Cold Blooded (Dennis McQueen 02)

by Randisi, Robert J.

  By “fancy boys” he meant the Crime Scene techs. There was no love lost between Crime Scene and medical examiner personnel, for obvious reasons. Still, McQueen remembered how arrogant a lot of the members of the M.E.’s department had gotten during the run of Quincy. The techs were just having their turn.

  McQueen looked at the uniformed officer who was standing nearby.

  “First on the scene?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said. “Me and my partner. I’m Smith, he’s—”

  “Jones?” Velez asked.

  Smith frowned and said, “Uh, no, he’s Acosta. Why would you think—”

  “Forget it,” McQueen said, as Velez shook his head sadly. “Who found him?”

  “Polar Bears.”

  “Come again?” Velez asked.

  “The members of the Coney Island Polar Bear Club,” Smith said, pointing. Both detectives turned and looked down the beach where a group of men stood huddled with blankets around them and Officer Acosta standing nearby.

  “All of them?” McQueen asked.

  “Well, one man spotted the body, and then the others gathered around.”

  “They move anything?”

  “The mattress,” Smith said. “They wanted to see if the vic was still alive.”

  McQueen knew a lot of the younger officers, like Smith, were using words like “perp” and “vic,” which they’d picked up from movies and television. McQueen didn’t think he’d ever said “vic” in his life.

  “Ray,” McQueen said.

  “I’ll go and talk to them.”

  McQueen nodded and Velez walked off down the beach. McQueen turned and saw that the techs were at work. He hunkered down by the body, across from one of the techs, who gave him a dirty look.

  “Who’re you?”

  “McQueen, Detective Sergeant,” he replied. “It’s my call.”

  The man looked annoyed that he wasn’t going to be able to tell McQueen to go away.

  “I’m Cahill. Bad scene, here,” he said, instead. “Contaminated. Water coming in and out, it’s bound to have carried something away.”

  McQueen looked down at the body’s legs, genitals, torso. There weren’t any clothes around anywhere, but as the tech had suggested, they could have been carried out by the tide.

  “Think he was carried down here?” McQueen asked. “Or did he wash up onto shore?”

  “Hard to tell. The sand is cold and hard, and where it did pick up tracks, those old geezers trampled it.”

  McQueen watched as the tech took a small chunk of ice from the body and dropped it into a jar. He was glad to see that the man seemed to know his job.

  “Can you get me a report on that ASAP?” he asked.

  “Fast as I can,” the man said. “This is my third scene today.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “You Homicide?”

  “That’s right.”

  The man nodded, packed up his kit.

  “Soon as I can,” he said. He turned to the M.E.’s boys, who were waiting impatiently. “All yours.”

  “Are you gonna take the mattress in?” McQueen asked the tech.

  “Yup. Soon as these boys have removed the body, we’ll take the mattress. We know our job.”

  “I’m sure you do,” McQueen said.

  As the tech walked away McQueen said to the M.E.’s guys, “Okay, stop.”

  “What?” one of them said.

  “The duty captain hasn’t been here,” he told them. “You’ll have to wait.”

  “Ah, shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “When’s he gonna be here?”

  “I don’t know,” McQueen said. “I don’t know who’s got the duty, so I can’t predict it. We’ll all just have to wait.”

  “Can we still have the mattress?” one of the CSU techs asked.

  “Sure, you can take it,” McQueen said.

  The techs smirked at the M.E. workers. Where it had taken six Polar Bears it took only two of the techs to lift the mattress and remove it without dragging it on the beach. The M.E.’s boys gazed after them enviously.

  “Cold as shit out here,” one of them said.

  “Imagine how they feel,” McQueen said, jerking his head down the beach at the shivering Polar Bears.

  “Yeah,” the man said, “but they came out here willingly.”

  “Not to stay this long in their bathing suits,” McQueen said.

  McQueen took out his cell phone, a new model Nokia with a digital camera, and started snapping shots of the body.

  “Whataya doin’?” the other man asked. “Crime Scene took photos.”

  “Might as well take advantage of the technology available to us,” McQueen said. “I like to get my own.”

  He’d only started doing this recently. He hated cell phones, but when they started combining them with cameras he changed his mind about them. He could have also accessed the Internet if he wanted to, but he hadn’t carried his dependence on technology that far, yet.

  He noticed some movement up by the boardwalk. Another car had joined the others on the boardwalk. “You might be in luck,” McQueen said. “Looks like the duty captain’s arrived.”

  They watched as the driver got out, put on his hat, then went around to the other side to open the passenger door.

  “Oh, no,” McQueen said.

  “What?” the other man asked.

  “Hartwell’s got the duty.”

  “How do you know that? He didn’t even get out of the car yet.”

  “Captain Hartwell is the only one who requires his driver to open the door for him.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  The man turned to watch.

  Captain Eugene Hartwell got out of the car and looked around. He paused long enough for someone—anyone—to see that his driver had opened his door for him. It was a status thing for him, and wasn’t any good unless somebody saw it.

