The Gone Dead Train (10 page)

He drove to the CJC an hour later to stand around in the squad room with the same detectives, the same stained carpet, and the same murder solve-rate charts that seemed to never resolve. Two changes hit him in the face. His desk had been shoved against the wall, and a copier now occupied the space where Lou once sat.

Billy left the squad with his reputation intact, but he guessed some of the guys had blamed him for being a ten-hour-a-day witness to Lou's disintegration without doing anything about it. Easy for them to point a finger, but he couldn't fix what was happening with Lou when he hadn't seen it. Even the best cops don't notice their wives having affairs. They don't see their kids doing drugs. They all have blind spots, their minds shutting out what their hearts can't accept.

Roll back the calendar to the time before Lou's wife walked out, and maybe he could have affected the man's over-the-top reaction to losing her. Lou had replaced his obsession with his wife for an obsession with a child, Rebecca Jane Bellflower. In some kind of twisted belief that he was rescuing the girl from abusive parents, Lou had locked Rebecca Jane in an apartment and built a fantasy world for her. The world had included his abuse.

Lou committed suicide. Rebecca Jane nearly died.

An older detective, recently transferred from burglary to homicide, waved Billy over to break the ice. Detectives Nance and Vargas stopped by for a chat. The consistency of their dickish personalities was almost comforting. Then Dunsford trudged into the squad room like a forlorn cartoon character with his sloping shoulders and brown loafers that needed a good wipe-down. He scowled in their direction and went the long way around to get to his desk. Obviously, he was still pissed about Billy's intrusion into Red's crime scene. That meant he'd probably complained during the daily briefing and made sure it was flagged in Billy's file. Dunsford could become a problem.

At 10:55, he headed to the twelfth floor for his 11:00 with Middlebrook. On the way, his mobile rang. It was Augie, the last person he wanted to talk to. He turned off his phone.

Middlebrook's young assistant, Roxanne, was on a call. She mouthed “Hello,” and pointed to the chief's door.

The chief moved from behind his desk to shake hands. In his fifties, he had the fit physique of a boss who worked hard to set a good example for his troops. He was a white-shirt, upper-management cop who never talked down to his men and was as forthright as his job allowed him to be.

The twelfth-floor offices were a major upgrade from the cramped quarters two floors below. On the window ledge behind the desk, the chief kept two Alabama Crimson Tide football trophies and three potted orchids—the finicky kind, not the grocery store variety. Some cops take up hobbies to keep the stress from killing them. Middlebrook had chosen orchids.

The chief put on a pleasant smile and leaned against the front edge of his desk. “Good to see you, Able. How did Atlanta suit you?”

“Nice city. Lots of opportunity there to grow.”

“Yeah, it's bigger, faster. The traffic's a killer. And their department is suffering even worse budget cuts than the MPD.”

“It's hard times everywhere,” he said, playing along.

Middlebrook nodded as he worked to decipher the tone of the conversation. “And how's your lady? I'm told she bakes world-class pies.”

“Mercy's great. Her business has really taken off in Atlanta.”

“Are there wedding bells coming up?” Middlebrook raised his eyebrows.

“Not yet, sir.”

“I see.” The chief changed the subject. “You been following MPD crime stats?”

“I've kept tabs. Home invasions and domestics are through the roof. Solve rates are down sixteen percent.”

“Half the city is afraid to leave their house. The other half check their semiautomatics to be sure they're loaded before they walk out the door. Over the next six months I'm going to lose three detectives. We're still badly shorthanded after losing you and Lou last year. You're one of our best, Able. You proved that last year with the Overton case. You handled yourself well in a bad situation. And we were all sorry to lose Lou.”

Billy started to say he knew the chief had graduated from the academy with Lou and that the loss was just as hard on him. But being at the CJC had made Lou's death fresh all over again. All he could manage was a thank-you.

“I feel I should remind you that if your leave expires and you haven't signed on, you won't be able to rejoin the force in the future. It's department policy. Don't let that happen.”

