The Chief blushed, but only for a moment. “Funny you should mention it. That’s why I came here tonight. I have a proposal for you.”
“You wanna get married all of a sudden? I thought you were waiting for your ex-wife to realize the error of her ways.”
“She’s strictly pre-revolution, Batista-era goods, I’m happy to say.” He took another sip. “I’ve got something else in mind. I want you to come to work for me.”
Without missing a beat, Daisy called out across the room, “Hey Lil, he’s offering me a job!”
Lil made a dismissive gesture, like someone swatting a fly. “Tell him to go lock himself in jail.”
“What would I do at the police station? I couldn’t arrest nobody. I can’t type …” Daisy proudly displayed her inch-long nails, painted bougainvillea in contrast with her rich brown skin. “I have to say it’d be fun hanging around all day with you, Buddy. And that guy, Harry, who works for you, he’s a load of laughs with his computers. The other one. What’s his name, with all the muscles?”
“Corporal Herman Henderson, mostly known as Biff.”
“Biff’s a hunk, you know, but his conversation is … limited. So my top choices are Gary and Randy. Both are very charming. But Randy I think is in love with his cars. So I choose Gary. He’s the only one who’s not white. You should be proud of him …”
The Chief took this in stride. He knew his role was to be the straight man. “I am proud of Gary. I’m also proud of our women officers, Michelle and Nancy, and Debbie, our dispatcher. You didn’t say anything about them.”
Daisy giggled and turned to polish an imaginary spot on the bar.
The Chief refused to let Daisy off the hook. “The women? You have an opinion, I want to hear it.”
“Yeah, OK,” she pouted. “I’m not going to stand here and pretend I like women as much as I do men. Why should I?” She gestured around the bar. There were guys drinking and talking. Playing bar shuffleboard, watching TV. The women there were with dates who would’ve been there by themselves if they hadn’t tagged along. “Counting up boys and girls is your problem, not mine.” She put the wine glass away, rather too vigorously, and grabbed another. “You were right, Lil,” she called across the bar. “He’s here because of what that Cromwell lady said in the paper.” She turned back to the Chief. “So you think maybe a hot Latina like Daisy Fuentes could add some salsa to the mix?”
“You’re reading my mind.”
“I’m a little bit insulted,” Daisy said.
The Chief shrugged.
“I want to be hired for my talent, not my skin,” she continued. “I work hard and don’t want any handouts.”
“That’s why I’m offering you a job.”
For the first time Daisy realized maybe he was serious. “Buddy, I couldn’t do that. Not after what we …”
“I just want you to think about it …”
She put down the wine glass and moved closer. “Boy, they really got to you this time, huh?” She took his hand. “You’re no racist. I know that. Everyone who knows you has a lot of respect.”
The Chief leaned forward and lowered his voice. “It’s this murder. People’s nerves are starting to fray. Mayor Dove laid it on pretty thick.”
“He’s a pol-i-ti-cian.” She let go of his hand and waved a finger, like a reed blowing in the wind. “I know this town, Buddy. Your job isn’t as easy as it looks. It’s not dangerous like Miami, but we got the high-speed train that brings in all the filth from Philly and Camden. Then there’s the racetrack, the casinos down the shore, drunks, divorcees and everybody else. I talk to ’em every day.”
The Chief felt he was making headway. “The tough part is dealing with all these prosperous people who are used to giving orders. They’re bossy and obnoxious. It requires quick thinking, diplomacy and tact to successfully keep the peace in this town. You don’t worry about getting shot so much as stabbed in the back.”
Daisy straightened up and poured a scotch and water for another customer. “You’re right,” she said. “Working for you doesn’t sound like very much fun.” She came around to the Chief’s side of the bar and gave him a playful hug.
He hugged her back, but it was not at all playful. “Want to get together later? What time do you get off work?”
She tried to push away, but he held her around the waist, as if they were dancing. “Poor boy, you feelin’ sad tonight? Think maybe Daisy can cheer you up?”
