by Meg Lelvis
“Did Derek and Amy see him drive away?” Moose asked.
“Couldn’t remember. They headed for Derek’s vehicle a few cars away and didn’t notice.”
Hector continued his report, explaining that Derek and Amy drove straight to her apartment on Avenue H near 18th Street and stayed there the rest of the night. This morning Derek headed for his house early to do some chores before his morning shift at the restaurant. He smelled the stench as soon as he walked in the door. He called out for Todd, and saw him a few seconds later on the sofa.
Derek totally freaked, according to him. His hands were shaking so much, he couldn’t pull his cell out of his pocket, so he ran in the kitchen, and called 911 from the cordless. Dispatch got the call at 7:41
AM. Derek was barely coherent on the phone, and afterwards went in the bathroom and puked. Fitch came within three minutes, Derek was waiting outside on the porch. After a few questions, Fitch brought him to the station to get him out of the crime scene.
During Hector’s report, the other detectives took notes on laptops or with pen and paper.
Not surprisingly, Jack, Moose, and Tilford, used paper notebooks. The younger guys, Vince and Javon, preferred electronic devices. They tried to convince their older colleagues to join the 21st Century, but thus far proved unsuccessful.
Jack stuck a fresh stick of gum in his mouth. “What about next of kin?”
“Todd moved here from Lake Charles, Louisiana, according to Derek.” Hector looked at his notes. “Mom wasn’t in the picture, just the dad, no siblings he knew of. I tracked down the dad, Roger Kaplan. He’ll drive over tomorrow.”
“Any info on other family?” Javon asked.
“Not really. The dad sounded pretty rattled. Said he hadn’t seen Todd for a year or so. I got the vibe they weren’t close.” Hector stroked his wiry mustache. “Jill will take him under her wing when he gets here.”
Jack ended the meeting so he could get the hell out of there. They’d gathered enough information for now, and the rest would wait until tomorrow. He needed to discover who Todd Kaplan really was, and he planned to question Derek further. Cop Philosophy 101: the more you know your victim, the greater chance of finding the killer. Of course, that didn’t include random crime, but Jack knew someone had been out to get Kaplan.
“Okay, guys, enough for now.” Jack closed his notebook. “Get your asses back to your desks and finish up your paperwork. Tilford and Moose, head over to the Olive Garden and talk to Todd’s boss. Also the other employees. You know the drill.”
“And what are you going to do, Jack?” Tilford rose from the table and tucked his wrinkled shirt into his beer belly. “Go home early for a Guinness?”
“Sounds good, Tilford. I’ll have one for you.” Jack looked at Tilford’s clothes. “And either change your shirt or wear a jacket over it. You look like a fuckin’ wino.”
Don Tilford rolled his eyes, gathered his materials, and marched out of the room.
“Forget that asshole,” Moose said. “We’ll be fine. I’ll call you later with an update.”
Jack and Hector tossed their empty water cups in the wastebasket and walked out with Vince and Javon.
“I’m headed home, Hector. Gotta check on Boone.”
“Okay, Jack, see ya mañana,” Hector said. “And give the mutt a pat for me.”
“Will do.” And maybe he could sleep tonight with no nightmares.
Chapter 5
Jack felt a huge sense of relief as he drove out of the parking lot. He ramped up the AC, eager to get home and pop open a Guinness. True to his heritage, he imbibed the dark brew and on other occasions, a shot or two of Jamesons. He was proud of his ability to handle several drinks without making an ass of himself, unlike his father. Jack seldom allowed his thoughts to wander there or anywhere in his previous life.
He headed down Sixth Street past the old downtown buildings, shops, and restaurants baking in the heat. Within five minutes he was in the Oak Bend area off Avenue H, where houses nestled among aging trees and tall shrubs. An older, desirable neighborhood, it was a haven for Richmond natives who tended to reside there for the duration. Jack had been lucky to land his place, a red brick duplex in a quiet neighborhood close to work.
