Random Victim

by Michael A. Black

  So far she hadn’t said anything, but she hadn’t thrown up, either. Maybe she was tougher than he thought.

  Leroy pushed though the double doors, carrying a small baby by the feet. He swung the dead child up and dropped it on an adjacent steel table.

  “Got your next one, Doc,” he said.

  “Thank you, Leroy,” Sprinklien said. He was bending over the steel counter, writing on a plastic clipboard and talking alternately into a small pocket-sized tape recorder. After a few minutes he turned to them. Leal noticed that Hart hadn’t taken her eyes off the baby’s corpse.

  “A child abuse case,” Sprinklien said, nodding at the small body. “Those are always difficult. Now, which of my cases did you say you were interested in?”

  “The Miriam Walker case,” Leal said. “Lady judge, found in the water stuffed in a trunk in early July.”

  “You have the file, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Leal said, handing it to him.

  Sprinklien adjusted the glasses on his nose and opened the manila folder. As he read he motioned to Leroy to set up the baby for an autopsy. Leroy, who was also in green scrubs, adjusted a mask over his face and moved the cart with the child over toward one of the sinks. Hart seemed to recoil visibly.

  “Oh, yes, I do remember this one,” Sprinklien said. “She was quite a mess. We estimated that she’d been in the water a few months.”

  “She disappeared in April,” Leal said. “You listed the cause of death as a broken neck?”

  “Yes,” Sprinklien said, his voice trailing along absently.

  “Compression fracture of the third cervical vertebra…collapsed trachea…no water in the lungs…postmortem fractures to both legs…apparently to fit her into the specific container, what did you say it was? A trunk?”

  “Right.”

  Sprinklien grunted. He was a short man, and moved with a sidle, like some old-time comedian. “No sign of any other bruises, impossible to tell if she’d been sexually molested, and no semen was found.” He pursed his lips and gave the file back to Leal. “Now, unless you have some specific questions, we are a little behind today, and I do have plans for dinner tonight.”

  Dinner? Leal thought. Great appetizers around here. He shot a quick look at Hart, who was still silent.

  “Is there anything specific you could tell me about the way Miriam Walker died, Doctor?” Leal said. “We’re trying to play catch-up on this one and we’re under a lot of pressure.”

  Sprinklien went over to the body of the baby. Leroy had already split the torso open down the front, and was using a saw to open the skull. The doctor murmured an approval and stepped back over to the black man’s corpse. Then his face wrinkled and he stepped over to another body, that of an older white female.

  “This one’s not as heavy to move,” he said, wrapping his gloved fingers around the skull and lifting the head upward. “A compression fracture of the C-three, that’s right here.” His fingers touched an area just below the hairline. “I would venture to say that the damage most probably occurred as a result of the head being forced forward at the same time as the front of the neck was being compressed. That would account for the trauma to the trachea.”

  “Sort of like a sleeper hold in wrestling?” Leal asked.

  Sprinklien waddled over to the table with the baby on it. Leroy had the top of the skull off now and had started a gentle flow of water over the steel surface to wash away residual fluids and tissues.

  “Hulk Hogan once demonstrated a sleeper hold on a talk-show host,” Sprinklien said. “This was in the old glory days of professional wrestling, before Goldberg, the Rock, and McMahon. I would say that type of hold may very well have been used to break the victim’s neck.”

  “I didn’t know you were a WWE fan, Doc,” Leroy said.

  “Oh, yes,” Sprinklien said. “Never miss it, if I can help it. Great athletes, especially the women.” He grabbed the mask and began to pull it up over his face, but stopped. “Officer, I would very much like to continue our conversation, but I doubt that I could add anything more than what is already in the file. Unless you have specifics you wish me to speculate on?”

  “Just one, Doctor,” Leal said. “How difficult is it to break someone’s neck like that?”

  Sprinklien canted his head slightly and frowned. The tip of his tongue rolled over his lips, and he said, “I suspect it would take a fairly powerful individual. A masculine assailant, most likely.” He paused and smiled at Hart. “Unless, of course it was a female with remarkable physique, like your partner’s here. Young lady, have you ever thought of donating your body to science?”

