Cooked Goose

by G. A. McKevett

  His badge had been ripped off the front of his uniform, making a jagged tear in the fabric. Half the badge protruded from his mouth, as though his killer had been forcing him to eat it.

  “Shit,” Dirk said as he sat down hard on the dirt near the body.

  Savannah felt her own knees go weak. “Exactly.”

  After a long moment of silence, Dirk said in a husky voice, “It’s always bad. But it’s different . . . you know . . . when it’s a cop.”

  Resting her hand on his shoulder, she said, “Of course it is.”

  “Now, why the hell do you suppose they did that?” He pointed to the badge.

  “Who knows? It’s one sick individual.”

  “Well, I’m not going to leave him like that.”

  Dirk reached down, but Savannah grabbed his wrist and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You have to, buddy. You can’t move anything like that until Dr. Jennifer sees it, photographs it; you know that.”

  Dirk shuddered and wiped his other hand across his eyes. Savannah knew it wouldn’t help. They would both be seeing this—awake and in their dreams—for a long time.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, slipping her hand into his, a gesture more familiar and intimate than they were accustomed to with each other. To her surprise, his fingers clasped hers tightly, and that told her more than any words.

  No, Dirk wasn’t all right.

  He was a tough guy. An overgrown street kid. And tough guys didn’t hold hands at a time like this if they were all right.

  In all the years they had been partners, then friends, Savannah had known that Dirk liked her, trusted her, relied on her, maybe on a good day even loved her. But there hadn’t been many times when she had felt this tough guy needed her. . . or anyone else for that matter.

  She was very glad she was there.

  Two hours later, the now-all-too-familiar crowd had assembled: Dr. Liu and her team, the media, the spectators, a brigade of cops.

  Someone had finally removed the badge from Joe McGivney’s mouth and covered his body with a cloth.

  Bloss had arrived, even before the coroner’s wagon, and Savannah knew he was deeply distressed by this development; he hadn’t even harassed her for being present at a crime scene.

  She was sitting on the fender of her Camaro, keeping a low profile when he finally approached her and asked in a flat, subdued monotone, “Where is my daughter?” He actually looked too tired for hostility.

  “She’s at my place, eating barbecue and playing hearts with my assistant, Tammy. In other words, she’s safe and she’s having fun.”

  “That’s good. Thanks.”

  It was all Savannah could do not to reach over and place her hand on his forehead to check for a fever. Since when did Harvey Bloss converse with her like a normal human being?

  He did look a bit “peaked around the gills,” as Gran would say. He had deep, dark circles under his eyes, and his usually overly ruddy complexion had an unhealthy gray cast to it.

  Nope. Captain Bloss didn’t look so good these days.

  He looked like he was going to say something else, but one of his flunkies came running up to him, a worried and urgent look on his face. They spoke in low tones for a moment, then Bloss hurried to his dark, cop-boss, generic sedan, and they both climbed inside.

  Through the open window, Bloss called out to Dirk, who was conversing with Dr. Jennifer. Dirk joined them in the car for a few minutes.

  When Dirk emerged, he looked as upset as Bloss. He walked over to Savannah, practically dragging his tracks out—from fatigue, or discouragement, or a combination of both, she didn’t know.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Not what,” he said. “Who. We’ve got another one missing.”

  She had a feeling, but she had to ask. “Who?”

  “Donald DeCianni.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  December 16—1:18 P.M.

  “You sure find out who your friends are when something like this happens,” Christy Melleby said as she twisted the soggy tissue around her forefinger, then dabbed at the end of her nose. “It’s like they’re a bunch of cockroaches who scramble for cover when the lights go on. A couple of the cops’ wives have actually ducked behind shelves in the grocery store rather than talk to me. I don’t understand it.”

  Savannah sat on the other end of Christy’s wicker sofa with its dainty floral cushions. She was sipping jasmine tea from an equally dainty, flower-spangled, china cup. The sunporch was like a miniature arboretum, a testament to Christy’s verdant thumb. Pots of paperwhite narcissus perfumed the air, along with poinsettias of every shade from ivory to crimson. In the corner of the glass-enclosed room a Victorian Christmas tree glistened with pink tinsel and a hundred whimsical angels.

  It was definitely what Savannah called a “girlie-girl” room. And the woman/girl who had decorated it sat sobbing into her hanky, the picture of distressed femininity in linen and lace. Her long, blond hair was curved into a graceful French twist, and she actually wore a strand of pearls around her delicate neck.

  With a pang of sadness, Savannah thought how Christy Melleby was as feminine as her boyfriend, Titus Dunn, was masculine.

  Savannah also wondered if she should be thinking of Titus in the past tense. Dear God, she hoped not.

  “People don’t mean to disappear into the woodwork,” Savannah told her as she handed her another tissue from a nearby box. “They just don’t know what to say to someone who’s going through difficult times. They feel they should come up with some magic words that will make your pain disappear, and of course, that’s impossible. And since they can’t think of anything, they don’t say anything.”

  “But you called,” Christy said with a sniff. “At least you phoned and asked if there was something you could do.”

