An ass kisser destined for political greatness and detective mediocrity, Tetrault had relied on Mann being upset at the early callout. Yet another strike for Tetrault. Mann hated politics and despised the second grade detective. One of these days, he would get enough reason to transfer him out of the Division.
“It would have been your ass if you hadn’t.” Mann turned to Kydd and asked, “What’ve you got?”
Tetrault was still busy thinking of a way to claim credit when Kydd launched into her report.
“At four fifteen, the kid on the till called 911.” Kydd pointed over to the enclosed cash area. “That’s him over there, the tall one. The short, fat guy is the station manager. He got here a few minutes ago. Anyway, the kid says he’s got a dead body in the john. Patrol responded and arrived at four-thirty-three, checked the body, called EMS and then us. EMS declared him at four forty two. We were on the scene at four fifty six.
“ID on the kid makes him one Luis Gabel, seventeen. He’s wearing colors but I don’t recognize the gang. He has ‘Intimidators’ on his vest and the back of his head is caved in. Appears that someone bashed his head against the wall while he was sitting on the toilet. No signs of a struggle and no weapons at the scene. No signs of theft and still had his wallet in his pants pocket. Not much in it, driver’s license, school ID and twenty-seven dollars in cash. He also had a home rolled smoke of questionable vintage in his vest pocket.”
Mann waited a moment but Tetrault cleverly refrained from adding anything. Mann glanced over at the black car of the Medical Examiner. Kydd followed his glance. “ME got here about five minutes before you. I relayed your message. I was told to tell you that they would wait for half an hour, unless the body moved itself.”
Mann smiled. Alf Buchanan was either starting early or just ending his night.
As Mann turned toward the washroom, a bright red jeep bounced its front tire over the curb and parked. Behind the wheel, he caught the flash of even redder hair and grimaced. Danett Wood. “Damn,” he said aloud.
“News travels fast, eh Lou?” Kydd said.
“Too damn fast. Come on Shane, let’s get rid of this nuisance first and then I’ll see the body.”
Kydd watched Danett Woods get out of the jeep and flip the seat forward. Danett, who worked for Channel Five, the local ABC affiliate, was one of the new breed of reporters. News for the MTV set, Kydd thought, remote newscasts with lots of blood, guts and rock & roll – FlashCams. They were basically a good-looking voice with a shoulder camera. The reporting usually had all the depth of a Roadrunner cartoon. But they had been around for a while and showed no signs of disappearing.
Danett pulled the heavy camera out of the back seat with one practiced lift. She’s stronger than she looks, Kydd thought. Kydd glanced at Mann and saw him admiring Danett. One of the original FlashCams, Danett, at 35, was getting a little long in the tooth for the job. She was still very pretty, in a kind of severe way. And she still had a great ass.
And too good at her job, thought Kydd. Flashcam or not, she was an actual investigative reporter. If she was showing up, you could bet that tight little ass that she smelled the gang angle.
Kydd envied Danett’s long legs as she easily stepped over the tape barrier. Long legs and a great ass, everything Kydd lacked. Bitch.
Danett had already spotted Mann and was heading in his direction. Mann waved the patrolman off as he hurried over to belatedly preserve the crime scene.
“Lieutenant Mann,” she called over, “little early to be out and about, isn’t it?”
No record light, yet. Maybe he was actually getting a break? “Barely enough time for my beauty sleep,” Mann called back.
“It shows.” Danett set the camera on her shoulder, tightened the focus and the red light blinked on. So much for a break. “Lieutenant Mann, what can you tell us about the murder?”
“I have only arrived on the scene myself. We will have an official statement in due course.”
“Have you identified the body?”
“We have made a preliminary identification but are awaiting notification of next of kin,” Mann said.
Danett obviously expected the answer and was already talking. “Our sources say that there is a suspected gang connection. Would you care to comment?”
Kydd heard Mann curse. The woman’s connections were frustrating, her “anonymous” sources too reliable.
