by Rick Reed
“Yes,” she said. “He closed the account a couple of days ago.”
Jack asked, “Regular customer?”
She hesitated.
“You can answer their questions, Janet,” Gorman said.
She said, “He was a regular customer. I should say he was regular for the last two years. He had an account here for twelve years, but he doesn’t now. I think I said that already. Sorry.”
“It’s okay to be nervous,” Jack said. “Just take your time. We’re all friends here.”
She took a breath and gripped her hands tightly in her lap. “Well. Yes, he was a regular for as long as I can remember. There was a monthly deposit from an Indianapolis bank of one thousand dollars a month for the two years I’ve been here. I know he had the account longer, because when he closed it I saw regular deposits and withdrawals going back twelve years.”
She hesitated again and Jack wanted to tell her to quit stalling and just answer the damn question. He said, “Mr. Gorman said you can answer all of our questions. I promise not to get you in trouble. Continue, please.”
Gorman gave her the okay and she said, “Denny would come in and withdraw small amounts. Usually twenty dollars. Sometimes he did this two or three times a day.”
“Did you know Denny well?”
“I meant Mr. James. Sorry. It’s just that when you have a regular customer you get to know what they like to be called.”
Jack hid his impatience and asked, “What did you think about him? What impression did you get from him?”
“I felt sorry for him. He seemed lonely. To be honest, I think he just came in to talk to me. It was kind of creepy at first, but he never asked me out or made inappropriate remarks. Hey, he’s not in trouble or a psycho or something, is he? Oh my God!”
“You have nothing to worry about, Miss Cummings,” Jack said. “When he closed his account, did you find that unusual?”
“That’s what this is about.”
“What do you think this is about?” Jack asked.
She gave a knowing smile. “That transfer of twenty grand—I mean, twenty thousand dollars that was put in his account the same morning he came in and closed the account. This one wasn’t from Indianapolis. It came in from someplace really far away.”
“From out of the country?” Jack asked.
“No. I mean it was from Minnesota. Mr. James never had more than a thousand dollars in that account, and it dwindled fast. You’d be surprised how fast money disappears when you keep spending ten here, twenty there. He was always cleaned out before a new deposit was made.”
“He came in and closed his account…” Jack prompted.
“He came in and said he was closing his account and wanted it in hundred-dollar bills.” She hesitated a third time, but Gorman sat stone-faced. Jack thought Gorman was going into a coma. He was starting to feel groggy himself. Maybe he’d take a nap and when he woke up she’d say something.
She finally spoke. “We don’t keep that kind of money in the drawers. I had to get Wally—he’s the bank manager—to get the money out of the safe. We both—I mean me and Mr. Higginbottoms—counted the money in front of Denny—that’s Mr. James—but he seemed to be in a hurry and didn’t want us to count it. It’s bank policy that we count any money as we give it to the customer.”
“Okay,” Jack said.
“Then after we counted it out he changed his mind and wanted fifties and twenties. Wally went back to the safe and got it. Mr. James put the money in his pockets. I know you don’t think he could put that much in his pockets, but a bundle of ten-thousand dollars in twenties and fifties is about an inch thick.” She demonstrated with her thumb and forefinger.
“And then…” Jack said.
“And then he pulled two fifty-dollar bills out of his pocket and slid it over the counter to me. Then he winked at me and said something like, ‘You’ve been nice to me. You won’t see me again.’”
Jack waited.
“I told him we weren’t allowed to take money from customers. I didn’t take the money,” she said to Jack. “Honest.”
“You did the right thing,” Jack assured her, although he didn’t believe her.
Gorman explained, “Every now and then a customer will try to give a tip to a favorite teller. Bank policy prohibits this.” To Cummings, he said, “Was Wally there when this happened?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you report this to Wally?” Gorman asked.
Her expression said she hadn’t. He was losing patience with her.
“Did Denny give a reason for closing the account?” Jack asked.
