Jack Davis Mystery - 01 - Shakedown (20 page)

“It usually wasn’t.”

“Anyway, the smelter kept growing and hiring people and the next thing you know, they had the town of Argentine. Lots of mining, too. Then the railroad saw a good thing and built a terminal here. The smelter went bust around 1900 and, not long after, Argentine became part of Kansas City, Kansas. The mines lasted a little longer, and then steel fabrication kept everyone employed who didn’t work for the railroad like my old man did. If I hadn’t become a cop, that’s where I’d have ended up.”

“Well, at least Javy died in his own backyard.”

“Doesn’t sound like it was his idea.”

“You think his death is connected to Marcellus, Oleta, and the rest?” I asked.

“Shit happens. Sometimes it’s the same shit. Some time’s it’s just a coincidence.”

“If there is a connection, it could mean that someone is consolidating market share. We started the week with Marcellus Pearson butting heads with Javy Ordonez and Bodie Grant. Two out of those three are dead and it isn’t Friday yet.”

“Bodie could be trying to become the next Head Fred or avoiding becoming the next victim,” Grisnik said.

“More likely the next victim. How far is a white boy from Raytown going to get moving in on black and Hispanic gangs in Kansas City, Kansas?”

“Not very damn far. Seems more likely that someone is getting even.”

“Or cleaning house,” I said. “Like your mother beating her dirty rugs.”

“Only we’re the ones get to clean up the mess. I can drop you at your car or you can go along for the ride. Your call.”

“Whose case is it?”

“Mine, at least so far. None of your people have showed up yet. Could be they’re too busy buying cars and houses or they might just have their police scanner tuned to sports talk. You want to tag along, that’s fine with me. Troy Clark shows up, he’s likely to take a dim view of your secret identity as Detective Funkhouser.”

“You’re right about that. I don’t suppose you could deputize me?”

“We quit doing that right after Wyatt Earp cleaned up Dodge City.”

The smart choice was to let Grisnik drop me off and tell me what happened later. Troy would be on the scene before the body was removed, claiming that it was the Bureau’s case, that it was related to their ongoing investigation of Marcellus Pearson’s murder. It was the same argument I would have made.

He wouldn’t be happy to see me there. It wouldn’t matter that I wasn’t breaking any laws. It was possible I wouldn’t even be breaking any Bureau regulations. Grisnik had invited me and I had accepted his invitation. It was simple. Troy wouldn’t see it that way. Neither would Ben Yates when Troy told him. Both Troy and Yates would see it as one more reason I shouldn’t come back any time soon, if ever.

If I stayed away, the crime scene would be picked over, rolled over, and swept up by the time I got there on my own. I wouldn’t learn anything from the one source I trusted more than any other.

I liked unified theories of crimes, ones that captured a single perpetrator responsible for multiple crimes. But crime was rarely that neat. More often crimes and criminals overlapped, an investigation of one unintentionally leading to the resolution of another.

Javy’s death could be part of a turf war that included the five drug house murders, the shooting of Tony Phillips, and the disappearance of his mother, Oleta, all the victims linked by drugs. Colby Hudson had said that Javy ordered the hit on Tony Phillips, making it tempting to tie Javy to the drug house, with Oleta somehow caught in the crossfire.

But the victims in Marcellus’s house, Oleta Phillips, and Javy Ordonez had a different link—Latrell Kelly. He lived behind where the drug house victims died and where Oleta’s money was found and he worked at the Argentine rail yard where Javy’s body was found. Tony Phillips could have been a one-off, unrelated to the rest.

“I’ll go along for the ride,” I told Grisnik. “Troy Clark has a problem with that, I’ll tell him you kidnapped me.”

Grisnik laughed. “Kidnapping is a federal offense.”

“Maybe Troy will arrest you instead of me.”

He pulled away from Pete’s Other Place, not bothering to turn on the red ?ashing light mounted in the driver’s corner of the windshield or his siren. We weren’t in that big of a hurry since there was nothing we could do to change what had happened.

