Welcome to Cooper

by Tariq Ashkanani

  A cardboard box landed on my desk. A young officer smiled at me. “That’s everything we’ve got on the Foster murders, sir,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

  The man nodded. “It’s Officer Gordon, sir.”

  “Levine. Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise. How you finding your first week?”

  “Ask me again once we’ve caught this guy.”

  Once Gordon had left, I popped open the lid and peered inside the box. A couple of manila folders and some plastic bags. The box was less than half full. Three murders clearly didn’t mean much in Cooper.

  I pulled out the files and set them down. Dust fluttered in the air. A woman’s blouse was next, wrapped in a clear-plastic evidence bag.

  I opened the first folder and found Kevin Foster staring back. A mugshot, bleary-eyed and disheveled. Dated June 1995. Thinning hair. He’d lost weight since then, if his corpse was anything to go by. I spotted his address (lived with his mother), his occupation (cleaner), his nighttime habits (prostitutes). Photographs of him in the early hours, stopped by the side of the road in a beat-up blue Honda Accord, a plump, half-naked woman leaning into the open window. His fingerprints were here too.

  The second folder was more gruesome. Dead women lying faceup. Gaping holes where their eyes should be. Three victims, killed over a four-month period in early ’95: Natalie Hardy, Mary Lee Smart, Shirley Stevens.

  The ties to Kelly Scott were glaring. All three had been strangled to death, their bodies left out in the open. Their eyes taken. Beyond the surface similarities, I found more. They were successful. They were single. They lived alone.

  The evidence against Foster was simple. A thumbprint, found nestled in the cheap plastic of a blouse button. Shirley Stevens’s blouse. I glanced back at the evidence bag, lifted out the item of clothing. Ran my thumb over the buttons. Was that how he’d done it? One little motion, one simple mistake. I refilled my coffee and settled back in my chair.

  I skimmed the reports. They were short, written in the punchy style of someone who had better things to do with their afternoon. I recognized it well. It was standard operating procedure; post-event justification. The reports weren’t lies, they just weren’t much of anything else, either. A handful of paragraphs too vague to ever really mean anything. Details were dangerous; they were your rope. Besides, no one bothered to check these things too closely if the evidence was strong. Then I remembered that Foster was released on appeal, and I wondered if maybe that single fingerprint wasn’t quite as strong as they’d hoped.

  The paperwork was all signed by the same guy—Brian Ackerman. Lead detective, by the looks of things. Joe Finch’s name was there too. Twenty years younger. Fresh-faced and eager to please, I had no doubt. I ran Ackerman’s name and pulled his last known address. An assisted-living facility, poor bastard.

  I held the blouse in my hand again. It still surprised me how something so significant could be so light. I went to write Ackerman’s details in my notebook, then caught myself. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to look into him further. More that I was worried what Joe might say if he spotted the name there. I didn’t exactly want to telegraph my intentions. Hell, I didn’t even know what my intentions were. I just knew there was more going on here than what Joe had told me. More than what Ackerman had noted in his official reports.

  I closed the folders and glanced at my computer screen. Gary Hadley smirked back. I’d nearly forgotten about him. I brought myself back to the present and wondered how a man like Hadley might react if he saw his ex-girlfriend on a night out. Might be she was dancing with another guy. Might be Hadley had had a little too much to drink. I tried to picture him on top of her in the snow, tried to picture him in place of Kevin Foster, and the image came all too quick. Did he know that Foster had been released? Maybe this was all just an exercise in misdirection. It wouldn’t have taken much to make her body look like one of Foster’s earlier victims. All he would have needed was a spoon.

  I flipped open my notepad and scribbled it down. As good a working theory as any.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I was leaving the station when I spotted Joe by the coffee machine. It was nearly four.

  “Afternoon,” he said. “I get you a cup?”

  “No. Where have you been all day?”

  “I’ve been sleeping, son. I’m not as spritely as I used to be.”

  “Well, listen. I—”

  Joe gave a shake of his head. I clammed up and a moment later Captain Morricone walked past. His head was buried in a file but he stopped when he saw us.

