Mary, Mary, Shut the Door

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  “Come in.”

  A tall, broad-shouldered woman with short, spiky blond hair opened the door. She wore a camel pantsuit over a black turtleneck. Her eyes were a pale blue-gray. Like ice water.

  “Sergeant Kincaid? I’m Detective Seymour. Angela Seymour.”

  They shook hands and Seymour slipped into a chair.

  “How much of your investigation have you completed?” Kincaid asked.

  “Crime scene and forensics. We’re doing a background on the victim and we took a statement from Tillis at the scene. How about you?”

  “Formal statement. I’ve been reading his personnel file. How do you see it?”

  “Forensics and crime scene match his story. There was residue on the window fragments. That’s where the shot came from. The clerk at Mickey D’s said he’d just picked up some food. His tire tracks and footprints match the story. He pulled up alongside the car, walked around, shot him, opened the door, the body fell out, he walked back and called it in, that sort of thing. The tape of the call seems consistent. You know, ‘I shot him. I shot him. It was a mistake. I didn’t mean it.’ He was real shook up. The timing was right. The guy was still warm when we got there.”

  “How about the gun? Street-ready?”

  “Yeah. The magazine was full, so there was one in the chamber.”

  “This guy is a field manual for screw-ups. You couldn’t handle this situation in a more incompetent fashion. He sees this car at the end of the road. Off-duty, he goes down without calling anyone; parks alongside, not in the rear; doesn’t ask the guy to step out of the vehicle; uses his gun as a door knocker. I’ve been looking at his record. No history of use-of-force complaints, no history of improper discharge, no distinctions of any kind. Officer Tillis is a very thin, very pale blue line. I’m going to check his record at the academy. See what kind of training they were doing when he went through. He’s never re-qualified since he got out. I don’t know if his negligence is more his fault or ours.”

  “He learned the right way. We were in the same class. But if they didn’t require him to re-qualify, he wouldn’t do it. Delbert did enough to get by, nothing more. On one hand this surprises me, and on the other it doesn’t. I don’t see Delbert letting his Big Mac get cold to check out a stack of corpses, much less a parked car. That reminds me, what did he say about seeing the car?”

  Kincaid flipped back through his notes. “He saw the car from the street. He was driving by after he picked up the food.”

  “Never happened.” Seymour grew animated. Kincaid knew that feeling when the first lie raised its head above the smooth surface of a case. Something to chase, to hunt back to its lair, see if it had family. Seymour began to talk with her hands, and Kincaid noted that she had rings on all of her fingers.

  “I drove by the alley and missed it when we responded to the call. You can’t see anything from the street.”

  “How very curious. Then what brought Officer Tillis to that dark and lonely place? What was the victim’s name?”

  “Ronnie Lewis.”

  “What do we know about him?”

  “Nothing yet, but we’re working on it.”

  Kincaid checked his watch. He had to be at the range by four. “Listen, I’ve got to go, uh, let me give you my card.” He pulled out his wallet, took out a card, flipped it over, and wrote on the back. “This is my home number and my number here. Call me if you find out anything. I’ll do the same.” He handed her the card.

  She reached into her jacket and pulled out a card case and gave him hers. As she was leaving, she turned back. “I’ve just got to ask. How did you ever manage to write that on the watch commander’s forehead?” She was referring to the final incident that sent him across the river. He had written “750,” the code for dereliction of duty, on the watch commander’s forehead. Something he didn’t notice until, perplexed by the stares and snickers from everyone he met at the station house, he went into the locker room and saw it in the mirror.

  “I’ll never tell. Who knows, I may be called on to do it again.”

  “Well, it was appreciated by some of us. The guy was a complete asshole. The rumors of how you did it got pretty extreme.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll tell me about them someday.”

  “Only if you tell me the truth.”

