Where the Dead Lay

by David Levien

  “Probably would.” Terry dropped the bar with a crash. They slapped hands. “You hear something from Financial Gary?” Terry asked.

  “Like you said, I didn’t come here for the workout…” Knute bumped his eyebrows and wiggled the partial he had standing in for the front teeth that went missing in a bar brawl long ago.

  “And?” Terry asked, appraising his longtime partner. Knute was two years older than he, half a foot shorter, and forty pounds lighter, which would have made him a super lightweight. He had a droopy mustache and a pink scar on his cheek from his time in ISP in Michigan City, which was where the state sent you to disappear. Up there every trip out of the cell was a chance to get shanked, every visit to the yard an opportunity to be opened up. But Knute hadn’t died. Three years in, and now three months back. Those were long, lonely, unproductive years, for them both. A real shit time. But they were getting things back on track. They’d been real eager beavers since Knute’s return.

  Knute took a scrap of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Terry, who looked it over. It had figures written all over it in no particular order, including one fat number that was double stroked and circled in felt pen.

  “This?” Terry glanced up. Knute nodded. “Every month?”

  “Yeah, but we have to have ’em all good and organized and under control. Not piecemeal. No holdouts. Not just the near Northside, but far Eastside and all the way through Speedway, too. Lot more heavy lifting to go—”

  “As discussed. We’re on our way. We’ll have ’em all by winter, wrapped and ready to present to our buyer,” Terry said. He ripped up the scrap, wadded it, and tossed it in the garbage can. “Couple a bandy-bellied pirates gonna carve out a fortune is what we are …” Terry smiled. But Knute looked nervous.

  ELEVEN

  Behr arrived at the McCarty Street building that housed the coroner’s office and parked. He grabbed the paper bag holding what he’d had to drive around to three stores to find—a box of Lindt truffle chocolates and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red—and entered the building. It had become a routine between Behr and Jean Gannon over the years he’d known her. On her birthday, and Christmas, and whenever he needed a little access, he’d drop by and they would share a drink and a talk. At first it was just the whiskey, but then he’d seen the candies on her desk one time and added them in, too. His name was at the front desk and he was allowed back to where Jean worked. The smell of formaldehyde and glutaraldehyde and other chemicals hung in the chill air.

  “The candy man can,” he said, entering and waving the bag in front of him.

  Jean looked up from her work. She’d put on weight since he’d last seen her and the glow of her computer screen was finding the lines on her face. Divorce wasn’t treating her too well, but then it usually didn’t.

  “Frankie,” she said.

  “Doctor …” Behr smiled, opening his arms.

  Jean pushed away her keyboard and came around the desk. She skipped the hug for a squeeze of Behr’s forearm and grabbed the sack out of his hand. She glanced inside, then bunched the top of the bag and put it in her desk drawer.

  “My spare tire thanks you,” she said.

  “I’ll bring you a spirulina muffin next time, you want.”

  “That’d be great. Better still would be if there is no next time.” Her tone was harsh, but they shared a smile and she waved him out of the office toward the exam rooms.

  “I never asked you, why Johnnie Red?” Behr wondered as they went.

  “Because I can’t afford Blue.”

  “Course.”

  “Nah, that’s not why. Way back when Greg and I were buying our first house we had this Chinese Realtor. At the closing, he gave us a bottle of it, because after a transaction the Chinese are supposed to give something red for luck. Been drinking it ever since.” They walked down a long corridor and Behr couldn’t tell if it was actually getting colder as they went or if it was his imagination.

  “So you’re trying to stay lucky.”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” she said.

  They passed a tall, middle-aged man who nodded to Jean but didn’t give Behr a second glance, and then they entered one of the cutting rooms.

  It was colder inside. Laid out on a slab beneath harsh surgical lights was Aurelio’s body. The thing that had made him him was now far away and would never be seen again. The body hadn’t been opened up, but the damage to his face had dried into a blackish purple mask. They hadn’t bothered topping him with a sheet.

  “No relatives scheduled to see the body here, that’s why he’s uncovered. I can—” Behr cut her off with a head shake.

  “Full autopsy planned?”

  “Not unless someone requests it. Cause of death’s pretty clear. Pellets have been removed for evidence.” She picked up a tin dish and rattled it, lead shot rolling around inside. Behr took a look.

  “Double-aught buck,” she said.

  “Twelve-gauge?” Behr asked, pro forma.

  “Nope, ten.”

  “Damn, a goose gun.” This was a bit of a surprise. A 10-gauge was a lot less usual than a 12. “Handload or store bought?” Behr asked.

  “Can’t really tell unless casings were recovered. Probably store bought. If you’re thinking about fingerprints on the buckshot, forget about it. Not after this kind of cavitation.”

