The Flats

by Kate Birdsall

  She’s had a problem with booze and pills since my dad died. She ended up having to leave her job as a pharmacy technician, but East Side Pharmacy was good to her. They didn’t press charges or call in the DEA, even though they should have. She’d worked there for a long time, and Leo, the pharmacist and owner, wanted her to be able to get disability. They’d been surprised, but I wasn’t shocked. I’d seen her just minutes after she found my father hanging next to his heavy bag in the basement. We had just decided to go pick out the Christmas tree, and she went to the basement to get him. We didn’t get a tree that year.

  Christopher has been in jail before for minor stuff: public intoxication, public indecency for peeing on buildings—he’s lucky he’s not a registered sex offender for that one—vandalism, and various other kinds of stupidity. He’s thirty-two, only three years younger than I am, and his voice still cracks sometimes. That would be endearing to most people, I suppose. Maybe it at least partially explains all the younger girlfriends. A good-sized hunk of a blond man who behaves like a teenaged boy is attractive to some women. I wonder whether he’s ever going to grow up, or if he’s going to keep living his life as though it’s some big, long, stupid party.

  I consider calling my mom since I haven’t spoken to her in almost a month. I decide against it. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. But the fact that I don’t feel guilty makes me feel guilty. It’s a vicious circle.

  I switch on the Bose, but I want something quieter than the Rollins Band from last night. I scroll through the menu until I find Charlie Mingus’s “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat.” I was a punk rock kid, and I keep the distorted guitar stuff in heavy rotation. But I like a little bit of everything, and I’ll listen to anything once.

  “You have the life, cat,” I tell Ivan. I give his jet-black head a scratch before heading down the hallway.

  After another quick shower—I never feel clean if I only shower at work—I try to catch a couple of hours’ sleep, but the Sandman doesn’t come. He never does, not when I need him. I lie there, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to force my brain to slow down before the neurons short out somewhere in there and the circuit breaks and stops on the memory of what happened to my sister and my dad and my mom and my poor, stupid brother. A lot of the time, I don’t notice the pain. It’s just part of me. Trying to sleep is another story.

  Dr. Shue thinks I should take some vacation time and go somewhere warm and sunny, unplug for a few days. But where would I go? And what would I do there? I can’t really see myself on a beach, sipping a daiquiri next to a bunch of newlyweds. I’m more of a beer-and-dark-bar kind of gal. Besides, it only takes me about ten minutes to get one hell of a nasty sunburn. I’m not sure I’d want to go on vacation alone, anyway, even though I probably seem like the type who would.

  I will my hand not to reach out and open the drawer to my nightstand. I refuse to take out the picture, still in its frame, of the woman I’m sure I’ll never stop loving.

  Shue made me identify my tragic flaw: I’m both impulsive and an overthinker. Those things don’t match up very well. I don’t want to be cynical or nihilistic. The cynical ones end up eating the gun, and really, at the end of the day, some things do have meaning.

  Chapter Six

  After a fitful hour of trying to force sleep, I get up, wash the dishes, and put on a pot of coffee. While the coffee is brewing, I scarf an apple and a granola bar, standing over the sink. Ivan weaves his way between my legs, almost tripping me when I’m putting the dishes away, so I find a can of tuna in the cabinet and open it for him while he meows. He tries to trip me again when I reach down for his bowl, and he purrs loudly as I scrape the tuna into it.

  “Damn it, cat, cut it out. I have work to do today and don’t have time to go to the ER.”

  After I get dressed, I go back to the kitchen, where I grab two travel mugs from the cabinet: lots of cream in mine, black for Goran. I know I’ll beat him to the station because a kid sick with the flu can’t make for an easy escape, and Vera will try to make him eat something.