  Kincaid drank two large cups of coffee before heading over to the range. He was crashing. One hour of sleep and his biological clock was busted. He hoped that the coffee would just keep him alert, not shaky, when he shot. The drive over reminded him of one benefit of midnights. Empty streets. At three a.m. you were fifteen minutes from anywhere. At three p.m. you were fifteen minutes from the next intersection. Rust and caffeine notwithstanding, Kincaid qualified easily. At his best, he had shot a rapid-fire perfect with his weak hand and unmarked targets.

  Kincaid made it back to his apartment by six, knocked down a couple of gin and tonics as sedatives, reheated a pizza, and wondered how long it would take to train his body to sleep at night. After dinner he took out his Ruger .44 Magnum and worked on one of his teaching exercises: fieldstripping and reassembling a sidearm with his eyes closed. He could do it with a dozen different weapons. He could do it with one model while lecturing about another. If he’d known his way around his wife’s body like that, he might still be married. Or at least on speaking terms.

  Morning came and Kincaid went to his office. He wasn’t expected to start his examiner’s duties until the following Monday. In the meantime, he wanted to get as far into this case as he could. Tillis’s file revealed that he was a native son. This had been one of the biggest problems with the recruitment push of five years ago. Local roots and no background checks meant that a lot of thugs got guns and badges, and those thugs had long histories with many of the local drug crews. Far too often, it was those loyalties that ruled—not the oath, the paycheck, the brotherhood of blue. No officer had, as yet, murdered another to further a criminal enterprise, but police had served as security for drug couriers, killing rivals and warning of raids.

  Kincaid read on. Tillis lived nowhere near the scene of the shooting, nor was it in his district. God knows there were other Mickey D’s in this town. What brought him to that location? Kincaid knew that things would get much more interesting if Tillis and Lewis knew each other. From that fact you could breed a motive, and negligence would be murder.

  At ten, his phone rang. It was Seymour.

  “You wanted to know about Lewis. Three priors. Nothing heavy.”

  “Tillis arrest him?”

  “No. I looked at Lewis’s entire jacket. Tillis isn’t mentioned anywhere. He wasn’t second officer, or station clerk. He didn’t handle crime scene, forensics, property, or records. Nothing.”

  “What are the dates on those arrests?”

  “Ten February this year, six July ninety-six, and twenty-three October ninety-one.”

  “What were the home addresses for Lewis on those arrests?”

  “Same as now: Sixty-one East Markham Terrace.”

  “Nowhere near where he was shot. Anything from the M.E.? Drugs in his system? Recent sexual activity?”

  “Nothing. You think Tillis was cruising and Lewis threatened to out him? Or Lewis propositioned him and he panicked?”

  “No idea. I’m just curious about what brought those two guys to that place at that time. I’ll settle for God’s will if I have to, but it’s never my first choice.”

  “I’ll keep looking into Lewis. Maybe Tillis gave him a ticket. We’re pulling his driving record. What are you doing?”

  “I’ll check into Tillis’s background a little more, see if I can put them together, even if it’s a fifth-grade study hall. Listen, could you fax over a copy of Tillis’s statement at the crime scene and his call in to dispatch.”

  “Sure. Let me know what you find out.”

  “Will do. Oh, by the way, he was strapped to a seat.”

  “Who was?”

  “The watch commander.”

  “No.�
�� Seymour was both puzzled and impressed.

  “Yes.”

  There was a knock at his door. Kincaid said, “Come in.” The receptionist came in, a squat black woman with short, tightly curled hair, parted on one side.

  “Here’s that transcript you wanted, sir.” She handed him a stack of papers and the tape.

  Reaching out, he said, “Thank you. I should have introduced myself earlier. I’m Sergeant Kincaid, and you are …?”

  “Shondell Witherspoon.” Deep dimples split her cheeks each time she spoke.

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Witherspoon. When Detective Seymour’s fax arrives, I want to see it right away, and I need the department psychologist’s phone number.”

  “That would be Dr. Rice. He’s at extension two-one-oh-one at headquarters.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kincaid dialed the number as Witherspoon pulled the door closed.

  “Support Services.”

  “Dr. Rice, please.”

  “Dr. Rice is on vacation. Can anyone else help you?”

