Bodies in Winter (2 page)

Russo leads Spott through a gate in the railing, then shoves him toward the cells at the rear of the building. ‘Hi ho, hi ho,' he sings, ‘it's off to jail we go.'

Smiling at his partner's little joke, David Lodge trails behind.

Five minutes later, Dante Russo emerges to announce, ‘The prisoner is secure and Officer Lodge is off to the hospital.'

‘You think he's sober enough to find his way?'

Russo starts to defend his partner, then suddenly changes tack with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Dave's out of control,' he admits. ‘If I wasn't there tonight, who knows what would've happened. I mean, I been tryin' to straighten the guy out, but he just won't listen.'

‘I coulda told you that when you took him on as your partner.'

‘What was I supposed to do? I was told that nobody wanted to work with him. I'm the union delegate, remember? Helping cops in trouble is part of my job.'

The conversation drifts for a bit, away from David Lodge, finally settling on the precinct commander, Captain Joe Hagerty. Crime is up in the precinct for the second straight year and Hagerty is on the way out. Though his replacement has yet to be named, the veterans fear a wholesale shake-up. Dante Russo, of course, at age twenty-five, is far from a veteran. But he's definitely a rising star within the cop union, the Patrolman's Benevolent Association – a rising star with serious connections. Dante's uncle is the Trustee for Brooklyn North and sits on the PBA's Board of Directors.

They are still at it thirty minutes later when Officers Daryl Johnson and Hector Arias waltz an adolescent prisoner into the building. Dwarfed by the two cops, the boy is weeping.

‘He done the crime,' Arias observes, ‘but he don't wanna do the time.'

‘Found him comin' out a window of the Sung Ri warehouse on Gratton Street,' Daryl Johnson adds. ‘He had this TV in his arms; the thing was bigger than he was.' Johnson gives his prisoner an affectionate cuff on the back of the head. ‘What were ya gonna do, jerk, carry it all the way back to the Bushwick Projects?'

‘Put him in a cell,' Whitlock says, ‘and notify the detectives. They'll wanna talk to him in the morning.'

‘Ten-four, lou.'

Not more than two minutes later, Daryl Johnson returns. Johnson is a short overweight black man long renowned for his deadpan expression. This time, however, his heavy jowls are lifted by an extension of his lips unrelated to a smile. ‘That mope locked up back there? I mean it's none of my business, but who does he belong to?'

‘Me,' Russo responds. ‘Why?'

‘Because he's dead is why. Because somebody caved in his fucking skull.'

The evidence implicating David Lodge in the death of Clarence Spott is compelling, as Ted Savio explains in the course of a fateful meeting at a Rikers Island jail several months later. Ted Savio is Lodge's attorney, provided gratis by the PBA.

Although Savio's advice is perfectly reasonable, Lodge is nevertheless reluctant to accept it. Lodge has been ninety days without a drink and the ordeal of cold turkey withdrawal has produced in him an almost feral sense of caution. Alone in his cell day after day, he has become as untrusting as an animal caught in a snare. At times, especially at night, the urge to escape the inescapable pushes him to the brink of uncontrolled panic. At other times, he drops into a black hole of despair that leaves him barely able to respond to the demands of his keepers.

‘You gotta face the facts here, Dave,' Savio patiently explains. ‘Which, I note, are lined up against you. You can't even account for your movements.'

‘I had a blackout. It wasn't the first time.'

‘You say that like you maybe lost your concentration for a minute. Meanwhile, they found you passed out in the basement, the empty vodka bottle at your feet.'

‘I knew that's where it was kept,' Lodge admits. ‘But just because I was drunk doesn't mean I killed Spott.'

‘You had the victim's blood on your uniform and your blood was found on the victim.'

‘That could've happened when we subdued the mutt.'

‘We?'

‘Me and my partner.'

‘Dave, your partner didn't have a drop of blood on him.' Savio makes an unsuccessful attempt at eye contact with his client, then continues. ‘What you need to do here is see the big picture. Dante Russo told Lieutenant Whitlock that he had to pull you off Clarence Spott. He said this before the body was found, he repeated it to a Grand Jury, he'll testify to it in open court. That's enough to bury you all by itself, even without Officer Anthony Szarek's testimony.'

