The Last Clinic (2 page)

“Please, Shelby, I haven’t had my coffee yet. Can we move this along?”

“Stay with me. We’re in the home stretch.”

“Go on.”

“Now, if you’ll be so good as to turn on the TV, you’ll see that snot-nose reporter from WJAK, Josh Klein, talking about motive and possible suspects, like he’s a natural born criminologist. Thinks he actually has a clue in hell about what’s going on. I assure you he doesn’t.”

She flipped the TV on. There he was, scrawny little reporter, Josh Klein, a ringer for Woody Allen, microphone in hand, standing outside the entrance to the Jackson Women’s Health Clinic, along with uniformed cops from the Sheriff’s Department, fire fighters from Engine Company #12, a gaggle of onlookers, all bunched up and crowded into the camera’s eye. A couple of dumb-ass teenagers in the foreground were making faces and waving at the camera. Across the bottom of the screen, a big headline: Breaking News: Reverend James Aldridge dead.

Darla muted the sound, preferring to hear Shelby’s version of things.

“Looks like the Ole Miss Grove on Homecoming weekend don’t it?” he said.

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t follow college football. I prefer the pro-game. You know that.”

“Sorry. My mistake. You ain’t from down here. Anyway, the shooting happened sometime this morning. A jogger, a young woman, a junior over at Millsaps College, came up on Reverend Jimmy’s body outside the clinic. She found him draped up on that cross like he was our dear savior. Three loads of buckshot in him. Freaked out when she saw the corpse shot all to hell. She told Klein how she thought it was Armageddon.”

“Don’t tell me. One of the guys from the Sheriff’s Department showed up before Jackson PD, and now you’re stuck with murder. The first one there picks up the case. It’s a stupid rule. Have you tried getting the Jackson PD to take it off your hands? They have about five times the manpower as the Hinds County Sheriff’s Department.”

“The Chief of Police is too smart for that. Besides which, the mayor has already called. He wants me heading the case up. Says it’s because I’m the number one law enforcement officer in the metro, meaning I get more money than the Jackson Chief of Police. The real reason the mayor wants my services is that he knows there ain’t much chance of anybody finding the killer, so when this thing goes down unsolved it will look like my failure. And as you can imagine, failure in solving this homicide will not endear me to the Christian right. This is most everybody in Jackson, most everybody who votes anyway, except the Belhaven Obamaites over in your neck of the woods.”

“So you’re definitely running for mayor next term? And you can’t refuse because you need the current mayor’s endorsement?”

“Only if I want to win.”

She heard him take a breath and knew he was going to pop the question and knew what her answer would be.

“Here’s my problem. I’m going to need two senior detectives on this one and sorry to say we’re strapped, what with the layoffs and all. I’m offering you the right of first refusal.”

“Okay, I refuse.”

“Just moments ago I said to myself, ‘Sheriff Shelby, seeing as your office is about to find itself in the middle of a religious right shit storm, it sure would be real, I mean, real nice if you could tell the mayor of Jackson and the governor that you had available for this case the services of an officer with stellar credentials, Philadelphia PD, and a hate crimes specialist.’”

“I’m not a hate crimes
specialist
.”

She was a standard issue detective who’d paid her dues. That was all. First in Philadelphia, then down here in Jackson after her husband blew out his knee four years ago, ending his football career. They came back south so he could help run his family’s business.

Shelby continued, “If I’m not mistaken, you found the skinhead dry cleaner that asphyxiated the Islamic minister by putting poison in his suit coat. You shot him in the behind when he was trying to run off. Then, when he didn’t go down, you shot him in the back. Took just two shots with that tiny .380 Taurus you like because it looks good strapped to your ankle. Damn fine marksmanship it was too. The story made front page of the
Philadelphia Inquirer
, above the fold. Even got a blurb in
People Magazine
.”

“The story in
People
was because my husband was an All-Pro wide receiver. Anyway, what if this isn’t a hate crime?”

“Doesn’t matter. That’s how the media will play it.”

“So this is really about what you can say to the press. You want to say to them that you’ve got an ‘expert’ on this case? Even if it’s ‘that Yankee Bitch?’”

“Are you sure I used the ‘b’ word?’”

“To be more precise, you called me ‘that Yankee Bitch, Miss Darla,’ ever the gentleman.”

