Two Graves (A Kesle City Homicide Novel) (8 page)

He wiped his palms again and then slowly opened the book. The spine of the book let out a loud crack, startling him. He laughed uneasily. What did he expect? He had never opened the book since he got it the twenty-five years ago.

Who the hell would he want to sign his Year Book? He didn’t even have a picture in the book. He had been sure to be absent that day since he had a swollen eye from one of his father’s “lessons”. His only picture was with the band holding his flute – the worst possible instrument.

Carefully, he paged past the message from the Principal and the pictures of all the teachers – useless bunch of turds. They could barely teach and they sure couldn’t protect him from his tormentors. Most of them were as afraid of the bullies as he was. And the rest were even bigger bullies. His hand was shaking by the time he was at the page titled “Graduates”.

The first pictures generated memories of fear and hiding – years of absolute hell. The hours he spent with the layout of the school, carefully planning alternate routes to avoid this hall or that area. His bladder nearly bursting but never daring to venture into the washroom. Always walking with his eyes down, praying he would not make eye contact. Nothing but pain. All because of THEM!

As he saw more pictures, the memories of the tortured years flooded back. The fear changed to anger. Anger became rage, rage for those wasted years. Rage for the happiness twisted into agony. Over twenty-five years later, he still felt the burning rage. Now it was a rage that could kill.

And now, he could make them pay. He had killed. He can kill, can’t he? He can make them pay. Just like Sandra had paid.

But it wasn’t Sandra, was it?

Sandra’s picture was on the fourth page. He studied the picture carefully. He was sure it had been Sandra.

Looks just like her, doesn’t it?

Yes, everything is the same.

What year is it, genius?

What does that have to do with anything? It is… Oh!

Ya, Oh! So who’s the dumb one now?

Of course. She would be older now. He flipped back to his band picture and studied the changes. He was still himself but there were more changes than similarities. Even heavier, more lines, saggy and tighter all at the same time.

No, that hadn’t been Sandra in the bar. It looked like her but Sandra would be older now. That woman wasn’t Sandra.

That doesn’t really matter, does it?

She had been laughing at me just like Sandra.

That’s right. They’re all the same, aren’t they?

It might not have been Sandra but she was just as bad. They all had that same look. It was the look. He’d just forgotten to account for age.

The milk carton caught his attention. How long had it been since he saw those missing children’s pictures on milk cartons? You never saw them anymore, did you? A whole generation of kids had gone missing since they stopped putting pictures on milk cartons. Not that it mattered; it was the technology that he needed!

As Mann reached the hospital room, he could hear Davis’ stern voice all the more dangerous for the low tones. He eased through the open door but Davis didn’t even notice him.

Davis towered over the smaller man in the hospital bed. Mann had to look twice at the kid lying in the bed before he recognized Davis’ nephew, Cliff Degget. He remembered Cliff as a fresh faced recruit in the police academy before he quit in some quiet scandal three years ago. Instead of the clean-shaven young man, Cliff had longish hair in half-assed dread locks. A scar now marred the right side of his face, running from below his eye to his jaw, making the scruffy beard Cliff now wore almost non-existent in a straight line on his right cheek.

“All I’m saying is, you could have trusted your family. You know what your Aunt has gone through the past three years?” Davis said.

“My trainers all drilled it into me, stay with my story all the time, mon. If I was going to be successful I had to be the guy they created for me,” Cliff answered.

“And what the hell is with the Jamaican accent?”

“Sorry. I’ve been speaking that way for the past three years,” Cliff said, obviously struggling to keep the accent out of his voice. “My trainers beat it into me. ‘You live your legend or you don’t live’ is what they always said.”

Mann coughed from the doorway and both Degget and Davis looked over at him.

“Uh, hi Cliff,” Mann said. “Don’t know if you remember me.”

“Hi Lieutenant. Sure I remember you. How’s it going? It’s been a while.”

Mann scanned for tubes. “You OK, kid?”

“Ya, sure. I just wrenched my back when I fell out a window.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Davis interrupted before Mann could respond. “Who were these trainers? It sure as hell wasn’t the Academy. I never believed that you cheated on that test. Breaking into the instructor’s office the night before a test?”

