Deadly Connections

by Renee Pawlish

  “I saw another officer nearby. I’ll get him,” Ernie said. He walked off in search of the other responding officer.

  “Hold on, Speelmahn,” Spats said. For some reason, he gives my name a Jamaican flair, even though he’s from Harlem. He went over to the dumpster, and when he returned, his face was pinched. “He was killed somewhere else and moved here.”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  Ernie returned with Officer Flatt.

  I got right to it. “What do you have for us?”

  Flatt cleared his throat, consulted a small black notepad. “We’ve talked to five neighbors so far.” He waved a pen in the air. “It’s a Tuesday, so a lot of people have already left for work. Of those I talked to, two have some good information.” He checked the notepad again. “One, Larry Blankenship, says he got up about two a.m. to go to the bathroom. He sleeps upstairs, and the bathroom window faces the alley. He saw headlights at the end of the alley.”

  “Did he actually see a car?”

  He shrugged. “It might’ve been an SUV. He didn’t think much of the car itself, he just thought it was pretty late for someone to be out on a weeknight.”

  “Anything else?” Spats asked.

  “No,” Flatt said. “The other one is Karen Pacheco. She’s pretty old, and she has trouble sleeping. She was dozing in front of the TV, and she thought she heard a noise out back, a loud thump or something. When she went to look, she didn’t see anybody.” He shrugged. “That’s it. The other neighbors either didn’t see or hear anything, or they aren’t home.”

  “Addresses?” I asked.

  Flatt rattled off the addresses for Larry Blankenship and Karen Pacheco. I thanked him, and he went to join his partner at the crime-scene tape.

  “You take Pacheco,” I said to Spats. He can be exceedingly charming, and I had no doubt he could get the old lady to open up.

  “I’m on Blankenship,” Ernie said.

  “Good. I’m going to talk to the guy who found the body,” I said. “Then I have to talk to his parents before news of this gets out.

  Ernie twisted up his face. “I don’t envy you that.”

  “Yeah, it’s the worst.” I gestured for them to get moving. “We’ll meet up later.”

  Both gave me a mock salute and headed for the alley entrance. I watched the CSI team for a moment. It was a new investigation, and I was being revisited by the same unease I had with each new case. I had to perform well so that no one would ever have reason to question my abilities. I couldn’t afford to have anyone delving into my past, into my life before I was even a rookie cop, to discover the one mistake I’d made then that could jeopardize my career even now. I quickly dismissed the thought and walked over to Clark Leblanc, who was still waiting by the corner of a house outside the crime scene.

  “Mr. Leblanc?” I said. I introduced myself.

  “Call me Clark.” He had a hoarse voice, full of phlegm. He cleared his throat and shifted on his feet.

  “How’re you doing?” I asked.

  He lowered his chin and stared at the dumpster. “I won’t ever get that out of my head. I’ve never seen a dead body, let alone a kid.” His eyebrows furrowed, and he cleared his throat again.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured and gave him a second. “Would you tell me exactly what happened this morning?”

  “Not much. I had my usual cup of coffee. Then I cleaned out the coffee pot, dumped the coffee grounds into the bag. It was full, so I put on my sandals and brought it out here.” He jerked a thumb behind him. “I live there.”

  I glanced past him. Through an open gate, I saw a neatly manicured backyard and the rear of a two-story house. “And then?” I prompted him.

  “I, uh, went to the dumpster and was about to toss in the bag, but I looked inside to make sure there was room. That’s when I saw the arm. I didn’t think I saw what I saw, so I looked again. I walked to the edge of the dumpster and saw his face. I could tell he was dead.” Another throat clearing. “I dropped the bag and called 911. Then I waited.”

  “Did you talk to anyone?”

  He shook his head.

  “You didn’t call anyone else besides the police?” I put a little force into my question.

  “No, I didn’t.” A tinge of indignation in his voice. “I told you exactly what happened.”

  “All right,” I said. “Did you recognize the boy?”

