“I can prioritize,” responded the detective.
“Your partner’s wayward.” The inspector pointed across the room. “The big black guy with the bandages.”
Bettinger looked in the indicated direction. Sitting at a warped desk was a very large, well-built black fellow who had an olive green suit, a nose like a bull, and white gauze on his face and neck. His small eyes were focused on a computer that had survived the nineties.
“His name’s Dominic Williams.”
Bettinger faced his boss. “Wayward?”
“He broke some laws and got some bad press, so I reprimanded him and his partner—turned ’em into corporals. I think—I hope—Dominic’s a fly and not a hornet. You know the difference?”
“A fly pinches a bag of weed after a bust. A hornet plants evidence, leans on civilians for money, and shoots people he doesn’t like.”
“Right.” Zwolinski scratched his silver pelt. “You don’t seem like an asshole.”
“Give me time.”
“You’re with him now. Don’t let him get away with anythin’—even fly stuff.”
“I’ll be strict.”
“Go over these.” The inspector pointed at a stack of folders that was a five-inch edifice. “Start with the case on top—a murder that turned into multiple acts of necrophilia.”
The detective leaned over and claimed the documents. “Whoever did that isn’t going back to his wife for missionary twice a week.”
“Right.” Zwolinski gestured at the floor. “Get to work.”
VII
Thanks for the Epilogue
Carrying files that weighed more than a lunch, Bettinger walked toward Dominic Williams. The seated officers whom he passed were so engrossed in their work that they did not even seem to notice his shadow drift across their desks. Soon, the detective arrived at his destination, where he tucked the collection of documents under his left arm, removed his gloves, and extended his right hand.
“Jules Bettinger.”
Dominic glanced at the proffered appendage as if it might spit venom. “You a real bloodhound or IA?”
“The earlier.”
“Sounds like you went to college.” This remark was not a compliment.
“And graduate school.”
“You look like a fuckin’ eclipse.”
The detective lowered his hand and dropped his files upon the big fellow’s desk. “What’ve you got on Elaine James?”
“Who?”
“Murder victim found in a shop on Ganson Street. Sodomized postmortem. Repeatedly.”
“White chick?”
“Yeah.”
Dominic’s brow wrinkled, and the bandages on his face migrated toward its center. His thought process appeared to involve a lot of muscles.
“Got anything other than her skin color?” inquired Bettinger.
The big fellow shrugged.
“Seen the body?”
“Yeah.” Dominic pointed at the file.
“Just the pictures?”
“There’re a bunch of ’em.”
“Let’s go to the morgue.”
“Go ahead. I’m on this here—” The big fellow slapped his computer, which displayed the mug shots of two young white thugs.
Bettinger fingered the Elaine James file. “This is our priority.”
“‘Our’? We’re engaged?”
“Inspector Zwolinski partnered us. And to be clear about things, you’re a corporal, and I’m a detective.”
Fury flashed in Dominic’s small eyes, and Bettinger half expected him to launch a fist.
A moment later, the big fellow calmed himself and shook his head. “Nigga is provocative.”
“You know where the morgue is?”
“I know where the fuckin’ morgue is. I’ve worked Victory for—”
“Shut off your computer and let’s go.”
Bettinger slid his hands back into his gloves, picked up the Elaine James file, and walked toward the exit, followed by his new partner.
* * *
The big fellow settled in the driver’s seat of his silver luxury car while the detective closed the passenger door. Purring, the vehicle glided through the lot.
“I won’t even bother,” Dominic remarked as they passed by the little yellow hatchback.
The silver car sped east on Fifty-sixth and turned south on Princess Drive, a wide road that paralleled Summer but was in far worse condition. Neither man said anything during the course of the twenty-minute ride. Soon, the vehicle landed in the parking lot of the John the Baptist Hospital of Greater Victory, which was a large mint green building. A three-minute walk brought the policemen to a lobby of the same color, a place that was inhabited by overweight attendants, groaning oldsters, and the smell of urine. The pair proceeded to a bank of elevators, and as Dominic stabbed a cracked button with an index finger, Bettinger notice the nine bullet holes that were in the ceiling directly above the registry desk.
A bell chimed, and an old Hispanic woman in a hospital gown ambled out of the lift, rolling a metal stand from which depended two bags of rose-hued fluid. The big fellow walked past her, as did the detective, who looked back and saw the patient’s exposed spine.
Dominic fingered the button for the sixth floor, and the door closed, squeaking across old grooves. The elevator then launched itself into the air.
Bettinger clasped a rail, steadying himself. “Morgue’s on six?”
“Nope. Just wanna see my grandma.”
“You don’t seem like the type.”
“Who’d visit his grandma?”
“Who’d have one that wanted him to visit.”
“Asshole.”
“Morgue’s on six?”
The big fellow nodded his head, and the bell chimed.
Together, the policemen exited the elevator and walked down a badly lighted vanilla corridor that had a wrinkled floor. Bettinger stumbled on a warped piece of linoleum and quickly regained his balance.
Curvature appeared on Dominic’s chin. “Mind the floor.”