He wondered if Baumgartner would be lying in wait for him. His busybody housekeeper had been in his employ from the beginning. She worked for the previous owners, and was part of the package in Jack’s leasing the house. But he grudgingly admitted that Mrs. Erna Baumgartner was instrumental in keeping his abode in order and his dog, Boone, tended to.
He pulled in the driveway, and parked his black BMW in the garage. Jack purchased the Beemer at a bargain six years ago when it was three years old, allowing a lowly cop to afford a top car.
As he opened the door, his huge yellow dog leaped up, front paws landing on Jack’s chest.
“Hey, big guy.” Jack eased the mutt’s legs back on the floor.
“Mr. Bailey, you’re home,” chirped Mrs. Baumgartner from the sink. “You ‘re early. Slow day?”
“Just the usual. I hope you’re finishing up.” Jack was annoyed that the woman was still there, and she knew it.
“I just finished the kitchen, and need to check the laundry room,” she warbled. “I made meatloaf and put it in the fridge for you.”
Jack shook his head. “Baumgartner, how many times do I have to tell you not to do that. I don’t need anything.”
“Ha, says you. I threw out half a package of moldy cheese and your milk’s going sour.” She smiled, smoothed her short curly white hair, and untied her floral hausfrau apron. At eighty-seven, the pudgy woman was full of spunk and Old World wisdom. She wore her typical uniform, a baggy house dress with matching belt tied around what used to be her waist. Her blue eyes sparkled above chubby rose cheeks, and she had a smile for everyone. Jack knew she prided herself in her cooking, homemaking, and German heritage.
“I want to relax with Boone and not deal with your dang henpecking—”
“Just slice the meatloaf and put it on a plate. Be sure and put a paper towel over it. Last time you left splatters in the microwave. Why you can’t remember to put—”
“Hush up, Baumgartner. You’re driving me to drink. Go home. Leave the laundry room for later.”
“Now, now, Mr. Bailey, don’t get cross,” she chuckled. “You need a good woman to—”
“Auf wiedersehn, Baumgartner, bis spater,” Jack guided her toward the front door.
“Ah, your Deutsch is improving,” Mrs. Baumgartner chuckled as she headed for her house in the adjoining unit. “I’ll see you in three days unless you need something earlier, be sure and—”
“Ya, ya, ya,” Jack grumbled as he shut the door. Boone stood there wagging his tail. “Sorry you were stuck with her today, but you can handle it.”
Boone, a lab mix, was Jack’s only link to his past, and he considered him his life saver. As he ruffled the dog’s fur, Jack fought memories seeping through his consciousness from an idyllic time long ago.
Oh, Jack, let’s call him Boone after my dog I loved so much as a kid. Karen had laughed while the puppy licked her face. Jack startled himself back to the present. “No, Stop,” he said aloud. “Don’t think, don’t think.” His right eye twitched, and a tightness formed in his gut.
He flopped in his chair, and tuned in the local news. “Bunch of crap,” he muttered. Jack thought again about the untimely death of Todd Kaplan and wondered about a possible motive. Nothing solid until the autopsy report tomorrow. The usual loose ends would gradually get tied up: the body released to next of kin, crime scene declared ready for clean-up, more questioning. Jack wondered if Todd had a girlfriend; Derek hadn’t indica
ted that. Maybe the kid was gay, although Jack didn’t get that feeling. He expected Moose and Denise to call him tonight for an update.
He flipped on the table lamp and switched channels. The room’s décor was understated and tidy, thanks to the venerable Erna Baumgartner. Ivory walls showcased built-in bookshelves behind the brown leather sofa. Carole Gustafson, Moose’s wife, insisted on sprucing up the place six years ago when Jack moved in.
“Let her do it,” Moose had told Jack when he objected. “She sniffs out sales like a bloodhound. Besides, she needs a project, and you’re a good one.”
Carole chose tans, browns, and beiges, befitting a man living alone. She acquired several Picasso prints in oranges and tans. It took Jack awhile to accept them as ‘real’ art, since he preferred his birds to look like birds, but he’d grown fond of them over the years. He admitted to Moose that the place looked damn good.
