“Redounds, sir?”
“That would be one of them nice old English words meaning, ah, well . . . doesn’t matter what it means. Point is, I have been given to understand that your unit has submitted a number of travel expense reports for approval by Admin. Case listed on the vouchers as Norman Givvens Homicide Investigation. You recall that name, Detective? Brother-in-law to the aforementioned Mr. Barton C. Millwood? Hm? Eleven ninety-five, lunch, Julia’s Café, Columbus, Georgia. Sixteen-twenty-two, Norm’s Steak House, Columbus, Georgia.” He kept going for a while, reeling off the exact dollar amounts of every expense voucher we’d submitted in the past week. There were no notes in front of the chief, no folders, nothing written down at all as he called out these figures.
“Yes, sir?” I said.
“See, the thing’s puzzling me, Mr. Norman Givvens, may his dumb, drunk, crack-ho-buying self rest in peace, was killed in Atlanta, Georgia. In a neighborhood known for prostitution and drug-related activity. We discussed this. So what I’m wondering is what in the hell y’all think y’all doing going down to Columbus? And La Grange? And Milledgeville? And Monroe? And all these other places?”
I didn’t answer.
“Hey. Detective. I’m asking you a question.”
“Oh, yes, sir. I wasn’t sure whether that was a rhetorical . . . well, anyway . . .” I took a deep breath, figured what the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound. “Truth is, this Givvens matter was, ah, managed in a way that . . . Look, sir, I don’t want to speak ill of other detectives. I’m sure they had reasons for pursuing it the way they did. It has all the marks of a standard street shooting, I realize. But it’s . . . more complicated.”
“Oh, I see.” Chief Diggs looked mildly interested. “A wide-scale conspiracy involving elements of the Cosa Nostra, the Russian mob, and certain yet-to-be-named federal intelligence agencies—something along those lines?”
“No sir. The leads we’re developing are indicating this may possibly be a business-related homicide. I’m just saying it’s an angle of investigation, one possibility among many. All I can say is the lieutenant wants to turn over every rock, seeing what he can find. If this case was a lay down, they’d have solved it when it happened.”
“Who’s your suspect?”
I may be imprudent on occasion, but I’m no dummy either. I’d taken a good look at the Givvens file, just to be on the safe side. “I don’t know how familiar you are with the case, sir, but Mr. Givvens was a passive investor in this little company that made a computerized machine called a Key-matic that stores keys? They sell them to car dealers? Apparently car dealers have a lot of trouble keeping track of all the keys for the cars. You know, one salesman will hide the key so another salesman can’t sell a particular vehicle and . . . Well, anyway, point is, Mr. Givvens was an investor in this little company. Which had not been doing well. And the guy who ran the company, his name is Gordon Perlow, he and Mr. Givvens had been in a certain amount of dispute over various issues. There had been some verbal threats, some words spoken, so on, so forth. So that’s the angle we’re pursuing.”
Chief Diggs nodded. “And this involves trips to—”
“Yes sir. La Grange, Columbus, all those places.”
The phone rang. One of the gorgeous assistants with all the gold braid on his uniform stuck his head into the room, “Pardon me? Sir? That’s the senator calling you back, sir.”
Chief Diggs studied my face, his amused little smile sitting there on his lips, and the phone kept ringing and ringing. I imagined some senator up in Washington, DC, sitting on the other end, drumming his fingers. “We gonna finish this conversation later,” Diggs said finally as he picked up the phone.
I felt shaky and weak as I left. Oh, man! Talk about saved by the bell.
TWENTY-FIVE
There had been a time when Jenny got shooting pains in her back and legs from being all squashed up in the box. But that had passed after a while. Now it was just the hunger, the constant gnawing in her belly. The box was dark and cool. After a while she began sinking. There was no other way to put it, really. She just felt like she was sinking into something dark and cool. Most of the time she dreamed. Sinking down, dreaming about food.
