The Death File

by J. A. Kerley

  “So here we are, three professionals working toward a single purpose. Mr Shackleton died in Maricopa’s jurisdiction, Dr Meridien in ours. It appears the victim died in your jurisdiction, but resides on ours. How about we continue working together, Merle … like we did with the evidence your folks unearthed? That worked out nice, right? And by the way, the cap sent your superiors a big thanks for conveying the Meridien evidence to PPD so quickly and professionally.”

  I wasn’t quite sure of the specifics of what Novarro was talking about, but was pretty sure I was hearing a piece of diplomacy and back-patting. The guy shrugged the big shoulders.

  “I doubt there’ll be much investigation of an accident, but I’ll copy you on whatever we get here.” He paused and thought a moment. “Of course, you gotta start sending us everything you get on Meridien.”

  “It’s a deal,” Novarro nodded. “And do you have the GPS coords for the scene?”

  A dubious look. “You going hiking?”

  “Not today. But I’d like to see where he fell.”

  Cowboy Castle pulled an old-school Garmin from his belt and displayed a flagged coordinate which Novarro copied to her phone.

  “Would you like to see where he landed?” the guy said.

  Novarro nodded. “Yes.”

  Castle grinned. “Take along a good rope.”

  And then the guy was walking away, the horse clopping beside him. Just before leading the beast into the trailer he shot a two-beat backward glance, one beat on Novarro, the other on me.

  I climbed into Novarro’s vehicle and we were on our way back. “Is there a jurisdictional dispute with Meridien?” I asked. “Why Castle wanted to be copied on the findings?”

  “Meridien is entirely within Phoenix PD’s turf. Merle wants me to copy him just to pull my chain an’ make me send him e-mail. I imagine he’ll give it a smug smile just before hitting Delete.”

  Novarro drove another couple miles; what I now understood to be the taller buildings of the Phoenix Business District moving closer. My mind reviewed the interaction between Novarro and Castle, picking up on little things.

  “You seem pretty familiar with Officer Castle,” I said noncommittally, a fishing expedition.

  “Until early this year Merle worked with Phoenix PD in uniformed patrol division, like me.” Also noncommittal.

  “He called you Three-Point,” I said, adding bait. “You didn’t seem overly pleased.”

  We pulled to a red light. She put her hands atop the steering wheel and sighed. “The Department’s been shedding jobs, not adding them. Detective positions, too. But last year a guy retired, a position opened up, and Merle and I both applied.”

  “You got the job.”

  She nodded as we turned onto Dobbins Road. “Yep.”

  “You were three points ahead on the test,” I theorized.

  She shook her head. “Nope. Three points behind.”

  She saw my confusion and smiled; a pretty use of the teeth. “Merle memorized and memorized until he knew all the book answers. He spent all his time knowing the exact answers. We both scored high, but he scored three points higher.”

  I thought about it as we drove away. “Castle had the facts,” I speculated. “But you had the magic.” Harry and I had interviewed detective wannabees, looking for more than memorization; we sought intellect, imagination, and – number one – that indefinable power some call intuition, others just “the magic”. No amount of book learning could replace the magic.

  Novarro nodded. “The personal interviews were conducted by three old pros – two active, one retired – a combined total of thirty-seven years holding the gold. I booted Merle’s butt.” She thought a moment and chuckled.

  “What?” I said.

  “The retired dick pulled me over after the interview, nodded across the room at Merle, and whispered, ‘There goes a guy born to hand out speeding tickets’.’”

  “Ouch,” I laughed.

  “Merle doesn’t know he lacks imagination because he lacks the imagination to consider it. It doesn’t make him a bad cop – he’s actually quite decent – it just makes him a poor candidate for an investigative position. When he didn’t get the position with Phoenix PD, he went to the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department. It was basically a trans-jurisdictional pout.”

  “Does Castle want to be a detective for Maricopa?”

  “There’s a lot more enforcement, particularly round-up and deportation of illegals. Merle gets to pal around with ICE agents, Homeland Security types, the various border patrols. It’s macho and manly stuff. And every now and then, as a part-time member of the mounted patrol, he gets to ride his horsey. O’itnaldo’a’ataha itnohnoha-pa.”

