The Corporal Works of Murder (5 page)

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Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie

BOOK: The Corporal Works of Murder
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“How awful,” Myrtle said the moment she saw them. It was almost as if she held them responsible. “She was such a nice young woman. We always talked when we waited for the elevator. She told me she was going to be married in the fall. And both her parents are alive. How will they cope?” She pressed her wet handkerchief under her runny eyes. “Who is going to tell them?”
“Don Donaldson and I are going over now,” Lieutenant Sweeney answered from his office. Donaldson, not the most popular guy at the Hall, headed the Vice Detail. “And we better get there before the press does.”
Kate checked her wristwatch—nearly four. “Where do the Spencers live?” she asked.
“In Lafayette.” Apparently Myrtle had looked up the information for whomever had the sad duty.
Kate sank down into her desk chair and stared out the window at the crowded James Lick Freeway. An angry horn blared. Tires squealed and more horns blasted their opinions.
In all this traffic, even with the siren on, I doubt if they'll make it across the Bay Bridge and into Contra Costa County before the media,
she thought, but hesitated to say. There was no sense making a bad situation worse. She closed her eyes. What shock and sadness awaited the Spencer family and Sarah's fiancé.
It is a blessing that we can't see the future,
she thought.
Who could bear it?
“Do we know why she was undercover?” Gallagher asked no one in particular.
The room was so quiet that Kate could hear the hum of the electric wall clock. Finally O‘Connor spoke up from his desk where he had been sitting silently, a feat for O'Connor. “No one seems to know except the Lieut and the big brass. It was evidently a hush-hush operation.”
Kate turned from the window. “She was from Vice,” she said.
“So it probably had something to do with prostitution,” O'Connor observed. “That would be my guess.”
“But she wasn't dressed like a prostitute. She looked more like an eccentric bag lady,” Kate said.
“That's odd.” Myrtle joined the conversation.
“I'm sure it was the hair,” Kate mumbled.
“Hair?” Myrtle propped herself on the edge of Kate's desk.
“Sarah had that unforgettable auburn hair. She needed to cover it in order not to be recognized.”
Myrtle looked impressed but the telephone rang before she had a chance to say anything.
“Why would they send a woman with such a distinctive feature undercover?” O'Connor asked.
Gallagher shrugged. “Beats me,” he said. “Maybe it was because she was young, eager, able to pull it off. Whatever. That's not our department. Donaldson has to answer for that and he probably feels like hell already.”
He turned toward Kate. “We need to get statements from any eyewitnesses. First thing tomorrow morning we'll start along Eighth Street—the New You Tattoo parlor, the American Asian Food Market, McCormick's Auto Parts and, of course, the Refuge. Why are you staring at me, Kate? Did I say something wrong?”
“Was I staring?” she asked. “I was just thinking, that's all. As O'Connor said, it is peculiar to send someone undercover whose appearance is so distinctive.”
“I'm sure Donaldson has a perfectly logical explanation.” Gallagher loosened his tie.
“Maybe,” Kate conceded. “And there's another thing—”
“What's that, Katie-girl?” Gallagher had begun to fill out the report.
“Did you bag any empty shells at the scene? I didn't see any brass on the sidewalk.”
Her partner looked up frowning. “No,” he said.
“Makes you wonder,” she said. “Was our perp so neat and tidy that he stopped and picked them up? Or does he know something about crime scenes?”
“I just assumed they were in the street and that the tech team collected them,” Gallagher said.
“Could be.” Kate stared thoughtfully into middle space.
“We'll get the perp, Katie-girl,” Gallagher assured her. “Don't you worry. We'll get him if we have to turn over every rock in this city, we'll get him. Nobody gets away with killing a cop.”
For the rest of the afternoon Sister Mary Helen could think of nothing but the shooting death of the young undercover policewoman. Her mind would not let go of the image—the lifeless body lying like a brown mound in the middle of the dirty sidewalk. No one should die like that. Nor could she shut off the memory of the dying woman's last word. “Pity,” she had whispered. Surely God would show her pity. The poor soul was little more than a kid.
Neither Crazy Alice's maniacal giggle nor Miss Bobbie's gentle prattle was able to distract her. Her body seemed to be on automatic pilot. She was vaguely aware of handing out soaps and toothbrushes and hand lotions on request, although she'd be hard pressed to name any of the recipients.
She didn't really remember saying good-bye to Ruth, who was nowhere to be found. Obviously, the volunteer had gone home.
At closing time the Refuge was still crowded. It was as if the women were loath to leave. Were they afraid to go back to the streets where they might stumble upon the murderer, or were they just afraid of missing something?
All afternoon Junior Johnson's shocking revelation that the victim was a police officer went around and around the room, embellished with every circle until it played like a full-length movie. The last time Mary Helen had caught a snippet of the story, the officer had been undercover to capture a crazed killer of homeless women. He was a vicious man that several of the refugees were sure they'd seen.
“Bet he be that new guy hanging at the Go-Go Market on the corner,” Peanuts said. “And now that I thinks about it, I seen him at the tattoo parlor, too.” She pointed toward the storefront.
“I think you be right,” Venus nodded solemnly.
Miss Bobbie sucked in her breath and Mary Helen felt a shiver of fear run up her own spine.
“You all crazy,” Geraldine said. “Scaring your own selves to
death. It was probably just some fool kid with a gun showing off.”
“Well he sure did hit the wrong target,” Peanuts said, obviously annoyed that her story had not received the consideration it deserved. “Tomorrow the whole neighborhood will be full of cops.” Her remark silenced them all.
