The Devil's Dust

by C. B. Forrest

  “We’ve got to tell Madsen,” McKelvey says.

  Nolan looks over at the paramedics, who are halfway to the ambulance now.

  “Shit,” Nolan says. “What if it really is the Chief’s gun?”

  “We’ll deal with that if and when the time comes. Right now you don’t have any allegiances, Ed. Your only loyalty is to the crime scene and the collection and preservation of evidence.”

  McKelvey is surprised by his own rousing soliloquy on the stoic nature of police ethics delivered in the cold dark lot of the Rest-Rite Truck Stop. The paramedics step to the back of the ambulance. McKelvey moves fast, and he takes and slips the revolver into his coat pocket.

  “How bad is the coffee?” McKelvey asks, flashing a phoney smile.

  The male paramedic takes a sip from the Styrofoam cup and offers a grimace.

  “Slightly better than no coffee,” he says. “Hey, is Dr. Nichols coming, or what?”

  “Any minute,” Nolan says.

  “There’s a big storm coming in from up north, eh,” the woman paramedic offers. And then she leans in close to the two cops and says, “So, you figure there’s a hit man on the loose? Organized crime?”

  Nolan goes to answer but McKelvey cuts him off.

  “Can’t discuss the case,” he says.

  And then McKelvey steps away, walking toward the cruiser he has been loaned. Nolan catches on and follows. McKelvey turns to him. “Go on in and send Madsen out here, okay? You stick with Gallagher. Don’t let him out of your sight. And don’t say anything about finding the gun. You good with that?”

  Nolan nods. McKelvey stops and watches the young officer turn and walk back toward the doors leading to the washrooms. Nolan walks like a robot. McKelvey knows the kid is in shock from the sight of Garson’s body; seeing the blood and guts up close like that, it’s something they can’t train you for. And someone you know, like Garson, brings home the fact of your own mortality all the more. Here one second and gone, just like that. The fragile nature of this strange arrangement has been made all too clear to Officer Nolan. What exactly is happening here, McKelvey is not sure, but he knows there is bad business afoot in Saint B. And he hopes the Chief and Nolan can keep it together long enough to save their town from sliding off the map into a new modern hell.

  But even as he thinks this, he hears the whisper of his own heart: It’s too late …

  Twenty-Three

  The day crawls forward to reveal itself in a sky of scratched and unpolished silverware. Light snowflakes fall, or more accurately, meander to the ground, and the air hangs heavy with the chill of threatened precipitation — the storm so promoted may be coming after all. The body of Wade Garson has been inspected, photographed, and removed to a temporary storage unit at Chapelle’s Funeral Home in town, where Dr. Nichols can keep it sufficiently cool until, in his mind, the “proper authorities” arrive and rescue him from this sudden late-career thrust into criminal forensics. He has offered to stay at the funeral home and “guard the body,” as it were, but mostly he is looking to hide for a few hours. The notion that he will eventually testify, indeed that his medical notes and expertise may be deemed crucial in a criminal trial, fills him with a dread that reminds him of exam day back in school, that sick feeling that seemed to drape over his shoulders like a wet wool blanket.

  Madsen discovered in a corner of the washroom a spent .38 calibre shell casing which she bagged as evidence. All those in attendance at the crime scene were interviewed, with not one having registered the sound of the gunshot. This information had been put into context by one of the kitchen staff, who said it was common for big rigs to backfire or otherwise emit loud expulsions of burning diesel. One of those interviewed has been identified by both Madsen and McKelvey as a “person of interest.” There is no interview room, and so Tony Celluci sits in the centre of the squad room of the Saint B police department. McKelvey sits at the Chief’s desk and Madsen occupies a third chair directly across from Celluci. Officer Nolan and Chief Gallagher have returned to Wade Garson’s trailer to check for anything that might have been missed, including, at Madsen’s instructions, footprints through the surrounding woods leading to or from the trailer. McKelvey plays with a paperclip, content to have Madsen open the game.

