Sacrificial Ground (2 page)

Frank brushed his hand away. “No more Good Samaritan shit, Alvin.” He nodded toward the chair opposite the sofa. “Sit down. Relax. I'm all right.”

“No, you're not,” Alvin said. He dropped the cloth into Frank's lap. “Do it yourself, then.”

Frank picked up the cloth and held it against one swollen eye. “Thanks for coming to get me,” he said quietly.

Alvin nodded quickly. “What happened?”

Frank shrugged. “There were a few of them. I'll settle up.”

Alvin leaned forward in his seat. “No, you won't, Frank. You either file a formal complaint and let the department handle it—I mean a formal complaint, the paperwork, everything—you either do that, or you forget it.” He shook his head exasperatedly. “You can come into headquarters in the morning looking like you just got hit by a bus. That's fine, no questions asked. It's all been handled. But you go after those guys, that's it, Frank. You're hanging by a thread anyway, and I can tell you, the department'll slam-dunk you for the smallest thing. You might say, they're looking for a reason.”

Frank glanced away wearily, his eyes staring at the naked bulb which hung in the small kitchen.

“You're a good man, Frank,” Alvin said, with a sudden gentleness, “but you got bad weaknesses. Remember what Daddy used to say: ‘The weakest thing in the world is a strong man who can't control himself.'”

Frank shifted his eyes over toward his brother, but said nothing.

“I mean, you got to pull it all back together somehow, Frank,” Alvin continued. “You got to learn to finish things. You know what I mean? You went to college for three years, busted your butt in night school, then, after all that, dropped out.” He shook his head. “Then you married Sheila.” He squinted slightly. “How long you married to her, eighteen, nineteen years?”

“Twenty,” Frank said.

“Then divorce, after all that time.”

“I married her when I was nineteen and she was seventeen, Alvin,” Frank said.

“So what? It's still the same problem,” Alvin said. “You don't finish things.”

Frank swabbed his neck with the dishcloth. It felt very cool against the morning heat that was beginning to rise all around him.

Alvin looked at Frank pointedly. “Sheila wasn't so bad,” he said. “Okay, maybe you two weren't made for each other. Who is, Frank? Grow up.” He glanced around the room, taking in its dishevelment. “At least she kept a clean house, had a hot meal on the table for you when you came home.”

“That's not a marriage, Alvin.”

“And this, the way you're living, you call this a life?”

“It'll do,” Frank said quietly. He stood up, walked to the window and parted the blinds. “I'm on duty today at eight.”

“I got the afternoon tour,” Alvin said wearily.

Frank released the blinds and returned to the sofa. “How's Mildred these days?” he asked.

“She'll do,” Alvin said. “Says maybe I should let you go, just like Sheila did.”

Frank shrugged. “Well, maybe you should, Alvin. I mean, what the hell, right?” He cleared his throat roughly, then changed the subject. “How's Maryann?”

“Fine,” Alvin said. “Dating a quarterback.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the badge and tossed it to Frank. “Patrolmen found this in the alley.”

Frank placed the badge on the small table in front of the sofa. “I'll thank them.”

“Where was your service revolver?” Alvin asked pointedly.

“I left it home.”

“You're supposed to have it with you all the time.”

“I don't think that's a good idea for me.”

“Could have saved you a beating.”

“Or got me something worse, like a manslaughter rap if I'd smoked one of those guys.”

“Still regulations, Frank,” Alvin said. “Next time, take it with you.” He stood up. “I'm heading home now.” He glanced at his watch. “Might be able to grab an hour of shut-eye.”

The phone rang as Frank stood up to walk his brother to the door. He answered it immediately. It was Pitman at headquarters, making a last call before leaving duty.

“You fit for a tour?” Pitman asked.

“Yeah.”

“We've got a body off Glenwood. Feel like checking it out?”

“Okay,” Frank said. He reached for the small pad beside the phone and copied down the address as Pitman gave it to him.

“Sure you're up for it, Frank?” Pitman asked.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Frank said, trying to bring some lightness into his voice. “Just a little tussle.”