“We're going to close now, ladies.” Anne sounded almost apologetic, although there was no doubt that she meant business.
After a few moments of fussing with their plastic bags just to remind her who was really in charge, the last of the group shuffled out into the street.
“We better get home before the five o'clock news,” Anne said, quickly locking up.
Mary Helen checked the lights. “What's the hurry?” she asked.
“It's just that a little while ago I saw the Channel 5 TV van rolling down the street. Since you're the one who was with her when she died, they might want to talk—”
Mary Helen didn't let her finish the sentence. “Quick,” she said. “We're out of here.”
Officer Mark Wong and his partner, Brian Dineen, usually began their shift at 4 P.M. Today both of them reported in early and they were not the only ones. News of Sarah Spencer's death had spread quickly. The room was crowded with those coming in early and those staying after shift. Under other circumstances, the Detail would be alive with banter and horseplay. Today voices were hushed and conversations somber.
“It's a goddamn shame,” Brian said, running his fingers through his short red hair, still wet from the quick shower he'd taken before leaving home. “A goddamn shame!” He loomed in the doorway like a brooding bear.
“You can say that again.” Mark sat on the edge of Jack Bassetti's desk. “Gallagher and Jack's wife caught the case,” he said.
“Bummer,” someone remarked.
“Right, but they'll get plenty of help.” Mark cleared his throat. “Susie just called—Susie Chang from the Chief's office,” he explained unnecessarily. Everyone knew that Susie Chang worked for the Chief and that she and Wong were an item.
“Susie who?” someone joked.
The flush on Wong's face was the only indication that he'd heard the question. “According to Susie, the Chief is giving this case top priority. Wants us to roust everybody.”
“Damn right!” someone said.
Brian glanced toward the darkened corner office. “Where's the lieutenant?” he asked.
“Gone with Lieutenant Sweeney from Homicide to break the news to Sarah's parents.” Jack gave a doleful smile. “What a helluva job,” he muttered.
“Got any ideas who our perp could be?” “Who was she getting too close to?” “Anybody know what she was working on?” “Why wasn't somebody covering her?” Questions bounced around the room like ping-pong balls and no one seemed to have any answers.
“Let's roll,” Brian Dineen said at last and Mark Wong was glad to oblige.
“I'll circle the neighborhood. You look,” Brian said, settling behind the wheel.
The two had been partners for so long that Wong didn't need to ask, “For what?” Not only were they partners, but they were also good friends. “You got to be friendly,” Mark always said, “when you trust a guy with your life.”
Their difference in height—Brian was six foot three inches and Mark was five foot seven—caused the other guys in Vice to refer to them as “the long and short of it.” Ironically, Brian was also the long of it on patience while Mark was, well, not. “What
he lacks in height, he makes up for in fight,” Brian often joked.
Mark Wong felt that his partner was onto something, although Brian's bulk usually kept him from being put to the test. Tonight, he hoped, would be no different.
Deliberately the police car crept down Jones Street toward Market. Dineen stopped for jay-walking pedestrians while Wong scanned the street, peering into darkened doorways, hoping to spot anyone who might prove helpful.
He ignored two drunks on the corner—one hollering and pushing, the other barely able to stand. The beat cop would pick them up. Several prostitutes strolling Ellis Street quickly began to window shop when they saw the familiar car. He ignored what he knew was the drug deal, memorizing the two guys' faces so he could go after them later. Right now top priority was what had happened to Sarah Spencer.
“Look. Is that Olivia?” Brian asked, “If it is, she's got to know something.”
Peering into a darkened alley, Wong spotted a skinny white woman with platinum hair fixed in an Afro. It had to be Olivia. Her hairdo always reminded Wong of a dandelion gone to seed, much as poor Olivia had. In her heyday her street name had been Candy, presumably because she was so sweet and desirable. Time had not been kind to Olivia. Although her hair was still platinum, it was brittle from too many years of bleaching. She was thin—too thin—and her eyes were too hard to make her look either sweet or desirable.
“Want to see what she can tell us?” Brian asked, pulling over to the curb.
Wong rolled down his window and watched Olivia stiffen.
“What the hell do you guys want?” she hissed. “Don't you know you're bad for business? Leave me alone.”
“Can't you give us a minute?” Wong asked.
“No!” Olivia's eyes blazed. “Can't you see I'm busy? A girl's got to work to eat.”
“Just a minute?” Wong repeated.
Olivia shivered. The fog was beginning to shift into the downtown area, forming little haloes around the streetlights. Goose bumps ran up the woman's bare arms. Her toes crammed into high-heeled sandals were white with cold.
Wong felt a sudden pity for her. Not only must she be freezing, but she must also be hungry. What a helluva way to live! He made a great show of checking his wristwatch. “It's dinner time for us,” he said. “How about we buy you some dinner while we talk? That way you won't run the risk of missing a meal ticket.”
Olivia looked skeptical but she didn't say no.
“How often does anyone offer you a free meal?” Wong coaxed.
“There's no such a thing as a free meal, Wong. You know that. Especially dinner.” Olivia sneered but Wong could tell she was already deciding what to order.
Officer Brian Dineen drove to Sam's Café, a small coffee shop just off Market Street. Sam, the owner, led them to a booth in the back where they could have a little privacy and where they wouldn't frighten off any of his other customers.
“I really don't know nothing,” Olivia said, studying the flyspecked menu.
Wong watched her lips move while she read the choices and waited until she'd finished before he spoke. “You must have heard that a police officer was killed today,” he said quietly.
“You'd have to be deaf, dumb, and blind to have missed that,” Olivia snapped. She poured a little mound of salt on the table and began to play with it.

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