Beneath the Cracks (6 page)

"She worked all night on a homeless
man?  And this one was different in what way?"  I started
cleaning up after Briscoe without asking Crevan if he wanted
anything.  He didn't appear interested until he got a glimpse
of dessert left over in the fridge.

"Do you mind?" he pointed into the cavernous
appliance.

"Help yourself.  I was worried about
what I'd do with all this left over food last night, so I told
Orion to throw it away."

Tony's sandwich hung in midair.  "Are
you nuts?  Throw it away?  We'll clean out the fridge for
you, Eriksson.  Don't toss all that good food."

I poured sweet tea and sat with them at the
kitchen table.  "Do you plan on answering any of my questions,
Tony?"

"Mmm," he mumbled.  "Why she wanted to
do the autopsy right away is beyond me, so I'd suggest you ask her
that question.  As for how this guy was different, he wasn't
skin stretched over bone, for starters."

"Not homeless?"

Crevan shook his head.  "I'm sure if
you saw him on the street, he'd look like the rest of them. 
Dirty, unkempt, raggedy clothes, beard down to here."  His
hand sliced the air just above collar bone level.  "But he ate
well and according to Winslow had porcelain veneers on his
teeth."

"She was certain?"

Crevan nodded.  "So, she figures that
since this was a fresh kill and a fresh find, she'll be able to get
prints and probably get a hit on them.  A guy like that isn't
gonna be off the grid like the others."

I had read the reports more than once and
understood what Detective Conall meant.  All of the previous
victims were chronic homeless.  They hadn't been missed. 
Nobody looked for them.  And identifying them presented more
problems than the average case.  No index finger prints would
be filed on men who never had need to obtain a driver's license
after implementation of fingerprinting for licenses.  It was
good news from my perspective, that the new victim didn't fit the
mold.

"If she can identify him, it helps me," I
said.  "As things stand, there isn't enough information about
the victims that helps me understand why they were more at risk
than other homeless men.  Orion warned me that there wasn't
much cooperation from people who probably knew them."

"Did he now?"  Briscoe's grin
highlighted the smudge of mustard in the corner of his mouth. 
"What time did the old dog find his way home?"

"Shortly after your fax arrived."

"Huh," he grunted.  "That explains one
bad mood."

Crevan tactfully diverted my attention away
from Briscoe.  "Are you having trouble with the information
Tony sent?"

"Yeah," and that was putting it
mildly.  "Frankly, without any idea of a weapon that could
inflict that kind of damage, or a way to link the victims beyond
being homeless, not knowing their identities or if they have
families that could supply additional information, I don't know
what you expect me to tell you.  They were at high risk by
virtue of lifestyle.  They used methamphetamine some by
smoking, others sniffing, and it looked like one was a regular
intravenous drug user based on the track marks Maya identified on
his arms and legs.  None ate well or regularly.  That
might have been a contributing factor in the cause of death. 
They were more susceptible to the type of injury that ruptured the
diaphragm because they lacked muscle mass, even a fat layer that
could've offered additional protection.  Use of
methamphetamine I'm sure contributed to loss of body fat and
overall frailer condition of these men."

I paused.  Neither man looked unhappy,
or surprised.  "You knew what I would say about this case,
didn't you?"

"Now before we piss you off too –"

"Wait a minute.  That's the second time
you've mentioned that people are upset about something. 
What's really going on here?  Is this some sort of ploy to
entice me back to work?"

"Not at all, Helen," Crevan said.  "The
case is legitimate.  Someone is causing the deaths of homeless
men, and we can't seem to get a handle on why or how for that
matter."

"Orion will be angry as long as I exert my
will over what he wants," I muttered.  "If he's irritable
today, it's his fault, not mine or yours."

Briscoe shrugged.  "The world is full
of mysteries then.  What baffles me is why they seem to
converge around this case."

I rolled my eyes.  "Would you stop
being cryptic and spit it out?"

"We stopped by the ME's office on our way
out of Downey this morning," Crevan said.  "Maya wasn't happy
to see us.  It's understandable.  She's been up all
night.  This case has everyone baffled and on edge. 
She's feeling the pressure I'm sure.  Plus, she didn't get her
slice of this magnificent dessert."