  “This is Sergeant Kincaid at Weapons-Use Review. Who’s handling post-incident debriefings while Rice is away?”

  “No one, Sergeant. The other staff positions haven’t been filled. Dr. Rice will be back next week. Is there anyone in particular you’re interested in?”

  “Officer Tillis. When is he scheduled to be seen?”

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t called this office and didn’t respond to my calls. I was just typing up an A71 notice for him to appear. He has ten days, then he’s put on leave.”

  “Ask Dr. Rice to call me when he’s returned.”

  “Will do.”

  Kincaid opened Tillis’s personnel folder and looked at his assignments over the last four years—especially the dates of Lewis’s arrests in ’96 and ’01. He called Tillis’s station house. While he was waiting to get through, he opened the desk drawers to see if he had a lockbox for his interview tapes.

  “This is Sergeant Kincaid. Get me the duty clerk, please.”

  “This is Binyon, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m checking assignments. How far back do your records go?”

  “Not very far, Sergeant. We used to keep them here before the computer center opened downtown. They were kept up in the attic, but we had the pipes burst last fall, you know, that record cold spell back in October. Anyway, everything got soaked and it all kind of turned into big bricks of paper mâché. All the pages got glued together so we sent them to the incinerator.”

  “Thanks.” Kincaid was switched over to procurement. Tillis had never requested money for a confidential informant, so he hadn’t been using Lewis that way.

  There were no paper records connecting them or ruling out a connection. Kincaid was still wondering where he was going to store his tapes when he saw a possible solution to his problem.

  It took Kincaid the rest of the afternoon to put Lewis and Tillis together, and it was late in the day when he returned to the office to get Detective Seymour’s fax. Kincaid read Tillis’s statement and the transcript of his radio call. They were a match with what he’d said in the interview. Kincaid was glad he hadn’t relied on Seymour’s memory. Two lies and a damaging truth. A motive was gestating. Buoyed by that thought, he called the morgue.

  “Medical Examiner’s office.”

  “This is Sergeant Kincaid. You’ve got a body there, Ronnie Lewis, shot by an officer. Anyone come by to look at his belongings?”

  “No. Homicide’s in no hurry. They know who did this one.”

  “I’m coming by to check them out now.”

  “Whatever.”

  Kincaid was now unquestionably poaching on Seymour’s turf. His job was procedures and personnel—Tillis. She could also investigate Tillis for criminal purposes, but Lewis, the victim, was exclusively hers.

  The morgue was down by the river, cut into the slopes so that much of the building was underground. This reduced the energy required to keep the building and its occupants cool. Hot, muggy summer days would send half a dozen citizens over with lead passports and no luggage.

  Outside, Kincaid slipped on his new pair of sunglasses. He’d had to buy sunblock also as he adjusted to being out during the day. Thirty cursing minutes later, he walked into the cool, dark entrance hall to the morgue. The visitors’ entrance was a ramp with railings. There were benches at both ends. Too many grief-stricken family members had fallen on the stairs at the old morgue. He pushed through the double doors and was refreshed by the chill air. Property was at the end of the hall. He signed in and had the clerk get Ronnie Lewis’s belongings. Kincaid felt the clothing to see if anything was sewn into a seam or pocket. Nothing. He felt the length of the belt for bulges, pried off the heel of a shoe. More nothing. All the victim had had in his pockets was fifty-three cents in coins, a wallet, and a ring of keys: one to a Ford; one, probably, to his house; the third to a deadbolt, perhaps, or a storage unit or any of a dozen other possibilities. Kincaid opened the wallet. It contained thirty-six dollars in cash, a driver’s license, a social security card, a receipt for a money order, and a picture of a young woman with verandah-sized breasts and an inviting smile. He turned it over. There was no name or phone number. A subway pass. A video-store card, an ATM card, and some business cards stuck behind the cash. Kincaid wrote down the names and numbers, returned the cards to their place, and left.

