Beneath the Cracks

by LS Sygnet

  "He's the only X last name who has uniforms picked up from Downey Division."

  I tore the page out of the decrepit printer tray and scanned the list. Nothing jumped out at me immediately, but Tony was right. I might need another trip to Uncle Nooky's Bar and Grill to ascertain the identity of the bald man who had given no sobriquet.

  Then I started to wonder why he hadn't.

  Chapter 29

  We rode in silence to CSD's labs at the ME's office. What felt like minutes since Denton's body had been found was actually several hours. Another spool of fluff unwound from the clouds above and began to blanket the city. I wondered if Forsythe was even at the crime lab yet or if he was still processing the cell, the scene of a crime committed right under our noses.

  "You're awfully quiet, Eriksson."

  "Thinking about this case. I think when we're done at the crime lab we should go immediately to Uncle Nooky's bar. The sooner I can get another look at that guy, possibly get his biker handle, the better. I doubt that anyone will be very cooperative with me, so my best bet is to find Batshit Crazy again. You gotta swear right now that you won't tell Johnny how I flirted shamelessly with the guy to get information. It's probably the only way I can get him to talk to me."

  "I don't know about that, Helen," Tony said. "We might should hold off until mornin'. That place is bound to be rougher 'n rugby on a Saturday night. Too much could go wrong with all the bodies and concealed weapons in the place. Plus this hot on the heels of your little demonstration of civil disobedience –"

  "Vandalism," Crevan corrected.

  "They might be more inclined to shoot first and answer questions never."

  A smaller crowd would be the safer play. I wasn't sure it was within my constitution to wait until morning, but kept that nugget of truth to myself along with many others. "You're probably right. After we drop off this uniform, there's probably not a whole lot we can do until we get the toxicology report back on Denton. Was Xavier willing to submit a sample of his blood and urine for exclusion purposes on this uniform? We could only be so lucky to get DNA from skin cells and a hit from CODIS that would omit the need to go back to Nooky's at all."

  "Now you're thinkin' with your head," Briscoe voiced his utmost approval. "We'll buzz you back over to division when we get this evidence logged in with the folks at CSD. You gotta give me your word that you'll go straight home, Eriksson."

  I made an X over my heart, and wondered at the gullibility of men who would believe such a thing was the same as making a literal promise.

  Still, breakfast had not sustained me for long, not that I had time to finish it. It would be nice to have an uninterrupted meal, maybe catch up on the news outside the bubble of Darkwater Bay before heading back to Downey for another unsanctioned conversation.

  The plan for the evening started formulating in my head before we reached CSD. Forsythe met me at the elevator in the lab. "You found the uniform?"

  "We think it's the one," I said. "When our pal over at the dry cleaning business pulled it out of the pending jobs, it didn't have a label on it, even though it was in this sealed bag."

  "I'm not sure how long it'll be before we can run tests on this, Helen. I've still got men over at Downey finishing up in the cell. So far it's been a veritable nightmare trying to sort out fingerprints."

  "I understand you have your procedures that must be followed, but this uniform could narrow down our suspect pool tremendously. Has Officer Xavier given samples yet? If there's methamphetemine in the sweat or DNA from skin cells, we need proof that it isn't his."

  "Shelly was supposed to send him over here this afternoon. She was still pretty bent out of shape when I left division and came back over here." Forsythe shook his head. "It's been a long time since Mitch Southerby keeled over while in custody, and nobody ever found out what actually killed him, so I understand her concern."

  "Right. That was Tony and Orion's suspect in the murder of the Assistant District Attorney, wasn't it?"

  "The case Orion took to a judge to demand more testing, and then the body disappeared afterward, so those tests were never done. I think Maya told Billy to padlock the unit they use to store Denton, just in case."

  "They're done with the autopsy already?"

  He nodded. "Billy said he'd work around the clock until he has the toxicology testing done on Denton's blood and gastric contents. Maya said she thought it looked like Denton died before he really had time to digest his food."