  Satisfied that he’d been noticed, the man put his hat on carefully and instructed two other arriving officers to disperse the crowd. He then followed his driver off the boardwalk and onto the beach. The officers made no move toward the collection of onlookers that had built up two or three deep on the boardwalk. It was an impressive turnout for that time of morning. Why deprive them of the entertainment? Besides which, they knew they’d be the ones stuck with canvassing the area later for information. They’d have a better chance of finding something out if they didn’t piss everyone off by making them move, right now.

  Chapter 3

  “We’ll get you out of here as soon as we can,” McQueen promised the M.E.’s man as the captain approached.

  “Sergeant,” Hartwell said, when he reached the water’s edge.

  “Sir.”

  They’d been to enough crime scenes together that they knew each other on sight, and although they had spent very little time together in other venues, there was an innate dislike between the two men. For one thing, McQueen hated pretentious people, and Hartwell stood tall at the top of that list. Hartwell also did not appreciate the fact that McQueen was not awed by him.

  “I saw the Crime Scene boys lugging a mattress to their van,” the captain said. “What’s that about?”

  Briefly, McQueen explained what they had, giving his superior all the details he thought salient.

  “You shouldn’t have allowed them to remove the mattress until I’d arrived, Sergeant,” Hartwell said, when McQueen was finished. “You know better than that.”

  “Yes, sir.” McQueen could have offered several arguments for not needing the captain’s approval to remove the mattress, but decided to simply back off and let the man have his way. They’d all get off the cold beach quicker that way.

  “The M.E. has examined the body?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any conclusions?”

  “The state of the body and the cold weather precluded that, sir,” McQueen said. “He won’t be able to get us any more until he
takes the body back to the morgue.”

  “Statements?”

  “My partner is taking them now, sir,” McQueen said, pointing down the beach.

  “That’s the Polar Bear club?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Foolish old farts,” Hartwell said, shaking his head. “They’re all just begging for a heart attack.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hartwell took off his hat just long enough to run his hand lightly over his expensively cut gray hair, thereby bringing it to everyone’s attention. Satisfied that his haircut had been properly shown off, he put his hat back on.

  “Stupid old men,” he continued, even though at his age he would have fit right in with them—or, perhaps, because of it.

  “Sir, the M.E.’s office would like to get the body some place warmer as soon as they can.”

  “Of course, of course,” Hartwell said. He looked down at the body, walked around it a bit, made a show of leaning over and examining it. “All right, you have my okay to move the body.”

  McQueen looked at the impatient men from the M.E.’s office and said, “Go.”

  “Who’s your superior, Sergeant?” Hartwell asked as the men moved forward and began to bag the body.

  “Lieutenant Jessup runs my squad, sir.”

  “All right,” the captain said, “carry on.”

  Hartwell looked at his driver and nodded, and the man led his boss back up the beach to the boardwalk. The driver opened the car door for Captain Hartwell, then trotted around, got inside and backed out.

  “Asshole,” one of the M.E.’s men said.

  “No comment,” McQueen said.

  As they hauled the body up to their van, McQueen walked down the beach to where his partner was talking to the shivering members of the Polar Bear club.

  “I’m about done, Dennis,” Velez said. “Can we let them go get dressed and go home?”

  “I want to talk to the one who actually saw the body first,” McQueen said.

  “That would be me,” Bobby Kelly said.

  “Okay,” McQueen said to Velez. “Let the rest go and find their clothes and go home, as long as you have their addresses.”

  “And phone numbers,” Velez said. “I learned that in detective school.”

  “Sorry, Ray.”

  “You were talkin’ to Captain Hartwell, weren’t you?”

  “Then I forgive you.”

  “Mr. Kelly,” McQueen said, “take a walk with me.”

  “Sure.”

  Kelly fell in next to McQueen, holding a towel tightly around him.

  “You seem somewhat younger than the rest,” McQueen said.

  “I am,” Kelly said, “but they were the nearest group.”

  “What’s the kick?” McQueen asked. “I don’t understand the appeal of freezing.”

  “Don’t think I could explain it to you,” Kelly said. “It’s just . . . invigorating.”

  “Tell me about finding the body.”

  “What’s to tell?” Kelly asked. “I came out of the water and there it was.”

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Kelly?”

  “I’m a stockbroker.”

  “And the others?”

  “All different professions,” Kelly said. “Your partner took all that information.”

  “No one noticed the mattress before you all went in the water?” the detective asked.

  “I did,” the man said. “I mean, I saw something, but you always see things on the beach these days. Garbage just . . . washes up. Besides, it was farther down the beach from where we were going in. I just happened to come out . . . well, in the right place, I guess you’d say.”

  “Or the wrong place,” McQueen said. “All right, sir. We’ll be in touch. You can go.”

  As McQueen started to walk away Kelly said, “You didn’t ask me if I knew the dead guy.”

  “I assumed if you did, you would have told me.”

  Kelly stared at him for a moment, then turned and started off toward his fellow club members, who were donning their clothing with quick, jerky movements.

  McQueen found Ramon Velez sitting on the steps to the boardwalk, slapping his shoes together in an attempt to get all the sand out of them.

  “Goddammit, I hate the beach.”

  “Don’t you take your kids in the summer?”

