by Josh Cook
So Horn-Rims usually took the long way around. Asking about everything around the case, except whatever it was. Sometimes it established a rapport. Sometimes the meander revealed more than the goal. Sometimes, the interviewee got thinking that maybe Horn-Rims wasn’t even asking about the big thing and so their guard was down when he asked about the big thing. Sometimes they forgot for a second that anything they said could and would be used against them in a court of law.
But whatever else happened, the long way around made them talk, and the more they said, the more information Horn-Rims got, no matter how clever they thought they were.
But with the Geyers sitting there and Frank just a kid, Horn-Rims decided to just get it over with.
“A waitress at the club said she saw you talking to Renee. Did you see where Renee went after that, or if she talked to anybody else after you saw her?”
“I wasn’t at the club that night.”
“Okay. I’m sure the waitress just made a mistake, but, well, I’m a cop, so I’ve got to ask: Where were you? Your parents said you were at a friend’s house. Could you tell me which one?”
Frank looked nervously back and forth at his parents.
“You know, Frank, if you don’t want your parents to hear what you’ve got to say, we can go in the other room, or outside, but you’re on your own when they ask about it afterward,” Horn-Rims said with a slight smile.
Frank looked down at his hands. After a minute, he realized that Horn-Rims was waiting for an answer. Frank just shook his head.
“How about this, then? You just tell me the name of the friend you were with that night, and if I need to talk to you again, I’ll come talk to you at school,” Horn-Rims essayed.
“Detective, as I understand it, there is one waitress at the nightclub that says she saw him there. Someone who’s never met him and who sees hundreds of people every night, and even more on these all-ages Fridays. At this point, I see no reason to invest her statement with the weight you seem to be investing in it. Just because a waitress thinks she saw him does not mean you have the right, or even a good reason, to track down his every movement, especially when you yourself have admitted that you don’t expect the information you might get to be particularly valuable.”
“Well, ma’am, any information would be useful. Frank, here’s my card.”
Frank took the proffered card.
“You feel free to call me if you can think of anything that might help, even though you weren’t at the club that night. Anything somebody might have said or done at school. Anything at all. And if I’m not there, you can leave a message. I’ll get back to you.”
Horn-Rims stood up. Everyone else but Frank stood up in response. Then Frank stood up. Hands were coldly shaken. Please-calls and if-we-hear-anythings and these-things-are-hards were exchanged. A minute later the two detectives were outside in the car.
Horn-Rims pulled out into the street.
“That was weird, right?” the other detective said, exploding with everything he’d kept pent up during the interview. “I mean, that was really fucking weird, right?”
“Yeah. It was weird,” Horn-Rims calmly responded.
“Why didn’t you press him for the name of the friend?”
“Because we weren’t going to get it. I get the sense we’re not going to get much else without a warrant.”
After a few minutes of silence, Horn-Rims asked, “So, what’s your take on it?”
“My take? You mean besides that it was weird?”
“Yeah, besides that.”
“I don’t know. He’s definitely hiding something. And his parents are helping him. But it could be anything, you know. Maybe he was at a party that got busted. Or took a joyride or something. Maybe he’s been selling a little weed on the side. There’s all kinds of trouble a good kid could get into.”
“Yeah. Yeah. You’re probably right,” Horn-Rims said, more to the world than to the detective.
Horn-Rims gunned it through a yellow light.
“You don’t think it’s something like that?” the detective asked.
Horn-Rims was quiet for a moment. They passed the station.
“No. I don’t think it’s something like that.”
“You think he did it?”
Horn-Rims didn’t answer right away. Took the next left. “Yeah. I think he did it. Something about the way he looked at us. About the way his parents looked at us. And talked to us. You could hear something.”
“Yeah. I could. But why would they stonewall us like that? I mean a party or a little weed is one thing, but this is murder.”
