The Book of 21 (13 page)

“John,” he said, as he stood and extended his hand to give John a firm handshake. “Come on in and sit down. I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you. I thought you would have known by now; it’s all over the news.”

“I was out,” said John, neglecting to specify whether that meant out-on-the-town, or out cold.

“Oh,” Sanford grunted. He sat down at Murphy’s desk and stuck his nose back in the file.

John leaned forward to spy.

“I know you are on a hot case right now,” Sanford said, looking up at John. “Murphy left a note that you found a few things today in his supervisor log. Anyway, I’ve been in here trying to get up to speed on everything. There’s some stuff I can’t figure out.”

“Like what?” John wondered what was in the folder, since he decided not to leave a copy of Hallman’s notes with Murphy.

“I shouldn’t show you this, but under the circumstances, maybe it would be best.” Sanford handed the file to John.

John scanned what appeared to be his personnel file. Notes spanning the last six months said, in essence, that he was a loser. Two notes said that Murphy sent him home because of visible drunkenness. The file contained three other notes that said John had to go home because he was too sick to work, with each marked “suspected hangover.” Another note claimed that that he had simply not shown up for work one day. There was also a note that said he took Peluno’s death very hard, and that Murphy was working to bring him back around.

John looked Sanford in the eye and fumed, “This is bullshit.”

“I found it on the desk when I walked in here. It’s not how I remember you, but then again, people change. I’m trying to figure out why you’re still here with a record like that. Something stinks.”

“I’ll tell you what stinks; what stinks is that Murphy just falls on the tracks, and my record suddenly looks like that.”

“Look, John. I’d like to believe you.” Sanford took the file from John. “The fact is, I smell bourbon on your breath right now. I don’t know what to believe.”

“Are you
kidding
me? You call me up and tell me Murphy’s dead; what should I drink? Kool-Aid?”

Sanford let him cool for a few seconds and then calmly replied, “John, if someone is messing with you, I understand why you’re pissed. When first I met you a while back, I had the feeling that you were a good cop, so this doesn’t seem right. You have to understand, though, that this is going to take a while to straighten out.”

“So… straighten it out.”

“John, I can’t keep you on a case if you’ve got booze problems. Maybe Murphy was willing to let you get killed, but I’m not. Let’s take a few days and figure out what’s going on here.”

“Somebody’s fucking me,” he growled. “That’s what’s going on here.” He realized he had screwed up as soon as he lost his composure.

Sanford again waited for him to cool a few seconds and then said, “I’m sorry, John. I’m going to have to suspend you,
with
pay, until we can figure all this out. It should only take a few days or so. If everything seems OK, you might have to go to rehab, just to prove your point.”

John collected himself. This whole thing stank. What made it especially foul was the fact that he was here this late, outside of normal working hours, getting suspended. He decided to start asking some questions.

“This couldn’t wait until morning?”

“No, you have a stakeout set up,” Sanford said as he leaned back in his chair.

“So?”

“You never seemed to be the type of guy to sit around and passively wait for things to happen. So let’s say you go over there, drunk, and screw up some evidence, or better yet, you get somebody killed. What does that do to the whole case? This whole stakeout seems stupid to me. Why are we paying a cop overtime to sit there and watch the place?”

“Because I got punched in the nose today for something that was left at the victim’s office. I thought it was best to leave someone at the house, just to make sure the place was covered—in case there was something there that we didn’t find yet.”

“We couldn’t pick someone else? Why this cop? Anyone else could cover it and not be charging the taxpayer overtime.”

“Because this could involve someone inside the department, and Fanelli seemed to be the most trustworthy.” John looked up at the ceiling in disbelief, and then he looked Sanford in the eye. “Do you see why I needed that particular cop? Or are you…”

John stopped and realized that he had better not go there yet.

“Am I what, John, out to get you?” Sanford shook his head. “I’m trying to help you.” He took a deep breath and said, “I’m going to need your gun and badge until you are reinstated.”

