Sable Alley

by Bridget Bundy

  “How?” Erin asks.

  “I don’t have the answers yet, but as soon as I find out, I’ll let you know.”

  Erin weeps more. “Not my baby sister. Not Ruby.”

  “It’s okay.” Finley rubs her shoulder while favoring the hand most affected by the hit to the door with the baseball bat. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “Finley, I’m sorry to keep asking questions, but I have to know about Ruby’s belongings. Is that her room back there?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “She has very little clothing, and nothing else. Where are her things?”

  “I have no idea. As long as I lived here, she never had that much.”

  “The next question is going to be odd, but do you know if Ruby used glitter for make-up?”

  Finley shakes his head with confusion and looks to Erin. She’s too shaken to answer the question.

  “Alright,” I reply, disappointed. “We’ll be leaving.”

  CSO Clarke places the taser on the counter in the kitchen, out of their immediate reach.

  “Detective Kipling,” Finley says, “I wanted to apologize about the bat thing. I thought you were here to arrest me. I couldn’t be separated from Erin.”

  “No harm was done.”

  “Will you find who killed her?” Erin asks.

  “I will do my best.”

  “Cops don’t care about people like us,” Finley nastily replies. “Somebody else more important will get hurt or get killed, and you’ll move on and forget about Ruby. That’s what you cops do all the time.”

  That’s not always true, not from what I’ve seen in District Three Police Department. Every detective seems to work their cases with due diligence. But I’m sure there is at least one person, who hastily pushed a murder case aside.

  I will admit though that when it comes to the wealthy and the royals, every resource the force has to offer is poured into figuring out their murders. The best detectives work those cases. Coroners are pushed to run tests and do their autopsies first. Ranking officers demand immediate arrests, ironclad confessions, and undisputable convictions. That’s how it is in Exeter, and from what I’ve heard, in most of the colony.

  I suppose Ruby being poor is the reason why I’m on her case. With no experience under my belt and no one to guide me on every step, her death is not as important, but it is on the radar. If DS Green and her superiors truly didn’t care, they wouldn’t have opened the case. I’ll never give up, no matter the mistakes I make along the way. Ruby deserves a champion.

  Chapter Seven.

  “You were quick in there,” CSO Clarke comments as he lights up a cigarette on the step of the Crow Building.

  “What do you mean?” I’m looking across the street at the Coot Building. The woman with the headscarf, who was watching as I worked the crime scene this morning, lives there.

  “He swung that baseball bat, and you moved out of the way like lightning.”

  “I rather not have the sense knocked out of me today.”

  “Why didn’t we arrest him?”

  “It wasn’t necessary,” I reply, going across the street.

  “He threatened your life,” CSO Clarke says, following me. “He could have hurt you.”

  “And Erin would have been alone. Didn’t you hear what he said? She’s sick.”

  “A lot of people are sick. You can’t just let people do what they want without consequences. I say we go back and arrest him.”

  “No.”

  “You can’t be lenient, Kipling.”

  “I’m not hurt. The guy has a lot going on. No big deal. Not going to talk about it with you anymore.”

  “Okay,” he huffs. “So, why are we going to the Coot Building?”

  “I saw a lady this morning while I was in the alley. I’m hoping she saw Ruby last night before she died. Plus, I need to speak to every tenant on that side of the building.”

  “That’s going to take the rest of the afternoon.”

  “If you help me, it won’t.”

  Obviously not wanting to speak to potential witnesses, CSO Clarke sighs, but he sticks with me as we go from door to door. The effort is proving to be fruitless. No one knows a woman was dead in the alley. No one knows her name. Everyone is utterly clueless and is surprised or don’t care.

  We get to one apartment on the sixth floor, where the door is already opened. From the hallway, we can see clearly to the other side of the apartment. I announce our presence. The woman from the balcony saunters into view. She's eyeballing us through a line of billowing smoke from her cigarette.

  “Mind if we come in?” I ask.

  She shrugs with one shoulder and sits down in a chair.

  I take a look around as I walk in. The open space has a lot of colorful blankets over large pieces of furniture. On the walls are paintings of green land masses bordering dark blue oceans and faceless islanders in bright colored clothes. Thick rugs cover every meter of the floor. The décor makes the apartment appear to be alive and cluttered at the same time.

  “I have to check your identification,” CSO Clarke says.

  Without putting up a fuss, the woman places her thumb on his IET.

  “Elizabeth Foster,” he reads aloud. “No warrants. No criminal records.”

  “You’re the one investigating that woman’s death,” she replies, tapping ashes into a tiny white bowl on an end table.

  “We are. My name is Detective Kipling. This is CSO Clarke.”

  “I heard you the first time. What do you want?”

  “First, I need to inform you that this conversation is being recorded.”

  “What if I don’t want to be recorded?”

  “Then I can arrest you for hindering an investigation.”

  “Cops,” she says with disgust. “Always thinking you can bully people. I’m not afraid of being arrested, and I’m definitely not afraid of you.”

  “I’m here to investigate a murder, not give you a hard time.”

  She sucks her teeth and takes another drag of her cigarette.