“Thanks for the epilogue.”
The pair passed through three lighted patches and stopped outside a closed wooden door, which had a placard that read MEREDITH WONG. No letters followed the woman’s name, and Bettinger unhappily surmised that the person who handled corpses in a city with a terrifying murder rate was a coroner and not a medical examiner.
“What?” inquired a hostile female.
The big fellow flung the door and strode inside, followed by his partner.
Perched on a stool behind a tall table was Meredith Wong, a plump Asian woman who wore a smock and a frown. “Make an appointment like everybody else,” she said as a guy in a rubber monster suit chased a blond girl across the screen of a black-and-white television.
“You don’t look busy,” said Dominic, pointing at the movie.
“I’m on my break.”
“Take it later.”
“Get the hell out of my office.”
Bettinger interposed and extended a hand toward the coroner. “I’m Detective—”
“Make an appointment.”
“We’re on official business, and we need to see the body of a murder victim.”
“I’m watching a monster chase a girl through the Bayou, and I need to see if she gets eaten.”
Bettinger swallowed his irritation and framed a polite response. “What time should we come back?”
Meredith Wong appraised the rubber monster’s abilities. “An hour.”
As the policemen left the room, the blonde screamed, and the coroner cackled.
* * *
Bettinger walked across the hospital lobby toward a vending machine that looked like it had been attacked by a jaguar. He stopped and peered into its guts, which were empty, except for some fiber bars. Stomach growling, the detective glanced at the big fellow, who was in the far corner on a vinyl couch, thumbing a text message into his cell phone.
“Is that diner any good?”
“
What?” inquired Dominic, without looking up.
“Is that diner any good? Claude’s?”
“Disgustin’.”
“Where do you eat around here?”
“Claude’s.”
“Even though it’s bad?”
“They’ve got two dishes that won’t kill you.”
“Which ones?”
The big fellow shrugged.
Pulling on gloves, Bettinger walked toward the exit. “Let’s go.”
“Let me finish this.”
“Now, Corporal. We need to be back for our appointment with Wong.”
Dominic continued to type as he unstuck himself from the couch. “‘Bettinger’ has two t’s, right?”
“Yeah.”
“‘Fuckface’ is one word or two?”
The policemen exited the hospital, entered the silver car, shared eighteen minutes of rolling silence, and landed in front of Claude’s Hash House. Striding toward the squat red diner, Bettinger looked through its front window and saw a rotating cake display, six hunched customers, and a lot of empty seats. A bell jingled as he opened the door.
“Table for two?” inquired a cheerful, six-foot-tall blond woman who looked like a marathon runner.
“We’re not sitting together,” replied the detective.
Dominic strode past his partner toward the rear of the diner. “I’ll be at my usual.”
The waitress led Bettinger to a corner booth, where he sat on cracked plaid upholstery and received a menu.
“I’m Chris,” said the woman. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Coffee, please. And what’s the best thing on the menu?”
“Fried shrimp. Or the smothered pork chops with red-eye gravy, though lots of people like the snoot.”
“Snoot?”
Chris tapped her nose. “Pig snout—it’s deep-fried. Comes on a toasted bun with some barbecue sauce.”
There was a gurgling event inside of Bettinger’s guts. “When you fry a snout it becomes a snoot?”
The woman wrinkled her face. “I’m from Michigan.”
“I’ll take the pork chops.”
“Side of snoot?”
“Snootless.”
Chris flashed an easy grin and vanished into the kitchen.
Three minutes later, the food arrived. Its near-instantaneous delivery caused Bettinger to suspect that the cook was a guy with a microwave, but when he examined the steaming pile, it looked and smelled delicious. His subsequent oral investigation proved to be disappointing (the flavors were dull, and the pork was threaded with gristle), but the food was edible.
As the detective neared the bone of his third and final chop, the black luxury car that he had earlier seen outside of the precinct pulled into the lot and spread its wings, yielding the redheaded cop named Perry and his pockmarked Asian contemporary, Huan. The pair entered the diner, walked directly to the back, and sat across from Dominic, who drank a chocolate milkshake.
Something flashed outside the diner, and Bettinger returned his attention to the window. A gray luxury car had landed in the lot, and its driver was approaching the door. The fellow was a silver-haired white man who had a nose like a scavenger’s beak, black sunglasses, and a navy blue suit. As he passed by the waitress, the detective was able to estimate his height, which was no more than three inches over five feet.
Quick strides carried the diminutive man to the back of the diner, where Dominic slid into the bench, opening up a seat. The new arrival claimed the space, tilted his head forward, and began a quiet conversation. Nobody was smiling.
Bettinger sipped his coffee, watching a meeting that he suspected had been arranged by his partner’s text messages. Almost every statement made by Dominic or Perry or Huan was followed by a look at the diminutive fellow, and it was clear that he was someone to whom they deferred.
A glance at the clock on the wall told the detective that he and his partner needed to return to the hospital for their meeting with the coroner. After paying the bill, he rose from his bench and strode toward the back of the diner.
“Corporal Williams.”
