The Candidate Coroner

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  She opened the door and rolled out. She ducked low and got around the back of the cruiser.

  She peeked above the trunk, and saw a man at the bottom of the far stairs.

  He had a black ski mask pulled over his face, a black jacket, and dark blue jeans with black running shoes. And he was making good use of the running shoes—sprinting at full speed out toward the driveway right toward where Fenway was crouched.

  Fenway didn’t think—she launched herself at him as he sprinted by her and caught him from the front around the torso. He was knocked to the side as Fenway twisted her body, as she landed on top of him on the asphalt of the parking lot.

  He ended up halfway on his left side, his hand stretched awkwardly in front of him to attempt to break his fall. But it absorbed most of his weight, and Fenway heard a sickening crunch and a scream of pain. She was glad for the ringing in her right ear so she didn’t have to hear as much of it.

  “You bitch!” he wailed, then screamed in pain, holding his left hand, the fingers jutting at a nauseating angle.

  Officer Young, panting, ran up to them. “Fenway! Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Fenway said through gritted teeth. Her side ached from where she had been thrown against the car earlier. “This guy broke his hand trying to get away.”

  Officer Young turned the man over and handcuffed him. “What’s your name?” he said.

  “Fuck you!” the man screamed. “Get your dirty hands off me!”

  “Think this is the guy who spray-painted my car?” Fenway asked the officer.

  “I know he’s the guy who just threw a brick through your front window,” Officer Young said. He patted down the man, who was still screaming and trying to flail although he was prone. He pulled out a wallet from the man’s back pocket.

  “Put that back!” the man screeched.

  Officer Young pulled out a driver’s license. “Well, well,” he said. He held out the driver’s license for Fenway to see.

  Terrance Victor Ivanovich.

  The photo was of a man of about twenty-five, with the same complexion and jawline of the ear, nose, and throat doctor running for coroner.

  “Ivanovich,” Fenway said. “You’re Richard Ivanovich’s son.”

  “You can’t take my wallet,” Terrance Ivanovich spat.

  “Terrance Ivanovich, you are under arrest for vandalism, destruction of property, and resisting arrest,” Officer Young said. “And you better hope you don’t get connected to the car bomb, or you’ll be charged with murder, too.”

  “Car bomb?” Terrance shrieked. “I didn’t do nothin’ with a car bomb. You’re trying to set me up!”

  Officer Young looked at Fenway and narrowed his eyes.

  “Sure, you might have put a brick through my window, but you expect us to believe you’re not the one who blew up the car I was driving?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Terrance said, and his voice changed. “You’re serious? Someone tried to blow up your car?”

  “Killed a seventeen-year-old boy instead,” Fenway said. “And the police are definitely champing at the bit to find the killer.”

  “It’s not me!” Terrance exclaimed. “I did the spray paint. And the brick, sure, but I’m not a murderer.”

  “Did your father put you up to it?” Officer Young asked.

  “I did all the spray paint and the brick on my own. But I didn’t have anything to do with no car bomb. That’s messed up. I wanted you to drop out so my dad wouldn’t be so pissed off about losing by sixty points to a n—”

  “Careful,” Officer Young said, applying more pressure to Terrance’s arms.

  “Ow! Ow! Stop it! I just meant I didn’t want to kill you.”

  “That was pretty stupid,” Fenway said. She nudged Officer Young. “Miranda?”

  “Right,” Officer Young said under his breath. “Terrance Ivanovich, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you...”

  Fenway stood up. She had thought the spray-painting vandal and the bomb-builder were one and the same. But with Terrance Ivanovich’s surprising and unprompted confession, and with the fact that Terrance had spray-painted and not blown up her Accord, Fenway had to admit she now harbored serious doubt they had caught the person who tried to kill her.

  So she probably wouldn’t be sleeping in her own apartment tonight. Maybe even not until after the election.

