pretends to be upset. Who doesn’t show any emotions. You’ll be able to tell. And be aware, some may react violently. Be ready to protect yourself. They’ll blame you because you’re the messenger. After the initial shock, if they’re up to it, find out when was the last time they saw her. Ask about her daily routine. Ask if anyone’s been threatening her or if she had a stalker. Also, pay attention to your surroundings. Now, when you go by her place, make sure you clear the apartment and search it. Look for pictures of friends, family, boyfriends, and girlfriends. Diaries are always good if you can find one. Take whatever you think will help in the investigation and take pictures of the apartment.”

  All this great guidance. Robinson could have told me while I was training with him. Now I’m on my own with only last-minute advice.

  “Is that it?” I ask, trying to remember everything he said.

  “Whatever you do, don’t cry in front of the family. Sometimes they break down so bad you can almost lose it yourself. Keep your focus, have sympathy, but no tears. Save them for later.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will.” Robinson glances at his watch. “I got to go. Meeting up with a friend from District Four. He picked up a guy I once arrested when I was a community support officer.”

  “You’re not going with me to notify the family?”

  “It’s not hard, Kipling.”

  I sigh with aggravation. “You know, I really don’t know what to say. What if I get it wrong? I need you there.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll have Sam go with you.”

  “Who?”

  “CSO Clarke. The guy at the scene of the crime this morning. You know, he was guarding the entrance to Sable Alley.”

  “Clarke is a community support officer. He doesn’t have any experience.”

  “You do realize they’re not here to solve our cases.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Kipling, you must have a CSO with you while you’re investigating a case anyway. He’s the best. I’ll send him a message and have him meet you outside the precinct. You know, part of his duties is to assist this unit in any capacity necessary. That’s why he was guarding the crime scene, and that’s why he’s going to ride with you today. You can call on him and other CSOs to help you out anytime.”

  “I prefer to have you.”

  “You two will do fine. Good luck.” Robinson texts Clarke as he walks away.

  As soon as he’s gone, I look around the squad room. There isn’t another detective in sight I can ask to go with me. This is just great.

  Chapter Six.

  CSO Clarke finally meets me out front thirty minutes later. For the first time, I notice he has green eyes. They’re bright and playful. He has a cute baby face, but his navy blue and white uniform takes him up a notch to handsome. I put on the straight face, pretending as if his pretty boy charms aren’t affecting me.

  “Sorry it took so long,” he says. “I was in a briefing.”

  “My car is over there.” I point to the far end of the second row.

  “They gave you a real shitter. Why don’t we take my marked unit? It’s…uh…nicer.”

  We walk around to the fenced-in parking lot on the side of the precinct. He presses a button on the fob. Two beeps and flashing lights come from an electric car parked three spots down from the lot gate. I get in on the passenger side and put my things on the floor between my feet. CSO Clarke buckles in, and we’re off. When we get to the entrance to the main road, he looks to me.

  “What are you waiting for?” I ask.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Oh, sorry.” I take out my IET and read aloud, “39 Sunny Brow, Crow Building.”

  “Right across from Sable Alley where the victim was found.” He turns onto the main road. “Mind if I ask why you’re going there?”

  “Robinson didn’t tell you?”

  “He only asked if I’d ride with you today.”

  “I have to visit Ruby’s residence to see what I can find, and then I have to give a death notification to her family.”

  “Oh, the death notification,” CSO Clarke says, a little taken back. “I wish he would have told me.”

  “You can turn around and go back to the precinct. I’ll do this myself.”

  “No, I said I would go, and I’m going.” He scratches at the stubble on his chin. “It’s got to be hard telling someone their family member is dead. How many times have you done this?”

  “This is my first time.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  “Robinson thinks he’s slick. He asks me to go with you so he can avoid facing the family himself. Should be him doing it, not you.”

  “It’s not his case.”

  “I know, but he can go with you since this is your first time. I’ve never been with a detective when giving a death notification. I have no idea what to do.”

  I’m seriously discouraged. Maybe I should have gone alone. Both of us are novices about to embark on a monumental task. What if I say the wrong thing? The family could completely shut down on me. CSO Clarke can’t smooth things over, and I’m not ready, nowhere near prepared. At least, I can use the time I’m searching in Ruby’s apartment to prepare myself for the announcement.

