The Greeks of Beaubien Street (3 page)

“Come by after work and get your dinner,
Manari mou
. Stuffed peppers tonight.” She reached up and with her hand through the window opening, patted his cheek.

“Okay, Papa, see you tonight!” Gus stood and watched Jill as she sped away, kicking up a little gravel for effect. Arriving at the precinct minutes later, heads turned and noses sniffing the air, teasing her, jealous that her father packed a lunch every day.

“Zannos, how many times do we have to tell you that it’s no fair? Bring some for everyone or leave your damn food at home!” the chorus of voices from the bull pen said.

“It’s just a salad! Gus is waiting for you to come for lunch.”
I must smell like my dad’s cooking,
she thought to herself. But they were only teasing her, thinking she might be a self-conscious target, not realizing she’d love to aggravate them with her food. She wound her way through the crowded desks to her own little piece of real estate. Her desk was up against that of her partner, Albert Wong who was deep into a heated telephone conversation. Jill put her lunch in a small refrigerator behind their area. Next to it was a large green board that had a chart drawn in chalk, listing the active cases and the detectives assigned to them. At the end of the list, because it was the latest addition, was the name Gretchen Parker with Jill and Albert’s names written next to it. Jill looked and let it sink in. She would never grow tired of seeing her name listed under the word
Detective
. She went back to her desk just as Albert was hanging up.

“Sorry. My bank is having trouble keeping track of my money,” Albert said. He rummaged around on his desk. “Okay, here it is: video and scan. Any revelations at the autopsy?” She sat down facing him.

“Just facts,” Jill said as she dug through her purse. Reading from her notes, she related what the post revealed. “She was moved post-mortem; there’s no blood evidence on the sidewalk. Cause of death was exsanguination. Her back was blown out. She had a large laceration of the vagina, but no semen. Sam doesn’t think she was a working girl because she may have been a virgin until whatever it was was shoved up her vagina. Or it was her first night on the job. Someone was mad as hell at Gretchen Parker, but they took the time to comb her hair and bathe her.” She took the package from him and stood up. The video and scan were wrapped in a tevdek envelope. They felt cold in her hands, but alive. They would be her introduction to the hell that Gretchen Parker’s life ended in. She walked out to the hall and up two flights of stairs to a private room where she could watch alone. She put the video in first. An officer started shooting the video immediately upon entering the site, even before the crime scene tape was put in place.

The film was slightly grainy because of the dark. It had been early, just after midnight. The light on the camera was barely bright enough. The city didn’t have the money to employ a professional photographer with lights or to replace the infrared camera that was
misplaced
, but Jill didn’t mind. She could see what she needed to see along with the scan. The scene was wide at first. She could just make out the body in the distance. Gretchen was lying on her back, nude one arm thrown over her body, the other at an odd angle at her side. She’d been thrown on the ground. Her thighs were together, but legs sprawled from the knees down. Even in the dark, you could tell she was beautiful. Her hair stood around her head like a halo. As the focus came in closer, Jill saw more. Gretchen Parker had small, youthful breasts, not augmented. If she had been a professional, she might have had large implants. Her crotch was shaved, but that didn’t mean anything anymore. It was getting harder and harder to make generalizations based on personal hygiene. As the camera got closer, Jill could see that Gretchen’s eyes were open. Her mouth was open in a silent scream, her chin mashed down on her chest. Unnatural. The camera swept the area, but it was difficult to see much detail. Then the film went to daylight. The body was gone, but the area was undisturbed. Jill was grateful for the additional footage.

Even in the daylight, it was a gruesome looking alleyway. The cracked concrete covered in a thick layer of broken glass had the look of abandonment many parts of the city were slowly adopting. A large hotel and several restaurants backed up to the alley. There was a plot of grass with an Ailanthus tree growing through a crack near the body at the entrance to a blind alley. Whoever killed Gretchen had driven slowly by and thrown her out of the car. The camera swept a higher view; the windows of the buildings surrounding the alley came into the shot. She didn’t notice anything suspicious there. The video played a loop and the scene with the body played again. Jill could feel the way the air must have felt on Gretchen’s skin. She sensed the surprise the young woman experienced as she watched someone pull a gun out and fire at her. The impact of the bullet, the caliber large enough to blow her heart apart and take most of her back with it, must have thrown her back several feet.

