by J. A. Kerley
Hembree waved me into the kitchen. I flipped my index finger up, one minute.
“I heard a commotion from the left and doubled back that way. Heard sounds from the back of the building, voices. I crept back to the trash bins.”
Harry made sure no one else was near and leaned close enough to warm my ear with his breath. “Burlew was stark naked on the ground with this skinny little guy riding him like a horse. The guy had a brain-load of uppers and downers and acid and was zooming with the asteroids. He’d gotten Burlew’s gun and was jumping him through the hoops he’d always fantasized about putting cops through. Burlew was crying, crawling in filth, pissing down his thigh, hands and knees ripped up from busted glass. The guy’s banging his gun against Burlew’s head, yelling giddy-up and whoopy ti-yay. He’s got Burlew making horsey sounds, whinnying.”
I closed my eyes and saw the pictures. “You dropped the guy”
“The looney’s waving the gun like a fly swatter I waited until he’d swung it off Burlew and I stepped around the corner yelling, “Police. Freeze.” I had about another half ounce to go on that trigger. The guy smiled like I was his mama bringing him a bowl of warm oatmeal and laid the gun on the ground. He sat next to it and started picking at his face.”
The fingerprint guy walked past, bag in hand. Hembree was waving me over like a windmill.
I yelled, “One minute, Bree. Hang on, dammit,” and turned back to Harry.
“That night Burlew broke down and told me how he hated being on the streets; how his old man, a cop, made Burlew be a cop, no choice. He had an uncle was a landscaper, gardener; that’s what Burlew secretly wanted to be.”
“Was that Burlew’s last day on the street?”
Harry nodded. “Next morning he applied for an admin position.”
“When’d he become the bottomless box of toothaches?”
“He started lifting, power stuff, bulk. The bigger he got the meaner he got.”
Harry studied a small bloom in a hanging basket, a chartreuse pennant the size of a dime. “Burlew put on muscles like a costume. Then he had to drag the muscles around with him, too. He got hitched up with Squill’s detail a few years back, became his de facto adjutant. I think Squill liked to have a guy Burlew’s size with him like a short guy strutting behind a pit bull.”
“Burlew ever talk about that night?” I asked.
“He never looked at me again unless it was on his way to look past me.”
Harry shook his head and let the pennant drift from his fingertips. “Every year when I was little my aunt used to read A Christmas Carol to me. I loved it but it scared me. What got me most wasn’t the Ghosts of Christmas, but the picture I’d get in my head of Jacob Mar ley, this faded old guy bound up in all the chains and money boxes of his past. I swear I could hear the clanging and banging as he dragged his shit across eternity.”
Harry looked around and I saw his nostrils flare as he breathed in the subtle perfume of the blossoms tinting Burlew’s hidden life, his real life. My previous concept of Burlew forbade him a capacity for devotion, but as I studied the books, the misters, scissors, the bags of plant food and moss, my surprise at Burlew’s ability to nurture gave way to mourning for the missed and misplaced, and for pasts that, allowed to dry and set, formed the path of our futures.
I said, “He thought you’d told me about that night. It’s why he always went out of his way to jump on my feet.”
Harry shrugged. He looked through the door at Burlew’s body, then turned back to me.
“Think people ever shake off those chains to their pasts, Cars?”
“Never happens, Harry. The trick is to keep adding links so you don’t pull it forward with you.”
“I’m coming with you tomorrow. You know that.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, amigo, but Ava volunteered. She wants to be my zuithre.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Power over ambush, Harry,” I said. “If you hold it just right.”
“Come on, Carson,” Hembree pleaded. “Check this out so we can get rolling.”
I dodged tables and plant stands on my walk to the kitchen, each crowded with blooms and petals and thickets of green. Hembree and his assistant had the body on its side, Hembree pointing at Burlew’s back. I knelt and saw a broad expanse of flesh turned crimson and purple by the settling of blood. All across Burlew’s back were words. Not the tiny writing, but maybe half- to three-quarter-inch letters, running from the back of his truncated neck to his buttocks, a nonstop scrawl of black ink.
