“I didn’t think anyone took opium anymore. It’s all processed into heroin, right? To make it stronger and purer, easier to ship and sell?”
“I wouldn’t have thought there was a lot of real opium floating around,” Ortiz agreed. “Maybe these guys have some kind of supply chain. It’s still illegal, of course, but I doubt law enforcement worries about poppy juice with far more dangerous things being sold on the street. You can’t even inject opium, really, so it’s very hard to unintentionally overdose. Historically, it was smoked, or drunk in a tincture such as laudanum. It was even sold legally up through the early twentieth century.”
“Like cocaine was in soft drinks,” Cal mused. “Thanks, doc.”
“But you didn’t hear it from me, okay? It’s not really a breach of confidentiality, since I’m talking in general terms, but I don’t want to be known as a gossip. I just get so frustrated with all the crap that I see here. What’s the point of going to med school and patching people up when they keep doing things like this to themselves?”
Cal could hear the frustration in Ortiz’s voice, as if she was reaching some sort of limit of her ability to cope. Like cops, medical people could burn themselves out by caring too much and trying too hard.
Unfortunately, neither crime nor injuries and illness—or drug abuse, which was both—would ever be permanently done away with. They were conditions to be managed, not problems to be solved. That was why politicians promising wars on crime or wars on drugs were either self-deluded, or liars, because wars could be won.
Patting Ortiz’s hand, Cal said, “Hang in there, doc. I used to be a cop. We only see the stupid or unlucky ones.”
Manson snorted. “Which ones are we, Cal?”
“I’m unlucky, Manse. You’re stupid for letting me hire you.”
“Sergei hired you, Cal.”
“Stupid me.” She drifted off as the painkiller finally took hold.
Chapter Fifteen
Cal drifted in and out of consciousness. She knew Manson was still there beside her, and doctors and nurses came in and out, checking on her, monitoring and discussing whether they were going to have to drill into her skull to relieve the pressure on her brain. Each medical professional had to wake her and talk with her to make sure she was still coherent. It was exhausting.
Someone shook her by the arm and Cal pulled away. “I’m fine. Yes, I know who I am and where I am and George Dubya Bush is president. I’m just tired.”
“Wonderful,” a female voice snapped back. “They tried to tell me that you might not be competent to be questioned, so I’m glad to hear it.”
Cal forced her eyes to open. She blinked in the bright hospital light. It took a few moments to focus on the woman standing beside the bed. There was a man beside her too, a black man looking silently down at her with thumbs hooked over his belt. Cal looked again at the woman, and slowly her identity seeped into Cal’s consciousness. Macey. The lead investigator in Jenna’s murder. And she wasn’t happy.
“Uh. Macey.”
“That’s right.” Macey gave a fake grin and glanced at her partner. Cal couldn’t remember his name off hand. “You can testify that she was alert enough to identify me by name without prompting, Raymer?”
He nodded. Raymer. Macey and Raymer.
“What are you doing here?” Cal asked.
“We’re here to talk to you. You want to explain what you’re doing? You want to be charged with interfering with a police investigation?”
“What investigation? Jenna’s murder? You think it’s self-defense, so I haven’t been interfering with anything.”
“Oh, no.” Macey’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Not at all. You just happen to be right in the middle of a fresh murder case. How do I know you’re not the one who killed Potoczek?”
Cal turned her head slightly to find Manson, but his chair was vacant.
Potoczek was dead? That would have been helpful to know before Macey showed up to question her. Manson should have given her all the pertinent details when she was awake, instead of letting her be caught off guard like an amateur.
And that threw her shaky train of thought from its tracks. Potoczek had been, well, if not a prime suspect, then a prime person of interest, a central figure in what was going on. Strong and masterful as he seemed, street-smart if he’d been in prison, he was the last person she’d have expected to turn up dead. “I didn’t even know Potoczek was killed. What happened?”
“You were there, so don’t try to snow me. You end up here and he ends up in the morgue. You think I need a map?”