  Back in the squad room, after I set Goran’s travel mug on his desk, I call and talk to the HR people at Merrill Lynch and confirm that the Brian Little who worked there died a few months ago. I get on the Plain Dealer’s website and search for news of the motorcycle accident, which I find easily, thanks to Mary Parsalite’s memory of when he died. I sit at my desk for a minute, forearms on my knees. I stare at my well-worn cop boots then look at my cracked coffee mug and my shabby, scratched-up desk. Even my police-issued laptop has seen better days. Look at that dent in the side. How the hell did that happen?

  Who the hell strangles a little boy then cuts off his hand? The killer left one hand and the teeth, so it wasn’t to conceal the kid’s identity. Is the green sheet significant? Why did he move the body? Where’s that other crime scene?

  I slam my computer shut and pound on my desk until my fist hurts. Goran, who snuck in and sat at his desk without my noticing, takes a sip of coffee and eyes me pointedly.

  “I still can’t believe they let that guy go,” I say.

  “Who, not-Brian Little?” He raises his mug. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Yeah. There are only four Brian Littles in the tri-county area. The rest are all in southern Ohio. There’s the dead one, two that are too short, and one that’s the wrong color. And”—I point at him—“don’t steal my mug this time.”

  “Think there’s some kind of identity theft going on?”

  I shrug. “At this point, anything could be going on. What I know for sure is that Gray Suit isn’t Brian Little, which makes him even more suspicious.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll let you tell Fishner that we’re adding ID theft to our repertoire.” He does the thing with his lips that means he’s kidding but not really.

  We gaze at each other for a moment and read each other’s thoughts. I’m hoping that Fishner doesn’t rip us a new one. She’s been concerned about me lately. “Add her to the list,” I said when Goran told me that. “And the line forms to the left if you want to have an intervention.” I think I might have laughed.

  I look up at the clock above Fishner’s office door. “Shit, Goran. It’s four fifteen. Wasn’t Miller supposed to show at four?”

  I wait until four thirty before calling the number Sean Miller gave Goran at the scene. One of those automated voices recites the number and asks me to leave a message, and I comply.

  “We gotta go tell her. I’m half surprised she hasn’t demanded a full briefing yet.” I glance over at the lieutenant’s office.

  Goran follows my gaze and sighs. We both push our chairs back and stand. “Good luck with this one,” Goran whispers as we trudge toward her office.

  “Same to you, partner.” I knock on the door.

  Fishner calls out for us to come in, and we step inside. Sometimes—and I hate to say this because I know what it means, and I don’t mean it that way—Lieutenant Fishner looks like a rat, like the kind some people keep as pets. She’s in shape and kind of pretty in certain light, but other times she looks like a damn rodent.

  I give her an extremely abridged rundown. She stands next to her file cabinet and stares at me with those beady eyes. I entertain—okay, distract—myself by imagining her with twitching whiskers.

  When I finish talking, she doesn’t respond immediately, as though she’s waiting for more. Then she says, “Boyle, tell me what happened. Beyond whatever that little speech of yours just was.”

  I fill her in, leaving out the part about my almost-meltdown in the hallway and the incompetence that led to it. I try never to put blame on another cop unless he or she has done something completely egregious.

  “Why didn’t you get Anthony Smith’s statement at the scene? Why have a rookie bring him here?” She moves behind her big desk and sits in her chair, creating distance between us. Her voice is calm. She’s good at that.

  “I co
uldn’t.” I launch into my explanation of the situation with Anthony, his drunken confusion, his need for food and a cigarette, and the fact that I talked to him first because I thought patrol had Gray Suit under control. I don’t give the uniforms’ names, either—it’s cop law not to, so she doesn’t ask. I stress how I needed to keep looking for the murder weapon or any other physical evidence. You know, boss, I wanted to follow procedure and shit. I don’t tell her that we might have lost Sean Miller, too. That would be too much like nailing my own coffin closed.

  But hell. Either I should have canvassed the Flats or I should have detained Little or I should have talked to Anthony. Whatever I didn’t do is always the thing I should have done. But one or two detectives can’t do everything. That’s why we have all these other people, other sets of eyes, other moving parts. Anthony would have stayed by that dumpster all night. I should have talked to the other guy first.