  “Midnight snack is all,” Celluci says in response to the first and most obvious question. He is dressed in dark jeans and a blue button-down Oxford, his long black wool overcoat hanging on the hat tree by the door. “Nothing open in this shit town after nine o’clock.”

  Madsen studies her notes and then closes and sets the book on the edge of the desk. McKelvey watches her, and he notices the small change to her face. Her eyes narrow and her jaw sets. She is ready.

  “Let’s cut the crap here, Tony,” she says.

  Celluci likes something about this new direction, and he can’t hide a small smile.

  “You’re staying in a room beside me at the Station Hotel. I heard your police scanner go off last night when Nolan informed dispatch he was heading to the truck stop. You left your room immediately after that call. I saw you go. Are we to assume that within seconds of receiving the transmission from Nolan your stomach began to growl?”

  Celluci doesn’t say anything. He sits as though he is getting a haircut, shoulders back. His hands move from his lap and clasp together in a final display of ease.

  “I checked with the Michigan State Police and you have a CPL — concealed pistol license,” Madsen says.

  “And so does half of Detroit,” he says. “Maybe even three-quarters.”

  McKelvey clears his throat. If he were at home in a stuffy interview room back in Toronto, he would fall into the easy role of negotiator here, the good old cop who understands how this terrible thing has happened, how a situation can run out of control and anyway, sometimes a man can’t be helped. Here in this antiquated squad room, in this suffocating town, he feels off his game, part western-movie sheriff, part Andy of Mayberry.

  “Why do you have a police scanner, Tony?” McKelvey asks.

  Celluci shrugs. “Use it to watch for speed traps.”

  “Use a radar detector for speed traps, not a scanner. A scanner catches the dispatch calls. You know, like a bank robber uses one to know how much time he has before the heat arrives on-scene.”

  “It’s a toy, nothing more. If they’re illegal up here, you can take it.”

  “This landfill site you’re shopping around up here,” McKelvey pushes on, “I understand the best access point to the land cuts across Wade Garson’s country estate. They’re dumb and bad as hell, but those Garsons managed to hold on to a lot of land on the edge of Saint B. They wouldn’t sell?”

  “There are always other options, other ways to get the same result,” Celluci says. “You should ask your Chief about his views on the landfill. I understand he feels quite confident the deal is in the best interest of the town.”

  “This town needs a life preserver, that’s for sure. What do you make of this recent spike in crime, Mr. Celluci? I’m sure you’ve heard we’ve got a bit of a problem with meth.”

  “I’m not a sociologist, I’m just a businessman. But I’d say the same principal applies here in Ste. Bernadette as it does in business.”

  “And what principal is that?” McKelvey asks, already forming a severe dislike for this man’s smugness and bottle-tanned face.

  “Survival of the fittest. The weakest succumb to the promise of instant gratification — like pacifying kids with candy. The winner has a plan for the long game. It’s all about spiking the ball in the end zone.”

  “You don’t look like you’re used to losing very often, Mr. Celluci.”

  “I can spot a sucker from a mile away. Doesn’t make me a killer.”

  Madsen sees her opening and she turns to Celluci. “You won’t mind if I swab your hands for a gunshot residue test, then?”

  Celluci holds both hands out like a child awaiting an inspection. His hands are well tended, the nails clean and trim, and they do no
t shake. Madsen opens the black case at her feet and rummages around. When she comes back up she holds a test tube and swab kit, something reserved for DNA tests, and a balled pair of blue latex gloves. She pulls the gloves on quickly, something she has obviously done many times, like putting socks on while she sits on the edge of the bed in the morning. McKelvey watches as she runs the swab over Celluci’s fingers and palms and then returns the swab to the tube. Next she opens a small packet and removes what appears to be a hand towelette. She wipes his hands and fingers and places the soiled tissue in a second vial.

  “That’s all for now, Mr. Celluci,” she says. “I’d ask you to let me know if you plan to leave town in the next few days. We may have some follow-up questions.”

  Celluci stands and moves to the door. He pulls on his long coat, smoothes it with his hands, and nods before leaving.

  “Prince Charming,” Madsen says.

  “Not the first narcissist to make his way in the business world.”