He hung up and glanced at Alvin, who was poised, waiting, at the door.

“What is it?” Alvin asked.

“A body.”

Alvin smiled wearily. “Oh,” he said, “one of those.”

Caleb Stone was already at the scene when Frank arrived. He was the old man of the division, full of what appeared almost ancient wisdom about the ways of men and murder. He'd been born into a tenant farmer family in south Georgia, and his early years had been spent picking a rich man's cotton from dawn to dusk. He'd moved to Atlanta at the age of twenty, brought there by his mother, who worked in the huge brick textile mill which still stood at the border of Cabbagetown, and which, in a sense, served as its monument, towering over the unpainted wooden tenements in which its workers lived.

Caleb lumbered over to meet Frank and squinted hard. “Heard you had a little trouble,” he said, “but I didn't figure you for this kind of whupping.”

“Three of them,” Frank explained.

They were standing at the edge of a large deserted lot. The surrounding buildings were squat, brick constructions, an evangelical storefront church stood at one corner of the lot, a small auto parts store at the other.

“Nice neighborhood,” Caleb said with a slight grin. “Ask God what the trouble with the Ford is, then march right over and buy the part.”

“What have we got here, Caleb?” Frank asked.

“What we got, Frank,” Caleb says, “is something that gives new meaning to the phrase ‘shallow grave.'”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning we got a body dumped in a hole and sort of covered over with dirt and grass and garbage, whatever was around that could be thrown on her.”

“Her?”

“A woman. From the look of it, more like a girl.”

“I see,” Frank said.

“Young girl. Pretty,” Caleb said. “That sort of puts the cherry on top.”

“How'd she die?” Frank asked.

“Don't know yet,” Caleb said. “Photo car didn't get here yet, and we can't move a thing till after the pictures.” He turned and pointed toward the center of the lot. A few patrolmen could be seen erecting crime-scene barriers and roping off the entire area. Knots of people, all of them black, stood staring at them from across the adjoining streets.

Caleb lit his pipe and eyed the crowd. “People do love to stare, don't they?” He smiled. “I remember back in the forties, Frank, why, hell, a few cops would take off through a neighborhood like this at full steam, siren louder'n hell, just shooting their pistols into the air.” He laughed. “Hiyo Silver, away.” He chuckled. “No more of that.”

“You didn't ever do that, did you, Caleb?” Frank asked.

Caleb turned from the crowd to look at Frank. “Once or twice,” he said softly, “but I stopped before I lost my soul. There's not a black in this division don't come to me for help now.” He turned back toward the vacant lot. “Funny thing is, the girl, she's white.” He looked back at Frank. “It's little things like that, Frank, that make life interesting.”

Frank did not answer. He looked away from Caleb and over to the vacant lot. It was high with summer weeds, dandelions and goldenrods. Kudzu twined about the rusty hulk of an old car at the far rear of the lot, and two patrolmen were already slogging through the thick growth of ragweed and briar to search it.

Caleb pulled a red handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his balding head. “Going to be a hot one, looks like.”

“They all are, this time of year,” Frank said indifferently. “Well, I'll go take a look.”

It was only about twenty yards from the sidewalk to the body, but it was heavy going all the way. The ground was pitted as if it had been under mortar fire, and the surrounding weeds grew more and more thickly as Frank neared the small patch of barren ground where the body lay.

“Morning, Lieutenant,” one of the uniformed officers said as Frank trudged forward.

Frank instantly recognized him as one of the men who'd pulled him up from the gutter only a few hours before. “You've had a busy morning, I guess,” he said.

The officer smiled sheepishly. “Yes, sir, I guess I have.”

Caleb came slogging through the brush, still mopping his face and neck. “Goddamn,” he blurted, “nothing but briar bushes and huckleberries in this whole damn lot.” He stopped, and nodded toward a group of patrolmen who stood at some distance talking quietly and glancing toward the ground.

“Right yonder, Frank,” Caleb said, pointing to a break in the undergrowth. “We found her fast, so it's not too bad.”

Together, they walked slowly over to a dusty area of ground and looked down.