The Chief released her immediately. He already regretted asking.
Daisy let him off the hook. “I can’t tonight, Buddy. I got a big job offer I gotta think about.”
It was half past six when Chief Black drove back through town. As he passed the police station, he spotted a barefoot teenager across the street, about to enter the Lenape King. Here was the town in a nutshell. The kid’s friends called him Icky and he came from a well-to-do family; his father was a surgeon with a lousy temper, but his mother made up for it with a sweet, understanding nature. Despite these “advantages,” Icky’d become involved in the acquisition, use and occasional redistribution of methamphetamine. He’d never finished high school and was lucky to have a menial job doing custodial work and after-hours security at the Lenape King, the colonial tavern that was the town’s prized architectural monument.
Coincidentally, Icky and several of his friends all had red hair and appeared to be trying to set up a meth lab. Chief Black called them “The Red Headed League.” He felt it was downright considerate of the little crank heads to make it so easy to keep tabs on them. Biff and Gary had the League under surveillance, waiting for an opportunity to catch them red-handed.
It was time-consuming work, and the Chief felt his resources were overtaxed already. Now he had a problematic murder to solve. And, worse, the Mayor expected him to babysit some psychic and keep the parasites at the Pest at bay while he did it. “Daisy’s right,” he muttered. “Being a cop in Gardenfield isn’t easy and it certainly isn’t fun.”
Chapter 4
The psychic wasn’t what the Chief expected.
He was dressed in a black Vestimenta suit and white shirt with no tie. Classy Italian duds, but about 10 years old and showing obvious signs of wear. He was less than average height and slightly overweight—typical for a guy in his late 30s or early 40s who didn’t do much manual work. With thick dark hair, brown eyes and glasses with metal frames, he had the look of one of those orthodox Jews from Brooklyn, except he didn’t have a beard and he wasn’t wearing a hat.
Chief Black greeted him personally and began to show him to a room they’d prepared for him. He tried a mild pleasantry to break the ice. “We hope we got the feng shui right for your purposes …” The room was dark with a comfortable chair, incense holders, and other new-age paraphernalia.
“Feng shui, shmeng fui,” the psychic scoffed. “You should know, I can’t tolerate incense. And who wants to sit in the dark? Let’s go in your office. You can test me there.”
“Test you?”
“Sure. Don’t you want to find out if I really have psychic powers?”
The Chief said something lame about trusting the people who recommended him, then hated himself for saying it.
The psychic nodded and pointed toward the Chief’s office. “OK. I get the picture. Shut the door please. Thank you. So you don’t want to test my powers …? You say you believe me …? That’s baloney! You don’t care. You think I’m a shnorrer, a con man, a fake … But it was the newspaper lady’s idea—what’s her name, Cromwell, the one with the cute little tuchus?—to use a psychic, and you think I’m gonna do something that’ll make her look stupid. Am I right?”
He gazed with disconcerting directness; he was right in the Chief’s face. It was as if he had eavesdropped on the conversation with the Mayor. The Chief met his challenging look, but without saying anything.
“But what are you forgetting?” the psychic continued. “C’mon, Chief. You’re forgetting something. Don’t let me down; use your noodle. This
Cromwell dame, you think she’s gonna play fair with you?” Here he dropped the immigrant shtick and switched to a corporate persona. “You think she’ll be accountable and take responsibility …?”
“But it’s in print,” the chief protested. “She’s on the record.”
“Print, shmint! A week ago. Two weeks. Who’s gonna remembra? Who’s gonna care? If I don’t produce, you’ll be the one who hired me. You’ll be the one who’s payin’ me. You’re the one who’s wasting the taxpayers’ furshlugginer money. You’ll be the one who’s accountable and responsible.”
“So what are we going to do?” The Chief didn’t even notice that he was saying “we” rather than “you.”
“We’re gonna solve da moidra.”
“But we don’t have any clues. We don’t even know who the victim is …”
“Of course. That’s why you need me.”