. . . . .
Two hours later he stepped out of the shower and toweled himself off. He already fed and walked Boone around the block and nuked a hunk of meatloaf, sensing the ghost of Baumgartner breathing down his neck. He managed not to splatter the microwave. Another beer completed his meal, followed by a bowl of homemade vanilla ice cream straight from Kroger. Jack’s culinary needs were rudimentary, especially when dining at home.
He pulled on a pair of old gray sweats, a faded White Sox t-shirt, and headed for his trusty recliner. His cell buzzed in his pocket.
“Yeah, Moose. Sure, come on by.”
Five minutes later, the front bell rang, followed by Boone’s howling and pawing at the door.
“Down, boy, it’s only Moose,” Jack said as he opened the door and led Moose to the living room. “Join me in a cold one?”
“Hell, yes,” Moose answered as he plopped down on the brown sofa, stretching his mile-long legs under the coffee table. He reached over to pet Boone’s huge cranium; the dog closed his eyes with pleasure.
Jack returned from the kitchen and handed Moose a Sam Adams. “Here you are, and use a coaster. Don’t want to rile up Baumgartner.”
Moose chuckled. “How is dear Miss Erna?”
“As annoying as ever.” They each took a long swig of the brew and sighed. “Dig up anything at the Olive Garden?” Jack asked.
“Seems like Todd Kaplan was an ordinary guy. His boss is new on the job and only knew the kid for a few months. Said he was reliable and an okay worker. Friendly to customers and staff.”
Moose took another gulp and wiped his mouth. “Said he partied a little with a few guys around his age, but nothing that interfered with work. No Facebook or other social media that they knew of.”
“What about friends?” Jack took his turn stroking Boone’s fur.
“Tilford talked to a couple guys who said Todd was okay, but no genius. Same thing I got from a few girls and a guy. I don’t know, Jack. Something’s missing.”
“Yeah, the kid can’t be that squeaky clean. Gotta be something, especially if there’s a sex connection. Any indication of a girl or boyfriend?”
“Don’t think so. I asked, and they said Todd dated a couple girls a year or so ago. They used to work there, or one of them did. Never amounted to anything serious.”
“Okay, I’ll run out there tomorrow, ask for Kaplan’s records. See what I can dig up.”
Moose untangled his legs and rose from the sofa. “Better get home. Carole has dinner waiting. She wants you to come over for our barbecue on Labor Day.”
“We’ll see. I may be working.” Jack gently pushed Boone away where he curled beside the chair. Moose’s wife frequently included Jack in their social occasions, and he appreciated the gesture. However, he usually made excuses to weasel out of the invitations. Being around Moose’s family only intensified Jack’s own pain. As long as he confined his life to work or occasional cultural activities, he managed to numb himself to days gone by. Some doors needed to remain closed.
“See you tomorrow, Jack. Thanks for the beer.” Moose brushed his yellow straw hair from his forehead and headed for the door.
“Anytime, pal.” Jack locked the door and carried the empty beer bottles to the kitchen, Boone on his heels. “Let’s hit the sack, buddy. I’m beat.”
As Jack was peeling off his clothes in the bedroom, his cell rang.
“Yeah, Williams, talk to me.” He sat down on the bed and listened for a couple minutes. “Okay, might want to talk to him again. Good, see you tomorrow.”
“Hell, that figures,” Jack said to Boone, who yipped in response. Denise got nothing from most of the neighbors who weren’t home during the day, but she said a guy thought he heard one gunshot around midnight. He’d have Tilford follow up tomorrow night. That should give the old prick something else to gripe about.
Jack finished undressing, popped his Ambien, and crawled under the covers on his bed. Boone jumped up and nestled beside him. He prayed to some unknown force that the nightmares wouldn’t start up again.
Chapter 6
The next morning Jack woke up to the drone of the alarm clock. A good sign, he thought. He hadn’t been wide awake when the damn thing went off.
