The Ambitious City (3 page)

“I don’t know yet. This may be nothing but decades of extreme littering.”

“What are you into the mayor for?”

“I honestly don’t know, sir, but I’m about to find out.” MacNeice climbed out of the car as he was speaking and opened the trunk, retrieving a pocket Maglite and a Sony digital camera from his battered briefcase.

“Let me know—I mean, if it’s safe for me to know. I’m just as happy being ignorant.”

“I’ll call.” He put the camera and flashlight in his jacket pocket
and shut the trunk. As he approached the tent, two of the guards stepped forward to tell him it was a restricted site.

MacNeice pulled out his shield and said, “Detective Superintendent MacNeice. I’m looking for Howard Ellis.”

“Right. He told us to expect you.”

The man looked as if he spent too much time in the weight room. But then, if he was what MacNeice thought he was, his job was mostly about intimidation, and in that he succeeded. His partner looked more like a hockey player than a weightlifter, so solid in his uniform that if he sneezed, he’d blow the seams. The third guard was leaning against a rail cart talking on his phone. His stomach rolled over his belt and sweat had taken over his shirt. He glanced blankly towards MacNeice as he approached the entrance, then looked away.

“That’s his trailer on the other side, isn’t it?” He looked across at the trailers gleaming white in the morning sun and then at his watch: 8:43 a.m.

“Yeah, the one at the end. But he’s been waiting for you in here.”

“You’re a bouncer at the Boogy Bin, aren’t you.”

“Yeah, Pete Zaminsky. Do I know you?”

“No.”

“This is my day job—Donny’s too.” He nodded in the direction of the guard standing to MacNeice’s left.

Zaminsky pulled open the flap and MacNeice was hit by a wave of cool air. It was like walking into an immense, bright white bubble. The scale of the tent made the columns on their rail carts look tiny. They had been pressure-hosed and were gleaming like bones, the paper from the Sonotubes gone. The Packard, now clean, showed signs amid the rust of its original black paint finish. Towards the rear of the tent, on the left, was a refrigeration truck with its motor running; a hose ran from the truck’s exhaust under the tent’s curtain to the outside. The lettering over the cab read
leblanc
bros. fish company
. MacNeice smiled—Maybank had discovered that the city’s only mobile body cooler was full of bikers in Cayuga. Luc and Patrick LeBlanc were friends of his and Bob’s from high school; he wondered what Maybank had promised them to get the use of the truck.

“That’s Ellis over there by the car, the guy with the white helmet.”

“Who’s that beside him?”

“Don’t know his name, but he arrived about an hour ago with an acetylene torch.”

As the bouncer turned and walked back through the opening, Ellis came towards him like a kid eager to get on with an Easter egg hunt.

“Tell me, Mr. Ellis,” MacNeice asked, “has anyone touched these things beyond getting them in here and cleaned?”

“No, sir. We pressure-hosed the muck off them, but that’s it. The Packard’s trunk is welded shut—that’s why he’s here.” He nodded in the direction of the torch operator. “He’s a firefighter. There’s something in the back seat—hard to tell what through the windows. I’ve been waiting for you.”

The car was still remarkably intact. Even the windows, though fogged with slime, were unbroken. “Apart from the flat tires, I’ve seen cars in worse shape on the street. How would you explain that?”

“When we did our first sampling of the bottom, we discovered roughly ten feet of gunk—a substance somewhere between coal tar, oil and axle grease. Back in the middle of the last century, the old freighters would discharge their bilge here. It was illegal, but the environment wasn’t a concern back then. This car’s been encased in that stuff for more than seven decades.”

“But doesn’t oil rise?”

“Yeah, sure, but with all the crap floating in here and the bay pushing in more … Well, after a while it turned into this really heavy gunk.”

“Like dinosaurs in the tar pits.”

“Exactly.” Ellis seemed impressed by this imaginative leap. He was much more animated than he’d been the day before with the mayor.

MacNeice looked down at the licence plate. He could see that someone had been rubbing at it with a rag.

“Massachusetts 1936,” Ellis said.

There was a pop, and the torch lit up with its blue-needle flame. “Good to go,” the torch operator said.

“So go,” MacNeice said.