“Maybe just that once, during our getting to know each other period. At the time, you were referring to me as ‘Asshole Andy of Mayberry.’”

“So, we’re even I guess,” she said.

The transition from the Philadelphia Police Department to the Hinds County Sheriff’s Department had some rough patches the first couple of years. A big change. Philadelphia Metro had a host of units, divisions, and task forces. Lots of opportunities for an ambitious young cop and lots of support staff. The Hinds County Sheriff’s Department ran everything of consequence out of one department, criminal investigations with twenty detectives. Darla had felt like she had to empty her own wastebasket at night. But it was mostly low-pressure cases with regular hours, allowing her more time to spend with her husband. The problem was the other investigators, the bubbas. Not that some of them weren’t first-rate officers, but they weren’t used to outsiders. The prevailing opinion was that anybody who moved down here was out to show them up. Even Shelby felt that way. A year after she started he still thought she was trying to get him fired. He could have sacked her, calling it budgetary issues, but he didn’t. Towards the middle of the second year, she made two good homicide busts that stuck. She was smart enough stay in the background both times while he took most of the credit. The move cemented their working relationship.

“We’ve got authorization for unlimited overtime, and if it means anything to you, I’m going to run the investigation personally. You’ll report directly to me on this one. No go-betweens, no lieutenants, no captains.”

This was a plus. She knew enough about Shelby to know he’d give her room. Let her follow her intuition; operate outside the lines a little now and then if she was quiet about it.

“Who else have you assigned to the case? Quentin Mosley? Joe Strum?”

She picked the two top detectives in the department.

“They’re tied up in a trial.”

“Ramparts? Lon Edwards?”

“Took early retirement. Both of them. Budgetary issues.”

“Who does that leave? Who’s going to be my partner?”

There was a pause. “Like I said, you can work independent.”

“For Christ sake, Shelby, who is it?”

“Tommy Reylander.”

“The Elvis impersonator?”

The worst detective in the department. Darla had avoided working with him for three years. She had a life-sized picture of him in her mind. Tommy with his hair slicked up in a pompadour, standing in front of the TV camera, giving the reporter that “Yes, Ma’am. No, Ma’am. Thank you very much.” routine.

“I thought he was going to make a career change?”

“That didn’t exactly work out. He did get himself entered into that Elvis impersonating contest they do every year up in Tupelo. He ended up coming in dead last though. Kind of put a damper on his aspirations for a singing career. Course he still does gigs on the side. Mostly I assign him to auto thefts and burglaries over in the West Jackson ghetto—he stuff nobody expects to be solved.”

“So what’s he doing on this case?”

“I’m afraid His Honor Mayor Williamson got his way on this one. Demanded I put Detective Reylander on the case. Tommy was a member of Reverend Jimmy’s church. He’s also the mayor’s nephew.”

“Just one big happy family.”

“This is Mississippi. Everybody is related to somebody, and in Tommy’s case the ‘somebody’ happens to be the mayor.”

“By all accounts, Tommy Reylander is lazy, arrogant, a grandstander, a media suck-up, and lacks the basic instincts for police work.”

“Yankee bluntness notwithstanding, your assessment is more or less correct.”

“He should have been demoted for blowing that meth bust last fall.”

“You know that ain’t how things work down here. An officer don’t get demoted for being stupid. Usually they get an assistant, which unfortunately we can’t afford at present. To get fired, a detective like Tommy needs to get caught doing something downright illegal. Then maybe we can do a little wrist slapping. Unfortunately, Tommy ain’t got the smarts to try anything requiring that sort of ambition.”

“Does he still show up for his shift in that pink Caddy with the giant tail fins?”

“Only when he thinks the media are going to be there.”

“That’s how he blew that meth bust, isn’t it? The cooker spotted his car.”          

“I don’t expect you and Tommy to start picking out dinette sets together. Just keep each other in the loop.”

“I was having a very interesting dream when you called. I’m going to see if I can find it.”

Raising his voice to her just a wee bit, he said, “Miss Darla, I’m out of my depth on this case. We don’t see this sort of thing around here that often. If we don’t make an arrest real quick like and make it stick, the family values politicos in this town, the Rights of the Unborn membership, with the feelings they’ll stir up…”

“What are the citizens going to do? Form a vigilante committee and hang the abortionist?”