  Leal cracked a smile, and glanced at Hart in time to see her blush. She compressed her lips, but said nothing.

  Sprinklien laughed as he pulled his mask up all the way. Leroy stepped away from the baby on the cart, the front of his scrubs wet with water and blood.

  “Don’t mind us, ma’am,” he said. “We got our own way of dealing with things here.”

  Hart looked away.

  Welcome to the morgue, Leal thought as he thanked the doctor and began heading for the door.

  The putrid smell seemed to linger on them even after they got outside into the sunshine. Leal unlocked his door, reached in and hit the unlocking button, and slipped off his sports jacket. Hart leaned over and spit, then got in the car.

  Well, at least she held it together, he thought.

  “You okay?” he asked. “I know this place is the pits. Sort of the ultimate in dehumanization.”

  Hart exhaled slowly before she answered him.

  “I hope I never get that callous,” she said, buckling her seat belt. “Slinging a baby around like so much meat. It was awful. Especially after all it suffered through in life.

  Why didn’t the doctor tell him to stop?”

  “I guess they don’t see them as humans anymore. No respect for the dead.” He tried a lame smile, but Hart just kept staring straight ahead. “A lot of it has to do with defense mechanisms. Keeping your sanity through black humor. But, believe me, if you start feeling sorry for all the victims you come across, all the tragic things you see on this job, you end up going nuts.”

  Hart gave him a sideways glance, which Leal detected as petulant. He realized that he must have sounded patronizing, although he hadn’t meant to. But he had been somewhat troubled at being assigned with her, wondering if she was tough enough… She’s so quiet, she doesn’t even talk the talk, he thought. How the hell am I supposed to know if she can walk the walk? She hadn’t paid her dues on the street, hadn’t earned her right to be there. Still, she was his partner, and she had “passed” his little test of surviving the trip to the morgue without getting sick.

  He pulled out into traffic and headed for the expressway. Maybe it’s time to start giving her the benefit of the doubt, he thought.

  The stench of the dead still stung his nostrils, hanging in the car and on them, having silently seeped into their clothes and hair. The light changed and they rode the rest of the way in silence.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Murphy’s Law

  Ryan sent Smith to check at the civic center downtown, where Miriam Walker had presided over civil litigations. “Make sure you call first,” Ryan had told him, “to make sure they’ll see you. You do know how to get down there, don’t you?” He’d been somewhat surprised at Smith’s expression, like the guy was pissed off or something. Christ, Ryan thought. Another prima donna. Next thing he’ll be calling Jessie Jackson on me. Ryan also wanted to check out that organization that Judge Walker had belonged to, Women Against Domestic Violence, but he figured that it might be better to send Hart on that one considering that most of the bitches in an organization like that probably hated anything with two legs and a penis.

  After waiting until Smith was gone, Ryan lit another cigarette and dialed the number for the State’s Attorney investigations section for the fifth time that morning. It rang several times before someone answered.

  “
Yeah, this is Sergeant Ryan in Administration,” he said, figuring the rank and the word administration would get the other person’s attention. “I’m trying to get ahold of Investigator Murphy. He around?”

  “Sure,” the voice said. Ryan heard the man call, “Hey, Murph, phone.”

  “Yeah, Murphy,” a voice at the other end said.

  “Hey, Murph, Tom Ryan here.”

  “Ryan, my boy, how the hell are ya?”

  “I’m up to my ears in shit. How about you?”

  Murphy laughed heartily, then said, “I figured I’d be hearing from you sooner or later. Heard you caught the Walker case.”

  “Right. You available for a drink over an early lunch?”

  “Always available for that kind of activity, as long as you’re buying.” Murphy said. “But the advice’ll be free. Be here waiting on you.”

  Ryan stood and slipped on his sports jacket, taking a long drag on the cigarette before stubbing it out. He knew this was one assignment he had to handle alone, because old Murph wouldn’t open up to just anyone, and if Smith had been along, forget it. He walked across the parking lot to the court building and flashed his badge at the deputies guarding the metal detectors and the entrance. He went up to the State’s Attorney’s office and nodded to the middle-aged clerk behind the counter.

