Senator Love (3 page)

"I HATE OLD bones," Captain Luther Greene said.

"Ups the statistics of open cases," Fiona acknowledged.

Captain Greene, known affectionately—and often
derisively—by colleagues, supporters and foes as the "eggplant," had
been drumming that point home now that politics was in the air again. The
Mayor, getting ready to run for a third term, needed better statistics for his
law-and-order stance, much better. The crack and gang wars had escalated,
driving the homicide rate through the roof and scaring the hell out of the
voters.

By definition, it was homicide—violent, brutal and ugly.
But, in fact, it was really urban combat, not the kind of homicide that
challenged the imagination, offering a puzzle of motives and a mysterious cast
of suspects. Still, every murder counted in the statistics. They were rising
ominously. The Mayor wanted them cut. And he was the boss, lord of influence
and promotions, career maker and breaker.

The eggplant had assigned her and Cates to rummage through
some of the recent open unsolveds and a number looked very promising. He needed
them to stay on that track. It was a political necessity.

The eggplant was a political animal, often too political,
which partly accounted for the negative aspect of his sobriquet. Cops, in
general, despised political pressures. Unfortunately, few cops could move up
the ladder without understanding these realities.

The eggplant understood. In fact, despite his vanity, short
temper, sarcastic arrogance and obsessive ambition, he held the respect of his
co-workers since, above all, he was professionally talented and instinctive and
often wise and cool under pressure.

Yet someone, long gone, had pasted the nickname on his
forehead and it had stuck. It had no relationship to logic, since he wasn't
lumpish like the vegetable, although at least one variety matched his color.
The connotation, of course, was not altogether flattering, although at rare
times it carried with it an air of genuine affection.

They were sitting in his office. Against the grey backlight
of the window behind him, his body was in silhouette, his face featureless.
Rain pelted the dirty windowpane.

"Any media interest?" The eggplant sighed
gloomily. An avid self-publicist, he normally might have liked the idea, except
that the payoff and timing just wasn't there. It was, Fiona knew, tough as hell
to solve a case that appeared this old, and they did not need another open case
at this point in time.

"We'll see how it plays," the eggplant said.

She knew his shorthand. He meant that if the media paid
little attention, they could shove it into the background and concentrate on
the more contemporary cases.

"Might even be a natural," the eggplant said
hopefully. It was clear that he wished that the skeleton had never been found.

"Known to happen," Fiona said, struggling for
neutrality.

"Maybe they couldn't afford burial expenses," the
eggplant muttered, chuckling.

"Not in that neighborhood," Cates said.

"Never know. Big front. No cash. We live in bullshit
land," the eggplant countered.

His telephone rang and he picked it up, but not all the
way. The huge index finger of the hand that held the telephone shot up.

"You keep me 'apprahzed,' hear," he said,
scowling. It was his traditional cautionary warning. Nothing behind my back,
nothing out of channels. Keep me "apprahzed." The word literally
defined the eggplant's limits.

Then he moved the instrument to his face and turned his
attention to its message, waving them out as he began to speak.

There was no point in mounting any argument. The forensics
weren't in yet. She had called Amy, Dr. Benton's assistant, to put in her oar
for priority treatment. Although she enjoyed a strong and respectful
relationship with the Medical Examiner, she was sparing in her request for
special favors.

They had also sent the ankle bracelet down to the lab to be
cleaned off and checked out. The fact was that, despite the eggplant's
indifference, she could not choke off her mind's search for theories. A body
buried in the backyard of one of the fanciest neighborhoods in town, uncovered
after years. A tantalizing mystery there. A human being, a wife or mistress,
someone's mother or daughter or sister, buried like rancid waste. Attention
must be paid. Her mind spun with possibilities.

She knew what was happening. Always when a case intrigued
her beyond the routine, ideas and speculations began to grow in her
imagination. She knew, too, that each new fact would create parameters, inhibit
the growth of extraneous theories, narrow down the choices.

