Shot In Detroit

by Patricia Abbott

  “We’re investigating a crime that took place on Belle Isle,” he said, dashing any hope.

  From his tone, I got the impression he already knew exactly what I had to say, knew the color of my underwear, in fact. Derek had apparently found it necessary to involve me in his stunt. I might already be a “person of interest” or “a woman helping the police with their investigation”—two of the euphemisms used in the newspaper when the police were looking at the person as a serious suspect.

  I wondered what Derek had told them—what kind of crazed explanation he’d come up with—because I didn’t see how I could rightly enter into a discussion of what actually took place. I hadn’t been around when Derek made his discovery, when he carted the hands and feet off to his site, when he hung them, when he drove out to Home Depot, when he hammered those nails into the sodden flesh. Had Derek called the cops or had he’d been found out—perhaps by a shocked passerby? The island had probably overflowed with cops all night. Once the head rolled onto the beach, an intensive search would’ve been mounted at once. It was possible the cops saw me as an agitator, maybe the one initiating Derek’s actions. Taking advantage of a lonely and disturbed guy.

  “Yes?” I repeated. The only safe response. Better to wait him out, hoping his interest in me was minimal, that I might only be needed to verify dates and times.

  Silence. So he was playing the same game?

  Then, “I’m waiting for Inspector Bates to arrive before we go any further.” He looked toward the door. “Not much parking available on your street today. She’s circling the block.”

  “There’s an open house today for realtors. Usually you can pull right up.”

  The row of “For Sale” signs on my block was dispiriting. It was a popular neighborhood for laid-off auto workers; life had never gone well for the residents of this suburb. There was never a nineties boom, which was why I could afford to rent here.

  “Well, it’s a losing cause,” he observed. “I’ve had my house on the market for eighteen months. In the last two months, only one fellow stopped by and it turned out he had the wrong address.”

  Was this chitchat meant to throw me off? I was almost relieved to hear footsteps on the stairs. Saad opened the door himself, apparently taking over hosting duties for the time being.

  “This is Inspector Bates, Miss Hart.”

  A tall, athletic-looking African-American woman wearing a beige pants suit with a green and brown silk scarf stepped into the room, smiled briefly, and pulled out a notebook. So I’d be at the mercy of Inspector Saad. The setup seemed pretty sexist. Had they ever considered I might have greater rapport with a woman? That I might more easily confide in a representative of my own sex? I wouldn’t, of course, but how could they know it?

  I waved them over to the sofa, sitting down in the chair across from them. Inspector Bates was ready for work, pen in hand, but Joe Saad roamed the room. He’d walked through my gallery of masks with barely a glance, but various items in my living room seemed to hold his interest: a Diane Arbus photography book on the coffee table, the current issue of EW, an old White Stripes CD, a quarter he found on the rug and pocketed. I was grateful Wisconsin Death Trip was stowed under my bedside table. Detective Saad liked the CD well enough to walk over to the shelf and examine my collection. He stooped down and pulled out a Detroit Cobras CD. And another from Guitar Slim.

  “Pretty eclectic tastes.” He blew off the dust without comment and set them down.

  I shook my head, ready to disabuse him of this idea. “Clients give me CDs. I photograph recording artists for local record labels from time to time. They always throw a handful of demos at me when I leave. Most I’ve never played.” Actually, I had a bad tendency to play the same music over and over again. I’d made no changes on my iPod in years.

  Saad nodded, seemingly bored with the subject he’d raised. “We’re hoping you can help us with our investigation, Miss Hart.”

  He said it like I’d been the one doing the dallying, chatting about superfluous topics, and I found his mannerisms and his interrogation method annoying. But I nodded and he resumed his pacing.

  “You’re a professional photographer, right? That’s what you told me. Been doing it since?”

  “Since college.”

  “Local school?”

  “I went to school at the Art Institute of Chicago after a year or two here at CCS. College for Creative Studies. Or Center back then,” I clarified when he looked puzzled. “The Art Institute in Chicago has an art school associated with it.”

  He nodded. “And how long ago are we talking about?”

