by P. A. Brown
Spider saw where I was looking. "That yours?"
I frowned. "Yes, but what's it doing here?"
"What do you mean?"
"It wasn't here the first time you dropped me off, was it?"
He shook his close-cropped red head. "No, it wasn't. So where was it?"
"I don't know. I remember driving to the Vault ... I would have left it in the parking lot there. If I drove it after, I don't remember." Scary thought, driving around in a drunken haze.
We both approached the vehicle. Nothing seemed out of place. I had the keys on my key chain. I popped the front door and a cloud of stale hot air puffed out. My second set of keys, which fortunately didn't include my apartment key, hung from the ignition. Clearly the car had been shut up for a while. A litter of McDonald's food wrappers and drink containers covered the back seat. I wasn't exactly a neat freak.
"Is that all yours?" Spider peered into the interior, taking in everything. When I nodded he asked, "Anything missing?"
"Don't think so."
He pointed at the emergency parking brake. "You always leave your car with the emergency brake on?"
I looked and frowned. "Not usually. Never saw the need."
69
Geography of Murder
by P. A. Brown
He pointed to the car key. "Give me that. I'll have it printed. Maybe it was a helpful neighbor."
We both knew that was a crock. Spider went back to his truck and pulled a tool kit out of the truck bed. From there he pulled on a pair of gloves, crossed back over to my car and slid into the driver's seat. Careful not to touch the gearshift, he opened the glove compartment. He rifled through the papers there, holding up a handful of condoms. "You know the heat in a glove compartment will damage these things."
I rolled my eyes at him and snatched the wrappers out of his hand. "Thank you, Dr. Ruth."
He collected the keys and followed me inside.
The apartment next door to mine housed a family of four who were classic white trash from Okie country. She was already hanging out the door, avidly watching us approach.
Behind her a TV played Jerry Springer and one of her kids was screaming. Welcome to my neighborhood.
"Sorry," I muttered, gripping my keys in my hand. "It's not much, but it's home until I can find something better." I didn't say the obvious: if I could afford anything better I wouldn't be here.
He lightly touched my back, which was riddled with tension. "Don't worry about it. Pack up some things. You can spend the weekend at my place. I'm low down on the duty roster, so unless we have a major crime wave in the next few days I'm pretty well free till Monday."
"You want me to come stay with you?"
He stepped so close to me I felt the heat from his body. I shivered at the intensity of his gaze. "I intend to keep you at 70
Geography of Murder
by P. A. Brown
home and fuck you until you can't walk straight. What do you say to that?"
I was already feeling weak-kneed. "Yes, sir."
"Good." He spun around and trotted back down the steps.
At the bottom he cocked and aimed his hand in an imitation gun. Then he was gone. The neighbor looked on. She had a Marlboro dangling from her slack mouth. Gil came out into the hallway. Jerry Springer played on their TV. A string of bleeped out expletives followed them.
"Fuck's that? Christ, where you been, man? Cops was by looking for you. What you do now?" He peered down the hall toward the entrance. "Who was that?"
Gill was not the most enlightened of apes and I usually kept my private life private from him. But I was too giddy from the night spent with Alex to care what Gill thought.
"That was my boyfriend," I said proudly.
Gill snorted and stomped back into his apartment. His wife followed silently. They banged the door shut on a rising wail from one of their kids.
"Good morning to you, too," I called after them. Shaking my head I entered my home and went to pack a bag for the weekend. After a while I found myself whistling while I packed.
[Back to Table of Contents]
71
Geography of Murder
by P. A. Brown
Spider
I spent the morning in court waiting to testify, but the case was adjourned for another day so that was a waste of time. Back at the station I changed out of the monkey suit I only wore to trials, pulled out the file on George Blunt. I fell to re-examining the skimpy evidence we had built our even flimsier case on.
Nancy came in from her own court duty and, throwing her jacket over the back of her chair, dropped into her seat. The swivel chair creaked alarmingly.
"That thing dumps you on the floor I'm going to be too busy laughing my ass off to help you up."
"I don't need your help." She flipped open a blue binder, one of our current open murder investigations and started studying the contents like they were nuggets of pure gold.
After a while she looked up and met my gaze. "It true you picked the kid from the Blunt case up at county yesterday?"
Cops gossip worse than little old ladies leaning over picket fences. I grimaced. It shouldn't surprise me that she had already heard. It still pissed me off that people couldn't mind their own business.
"So what if I did? I wanted to pick his brain about anyone else he might have noticed hanging around the docks lately."
A lie, since I'd barely talked to Jason. I'd had too many other things to do with him.
72
Geography of Murder
by P. A. Brown
"You aren't ... getting involved with him are you? You know Garcia will freak if you hook up with an ex-suspect who's got a record."
"Ex being the operative word. He should never have been charged in the first place. We got sloppy. One of us should have noticed his knuckles."
"Christ, you are involved. Garcia's gonna have your ass."
"He can try." I turned back to my computer, signaling the discussion was over. I heard her humph once in disgust then she went back to looking at her murder book.