  “Which is?”

  “Give a man a horse and he feels complete. Merle, at least.”

  “I get the feeling he’d feel even more complete if you paid him added attention …” I paused, thinking I probably shouldn’t speculate on the private life of a woman I’d just met, did it anyway, adding: “Like you used to.”

  She shot me an eye. “My, you are good, aren’t you? Merle and I dated. It lasted almost three months. The problem is that I know it ended; Merle hasn’t got the word yet. Maybe his horse will tell him.”

  The victim and his parents lived in north Phoenix and Novarro pulled to the side to call them and find out if they were still at home. She blew out a long breath when the call was over.

  “You find out your kid is dead, then the cops call and want to talk. I truly hate this shit.”

  I nodded, nothing coming in words. I’d been here too often.

  When we arrived at the address we could see through diaphanous curtains to a man and woman clinging to one another in the front room. I heard a heavy sigh from Novarro. We knocked. The clinging couple were Shackleton’s parents, Herbert and Deanna. They’d received the word. “We’re just …” the mother said, waving her hands like fighting off wasps, “they say he’ll soon be, be at … in the, the …” She couldn’t form the word morgue.

  “We’re going to meet him there,” the father said. He was holding it together, but barely.

  “We hate to intrude like this, sir,” Novarro said. “But do you know what Brad was doing up on the mountain?”

  “Brad loved the outdoors. Even when it was over a 110 outside, he was out in the desert. It was his escape from pressure.”

  “Pressure?”

  “He’s attending college, a sophomore.”

  “At seventeen?”

  “It caused … some issues, being so young. Self-doubt, insecurities.”

  Mrs Shackleton turned to us. “Brad’s s-studying to be …” She realized she was in present tense and broke down again. Her husband wrapped her in his arms and spoke to us over his shoulder. “Brad was studying to become a surgeon. A neurosurgeon.”

  “Why was Brad seeing Dr Meridien? He had her business card in his wallet.”

  Shackleton swallowed hard; I admired his courage. “His age … he had doubt, insecurities. Dr Meridien was giving Bradley a sense of self-worth, of making him realize he may have been smart, but it didn’t mean he was a mutant or something from another planet. He was a normal and very bright kid doing what he would have done anyway, just a couple of years earlier.”

  “May we take a look at Brad’s room? It might help us gain some insights.”

  “You’re detectives. You d-don’t think Brad was, was …”

  I shot a glance at Novarro, shaking her head. “It’s just procedure, Mr Shackleton. We have to look at everything.”

  He wiped away tears and nodded. “Upstairs. To the right.”

  A bed, a desk, books. Multiple dozens of books, medical texts, mostly. There was a terrarium with a pair of anoles inside and perched on a branch, heads bobbing. I checked for any sort of diary or address book, nothing. I saw a laptop on the desk and set it aside.

  Novarro went to the closet as if drawn by gravity, pushing aside the accordion-fold slats. She lowered to a squat and studied the s
hoes for several seconds, then picked up a pair and studied the lugged bottoms. I saw a brand name: Merrel. She set them back on the floor and stood, pushing through shirts on hangers, studying several front and back. She next went to the dresser, opening drawers and paying attention to the tee shirts. She reminded me of a hound dog with a wisp of a scent and sniffing for more.

  Her final move was to stand in the center of the room and turn in a circle. She re-checked the closet, looking in the back, then went to the door we opened on entrance. She pushed it closed and made an affirmative grunt. There, hung on a peg on the back of the door, was a backpack with a hose hanging from the side. She ran her hand up the side, popped a pocket and looked inside. She studied the hose, nodded and pushed the door back in place.

  “What were you looking for?” I said.

  She sat on the end of the bed and held up two fingers. “There are two kinds of hikers, amateurs and the knowledgeable. Amateurs wear tennis shoes, cross-trainers or cheap-ass things that look like hiking shoes but are next to worthless. They wear whatever shirt and pants they’ve got on. Amateurs stick a bottle of Dasani in a pocket and that’s their hydration.”

