Welcome to Cooper

by Tariq Ashkanani

  Then that little part of my brain kicked in. It was evidence, sure, but that went both ways. I didn’t know what Joe’s next move would be, and this stuff might come in handy in a pinch. Look, I wasn’t planning on ratting anyone out, but shit. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d thrown my partner under the bus.

  I took the money outside. A shared yard behind my apartment building. Hard topsoil and weeds; clearly nobody spent much time here.

  It took me almost twenty minutes to dig a big-enough hole. Just about ruined my switchblade and most of my fingers by the end. Packing the bundles inside, I filled it in and smoothed it over. Marked it with a couple of rocks.

  The slam of a car door cut through the still night. I turned toward it as my cell buzzed, that same number I’d been dodging. Debra Mansfield from Omaha. Woman sure had a knack for timing.

  I killed the call. Had just started for the gravel path that ran along the building down to the street when I heard footsteps crunching toward me. Too dark to tell if it was her or someone worse. One way to find out: I dialed her number. Her cell lit her up like a flashlight.

  “Mansfield?” I said. “I was just returning your call.”

  Pocketing the phone, she moved into the backyard, curling her pig nose at me. “What are you doing out here, Levine? Gardening?”

  I shrugged. “Just checking out the place. I never had a yard back in DC.”

  “Looking at this, I’d say that was a blessing.”

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “I hope so,” she said, and pulled out a notepad. “I’m looking into the attack on the police transport.”

  “They sure do keep you State Patrol officers busy.”

  “Where were you Wednesday morning?”

  “When it happened? I was in bed, asleep.”

  “Anyone with you?”

  “This is starting to get a bit personal.”

  Mansfield ran the torch from her cell down her notebook, reading.

  I jerked my thumb up at my apartment. “You want to continue this with a coffee? It’s freezing out here.”

  “I’m just about done.”

  “You know, I hear the officers in the van are going to be just fine.”

  “That right?” She was still reading her notes. “Mack’s certainly awake.”

  “What about his partner?”

  “Casey?”

  “Yeah, Casey.”

  “Still out of it.”

  “You spoke to Mack?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’d he say?”

  She looked at me. “Said they were attacked by two men armed with shotguns and wearing masks. Clown masks, if you can believe that.”

  “Clown masks, is that right.”

  “Found them half melted in the remains of the car they used.”

  “Forensics get anything off them?” I said, and Mansfield paused just long enough to let me know I was asking too many questions.

  “Nothing yet,” she said.

  “Well, if that’s everything,” I said. Gave her a parting smile as I turned to leave.

  “They took the bullet that killed Foster,” she said.

  I stopped at the doorway. Turned back. “What’s that?”

  “The bullet that killed Foster. They stole it from the evidence van along with the money. I can’t get my head around that part.”

  “’Fraid I can’t help you there.”

  Mansfield moved closer. “Now, when you found him—Foster, I mean—when you found him, he was already dead.”

  “That’s what it says in our report.”

  “I’ve read the report.”

  “Then I don’t have anything to add.”

  “Why do you think somebody would steal the bullet?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, hypothetically. A bullet on its way to be tested.”

  I blew air out the side of my mouth. “To cover their tracks.”

  “Right,” she said, taking another step toward me. “That’s what I was thinking too. Which means whoever shot Foster stole the bullet.”

  “Sure.”

  “And the money.”

  “Okay.”

  “So I find the money, I find the shooter.”

  I paused. “Makes sense.”

  “Makes sense,” she repeated. She cocked her head slightly, her eyes thoughtful. “You should really invest in some winter mulch.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “For the garden.” Mansfield ran her gaze over the dark yard. “You want to trap the air, try and provide the soil with some insulation.”

  “You sound like an expert.”

  “It’s basic stuff, Levine. If you’re serious about sorting this shit heap, it wouldn’t hurt to read a book.”

  I smiled thinly as I opened the back door. “Thanks for the tip. Goodnight, Detective.”

