Collateral Damage

by Austin S. Camacho

  “Isn't he? I guess I just assumed...”

  “What, you think this is like baseball? You fail in the majors so you go down to triple A ball?” Lee stepped in close to stare into Hannibal's lenses and suddenly, he looked exactly like what Hannibal expected a coach to look like, a mama grizzly bear protecting her cubs. “Those guys swinging a bat, they play for money. These guys are different.”

  “They really don’t get paid? How do you recruit them?”

  “Don’t have to, brother,” Lee said. “They find us. They play for the love of the game, something you couldn’t possibly understand. There's more than four hundred of these little teams around the country you know. Minor league teams in forty different leagues like the Diamond league. And not only don’t these guys get paid to play, they have to pay their dues to get on a team. Plus they buy the gear. Most of the time, they have to pay for their own transportation to and from games.”

  “I feel like an idiot,” Hannibal said. “That’s why you have to practice at night.”

  “Yeah. You got to have a job to be able to get the chance to come out here and grunt, and sweat, and get run into by another bunch of guys who love this game.”

  * * *

  When his car was moving again, Hannibal pushed a CD into the player. After his football lesson, Hannibal needed noise. Only when he was alone did the serious rock and roll come out. He grew up on this music thanks to the American Forces Radio and Television Service but, for reasons too hard to think about, he stuck with R&B or jazz in public. But the truth was, he could think more clearly surrounded by Sammy Hagar’s power chords. He didn’t want to believe yesterday’s murder was in any way related to the one that cost Dean his parents, but if the acts were as similar as Dean thought, it seemed likely they were. It would help to know more about the older killing from a more objective source.

  Once on the Beltway heading south and east, Hannibal set his cruise control at seventy and pressed a preset on his car’s hands-free phone. Within a minute he had Cindy’s voice filling the car with him.

  “So do you get a consultant’s fee?” he asked her.

  “I’ll take it out in trade, lover. What do you need?”

  “How hard will it be to get the records of Francis Edwards’ trial?” he asked.

  “Depends on what kind of detail you’re looking for.”

  The long ribbon of asphalt stretched out before him, and it would have been easy for Hannibal to think he had all the time in the world. “Well, what I really need is a transcript of the court proceedings. I want to hear the other side of this case.”

  On the other end of the phone he heard a familiar huff. He could see Cindy in his mind, jaw forward, top lip curled in, blowing a puff of air upward. “Right,” she said. “You don’t have the date of this event, do you? Or happen to know for sure where it took place? How about the prosecuting attorney’s name?”

  Hannibal dodged a tractor-trailer and eased down into the right lane. His exit wasn’t that far off. “What I know, baby, is that Francis Edwards was convicted of manslaughter. That her lawyer raised the specter of another woman and must have convinced the jury it was a crime of passion. That little Dean Edwards at nine years old was forced to testify against his own mother in open court after he’d just lost his father. And that the murder victim Dean just saw yesterday looked very much the way his father did when Dean found him.”

  For a while Hannibal heard nothing but Steve Perry’s crystalline tenor as Journey eased through Open Arms, but he knew she was just putting it all together. He knew his woman well enough that he almost heard her answer, “I’ll see what I can do,” before she said it.

  “Knew I could count on you, darling. Think you can get away for dinner? I don’t expect much movement on this case in any great hurry.”

  “Do you know how much working time I’ve missed since you started this case?”

  “Yeah,” Hannibal said. “You might get down under eighty hours this week. Dinner?”

  He heard a smile behind her sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  * * *

  Driving through his neighborhood, Hannibal was still struck by the study in contrast. The boarded up buildings of Southeast Washington DC were painted a rainbow of pastel colors, as if someone wanted to make sure they would be able to find their way back to the right abandoned tenement. Men and women, almost all black, walked the streets in the most expensive designer clothing or in rags, neither group noticing the other’s mode of dress. Just a few blocks away in one direction, the Navy Yard handled that service’s administrative business. A few blocks the other way, the grand buildings of the Smithsonian Institute hosted millions of tourists every year.