“Looks like our boy’s graduated to epistles,” Hembree said. “Happy reading.”
CHAPTER 28
Like so often happens, the moment that Ava had been dreading her return to work, seeing Clair passed by almost without touching. Clair sat behind her desk peering at correspondence over half-glasses. She seemed to barely notice as as Ava and I walked by.
“Good morning, Dr. Davanelle,” Clair said. “Good to have you back.”
“It’s wonderful to be here.”
Clair tucked back into her paperwork and that was that. Ava checked her in-basket and correspondence, set a few pieces aside, then dressed for Burlew’s postmortem. Ava had been scheduled to handle today’s first procedure before I told Clair about the drinking; Clair hadn’t changed the roster, even after knowing it would be Ava’s first day back.
It was faith rewarded when Ava stepped into her role with the quiet command I’d seen before, the powerful yet economical motions, the sense of respect for the deceased. I studied the photos of Burlew’s back as Ava recited them for transcription.
You were with,
weren’t you doesn’t she girl bad things inside of you Mama
We have to make sure She makes how
Time to get the bad things Mama that girl again out you He you
She’s to get her out deep I’m scared makes us pure
What do you know What did you say
Don’t me in you I have pain
No Don’t Don’t me there
Hurdy-gurdy Namby-pamby Willy-Nilly You’re scaring Roly-poly Very scary Don’t scare
At the bottom, across Burlew’s coccyx, was written:
Boston and Indianapolis please touching Will it be Big Boston or Little Indy? Kokomo Booooo Peeeeee Mama
Squill arrived after schmoozing the media outside, this case now pulling heavy news glare Harry and I had laid the tattered history of events before Hyrum, Squill, and the three deputy chiefs. They’d winced and grimaced through the entire presentation. Consensus was reached: Displaying Burlew’s untidy closet would only embarrass the department and the Peltiers. Clair was an innocent caught in the taint and Zane was too monied to cross, especially since he’d been guilty of nothing beyond carnality and general stupidity. That left only Terri Losidor, and her indictment would lift the lid from the garbage can.
I suggested Zane demonstrate his kinship with the Fourth Estate by sponsoring the resurrection of an alternative newspaper. He seemed amenable, especially since I was the last person seen with the photographs.
Ava finished the post and went to wash up, leaving just Squill and me in the suite. During the procedure he’d stayed in the farthest corner, studying anything but the autopsy.
“You checked on Peltier?” Squill said, walking up from behind me. “He’s clear?”
“Zane couldn’t slice bologna without instructions. Besides, he’s alibied.” At the time of Burlew’s death Zane Peltier was with his personal attorney, discussing details of an impending separation.
Squill said, “We’re shit-canning Piss-it, Ryder. The task force’ll take this over. Burlew fucked up, but that’s life.”
I expected this. Squill’d gotten smudged by his adjutant’s actions and the only way to get clean was putting his task-force types into full-court press. That meant locking PSIT out. But with the threads of Burlew and Losidor and Zane pulled from the box, Harry and I had a clearer picture of what was left.
Plus tonight I was discussing the case with a pro.
I said, “It isn’t going to fall that direction, Captain. Harry and I are in till the end.”
“Guess what, junior? It just ended.”
I stared into Squill’s liquid eyes. “Why were you trying to keep us away from Burlew, Captain?”
“Who’s saying that?”
I pulled a folded sheet of paper from my pocket and handed it to him, pertinent sections highlighted in yellow. “Notes from our meeting where Harry and I told you about the missing papers. Anyone reading those notes might be inclined to think you were leery of us coming up with the papers. Especially since we did. Remember, the ones leading to Zane?”
Squill studied me like I was dog leavings on his shoe. “How could I possibly know Peltier was a fag?”
“You didn’t. But I think Burlew insinuated he had some kind of chain around Zane’s neck. He’d maybe give it a few tugs for you before he left the department. Burlew owed you; guy didn’t have to do cop work for years just ran your rinky-dink errands.”