  Mansfield nodded and walked off. I went up to my apartment. Got there in time to watch her black sedan drive away.

  I waited another couple of minutes, then went back down to the yard and moved the money.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Saturday morning was quiet. Not just the station, but the whole town.

  I woke early. My clock blinking five. My brain too wired to let me sleep. Outside it was dark, and when I went to the window it was still, and I stared across the street at the drawn curtains and wondered if anyone was standing there staring back. In those moments—before the birdsong, before the dawn light—it felt like time had stopped. Like I could’ve walked out my door and down my street and into the homes of my neighbors and stood over their beds as they slept.

  I ate breakfast in a diner just outside town. Fried eggs and bacon and black coffee. Here it was busy; people huddled under strip lights, a brightness so harsh it made me squint.

  It was still dark out, and in the inky black the diner was like a beacon. I imagined us all weary travelers, drawn to its welcoming flame. Its protection from the darkness and from what creatures lurked out there.

  I sat at the counter because I didn’t want to take up a booth but I still felt out of place. Sitting there, eating my runny eggs and watching the morning news on a small TV, next to truckers with checked shirts and extra chins and three-plate breakfasts.

  I didn’t belong here. This was just a rest stop for those passing through. For whom Cooper didn’t hold any sway or exert any control. I could see it in the way they looked at me; the big men who spooned whipped butter onto their toast, who drowned pancakes in syrup and fed powdered eggs into open mouths that hadn’t yet finished what was already inside. Those guys, they knew this wasn’t a place to stay and enjoy a meal. Lest they end up like the skinny waitress behind the counter, her ginger hair thin and falling about her lifeless face in dry strands; or the kitchen boy standing by the cookers, wiping sweat from his forehead with a rag tied around his hand, only it wasn’t a rag at all, it was a bloodied bandage.

  Lest they end up like me.

  When I was finished I dropped a twenty next to my plate and left. I could feel the eyes of the truckers on me, the cool breeze from the opened door reminding them of the road, of doggie bags and sliding their trucks into gear and getting the hell out of there. I was swallowed up by the charcoal night, just another lost soul.

  The station wasn’t much different. Quiet. I was the only detective there; a guy on the front desk and some bored woman I’d never seen before speaking on a phone as she flicked through a magazine. I sat down heavily in my chair and unclipped my holster, set it down next to my coffee. If I’d had a hat I’d have pulled it over my face and slept. It was early still, just before eight, and I was tired. I still don’t know why I hadn’t just stayed in bed.

  I guess he was watching the station. Either that or he was following me. But I hadn’t been there more than a minute before my cell buzzed. The number was blocked.

  I answered it. “Levine.”

  “Early riser, Detective?”

  It was Simon.

 
“I’m not in the mood,” I warned him. “So speak fast.”

  “Alright,” he said. “I want to cash in that favor.”

  “Finally thought of something you want?”

  “Oh I always knew what I wanted,” he said. “I just needed to know you had it.”

  I thought briefly of putting up a fight. Decided to hear him out. “You give me those photos and we’ll talk.”

  “I want Kevin Foster to officially take the blame for Kelly Scott’s murder,” he said. “And I want the case closed.”

  “Why are you so interested in who killed Kelly Scott?”

  “Because I was the one who did it.”

  “And you’ve just decided to confess.”

  Simon laughed lightly down the line. “I didn’t expect you to take my word, Detective.”

  Sudden footsteps as two uniformed officers walked through the doorway, heads bent in discussion. They sat down at a nearby desk. I turned away from them, dropped my voice.

  “Spit it out, Simon,” I said. “Some of us have actual police work to do.”

  “There’s a package on your desk.”

  I glanced down at the mess of paperwork. Pinned the cell between head and shoulder as I rifled through my in-tray until I came to a small brown envelope, padded and with my name handwritten in thick black pen. One more glance at the officers as I ripped it open and shook out the contents.

  It was a silver watch.

  Small, with a thin strap.

  A woman’s watch.

  “Is this a joke?” I said.