  Savannah felt only a teeny bit guilty. She had been concerned over Christy’s welfare. The hope that she might get some shred of information that would help Dirk . . . well, that had been only secondary as a motive for calling.

  Hadn’t it?

  Yeah, sure.

  “And is there anything I can do?” Savannah asked.

  “Yes, help them find Titus. Before . . .” She choked back her tears. “Before he winds up like poor old Joe, in a ditch somewhere.”

  Savannah didn’t have the heart to tell this grief-stricken woman—tender of narcissus bulbs and lover of Christmas angels—she would bet cold cash that poor ol’ Titus was probably already lying in a ditch somewhere . . . or buried in an orange grove . . . or floating on the ocean floor somewhere between the San Carmelita beach and the Catalina Islands.

  No, some things were better left unsaid.

  “We’re working on it, Christy. Really, we are.” She took a long drink of the fragrant tea. “How is your mother in Seattle?” she asked, knowing that, too, would be a sensitive topic.

  “Dying.”

  “So I heard. I’m really sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  At that moment Savannah was very glad she had made that call. Christy was right; people did disappear like cockroaches when the going got tough. And feeling awkward was no excuse. A friend was a person who pushed past the awkwardness and called anyway. A friend reached out, whether it was comfortable or not.

  But then, true friends were a rare commodity in almost everyone’s life.

  “Not an easy time for you, huh?” Savannah said. Moving closer to Christy on the sofa, she reached over and covered her hand with hers. She noticed how cold Christy’s fingers were, how low her life energy felt.

  “No, it isn’t easy,” Christy replied. “But I’m really, really grateful that you’re here.”

  Originally, Savannah had planned to stay only fifteen minutes or half an hour. But that was when she decided to hang out a little longer.

  Two hours, three cups of tea, and a half a box of tissues later, Savannah rose to leave.

  “We’re going to find your honey for you,” she told Christy as they strolled through
the house to the front door. “And—I know you’re only human and can’t help it—but there’s no point in tormenting yourself over what ‘might’ have happened to him. My Gran always says, ‘Prepare for the worst and hope for the best.’ I’m still hoping we’re going to find him alive and well.”

  Christy nodded but looked as doubtful as Savannah felt. Her eyes were swollen nearly closed and her nose was the perfect shade of red for the holiday season, but Savannah thought she had never seen her looking prettier.

  “Gran also says that the people who grieve the deepest are people who love the most. Apparently, you love Titus very much.”

  More tears rolled down her cheeks. “He’s a good man. And I already miss him.”

  As they passed through the living room, Savannah saw a collection of photos spread across the coffee table. They were all of Titus, some with Christy, some with other cops, some with friends and family.

  “I guess it just made it worse, digging these out of storage,” Christy said as they paused beside the table and Savannah studied the pictures. “But looking at them makes me feel closer to him.”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  Then Savannah saw it: a snapshot of Christy and Titus at what appeared to be an air show. He had his arm draped casually over her shoulder; both were wearing goofy, happy smiles.

  Her pulse rate accelerated fifteen points on the spot, and she could feel the blood rush to her face.

  “When was this taken?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

  “At last year’s Point Morro Air Show,” Christy replied. “We got a little too much sun, had a bit too much to drink, but we had a really good time that day.”

  “It looks like it.” Savannah picked up the photo and studied it closely, making sure she was seeing what she thought she was.

  Yes. Yes. Yes. There it was, as clear as could be!

  “May I borrow this?” she asked. “Just for a while.”

  Christy seemed confused, but eager to help. “Sure. As long as I get it back. Why do you want it?”

  Savannah thought fast; she wasn’t good at lying to someone she liked.

  “It’s a good picture of Titus . . . you know . . . if they want to make up a flyer, or put it in the paper, or something.”

  Christy looked a little suspicious. “They have his department ID photo. It was in yesterday’s paper. But if you think they might want it . . .”

  “Thanks. I’ll take good care of it.” She shoved the photo into her purse before Christy could change her mind and hurried to the front door.

  “I’m glad you came over, Savannah.” Christy gave her a hug and clung a bit longer than usual. “Visiting with you really helped. Thanks for coming.”

  “Call me anytime,” Savannah told her. “Day or night, if you need to talk, just give me a ring. We’ll talk on the phone, or if you’ll make me a cup of that lovely tea, I’ll be over here, pronto, with bells on.”

  Another hug good-bye and Savannah was on her way. As she hurried to her car that was parked on the street, she clutched her purse and thought of the picture inside.

  One part of her wished she hadn’t seen it . . . for Christy Melleby’s sake. But the larger part, the detective part was having to exercise the utmost self-discipline not to jump up and down in the middle of the street and yell, “Yipp-p-p-pee!”

  She got into the Camaro, started her up, and headed straight for the police station. She couldn’t wait to show Dirk!

  4:41 P.M.

  Oh, goodie, Savannah thought when she walked through the front door of the San Carmelita police station and saw Officer Kenny Bates was on desk duty.

  She loathed Bates; he was madly in lust with her. It was a rocky relationship.

  “Savannah, baby . . .” he said when she walked up to his desk to sign the clipboard. “You came to see me. Just can’t stay away from me, huh?”

