Jump (12 page)

Chapter Thirty

“Grab his legs.”

Jerome grunted from the effort. “Why do I get the heavy end?”

Larry dropped Walter’s flaccid arms unceremoniously to the floor but kept his eyes on his younger brother.

“It was
your
toaster.”

Jerome gave that some thought. When a rebuttal didn’t surface, he shrugged and tightened his grasp on Walter’s slacks.

“How much does this guy weigh?” he asked.

“There’s a reason they call it
dead weight
,” snapped Larry. “It’s not like Walter can help us, can he?”

Jerome kept his mouth shut and grunted as Larry found his grip on Walter’s forearms. They only managed to lift Walter a few inches off the floor, but that was enough to swing him three feet closer to the door, drop him, then do it all over again. They had tried dragging him but gave up when one of his arms took down a floor lamp.

Almost there. Just one more lift, swing, drop.

Walter wasn’t complaining. His face was locked in a rictus of shock, eyes bulging like a goldfish in desperate need of the Heimlich maneuver. His skin had turned a mottled shade of gray.

After Walter had first hit the floor, they turned him over to see if they could find a pulse. Jerome tried to find the carotid artery while Larry held Walter’s wrist as the body cooled. You didn’t have to be a doctor to know Walter was dead before he hit the floor, his heart shocked into silence. After five futile minutes, Jerome shook his head and Larry ran to the bathroom to throw up.

Larry figured they had a choice: either call 911 or leave the apartment immediately and never come back, flee to Mexico or Canada and change their names. Both plans seemed equally sound to him until Jerome made a suggestion.

“Why don’t we just take him home?”

Jerome found Walter’s keys in his pants pocket, stepped into the hall, and unlocked the door to Walter’s apartment. He left the door ajar and returned to their place.

Now they had Walter to the edge of their front door and Jerome was peering into the hallway.

“Clear.”

Larry listened carefully for any movement, human or mechanical. Someone next door grabbing their keys and preparing to go out. The elevator on its way up. A tabloid photographer lurking on the fire escape.

Nothing.

“OK,” he said. “On three, we pick him up, run down the hall, and drag him inside his apartment.”

Jerome let go of Walter’s right leg and gave Larry a big thumbs-up.

“Cut it out, Jerome.”

“Okey-dokey.”

“Do you want to get arrested?”

Jerome rolled his eyes. “One…”

“
Two
.”

“Three,” they said in unison.

Jerome had to shuffle backwards on his heels as Larry short-stepped on his toes, but they made it. Larry kicked Walter’s door shut once they were inside and they both sat down heavily, Walter’s bulbous corpse between them.

Jerome twisted his head around to look at the living room where movies and empty food containers littered the coffee table, crumbs decorated the sofa.

“This guy needs a maid.”

Larry was panting from the exertion, wondering why his brother wasn’t out of breath. He made a mental note to contact the AMA about which had a more deleterious effect on lung capacity, smoking five joints a day or stress. He suspected stress would prove to be much, much worse.

He surveyed the living room. “The couch?”

Jerome nodded. “Why not?”

“Maybe he had a heart attack while watching a movie.”

“An
action
movie…all the excitement…”

“…the noise…”

“…the late fees.”

“Exactly,” said Larry. “It was a tense situation.”

Jerome nodded. “Stress is a killer.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Ready?” asked Jerome.

“Let’s get it over with.”

After three tries they got it right. Walter slouched on the sofa, his crooked fingers wrapped around the remote.
That was a nice touch
, thought Larry. Attention to detail might make all the difference. Jerome stepped forward and sprinkled some broken chips across Walter’s chest.

Larry took a step back, nodded his approval.

Jerome brushed crumbs off his hands. “Our work here is done.”

“What do you think,” asked Larry. “Leave the keys?”

Jerome nodded. “I put ‘em back in his pocket.”

“OK,” said Larry. “But let’s leave the door unlocked, just in case we need to come back.””

Jerome frowned. “Why would we need to come back?”

“We might have forgotten something,” said Larry.