“Yes, I'm aware of that policy.”

“And if you join Atlanta's department, or any other for that matter, you'll have to start over. You could be years working up to homicide.”

“I hear you, sir. And I've been considering my options. There are a couple of things I would need to make up my mind.”

“You know I can't give you a raise,” Middlebrook said. He rubbed his chin. “What is it you need?”

“My old desk back. And I want it where it used to be.”

Relief broke on the chief's face. “Good. Then I can count on—”

He cut in. “There's one more thing.”

He spelled it out. Middlebrook started to argue, then reluctantly agreed. They shook on it.

“Glad you're coming back, Able,” the chief said, and checked his watch. “Roxanne will get you started.”

“I'd like a few days to settle in before I take on assignments.”

“That won't be a problem. You've been on leave longer than six months, so there's more paperwork. Get a complete physical and an eye exam, and qualify on the range. No new health issues, right?”

“I'm in good shape.”

“Then walk with me to the elevators.”

A group of detectives from the economic crimes squad walked past them. Middlebrook waited until he and Billy were alone at the elevator to put his hand on Billy's shoulder. “I hope your return means Mercy is moving to Memphis with you.”

“That's not going to happen, sir.”

“I'm sorry. It's been a rough year. You had your horse shot out from under you with Lou, but you're back now. Time to move forward.”

The elevator doors opened. “One thing, Able. Don't insert yourself in another detective's investigation. If it's not your case, stay out of it.”

Middlebrook stepped into the elevator. “I don't want a second complaint to derail your reinstatement.” The doors closed.

Round to Dunsford.

T
he next elevator took Billy to tenth-floor central records where Edgar Kellogg was manning the counter. Lou and Edgar had been good buddies. Trading on that relationship, Billy had called ahead and asked Edgar to locate the case file on Dahlia Poston and to pull criminal sheets on Red and Little Man.

“Got your files right 'cheer,” Edgar said as he walked in. Edgar was a wiry man, all Adam's apple and nervous energy. Billy had heard that as a young patrol officer Edgar developed a reputation as a badass with a billy club, breaking heads during the racial upheaval in Memphis in the late sixties. After a heart attack ten years ago, he'd lost forty pounds and chosen desk duty over retirement. Like Lou, Edgar knew where the political bodies were buried, so none of the bosses insisted he stand down.

Edgar gave him a register to sign and handed over the original file plus a stack of copies he'd made for Billy to take with him.

“Someone else requested the Poston file recently,” Billy said. “Would you check for that name?”

Edgar disappeared into the stacks and came back, a disgusted look on his face. “You're right. It's been checked out, but there's no name. The guy must have paid cash.”

“Did he sign the request register?”

Edgar cocked his head toward a round-hipped woman standing at a computer terminal. “I'm not the only person who works in this place, but I'm the only one who gets it right.”

Billy sat at a table and opened the file, wincing at the horrific eight-by-tens taken of Mrs. Poston's charred corpse sitting behind the wheel. He studied each photo of the burned-out Pontiac, particularly the close-ups of the fuel line and gas tank.

Cause of death was clear—Dahlia Poston had burned alive. According to the interviews, her son witnessed it. That kind of trauma could start a grown man on the road to psychosis, much less a little kid.

Manner of death was less clear. There was a ruptured fuel line to consider and the three-inch piece of wire fused to the inside wall of the tank. The wire suggested that an assailant could have run an electrical charge from the brake lights to the gas tank. Hit the brakes and the tank blows the car to smithereens. Simple and effective.

According to the notes, a Detective Travis had been familiar with the wire trick and looked for additional wire running to the brakes. At that time, forensics was an evolving science with limited equipment, little testing, and no techs. The detectives did the work themselves. Judging by the devastation of the car, if there had been additional wires it could have easily been missed, or the extreme heat could have destroyed it beyond detection.

