Murder Mountain (2 page)

She finally was tired of waiting for me to say something and got to the point. “Do you have the Samantha Johnston file?”

I quickly scanned the two piles of cases that I hadn’t bothered to look through. “I’m not sure,” I stalled.

“Well, look then!” she snapped, “What have you been doing all day?”

I clamped my jaws together hard and started flipping through the files. Of course, it was on the bottom. I opened up the folder and scanned through the report.

I looked up from the report. “This is a missing person case…Why do I have it?” I asked her, more curious than irritated. “There’s no evidence of foul play.”

Captain Kincaid stood up and I truly thought my day was getting better, as it appeared she was leaving. No such luck.

She stretched her arms out and sat back down. “Her father is a good friend of Commissioner Phillips.”

Here we go,
I thought,
ladder-climbing time.

“Phillips called me this morning. Her father said the word on the street is that she was murdered. He wants this handled as a top priority.”

I sat there, stunned. “The girl is a twenty-three-year-old crack-head, probably laid up in one of the Detroit crack houses!” I said, incredulously. Mansfield has a strong connection to Detroit. Dealers come here, set up shop for a while, make their money, and leave. The problem is that they tend to leave a slew of unsolved shootings and other homicides in their wake.

“There isn’t one thing in this file to suggest otherwise,” I continued, and as my curiosity was satisfied, I became seriously angry. I had worked my tail off to get to major crimes, and this incompetent bitch was giving me a missing crack addict case.

“Actually, her father said that the tips came from Roseland, not the North End,” she replied with maddening calm.

Roseland, also known as Little Kentucky, is an area that borders the city’s North End district. The two are as different as night and day, but both are equally dangerous. The North End, around Ocie Hill, is predominately black and prime turf for the Detroit and local drug runners. Roseland, on the other hand, is pure white redneck hillbillies.

Back in the late 1960s, scores of people migrated from Kentucky to this area to look for jobs at the local steel mill. They lived in tents, and for a while, people called it Tent City. After that, the area became Little Kentucky and stayed that way. When actual homes started going up, most had dirt floors and blankets hanging for doors. Roseland has the highest crime rate outside the city limits. Although Ocie Hill and Roseland butt up against each other, there isn’t much border crossing going on. The last unsolved homicide we had, a little over a year ago, was in Roseland.

The steel mill had hired Curtis Williams, a nice, educated black man, for a management position. He moved here from Columbus and, not familiar with the area (God knows he should have asked), he bought a house in Roseland. The first four days, animal carcasses and garbage were thrown in his yard. The fifth day, he looked out his front window and saw a cross burning on his lawn. On the sixth day, Curtis Williams, age twenty-four, was found beaten and set on fire in his back yard. He had also been run over by a car.

Of course, not one person saw or heard anything, which is the norm nowadays in places like Roseland. The answers to police questions were either “I didn’t see nothing” or “I didn’t hear nothing.” Either people didn’t want to get involved, or they were too scared.

To this day, I am amazed how the sheriff kept that out of the media. Had he not, we would have had a small border war going on. People don’t realize things like that still go on in this day and age.

“Are you listening to me?” Captain Kincaid snapped.

I glared back. “I heard you. The tips came from Roseland.”

“That’s right. Make this your priority case until I tell you otherwise.” This was clearly an order.

I started to look at the other case files, sorting through them out loud, “Let’s see here: aggravated robberies, rapes, shootings, and aggravated burglaries, all taking a back seat to a missing crack whore. I certainly hope you’re prepared to explain to all of these victims why their cases are not being worked on.”

“The cases will be re-assigned to the other detectives and I want you to start on this today. I’m sure the Commissioner will be calling me frequently for updates.”

At that point, I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut any longer. “Captain, if I may be so bold as to ask, but since you did, exactly what is your problem with me?”

She actually smiled. I didn’t. “Believe it or not, CeeCee, I don’t have a problem with you at all. The reason I’m giving you this case is that you’re the best, and everyone knows it. We’ve got a Commissioner involved, and I know I can count on you to dot your ‘i’s and cross your ‘t’s. I know you will be thorough, and if anyone can solve this, it’s you.” She smiled again and shrugged. “If she is laid up in a crack house, you’ll find her. If she really is dead, you’ll find that out too. Good luck to you.”