“No. He just said he was going away for a while. I told him he didn’t have to close the account if he was going to come back, but he said he didn’t think he’d be back.”
“Do you know where he lives?” Jack asked.
“I think he’s homeless. He used an address on the far northside to open the account, but I had a note from the main office to ask him for his current address when he came in again. I asked him for a new address, but he said he didn’t really have a permanent address.”
“Did he show you a driver’s license when he made withdrawals?” Gorman asked.
“I knew who he was, Mr. Gorman. He was in here all the time. I didn’t ask for one. I’m not in trouble, am I? I really need this job.”
“You’re not in trouble,” Jack assured her, but Gorman’s demeanor said something else.
“There was that deposit each month, but it didn’t seem like a lot.” She put a hand to her mouth and said, “Is he a drug dealer?”
“That’s exactly what we’re thinking,” Jack lied. “He’s a suspect in a couple of murders, so if you see him again, you tell Wally to call me. Okay?” Jack thanked her and she was dismissed.
Gorman took an envelope from his suit pocket and handed it to Jack. “This are the best shots I could get from the bank film. I got you some close-ups of his face.”
Jack opened the envelope and pulled out a dozen still shots of a man at the bank counter wearing the clothes Janet Cummings had described. Jack recognized Janet Cummings in the pictures. She appeared to be a lot more than customer-friendly.
“I can track his account withdrawals and see if we have video of those if you need them.”
“That would be great,” Jack said. “I can’t tell you what we’re investigating, but I can promise you the bank is not involved. We’re just trying to run this guy down.”
Gorman said, “Follow the money. I’ll see what I can get for you and I may have to mind Miss Cummings’s transactions a little closer. Why don’t I believe that gal?”
“What do you mean?” Jack asked.
“I know she’s not involved with those cold cases you’re working, but she’s hiding something. I didn’t always work in a bank, you know.”
“What cold cases?” Jack asked. “I never told you what we were working on, Gerry.”
“Maximillian Day. Harry Day. And now I hear Mrs. Day has been killed. Her daughter injured and in the hospital. Jeez, Jack. You’ve gotten yourself into a hornet’s nest,” Gorman said sympathetically.
“Where did you hear all of this, Gerry?”
“Don’t you ever listen to the news? It’s been all over Channel Six.”
Chapter 25
Jack called Angelina. She was still at home getting Mark taken care of, but would be back at the war room within the hour. Jack had put her on speakerphone and she told them about the recent Channel Six news special. She said Claudine had released everything she could possibly know and some things that were mere rumors at this point. Claudine had played just enough of the taped conversation between Dick and Mrs. Day that her audience would conclude Double Dick was an arrogant, unfeeling ass. Angelina quoted Claudine, “The public has questions about the systematic slaughter of the Day family. If the police have
answers, Chief of Police Marlin Pope isn’t sharing them with this reporter. Deputy Chief Richard Dick couldn’t be reached for comment.”
Dick truly was an ass and he was arrogant… but a killer? Claudine had suggested there was a cover-up by the police and had hinted at the guilt of Double Dick in the murder of Max Day. The one thing she missed was deriding Jack and Liddell personally.
Angelina said, “Jack, Claudine mentioned you and the Yeti. She said you were assigned to all these cases and had gotten nowhere. What a bitch.”
Jack got off the phone with Angelina. Claudine had stirred the pot. He was sure Double Dick would strike back. He was surprised the man hadn’t already approached them in his bullying, authoritative manner, making demands. He was arrogant and thought he could manipulate Mrs. Day, but he’d found out different. He was stupid enough to try and visit Reina Day in the hospital. His ego was so big there was no telling what he might do.
He called Sergeant Elkins and learned the autopsy on Mrs. Day had already begun.
“Let’s go to the morgue,” Jack said.
