Out of the Blues (5 page)

The red cedar shelves were full of books belonging to multiple generations of her father's family, though most were her dad's. They were in the order he had read them, with the books about depression on the far wall opposite of where Salt now sat. There was a ledger of his reading on one of the shelves beside the pocket doors.

She let her fingers rove at random through the tapes and by feel slid a tape from the collection. On the shelf beside the case was a tape recorder of the type that used to be used in offices for recording work to be transcribed. The police department had only within the last few years quit using them to record statements of witnesses and victims.

Salt plugged the recorder in an outlet, inserted the tape labeled “Pretty Pearl at the Blue Room,” and pushed play. As she adjusted the volume knob on the side of the recorder, a woman's voice, accompanied by a lone piano, broke soulfully through the scratches and drags of both the tape and machine.

Spread your wings and fly

Lil gal, you gonna spread

your wings and fly.

Salt leaned back into the corner. Her father'd had lots of good days. With the grass prickly on her legs and the ground smelling of green onions, he'd be bent over something in the black-dirt yard, weeding, planting seedlings, or sometimes just touching leaves, petals, and stems. Stretching his back as he stood, he'd call her “Angel.” She'd run and jump into his arms, his shirtsleeves warm from the sun. He'd lift her to his knees, holding her out, stiff-legged, arms spread wide and facing the world. “Flying angel, spread your wings.”

She began to remove each tape and stack them according to genre. About half the tapes were blues and the other half jazz and gospel. One tape, its case less worn and scratched, plastic hinges intact, was labeled “Mike Anderson and the Old Smoke Band.”

I dreamed I heard the Marion whistle blow,

And it blew just like my baby gettin' on board.

I'm goin' where the Southern cross the Dog.

The familiar sadness settled like a heavy, old quilt. She worked, ran, worked out in the dojo, took care of the sheep with Wonder. But it would settle nevertheless, as she tried to hold together the pieces of her ten-year-old self. “The blues, eh, Pops?” The spines of the books across from her told part of his story:
Depression and Other Major Psychological Disorders
,
Dealing with Depression
,
Living with Mental Illness
.

Salt pressed the stop button.

O
n a rusted iron panel of the railroad trestle that ran alongside the mammoth brick Sears, Roebuck building, a graffiti portrait of Blind Willie McTell stared out at the city. The police department leased parts of the old building to temporarily house some of its units, which were now, unit by unit, being moved into the new headquarters building downtown. Homicide was scheduled to be one of the last to leave, so the massive structure was almost empty. At over two million square feet, the building was one of the largest in the Southeast, now only echoing the glory days of catalog commerce, when the rails received goods and then sent them out again, destined for little towns throughout the region. Those rails had delivered, made real, what the treasured catalog had brought into the realm of possibility. Aunt Fanny got the Sunday corset that made her look and feel like a movie star. Great-uncle Jim got heavy overalls—the good ones for town—and a pipe. Cousin Hazel ordered flower seeds, almost any kind—just looking at the packets could make her dream.

Salt parked, gathered a considerable bouquet of flowers from the
backseat, and walked from the oil-stained parking lot onto the receiving dock and into the cavernous superstructure. The high ceilings would have accommodated tons of merchandise and all those boxes, stacked, waiting on pallets to be shipped. An ancient elevator with a filigree brass door lifted her slowly past the smoky windows of the empty floors until the bounce stop at the eighth floor where she got out and rolled the elevator panels closed. She walked through to the front side of the building where the windows faced Ponce de Leon Avenue and looked across to what should be hallowed ground, the place where Jackie Robinson broke the color line in 1949 by playing the all-white Atlanta Crackers in old Ponce de Leon Park. Now it was a parking lot for some big-box stores. The old stadium was built in 1907 and torn down in 1966 when Atlanta joined the major leagues with the acquisition of the Braves, along with a new facility built closer to the center of the city and expressways. Atlanta was derelict in honoring its past. A massive magnolia tree that had marked center field and fair ball territory still stood high on the hill above the retail strip, while all that was left of the old green-painted wood bleachers and green-and-yellow dirt playing field were old photos that hung in a restroom corridor of one of the food markets. Atlanta's black fans had been segregated to an area under the railroad trestle that ran above and alongside right field. Jackie had stolen home in the third game of the exhibition series with the Brooklyn Dodgers.

At the door to the Homicide offices, Salt switched the bundled camellias to her left arm, swiped her card, and waited for the green light on the panel.

“Look at you, Girl Detective,” Rosie said standing from behind the receptionist's desk. She was six foot seven in heels and wore an electric-blue sheath dress. “That pink matches your lip color so perfectly.”

“They will look even more perfect on your desk. For you, Rosie.”
Salt handed her the bouquet. “These will have to do till the roses come in.”