  “The punchline, maybe.”

  “This could be anyone’s.”

  “Thomas, please. It’s engraved.”

  I spun the watch around and sure enough there it was. To Kelly, Happy Birthday, Love Gary. I closed my hand around it and squeezed tight.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “From her wrist.”

  “No you didn’t, you understand me? Did someone slip you this? One of my men? Tell me the truth.”

  “You know what your problem is? You want everything to be simple. Mr. Foster, I’m sure, makes for a far better suspect than I do. Or Mr. Hadley, maybe. Domestic abuse, neat and tidy, hmm? Rather that than some drifter, just picking up girls at random. But the world doesn’t work that way, Thomas. It doesn’t want to be put in a box.”

  “I’ll put you in a box,” I spat. Too loud, drawing glances from the men nearby. I took a breath, hissed, “Nebraska still has the death penalty, asshole, so stop messing me around and tell me where you got this watch.”

  “I’m getting tired of this,” Simon said, sighing theatrically. “Do you want the photographs or not?”

  “Let’s assume that I believe you,” I said. “Why’d you kill her? You got a thing for young women? Mommy never show you enough attention as a kid?”

  “Why don’t we settle for simple inspiration from Mr. Foster’s example.”

  “So you’re a copycat now? How many other girls you killed? And what’d you do with the eyes, anyway? You one of those sickos that likes to take trophies? You wear them on a necklace and howl at the moon?”

  “Do I strike you as a crazed psychopath running around wearing my victims’ skin as a suit, Thomas?”

  One of the officers slapped the other on the back and walked away. He looked over at me as he left, and I sent him a friendly nod.

  “You strike me as a goddamn queer,” I said, smiling like I was talking to my grandmother. “You hear me? You’re a liar. You’re a stain, you’re nothing. Screw you and screw your watch. I’ll find you and take back those photos myself.”

  Simon fell silent. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, measured.

  “Thomas, I need you to think of this as an exchange. Kevin Foster is a killer. His death affects no one. His passing will be mourned by no one.”

  “You say he’s an innocent man.”

  “Three dead women say otherwise.”

  “He served his time for them. This is different.”

  “Oh, Detective, suddenly we’re a man of principle? Now you’re going to make sure Foster takes the fall. You do that, and all these photos disappear. We both get away clean.”

  “No one gets away clean, asshole,” I said. “That’s the whole point of this place.”

  “You’re finally getting the idea.”

  “I’ll find you.”

  “Like hell you will,” Simon snorted. “You’ve got until the end of the day, Thomas. After that, I’d start packing.”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I sat for a long while after he hung up. Cleaned up my coffee and got myself another, turned the watch over and over in my hands, studying every inch of it as though it might contain some hidden secret.

  To Kelly, Happy Birthday, Love Gary.

  I felt sick to my stomach.

  If I’m honest, I’m not sure why. Was it a surprise that Simon had killed Kelly Scott? Despite what he’d said on the phone, Simon was the better suspect. Better than Kevin Foster, better than Gary Hadley. Maybe not on paper, but one conversation with him—one look in his eyes—and anyone would be convinced.

  He hadn’t mentioned anything about my turning up at the Catterson place. Might be he didn’t know. I had until the end of the day, he’d said. That didn’t leave me much time if I was going to break in and get those photos. I thought back to yesterday, to the exposed street. To the neighbor. I pulled up a map online; an alley ran alongside the houses.

  I still didn’t like doing it in the daylight, though. Easy prey for prying eyes. I leaned back in my chair and worked it through. If I waited until it was dark, it might be too late. I stared at the watch, at the envelope it had arrived in.

  I thought back to the Foster files. To what Brian Ackerman had told me at the Ladybird. What we did. I hadn’t confronted Joe about it yet, but I was starting to put the pieces together.

  Three dead women in the spring of ’95. Foster had been their man, the surveillance photos in his file made that clear. When Joe had come around to my apartment he’d told me they’d found Foster’s print on Kelly Scott’s belt. Partial thumb, he’d said. Good enough for any judge.

