by Deforest Day
“Suicide by cop is a popular way to end it all, when you haven't got the guts to pull the trigger. But in my lengthy career I have yet to encounter self-immolation by dynamite.”
He tucked his thumbs in his waistband, and adjusted his paunch. “Was he despondent when you arrested him? Oft times there is a prior situation; familial discord, or a failing business. A simple traffic stop can send them over the edge. You're lucky he wasn't armed.”
“But he was! And carrying a large amount of cash, and drugs, and driving a stolen car.”
“Ah-ha. Then what we have here is something which on the surface appears to be a simple accidental death, but becomes one filled with suggestive innuendo.”
“A word I don't know. Is it advanced policing terminology?”
“You got it, sonny.” Belknapf ran down the list, more to impress the kid than remind himself of the tick-offs. “Perhaps someone did this man in. Either for revenge, a business dispute, or for personal gain. Then again, we may very well have a ménage à trois.”
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Perhaps. In detecting we always begin with cui bono.”
“The Irish singer? I always wondered if he had a first name.”
“No, it's from the Latin. It means who stands to gain from the untimely demise of the vic. That's cop shorthand for victim.”
“Hey, vic I know. Don't you usually churchy la femme with a homicide?”
In due course. First we need to determine if there was one. Murder, not woman. There's always a woman. Unless it's a man. Oft times what may appear suspicious turns out to be an accidental mishap. We need to recover the body, and perform an autopsy, to determine the exact cause of death. Like, was he shot or stabbed before the building fell on him? If it wasn't self-inflicted, it would implicate a second party.
“So there's many a road for me to travel. Highways and byways, leading who knows where. But first I must identify these items as belonging to the vic. You happen to know if there's a NOK on site? That means Next of Kin.”
“I'm familiar with the terminology. His daughter is around here, someplace. Look for a teenager with pink hair. She's wearing my wife's sweater. Don't ask.”
—o—
The girl with the pink hair was at the river's edge, looking for her stepfather, dead or alive. Mags didn't trust the dog as far as she had thrown him.
She'd rifled a fire engine's equipment locker, donned a spare Cairns helmet to conceal her hair, added a turnout coat and bunker boots, to confer status. It had worked; she told a bored cop she was an insurance adjuster with the arson squad, as she slipped past the compliance panels.
If Daddy Mac really was dead, then her future was in limbo. She had no illusions her hours-old corporate title would stand up to any kind of scrutiny, especially if her mother challenged it.
She watched the Susquehanna, brown and swift, flowing south. Jack could keep the day-to-day operation going, at least during the cleanup. But Phase Two was beyond her; more about moving earth and pouring flood walls, than demolition, and the details were in Daddy Mac's head.
He had talked about a minor league ballpark, but that was probably just scratching his itch to build, rather than destroy. “Face it, kiddo,” she said. “You're out of a job.”
She tossed bits of broken brick in the current, watched the splashes eddy and swirl. Maybe college wasn't such a bad idea. Earn an engineering degree, with summers on the job site. If H. Poitrine & Associates was still in business. She tried to picture her mother in Timberlands and hard hat, ordering Jack around, and she began to laugh through her tears.
“Hey, Princess.” Mags turned at the sound of Jack's voice. “I saw you fake out the cop, with your fireman's outfit.” He paused, trying to measure her grief. She was the one who handed out the paychecks, and he needed to know if it was time to look for another job.
“Your stepfather would have gotten a laugh; he used to say, 'rules are for fools'. Sorry, didn't mean to put that in the past tense. As far as I'm concerned, until they find a body, Mr. McClintock is still running the show.”
Mags removed the dumb hat and coat. She'd never realized how damn heavy they were; how could firemen climb ladders, run into burning buildings, carrying all that weight? “I just needed to get as close to him as I could.” She dried her eyes, and kicked the rubble with a bunker boot. “Wherever he is.”