  I gripped Forsythe's arm. "Did they identify what he ate?"

  "Billy thought it looked like a breakfast burrito. Ham, potatoes, peppers, cheese, soft tortilla, maybe some green chili."

  "All soft foods. He must've died very quickly. Do you think you'll be here all night too? I ask because Briscoe and Conall are taking me back to Downey Division, and we're going to try to have an evening off since we're in a holding pattern while the evidence is out. I thought Maya might need some company."

  "I wouldn't count on it."

  I winced internally and recalled my conversation with Maya just this morning. The grapevine in Darkwater Bay, specifically the police department, was beyond notorious. "Is she upset that people found out about this so soon?"

  "I wouldn't say upset, but she wasn't thrilled. Billy was pretty aghast that she hadn't told him the truth. To be honest, if I hadn't coaxed it out of her Sunday night, I'd probably feel the same way."

  "They'll be fine, Ken. Everyone will understand eventually. I hope they're supportive in the meantime."

  Briscoe and Conall joined us. "Supportive of what?"

  They'd stayed behind to check in with Finkelstein after we arrived at CSD, but had been otherwise under my thumb for the rest of the afternoon. If the rumor mill reached them, they hadn't attacked me about it yet.

  Forsythe simply shook his head. "Of anybody who needs it, Tony. I expect we've all got more to do than standing around chatting. I'll call you as soon as we can get to the uniform, Helen."

  Instead of stopping at MSUH on my way home, I called Maya. She and Billy were still conferencing on the web cam, so she understood when I explained that there was too much going on for a visit this evening. I only omitted what that too much included.

  At home, I picked through cartons of leftover Chinese food, most of which ended up in the garbage disposal. The rumbling in my stomach was satisfied for the moment. After a quick shower, I dressed for excursion number two to Uncle Nooky's Bar and Grill. I couldn't imagine where the name had come from, since there was no grilling going on – unless it was in reference to the biker's treatment of unwelcome patrons.

  No voice mail, no additional word from Johnny on any of my phones. I paused the plotting process long enough to wonder if he really was out collecting evidence against Danny Datello. The timing with our fight would've made it an odd coincidence, but I felt certain that Johnny would've come home right away if possible.

  Any time Datello entered my thoughts, anger bubbled deep inside me. His duplicitous smile evoked memories of the same one Rick flashed at me when he reminded me that I had met the man who sucked him into the family business, and that family was not merely the metaphor thrown around in organized crime.

  Johnny would never understand why I snapped and resorted to my own familial pattern. I wished I could forget everything that had happened in the last two years, but nothing seemed to erase it from my mind. Not denial. Not hope. Not ignoring the problem. It was always there, on the fringe of whatever reality I inhabited.

  At ten after seven, I palmed the keys to the Expedition and grabbed my purse. Uncle Nooky's Bar and Grill could wait no more. It was an odd moment to think about the photos that Briscoe had taken at Dupree Farm, but in all the hubbub surrounding Denton's murder, I had completely forgotten about them. I grabbed my cell.

  "This is Detective Tony Briscoe, please leave a message."

  "Hey, Tony, it's Helen. I forgot to ask you about the digital photos you took at Dupree Farm this morning. If you have time later, or
access to email, could you shoot the digitals over to me? I'd like to take a look at them tonight. Thanks."

  Tony was right about one thing. Third Avenue was packed from Northeastern all the way to Grape, which was more than two blocks of nothing but Harley Davidson motorcycles lining both sides of the street. I frowned. Nooky's bar hadn't seemed large enough to hold more than three or four dozen the other night. The motorcycles must've numbered close to a hundred. Where was he putting all the bodies?

  I drove back to the same spot where I'd parked the other night and climbed out of the Expedition.

  Gun. Check.

  Badge. Check again.

  Can of pepper spray, ready to fly.

  I locked the car after shoving my purse into the console between the seats and set out on foot for the bar.

  Rougher than rugby, wasn't that what Briscoe predicted?

