When Darkness Falls

by James Grippando

  There was no sign of Falcon.

  “Reminds me of the last time we saw your Mustang,” said Theo.

  He was talking about Jack’s pride and joy, a vintage 1966 Mustang convertible with rally pack gauges, wood steering wheel, and pony interior. His first major purchase out of law school, it was nothing short of a work of art until some angry drug dealers put a match to it.

  “That was harsh, Theo.”

  “Sorry, dude.”

  They stepped closer. Theo walked all the way around the vehicle and stopped directly in front of it, facing the grillwork. “All Mustang jokes aside, it actually is a Ford.”

  “You think?”

  “Definitely. Late seventies, I’d say. Ford Falcon.”

  “A Falcon?” said Jack.

  “Yeah. Funny, huh?”

  “I figured he called himself Falcon because he was ready to fly off a bridge. Turns out, it’s just an extension of where he lives.” Jack took a slow walk around the car, inspecting it. Rat droppings were scattered across the sun-baked hood. Cockroaches hid in the darkness of the wheel wells. Scattered about the interior were some dirty Tupperware bowls, empty coffee cans, an old raincoat, and a tattered sheet of plastic. “Imagine living here,” said Jack.

  “Beats the hell out of death row,” said Theo.

  As usual, Jack couldn’t argue with the big guy’s perspective.

  Theo said, “So what do we do now? Sit around and wait?”

  “It’s not as if I can call my client on his cell phone and set up a meeting.”

  “You want to leave a note and a quarter, tell him to call you?”

  Jack thought about it. “Let’s give it a few minutes. He said if I ever needed to find him, afternoons were the second best time to catch him at home.”

  “When’s the best time?”

  “After midnight, but I’m not about to come out here then. Not even with you watching my back.”

  Theo scratched his head as he searched for someplace to sit. He went to the rear of the car and hopped up on the trunk lid. It made a funny noise as he landed, as if the lid and latch no longer fit just right. Just then, Jack noticed some brown droplets on the bumper. He squatted down for a closer look.

  “What’d I do now?” said Theo.

  Jack wasn’t sure what it was, but he had a pretty good idea. “Theo, don’t touch anything. Just climb down slowly.”

  The tone of Jack’s voice made it clear that he wasn’t kidding around. Theo slid down until his feet touched the ground. As his body weight lifted from the trunk, the old spring hinges creaked, and the lid opened on its own power.

  Then they saw the body-or what was left of it. It was a mangled heap at the bottom of the trunk. A rat the size of a small dog scurried away from its lunch, giving them both a start.

  “Holy shit,” said Theo.

  Blood, everywhere, so much blood. “My thought exactly,” Jack said quietly.

  chapter 11

  J ack watched from behind yellow police tape as the crime scene investigators tended to the body in the trunk. It was like watching a well-oiled machine-swabs taken, photographs snapped, evidence gathered. He probably would have stayed even if Detective Barber hadn’t asked him to stick around, but it was near sunset, and Theo was clearly ready to leave.

  “Don’t you got any actual living clients you should be back in the office overchargin’?” said Theo.

  “Oh, be quiet,” said Jack. “Have you no respect for the dead?”

  “That’s odd.”

  “What’s odd?”

  “Beginning a sentence with the word ‘have.’ It’s like starting with ‘to whom,’ which, studies have shown, can’t possibly happen-no way, no how-without a stick up your ass.”

  That was Theo, on a perpetual mission to save the world from itself.

  Jack signaled to the detective. He was standing across the yard, near the abandoned vehicle, and talking with one of the investigators. In due time, he finished the conversation and walked over to the police barricade at the outer edge of the crime scene.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Barber.

  “Sorry?” said Theo, his hands buried in his pants pocket. “We been standin’ around for over an hour, pal. It’s cold as hell out here.”

  Jack wondered about the origin of that expression-“cold as hell”-but that was a debate better had over beers. “Theo, why don’t you see if you can steal us some hot coffees from that restaurant we passed on the way over here?”