Jill’s heart was beating faster. She could feel it racing, irregular. She would watch the scan, too because she had to, but she already knew what happened to Gretchen Parker. She was no working girl. Someone she knew well did this to her. And although she wouldn’t document her thoughts, Jill felt the remorse and sadness of the murderer. Of course, she would have to work the case step by step, but now they wouldn’t have to waste precious time on unnecessary investigative work. She turned the video off and, in the darkness of the screening room, closed her eyes and said, “Thank you, God.”

Chapter 2

By nine in the morning, Jacob and Marianne Parker had received the call every parent dreaded. Now, they were on their way to the morgue to see their beloved Gretchen one last time. Traffic on the Interstate 75 was bumper to bumper, but Jacob didn’t notice. In the past, he would have bitched about the “fuckers who drive like a bunch of old ladies”. His hand would fold into a fist and he would shake it out the open window of his Cadillac, screaming at the drivers in the cars on either side of him because the car in front wouldn’t be able to see him. His wife was always mortified, but he would argue, “What use is a good tirade if it isn’t heard?” Today, he was pale and silent, his watery blue eyes red and swollen. Marianne couldn’t stop crying. They were exhausted; sleep had been impossible for the past two nights. Marianne’s hair and makeup had been perfect since Gretchen hadn’t come home from a date Friday evening. She had known, as any mother would, that she may never again see her daughter alive, and she must be ready the moment the authorities called for them.

Gretchen was never, ever late. Even though she was twenty-six, she still had a curfew. As long as she lived at home, Jacob wanted her back by eleven each night. He couldn’t sleep knowing she was out. It wasn’t fair to him. If she needed to stay out later, she could move. When midnight passed into Saturday morning, Jacob called a friend of his on the force. They waived the forty-eight hour waiting period and put out the missing person report. Marianne put on a white blouse and a pair of dress slacks with a matching jacket and waited. She prepared a pot of coffee and poured two travel cups full. She and Jacob got into their car and began driving up and down every street on the west side of town. They would tackle the east side in the daylight tomorrow if she still wasn’t home.

Gretchen drove a bright red Chevy Malibu. You could see it a block away. At six o’clock Saturday morning they found it at Blazos, a popular hangout for young adults. Jacob was furious; how many times had he told Gretchen to stay the hell out of the drive-in restaurants in town? A bunch of low-life scum hung out there. Marianne reminded him that she’d had a date with Mike. Jacob hated Mike, so Gretchen stopped having him pick her up at the house. Instead, they met downtown and she would leave her car at Blazos and go off in his Explorer.

“Where does Mike live?” Jacob asked, looking at his wife.

“I think in East Dearborn,” Marianne said, immediately sorry because Jacob’s face contorted as he yelled at her.

“God damnit, I
know
he lives in East Dearborn!
Where
, for Christ’s sake?” He didn’t allow Gretchen to date boys from Fordson High School on the dreaded East side when she was a teen, because that was where the Arabs went to school. But now, as an adult, she would date whomever she pleased. And who pleased her at the moment was Mike Ahmed. Jacob left the parking lot at Blazos and drove like a maniac down Michigan Avenue. He was yelling at Marianne, “call four-one-one and get a phone number!” But even simple Marianne knew that was ridiculous; Ahmed was as common a last name as Smith. She hoped they would find his contact information somewhere in Gretchen’s room instead.

Jacob sped back to their house. They barely waited for the car to stop moving before both jumped out and ran inside. When they got to her door, they stopped, fearful to move into the space, not sure what they might find. Jacob, in a rare moment of thoughtfulness, deferred to his wife and hung back. She went to her daughter’s desk and pulled out the chair to sit. Like the rest of the room, everything on the desk was neatly organized. She began pulling drawers open; worried she would expose something that would send her volatile husband into a rage. Under a neat stack of bills waiting to be paid lay Gretchen’s address book. It was an old fashioned, vinyl bound book. With trembling hands, Marianne opened it to the first pages, to the A’s.
Ahmed
. Michael Ahmed, 144 Indiana Street. There was no phone number. She probably had it programmed into her cell. Marianne picked up the telephone and dialed information. When the automated recording answered, she recited the street address into the receiver. The robot voice responded that there was no listing found for that address.

