His parents called him Al. Only later, with the propensity adults have for nicknames, had his buddies in the department christened him “Zoo,” after the last two letters in his given name, Alonzo.
Tully’s father had worked on the line at Ford. He worked hard, so hard that his fellow workers finally left him alone. It was an accolade of sorts. Harassment—or worse—was the usual treatment whites gave blacks on the line. To leave a black alone to do his work was, for that era, a mark of respect.
Alonzo’s mother, with eight children—he was the youngest—necessarily was a housewife and homemaker. Occasionally she would take in laundry or some other odd job or service to provide some always needed extra money.
All in all, the Tully family was a close-knit unit folding in upon itself. They—father and children—went out to work or school, each to do his or her best, only to return as if to an oasis.
As a youth, Alonzo was unsure what he wanted to do with his life. He knew he didn’t want to follow his father on the assembly line. Not that it was demeaning or beneath him. It was just that he did not want to spend the major portion of his life doing precisely the same humdrum thing over and over while answering to an extensive chain of command.
It was at the suggestion of a friend that he took the test to join the police department, a test he easily passed.
In the beginning it was most discouraging. Many times he came close to quitting. The bigotry was deep-seated. But, gradually, as his father before him, he began to impress his coworkers with his skill and professionalism. In time, he became convinced that this was the life for him.
With the ascendancy of Maynard Cobb, the final barriers fell and Zoo Tully knew he had found a home, running his squad efficiently and solving puzzles.
What disturbed him right now was his inability to solve the murder of El Bonner. Several times this past week, he’d thought he was on the verge of finding the missing link, only to have the puzzle regroup and stare defiantly at him.
It was the Bonner case he was thinking about when Alice padded into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Such deep thoughts for so early in the morning,” she said.
“What early?” His furrowed brow smoothed as he smiled at her. “It’s almost nine o’clock.”
“A compromise. What time did you get up?”
“About seven.”
“See? On Sundays I usually get up about noon. So, it’s nine o’clock. A decent compromise. Anything in the papers?”
He’d been through both the News and the Free Press. But for the life of him, he could remember scarcely anything he’d read. Either there had been little of interest or he’d been too distracted. Most likely, he thought, the latter.
“There’s Waldmeir’s column,” he remembered. “Takin’ off on Cobb again.”
“What else is new? I have long suspected that the mayor’s secretary’s job consists of cutting out Waldmeir’s column before Hizzoner gets a chance to read it.”
“That’ll make for a happy mayor.”
“A happy mayor.” Alice nodded. “Detroit’s most important product.” She swizzled some orange juice around in her mouth, then swallowed it.
Running her hands through her hair, she padded toward the living room in near-somnambulant fashion. Tully followed. She switched on the electric fireplace. Heat began to radiate from the artificial logs. Gradually, it brought warm comfort to its immediate space.
Alice curled up on the floor before the couch directly in front of the fireplace. “This is nice.”
Tully slid down beside her. He felt very much at home. Oh, yes: Sunday, sweet Sunday, with nothing to do . . .
“I can’t get my eyes open.” She rubbed them.
“Probably the wine you had last night. You don’t need much, you know.”
“The wine!” she remembered. “That’s why my mouth feels like a troop of juvenile delinquents marched through it.”
“J.D.s with rap sheets as long as your arm.”
“Ooh.” The image was disquieting. “What’s on the docket today, Zoo?”
“You’re kidding! You don’t remember what today is?”
“Sunday.”
“Uh-huh.”
“There’s more?”
“Uh-huh.”
She concentrated. It was difficult. “The last Sunday in January.”
“Uh-huh.”
“There’s still more? Let me think.” She pondered. Finally, “Su-per Bow-l Sun-day!” She drew out each syllable to confer the proper reverence.
“I’m proud of you.”
“Bob Hope! Red! Fake! Roll out! 57! 44! 40! Or fight! On 7! Hut! Hut! Hut! Hut! Hut! Hut! Hut! Hut!”
“That’s eight.”
“Who’s counting?”
“The offensive line.”
“That’s what makes them offensive.”
They chuckled and leaned closer together.
“Who’s playing, anyway?”
“Hmmm . . . I think it’s Pat Sommerall and John Madden.”
“Really! I knew they were big but I didn’t know they were whole teams.”
“The important thing to remember is how much it costs for a thirty-second spot during the Super Bowl.”
“How much?”
“More’n you and me are worth dead or alive.”
“There you go, playing cop again. When does the damn thing start?”
“Who are you—Miss What? I never heard so many questions from one person. Pregame is practically all afternoon. But the kickoff won’t take place till about six o’clock.”
She placed her hand gently on his thigh and began tracing small circles. “What’s on the docket till then?”
He felt tingling sensations and could not suppress a grin. He looked down at her. Her robe had fallen open at the neck. She wasn’t wearing a nightgown. He could see the upper portion of one breast. She took a deep breath and the breast swelled provocatively. Tully had no doubt she’d staged the whole sequence. He had never met anyone as adept at seduction. He had no objections. “Whadja have in mind?”
“Have I ever told you,” she said, “that you get out of bed way too early on Sundays?”
