‘What clothes? Look at him. He was butt naked.’
‘Get the uniforms to canvas the area.’
‘They already are, Em.’
‘Any obvious cause of death?’
‘Are you kidding? I’m not going near that thing! That’s why we have forensics. They can scoop it up. I ain’t looking for zilch on that.’ Frank ignored an impatient raise of the eyebrows from Emmet. ‘Body like that? What? Ten days dead?’
Emmet shrugged. ‘Around that. Bit less maybe. See what the ME says.’ He kicked at the dust and debris at his feet. A piece of metal ground its back against the concrete. The clean concrete beneath it found the sun and shone like a new dime. ‘What the hell were you doing in here anyhow, Frank?’
Frank aimed his cigarette at a distant pool of water and threw it. It landed in the middle, spat, sent out a dying smoke signal and expired. ‘I kind of need to talk to you about that.’
Emmet glared at Frank. ‘This going to be one of your long stories?’
‘Maybe, Em. Maybe.’
‘Come see me at the precinct before you knock off today. We’ll talk then.’
‘Sure.’
‘Steve okay?’
‘He will be. He’s all empty now. He’ll be after coffee and a sandwich in ten minutes. He’ll be fine.’
The Captain loosened his tie. ‘Okay. Later then.’
Emmet took one more sideways glance at the corpse and left.
The apartment carried the stains of life; reading glasses left on the bedside table, a half empty bin, a magazine, a newspaper, the clock that ticked for no one yet pushed relentlessly on, clothes that hung dumbly in the wardrobe, none new, yet all as certain of the years as the rings of a tree. Nothing spoke of the elephant in the room, yet all proclaimed loudly the shadow it left behind.
Steve cast a fresh eye over the fire escape while Frank went to the bedroom to look behind closed doors.
He sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand across the old quilt that Mrs Dybek used. It must have been twenty-five years old and cost a week’s wages, but it was as immaculate as the day it was brought home, an eruption of colour that could have passed for the feathers of a peacock or an elaborate Indian sari. He put his nose to it and sniffed. The odours exploded in his head. He pulled away, overwhelmed, then took another sniff. It smelled of perfume and tobacco, of soap powder and air freshener, of that unidentifiable smell, that patina, that each one of us carries and leaves behind, that smell that marks our boundaries and unconsciously allows others to know of your presence or, in your absence, remind them that you were there.
He leaned forward and opened the bedside drawer. There was very little; a glasses case, some half full biros, a pot for her teeth filled with a watery pink liquid, a book by Barbara Cartland and a diary. Frank grabbed the diary and flicked through it. It was empty.
He put it away and looked in the small cupboard underneath. There was a hot water bottle, some nightgowns and another romance.
He closed the door impatiently and went to the wardrobe. It had a row of skirts and dresses, perhaps twenty all told, all old, some jumpers and cardigans and her grey coat. A place for everything and everything in its place. There were no gaps, no unused coat hangers. Shoes lay on the floor of the wardrobe. All were scuffed and beyond redemption and yet they had been cared for as the scratches were all coated with a layer of polish and remained as scars. One was a pair of brown flat slip-ons, next was a pair of green boots, presumably for winter, and next to them, not a pair, but a single black sling-back which she can’t have worn since nineteen fifty-five. Where the other had gone was anyone’s guess- lost in a move, in a clear-out, just misplaced over time. This one, the one that remained, could only be a snap-shot, a Polaroid, a reminder; that white-lined, over-folded picture that you kept in your wallet because the memory of it was too great for it to be thrown out. It must have been a special night, the night she wore that.
He went and stood on the bed to look at the top of the wardrobe. At last he found some dust, the one place she couldn’t get to, but that was all.
Underneath the bed there was nothing. No dust bunnies, no discarded tissues, no bits of food, no cobwebs.
He walked back into the living room and found Steve with his head under the sofa cushions, his arm down the side of the sofa up to his elbow.
‘Anything?’ asked Frank.
‘Nothing. You?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Which leaves us with the fact that someone threw an old lady off a fourth floor landing for no apparent reason.’