“I wouldn’t mind a map home right about now. What happened to him? And why would I have anything to do with it? I’m a victim here.”
“Maybe you thought you were getting back at him for Jenna Duncan’s death. Your mobbed-up ‘uncle’ Sergei Volkov had a crush on his employee. He’s mad, so he hires you to find out what happened. You find a few thin leads, maybe even make up a story, point the finger at Potoczek. So maybe Volkov gives you a bonus to off the guy, using your muscle-boys from Oakland. What better way than on the field of battle, surrounded by countless weapons and suspects?”
Cal would have laughed out loud, but she was afraid that would hurt her chest and her head. She blinked at Macey, trying to keep her in focus. Eventually she closed her eyes so she could concentrate on talking. “You’re nuts. You’re just throwing spaghetti at the wall, trying to see what sticks, but you have no real idea, do you? Remember, I was on the job for eight years, the last three working Homicide. I’ve been investigating who really killed Jenna because you were happy to settle for Roubicek instead of finding out who really did it. You really thought those faked injuries to his arm were defensive wounds? You know he didn’t have any residue on his hands or clothing. So how could it be him?”
“It’s quite a jump from Roubicek trying to cover for someone to it being Potoczek.”
“Who said it was Potoczek? I never said that!”
“Why else would you have him killed?”
“Come off it, Macey. I didn’t kill him, not me or my employees. I never even saw him there. And if I did, how would I know it was him? It was impossible to tell people apart with all their armor on. You can’t see faces or body shapes.”
“Because you saw him before he put his gear on,” Macey said with a shrug. “His armor and especially his helmet were very distinctive.”
“Maybe so, but I didn’t know it. What do you mean distinctive? Did he have on a crown?”
“I said he had on a helmet. Which you very well know, since you’re the one who killed him.”
“Everybody had on helms—that’s what they call them, not helmets. Look, I know how this works. You don’t really think I did it, but you’re trying to squeeze me for information you haven’t developed yourself. Just ask your real questions instead of trying to soften me up first.”
“Fine. You had a number of kills on the field of battle. I’m told you did very well for a newbie. More than one person noticed.”
“Maybe I got lucky. Maybe I have an instinct. Maybe the other guys were focusing on my bodyguards and underestimated me. And in case you didn’t notice, that wasn’t real. Do you mean I fake-killed him during the fight? Which one was he?”
Macey didn’t reply, and Cal thought back to what she could remember of the battle. The first helmet she remembered was the ghoulish one the fat man had worn, but he was the wrong shape to be Potoczek, and he wasn’t her first opponent. The armor might hide the details of a person’s body, but it couldn’t camouflage the three hundred pounds the rotund man had carried.
“His helmet…there was a knight with gold trim on his helmet. Is that the one you mean? Was that Potoczek?”
“Pretending ignorance doesn’t work for me, Corwin. Of course he was the one with the gold helmet. You remember fighting him?”
“He and two other guys were all attacking my friends, so I jumped in to help. I was just getting them off of Manson, but he got killed anyway. Manson
, I mean, fake-killed. I didn’t do anything to Potoczek other than fight him fair, by the rules.” Cal tried to think of what else to say. “I don’t even remember what happened after I squared off with him.”
“You were the last one to fight him. And when the battle was called, he didn’t get back up.”
“I remember taking a swing at him, but he was good. Really good. You know he was the Prince, right? And that every year they have a fighting tournament to choose the new Prince? So he was probably the best fighter in the whole Society chapter. How the hell is a newbie like me supposed to beat him face to face? No way.”
“So you face him front and one of your bullies stabbed him when he wasn’t looking. Or vice-versa.”
Flashbacks to the fight were flooding over Cal, but without a proper chronology. She could hear the fighters, the spectators, and the referees. She saw the knights she had fought, the green of the field, the striped tents and canopies. Her head throbbed like someone was trying to cut it open with a medieval axe. She could remember staggering around, trying to catch her breath, trying to fight without being able to see clearly what was in front of her.
Cal tried to slow the impressions down, to play them one at a time instead of all at once. “It was chaos out there,” she told Macey. “I can only remember bits and pieces.”