“Of course, I didn’t cheat on any test. This is all your fault, Uncle. This hasn’t exactly been easy on me, you know. You and Auntie practically raised me. Because of you, I knew all the statutes while I was still in High School. Thanks to you, I was a better shot than most of my instructors. That’s how they picked me for this. They washed me out and finished my training in Virginia.”

“Virginia?”

“Langley.”

“All part of the new happy family that 9-11 produced. They’ve been training deep undercover operatives for all the alphabet soup and some of the police forces too. They make me bandulu Lenworth, zeen?” Cliff said, dropping into his Jamaican. “I know Patois ca I flexing with my bredren from Ja for a lang time. Ya nuh see it? Tap bein Babylon. Ku pon dis. I brin Lambsbread to Angelino, mon. Til informa su-su to the fat jacket.”

“What?” Mann asked.

Cliff smiled. “They turned me into Lenworth, a drug dealer from Jamaica. I learned Patois, Jamaican, when I was in school. A bunch of the guys on the track team were from Jamaica. I stopped being part of the police, Babylon. Look at me, would you even recognize me? I came back into the city and nobody even gave me a second look. I got this scar in Jamaica while I was still trying to establish myself. I was bringing in marijuana to Angelino’s operation in a big way. And then someone turned on me and told him I was a cop.”

“You know who?”

“No. But I am going to find out. I was under for two years without so much as a sniff. Only two guys in Narcotics even knew about me. Then, I get close to Angelino and my CO, decides it is getting too political. He brings in the SOCU just before my big meeting with Angelino and two nights later, I get three shooters in my apartment. I don’t believe in coincidence. Somebody in SOCU is dirty.”

Davis looked at Mann who shrugged and spoke. “Could have come from anywhere but the timing is suspicious.”

“Unless somebody in Narcotics was just waiting to find a scapegoat.”

“I swear, nobody but the two guys knew. They could have had me taken out anytime. It came from SOCU.”

Davis nodded. “OK. What’s your plan?”

“I need to be somewhere I can investigate SOCU and figure out who ratted me out. Basically, I need somewhere to lay low but I need access to the department main frame. I need information.”

Davis raised his eyebrows at Mann. It was Mann’s turn to nod.

“Ya, I want this guy as much as you do,” Mann said. “And if we can take down Angelino at the same time, I got no problems with that. I can get him into Southfield somewhere. I’ll talk to Walsh. Won’t be our squad but we’ll still be around to keep an eye on the boy.”

“Bumboclot,” Degget muttered.

Mann just looked puzzled, not realizing what Degget had said. “I’ll set up a meeting with Olinyk. He’s retired but he was in SOCU for about two years. He’ll give it to you straight.”

“Where are his loyalties?” Degget asked. “Sorry, but I’m a little paranoid.”

“Don’t worry. Nothing will get back to SOCU. There wasn’t much love lost there. He didn’t so much leave as was forced out. We’ll set it up when your back is better and you are out of here.”

Before Degget responded, a nurse walked in the room.

“Sorry gentleman, I need some time with my patient.” She said, all but pushing Mann and Davis from the room.

“Wa’ppun goodaz,” Degget said, falling back into his Jamaican accent.

“Yes, si...si...sir, your pictures are ready,” Bert Haynes stuttered out to the man in front of the counter. “I th...th...think your High School reunion group is going to be very happy with th...th...them.”

He watched the man carefully flip through the eight by tens. Each had turned out even better than he had hoped. Aging pictures from old black and whites was always more difficult than color pictures with their lack of subtlety and depth. Normally, he did this for missing children but it was becoming more of a novelty item, especially for reunions. Attendees would compare their aged photo and see how different they were to reality. There were automated services online but they lacked his skill and finesse. Obviously, it was worth it to this customer to have the best. Haynes could see he was pleased.

Poor guy. Haynes recognized the type from when he was in High School. Overweight, sloppy, he was the geek always trying so hard to please. He likely had all the crap jobs, always the one setting up the AV equipment rather than doing the presentation, the prop guy instead of the star, picked to put away the sports equipment while the others celebrated the big game. Even now, he was running the errands. He wouldn’t be on the stage at the big celebration. He’d be over by the punch bowl with the rest of the losers.