‘There’s always a reason,’ countered Frank. He crossed his arms and leaned against the back of the door. His eyes roamed the room in the hope that they’d fall upon something. ‘We just don’t happen to know it. It was probably some asshole who hated women ‘cause his mother was mean to him or he felt more comfortable in his sister’s underwear.’
‘Or it might’ve been a junkie caught in the act who panicked.’
Frank wagged a finger at Steve. ‘I’m not sure about that. That’s the weird thing. If it was a junkie or a burglar, they’d crack her head open where she stood or stab her or strangle her. Either way, the door would be closed and they’d go out the way they came in.’ He pointed at the window. ‘When you’ve got a way out, you don’t open the door, drag an old lady onto the landing and throw her four floors down. Too much noise, too much effort and not a single ounce of panic. This wasn’t a spontaneous killing. This guy had purpose.’
Steve put the cushions back, straightened his shirt sleeve and rolled it back up. ‘Which was?’
‘No idea. Why would he turn up at crime scenes? He led us to the old factory. Why? To boast? To show us how clever he is? To taunt us? That would fit with him standing outside my apartment and across the street yesterday. None of which gives us a motive.’ Frank looked at his watch. ‘I’m tired. Let’s get back to the precinct.’
‘You’re going to share this with Emmet, right?’
‘Yes,’ said Frank. ‘I’m going to share it with Emmet.’ He opened the door and ushered Steve out. ‘Come on, Mom. Let’s go see Dad.’
Emmet Diehl was playing politics when Frank and Steve got back to the precinct, so they did the paperwork first and, in doing so, regurgitated the memories of spilled insides, blue cheese skin and the tropical heat of that broken down factory.
Frank understood the need for paperwork, but hated it just the same. There was a part of him that was always going to be, one way or another, on the beat. He could have been a desk-jockey like Emmet Diehl, taken the money and the prestige and the headaches and the ulcer and the slow decline into cardiac atrophy that came with the inertia of office, but that wasn’t him.
Granted, he hated people – the cynicism, the dishonesty, the disloyalty, the willingness to retreat, at the slightest prompt, into the beast that lay beneath the surface - but he needed to be among them. He needed to react to them. He needed to feed off them the same way they fed off the death of Robinson Taylor or the Superbowl or the news of yet another massacre in the Middle-East. He came alive when he bounced off someone else. Their energy fed his depleted cells and sparked him into life. He hated to admit but, without others to annoy him, he felt useless and alone.
Steve was different. Steve rolled like a tumbleweed, happy to drift wherever the draft drove him. He was patient and kind and had a sharp sense of humour. He hadn’t yet descended into the bitter sarcasm for which Frank cursed himself. Steve hadn’t developed the need to react as a form of self-defence, as a way to be aware that he was still alive. He wore his skin as a passport, not as armour, like Frank.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Captain put down the phone and run his hand tiredly across the top of his head. How does he do it? wondered Frank. How does he negotiate with those self-serving sons of bitches in City Hall and come away feeling clean?
He caught Steve’s attention and they headed for the office. Outside, through the triad of glassy eyes that reminded them there was
an outside world, the day was coming to an end. A film of grey lay over everything as shadows crept across the face of the fading sun and dragged behind them the cloak of night.
Emmet beckoned them in. He reached down and took out a bottle of whisky. Without asking, he poured out two fingers’ worth into a couple of mugs and handed them over. He then checked his Chihuahua mug, shrugged at the dregs of coffee and poured himself a drink.
Each man took a taste and allowed themselves to get lost momentarily in the heat of the alcohol.
Frank followed the warmth, felt it almost like he’d never felt it before, as it slid over his tongue, to the back of his throat and down into his gullet. When it hit his stomach, the warmth spread like the branches of a tree through his capillaries and blanketed his frayed nerves. He closed his eyes and let the sensation travel to his head. The day became blunted, still there, but without the edge that seemed to cut into him with each step he took.
‘This is nice whisky,’ he said, almost to himself.
‘It’s the same cheap crap I always keep,’ said Emmet.
