Pretty Corpse

by Linda Berry

  “Get me a code 33 over PIC!” Steve barked. “Get units to each corner of the park. Suspect is wearing a dark robe with a hood.”

  “Units responding,” the dispatcher crackled back.

  Lauren pressed her fingers into the girl’s cool flesh, found the carotid artery and a pulse. A strong, sweet odor reached her nostrils.

  Steve was now shouting at the crowd. “Step away from the vehicle!”

  Lauren saw the spectators closing in around the hearse. Stunned faces peered into the windows. The Strangler could be one of them. She backed out of the rear. “Get back! This is a crime scene! Get back!”

  Sirens sounded in the distance.

  Thank God. We need help here.

  A sharp sound cracked the night. Maybe a firecracker, or a car backfiring. The crowd was momentarily stunned into silence.

  The second crack left no illusion. Gunshots.

  Amidst panicked screams, people scattered.

  Adrenaline exploded through Lauren’s system. Pulling out her Beretta, she searched for her partner. Where’s Steve? She raced around the front of the hearse. “Oh dear God!”

  Sprawled on the ground, Steve was clutching his chest, face drawn with pain.

  “Officer down—406, officer down!” she screamed into her radio. Time slowed to a crawl. She moved as though under water. Pushing against invisible forces, it took an eon to reach his side. She dropped to the ground.

  “Holy hell … I’m shot ….” Black blood oozed between his fingers.

  The gunshot pierced his vest.

  He tried to sit up.

  She pressed him back. “Stay down. Lie still.”

  “I’m cold,” he said, his face clammy with sweat.

  He was going into shock. Panic rose in her throat. She fought it down. “It’s okay, Steve. Just stay with me. I’m going to take a look.” Lauren moved his hands aside, opened his jersey, pulled apart his vest, saw the entry wound below his right rib cage. Small. Leaking blood. She felt around his chest and sides. No exit wound. Christ.

  “Stay calm. Stay calm,” Lauren said to herself as much as to Steve. She applied pressure to the opening with both hands. Warm blood spread over her fingers.

  “How bad is it?” His eyes were trained on her face. “I can’t feel anything.”

  “You’re shot at least once.”

  “How bad?”

  “Not bad,” Lauren said. She didn’t recognize her own voice.

  “I can’t feel my legs. Jesus, I’m cold.”

  Sirens screamed closer from every direction. Every cop and fire department vehicle in the city would be heading their way. Faster. Please God, faster! “Hear that? Help’s coming. Hang on, Steve.”

  His eyelids were drooping. “Get who did this.”

  “We’ll get him. You and me. Soon as you’re back on your feet.”

  Steve was nodding off.

  “Talk to me, Steve. Stay with me.”

  He whispered softly. She pressed her head close to his lips.

  “My report ….”

  “Don’t worry about your report. We’ll do it together. You’re gonna be okay.”

  Sirens screamed. Red strobes pulsed arteries of light into the night. Patrol cars and ambulances raced up the hill, stopped within feet of them. Paramedics sprinted from vehicles. They knelt beside Lauren, one pushed her hands aside. “Out of the way.”

  She backed off, watching every move, expression, looking for clues. Cops swarmed over the park, guns drawn. Hundreds of cops. Time warped. Everything spun around her. She stood still. Helpless. The paramedics worked fast. Lifted Steve to a gurney. Rushed him to the open doors of one ambulance, loaded The Strangler’s victim into the other. In slow motion, she struggled to keep up. The men got swallowed into the ambulance. The doors were closing.

  She had to stay with Steve. Someone was holding her back. Jack Monetti. “Let me go!”

  “There’s no room, Lauren. Peanut will drive you.”

  Peanut Farrell appeared. Rushed her into a patrol car. The ambulances shot down the hill, Steve’s in the rear. Peanut stayed on its bumper. A dozen motorcycle cops surrounded them. Several raced ahead, blocking off intersections. The two ambulances didn’t slow down. Sirens screamed. Racing against time.

  ***

  Lauren stood in the doorway of the small trauma room. The medical team fought frantically to save her partner’s life. Steve’s heart stopped. A shock of voltage. Stimulants shot into muscle. Come on, Steve! A listless movement on the monitor. Seconds passed. Steve’s heart stopped again. More voltage. His chest lurched. Again. Again.

