Streets of Fire (20 page)

Patterson shook his head. ‘Nope.’ He grabbed the sheet and pulled it back. ‘Let’s get started.’

Inside the drain, the heat was stifling. The sweet smell of putrescent flesh seemed to sink into everything, the piled clothes and candy wrappers, the sodden magazines, even the old junk television which rested on a stack of bricks a few yards away from the body.

Patterson worked methodically, his gloved hands picking relentlessly through the clothing, folding it into neat stacks, then bagging each article in its turn. Beneath the clothing, the body lay on its back, entirely naked. Its right hand still clung loosely to the handle of a twenty-two-caliber pistol. A single sheet was stretched beneath it. There were bloodstains near the top and around the middle.

‘Turn him over,’ Patterson said unemphatically, once the body was exposed.

From crouching positions inside the drain, Ben and Leroy rolled the body over onto its side, then let it tip, facedown, onto the sheet.

‘You got fixed lividity on the back,’ Patterson said routinely. He looked at Ben. ‘You don’t have it anywhere else. And that pretty much means this boy died right here. Nobody moved him, turned him over or anything like that. He died right here in this drain.’

‘When?’ Ben asked.

‘Hard to say,’ Patterson said with a shrug. ‘The heat throws things off. But I’d say sometime on Sunday night.’ He pointed to the side of the head. ‘And there’s the cause of death right there.’

Ben glanced down and saw a small hole about a quarter of an inch above the entrance to the ear.

‘Shot in the head,’ Patterson said, ‘just like that little girl.’ He picked up the small plastic bag that held the pistol. ‘Probably with this little twenty-two.’ He glanced down at the the body, his eyes moving from the wound, down to the shoulder, then along the arm to the outstretched hand. ‘From the angle, I’d say he could have done it to himself.’ He looked at Ben. ‘Murder-suicide,’ he said. ‘Neat as a pin.’

‘So he raped the girl,’ Ben said.

‘We can make sure the semen in her body and this boy’s blood type are the same,’ Patterson said, ‘but I’d guess that the blood at the top of the sheet is this boy’s, and that the blood in the middle of the sheet belongs to the girl.’

‘But even before that, he’d already killed her,’ Ben went on.

Patterson nodded.

‘Then he buried her in that ballfield,’ Ben continued. ‘Came back here and shot himself.’

‘That’s my guess,’ Patterson told him.

Ben glanced about the ravine, then looked at Patterson. ‘Where’s the shovel?’

‘What?’

Coggins smiled. ‘Where’s the shovel?’ he repeated.

‘The one he buried her with,’ Ben said. ‘We didn’t find it anywhere around the girl’s body. And we haven’t found it around here.’

‘He could have tossed it anywhere,’ Patterson said.

‘Why would he?’

‘To get rid of evidence, of course,’ Patterson said.

‘But he kept the gun he killed her with,’ Ben said, ‘and he kept a ribbon from her hair.’ He looked at Patterson doubtfully. ‘Does that make any sense to you, Leon?’

Patterson’s face darkened. ‘No.’ His whole body seemed to shift into a higher gear. ‘I’ll get all the lab stuff done as quickly as I can, Ben,’ he said. ‘It’ll take a few hours. Will you be home tonight?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll call you the minute I have anything,’ Leon assured him as he gathered the bundles of clothing into his arms and headed quickly toward his car.

After he’d gone, Ben walked back into the storm drain. It was almost entirely empty now, except for the battered television with its cracked screen, and a few fluttery bits of string and paper. Blood had soaked through the sheet and left wide rust-colored stains in the cement, but aside from them, the drain looked as if no human being had ever lived or died in it.

‘It’s not right, that ole boy having to live out here,’ someone said suddenly.

Ben turned toward the entrance to the drain, half-expecting to see Leroy crouched down and staring into it. But it was the watchman, his stooped body backlighted by the hard noon sun, his dark-blue eyes peering into the drain.

‘How well did you know him?’ Ben asked immediately.

The watchman shrugged. ‘Well as you could, him being the way he was.’

‘Did you ever see anybody else out here?’

The watchman shook his head. ‘He was always alone. But it didn’t seem to bother him all that much.’

‘Ever talk to him?’

‘Sometimes. So he killed himself, huh?’

Ben duck-walked his way out of the drain and stood beside the watchman.

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Or maybe he was murdered.’

The watchman looked surprised. ‘That right? I’d never of thought anybody’d want to hurt that boy. He was just like a little kid, you know.’ He smiled gently. ‘I mean, he didn’t know that there was anything wrong with him. With his head, I mean. He was just sort of happy-go-lucky.’ He looked back toward the drain. ‘Thought he was all growed up,’ he said, ‘just like you and me.’ He laughed silently. ‘Wasn’t afraid of nothing. Went out all the time. Claimed he was a policeman.’

