Lark (5 page)

Lark looked down at the summons with disdain. “You're a real pal, Russo. Thanks.”

The Thunderbird started with a roar. Russo shrugged. “Somebody's got to do it.” He backed out of the parking place with a screech of tires.

Lark dropped the service into the trash receptacle by the front door and entered the lobby. He waved at the desk sergeant and communications clerk at the radio panel and walked into the watch commander's office.

The lieutenant at the desk looked up from a roster report and scowled. He was a large black man, over six-five and 250 pounds with a massive head and shoulders. “Goddamn it, Lark! Where's the search-and-seizure warrant for that goddamn piece of concrete out on Mark Street? We've had to keep a man out there for three shifts and I'm short on patrol.”

“I'll get it, Horn. I had an autopsy to go to.”

“The stiff's not going anywhere. You shoulda done your warrant first.”

“What did they give the papers on the case?”

“Read it yourself.” Lt. Horn thrust a morning paper at him and went back to glaring at his roster.

Lark skimmed the front-page article quickly—in Middleburg any homicide was front-page news—and grimaced when he saw his own name mentioned as the officer in charge of the investigation. Long-standing department policy required that Frank Pemperton be the news source for any major case. Details on the crime were sparse and Lark wondered what significant fact Frank had withheld. It was standard operating procedure on any unsolved crime to omit a vital point in order to have one important piece of information to use to verify the guilt of a prime suspect. He had to read the article twice before realizing that Frank had omitted the gunshot wound to the head. Significant enough, Lark thought as he dropped the paper back on the watch commander's desk. “Doing the warrant now,” he said in parting.

Lark's cubbyhole office on the third floor was covered with computer printouts. He flipped through a few pages. There were dozens of descriptions of young women of the approximate age and physical appearance as their victim. Each entry was a missing person or runaway, and they all seemed to be denim-clad teenagers. Perhaps the National Crime Information Center was too efficient.

He would have to do his search warrant first in order to seize the pedestal with the bloodstains, and then a separate one to try to gain entry into the house on the property where the body was discovered. He found the CCP-7 green print on white forms in a bottom drawer and inserted the first one into the ancient manual typewriter by the side of his desk.

He stared down at the form:

“Affidavit and Application, Search and Seizure Warrant. To: A Judge of the Superior Court.

“The undersigned being duly sworn, complains on oath that the undersigned has probable cause to believe that certain property to wit …”

This one would be easy. He typed the sentence carefully with two fingers. “A certain concrete pedestal approximately three feet in height with attached inverted cross on the property of 21 Mark Street, Middleburg, Connecticut.”

He scanned the boxes down the page and placed an X in one next to, “constitutes evidence of the following crime.” He typed in, “Said concrete form contains bloodstains of unknown origin and is located four feet from the place wherein a victim of homicide was discovered.”

He completed the remainder of the paper and inserted the second form into the typewriter. This one was going to be hairy. He would indicate on the form that they wished to search the house on Mark Street for personal possessions of the deceased. He'd have to be more specific than that, so he would narrow it down to purse, wallet, pocket belongings, and/or backpack of the deceased. Still too broad, but perhaps a lenient judge would let it through and not question them as to how they would know what belonged to the deceased, since they didn't know who the deceased was.

Lark continued typing and cursed high-court judges.

He finished his warrants and confiscated a patrolman to take them over to the courthouse after lunch. He specifically directed the young officer to look for a judge who appeared to have had a couple of good belts at lunch.

He was working his way through the printouts when the phone rang. “Lark here.”

It was the medical examiner. “INFORM has no similar burn wounds with wedge-shaped markings of that size in their computer, Lieutenant. The deceased had no disease and expired from a twenty-two-caliber bullet wound. The bullet has been sent over to the state police lab. Evidence of vaginal and oral rape are present, and we'll have the semen typed for blood groupings in a day or two. The other toxicology exams aren't complete, but a preliminary blood run doesn't show any evidence of drugs or other toxic substances.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Lark said automatically.