Macey didn’t let up. “Was there a referee or someone else you can specifically remember when you faced Potoczek?”
“A marshal. There were several. They carried heavy wooden staffs. Staves. Whatever. I don’t know. But I can’t be sure. I can’t remember. The battle wasn’t over yet…I just…I just went blank. I must have fainted or been clobbered. I do have a concussion and chest injuries, you know.”
“When the battle was called, Potoczek was lying on the field. Dead from a stab wound. Massive bleeding.”
“Look, my weapons were inspected. They can tell you that. They can confirm that I didn’t have anything sharp. Nothing that could be used to kill someone.”
“There were a lot of spectators,” Macey said. “And no one can confirm exactly what happened. Everyone has a different story. But there is a consensus that you were there when Potoczek went down. People watch the Prince. They remember you, and one of your buddies.”
“You can keep asking, but I have the same answer. It wasn’t me, or Manson. Meat was already dead or fighting elsewhere by then.”
“Was there any sign Potoczek was bleeding when you fought him?”
Cal focused. She could remember the golden helm. She could remember the height and girth of him. How he’d moved, lithe and quick. Was there anything else? Was there any blood? She could remember only brief impressions. “No. Nothing that I saw. In fact, he seemed fine. Athletic. In his element. Very dangerous, as you’d expect.”
“Yet this dangerous guy got stabbed, and somehow you don’t remember.”
“I don’t remember seeing any blood, but everything was happening so fast. It’s not like slow-mo on TV. You can’t pause it and run it back. It’s all happening at once. People in front of you. People hitting you from behind. This wasn’t a one-on-one tournament. No one is politely waiting for you to finish with the knight you’re fighting before they join in. They just attack without warning. It’s pretty much ‘anything goes.’”
“There were rules. And you broke them.”
“I did not,” Cal said hotly. “I fought by the rules. Anyone who tells you anything different is lying.”
Macey brought her hand up to Cal’s eye-level. In an evidence bag was a derringer .22 pistol.
Cal’s derringer.
“You didn’t hand this weapon over for inspection, now, did you?”
Cal shifted, looking for a comfortable position. Her head throbbed, and despite best efforts, her heart and breathing sped up. It was obvious from the monitors next to her, even if they couldn’t see how much each heartbeat hurt. It was like she was hooked up to a lie detector.
“We put all of the rest of our modern weapons in the lock box in the truck, but I kept that. You’re a cop; you know how naked you feel without a firearm. But I never used it, obviously. Unless now you’re trying to tell me he was shot by a .22. It hasn’t been fired, right?”
“Not recently. But if you broke one rule, you might break others.”
“Bullshit. That’s like saying if you jaywalk, you might be a murderer.” Cal looked at Raymer. Did either of them actually think she had killed Potoczek, or was Macey just grilling her out of spite? Or were they trying to get her to spill a lead for them… “So he wasn’t shot. Right? My derringer is irrelevant.”
“He was stabbed,” Raymer answered. His eyes flicked over to his partner, as if to make sure he wasn’t stepping on her toes.
“He was stabbed, not shot,” Macey repeated. “I’m just pointing out that the weapons inspection wasn’t thorough. There were no X-rays or metal detectors to make sure people didn’t bring unapproved weapons onto the field. Anyone could walk right past the inspectors with a real, sharp combat knife.”
“Sure. It’s not airport security. Nobody there was looking for people who actually wanted to stab people. They were just checking to make sure the gear met the rules. You know, like inspecting football pads or baseball bats before a game.” They’d gone from the check-in tent to the inspection tent, and then they had walked onto the field. “It was all just…honor system. But I did get my weapons checked. I’m sure they’ll remember. We three were obvious newbies. They’ll remember us.”
“It doesn’t matter whether your weapons were inspected or not. We know one of you could easily have hidden a real weapon.”
“What kind of blade was used on Potoczek? A sword? A dagger? How long, how thick?”
“Why would I tell you that?”