“Oh, my God.” Rosie looked down into the pink and green in her arms. She had been, before beginning the transition, a beat cop and renowned headbanger. When she looked up, her eyes were brimming. “No one's ever. Oh, shit.” She opened a drawer, fumbled, and came up with a handful of tissues. “Go on. Go back there to your cubby and let me get these in a vase.”

Salt punched the numbers and pushed through to the inner office. As she made her way to the back, one of the day-watch guys and Barney were the only heads visible over the tops of the partitions. The under-cabinet light was on above her desk and where yesterday there'd been only a few bent paper clips and dust now sat a state-of-the-art computer, flat-screen monitor, and keyboard. She switched on her Handie-Talkie, then touched a key and the monitor lit up with a law enforcement search screen. Radio was quiet. She was still getting used to not being bound to the constant demands to answer calls as she'd been as a beat cop, whose time is owned by radio calls. In Homicide her time was hers when she wasn't on a fresh scene, but she would be owned by the cases and her solve rate.

The broken chair was gone, replaced by one that was ergonomic-looking, blue-cushioned, and turned to welcome her. The cubicle even smelled nice; lavender had been stashed somewhere. The drawers were stocked with tablets, forms, and unopened boxes of other supplies: pens, hand wipes, disposable gloves, crime scene booties, even a couple of juice boxes and power bars.

“You like it?” Rosie came up the aisle smiling and carrying a vase with the flowers.

Salt's head came just below Rosie's chin when they hugged. “Thank you.”

“Us girls have to stick together,” Rosie said.

“What girls?” Barney stuck his head up over the next-row partition.

Daniels' fingers waggled above the partition close by. “You didn't bring me flowers, honey.” Something flew over from Barney's side.

“Ow.”

“Ignore them,” Rosie said. “Around here everyone refers to them as the Wild Things. Daniels, Thing One, and Barney, Thing Two.”

—

G
ARDNER
MOTIONED
Salt over, nodding his head toward Wills on the phone across the aisle.

Wills stared straight ahead at the cubicle wall, avoiding eye contact with his partner, who was making exaggerated faces in response to what Wills was saying into the phone. “Yes, ma'am . . .

“Since you were ten years old.” He noticed Salt but quickly turned his back on her and Gardner.

“Visions . . .

“I'm sure the Hahira police do appreciate your help . . .

“No, ma'am, we have someone we use here in Atlanta . . .

“An Atlanta psychic. He's very good, very professional . . .”

Gardner covered his mouth and fled toward the break room.

“We'll keep that in mind—a silver key and a swamp . . .

“Bye now.”

Wills punched the end-call button on the desk phone and banged the handset against his forehead.

—

“
G
OOGLE
IS
MY
FRIEND
,” Salt said to the screen. For hours she'd played with, practiced on, searched, and learned some of what was available using the law enforcement and public search engines. She'd found nothing about the corporation that owned the Chicken Shack.

“Welcome to Homicide.”

She looked up and into the steady, focused eyes of Manfred Felton. He held out his long hand. “I see you and Rosie have hit it off. Lucky you,” he said as Salt took his hand and stood.

“So far today has been much better than yesterday,” she said.

“I heard. Nice work. Sarge giving you a rough time? And I bet the Wild Things”—he swept his eyes around the room—“haven't been tumbling over themselves to make you feel at home either. It's just as well actually. And if it will help you feel better and put things in perspective, imagine how it was five years ago when I first came to the squad.” He leaned against the partition and crossed his arms.

She'd heard. He was a legend now, the first openly gay detective in the department; he'd risen in the mythology and lore of not only their department but homicide units all over. He had endured. Endured, overcome, and solved homicide after homicide—the red balls and easy cases called “bones,” as in to have been thrown a bone—all while enduring. His rate was one hundred percent clear-ups, every case cleared—unheard of. Now after five years he no longer had to endure. He had the record. He could even look forward to stone-cold who-done-its because he had the record.

“I don't think I can imagine how it was,” she said. “I really can't complain, then, but I would have liked just the possibility of solving my first case.”

Felton pointed to the open file on her desk. “I see by the coffee rings that he gave you a cold one.”

“Coffee rings. Is that what you call ‘a clue'? Detective Felton, behold the Mike Anderson case.”

Brow furrowed, he picked up an imaginary magnifying glass and perused the spread file in a Sherlockian manner. “Elementary, my dear Watson. Follow the hound.” He winked.

T
he pristine, snow-white Doric columns on the small porch of the Andersons' bungalow gave Salt pause. She straightened her shirt collar and jacket. Mike's parents still lived in the house in the West End neighborhood where they had been living when Mike had died.

The West End, like the city that would annex it, began at a crossroads. It had official historic status and was exemplary of many of Atlanta's older neighborhoods. It started as a working-class and racially mixed community, and then became affluent and all white. In the '60s and '70s, rapid white flight caused the neighborhood to become more middle-class and all black. But holes of poverty opened up during the crack epidemic of the '80s and early '90s. Even still, pockets of the neighborhood had remained stable, especially around the University Center, where Mr. Anderson taught mathematics, and recently there had been some signs of gentrification.