‘Somehow,’ said Frank dreamily, ‘it seems better.’
‘You’ve had a rough day. Maybe you just needed it more.’
‘Maybe,’ said Frank.
‘So,’ prompted Emmet. ‘Which one of you wants to fill me in with the details of how you two happened to end up in the greenhouse of death on the way to the Dybek place?’
Frank explained. The more he said, the more foolish he felt. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t acted upon what he’d seen. Emmet sat and listened, occasionally dipping into the mug of whisky.
‘Wow,’ said Emmet. ‘What you’ve just told me is that for the past thirty-six hours you’ve been sitting on the description of someone who may be involved in three murders…’ He held his hand up as Frank attempted to interject. ‘…and who stood outside your house in the middle of the night staring up at your window, plotting God knows what kind of mayhem, and you decide that now, right this moment, is the time to bring it to my attention.’ He turned his to Steve. ‘You know about this?’
‘Not all the time.’ It was a plaintive whine.
‘I see. Just some of the time. Well, that’s alright then’ He turned back to Frank. ‘Frank, can you say with any certainty that if we’d had this man’s description out yesterday morning and he’d been apprehended by lunchtime that others may not be dead?’
Frank lit a cigarette. He had to take this. He deserved it. ‘No, Captain, I can’t, but neither can I dismiss the possibility.’
‘Steve, did you ever see this man?’
Steve shook his head.
Emmet leaned back in his chair and finished his drink. He stared into the mug as if the answer had been revealed by the draining of its contents. ‘It may be a good thing if we keep this to ourselves. I don’t need to tell either of you that you should’ve known better. However, I understand your reluctance, Frank, to come forward in light of the fact that you were the only one who’d seen this man.’ He looked at Frank from beneath a knitted brow. ‘You understand how benevolent I’m being here, Frank?’ Frank nodded. ‘Get a description out before you go home tonight.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Frank. Inside, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Emmet rubbed his hands together as if washing the unpleasantness away. ‘Okay then. Did you find anything at the apartment?’
‘No,’ said Steve. ‘We did another door to door, but nobody heard or saw a thing.’
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. The thin face of Milt Eckhart, the ME, his large expressive grey eyes flicking from Frank to Steve to Emmet, peered through the door.
Emmet waved him in. ‘What’s up, Milt? Thought you’d’ve been home and tucked up between the sheets by now.’
‘That some kind of office humour?’ Milt smiled. ‘That’ll cost you a drink. And don’t say you haven’t got any. It smells like a Virginia still in here.’
‘We all got colds,’ said Frank. He coughed. ‘Medicinal.’
Emmet poured a drink for Milt and indicated for him to sit down. ‘What’s up?’
Milt parked himself against the filing cabinets. He lit a cigarette. ‘I’m not sure. I’m going to tell you some things and it’s up to you what to do with them.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Frank.
‘Okay. Robinson Taylor wasn’t killed where you found him. He wasn’t killed far away, what with the blood and everything at the secondary scene, but he wasn’t killed there. We have more work to do, but I thought you should know.’
‘So he was driven there and dumped?’ asked Frank.
‘Yeah. Seems like it. Time of death was around seven a.m. He was found, or noticed at least, at about eight fifteen. Uniforms were on the scene by eight twenty-five. They covered him up with a blanket.’ He turned to Emmet. ‘I understand why, what with the crowd and all, but it contaminates the scene; fibres, stray hairs et cetera. See if you can get some sort of plastic covers to your men, would you, Em?’
‘Sure.’
‘If he was killed elsewhere and about an hour before he was found,’ said Steve, ‘how come there was so much blood on the scene? That blanket was like a washcloth.’
‘He was on anti-coagulants. His family doctor says he threw off some clots about a year ago. Not uncommon in people with his habits. Plus, there was one other thing,’ said Milt.
‘Okay,’ said Emmet. ‘What?’
‘His balls were missing.’
Emmet winced. ‘His balls?’
Steve groaned. ‘Jesus!’
‘Yeah,’ said Milt. ‘I can understand it wasn’t noticed at the scene. There was a lot of blood, plus his pants had been pulled back up. It wasn’t until we got him on the table that we noticed.’