“They’re telling themselves there’s no point in destroying two lives. They’re telling themselves he’s a good kid who made one big mistake. Or they’re not telling themselves anything and they just don’t want their son to go to jail.”
“Beating her to death with a two-by-four, or whatever, is a big mistake?”
Horn-Rims shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He swung the car around the block, back toward the station.
“It’s just a hunch anyway. Got no proof. We’ll stick with the other leads for now. No use banging our heads against this wall.”
“You got it, HR.”
“And keep my hunch to yourself.”
“You got it.”
“You know how the public gets when a pretty girl is killed, and there is no way we’re going to get anywhere with the Geyers if a hint of an implication gets out.”
“You got it.”
“So if the D.A. comes sniffing around—”
“Send him to you and flip him the bird behind his back.”
“Good man.”
Horn-Rims had three piles on his desk. One was hundreds of statements all saying they didn’t see a damn thing, that it was a damn shame what happened to that girl, but it was a nightclub and they didn’t see a damn thing. Another was a handful of very detailed, practically cross-referenced and footnoted statements all saying they didn’t see a damn thing, that it was a damn shame what happened to that girl, but it was a nightclub and they didn’t see a damn thing. The third was much taller than the other two with twice the testimonies and five times the detail. Those statements all said they didn’t see a damn thing, didn’t know a damn thing, and didn’t particularly give a damn about this Joyce guy.
Three big piles of shit Horn-Rims had to stick his nose in.
A detective dropped another pile on his desk.
“Transcript of the girl’s diary,” he said.
“Anybody take a look at it?” Horn-Rims asked.
“Yeah. Didn’t find anything. Figured you’d want to look anyway.”
“Right. Thanks.”
The detective left.
Horn-Rims made reading space in front of him on the desk. He got over reading diaries years ago, not just because he was a cop and sometimes cops needed to know your secrets, but also because most diaries were boring as shit and completely useless in investigations. But you had to read ’em all.
Renee’s was no different. Who she liked. What she wore. How she felt. It jibed with what her friends said. No secret older boyfriend. No serious drugs. No second life. Nothing to imply who sexually assaulted her and then savagely beat her to death.
He could get profiles of the nightclub staff. Maybe one of them had a history. He could get the names of the boys who presented psychological concern to the school.
A predator could have coincidentally been there. Coincidence was deduction dynamite, but that didn’t make it impossible. A predator would lie low, keep an eye on things, then strike at a vulnerable moment. Horn-Rims could ask the staff if they saw somebody lurking. Or maybe there was someone there they’d thrown out a few times for creeping on the teenagers. Sometimes you had to ask specific questions to get general answers.
He had to swing his pickaxe in those caves, even though he knew those mines were empty. He had the answer. He just couldn’t render it in the form required by our justice system.
He looked up from the diary. The Mayor stood in front of him. The Chief of Police stood a step behind him. Horn-Rims looked back and forth at them for a moment.
“What the fuck do you want?” Horn-Rims asked.
The Mayor ran his fingers through his obvious hair plugs.
“Horn-Rims, you’re a good cop. Everybody knows you’re a good cop. Hell, you’re one of the best. Who knows what the city would be like if we didn’t have you out there? It’d be a shit buffet and we’d all have to go back for seconds, is what it would be.”
Horn-Rims leaned back in his chair. Gave The Mayor a look that would crack Plexiglass.
“But some issues have come up,” The Mayor continued, “and, as I’m sure you know better than anybody, there are some problems that good cops just aren’t good for. Situations where there are too many gray areas, you know, where the right and wrong, criminal and citizen of the good cop’s world just get in the way of solving big problems. Of taking care of bigger issues.”
Horn-Rims just kept looking.
“And The Joyce Case is one of them. It’s just kind of tangled up in some complicated stuff. You know how it is with guys with money. They have connections. They have friends. It’s never easy with a guy like this, and sometimes the best cops, the cops we all need, the most important cops, sometimes with guys like this Joyce character, the best cops aren’t the right cops for the job. So, you’ve been removed from The Joyce Case.”