With that, she turned around and walked out of my office, and although I should’ve felt complimented, I didn’t. I knew it was all a lie. I do a damn good job as a detective, but she didn’t assign this case to me because of that. She had ulterior motives. I was sure of it.

At that moment, I heard what could only be described as snickering outside of my door; there had been an audience to my encounter with the Captain. I got up from behind my desk, walked out of my office, and into the hallway. Not surprised, I saw Coop, Detective Chris (Boz) Boscerelli, Detective Sean Michaels, and Detective Bill Sinclair, four of my glorious co-workers. I attacked Coop first.

“Hey Coop, next time you might want to tell me she’s right outside my door. She heard me!” I was angry, but I was outnumbered.

They all still just stood there and grinned.

“Exactly what is the joke?” I growled—my patience nonexistent.

Boz piped right up. “Nothing like seeing two hot women at each others’ throats to end my day on a good note for once.”

I should have known. Until the day I am dead and rotting, I will never understand their fascination with Kincaid and I arguing. Boz, also in his mid-thirties, had to be the crudest of the bunch. Twice divorced by the age of twenty-nine, his main goal in life was to see how many women he could nail by his fortieth birthday, regardless of looks or possible venereal diseases. With his hair oil and ten pounds of gold jewelry, he stereotyped a greasy Italian pimp to perfection.

“That’s lovely, Boz. I’m thrilled that you’re happy,” I curled my lip at him.

Now it was Sinclair’s turn. “I gotta disagree with you guys for once. Kincaid’s a hot chick and all, but she’s the only hot chick that makes me want to turn gay the minute I see her.”

Sinclair was the oldest of us all. He had only three years until retirement. He looked like your regular old-time street cop, with an overweight body, a bald head, a bushy gray mustache, and rosy plump cheeks. He was on his third marriage and was putting his two kids through college. The cost of college tuition loomed large in his life. He was constantly complaining about it.

“Not me,” said Boz. “She’s hot. Yup, definitely one-night-stand material.”

I couldn’t believe I was actually standing there listening to this conversation.

Apparently, the disgust showed on my face because Sean finally cut in and said, “Alright guys, enough.”

I wasn’t that disgusted. I grew up in a family of cops, my father and his two brothers still going strong here at the department. A third brother, shot in 1979, is now living nicely in Raleigh, North Carolina. I’d been hearing conversations like this one since I was five-years-old, but even I had limits sometimes.

Sean Michaels was another old-timer, although not as old as Sinclair was. He was the problem solver—his role in life. Sean always tried to make you feel better and to resolve whatever conflict you were having that day. He’d been married for 18 years and had four kids in college, who had yet to wind up in jail—a feat unheard of in the police world, where Hollywood marriages looked like the Bible belt.

Sean looked like a Nordic fisherman, with blonde hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. He also had one glass eye, the result of a shooting 15 years before. He’d been handling a domestic violence call when the perp (the bad guy) had grabbed a .40 caliber Glock handgun and started firing at him. Sean ducked for cover behind a wall of wood paneling and then stuck his head around the corner to fire back at the perp. Just as he did, the perp fired a round off, striking the wood directly next to Sean’s face. The wood exploded from the impact of the bullet and a large fragment of it went directly into Sean’s right eye.

Sean had, miraculously, continued to fire back, fatally wounding the perp. He received the highest award the department gives out for that incident, and another criminal was dead and buried. On the flip side, when you talk to Sean, you can’t figure out if he’s looking at you or not because his eyes seem like they’re all over the place. Mostly, I just look down or shuffle papers when I talk to him, but we were standing there in the hallway and I had to look at him when he talked.

“Hey, CeeCee, you used to be a model, right? Hey, you’re hotter than her, if that makes you feel any better,” he said, winking his glass eye.

“That was a long time ago, when I used to have a body and be alive, but thanks, Sean,” I said, politely.

“I still think you two should oil up and have a throw-down,” Boz insisted.