Jack was between a rock and shit's creek. Losing Mr. Mac put the business in a bind, but he had a wife and a new baby to think of. “Mags, you're gonna need to step in. I can handle the rest of the clean-up, feed the steel to T-Rex, haul the rest to the landfill, but I don't know dick about the paperwork part of the operation. Like, who will cut our paychecks?”
“It won't be my mother.” Mags realized she didn't know any more than their foreman about the business side of the business. She could drive a backhoe, usually fix it when it broke, but couldn't order parts, or pay for them.
Daddy Mac said two point three million bucks was coming as soon as the Iron Works came down, and that had just happened. But she had no idea where the money came from, or where it went.
Maybe the bank president Daddy Mac introduced her to would be able to help. “Don't worry about it, Jack. I'll go to First Union this afternoon. You and the guys will get paid.” Even if I have to raid the bank box to do it.
While she and Jack were discussing money, the Executive Director of the Lackawanna Redevelopment Authority left the blast site with his signed copy of the compliance document, returned to his office, and moved two point three million dollars from the Redevelopment Authority to the H. Poitrine & Associates account at First Union Bank.
—o—
Detective First Grade Horace Belknapf didn't see any pink haired teenagers, but he recognized the congressman, a familiar face in Tattletales Gentleman's Club, where Shelly Varnish gave new meaning to pressing the flesh. The congressman was standing on a stage, talking to a distraught knockout in a wrinkled silk dress. Belknapf detected a connection between the congressman, the woman, and the current situation.
He climbed the stairs, intent on delving deeper. “Congressman Varnish,” he said, extending his hand. “We meet again, under another unusual circumstance.” He studied Honey. “And who is this lovely lady?”
Varnish quickly recovered his embarrassment, one stemming from an incident at a fundraiser, and a constituent he mistook for a lady of the evening. “This is Honey Poitrine, Mr. McClintock's wife, and president of H. Poitrine & Associates, general contractor for the flood abatement project.”
Belknapf produced the TAG Heuer. “Would you be the same Honey engraved on the back of this watch?”
Honey's eyes rolled up, and she stumbled back against the congressman, confident he would catch her. The man had his uses. “Oh,” she wailed. “That's Mac's watch!”
Once she regained her composure the detective showed her the Timberland. It was not anything she recognized. Men's feet, bare or shod, held little interest for her. Or men's clothing, for that matter. Except the gays, she had to admit, possessed a certain sense of fashion.
The watch, of course, she remembered. She remembered she'd planned to buy him a Rolex, because the name was the very definition of expensive, but ten thousand dollars was out of reach. She settled for a TAG Heuer; it was years ago, before Mac gave her the Platinum AMEX card.
She pressed a hand to her breast, and put a catch in her voice. “He wore it every day, and every day, as he fastened the band, he said to me, 'Honey, every time I look at my watch I will think of how many minutes it will be, until I am with you again'.”
Oh, brother. Belknapf decided if this was true, then hubby was a jerk. Likely an old jerk, with a forty-ish trophy wife. On the other hand, if the lady was blowin' smoke, then she was, as the kid from the sticks had said, the femme to cherchez.
Honey reached for the watch, saying, “I will treasure this memento until my dying day.”
Belknapf pulled it back. “Not so fast, lady. The watch a
nd the boot are evidence.”
Duane and Bugle Boy had joined the conference; the Shaleville cop was eager to learn detective skills from the big-city veteran. And then there were all the cameras, video and still. He aspired to his partner's level of fame. Duane offered Belknapf the polo shirt. “This here is what McClintock was wearing, when I arrested him. Do you need it for evidence?”
“Not hardly. There will be better sources of his DNA at his home. How did it get wet?”
“Uh, that's from Bugle Boy. He slobbers something awful, when he gets excited.”
“Well then, give it to this lady, I got no use for it.”
“Neither do I!” Honey cried. “I told him not to wear that disreputable thing. If he'd worn something presentable like I told him, none of this would have happened.”
“Be that as it may,” Belknapf said, “I need to hold the watch and the boot, both as evidence, and to match your husband's blood type or DNA.” He produced a steno pad from a coat pocket. “Allow me to begin with a question, bearing in mind you don't have to say anything, without first consulting your attorney. If you do not have an attorney, one will be provided at no cost. Do you understand?”