The Chief looked like he needed to curl up in the fetal position and crawl back into the nearest womb.
“So we got a deal?” The Chief glared, holding out to see if the psychic would retract his offered handshake. He didn’t. They shook perfunctorily. Then the psychic put his business card on the desk and turned to leave, quickly, as if he wanted to get out before the Chief could change his mind.
Chief Black picked up the card gingerly by the edges and examined it carefully. There was a crude drawing of a flashlight emitting rays of light, with the detective’s name and a phone number.
“Bruno X?” The Chief read the information aloud in a voice dripping with self-pity. “That’s your name, Bruno X? And no address, just a phone number?”
“That’s correct,” said Bruno. “This is a dangerous business. The less people know about me, the better. I charge five hundred a day plus expenses. Call me when you’re ready to get started.”
Chapter 5
For Chief Black, the empty meeting house was devoid of emotion. Plain walls. Plain benches. No pictures. No symbols. No musical instruments, fancy costumes or other religious equipment. Only emptiness—and silence.
It was different for Bruno. He was in his element. Meditation, visualization were things he understood. But there was something puzzling about the place. He’d never been inside a Quaker meeting house before. After he got used to the initial starkness, he started to tune into an undercurrent of emotion that seemed to flow in layers. It was good not to have too many external distractions. He looked about with anticipation.
“You found no clues here?” he asked the Chief.
“Just the body—nothing else came in from outside. Nothing is out of place.”
“Show me where you found her.”
The Chief paced off a certain number of rows. He pointed to a spot at the far end of the row. Bruno frowned. There was no crime scene tape to protect the spot.
“Any sign of how they got it in?”
“No. There was an hour between the time the building was unlocked for school to start and when the classes came in for the monthly meeting.”
“Pretty risky, breaking in in broad daylight,” Bruno mused out loud.
Chief Black nodded in agreement. “Except there was no sign of a break-in. No picked locks. No broken windows. No footprints in the snow, tire tracks, or anything like that.”
Bruno shuffled over to the spot where the body was found. He stood behind it, leaning forward with both hands on the back of the wooden bench.
“Everything you know about physical evidence is also true for psychic evidence. If the crime scene is disturbed I can’t do my job.” Bruno sat down in the spot where the victim was found. He slumped over, attempting to imitate the girl’s posture. He sat that way in silence for several minutes. “Nothing here,” he said finally, without moving or opening his eyes. “Normally there are powerful emotions associated with a violent crime. Both from the victim and the perpetrator. They leave behind residues of those emotions on things they’re in contact with during the event. Just like fingerprints. Blood. Fibers. Candy wrappers. I can pick up traces of fear, pain, panic, anger, or lust. The intensity of emotion leaves psychic clues that I can retrieve …” He stood up abruptly and walked toward the Chief, “But not when the crime scene’s been trampled on like this one has.”
“I never worked with a psychic before,” Chief Black stammered. “We thought we were finished here.”
Bruno patted him on the shoulder. “No way you could have known. Just explaining for future reference.” He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets and swiveled around to survey the room. “Boy, it’s cold in here. When do you think this place was built?”
“Colonial times, I guess. Sign says the school was founded in the 1760s or something like that.”
“They sure didn’t know much about heating a building in those days, did they?”
“Maybe the Quakers didn’t believe in it.”
“Like it’s a form of vanity to be warm? Hard to get in touch with God when you’ve got a frozen tush.” Bruno shifted to a different topic. “So, Chief, how do you think the body got here? What’s your theory?”
“We don’t have a very good one, I’m afraid. You’d have to suspect an inside job because there’s no sign of a break-in. But none of the people with access to the building are very likely suspects. First of all, they’re all Quakers. Most of the teachers are older women. Hard to imagine them breaking necks and hauling a dead body around. Master Quentin, the head of the school? He’s famous for being a conscientious objector.”
“What about the maintenance guy? The older guy who let us in this morning?”