There were no interruptions to the cycle. Every now and then the gritty, wet, chocolate-tasting food would appear. She would devour it, then go to the bathroom in the pan, and push it out the slot. After a while the footsteps would come and then take the pan.
And sometimes the light would come on, and the eye would look down at her from the top of the box. But after a while that got to be routine, too, all part of the sinking and the dreaming and the hunger.
Then one day Jenny was dreaming about sitting at the table with her mommy and daddy, eating a nice big meal of popcorn with butter and chocolate cookies. And then she heard the snapping noise and the light came on, waking her from her eating dream. She woke, and there was truly a smell of popcorn. Or at least it seemed that way. She held her hand over her eyes to keep out the light.
Then there were some other noise, big solid pieces of metal scraping together. And suddenly the wall of the box moved and light poured in and the wall of the box pulled away. Jenny tried to straighten her body but it hurt. She stared up in the air, confused. She lay inside the box, her feet sticking out. Someone grabbed hold of her feet, yanked her out of the box, someone big and strong. She squealed in terror.
It was the man from that day. It had taken her a while to remember, but it had come back to her eventually. It was the man in the blue and white van, the policeman with the big beard and the big smile on his face. Only now she couldn’t see his face because he had a mask on. And there were black gloves on his hands. But it was him, she was sure.
“No! No!” Jenny screamed. The man didn’t say anything as he hauled her out into the light.
It was a bare empty room made of concrete. Jenny lay on the ground, naked and shivering with fear. Against one wall was a blue drape. In front of it was a wooden stool. On the stool was a stainless steel bowl. In the bowl was popcorn. She could smell it.
The man in the mask pointed at the popcorn. The popcorn glistened with butter.
It was probably just a dream, though it seemed very real. She tried to stand up, but fell over. Tried again. The popcorn smelled so good. She was weak from lying down for so long, but the popcorn was glistening and the smell was all around.
She reached the bowl somehow, pulled it off the stool, huddled up in a ball and began to devour the food. She hardly even noticed when the flashbulbs went off. Like mommy’s camera, but bigger. The room was full of blinding light, then dark again.
TWENTY-SIX
“Captain Goodwin.”
“Yessir.”
“Be so kind as to read the press release to these good folks.”
“Yessir.”
It was the next morning, and Chief Diggs was sitting behind his enormous desk. Lt. Gooch and I were standing. Diggs’s special assistant, Captain Goodwin, was seated on the other side of the desk. He crossed one leg over the other, pinched the crease between two long fingers, let his leg settle. A satisfied look oozed up out of his beautiful face. Apparently the ability to leave that crease knife sharp and unmolested while crossing his legs was a skill that pleased him on some deep and profound level.
“For immediate release,” Captain Goodwin read from the printed paper in his hand. “Atlanta. Today Atlanta Police Chief Eustace V. Diggs announced the dissolution of the recently formed Cold Case Unit. Paragraph. According to Chief Diggs, quote, ‘A recently completed internal review has necessitated the termination of our efforts on the Cold Case front.’ Unquote. Paragraph. Six months ago the City of Atlanta Police Department formed a so-called Cold Case Unit whose charter was to review unsolved cases, comma, primarily homicides, comma, and to investigate such cases as this review determined might reasonably be expected to be solved. Paragraph. The results of that review, having now been completed and presented to Chief Diggs, have led to the conclusio
n that further investigation of so-called cold cases would be unfruitful. Paragraph. Lieutenant Hank Gooch, comma, commander of the Cold Case Unit, comma, stated yesterday, quote, ‘Our review has been extremely comprehensive. It is our conclusion that the Atlanta Police Department Homicide Bureau has been very effective in its methodology and practice, and that the vast majority of unsolved cases, comma, sadly, comma, will probably remain unsolved.’ Unquote. Paragraph. As a result, Chief of Police Diggs has determined, comma, quote, ‘Given the budgetary realities of this department, our top investigators are best left in the field working active cases.’ Unquote. Paragraph. The members of the Cold Case Unit are currently undergoing assessment for reassignment by the department’s Human Resources Division.”