Congressman Varnish jumped in. “Wait a sec! Are you reading Ms. Poitrine her rights?” He turned to the constituent who just yesterday had made the maximum contribution. “Ms. Poitrine, Honey, if I may be so bold, I am an attorney, and this man is on a fishing expedition. And he's fishing empty waters, with no bait.”
He turned to Detective Belknapf, and showboated for Honey. “The police always grab the first suspect at hand, make wild accusations, and move for a speedy arrest, on trumped-up charges.”
He checked to see if Honey was following this. “Followed by a plea bargain, ensuring a quick settlement, and another successful prosecution for some assistant DA. A prosecutor anxious to make his bones, before joining the ranks of the more lucrative defense counselors.”
Belknapf said, “Please,” and rolled his eyes. “I bet you were one of 'em, before running for congress.”
The congressman winked. “Where do you think I got the money to run?” He couldn't resist bragging, and stepped closer to the detective, lowered his voice. “Mostly I earned it defending rich assholes who later became staunch supporters. Attorney-client privilege can be a gold mine, if you know how to pan for the nuggets.”
Varnish saw a golden opportunity to worm his way into her good graces, and perhaps her bed, as well. The distraught widow, suddenly rich beyond her wildest dreams, and in need of an attorney. Besides, his second wife was nearing her expiration date. “I'll represent you, pro bono, Honey. It's the least I can do, for my most ardent constituent.”
“Hey, no need to lawyer up,” Belknapf hurriedly said. “That was just force of habit. It's way too early to be Mirandizing anyone. First we need a body.” He turned his attention to the Iron Works, where additional Fire & Rescue personnel were preparing to thoroughly search the wreckage. “I need to go supervise those clowns, but first I have a few questions for you, Ms. Poitrine. Do you know your husband's blood type?”
Honey she shook her head. “Why would I know that?”
The detective gave her a look. Varnish had introduced her as the wife. The hick with the bloodhound had mentioned a daughter. McClintock's, by a prior marriage? Was there a prenupt? So many questions. So much legwork ahead.
Belknapf wondered if the Chief of Detectives would assign him a new partner. It wasn't his fault the last one had quit the force, joined the army. Or the one before that, the kid requesting a transfer, due to irreconcilable differences. Police partnerships were not unlike a marriage, where you learned to tolerate each other's quirks and foibles, as you focussed on solving crimes.
“We'll run a DNA match on this blood. For that we'll need your permission to obtain hair from his comb, or if he was bald, from other items of a personal nature.” A chance to search the dwelling would be a bonus.
Honey shrugged. The earlier surge of adrenalin had turned to sour sweat. “Whatever.” This was supposed to be a simple accidental death, with a body in the rubble. End of story. She turned to the creep that was her congressman. “Shelly, I accept your offer. I'm too distraught to deal with this, so if you can make sure nothing untoward occurs, I will forever be in your debt.” She took his hand in both of hers, and squeezed.
The congressman was quite giddy as he helped her down the steps, and escorted her to the Lexus. They glanced at a man beside the ambulance, arguing with a paramedic.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
One of the lawyers pulled George aside, and told him to get the hell back on the gurney, post haste. “Hey, you!” he barked at an EMS paramedic. “Put a neck brace on my client. He's in severe pain, from the whiplash of the explosion. In cases like this there are often back injuries, as well. Injuries that do not become evident, until much later.” He leaned over, and whispered in George's ear. “You get my drift?”
He waited until George was fitted with a cervical collar, then explained, “We can sue the Army Corps of Engineers, the Redevelopment Authority, and H. Poitrine & Associates. “We have here what we in the legal profession call an abundance of opportunities.”
The other lawyer elbowed the first aside. “The first two are government entities, and as such have deep pockets, as well as legions of attorneys. I suggest we go after the contractor. I can guarantee a multi-million dollar judgement, and it won't cost you a dime. Of course there's my retainer, but it's fully recoverable, when we win.”