There was something else, too. Despite the scant details,
she felt a growing sense of identification with the victim. A life cast away like
a piece of garbage, a brain holding a dark secret in its memory, a secret that
needed burying forever. Only nothing was forever. Nothing.

Monte Pappas called her in mid-afternoon.

"I'm completely, totally, irrevocably
embarrassed," he began.

"They were pouring pretty heavy," she said.
"Forget it. I was half in the bag myself."

"I'm still at your place. My head feels like a rock
and I've shot the day. Whites, reds and scotch. For me it's a deadly
combination."

Luckily for her, although she felt slightly fatigued, the
mental deflection of the case had chased any lingering hangover.

"Never mind. All is forgiven. Help yourself to
anything. My tent is yours."

"I really owe you one, Fi. I was awful."

"It's okay. Don't flagellate."

She waited through a long pause.

"Bet I talked too much," he said, as if he were
testing the waters, waiting for her response.

"You did talk," she chuckled. "I won't deny
that."

"Did I say ... I mean ... anything that could be, you
know..."

"Used against you in a court of law?" she bantered.
She knew, of course, what was troubling him. He had, indeed, talked more than
was discreet about Senator Langford, but in that context, he had nothing to
fear from her.

"You did give me a snootful about..." She smiled.
"Senator Love."

"Oh Jesus."

"Just between us girls."

"That name. Gives me cold shivers. Blank it out,
please. And not on the phone."

She wondered if he was joking.

"Are you really concerned about my discretion,
Monte?" she asked, surprised by her own reaction. His paranoia carried the
cutting edge of insult.

"Fi. Fi. I don't know what I'm saying. That's a double
apology I owe. Please. I have a tendency to overreact on that subject,
considering its importance to me."

"I'd say you are being a bit hysterical," she
said. She might not be having a hangover but she felt more testy than usual.

"Dinner Friday, Fi. It's important to me. I ... I
thought we were doing well together before this ... nonsense."

"We'll see," she said. The fact was that she did
enjoy Monte Pappas' company, his know-it-all manner and cynicism and the
pretense of toughness he had adopted. Getting people elected, she had learned
from experience, required a kind of dispassionate ruthlessness. In this
respect, she knew, he was not a natural. Poor Monte had visible soft round edges,
which was why she liked being with him.

"You're not mad?" he coaxed.

"Mad-mad maybe. But not angry-mad, no."

Her other line lit up. She put him on hold.

"I've read your bones, Fiona," Dr. Benton said.
"Come on over."

"Got to go now," she said, switching back to
Monte. "We'll touch base later about Friday." It was Wednesday. She
hung up.

DR. BENTON was waiting in his office, his fingers held
together in his classic cathedral style, an indication that he was in deep
contemplation. She loved to see him in that pose, his cobalt blue eyes intense
in his dark face, the genetic result of two hundred years of intermingling
Cajun blood.

He was a man of rare privacy and wisdom, and on more than
one occasion he had helped her cope with her own demons. He had his as well,
the bitter loneliness of life without his beloved Dorothy, whose memory was his
shrine.

His relationship with Fiona was profound enough for Cates,
despite their partnership, to absent himself when he correctly read her need to
be alone with him. This was one of those occasions.

She stood in front of his desk, waiting for him to
acknowledge her. Finally, he pushed himself out of his chair and looked out of
the window into the gloom of the relentless rain. His body spoke for his
fatigue. Lately, there had been an endless parade of bodies.

"No more than 20," he said, still not turning.
"A woman, five foot three, perhaps 110 pounds. From the rupture of the
cartilage in the neck area, I suspect that she was strangled." In his
verbal explanations with police officers, he deliberately eschewed highly
technical terms, although his written report always used impeccably precise
anatomical nomenclature.

Finally he turned to face her. The grey light could not
hide his weariness.

"I think it's the rain. It depresses me. I buried
Dorothy in the rain."