  Hannibal pulled into his parking space, the one right across the street that no one else ever seemed to park in. In the late summer sun his block looked a bit cleaner than the surrounding area. He knew his neighbors were working class people, struggling to make a living, but it always seemed to him that a bubble existed around his building that separated him and his neighbors from the surrounding depressed area.

  As he climbed the front steps to the stoop, his mind wandered backward down his life’s trail to the days when he and a handful of new friends first walked into this three-story brick monstrosity that had become a crack house. With Sarge and the others, he had driven every sort of human garbage out of there: drug dealers, winos, the lot. And for reasons still beyond his own understanding, he had stayed there to make a place for himself.

  The outer door stayed unlocked during the day. As he pushed inside, the glaring sun was replaced by a shadowed darkness some might find gloomy, but which he always found somehow comforting. For a moment he was undecided if he would go left to his apartment or right to his office.

  The decision was taken from him by a huge fist that closed on his right shoulder and shoved him into his office door. The frames of Hannibal’s Oakleys dug into his cheek and the blackness deepened for a second.

  “Where is she?” It was Isaac’s beer-laden breath in his ear, Isaac’s hand on his right shoulder, Isaac’s elbow pinning his body to the door. The pressure kept him from catching a good deep breath and his feet could barely gain purchase on the floor. But the brief flash of fear he felt quickly transformed into anger.

  “I called all the shelters.” Isaac said. “They wouldn’t tell me nothing. I been to the police. Where the hell is she?”

  Hannibal’s right hand formed a claw. With stiffened fingers he snapped back toward the voice behind him. The strike wasn’t very hard, but it didn’t have to be. Isaac released him and backed off. Hannibal turned to face his huge attacker, who stood with one hand pressed to his eyes.

  “I guess she just got tired of taking your shit,” Hannibal said, drawing himself up into a fighting stance. “And frankly, asshole, so have I.”

  Isaac Ingersoll was very big, very strong, and quite fast for a man his size. But Hannibal had been kickboxing since high school and right then was filled with the kind of rage that comes when frustration gets overlaid with a layer of indignation. It was quick, and it was ugly.

  A series of jabs flashed between Isaac’s upraised hands until blood from his nose was running freely down onto his lip and chin. Then Hannibal got serious and started mixing it up with side kicks to his opponent’s right thigh. Isaac swung. Hannibal dodged and attacked - left, right, kick - until Isaac finally just stopped trying and stepped back absorbing the punishment.

  Finally a sharp wheel kick caused Isaac’s knee to buckle and he fell against the wall and sank into a crouch. Hannibal raised his fist to drive a right cross down into Isaac’s face and finish it. The big man’s eyes never closed or turned away and that was what made Hannibal pause.

  Isaac’s injured blue eyes looked up into Hannibal’s face and he moaned, “Where is she?” in the voice of a child on the verge of tears. Try as he might, Hannibal could not see a vicious wife-beater. He was looking at a lost boy who needed his mother. He saw a brief flash of Dean huddled on a bed
and recognized his facial expression mirrored here. With a sigh he dropped his fists, suddenly ashamed of the blood on his gloves.

  “Come into my office. And I swear to God if you give me any more trouble I’ll kick your big ass.”

  Isaac meekly followed and dropped into the seat he was directed to. Hannibal turned on the cold water in the kitchen, soaked a towel, wrung it out, and gave it to Isaac to clean himself up with. Then he sat behind his desk.

  “Why did you come here?”

  Isaac looked up into his own head before answering, and Hannibal got the feeling this was a man who just did not express himself well in words. “To get your help. To find my Janet. You could make her come back to me.”

  “She’s not your Janet, Isaac,” Hannibal said. “She’s a grown woman, her own woman. I can’t make her do anything and neither can you. And she’s just decided she doesn’t have to accept being beaten up, understand?”