“I’ve driven over this place on I-635,” I said, as we approached the rail yard on Kansas Avenue, crossing Eighteenth Street. “The highway is like a bridge over a river of tracks and trains.”

“More like one of the Great Lakes,” Grisnik said. “The yard covers 780 acres. Eighteenth Street is the east end. It goes all the way west to Fifty-fifth. Kansas Avenue is the north end and the old Santa Fe main line makes the southern border. You could put the Chiefs and Royals stadiums out here and have room left over.”

“I didn’t know there was this much train traffic in Kansas City.”

“Over a hundred trains a day. One of the biggest hump yards in the country. They do a lot of refueling and crew changes here, too.”

Once inside the grounds, Grisnik navigated a series of unmarked roads without hesitation, pulling up in front of a row of three windowless one-story buildings made of steel siding with rusted overhead garage doors ?anked by gravel driveways. Treetops marking the edge of the woods loomed over the ?at roofs, faded red and yellow leaves matching the decayed steel.

Three patrol cars, two Crown Vics, and an ambulance were parked in a haphazard row in front of the first building. The uniformed officers were directing what little traffic there was, maintaining a secure perimeter. A detective was interviewing the garbageman, probably for the third or fourth time. The pace was slow, everyone careful to get it right.

“You found this place so easily, you must have been here before,” I said to Grisnik.

“You can thank my old man for that. I grew up following him around down here. These buildings are used to store equipment. He was responsible for the inventory, making sure none of it grew legs and walked off. Burlington Northern spent a fortune upgrading the yard when they took over in ninety-five. Didn’t bother with these. They are fifty years old if they’re a day. My father used to say that the rats wanted to put them on the National Register of Historic Places so they couldn’t be torn down.”

The gravel drive wrapped around to the back of the storage buildings. It was firm enough that my footprints barely made a dent but soft enough to leave tire tracks. We followed the deep wide ruts left by the garbage truck.

I looked for tracks left by Javy’s car. There was a vague imprint that stopped and started, partly obliterated by the garbage truck, the last stretch ending at Javy’s Cadillac. If the killer had driven his own car, I didn’t find any evidence of it. Its tire tracks could have been wiped out by the garbage truck or been so mixed with other tracks as to be unidentifiable.

The crime scene techs greeted Grisnik with a mock deferential bow. They’d had their look. It was our turn.

All four doors to Javy’s car were open. Blood had soaked into the creamy leather of the driver’s headrest, running down the back of the seat. More blood and bits of bone and tissue were splattered across the backseat, proof that the killer had been sitting behind Javy when he pulled the trigger.

It was likely the killer had caught some of the splatter, evidence that would be difficult to get rid of without burning his clothes and hosing himself down. That’s what a careful killer would have done, though it amazed me how many criminals are caught because they are slobs.

There was also blood on the dash and the windshield. The glass was fractured in a spiderweb pattern caused by the impact of the bullet after it exited Javy’s head, more proof that a large-caliber round had been used.

The rail yard location was out of the way and out of sight, indicating that Javy had either come to the scene with his killer or agreed to meet him. And Javy almost certainly knew the killer. Why else would he have made himself so vulnerable? I wondered if Latrell and Javy had crossed paths.

I was also willing to bet that Javy had come alone. If he’d brought backup, there would have been more bodies or, at least, signs of a struggle. That supported my assumption that the killer was someone whom Javy either felt safe with, like the harmless-looking Latrell, or was someone whose invitation to a meeting Javy couldn’t refuse.

The passenger windows were tinted dark. If the garbage-man had wondered why a Cadillac Escalade was parked next to the Dumpster and decided to look inside, he wouldn’t have seen a thing.

The killer could have left the body inside the car, locked the doors, and walked away, perhaps giving him more time to escape or set up an alibi. Instead, he’d thrown Javy in the trash, making a statement and taking an unnecessary chance. Any contact he had with the body increased the chances that he’d leave evidence behind—body hair, fiber, or something else that could be traced back to him.

I wondered whether the killer had left the car doors locked. Even if the garbageman hadn’t discovered the body, the car would eventually have drawn attention. Locking it wouldn’t have delayed for long the discovery of what had happened inside. Still, it was a detail, the kind an organized killer would have remembered.