“Like what?”

“If I knew, then we wouldn’t have forgotten it.”

“Well, try to remember,” insisted Jerome. “It might be important.”

“There is no
‘it’
, you moron—I just made it up to make a point.”

“This isn’t a game, Larry.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

Jerome looked bemused. “Can we go now?”

Neither one of them said goodbye to Walter. For his part, Walter didn’t seem to give a shit.

Larry went first. He had just reached their apartment when he heard one of the elevators
ping
. Whipping around, he saw Jerome pull Walter’s door shut as the elevator doors began to open.

Jerome stood, transfixed, as Tamara jiggled her way down the hall. She held a coffee cup in each hand, a pose that forced her shoulders back and her breasts forward. Only the radiance of her smile had enough magnetic pull to wrench Jerome’s eyes to her face as she said, “Good morning!”

“Hey Tamara,” he replied.

Tamara glanced past him down the hall. “Hi Larry.”

“Tamara.” Larry half-nodded and half-bowed, one leg already inside their apartment.

Tamara turned her gaze to Jerome, who had to quickly readjust his line of sight.

“I just got coffee,” she said. “And Shayla’s making breakfast. You guys want to join us?”

“N-no,” said Larry, a little too quickly. “Thanks—thanks, but we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Jerome made a face. “We do?”

“Well,
I do
,” said Larry, sliding his other foot into their apartment. Now only his head and torso were visible. “See you, Tamara.” Then he closed the door.

Tamara tilted her head to one side.

“What about you, Jerome?” she asked. “We’re making eggs, bacon, toast—”

“Toast?”

“Wheat bread,” she said. “Interested?”

Jerome nodded like a lost puppy.

“I love toast,” he said.

Chapter Thirty-one

“You want to shove this up your nose?”

Danny Rodriguez held the middle and index fingers of his right hand close enough for Sam to examine the Vicks Vapo-Rub he had smelled the moment Danny opened the jar. Sam already knew what Vicks looked like and wondered if his former partner was offering to shove it up his nose for him, a surprisingly intimate gesture even between friends. When Sam shook his head, Danny shrugged and jammed the two fingers up his own nose in one fluid motion.

“Hate the smell of dead people,” said Danny.

“I hate the sight of them,” replied Sam. He pulled a pair of Ray-Bans from his jacket pocket and slipped them on. Danny scowled.

“I never understood that,” he said. “It’s not like you’re not looking at ‘em.”

“Helps me keep some distance.”

“Whatever you say,
ese
.” Danny took a deep breath through his freshly greased nostrils, making sure he couldn’t smell anything but the cold medicine. He pulled his coat on and eyed Sam’s light jacket. “You gonna be alright? It’s as cold as a meat locker in there.”

“It
is
a meat locker in there,” replied Sam. “I’m fine—but you’re starting to sound like an old woman.”

Danny made a face and pushed through the door.

Fluorescent lights ricocheted off stainless steel tables, making Sam glad he wore the glasses. Six tables ran along the left side of the room, each with a suspended microphone overhead, a scale, an adjoining rolling cart, and a drainage system. To the right were metal drawers set into the wall, three high and twelve across. Sam wondered how many had occupants.

A lone figure wearing a white lab coat stood next to the last table, his black hair disheveled, gray eyes magnified by Coke-bottle glasses, hands covered in rubber gloves. He had looked up when they arrived but immediately turned his attention back to the misshapen mound on the table in front of him.

The man spoke without raising his head. “Rodriguez, you said you’d be right back.”

“I am back,” replied Danny.

“
Right
back implies
alacrity
, Detective Rodriguez.”

Danny turned to Sam with a sad expression. “Alacrity.”

“It means fast,” said Sam.

“
Mamame la verga
,” said Danny. “I
know
what it means—was just remarking on the man’s tone of voice toward an officer of the law.”

Sam smiled. “I doubt he meant any disrespect—did you, Oliver?”

The man in the lab coat seemed to register Sam for the first time. “Hello, Sam,” he said, watery eyes blinking behind the glasses. “I thought you retired.”