Within minutes the trunk lid was loose. The operator shut the valve on the torch and lifted the lid away from the body of the car. For a moment the trunk’s contents were difficult to decipher.

“Rags?” Ellis asked.

“No. Clothes on a body, or bodies. Look here.” MacNeice pointed to a hand, lying near the wheel well. He pulled out his Maglite and shone it on a shred of leathery white flesh and pale grey bones frozen in a death grip. He took out his latex gloves and put them on. Before he touched anything, he took several photos of the contents of the trunk. As the torch operator moved around to ensure the doors would open, MacNeice said to him, “You’ve been briefed about what you’ve seen here?”

“Yep, I haven’t seen a thing.”

After he left, MacNeice said, “Mr. Ellis, can you get me as much clean tarpaulin as you can find?”

“No problem.”

“Bring it to me and then leave me alone. I’m going to be a while.”

MacNeice turned back to the Packard. He took several more images of the car, the licence plate, the trunk and its contents before putting the camera back in his hip pocket. Just as the mass of cloth before him was beginning to reveal its shape—the zigzag of legs, the folded torso—his cellphone rang.

“MacNeice.” He stood up and looked over at the columns resting on the rail carts.

“Williams, sir. Wallace called to say you might need Vertesi. He’s pretty tied up in Cayuga, but I’m downtown today. Can I help?”

“Yes. I’m at the end of the eastern dock of the steel company. There’s a large tent with a private security team outside. Tell them you’re here to see me. How quickly can you make it?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Perfect.” MacNeice dialled Mary Richardson’s number, but before the connection could be made, his cell rang again.

“Mac, it’s Bob. Tell me what we’ve got.”

“I don’t know about the columns yet, but there’s a body in the trunk of the Packard, maybe two. I’m going to bring in Mary Richardson.”

“Who’s she again?”

“The city’s pathologist.”

“Is that a good idea? I mean, I want to contain this if I can.”

“You can’t, Bob. We don’t
contain
homicides.”

“Can you give me some time, though, before this blows open?”

“I can’t speak for the pathologist.”

“Then keep me posted. And, please, Mac, keep it as quiet as you can.”

When he got through to Mary Richardson, she agreed to come alone.

Ellis returned, carrying a bright yellow tarpaulin. He dropped it on the concrete and wiped his shirt several times, though MacNeice couldn’t see any evidence of dirt or dust. He paused, perhaps waiting to be invited to stay. MacNeice turned his focus to the trunk, and in a moment he heard Ellis sigh as he walked away.

When Williams arrived, he stopped just inside the tent, put his hands on his hips and looked about in amazement. MacNeice was
leaning on the rear fender of the Packard with his arms crossed.

Williams scratched his head. “Where are we, boss? And what are we doing here? Nice wheels, but it could do with a new coat of paint and some tires.”

“A Packard 120, lifted off the bottom.”

“What’s it got to do with us?”

“Absolutely nothing. There’s a body or two in the trunk, but they’ve been down there, nestled in the muck, since this thing was new.” Seeing that Williams was still confused, he went further. “Those columns over there—there might be bodies in them too.”

“No shit.”

“The concern isn’t about the square columns. The two round ones at the end are more recent.”

“Okay, I get it, this is a crime scene. But we’ve got our own pack of evildoers, so why are we here?”

“It’s a favour, for now.”

“Favour? ‘Pick up my dry cleaning’ is a favour. ‘Come and check out these dead bodies we found in the bay’? Man, that’s takin’ some liberties in favourland. What do you want me to do?”

“Put your gloves on. Let’s roll out the tarpaulin.” MacNeice had gotten used to the young black detective’s sense of humour; he accepted it in part because he found him to be intelligent and intuitive. MacNeice took one end of the bright yellow nylon tarp and Williams took the other, spreading it out flat on the pier.

Both men took off their jackets, folded them neatly and laid them at the far end of the tarp. Then they rolled up their shirt sleeves as they walked over to look in the trunk.

“Nice suit. Pinstriped, I think,” Williams said, looking inside.

MacNeice took the right side, where the hand was, while Williams cradled the zigzag legs. “On three.” It was surprisingly light but difficult to lift, the bones shifting and moving within the fabric. The left foot, still in its shoe, came off and fell back into the trunk.

Williams looked over at MacNeice. “Sorry, I lost the foot.”