  “Only when Cookie makes me.”

  He slammed the shoes down on the step, slapped them together again, then ran his hands over his socks before putting the shoes back on. Finally, he stood up.

  “Ready to go?” McQueen asked.

  “What about canvassing?”

  “Let the uniforms do it,” McQueen said. “I’m hungry. Figured while we’re here we might as well hit Nathan’s.”

  “I’m with you on that,” Velez said. “Let’s go.”

  They climbed back up onto the boardwalk and back to McQueen’s car, which was blocking in the M.E.’s van. He waved his apology to the driver, backed his car out and drove around the corner to the original Nathan’s Famous.

  When the two detectives got into their car and pulled away from the boardwalk, the Observer decided his job was done. Even before the rest of the crowd dispersed, he made his way through them, head low, hat pulled down, and left the area.

  This assignment was finished. On to the next one . . .

  When they were standing at the Nathan’s counter, each armed with a couple of hot dogs and an order of fries, the detectives discussed their new case.

  “What’d Dr. G say?” Velez asked.

  “Not much,” McQueen said. He explained that the body had to be warmed—almost thawed—before the M.E. would be able to find anything.

  “No obvious wounds?”

  “None,” McQueen said.

  “I hate tough cases.”

  “We got no case at all, Ray, unless the M.E. tells us so,” McQueen said. “We’ve got no other cases, right?”

  “Not right now,” Velez said. “We closed out that one last week, and this is the first one we’ve caught since.”

  “Then all we’ve got to do right now is eat hot dogs and wait for the M.E.’s report.”

  Velez ate the last bite of his second dog and said, “Then we need two more?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Chapter 4

  “Dennis,” Lieutenant Alan Jessup said. “My office.”

  McQueen finished out the day filing and answering phones at the Homicide office on Snyder Avenue, on the second floor of the 67 Precinct building. They shared the floor with the regular precinct squad, which was not a situation either squad enjoyed.

  McQueen’s shift finished at six P.M., but at five forty-five Lieutenant Alan Jessup walked in and uttered those words.

  Velez looked across the desk at McQueen and asked, “Want me to come in?”

  “What for?” McQueen asked.

  “Moral support.”

  “Relax, Ray,” McQueen said. “Finish what you’re doing and go home.”

  “Did we get anything from the M.E.’s office, or the lab?” Velez asked.

  “Not yet,” McQueen said, standing up. “Maybe in the morning. Go home to Cookie and I’ll see you then.”

  “Right.”

  Velez stood up and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair while McQueen went into the lieutenant’s office.

  “What’s up, boss?” he asked.

  “Shut the door and have a seat.”

  McQueen did so, taking a chair across from the lieutenant. Jessup was ten years younger than McQueen, and on the fast track to making captain. It didn’t bother him to take orders from the man, though. He’d never wanted to be a boss, and only backed into becoming a sergeant when he was put in command of a task force several years before. He’d had plenty of chances to push for a promotion to lieutenant since then, but McQueen was happy with his present rank. In fact, he’d only accepted the move to the Homicide Squad on the condition he could still catch cases, and not just supervise.

  “I had
a call from Captain Hartwell today.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “Seems he doesn’t feel he got the proper respect from you at the Coney Island crime scene this morning.”

  “I ‘yes, sirred’ him up the ass, boss.”

  “Well, apparently he thought it was less than heartfelt,” Jessup said. “Thought you were being sarcastic.”

  “I’ll try and watch it next time,” McQueen said, sarcastically.

  “And there was somethin’ about a mattress?” McQueen closed his eyes.

  “The lab was waiting to take the mattress that had been covering the body,” McQueen said. “It’s all in my report, Loo.”

  “I read the report,” Jessup said. “Look, we have to deal with him, Dennis, so just deal with him, okay? In the future just wait for him to get to a scene before you let anybody or anything go.”

  “Jesus Christ,” McQueen said. “Is he going to haul me up on charges?”

  “No,” Jessup said, “he’s leaving it to my discretion.”

  “That’s white of him.”

  “Just watch your p’s and q’s when he’s around, okay?”

  “Okay, sure,” McQueen said, “I got it, boss. Is that it?” He started to get up.

  “No,” Jessup said. “Sit back down.”

  McQueen dropped back into the chair. Jessup picked up a personnel folder and dropped it on his sergeant’s side of the table. He then pushed his chair back from his desk and slumped comfortably in his chair.

  “We’re getting a replacement for Jackson tomorrow.”

  “What are they doing with him?”

  “Dropping him back in the bag.”

  The “bag” was uniform.

  “Good,” McQueen said, “he never should have been made a gold shield, anyway.”

  “I agree,” Jessup said, “but it took a while to get others to see it, too.”

  “Who are we getting?”

  “There’s the file,” Jessup said.

  McQueen picked it up and opened it.

  “When is he getting here?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Detective Bailey Summers,” McQueen said, reading the file. “Ten years in, gold shield two years ago, worked in the sixth for a while, then Sex Crimes. Thirty-two. Five-six, kinda short, but that’s okay. At least he’s got some experience on him. Should be an improvement over Jackson.”