Chief Diggs held up his hand, and Captain Goodwin lapsed into silence.
“I believe,” Chief Diggs said, “there are a couple more paragraphs, but that gives you the gist of it.”
We sat in silence. I don’t know if I was angrier at Chief Diggs for being such a weasel, or at Lt. Gooch for putting us in this predicament.
“Now, Captain Goodwin, refresh my memory,” the Chief said. “We haven’t, ah, actually sent the release out just yet, have we?”
The pretty Captain frowned as though he had to give this a moment’s consideration. “No sir. I believe that we have, in fact, not.” His diction was as lovely and pristine as his face.
Chief Diggs turned his big smile on us. “Now I’m not gonna have the Captain wear out his vocal chords reading it, but we’ve got another draft of this press release. A less terse, less sketchy, more fulsome sort of document. My memory isn’t what it used to be, but it contains a few additional paragraphs that include such phrases as ‘malfeasance by certain Cold Case Unit detectives,’ such phrases as, ‘unauthorized use of departmental funds,’ such phrases as, ‘pursuit of unauthorized cases,’ such phrases as ‘disregard for departmental policy,’ such phrases as ‘immediate termination of said detectives pending investigation and possible filing of criminal and civil charges.’ You know, things of that nature.”
I felt my heart pounding, my face getting flushed.
“Now everybody who works for me knows I’m a good-natured fellow,” the Chief said. “Right, Captain?”
“Oh, yessir.” Not a shade of irony in his voice.
“Thank you, Captain, for obliging me. You may feel free to return to your duties now.”
The Captain stood, shook his leg slightly to ameliorate the recent strain on the crease over his knee, then marched gravely out of the room.
“Now, I was saying about my good nature. Mechelle? Sweetness, I been extraordinarily indulgent with you, largely due to my respect for your daddy. I’ve worked exceptionally hard to make this relationship work, you know what I mean? But things have kind of reached the breaking point. Comes to my attention, y’all been working some kind of unauthorized investigation down there in the basement. Cooking up, the way I hear it, some kind of tall tale about a serial killer, some such nonsense? My goodness gracious mercy me!”
“Where’d you hear that?” Lt. Gooch demanded.
The Chief’s eyes widened slightly in mock amazement, then he looked at me, eyes sparkling. In a jivey tone, he said, “Look like the Lieutenant done forgot himself. Done forgot who’s holding the lash. Versus who’s towing that barge and lifting that bale.” His smile faded, then he looked back at the Lieutenant with cold eyes.
Lt. Gooch locked eyes with the Chief, but didn’t say anything.
“Telling this lady that her little girl might be the latest snatch by some heinous serial killer? You gonna deny this, lieutenant? Hm?”
“Nope.”
“Too bad.” The Chief’s big smile came back. “Be a hoot to see you try slithering out of this.” He shrugged lightly, then looked at me. “Anyway, here it is. Mechelle, just because of my respect for your father, I’ma give you this to chew on. If you’re willing to sign a written statement indicating how the Lieutenant here has been abusing his position with regard to, oh, certain bogus expense report vouchers, various things along those lines, I’m going give you the opportunity to remain in this department. Maybe find you an appropriate role in Human Resources, Training, something like that. Hm? Maybe turn that GLBT Liaison slot into a permanent assignment for you. And as to specific admissions and charges, you don’t even need to worry too much on that score. I believe Captain Goodwin has already prepared a suitable statement for you. All you need to do is affix your signature, and it’s done.”
I just sat there feeling like I was being rolled over by steam engine.
The Chief continued. “Now as to you, Lieutenant, providing you’re willing to hop straight down to your little dungeon and type out a nice letter of resignation, I’m willing to send out the terse press release, the one where we shut down the Cold Case Unit due to funding constraints. Rather than the longer press release prior to which we handcuff your ass to the desk due to the apparent misprision, malfeasance, incompetence, et cetera, among the unit’s leadership.”