  “Detectives”—though she threw the s on the end of the word, her eyes are on me—“I expect that you will find both of these people, question them again, and report back to me by tomorrow afternoon.” She tosses her pen onto the desk. She’s got to be catching crap from the captain. Dead kid equals antsy brass.

  “Yes, Lieutenant. We’ll find them,” I reply, properly contrite.

  She turns to Goran. “You’re planning on talking to the guy who found the body, right? I want to sit in on that. When will he be here?”

  “He was supposed to be here at four,” Goran says to the floor.

  After a few beats, Fishner says, “You do realize a little boy was killed, right?”

  I flinch. Goran does, too. One day in, and it’s already a clusterfuck.

  He takes a deep breath. “Yes, Lieutenant. We know. We’ll find them. Miller’ll be here any minute, I’m sure.” But he doesn’t sound sure at all.

  She levels an even stare at us. “I’m authorizing OT for this if you need it. Get it done. But I want you to be very careful with the Whittles. And now that I mention it, let me approve the OT before you take it. In other words, I need to know your every move on this.” Her tone makes me feel like a stupid child. “They’re important people. I’ll tell you when to talk to them. I need to make some phone calls first.” She’s got to have something to tell her boss. To her credit, she’s had my back before, and she’s a good cop. She helped to clear me with IAU after I shot that guy, among other things, but she sure knows how to get our attention in this office, and maybe how to motivate us, all without raising her voice.

  “What do you mean, ‘important people’?” I ask.

  “Graham Whittle, the victim’s grandfather, was that hedge fund manager. You know the one.” Her phone chirps, and after glancing at the screen, she grimaces and presses the ignore button. “Like I said. Wait until I give you the green light to talk to them. I don’t want any misunderstandings here.”

  That’s why I’d recognized the guy in that picture on Teresa’s mantel. Graham Whittle once bilked a bunch of people out of their pensions before getting out of the capitalism game right before the stock market crashed a few years back. I’m betting he has quite a list of enemies.

  “Let me know once you’ve located your missing witnesses.” Her landline phone rings on her desk. “And keep me posted about the forensics,” she adds. “I have to take this. Keep me in the loop, detectives. Close the door on your way out, please.”

  Goran closes the door behind us and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Watson has an autopsy report for us.”

  The ME usually moves child victims to the top of the list, to help the families get some closure or whatever, but it’s still fast. “Let’s go,” I mutter. “I’m driving.”

  “Good thing it’s a short drive,” he replies. “You scare me.”

  “Hey, Roberts!” I call across the squad room as I’m pulling on my jacket.

  The younger detective sets his spoon and jar of peanut butter, which he consumes way too much of, down on his desk and gives me a little salute.

  “See what you can find on this Sean Miller guy, okay? His info is in the system. Try to locate him, and let us know if you do.”

  He swallows. “Ten-four, Boyle.”

  Goran and I take the stairs and head out the back way. I hop into the driver’s seat before Goran can argue.

  “What are you thinking right now?” he asks, buckling his seat belt.

  “Gray Suit is my main focus.”

  He nods. “What do you think the deal is with the grandparents and the LT?”

  I make a right onto East Thirteenth. “Who knows? She’s gotta be catching shit. Politics. Did you talk to anyone in Missing Persons? Who was on the case down there?”

  “Olsen. I talked to him. He’s happy to hand it over. It was a complete dead end.”

  I pull into the morgue parking lot and swing the Charger into the spot closest to the door. Goran and I get out of the car and meet near the front bumper.

  He gestures for me to go ahead of him. “It smells like rain.”

  “Yeah, the forecast called for it later tonight.” I yank the glass door open and lead the way down the corridor. “Fishner is gonna be way up our asses on this one. Did you see that face she made back there? Hold on.” I stop at the water fountain and grab a quick drink, then we finish the trek to Watson’s office. The low lamplight is a welcome break from the fluorescence of the hallway.