John reached down to his ankle, took out his department-issued .38 revolver, and sat it on the desk. He then took out his ID and, after hesitating a second, dropped it on the desk too.

“Not that pea-shooter,” Sanford laughed as he pointed at the revolver. “I mean your gun.”

“The revolver is what the department gave me.”

“I remember you carrying a Beretta.”

“The Beretta is mine, not the department’s, and I have a license to carry it.”

John turned to leave.

“I’ll also need whatever evidence you collected today,” Sanford urged.

“Harry has everything,” John quickly, and confidently, lied.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

John thought about Harry a second. Sanford might not be behind the sudden change to the personnel file, but if he was, there was no reason to make Harry a target. He decided to try to shift the focus back to himself.

“Mulgrew spent all day collecting hairs,” John said. “He told me he didn’t think he had anything worthwhile, and I’d have to wait until tomorrow before he could even look at it. Having him there was pointless.”

John’s statement was, at least, mostly true.

Sanford looked at John and shook his head. “John, it’s not your problem anymore. Go home. Take care of yourself.”

John walked out of the office and murmured under his breath, “Go fuck yourself.”

He made his way out of the building and drew in a deep breath of the cool night air. He exhaled slowly and let the tension flow out of his body. He calmed himself, and tried to make his brain regain control of his actions.

Across the street stood a cloaked figure, just outside of the light of a lamppost. He thought back to Trumbull’s letter and decided he was not going to go out with a whimper. With a quick and determined step, he headed directly toward the form.

As he approached, the figure stood fast. The shape gradually revealed itself to be a tall woman with curling locks of black hair, porcelain skin, and deep brown eyes. Her pouting red lips glistened in the moonlight. She looked like a china doll come to life.

“Do you have something to say to me?” he snarled.

“Yes,” she replied calmly. “Yes, I do.”

Chapter 14:
Fanelli’s Vigil

One good thing about a stakeout was that Fanelli had an unmarked sedan rather than a cramped cruiser full of wireless computers, shotguns, and other law enforcement paraphernalia. The only equipment in this car was a police-band radio, which he needed, and a GPS unit, which he disconnected and threw in the back seat. In addition to the car being roomier, he wore his own comfortable clothing instead of his brilliant blue uniform. He snuggled into the brown Ford and made himself at home.

Half an hour passed before he opened his thermos of coffee and poured himself a steaming cup. He sipped a bit of the liquid love. He then dug in his lunch sack, drew out a sandwich, removed the plastic baggie, and took a big bite.

He mashed the salty Virginia ham between his teeth and stared blankly at the house. Another sip of steaming coffee helped him wash the sandwich down. He loved in the idea that he was being paid at an overtime rate to sit here and enjoy his dinner. Just as he opened his mouth to take another bite, he swore he saw the lace curtain in Dunglison’s den move.

He froze with his mouth poised over the sandwich, unsure of whether he really saw movement. While he kept his eyes glued on the window, he slowly leaned forward and took another bite of the sandwich.

The curtain moved again.

“Fuck,” he mumbled through a mouthful of ham and white bread.

Fanelli hauled himself out of the car and meandered down the street as if he were taking and after-dinner stroll. When he got close to the house, he quick-stepped onto the porch as gingerly as he could and pressed himself against the wall as he had the night before.

Fanelli held his breath and listened. Mild croaks and groans emanated from the house, but seemed to come from the contraction of the old Victorian’s timbers as the temperature fell. No vibration of footsteps or voices carried over the hum of the city.

He peered into the window and waited for more movement. After a few minutes, the lace curtain twitched.

He reached behind him and removed the tape that held the door in place, thankful that he would not have to blast his way in again. Once he had the door free, he silently pushed it open while he drew his sidearm. The hall lay open before him again, this time in darkness.

The number of times he had to navigate this hall was one too many.