After several minutes of silence, she asked, "Want to grab lunch?"
"Sure. Rudy's?"
My phone rang. I scooped it up and cradled it under my ear. When I hung up I met Nancy's gaze. "Cancel lunch. The dive team recovered something near the George Blunt crime scene."
I grabbed my jacket, checked that my Beretta was in its holster and accessible. Nancy was closing down her PC.
"I'll go sign a car out. Meet me out front."
The dive team was just wrapping up when we pulled into the Marina Four lot. The head diver, Carl Frame, flipped his hand at me as he stowed his gear in the department SUV.
"What have you got for me?"
He hefted a plastic evidence bag up and let me see the contents: a triangular looking brass and hardwood device I couldn't make heads or tails of. Several round attachments looked like magnifying glasses, though what they were supposed to magnify I couldn't see. It didn't look like any 73
Geography of Murder
by P. A. Brown
microscope I'd ever seen. It was heavy enough to pack quite a wallop in the right hands.
"What the hell is it?"
He shrugged.
"Anything else?" I asked.
"You mean besides the half a dozen shopping carts, twenty-six license plates—two from Canada—and a Schwinn bicycle?"
"Yeah," I ruminated over the list. "I had a Schwinn when I was a kid."
"Really." Nancy appeared at my elbow. "I took you for more of a Harley guy."
"They make my kidneys hurt."
Nancy crouched down and studied the object through the plastic. "You're right, what is it?"
"You tell me," Carl said. "I bring 'em up. It's up to you to figure out what they are."
"Looks like some kind of ship thingy," Nancy said peering into the bag.
I shrugged. "Ship thingy. How scientific sounding.
Forensics will have to go over it. Maybe we'll g
et lucky and they can put a name to it." I signed off on the chain of evidence card attached to the bag and carried it over to my department issued Crown Victoria. I locked up and pocketed the keys. When Nancy came up behind me I nodded toward the marina. We passed through the gate to the wharf crowded with boats of all sizes and shapes. The murder scene bobbed gently in the swells, the rear entrance still blocked by crime scene tape.
74
Geography of Murder
by P. A. Brown
"I'd like to take another look."
"You aren't seriously suggesting anything was missed, are you?"
"We missed the significance of Mr. Zachary's injury-free hands." I spoke over my shoulder as I climbed onto the rocking boat. Suddenly I felt a wave of nausea. Nancy must have seen something on my face.
"You're not going to tell me you get seasick, are you?"
I grunted and tried to ignore her.
"Christ man, you live by the biggest fucking ocean in the world and you get seasick? Why'd you leave Podunk anyway if you're not a water guy? Next you'll tell me you don't surf."
"It was Kansas City, not Podunk. No, I don't surf." I did my best to ignore the pangs in my stomach and gamely moved into the cabin. The bedroom where Jason and Blunt had been found was toward the front of the boat. I could never remember what it was called. "And I left because I got married. Remember?"
"Oh, right. Bambi. Another mistake."
"Her name was Barbara. It's been four years. You going to keep rubbing it in?"
"Every minute of every day."
"I seriously need a new partner."
"Ain't gonna happen. Captain thinks we're golden, higher solve rate than anyone else in the department. Makes him look good, makes me look good. I'm going to be Captain one day, just you see."
I knew she'd already taken her Lieutenant's exam. She just might do it. "And that, my friend, will be the day I retire."
75
Geography of Murder
by P. A. Brown
"I'll buy you a gold watch."
"Good, something to hawk when I hit the skids."
"Seriously, what would you do if you quit?" she asked as we moved through the boat, peering into nooks and crannies, looking for anything that seemed out of place. Like I'd know what should be in place on something as alien as a boat.
Underneath me I was aware of water pressing against the bottom of the boat. I imagine it trying to get in. To swallow us up. Talk about an overactive imagination.
"I don't know. Become a PI," I said. It was a popular topic among cops, frequently disillusioned by the bald-faced hatred and lack of respect cops faced daily. We all wondered what we would do if we quit. "Open a donut shop." I grinned maliciously. "Sell guns. Always money in guns since law enforcement is going to hell in a hand basket."
In an alcove above a bench seat I found a tall, narrow glassed-in cabinet. It was inset into the wall beside a small fridge. I opened the cabinet and shone my flashlight into the shadowed interior.
"Come here," I called to Nancy. "Have a look at this."
She came up behind me and studied the cabinet and its contents. "What is it?"
I shrugged. I swung the flashlight up to peer into the top of the cabinet and the single shelf built into the lower section to allow room for something a lot bigger than was in there right now. I could make out a faint outline on the dark surface. Something had obviously sat there until recently. No sign the crime scene techs had printed the cabinet for latents.
76
Geography of Murder
by P. A. Brown
At least I wasn't the only one who had fucked up this crime scene. We were all getting sloppy.
"Maybe that ship thingy was in here."
Nancy pulled out her cell and called CSU to get their asses down here and finish their job. How to win friends and influence people. She'll make a marvelous Captain some day.
"You got your camera with you?"