Conscious of the camera still rolling, Mann quickly formed the standard answer. “At this time, we are investigating all possibilities. Anything else we can give you, Detective Tetrault will be more than happy to provide.”
Danett dropped the camera off her shoulder. “Come on, Mann. Give me something before everybody else gets here.”
“Like I said, Detective Tetrault will give you everything we can.”
Danett stared hard at Mann. As she shouldered the camera and turned it on Tetrault, she muttered “stupid flatfoot” just loud enough for Mann to hear.
Mann nodded Kydd toward the washroom. “Do you know the difference between a Flashcam and a vulture, Detective Kydd?”
“No, sir,” Kydd answered dutifully.
“Nail polish.”
Mann was rather pleased with himself. In one action, he had taken care of both the reporter and Tetrault. He knew that viewing the scene with Kydd, the junior detective of the team, was a slap in the face to Tetrault. However, it might make him realize that he had to actually do some detective work and not just kiss ass. Besides, he knew Danett despised Tetrault as much as he did.
“Jesus, what a stench,” Mann swore. “Tell me that wasn’t one of our guys!”
“Nope, that would be courtesy of the kid that found the recently deceased,” replied Alfred Buchanan. The Chief Medical Examiner for the city was leaning over the body as Mann entered the washroom.
Mann scanned the floor between the door and the body. There were several circles drawn in chalk around brownish drops of dried liquid with the usual plastic tent signs marking the evidence. He looked over at the technician from CSU standing in the corner and raised his eyebrows. “Floors clean, Lieutenant. We vacuumed it first thing but it doesn’t look promising. Way too many people through here since it was cleaned last decade.”
Buchanan looked up as Mann approached. His half glasses were perched low on his nose and his face was red from bending over. Once again, Mann wondered how much longer the old man could last in his job. He should have retired years ago but refused to leave. The city did not press him; they couldn’t afford to lose the best ME they’d ever had. Painfully, Buchanan straightened and came over to Mann, not offering his hand.
“This young lady get you out of bed?”
Reading the surprised look on Kydd’s face, Buchanan smiled. “Well, it couldn’t have been that other idiot.”
Kydd blushed slightly so Mann stepped into the silence. “What are you doing working a scene like this?”
“I finally got Kendall’s ass into the OR. I told him that I would cover for him personally so he would take the time off. Truth is, there isn’t anyone else anyway.”
Buchanan took a personal interest in all his technicians. Few complained about his mother hen management style and most gratefully accepted it, just for the opportunity to work with him.
“So, what have you got for me?”
“I have a dead boy whose name was Luis Gabel, 17.”
“Heard all that. Tell me about his last minutes.”
“Somebody beat his head against the wall.”
“That killed him?”
“Didn’t do him a lot of good. So, Dick Tracy, what’s your read?”
“Doesn’t look like a gang killing. I’d guess homosexual. No signs of a struggle. The kid’s on the can, perp in front getting a BJ and grabs a handful of hair and thud. The perp’s only worry would be not getting his pecker bit off.”
“The man is a regular Sherlock Holmes,” Buchanan said to Kydd. “I always was impressed with his keen mind even if his vocabulary is question
able.”
“Uh-huh, so what did I miss?” Mann said, shaking his head.
“Not sure that the blows against the wall killed him. Take a look at the wall.”
Mann moved around Buchanan and studied the wall. The tiles had cracked in several places where the skull had connected with the wall leaving bits of hair, flesh and brain trapped in the cracks. Mann shrugged. “Ya, so? What is it? Cement block under those tiles? Looks like a solid hit to me.”
“Very solid. Too solid for the amount of blood. The first couple of blows should have bled like a bugger. Lots of splatter until the heart stopped. Then, there’s the blood trail. Could be from the perp’s pecker but I doubt it. Most likely it is the victim’s blood.”
“You figure a dump?”