  “The knowledgeable?”

  “They wear shoes selected for the trail conditions and often use what’s called ‘technical’ clothing like non-cellulose shirts with wicking capability. At very least they carry a knife, a compass, a lighter. Water is vital, and more, they wear a hydration bladder, especially younger types.”

  I nodded to the open door, behind it the odd backpack. “That’s a hydration bladder on the peg.”

  She nodded. “A hundred-ounce Camelbak. In the pockets were a knife, compass, two lighters.”

  I nodded toward the closet. “Good hiking shoes, too, right?”

  “First rate, and getting worn. He used them. He also had tech shirts, shorts and tees.”

  “You’re saying Bradford Shackleton was knowledgeable.”

  She sighed. “He was also seventeen.”

  The Shackletons were moving slowly toward the front door when we went downstairs. “Brad’s at the … the facility,” the father said, his eyes a thousand miles distant. “We’re going to, uh …”

  “We’re just leaving,” Novarro said. “May we take Brad’s laptop? We’ll return it very soon.”

  “Whatever,” Mr Shackleton said, eyes a thousand miles away, more pressing matters needing his attention.

  “Please, one more question …”

  “Sure,” the father sighed.

  “When Bradley went out into the desert, was he prepared … water, clothing, gear?”

  “Always if he was going out for a couple of hours in the heat.”

  “But not every time?”

  “If he was out and went near one of his favorite hiking places, he might take a quick hike. Just to release some energy, some … of the pressure. Uh, we’ve got to …”

  The father was shaky, the horror setting in. I nodded and started away.

  “No,” Novarro said, watching the couple standing before a Windstar van like trying to remember how it all worked. “I’ll drive. You folks sit in back. Detective Ryder will follow us to the … to Bradley.’

  The father swallowed hard and nodded his thanks, angling his wife to the rear of the van. I took the wheel of the PPD vehicle, pasted myself to the Windstar’s rear bumper, and we made our sad pilgrimage to the place never spoken.

  18

  After delivering the Shackletons, Novarro and I stood on the street outside the morgue and watched the long shadows cast by a falling sun. After a few minutes of silence I turned to her.

  “You didn’t tell the parents about Meridien’s death. I thought you might use it to see if they knew any others of her patients. Because they’d been through enough, right?”

  “They were broken … and then I start asking if they met any of the son’s fellow patients?”

  “Yeah … not a good time to try and get names and memories.”

  “Tomorrow, maybe. Now I think we pay a little visit to one Ramon Escheverría. Rattle his cage. Let him know we know he visited Miami. We are sure, aren’t we?”

  “My guy at Quantico says chances are 90 percent or better.”

  “A politician tells you he’s 90 percent sure a taxpayer-funded project is going to come in on budget, do you believe him?”

  I laughed. It was all I had.

  Novarro said: “What the hell, let’s go brace El Gila. Something to do, right?”

  “You actually know where he’s at?”

  “He seems to be staying in plain sight at the moment. According to my sources, he’s been spending his days in a ratty little gym about fifteen blocks from here. Feel like a workout?”

  “A gym?” I said.

  “He’s listed as an owner, a cover, obviously. He also keeps a crew there: three to four sycophants who run errands and likely tell him how great he is.”

  I nodded. Sociopaths generally loved praise, further bolstering their already hyper-inflated self-image and sense of invulnerability.

  We wound down streets where the majority of the signs were in Spanish. I saw more tire shops than I thought possible. The worn sign on the outside of the yellow block building said Ortega Gym – Boxing, Martial Arts. We Train Champions. We pushed through the door to an oppressive reek of sweat and liniment. There were resistance-type machines lined up against a wall, but mostly it was old-school free weights, racks of them. A battered and sagging boxing ring was in one corner. A trio of Hispanic males sat around a table near the shadowed rear, hulking, tattooed blocks of meat drinking beer from bottles. On the far side of the room a guy with a chest like a bull was bench pressing about three hundred pounds.

  We were inside for a half step before the guard dogs were up and moving our way. Novarro had the shield out and they didn’t look pleased.