She went to retrieve it and I prowled the boat some more.
We missed something once, maybe we missed more. This case was FUBAR all around.
I tried to visualize what might have happened that night, but there were too many unknowns. Just how and where had Jason crossed paths with Blunt? Blunt was killed on the boat, that much we knew. But Jason was the enigma. When had he entered the picture? Had he come on his own for some reason he wasn't talking about, was he brought here, or had he stumbled on something, somewhere else and become part of
... what? I shook my head. If I kept this up I'd be seeing Kennedy conspiracies coming out of the woodwork.
Because if Blunt's killers had wanted Jason gone they could have just killed him and left his corpse cooling beside Blunt.
But they hadn't and he had been genuinely confused. Well join the club, so was I.
I made a mental note to remind the lab to check his blood samples for drugs. Tox screen for something like coke or methamphetamine might show up hours later, but date rape cocktails like GHB were more ephemeral. The effects could be devastating but the drug didn't linger in the system long.
With our blood sample taken we just might prove what I now 77
Geography of Murder
by P. A. Brown
suspected—Jason had been doped up with a date rape drug, which would explain why he didn't remember a thing about that night. So when had it happened? And why?
I was back to trying to trace his movements that night.
With his help I'd have to establish a time line. I had to know everything he had done that day. According to him he had been at the Vault earlier in the evening. Probably after I had been there picking up whoever it was I had gone home with that night. They were such fleeting, nameless asses and mouths that blended into one faceless body after a while.
Only Jason stood out. I wasn't sure if it was the circumstances of our meeting or something unique about the boy. But he lingered in my thoughts. I was looking forward to the weekend. I intended to test the limits of Jason Aaron Zachary's tolerance in more ways than one. I guess we'd see where we stood come Monday.
Nancy took some more pictures so we'd have a reference.
Then we trooped back out onto the dock and took our possible murder weapon in to log it into evidence. Let the forensic geeks sort it out. I was going back to what I did best.
Good old fashion leg work.
I started by walking into the morgue and meeting up with Don about our new piece of evidence plus some theories I had. He wasn't very happy to see me. That suited me just fine. I didn't like being there. I hated going to the morgue.
And it wasn't the smells or things I saw. It wasn't even those dead people lying around in various stages of turning back into worm food. It was my dead people who got to me. I've brought too many people here, seen them newly dead, seen 78
Geography of Murder
by P. A. Brown
them little more than pathetic bones hidden away like litter collecting in the bottom of a lightless well. I escort them to this place and try to find out why they're here. How they ended up on the wrong end of a gun or knife, or the business end of someone's bumper. People are amazingly adept at finding new ways to kill each other and it's up to me to find out why.
Some are quickly forgotten. The banger who got caught in a turf war, the meth head who blew himself up in his makeshift lab. Then there are those you never forget, no matter how many trips you take into your own personal pharmacy. The four-year-old boy whose mother thought she was safe to drive after a couple of martinis with the girls, the sixteen-year-old who hitchhiked to school. I had to stand on the ditch beside the road and document the atrocities done to her by the sick fuck who picked her up.
I see dead people. They haunt me sometimes in the dead hours of the morning when I can't sleep and there's no one beside me in bed. It's my job to give some kind of peace to the ones the dead leave behind. But there's no one to give me peace.
Only the dead are always there.
"You know I cou
ld be so much better at my job if you brought me the evidence at one time, instead of dishing it out in dribs and drabs."
"I'll ask the bad guys to be more accommodating next time and leave the murder weapon in plain sight so we don't have to go hunting for it." I backtracked. "It is the murder weapon, right?"
79
Geography of Murder
by P. A. Brown
"It's a fine example of an antique sextant, maybe circa 1800s." At my puzzled look he added, "Navigation tool in early days. But whether it's the murder weapon, it's far too early to say with any certainty." Don slapped an X-ray film up on the light box. He studied it over the rim of his glasses.
"Could very well be. Injuries to the torso and shoulders are consistent with the blunt object. I would say your victim was lying down when he was struck, repeatedly on the back and neck. I think they missed his head because he was covering it with his arms, which received considerable damage."
"So he was cowering ... he knew what was going on.
Where? On the bed? On the floor?"
"You mean deck? Was he on the deck when the blows were struck." Don shook his head. "I suspect he was in the bunk and he died there."
"Now, what are the chances someone could be in the bed—bunk—with him and not remember some of it at least?"
"I've seen GHB users have no memory of the most horrific things that have occurred to them."
I didn't like the sound of that.
"Any chance of recovering trace from the weapon?"
"Unlikely," he said, then seeing my disappointment he added, "But not impossible. Sometimes blood and tissue can get into the unlikeliest places. Don't worry, Alex, if there's anything there we'll find it. And even if we can't, we can still match the tool marks on the body to the object. They're certainly unique enough. You recovered it in the water near the boat?"
80
Geography of Murder
by P. A. Brown
"Yes, I suspect it was dumped overboard when the killer went ashore."
"Did he bring the weapon with him or use something that was already there?"