  The moment we park near the Crow Building, I let out a breath I’ve been holding since this morning and get out of the car. CSO Clarke and I enter the lobby. Walls and mailboxes are tagged with the letter M, spray painted in red. I’ve seen those markings before in many council housing neighborhoods and apartment buildings. The
tag represents a domestic terrorist group known as Mutiny. They exist mostly throughout the BEAC. More dangerous than any other known gang, they take out public targets without discretion and warning. Bridges, grocery stores, city buses, even schools aren’t immune. They are so secretive no one knows who the members are or who’s in charge. Upper ranks of the police force believe members are ordinary people. Since they’ve reared their destructive heads five years ago, they’ve claimed five hundred and sixty-two lives. Men. Women. Children. Young and old. Their demands and what they’re trying to accomplish are unknown. I say it’s to disrupt life, to scare the well-off one percent and to wake up the poor to the oppression of the British Empire. In Exeter alone, the rich are filthy rich, and the poor is destitute. There is the middle class, but they might as well be poor too. The name of the terrorist group says it all.

  CSO Clarke presses the elevator button. The lift arrives with a ding, and we step inside of a box decorated with more graffiti and odd odors of mustiness, cinnamon, and curry.

  We get to Ruby’s apartment and stare at the door.

  “Do you think I should knock?” I ask CSO Clarke.

  “Did you find the keys on the body?”

  “No.”

  “Try the knob.”

  “What if someone is inside?” I ask.

  “Did her profile say she lived alone?”

  “I’ll take a look.”

  The IET loads up after scanning my thumb, and I go directly online to the resident database, a website maintained by the city of Exeter. The city uses it for tax purposes and census. The police use it to find out where people live. The list is comprehensive with addresses and somewhat up to date listed residents. People move all the time in Exeter, especially the poor, but if residents have a steady job, more than likely they have a stable place to live.

  The apartment has Ruby as the only resident. Her online profile indicates she is single, but she does have a sister living in town.

  “What do you want to do?” CSO Clarke asks.

  I knock on the door and announce our presence. Whispering comes from inside the apartment. Strange. She’s supposed to be living alone. I knock again and look to CSO Clarke. He takes out his pistol, and I do the same. I try the knob. With a click, it gives. The hinges squeal our intrusion. Just as I step inside, a man swings a baseball bat at my head. I rear back just in time. He hits the door so hard; the blow reverberates through his hands and arms. Screaming from the pain, he drops the baseball bat. CSO Clarke and I point our guns at him, yelling for him not to move. He stops screaming, but he’s sniveling. A woman steps from behind a blind wall. CSO Clarke orders her to put her hands up. She does as he says, but she’s scared out of her mind.

  I tell them both to put their hands against the wall with their feet apart. They do as I say, but the woman is having a hard time. CSO Clarke frisks them while I watch. He finds a taser in the man’s back pocket. The woman is clean.

  “Who else is in the apartment?” I ask.

  Both remain silent.

  “If anyone else is in here, you better tell us.”

  “We’re the only ones,” the man answers.

  “You got them?” I ask CSO Clarke. He nods.

  I start sweeping the apartment, beginning with the bedroom to the immediate left. Slowly, I enter with my gun drawn. I announce who I am and demand anyone that’s hiding to show themselves. The room and the closet are vacant, but I do find a mattress and a pile of clothes on the floor. I take pictures from every corner and from the center of the room. In the closet is a shoebox. Opening it, I find that it’s empty. After taking photographs of the closet, I leave the room.

  Behind the blind wall are the living room and kitchen. The area is somewhat clean, but there are dirty dishes in the sink. A single bedroom and a bathroom are at the back. The bedroom is spotless. The bed is on a frame, and it’s made. A nightstand is beside it with a digital clock. A chair and vanity are to my immediate right with perfume, nail polish, and make-up. But no glitter. Tamper-proof stickers are still on the packaging. The cosmetics are brand new. The closet has a total of seven outfits, most of them are dresses, while only a couple of pieces are cotton jumpsuits. Low high-heel shoes are lined up in the back on the floor. I glance around the room once more. There are no pictures on the walls. No indication of who might live here. I take more photographs and exit the bedroom.

  Once I’m in the living room, I order the man and woman to stand where I can see them, in front of a broken television. CSO Clarke takes it upon himself to scan their identification chips, which is standard procedure. He shows me their names on his IET.

  The guy is known as Finley Price. The system doesn’t show any relation to Ruby, and he has no criminal record. Erin Mitchell is the woman’s name and Ruby’s sister. She doesn’t have a criminal record either.

  Erin is a small framed woman with dark spots on her pale skin. She’s sickly thin. Her hair is black and stringy, but it’s in a pony-tail.

