by Thomas Scott
“I’ve never seen him.”
“It doesn’t always work that way.”
Virgil closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t—”
“I have to go now, Virgil. You have people in your life who are going to need you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve got to be shut of those pills. You’re not thinking straight.”
“I’m trying,” Virgil said.
The smile left Mason’s face and Virgil felt as much as he heard the words that came next. To Virgil, it felt as if they passed through him, like a pressure wave from a bomb blast. “Try harder.”
“Will you tell him I said hello?” Virgil asked.
“You can tell him yourself, Virg. He hears you. We all do.” Then Mason looked toward the house and pointed with his chin. “Say, looks like you’ve got company.” The look on his face almost mischievous. “Don’t worry, Virgil. Everything is exactly how it should be.”
“I don’t understand, Dad.”
“Maybe not yet, but you will. Good-bye for now, buddy.”
“Wait, Dad, there’s something else I need to know.”
“Dad loves you, Virgil. We all do. Stay tuned.”
From the time Virgil was old enough to remember, he and his father had acknowledged their love for each other in something of an unusual way. Mason spoke of himself in the third person. He would say, “Dad loves you,” and because Virgil was still young enough that he’d not yet grasped the many nuances of the English language, he’d say, “Dad loves you too.” Virgil had always considered it one of the best things about his own life—the fact that they both continued to express their love for each other in that particular way: ‘Dad loves you…Dad loves you too.’
The footsteps came from behind and when Virgil turned in his chair he saw his boss, Cora LaRue, and the governor’s chief of staff, Bradley Pearson, as they approached across the backyard. Virgil put the pill bottles in the pocket of his shorts and stood to greet them, his legs not quite as steady as he would have liked. The air was thick and heavy without any wind and the surface water of the pond as smooth and flat as a tabletop mirror, but when Virgil looked over at the willow tree where he’d just spoken with his dead father he saw a few of the branches sway as if someone had just brushed them aside.
The buzzing in his head was back and at that very moment Virgil knew in his heart he’d do anything to make it all go away.
Anything at all.
When the people of Indiana elected Hewitt (Mac) McConnell as governor, he answered their concerns over rising crime rates by forming the Major Crimes Unit. He appointed Cora LaRue as the administrator of the division and together she and the governor chose Virgil as lead detective for all investigative operations. Because of the nature of politics though, Cora spent most of her time dealing with Pearson instead of the governor. As a result, Pearson—the state’s biggest political operator—often used this to his advantage in ways that were not only unnecessary but also counterproductive. In short, it was typical politics, which Virgil despised more than just about anything. Cora never let her dislike of Pearson get in the way of her job, though she never tried to hide her feelings either. Pearson, on the other hand, operator that he was, rarely let his emotions show. You could be a friend one minute if it suited any particular agenda, or conversely, if the need arose, you could be an enemy of the state. The problem with people like Pearson, Virgil knew, was that those two things were not often mutually exclusive.
“Jonesy, how are you feeling?” Cora asked.
“I’m squeaking by,” Virgil said. His words were slurred and his tongue felt thick and unresponsive and he had to look away from Cora when he spoke.
“We need to talk to you, Jonesy. I’m sorry about this, I really am.”
“Sorry about what?”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Cora, look at him,” Pearson said. “It’s the right call. He’s in no condition. No condition at all. He has tubes coming out of him and he sounds like he’s three sheets to the wind. How about we get this over with and get back to work?”
“Hi, Bradley, always a pleasure,” Virgil said. “I’m standing right here, you know. How about telling me what’s going on?”
Pearson ran his hands across his forehead then up through his thinning hair. He pulled back so hard on his scalp that for a moment the outer corners of his eyes angled upward in a manner that gave him an effeminate look. He started to speak, but Cora cut him off.
“Jonesy, about an hour ago, on direct orders from the governor, you’ve been replaced as lead detective of the Major Crimes Unit.” She paused to let her words sink in and Virgil saw her eyes slide away from his own. “Ron Miles has been appointed by the governor as your replacement.”