Horn-Rims leaned forward. Put his elbows on his desk. Interdigitated.
“Since I’m the lead detective on the case, you can’t remove me from it,” Horn-Rims said.
The Mayor nervously cleared his throat. “You are no longer the lead detective on The Joyce Case.”
Horn-Rims unlaced his fingers. Folded his arms on the desk in front of him. “As the highest-ranking homicide detective, I’m the one who decides who is the lead detective on homicide cases.”
The Mayor rubbed his hands together. “I’m-I’m s-s-sorry, HR, you are no longer the, ummm, highest ranking homicide detective.”
Horn-Rims slammed his fist on his desk. He stood up so fast his chair fell over. The Mayor winced. The Chief of Police took a half step forward.
“Why didn’t you ask? Why didn’t you just ask me to give up The Joyce Case? I would’ve shoveled that pile of bullshit off my desk in a heartbeat. I’ve got more important shit to do than chase after some billionaire who probably isn’t even dead. The only reason I haven’t is because nobody else has really pissed me off lately. Shit. All we’d have to do is change it to a missing-persons case.
Probably gonna do that anyway. Let that side of the office deal with it.”
“I’m sorry, HR.”
“Why didn’t you ask?”
“Well—”
“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t ask because you’re a couple of assholes. Fucking Christ, heaven is just a place where assholes aren’t always in charge. Just stop the demotion. I’ll take myself off The Joyce Case, or reclassify it, or whatever the fuck you want.”
The Mayor and The Chief exchanged a nervous look.
“The demotion has already gone through,” The Mayor said.
“Then fucking promote me back.”
Another nervous glance.
“I’m sorry, HR, but the union contract stipulates that no changes can be made to an officer’s rank after a demotion for six months, unless the officer commits an actionable violation of policy.”
“Demotion,” Horn-Rims said. “You can’t demote a guy again until after six months.”
“The language in the contract is ambiguous and we would prefer to avoid litigation.”
Horn-Rims swallowed. He slammed his fist on the desk. Again. A third time.
He should’ve resigned right then and walked out. No one would blame him. He’d be hired just about wherever he wanted to go. But wherever he went, it would take longer than six months to get back to the top. Plus, he didn’t want to move the kids. And even if something was available in the next town, even if they’d put him right back on top. There was Renee.
“Two things,” he said in a tone that eats bullets and craps handcuffs. “If I’m not promoted back to my current rank in six months to the day, I walk. If I look at my desk that morning and I don’t see the promotion paperwork, I don’t even take my coat off. And two, not one single fucking cop is voting for you next election.”
The Mayor started to say something. The Chief quieted him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Again,” The Mayor said, “we greatly appreciate your service.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.”
The Mayor and The Chief left. Horn-Rims picked up his chair and sat down. Picked up where he left off in the diary transcript. He felt the other officers not looking at him. Not knowing what to say. Not knowing what to think. Wanting to punch The Mayor right in his fucking mouth. Turning back to their own problem piles.
Horn-Rims was the last person in the office. He was looking at profiles of the nightclub employees working that night. Only one had a history, and that was nonviolent drug stuff. And he was a bouncer, standing in the same spot, checking IDs all night. Not worth the time.
He picked up the report of the boys the school guidance counselors were concerned about. He was shocked that he got it, but there was no better grease for the wheels of law than a dead white girl. Every one of the boys had an alibi. Another report said no known predators were known to be in the area at the time, and if a sicko had sneaked in, he’d sneaked right back out.
Horn-Rims’s phone rang. He looked at his watch. It was late. He cursed under his breath. He answered.