  She grabbed the board and scribbled her name and the time. “If there was a back door to this place, believe me, I’d use it,” she said, “if I could avoid seeing your vile mug.”

  He smirked, and she wanted to feed him his face, feature by ugly feature.

  Savannah and a dozen other females associated with the S.C.P.D. would have brought Kenneth Bates up on sexual harassment charges long ago, except that would have meant having to tolerate his revolting presence in a hearing. The price was too high.

  If Kenny Bates had practiced his annoying behavior in Savannah’s small hometown just outside Atlanta, he might have been reprimanded in some dark alley by a congregation of the harassed women and their assorted male relatives. Baseball bats might or might not have been used, but, either way, Kenny’s behavior would have undoubtedly improved.

  She shoved the register at Bates and gave him what she was certain was her most baleful eye.

  “When are you gonna come over to my place,” he said, “for a little rest and relaxation? I’ve got some X-rated tapes we could watch together. Maybe ‘bone’ up on our lovemaking skills. Maybe get a couple of nice ‘tips’ on how it’s done.”

  As he stared pointedly at her chest, drool practically oozing down his chin, Savannah wondered—not for the first time—why it was always the most repulsive members of the masculine gender who blatantly pursued women. Nice, good-looking guys who showered regularly and held steady jobs never invited you to: sit on their face and spin, or treat yourself to the culinary pleasure of blowing them.

  Such invitations were almost always issued by some scuz-bucket you wouldn’t share a sidewalk with, let alone an intimate encounter.

  “Come on, Savannah.” He leaned across the desk and she was overcome with the pungent fumes of his cheap cologne. “Let’s get together, get naked and horizonal. What do you think?”

  “The only way I want to see you horizonal, Bates, is on Dr. Liu’s autopsy table.”

  He lit up. “We could do that! She’s going to be gone for a few hours tomorrow afternoon and we could—”

  “No, you don’t understand. This fantasy of mine isn’t sexual in nature. In my scenario, your chest is splayed open, the top of your head has been sawed off and your face peeled down. Got the picture?”

  He giggled and wagged one eyebrow at her. “There’s no use in trying to hide it. I know what you think of me.”

  “You know that I consider you a festering boil on the hairy rump of humanity? And you still hit on me? Does that make you stupid or what, Bates? Think about it.”

  She left him sitting there, looking only moderately insulted—a disappointment, when she had been hoping to leave him outraged.

  Oh well, maybe the baseball bat visitation wasn’t such a bad idea even here in civilized Southern California.

  She filed the thought away for future consideration and hurried down the hall to the squad room to find Dirk. The photo was burning a hole in her purse, and she couldn’t wait to show it to him.

  The bullpen hadn’t changed much in the last three years since she had been off the force. A few more computer screens, fewer girlie pictures on walls behind desks . . . and definitely fewer chairs filled. Municipal cuts had slashed deep into the department budget.

  Several years ago, there would have been a bevy of detectives working on a case as prominent as the Santa Rapist and the missing cops. But at a quarter to five, Dirk was the only one sitting at his desk, his face stained green by the light of his computer screen. He was staring at the thing, so bleary-eyed that she was glad she had taken a moment to drive past the donut shop window.

  “Need a bear claw?” she asked, dropping the white sack on the desk in front of him. “I’ll trade you for a cup of coffee.”

  Instantly, he was alert. “Deal.” He fished a Styrofoam cup from between the stacks of files cluttering his desktop and handed it to her. She took a sip; it was bitter and cold.

  “You don’t mind if I get a cup of my own?” she asked, walking to the table in the corner where the industrial-sized pot held a day’s worth of brew. Fresh was too much to hope for, but at least it was hot. S
he poured herself a cup and another one for him.

  By the time she returned to his desk a minute and a half later, the bear claw had been already been dispatched to donut heaven. In Dirk’s presence, food seldom enjoyed a long shelf life.

  She pulled a chair up to his and sat down, nearly squirming with excitement.

  “You’re looking pretty frisky,” he said, studying her as he licked the sugar crumbs from the corners of his mouth. “What’s up?”

  “I got somethin’.”

  “Obviously. Me, too.”

  He did look a mite frisky himself, she noted. “What have you got?”

  “You first.”

  “Mine’s the best.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “It is. Wait’ll you see this.”

  She opened her purse and pulled out the snapshot. “I was visiting Christy Melleby . . . sort of paying my respects . . . and I saw this. I asked her if I could borrow it, gave her some song and dance about needing it for a missing poster shot.”

  He took the photo from her and glanced at it briefly. “So?”

  “Look closer.”

  He did. “So?”

  “Don’t you see it?”

  “See what? They’re at an air show. Probably the one at Point Morro, right?”

  “Right. But that’s not important. Look . . . right there.”

  She pointed to Titus’s hand, draped over Christy’s shoulder.

  “His ring,” she said. “He’s wearing a big ring with a star on it.”

  Dirk squinted and nodded thoughtfully. “He is.”

  Losing her patience, she socked him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s have a bit of a reaction here! That’s a big deal.”

  “It is a big deal,” he replied, equally cool.