  “No, but I didn’t get a real good look at him.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual in the area?”

  He looked around. “No, the alley’s like it always is. It’s usually pretty quiet out here, sometimes people walk through, or you get the occasional car. It’s not as busy as the street, though. It’s not like I’m out here a lot, though. Just to take out my trash.”

  “Did you see or hear anything last night, someone in the alley?”

  “No. I’m a heavy sleeper, except when my bladder wakes me up.” He smiled. “Last night I was up, and I told the other officer I thought I saw a car, an SUV, maybe. But I didn’t get a good look at it. Then I was back in bed. My head hits the pillow, and I was out until six a.m. I’m up every day at the same time.” He ran a hand through his gray hair. “Although tonight may be different …”

  “That’s understandable.” I thanked him for his time. “We might need to talk to you again.”

  “That’s okay by me. I gave the officer my contact information. You call anytime.” He frowned, stared at the dumpster as if it were guilty of the crime. “I guess I’ll go inside.”

  I watched him go through the gate. When it shut, I went back to check with Jamison and the CSI crew. They hadn’t turned up anything noteworthy, so I left to find out more about Logan Pickett’s parents.

  Chapter Two

  Rivera barely gave me a look as I ducked under the crime-scene tape, but he noted my departure in his log. He was almost as spooked as Clark Leblanc. Rivera was young, not used to this kind of thing. I shoved back the thought that no matter how much I’ve led homicide investigations, a part of me never gets used to it, either.

  Logan Pickett’s body had been found in an alley between Monroe and Garfield streets, a little south of Sixth Avenue. A mobile command post had been set up on Garfield, and I walked over to the big van. I poked my head in the door, and looked for Chief Inspector Rizzo. He was standing by a small counter where two men were working at laptops. They were already researching everyone associated with Logan Pickett, including his parents.

  Rizzo glanced over. It was early, before eight, but the command post was already warm, and he wiped sweat off his face, then handed me a piece of paper. “Here’s the address for the kid’s parents. The mom lives on Cook Street, a couple of blocks from here. The dad lives south, near the University of Denver.” He picked up a file folder. “Mom’s name is Audra Pickett. She’s forty-four, a real estate agent. She works out of her home, unless she’s out showing houses, so she might be home. The dad’s Gary Pickett. He’s an insurance agent. We’re checking to see if he has a policy on the kid. Anyway, he might be at home too. If not, try his work.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You know the details on this kid?” Still looking at the report.

  “I heard something on the news, they said he disappeared Saturday.”

  “Right. The boy had been playing outside. When Dad showed up, the kid wasn’t there. No one’s seen him since. Until now.” He looked up at me. “Get their stories yourself. When’s the autopsy?”

  “I pushed Jamison. He’ll try to prioritize it.”

  “Good. Call if you get anything,” Rizzo said. “This one’s going to have more heat on it, press, and the like. The little boy, you know?”

  I nodded. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  As I walked away, I saw an ambulance parked nearby. Two men were walking toward the alley with the stretcher. A few people stood at the end of the alley, watching. The gawkers wouldn’t get a show. The crime-scene techs would be careful to make sure nobody saw a little boy
being lifted out of the dumpster.

  I headed for my gray Ford Escape, which I’d parked around the corner from the crime scene. I also own a ’65 Mustang, and I love the car, have had it since high school. It’s a hell of a lot of fun to drive. Only in the summer, though. The car is crap in the wintertime. Cars are so much more advanced now, that driving the Mustang felt like driving a go-kart in the winter. No control in the snow or ice. I used to drive it for work, but between how it handles and the need to drive an inconspicuous car, I finally broke down and bought another car I use for work. The Escape is boring but serviceable. Less pizzazz, more reliability.

  Time was a precious commodity in the early hours of an investigation, and I was thankful it was just a minute or two to Audra Pickett’s house. The late nineteenth-century houses originally built in the area were a thing of the past, razed to make way for ones like Audra’s, a two-story brick-and-siding modern structure that was sandwiched between two others of a similar style, big, newer homes built on small lots.