  Isaac nodded, and at that minute he did appear to understand that much. His eyes cast around as if he was searching for the solution to that problem. It occurred to Hannibal that the man could only express himself one way.

  “Do you love her?” he asked before he knew he would.

  “I love her,” Isaac answered, “as much as I know how. I need her. I can’t live without her. What can I do? What do I have to do?”

  The telephone’s bell jangled Hannibal’s nerves from the base of his skull downward. Without thinking he snatched it up to stop the noise. His eyes widened in surprise, mostly because he did not believe in coincidences.

  “Some news for you Hannibal,” Janet said. “And not all good. There are more than nine hundred current license plates in Nevada that start with 902. But I was able to narrow it down some.”

  Hannibal considered how badly he wanted to hear what Janet had to say, but only for a second. “Janet, would you hold on a second? There’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”

  * * *

  Janet hesitated for just a beat before climbing into Hannibal’s car. He pulled away from the DMV building and headed toward nearby Springfield Mall. Before he passed the first traffic light he asked the question he’d been sitting on since he handed the phone to her husband.

  “Do you love him?”

  “What the hell kind of a question is that?” Janet asked. In just a few days she had come completely out of her thin shell and was showing the self-confidence of a successful professional woman.

  “The kind of question I need answered before we get there,” Hannibal said. “The kind of question that will tell me what it is I should be trying to do.”

  He kept his eyes on the road, but he felt or sensed Janet’s face going through a range of expressions. The question took in a wide variety of concepts, emotions and ideas. It always does. People don’t usually notice that, but Janet appeared very aware of it right then. Ultimately the answer came. “Yes.”

  “He answered faster,” Hannibal said. “He needs you, Janet, and I think maybe you need that too.”

  “I’m afraid for my son.”

  “Your husband needs help,” Hannibal said. “He says he’s willing to get it, if you’ll stick by him. I just want you to talk face to face.”

  “I’ve already said okay to that,” Janet said. “Now, do you want to hear about the license plate?”

  “We’re here. Hold it for when we’re inside.”

  Hannibal had not chosen Mozzarella’s because of its cuisine, although he was partial to its version of commercialized Italian food. Nor was its reasonable price range a factor. What mattered was its proximity to Janet’s job, and the fact that it would be pretty full at lunchtime. Some people were a lot less likely to misbehave in a crowded place and Hannibal had judged Isaac to be one of them.

  Lighting was dim for a lunch place, perhaps to mitigate the bright reds and yellows accenting the cuisine. Garlic butter and oregano were the dominant aromas. Conversation was low but constant, creating a pleasing background hum of white noise. Janet hesitated once more when they came within sight of the booth. Isaac stood as she approached. While Hannibal wore his black work suit and Janet a neat charcoal skirt suit, Isaac was dressed in jeans and a knit shirt. Still, Hannibal noticed that at one time or another, every woman in the room stole a glance at the big, well-muscled blonde.

  Hannibal eased Janet into one side of the booth, then subtly shoved Isaac into the other side and sat beside him. They ordered quickly and tried to settle into being comfortable in what was by definition an uncomfortable situation.

  “So,” Hannibal said before any other conversation could start, “more than nine hundred plates that could belong to our murderer. But you said you were able to narrow it down? How?”

  “Well, I actually went down the entire list checking make and model.” Janet’s smile returned as she spoke. She so wanted to be useful. Maybe she needed to be needed as much as Isaac needed her. “First I eliminated all the cars I knew were compacts. You said it was a bigger vehicle. Well that got us to six hundred twenty-five cars.”

  “Pretty smart,” Hannibal said. He had wanted Isaac to see her in a professional capacity before they talked. Maybe he’d gain a little more respect for her.

  “Then I had another thought and went through again, striking all the trucks and vans,” Janet said. “That brought the number down to three hundred twelve. Still a lot of people to check but then I got daring.”

  Now Hannibal was grinning. “You are quite the detective. Now what do you mean by daring?”

