Mitchell nodded.
“He was mysterious like that. Hard to read. Too quiet. You never knew what was goin’ on in that head of his.”
Mitchell jotted down some notes. “Anyone else?”
“We grabbed a brew at The Ale House maybe a week ago. Downtown,” Drugan said. “You know it, rook?”
Mitchell gritted his teeth. “Exactly one week ago or…?”
Drugan grunted.
Richardson kicked him under the table. “Come on, Shea. Help our boy out.”
Drugan looked at Richardson with distaste. Like he had just tasted something sour. “It was a Saturday night. Late.”
Mitchell looked over to the one called O’Connell, then to the Asian man, Ikeda, in the back of the room. “How about you two? Either one of you see Scott?”
O’Connell pulled off his glasses and checked them over for dust and spots. He wasn’t like the others. He looked like he was out of place. They were all muscle and rough around the edges. He almost appeared gentle in comparison. “Not really,” he said. “We didn’t hang out or anything. I just saw him here at work.”
“Ikeda! You see Scott, man?” Richardson called.
The Asian said nothing.
Richardson cleared his throat. “Look, Detective, what is it that you’re after here? If you’re lookin’ for a killer, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, yeah?” He leaned back in his chair and pulled his arms out behind his head. “If you need alibis we’ll be happy to supply them, won’t we, fellas?”
“I’m just tryin’ to find some answers here, gentlemen,” Mitchell said.
“And we’ll be happy to help you when we can, but—”
“Could I schedule something with you privately?” Mitchell asked.
Richardson sighed. “Sure, if that’s what it takes. But, know this, I’m a busy man. We’re busy. Brass has been comin’ down hard on us lately. It ain’t like the old days, yeah? Sometimes…look, there’s a war coming, and we’d rather be on the winnin’ side.”
“Damn straight,” Drugan said.
What was he going on about now?
“What time works for you?” Mitchell asked.
Richardson reached into his pocket. “Here, take my number and give me a shout. I move around so I’m never in one place for very long.”
Mitchell took the business card from him, got up, and made his way to the door. He opened it, but a tall man with long dark hair and a beat-up looking nose blocked his exit.
“Sorry,” the man said, his hands out in front of him. He looked at Mitchell then to Richardson, who stood behind him. Mitchell noticed the shared look between the two of them.
Richardson quickly ushered Mitchell out of the room, saying, “This is Detective Mitchell. Homicide. He was just leaving.”
“Simmons,” the man said with a small nod as he beelined into the room.
Mitchell turned to ask a question, but the door was swiftly shut in his face. He stood there alone in the hallway. He felt like he had just been spanked.
He felt like a fool.
A child.
Just then, his stomach heaved and he hurried for the nearest restroom.
***
“I don’t think you get it.”
“I hear ya loud and clear, partner,” Berlin said. Although his body language said otherwise.
“You fed me to a pack of wolves. They wanted to tear strips from me, man. I could have used you in there.”
Berlin acted calm, keeping both of his hands firmly on the steering wheel. “So they’re a bunch of assholes. So what? What would you like me to do?”
Mitchell paused, looking down at his feet. “I don’t know.”
“They’re not gonna roll out the red carpet, man. Besides, they knew that you were coming.”
“What?”
“Well not you you, but someone. They knew that somebody would be coming around to ask questions.”
They were back in the car, making their way to the Coroner’s Office. Once Mitchell had wrapped his line of questioning with the Narco’s, he had called Berlin. He advised him that they should head over to see the body. The case wasn’t giving them much and Berlin was hopeful that the body might tell them something new. Mitchell simply obliged.
“How did it go with the widow?” Mitchell asked.
“It was fine. Nice lady.”
Mitchell looked over at Berlin. “What is it?”
“Not sure yet,” He was quiet for a moment. “She may be hiding something.”
“You think so?”
“It could be nothing. I found out that Scott had an office.” He pointed a thumb into the backseat. “I got some stuff in the back. Haven’t really looked at it yet.”
“Think we’ll get somethin’?”
“Doubt it,” he said, pulling into the parking lot and putting it into park.
CHAPTER 8
“Doc, whatcha got for me?” Berlin called as he pushed his way through the silver double doors. Mitchell followed closely behind him.
“Who let you back out? I thought I was rid of you for good,” Doctor Robert Truby said, peering at the detective under horn-rimmed glasses.
Truby had been with the department for many years. Berlin knew him well enough and, in a small way, Berlin looked up to him.
“Sorry to disappoint you, old man.”
Truby sighed loudly and made it clear. “Look, Detective, I’m really busy here. I don’t know if I have the—”
“Doc, doc,” Berlin said as he sidled up next to him, encroaching on his physical space. Berlin looked down at the body that lay on the stainless steel table. It was that of a fat man, so fat that he wondered how the table held him. He went to bend a knee to look underneath the table when Truby interrupted him with a hand.
“Do you mind?” Truby asked.
Berlin looked up, saying, “Huh? Oh. Sorry.” He retreated from the table, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him. He paced around the room, pulling up sheets, inspecting toe tags, reading charts and clipboards, and generally becoming a nuisance for Truby.