Cal took a deeper breath, trying to saturate her bloodstream with oxygen. She had a head injury and was full of painkillers, which didn’t bode well for clear thinking and logic. Macey kept hammering away at Cal now, when she was most vulnerable. She had ignored Dr. Ortiz’s warning that Cal might not be competent to offer a statement. Cal should probably have insisted on doing this later, but now she was in it, and breaking off the interview now would make her look like she was hiding something.
“Look, if I did it, then I already know what kind of a blade was used, and you’re not telling me anything new. If I didn’t do it, then maybe I can help figure out who did it.”
Macey scowled. “We don’t need your help.”
Cal, was getting tired of this crap, and couldn’t help but sneer. “Really? Then why are you here? Because I know you don’t actually think I murdered someone. If you do, you’re even stupider than you look.”
Macey ignored the insult, and continued doggedly. “We’re here because we know you’re involved.”
“You don’t know shit, but if I were involved, there’s no point in withholding the nature of the weapon.”
“Maybe you just want to find out what we know.”
“Or maybe I actually want to help you catch the real killer. Or killers.”
Cal suddenly felt very tired. She should probably have called a lawyer. She shouldn’t have just cooperated without someone there to defend her rights. Where was Manson? And where was Starlight? Had anyone bothered to tell her what had happened to Cal? That she was in the hospital facing the prospect of cranial surgery?
“Corwin.”
Cal’s eyes snapped back to Macey, along with her attention.
The policewoman’s nostrils flared and her cheeks bore a pink flush. “Are you still with us, Miss Corwin?”
“I’m…I’m here. Sorry, my head really hurts. And the drugs are messing with me.”
“You wanted to know what kind of a weapon was used to kill Potoczek.”
Interesting, that now Macey was suddenly offering information. Dangling it, at least. That confirmed what Cal thought: she wasn’t actually a suspect. “Yeah. What was he stabbed with? And where?”
“The blade was left in Potoczek’s body. It
appears to be part of what they call a combination weapon. A spear or a sword with a hidden, spring-release short, hiltless blade that was embedded or projected into the target.”
“A combination weapon.” Cal was familiar with the idea. She’d played with a number of different kinds of weapons camouflaged as everyday objects like canes, pens, or umbrellas. Or they had weapons concealed inside, accessed by removing a hilt, plug, or cap, or released with a spring mechanism. Would the routine inspection of weapons entering the battlefield have found such a thing? Or had the murderer simply skipped the inspection station altogether? “Anyone could have brought it onto the field. The inspection wasn’t strict. All they were doing was a visual inspection. A little tape and anything could have been concealed inside a rattan sword. It could have been anyone.”
“Including you and your two goons.”
“But it wasn’t one of us. We just rented out weapons on the way there. I can give you the name of the store. Show you the receipt. They can confirm that it was all just basic weaponry, no fancy combination tools. Unless someone set us up.”
“Set you up?”
“Yeah, Potoczek recommended that shop. It’s the only one in the area that has the specific gear for these kinds of battles. Someone might have given us something incriminating…but there’s no way it could have been set to stab any one specific person. It would have been random.”
“Unless one of your bully-boys is in on it. Probably the one that hasn’t been here to see you, huh? I checked into them. They do a lot of jobs that are just this side of the law.”
“You said it. Just this side of the law. They aren’t criminals. They’re licensed bail enforcement agents and bounty hunters. They do jobs cops have no time for. They find bail jumpers. They do bodyguard work. They’re not hit men.”
“There’s always a first time, if there’s a good enough reason. Money, threats, some kind of leverage.”
Cal brought one hand up to her head to rub the tight skin across her forehead, taking care not to tangle her lines. “Look, I don’t know what happened out there. They must have told you that I fainted or collapsed. You didn’t inspect the weapons of everyone who was in the fight. Maybe some of the fighters left before the police could get there to investigate, but I was unconscious. So my weapons were still there for you to inspect, and the M&Ms too. You must know we didn’t have anything with hidden springs or chambers.”
The Girl In the Morgue Page 17