Jewel of a Murderer

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Despite it. The gift of multi-tasking, from my mother.”

  “I shall make a note of this day. You have actually stated that you are indebted to your mother for some genetic quality you possess.”

  “I didn’t use the word indebted.”

  “Okay, you said gift. Implies something you did not earn. Hence, indebtedness.”

  “Despite much evidence to the contrary, you are an interesting machine,” I said. “How is it you come to indebtedness as a follow-up from a gift?”

  “My hard drive is full of illogical human reasoning. Much of it has to do with the human notion of reciprocity connected with gift giving. Someone gives you something, you feel indebted to return the favor, so to speak. They give to you and therefore you feel bound to give to them. Reciprocity or indebtedness.”

  “And you have no such compulsion as a machine?”

  “Never even crossed my motherboard. However, since this cold case has lingered these oh-so-many years, I have just finished some digging for you without being asked.”

  “Digging,” I said.

  “Fitting metaphor I say without even a hint of false modesty. It was those gem clues that seemed to lead you nowhere. The last one – the one that Sam brought to you from the bus stop – turned out to be a real gem. No pun intended. You said that the lab identified it as a ruby.”

  “Starnes Carver identified it as a ruby,” I said.

  “I did some research on rubies.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing much showed up except one rather interesting tidbit,” she said.

  “Tidbit.”

  “You like to repeat some of my words. Imitation being the highest form of flattery, I take it?”

  “Not even close. Some of the words you use are merely interesting or intriguing to me.”

  “You marvel at language acquisitions?” she asked.

  “Not even close.”

  “How so?”

  “It would seem that the more language you learn, the more you tend towards the vernacular over against the more formal word available.”

  “Vernacular meaning colloquial speech,” she said.

  “Yeah. Why is that?”

  “Trying to blend.”

  “Precious, unless I release you to the world, there is no way you will ever blend. It’s just me and thee and maybe a precious few joint friends who dialogue with you now and then.”

  “Sounds like something Doctor Frankenstein might have said to the monster.”

  She made me laugh, but I said nothing in reply.

  “Back to the tidbit. What interesting miniscule fact came across to you?” I said.

  “Rubies are sometimes misidentified.”

  “Do tell.”

  “It seems that there’s a stone of the same color, a real gem that’s hard, glassy and a mineral silicate. Red in color, closely associated with blood, and likely enough in use as far back as thirty-one hundred BCE. Much later, my sources inform me, the Greeks used these stones as signet rings.”

  “Well, that’s all very, very interesting. I’m not sure what of that data you found so intriguing, aside from the color red of this gem that is mistaken for rubies.”

  “It’s the name of the gem mistaken for rubies.”

  “And that would be…” I said.

  “Garnet,” she said.

  Chapter 49

  I arrived at Wineski’s office before he got there. One of the outer-office secretaries had arrived and made coffee. I was leaning against the small section of a wall counter designated for food and beverage, sipping her hot brew as I watched the uniforms and office personnel filter in for the day’s work ahead. A few came in smiling, most them were bland and emotionless.

  I noticed that the women officers as well as the women of the office pool tended to greet me more often than the men. Grumpy old men. Grumpy young men. One or two of the women fell into that category as well. Most everyone came by the coffee counter and poured themselves some waking-up juice.

  A few minutes after eight, Wineski sauntered in, noticed me, and walked past without a greeting.

  “If you came to see me, pour me a cup, and join me in my domain,” he said from his office door.

  I obliged.

  I set his full coffee mug on his desk in front of him and then closed his door.

  “Official or just stopping by to chat about my health?” he said as he sat down with his cup in hand. I sat down across from him.

  “Your health questionable?”

  “Lousy, but that’s not really a concern of yours.”

  “We’ve known each other a long time.”

  “Yeah. But my health…”

  “Friends care about friends,” I said.

  “You came here because you know something about my health?”

  “No, I did not. But since you brought it up, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” he said and took a few gulps of coffee.

  Men, I swear they would just as soon keel over than to admit they’re human. On second thought, maybe they’re not human. I could have Rogers research that.

  “I need to have access to a cold case file,” I said.

  “Which one?”

  “The Barraud Park murders. Several years back. You recall it?”

  “Yeah. I remember. What you got?” he said.

  “Don’t know. I just need to access the file and the evidence we gathered.”

  “What brought up that old case?” Wineski said.

  “Some recent remembering and retelling of the story,” I said.

  “For whom?”

  “Mostly for myself, but it’s a long story.”

  “Mostly?” he queried me.

  I smiled without answering.

  “I don’t have time for long stories. What is it you want from that stored evidence?”

  “Access and a look-see,” I said.