She laughed a little, until she heard that Shelby wasn’t laughing with her.

There was another long silence. Two cops waiting each other out.

Finally, she agreed, “Okay, but I want as much overtime as I need. No questions asked. That’s the only way I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, Jesus.” He actually did sound relieved.

“And if Tommy Reylander gets out of line, which he probably will, I get to tell him to fuck off.”

“Words to that effect. Less graphic, I would hope.”

“Are there any other little surprises you have for me?”

“There is one bit of good news. You remember how you were always telling me that Hinds County Sheriff’s Department needed to get us some personnel to send over to FUSION?”

FUSION was a regional combined-forces IT center. Jackson PD, the local office of the FBI, and several other law enforcement agencies in the region all had dedicated staffers accessing a national crime database from a center in Pearl, a small town east of Jackson.

“You actually found the money for an IT person?”

“Not exactly. We got us an intern from Jackson State, fellow working on his PhD. So we don’t really need to be paying him. His name is Uther.”

“Luther?” she thought she heard him say. “Like Luther Vandross? Or Martin Luther King?”

“No. Uther. Without the L. Uther, as in, I don’t know what. Johnson’s his last name. He dresses like a Muslim minister, with that bow tie deal. He looks like that character in the Spike Lee movie, the one where a bunch of them blacks trashed that pizza place. Course, that was probably before your time.”

“
Do The Right Thing
. Yes, I got it on Netflix. But what character?”

“The one that started all the trouble.”

“Radio Raheem? The big guy with the boom box?”

“No, not him. The little guy with the crazy hair. Buggin Out, I think was his name.”

“You got something against African American hairstyles?”

“There you go now, acting like I’m always stereotyping. But crazy hair is crazy hair. On the other hand, this Uther is a well-mannered young man, even if he does talk kind of funny.”

“Ebonics? Is that what you’re saying. He uses a lot of street talk?”

“The opposite. Look you can form your own impressions.”

“Straight out, is he ours or are we going to have to share him?”

“Technically, sort of, he is. We can use him if we need to, but the school wants him to spend most of his time on a damn fool research project. Get a load of the title:
How to Use the Computer to Identify Undetected Crimes.
Can you believe what they’re letting kids do in schools these days? Like we don’t have enough crimes to solve already. Got to find some more. Detect the undetected. What’s next? Dogs sleeping with cats? Anyway, this young Uther, he about put me to sleep just listening to him go on about his big ideas.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

“You find the murderer for me before Jackson starts a civil war over abortion and I’ll get you a pay bump when you come back.”

“I’m not sure I’m coming back.”

“One last thing, about me using that ‘b’ word. Thinking back on it, I only said it that one time. And that night I got on my knees and asked Jesus to forgive me.”

“I admit, you’re a better Christian than me,” she said.

But he’d already hung up.

3

Flushed, The Way A Redhead Gets.

Darla dressed in a hurry, not paying attention to her appearance. Put on a pair of jeans and Philadelphia Eagles T-shirt from back when. Over that, she put on a windbreaker that said: Hinds County Sheriff’s Department. She slipped into a pair of flats. Even so, she was close to six feet. Skinny as a runway model but wide in the shoulders. Growing up, all elbows and knees and cheekbones. That’s what her father used to say.

Kendall, who shared the house with Darla, came through the front door from her daily jog by the reservoir. For the last six weeks, she’d been out every morning working up to the 10K Run for the Cure. She had on a white Ole Miss T-shirt and white running shorts, both of which were still wet with perspiration. She was flushed from head to toe, the way fair-skinned redheads get.

Darla ran with Kendall sometimes, when she wasn’t too depressed. This was usually not more than once a week. They were Mutt and Jeff, Kendall just making five feet and not a pound overweight. Darla was a greyhound; Kendall was a terrier. She was fearless as a terrier too. Okay, she was an interior decorator, girly kinds of spaces, but she also liked to stalk whitetail deer and wild boar. She’d talked Darla into helping her create an all-girl hunting group—Sisterhood Of The Swamp, they called it—three women in their thirties: Kendall, Darla, and Lulu Brister. It was meant to give them something to do besides bitch to each other about their love lives, or lack thereof. Sometimes this form of therapy worked. Usually not.