  Lauren prayed, clutched at hope. The fragile thread slipped through her fingers.

  Hunched in defeat, the medical team turned away. With a sorrowful expression, the lead doctor shook his head. Lauren had known it in her gut all along. Refused to accept it, desperately wanting a miracle. The bullet ricocheted inside his torso. Internal terrorism. Untold damage to soft tissue and organs. He never stood a chance.

  Distraught cops from the station milled in the corridors trying to get into the trauma room. Birenski and Monetti barred the door. Only Lauren was permitted inside.

  Steve lay on his back, body snarled with tubes and specked with blood. His spirit had left his flesh. Lauren studied his face. Peaceful in death. The weariness, the nervous agitation, gone. She held her body rigid. No tears. No weeping. Inside, she was exploding. The inevitable question rose, echoing through her psyche. Why Steve?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A COUPLE OF HOMICIDE DETECTIVES were waiting at Cypress Park when Peanut pulled alongside Lauren and Steve’s patrol car, still parked at the curb where they left it. As Lauren opened the door, Peanut gave her arm a quick squeeze, flashed an encouraging smile.

  A shock of cold air barreled against her as she stepped out into the street. She zipped her jacket, shoved her hands into her pockets, and surveyed the now quiet neighborhood, which possessed an eerie stillness. A world set apart from the screaming chaos witnessed earlier. Lights had blazed in every building silhouetting curious onlookers, but now the windows were blackened, reflecting the silence of the night. Just a few official vehicles remained parked on the street. Under the cold glare of a street lamp, two homicide detectives stood talking to one of the crime scene investigators. As Farrell drove off, the detectives looked Lauren’s way, then walked towards her, their footsteps hollow on the pavement.

  Lauren knew them both. She and Steve had turned a dozen cases over to them in the past few years. Josie Keach was a class act, slim and smartly dressed, a tailored dark suit visible under her opened raincoat. Blond hair fell to her shoulders in an unfussy yet stylish cut. She appeared confident and self-possessed. Dave Valona, her exact opposite, was short, portly, and rumpled. He had the habit of wearing odd hats to cover his bald head. Tonight he had on a fuzzy maroon beret, slanted jauntily to one side. On him, it looked clownish. Lauren knew humor had not been his intent. Steve used to call the pair Beauty and the Beast, but professionally, the two detectives were a solid-gold match. Tough, smart, seasoned, committed, with the highest record of solved homicides in the city.

  Lacking even the most rudimentary social skills, Valona nodded at Lauren, expression blank, while his more sensitive partner offered their condolences. Keach spouted the same rhetoric Lauren had been getting all night, the words she used herself when consoling grief-stricken cop widows. “We’re so sorry for your loss. Steve was a damn good cop. We’ll find who did this and bring him to justice. Is there anything you need, Lauren?”

  The words sounded empty, pointless. Lauren allowed herself to be comforted, even hugged, but she felt no relief. Just blinding pain etched in guilt.

  “We need you to walk us through what happened tonight. Step by step.” Keach spoke in a gentle tone. “You up for his?”

  “Yes. I need to do it.”

  “All right. Let’s start at the beginning.”

  Lauren recited automatically. “We took the call around ten p.m. Raced over. Pul
led up right here.” Lauren nodded at the patrol car. Steve’s coffee cup was on the dashboard. His face flashed before her, brown eyes shining in the darkness. A sharp pain constricted her chest.

  “Lauren …?” Both detectives were watching her.

  “Sorry.” She took a moment, cleared her throat. “Steve and I ran up that hill.”

  “Lead the way.”

  The three mounted the summit to the hearse, now blocked off by yellow tape, Valona panting and pausing on occasion to catch his breath. The moon hung low in the sky. Long shadows darkened the vehicle, which seemed to crouch, demon-like, on the blackened grass. The wide-eyed stare of the headlights mocked her. Abruptly, she recalled the girl in the coffin. Somewhere out there, the victim and her parents were also living a nightmare. “How’s the girl?”

  “She’ll live,” Valona said, all business, scratching notes on a pad.

  “We’re waiting for lab results,” Keach added. “It’ll be days before we know anything.”