She had suspected the real source of his sad mood. To
counter it she offered him a broad smile. He had often told her that her smile
was like a dose of sunshine. He shrugged, responded with his own half-smile
then moved back to his chair and put his feet on the desk.

"How long ago?" Fiona asked.

"A dozen years at least. Late seventies. Probably 1977
or '78." He shook his head. "Within a year is the best you can
do."

She had hoped that the woman might have died later. More
than a decade was a long time. Harder to track.

"What about race?" Fiona asked. Considering the
turf, it was a proper question, but it carried baggage and implications. The
majority of the open cases were black. Most of the crime in fact had a black connection,
not uncommon considering the demographics. In this case the relevance was also
based on neighborhood. More precisely, on what is commonly referred to as
"class."

"I can tell you this," Dr. Benton said, obviously
aware of the implications. "The woman was buried naked. There is
absolutely not a trace of clothing anywhere among the bones. The dental work
also is not very extensive and could prove difficult for establishing the
body's identity. Unless, of course, you have something reasonably definite and
needed a confirmation. All in all, probably a healthy young lady. This will be
a tough one, Fiona."

"Tougher than you think. The Captain is
indifferent."

"Priorities, Fiona. There is a traffic jam in
here." Again, he made a cathedral of his fingers.

She considered again the eggplant's earlier reaction.
Further pursuit depended on piquing his interest. If the case was too esoteric,
with little media coverage, that would be an impossible chore, especially in
today's political climate.

"Too bad." She sighed. "I was beginning to
identify."

"An occupational hazard to be avoided," Dr.
Benton said.

"Like you do," she said.

"Do as I say, not as I do," Dr. Benton said. He
also had his lapses of objectivity. She saw his mood changing to black again.

"With each new abomination, I grow more reverential
toward human life. And more hateful toward the abominators who deprive others
of the experience. It always hurts to see injustice rewarded, especially
through default and disinterest."

"It's not over yet," Fiona said.

"Dear Fiona. Always to the highest mountain. The bones
have testified. Slim pickings for a crusade."

"Not necessarily, Dr. Benton. Whoever did it forgot
something," Fiona said. As always with Dr. Benton she saved the best for
last.

"No one's perfect," he sighed.

She explained about the ankle bracelet. He turned away and
contemplated his cathedral, raising his eyebrows finally in what she knew was a
gesture of optimism.

"When it came from a boy they used to call it a slave
bracelet. I got one once from a high school boyfriend." She chuckled at
the sudden shard of memory.

Then she remembered that the one found on the skeleton had
been engraved with the name of Mabel, which might have implied that it was
bought by the woman herself, more of an ornament than a symbol.

To truly qualify for a slave bracelet it would have had to
have the mark of the boy on it like the one she had once received from her high
school sweetheart. "Forever, love Larry," had been engraved on the
surface worn closer to the flesh. And you wore it because it said you belonged
to him, a more passionate kind of symbolism than say merely being
"pinned." She snickered at the concept, then realized that her
reaction was not only politically contemporary, it embarrassed her present sense
of self. How dare I let anyone ever own me, she thought militantly. It took a
few moments for the anger to clear. It was, nevertheless, a strong clue for
identification purposes.

"The computers should be able to narrow down a missing
Mabel of that age and description for those years," Dr. Benton said
hopefully. "It's quite possible that justice might be served after
all."

"I'll transmit your rallying cry to the
eggplant," Fiona said. "This day pure justice is not his highest
priority."

By the time she got back to the squad room the sense of
exciting expectation that had carried her through the day had begun to ebb. Her
head throbbed and she felt her mood changing rapidly.

She met the eggplant coming out the door of his office. He
looked at her briefly, nodded indifferently and moved toward the corridor. It
was obvious that his level of engagement about the case was nil. Nor did she
have the energy to attempt to put new life into it. She'd do her duty, the
minimum.

Cates lifted his head from the files he was reading and
watched her as she came forward to her desk.