Within an hour he was backing out the garage. Baumgartner’s newspaper was gone from the driveway, indicating she was up at the crack of dawn, as usual. Jack didn’t bother subscribing, but read the local newspaper at the station. He figured the Todd Kaplan story might be headline news, since homicides of seemingly normal folks rarely occurred in Richmond.
Five minutes later, Jack pulled into the station parking lot. The Richmond Police building was an imposing red brick edifice which stood alone at Preston and Sixth Street, along the edge of the old downtown area. Built in the late 1800’s, it served as county jail until a new one was erected in the 1950’s. The structure was renovated ten years ago, retaining several original cells and the gallows for historic interest. Jack appreciated the dignity of the place, along with modern comforts of the new annex which housed staff offices. Damn nice for a workplace. He’d done much worse.
Jack emerged from the car, once again cursing the stifling heat. As he headed for the entrance, Hector caught up with him.
“Any more thoughts on the roommate?” asked Jack.
“Well, after thinking about it more last night, seems like Derek got a little hesitant a couple times. Couldn’t pinpoint anything, just my gut told me he was withholding stuff.”
“Like what?” The men entered the side door from the parking lot and walked through the atrium toward their offices.
“Not sure.” Hector frowned. “When I asked about Kaplan’s friends, especially girlfriends, he mumbled something about he may have been interested in some chicks, but then clammed up. He was honest about their weed though. Didn’t amount to much.”
“I’ll talk to the kid later today or tomorrow after he’s recovered a little,” Jack said as he unlocked his office door. “Catch ya later. Hope that damn autopsy report comes in by noon.”
“No chance in hell,” Hector said. “Unless you use your charm on Mason.”
Jack grunted and retrieved his coffee mug from a stack of files on the cluttered desk. He nodded at several cops and office workers on his way to the coffee machine, where he ran into Kathleen.
“Morning, Nolan,” Jack feigned cheerfulness. “I hope you were able to have a late dinner last night without too much inconvenience.”
“Don’t worry about me, Lieutenant, I managed just fine,” she smiled sweetly and walked away.
The kid’s getting some balls, Jack thought. Maybe there’s hope for Miss Barbie yet.
No pastries today, so Jack returned to his messy office and resolved to tidy up the place one of these days. He read the short p
aragraph about Kaplan’s untimely death on page two of the Fort Bend Herald. Jack was sure that Benson, the annoying crime reporter, would be nosing around the station before long, sniffing out more details.
Several hours passed quickly as he finished paperwork from yesterday’s events and spoke with various people regarding the elder Mr. Kaplan’s arrival and crime scene clean-up. He wondered if the Walls kid would be too creeped out to move back in that house again.
As if by divine intervention, Jack’s office phone rang at noon. “Yeah, Jill. Good, put him through.”
He settled himself in his leather swivel chair. “About time, Doc. Hell, I know, we’re all busy.”
Jack listened and frowned. “Really? That’s fuckin’ strange. Only in one testicle.”
He grabbed a pen and jotted down notes on a stray piece of paper as he continued listening to the ME’s report. “Okay, Mason, thanks, and I’ll look for the fax later.”
Jack sighed, shook his head, and phoned Moose, then Hector. “Get in here, pronto.”
“Mason call?” Moose asked as they joined Jack.
“Yeah, just the summary. He’ll fax the official report this afternoon, but wanted to give me a head’s up, pun intended.”
“Oh god,” Hector muttered. He sat down next to Moose across from Jack’s desk.
“Someone had it in for our boy Todd, or wanted it out is more like it.” Jack sipped cold coffee.
“There are four knife wounds near the top of the right testicle, superficial, done post-mortem.”
“A relief for Todd,” said Moose dryly.
“Mason and the CSI guy figure it was an ordinary kitchen knife. Not stabbed, but more like cuts or slices like an aborted castration. Took out the bullet from the chest. Looks like a small caliber Wesson.” Jack took another sip of coffee and grimaced. “No prints or trace evidence to be found. The good doctor thinks the perp used gloves and booties, very meticulous.”
