A Garden of Vipers

by Jack Kerley

  “Any idea what caused the fire?”

  “I had two guys made it, back toward the heart of the burn, the start point. They thought they caught a whiff of gasoline, even with the masks.”

  “Arson.”

  “Some materials put off a smell of gas when they burn, so maybe not. Still, that place was cooking when we arrived, heavy involvement on two floors, starting on a third. Asphalt from the roof was a burning river.”

  The danger to surrounding structures had passed and Rawly was out of the fight, another engine company working over the active flames at the far end of the building. We shot the breeze a couple minutes, telling fishing lies combined with enough truths to keep each other off balance.

  “Captain!” a guy yelled from the corner of the building. “Got a body.”

  “Oh, shit,” Rawly said. He ran toward the guy and I followed. We rounded the corner. A ladder truck was beside the building. Between the truck and the structure was a body on a collapsible stretcher, two young firefighters staring at the form. Judging by their eyes, it was their first dead body. The guy who’d called Rawly over had the name JEFFERS printed on his helmet.

  A slender guy with some years on him, Jeffers nodded toward the younger guys. “Wills and Hancock found the body, hauled it out.”

  One of the firefighters said, “Maybe we should have left it. It was just that…”

  The kid couldn’t finish. I stared down. The corpse was charred beyond recognition, a wet briquette in semi-human shape.

  Jeffers saw my badge. “You’re a cop? Maybe there’s a reason you’re here.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Roll it over,” Jeffers said.

  Faces averted, the young guys turned the corpse from supine to prone. I saw two black twigs, arms, stretching behind the dark mass.

  And on what had once been wrists, handcuffs.

  Rawly hunkered beside the corpse and thumbed ash from the cuffs. Underneath, they were stainless steel, a bit darkened, but still bright. The lock mechanism was sturdy, the link forged. Good cuffs, pro quality.

  Rawly frowned. “I think the arson probability just jumped a notch, Carson. I’ll call Forensics.”

  Jeffers said, “There ain’t much left of the room it was in. The body was on the third floor, but started out on the fourth. It was in a huge bed judging by the frame. It all fell through when the fire ate away the floor joists.”

  “Think this’ll be one of yours, Carson?” Rawly asked.

  “Someone else’ll get the case. My dance card’s full.”

  “Wanna take a look inside anyway? I can’t say the area will stay secure. Too many feet stomping around.”

  The fire was pretty much knocked back on our side of the building, a few rooms at the other end still spewing black smoke as firefighters aimed thick ribbons of water through the windows.

  I looked at Jeffers. Said, “Lead on.” We climbed the ladder to the third floor, crept in the window past jagged teeth of glass. I pushed back my borrowed helmet and looked up and saw sky, the floor above and the roof gone.

  “Stay close to the edge of the room,” Jeffers said. “The floor’s bad in the middle.”

  I found myself in a brick-walled box of ruination. There were bits of furniture, mostly the metal parts. I saw the melted remains of a television and computer. Near the room’s center lay the twisted box springs and mattress springs of a large bed, larger than king size, it seemed, most of the fabric burned away in the center of the springs, blackened fabric at the edges.

  “The body was in the middle of the bed?” I asked.

  “Dead center.” He grimaced at his words, said, “Sorry.”

  I studied the floor, a mess of charred flooring from above, wires, and shattered glass. I kicked at the glass. It was everywhere in the ash. I took a couple steps forward, the charred flooring crunching like ice.

  “No farther,” Jeffers said, grabbing my arm.

  I backpedaled. “You don’t have to tell me twice.” I reached down and brushed aside detritus, lifted a piece of the ubiquitous broken glass. I blew off ash, saw my face in my hand.

  “It’s a mirror,” I said.

  Jeffers knelt and brushed at the floor.

  “A lot of mirror. Must have been a biggie.” He inched across the floor to the bed.

  “The springs are full of mirror, big pieces.” Jeffers stared up at a nonexistent room. “What’s that make you think, detective?”

  I studied the wreckage. Now that I knew what to look for, I saw mirror fragments everywhere.

  “A mirror above the bed. Or on the wall. Or both.”

  “I think that answer would earn you an A+,” Jeffers said. “Seen enough?”