Everyone knew that Maya was as addicted to
sweets as I am.  Food staples – wine, caffeine, sugar. 
"I'll bake a dozen for her," I said.  "Are you sure that's all
this is?"

"She sounds worried," Briscoe said to
Conall.  "I told you it ain't like Winslow to pitch a hissy
fit like that."

"Let's give her time to get through her
work," I suggested.  God knows, I never liked the feeling that
people were breathing down my back either.  "And perhaps the
next time you see her, you'll refrain from referring to her mood as
a
hissy fit
, Briscoe.  It probably wouldn't hurt if I
talk to her in person either.  Would you object if I tag along
when she calls you for the final report?"

"Do you plan on letting me sample that
cheesecake?"  Briscoe pointed at Crevan's half empty
plate.

"I highly doubt you'd throw me out of your
investigation based on dessert," I grinned, "but yeah.  You
can eat as much of it as you want.  Otherwise, the garbage
disposal will have extra work to do."

Crevan continued to peck.  "There
really wasn't something in those files that jumped out at you,
something we might've missed?"

"Nothing.  You've got five men who died
under suspicious circumstance who were all homeless.  I can't
tell you anything you don't already know."

"Could this diaphragm thing be the result of
one of them extreme fightin' gangs?" Briscoe returned from the
refrigerator with more food than dessert.  "I mean, since that
movie way back when, we've seen the like of it before.  A
bunch of young guys gets together and try to knock the stuffings
out of each other."

I shook my head.  Even though such
clubs weren't all that prevalent, there would be evidence of more
than one blow that caused or contributed to death.  "I was
surprised that Maya didn't have a theory on how the injury was
caused."

"She said that's because to her knowledge,
only something extremely heavy, hundreds of pounds of force, could
cause the damage in one blow."  Crevan sipped his tea and
wrinkled his nose.  "Got any coffee?"

"Sure.  How do you take it?"

"With this cake, black is preferable. 
It's very rich, Helen.  Did you buy it from the Italian bakery
in Bay View?"

"I didn't.  That recipe came from
here."  I tapped one finger to my temple.  "Old family
recipe.  From my father's side of the family."

"Ain't that the sort of thing that gets
passed down from mother to daughter?"

"In some families, I suppose it is,
Tony.  My mom struggled boiling water.  My dad on the
other hand could do anything."  Invoking his memory would
probably always have the same effect on me.  My heart swelled
with homesickness.  My head ached with the knowledge of what
he had to have suffered all these years.  Life without the
possibility of parole seemed cruel and unusual for a man who never
hurt an
innocent
person.  And he loved me.  What
had I done?  Turned my back on him when he needed me the
most.  What if that wasn't what he really wanted me to
do?  What if I failed him completely?  It certainly fit
with the wrecked and flawed self-image I carried around since one
stupid, fateful night last June when Rick died. 

Died.  He didn't just
die
. 
I took his life willfully, volitionally, planned it enough to show
up to meet him with a revolver tucked into my clothing.  And
now, those same obsessive thoughts plagued me with the other half
of the Rick equation.  Datello, the bastard who was ultimately
responsible for all of it. 
He
put Rick in my
life. 
He
engaged Rick's services for his uncle,
Sullivan Marcos. 
He
came up with the plan to use
me.

Justification bubbled its way through the
thick layer of guilt that coated my thoughts.  Right and wrong
had little to do with any of it.  This was justice. 
Righteous like Dad's actions.  I vibrated with solid belief
that Dad would fully understand why I had to do this.  And
then, maybe later, after my demons were laid to rest, I could
figure out a way to right that first wrong I allowed.  I could
make amends and unravel an old miscarriage of justice.

The very idea soothed any prickling of
conscience.  Yes, there would be time for Daddy later, when I
didn't have to worry about how he'd react to the men who ruined my
life.  They'd be taken care of.  And we could simply make
up for all the lost and lonely years.