  “Do you know the victim?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Have you ever seen her around the neighborhood?”

  “No.”

  “Were you up last night?”

  “No.”

  She’s not cooperating, and I’m getting annoyed.

  “Miss Foster, Ruby Taylor was her name. She was murdered in that alley last night. She would have been screaming and crying for help. Did you hear anything?”

  “No.” Elizabeth blows out a long stream of smoke. “I was asleep.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Miss Foster looks away as if I was inconsequential.

  “Do you have children?” I ask out of curiosity.

  This gets her attention. She stands and answers, “What did you say to me?”

  CSO Clarke is taking a defensive pose with his hands on his gun. I lift my hand, indicating I need him to relax.

  “I only ask because my victim was someone’s daughter. What if that was your child? Or your sister? Your mother?”

  “I had a daughter,” she says with heated anger. “She was raped and murdered.”

  I’m speechless by this unexpected admission.

  “My daughter was barely twenty years old when some drug addict broke into her apartment, looking for money, and killed her.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Foster. I was trying to make a point.”

  “Sorry? Really? If the cops had put one ounce of energy that you’ve put into trying to solve your case, I would be more willing to help. But since they don’t care, I don’t either. That’s all I ever get, whenever I call the police about my daughter’s murder, is sorry. Sorry, we haven’t found her killer. Sorry, there is no progress in her case. Sorry this. Sorry that. I am so fed up with you and the whole police force and your sorry ass excuses for not doing your jobs.”

  “Miss Foster, if you help me, I will look into the murder of your daughter.”

  “I
f I help you?” She chuckles. Tears are pooling in her eyes. “My daughter’s case hinges on you helping me? Really, Detective Kipling?”

  I just said the wrong thing, and I feel awful.

  “The police have never cared for the people in this neighborhood. That’s why the murder of my daughter and so many others have gone unsolved. You think what you’re doing is going to change anything? You really believe you’re going to find who killed that girl? Everything is working against you. The very people you work for. The people in this neighborhood. Nobody cares, Detective, and eventually, you’ll feel the same way.”

  “Miss Foster, I know you’re angry. I get it.”

  “No, baby, you don’t. Until you lose family to violence, then your head is in the sand.”

  “I’ve lost family,” I reply. “I’ve lost many things, more than anyone can know, including you.”

  She recognizes the pain in my eyes. The hard anger that forms the lines on her brow lessens. She looks down, knowing my achingly cripple hurt can potentially take her out as much as it did me once.

  “Miss Foster,” I reply, nearly with a hiccup. “I just want to know if you saw or heard anything last night.”

  “No, I didn’t hear or see anything.”

  “Thank you for your time,” I respond.

  I’m almost at a run to get out of the apartment. CSO Clarke trails behind me. As we wait for the elevator down the hall, Elizabeth’s door closes and locks.

  Out of nowhere, CSO Clarke says, “She’s somewhat right, you know. Some cops don’t care.”

  “I do. It’s the reason why I became one.”

  “When I was a kid, I used to live in the Starling Building, right next door, with Mum and Dad.” CSO Clark sighs, heaviness and sadness settling on him. “My dad, he was killed when I was only ten years old. I was walking home from school, and there were these boys that used to be in the entryway all the time. They were much older. I was afraid of them. Everyone was afraid of them. One day, I came home, and there they were, as always. I tried to go through them. They pushed me around. Took my backpack and cut it up. Threw my books in the mud and water. Broke my pencils. Tore up my assignments. They destroyed all my stuff I needed for school. We didn’t have the money to replace any of it, and back then, I had this teacher, a couple of them, that wouldn’t allow me in their classes if I didn’t have my books. Anyway, I went upstairs and told Dad. He was so mad. He left out of the apartment.”

  The elevator door opens, but neither one of us get in.

  “He never came back,” CSO Clarke says distantly. “He was stabbed in a fight and left on the steps to die, and those guys didn’t run. Even when the police arrived, they stayed and acted like they had no idea what happened. They claimed they just showed up, and there he was. Everybody knew the truth, but no one was talking. One of the guys still had blood on his hands. Even I saw it. Mum wouldn’t allow me to give a statement. She was afraid they would come after me too. The cops ruled my dad’s death a suicide and closed the case. Those guys got away with murder.”

  There’s no right way to respond, but I know why he told his story. CSO Clarke is reaffirming Elizabeth Foster’s statement about the police not caring about the poor. I’ve seen a little of the negligence first hand, but it’s not prevalent.

  “Suicide,” CSO Clarke repeats with a shake of his head. “They cremated his body and gave us the remains. After Mum died, I dumped both of their ashes into the River Rydal. They always wanted to live near the water.”

  We get into the elevator and ride it down quietly. I feel bad for Miss Foster and for CSO Clarke.

  Once we’re outside, I ask him, “After what happened to your dad, why did you become a cop?”

  “I came to the force hoping to make a difference and to change how the police treats people. Living in this neighborhood all of my life, I’ve seen a few dirty cops, and it tainted my view of them. But when I joined the force, I met some really good people who took their job seriously. Changed my view.”