  McKelvey leans back in the Chief’s chair. Grey daylight streams through the front windows, the sort of dead-of-winter light that is for some reason harder on the eyes than blaring sunshine. He has not pulled an all-nighter at a crime scene in about three years. Hard to believe it has been that long since he was in the game, and yet everything comes back to him as though his muscles and cells remember how this works. He will be sixty years old in less than two months. He is unsure of where he is headed, where his next move will take him. Everything is strange to him right now except for the process, the procedures, the age-old strategies to be implemented, and so he does what he has always done when the world is too loud and he feels as though he is being poked by a hundred unseen hands: he holds his breath and dives in head first.

  “He’s been interviewed by the cops before, that much is obvious. Guy was slick as hell. I have to ask, Madsen. Do all provincial investigators carry a mini lab around for GSR and prints and stuff?”

  Madsen sets the vials out on the desk and then leans down and picks out a small spray bottle that could easily be perfume or air freshener. She writes on each vial with a marker, recording Celluci’s name, the date, time, and place.

  “This one we’ll save for the lab,” she says, and indicates the swab in the test tube. “This other one we can check right now in the field. The towelette applied diluted hydrochloric acid to his skin and this spray will indicate the presence of antimony, nitrate, sulphur, or lead. It’s not admissible in court, but it can help weed out the number of POIs.”

  “We used to do the paraffin wax job,” he says. “Just dip and send to the lab.”

  “It’s still used, but time is of the essence, as you know,” she says. “We’re an instant gratification society. We’ll have a drive-thru lab one of these days.”

  She finds a pair of tweezers in her case to hold the towelette and shoots a mist of spray. She waits a beat and then shoots a second blast of fine mist. McKelvey watches with interest. On the big-city force, these duties fall entirely to the forensic officers. It gets harder each year to get away with a crime, he thinks. Soon there won’t be any fun in police work at all.

  “Interesting,” she says, holding the towelette which has changed from white to a light pink. “Definitely traces of potassium nitrate. That’s the key ingredient in black powder cartridges.”

  “That’s old school,” McKelvey says. “They use smokeless powder these days.”

  Madsen retrieves the small plastic baggie with the spent shell casing. She uses the tweezers to extract the casing and hold it up. Squinting one eye shut, she appears like a jeweller examining a diamond.

  “Remington 14 GRS thirty-eight cal,” she reads. “This is vintage. And the firing pin has left a very deep and clear impression, about as good as a fingerprint. I imagine it’ll be a perfect match with the .38 Nolan found in the trash can. Speaking of which, we need to lock all of the evidence down.”

  McKelvey sighs and reaches behind his chair where his jacket hangs. He has bagged the .38. He pulls it out of his pocket and sets it on the desk.

  “Introducing new information,” he says. “And before you freak out, I had my reasons. Nolan says this looks like the personal weapon of Chief Gallagher. In fact, he’s quite positive the gun belongs to Gallagher.”

  Madsen stares at him. She does not blink.

  “Says he keeps it in the lockbox right here, by his desk,” McKelvey continues.

  Madsen blinks finally, but her expression remains stony.

  “I get the distinct impression you’re mad at me,” he says.

  “When were you good old boys going to bring me into the loop? I mean, it’s not like it’s potentially the murder weapon or anything.”

  McKelvey sits up. “Listen, the kid is scared, okay? He’s shitting his pants right now. This is his chief. The only cop boss he’s ever had. And anyway, I’m telling you now. You know, Inspector, not every motive is underwritten by your jaded perception that all men in law enforcement necessarily discount their female counterparts.”

  He smiles at her. She busies herself collecting the various baggies and vials and storing them in her black case. She picks up the bag with the revolver and weighs it in her palm.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. She lifts her head, and uses the back of her gloved hand to move stray strands of hair from her face, and she sighs. “I’m having some home issues. Let’s just say it’s starting to affect my view of all men. You don’t deserve that. And I do remember working with you, you know. You were a good detective. I learned from you.”