‘Policeman?’ Ben asked.

‘Oh, yeah,’ the watchman said. ‘He had a little toy badge and a little toy pistol. Claimed he’s been deputized.’

‘We found the badge,’ Ben said. ‘The pistol, though – you said it was a toy.’

‘Yeah, a toy,’ the watchman said, ‘like a little cap pistol.’ The watchman smiled sadly. ‘He used to run around shooting it at things. Tin cans and such like that. You know, like a kid. Sometimes he’d stick it right up to his own head and shoot it off. “I’m dead,” he’d say. “I’m dead.” Then he’d fall right over on the ground.’ He glanced back toward the empty drain and shook his head ruefully. ‘We’re gonna miss that ole boy around the plant,’ he said. ‘An outfit always needs something funny hanging around.’

TWENTY-THREE

Fourth Avenue looked as if it had been hit by a gigantic thunder-storm as Ben drove Coggins back down toward Police Headquarters. Small oily streams flowed slowly down the gutters, pushing swirling clumps of debris along with them, and in the park across the street, long thin trenches had been dug into the earth and now rippled with pools of muddy water.

‘They can clean up all they want,’ Coggins said confidently, ‘but a demonstration leaves more behind than litter.’ His eyes shifted over toward the deserted park. Far in the distance a single fire engine winked bright red in the afternoon sunlight.

‘They can spray the streets forever,’ Coggins added. ‘They can try to make them nice and clean. But by the time it’s all over here, everybody in the world is going to know just how dirty Birmingham really is.’

Ben said nothing. He kept his eyes on the street ahead. A scattering of uniformed patrolmen was pulling down police barricades while a small contingent of the Highway Patrol watched lazily from a few yards away. One of their commanders stood in front of them, very tall and erect. His uniform was perfectly pressed, and his high black boots had been shined to a gleaming finish. He stepped out into the middle of the street, his eyes narrowing in concentration as Ben’s car approached.

Ben brought the car to a halt, and the commander stepped over to him.

‘This area is under heavy security right now,’ he said. He glanced at Coggins, then back at Ben. ‘Do you have some business being around here?’

‘I’m on my way to Police Headquarters,’ Ben told him. He took out his badge.

The commander glanced at the badge, but did not seem impressed. ‘What are you doing with this man here?’ he asked as he nodded toward Coggins. ‘Is he under arrest or something?’

‘No,’ Ben said. He glanced at the small black nameplate which had been pinned to the commander’s uniform: Halsey.

‘Well, we’ve had some trouble here today,’ the commander said, ‘and so we’re keeping a close eye on things.’

Ben nodded slowly. ‘Looks like it,’ he said. His eyes drifted to the right of Halsey’s body. He could see what looked to him like an unmarked police car, dark green and very dusty, with nearly treadless blackwall tires, parked at the edge of the park. Two men sat in the backseat, and as their faces moved in and out of the shadowy gray which engulfed the inside of the car, he could tell that one of them was Teddy Langley.

‘So my suggestion to you, Sergeant Wellman,’ the commander said, ‘is to get this man back to headquarters as soon as possible.’

‘Yeah,’ Ben said dully, his eyes still on the unmarked car.

Tod Langley suddenly emerged from behind one of the trees in the park, walked to the driver’s side of the dark-green car and got in.

‘It’s dangerous to be in this area right now,’ the commander concluded.

Ben did not answer. Instead he continued to watch as the car pulled out slowly and headed down the avenue. In the small square of light between the commander’s broad body and the end of Ben’s line of vision, Ben could see Teddy Langley’s eyes catch sight of him, then widen slightly as he peered at him through the dusty rear window of the car.

‘So be on your way,’ the commander said authoritatively as he stepped away from the car, ‘and be alert to what’s going on around you.’

‘Okay, thanks,’ Ben said as he pressed slowly down on the accelerator. In his rearview mirror, he could see the other car as it sped quickly up the still wet street. Its tires threw up a glistening fan of droplets which fell like a silver curtain through the bright air.

‘Well, I can’t say I’m exactly glad to be back,’ Coggins said as Ben closed the cell door.

‘You boys have a high old time, did you?’ McCorkindale asked with a laugh.

Ben continued to stare at Coggins. ‘I’ll let you know what I find out,’ he told him.

An odd, appreciative smile spread across Coggins’ face. ‘Thanks,’ he said. He wrapped his fingers around the bars of the cell. ‘And of course you’ll know where to find me.’