  CHAPTER 17

  I walked into the detectives’ room just as Harry was hanging up the phone. He looked at me, nostrils flaring.

  “I smell smoke.”

  “There was a fire at the apartment building at Corcoran and Hopple. I stopped to look.”

  Harry nodded. “It was on the news. Sounded pretty big.”

  “They’ve got it tamed. Two dead I know about. Some poor old guy got spooked and flew out the window. I was there when another body came out. The arms were behind the body’s back. Handcuffed in place.”

  “Uh-oh. His wrists or her wrists?”

  “Couldn’t tell; female by the size. It looked like the body came from a room full of mirrors.”

  “It was that four-story yellow-brick apartment at Corcoran and Hopple, east side?”

  I nodded.

  “Used to be a few out-service gals in that building, maybe some inside work, specialty stuff. Bondage, sadomaso. Role-play weirdness. Maybe one of the specialists lost control, had to cover some tracks fast.”

  “They’re covered. Any trace evidence in that room is now floating somewhere in the troposphere.”

  Harry shrugged. “Someone else’s case, thank God. Listen, I just got a call from Lincoln Haley at WTSJ. He found some pages from Taneesha Franklin. Our name appears on something.”

  “Let’s go take a look.”

  When we walked through the door, Lincoln Haley was talking to the receptionist. He gestured us to follow to his office. I heard James Brown over the ubiquitous speakers, wailing Baby, baby, baby in a voice like a scalded ocelot.

  Haley said, “Teesh did some work as a copywriter. Commercials. Not much after she started in news, just whenever our regular writer got jammed up. Teesh didn’t do the ad writing at her regular desk, but in the sales office.” Haley tried a smile. “I think she felt writing commercials at the news desk sullied the newsroom.”

  We entered his office. A desk, couch, couple chairs. A shelf with various memorabilia, photos of music celebrities, three autographed baseballs, an autographed glove. He pointed to the chairs and we sat. Haley followed, picking up a sheaf of papers on his desk.

  “Our regular copywriter, Sharie Dumond, was cleaning old files off the computer and found a file Teesh created. It’s a small file, just a few pages, titled ‘Danbury.’”

  I sat forward. “Danbury?”

  “I think I mentioned Teesh met with DeeDee Danbury a few times, the reporter on Channel 14. The file appears to be her notes from the meetings. I figure Teesh finished writing commercials one day, decided to transcribe handwritten notes into the computer. They’re a little hard to decipher—she transcribed direct and in her own shorthand.”

  “Our names are in the writings?”

  “They resemble class notes, like Ms. Danbury was lecturing and Teesh was writing. Here’s the page….”

  I leaned and took the page from Haley’s hand, read the reference.

  MPD Protec’s: Det C Ryder, Det H Nautilus. If trbl. // also SP, Arn Norlin.

  “Anything important, Carson?” Harry asked, peering over my shoulder.

  I shook my head, feeling the letdown. “Not really. I’m sure the message simply means should Taneesha have any trouble with the MPD, her protectors would be you and me.”


  “Trouble?” Haley frowned. “Protectors?”

  “It’s not like it sounds,” I said. “It’s names to drop if she was being given a runaround, maybe needed a little access. Some cops shut reporters out as a hobby.”

  Pace Logan came to mind. I hoped he wasn’t passing that trait on to Shuttles. You don’t hand the press the store, but treat them right and it comes back in one way or another. I’d learned that much even before dating a reporter.

  “How about the other name?” Haley asked.

  “Same things, different jurisdiction. Arn Norlin with the county cops. He’s a good guy, Dani’s had an in with Arn for years.”

  “Dani?”

  “Ms. Danbury,” I said. “Her name’s Danielle, thus the DD initials and nickname.”

  “You know her?”

  Cornered. “I, uh, she’s my…”

  Harry winked. “Ms. Danbury is my partner’s significant other, Mr. Haley, if that’s what it’s called anymore. Cop and reporter, oil and water. Somehow those two have been together for a year.”

  Haley smiled. “Congratulations. From what Teesh told me about your girlfriend, you’re a lucky man.”