  “Forget it,” he says. And he thinks, I probably deserve my share of it, to be honest. All of us do. That too-long look across the squad room, the drop of the glance to chest level when all eyes should be on the job at hand. He can work with a beautiful woman and has done so, there is no doubt, and he can respect her experience and her authority without hesitation or question. But what he can’t get past is the smell of her from across this desk, the plain beauty of her face without sleep or makeup, the seemingly insignificant gestures that reach him and tickle something that feels dead. How something inside of him ached as he watched her standing in the headlight beams of the cruiser in the parking lot of the truck stop, how she reached up and tied her hair back with her two hands, working quickly because it is an action she has performed a thousand times without even thinking. That’s what they don’t understand about us, he thinks; how they can kill us by simply crossing their legs.

  “The way I see this, we’ve got two problems, Charlie. First, why would someone purposefully leave behind a spent shell casing from a revolver when they could have simply disposed of it at a later time. That requires a specific and deliberate effort. To shoot someone in the head and then take a moment to crack the revolver and pull out the casing and set it on the floor. A pistol, sure, you have to deal with auto ejection and look around for the casings. Even then, only the pros remember to pick them up in that moment of fear and adrenalin. Fingerprints on casings are hard to come by because the oil from skin gets burned off during firing. So it is obvious our perpetrator wants to leave behind some evidence for us. Is this a game to the killer? And second, whose gun is this?”

  “Nolan said Gallagher keeps the key to the lockbox on him or he forgets it at home,” McKelvey says. “So we’ve got no choice but to come at him straight on. Would be better if we knew for sure it was his gun when we corner him on this. I hate going in with half the information. It’ll change our relationship, that’s for sure.”

  “Well,” she says, and smiles a little, “what if I keep Gallagher and Nolan busy with some things and you take a little poke around the Chief’s place?”

  McKelvey looks at her in surprise. Perhaps it is the long night and lack of sleep, the fact his body is still fluttering in the absence of the pills, but he finds her so incredibly attractive right now that a physical loneliness rises in his chest in a balloon that he can’t swallow. He almost smiles to himself as he imagines her pulling her sidearm on him when he says Hey
, did you know you’re beautiful.

  So instead he says, “I like how you think, Inspector.”

  Twenty-Four

  The Coffee Time is busy with locals alternately discussing the murder of Wade Garson, the memorial service to be held for Mark Watson when the weather breaks, and debating whether the storm will be sufficiently ferocious to close the main highway. There are mentions of food reserves, canned goods and liquor and cigarettes and bingo cards, all the necessities of life. Outside the snow is picking up steadily. A bitter wind howls in from the northeast on a sharp angle that lifts and holds the flakes in mid-air, sometimes creating a momentary horizontal blur of pure whiteness. McKelvey smiles at Peggy as he comes in the door, tails of snow sneaking in with him. A dozen and a half heads turn in unison to watch him, and the place goes silent for a full second. He steps through the tables to the counter as conversation resumes. He hears his name whispered, and that of Wade Garson, Gallagher, Nolan, all of them mixed up in this together.

  “Hello, stranger.”

  Peggy smiles at him, and for the second time in less than an hour his body flushes with desire. He sees the two of them in back, bags of flour sending dust in the air like the snow outside, his hands on her hips, all over her body, her uniform shirt open to the fifth button, doughnuts in the fryer and a line of customers at the counter. He’s not sure whether this is normal, or whether it is a side effect of drug withdrawal, but he feels like a teenager again, buzzing with strange hormones.

  “Charlie?”

  McKelvey snaps out of it and says, “Sorry, I haven’t slept yet.”

  Peggy pours coffee in an extra large take-away cup.

  “It’s the talk of the town, as you can imagine,” she says. “People are really starting to wonder if you and Gallagher and Nolan can handle this. Not that anyone’s mourning the death of Wade Garson, exactly.”

  “It’s under control,” he says, and takes the cup and pours sugar from a glass dispenser. He has only started adding sugar since he began drinking the pitiful coffee here, trying to sweeten the bitter chemistry. “Listen, I wanted to thank you for that little saying you gave me. It made me think of things in a new way. My life in police work and my life today. What I’m supposed to be doing.”