At the coroner’s office they were met by a very large young man named Ivan Ivansky. Ivan was a behemoth in his early twenties, with dark, tanned skin and blond hair worn in a spiked crew cut. He topped Liddell’s six-foot-six by at least two inches, maybe more, and had at least forty pounds of muscle on Liddell. His shoulders were broad and the sleeves of his lab coat stretched taut. Jack and Liddell had first met him over the winter when he had started interning for Little Casket. Jack’s first impression was of a young Dwayne Johnson, “The Rock,” a Samoan-Canadian WWE wrestler-turned-actor.
Ivan started as an unpaid intern with the coroner’s office, but was recently hired as a full-time deputy coroner. That made him Lilly’s assistant.
“Detectives,” Ivan said, and shook both men’s hands.
Jack worked his fingers and rubbed his hand after he’d gotten it back from Ivan’s death grip. “I might need that hand later,” Jack said. “You been crushing coconuts again?”
Ivan grinned. “They’re in the back. The doc and everyone. Sergeant Elkins is here.”
From behind them came the voice of Lilly Caskins, the Chief Deputy Coroner. “Igor, we got business to do. Go get the stuff you were sent after. Chop-chop.” Ivan hurried down the hall.
Lilly said, “Igor’s not house-trained yet. For the life of me, I don’t know how we can afford a new assistant. I’d like to replace him with a box of new surgical gloves that we can’t afford.” With that, she turned and stomped toward the room where the autopsies were carried out.
From as far back as Jack could remember, Lilly Caskins had been nicknamed Little Casket by the rank-and file-policemen. It was a nickname that suited her well, because she was evil-looking and diminutive, with large, dark eyes staring out of extra-thick lenses and horn-rimmed frames that had gone out of style during the days of Al Capone. Jack respected her work for the most part, but she had an annoying habit of being blunt at death scenes. Jack wasn’t surprised Little Casket called her new assistant Igor. She had a nasty temperament and was equally rude regarding the living and the dead. But in this case his size and appearance must have prompted the name.
Ivan came back with a large box of supplies and followed Jack and Liddell to the autopsy room. On the way Jack asked him, “How do you like your new job?”
“It’s been interesting, Detective Murphy.”
“Lilly hasn’t fired you yet, so you must be doing a good job,” Liddell offered and this got a smile from the gentle giant.
Ivan said in a low voice, “She’s not so bad, Detective Blanchard. I like her.”
From the other side of the autopsy room door Little Casket said, “This isn’t a popularity contest. Come in or leave. Your choice.”
Liddell said, “She’s got spooky good hearing, pod’na.”
Jack agreed, quietly. He just wanted to get what they needed and get out. Being around Lilly was like being under Nazi occupation—voluntarily.
They entered the autopsy room and the post on Mrs. Amelia Day was already underway. Dr. John Carmodi, Sergeant Elkins, and a female Jack didn’t know were gathered around the stainless-steel table. They turned their attention to the new arrivals.
Elkins said, “We’re just about done here, Jack.”
“Just in time then,” Jack said. He didn’t particularly care for autopsies. The smell, the violation of a person’s body and privacy, the reminder that life was limited. Police liked to feel invulnerable. Death was a constant reminder that just wasn’t the case.
Liddell offered a hand to the new girl. “I’m Blanchard, he’s Murphy.”
She held up her gloved hands and said, “Sorry. I don’t want to touch anything. I’m Beatrice. Bea. Crime scene.”
Jack assumed Beatrice was one of the new hires under the county’s program to put more sworn deputies on the road. The city had started a trend when they hired three civilian crime scene employees trained in forensic science as well as criminal justice. It was a trade-off. Three civilians making less money and three higher-paid trained police officers put back on the streets. Of course, this had been resisted by the rank-and-file police officers, but it turned out that with proper training and hands-on experience the three civilians had proven to be invaluable.
The one kink in the system was the turnover in crime scene with the civilians. Once they were trained and had some experience to list on a résumé, they were snatched up by other progressive police agencies all over the country. Which proved one of Murphy’s Laws. No good deed will go unpunished. Or There is always a dark cloud at the end of the rainbow.