  “Gentlemen, hello,” he said. He closed up the folder and slid it neatly under one arm. Pushed his rimless glasses up the bridge of his nose with a thin finger. “How are we?”

  “Good, sir,” Joe said with a smile. “Just refueling.”

  “Excellent, excellent.” Morricone turned to me. “What’s the progress on the Foster shooting?”

  Joe didn’t miss a beat, said, “Right now, we’re thinking vigilante killing. Retaliation for Kelly Scott.”

  “You think Foster killed her?”

  “If the shoe fits,” Joe said.

  Morricone inhaled heavily, nodded. He took the file out from under his arm and tapped Joe with it. “Don’t let this one cut any corners, now,” he said to me, smiling. “Back when I didn’t just sit around behind a desk, my partner used to tell me to follow each lead, no matter how remote it might seem. Always kept me in good stead.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Excellent. I look forward to reading your report when this is all over.”

  He left then, opening his file again as he meandered back to his office. I waited until he’d turned the corner before speaking.

  “I want to talk about Foster.”

  “Drop it.”

  “I don’t sleep well, Joe. What we’ve done, it keeps me awake.”

  “Relax, kid. It’s street justice. It’s nature, the animals taking care of themselves. My guess is they all sleep just fine.”

  He finished his coffee and crushed the Styrofoam cup. Dropped it into the trash and reached for another.

  I waited while he got himself another. “You heard what the captain said.”

  “About following every lead? What a cliché.”

  “But he’s right.” I flipped open my notepad. “I want to speak with Gary Hadley.”

  “Who?”

  “Kelly Scott’s ex-boyfriend. Got a violent streak, used to knock her around a little when they were together. Now, listen, here’s what I’m thinking—”

  Joe lowered his coffee. “When did you do all this?”

  “This morning. Why?”

  A heavy sigh, a hand on my shoulder. “Listen to me carefully. Kevin Foster killed her. Alright?”

  “Come on, Joe. You saw the guy. Bob said he was riddled with cancer. He could barely open a can of beans.”

  “Tommy . . .”

  “Hell, Hadley’s almost as obvious a suspect as Foster. Christ, it’s suspicious if we don’t talk to him.”

  Joe glared at me. Went to take a sip but changed his mind, tossed the entire thing in the trash. I could hear his breathing.

  “You want to go talk to him? Fine. Lead the way. But once we’re done? Once this little box-ticking exercise is over?” He leaned in, his face shiny. “You fall into line, boy.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  We interviewed Gary Hadley on his own turf: a conference room in his fancy office. Walls lined with glossy marketing photos, certificates and framed quotes from the local paper. People with awkward smiles shaking hands with Hadley, holding up the keys to their new homes.

  It had been Joe’s idea. Strike him off-balance, hit him at his place of work. Maximum impact, he called it, like some straight-to-DVD movie. Nothing made a guy sweat more than knowing his colleagues were whispering about him on the other side of a door.

  Whether or not it was working I wasn’t su
re, but Hadley was certainly pissed to see us. Already sat at a table when we entered, hands in fists and a face like he wanted to use them. Blond hair left a little too long; styled to be messy, a poor compensation for the onset of baldness. A prominent brow and the build of a football player. He was a collection of muscles, knotted together under an ill-fitting suit.

  He waited until the young receptionist sealed us in, then leaned forward and said, “I didn’t kill her.”

  “Kill who?” Joe said.

  “Kelly.”

  “Okay, you didn’t kill her.” Joe settled into a chair. “You know who did?”

  “Everyone knows who did.”

  “Come on, Gary, play the game,” Joe said, flipping open his notepad. “Say his name.”

  Hadley paused, scratched the side of his nose with a thick finger. “Kevin Foster,” he said.

  “Alright, good. Now, tell us what you know about Foster.”

  “I know he should have gotten the electric chair.”

  Joe glanced over at me and I squiggled a doodle in my pad. Hadley shifted in his seat.