  “Well, you said it was a man driving, right?” Janet didn’t stop when the waiter arrived and placed their food in front of them. “So I figured the car probably wasn’t registered to a woman. Scratching those cut it down to two hundred nine. Nevada has a lot of unmarried women you know.”

  “That will make a big difference if this comes down to a real search,” Hannibal said. “I sure appreciate your effort.” He gestured for Janet and Isaac to eat, and dug into his own food. The smoked sausage stuffing his ravioli was bursting with that flavor that can only come from charcoal, and it blended perfectly with the sweet marinara sauce. He watched his two booth mates eyeing each other cautiously while he ate. Isaac was first to speak.

  “So how have you been Janet? And how is my Nicky?”

  “We are both fine, thank you,” Janet said, not looking up. “I can take care of myself. And my son.”

  Little more was said until Hannibal finished his lunch. Isaac looked toward him several times, as if waiting for him to make something happen. Janet’s eyes wandered that way a few times as well. When Hannibal did put his fork down he turned so he could see them both easily.

  “All right, you two, I’ve got to get going,” he said, which drew startled looks from both Isaac and Janet. “Janet, before I go, Isaac and I discussed some ground rules and I wanted to get your agreement to them. First, he accepts the separation and will never try to make you go home with him. Right Isaac?” Isaac nodded, and Hannibal continued. “In exchange you agree not to refuse to see him any day he wants to spend some time with you, like today. You pick the place, you say how long, but you agree to see him and talk to him. Okay?”

  Janet took a deep breath and bit her lower lip, but nodded her head as well. “Fine. Now I discussed with Isaac the idea that he needs some counseling for his problem of hitting people he loves. He can do that and I think maybe get his problem fixed if you give him some support. What do you say? I mean, is there anything else that makes it unacceptable to live with him as man and wife?”

  Janet’s eyes widened like a doe startled by a flashlight at night. “Well, yes, that’s basically it.”

  “Well good. You two sit here and work out a plan to do what has to be done. I got the check. Here’s cab fare back to work. Like I said, I have to run. But I’m sure you’ll call me tonight to tell me how it went.”

  “Yes, you can bet on that,” Janet said, her face sending overlapping messages of hate and thanks. “But wouldn’t it be better if you stuck ar
ound to hear for yourself?”

  Hannibal had an answer prepared, but his phone saved him the trouble. Smiling, he pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open. The smile dropped from his face instantly and his mind shut out everything but the voice in his ear.

  “Calm down Bea. Where are you?”

  “The garage apartment,” Bea said through tears Hannibal could almost see through the telephone. “I came to pick up some of Dean’s things and, and, Hannibal they’ve found the murder weapon.”

  -14-

  Hannibal’s tires squealed when he reached the driveway. Only pure luck had allowed him to avoid a ticket on his way to the Kitteridge house. He ran through the door and took the steps three at a time until he stood face to face with Stan Thompson in the modest living room. Bea sat on the sofa, alone, still crying.

  “Would you mind showing me what you got?” Hannibal asked, fists on hips.

  Thompson looked down at him and grimaced. “You know, for someone who has no official standing in this case, you sure do turn up with a lot of questions.”

  “Just trying to keep you from embarrassing yourself, chief,” Hannibal said. “Just thought it would be nice to see the supposed murder weapon. I know I have no rights here, just asking.”

  “What the hell, over there,” Thompson said with the arrogance of the man who thinks he has all the answers. The weapon lay on the coffee table where anyone in the room could examine it, in a simple ziplock bag. Hannibal squatted beside the table for a closer look.

  It was the right tool for the job. A genuine Marine Corps issue Ka-bar fighting knife. Marines started getting them in nineteen forty-two and their popularity never flagged because they were tough knives made for combat. This one was the regulation size, a little less than a foot long, with about six and a half inches of that being the parkerized blade. It retained most of its black coating, except of course for its glittering razor edge. The dark brown stains up under the hand guard were certainly dried blood, and he could guess whose. The handle’s compacted leather discs were stained unevenly dark, from absorbing the sweat from the hand of its owner, he assumed.