Travis had also looked into the ruptured fuel line. The fireball had been so intense it destroyed the entire fuel system, making it impossible to tell if a defect in the system had triggered the explosion. However, the ruptured line's survival of the fire left room for reasonable doubt that it had been the cause.

Billy read through the file again. Even though Dahlia Poston had angered a lot of people, he saw no proof of criminal intent. Neither had Detective Travis nor the medical examiner. The legal system requires proof. There was none. The examiner had ruled the death accidental. Billy couldn't argue with his conclusion.

If this journalist had any experience reading case files, he would know the facts as presented did not prove Dahlia Poston had been murdered. Therefore, he lied if he'd made that statement to Augie.

There was one possible weak point. Billy went back to Edgar, who was leafing through files at the counter.

“Did you know Travis, the detective in charge of this case?”

Edgar snorted. “Pain in the ass.”

“Meaning?”

“Should've been a priest, not a cop. Never bent a rule in his life, never cracked a smile.”

“But a good detective?”

“He was that all right.”

“What about the medical examiner, Dr. Paul?”

Edgar's eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Dr. Thomas Paul. Another pain in the ass, just like Travis.”

“Is Travis dead?”

“Aneurysm. He collapsed on top of a corpse at a scene. Only time the guy ever fucked up.” Edgar chuckled. “Dr. Paul is gone too, if that's your next question.”

Billy would check the archives to verify Kellogg's opinion of Travis's track record. If Travis was that good at his job, his name would be all over the commendation lists.

“Do you remember the Poston case?”

“I remember the time. King had been shot, and we were all pulling double shifts. We put trouble down where we found it.” He pantomimed whipping out a baton and whacking someone. “Bam, bam. Don't nobody move.” He laughed and holstered his invisible baton. “The mayor, the director, the DA, the governor—all of them were trembling in their wingtips.”

Edgar had been an eyewitness to the times, a primary source. Billy thought about the stack of photos and the possibility that Edgar could identify the locations, maybe even the two guys in the shots. He would try to come by with the photos this afternoon.

He sat down to summarize his notes. Could the medical examiner have designated the case “undetermined” instead of “accidental”? Absolutely. The ruptured fuel line provided reasonable doubt, but only by the slimmest margin. Had Dr. Paul made his choice out of political expediency? Probably, but impossible to know. Would the DA have pushed to avoid sensationalizing the death of a controversial black woman? No doubt about it. But Billy wouldn't go into all of that with Augie. It would only encourage him.

Billy turned his attention to Davis's and Lacy's sheets. They were clean except for a few offenses of public drunkenness and vagrancy. What surprised him was finding reports that predated Katrina. The guys had put it out that they'd been forced to leave New Orleans because of the storm. Tacking on the word “Katrina” added sympathy to any hard-luck story, but that didn't seem like Davis's and Lacy's style.

Frankie had texted that she planned to research the Davis and Lacy cases after signing off duty today. When she finished, she would call. That left him to contact a friend at the medical examiner's office who could check on their autopsy reports. The medical examiner was back in town. The ME's findings would dictate how involved he could be in either case. A closed case, which was what he expected Red's to be, made it available to anyone. An open investigation would be off-limits, even to him, until his reinstatement, which was several days off.

As he walked out, he checked for Frankie's call. What he found were thirteen texts and six voice mails from Augie. They added up to one message: “Meet me at Rock of Ages Funeral Home, midtown.”

F
rankie's night shift dragged until dispatch notified her of shots fired during a home invasion. Turned out the burglar was the homeowner's soon-to-be ex-wife. After a girls' night out, the drunken woman had made the mistake of returning to her old address. When her key didn't fit, she crawled through the dog door. Her husband was waiting with an unlicensed Ruger .357.

Paramedics said the husband had only winged her. However, possession of the Ruger and the possibility that the man had seized an opportunity to shortcut an unhappy divorce put him in the back of Frankie's squad car. She transported the husband, still in his pajamas, to the Glamour Slammer, better known as the Criminal Justice Complex at 201 Poplar.