  ANOTHER POLICE CRUISER came to take Terrance Ivanovich away, as Officer Young and the others had to stay on scene, supposedly to secure Fenway’s safety.

  Fenway called the building manager, who grumpily agreed to get two maintenance workers to board over the window. And even though it was well after five o’clock, the workers appeared with boards and tools about fifteen minutes after the call. Fenway suspected if she were anyone else, the manager wouldn’t have called the maintenance crew until the next day—or even Monday morning. But the daughter of the apartment complex’s owner was a little different. As much as Fenway didn’t feel comfortable with the special treatment, she wasn’t going to argue about it, either.

  She started to walk out of the complex to go get a latte. Fenway was tired and needed the caffeine to deal with the situation; she figured she’d have to give Officer Young—or one of the other officers—a statement. She still had to pack, she still had to get over to Rachel’s house, and she didn’t see an end in sight.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Officer Young said.

  “Uh—to get some coffee?”

  “You’re not going anywhere without an escort. Do you know how much trouble I’d get in if anything happened to you on my watch?”

  “But they caught the guy,” Fenway said.

  “You don’t know it’s the same guy. You don’t know if he has an accomplice or a whole host of accomplices. Did you see the guy’s tattoo?”

  “Tattoo?”

  “Yeah, the 88 on his forearm.”

  Fenway paused. “No, I guess I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure the tattoo is impressive on his online dating profile,” Officer Young said, “and I’ll bet he’s involved with Dominguez White Storm.”

  “Involved with what?”

  “The local white supremacists,” he said. “You haven’t heard of them?”

  Fenway paused. “How in the world could Dr. Ivanovich even think of running for public office when his son is a member of a white supremacist group?”

  Officer Young shrugged. “Takes all kinds. I mean, he’s buddies with Dr. Klein, and obviously that’s okay with him.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be okay? Isn’t he white?”

  Officer Young narrows his eyes, a skeptical look on his face. “Yeah, but not the right kind of white—not for people like the White Storm.”

  Suddenly it hit her, and she felt ignorant for not seeing it before. “Oh. Jewish.”

  Officer Young put his finger to the tip of his nose. “All right,” he said. “You want coffee, let’s go get some coffee.”

  The two of them started down the driveway toward the sidewalk.

  “You’ve had a rough couple of days, haven’t you?” Officer Young said.

  Fenway nodded. She looked at her feet, putting one in front of the other, and watched the shadows of their figures from the streetlights elongate and shrink as she and Officer Young walked down the street. She looked up to the sky; for once, the fog hadn’t started to roll in yet, and she could see the stars above her. The night was moonless and dark. She couldn’t see the Milky Way—the city lights were too strong—but looking up at Orion’s Belt, at Polaris, at Cassiopeia, she felt a wave of peace wash over her for the first time all day.

  Had it been yesterday when Jeremy Kapp was found with a bullet in his forehead?

  Had it been yesterday when she found cocaine in his hotel room?

  Had it been yesterday when Charlotte’s gun washed up on the beach?

  Charlotte.

  Fenway wondered if her father’s
team of high-priced lawyers had been able to get Charlotte arraigned and out on bail in time for her to be home that evening. If anyone could do it, Nathaniel Ferris could. She wondered if he would be able to wheel and deal as much with Dez and Gretchen Donnelly as he could with McVie.

  They reached The Coffee Bean. It was empty of customers, and the clock on the wall read five minutes to eight—just before closing time.

  “Is there still time to get a latte?”

  The barista behind the counter registered distress on her face but it immediately changed to a smile. “Sure, no problem,” she said brightly. “Just a regular latte?”

  “Yep.”

  “Name?”

  I’m literally the only one in here. “Joanne.” She turned to Officer Young. “You want anything, Officer? My treat.”

  “Thanks, Fen—uh, Joanne. Large coffee. Black.”

  Fenway paid.

  They stepped away from the counter and she put her wallet back in her purse. Then she dug around for her phone to call her father before she realized it was in her desk drawer at work with the SIM card removed. She sighed.