Lt. Gooch studied the Chief’s face for a moment, nothing revealing itself in his cold blue eyes. After they’d stared at each other for a while, the Lieutenant picked up his briefcase and set it on the edge of the Chief’s desk. I had been wondering why he brought the briefcase. He took out a folder and set it next to the briefcase, just out of the Chief’s reach. The desk was so big that the Chief would have had to make a slightly undignified grab to get at it. Then Gooch stood up, leaned one butt cheek on the edge of the desk, and turned the Chief’s phone around.
“Get your hand off my phone,” the Chief said.
Lt. Gooch ignored him.
“What’s in that folder, Lieutenant?” the Chief said.
Lt. Gooch punched a phone number. “Yeah,” he said. “How you doing, Commissioner Millwood. It’s me, Hank Gooch. Uh-huh. Yeah, I got good news for you. I’ve joined Chief Diggs here and I’m pleased to say that sitting here on the desk in front of me, I got a warrant for the arrest of one James Brashier. Uh-huh. For the murder of Norman Givvens. Yessir, that’s correct, we just cracked it this morning. I expect you’ll have a glowing press release to that effect from Chief Diggs’s office rolling out your fax machine in the next fifteen, twenty minutes. Mm-hm. Mm-hm. Yessir. Well, it’s a great load off my mind, too, I can assure you. That’s right. Well, I’m sure you’ll see the mayor before I do, so if you would just tell him that his unwavering and courageous support for this unit has been greatly appreciated. Yessir, both by me and particularly by Chief Diggs. Uh-huh. Yessir. You too, sir.”
He hung up the phone and sat down. The Chief looked at him expressionlessly. His usual grin had deserted him. After what seemed an awfully long while, Chief Diggs said, “And precisely how long, Lieutenant, have you had this goddamn case sitting in your back pocket?”
Gooch stood, ignoring the question. “Look, I know you and Captain Goodwin need to get cracking on that press release,” he said. “So we can speak on this other matter later. You’ll find all the necessary information in the file here. Meantime, me and my partner will just excuse ourselves, get back to work down in the Cold Case Unit.”
Lt. Gooch walked briskly out of the room. I sat, glued to my seat.
“On a stack of Bibles, sir!” I finally said to the Chief. “I swear! I had no idea.”
The Chief examined me for a while like he was studying a broken watch. “I find out you knew?” he said finally. “Sweetness, the wrath of God gonna look like nothing but a stiff wind compared to what’s gonna come down on you.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
I guess I could have tortured myself asking him all kind of questions. But to what end? Torturing myself to death trying to get something out of this man who obviously had no intention of ever telling me what was on his mind? No, I’d been wasting too much effort along those lines already. So, despite it going against my nature, I kept my mouth shut as we rolled up to the low-rent apartment on Buford Highway, accompanied by a couple of officers f
rom the Fulton County Police Department. Since interdepartmental busts require a good deal of advance planning, and since Lt. Gooch already had the warrant, it was obvious that he’d been prepared for this, at a minimum, for a matter of days.
One of the Fulton County Policemen knocked on the door. It was answered by a large white man with faded jailhouse tattoos on his forearms and a metal stud in his eyebrow.
“What,” the man said belligerently.
“James DeWayne Brashier?” Lt. Gooch said.
“He ain’t here, dude,” the tattooed guy said.
“It’s him,” Gooch said to the Fulton County cop. “Cuff him.”
“Damn,” the tattooed man said. Then he turned obligingly and put his hands behind his back.
“James DeWayne Brashier, you’re under arrest for the murder of Norman Givvens.” Lt. Gooch spit some tobacco juice on the sidewalk. “Detective, you want to inform him of his rights?”
We spent the rest of the day booking the murderer in, transporting him to the jail, doing paperwork on the case. And I didn’t speak a word the whole time.
After we’d finally gotten everything taken care of, we went back to the office. I got my purse and got ready to leave for the day. “Look, Detective,” Lt. Gooch said as I reached the door. “I know you’re mad. Don’t blame you. But I got my reasons how I done this.”
The Body Box Page 14