  Behr’s eyes skimmed over the body. There were old scars covering Aurelio. His knees looked like they’d been gone over with a belt sander, and other patches of skin sported abrasions—mat burns—that would’ve taken years to heal down completely. His right ear was mostly gone from the gunshot, the left one was a bit cauliflowered. Aurelio didn’t generally advocate the headfirst wrestling style that had caused it, but he hadn’t developed the finer points in his game until he’d already sustained some damage. Behr looked for major swelling or contusions, perhaps a broken bone that would tell a story. He wasn’t finding what he was looking for. It was growing increasingly difficult for him to keep his mind clear, so he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t missing it. The initial notes from the exam rested on a table beside the slab and Behr picked them up, but the words swam in front of his eyes.

  “Closed casket for certain,” Jean mused. “Screw the damn thing shut. Or get him a George W. Bush mask.”

  “Bodies don’t bruise postmortem, right?” Behr wondered aloud.

  “Right, generally speaking.”

  “So if there were any injuries like that, they’d have to have been sustained while he was alive.”

  “That’s the way it works.” She cocked her head and looked at him. “First day at the carnival?”

  “Sorry, I’m just trying to think straight.”

  “What are you doing on this anyway, Frank? You didn’t say and I didn’t think to ask.”

  “He’s my friend, Jean. Was.”

  “Ah, fuck me Uncle Sal!” she said. “Jeez, that’s a real V8 move.” She smacked herself in the head. “I thought it was business.”

  “Forget it. It is business now.” Behr looked around at the white tile and steel surfaces of the room, scrubbed clean and disinfected of germs and meaning. “What about… what about the back of the body? Did he get hit from behind? Was there any evidence of bludgeoning?”

  Jean grabbed the exam notes from Behr and threw on a pair of cheaters. She snapped on a latex glove and began going over the body carefully as she referred to the notes.

  “Okay,” she said, her tone suddenly businesslike, “posterior side was checked. It’s clean. No contusions or skull fracture caused by bludgeoning.”

  “What about bruising on the scalp. The ones caused by rod-shaped—”

  “Tramline bruises. You think he got hit with the gun barrel?”

  Behr shrugged.

  “That’s a special dissection if there’s any indication,” she said gravely.

  “They’ll have to peel the scalp?” Behr asked.

  She nodded and continued. “According to X-rays, we’ve got calcification in knuckles, wrist
s, and some toes. This guy was, what, a professional fighter? There are lots of fractures that healed up over the years.” She got near what was left of Aurelio’s lower jaw. “My colleague who caught this one, Dr. Rodale, he’s real thorough …” She leaned in close in a way Behr did not envy. “He found broken lower teeth and lacerations inside the mouth that bled up. That means before the gunshot.”

  “He was hit.”

  “Or the gun was jammed in his mouth. Shotgun barrel can do that real easy.”

  “But the shot?”

  “Not in the mouth.”

  Behr nodded. Now he could see powder tattooing, and that the muzzle had been placed beneath Aurelio’s chin. After another minute or so of inspection with no talking between them, Jean stripped off the latex glove and put the notes down.

  “Come on,” she said, “they’ll be getting back from dinner break soon.” She led Behr down the hall to her office, where she sat him on a stool and poured some of the Johnnie Walker into two lab beakers. She sat behind her desk and they touched glasses over it. Behr drank, but she didn’t. He told her the details of the events that had led him there.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, Frank, maybe you’re not the best guy to be looking into this,” she offered when he was done.

  “No?” he said, peering over the top of his glass. “Who’d be better?” She thought about that one for a while, but had no answer. Finally there was just quiet that went on as if it always would. Then he finished up his Scotch and stood. She came around her desk, and this time she did hug him.

  “You take care, you got me?” she said.

  He nodded. “Let me know about any tramlines.”

  “You stay pro on this thing.”

  “Thanks, Jean,” he said, wondering exactly what that meant anymore.

  • • •

  On his way home, Behr drove to Aurelio’s place. It had been a hell of a day, and he had the Scotch in him, and he knew he should probably shut it down for the night, but he really wanted to get a look inside the house. His feeling didn’t change even when he passed by and saw the unmarked police unit sitting on the address, an officer reclined low and just visible over the car door. Behr continued on, turning around the corner onto the next block, where he parked. He sat looking past a small brick cottage, through a line of scraggly trees, at the back of Aurelio’s place. In the black of the night, he thought, he could make it over the low chain-link fence, through the trees, and to the back door without being seen. He could get in and inspect the place, except for the front room, with his Mini Maglite. He could probably do it all without getting caught. He sat there thinking on it for five or ten minutes.

  “Dumb,” he finally said aloud. He dropped his car into gear and drove home.

  TWELVE

  Southeastside Man Killed in Apparent Robbery Attempt,” read the Star’s headline. Behr was at the Caro Group, in a waiting room that smelled of fine woodwork, leather sofas, and freshly brewed dark-roast coffee. The place smelled like money. He had a cup of the strong, perfect stuff on the table at his knee as he read the account of Aurelio’s death. The details were few in the short, vague piece, perhaps because police had nothing, or because that’s all they wanted to release. After reading it twice, Behr tossed the paper on the coffee table with disgust and waited.