Caleb pocketed his handkerchief, his eyes fixed, almost lovingly, on the body which lay sprawled before him. “I don't care what they say, you don't ever get used to it,” he said. He glanced at Frank. “That's what makes us good, Frank, we don't ever get used to it.”

The body lay face up in a shallow gully, and by the time the police photographers arrived, Frank felt as if he had been staring at it most of his life. Caleb stood beside him, pointing out various details, the lack of bloodstains in the parched ground which surrounded her, the lack of cuts or bruises, except on her feet and ankles (which were probably made by the body's being dragged through the briar of the lot), the fact that the wrists were not lacerated, nor the throat. Caleb ticked off the meaning of these things methodically.

“So, from the look of it,” he concluded, “I'd say the lab boys will have to put a label on this one. Wasn't shot, stabbed or strangled. Surely wasn't beaten up.” He took a draw on his pipe. “What do you think, Frank? Poison?” He tapped his shoe against the ground. “Too hard for footprints.”

Frank allowed his eyes to peruse the body head to foot. Summer winds had blown away most of the dust and debris with which someone had hastily covered it. He could make out the facial features quite easily. Her hair was blonde, her eyes blue, her skin pale, almost chalky. She had a full mouth with rather thick lips, and Frank could even make out that her teeth, at least the lower set, were perfectly even. She wore a light blue, shortsleeve blouse and a dark blue skirt with a white belt and gold buckle. There was a leather sandal strapped loosely to one foot, but the other was bare. She was of medium build and medium height. Frank guessed her at about five-four and one hundred ten pounds.

“What do you think, around sixteen?” Caleb asked.

“About that,” Frank said.

The photo crew were all around him now, taking shots from all directions. Frank and Caleb stepped back slightly to give them the angles they demanded.

Caleb tapped the pipe against the heel of his shoe, spilling the rest of the tobacco onto the ground.

“They'll find that damn tobacco and bag it as evidence, Caleb,” Frank said.

“Naw, they won't,” Caleb said, with an old-pro smile, “because I'll tell them it's Prince Albert from my own bowl.” He glanced about, taking in the few structures which stood in the vicinity. “No bedroom window for some sleepless bastard to be standing at last night when the body was dropped.” He placed the pipe in his jacket pocket. “They'll canvass their asses off, but it won't do any good. Just for looks, that's why they'll do it.” He smiled. “ 'Cause we fucked up that child-murders thing.” He looked at Frank. “Everything by the book from now on. But it won't make a goddamn bit of difference, and it'll waste a hell of a lot of time.” He lifted his head slightly and called to one of the patrolmen. “Hey, tell the boys from the lab crew that this tobacco down here belongs to Caleb Stone.”

The patrolman nodded, then gave him the thumbs-up sign.

Caleb turned back to Frank. “That ought to cover my ass.” He slapped his behind. “And this old ass needs a lot of covering.”

He ambled away then, tramping through the waist-high brush until he had made it back to his car.

Frank watched him as he drove away. Caleb was one of the few men in the department whom he either liked or respected. He wasn't very bright, but he was full of a kind of noble doggedness. He did his job well, and kept his troubles to himself. He had never asked about Sarah or the divorce, never pried into Frank's private life or opened up about his own. Even after years in the city, he had held to that backwoods silence in which Frank himself had been reared, and which he still admired, almost as a lovely artifact; it was a rare individual in modern, bustling Atlanta who still possessed it.

“We'll be through in a moment, Lieutenant,” Charlie Morton, the police photographer, said.

“Take your time,” Frank said casually. “Do it right.”

Charlie stepped to his side and took a shot. “Looks like she just laid down and died,” he said. He stepped around to the other side of the body, bent forward and snapped another picture. “Just walked out here and found herself a little spot of ground and laid right down,” Charlie repeated.

“With just one sandal?” Frank asked.

Charlie looked up quickly and smiled. “I guess that's why I just take the pictures, right?” He snapped another picture. “Pretty much caught her from every angle now, Frank.” He looked at the body. “Well, maybe one more.” He took a final photograph, waved that he was finished and hurried away to the photo car.