  “I’m thirty-nine if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Family live in the area?” He gestured outside.

  “There’s my mother. She lives in Pleasant Ridge. A waitress.”

  “Father dead?”

  “Dead to me.” When I saw the look on his face, I amended it.

  “I offended him as an infant and he never got past it. Hal Hart: deadbeat dad,” I said, anticipating his next question. “An itinerant trumpet player, last I heard—a long time ago now.”

  He nodded like he’d heard it all before. “Ever been in trouble, Miss Hart? With the law, I mean.”

  I shook my head. Didn’t cops run names in Detroit?

  “How long have you lived at this address?”

  “Around six years.”

  Was six years right? Well, what did it matter anyway? But he was looking around again. I hoped a tour of the premises was not on his calendar. The mirror over my bed might lead him to a wrong conclusion.

  “All right,” Inspector Saad said, settling into his real agenda. “Derek Olsen called the station yesterday and told the desk sergeant about the hands and feet he had hanging up on a crucifix on Belle Isle. Olsen’s a friend of yours, right?”

  “More like an acquaintance. And it’s not a crucifix; he’s an artist. It’s installation art.”

  “So he told the sergeant,” Saad said, nodding. “We went over to his ‘sculpture garden’ lickety-split as you might expect. And it turned out to be one of those things you hadda see to believe. Almost worse than the head found earlier that day.” He sank onto the sofa. “It takes quite a bit to get the full attention of Detroit cops, but Derek’s artwork did the trick.”

  He looked over at the female inspector, and she nodded her agreement.

  “Didn’t you think the smell was particularly loathsome? I mean the head was bad enough, but those hands and feet…” He stopped and shook his head, remembering.

  Could’ve been talking to either of us so I didn’t say a word. No telling what might raise red flags.

  He continued. “Submerged bodies tend to stink. Those extremities weren’t the only objects of interest on Olsen’s sculptures.” He looked over to Officer Bates again and smiled. “I think Jimmy Hoffa might’ve been part of the first piece. Did you recognize those teeth?”

  Officer Bates laughed obligingly, but I maintained a stony pose, shooting the female a sharp look. What kind of routine did they have going? Did they always work together and use this strategy or did Bates get to be first chair on a rotating basis?

  “No, seriously,” Saad continued, “Olsen had objects hanging there that looked like they came from any number of crime scenes.” He paused. “Did you see the dog’s jaw, for Pete’s sake?” He waited for a response and when it didn’t come, continued. “Someone forgot to tell Derek art doesn’t take precedence over the integrity of a crime scene. We could charge him with a felony for a stunt like this one. Even a nitwit knows floating body parts have to be of interest to law enforcement.” He shook his head. “Or is he nuts? Let me in on it. Bipolar?”

  “I’m no expert in the field of mental illness, Detective. Artists tend to be a bit unusual.”

  “You unusual too?”

  I shrugged. Would he ever get to it?

  And he did. “Miss Hart, Mr. Olsen told us he summoned you down to Belle Isle when he first found the body parts. Is that cor
rect?”

  “Not exactly. He called and asked me to come down after he’d already hung them.” Stop now, I commanded myself. Don’t add a single detail.

  “And why would he call you?” Saad cleared his throat. “Why would he call you, in particular, after finding body parts if you’re just an acquaintance? Have a reputation around town for liking such things? You Derek’s number one fan? Or did you hire him?” Saad had a slight smirk on his face. “Give him a mission to dig around? Or worse.”

  “We met a few weeks ago on Belle Isle. I told him I was a photographer and always looking for a good subject.” I was watching the female officer out of the corner of my eye; she seemed satisfied with this explanation, her face smooth and untroubled.

  Saad, on the other hand, rose and began pacing again. “Now why would he think hands and feet made a good subject? Why would he call you about that?”

  How many times had he asked me that question now?

  “I told him I was looking for an edgy subject.” Was this so unusual for an artist?

  “Edgy, huh? Asked him to call you if and when he found it—something edgy?”

  I nodded.