  “Mr. Behr, they’re ready for you,” Ms. Swanton said. She wore heavy makeup, matronly business attire, and had her hair set in an old-fashioned helmet. She was as solid as a Sherman tank, and about as inviting. He sank into the carpet up to his ankles as he followed her down a hallway lined with certificates of civic recognition the company had received from the city. It sure didn’t feel like a Saturday in the office, as there were plenty of busy people around. He passed a room, door partially open, that had bakers’ racks full of the black, hard-sided cases that protected and transported high-end surveillance equipment. Infrared cameras, hardline wiretaps, relays, cell phone wiretaps, cell phone scramblers, night vision, voice stress analyzers—all the tools of the trade that he couldn’t afford. Some of them even worked some of the time.

  They neared a corner office that could only belong to the firm’s old bull, and when Ms. Swanton swung open the door, his impression was confirmed. Rising from a large mahogany desk that cost more than Behr’s car was a silver-haired man in an expensive charcoal gray suit. A second man, tall and slim, with curly rust-colored hair, stood as well. Slim wore an equally expensive navy chalk-stripe suit and held an alligator-skin binder under his arm.

  “Mr. Behr, meet Mr. Potempa,” Ms. Swanton intoned. “Can I get you gentlemen anything?”

  “We’re fine,” Karl Potempa said in a smooth baritone. Ms. Swanton nodded and left and no one spoke until the door closed behind her. In the meantime Behr looked around the office at framed handshake photos of Potempa and other men, including the governor, at various banquets and flesh-presses. Potempa’s old FBI badge was in a display case on the desk, which was also full of commemorative clocks and ashtrays from golf outings and law enforcement conferences.

  “I’m Curt Lundquist,” the unintroduced man in the navy suit began. “House counsel for Caro.”

  Behr shook his hand and realized he was being hired. It was common practice in private investigation, especially at the higher end, with clients who had money to burn on lawyers as well as investigators. When the lawyer did the hiring, anything the investigator found fell under attorney-client privilege and couldn’t be subpoenaed.

  “Have a seat,” Potempa hit him with the dulcet baritone again, “and thanks for coming.” Behr lowered himself into a slick, oxblood leather chair. “Do you know anything about our firm?”

  “Security. Investigation. I know you charge plenty,” Behr said, evoking no smiles across the desk.

  “Crisis and emergency management, executive protection, homeland security solutions, risk analysis, all that,” Potempa went on.

  “Color me impressed,” Behr said. “What can I do for you?”

  “We have two employees, investigators, named Ken Bigby and Derek Schmidt,” Lundquist said. “They’re from our Philly office, put up over at the Valu-Stay Suites while they’re in town.”

  “It’s part of a new program we’ve got going where we move guys around for six months at a time, so they develop a national overview,” Potempa informed him.

  “How’s that working?” Behr wondered.

  “Fine,” Potempa answered, but it didn’t sound like the truth. Behr waited for him to continue, already assuming he’d hear of some scam the two employees were involved in that they wanted to investigate with external personnel. Bill padding or misappropriation of company resources or some other kind of fraud was usually the order of the day.

  “Anyway,” Potempa went on, “Ken Bigby and Derek Schmidt… we can’t locate them.”

  Lundquist said, “They’re missing.”

  “Missing?”

  Potempa and Lundquist nodded. Behr waited for them to go on, but they didn’t.

  “Missing like they stopped showing up for work and went to a competitor with their files?” Behr asked, readjusting his assumptions. Potempa and Lundquist shrugged and shook their heads.

  “So you want me to jump in on a case they were working?” Behr asked.

  This time neither man moved or responded for a moment. “It’s not the case we need you to pursue at this time,” the lawyer said. A moment of silence spread in the room before Behr began to understand what they were looking for.

  “You want me to track down your people?” he asked, truly surprised.

  “That’s right,” Potempa said.

  “Why don’t you all do it?” Behr asked, pointing a thumb toward the outer offices. He had just walked past a bullpen full of shirt and tie investigators who looked rough and ready, not to mention a handful of doors that had the title “Case Manager” stenciled on them. The place was practically an FBI field office.

  “We don’t want to lose any more man-hours to it,” Potempa said evenly, the bar
itone hitching just slightly.

  “Just to find they lit out for Vegas or St. Louis or someplace?” Behr suggested.

  “That’s probably not it,” Potempa said, shifting in his seat. “Though we certainly hope it’s that basic …”

  Behr had been wondering how they had come to choose him in a town with four pages worth of private investigators listed online and in the phone book. Now he was able to put it together— it was a janitor job. He didn’t bother filtering his thoughts. “So while your regular guys are out billing three hundred an hour on real cases, you’ll put me on this at seventy-five.”

  “Something like that. I hope you don’t find it insulting. It’s a question of economics,” Potempa said. “And your reputation is investigative-strong and localized.”