  Only now I wasn’t so sure. From Bob’s autopsy report, Foster had been just about pushing up daisies when we’d busted down his front door. My bullet had simply helped him along. No way did he pin down a struggling girl and strangle her to death.

  But if I was right, that meant his print on her belt had been planted. Joe’s handiwork, I was sure of it. Probable cause to get us to the scene. To knock me out, to take my gun. A dead suspect and leverage to force your partner into helping you rob a police transport. Hell of a plan.

  Now I knew Foster’s prints were still in his file. Worse, the partial print from Kelly Scott’s belt was from the same thumb as the one found on Shirley Stevens’s blouse button back in ’95.

  Was that what Brian Ackerman had been talking about? What we did. Three dead women, a town about to explode. Did Brian and Joe plant Foster’s print back then? Was this just history repeating itself?

  I hadn’t spent enough time with Foster’s file. I knew the guy never confessed. Didn’t mean he hadn’t done it. I wasn’t questioning whether Foster had killed those three women. I just didn’t think he’d killed the fourth. Either way, it all gave me a pretty awful idea.

  I snatched the envelope the watch had come in off the table. Stuffed the watch into my pocket. I didn’t dwell on it as I took the stairs. Knew if I did I might change my mind. Last thing I wanted was my conscience kicking in. I could already feel it, scrabbling to life in the back of my brain like a startled dog. What they did was wrong, it said. Do this and you’re no better.

  I wasn’t surprised to find Cooper PD didn’t lock down their evidence room—that would be going against type. Temptation within arm’s reach; this place was nothing if not consistent.

  A small forensics kit hung on the wall. I grabbed it, popped it open, and smoothed out the envelope on the
desk. I knew it was a gamble, but I was running out of options. Simon was smart, and I tried not to overthink it as I dusted the corner of the envelope. Told myself that even smart people make mistakes.

  It took less than a minute to lift the print. A perfect thumb impression, left right at the top as he’d sealed the envelope.

  I peeled the print onto a plastic label. Course, I still didn’t know for sure if it was his. For all I knew, he’d asked some poor postal worker to take care of it for him. I checked my watch. Still early. Pushing on, I propelled the chair across the floor. Fired up the monitor and scanned the print into the computer. Normally this thing would take an age to run. I helped it along. Clicked through the dropdown menus.

  Nebraska State Penitentiary. 1990–2000.

  It took less than a minute for his face to pop up. I allowed myself a smile of relief. I had him. All I had to do next was roll it onto Kelly Scott’s belt. If Simon wanted it wiped clean, he knew what to do.

  I quickly scanned the shelves of the room, looking for Kelly’s belongings. They weren’t here. I swore in frustration—Bob hadn’t filed them away yet. They were still in the morgue.

  I slipped the plastic label into my pocket. Packed everything away and turned off the computer. Headed for the morgue stairs. I was halfway down when Mansfield emerged through the PVC strips at the bottom like a ship from fog. I froze.

  “Detective Levine,” she said, and she wrinkled her nose.

  “Mansfield,” I said. “You’re in early.”

  “So are you.” She smiled thinly. “Thought you might be at home nursing a hangover.”

  “Powering through it. What are you doing here?”

  “I was looking for Bob. Does anybody here bother to turn up when they’re supposed to?”

  I shrugged. She began climbing the stairs. I could feel the plastic label in my inside pocket. Its sharp corner pressing into my chest. I rubbed at it.

  “I know you don’t want to talk to me,” she said, “and that’s fine.”

  I stayed quiet.

  “The way I see it, there’s a scale to all of this,” she said. “From good to bad to downright shitty. Most people, I suppose they live somewhere near the middle. Maybe just beneath. Just enough brightness in their lives to keep them going through the dark. But you, Thomas, you’re down at the other end, you understand me? God knows what must go through your mind at the end of a day here. You spend your nights getting loaded and, hand on heart, I don’t blame you.”