  “What choo wan’?” one challenged, looming over Novarro while the others tried to burn us down with glares.

  “Need me a little pow-wow with Ramon Escheverría.”

  “He ain’t here.”

  Novarro leaned past the wall of meat and pointed to the guy doing the bench-press work. “Is that not him right there?” She smiled and waved. “How you doing, Ramon?”

  “It’s cool,” Escheverría called; the barbell in the air, no spotter behind him. “Let them by.”

  The wall parted and we crossed the room. Escheverría looked like one of the Spartans in the movie 300, built of rippling plates of meat and gristle though, unlike the movie warriors, his were overlaid with tattoos … flaming skulls, knives, a grim reaper. Escheverría glistened with sweat that looked thick and oily. Beneath the art I saw scars and the pucker of a bullet hole in a ham-thick thigh. I could smell that he hadn’t bathed today. Or maybe all month.

  “Howdy, Ramon,” Novarro said. “How was the weather in Miami?”

  A split-second pause. “Mi-uhh,” he grunted the weight aloft, “ami?”

  Novarro tapped the barbell. “Workout’s over, Ramon. We need to talk.”

  Escheverría set the barbell in the mount like it weighed ounces, sat up on the bench, retrieved a towel from the floor, wiped the sweat from his face. He snapped his fingers and one of the cholos hustled over with a water bottle, handed it to Escheverría, and retreated.

  “Miami, Ramon,” Novarro said. “You were there last week. Helluva drive. You do it straight through?”

  A long drink of water followed by a shrug and head-shake. “I got no idea what you’re talking about, pretty lady.”

  “That tank of gas you stopped for after the job?” Novarro reminded him as she popped her briefcase. “There was a security camera in the store. Take a look.”

  She handed him the 8 x 10 of his face in the c-store. He regarded it for several seconds and handed it back. “Nice looking dude. Ain’t me, though.”

  She passed over a blow-up of him fueling the red Camaro. “Here’s another. Check that big bright red Camaro. Oddly enough, that’s what you drive, right Ramon?”

>   Mock perplexation. “What, you think that dude stole my ride?”

  I stepped up. “Come on, Ramon. We know you were in Florida last week. Miami. It’s all coming together.”

  “All coming together?” He said it like trying a sentence in a foreign language.

  I leaned close enough to feel the heat rising from Escheverría’s thick shoulders. “We’re gonna put you there, Ramon. At the Bowers scene. And Warbley’s. You’ll be extradited to Florida. Not only do we have the death penalty, we like using it. Cleaning up the gene pool, right?”

  He gave me a look like I was barely there and turned his attention back to Novarro. “And all of this because you got a guy looks a little like me on a picture? And you got a red car in another picture?”

  “It’s your red car, Ramon,” Novarro said. “What were you doing in Miami?”

  Escheverría stood and walked to the window, the reek of his body in his wake. He stared across the broad highway. When he turned there was a grin on his thin lips and mockery in his eyes.

  “It’s Señor Escheverría, pretty lady. And here’s what Señor Escheverría requests you do. He respectfully requests that you visit the Chevrolet dealership on Scottsdale Boulevard. He wishes you to enquire if they had Mr Escheverría’s fine red Camaro all of last week. And when you find out that they did, I expect you to come back and apologize to Mr Escheverría for whatever it is you think he did in Miami in his bright red car since, as you will discover, he was not in Miami ever.” A wisp of smile across the dark eyes. “Are we completed here?”

  The Chevrolet dealership was open until eight p.m. and we arrived with minutes to spare. The service manager was named Dave, according to his shirt pocket. Dave was a beefy guy in his late thirties with red hair and a smattering of freckles. We were in front of his counter as a half-dozen mechanics in the bays worked on both floorbound and elevated vehicles. The place smelled of heat, grease, and detergent.

  “Yeah, a 2015 Camaro 2SS, Ramon Escheverría,” Dave said, reading a pink work order pulled from a drawer. “The address is in Phoenix. Got the 426 engine. A monster power car. Runs about fifty grand with all the add-ons.”