  “When was the last time you saw Kelly?” Joe asked.

  “Couple weeks. A month, maybe.”

  “She was out drinking the night she died,” I said. “Didn’t get an invite?”

  “Why would I?”

  “She tell you where she was going?” Joe said.

  “Like I said, we hadn’t seen each other in a while.”

  “You talk to her on the phone? Send her a text? What is it the kids do nowadays, Tommy?”

  “Facebook,” I said.

  “Yeah, Facebook. You ever Facebook her, Gary?”

  I thought I heard a creak from just outside the door; Hadley must have too because his eyes leaped to it. He looked about ready to topple the table.

  “So let me just make sure I have this straight,” Joe said, turning a blank page for effect. “You and Kelly broke up a while back, haven’t seen or spoken to each other in a month. What happened? She suddenly get tired of you beating her up?”

  Hadley half rose from his chair. “I never laid a finger on her,” he said loudly. Too loudly, judging by the commotion from the corridor.

  “Oh, I doubt that,” Joe said coolly. “You’ve spent a fair few nights in the drunk tank, though. Gotten into a lot of bar fights over the years.”

  “So?”

  “You a jealous guy, Gary?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “You liked it when other men stared at Kelly? When they checked her out?”

  “I . . .”

  “Don’t you lie to me, now. I’ve seen her, and she’s a good-looking girl. I mean, not so much anymore, but—”

  “Please, don’t—”

  “Saw her this morning, in fact,” Joe said, leaning in a little. “Wasn’t planning to, but the thought of her lying there, all naked under that sheet. I’ll be honest, I had a peek. You ever peeked under the sheet, Tommy?”

  “I’ve peeked.”

  “Great tits,” Joe said. “They really perk up after death.” He held up his two hands, cupped suggestively.

  “Now you wait a minute,” Hadley growled. His voice was low but I thought I could hear a nervous crack running through it. “What gives you the right—”

  “The right?” Joe said, and laughed nastily. “What gives me the right, son? This badge gives me the right. Gives me the right to haul your ass down to the station and charge you with the murder of Kelly Scott, which so help me God I am this close to doing.”

  I watched him as he spoke. For a guy that didn’t think Hadley was a killer, he was certainly putting in the effort.

  “Where were you last Sunday?” I said.

  “I think I want to speak to a lawyer,” Hadley said, reaching for a phone on the desk. “We’re done here.”

  “Hey!” Joe barked, snapping his fingers in the air. It was a habit of his. “Lawyers are for the guilty. Sunday evening, where were you?”

  “Sunday . . . I was at the hospital.”

  “Sure you were. Here’s what I think. You were out Sunday night and you saw her, and all those little memories of the two of you just came flooding back. The bruises, the black eyes, all those good times. You see her dancing with another guy, was that it? See him putting his hands all over her? All over those nice tits? How’d that make you feel?”

  Hadley’s face was white now. His eyes wide, his throat bobbing quickly. He looked like he was about to pass out.

  “You still got a key, Gary?” Joe said. “You let yourself in when she was sleeping? Now look, maybe you just wanted to talk. I get that. But maybe you wanted to do more and I get that too. I mean, she’s a total bitch, right? Stepping out on you like that? Hell, I’d probably want to drag her from her bed and strangle her in the backyard myself.”

  Hadley stared at Joe for a moment, then clamped both hands on the edge of the conference table and pushed his chair back. Joe exhaled, and a moment later I saw it too. A white cast, his left leg bound in plaster. All the way up to his balls. I closed my eyes.

  “I slipped on some ice on my way to work,” Hadley said. His voice was high and fast. “The day before Kelly was killed. That’s why I was at the hospital on Sunday. You can ask anyone there, they’ll confirm it. I never killed nobody. I can barely piss by myself.”

  I looked over at Joe. His gaze met mine and I could see it in his eyes. I told you.

  “Now, please, I want you both to leave,” Hadley continued. He picked up his phone. “I’m not answering any more questions without a lawyer.”