  “Like that’s gonna help.” Theo did another one of his little huffs, trying to make his breath steam. This time, it worked-barely-which set Theo off like a boy in his first snowfall. “Did you see that? We’re in Miami, it technically ain’t even winter yet, and my breath steamed!”

  Jack was tempted to say something about the expulsion of hot air, but he let it go. “Theo, how about that coffee?”

  He finally took the hint. When his friend was out of earshot, Jack said, “Look, detective, I’m willing to help you out here. But why don’t you just call me later on tonight, unless there’s something you really need to ask me right now.”

  Detective Barber glanced toward the abandoned car. The examiners were getting ready to lift the body onto a gurney. “Just one thing I’d like to know,” he said, his gaze turning back toward Jack. “Where’s your client?”

  It sounded like a stupid question, but the detective’s expression said otherwise. Jack said, “Are you telling me that’s not Falcon in the trunk of that car?”

  Detective Barber shook his head.

  Jack said, “I didn’t want to touch anything, so we didn’t move the body. He was all wrapped up in blankets from the cold. I guess we didn’t get that good a look. I just assumed-”

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” said the detective. “With the victim’s face bashed in that bad, about all you could do was assume. At least until we got here.”

  “You’re sure it’s not him?”

  “Not unless he had a sex change in the last couple days.”

  Jack felt a rush of panic. “It’s not-”

  “Alicia Mendoza? No, no. If that were the mayor’s daughter, we’d have every media van in the tri-county area upon us by now. This is a much older woman, fiftysomething, maybe sixties. I suspect she’s another one of Miami’s homeless. Falcon probably found her all snug and warm in his favorite spot, freaked out, and let her have it.”

  “You have a murder weapon?”

  “We suspect it was the lead pipe found next to the car. Traces of blood and human hair on it. It would take something substantial like that to account for the blunt trauma. Your boy literally bashed her face in.”

  “He’s not my boy,” said Jack.

  “No, that’s true,” Barber said, smiling. Then he chuckled. “He’s just your client.”

  “What’s so funny?” said Jack.

  “No offense, counselor. But something deep inside my jaded cop existence takes perverse pleasure in the fact that a criminal defense lawyer called the cops to report a murder committed by his own client.” He was chuckling again. “Sorry. I just can’t help myself.”

  Jack could already hear the Swyteck jokes coursing through the hallways of the Miami-Dade Criminal Justice Building. In these situations, there was only one comeback. “How do you know my client did it?”

  The detective’s smile faded. “I think we can safely assume-”

  Jack held up his hand, stopping him. “One erroneous assumption per crime scene, please.”

  “Oh, come off it, Swyteck. In another two hours, we’ll have enough physical evidence against your client to fill an entire crime lab.”

  “But you still may not have my client.”

  “We’ll find him.”

  Jack leaned closer, as if to make it clear that he wasn’t kidding around on this point. “When you do, be sure you remind him to call me.”

  Suddenly, someone near the river was shouting at the top of his voice. Both Jack and the detective turned to check o
ut the commotion. It was a combination of words and wailing, loud but utterly incomprehensible. The detective said, “Looks like we got a friend of the victim. Excuse me, Swyteck.”

  Jack stayed put as the detective headed toward the river. He watched only long enough to make sure that the screamer wasn’t his client. It wasn’t. Jack turned away from the police tape and started back toward the footpath in search of Theo.

  “Hey, mon. You Falcon’s lawyer?”

  Jack turned at the sound of the Jamaican’s voice. He was dressed in blue jeans and an old hunting jacket, with thick smears of black grease amid the blotches of camouflage. The boots were in even worse condition, and they were both for the left foot. His tangled dreadlocks were tucked up into a bulging knit cap atop his head. It probably wouldn’t have looked quite so strange if he hadn’t wrapped it in aluminum foil.

  “Who are you?”

  “They call me the Bushman.”

  “Do you know Falcon?”