The diminutive fellow climbed out of the booth, opening up a passageway for Dominic, who then slid his bumper across the plaid. Bettinger nodded his head at Perry and Huan.
“Don’t tug that ‘Corporal’ line too hard,” the doughy redhead advised, “or you’ll pull in a great white.”
“A black one,” added the pockmarked Asian.
The small man slid a steak knife into his coffee and stirred. His face was pink and bone white, discolored by vitiligo, and his eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses.
“Out of spoons?” inquired Bettinger.
No response issued from the mottled man. Metal clinked against porcelain as he stirred the black beverage.
Bettinger turned around and strode across the diner, followed by Dominic. Outside, they proceeded toward the silver vehicle.
The detective eyed the big fellow’s reflection. “Was that little guy your previous partner?”
Dominic shrugged.
“Your memory isn’t so good.”
VIII
Some Pairs
Flickering fluorescent lights illuminated the nude corpse of Elaine James, which lay on a plank that Meredith Wong had seconds ago withdrawn from the morgue wall.
Bettinger surveyed the victim. Her pale body was covered with abrasions and iridescent bruises (especially around her neck), and all of the flesh had been rubbed off of her knees, exposing her off-white patellae. Sitting in the middle of her gasping face was a crushed nose that was the color of an eggplant.
The twenty-seven-year-old woman had died in agony.
Dominic looked up from his cell phone. “Her implants are still goin’ strong.”
“Why’s she in minus?” asked the detective.
The coroner was confused by the policeman’s question.
“Why is she in negative temperature?” clarified Bettinger. “Frozen?”
“Nobody’s claimed her yet.” The woman pointed at a chart on the wall. “She gets two weeks before cremation. Standard procedure.”
“We need to—” Something snagged the detective’s attention. “What’s that under her tongue?”
Dominic and Meredith Wong looked at the corpse’s open mouth, and Bettinger switched on his penlight. The beam shone past smashed teeth and upon the bottom tip of her tongue, illuminating a tattoo of four inverted teardrops.
“Hold on.” The coroner walked over to a sink, filled a paper cup with warm water, and returned to the body. Then she brought the beverage to the dead woman’s mouth.
“Wait,” cautioned Bettinger. “You don’t want to crack—”
Meredith Wong upended the cup, and the corpse hissed, fog billowing from its mouth and nostrils. The coroner then donned a latex glove, seized the tongue, and pulled. Frozen blood crackled.
The detective leaned closer, shining his penlight. Tattooed to the underside of Elaine James’s tongue was a hairy phallus that squirted four teardrop-shaped bullets.
Meredith Wong contemplated the penis as if she were a math professor. “Hmmm. Didn’t see this.”
Bettinger looked at Dominic. “You’ve seen a mark like this before?”
“No.”
The detective was not convinced that the big fellow was telling the truth. “Any idea what it might mean?”
“Dick was her favorite flavor?”
“Be polite,” said Bettinger. “And take a picture of it with that phone you’re so excited about.”
“Whatever.”
The detective returned his attention to the coroner. “We’ll need to do an autopsy.”
“Because she has a tattoo?” asked Meredith Wong, annoyed.
“Because she was murdered.” Bettinger let his words settle inside the woman’s head. “We need to get evidence before you incinerate her.”
“I already swabbed semen from her vagina and rectum, and the cause of death is known.” The coroner pointed
to the iridescent, bluish-black indentation that encircled the corpse’s neck. “She asphyxiated.”
The detective was surprised that the woman knew such a big word. “You’ve performed forensic autopsies?”
“Of course I have. Who else would?”
Bettinger thought, A qualified medical examiner, but did not voice his inflammatory response. “When can you have the body ready for autopsy?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“What time?”
“Ten thirty.”
Dominic looked over. “There aren’t any movies?”
“Muzzle that.” Bettinger returned his attention to Meredith Wong. “We’ll be here at ten thirty.”
“Make it eleven.”
* * *
Bettinger scanned the Elaine James file as the elevator carried him and his partner toward the lobby. Locating the address, he said, “We’re going to six twenty-four Ganson Street.”
“That’s where they found the body?”
“So you were a detective.”
“You got any idea where that is? Ganson Street?”
“My driver does.”
The elevator chimed like a bell in a boxing match, and the policemen entered the lobby, where an elderly black man kicked the vending machine in a futile attempt to free one of the fiber bars.
Dominic pulled a few quarters from his pocket and gave them to the oldster, who was too angry to thank him.
IX
A Big, Educated Maybe
The silver car sped west on Fifty-sixth Street. Twenty minutes later, it carried its two silent inhabitants from the edge of the lower-middle-class area into a dilapidated region that resembled the one through which Bettinger had driven earlier that morning. Poverty surrounded the policemen, and overhead, the sun hid behind dirty clouds.
“What’s this part called?”
“The Toilet.”
The detective saw an abandoned building that was covered with so much graffiti that its original color was now a fable. “This whole area’s like this?”
“Gets worse up north.”
“That’s possible?”
“Very.”
“What’s that part called?”
Mean Business on North Ganson Street Page 4