  “Murphy in?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said, motioning with her thumb toward the back offices. Ryan went through the door and went down the hallway. He could hear the distinctive rasp of Murphy’s voice even before he got to the doorway. The big man looked up quickly, then winked as Ryan entered. Two younger white guys sat hunched in front of Murphy’s huge form, which was half saddling a large metal desk. He was heavyset with brownish-red hair slicked straight back from an expansive forehead. Wire-rimmed glasses with a slight tint rested on a nose that had obviously been broken more than once. He had a flaring mustache, and a sharp chin that seemed to jut out from a doughy dollop of flesh above his collar.

  “Hiya, Ryan,” Murphy said. His voice was husky and brassy-sounding. “Anybody else in the hall?”

  Ryan shook his head.

  Murphy swallowed and turned to the two seated men.

  “So like I was saying, this pissant state’s attorney wants me to do a fucking lineup, even though the victim’s already seen him when we picked him up. So I says all right, and goes to pick this broad up. We go downstairs in the lockup, but it’s Saturday and we have to wait for all the bond hearings to end. They’re getting ready to load all the dogs on the bus to take ’em to Twenty-sixth Street, and I gotta hold everything up for this damn lineup.” He paused to lick his lips. “But none of the other assholes will stand in the lineup for me. They’re all afraid they’ll get picked out and blamed for something.” He lapsed into a poor imitation of a black accent. “Not me’s, Officer. They’s might pick me.”

  The other two men listening laughed appreciably.

  “Time’s running short, and I still got a ton of work to do before I can get to happy hour, so I had to use one of what I call Murphy’s Laws. I improvised.” He smiled broadly. “I got a couple of the deputies to stand in the lineup for me.” Murphy paused for what seemed like a comedian going for dramatic effect. Ryan had heard the story before, so he knew what was coming. He’d worked with Murphy when they’d been in Vice.

  “Two white deputies, two black deputies, all in T-shirts and black uniform pants, and one nigger defendant in funky-ass blue jeans. The witness didn’t have no trouble picking the son of a bitch right out.”

  The two younger guys began laughing, and Murphy was, too, but he held up his hands. “And that ain’t the best part of it. Get this. At the prelim, this little faggot of a public defender asks me if I conducted a lineup, so I says, ‘Yes, sir, right in this very building, sir.’ The asshole don’t say nothing, either, leastwise not with me standing there glaring at him the whole time. He ended up copping to a plea and is now doing six years at Stateville. I thought about calling Guinness to list the first racially balanced lineup in Cook County history, but figured I’d better let it ride. After all, I’m just here to serve and protect.”

  He stood up and brushed his hands together, as if expelling a coating of dust, then extended an open palm at Ryan.

  “How you been doing, Tommy, my boy? And, more importantly, what can I do you out of?”

  “I need some of your advice and expertise,” Ryan said.

  “Murphy’s Law: If you can’t fuck it or eat it, piss on it.”

  His two straight men laughed again, as if on cue.

  Ryan realized he had to get Murphy away from his audience or he’d be in for a long afternoon.

  “You eat yet?” he asked.

  “No, I haven’t,” Murphy said, walking around to the chair. He grabbed a garish glen plaid sport coat that could have been powered by a battery from the rack and slipped it on, pausing to wink at the other guys. “In fact, I just might be tied up on an important investigation for the rest of the afternoon, boys.”

  At Heaven’s Gate, Ryan waited until Murphy had downed his shot and was working on the beer chaser before asking about the Walker case. The reflection of the big man’s face soured visibly in the mirror behind the bar.

  “Anything you can tell me?” Ryan asked. “I’d like to avoid covering any dead ends.”

  Murphy snorted as he shook his massive head and set the mug of beer down on the bar.

  “That whole case is a dead end,” he said.

  “You and Roberts like the husband for it at all?”

  “We checked him out,” Murphy said, after taking a long, slow drink from the mug. “His alibi checked out. He was at some kind of meeting bullshit, or something.”

  Ryan lit a cigarette and signaled the bartender for a refill. His own shot glass was still half-full.