‘The Broom,' Lodge moans. ‘I'm being done in by the fucking Broom.'

‘The Broom?'

‘Szarek, he's a couple years short of a thirty-year pension and the job's carrying him. He spends most of his tour sweeping the precinct. That bottle they found me with? That was his.'

‘Well, Broom or not, Szarek's gonna say that he was present when you and Russo brought Spott to the holding cells, that he heard Russo tell you to go to the hospital, that he watched Russo walk away . . .'

‘Stop sayin' his name.' Lodge raises a fist to his shoulder as if about to deliver a punch. ‘Fucking Dante Russo. If I could just get to him, just for a minute.'

‘What'd you think? That you and your partner would go down with the ship together? Maybe holding hands? Well, Dave, it's time for you to start using your head.'

Lodge draws a deep breath, then glances around the room. Gray concrete floor, green cinder-block walls, a table bolted to the floor, plastic chairs on aluminum legs. And that's it. The room where he confers with his attorney is as barren as his cell, as barren as the message his attorney delivers.

‘Face the facts, Dave. Take the plea. It's not gonna get any better and it could be withdrawn.'

‘Man One?'

‘That's right, Manslaughter First Degree. You take the deal, you'll be out in seven years. On the other hand, you go to trial, find yourself convicted of Murder Second Degree, you could be lookin' at twenty-five to life. Right now you're thirty-seven years old. You can do the seven years and still have a life left when you're paroled.'

Though Lodge believes his lawyer, he still can't bring himself to accept Savio's counsel. At times over the past months, he's literally banged his head against the wall in an effort to jog his memory. Drunk or sober, he feels no guilt about the parts he can vaguely recall. Yeah, he tuned-up Spott. He must have, because he remembers Russo driving to a heavily industrial section of Bushwick north of Flushing Avenue; remembers turning onto Bogart Street where it dead-ends against the railroad tracks, remembers yanking Spott out of the back seat. Spott had resisted despite the cuffs.

But Spott deserved his punishment. He'd committed a crime familiar to every member of every police force in the world: Contempt of Cop. You didn't run from cops, you didn't disrespect them with your big mouth, and you never, under any circumstances, hit them. If you did, you paid a price.

That was it, though, as much as Lodge remembered. To the best of his recollection he'd never entertained the possibility of murdering a prisoner. Never.

‘What if I'm innocent?' he finally asks his lawyer.

‘What if there's a million black people residing in Brooklyn who already think you're guilty?' his lawyer replies.

ONE

10:00 AM, Tuesday, January 15; seven years later

T
here's something about bodies in winter that gets to me. I'm referring to bodies found out of doors on weekday mornings when an ambient temperature of twenty-one degrees is reinforced by a wind cold enough to crack the porcelain on your teeth. Mornings when a malevolent sun glares down from the bluest of innocent blue skies, when blood congeals into greasy black balls that resemble nothing so much as rabbit droppings on a suburban lawn.

When I first saw David Lodge I wanted to cover him with a blanket, to comfort him, to preserve the heat of his body. I wanted to compensate him for having the misfortune to be murdered in January. He was lying at an angle in a tiny yard, his feet pointing out towards a low railing dividing yard from sidewalk, his head nearly touching the foundation of a modest, two-family house. The house was on Palmetto Street in the Queens neighborhood of Ridgewood.

‘He tried to crawl away. You see that, Corbin? The wall stopped him.'

The voice belonged to my partner, Detective Adele Bentibi. Adele always called me by my last name. Not Harry, as I was generally known to my peers, but simply Corbin, with a heavy emphasis on the first syllable.

‘Show me.'

Adele gestured to parallel smears of blood running across the brown grass. ‘He got hit, went to his knees and tried to crawl away. The head shot finished him.'

We were standing on the street side of the railing, having made our way through and around an army of little paper flags that marked the resting positions of spent 9mm cartridges. The paper flags were numbered, one to thirty-three, and most had already blown over. Ahead of us, David Lodge was lying on his left side, one leg curled nearly into his chest. His left arm was bent beneath him, his right splayed out with the wrist twisted into a position so unnatural it could only have been produced by violent death.