George asked, “What kind of retainer we talking about?” The first lawyer listened intently.
“Ten grand will get the ball rolling. Another ten, when we get to court. Recovered against my forty percent of the judgement, when they settle.”
The first lawyer laughed. “Sir, he should have said if you win. This is no slam dunk. You were trespassing on the site, one with not only compliance panels, but uniformed cops, as well. If we have a case at all, it will be based on negligence by the contractor. I have a private detective on call, and unlike my fellow lawyer here, I work strictly on fee after recovery. Nothing up front, sir; the risk is all mine. For half of anything we recover.”
—o—
A young uniform emerged from the wreckage with a Colt Python and a Taser. The cop had wrapped the barbs and wires around the device before bagging it. He climbed on the stage, saying, “Detective Belknapf, I just found these weapons, same vicinity as the boot and watch.” He gave Duane a snotty look. “Surprised you didn't spot them.”
When Belknapf asked if this was the gun McClintock was carrying when Duane arrested him, he gave it a glance, and said, “No, he was carrying a Beretta nine.” He displayed his firearms familiarity, from his time at Glynco. “It was an M9, the military version of the Beretta 92FS.”
Belknapf displayed his deductive skills. “Then someone else must have been with McClintock. That is, if McClintock was even in there.”
“Ain't the watch enough proof? His wife says he puts it on every day, as a sign of his undying love.”
Belknapf said, “Say that in a courtroom, and you'll be slapped down for hearsay.”
“Well, it ain't hearsay there were at least two other people in there with the watch and the boot.” Duane returned the dirty look to the Wilkes-Barre cop. “You didn't know that? First a body was brought out, and then a live one.” Duane pointed to the ambulance. “That's him; the big guy sitting on the gurney.”
Belknapf squinted at the man in question. “I know that mook from somewheres.” He turned back to the searcher. “Since the taser has been fired, did you happen to recover some of the tags?” He shook his head with disgust at the man's blank look. “I thought not. You got to keep up with technology, you want rise in rank, sonny. Every CEW cartridge spews out a couple dozen markers when it's fired. Each one has a serial number, and can be traced back to the purchaser.” He pointed to the demolished structure. “Get you ass back in there, and don't come out until you have some confetti for me.”<
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Duane saw a chance to show off. “I learned all about AFIDs, down at FLECT, where I trained with Bugle Boy.”
“You being a wise ass? What's FLECT, and what the hell do aphids have to do with anything?”
“It's the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, and AFIDs is Anti-Felon Identification system. That's what your Taser tags are called.”
“You're pretty smart, for a hick town cop.”
“Thank you, Detective Belknapf. I hope to partner with you on this case, and learn the ways of the big city.”
Belknapf gave him a studied look. Fresh meat, someone not aware of past indiscretions and procedural shortcuts. “It could happen.”
George saw the guy with the bloodhound talking to a fat man in a rumpled suit, and then aim eyeballs his way. Uh-oh. It was that son of a bitch Belknapf, the bastard who put him in the slammer. And lied under oath to do it.
He climbed off the gurney, told the EMS crew, “I been beat up worse in bar fights. I got nothing that a couple aspirins, washed down with a couple beers, won't cure.” He faded into the dwindling crowd, wondering if he could still sue somebody for something. He tucked the first lawyer's card in his pocket, dropped the other one on the ground. He didn't have ten grand, and wasn't likely to, anytime soon.The brains of the business was lying under a sheet.
Detective Belknapf said, “I'm late to the picnic, and these uniforms are useless. In my day, you walked a beat, learned the trade, rose out of the ranks. Now you get an associate degree in Criminal Justice, drive around in a Unit all day. I blame the television for this, warping young minds. What's this about a body?”
Duane led him to the stretcher beside the ambulance. The detective pulled the sheet back, said, “Looks familiar. After thirty years, they all do.” He turned to the paramedic. “He have any ID on him?”
“Hold on.” He checked his Incident Log. “Mertz, Harry Mertz. Driver's license shows a Wilkes-Barre address.”