The Book of 21 (3 page)

“How do I get in there without stepping on anything?” she asked.

John shrugged. “You don’t”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah, better yet, Harry’s still upstairs.”

She tilted her head and raised her voice so that her message would carry up the stairs. “Will someone tell him to start with the actual crime scene instead of the ‘
cleaner
’ areas next time? I hate standing around waiting for him.”

A faint echo from the toilet bowl on the floor above calmly answered, “They’ll still be dead when I’m done.”

Kim shook her head, sat her bag next to the door, and sighed, “Nothing says ‘genius’ more than a man who sticks his head in the toilet.” She looked at John. “Well, if you are in there, one more won’t hurt.”

Kim tiptoed into the room with long strides, taking as few steps as possible, and squatted beside Dunglison’s cut-up carcass. She cocked her head to the side and looked up at John. “This shoulder joint looks like it was sawed with some kind of serrated blade. That machete is used to hack, and it’s not serrated.”

John nodded and pointed at the floor next to her. “That’s not the only weird thing here; among a few other things, I just realized the scallops on the blood spatter all point away from the door. So I don’t think we are in the place that man died. I think you will tell me that he wasn’t even dead when he was hacked up.”

“Great,” Kim said through a sarcastic smile. She pulled on a rubber glove and then placed two fingers on Hallman’s jugular vein. “Well, I think I can pronounce these two dead. Once I get them back to the lab, I can tell you more.”

John moved behind the desk and found an old Rolodex. It was open to a tan business card that contained a picture of a waterfall printed in black ink. This card was free from the rungs that held the others. He pulled a pair of tweezers from his coat, lifted the card, and placed it in a plastic bag.

Kim stood up and looked at the card. “You don’t think the killer left his business card do you? The victim’s house is not somewhere you get a lot of references for more work.”

John gave her a blank look, pursed his lips, and shrugged.

From his new location behind the desk, he scanned the room. It was just as bloody from this perspective as it was from the door. As he looked at the blue chair, his gaze immediately fixed on the word
Hamlet
scrawled in blood on the wall.

“Get thee to a nunnery,” he chanted.

Kim’s face screwed as she shot him a look. She followed his gaze, and then said, “Oh.”

“I had to read that book four times. Every teacher had his own take on it. Well, actually I read it three times. By the time the fourth class rolled around, I pretty much knew it inside and out.”

“Well,” Kim groaned, “if you weren’t smart, at least you were persistent.”

“Thanks for that,” John said dryly.

Kim was unsure of how to break the awkward silence. She was about to speak when an officer appeared at the door and captured her attention.

The officer’s strawberry blond hair warmed his steel-blue eyes. A chiseled jawline and athletic build completed the package. He looked at John and said, “Detective, the woman who phoned this in is outside.”

“OK, did you take her statement?”

“I think you may want to see this.”

John headed for the hall. When he reached the doorway, he stripped off his booties and asked, “What’s up?”

“It’s just strange,” the cop answered. “By the way, Fanelli was right about those footprints.”

John turned and looked the officer’s nametag. “Oh yeah?”

The cop, named Jake Moore, nodded. “Yeah, I was first to get here on backup. There were no footprints coming out of there.”

McDonough and Moore stared at each other for a second.

“How shook up was he?” John asked.

“Not too bad, considering what he saw.” Moore glanced upstairs to make sure Fanelli was not there. “I believe he told us it was ‘about fucking time’ we got here, twice. He was pretty pissed at that point.”

He understood what the cop was telling him; when the danger was over, Fanelli transformed his fear into anger. It was a coping mechanism, which John had seen often in the world of law enforcement. It could lead to hyper-efficiency, where the person countered his moment of infirmity with sharp and adrenaline-driven decisiveness, but it could also lead to hyper-stupidity, where the person dug himself into a hole through a series of increasingly idiotic actions. From what Moore said, and did not say, John hoped it was the former in Fanelli’s case.

He gave Moore a nod and went out the front door.