Truby watched him with suspicious eyes and once he had enough, he came up behind him and gently took hold of his arm. “Detective Berlin, can you please just stop?”
Berlin stared at him, not saying a word, then smirked.
“What is it you want, Detective?” Truby asked.
“I want to talk about my guy,” Berlin said.
“And which is your guy, Detective?”
“Are you really that busy?”
Dr. Truby sighed again. “Detective, most of my colleagues are out with the flu, or on vacation, or God knows where else. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say there must be a full moon or something in the water at the very least. I can’t remember the last time I had so much company in here. I don’t like it.”
Berlin raised an eyebrow and looked at Truby, who tugged on the neckline of his shirt. He really did look exhausted. Fed up. Berlin casually glanced around the room.
Four bodies lay lined up against the wall. Three bodies lay in another row near the back and an additional row of three waited in front of that.
“There’s…there’s gotta be almost a dozen bodies in here, Doc,” Berlin said.
“What did I just say?” Truby looked at Mitchell, his eyes about to burst from his head. “Look, the four at the back came in together so he can’t be one of them.”
Mitchell whistled. “All four?”
Truby nodded. He stroked his chin, which sported blonde hair that was quickly being taken over by gray. It marched down his chin line and exploded like a Pollock painting at the base of his chin. “Yep. Hamilton and Merritt caught that one from what I hear.”
Berlin smiled. Hamilton and Merritt, aka Hammer and Anvil, were rotten cops in Berlin’s opinion. They were old guard. A different breed of cop.
“Lesser and Fitzpatrick were just here. They caught the other three in that row,” Dr. Truby continued, pointing at the second last row.
Berlin was alre
ady near the two rows. “My guy is a cop. Is he here?”
“I may be busy, but I’m not incompetent.” Truby began to rifle through some of his paperwork, showing signs of frustration. “He’s in the first row there.”
Berlin moved next to the bodies. He pulled up the white sheet on the first one. It was a male, knife wound to the stomach. “Nope. Next?”
“He’s here somewhere, Detective. Or, at least he darn well better be,” he grumbled under his breath.
Berlin moved onto the second. He pulled back the sheet with two hands, revealing a beautiful brunette female victim. Early 30s. Damn shame.
Truby had crept up on his toes and said, “Lucky you, he must be dead last.”
Berlin continued to look at the woman on the gurney. There was something about her. Something off.
No wounds. That had to be it.
There was no bruising or blemishes of any kind. Strange.
He was pulling the sheet back up and over her when he noticed it. A small mark behind the right ear lobe. He had almost missed it.
“You find him yet?” Truby called.
Berlin shook his head. “Nah, but I found her.”
“Who?”
Berlin looked at the tag fastened to her big toe. “Jane Doe.” He leaned in over her and tried to get a better look at the mark behind her ear. It was small. So very small.
How had he seen it?
What was it?
Puncture?
Truby now joined him in the same row. “Ah, yes. Very peculiar, that one. I haven’t had a chance to look at her just yet. Beautiful girl, no? A crying shame.”
“She’s got some sort of mark here behind the right ear lobe.”
“Oh? Let me see.” Truby grabbed a magnifying glass off his side table and came around to see for himself. “You’re right. I’ll keep it in mind when I do the autopsy.” He pulled the sheet back over the dead woman’s body.
Berlin stared down at the sheet, his mind formulating ideas and scenarios.
Truby waited. “Detective, if you’d please, your guy is right here. Help me move him over so we can get on with it.”
Mitchell came into the aisle and took hold of the opposite end of the gurney. “I gotcha, Doc.”
CHAPTER 9
Jack Howell pulled into the gravel lot behind the large Italian restaurant and put the car into park. The car sputtered and groaned as it settled its old body before it finally became silent.
He looked to his right at the restaurant named Monchelli’s, then over his shoulder at the street that ran down the hill. He knew that the canal was just below where he was, so the crime scene must have been around here somewhere.
He grabbed his notepad and kicked the car door open, shuffling out of the car. He trekked up the steep incline to the restaurant, holding his pants up with his fat fingers.
“For one?” The woman asked as Jack came in through the door.
“Actually, I wasn’t plannin’ on eating. Is there a manager around?”
She looked at him with curious eyes. “A manager? Why?”
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. It looked like it had been through the wash several times, all creased and rounded, with fuzzy corners. “I’m with the Garden Chronicle.”
The woman squinted and looked down at the misshapen card Jack held between two fingers. “One second, please.”
She left him, standing in the entryway of the restaurant, and he used the time to jot down some notes on his pad. He made a quick sketch of the parking lot and the approximate distance from the restaurant to the trail. Jack was always thorough. He figured it would save him a trip back if something came up down the road. Better to be prepared.
“How can I help you?”
Jack brought his eyes up from the pad.
“Are you the manager?” Jack asked.
“Yes,” she said. “One of them, anyway. My father runs this place. He’s out at the moment, getting some supplies.”
Jack gave her the once-over. She was a good looking woman. It made him realize that it had been a long time since he had last felt a woman’s touch. Lately Maeve wasn’t very approachable in the bedroom, but, deep down, he knew that he wasn’t into it, either. You could say the spark wasn’t there anymore.