  I tried to affect a courteous smile, but it felt like I was baring my teeth. Haley said, “Sorry I brought you up here for nothing, but I thought it might be important. I wanted to call before I headed out of town tonight.”

  “Vacation?” Harry asked. I stood and turned away, my face beginning to ache from not screaming.

  “My brother lives in Atlanta. I’m visiting for a couple days, take in a game. Take my mind off things a bit.”

  “Braves?” Harry said. “You a fan?”

  Haley nodded. “I played ball in college, outfield. How about you?”

  Harry pushed up from the chair, juiced. “Love the game. But my experience is Little League, kind of. Know that ball field on the west side of Pritchard? I helped get it running about three years back.”

  Oh Jeez, not that story again…

  Haley shook his head. “Don’t know the field. But I’m not usually in that direction. Hey, you want copies of Teesh’s notes? Just to have them?”

  “Sure,” Harry said. “We’ll add them to the case file. Hey, you ever at a game when Aaron was playing?”

  “Let’s go, bro,” I said, grabbing him by the elbow.

  “The kids were hoping for a scoreboard, Carson, nothing fancy, slap up numbered cards for runs, outs. Be nice if that happened.”

  “Umph,” I said.

  Harry slid the cruiser across three lanes, oblivious to the angry horns behind us. He glanced in the rearview and waved, Thanks for letting us in. The baseball conversation with Lincoln Haley had restarted my partner’s soliloquy about creating a ball field with Buck Kincannon.

  “Hey, Cars, let’s take a detour, check it out.”

  “Check what out?”

  “The ball field. I never get over this way. Take ten minutes.”

  I can leap from the car, I thought as Harry cut the wheel toward his field of dreams. Open the door, scream, “Geronimo”…

  Harry drove a few miles, slowed, craning his head side to side. Modular buildings surrounded by fences and barbwire, a metals-processing operation, a school bus graveyard. Even with windows tight and the AC on recirculate, a hard chemical smell seeped into the car.

  “It’s been so long I don’t remember where it was. Things changed. I’m all turned around.”

  Harry pulled up in front of a bone-skinny guy wearing nothing but a loose pair of raggedy jeans. His face was patchy, like he had mange, and he looked in his forties.

  Harry rolled down his window. “Say, bro, you know if there’s a little ball field nearby?”

  The guy stumbled toward us. His face grinned with something like recognition and I saw the guy had meth mouth: gums dissolved away, blackened teeth showing to the bleeding roots.

  “Haa-i-eeee,” the guy keened, grabbing at Harry’s elbow. “Haaa-i-eeeee.”

  Up close, looking past the ravaged mouth, the guy was maybe eighteen. Smoking crystal methedrine was like gargling with muriatic acid. Plus users scratched their skin apart trying to get at the bugs crawling in their veins. Weight loss left skin hanging like wet cloth.

  “Uh, thanks anyway.” Harry drove away, shooting glances into the rearview. The guy kept yelling, “Haaa-ieeee.”

  “That was instructional,” I said.

  “It was around here. I know it was.”

  “Maybe Buckie airlifts the field to Minnesota this time of year, where it’s cooler.”

  “What?”

  “If you can’t find it, you can’t find it. Let’s head back.”

  He tapped his fingers on the wheel, thought. “One more stop.”

  “Harry…”

  We pulled into a rough neighborhood of decaying buildings and dead-eyed people. We passed a school, windows grated. The businesses were typical for the neighborhood: check-cashing outlets, bars, pawnshops, bunkerized groceries where clerks cowered behind bulletproof glass.

  Harry stopped in front of the only festive storefront on the block, a hanging sign proclaiming DREAMCENTER SOCIAL SERVICES. The façade was a colorful mural, faces of white and brown, tree-lined streets, a man grilling hot dogs, children swimming in a pool, a friendly yellow sun watching over everything. It was as incongruous as Oz in downtown Nagasaki, 1946.

  We checked twice to assure the car was locked, and headed in the door.

  A woman’s voice trumpeted our entrance. “Harry Nautilus? Harry-damn-Nautilus!”

  Mardy Baker was a big woman, taller than my six-one but shorter than Harry’s six-four. She wore baggy khakis and a T-shirt emblazoned with the words JOIN THE COMMUNI-TEAM! Improbably, she wore pink high heels, backless and toeless. Her nails, up and down, were painted with gold glitter.