  The muffled but regular whump of a bass vibrated through the dense night air like a beacon to the tribe. Come to the party at Uncle Nooky's. Lights cast strange halos in the fog from windows above the bar and in the buildings on either side. The street lamps were glowing orange-pink overhead.

  Twenty feet. Ten feet. I could just about feel the rotting joint of the door protesting its movement when a car on the street screeched to a halt. Casually, I glanced over my shoulder.

  Crevan Conall charged toward me with murder in his eyes.

  "What the hell are you doing here, Helen?" His fingers bisected my upper arm and pinched through my coat, grabbing skin. Crevan started dragging me into the street, away from Uncle Nooky's, away from where I needed to go.

  I twisted free. "Don't!"

  "You promised!"

  "I never said any such thing," I hissed. "And how dare you –"

  "Helen, have you looked at this street? We're not talking about a bunch of drunks sitting around in the middle of a Wednesday evening in the local bar. This place is full of hardcore, bad ass guys who have no doubt heard of the stunt you pulled the other night!"

  "You followed me!"

  Some of the rage leeched out of his eyes. "Lucky for you, sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence. Tony and I got a call about fifteen minutes ago. A kid was dumping trash after the supper rush."

  "Another body?"

  He nodded.

  "And this didn't warrant a phone call to me?"

  "You said you were tired," accusation dripped from Crevan's lips.

  "Well, what're we waiting for? Let's go."

  "I'm not leaving you here, Helen. If you're coming, you're riding with us. If you're going in that bar, you're taking backup with you this time."

  "Fine, I'll ride in your damned car."

  The dump site was less than a mile away from Uncle Nooky's bar on Third Avenue, tucked in a blind alley much like the one where Detective Cox was found. Instead of a diner next door, an all-you-can-eat buffet was the dining establishment using the dumpster that held our latest victim.

  A small crowd had gathered, but uniformed officers from Downey Division had already cordoned off the crime scene.

  "Did you get my message?"

  "About the pictures?" Tony asked. "Yeah. Why?"

  "Do you still have the digital camera in the car?"

  "Sure. I figured I'd shoot the pics over to you right away, but then we got this call."

  "Could you take a few shots of the crowd gathered around here?"

  "Yeah, but they'll know I'm doin' it. We ain't got no night-vision option, Eriksson." He procured the camera from the front seat of the car and offered it up as evidence.

  I adjusted the settings. "The photographs won't be as clear without the flash, but you should be able to stand back out of the fray and take some decent pictures of those interested in another homeless bum dumped in the trash."

  "You think one of these folks is the perp?"

  "I won't rule it out until we have hard evidence or a confession. I find it odd that there's all this interest in the body when none of the people in this neighborhood mustered up an ounce of concern when we were trying to identify the victims."

  "Good point."

  "Ma'am," one of the officers held the tape up for me.

  I ducked beneath it. "Who called it in?"

  "The bus boy. He's back inside the restaurant right now. We got the call about forty minutes ago, rolled to the scene and were told there's another body, dumped just like the others."

  "Is anyone from CSD here yet?"

  "We called Forsythe. He's on his way with a team right now."

  "Excellent. Has anyone opened the dumpster since the bus boy found the body?"

  "No ma'am. Nothing has been touched."

  I returned to the car, the trunk specifically and rummaged through the kit for gloves and a flashlight. "Crevan, since you're so much stronger than you look, you can hoist me up so I can get a good look inside the dumpster."

  "Shouldn't we wait for CSD to photograph the scene?"

  "I'm not going to move anything but the lid. There's something about this that doesn't add up."

  Crevan followed me into the alley. "Like what?"

  "I'm not short."

  "Nope."

  "But this dumpster is too high for me to get a decent look inside without a step up. Give one, Crevan." I flung the heavy metal lid. Hinges creaked and groaned in protest. It clanged against the brick wall behind the dumpster. "Yet our bus boy came out with trash and saw a body in here?" It begged the question. Were boys as big as the men in Darkwater Bay? Whoever dumped our latest victim had to be large too. Or maybe more than one person was involved.