“I’m willing to be convinced.”
“Come on; I’ll make my case upstairs.”
“Leave the fireplace on. It’ll be nice and warm when we come back.”
“So will we.”
They did not return to the downstairs until mid-afternoon. Alice proved a prophetess: Both were feeling warm and wonderful. Tully’s entire soul was silently singing, “Sunday, Sweet Sunday.”
Alice went to the kitchen to begin preparations for an early supper. Nothing must interrupt the Super Bowl once it began. She also nibbled. She’d had nothing but the morning glass of orange juice.
Tully took command of the recliner chair and the TV’s remote control . Festivities had reached the point of presenting highlights of past Super Bowls. It was a source of continuing amazement to Tully that the networks were able, year after year, to get so much mileage and milk so much revenue out of a simple game that should take about an hour to play. With all the hoopla, extended halftimes, and commercial time-outs, even the duration of the game itself promised to stretch nearly four hours. Only in America . . .
After a time, he became aware of sounds coming from the kitchen—homey sounds. He smiled. This was good. The thought occurred again: marriage. He was quite sure Alice was willing. But if experience was any sort of teacher, that way lay disaster.
Something happened after a marriage ceremony. He wasn’t sure what to call it. Proprietorship, maybe.
Now he came and went at his discretion. So did Alice. They lived in the same house. They loved and cared for each other. But neither owned the other. There were no ugly scenes when he did not come home at the expected hour. Or, even worse, when he did not return for days at a time.
He well remembered the incessant argumentation and debates between him and his wife. The mindless accusatio
ns. He wasn’t running around with anyone else. And, despite her charges, his wife knew that. Pure and simple, she was competing with his work, and she couldn’t win. But she wouldn’t admit it.
No, this was good. This was right. Marriage would only complicate things.
There were times when he sensed that Alice was on the verge of broaching the subject, but she always backed off. However, because he was well aware that marriage was on her mind, he knew that one day it might come to an ultimatum. He didn’t want to think about that. For that could be the end of something great.
As his interest in the undiluted TV hype waned, he became more conscious of the sounds and the appetizing odors emanating from the kitchen. It was irresistible.
Tully stood in the kitchen doorway for some time savoring the scene. Alice, her back to him, was preparing a tossed salad. She seemed oblivious to all but the green pepper she was chopping. She was humming. He tried to place the tune. He knew it, but what was it? An oldie. She returned to the beginning of the chorus, and, with that, the words came to him. “We’ll be close as pages in a book, my love and I.”
Quietly, he approached her. She was unaware of his presence until his arms encircled her waist. She gave a startled gasp then relaxed and leaned back into him. He kissed the top of her head while holding her. “The cook needs a kiss.”
“She certainly does.”
“I feel good.”
“But I’ll bet you couldn’t leap over tall buildings in a single bound now!”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Who’s ahead?”
“In what?”
“The football game. The Super Bowl . . . what else?”
“They haven’t begun to fight.”
She laughed, “Well, at least this nonsense will be over until next fall.”
“There’s one more.”
“One more!”
“The Pro Bowl.”
“No!”
“Uh-huh. And we won’t have to wait till fall. They’ll start the exhibition season this summer.”
She made a face. “At least they’ll give us a couple of weeks off.”
The phone rang. It startled both of them. It shouldn’t have, but it did.
Tully stared at it as it rang twice more. He had a premonition. It was Mangiapane. There had been another prostitute murder. He had no basis for the presentiment. It was just there.
He picked up the receiver. “Tully.”
“Mangiapane, Zoo. We got another one. A hooker.”
“Was she cut?”
“Just like the other one. And branded.”
“Who’s with you?”
“Dominic. He’s just starting the SIR.”
“Uh . . . no. You do that.”
“Okay, Zoo.” Mangiapane felt honored. Just a rookie in homicide and the lieutenant was picking him over a seasoned veteran to make the report.
“You’re familiar with the first case. So when you start the report, I want you to pay special attention to the similarities—and differences, if there are any . . . got it?”
“Uh, okay, Zoo.” Humility quickly supplanted pride. It wasn’t his expertise; it was his familiarity with last week’s case.
“Where are you?”
“Michigan, near Central. Wait a minute,” Mangiapane glanced at his notepad, “7705 Michigan. You comin’? You can’t miss it. We got units all over the place.”
“I’m comin’. Get busy on that report.”
“Okay, Zoo.”
Tully replaced the receiver on the wall phone and, hand still on it, bowed his head.
Alice had heard only Tully’s end of the conversation. Clearly, it was police business. When she heard him ask, “Was she cut?” she knew. Actually she had known without having to overhear. Intuition.
“Damn!” Tully said, fervently.
“Another one.” It wasn’t a question.
“If only . . . if only I could have figured it out. I’ve had a whole week.”
“You can’t solve them all . . . especially with the little you’ve had to go on.”
“I shoulda done it. This wouldn’t have happened if I’d just been a little smarter.”
“You’re going.” Again it was not a question.
Tully nodded.
“I’ll wait dinner for you.”
“I don’t know when I’ll get back. It’s gonna be late.”
“It’s just pork chops and salad. They’ll keep.”
