Two Graves (A Kesle City Homicide Novel) (2 page)

*

Dan set his guitar down and stretched, rolling his head to relax his neck. Less than three hours and his shift would be over. He hated the 11 to 7 but at least he could practice his guitar. He stretched again and grabbed the key for the washroom. Carefully locking the door to the booth, he went around the building.

He opened the washroom door and immediately stepped back.

“Sorry man, didn’t know you were in here. Hey, you okay, man?” Then he saw the blood, the matted hair and splintered skull. “Jesus Christ!” was all he got out before he threw up all over the crime scene.

The incessant warble of the telephone dragged Gregg Mann out of a deep, dreamless sleep. He reached out with one arm and punched the speaker button on the top of the unit.

“Mann.”

“Lieutenant?”

“Ya, hang on a minute.”

Mann pressed the mute button and struggled to a sitting position. He focused on the clock radio. Five seventeen. What the hell, he would have been up in forty-five minutes anyway. He coughed twice to clear his throat and scrubbed at his short salt and pepper hair. Flicking on the light, he gently shook the closest Pepsi can. Not much left but it would do. He had started into today’s rations last night while watching the news. His conscience had got the better of him and he had left some in the can.

Quickly downing the last few mouthfuls, he released the mute. “What do you have?”

“Sorry to bother you, Lieutenant. I thought you would want to hear about this one.”

Mann recognized Shane Kydd’s soft, throaty voice. The only female in his homicide squad, the third grade detective brought to mind Kathleen Turner in
Body Heat
, with all the associated lust and desire. She was a good detective and deserved her gold. She’d make second grade before any of the others in his squad. If he had anything to do with it, she would make the grade in record time. Quotas or no, sexist sounding or not, the force needed female detectives. Their minds worked in different ways that often lead to a break in a case. They smelled a lot better, too.

“What have you got, Shane?” Unlike most of his detectives, he never called her by her last name – it made him feel too much like he was doing a bad Bogart impersonation.

“Tetrault and I are at the Fillup on Eighth and Euclid with a DB in the washroom. Male, Caucasian, seventeen. Head’s bashed in. Might be gang related.”

“Okay, I’ll be down in twenty minutes. Who’s on the scene?”

“CSU just rolled in. The ME is en route.”

“Okay. Let the techs do their stuff but don’t let them move the body until I get there. I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

Mann had been dressing as he talked and walked back across the room to press the disconnect button. That was all he needed, a gang killing. So far, they had been lucky with the gang situation. Some parts of Kesle were hip deep in gang related crimes but his three Divisions had been free of that curse for the most part. He prayed that this was just a related case.

Truth was, like the Mob hits of years past, not too many cops really cared if the gangs killed each other off. Most welcomed the cleaning of the gutters. But, unlike the Mob, who made precision hits, these idiots barely had the brains to use their guns as clubs. They didn’t use a single .22 to the temple. These cowards just held down the trigger on their automatic weapons and hoped to hit their target. Whoever or whatever got in the way of the spray was just a couple extra bullets that they had stolen in the first place. Things usually escalated and innocents always got dragged into the fray. He didn’t need this.

Mann left his third floor walkup and stopped in at the deli for a bagel and a Pepsi on his way to his car. He drove while he opened the twist cap one-handed with the bottle clamped between his legs. The streets were just beginning to get busy but he made good time. The station was on the edge of Southfield Division where it butted against Central. Two or three blocks between him and an extra forty-five minutes of sleep. Mann wheeled his Ford around the corner onto Eighth and took the wide Avenue up six blocks. He double-parked next to an Escort that he recognized from the Pool at the Division.

“Lieutenant!”

Mann acknowledged Tetrault and Kydd with a curt wave before leaning back into his car to get his bagel. He thought better of it and just grabbed the Pepsi. Mann ducked under the barrier tape and met the two detectives in the middle of the lot. Tetrault immediately launched into apologies.

“Sorry to get you out, Lou. I hope you haven’t wasted your time,” he said, giving Kydd a look. “Pretty routine, really.”

An ass kisser destined for political greatness and detective mediocrity, Tetrault had relied on Mann being upset at the early callout. Yet another strike for Tetrault. Mann hated politics and despised the second grade detective. One of these days, he would get enough reason to transfer him out of the Division.