  Balancing myself with one arm on the rim of the dumpster, I pulled the flashlight from my coat pocket with my free hand and shined it down into the gaping container. The wide beam illuminated a swath of garbage and the thick, black sole of a leather boot. I shined the light up over faded denim covering a long leg. A chain, hooked through one of the belt loops with a metal clasp crumpled in a metal heap beside the hip.

  My heart started sinking when the attire didn't match that of the typical homeless man foraging for his meager existence on the streets of Downey. My search rose higher, over the thick torso encased in a black leather jacket until finally, the hands came into view: Aces &88s across the base of the fingers.

  "Detective Eriksson, are you contaminating my crime scene before we've had the opportunity to properly process it?" Forsythe only sounded half irritated with my impatience.

  "It's Batshit Crazy," I said. "Let me down, Crevan."

  "Murder and mayhem, yes, never quite heard anybody call them that before, Helen. What've we got?"

  Crevan shook his head, "No, Forsythe. You don't understand. Helen knows the guy in the dumpster. It's his biker handle – Batshit Crazy."

  I kicked the dumpster and cursed. "I should've gone back there when I had the first inkling that there was more he could've told me! Now the only two promising leads I had are dead."

  I drew back my foot for another spectacular kick when a hand rested on my shoulder. "I know it's frustrating, but when you kick that dumpster, you could be moving evidence around in there, Helen. Let us do our job."

  The urge to ignore good advice from Forsythe was strong. Instead, I channeled the energy into stomping down the alley. I would go back to that bar and start shooting if that's what it took to get the answers I needed.

  Crevan, in a spectacular demonstration of precognition (either that or I was getting predictable), stepped in front of me before I got around the corner. "Don't do it, Helen."

  "Don't do what?"

  "Use that tone with me for starters. You cannot go charging into Uncle Nooky's demanding that they talk to you. It won't work, and will very likely result in another dead cop. Do you have a death wish?"

  "Of course not. But they know something. He knew something, just like Denton did, and now they're both dead. How can you be so passive about this, Crevan? We take a tiny step forward in this case, and all of a sudden, bodies start falling from the skies."

  "Why
don't we focus on what we can do right now."

  I rolled my eyes. "Like what? Scry for the identity of our killer?"

  "Like following up on that observation you made at the dumpster." Crevan pointed at the picture window at the front of the restaurant.

  My eyes landed on a young boy, probably mid-teens, who would've still been short if he wore lifts in his shoes.

  "How does a scrawny little kid like that see into a dumpster when our resident Amazon needed a leg up to get a good look?"

  I watched the boy struggle to heft the plastic bin filled with plates, glasses and refuse from a finished meal away from the table. "Simple," I said. "He doesn't."

  Chapter 30

  Demetrius Kostas was a freshman in high school, working part time in his father's Greek buffet on weekends, much to his chagrin. His father was present at the time Batshit Crazy's body turned up in the dumpster outside his restaurant.

  To say that the elder Kostas was irritated was an understatement. His heavy accent only garbled his English more when agitated.

  "They do it to us because we are new, we are different, we do not sound American!"

  "Pops," his son wailed. "Do you have to be so paranoid?"

  "Go on, Mr. Kostas."

  "I tell bank, we have successful restaurant in Manhattan. My wife, she has sisters in this swamp and begs me to sell. Sell, Papa, she says. I need my family. So I sell restaurant, and get robbed, I tell you. We move to this place so she can be with her sisters and her mama, and bank does not care that I run successful business for twenty-five years in Manhattan."

  His affront over the perceived discrimination by his lending institution might've been comical if it weren't in part true. I learned right away that Darkwater Bay did not view all citizens equally. My own bias aside, Papa Kostas probably would've been better off staying in America's melting pot on the east coast than yielding to the plea of his wife to be near her family.

  "So they tell me, I qualify for only fraction of what it will cost to start new restaurant. I tell them, business will be successful in right location. On beautiful island called Hennessey, I could make great restaurant, yes?"