Virgil sat back down in his lawn chair and looked out at the pond water. When he didn’t respond, Pearson filled the silence. “Jesus Christ, Jones, what did you expect? Look at yourself. You’re a goddamned mess. How many pills are you popping these days, anyway?”
“Why are you here, Bradley?”
“To make sure that there is no misunderstanding regarding your situation.”
The drugs were still working on him and when Virgil spoke he took no care with his words or their intent. “How much of that is your doing? Never mind, you don’t have to answer. We already know the answer to that question, don’t we? So here’s the deal Pearson…I think I want you to leave. In fact, I’m sure of it. Would you like me to show you to your car?”
“In your condition? I’d like to see you try,” Pearson said. He stepped forward and when he did his foot came down on top of the cane pole and snapped it in half. Pearson jumped a little at the sound the cane made when it broke and when he did, Virgil knew he had not stepped on it with purpose. Pearson bent over to pick up the ruined pole, as if the act of lifting it in his hands could repair the damage. “Don’t touch that,” Virgil said, his voice no more than a whisper. “I really would like you to leave now.”
Cora looked at Pearson, then back at Virgil. “Would you two please give it a rest?”
“This is my home, Cora.” Virgil said. “I make the rules here. Not him and not you, either.” When she didn’t respond, Virgil said, “What?”
“There’s something else.”
“There always is, Cora. I just can’t for the life of me imagine what it might be.”
“Your replacement isn’t temporary. They’re not going to let you come back.”
Virgil stood and faced her. “Say that again.”
Cora took an involuntary step back, as if in fear. “The state. They’re forcing you out.”
“What? On what grounds?”
“The medical reports for one. You’ll qualify for three-quarters disability. With your time on the job your pension will kick in right away. I’ve done the math and the truth is you’ll be making more by walking away than if you stayed.”
Virgil kept glancing over at the willow tree, as if something his father had said would somehow help him. He bent down to retrieve the broken cane pole and when he stood, the look on Cora’s face seemed as sad and mixed as his own emotions.
“How bad is it?” she said.
“I don’t know, Cora. Some things just can’t be fixed.”
She stepped close and placed her hand on the flat of Virgil’s bare chest, her eyes inspecting the PICC line. “I’m not talking about the fishing pole, Jonesy.”
“I know you’re not. Neither am I.”
Cora shook her head, then raised her chin, her voice taking on an official tone. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m going to have to ask you for your badge.”
Virgil dropped the cane pole back in the grass at Pearson’s feet, then reached into his pocket, pulled out his badge and skipped it across the surface of the pond. The badge made it about half way across before it settled and then sank in the murky depths.
“You want my badge? Go and get it.” He turned to walk up to his house, but Cora didn’t let it play.
&nb
sp; “You break my heart sometimes, Jonesy. Do you know that?”
4
Ron Miles ducked under the crime-scene tape and stepped up to the apartment door, then stopped in his tracks. He peered inside, saw the crime scene techs—seven of them in all, the most he’d seen at one location in quite a while—caught Rosie’s eye, then backed out. He didn’t want to contaminate the area. Shit load of blood, he thought.
Ron had been around. Had spent most of his career as an Indianapolis Metro Homicide cop, so he was no stranger to crime scenes or blood, but still, hell of a way to start a new job, that much blood.
A few minutes later Detective Tom Rosencrantz stepped out of the apartment wearing Tyvek coveralls, shoe protectors and latex gloves. There were bloodstains on his knees, the tops of his shoe protectors by his toes and the palms of his hands. He unzipped the suit, pulled the hood back and stripped out of the gear. One of the techs handed him a biohazard bag and he dropped everything inside and handed it back. “Jesus Christ, I’ve never seen that much blood without a body,” he said to Miles. “You just get here?”
“Yeah. What do you mean without a body?”
“I mean, there’s enough blood in there to do a remake of Stephen King’s Carrie, but there’s no body.”