I expected anger, got smug instead. “You’re saying I put the brakes on the investigation, Ryder? That what I’m hearing?”
“What’s a few more days of maybe keeping a head-chopper on the loose if it ups your chances of becoming a DC?”
He shook his head, a ghost of smile haunting his thin lips. “You think you’re something, don’t you? I’m going upstairs, Ryder. Better put a bucket on your head when I get there.”
“I know you got juice, Cap. Somebody told me Plackett owes you. Seems like you’re the one turned him into a media dandy, a first-rate sound-bite slinger. And probably the next chief.”
Squill made sure no one had slipped into the room. “Just between you and me, Ryder,” he gloated, “I made Plackett. I took a piece of shit-clay and sculpted the new Chief of Police.”
“Meanwhile, you kept tossing nails in our road.”
He smiled and winked. “It only looks that way to a paranoid like you, Ryder. Go back to your unit and solve some nigger shootings.”
“You’re a hell of a cop, you know that, Squill? If we’d been able to see things without Burlew’s little games, he might not be laying there.”
“The breaks. Like in breaking my heart. You’re off the case.”
“You know Zane Peltier has an in with the Police Commission, don’t you?”
He tapped a hand over his heart and feigned surprise. “No way.”
“Zane’s CEO of Mobile Marine Resources. The president of the company chairs the commission. You knew it; you know every piece of lint on the scale. Was Burlew going to add a little something to his demands? Get Zane to pull some strings? Just for insurance?”
“Here’s a little advice for you, Ryder: don’t meddle when adults are playing.”
“You’re going to win at any cost, aren’t you, Captain?” He laughed and punched my arm on his way out. “You’re not a win, Ryder, you’re an ant I step on. Don’t elevate yourself.”
Before preparing for my night’s work I called the Indianapolis, Boston, and Kokomo homicide departments and asked if they’d had anything similar to what we sere seeing here. No, the people I talked to said, not even close, good luck. Glad it’s yours and not ours.
I passed Ava’s office on my way out and hugged her and told her she’d done a great job. A crystal vase of fresh-cut flowers overwhelmed her desk and brightened the air, a gift from Clair. Ava passed me a thick folder with copies of photos and reports from several cases. I put them in my briefcase.
“How about that other little matter?” I asked. “Were you listening?”
“I heard you clear as a bell,” she said, handing me a small white envelope. I tucked it in my pocket.
“Tomorrow I’m taking you out to celebrate your return to the world of the living,” I told her.
“I’d rather it was tonight,” she said. “Tonight we have places to go, things to do. Are you going to be ready?”
“If being scared is getting ready, I’ve been set all day.”
CHAPTER 29
“What’s THAT?”
My face was congenial, introducing two old friends at the market. “Ava Davanelle, meet Jeremy, my brother.”
Ava offered her hand. “Hello Jeremy, I’m pie “
“What is it DOING HERE?” Jeremy jumped from his bed to face me, indicating Ava only with the slightest flicks of his head. “We can’t talk with IT in here.”
“She’ll sit in the corner if you wish. Out of the way.”
“I won’t talk, I won’t. NOT with IT here.”
I shrugged.
“You promised me we would TALK and then … MY NEED.”
“Nothing’s changed.”
“SHE’S here!”
“I invited her. She stays.”
He closed his eyes and crossed his arms. “I refuse to say another word.”
“Then our deal is ” I waved my hand, Nothing.
Jeremy false-charged Ava, snapping his teeth before retreating, a display I’d seen in monkeys establishing dominance and territory. I started toward him, but Ava’s eyes told me, Stay put. He circled her, lolling his tongue and slurping; he made claws of his hands and raked them toward her, hissing. He growled and shrieked, hawked and spat on the floor beside her; he mimicked masturbation, moaned, and pretended to ejaculate over her.
She yawned.
He turned to me, pleading. “IT CAN’T STAY! PLEASE send it, her, away, Carson. I have my needs, our … ritual. We need time together.”
I looked at my watch. “Our time has already started.”