Sam nodded. “I’m here as—”

“—a material witness.” Danny cut in, adding his own spin in the event anyone asked questions later. Sam didn’t contradict him.

“You saw this go down?” asked Oliver, his voice showing the first sign of warmth since they’d arrived. Sam must have met with Oliver more than a hundred times over the years, and his normal disposition was as chilly as the room in which they were standing. But mention murder and he’d light up. Get into the gruesome details of a crime and a light sweat would break across his brow. Help him understand the motive, and he’d start rubbing his hands together like a man warming himself by an open flame. That’s why all the cops called him Twisted Oliver.

Danny said it to his face, which is one of the reasons they didn’t get along.

“A car blew up,” said Sam noncommittally.

Oliver’s face betrayed his disappointment.

“You could smell the burning flesh,” added Sam.

Oliver licked his lips.

Danny cut in. “Show him, Twist.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes, making it clear Danny had ruined the moment. He sighed before yanking the sheet off the table with a theatrical flourish.

Sam blinked behind his sunglasses, waiting for his brain to catch up with his eyes. It took a moment.

“You found them like that?” he finally asked.

Oliver nodded, a small smile at the corners of his mouth. “Apparently the gentleman’s pants were made of some synthetic material—”

“—fake leather,” said Danny. “Cheap-ass, fake leather pants.”

Oliver continued as if the interruption never occurred. “Which was surprisingly flame retardant. But his undergarments—”

“—cheap-ass, cotton briefs,” said Danny. “Picked up the flame from his shirt and roasted his balls.”

“Indeed.” Oliver clenched his jaw. “Which is why you see a blackened, carbonized area here.” He paused, waving his hand like a magician. “But below the groin you see the legs are unscathed.”

Sam blinked again. The legs had separated from the torso, burned free of sinew and bone. He assumed the upper half of the deceased lay in one of the metal drawers, since only the lower half was on display. Where the legs conjoined, in place of the body’s private parts, a molten terrain of charred flesh obscured any sign of gender. But once the legs took their separate paths the skin became pristine, unscarred save for the tattoos encircling both thighs.

The blue-black ink of prison tattoos covered the upper thigh of each leg, teardrop flames carved with surprising detail, the tip of each pointing toward the crotch. As Sam studied the tattoo, he noticed the fire pattern was layered, as if individual flames had been added at different times. Some of the ink was faded and gray, lighter than the copper-colored flesh, while other sections were deep blue. The net impression was that of a real inferno, exploding from the knees and burning its way upwards.

“Given how the guy died,” said Sam. “That’s kind of an ironic tattoo, don’t you think?”

Danny chuckled. “Each flame tattoo represents a kill. By my count, this pair of legs killed over twenty-seven men.”

Sam gave a low whistle. “And you know the guy?”

Oliver pursed his lips. “At this point we don’t have all the tests which positively—”

Danny raised a heavy hand. “Scumbag’s name was Carlos. He did contract work for Zorro.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Zorro?”

Danny nodded. “The fox himself,” he said, adding, “Your old friend.”

“Friends, my ass,” replied Sam. “I don’t think we’re exactly on speaking terms.”

Danny chuckled. “You think he’d hold a grudge against the only cop to ever bring him in?”

Sam shrugged. “The charges didn’t stick.”

“But you had the balls to bring him downtown.”

Sam let it go, but now he understood why Danny wanted him to see this for himself. “Why would Zorro’s men be hanging around in that neighborhood?”

Danny glanced at Oliver. “Why,
indeed
?”

Sam looked at the medical examiner. “When will you have positive IDs?”

Oliver shrugged. “Another day, max.”

Danny jutted his chin at the table. “You can put your toys away, Twist.” Then he added, “And thanks.”

Oliver let the nickname and the
thanks
cancel each other out. He pulled the sheet over the severed legs as Danny led Sam away from the cold light into the hallway.

When they stood just outside the door, Sam leaned against the wall and pushed his sunglasses back on his head. “Things are heating up.”