“Hi, Claire. Well, I know what time it is now. Yeah, I know. I’m sorry but you know how it is when it’s a kid. It just stays with me. Yeah, it’s about the boys, but, it’s also about being a kid once too, you know. Knowing what she missed. Yeah, that’s true, love, but I’m cynical enough already without thinking about it that way. Yeah. Well, I could leave right now or stay all night. No, nothing new. Just trying to see and think about things in a different way. I don’t know, Claire. Dark, crowded club. And you know how loud they play the music. And the way these kids dance, anything could be going on and nobody would think twice about it. I know. To think, our parents were upset about “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” And “Satisfaction,” that’s right. My mom hated “Satisfaction.” I remember getting into a big fight with her over it. Or was that Sticky Fingers? Was that on Sticky Fingers? I know. Well, I don’t plan on telling her what the boys listen to. Yeah. No. I should probably just call it a night here. I can think about this stuff anywhere. Oh yeah, no problem. Sure. Eggs. Milk. Cheese. Yep. Really? What’s that for? Baked mac ’n’ cheese? He wants to make baked macaroni and cheese for dinner tomorrow night? Since when did he want to cook? Oh yeah? Well, maybe the cable will start paying for itself. I know. Better not give him a reason to change his mind. Yeah, okay. Do you want me to get anything for dinner? Oh, okay. You know what, why don’t you just call in the pizza and I’ll get some chips and soda at the pizza place and then go out again. No, it won’t be a problem. The extra drive will be some nice quiet time. I know, Claire, I know. Okay, I’ve got a few things to put my signature on and then I’ll go. Five, ten minutes, tops. Okay. I know, Claire, I know. See you soon. Love you.”
Horn-Rims hung up. He put his signature on a few things and went.
Elsewhere and everywhere, summiting boulders rolled back down the mountains. We watched and the bravest of us rappelled back to ground to take up the toil they had turned into not toil. To some, it was a refilling in-box. To others, murder victims and the murderers who ran.
A cop that didn’t get pain like an angry rat in the gut while working on a case was a shitty cop. Or a psychopath. The rat pain had a range; sometimes sharper, sometimes duller. Sometimes relaxing after a few hours away from the desk, sometimes not. Working on Renee’s case, Horn-Rims’s rat didn’t relax.
Cases have a natural trajectory. You show up at the
scene and don’t know what the fuck happened or who the fuck did it. Then you bust your ass for days, weeks, months, years and you figure out what the fuck happened and who the fuck did it. But the truth is one thing, admissible evidence, quite often another. So when you find the truth, you turn all the clues into evidence. Sometimes that ain’t no thing and sometimes it’s impossible.
But Renee’s case wasn’t on that trajectory. It didn’t have any trajectory. It was just sitting there rotting away, the who squared away after the first interview with Frank Geyer and the what-the-fuck locked behind a wall Horn-Rims didn’t have the evidence to bust down. He couldn’t even get a warrant. A conviction was unthinkable.
Horn-Rims wasn’t hungry, but he had to put something in his stomach. The diner was one of his places. Five-minute drive from the station, on Meunier Street in a part of town some affectionately and derisively called Little SoHo. Always open. Passable and bottomless coffee. They didn’t give him any crap when he nursed a couple of rounds of rye toast. Didn’t ask him how his day was going.
He sat at the bar and nodded to Matilda for a cup of coffee. There were a couple of newspapers in a messy pile at the other end of the bar. He didn’t have to look at them to know what was on their front pages. The department projected its basic confidence that the killer would be brought to justice soon, but anybody who really knew how to read the newspaper saw through that front. He picked up a menu.
Someone sat next to him. He jumped a little when he saw who it was.
“What the fuck do you want?” he asked.
“Information exchange.”
“I don’t have time to mess around with your little game of tiddlywinks.”
“I can put him at the scene of the crime.”
Horn-Rims grunted.
“Since it’s a kid at the high school,” Trike continued, “I can put him at the scene of the crime on the night in question.”
The coffee arrived.
“All right, hotshot, you can shit in my ear if it makes you feel better. But then buzz off. I’ve got lives on the line.”