  Ms. Baker’s ebullience seemed proportionate to her size. She wrapped Harry in a hug the size of a truck tire, then stared at his bemused face.

  “Lord have mercy, Harry-damn-Nautilus. Whoops, is that blasphemous? I see your name in the paper now and then, Harry. Ain’t you something.”

  Harry introduced us. We were bustled into an office, desk and chair and lots of shelves. Ms. Baker thundered down the hall for coffee. I studied the surroundings: upbeat posters on the walls, stacks of handouts advising people to get tested for AIDS, avoid alcohol during pregnancy, obtain a GED, and so forth. There was a colorful rug in one corner, toys on it; where kids could play while she counseled parents, I supposed.

  Ms. Baker returned with a carafe of coffee on a tray, creamers, sugar packets. She leaned against the wall and studied Harry.

  “What brings you here, Harry? Just in the neighborhood?”

  “I was talking to Carson a few days back, the old ball field project came up. We were nearby, so I thought I’d show him. I can’t seem to find it.”

  Ms. Baker blew out a breath.

  “Maybe because it’s under a warehouse.”

  Harry’s shoulders fell. “After all that work, equipment, the improvements? What the hell happened?”

  Mardy Baker turned to the window and looked out over the streetscape. “My recollection of those days might not be precise, Harry. Biased maybe. Not for public consumption.” Her voice seemed to balance resignation and resentment.

  “We look like the public to you?” Harry said.

  She went to her desk and sat, both hands clasping her coffee cup. “Things went along great for the first year. Money arrived as promised, the teams grew, maybe seventy kids. The next season came close to rolling around…”

  Harry turned my way. “I had to bow out after things got cruising. I’d just moved from Vice to Homicide. It was a bloody summer, new gangs springing up, gunning and running. I was working three drive-bys at once.”

  Ms. Baker continued. “Harry’d set everything in motion, made the connections.”

  “What changed?” I asked.

  “I went back to the well, drew up a formal budget request, called Mr. Kincannon. I coul
d never get him on the phone: on vacation, out of town, in a meeting. One day a lawyer type showed up, buttery smooth, polite as Miss Manners. He had some suggestions for the upcoming season.”

  “Like?”

  “The teams had names like Panthers and Gators and Bears, names picked by the kids.” Ms. Baker smiled. “Of course, they really wanted names like Stone Killers, Bloody Warriors, and Ninja Mutants, but we gave them a list to pick from, a bit less extreme.”

  “The lawyer guy wanted Stone Bloody Ninjas?” I wondered.

  “He suggested company names like Panorama Advertising, Magnitude Construction, Clarity Broadcasting.”

  I nodded. “All names of Kincannon investments, I assume. Still, if they’re fronting the money…”

  “Sure, corporate sponsorships. I said, fine, we’ll rename the teams. A few days later, there was another suggestion.” She paused. “This one a bit more…intrusive.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  Ms. Baker looked at Harry. “Remember when the city wanted to put the industrial waste transfer point over by the Saylor Street projects?”

  “Bitter fight. The company handling it didn’t have a rep for integrity. Chem-Tron?”

  “Chemitrol. The lawyer guy showed up with charts and graphs suggesting the transfer station was a great opportunity for the neighborhood: jobs, training, education…money spreading out like a tsunami.”

  Ms. Baker took a sip of her coffee and frowned. I didn’t think the frown came from the taste of the coffee. She continued.

  “I dug around. Discovered the specifications we weren’t given. The projections. The amounts of chemicals traveling our streets. I read up on the industry itself, similar installations. Guess what?”

  “Facts were slanted a bit?” I suggested.

  “A dozen people could handle the duties of the station, four being folks with degrees in chemical engineering. The others answered the phone and filed.”

  “Eight minimum-wage jobs,” I said.

  “It was the usual bullshit: all frosting, no cake.”

  Harry leaned forward. “What went down from there, Mardy?”

  “Mr. Lawyer showed up with all these fancy-ass flyers in favor of the transfer station, wanted the kids to distribute them in the community.”