“Bennett DeKalb. He’s worked at the school for I don’t know how long. Ever since Master Quentin got here. Sometime back he stole the school truck. We tracked him down. He apologized. Returned the truck in good condition. The school declined to press charges. And they let him keep his job. No problems since then.”
“So he’s the most likely suspect. Did you talk to him?
“Absolutely. He has an airtight alibi.”
“Really. Airtight?”
“Yeah. He plays darts at a bar over in Audubon. They were having a tournament that night, which he won by the way. At least a dozen people saw him.”
“That’s some alibi. What about Quentin?”
“Like I told you. He got drafted, refused to serve so they put him in some kind of medical unit …”
“I meant today. You say he’s not around …”
“Not till this afternoon.”
OK. Let’s go see the girl. We can pop back in and see Quentin after lunch. Do you think the morgue’ll be this cold?”
The Chief drove toward Camden, then headed north on Route 130—a dismal parade of bankrupt businesses, empty apartments, fast food, gas stations and a cemetery or two. Then he swung around into a residential neighborhood. Bruno wondered why they would put the morgue in the middle of a residential neighborhood. The Chief kept turning and Bruno grew more disoriented by the second. Finally they arrived at a housing project with a chain link fence at the end of its parking lot. Somehow the Chief found an opening and they drove up to a squat blue building that looked like a bunker. At the back was a loading dock with three bays, presumably for ambulance deliveries.
“I couldn’t find my way back here in a million years,” Bruno mumbled, half-dizzy, as he hauled himself out of the cruiser.
“Just as well,” yawned the Chief. “It’s not a place you want to visit, even under your own power.” The parking lot was almost empty and there weren’t any medic trucks in the back. A good sign. He looked closely at Bruno. “Are you ready to meet the victim?”
Chapter 6
The body was small and delicate. She must have been about 10 years old. Dark hair. No marks, scars, tattoos. No fillings. No braces. No signs of sexual abuse.
Why would someone kill a 10-year-old girl? They must’ve walked up behind her, put her in some kind of headlock, and then given a single violent twist.
“The mob?” Bruno asked the Chief.
—“That’s wh
at the newspaper said, but it’s not what I said.” Dr. Cronkite was about Bruno’s height, but thicker. He had a barrel chest and muscular hands with flashy, expensive-looking rings on several fingers. His dark brown hair was close-cropped, and his eyes, also dark brown, had a world-weary quality that only partially masked a mulishly focused sensibility. “I did not call it a ‘gangland slaying,’” said the doctor. “I merely observed that the cause and manner of death were painfully obvious.” He turned to address Chief Black. “Did you know we were the violent-crime capital of the U.S., two years running? Of course you did. Everyone around here knows that …” Now he seemed to be addressing Bruno, though he wasn’t actually looking at him. “But they don’t think through all of the implications: Since Camden’s the crime capital, that makes me the number-one medical examiner in the country.”
Bruno didn’t know how to respond. Fortunately, Dr. Cronkite switched to a different topic. “Say, you look familiar. Your family from Camden?”
“My mother grew up in Parkside.”
“No kidding. Mine did too. Never mind, it’s all changed now. Look at this poor kid.” He lowered his voice a notch. “I didn’t name her Ginnie Doe. To me she was always ‘the faceless girl.’ It was the Pest that started calling her Ginnie Doe. And they were the ones who jumped to conclusions about mob involvement. I try to stick to the facts.”
The Chief saw his opening. “I agree. The mob wouldn’t do this kind of thing—to a kid. My staff says this doesn’t square with mob ‘family values.’ In fact, the people we talked to were pretty upset when they heard about it. They said they’d never do something like this to a child.”
“Yeah, they’ve sure got principles.” Dr. Cronkite was distracted by an electronic beep coming from the front room. He looked toward it anxiously, then forced his attention back to the business at hand. “I didn’t think you had much wise-guy action over in Gardenfield.”
“Some of them live there, but they make it a point not to bring business home with them.”
The Violet Crow Page 2