‘How can a man pull up in a vehicle, drag a body from inside it and dump it on the sidewalk without somebody at least raising an eyebrow?’ asked Frank with irritation.
‘I don’t know,’ said Milt. ‘The streets are yours, the lab is mine. There is however a vehicle somewhere with seats that are now black with dry blood and a meeting place for the local Brotherhood of Flies.’
Frank sighed. The weeks seemed to be getting longer, the nights shorter. The days sloughed from the calendar like the skin of a slowly shedding snake. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. The Dybek woman; she was dead when she hit the floor so, in theory, the first floor of her apartment building was also a secondary scene.’
‘So she was killed in her apartment?’ asked Steve.
‘Yep.’
‘How?’
‘She was suffocated. You wouldn’t have seen it among the mess yesterday.’
‘How?’
‘There were some fibres in her mouth, airway and lungs that match a bath towel at the apartment. She may have put up a brief struggle. There’s some bruising around the nose that suggests it was pinched closed. The more she struggled, the tighter the pinch. Could be he covered her mouth with the towel at the same time. Could be he held it over her face ‘til she stopped fighting. He had to be quite strong. Don’t be deceived by a little old lady. They can still put up a fight. Must’ve made him sweat a little though.’
‘What about the plate?’ asked Frank.
‘Clean as a whistle. The sink was also clean.’
‘Which means that we can only surmise.’ Frank puffed his cheeks out and helped himself to more whisky. He poured some for Steve, who took it gratefully. He caught Emmet staring at the bottle. ‘I’ll buy you some more, Em. Stop being such an old hen.’ He turned his attention back to the ME. ‘Nothing on the glass of milk either?’ Milt shook his head. ‘So the guy was either known to her or trusted by her for some reason and she gave him food and drink. Or he sat staring at her body while he had himself a snack and a refreshing glass of milk. That’s pretty stone cold.’
‘What about the guy in the furnace?’ asked Emmet.
‘Early days yet, Em. There was one thing however.’
‘Yeah?’ said Frank. �
�Only one?’
Milt looked wearily at Frank. ‘When I finally get to cut you open, Frank, I’m going to find acid instead of blood, you bitter old bastard.’
‘Yeah, yeah and a song in my heart! What else?’
‘Bear with me. Robinson Taylor had a ring missing from the third finger on his right hand.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I’m an expert, Frank. The place where the ring had been was still pitted, plus the skin was torn as if the ring had been tugged off in a hurry or had been a little tight and needed some forcing. He had a degree of heart failure, so his fingers might have been a mite swollen, making the ring tight. There was an effort made to get the thing off because the finger was dislocated.’ Milt paused to let that soak in.
‘Did Mrs Dybek have anything missing?’ asked Emmet. ‘She have any jewellery on?’
‘Engagement ring and wedding ring,’ said Steve.
The Captain got up and rubbed at his aching back. ‘Milt, are you saying there’s a connection between them?’
‘No. That’s for you to say, not me.’
Steve ran though the rooms of the apartment in his head. ‘I can’t think of anything missing. No gaps on shelves. Nothing out of place. Nothing obvious.’
‘Christ almighty!’ said Frank. He jumped up from his seat and slapped himself across the forehead. ‘Christ almighty! The shoe. The fucking shoe! What’s the matter with me?’
‘What shoe?’ asked Steve.
‘In her wardrobe. She had all these old clothes. They were all hung up, no gaps. They were old and worn, but she’d taken a pride, you know?’ The others nodded. ‘At the bottom of the wardrobe were three sets of shoes. Only there wasn’t. There was a set of shoes, a set of winter boots and a single shoe, one of those high-heeled things that women wear to big events. It was sort of nineteen-fifties in style. I assumed that she’d kept it as a keepsake, you know, one magical night sort of thing, that the other had got lost with the track of time. But it was on its side. She wouldn’t have left it on its side. She was too tidy. She was crazy clean.’ Frank looked around the room. ‘He took her shoe.’
The Ashes of an Oak Page 5