“You'll get the full report shortly,” the ME said as she hung up.

“Sure,” Lark said to the dead phone. “In about six months.”

“There's scuttlebutt over at City Hall, Tommy,” the voice from the doorway said.

Randall Lambert, police reporter for the
Middleburg Times
, lounged against the door frame. He was a rangy man of indeterminate age whose suits always seemed as rumpled as the shock of pale-brown hair that hung over his forehead. He had a wry grin that bordered on the sardonic.

“Not interested, Randy,” Lark said.

“You will be when I tell you.”

“I'm busy.” Five years ago Lark had made the mistake of getting very, very drunk with Randy Lambert. The result had been a feature story filled with comments that Lark was sure he never made or did not remember making. The article's conclusion accused Lark of stating that everyone under thirty was a “scum bag.” The story hadn't helped his image.

Undaunted, Lambert pressed on. “They're saying the dead girl was a druggy, and you were slapping her around for her contacts.”

“I'm off the streets.” Lark tried to ignore the reporter and angrily flipped through the sheaf of printouts.

“They're saying that you killed her, Lark, and that's why you're being pulled into the office. The stink of cover-up hovers around this place like a big-assed bird.”

“That's bullshit and you know it, Lambert.”

“You see my article on the front page?”

“You misspelled my name.”

“Like hell.” Lambert thought a moment and then laughed. “Then I'm sure you noticed the missing item.”

“You know we always leave something out.”

“Like how she was killed.”

Lark pushed aside the mass of paper. “Listen, prick. You know that any release out of this office comes from the chief himself. That's the way it's done.”

“He's an old buddy of yours, isn't he?”

“Go to hell with that insinuation.”

“How did she die, Lark?”

“No comment.”

“Maybe it was what they call multiple contusions. You leaned on her and went too far.”

“Talk to Frank.”

“I just checked and he's not in his office.”

“I'm right here, Lambert.” Frank Pemperton pushed into the office. “I've just been down to City Hall putting out the fires that you started. You're a troublemaker, Lambert, you know that?”

“How did the kid die?”

“She's being autopsied today,” Frank said.

“You can tell him,” Lark said. “We turned up something else that will be our missing detail.”

Lark's and Frank's eyes met a moment and then Pemperton turned to face the reporter. “She died of a single gunshot wound to the head.”

“Same caliber that Lark carries?”

“Knock it off!” Frank yelled. “She died of a twenty-two-caliber bullet wound to the rear of the head. Is that enough? Got your story now?”

Randall Lambert gave them a mock salute and slipped down the hallway.

“Weasely bastard, isn't he?” Frank said. “What did the ME turn up that we can use?”

“The girl's body is a mass of burns. She was tortured.”

“Oh, Christ. For God's sake, keep that from Lambert. Sensationalism I don't need. What else do you have?”

“I had men interview everyone on the block except the house on the property. We didn't turn up a damn thing.”

“What about the house on the scene?”

“I'm taking that myself as soon as the warrant comes through.”

Frank Pemperton nodded and gestured to the mass of computer printouts covering the desk. “Any leads as to her identity?”

“Nothing. I went through her clothing and it's everyday discount-store stuff except for her boots, and they came from L.L. Bean.”

“She's not from town, is she?”

“We don't think so. Her description doesn't match anyone in our files; we circulated a picture to the high school, and no comparable runaways or missings are listed here.”

“Okay. Stay on it. If you're going to need anyone to help, keep it down. I'm already over budget on this year's overtime.”

“I need one guy assigned to me.”

“Anybody in mind?”

“I'd like Najankian.”

Pemperton looked incredulous. “Horse? He's a clodhopper, for God's sake. He's been on the force for sixteen years and never taken the sergeant's exam.”

“He's the one I want.”