“Huh. How much blood are they saying?”
Rosencrantz looked over Ron’s shoulder. “You get a new car?”
“Yep, just picked it up two days ago. The guys over at the motor pool set me up with the radios, lights and siren, the works.”
Rosencrantz smiled at him. “Nice.” The car was nice too. A brand new black over black Ford Fusion. “Get the Police Interceptor motor?”
“You mean engine. Motor is electric. Engine is internal combustion. And yeah, did I ever. Goddamn thing runs like a raped ape. All-wheel drive too.” Miles glanced at the apartment. “So anyway, how much blood?”
“Here comes Mimi. I’ll let her explain it. I guess it’s sort of technical. Plus, that voice of hers…”
Miles puffed out his cheeks. “Tell me about it. She could be one of those phone sex broads. Half the time when she’s talking to me I feel like I’m about to get busted for sexual harassment just for listening.”
“Just half?” Rosencrantz made a rude noise with his lips. “You’re doing better than me.”
“They still have that, don’t they? Those phone sex lines?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Rosencrantz said, his face as flat and blank as a piece of slate.
Mimi Phillips, the lead crime scene technician, told them in no uncertain terms—all with a voice that sounded like a 30-second satellite radio spot for a porn flick—that whomever the blood belonged to, they were, without question, as dead as the Pope’s dick. “Double entendre intended,” she added.
“You’re sure?” Miles asked.
Mimi reached into her pocket then folded a stick of gum across her tongue. “No doubt about it,” she said. “The human body—and these are just averages, mind you, depending on size and so on and so forth—holds about six quarts of blood. The loss of about forty percent or more of that volume will generally require immediate resuscitation. But what you have to remember is the amount of blood loss any one person can withstand is going to depend on their physical condition and cardiovascular shape. Athletes, people who live in high altitudes and the elderly are examples of disparate groups that will have differing susceptibilities to blood loss.
“The amount of blood we’re talking about for that to happen…it’s about a two-liter sized bottle of soda pop. What you’ve got in there is at least twice that. If it all belongs to the same person, then, yeah, they’re dead all right. Deader than…”
“How soon before you can tell us if it all belongs to the same person?” Miles asked.
Mimi bit the inside corner of her lower lip. “Hmm, belonged, I think is the word you want there. Not very long at all to type it out. Three days if you want to match the DNA from the personal effects and we rush the shit out of it. You do want the DNA, don’t you?”
“Yes, we do,” Miles said. “Rush the shit out of it.”
Mimi turned to go back to work, then over her shoulder, “Hell of a way to start a new job, huh? Nice wheels though. Bet that baby scoots.”
“You talk to him yet?” Rosencrantz asked.
“Who?”
“Who, my ass. He gave Miles a ‘Don’t try to bullshit me’ look. “Have you called him? Anything?”
“Cora asked me not to say anything until she and Pearson had a chance to go over to his place and tell him in person.” Miles looked at his watch. “They’re probably still there.”
“Three things,” Rosencrantz said. He ticked them off his fingers. “One, if you haven’t figured this out yet, Pearson is a snake and now he’s your snake. I’d get used to it, I were you and I’d watch my back. Two, Jonesy is not only a good guy, but he’s our friend. At the very least you owe him a phone call and when I say at the very least, I mean exactly that. Three, it is my belief that there might be something else going on, politically speaking, that put him out and you in. You may want to spend some time with that, you being the crack investigator and all.”
Miles reached up and flattened his grey hair with the palm of his hand. “I know about Pearson. This won’t be my first interaction with the man. And, I am going to speak with Jonesy, but I thought it might be best to let things settle for a bit. Also, I’m not a political guy. I’m an investigator guy. They tell me to investigate, that’s what I do.”
Rosencrantz held his hands up, palms out. “Hey, I’m not giving you grief, Ron, But this little squad we’ve got here, our MCU, it’s always been run a little…sideways, if you know what I mean.”