  The real estate business is good, I thought, as I parked in front of her house. This close to the Cherry Creek Mall, housing was at a premium.

  The street was void of cars, most people at work. Tonight, cars would line the blocks since most of the houses in these old neighborhoods either didn’t have a garage or had small garages accessed through alleys. I got out, smoothed my slacks and tried once again to get the grime from the dumpster off my shirt. I shrugged, then walked up the sidewalk. I stepped onto a small covered porch and rang the bell.

  The door opened a moment later to reveal a tall woman in jeans and a green pullover. Audra Pickett had a cell phone to her ear, and she looked at me inquisitively, but she couldn’t hide the strain at the corners of her eyes.

  “Yes?” She said and gestured with her other free hand at the phone. She had chewed her fingernails, a contrast to the rest of her appearance.

  “I’m with the Denver Police Department,” I said in a low voice, so the person on the other end of the phone wouldn’t hear me.

  Audra’s eyebrows rose, a bit of hope there that I knew I was going to crush.

  “Hey, I’m going to have to call you back,” she said into the phone. Then she abruptly ended the call and stared at me. “You have news about Logan?” Before I could answer, she blurted, “What?”

  “Perhaps we should go inside.”

  “What?” Then it dawned on her. I wasn’t here for good news. “Wait. No.” Her hand shook as she stepped back and held open the door. “What’s going on?” Her voice had taken on a shrill tone. “Who are you, and where’s the other detective I talked to?”

  “Could we sit down, please?” I said.

  “Tell me,” she said forcefully.

  I gestured where I could see the living room. She looked at me, then turned on her heel and stomped into the room. She sat on the edge of a leather chair, and I took a couch across from her. The silence was overpowering.

  “What is it? What have you found out about Logan?”

  “I’m with the homicide department,” I began.

  The hope drained from her face. “Oh God, no!” Her mouth opened and closed. No sound came out. Then, after a moment, she moaned. “What happened?”

  “I’m afraid your son is dead,” I said softly. “His body was found this morning in a dumpster in an alley near Garfield Street.”

  She burst into tears and buried her face in her hands, rocking as she moaned softly.

  “No, no,” she kept repeating. Then she sucked in a ragged breath and choked. As she started to cough, I stood up and went hunting for the kitchen. A faint fruity smell hung in the air as I opened cupboard doors until I found a glass. I filled it with water from the sink and went back into the living room. I handed it to her, and she took a little sip, coughed a little more, and then seemed to regain some control.

  I returned to the couch and waited. This was her time, and I would let her have what she needed. I had no idea what she was really feeling, what it felt like to lose a child, and I hoped I never would. Through an open window, a bird chirped. I wanted to tell the damn thing to stop its cheery tune. Audra finally dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hands, then took a longer drink of water. With a shaky hand, she set the glass on a coffee table and looked up at me.

  “Tell me everything,” she said.

  I drew in a breath. “We don’t have much. Logan’s body was found in a dumpster on the next block from your house. We’re not sure on the cause of death yet.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she said quietly. “Oh, Logan.” Then, “It wasn’t an accident?”

  I shook my head.

  Her eyes widened. “I have to call Gary.”

  She stood up, swiped at her phone, then put it to her ear. “Gary … stop.” She walked out of the room and talked in the hallway. At one point, she sobbed. Then she raised her voice. “I don’t know yet. I’ll call you back.”

  She appeared a second later, wiping tears from her cheeks. She sat down and took a deep breath.

  I waited another moment, then said, “I need to ask you some questions.”

  She nodded and sat straighter. “Of course.”

  “Logan disappeared three days ago, correct?” I said. “Saturday night.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” She worked hard to keep composed. “Saturday evening. He went outside to play, and the time flew by. The next thing I know he didn’t come back inside. It’s never been a problem. He and Terrell Anderson play either in our yard or theirs.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Around six.”