“It would have been your ass if you hadn’t.” Mann turned to Kydd and asked, “What’ve you got?”

Tetrault was still busy thinking of a way to claim credit when Kydd launched into her report.

“At four fifteen, the kid on the till called 911.” Kydd pointed over to the enclosed cash area. “That’s him over there, the tall one. The short, fat guy is the station manager. He got here a few minutes ago. Anyway, the kid says he’s got a dead body in the john. Patrol responded and arrived at four-thirty-three, checked the body, called EMS and then us. EMS declared him at four forty two. We were on the scene at four fifty six.

“ID on the kid makes him one Luis Gabel, seventeen. He’s wearing colors but I don’t recognize the gang. He has ‘Intimidators’ on his vest and the back of his head is caved in. Appears that someone bashed his head against the wall while he was sitting on the toilet. No signs of a struggle and no weapons at the scene. No signs of theft and still had his wallet in his pants pocket. Not much in it, driver’s license, school ID and twenty-seven dollars in cash. He also had a home rolled smoke of questionable vintage in his vest pocket.”

Mann waited a moment but Tetrault cleverly refrained from adding anything. Mann glanced over at the black car of the Medical Examiner. Kydd followed his glance. “ME got here about five minutes before you. I relayed your message. I was told to tell you that they would wait for half an hour, unless the body moved itself.”

Mann smiled. Alf Buchanan was either starting early or just ending his night.

As Mann turned toward the washroom, a bright red jeep bounced its front tire over the curb and parked. Behind the wheel, he caught the flash of even redder hair and grimaced. Danett Wood. “Damn,” he said aloud.

“News travels fast, eh Lou?” Kydd said.

“Too damn fast. Come on Shane, let’s get rid of this nuisance first and then I’ll see the body.”

Kydd watched Danett Woods get out of the jeep and flip the seat forward. Danett, who worked for Channel Five, the local ABC affiliate, was one of the new breed of reporters. News for the MTV set, Kydd thought, remote newscasts with lots of blood, guts and rock & roll – FlashCams. They were basically a good-looking voice with a shoulder camera. The reporting usually had all the depth of a Roadrunner cartoon. But they had been around for a while and showed no signs of disappearing.

Danett pulled the heavy camera out of the back seat with one practiced lift. She’s stronger than she looks, Kydd thought. Kydd glanced at Mann and saw him admiring Danett. One of the original FlashCams, Danett, at 35, was getting a little long in the tooth for the job. She was still very pretty, in a kind of severe way. And she still had a great ass.

And too good at her job, thought Kydd. Flashcam or not, she
was
an actual investigative reporter. If she was showing up, you could bet that tight little ass that she smelled the gang angle.

Kydd envied Danett’s long legs as she easily stepped over the tape barrier. Long legs and a great ass, everything Kydd lacked. Bitch.

Danett had already spotted Mann and was heading in his direction. Mann waved the patrolman off as he hurried over to belatedly preserve the crime scene.

“Lieutenant Mann,” she called over, “little early to be out and about, isn’t it?”

No record light, yet. Maybe he was actually getting a break? “Barely enough time for my beauty sleep,” Mann called back.

“It shows.” Danett set the camera on her shoulder, tightened the focus and the red light blinked on. So much for a break. “Lieutenant Mann, what can you tell us about the murder?”

“I have only arrived on the scene myself. We will have an official statement in due course.”

“Have you identified the body?”

“We have made a preliminary identification but are awaiting notification of next of kin,” Mann said.

Danett obviously expected the answer and was already talking. “Our sources say that there is a suspected gang connection. Would you care to comment?”

Kydd heard Mann curse. The woman’s connections were frustrating, her “anonymous” sources too reliable.

Conscious of the camera still rolling, Mann quickly formed the standard answer. “At this time, we are investigating all possibilities. Anything else we can give you, Detective Tetrault will be more than happy to provide.”

Danett dropped the camera off her shoulder. “Come on, Mann. Give me something before everybody else gets here.”

“Like I said, Detective Tetrault will give you everything we can.”

Danett stared hard at Mann. As she shouldered the camera and turned it on Tetrault, she muttered “stupid flatfoot” just loud enough for Mann to hear.