  The man’s eyes darted back and forth. He gestured frantically with both hands, telling Jack without words to keep his voice down. Whoever this guy was, he appeared to be even more paranoid than Falcon. “Falcon and me is friends,” he said, then stopped himself. He seemed eager to tell Jack more, but it was equally clear that he wanted to get away from the crowd. He jerked his head, a movement so quick that it bordered on spastic, but he was merely signaling Jack to follow him back toward the bridge. They walked until the Jamaican seemed comfortable with their distance from the crime scene.

  “Do you know where Falcon is?” said Jack.

  “He’s running.”

  “Running from what?”

  The Jamaican glanced back toward the cops, but he said nothing.

  “Did Falcon kill that woman?” asked Jack.

  The Bushman grimaced and stomped his foot, as if he’d just bitten into a sourball the size of a melon. “Shhhhhhhh,” he said, putting his finger to his lips.

  Jack lowered his voice to a raspy whisper. “I’m his lawyer. You can tell me why he’s running.”

  “He runs cuz he scared, mon.”

  “Scared of the police?”

  The Bushman scoffed so bitterly that he made a spitting sound. “He’s not scared of no police. He’s scared of her.”

  “Who is she?”

  He didn’t respond. Jack sensed that he knew the answer, but he just wasn’t ready to share it. Then Jack noticed the necklace around the Jamaican’s neck. It was identical to the one Falcon had worn-the one with the key to the safe deposit box on it. “Hey, that’s an interesting necklace you’re wearing. Where’d you get it?”

  “Falcon gave it to me.”

  “He gave it or-” Jack checked his words, not wanting to shut down the conversation by coming across as too accusatory. “Or did you borrow it?”

  “I don’t borrow nothin’, mon. He gave it to me. For protection.”

  “Protection from what?”

  The Jamaican’s gaze drifted back toward the crime scene. “Dat’s what I’m trying to tell you. Falcon says we all need protection. From her, mon.”

  “The dead woman? Who is she?”

  The Bushman leaned closer, cupping his hand to his mouth as he whispered, “She the Mother.”

  “Mother? You mean like a bad motha’?”

  “No. She’s their mother.”

  “Whose mother?”

  His voice became so soft that Jack could barely hear him. “Of the Disappeared, mon.”

  “She’s the mother of the disappeared?” said Jack, confused.

  A look of horror came over the Jamaican’s face, as if he could scarcely believe that Jack had uttered the words aloud. Jack said, “What does that mean-she’s the mother of the disappeared?”

  The Jamaican stepped away in obvious fright, balling his necklace tightly into his fist and clutching it against his chest. “No, you can’t have it! Get your own protection! Dis one is mine!”

  Jack searched for something to say, something to calm him, but the words didn’t come fast enough. The Jamaican turned and sprinted toward the bridge, one arm pumping, the other held close to his body. He kept on running until he vanished somewhere in the twilight beyond the marina.

  He was a troubled man, the conversation had been very odd, and Jack stood there in the waning moments of daylight as he pondered what seemed to be the strangest but most certain thing of all.

  The Jamaican surely would have killed him before giving up his gift from Falcon, his protection-that necklace of metal beads.

  chapter 12

  A round nine p.m., Alicia met Detective Barber at the Joseph H.Davis Center for Forensic Pathology, a three-building complex on the perimeter of the University of Miami Medical Center campus and Jackson Memorial Hospital. The nearby cancer center, eye institute, and spinal project were top-notch, but when it came to medical science, Miami’s living had nothing on its dead. The Davis Center was a first-rate, modern facility, with some of the best forensic specialists in the world.

  The body in Falcon’s car had put the City of Miami police on high alert. A down-on-his-luck homeless guy with his eye on the mayor’s daughter was one thing. A vicious killer was quite another. Investigators were covering every angle, so it seemed wise for Alicia to take a look at the victim before an autopsy made her unrecognizable. Fingerprint analysis having turned up nothing, the woman’s identity was still unknown. The face was battered beyond recognition, but perhaps Alicia would recognize something else about her. If there was some connection between the victim and Alicia, police wanted to know about it from the get-go.

  An assistant medical examiner escorted Alicia and Detective Barber to examination room three. Barber was a familiar face around the Davis Center; he had worked homicides for several years. Alicia, however, was a newcomer. “Have you seen an autopsy before?” the assistant ME asked her.