  “Where does Terrell live?”

  She pointed at the front window. “Across the street and around the corner. Usually Terrell’s mom, Latoya Anderson, or I have our eye on the boys. They know not to run off. That evening my ex-husband, Gary, was supposed to pick up Logan. I had some business to take care of, so I had Logan’s bag on the porch, and he was playing in the yard. Then he hollered that he was going over to Terrell’s, and I told him to be back in time for his dad to pick him up. The next thing I know, Gary is storming in the house, calling out for Logan, wondering where he is. He never knocks, just comes in like it’s still his home.” Fury swept across her face, then she frowned. “At first, I thought Gary was looking for a fight, but then I realized he was serious, and Logan wasn’t home.”

  I glanced past heavy tan curtains into the yard. “It wasn’t until your husband came in that you realized Logan was missing?”

  “Ex-husband,” she said pointedly. “And yes, that’s when I knew Logan was gone.”

  “What happened next?”

  “At first, we just figured Logan was still over at Terrell’s, so I called the Andersons, but Logan wasn’t there.”

  “And then?”

  “Well,” she looked away, her face scrunched up in pain. “Gary and I got in a fight.”

  “What exactly did you fight about?”

  “He was furious that I let Logan stay in the front yard, that I wasn’t watching him, and that he’d run off.” She sniffled. “Logan’s gone over to Terrell’s plenty of times while he’s waiting to be picked up, and he’s always home in time. This one just happened to be different.” The guilt dripped from her voice.

  She gnawed at a fingernail. “The thing is, I was barely away for any time. I watch Logan when he’s out in the yard, and I did until he went over to Terrell’s. But the phone had rung, and I needed to check some paperwork for a client. I lost track of the time.” Her voice trailed off.

  She started crying again, and reached for a Kleenex on an end table. She managed to get control of herself and sniffled. “Gary was yelling at me, but we called the police and reported it. A couple of officers came out to talk to us, and they talked to Latoya and Terrell too. Latoya said Logan left their house a little before seven, and she assumed he’d come straight home. We looked all over the neighborhood, but we couldn’t find Logan. He just seemed to disappear without a trace. It got dark, but we kept looking. And th
e next morning, we looked some more. We got the neighbors involved, and as well as some friends, but we didn’t find Logan. Obviously,” she tacked on.

  “None of the neighbors heard or saw anything?” I knew the answer, but I wanted to see whether she would put a different spin on it now, after a few days.

  “No, no one saw anything. We talked to Logan’s friend, Terrell, too, and he didn’t know anything, just that Logan had said he needed to go home because his dad was coming to pick him up. On a Saturday night, it’s busy around here, cars coming and going. If anyone saw anything unusual, they’re not saying.”

  “Would Logan go with a stranger?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No way, I’ve told him never to talk to strangers. He wouldn’t do something like that.”

  “Even with a little persuasion?”

  “No. He’s a smart kid, and he listens.”

  “You don’t know of anyone who would want to hurt him?”

  “He’s … was, just a little boy.” The words came out in a stutter. “Now?” she said after a long pause.

  “How well do you know your neighbors?”

  “Okay, I guess.” She backtracked. “I know those right around me. Farther up and down the block, I just know them by name.” She looked at me with some of the saddest eyes I’d ever seen. “What else do you need?”

  “May I look in his bedroom?”

  “Of course.”

  She stood up and without a word led me upstairs and down a short hallway to a room. “I haven’t touched a thing since the other night.”

  I stepped into the room, but she stayed in the hallway, as if crossing the threshold was somehow forbidden. I looked around. It was a big room, certainly bigger than the one I’d grown up in. I’d had to share a room with my sister until I was a teenager. Logan had plenty of space, and plenty of toys. A racecar bed sat in the corner, with red and blue sheets. A desk was set against another wall, next to it a dresser, and the wall by the door had a bookcase full of superhero figurines, books, and a few model cars.

  “He made the cars with his father,” Audra said.