Mann nodded Kydd toward the washroom. “Do you know the difference between a Flashcam and a vulture, Detective Kydd?”

“No, sir,” Kydd answered dutifully.

“Nail polish.”

Mann was rather pleased with himself. In one action, he had taken care of both the reporter and Tetrault. He knew that viewing the scene with Kydd, the junior detective of the team, was a slap in the face to Tetrault. However, it might make him realize that he had to actually do some detective work and not just kiss ass. Besides, he knew Danett despised Tetrault as much as he did.

“Jesus, what a stench,” Mann swore. “Tell me that wasn’t one of our guys!”

“Nope, that would be courtesy of the kid that found the recently deceased,” replied Alfred Buchanan. The Chief Medical Examiner for the city was leaning over the body as Mann entered the washroom.

Mann scanned the floor between the door and the body. There were several circles drawn in chalk around brownish drops of dried liquid with the usual plastic tent signs marking the evidence. He looked over at the technician from CSU standing in the corner and raised his eyebrows. “Floors clean, Lieutenant. We vacuumed it first thing but it doesn’t look promising. Way too many people through here since it was cleaned last decade.”

Buchanan looked up as Mann approached. His half glasses were perched low on his nose and his face was red from bending over. Once again, Mann wondered how much longer the old man could last in his job. He should have retired years ago but refused to leave. The city did not press him; they couldn’t afford to lose the best ME they’d ever had. Painfully, Buchanan straightened and came over to Mann, not offering his hand.

“This young lady get you out of bed?”

Reading the surprised look on Kydd’s face, Buchanan smiled. “Well, it couldn’t have been that other idiot.”

Kydd blushed slightly so Mann stepped into the silence. “What are you doing working a scene like this?”

“I finally got Kendall’s ass into the OR. I told him that I would cover for him personally so he would take the time off. Truth is, there isn’t anyone else anyway.”

Buchanan took a personal interest in all his technicians. Few complained about his
mother hen
management style and most gratefully accepted it, just for the opportunity to work with him.

“So, what have you got for me?”

“I have a dead boy whose name was Luis Gabel, 17.”

“Heard all that. Tell me about his last minutes.”

“Somebody beat his head against the wall.”

“That killed him?”

“Didn’t do him a lot of good. So, Dick Tracy, what’s your read?”

“Doesn’t look like a gang killing. I’d guess homosexual. No signs of a struggle. The kid’s on the can, perp in front getting a BJ and grabs a handful of hair and thud. The perp’s only worry would be not getting his pecker bit off.”

“The man is a regular Sherlock Holmes,” Buchanan said to Kydd. “I always was impressed with his keen mind even if his vocabulary is questionable.”

“Uh-huh, so what did I miss?” Mann said, shaking his head.

“Not sure that the blows against the wall killed him. Take a look at the wall.”

Mann moved around Buchanan and studied the wall. The tiles had cracked in several places where the skull had connected with the wall leaving bits of hair, flesh and brain trapped in the cracks. Mann shrugged. “Ya, so? What is it? Cement block under those tiles? Looks like a solid hit to me.”

“Very solid. Too solid for the amount of blood. The first couple of blows should have bled like a bugger. Lots of splatter until the heart stopped. Then, there’s the blood trail. Could be from the perp’s pecker but I doubt it. Most likely it is the victim’s blood.”

“You figure a dump?”

Buchanan shrugged. “I’m still deciding. There are bits of what look like evergreen needles in his hair. And, look at the toes of his boots.”

Mann bent down and studied the leather cowboy boots. They were fairly new except at the toes. The toes were scuffed. “Looks fresh.”

“Very. My bet is someone carried him like a drunken buddy, holding him up straight. You want a stiff to look alive, carry him that way. Normally takes a fair bit of strength to hold up the dead weight but look at this kid. He’s lucky if he runs 110.”

Mann looked over at the CSU man. “Dust the vest.”

Mann walked outside and took a drink of Pepsi. Kneeling down, he scanned the parking lot to see if he could see the blood trail. Dawn was still just a promise on the horizon and there wasn’t enough light. The lot was full of cars so if the body came by car, the car would have been parked a fair distance from the washroom. But why here?