“Boz, would you control your hormones for one day, please?” I replied in my authoritative, professional voice, and then muttered, “I don’t know why she hates me so much.”

“She’s jealous ‘cause you are ten times the cop she’ll ever be, and she knows that,” Bill said. “She worked uniform patrol for what, a whole year and a half before she went into an office? She doesn’t know a goddamn thing about police work, CeeCee. Plus, like Sean pointed out, you’re better looking than her, and that really hacks women off.”

“I really don’t believe that’s the case, Bill, but thanks anyway. She just gave me some crazy missing-persons case and ordered me to work on it and nothing else.” I explained.

“Yeah, I overheard her talking about that on the phone this morning,” said Coop, scratching his nose. “It’s political back-scratching time. You realize that, don’t you? Her ultimate goal is to make Major, if not Chief Deputy, and Commissioner Phillips is the man who can make that happen.”

“Whatever.” I looked at my watch. “I gotta go. I want to run home and see Eric and the girls before I work the road tonight.”

“I will never,” said Coop, “in a million years, understand why you subject yourself to that cesspool out on the street when you don’t have to. You’ve got it made up here. Why do you work uniform?”

“Because, as I’ve told you ten times before, I think it’s important to stay true to my roots.” I meant every word.

Usually when people are promoted to detective, they take their uniforms, throw them in a closet, and never look at them again except for funerals. I don’t believe in that. The road, which is what we call uniformed road patrol, is where everybody starts. I don’t think I can be as effective as I want to be in my current position if I’m not in touch with what’s happening on the street. Detectives often forget how horrible working the street is, and I think taking my turn with it keeps me humble.

So about once a month I sign up to work overtime on the road for a shift or for half a shift. Not only do I keep the cases that I have to work on from nagging me for a while, but also I get to go out, run around, and even kick someone’s ass if the situation calls for it. Plus, I catch up on all the good gossip from the patrolmen. My husband is on the road. He’s been doing it for 18 years and has no desire to do anything else. He has as much fun now as he did when he first started. As each year goes by, however, he rises to the top of the list for departmental uses of force. He and I are both really proud of this.

I turned and moved quickly back into my office to grab my purse and my briefcase. Sean followed me to the door and asked if I needed any help getting the missing-person case started. I told him not to worry, that I’d make some calls on my way home, and thanked him for his offer. Once I was in the parking lot, I headed for my powder-blue, department-issued, sticks-out-like-a-sore-thumb Ford Crown Victoria detective car, unlocked it, got in, released a long sigh, and drove home.

Twenty minutes later, I parked my car and went into my house through the garage’s interior side door, as I always do. And, as always when I walked in, both my girls were standing in the mudroom waiting for me. Selina, my eight-year-old, and Isabelle, my three-year-old, stood at that door every day anticipating my arrival. I listened while both, talking at the same time, gave me a play-by-play of their day at school. When I was finally able to take my shoes off and put my car keys down, Eric walked into the kitchen, bringing on the butterflies in my stomach that I still got when I saw him, even after ten years of marriage.

“Hi, baby,” I said, putting my arms around him and giving a squeeze. “I missed you!”

“I missed you, too,” he said after my hug. “Why don’t we go upstairs and I’ll show you just how much.” He began kissing and nibbling on my neck.

“Hmm, that sounds wonderful, but the girls are here, in case you forgot, and I also have to start getting ready soon.”

“Your uniform is laid out on the bed,” he said, still kissing my neck.

Although I hated doing so, I gave him one last kiss and started upstairs to the bedroom. I was glad I wasn’t starting my shift until six o’clock. Summers in Ohio are just as bad as the winters. Everything is extreme one way or the other. The humidity is so thick it feels like you’re breathing mashed potatoes.

It was only the end of May, but we were in the middle of a record-breaking heat wave, and it was indeed hot. The black polyester uniform shirts don’t breathe, don’t let the sweat evaporate, hold all the heat in, and are utterly miserable to work in—heat magnets. I think the high that day had been around 89 degrees, but since I’d been in an office all day, I hadn’t paid much attention. It would still be hot when I went in. I hoped it wouldn’t be too uncomfortable, though.