“I’m Jack Howell with the Garden Chronicle. I was hoping to ask you a few questions. I didn’t catch your name.”
She stuck out her hand. “Adriana Batucci.”
“A pleasure,” he said. He jotted her name down on his pad. “Ms. Batucci, it is Missus, right?”
“Yes.”
Jack smiled. “Ms. Batucci, I wanted to speak to you about the murder that took place just down the trail there.”
“I spoke with the detectives about it already.”
“Yes, of course. I was just hoping to get some clarification. Some further details for the story that I’m working on.”
Adriana put a hand on her hip and looked out into the dining room. “Mr. Howell, I’m very busy right now.”
Jack surveyed the restaurant himself. There didn’t look like there was a soul in sight. “Really?” He couldn’t help it.
“Mr. Howell,” she repeated. “I don’t have to talk to you. I wasn’t here when it happened. My father wasn’t here. No one was here. It’s all very tragic, but I’m afraid that I can’t help you.”
Fantastic.
Now what?
“Do you happen to have surveillance on the property?”
She shook her head. “Ya know, the detective asked me that as well. I don’t understand you people. You think that we’re just made of money? Not everyone’s got money nowadays. Times are tough. We’re stretched to our limits as it is.”
Jack blushed. “Of course. I didn’t mean…that was stupid of me.”
“No, no. I should be the one to apologize. I’m sorry.” She moved away from him, a hand up to her forehead. She looked lost, out of sorts, like she was about to faint at any moment. “Look, I’m just under a lot of stress. The restaurant…we don’t need the extra attention. It could bury us. I can’t let that happen.” She turned away from him, her eyes beginning to tear up.
What are you doing here, Jack?
Surely there must be another way?
But there isn’t and you know it.
Whatcha gonna do, Jack?
Take the high road and get lost or play the sympathy card on her?
Jack kept quiet, letting her cool off. Finally she met his eyes again, and with a straight face he said, “I understand. I really do. Ya think I got money to put my kid in college? Hell, no. Not on my paycheck.”
She let out a sigh and dabbed at her eyes. She inspected her fingertips to see if her mascara had started to run, but she must not have seen anything, as she said, “Yeah. It was the same in my family.”
That’s it. Bring her back.
“I’m actually surprised that I didn’t catch word about this earlier—”
She tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear. “Yeah, you’re the first reporter to come by. I thought it was rather strange, but what do I know?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, we wouldn’t have known that there was a murder if they hadn’t come in to question us.”
“There wasn’t any media outside? On the street?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“That is strange.” Jack wrote in giant letters “NO MEDIA” and underlined it on his notepad. “Okay, last question and then I’ll get out of your hair. Can you show me where it happened?”
CHAPTER 10
They stood, hovering around Tim Scott’s body. It rested on the stainless steel table naked as the day he came into this world, except for the two dark wounds in his abdomen.
Dr. Truby held a clipboard in his hands and an orange pen lodged in his mouth, moving it from side to side with his tongue. “Tim Scott died from his wounds. Hemothorax, to be exact. Scott suffered a penetrating injury to the thorax, which resulted in a rupture of the s
erous membrane that covered his lungs. The rupture allowed blood to spill into his pleural space.”
“Hard contact?” Berlin asked, referring to the distance between the shooter and the victim. A ‘hard’ contact wound would be if the weapon was pressed firmly against the skin.
Truby shook his head. “No, whoever shot your vic did it from some distance.” He took in a deep breath, an almost wheezing sound. “I also found no trace evidence under his fingernails or on any of his clothes.”
“That’s a little strange, no?”
“Yeah. It would appear that your victim knew his attacker.”
“Time of death?”
“Hard to nail down exactly, since he was exposed to the elements and down by the water, but…” He pulled the pen out of his mouth and tapped it against his front teeth. “…Probably the early hours. Maybe late the night before. I can run some more tests to see if it’s possible to narrow it down further.”
“That’d be great,” Mitchell said.
“You did find somethin’, though, Doc. What was it?” Berlin asked.
“Well, I don’t want to…I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. Scott was a fellow police officer, it’s not really my—”
“Just spit it out, Doc,” Berlin said.
“I found fresh puncture marks on his arms.”
“Puncture? Like track marks? That can’t be right,” Berlin muttered under his breath, turning away from the table.
“See for yourself, Berlin,” Truby said.
Mitchell looked over at Berlin. “Did the wife mention anything to you?”
Could Scott have been a user? No, that didn’t make any sense. Mrs. Scott had told him that his own brother had died from an overdose. Why would Scott use? Something wasn’t adding up. “No, nothing like that. She…she said that they were having some difficulties, and that she hadn’t seen him a few months, but—”
“A few months?” Mitchell asked.
“That’s what she said.” Berlin looked down at Scott’s body and honed in on the tiny dark punctures on the inside of his arms. An area of discolored skin due to inflammation surrounded these punctures. He began to wonder if Scott had his own demons that he fought with, much like himself. “Somethin’s not right here. Scott wasn’t the type of guy to use.”
Eyes of the Dead: A Crime and Suspense Thriller (The Gardens Book 1) Page 5