“No problem, I’ve lost his head. And look—he wasn’t alone.” He nodded back at the trunk, where another skeleton lay.

They laid the body gently on the yellow tarpaulin, still in its fetal position. The bones sagged with a soft clacking and then were silent. They went back to the trunk. The man’s skull was lying against the frame, its jaw wide open. There was no skin or hair, just sad grey bone. MacNeice lifted it out, laid it in the correct position above the body and returned to the car. Williams had retrieved the foot and shoe and laid it beside the pant leg.

The other remains were female, wearing what had been a red and yellow striped summer dress. Judging by it and the shoes—which probably had been cherry red—she was young, in her late teens or twenties. There were shreds of leathery white flesh on the arms and legs. And her hands, like his, resembled frozen claws.

Williams tilted his head to look at the body.

Beside him, MacNeice said, “One summer morning, a long time ago, this girl woke up, put on that pretty dress and went out for the day, feeling terrific.”

“Probably thought she’d ride up front too,” Williams said softly.

Leaning into the trunk, MacNeice could see that the fabric on its roof had been torn—or clawed—not eroded by time and submersion. The car was beautifully made; they had been alive when they went into the trunk.

“Spooning,” Williams said.

“Spooning? Ah, yes … Well, let’s get her out of there.” Behind her body was a small red handbag, its straps intact.

When they had the two lying side by side on the bright tarp, it was possible to imagine them as two young people in summer … but you had to squint really hard.

MacNeice took more photographs. “See what you can find inside the car,” he told Williams. He squatted next to the dirty grey suit
and white bones. He patted the jacket’s exposed hip pocket—nothing. Nothing in the inside pockets or the pants pockets, and the fabric disintegrated with the intrusion.

“Got a big square case in the back seat,” Williams called.

MacNeice took the purse and opened it. There wasn’t much. With his pen he moved things about—a cigarette package, a tortoiseshell lighter with a flip top, lipstick, a small hand mirror and a membership card. He lifted it out. Brown, badly stained and fragile, it registered a Rosemary McKenzie for Wonderland, the outdoor dance palace that had stood for years at Parkdale and Main, in the city’s east end. No wallet, keys or any other identification beyond the dancehall card.

“Jesus H—Boss, there’s a kid in this thing!”

Williams stood back from the case lying open on the concrete and started to pace back and forth.

MacNeice walked over. At first glance it did look like a child of five or six. MacNeice looked more closely, then started to laugh.

“Tell me what’s funny about that!” Williams was angry.

“It’s a dummy, Montile. A ventriloquist’s dummy.”

“What the hell …” Williams came closer, too relieved to attempt to cover his embarrassment.

MacNeice closed the lid and rubbed the nameplate riveted on top. “The dummy’s name is Archie. And here—look, below it—the ventriloquist …” He leaned back so his shadow didn’t obscure the small capital letters.
CHARLIE ‘CHAS’ GREENE. BOSTON, MASS
.

“So that sorry fucker over there is probably Chas Greene.”

“You’ve heard of him?”

“Nope.”

“Someone can do the research on it. Not us.”

Neither man had noticed that Mary Richardson had arrived. She was only a few feet from the tarpaulin when she spoke. “Gentlemen, can you introduce me to your friends here?”

MacNeice shot to his feet, embarrassed that someone could get that close without his noticing. “I believe her name is Rosemary McKenzie, and if this is his dummy, then he was Charlie Greene. They were in the trunk of the Packard.”

“How long?”

“I assume since 1936 or 1937. I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Not my job.” She put down the black case and turned to look at the columns beyond him. “What have you got over there, Detective?”

“I’m not sure, but there are possibly more bodies in those columns.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Well, for starters, check out these two. We’ll crack open these columns. The two round ones at the end are very recent.”

“These two likely died of drowning or asphyxiation. I’ll take a look but, for the record, I don’t appreciate being called down here for this. I do wonder at your priorities, Detective.” She was opening up her bag and retrieving what looked like large cutting shears.

“It’s a favour for a friend.” MacNeice walked over to the opening of the tent and asked the bouncer to find Ellis and the jackhammer operator.

The bouncer tried to look around MacNeice, curious to know what the woman with the black bag was doing.

“Ask them to come now,” MacNeice said.