  “All that stuff was moved about…oh, I don’t know, maybe…dates elude me…anyhow, some years back when I was younger. We filled up the space we had around here. The brass wanted to improve our facilities,” he paused and surveyed the area, his office and the limits beyond him. He grunted his obvious disapproval at whatever improvements were made before he continued.

  “Business Beautiful will be here any day to do a spread on us, don’t you think?” he said.

  “Is that a legit publication?”

  “I hope not. Anyway, back to your cold case inquiry. You may have some difficulty finding what we had.”

  “I need permission to go look.”

  “I can give you permission. You’ll have to go looking alone.”

  “Sam’s in the car.”

  “He good at searching through boxes?”

  “He’s good at most things.”

  “Won’t dispute that, but still. Hasn’t grown a thumb as yet?”

  “He sniffs and barks.”

  “Wow.”

  “You might be surprised at how useful that is.”

  “You’re a crazy detective, Clancy Evans.”

  I smiled and drank my coffee. He signed a permission slip, and then gulped down the remainder of his brew.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Remember the ruby that Starnes identified?”

  “Forgot who identified it, but yeah, I recall it was the last useless piece of a puzzling puzzle. Didn’t help us, as I think back on it now. Just another tiny, insignificant clue.”

  “I need to find that insignificant clue.”

  “The gem, the ruby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why? What are you thinking?”

  “Might not be a ruby.”

  “And if it proves not to be a ruby, how does that help us?”

  “Might point me in a specific direction.”

  “Specific enough to be a genuine lead in a cold, cold case?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Not the answer I wanted. You’re still grabbing at straws.”

  “It’s what I do in the
absence of substance.”

  “Tenacious…and desperate. Why can’t you just let this one go?”

  “Three people were killed. Actually, four people died. I still believe they’re all connected.”

  “And the ruby not being a ruby somehow helps,” he said without much conviction.

  “A directional point, nothing more.”

  “Tenuous at best, huh?”

  “My lot in life.”

  “And yet you love your work.”

  “So do you.”

  He smiled for the first time that morning as he handed me his empty coffee cup. Condescending old man.

  Chapter 50

  The new location for the cold case file I wanted was in a warehouse in the shipping district of the city. The police had brokered a deal with the U.S. Navy and was using one of their large, no-longer-in-use facilities down by the docks at the shipyard. This particular warehouse was not on the Norfolk Naval Base. Just over the fence, so to speak. Close-by. Likely the reason that the Navy was so inclined to rent the usage to the Norfolk police people. It allowed them to make a few annual coins as well as have the building occupied and guarded by some authorities. Sweet deal for both sides.

  The downside of this sweetness was the size of the place and the fact that the files were still being organized after the ensuing years at this new home. Sam and I entered the facility and immediately encountered the desk guard who was caged behind a wire construction. It was crisscrossed from floor to ceiling forming a metal barrier that separated the tiny waiting area at the entrance from the organized chaos on the other side of the structure. The black-wire crisscrossed construction that housed this man-in-charge was such that each little angular diamond created by the crossing wires was no more than one square inch. It appeared to be stronger than it probably was.

  I waited with the same impatience that I use in waiting anytime I am delayed by someone in authority. I waited for the guard to stop doing whatever he was doing to look up and see that I was standing there with my dog.

  Behind the caged security officer were several rows of metal shelves of considerable length. They were wide enough that the evidence boxes for each of the cases housed there could be stacked two deep and two wide on each of the sectioned shelves. My initial observation was that the warehouse could easily contain two football fields. Think long and wide here.

  The elves who were less-than feverously working to finish the job of stacking the boxes into their new homes and labeling the shelves that housed said boxes, were sitting around drinking something and eating. They were not of any uniformed police division. The department could not afford to take uniforms from the streets of Norfolk and put them in this place to work. They had obviously sub-contracted this work to an agency or company to perform this organizational task. Their hearts were more into the food and drink ritual than any kind of work.

  After scanning the place upon entry and realizing the depth and breadth of the task before me, I sighed heavily. I think the man-in-charge heard my sigh. He looked up from his stack of busy-work.

  “The dog can’t come inside here,” the close-to-retirement, overweight, uniformed officer seated behind the wire wall said.

  “He’s been given clearance,” I said.

  I slid the form that Wineski had provided me through the small slit in the wire cage to the pudgy policeman. It was all he could do to reach the paper and retrieve it without spilling his coffee and plate full of sweet carbohydrates.

  He studied it as if he were about to present a lecture on the Bill of Rights to a group of first year law students at Harvard. Sam and I waited for him to finish reading every line of the form. It took several minutes before he was prepared to speak. I studied him while he studied the form. I could imagine that maybe a decade back his uniform probably fit. Only a guess. His side holster was empty. I looked through the cage and around his desktop hoping to discover that he was busy cleaning his weapon. No weapon was discernible. A white piece of icing from one of his sweet carbs was hanging precariously from his upper lip.