He crossed his arms and tapped his foot. “You won’t hear what I know. I know, Carson. I know who it is.”
“You know how to manipulate. It’s your only real talent.”
He began a child’s singsong voice: “I know who it is, and so do you….”
I didn’t know if he was lying or his augar-twisted mind had found a connection we’d missed. I was betting he had as much a need for me as I did for him.
I said, “She stays.”
Jeremy gritted his teeth, snapped twice at the air, and retreated to the corner. He pretended to study his nails, glancing at Ava from the corner of his eye.
“So tell me, dear lady,” he said, polishing his nails on his shirt, “do you whore much?”
“I whore never,” she said cheerfully.
“All women whore. It’s in their SOULS! What do you do that makes you think you don’t whore?”
“Are you inquiring about my job, Mr. Ridgecliff? I’m an assistant pathologist with the county morgue.”
Jeremy pushed from the wall. He began circling Ava. I tensed, moved closer.
“OH, FOR THE UNHOLY LOVE OF GOD!” he screamed, pushing at the sides of his head. “When will all this POLITICALLY CORRECT BULLSHIT CEASE! A tender li’l thing like you wading through dead bodies? Do you pick at them? Touch a pinch of tissue here, a strand of sinew there? Or do you just watch and point as A LOWLY MAN DOES THE WORK? Say, you, sir, could you pluck out that purple thing there? Looks like a greasy tomato? Put it in this pickle jar. It’s a Christmas gift for a lover. What DO you do with dead bodies, sweet thang?”
Ava stepped in front of Jeremy and stopped him cold. He slid to one side, she moved in front of him. He sidestepped, she blocked. They looked like Latin dancers. Jeremy froze, nowhere to go. Ava smiled sweetly into his eyes.
“I do a lot of things with dead bodies, Mr. Ridgecliff,” she crooned, “but most of all I like to slice open their bellies, climb inside, and paddle them around the room like canoes.”
Jeremy twitched as if prodded by voltage. His neck clenched and he hissed through his teeth. He retreated to his bed and sat, eyes closed so tightly it seemed he was trying to keep even thoughts from entering. He sat for a full minute before his eyes opened, already staring at Ava. His voice was frost on an ivory window, as cold as the smile creeping over his lips.
“You just bought yourself a seat at the table, girly. Hope you en
joy the view.”
He turned from Ava and snapped an open palm toward me. “Did the drugstore process the latest glossies, brother?”
I passed Jeremy the photos of Burlew. I had previously brought everything on the beheadings. He’d this time asked for rundowns on every unsolved murder for the last year. Jeremy set everything beside him on the bed and started by studying the photos of Burlew. A hellish smile lit my brother’s face.
Mr. Cutter wiped sweat from his brow, set the level on a shelf with other tools, and gazed proudly over his evening’s work. The new autopsy table sat in the center of the room, gleaming beneath a hooded utility light hanging from the cabin’s low ceiling. Getting the table was the purest form of providence; the universe intervening again. He’d shunted the drain out through the hull, neatness counting. The nearest paved road was two miles away and there were no power lines, so he’d rigged up an electrical system from banks of car batteries in the bilge. A small Honda generator charged the batteries, but he rarely used the noisy contraption.
He went to the pilot house. The wheel, instrumentation, and most everything else had been stripped out. Years ago some optimist had hauled the boat from the river to its high storage blocks, planning a refit. But it had fallen into decrepitude, waiting for Mr. Cutter to boat by on a scouting run and realize the universe was bringing back the pieces, setting the board for another game.
Mr. Cutter watched the moonlight wash over the field and, two hundred feet to his left, across the short channel of river branching from the main course. He couldn’t see the river itself, the view blocked by a thick stand of brush almost encircling the shrimper. He returned to the cabin. Time to put the final images in place. The ones telling Mama the story.
In her own words.
Just in time too; that damned detective was crawling around asking questions, smelling something. No matter. This part of the journey, the only part the detective could affect, would soon be history. Mr. Cutter would remove his mask and makeup and shine as himself.