Like the person who’d committed the drug house murders, this killer was organized, careless, and angry. Maybe it was the same killer or maybe they were just kindred spirits, like separated-at-birth twins.

The area between the back of the storage building and the edge of the woods was a narrow stretch, a good part of which was taken up by the garbage truck. The back end of the truck was open, Javy’s body lying facedown on a bed of garbage, his legs disappearing beneath the sweeper blade that compressed and crushed the trash, his arms cast out from his sides in a casual, indifferent pose.

I’d never seen Javy up close and in person, but I had watched him on surveillance video, heard his soft, high voice on audio, and studied still photographs of him. He was barely five-seven, probably went around one-fifty dressed and wet. It wouldn’t have been hard for Latrell to lift him out of the car and drop him in the trash bin.

Some punks, like Marcellus, got to the top of their personal kingdoms because they were the biggest, strongest, meanest motherfuckers on the block. The ones like Javy, who lacked that physical prowess, made up for it in other ways. They were natural, charismatic leaders who compensated for their diminutive size by being more ruthless and clever than their larger counterparts. From what Colby had told me, that described Javy, though he wasn’t a good enough politician to stop a bullet. None of them ever were.

Grisnik pointed to the forks extending from back of the truck. “Driver picks the Dumpster up, empties the container into the belly of the truck. Sweeper blade probably got hung up on Javy’s legs and jammed.”

“You are some kind of Renaissance cop,” I told him. “A walking encyclopedia on Shawnee Indians, silver smelters, mining, railroads, Mexican immigration, and now the care and feeding of garbage trucks.”

“Listen, Bureau Boy,” Grisnik said. “You stay in one place doing one job long enough, there isn’t much you don’t see. You keep your ears and eyes open, read a book once in a while, and there isn’t much you can’t learn. Some of our best street bums have been ground up in these things after checking into a Dumpster they could of sworn was the Four Seasons.”

I leaned in to get a closer look at the body. The back of Javy’s head was ?attened, caved in by the impact of the bullet. The back of Jalise Williams’s head had looked the same way when I saw her body crouched in the closet. Grisnik shined a ?ashlight on Javy’s skull.

“He never looked so good,” Grisnik said.

“You knew him?” I asked.

“By sight, sound, and smell. We were pretty sure he was good for at least three murders, probably more if you count the ones he’d ordered done, but it was always the same old story. No one saw anything. No one knew anything. No one cared and even if they did, still no one saw or knew anything.”

There was a door on the backside of the building. I tried the handle. It was locked. The dirt around the handle and the door jamb was undisturbed. There were no scrape marks on the threshold and no footprints leading to or from the door. The murderer hadn’t come through the shed to meet Javy.

I walked around to the far side of the truck and stared into the woods. It was a mix of thick ground cover, vines, wild thorn bushes, saplings, and mature trees. A few empty beer bottles and fast-food wrappers were scattered along the edge of the brush. I could make out a faint, hard-packed trail crossing roughly parallel to where I was standing, a good ten feet back in the woods.

The grass along where I was standing hadn’t been disturbed. None of the tree branches were broken and no clothing remnants had been snagged on the thorns.

“How far back do these woods go?” I asked Grisnik.

He was talking to another detective, his hand on his colleague’s back. “Hang on a second,” he said to me.

I walked along the edge of the woods to the west, keeping my eye on the trail. It bent toward the gravel drive running behind the storage sheds in a gradual arc, coming out across from the third storage building, about a hundred paces from the Dumpster where Javy’s body had been found. The grass there was beaten down, nearly dead. Plastic rings from emptied six-packs, cigarette butts, and a wrinkled condom marked the end of the trail. Grisnik caught up to me.

“What did you want to know?” he asked me.

“I asked how far back these woods go.”

He shook his head. “I’m not really sure.”

“You mean there’s something you don’t know about your town and your people?”

“I’m a lot of things, Jack. But I’m not a Boy Scout. Never had much use for the great outdoors. Always stayed out of the woods.”