Mike's father opened the door wearing leather slippers of the kind rarely seen anymore. “Mr. Anderson, I'm Detective Alt.” Salt started to offer her hand, but rather than responding he extended his arm,
parting the air to the hall. “Please come in.” He guided her into a small formal parlor furnished in faux French Provincial and ceramic pastorals, all cream and gilt. Mrs. Anderson (Salt was somehow sure she'd prefer the Mrs. to the Ms. prefix) stood from a rose-colored chair as they entered and indicated with a nod and an outstretched hand that Salt should sit on a brocade settee. Mr. Anderson continued to stand, his hands folded around a hardbound book. Both Andersons, small in stature, had the same dark walnut hue and both were dressed in what Salt thought of as prayer-meeting clothes, not Sunday dressy but well dressed.

“Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, I hope I'm not reopening old wounds, but as I said when I called, we received new information about your son's death that has to be followed up.”

“What information? From whom or where did this information come?” Mrs. Anderson emphasized the word “information,” as if it were distasteful.

“There is some reason to doubt the credibility of the source, but I have been assigned to the case, and procedures dictate that there be follow-up.”

“‘Procedures dictate,'” Mr. Anderson repeated.

“So why are you coming to us?” Mrs. Anderson stiffened against the upright back of her chair. “You have no idea how painful this is. Suicide is the worst tragedy for its survivors. We have all these questions that can probably never be answered. For years we have been trying to let this go. And here you are.” A large graduation portrait of Mike hung on the wall behind Mrs. Anderson's chair. He looked like both parents except for a huge smile and a 'fro, mushroom-shaped by the mortarboard. The tassel dangled beside the corner of his right eye, lightly brushing his rounded cheek. There were no other photographs, none marking his successes as a musician, no posters, no framed reviews.

“I thought . . . I was hoping you would be the best source for me to get a general sense of how Mike's life was in the days and months before he died. Or the name of someone who I should talk to about any specific problems he was having.”

Mr. Anderson tightened his grip on the book. “Isn't that all still in the records, a file?”

“Honestly, because his death was ruled accidental rather than a homicide, it wasn't given much investigation. Back then drug overdoses were coming in in record numbers.”

“Detective, you come here to us because of some procedure. But Michael was our child, our only child. You have no idea how it is to lose someone to suicide. It's a tomb we try to dig ourselves out of every day, trying not to ask questions that we can never get answers for.”

Salt looked down at her hands, feeling a quickness in her chest and a flash to the yellow-eyed dog in her dream.

“You see, Detective.” Mrs. Anderson was leaning forward. Salt looked up. “We knew we were losing Michael, that he'd chosen the wrong road, long before his death. Oh, they called it ‘accidental,' but we knew that was out of consideration for us—because they didn't know if he intended it or not. But we'd tried, as soon as he took up that juke-joint music, to turn him back to the straight path. He chose.”

“‘Juke-joint,' you mean the blues?” Some lyrics from her dad's tapes ran through her head.
We can't let the blues die, blues don't mean no harm.
“He was so talented. My father had some of his recordings. You must have been proud of him.”

“He got taken with trashy music, blues, rap, devil's music, ignorant music. My daddy would forbid that kind of old field noise when I was growing up.” Mrs. Anderson sat up straighter and looked away.

“You come here askin' again 'bout our son is like throwin' dirt.” Mr. Anderson's other accent was showing.

“I am sorry. If you could suggest someone else I could talk to.”

“He had talent, could play the piano beautifully, classical and sacred. But he took up the guitar, started hanging around all kinds of folks. Quit going to church. We tried everything.” Mrs. Anderson looked out to the sunset beyond the curtained window. “And at the end, our pastor, Reverend Prince, did his best with our son. We felt blessed that Midas Prince took time—even back then he was a mighty busy man—to try to reclaim Michael.”

“So Reverend Prince met with him before he died?”

Mr. Anderson looked over at his wife. “I don't think even you could get in to see the pastor these days. We haven't talked to him personally in, what? Five years or more?”

“He's grown Big Calling into the second largest congregation with the largest church building in this city.” Mrs. Anderson looked down and tapped the watch on her wrist. “It's time, dear.”

“As we told you, Miss Alt, we have to be at our lodge meeting by seven-thirty.”

Salt stood. “I appreciate your seeing me on this short notice.”

Mr. Anderson escorted her to the door, looked back into the house, and then came out onto the porch, closing the door behind him. “I don't want you to think we're not appreciative of your efforts, but my wife, especially, cannot seem to lose the doubts about whether we did or did not do enough to try to save our son.”

“I am sorry and feel your loss.”

“He's buried in Westview.” Mr. Anderson abruptly turned, went back inside, and closed the door.

Salt made her way back to the Taurus at the curb and then sat behind the wheel for a while, absorbing the vermillion and gold streaks against the deepening sky.