Buchanan shrugged. “I’m still deciding. There are bits of what look like evergreen needles in his hair. And, look at the toes of his boots.”
Mann bent down and studied the leather cowboy boots. They were fairly new except at the toes. The toes were scuffed. “Looks fresh.”
“Very. My bet is someone carried him like a drunken buddy, holding him up straight. You want a stiff to look alive, carry him that way. Normally takes a fair bit of strength to hold up the dead weight but look at this kid. He’s lucky if he runs 110.”
Mann looked over at the CSU man. “Dust the vest.”
Mann walked outside and took a drink of Pepsi. Kneeling down, he scanned the parking lot to see if he could see the blood trail. Dawn was still just a promise on the horizon and there wasn’t enough light. The lot was full of cars so if the body came by car, the car would have been parked a fair distance from the washroom. But why here?
Mann watched the CSU team doing a sweep across the parking lot with flashlights. “How’d the guy get in?”
“The attendant says that nobody borrowed the key but the door is often left open.”
Mann stood silently and watched the reporters gathering outside the inner barrier.
It didn’t feel right for gang bangers. Not their style with the head beating and the dump in a washroom. Gang killings were public, noisy things. If they were sending a message, and they were always sending a message, you put the body on display.
No, it just smelled wrong. Or was that just wishful thinking?
Chapter 3
Safe.
Preston let the water beat down on him, adjusting it just a bit hotter so his skin took on a deepening flush. He relaxed and slumped against the side of the shower stall.
Suddenly, he straightened. Slapping the water off, he stood listening. He waited, sure that he had heard a banging on his front door. As silently as possible, he pulled the shower curtain aside and stepped out of the shower. Snatching up his glasses but ignoring a towel, he tiptoed out of his bathroom and down the front hall toward his apartment door. He looked through the peephole into the hallway.
Instead of what he expected, the hallway was empty. Listening carefully, he heard another thud farther down the hall. Stretching high on his toes to look down through the peephole he could barely make out the edge of the newspaper lying in front of his door. He exhaled loudly and sucked in another breath. He took another look through the peephole. Cracking the door open slightly, he reached through and grabbed the newspaper.
Holding the newspaper, he shivered and looked down at the puddle of water on the tile floor. He flipped through and pulled out the sports section. He laid it on the floor to soak up the water and took the rest of the paper to the dining room table. He glanced at the front page and was saddened to see the story was not there.
Realizing he was still dripping, he stepped back into the bathroom and quickly toweled dry. He slipped on a pair of hospital OR pants. Up until last night, that had been one of his bigger crimes, stealing the pants from the hospital. But everyone did it so it wasn’t really a crime, right?
Returning to the dining room, he started to flip through the newspaper, scanning each page for the story. The first time, he flipped quickly through the paper. The second time, he spent longer scanning each page. The third time, he even went back to the front door and looked through the wet sports section.
How could the story not even be in the newspaper?
He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the newspaper. Sleep had eluded him last night. Not that he had wanted to sleep. He hadn’t even tried.
He could feel the returning warmth and let his hand slip down to the crotch of his pants as he replayed the night.
He had killed someone. He had actually killed someone! Accident or not, that kid was Dead. Dead with a capital D. Dead by his hand.
He had hoped, but not really expected, to see the story on the front page but he was sure there would be a story.
He glanced down at the Kesle Daily Post. How could they just ignore his first killing? Like it hadn’t even happened? Like the body wasn’t even there?
Wasn’t there – yet!
“Of course!” he said aloud, slapping his hands together. They didn’t find the body yet or at least not in time for the newspaper.
He stepped into the living room – which meant he stepped off the linoleum and onto the carpet that marked the division between the dining room and the living room. He walked over to the couch and snatched up the remote. He flicked the television on and turned to the local television station. The early morning news show was already started so he settled back on the couch and waited, his free hand still down his pants.