  Murphy smiled. “Trouble was, we had to run everything by the brass before we could make a move. Like they was afraid we’d step in some shit or something. Who you got in charge of you guys?”

  “Paul Brice.”

  “I always got along with him good, until that case, that is.” The bartender set another mug and shot in front of Murphy. The big man smiled and sipped the new beer. “Ahhh, nothing like the foam when you first get it from the tap.” After licking his mustache, he continued. “He was directing us, too. Me and Roberts wanted to check out different angles, but all Brice wanted to do was keep checking on chop shops and carjackers.”

  “Because of the car disappearing?”

  Murphy picked up the shot glass, held it to the lights, then nodded. He swallowed half of the amber liquid, exhaled heavily, then took a second more copious sip. “That’s one thing I never knew about Brice. He’s like a fucking bulldog once he gets something set in his mind.” Murphy set the glass down and held up his open palms on either side of his temples. “Like he was wearing blinders. Only could see one angle. We was running down leads on every fucking Caddie recovered in four states. Never found the damn thing. Like it disappeared off the face of the earth, or something.” He picked up the shot and finished the rest of the whiskey.

  “How about the insurance angle?” Ryan asked. He sipped his own drink gingerly. He still had to report back to the office for a final check before he left. “The lady judge have anything other than the standard policy?”

  Murphy shook his head, sloshing some beer around in his mouth.

  “Just the usual hundred grand,” he said. “And her old man donated half of it to that domestic violence thingamajig that she belonged to.” He squinted at Ryan through the smoke. “Of course, what’s a measly hundred g’s to some rich, fucking CEO? He probably farts more money than that.”

  Ryan smirked, then leaned closer.

  “So tell me, Murph, how did you see it?”

  Murphy took a long swallow of beer, holding the mug up so that the last bit of the foam drained into his mouth. After setting it down on the polished surface he forced a loud belch, then grinned at Ryan.

 
; “Shit, I been on the job long enough to see it the way your boss tells you to see it,” he said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, if Brice seen it as a carjacking gone bad, then that was that.” One of the older regulars was at the jukebox and selected “One For My Baby (And One More For the Road).” Sinatra’s voice filled the bar area. Murphy smirked and pointed to the empties on the bar. “They’re playing my song,” he said, rubbing his index finger and thumb together.

  Ryan rolled his eyes, then motioned for the bartender to set Murphy up again.

  “Christ, Murphy, I got an ex-wife and two kids to support.”

  “Here’s to the wonderful institution of marriage,” Murphy said, lifting the new shot glass in an exaggerated toast. He drained it in one protracted swallow.

  Ryan looked at him carefully.

  “Jesus, and I thought I could drink.”

  Murphy laughed and picked up the beer. “Every copper thinks he can until he comes up against the master. It’s one of Murphy’s Laws.”

  “Why’d Brice play it so cautious?” Ryan asked.

  “Ah, you gotta remember that we were dealing with a bunch of judges and lawyers to begin with,” Murphy said. He gripped the mug, but didn’t drink. “I think Brice was afraid somebody’d step on his dick. He wanted to feel out every move, and it just worked against us, that’s all.”

  Ryan considered this.

  “So did you check out the husband real close or not?”

  “Yeah,” Murphy said, holding up his hand and wiggling it slightly. “Me and Roberts liked that angle, but like I said, the guy had an airtight alibi for the night of the disappearance. We tried to do some backtracking, but you gotta remember that it first came in as a missing person case. Plus we never even got to check the original crime scene. By the time we got handed it, the damn thing was colder than a dead mackerel.” His voice sounded defensive. “So all things considered maybe Brice’s approach wasn’t so wrong after all. He’s methodical, I give him that.” He drank from the mug and leaned his arms on the bar. “As it turned out, Roberts had a heart attack, and they switched me outta dicks because we couldn’t get nowhere. And then they ended up shelving the damn case anyway until all this stink got stirred up by that Shay asshole. Vote for me and I’ll solve the fucking Walker case,” he said with a mimicking lilt to his voice. Murphy turned and leaned forward, so close that Ryan could smell the other man’s boozy breath.