McCorkindale smiled slyly as he walked down the cellblock. ‘You two look like you’re getting real close,’ he said.

‘You’re going to be getting in some stuff from the Coroner’s Office,’ Ben told hiin. ‘Keep a real close eye on it.’

McCorkindale looked interested. ‘What kind of stuff?’

‘Evidence. From a homicide. A gun, at least. It’s being dusted now. The rest will be going to the lab. You probably won’t see that for weeks.’

At the end of the hall, McCorkindale dropped himself heavily into his swivel chair. ‘Well, I got your afternoon assignment,’ he said. ‘Captain Starnes gave it to me.’

‘What is it?’

‘Peace in the valley, Ben,’ McCorkindale said. ‘A real plum. You’re supposed to represent the department at Kelly Ryan’s funeral this afternoon.’ He tore a piece of paper from a steno pad and handed it to Ben. ‘He didn’t have no relatives. So they’re burying him fast. Here’s all the details.’

Ben glanced at the paper, then shoved it into his jacket pocket.

McCorkindale smiled happily. ‘I swear, Ben, you are getting the sweet treatment these days.’ He shook his head wonderingly. ‘Why, if it weren’t for me, I think you’d get all the cushy jobs.’

Ben smiled thinly, then stepped away.

‘One more thing,’ McCorkindale said quickly. ‘Captain wants to see you. He’s in his office.’

‘Okay,’ Ben said. He turned, then walked back down the corridor to Luther’s office.

Luther was hunched over his desk, his large hands wrapped around a ham and cheese sandwich.

‘Just grabbing a quick bite between crises,’ he said as Ben stepped into his office. He took a gulp of coffee, then wiped his mouth with the side of his hand. ‘Listen, I heard you got something on that little girl thing.’

‘Yeah.’

‘What is it?’

‘Well, we traced the ring we found on her to a colored man that used to live in one of those storm drains over at the rubber factory.’

‘Used to live?’

‘He’s dead,’ Ben said. ‘Shot.’

‘With what?’

‘A twenty-two.’

‘Same one used on the little girl?’ Luther asked.

‘Probably,’ Ben said. ‘We found the pistol in the storm drain. It was still in the guy’s hand. We’re checking to make sure it killed both of them.’

Luther nodded thoughtfully. ‘So it’s a murder-suicide, you think?’

‘Could be,’ Ben said. ‘People called this guy Bluto. He hung around a poolhall on Fourth Avenue. He was mentally retarded.’ He decided to keep his doubts about Bluto’s death to himself for the moment.

‘Good,’ Luther said. ‘Good job, Ben.’ He took another quick bite from the sandwich. ‘Well, I guess everything’s pretty much wrapped up, then.’

Ben nodded noncominittally. ‘We’re checking the guy’s blood to see if it matches the semen we found in the little girl.’

Luther seemed no longer interested in the details. ‘Sounds like it’s all over, Ben,’ he said, waving his hand dismissively. ‘Listen, did McCorkindale talk to you about the funeral?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s not the greatest assignment,’ Luther added, ‘but I figured you were the one to do it. Kelly wasn’t exactly the most popular officer on the force.’

Ben said nothing.

‘You don’t mind sort of being the department’s representative, do you?’ Luther asked.

‘No,’ Ben said.

‘Good,’ Luther said. He smiled. ‘You know how it is, when a cop goes down, there needs to be a little blue in the boneyard.’ He laughed. ‘No matter who he was.’

Kelly Ryan was buried at three o’clock in the afternoon in a small cemetery not far from his house. A single hearse delivered the body, and no one came with it but an old preacher who’d long ago been designated Police Chaplain and who usually showed up at cop funerals when no private minister was indicated.

‘Did you know Mr Ryan very well?’ the preacher asked as he stepped over to the grave.

‘No.’

‘I didn’t either,’ the preacher said. ‘I just got a call from the Chief’s office. They just said they needed me over here at the cemetery.’ He looked at Ben intently. ‘I don’t suppose there are any relatives?’

‘Not that I know of,’ Ben said. He shrugged. ‘I’m just here to represent the department, I guess.’

The preacher nodded slowly as his eyes fell toward the coffin. ‘I guess he was a good cop.’

Ben thought of Kelly alone behind the battered metal desk of the Property Room or standing by the rows of plain brown file cabinets that lined the walls of the Records Department, of Kelly trudging up the steps with one young girl on either side, taking them to their VD examinations, of Kelly in the bar, soaking up one drink after another: ‘I haven’t had a drink with a cop since I left Bearmatch,’ he’d said, his eyes lolling left and right as if almost unable to look a fellow officer in the eye.