“Let’s just go. He might try to hide from us if she is still there and he knows we are coming.” For once, Jacob thought his wife was making sense. They hurried down the stairs and out to the car again. Jacob pulled out onto Outer Drive, pointing the car toward Ford Road. He couldn’t remember where Indiana Street was, but had a GPS. He hollered at Marianne to program the address in and hollered some more when it took her shaking fingers so long to type it. Indiana was as far as you could go and still be in Dearborn. There was a huge fenced-in area with a Water Company sign posted on it. Beyond the water company was Detroit. They found the house easily. There, in the driveway, was Mike’s black Ford Explorer. It was a nice house, mid-century, well maintained in a lovely neighborhood of two story homes. Jacob left the car running and swung the door open, yelling to Marianne to stay put. He dashed up the wide steps to the porch and began banging on the front door of Mike Ahmed’s house. Within seconds, Mike himself came to the door, disheveled and confused. Jacob forced open the screen door and grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt, screaming, “Where’s Gretchen, you son of a bitch!” Marianne opened the car door and struggled out, yelling to her husband to stop. Neighbors were already coming out to see what the ruckus was about.

“You want us to call the police?” the man next door yelled at Jacob. “You need our help?” he called to Mike. Jacob, undeterred, got within an inch of Mike’s nose.

“My daughter did not come home last night. Where the hell is she?”

“I don’t know! I swear to you! We met at Fairlane Center and went to a movie. I took her to her car at ten-thirty. I watched her get in and drive off! I swear to you!” He repeated it over and over. Marianne was pulling on Jacob’s arm, shouting “Let’s go! Let’s go!” But Jacob didn’t want to leave Mike’s house. For reasons he couldn’t explain or understand, he felt like he was with Gretchen while in the presence of this young man. Whether it was a sign of something or not, he wasn’t ready to leave. Mike Ahmed was blubbering and cowering. Jacob let go of his shirt. The neighbors were on the steps now, ferocious looking men, one with a baseball bat.

“I’m sorry,” Jacob said to Mike. He looked at the men and held up his hand in a sign of peace. “Everything is okay here. I just need to speak with Mike.” Someone asked Mike if he would be okay and he shook his head yes. He was still scared to death. This big, ugly, redheaded man looked like he was capable of killing someone. Yet there they both stood, obviously shaken. He had to offer Gretchen’s parents something.

“Did you try her cell phone?” He asked, realizing how idiotic that sounded as the words were leaving his mouth.

“It went right to voice mail,” Mrs. Parker said. Suddenly, Jacob started crying in huge, ugly sobs; he made no attempt to hide this from Mike. The men of the neighborhood were appalled and turned to walk away. Mike was going to offer to try to get in touch with her, but then thought the less he engaged these crazy people, the better. She would show up before long, he was certain. “Maybe she’s gone to her friend Leah’s,” he said. “She lives near Fairlane. If Gretchen was feeling tired, she may have stopped there for coffee and lost track of the time. Do you have Leah’s number? I bet that’s where she is.” They didn’t know it by heart; they would run home again and call her.

Marianne took Jacob by the arm. He was inconsolable. She led him down to the car and opened the passenger side, pushing him to sit down. Mike didn’t offer his help, but watched from a safe distance up on his porch. He went into the house and quietly locked the screen door. Marianne helped Jacob with his seatbelt and then shut the door. She walked around to the driver’s side and got in, worried at having watched her aggressive husband turn into a marshmallow.

They would switch leadership roles back and forth all weekend, but Marianne would ultimately take charge. They went back home and called Leah who hadn’t seen or spoken to Gretchen since Wednesday. Jacob went into Blazos, accompanied by his friend Pete from the Dearborn Police Department, and asked if anyone had noticed what happened to the owner of the red Malibu. The car was impounded; taken to the station and checked for evidence. There was nothing suspicious, so the car was released to Jacob.