  I stood up and Joe leaned over the table, pressed his finger on the base to cut the call.

  “You find it hard to piss now?” he said softly. “You knock any more girls around, you show up in my station again, and I’ll break your other leg, understand?”

  The office was silent as we left.

  We didn’t talk on the way back to the station.

  I was glad. I’m not sure I could have taken a lecture from him right then. If this was vindication that Foster had killed her, then so be it. I just wanted to go home. I just wanted a drink.

  There was a man waiting for us in the station parking lot. Tall and slim, dressed in black. Leaning on a large sedan. He was smoking, but he tossed it aside when he saw us. I tracked the glowing orange on its low, lazy arc into the snow.

  “Head on inside,” Joe said, and when I glanced over at him his face was ashen.

  “You alright?”

  The man in black was coming over to the driver’s side.

  “I’m fine,” Joe said, looking pretty far from it. “Just give us a minute.”

  “Yes, give us a minute,” the man in black said, with a smile and an accent I couldn’t place. His teeth were dark yellow and one of them was missing. Front row, upper right. I wondered if someone had knocked it out.

  “I’ll see you later,” Joe said.

  But of course I didn’t. Last time I saw Joe that day was through his windshield as I pushed open the station doors to go inside. The toothless man was in the passenger seat and laughing with his mouth open like Joe was telling him a doozy. Then he was jerking his thumb and they were driving off.

  I spent the next few hours catching up on some paperwork and ate an early dinner alone at my desk. Some chicken and noodle dish with too much soy sauce.

  Afterward, I opened a new browser window and double-checked Brian Ackerman’s address. Placed a phone call with the facility to make sure it was current. The station was quiet, footsteps squeaking on the linoleum and a hobo in the bullpen, sky-high and hustling his reflection in the plastic mirror. I dumped the lukewarm remains of my meal in the trash and grabbed my coat. It was just after six, and visiting hours were starting.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Ladybird assisted-living facility sat on the edge of town. Short and squat, a row of windows providing a view of the river and what looked like an abandoned waste-processing plant. Grim viewing without a doubt, but somehow I didn’t see anybody in Coop
er springing for an upgrade. After all, what was the point? The Ladybird didn’t care about making you better.

  The woman at the front desk was midway through both her forties and a chunky romance novel. One of those erotic pieces of shit with a woman in riding gear on the front cover. She barely glanced up at me. I reached for my badge, went for a smile instead. Said I was looking for Brian Ackerman.

  “You family?” she asked me.

  I shook my head. “A friend.”

  “Uh-huh.” She raised an eyebrow. “Brian doesn’t have many of those.”

  “Then I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see me.”

  She pushed the visitors’ book across the desk. Handed me a chewed pen and asked me to sign in. I hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to put down a fake name, then figured it was all a little too late for that now.

  “Third floor,” the woman said as she took the book back. “Room seventeen. But you’ll need to take the stairs.” And she pointed toward a peeling “out of order” sign that had been stuck to the elevator.

  “Room seventeen,” I repeated. “Thanks for your help.”

  She grunted and returned to her novel.

  I headed off down the corridor. There was a smell of bleach in the air, nearly overpowering in places. And underneath it the hint of something stronger. A rotten stench, a masked secret.

  Glancing in the rooms as I went by, I spotted dark shapes huddled in blankets, on beds next to windows with the curtains drawn. The dim air lit by slices of amber streetlights and pulsing LEDs. Chirps and whirrs and the steady beat of ventilators. A heartbeat of heavy sighs. Every so often I’d spot a nurse, backing out of a room like a parent who’d just gotten their child to sleep. Catching my gaze and sending me a sad smile. Pale faces and dark bags under their eyes. Defeat weighing visibly on their stooped shoulders. A janitor guarded the door to the stairs, mopping a small patch of floor over and over, talking quietly to himself.

  The lights on the third floor flickered, and I had to navigate past a row of empty beds to get through to room seventeen. Outside, I took a breath and knocked on the door. No one answered. I twisted the handle and let myself in.