  “What’s wrong?” Officer Young said, taking the black coffee from the barista, who moved in front of the espresso machine.

  “I forgot I, uh, took the SIM card out of my phone.”

  “You took the SIM card out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I wasn’t sure if the people who were trying to kill me were tracking me through my phone.”

  Officer Young looked at Fenway with concern.

  “I know,” Fenway said quickly. “Paranoid.”

  “Someone’s trying to kill you, Fenway. That’s not paranoid. It’s not like you’re wearing a tinfoil hat and saying aliens are talking to you through your fillings or anything.”

  “Well, no.”

  Officer Young paused and lowered his voice, although the barista was busy foaming milk and the steamer drowned out every noise in the coffee shop. “So you’re staying with Rachel Richards tonight, is that correct?”

  Fenway nodded.

  He paused. “It’s a real shame what happened to her husband.”

  “Yeah.” She watched the barista work the espresso machine. “You work the night shift a lot? Were you working that night?”

  “Um,” Officer Young stammered. “Yes.”

  “Oh. Did you see what happened?”

  “I heard about it,” he said. “I wasn’t assigned to the jail that night.” He cleared his throat. “Does Ms. Richards know we’re going to be at her place all night?”

  Fenway shrugged. “She’s expecting me to show up for sure, but I’m not sure she knows an officer will be with me. I told her earlier today I couldn’t stay at my place. So I assume she’s heard by now I have a police detail. If she doesn’t know the police will be stationed outside her door, she probably won’t be surprised to find out.”

  “She’s pretty smart.”

  “You don’t get to be the youngest public information officer in the state for nothing.”

  Officer Young smiled. “No. I don’t suppose you do.” He furrowed his brow. “Listen, the sheriff was supposed to talk to you about this. Beatherd and Sanchez will be outside, but I’m supposed to be inside. I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.”

  Fenway paused. “Is that what the sheriff said?”

  “Well—not in those words. I mean, I’m not coming into the bathroom with you or anything.”

  “Or the bedroom,” Fenway said, a little more sharply than she intended to.

  “Or the bedroom, right,” Officer Young said. “I’m going to be stationed in the living room. But I’ll be making rounds upstairs too, making sure no one is trying to break in.”

  Fenway folded her arms as she watched the barista pour the steamed milk into her cup. “I don’t know if that’s going to be okay with Rachel.”

  “I understand.” Officer Young sipped his coffee. “If it’s a problem, we can always put you up in a hotel.”

  Fenway scoffed. “I’m not going to one of the sheriff office’s preferred hotels. I’ve seen them. They make the Belvedere Terrace look like the Ritz-Carlton.”

  “The what?”

  “The Belvedere Terrace Hotel. It’s kind of like a resort, only rundown. It’s on the north side of town near the refinery.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember. It was nice a few years ago.”

  “I was there yesterday. It’s not nice now.”

  The barista put a lid on the cup and made eye contact with Fenway.

  Fenway took a couple of steps toward the counter. The barista turned the cup so Joann, spelled without the “e,” was turned toward her.

  “Thanks,” Fenway said, taking the cup off the counter.

  The barista smiled broadly. “Have a good night, folks.” Her attitude belied the Get the hell out so I can close up and go home that was right behind it.

  Fenway took a sip. The latte wasn’t strong, and the milk hadn’t heated up enough. Serves me right for ordering it just before closing time, she thought, as Officer Young opened the door for her.

  She took a good look at the officer for the first time. His jaw was strong, and she noticed he had good posture, but also had an ease about him that suggested he was comfortable with himself. She wondered how old he was—he could have been a mature twenty-four or a young-looking thirty-five. But Fenway thought he was likely pretty close to her age. She also noticed no rings adorning his fingers. She walked past him out into the parking lot, and he followed. They started walking back to the apartment.

  “So—Joanne?” Officer Young asked.

  “What?” Fenway said, taken aback a bit.