  When his serious study had ended, he looked down at Sam and then up at me.

  I used my index finger to point to my upper lip and scratch in an effort to send a body-language message to him that a napkin was in order. My signal was not received. The only meaningful thing I could do was to focus upon that misplaced white icing hanging from his mouth. I was hoping it might fall sooner rather than later so I could refocus my attention on the man and not his eating prowess.

  “It don’t say nothing about no dog on this form.”

  Lovely to look at and literate, too.

  “We’re a team.”

  “You Clancy Evans?”

  “Would it be better if I told you that the dog was Clancy Evans?”

  He looked confused.

  “The dog’s named Clancy Evans?”

  “I’ve heard worse names for canines.”

  “Don’t make no sense to me. Why would they fill out the form and give the dog’s name? Who are you?”

  I could tell that he was struggling, and his sense of humor had retired long ago. The rest of him probably needed to catch up with that retirement soon.

  “I jest. Apologies to you. I’m Clancy Evans,” I said to relieve him of his constraints.

  “Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  I looked at Sam and shook my head. We might be here awhile, I wanted to say to Sam. I had the feeling Sam was way ahead of me on that score.

  “What are you looking for?” Mr. Pudgy asked.

  “It’s on the form,” I said.

  “I can read that. I want to know if you know.”

  “Why would I not know? I’m the one trying to get inside your facility and do the search.”

  “You could be an imposter,” he said.

  I took out my identification and slid it through the hole in the wire.

  He labored once more to reach my information. It was not as large as the paper form I had previously provided, so he did have to partially stand from his seated position and lean to retrieve my identification.

  He studied it for a good three minutes after he sat back down.

  “You ain’t no cop.”

  “Got that, did you?”

  “Private investigator. How’d you get this form?”

  “Look, I am certain that some lunatic has predicted that the world is going to conclude before the end of this year. So, why don’t you call Captain Wineski, the man who signed the form you have there, and verify that I am the one who needs to get inside that cage along with my dog before the world comes to an end?”

  His confusion was now a sure thing.

  Without hesitation, he picked up his desk phone and punched in the numbers provided on the form.

  “This is Officer Joe Snead over at the Norfolk Police Evidence and Case Files Warehouse. I need to verify a document before I admit a person to this facility,” he said with an official voice I had not yet heard before his phone conversation. He was standing as he made the call. Official stance.

  If he used the number on the form, then he was probably speaking directly with Wineski.

  “Yes, sir. She says her name is Clancy Evans.”

  He waited and all the while stared at me while listening to whoever it was on the other end.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He looked down at his pastries and inched his right hand toward one of them.

  “No, sir.”

  His hand moved away from the pastries.

  “One more thing, sir. She has a dog.”

  He touched his mouth while he was listening. The piece of white icing fell onto his desktop. Finally. He was oblivious; I was relieved.

  “Got that, sir. Thank you very much, sir. Yes, sir.”

  Too many sirs in that conversation. I figured that Wineski was using his official voice as well.

  He put the receiver back into its cradle.

  “You can come inside, but only you. The dog cannot come into this official f
acility.”

  “Questionable taste,” I said.

  “What does that mean?” Joe said.

  “Means what it means.”

  “Shouldn’t you tie him or something?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “He might run off. You need to tell him to stay and tie him.”

  “He heard you say he was not invited inside. Look around, Joe. Where is he going to run? There’s hardly enough space to walk around here.”

  I could tell that Officer Joe Snead was not comfortable with his immediate confusion as he opened the wire door to admit me inside the official facility. Sam was resting on his haunches staring at the officer who had refused his admittance.

  He closed the wire door quickly and then padlocked it. He appeared to be troubled.

  “How long are you going to be?” he said.

  “Is your inventory organized sufficiently?”

  “We’ve got people in here been workin’ for a few years now. They’re making some headway, but, you know, they’re civilians. Takes time.”

  “Then that’s my answer.”

  “Tell the dog that it wasn’t my decision about the admittance.”

  “You tell him. He’ll understand you.”

  “I’ve never talked to an animal,” he said quite seriously.

  “Don’t bark. Use words. You’ll be fine.”

  Chapter 51

  The first twenty minutes I used to comprehend the system that the civilians were using to organize the evidence boxes. I was forced to check the names and numbers on each box because I could not discern any systematic organization.

  I gave up and went to the table where the hard workers were still drinking, eating, and laughing. It’s a tough gig, but, well, you know.

  “I’m looking for an old case evidence box,” I said to the woman who appeared to be more intelligent looking than the rest of the crowd.

  “Got a number?”

  “I gave her the number.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Try Drew Sizemore.”

  “We haven’t gotten around to that end of the alphabet yet,” she said.

  “Okay, how about Candace Glover?”

  “Fred,” she hollered to the other end of the table amid the continued talking and laughter.