  “You plan on moving up in rank?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  CSO Clarke and I are back in the marked unit. He lets down the window and lights up another cigarette. “Where are we off to now?” he asks.

  “You’re not tired of hanging out with me yet?”

  “Not one bit. So, do you think you have a suspect with Elizabeth Foster or Finley Price?”

  “I don’t think they committed the crime, but I’m not sure. There’s no real evidence that points to them.”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  “I’m going to try.”

  Chapter Eight.

  Once I’m back in the office, I download the recorded conversations I had with Finley Price and Erin Mitchell into the dictation program. CSO Clarke has downloaded and dictated the conversation with Elizabeth Foster from his IET and sent the file to me. Within a few minutes, the program is finished. I read through the text to ensure everything is correct and to refresh my memory. I’m not sure if I should have asked more questions or should have brought up specific details, but there’s always tomorrow. I can still go back and question them if I come up with something else. I sign the documents with my police ID number to certify the authenticity.

  Going through the rest of the online case file, I discover Dr. Turner has completed the autopsy. The results are in, and she’s sent me the information. I check the pictures first. Dr. Turner has cleaned up Ruby’s face. Half of the upper part of her skull down past her right eye to the middle of the cheek bone is missing and hollowed out, but a hint of Ruby’s beauty shines through the horror. What’s left of her red hair is combed back. It’s a haunting photograph, seeing a human being not look so human.

  In the written report, Dr. Turner notated no broken bones, no scratches, and no burn marks on the rest of her body. Blood type was O-positive. Organs were in healthy condition. She wasn’t pregnant and never was.

  The next entry is a basic body diagram. The drawing looks like someone hand drew the outline. Near the head is the number one, and it reads:

  AUTOPSY NOTE 1: Blunt force trauma on the right side and posterior of the skull. Brain in affected area and right eye were obliterated. Unknown instrument used. End Entry. Dr. Lucy Turner, Exeter Coroner. February 19, 2018, 4:20 P.M.

  Dr. Turner has concluded Ruby Taylor’s death is a homicide based on the blunt force trauma. I’ve worked this case somewhat all day, but the official findings have made it more real. I have to dig deeper into this case and find the killer, but I’m back to feeling the inadequacy. How can I honestly do this job if I don’t know how? I’m out of my league.

  “How did it go?” Robinson has appeared out of nowhere. He takes off his jacket and toss it on the desk. He’s wearing a different shirt from this morning, and his hair is wet.

  “It went fine,” I reply, going back to my computer.

  “Did Clarke go with you?”

  “He did.”

  “Where is he now? He’s your sidekick throughout this case.”

  “Somewhere in the building, I guess,” I reply.

  “How’s the case so far? Do you have any leads? Anyone you think might be guilty?” He pulls open a drawer in his desk and brings out a tie. With a wave of his hand, he snaps it back into shape. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I heard you.”

  “Well?”

  “I’ve got a couple of leads to follow up on, but no suspects.”

  “Are you kidding me? Usually, by the end of the first day, I have my eye on a couple of people whose good for the crime. You talked to the family, right? Told them about Ruby’s death?”

  “After I left here, I went directly to Ruby’s apartment. Her sister lives there with a guy.”

  “And?”

  “Ruby’s sister was upset, and she was sick. She has some kind of illness. I don’t think she did it. There was a guy there who spoke to me most of the time. He was somewhat helpful.”

  “What’s his name?” Robinson loops the tie int
o a sloppy knot.

  “Finley Price,” I answer.

  “Does he have a record?”

  “No, and he doesn’t have warrants.”

  “He might be your man.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve found that a family member is the one who commits the crime. It’s not every time, but that’s usually the case. Tomorrow morning, we’ll go arrest Finley Price together. Get him in here and put the pressure on him. He’ll own up to it.”

  “Robinson, I don’t think he murdered Ruby Taylor. I just didn’t get that kind of vibe from him.”

  “Vibe?” he laughs. “How many cases have you worked again?”

  “You haven’t met the guy,” I reply impatiently, “and you haven’t spoken to him. How can you conclude, based on nothing, that he’s guilty?”

  “Do you know him?” Robinson narrows his eyes, obviously accusing me of something.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You act like you do.”

  “I don’t know him, and if I did, I would step aside from this case. He’s not the one. I think.”

  “Kipling, just arrest the guy and put some pressure on him.” Robinson puts on his jacket and combs back his hair with his fingers. “How do I look?”

  “Your tie is crooked, and your shirt needs to be ironed.”

  Surprised by my honesty, he looks down at his clothes. He can’t see the knot, but he lifts up the tie as if he can. “You’re cruel.”

  “Yeah, okay, whatever.”

  “I got to go. Got a date tonight. My wife wants to eat out. What are you up to this evening?”

  “Going home,” I reply dryly.

  “Sounds like you’re going to have a hell of a time…sitting at home…doing old lady stuff.” Robinson slaps his hands together. “Medium rare steak, I can taste it now. You get some rest, DC Kipling, and good job today. You did great!” Robinson saunters out the door, pointing and saying goodnight to fellow detectives along the way.