Fanelli looked at the row of light switches; he had spent enough time here in the last twenty-four hours to know what light each switch controlled. Leaving the hall light off to give himself the advantage of darkness, he flipped the switch to the light at the top of the stairs to make sure no one was waiting for him there. As he watched the door to the den, he flipped the switch to the lamp in that room.

Light erupted from the crack beneath the door to the den. After a second of delay, a shadow flitted across the glow.

“Police,” Fanelli said firmly.

He waited for a response. None came.

The silence irritated Fanelli, who would have preferred that a good, honest spray of bullets answered him back. He saw another shadow move swiftly across the rays of light. He had enough of this and was about to barge into the room, but just before he raised his foot to kick the door open, he thought the better of it.

Instead, he returned to the porch. He had no idea why the person in the room had not doused the light, but he was going to take advantage of it. With the light on, he would be able to see where the person was hiding and what kind of weapons the creep held. Peering in the window, he found a big, ugly sewer rat darting about the room.

He let loose of a heavy exhale and holstered his pistol. The thing had probably smelled the blood in the room and made its way inside seeking dinner. Now, for whatever reason, the rodent could not remember how to get out.

Given that the rat was fouling up a crime scene, Fanelli decided to get it out of there. He remembered finding a baseball bat in an umbrella stand behind the open front door, which Dunglison had apparently stashed. He reentered the house and retrieved the bat. Returning to the den, he opened the door and was greeted by the squeal of the ugly rat.

“Go on,” Fanelli urged, trying to herd the thing toward the door. “Get out.”

The rat stood on his haunches and let out a loud squeal. It then made a sound as if it was grinding its teeth.

Based on department training films, Fanelli knew that
rattus norvegicus
carried a number of diseases. He was not about to start a series of rabies shots. He raised the bat and proceeded to turn the rodent into pulp.

He stared at the splattered animal and realized that the thing was probably contaminating the scene more now than when it had been scurrying about on its own. It did not matter; he could claim self-defense. The rodent’s lips were more askew on a deformed skull than sealed, but, either way, the rat was not talking.

Fanelli then heard a sound emanating from the upstairs landing:
creak
.

He dropped the bat, drew his pistol, and moved toward the stairs. After scaling the stairs with lightning-quick and whisper-soft steps, he swung the pistol into the upstairs hall. He found no one.

Keeping his gun trained on the hall, he waited for the next noise. The seconds seemed to ooze by. His arms began to ache, when he heard it again:
creak
.

This time, the sound came from Dunglison’s bedroom. He glided down the hall to the open bedroom door. He stopped short and took cover behind the doorframe. With a quick motion, he reached in and flipped the light switch; no one was there.

He resolved that the old house was simply moaning at him, as it had while he was on the porch. Just to be sure he was right, he decided to do a sweep. He went into the hallway and started a systematic search of the upper floor, then did the same on the ground floor until he had turned on almost every light in the house.

All that remained was the basement; he entered the kitchen, opened the basement door, and turned on the light. A foundation wall ran along the right side of the stair, but the left side of the stairwell opened up into the basement as the stairs descended. That meant that, if people were down there, they would be able to take potshots at his legs before he would be able to see them.

Fanelli quietly lay on his belly and slid forward into the stairwell. He poked his head into the small wedge that opened into the basement at the top step and was able to scan the cellar. Once he was sure it was clear, he smiled at his ingenuity.

He then heard a sound come from the kitchen floor directly behind him:
creak
.

His heart jumped into his throat. He spun around with all the agility of a beached whale. For a second, he was sure that his clever little action had cost him his life, but when the kitchen came back into view, he saw no one, again.

“Fuck this,” he hissed with a shake of his head.

Fanelli then stomped about the house, turning off all the lights. He exited the front door and resealed it with tape. He grumbled his way back to his car, thinking about how he should have just gone for his coffee last night and let someone else answer that call. If he ever had a chance to meet the person that committed this crime, he vowed to himself that they would meet the same fate as the rat.