“Better you eat now. I might not even get back.”
“I’ll wait. And if you don’t get back, it’s okay. I understand.”
He gazed at her for several moments. There was sincere appreciation in his eyes. “Then I’ll be back. Sometime. But I’ll be back.”
He kissed her, then hurried upstairs to dress. Along the way, the thought occurred that he might still be married if his wife had had Al’s attitude. His next thought was that he was a very lucky man indeed.
13
Mangiapane was absolutely correct. There was no possible way to miss the place.
The tenement was on the south side of Michigan, a seven-lane thoroughfare at that point. It was a route that could take one from downtown Detroit all the way across the state to Lake Michigan and into Gary, Indiana.
The junction of Michigan and Central was, like so much of the city of Detroit, a mere shadow of its former self. The tenement was a case in point. It gave every indication of having been at one time a most respectable, if not fashionable, hotel. Now it was seedy. Its better days obviously were in its past.
Several blue-and-whites as well as unmarked police cars were double-parked, but in orderly fashion. And, for a chill, dark Sunday in January, with the Super Bowl about to begin, a considerable crowd had gathered.
Tully parked, got out of his car, and approached the building. As he walked, he took careful note of the crowd. Mostly neighborhood residents, he guessed. Older people, black and white, along with a significant number of hookers. He thought he recognized some. Evidently he was correct; a few returned his nod.
By no means were these women top-of-the-line whores. In effect, they were a reflection of the neighborhood.
Inside the building, uniformed officers directed him to the second floor. Again, there was no mistaking the pertinent apartment. The door was wide open, with a lot of activity going on inside as the technicians carried out their specialties.
“Zoo, over here.”
Sergeant Dominic Salvia, who had been only too happy to let Mangiapane handle the report, had things well organized.
Tully crossed the room much as a skier on a giant slalom, dodging police personnel doing their jobs.
“Mangiapane told me you were comin’, Zoo.” Salvia, as did nearly everyone in homicide, knew of Tully’s special interest in the Bonner case. So he was not at all surprised that Tully would be part of this investigation.
Tully nodded. “Is the body in the tub?”
“Yeah. Just like last week. Come on; I’ll show you.”
The two officers entered the bathroom. Even with several technicians crammed into the small space, Tully was able to see the victim clearly. He gasped. That surprised Salvia. In short order, homicide officers see about all there is to see. That an officer as experienced as Tully would show emotion at the sight of a victim, no matter how mutilated, was unexpected.
“Okay, Zoo, who is it?” Mangiapane stood in the doorway.
“You don’t know?” Tully asked.
“We don’t have an ID yet.”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know!”
“I don’t know.”
“But I thought—”
“So did I.” Tully jammed his hands into his overcoat pockets and shook his head. “If this doesn’t blow my goddam theory all to hell and gone! Oh, I’ve seen her before, someplace . . . maybe even booked her sometime. But I don’t know who she is. I haven’t the slightest idea.”
For nearly an hour, since Mangiapane’s cal
l, Tully had been mentally berating himself. If only he had been able to pick just the right file from his records, he might have found the perpetrator and prevented this murder. But, as it now turned out, his theory had obviously been based on a false premise. He did not know this victim. Thus, she did not die because of some connection with him—as had been his theory with El Bonner. So no matter what he might have done this week, this woman would still be dead.
He had been mistaken. An entire week’s investigation had been wasted.
Yet, realistically, what could he have done differently? How else could he have reacted? To investigate the murder of one of your snitches . . . a murder that bore the unmistakable mark of ritual. A message had been sent; it was only natural to assume the message was addressed to him.
What a grisly coincidence!
But the message was still being sent. That much was all too obvious. Even without close inspection Tully could see the bruises on the dead woman’s neck. He would be surprised if examination did not confirm that the bruises were made by the same belt. She had been gutted and the incision seemed to be the same as that inflicted on El. There was ample blood, but it was pretty well contained in the body cavity and the tub. Nothing on the walls.
She’d been dead a while before the evisceration. Just like last week. And, just like last week, the clumsy branding. He could make out the figure of a cross. But because the mark was made partially on one breast and partially on her side, it was somewhat disjoined. The impression that the mark was intended to be a cross was more evident from a short distance than close up.
Peering more intently, Tully thought he could make out the irregular marks of some sort of lettering on the horizontal bar of the cross. He wondered if this imprint would be any more clear and revelatory than last week’s branding. That would be determined at tomorrow morning’s autopsy by the M.E.
“Geez, Zoo, I was sure you’d know who she was.” Mangiapane was crestfallen.
“Until I saw her, I was sure I’d know who she was.”
Tully turned to Salvia. “Everything seems to be progressing here.”
“Yeah, Zoo. The techs should be done pretty soon.”
It was striking how much this apartment resembled the one in which Louise Bonner was murdered, thought Tully. Bigger—it was bigger. But it didn’t have enough furniture. That was it: not enough furniture. A bed, a couple of chairs, small table, kitchenette, stove— undoubtedly here the perp heated the branding iron. The bathroom—only a few toiletries and a toothbrush and some toothpaste. Just like at El’s.
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