  Finley keeps looking at her. I take him in from head to toe. He’s small in height, but he’s not as thin as Erin. Tattoos are on his neck and arms, and he’s bald. His eyes are bloodshot. His right foot is missing three toes. He’s sick as well but has more strength and appears to be in better health than Erin.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I ask him.

  “I’m worried about Erin. She needs to sit down, and I have to help her.”

  “You take the sofa. She can sit in the chair.”

  Finley wastes no time. Relief sets in on Erin’s stressed face as he guides her to the chair. He takes a seat right at the end of the sofa, perched on the edge and facing Erin.

  Satisfied they’re no longer a threat, I press the record button on my IET and remark, “My name is Detective Constable Kipling with the Exeter Police Department, District Three. This is CSO Clarke.”

  “What have we done wrong?” Finley asks.

  “Other than thinking my head was a baseball, nothing. I’m here about Ruby Taylor.”

  “Ruby is not home. She’s at work.”

  “You guys live here with her?”

  “Yes, we lost our apartment. Ruby let us stay here. Is there a problem? I didn’t know it was against the law.”

  “I never said it was against the law. When was the last time you saw Ruby?”

  Finley focuses on Erin, who shifts uncomfortably in the chair. I snap my fingers to get his attention.

  “When did you last see Ruby?” I ask again.

  “Yesterday,” he says.

  “Morning? Afternoon?”

  “In the morning.”

  “What about you, Erin?”

  She brings a trembling hand to her forehead and says, “Yesterday, I think.”

  “She doesn’t know,” Finley replies. “She just got up after being in bed all day yesterday. She’s not feeling well.”

  “What time did Ruby leave the apartment?”

  “She left around eight in the morning.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “Mass.”

  “Which church?”

  “Sacred Heart.”

  “Did she come back home at any point on Sunday?”

  “No.”

  “Is that normal for her to stay out all day?”

  “After church, she usually comes back home and helps me with Erin if needed.”

  “Did Ruby call you at all yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “What about you, Erin?”

  “No,” Finley answers for her.

  “How do you know?” I ask him.

  “Erin and I have only one phone between us.”

  “Did either one of you call her to find out where she was?”

  “No, I figured she needed a break. She takes care of us, and she works hard.”

  “Did she say anything about going to a party?”

  “No.”

  “Did she leave out of here wearing a red ballgown?”

  “To church? No.”

  I’m hitting
dead ends and already annoyed. I decide to try another angle. “Is Ruby on drugs?”

  “She would never touch that crap.”

  “Are you on drugs?”

  “No.”

  “What about you, Erin? Are you on drugs?”

  “None of us are on drugs,” Finley answers, irritated. “And if we were, we wouldn’t be able to afford it anyway.”

  Moving on, I ask, “Who are her closest friends? Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “No boyfriend, but she’s friends with a guy name Harrison Shaw and some girl name Molly Khan. That’s all I know. Why do you keep asking questions about Ruby? What has she done?”

  “When was the last time you saw her friends?”

  “Never. They don’t come over here.”

  “Did Ruby ever talk to you or Erin about her friendship with them? Did they get along?”

  “That’s all I know is that they were friends with Ruby. That’s it.”

  Wincing and grabbing her forearm, Erin bends forward. Finley wants to go to her, but he remains in his seat.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I ask.

  “Erin is very sick. Her blood is messed up, and her body can’t fight infections. She’s in pain, and it’s hard for her to sit for long periods of time.”

  “Why haven’t you taken her to see a doctor?”

  “We went to the emergency room a while back ago,” Finley says with anger. “The only thing they did was take her pulse, temperature, and acted like they checked her over. They gave us some cheap pills for the pain that don’t work and recommended a specialist. Like we can afford it. Medical care in this town isn’t for us.”

  “What about you?” I can’t help but to feel bad for both of them. “Is there something wrong with you?”

  “I’m in great shape.” Finley puffs his chest. He’s a terrible liar. He’s just better at hiding his pain.

  “I want to know why you keep bringing up Ruby,” Erin speaks up. “Has she done something wrong?”

  This is it. I have to tell them. I take a moment, trying to think of a way to speak the words so it won’t sting so much. Who am I kidding? Death is death.

  Finally, I remark, “I’m sorry to inform you that Ruby is dead.”

  Erin’s eyes widen. She covers her mouth in disbelief. Finley goes to her side and hugs her. She buries her face in his stomach and weeps. I clear my throat and lower my head. It’s all I can do to fight back the urge to cry. CSO Clarke stares quietly and stands stark still. If he’s affected by the crying, he’s good at hiding it.