  “Detectives, come on in.” Watson pushes his leather office chair back from his wooden desk. “Come on around here.” He points at his two computer monitors. “We’ll start with the good news. I see no signs of sexual abuse, chronic or acute.”

  Merciful caveat. “Time of death?” I ask.

  “Hasn’t changed. Seven thirty, eight o’clock.”

  “That pretty much exonerates his parents,” I tell Goran. “They were at that dinner thing with their friends.”

  Watson clicks through photos of Kevin’s lifeless body on one monitor, stopping at a close-up of his cleaved skull. On the other screen, he brings up a picture of a garden shovel. “This is my guess with regards to the fractured skull. The edge of the tool came down—definitely down, not from the side—on the left side of the skull, causing this divot and radial fractures.” As he speaks, he points at areas on the skull and the garden shovel to illustrate. “But blunt-force trauma isn’t what killed him, interestingly enough. My official cause of death is exsanguination due to severed appendage.” He clicks through to a picture of Kevin’s truncated wrist on one monitor then displays a pair of branch cutters on the other. “These are standard branch cutters, the kind you’d get at any major hardware store, the largest size available. The marks on the wrist bones match the curvature of these blades.” He zooms in on the branch cutters.

  I’m getting that feeling in my gut again. Goran puts a hand on my elbow, and his touch calms me.

  “None of this happened at the first crime scene. There would have been more blood, possibly skull fragments and hair. You’re looking for a shovel and branch cutters, and whatever did this.” He brings up pictures of the child’s rib cage. “He has bruising here, anterior”—he clicks again—“and here, posterior. It looks to me like he was punched and kicked.”

  I swallow hard. Abused-kid cases are even worse than random, regular kid cases.

  “When do you think the abuse occurred?” Goran asks. “Is this something that could have happened at home, over time, or just before death?”

  Watson nods. “The missing persons report says he was missing for several days. This bruising occurred during that time span. My guess is just before death. It’s all in my full report.” He clicks some more.

  How the hell am I going to tell Teresa and Peter Whittle about this?

  “What’s that?” Goran asks, pointing at some small red marks on the screen.

  “That’s the victim’s left shoulder,” Watson says, “magnified. Those are
needle marks. There are five or six of them. My guess is that someone drugged him with a sedative and that he was unconscious or semiconscious when he was beaten and kicked, given the lack of defensive wounds on his arms and intact hand.”

  Maybe I’ll start there. If he was passed out when the abuse happened or even when he was killed, maybe he didn’t suffer. “You’re running tox, right? How long on that?”

  Watson nods. “A couple of days. I’ll call you as soon as I know something. There’s one more thing.” He frowns. “Even though there’s no evidence of sexual assault, I found a pubic hair on the sheet. I’m running preliminary DNA. No match yet. I’ll send it over to the lab.”

  “Anything else?” Goran asks.

  Watson sits back in his chair. “Those are the main points. The rest is in the report. If I were you, I’d work on finding where he was murdered. It’s definitely homicide.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” I say. “We’ll wait to hear from you on the rest.”

  As I’m on the way back down the overly bright hallway, uneasiness bubbles in my guts. “Why cut off the hand? Was it a mistake?”

  Goran shakes his head. “Maybe the perp was planning to send proof of life, for ransom or something.”

  “Yeah, no tourniquet marks. If it was a mistake, the guy would have tried to stop the bleeding.” He shudders and holds the front door open for me.

  “It’s creepy, Goran. Creepier than most.”

  “Yep.”

  “Look, Kevin’s grandparents live about fifteen minutes from here. We could swing by and get the lay of the land.”

  “Boyle, it’s too late for that today, and you heard Fishner. She’s not messing around right now. Let’s just head back, get the paperwork done, and hope we catch a break. We’ll try to figure out what’s going on with Miller while Fishner plays politician.”

  “Fucking busywork. We need to talk to them as soon as we can then follow up with the lab about DNA and whether we got anything at the scene.”