Pemperton went to the door. “Take him. He's yours. Don't kill yourself on this one, Lark. The kid was probably a hitchhiker who picked the wrong guy to ride with. A druggy from nowhere going nowhere.”

“You're a nice guy, Frank,” Lark said.

4

“I don't do overtime,” Horse Najankian announced in Lark's office on the following morning.

Lark glared over the personnel folder at the big, ruddy cop sitting uncomfortably in the peeling straight chair. Horse's head erupted from his stiff collar, and the slight reddish rash at the neckline created the impression of a man alien to shirt and tie, even though Lark knew that he had worn one every duty day for the last sixteen years. The uniform pants were shiny and the seams around the pockets showed several repairs. He was a seedy-looking officer.

“You'll work overtime when I assign it,” Lark snapped. “What kind of name is Sylvester Najankian?”

“Armenian.”

“Sylvester's Armenian?”

“Everyone calls me Horse.” The man's florid face reddened even further and Lark wondered if he were a boozer. “I didn't ask for this, Lieutenant. I like it on traffic.”

Lark glanced back through the officer's personnel folder. “Jesus, you've got six kids. How in the hell do you support them on a patrolman's salary?”

Horse's smile tightened. “Badly.” He shifted his bulk, but still kept his large hands clamped over his knees. “My wife works. She's a checker at Waldbaum's Supermarket. The kids help out the best they can with paper routes, baby-sitting, that sort of thing.”

Lark slammed down the folder. “I've seen your test results taken when you joined the force. You're bright enough to have taken the sergeant's exam, you could have even gone for lieutenant, but you never even signed up.”

“I don't want the responsibility.”

Lark thought about his own bank accounts. “What about the money?”

Again the uncomfortable shifting of weight as Horse Najankian chose his words carefully. “There are a couple of ways to do your time on the force, Lieutenant. You know that. You can put yourself completely into it and suddenly you've got no outside life or time to spend with the kids. You take it home with you, you live with it until all your friends are cops and you can't ever get away from it. I have always worked traffic, the hours are regular and I get home when my wife does. It works out just fine.”

“How did you end up out at Mark Street where the body was found?”

“The watch commander was short that day and pulled me into a patrol car.”

Another glance back at the personnel folder. “You got a commendation back in seventy-two.”

“It was pure chance. I stopped a guy for running a stop sign and had to disarm him when he threw down on me. It turned out that there was paper out for him.”

“And you did it without drawing your service revolver?”

A long pause. “There wasn't time.”

“Well, I only get one man for this case and you're it.”

“With all due respect, Lieutenant, you can use one of the men from narc, or there's a lot of ambitious guys in plain clothes—”

“I want you, Horse.” Lark had a sudden gut intuition. “Let me see your service revolver.”

“What?”

“Hand over your piece.”

Najankian's eyes widened, but he slowly withdrew the weapon from its holster and handed it, butt first, across the desk.

Lark swung the cylinder away from the chamber and peered into it. It was as he suspected. “Has it ever been loaded?”

“Once a year, when I have to go to the range. We got little kids at home. I can't have a loaded piece hanging around.”

Lark spun his chair and plunked his feet on the sill as he looked out the window toward a leaden sky filled with fast-scudding clouds. The day outside matched his inner mood. He was faced with trying to solve an impossible case. There was no identification on the victim, much less any solid clues; and as a partner, he had picked a traffic cop who carried an empty pistol.

He jolted the chair forward and stood up to hand Horse a five-dollar bill. “Let's go down to Manny's Sporting Goods and buy a box of shells. I don't give a damn what you do at night, but when you're with me, I want you to carry a loaded piece.”

Najankian reluctantly took the money and reholstered his pistol as the phone rang. Lark snatched it from the cradle. “Yeah.”

“Sergeant Soho at the state crime lab, Lieutenant. Negative on the blood sample on that pedestal you sent up here yesterday. As a matter of fact, the stains aren't human blood.”