Mean Business on North Ganson Street (7 page)

“He ain't the one that set it—the nigga who hangs out never is. But you missin' the point. He bolted. He's gone.”

Suddenly, the detective understood. “No more traps?”

“The big, educated maybe just got himself a yes.”

 

X

Insectile Witness

Bettinger stepped over the frozen puddle of ketchup and walked to the back of the store. Outside the office, he swept his light in every direction, divining rotten boxes, moldering floorboards, and rusty shelves, inspecting everything until he was satisfied that there were no more nasty surprises awaiting him.

The detective seized the doorknob with a gloved hand and twisted it around. Metal squeaked, and the latch clicked. Gently, he nudged the office door forward a fraction of an inch.

Bettinger retreated to a near aisle and picked up a can of coffee, which he then threw. The projectile clanked against the wood, knocking the door wide open.

“Police!”

Employing the tactical light, the detective scanned the office. The room appeared to be uninhabited.

Bettinger strode inside and pointed his weapon at the concrete floor, illuminating a pair of reddish-brown stains. Atop the dried blood were hundreds of pale flecks that had once been the victim's knees.

“You still alive?” inquired a distant voice that belonged to Dominic.

“I'm at the scene.”

“Keep a eye out for big black footprints. And also a handkerchief with initials.”

Bettinger would have paid fifty dollars for a working lightbulb and ten times as much money for a new partner.

The detective withdrew a knife, thumbed the blade until it clicked into place, and kneeled beside the stains. There, he closely examined the yellow pieces of detritus, which were from the victim's hypodermis, and the narrow white shards, which were bone splinters. The human debris yielded no new data.

Bettinger stood up, stepped back, and circled the evidence. All of the bloodstains and smears were perfectly parallel, indicating that Elaine James had not struggled during the sex acts that had occurred on the floor of this office. It seemed possible that she had been murdered in some other location and brought here afterward for the acts of necrophilia.

Although the detective loved his twelve-year-old daughter as much as he loved his son (and oftentimes, far more), investigations such as this one made him doubt the wisdom of bringing a woman into the world of hideous men.

“Find anythin'?” The acoustics of the market turned Dominic's voice into something that came out of a child's walkie-talkie.

“Looking.”

The detective panned the tactical light along the dark seam that joined the floor to the wall. Something flashed, and he stilled his hand, illuminating a crevice.

Two antennae twitched.

It was then that Bettinger beheld the largest cockroach that he had ever seen, which was remarkable since he had thrice visited Florida with his wife and kids. Slowly, he approached the creature, which boldly held its ground.

“You see what happened here?”

Antennae waggled like the eyebrows of a sage who answered every question that he was asked with a question that made no sense.

Bettinger turned away from the bug and began a slow and systematic inspection of the floor, looking for anything that had not been visible in the shabby (and incomplete) crime scene photos. The cold sneaked under his parka during this tiny activity, and soon, he was shivering.

A glance at the crevice confirmed that the cockroach was still interested.

“I'm gettin' hungry,” Dominic announced to his partner, the bug, and the entire block.

Bettinger was two strides away from the end of his floor inspection when he saw something. Kneeling, he looked at the anomaly, which was a collection of intersecting scratches. These radiated from a central point that was a little bit deeper, but still quite superficial. No more than two feet away from this asterisk was a second, very similar mark. A glance to his right showed him one more collection of scratches.

Bettinger stood up, stepped back, and looked at the evidence. Together, the three asterisks formed a perfect equilateral triangle.

The realization of what he was looking at hit him a moment before the pang of revulsion.

“A goddamn tripod.”

Disgusted, the detective finished his inspection of the office and returned it to its owner, the cockroach.

*   *   *

“Nigga made a movie?” Dominic posited as he drove his silver luxury car south on Ganson Street. “Like a snuff movie?”

“I don't think she was killed in that office.”

“He filmed it when she was dead?” The big fellow turned onto the dirt street where the pavement was kept in piles. “Sounds pretty fuckin' boring.”

“I might use an adjective other than ‘boring.'”

“‘Adjective.'” Dominic repeated the word as if it might put warts on his tongue.

“If we don't get anything from the autopsy, we'll interview prostitutes—try and find another who's got the same tattoo or who knows something about it.”

“I was doin' other stuff before you started this here. I got important things t—”

“Now you're doing this,” interrupted Bettinger.

Dominic tightened his fists on the wheel. His bandages rippled, but he said nothing.

The car proceeded south.

Soon, the policemen exited Shitopia and entered the Toilet, where the twilight sun painted cracked streets and broken civilians the color of urine. Although it was past four o'clock in the afternoon, most of these people looked like they were just waking up.

 

XI

Disregarding Mauve and White

Wearing jeans and a sweater and weighed down by a warm dinner, Bettinger entered the study that was located in the rear of his Stonesburg home. He traversed the small room in two strides and sat in front of his computer, surrounded by mauve, the unfortunate color that the previous (evidently blind) residents had chosen to paint the walls.

Turning on the CPU, Bettinger began his second investigation of the day. This one did not require the assistance of his partner.

He typed the words “Dominic,” “Williams,” “Police,” and “Missouri” into a slot and fingered the Enter key. Over twenty million hunks of ether matched this search criteria. Subsequently, he refined his data, adding quotation marks and the words “Victory” and “Detective.” Again, he fingered the Enter key.

The top line of the screen declared,
3,842 search results
.

Bettinger looked at the first listing, which read, “Brutality Charges Against Two Victory Police…”

He stabbed the ellipses with a tiny arrow and clicked a button. A wheel spun and was replaced by a digital article that resembled a real newspaper (including artificial folds and tears, which were silly).