Elkins said, “Bea’s a good girl. Excuse me, I mean crime scene investigator. She’ll send you a copy of everything we get from the scene. Won’t you, Bea? Of course she will.”
Bea was no longer interested in Jack or Liddell’s presence, and didn’t even acknowledge Sergeant Elkins’s misogynist remark. She snapped a few more pictures and said, “I’ll take care of it, Detective Murphy.”
“Call me Jack.”
“If you insist,” she said without taking her focus from the body.
Elkins said, “Don’t mind Bea, Jack. She had a tough day. Didn’t you, hon?”
Bea deliberately ignored him, but Jack saw her jaw tighten.
Elkins continued, “We pulled a young girl’s body from the river down in the river bottoms. It must have gotten snagged on submerged root. She was missing for nineteen days from across the river in Henderson. Fish ate most of the face.” To Bea he said, “First floater is always the worst. You’ll get used to it after a while.”
“She was fifteen,” Bea said. “My sister is fifteen. Her skull was caved in. I’ll never understand how someone could do this. Or why.”
Jack had no answer. He’d seen hundreds of murder victims, mangled and burned bodies, hacked up, hung, shot, tortured. It had numbed him to Bea’s reaction. He had compartmentalized the shock and horror of such atrocities. Locked it away in a hidden bunker deep in his heart and brain to draw on its power when he needed a reason to keep fighting this evil. He worried that the hidden depths of death would outdo his ability to use the feeling for good or to seek justice. He feared that one day he would become the monster. He would become the thing he hated most.
The body on the autopsy table was Mrs. Amelia Day, but no longer Mrs. Amelia Day. Now she was a hollowed-out vestige of the woman who sought justice for her son and her husband and was killed for believing she would find it. He wondered how many more would have to die before this was over. He could only think of one that had to die.
Jack got close to Elkins’s ear and whispered, “You need to go easy with Bea.”
Elkins responded. “Jack, she got sick at the scene. I’m trying to toughen her up. If she wants to do this kind of work she can’t be running off to cry. I’m doing her a favor. Ain’t that right, Bea?”
&
nbsp; Bea said nothing.
“Not everyone is as callous as us,” Jack reminded him. “Remember when you were new and still normal?”
“Guys like us were never normal.”
Dr. John said, “I hate to break up this little disagreement about normal, but I should have the report finished by this evening. Elkins said a .50 caliber is suspected and I concur. One entry, front of the head; one exit wound, back of the head. No other medical conditions present. Cause of death is massive damage to the brain. Manner of death, gunshot wound to the head. Her death was instantaneous. No stippling around the entry. Not a contact wound.”
Elkins said, “No weapon found.”
Bea said, “The shot was fired from twenty to twenty-five feet from the victim. We found the shell casing beside the driveway about twenty-five feet from where the victim was standing in the doorway of her home.”
Dr. John pulled a sheet over the body.
Jack asked Sergeant Elkins, “Anything else we need to know?”
“Yeah,” Elkins said and took a small plastic envelope from his pocket. It contained a mangled lead and brass bullet. “Bea found this lodged in a wall in the living room. She says it’s good enough for a ballistics match if we find the gun.”
Liddell said, “Way to go, Bea.”
Jack said, “Morris is going to contact you about comparing the ballistic evidence we have. Do you have anything else?”
Elkins said, “Yeah. Little Casket can’t keep her eyes or her hands off me. I’m feeling used.”
Jack gave an involuntary flinch at Lilly being called Little Casket out loud. But he remembered she and Elkins had some kind of history. Jack didn’t want to know.
Lilly responded, “In the old days, Deputy Dawg here could be had for a wink and a bottle of Night Train.” Her face twisted into something that might be a grin on anyone else.
“Let’s go, Bigfoot,” Jack said. “Too much information.”
Lilly called after them, “I’ll try to find the autopsy records on your other cases.”