  Back at the office, he called the impound lot to see what was in Lewis’s car. Nothing of any use—an ice scraper, a couple of flares, jumper cables, tire-pressure gauge, some change in the ashtray, the owner’s manual and some local maps in the glove compartment. Kincaid asked if the maps had any locations circled or routes highlighted. The clerk said yes but none of them were to the crime scene or Tillis’s residence and he’d already told that to Detective Seymour, don’t you people ever talk to each other?

  Kincaid dialed the numbers on each of the cards he’d taken from Lewis’s wallet. The first was to an out-call exotic dancer agency. They weren’t sending anybody to visit Mr. Lewis until he paid up for the last visit. Kincaid told them to close the account and kiss the hundred bucks goodbye. They had no account for Officer Tillis. The second card was for a bail bondsman who hadn’t heard from Lewis since his last arrest. That bond had been paid for by his mother, who’d invoked her own three-strikes-you’re-out rule and told Ronnie he was on his own.

  Next up was a disconnected line for Novelties Unlimited. The last card was for a lawyer, Malcolm Prevost. Kincaid asked the secretary to get Mr. Prevost and tell him it was a police matter.

  “This is Malcom Prevost, what can I do for you?” “It’s about Ronnie Lewis. Is he a client of yours?” “I doubt it. I don’t do criminal defense work. I’m a personal-injury lawyer and the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Could you check, please? We found your card in his wallet.”

  “Hold on a second.”

  Prevost returned and said, “He called this office last week, Friday. I was in court—it’s motions day. Anyway, my secretary set up an appointment for him for this Thursday.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “I’m sorry. That’s confidential, Sergeant.”

  “Let me help you with that. Ronnie Lewis won’t be able to complain. Other than meeting his maker, he’s not available for anything. We’re investigating a conspiracy here. Right now I like you for co-conspirator, or accessory before the fact, at the least. Tell me why he called and I’ll downgrade you to helpful citizen.”

  “Fine, fine. All he said was that he wanted me to represent him. He said that he’d been shot by a police officer.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “No, that’s all.”

  “Well, here’s a hot tip, Counselor. Don’t take any calls from his next-of-kin.”

  Kincaid was walking past the receptionist’s desk when her phone rang. He thought about letting it ring but decided that if it was Seymour he’d just as soon get it over with.

 
; “What the hell were you doing over at the M.E.’s office?”

  “Stepping on your toes, Detective.” Mea culpa as judo, an old bad habit.

  “You don’t think I can do my job?”

  “Not at all. Homicide’s a busy unit these days. I’ve got time to make this case a priority, so I pushed on it.”

  “Thanks for nothing, Kincaid. I’m Homicide, you aren’t, and this shit won’t help you get back here. This is why no one missed you when you got sent across the river.”

  “I’d say I’m sorry but it wouldn’t be true. I can’t remember if I’m impulsive or compulsive. Either way, I’d rather piss you off than stop myself. It’s nothing personal, ask my wife.” Change was a hard turn of the wheel on a lifetime of momentum, his therapist had said. He’d blown straight through another intersection again.

  “Maybe not to you, but it is to me. I’ve shared my last piece of information with you, Kincaid, and it is personal.”

  “Let me make it up to you. I’m going to interview Tillis again tomorrow. He knew Lewis and I can prove it. Why don’t you watch it behind the glass? Run with whatever I get.”

  “Oh, I will. After I nail your feet to the floor. What time?”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  Seymour hung up and Kincaid called Tillis and set up the appointment. He went to the range and shot five hundred rounds’ worth of tranquilizers and then went home. At home, he watched a first-round game of the women’s World Cup. It used to be that the women’s play was mercifully free of the ludicrous dives, cynical fouls, and feigned injuries of the men. When a woman went down, she was fouled. If she stayed down she was hurt, period. But big money had changed all that. Maybe Vicki’d like to watch a game with him, was the thought he drifted off to sleep on.

  Tillis sat down in the interview room. Kincaid was not obliged to tell him that he was being observed but he had to tell him that the session was being taped. Angela Seymour pulled her chair closer to the glass, turned the volume up slightly, and flipped open her notebook. If she got anything out of this interview she wouldn’t have to wait for a transcript.