Unless he hated me for abandoning him even
half as much as I hated myself for that selfish failing.

While I drifted off to dilemmas best left
for private reflection, Briscoe and Conall continued to chat. 
I was aware that lips moved, body language whispered underlying
messages, and eventually, saw the concern on Briscoe's face.

"You ain't with us anymore.  What's
wrong with you?"

"Hmm?"

"Earth to Helen.  Where'd you go just
now?"

"I'm right here."

"I just told you Winslow wants us over at
the morgue.  Are you comin' or not?"

So I missed a bit more of what was really
happening than I realized.  The plates were cleared away from
the table.  Conall looked half panic stricken.  "I'm
fine.  It was only a little daydream.  Don't you ever
have that happen to you, Detective Conall?"

Briscoe snorted.  "Puppy here's got too
much reality bashing him about the head to indulge in
fantasy.  Ain't that right?"

Crevan flushed.  "I hope wherever you
went, the journey was pleasant."

"When you say shit like that, I wonder how
it is you can't hang onto that wife of yours," Briscoe shook his
head and rubbed his goatee.  "I never met a woman in my life
that didn't go ape shit over that poetic crap you're always
spouting."

"You're getting divorced?  I didn't
even know you were married, Crevan."  Not that I'd
asked.  Maybe Maya was right about stretching out an olive
branch to people around me.

"You don't know about it 'cause they been
separated damn near a year," Briscoe butted into the conversation
with his deeply rooted and somewhat dated opinions.  "She just
sent the papers over to Downey on Friday.  How's that for a
heartless bitch thing to do?  Can't even give the man a little
respect at the end.  No, old Belle had to make sure the whole
division was around for the event."

"I'm so sorry, Crevan.  I know that
even when the end is inevitable, it's still a difficult thing to
experience."

"I been divorced three times," Briscoe
said. 

I watched the silent play of emotion on
Crevan's face – first embarrassment, then inexplicable discomfort,
followed by amusement at his partner's running commentary on his
personal life. 

Briscoe wasn't finished.  "You didn't
find me out cryin' in my beer or joinin' the local single's group
at the Catholic church.  Nosiree bob.  I put my nose to
the grindstone and solved me some murder cases."

In Briscoe's brusque and crusty way, I
realized he offered Crevan very welcome emotional support and
guidance – from someone who'd been there three times.  I
locked one arm with Crevan's.  "You'd think with the divorce
rates in law enforcement we'd know better than to get married in
the first place, wouldn't you?"

"You're divorced too, I mean more recently
than Tony?"

"Two years and change."

"Maybe you could give me some pointers about
surviving the division of marital assets.  It looks like you
made out all right here," Crevan said.

Why hadn't anybody dug into my
history?  Why hadn't Danny Datello screamed it from the top of
Scabbard Mountain?  Put an ad in the local papers? 
Darkwater Bay's newest heroine is a cold blooded bitch
.

Pointers for Crevan from me?  Now that
was so sad it was almost comical.  What could I say? 
Make sure you're still the beneficiary of her life insurance before
she meets a tragic end?  You're a cop that should know how to
cover your tracks well enough to get away with murder?

Instead, "I'm afraid it's a little too raw
for me, Crevan.  That aside, my lawyer assured me that I had
the most amicable divorce in the history of man."

"You must be Irish," Briscoe chuckled.

"Eriksson is Swedish, Tony," Crevan said
softly. 

"Ain't that the ex's name?"

I shook my head and grinned at the old goat
before Crevan's certainty of my surname's origin sunk in. 
"Welcome to the twenty-first century, Briscoe.  Not all women
take their husband's names anymore.  Now if we're done talking
divorce and relationship woes, do you think we could go to the
morgue now?"

"God almighty yes," Briscoe muttered. 
"Winslow sounded like she's still got a bee up her butt. 
Wouldn't wanna make the little woman wait and piss her off
more."

Chapter 6

Security at the morgue weren't the helpful
folks I remembered when I used Maya's office a few short months
ago.  The personnel hadn't changed.  The mood in the
building weighed heavily, a wet blanket over coals that still
hissed and smoldered.