  The three ducked below the tape and Lauren moved the detectives chronologically around the crime scene, describing in detail the events leading up to the shooting. “I was standing here when I heard the first shot. I had just opened the rear door and discovered the victim in the coffin. After the next shot, people scattered in every direction. I ran around to the front of the hearse. Found Steve lying there.” She gestured, reliving the moment. Steve clutching his chest. Blood oozing out. Tears burned her eyes. She blinked them back. Still they came brimming over her lids. Her chin quivered. She turned away.

  “Take a minute, Officer,” Keach said. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and handed it to Lauren.

  Lauren nodded her thanks, dabbed her eyes, blew her nose. “I’m okay,” she said hoarsely.

  “Did you see where the shooter was?” Valona asked. Even his tone had softened.

  “No. The sound came from over there.” She pointed to the northwest end of the park.

  “In the park or across the street?”

  She followed his gaze to Pillsner Cathedral. The looming gothic structure straddled half a city block opposite the park. “I can’t say for certain. There were so many people screaming and running. It was chaos.” She looked at him directly. “Someone must’ve seen something. Any witnesses come forth?”

  “Sure. Plenty. Nothing usable,” Keach said. “We’ll start interviewing neighbors in the morning.”

  “What about bullet casings?”

  “Nothing yet. They’ll do a better job scouring the area come daylight.”

  The three moved to the back of the vehicle. The coffin was still in the hearse, repositioned at an angle.

  “Do you know where the hearse came from?” Lauren asked.

  “Yeah,” Valona said. “Papers in the glove box identify it. Mortuary down the street. Stolen.”

  “What about the coffin?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “What kind of gun was used?”

  “We’re the ones asking the questions, Officer,” Valona said testily.

  Keach shot her partner a look, said to Lauren in a patient tone, “Give us time. We’re just starting the investigation.”

  Lauren’s mind buzzed with unanswered questions. Staring into the back of the hearse, she studied the coffin under the soft dome light. Burnished wood. Brass handles. White satin fabric tufted and rolled. Cheap make. Light enough for one man to shove into the hearse. Something else caught her eye. “Forensics look this over?”

  “Not as well as they will at the lab,” Keach said. “We’re waiting for the truck to come haul it out of here.”

  “Why?” Valona looked at her sharply. “See something?”

  “Yeah.”

  He moved closer.

  “Inside the coffin, tucked into a fold up front. Right corner. See that white edge just barely sticking out?”

  “Yeah, I see it,” Valona said.

  Lauren looked from one detective to the other, shrugged. “You could wait for forensics to find it.”

  “Nah. Let’s take a look,” Valona said. “You’re skinny. Crawl in there.”

  “Hold on,” Keach said. “Use this.” Out came a pair of tweezers from her handbag and an evidence bag.

  Lauren crawled in, maneuvered her body to get closer to the head of the coffin, and then gently tugged at the item. She eased back out of the vehicle.

  “It’s a Polaroid.” Lauren felt for her flashlight. She had left it somewhere. Valona aimed his beam at the photo. The three huddled close.

  “Hot damn,” Valona breathed.

  “I suspected as much,” Lauren said.

  The picture showed the victim lying on her back dressed in a lacy bridal gown, apparently unconscious. A white tulle veil framed her dark hair, her hands were folded around a bouquet of white rosebuds, and a gold band glinted on her ring finger.

  “Whadaya know,” Valona said. He spat on the ground. “The jerkoff marries them.”

  “She doesn’t have the white makeup on yet,” Lauren pointed out. “No ligature marks.”

  “Right,” Valona said with a smirk. “He’s just getting warmed up for the fun stuff.”

  Lauren said quietly, “This is what he wanted all along.”

  “Meaning what?” Valona patted his breast pockets, then dove into the pockets of his overcoat and fished out a crumpled pack of Marlboros.

  “His stunt tonight will create a firestorm in the press,” Lauren said. “He had a score of witnesses. Tomorrow his MO will be all over the front page.”

  Valona shook a cigarette from the pack. Oblivious that it was shaped like a question mark, he stuck it between his lips. “He killed a cop. He’ll be a star.”

  “Notorious,” Keach said.

  Lauren swallowed hard.

  “Wonder if Duffy can pull himself together enough to cover the story.” Valona renewed his body search, looking for his lighter.

  “Peter Duff?” Lauren asked. “The reporter?”