Out on the sidewalk, a patrolman waived to John and nodded toward a short, obese, old African American woman gnashing her lips as if she was chewing something. She wore a pink paisley housecoat. Her head tilted back to align her eyes with the center of her black plastic glasses and allow her to look through her Coke-bottle lenses.

As he reached her, John gave her a smile and a nod. He motioned her away from the crowd, leaned in, and quietly asked, “Did you phone this in, ma’am?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“What did you see?”

“Nothin’ was what I saw.” She looked nervous and stopped gnashing her lips for just a second. She started to gnash again and then continued, “I
heard
somethin’ and called.”

“You heard something? It must have been pretty loud to call the cops. Where were you?”

“I was over there, walkin’ my dog.” Gnash, gnash. “I heard… ooh, I heard this howl.”

John smiled and looked at the patrolman standing a few feet away.

The patrolman looked at John and shrugged. “A lot of the old folks in this area call us quite a bit. Things in this neighborhood aren’t as quiet as they used to be.”

“I know,” John sighed.

“You just hush, both of you,” the old woman barked. “Look, I ain’t crazy. I heard something. You know I did or you wouldn’t be here talkin’ to me, would you now?” Gnash, gnash.

John sobered his expression and replied, “No, ma’am, we wouldn’t be. What did you hear?”

Gnash, gnash.

“Did you hear a scream?” he prodded.

Gnash, gnash, nod, gnash, gnash.

“Was it loud?”

The old woman’s jaw stopped its perpetual motion. She tilted her head back to look John in the eye, and then said, “It was unholy.”

Chapter 2:
A Stop for Breakfast

DiFlore’s Diner was John’s usual greasy-spoon hangout. The place was a typical diner car. Chrome fixtures, red-vinyl bar stools, cozy brown booths, and a faux-marble Formica counter filled its interior. The staff was friendly and knew him by name.

After spending the night in Dunglison’s bloody office, it was just the place for John to unwind and grab a bite before heading over to Penn Commonwealth. At six o’clock on a weekday, the place was still awaiting the morning rush. A couple sipped their coffees in a booth. The girl behind the cash register waited for an old man to dig a coin out of his blue rubber change purse. The old man calmly looked at her hand as if he had forgotten the type of coin that he was looking for, and he then went back to digging. The lack of hubbub was what John liked about the place and what he needed right now.

He made his way to the counter and perched himself on a stool. After placing his newspaper on the counter, he leaned forward and rested his head in his hand. He watched the woman who tended the counter make her way towards him with a pot of coffee and a cup.

The woman, Effie, was in her mid-fifties. The bright lipstick drew attention away from the faint lines around her lips, the red dye in her hair hid her gray, and the fire in her bright blue eyes covered the sorrow she had seen in her half century of life. John guessed that she was probably quite beautiful in her day, and he knew that she still showed a lithe frame and lively swagger to those that cared to look.

“Coffee this morning darlin’?” she asked, leaning in to expose her cleavage to him while staring him in the eye.

John smiled and nodded. “Can I get a spinach and mushroom omelet with some hash-browns?”

“You sure can. You want any cheese on that?”

“Yeah, American.”

“Comin’ right up.” She did a double take on his face. “Up late last night?”

“Just awake very early, unfortunately.”

Effie attached his order to the carousel, spun it toward the kitchen, and yelled, “Grass and fungus special, Vin.” She turned back to John, and scolded, “You need to sleep more.” Without a second of delay, she raised a pitcher of orange juice from below the counter and asked, “Juice?”

John nodded and watched her start to pour, then muttered, “If it were up to me, I would be in bed right now. Duty called.”

“I understand. You should think about getting other duties before these kill you.” She sauntered away with her usual smile.

John wished he could. He was a cop in a big city, and he was good at it. It might not have been a great reason to stay, but positions for homicide detectives did not grow on trees. He could not just take off and try something else for a few months, then find another homicide position just waiting for him whenever he wanted. Besides that, even for all its bad points, his job was still a lot better than selling cigarette’s at Mahmud’s Stop-n-Go, or asking people if they wanted fries with their burgers.

He would not tell that to Effie, though.