  “The name you gave to the barista,” he said.

  “Oh. That’s my mom’s name.”

  “Why do you use your mom’s name?”

  “Ah,” Fenway said. “Spoken like someone with an easy first name.”

  “What are you talking about?” Officer Young said. “Fenway’s easy. Easy to spell, easy to write.”

  Fenway shook her head. “It’s unusual. Everyone thinks they’ve heard it wrong. I either end up with something weird like Arwen or Phyllis, or I have to go into a big long story about how my father is the world’s biggest Red Sox fan.”

  “Ah.”

  “So, Officer, what’s your regular, easy-to-spell first name?”

  He smiled. “Todd.”

  “Todd,” she said. “Todd Young. Nice. Short, to the point.”

  He shrugged. “Thanks, I guess. I like Fenway, too. The name, I mean. And I’m not even a Red Sox fan.”

  Fenway didn’t say anything.

  They arrived back at the apartment complex and Fenway saw the building manager walk down the steps from the second-floor hallway and stride purposefully toward Fenway and Officer Young. He held a manila envelope in his hand and met them halfway across the parking lot.

  “Miss Stevenson?”

  “Hi,” Fenway said. She didn’t remember the building manager’s name and was a little embarrassed.

  “This was under the doormat,” he said.

  Fenway looked at Officer Young. “Was this there when you caught Terrance Ivanovich?”

  Officer Young looked puzzled. “Well, I guess I can’t say for sure. He had broken all the light bulbs in front of your apartment, so it was dark. And we were a little more concerned about the brick through your window than looking underneath your doormat.”

  “Think it was left by the same guy who threw the brick?” the building manager said.

  “I’m not sure.” Fenway took the envelope from him. The name Fenway Stevenson was neatly printed in thick black marker, centered on a single line in the middle of the envelope. “I don’t think so. It’s certainly neat writing. Can you see Terrance Ivanovich printing this neatly?”

  “No.” Officer Young said.

  “I guess it’s possible, though.”

  “Don’t open it.”

  Fenway lo
oked at him.

  “Someone’s trying to kill you,” he said. “Don’t tell me you take apart your phone but you’re going to open an envelope without taking any precautions. It could be anthrax or something.”

  “Let’s go under one of the lights,” suggested Fenway. “We can’t see anything out here in the middle of the parking lot.”

  “The workers are almost through, Miss Stevenson,” the building manager said. “You should be able to come through in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks.” Again Fenway wished she remembered his name.

  Fenway and Officer Young walked over to the side of the parking lot, where a bright fluorescent, so blue it made Fenway’s eyes hurt, shone down on the walkway.

  Fenway turned the envelope over. “It’s not sealed,” she pointed out. The metal clasp was the only thing keeping it closed. “So probably no anthrax.”

  Officer Young took it from her and made a brief show of examining it. Fenway wondered if he was amping up his machismo to impress her. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “I guess it’s okay to open. But let me do it.”

  She looked at him sideways.

  “Seriously,” he said, and pinched the clasp and opened the envelope. He looked inside. “Looks like it’s papers,” he said.

  Fenway held her hand out. He reluctantly handed over the envelope, and she shook the papers out into her hand.

  “These aren’t just any papers,” she said, looking through them. “These are love letters between our murder victim and Charlotte.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  ABOUT TWO DOZEN PAPERS had been printed out. The paper was cheap; probably twenty-pound bond, either generic copier paper, or perhaps low-quality printer paper. The ink adhered to the paper, shiny and not well soaked-in.

  “Get me a pair of gloves,” she said.

  “I don’t think I have any in my cruiser.”

  “I’ve got a pair in my purse. Blue.”

  He was back inside of a minute with a pair of blue nitrile gloves. He held out a glove for her; she hesitated, then slipped her hand in. He did the same with the other. Fenway felt it oddly intimate.

  She cleared her throat. “This is from a laser printer, not an inkjet,” Fenway said.