“If you mean you make your own rules, keep the intel to yourselves and don’t have too much oversight, then yeah, I’ve sort of noticed that. That might change too.”
Rosie shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. What you said is true, but it’s more than that. You’re suddenly one of the most powerful cops in the state with only two layers between you and the governor himself.”
“And?”
“Have you asked yourself why they wanted you for the job?”
Miles was starting to get a little pissed. “You work for me, do I have that right?”
“Yep.”
“Then how about you do that?”
“Leave the big thinking to you?”
Miles pointed a finger at Rosencrantz. “Now look…”
“Relax, Ron. I’m on your side. No disrespect intended, okay? You’re one of the best investigators I’ve ever known. I just want you to think about the situation. Investigate the ‘why me?’ part of the equation, for your own sake if nothing else.”
“And maybe for Jonesy too?”
“Why not?”
“Because based on what I’ve heard, I don’t think it will do him any good at this point.”
“Maybe it won’t. But I’ve been a part of this group almost since its inception and if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: We get the hard stuff, the political stuff, the good stuff, as Cora likes to call it. But nothing is ever quite what it looks like. Not when you’re this close to the top. Never has been anyway. Not one single time.”
Miles thought about that for a minute. “Maybe this one will be different.”
Rosencrantz laughed without humor. “Did you happen to get a look at Jonesy’s files yet? In particular, the one I told you about?”
“Yeah, I did. What about it?”
“Anything jump out at you?”
“It looked like a good shoot. The department, the union, the lawyers, hell even I.A. said it was a good shoot. Plus, it was over twenty years ago. I had to blow the dust off the paper just to see the ink.”
“Did you know that was the one and only time Jonesy ever fired his weapon on the job?”
“That’s not so unusual.”
“You’re right about that. But let me tell you two things that aren’t in that report. One, did you n
otice that the guy who almost got his ticket punched by James Pope—the victim so to speak—wasn’t listed in the report?”
“Yeah, I did notice that. Who was it?”
Rosencrantz turned his back to Miles for a moment and looked up at the apartment where the crime scene techs were working. When he turned back he said, “Someone with enough juice to get their name pulled from the paperwork. Know anyone like that?” Before Miles could answer, Rosie said something else that made Ron wonder if someone he thought he could trust hadn’t already played him for a fool. “That apartment behind us? The one with all the blood? It belonged to a guy named Nicholas Pope. He was only five or six years old when Jonesy shot his old man to death. He and his twin sister were there, at the shooting. They saw the whole thing. Now it looks like there’s another dead Pope. Might just be a coincidence though.”
Miles rubbed his temples with his right hand, then squinted through one eye at Rosencrantz. “Who did Jonesy save that day when he shot James Pope?”
“It’s not in the report, but it’s not exactly a secret, either. The man he saved was Bradley Pearson.” Then, as if to hammer home his point, he added, “Just out of curiosity, when they hired you, who approached you first? Was it Cora, or Pearson?”
Miles let out a sigh. “It was Pearson.”
Rosencrantz raised an eyebrow at him. “Might want to think about that. Or hell, maybe not. You might be right. What do I know? Maybe this one will be different.”
Nicholas Pope’s apartment complex had been converted from an old-style traveler’s motel. The conversion process had gone like this: The original owner of the motel went broke, which is something that will happen when you don’t pay your income taxes. The new owner picked up the building at the subsequent tax sale, fired the housekeeping crew and erected a sign that said ‘Studio Apartments For Rent - No References Required.’ The only actual requirement for occupancy was cash in advance every Friday by five or your personal belongings were tossed out on the lot and the locks were changed faster than you could get to the payday advance loan sharks and back. The building was a two-story, L-shaped structure with units on both the front and the rear. Nicholas Pope’s unit was in the back on the second floor, about midpoint in the short section of the L. The building was old and its occupants generally fit into one of three categories: Poor, transient, or illegal. Most, Ron thought as he looked around the backside of the building, probably fit nicely into all three.