  “Once,” said Alicia, “during training.”

  “Good. But if you feel light-headed, just let me know.”

  The pneumatic doors opened, and they were immediately slammed with the indoor equivalent of an Arctic blast from the air vents in the ceiling. Alicia felt as though she’d just discovered the epicenter of Miami’s latest cold front. Bright lights glistened off the white sterile walls and buff tile floors. The unclothed, ashen cadaver lay face-up on the stainless-steel table in the center of the room.

  The examiner knew the detective, and he introduced himself to Alicia as Dr. Petrak. Then he said something in such a heavy Eastern European accent that Alicia couldn’t understand him.

  Detective Barber translated. “He says we’re just in time.”

  From the looks of things, Alicia would have guessed they were too late. The autopsy was well under way. Two deep incisions ran laterally from shoulder to shoulder, across the breasts at a downward angle meeting at the sternum. A long, deeper cut ran from the breastbone to the groin, forming the stem in the coroner’s classic “Y” incision. The liver, spleen, kidneys, and intestines were laid out neatly beside a slab of ribs on the large dissection table. The cadaver was literally a shell of a human being, and just the sight of it was making her a little queasy. Or was it the sweet, sterile odor that was getting to her?

  “Are you okay?” asked Dr. Petrak.

  “I’m fine,” said Alicia.

  The doctor was examining the victim’s battered right cheekbone, working beneath an intense white spotlight. His powers of concentration were such that his bushy gray eyebrows had pinched together and formed one continuous caterpillar that stretched across his brow. He laid his tweezers aside and snapped a digital photograph.

  Alicia’s gaze drifted across the lifeless body. Lifeless-that was a very fitting word. Whoever she was, she had been without a life for a long time. The fingernails were jagged, several of them bitten back to the quick. The toes were deformed, presumably from shoes that didn’t fit. The calluses on her knees were thick and discolored. They told of a woman who’d spent day after day on Miami’s sidewalks, looking up to passing
strangers, begging for spare change. They might never ascertain her true identity. Alicia felt sorry for her, then she felt embarrassed for herself. It seemed that people always felt compassion after it was too late to help.

  “Interesting,” said Dr. Petrak. “Verrrry interesting.”

  Alicia was suddenly reminded of an old episode of Laugh-In that she’d seen on cable. Dr. Petrak sounded like that comedian with the cigarette and wire-frame glasses who used to dress up like a German soldier from the Second World War. Vaht vahs his name?

  “What’s very interesting?” said Detective Barber.

  Arte Johnson. That was the guy. Alicia wasn’t trying to check out, but little mental journeys helped take her mind off the odor and bring the blood back to her head.

  The doctor said, “Officer Mendoza, what do you think when you see a woman with an Adam’s apple?”

  Alicia suddenly felt as though she’d been caught daydreaming in ninth-grade science. “A woman with an Adam’s apple?”

  She had stated her question as if it were an answer. It worked.

  “Exactly,” said Dr. Petrak. “It can’t be, right?”

  “Unless she used to be a man,” said Detective Barber.

  Dr. Petrak looked up, his expression deadpan. “Don’t get crazy on me, okay, detective?” He refocused on his work and carefully opened the victim’s mouth with a long, probing instrument. “What this bump tells us is that there is something lodged in her throat.”

  Alicia took a half-step closer. Dr. Petrak was right: This was getting interesting.

  “Of course, the X-ray didn’t hurt my diagnosis much, either.” The doctor shined a laser of light deep into the victim’s gaping mouth. The front teeth were missing, though it was difficult to tell if that was a result of the beating or of simple neglect over the years. The shattered molars, though, were clearly the work of the same lead pipe that had demolished her cheekbone. Dr. Petrak probed with his forceps, his hand as steady as a heart surgeon’s. The bulge in her throat was due mostly to the missing molars, but Dr. Petrak seemed to be searching for something else. Finally, with a turn of the wrist, he had it. He carefully removed the object and placed it on the dissection tray.