When John left Dunglison’s house, Harry was still collecting specimens. Kim had been fuming in the hallway, angry that she had to wait to perform the simple service of loading up the carcasses and taking them back to the lab. John knew it would take a few more hours to collect everything, and a few days after that until Harry could make sense of the material he collected.

Since there was no need to stand there while Harry crept about with tweezers, John decided he might as well start chasing down the few leads he had. Until Pennsylvania Commonwealth University opened up and the superintendent of Hallman’s apartment building was located, however, he had some time to kill.

He unfolded his newspaper and scanned through the headlines. It was the usual stuff: the Sixers lost to the Lakers, the Phillies failed to sign a dominating pitcher that they had been chasing, a Jazz Festival was planned at Penn’s Landing this weekend, the art galleries were promoting late-hour visitation on the first Friday of the month, and the mayor had said something stupid, again.

A gruff voice said, “I thought this is where you’d be.”

Turning toward the voice, John found the gray-haired wrinkly-faced lump of a man that was Ben Shalby. A half-tucked white shirt covered Shalby’s belly. It looked like he had slept in his tweed sport coat and gray slacks.

John returned to the paper, and said, “Where the hell were you last night? I wound up with your call.”

“I know,” Shalby said as he took the bar stool next to John. “That’s why I’m here. The guys at the scene said you went to get breakfast.” Shalby waived a finger and smiled to Effie, who was already on her way over with the coffee. “I saw the early news; the commissioner said we were still investigating. Sounds like a real winner of a case—druggie whacking his fag lover and all.”

John rolled his eyes in disgust at Shalby’s ignorance. “You are so enlightened.”

Shalby pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. “Hey, call a spade a spade.”

John shook his head and stared at his paper.

“What? You got fags in the family?” Shalby took a sip of coffee and then continued, “Ah, John, look, I’m sorry you got stuck with this one.”

John glanced over at Shalby. The jerk sounded sincere. The small indication of regret in the callous windbag left John unable to speak.

Shalby, however, continued yakking, “Look, if you want, I’ll take it over and wrap the thing up.” Shalby took another sip of coffee. “It’s really just a bunch of reports and stuff anyway from here on out. It’s the least I can do.”

John thought for a moment. He was not sure he could just dump a case to whomever he wanted. There were assignments and protocols to consider before he could just assume Shalby could take over. He opened his mouth to explain that, but Shalby cut him off.

“I know what you’re thinking, and I already talked to the lieutenant. He said it’s fine for me to take over.”

“What, so I get to get up for the next case at four in the morning and traipse down to the ice-cold waterfront, or worse, get stuck with some unidentifiable carcass that sits in an unsolved case file for years? No, thanks, I’ll keep this one.”

Shalby shrugged again. “Hey, it’s all the same stuff. There will always be bodies to write up. Why not get yourself some peace now?”

A rare phenomenon left John speechless; Shalby had a valid point. On the endless gerbil-wheel of work, the next task was always on the way. It made some sense to John, to sit out whenever you could.

Shalby smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

John thought for a second longer. While the suggestion made sense, he simply disliked Shalby, and spite caused him to say, “No.”

Shalby coughed through a mouthful of coffee, “No? What the fuck do you mean?
No
?”

“I mean no. That’s what the fuck I mean.” John looked up at Effie as she topped off his coffee, and realized he had been unaware of her close proximity. He tilted his head, and then muttered, “Sorry, Effie.”

“Pay no never-mind. I know how it is,” Effie flippantly replied.

Shalby watched Effie’s buttocks as she walked away. “Hey John, I’m trying to do you a
favor
here. You aren’t making sense.”

“Eh, this one interests me. I’ll keep it.”

“Interests you? It fucking
interests
you? What is so interesting about a druggie who whacks his fag lover?”

John glanced at the couple in the booth behind them. They fidgeted uncomfortably. Shalby, meanwhile, seemed unconscious of their presence.

Trying his best to keep a poker face, John asked, “Do you mind not talking like a complete idiot, or at least not announcing the subject of a case in the middle of a diner?”

“There’s nobody here.” Shalby looked around, and suddenly noticed the couple in the booth behind him. “Oh, sorry, folks.”