  “Did you tell him point-blank you were looking for a body?” He looked over at his colleague. “You know, I’ve always hated the word—edgy. Makes me think I’m not in on it, and I don’t much like the feeling.”

  “I don’t remember spelling out anything specific,” I said, getting back to the question. My voice sounded shaky to my ears. I was getting worried Saad knew about the fetus, might even think we’d had a hand in illegal activity.

  “I certainly didn’t suggest he should come up with a body if that’s what you mean.” Or had I? It was growing murkier by the minute.

  “So how did he first get the idea? That you were interested in dead bodies?”

  “He saw me mistaking a geobag for a body on Belle Isle. Look,” I said, standing up, “I’m a photographer and photographers tend to look for interesting material to take pictures of.”

  “Like what, for instance?”

  Shit! Why had I gone down this road?

  Before I could answer, he continued. “I’d like to see your recent photographs, Miss Hart. The ones you’d categorize as ‘interesting’ or better yet, ‘edgy.’ Maybe I’ll be in on it then. Get what you’re talking about.”

  I looked at him for a few seconds and then walked over to the file cabinet and took out my photos of a recent wedding, a Detroit Red Wing goalie in action, a sweet sixteen at Henry Ford Village.

  “Now, you know we’re not talking about this stuff,” he said, tossing the photos aside. “Let’s get down to the edgy photographs.”

  So I took out my photos of imploding buildings, thinking ironically that at last my building photos were going to be looked at. No dead bodies here.

  He flipped through them, pausing once or twice. “I remember that apartment house from my childhood,” he said, holding one up for Inspector Bates. “Oh, and this one disappeared in the last year or two. I investigated a suspicious death in the basement after a fire—the Halloween before last, I think.” He handed them back. “Nice work. But this stuff’s pretty tame—nothing I would categorize as edgy. Got any more? Maybe a few pictures of bodies?”

  I doubted I’d ever use the word edgy again.

  There was no way around it. I told him about Bill’s business, about the rugby player, about the photos I’d taken since, only leaving out the part about the possible gallery show in Ferndale. The show made it look like I might be desperate, overly anxious to succeed at any cost. I took the finished shots from the file, and he looked at them, eyes wide.

  “Well, if there’s any power or glory in death, you two have found it. The way he dresses them….” He whistled and handed them to his partner. “I may need copies later. I don’t see why I would, but you never know.” I nodded, waiting for the woman to be done with them.

  “So do you think Derek Olsen might’ve taken matters into his own hands and murdered a homeless guy lying on some park bench?” he said, after the prints were safely stowed. “Wanted to impress you, so he found what he thought you were looking for?” His eyes narrowed. “Maybe he was hoping to score?”

  “I don’t know Derek well, but he seems too gentle to kill anyone. Especially to impress someone. And me, I’m fifteen years older than him. Look, he’s not interested in me sexually.” I paused, adding, “I can sense stuff like that. Really, I can.”

  “Can you?”

  I waited patiently for him to challenge this, but he returned to the main subject.

  “So how did you find out about his objets d’art? That’s the term, right?” He was looking over at Inspector Bates, who shrugged. Probably not an art major either.

  “He called me down to the island the night after he found them.”

  “And you photographed his sculpture? The hands and feet hanging like a—I don’t know what.”

  I sighed and walked over to the cabinet again and removed a contact sheet. I hadn’t gotten to the final prints.

  “Now I will definitely want copies of this group of pictures,” he said, walking over to Inspector Bates. She rose and looked at them. A low whistle; I wasn’t sure whose.

  “Why mine? Don’t you have a police photographer who took pictures of the site?” Certainly there’d be one. The Detroit Police Department couldn’t be that underfinanced.

  “Your photographs were taken a day earlier if I understand you and Derek Olsen correctly?”

  I nodded reluctantly. I saw his point.

  “Knowing as much as you do about both corpses and photographs, you should be aware of how much could’ve changed in one day out in the elements. Might be all kinds of information on your photos that could help us. The rate of decay, for instance.”

  “Of course.” I was resigned to it now. “You can have the sheet.”

  He nodded and Inspector Bates slipped them into an attaché.