“That some kind of joke?” asked Danny.

Sam shrugged. “Might not have anything to do with the jumper.”

“Now you’re saying the guy jumped?”

“Aren’t you?” demanded Sam. “That is the official department line, isn’t it? My landlord got depressed, took a long walk off the balcony.”

Danny chewed his lower lip. “Yeah, until we have reason to open an investigation.”

“But?”

“You gonna make me say it?”

Sam smiled. “Yeah, partner, I am.”

Danny pushed himself off the wall. “
But
—three deaths within three days in the same zip code is quite a coincidence.”

“Zip code, shit.” Sam snorted. “How about the same fifty-foot radius?”

“How about it?”

“Cops don’t believe in coincidences,” said Sam matter-of-factly.

“And I’m still a cop,” replied Danny.

“But I’m not,” said Sam. “Wait here.” Without waiting for a response, he dropped his sunglasses into place and pushed through the double doors.

Oliver was straightening some equipment near the same spot Sam had seen him last, but the legs were gone from the table.

“Hello again, Sam.” Oliver scanned his immediate surroundings. “You forget something?”

Sam jammed his hands into his jacket pockets. “Yeah, Oliver, I did.”

Oliver’s eyes swam behind his thick glasses but he didn’t say anything.

“Do you still have the—” Sam hesitated. “The remains of the guy who jumped off my building?”

Oliver’s eyes stopped swimming and locked in place. “That was your building?” he asked, as if Sam were the luckiest man in the world.

Sam nodded.

“Do you see it?” asked Oliver, his voice quavering. “The impact?”

Sam shook his head. “Sorry, Ollie. Just the aftermath.”

Oliver took a deep breath through his nose, braving his disappointment. “That’s too bad.”

“But even that was pretty gruesome,” said Sam. “Clumps of flesh on tree branches. Blood everywhere.”

Oliver took another breath, this one more shallow. “Everywhere?”

Sam nodded. “You couldn’t get the stench out of your nose for hours, even after you left the scene.”

Oliver sighed like a man who’d just eaten too much dessert.

“Thank you, Sam.”

Sam shifted from one foot to the other, letting Oliver have his moment. It took a while before the M.E. focused again.

“Did you
want
something, Sam? Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yeah,” replied Sam. “Are you gonna run the usual battery of tests on the body?”

“There wasn’t much left of the body to work with.”

“But you did the blood work?”

Oliver shook his head. “Not unless someone tells me to. It’s a suicide, right?”

“Absolutely,” said Sam, too quickly. “So, no tests?”

“Not the full run,” replied Oliver. “I just hold the corpse until the police give the final word, suicide or murder. Should come down in another day or two. Why?”

Sam rolled his shoulders. “He was a neighbor, Ollie. And a lot of the other neighbors, they knew him, you know, and were just wondering—”

Oliver nodded his understanding. “Was he on drugs? Or drunk. Some outside agent to explain his behavior, a focus for their anger and grief.”

Sam was glad he wore the dark glasses. “Something like that.”

Oliver leaned in close and spoke in a conspiratorially whisper. “For you, Sam, I’ll run the tests. A-to-Z.”

Sam held out his hand. “Thanks, Ollie. And you won’t tell anyone? Not even Danny.”

Oliver spared a caustic look toward the door. “Especially not Rodriguez.”

Sam squeezed the other man’s hand, noticing how cold and clammy it was. “Thanks, Oliver.” He pulled a card from his wallet. “That’s my home phone, ok?”

Sam pushed through the doors to find Danny looking at him suspiciously as he jammed a Kleenex into his right nostril. With a nasally twang he demanded, “What was that about?”

Sam shrugged. “A hunch.”

Danny switched to the other nostril, using a backwards twisting motion.

“I thought you didn’t believe in hunches?”

Sam smiled. “I usually don’t,” he said. “But cops do.”

“You ain’t a cop no more,” replied Danny. “That’s what you told me. You’re retired.”

“You got me into this,” said Sam.

“So?”

“Maybe it’s time for me to go back to work.”