Haynes could understand. Stuttering all his life, he was always in the background. That’s where his love of computers came from. And he had no regrets, not with Anne at his side. He smiled over at his wife. Sensing him, she looked over and smiled back.

“Th...th...this is an especially good one,” Haynes said, pointing to the picture in his customer’s hand.

The man looked up, obviously startled. He looked at the picture Haynes was pointing at of the petite little face, long red hair, gorgeous lips and sparkling eyes. Haynes saw the man’s face turn red and guessed, incorrectly, that he was embarrassed. Out of sight behind the counter, Haynes couldn’t see the man’s right hand clench so hard it turned his knuckles white. Sweat broke out on the man’s forehead and Haynes took pity and changed the subject.

“I’m s...s...sorry but I have to hurry off. Anne will make up the bill. I hope everything works out all right.”

“It will,” the Preston replied. “You have helped me a great deal.”

Mann took a look at the two murder boards that Tetrault and Kydd had set up behind their cubicles.

In the center top of one board was a head and shoulder shot of Luis Gabel on the coroner’s table. Clustered off to the left were the names and aliases of the Intimidators. Mann shook his head again when he read the aliases. Beside each Intimidator was the notation “AC” for Alibi Cleared. A copy of Gabel’s rap sheet was stuck to the board with a magnet. It was pretty short and filled with minor crimes – minor for any serious banger, anyway. Just enough to get Gabel a curfew. There was also a picture of a Blackie Collins Thin Red Line switchblade. There was a magic marker circle around a chip on the blade with a note stating members of the Intimidators identified it.

A short time line, mostly blank, attempted to narrow down the time of death. Kydd and Tetrault had narrowed down the time of death to be between 11:30 PM, when Gabel had left his fellow gang members, and 3:30 AM. A large question mark was at midnight with the notation, “Curfew never missed”. The right side listed next of kin with a similar ‘AC’ notation. Under the heading of Enemies, the space was blank.

On the next board, there was a head and shoulder shot of Christine Yeck when she was very much alive. Apparently, her next of kin were more forthcoming with a photograph of the lovely young woman.

This murder board had similar notations to Gabel’s with some additional information. No rape was prominent as was a description of the indignities that the killer had visited on her body. Strangulation, severed tongue, mutilated throat and the sign carved in her back, all with autopsy photos. Attached dead center of the board was a blowup of the sign. Beside the picture, Kydd had printed “Occult” and “Gang” with large question marks. Scanning the list of next of kin, Mann saw that all had been cleared.

He was still staring at the boards, sipping a Pepsi, when Tetrault and Kydd came back into the squad room.

“Anything new?” Mann asked.

Both detectives shook their heads. “Not a thing, Lou,” Kydd added.

“Is there anything that isn't on the board?”

Tetrault flipped open his notebook. “Fiancée is clear. He wasn’t even in town and that has been double checked.”

“That’s the truth,” Kydd agreed. She picked up a paper on her desk and unfolded it. After scanning it, she waved the paper toward Mann. “And officially nothing on the DNA for the blood on the newspaper strap. The gang angle has nothing. Nobody is taking credit and it’s just wrong for a gang. Garnham says he’s heard nothing. Nobody has even taken any notice of her death. Nothing on the web, except for the usual chatter from her friends on Facebook and Twitter.”

“Anything on motive?” Mann asked.

“I wish. Her purse was intact with lots of credit cards and about $300 in cash. There is nothing from her work, either. Everybody loves her and thinks she deserved the promotion. She handles the annual drive for Children’s Hospital. Finances are good, other than some major credit card debt but that was for her wedding in Jamaica.”

“Any ex-boyfriends out there that didn’t want her getting married?”

“She’s been with her fiancée for six years and before that, nothing serious, according to her mother. Certainly nobody that she thought was capable of this. Her mother said that she’s the only one of her daughters that didn’t go through the bad boy phase.”

“Anything with this?” Mann asked, pointing at the sign.

“Nothing. Nobody in Gangs recognizes it. Some occult hits, having to do with a goat’s head. The goat is a standard symbol for the Devil but nothing there so far. Greer is looking into it. Do you want us to go to the media with it?”