  “Anything else relevant to the case hiding in your cabinet?” He motioned to it. I shook my head. “And I think I should mention you had a duty to call the crime in yourself. It’s against the law to not report a crime. Especially knowing what Derek Olsen is like. Knowing he was sitting on this stuff.”

  “I did tell him…”

  He shook his head impatiently. “Not good enough. I’m sure this won’t be our final interview, Miss Hart, but I have another meeting across town.”

  Inspector Bates got up and they headed for the door. “We’ll have a statement for you to sign in a few days and Inspector Bates will scribble you a receipt for the photos.” He opened the door and was down the steps in seconds.

  Inspector Bates wrote a receipt, a rather casual acknowledgment of the confiscation of my work, and followed him out the door.

  Detroit News: The body of a 20-year-old Jackson youth, was discovered Friday night near the Motown Casino by a man exiting the premises. Wylie Edwards had been reported missing a day earlier after authorities found his abandoned Ford truck at a truck stop on I-94 near Belleville. It is believed that Edwards was killed and his truck stolen as he drove home from his job at an auto body shop in Dearborn the day before. The authorities are uncertain how or why his body turned up in Detroit.

  (August 2011)

  Too shaken to return to work, I called Derek’s number several times, but began to feel like a pedophile when his mother told me he wasn’t home for the third time.

  “I’m sorry you’re having trouble getting hold of him, Miss Hart. He’s usually down on the island about now.” She paused and added, “I’m sure Derek wouldn’t mind me telling you that. He’s talked about you nonstop for the last few weeks. An artist, right? You’re working together on a project?”

  There was enough hope in Mrs. Olsen’s voice to make me droop. The woman probably believed her son had found a friend, a partner, and a female one at that.

  I’d already decided not to go anywhere near Derek’s sculpture or Belle Isle but assured Mrs. Olsen I knew its location. It w
as probably a bad idea to be calling him at all with the ease in which phone records were made available to the police. It might seem like I was a little too eager to get in touch with Derek should Inspector Saad look into it, which he was likely to do.

  The phone rang and it was Bill. I must’ve sounded angry or surprised because he began throwing excuses out, the most compelling one being, “I’ve been up in Saginaw with my mother three times in the last week. She’s been diagnosed with diabetes and they’re having trouble getting her insulin straightened out.”

  “God, I’m sorry, Bill.” I’d never met Mrs. Fontenel, who lived two hours north of Detroit. That I hadn’t met her made me question his commitment to any future in our relationship. “That’s terrible. What can I do? I could run a few errands for her. Or help you out here.”

  He didn’t bother to respond, which was also pretty insulting. He probably thought me uncaring, too incompetent, too white. None of these sat well with me, especially after my interrogation.

  “I’ve got someone here for you.”

  For a moment, I didn’t get his meaning. “It should be tonight. Violet, are you listening?”

  “Be right there.”

  Bill didn’t sound as fidgety as he had lately, more like the more placid Bill of several months earlier. Maybe his mother’s problems had worn him out.

  I was surprised there was another body already. It’d only been three days since I took photos of the fireman. That one—the guy’d died a few weeks after being badly burned—had been a rough job for Bill. Although the burns hadn’t affected my photos since he was dressed, I could see the ruined flesh on his neck, arms, and hands.

  Bill asked about it. “How did the Pete Oberon photos turn out?”

  “Haven’t gotten to them yet.”

  I didn’t want to go into my current issues with Bill. It’d make me seem more deranged. He’d certainly find my relationship with a bipolar guy at the park incomprehensible, and be angrier still if he knew I was down there photographing body parts. And the visit from the cops—I certainly couldn’t mention it. That’d probably be the end of both our business and personal relationships. He already thought me ghoulish, perhaps crass; this would push things over the line. These two ideas preoccupied me once again. Was it too late to rekindle our romance? We seemed to be drifting further and further apart. If Bill couldn’t understand what I was trying to do, our relationship—hated the word but used it repeatedly—was doomed. Unless, that is, I put my project aside and returned to weddings, forgetting funerals.