The headline stated, “Brutality Charges Against Two Victory Police Detectives Are Dropped in Sebastian Ramirez Case. Suspect Remains in Critical Condition.” Photographs of Dominic Williams and the short, aquiline fellow with vitiligo were directly below this headline. Beside these images was a grainy picture of a bandaged Hispanic man, the machine that kept him alive, and two unhappy females. The article was from November.

Somebody knocked on the door. The height of the concussion and its volume told Bettinger that it was Alyssa.

“Yes?”

“Can I come in?”

The detective shut off the monitor. “Sure.”

The woman strode into the room, tightening the belt of the green robe that she wore over her pajamas. “Pretty late for your first day.”

“I need to get oriented.”

“Okay.” Alyssa was curious by nature, but rarely pried. “Karen's upset.”

“I saw that at dinner. She'll talk when she's ready to talk.”

“I'm concerned.”

Bettinger was the parent who dealt with Karen when she was troubled, and Alyssa was the one who handled Gordon. For many years, these had been the assignments.

“I'll talk to her in a few minutes.”

Relief shone upon the painter's face, as if her husband had already fixed the problem. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“And if you get to bed before midnight, I'll be open for business.”

“Expect a customer.”

Curvature appeared on Alyssa's chin.

*   *   *

Eight minutes later, the detective stood outside his daughter's room and knocked upon her flimsy door.

A small throat was cleared. “Yes?”

“Do you want to talk?”

Bettinger heard a sniffle rather than a reply. Karen cried far less often than did most girls her age, and the sound was significant.

“May I come in?”

Silence followed his inquiry.

“Karen?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“You don't have to. But you need to pay your rent.”

Again, the girl sniffled. “What?”

“I usually get a hug when I come home from work. Sometimes, after dinner or when I'm helping you with a project. I didn't get one today and you owe me.”

Karen cleared her throat. “Okay.”

Bettinger gripped the doorknob, which rocked in its housing, but did not turn. “Want me to pick the lock?” he inquired. “I've got tools.”

“I'll get it.”

Footfalls approached, and a button clicked. As the little walker retreated, the detective nudged the door open.

Karen sat at the head of her bed, looking down at her folded legs, which were covered by a wool blanket. The girl's lean torso was lost inside her father's sweatshirt, one of several hand-me-downs that she preferred to her pajamas.

Bettinger entered, shut the door, and padded across the carpet to Karen, whose large eyes were red and dripping. A lump materialized in the detective's stomach as he sat beside his daughter.

Bettinger opened his arms. “Time to pay up.”

Karen leaned into her father, mashing her face against his chest. Two small limbs encircled his back.

Today was the beginning of the girl's second week in Stonesburg Junior High, and Bettinger knew that whatever was upsetting her had occurred in that place. It was a reputable public school, but its racial demographic looked like something that had been washed in bleach.

“If you're not ready to talk about it, that's okay,” the detective said as his daughter's tears warmed his sweater. “I just need to ask you two things. Did anybody hurt you?”

The wet mush that pressed against his chest slid left and right, and his apprehensions diminished.

“Did anybody threaten to hurt you?”

Again, the girl shook her head.

“Okay.” The detective patted his daughter's narrow back and placed a kiss upon the perfect part that lay directly between her pigtails. More than likely, her unhappiness was caused by some hurtful words and could be discussed whenever she was ready to have a conversation. “Do you want me to tuck you in?”

Karen clutched her father like a little wrestler, and for a moment, Bettinger feared that she might smother herself.

“It was just boys talking.” The girl sniffled. “That's all.”

Bettinger did not know what this meant. “Were they calling you names? Things like that?”

“No.” Karen released her father and sat upright, wiping her eyes. “I don't know why I'm crying. They weren't even talking to me.”

“What were they saying?”

“I can't.” The girl shook her head back and forth. “I can't say it.”

“What kinds of things?”

Karen stared at the blanket that covered her folded legs. “Dirty.”

“Sexual?” This was a word that Bettinger could not recall using in front of his daughter, who was twelve.

Karen nodded her head. “They were talking about that stuff at lunch. They were sitting behind me and—and—and talking real loud about the kinds of things that black girls do.”

Fury paralyzed the detective, and for a moment, he imagined himself slapping the faces of little blond rednecks. Relocating his anger to a back alley, he took his daughter's hands and cleared his throat. “Can you sit somewhere else at lunch? Away from these boys?”

“Yeah. It's not assigned seats.”

“Then sit somewhere else. And if they follow you around—talking like that—let me know.” Again, Bettinger imagined violence.

“Okay.”

The detective hugged his daughter, trying not to think of Elaine James's corpse. “Should I shoot them?”

“Not yet.”

 

XII

Reading Her Insides

“Bettinger!” The name rebounded throughout the white pillbox and landed inside of an uncommonly dark ear.

Breathing steam and wearing a parka over his blazer, the detective from Arizona rose from his desk, traversed the precinct, and carried a steel chair across the dais to the inspector's desk.

Zwolinski pointed a thick finger at Dominic, who sat on the far side of the enclosure. “Corporal Williams doesn't look delighted.”

“He isn't.” Bettinger winced when his buttocks struck cold metal.

“Keep him that way.”

“I'll do my best.”

“Is the Elaine James case worth a big chunk of police time?”

“It is.”

“Where are you?”

“We've got an autopsy at eleven, and we're talking to hookers, since she was one.”

Thick hands rubbed a purple bruise that the inspector had earned earlier that morning in a boxing match. “The file said she was a parasite.”

“She collected checks, but that was just gravy. The woman has a condominium.”

“Any ideas on the necrophile?”

“No. But he manufactures his own evidence.”

Zwolinski's eyebrows climbed toward his silver pelt. “How so?”

“There was a camera at the scene.”

“I like what's fallin' out of your mouth.”