There was blood everywhere. On the sidewalk, the railing, the grass and especially on David Lodge. His wool trousers were saturated with blood, from mid-thigh to the tops of his black engineer boots. But it wasn't blood loss that killed him, or at least I didn't think so. Lodge had a small bullet wound in his right temple, a little forward of his hair line. Though I couldn't see an exit wound from where I stood, a halo of spatter extending outward to stain the concrete foundation of the house guaranteed its presence.

‘How close was the shooter?'

‘Within a few inches of the vic's temple.' She pointed to a small object next to Lodge's right ear. ‘You see the brass? The shooter had to be leaning down with the gun twisted to the right for the brass to end up that close to the body.'

I think Adele would have liked nothing better than to jump the railing and examine each of Lodge's many bullet wounds. But the yard enclosing Lodge's body was no more than eight-by-ten feet and there was blood all through it. I could see a half-dozen shoe impressions from where I stood. Had they been left by Lodge's killer? Or by the first cops on the scene who'd checked for a pulse and ID on the victim? Whichever the case, there was nothing to be gained by adding to the chaos.

‘Are we done here?' I asked Adele. My toes were numb, as were the tips of my fingers, the tip of my nose and both ear lobes.

Adele shrugged, the gesture without sympathy. For her, foul weather was something you ignored in your quest for excellence. Adele often spoke about excellence, about bringing excellence to life's mundane tasks, and I could see it in her meticulous approach to small details. The larger tasks, on the other hand, the big picture, sometimes escaped her. Adele and her husband, Mel, for instance, were perpetually on the verge of separation. And then there was the simple fact that when it came to interviews and interrogations, she didn't have a clue.

A Crime Scene Unit step-van pulled up behind the cordon of vehicles on the north end of Palmetto Street, luring Adele's attention away from the crime scene. She shielded her eyes from the sun, then announced, ‘Ray Gutierrez.'

For a moment, I was caught up in the miniature suns reflected in her perfectly manicured fingernails. They formed shimmering white circles in the clear polish. But then her hand dropped to her side and she began to work her way toward the van, placing her feet carefully to avoid the scattered brass. I think she would have committed hari-kari before moving one of those casings so much as a millimeter.

Sergeant Ramon Gutierrez was a short balding man with a round belly that strained the front of his white jumpsuit. His perpetually sour expression (or so he once told me over drinks) had been honed by years of trying to extract physical evidence from scenes contaminated by the very cops charged with protecting them.

‘Anybody approach the body?' he asked.

‘The first uniforms on the scene.' I gestured to Officers Pearlman and Aveda. They were standing just inside a yellow streamer that extended all the way across the street, talking to their boss, Sgt Vinny Murrano.

‘Anybody else?' Gutierrez asked.

A blaring horn drowned out Adele's response. Thirty yards away, my own boss, Detective Lieutenant Bill Sarney, was parked at the curb. Impatient as always, he waved us over.

‘Bad news,' I told my partner as we hastened to obey. Sarney was a hands-off supervisor who only showed up when a particular job was likely to attract the attention of the bosses.

‘Why bad?' For Adele, the bosses' scrutiny was an opportunity to prove her worth. For me, the facts on the ground told another, much sadder story. If the investigation produced results, the bosses took the credit. If the investigation went bad, the rank-and-file caught the blame. Given that my promotion to detective, second grade, along with a transfer to Homicide Division, was almost a done deal, I'd just as soon have passed under the radar screen.

I glanced back at David Lodge as I approached the unmarked Caprice. He didn't look any warmer at a distance than he did up close.

The inside of Sarney's car was toasty-warm and I opened my coat to let in the heat. Sarney was sitting behind the wheel, alongside Adele. ‘Tell me what you've got so far,' he demanded.

‘We put out an alert,' Adele explained, ‘for a late model, four-door sedan, dark red.'

The
we
part wasn't strictly true. Sgt Murrano had put out the alert after interviewing a pair of eyewitnesses. That was before we arrived.

‘That mean you got witnesses?'

‘Two so far. They live upstairs.'

‘Did you speak to them?'