  “Yeah,” Keach said. “The girl in the hearse tonight, she’s his daughter. Tina.”

  Stunned into silence, Lauren flashed back to her chance meeting with the reporter here in the park less than a week ago. She recalled the man’s raw conviction and his determination to put The Strangler away before his own daughter could fall victim. “Tina’s fourteen,” she said, thinking out loud. “But this Polaroid shows she doesn’t fit the body type.” She looked at them. “She’s reed thin, boyish.”

  “My take on it, picking Tina was no accident,” Valona said. Unable to locate his lighter, he ripped the cigarette from his mouth and shoved it back into his pocket. “Duff’s written some nasty shit about the suspect. I figure it was payback.”

  “Payback,” Lauren whispered.

  “What is it, Lauren?” Keach asked.

  “Did The Strangler kill Steve to get back at me? Is my daughter next?” She trembled with fury. “We need to find this guy. Let me help you work this case.”

  Valona’s scowl deepened. “He’s not singling you out, Starkley. Your involvement with the case is coincidental.”

  Keach took Lauren’s arm and guided her to the other side of the hearse, out of Valona’s hearing range. “Lauren, you know I have the highest regard for your abilities. But we have a problem here. We’re going to find this prick and drag his ass to court, and we’ll need you as a witness. An unbiased witness. We can’t have your testimony tainted by info you learn working the case.”

  Lauren saw where Keach was going. She knew the rap. “You’re worried about a court case? I’m worried about the next girl this psycho victimizes. We both know you’re stretched thin at homicide. If you want to get the guy who kills cops, use me.”

  Keach kicked at a clump of grass with the toe of her shoe but said nothing.

  “Steve was your friend,” Lauren said. “A veteran cop. Who’s going to take care of his wife? His baby? Don’t make him a damned statistic you cram into a folder and forget about. His family deserves more.”

  The two women s
tared at one another. Keach didn’t lecture or tell her to calm down. As Lauren struggled to get hold of her emotions, the muffled sounds of the city slowly filtered into her consciousness and she regained a sense of her body, which was trembling uncontrollably. “I can’t go home and stare at the walls. To keep my sanity, I need to help.” She closed her eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and slowly expelled it. “Give me something to do, Josie. Anything.”

  Keach glanced away. A long moment passed before she turned back to Lauren. “I understand how you feel. I’d feel the same way. The system’s unfair. If it were up to me, I’d say, sure, I’ll use you. But it’s not my decision. You’re a cop. You know what’s going down.” Keach shoved her hands into her pockets. “You’ll have to take administrative leave. It’s policy.”

  Lauren’s shoulders sagged as an inexpressible exhaustion took hold of her.

  “I won’t cut you off completely, Lauren. Come into the office any time you want. I’ll share whatever info I can. I promise you’ll hear it from me before it goes to the press.”

  “Sure thing,” Lauren said dully as she felt bureaucratic handcuffs lock tightly around her wrists.

  ***

  Lauren retreated to the patrol car, grateful to be able to finally confront her grief in solitude. She and Steve had spent thousands of hours confined in the space of police vehicles and covered a million miles of asphalt. Steve’s spirit breathed here. His voice and laughter echoed here. Vivid memories of his smiling face and sardonic humor flashed like a movie reel through her mind.

  On many levels, she had been closer to her partner than to her own family, even her husband. Cops went through cycles of divorces and other crises in their personal lives, but a partner remained steadfast, a source of unflagging support. When she and Steve were thrust into survival mode situations, they melded together as a single unit, relying on each other’s instincts to stay alive. Steve’s instincts had been uncanny, preventing dozens of close calls.

  She spotted his cup on the dashboard half filled with coffee, and pictured him emerging from The Roasted Beans, bristling with vitality, her café mocha in one hand.

  The windows fogged over. Privacy from the outside world allowed her to surrender to the unrelenting pressure of grief. Sounds like a wounded animal tore from her throat. Tears and snot streamed from her eyes and nose. Her body convulsed, as though trying to rid itself of a life-threatening affliction. It went on and on. Her head and facial muscles ached, her eyes burned, her gut felt turned inside out. After an eternity, the sobs finally subsided. Soggy tissues covered the floor. She sat quietly, exhausted, her mind an echo chamber reverberating with painful memories.