He had to wait a few minutes but he was soon rewarded with a very short news story about the killing. They called it a suspected gang killing. The entire piece lasted less than thirty seconds.
He couldn’t believe it, thirty seconds! Why was the story so short? Very disappointing. Didn’t his first killing merit a longer story than that? Where were the fifteen minutes of fame Andy Warhol had promised?
Well, it is only your FIRST kill.
True. But still. Suspected gang killing? What the hell was that? But what did he expect from the dickhead cops anyway?
Be honest, you thought they were breaking down the door while you were in the shower.
“Okay, sure, maybe for like one second, I was worried.”
He had been in a sweat when he got home. Ricocheting between total exhilaration and mind numbing fear but the panic had passed quickly. There was no link between him and the kid. There were no witnesses and no way to connect him with the body.
The perfect crime.
Glancing at the clock, he realized he had to hurry and get himself to work. God, how could he be expected to work when he had just killed someone? Didn’t they usually give you time off for something like that?
“I need a better union,” he said, chuckling to himself.
*
Preston settled into his chair and sipped his coffee. He slid down in his office chair as he heard someone walking by. He could hear the muffled footfalls on the carpeted floor as the person moved away from his cubicle. That is the way he always liked it – just let them walk on by. Maybe one of the cleaners? No, too late for that. Normally, not many of his co-workers got in as early as he did but he was later today. He usually arrived early and left late. He was conscientious about his work. And, yes, he admitted, it made it easier to avoid running into anyone. That eliminated the awkward goodbyes when the rest of the office was going for a drink and he wasn’t invited.
Avoiding people had been his life.
How much of his life had he spent scurrying from one safe place to another?
But was anywhere safe?
Why not make your world safer?
Ignoring that voice, he slipped his lunch into his desk drawer beside the latest novel he was reading. Both his lunch and the book would reappear again precisely at noon. Since he wasn’t doing outside inventories today, he would eat his sandwiches and read the book at his desk rather than risk the lunchroom. Eating with the others was just asking for trouble.
And he had enough trouble.
He closed his tired eyes but s
till felt the excitement of last night. He was just reliving the sound of the boy’s head hitting the wall when he heard the loud voice.
“PeePee!”
Preston jumped and spilled coffee on his shirt and tie. He stared up at Jake “The Jakester” Wilson. The name never came out as PP in Preston’s head. It always came out as PeePee, a name that had haunted him since Mrs. Muroka’s Grade Two class. Stricken with a kidney infection and high fever, he had stood too long in the line at Mrs. Muroka’s desk, waiting for permission to use the washroom. Right there, at the front of the class, he had wet his pants.
He had run to the washroom and never gone back to class. His teacher thought he had gone home. His father was too drunk to notice he wasn’t there until his mother finished the afternoon shift. Eventually, a janitor found him slumped in the bathroom, the infection and a raging fever almost shutting down his kidneys.
And PeePee had chased him his entire life since.
*
“Jesus, Peterson, you in there?” Jake said, his unmistakable bray booming down the hallway between the cubicles.
Jake Wilson shook his head at the pathetic blubber sitting in front of him. Since Peterson had started, Wilson had targeted the useless prick. Some jerks, Jake had told his friends, just screamed to be taken advantage of. It was like the nature channel. There were the lions and there were the antelopes. Jake was a lion and Peterson was an antelope, a really lame antelope. And there was no herd to separate him from since he just didn’t belong anywhere.
“Earth to Peterson!” Jake slapped Preston’s cheek, hard enough to turn the flabby skin red and was rewarded with the usual little girl squeak. Jake remembered that first day when Preston had made some smart-ass comment, actually correcting Jake’s grammar like some old schoolmarm. The fat twat just had to make out as if he was smarter than everyone else. Jake had feinted a punch and Peterson had actually ducked and let out a little girl scream. It was so perfect. Even the boss had spit out coffee, laughing so hard.
Two Graves (A Kesle City Homicide Novel) Page 2