The Gone Dead Train (3 page)

He knew better than to ask, but he couldn't stop himself. “What's wrong?”

“Red Davis was found dead on the bench outside Central Station. He must have settled there for the night after we left. I caught the call a little before five. He was sitting up, chin on his chest, hands in his lap. Cold as a Popsicle.”

She stared across the river as if weighing how best to continue. “There's something at the scene you're going to want to see.”

He sighed inwardly. A dead body before breakfast means the whole day is going to be shit. “You said Red went to the ER a couple of days ago with chest pains.”

She paused. “That's right.”

“Did you check for bullet wounds or trauma?”

“Yes. There's nothing obvious.”

“Then Red's DOA natural. I'm sorry he passed, but the case will be closed.”

She gave him a long, loaded look. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I'm on leave. I can't step into another detective's case. What do you want from me?”

“I didn't like what I saw at the scene. Before I could figure out why, Detective Dunsford showed up.”

“Dunsford the Dud?” Billy laughed. “He's retiring in October. He's about as effective as a wet match.”

“Precisely.”

Behind them a tug running in the river's full current blasted its horn. He cleared his throat, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. “He'll do all right.”

“Dunsford's going to do a half-assed job. They'll close the case, throw Red in a trench at the Shelby County Cemetery, and push dirt over him. After you bought his ticket last night, I assumed you had some regard for the man.”

He let that one pass. “Red has folks in Chicago. Did you find their names on him?”

“No one's meeting him in Chicago. He told you that story to shut you up.”

She had him there. Something about Red's death had bothered her so much she'd gone to the trouble to track Billy down.

“What made you question the scene?” he asked.

She cocked her head. “You're the big-city detective. Take a look for yourself.”

If she thought leaning on him would do the trick, she was wrong. It wasn't nearly as effective as knowing that he'd left Red alone last night when he was in trouble.

He ran his hand through his hair. “We'll get coffee on the way. You're buying.”

F
rankie pulled over at Denny's on South Second for him to run in and grab a jolt of Mississippi Mud Coffee. Then she parked in front of Earnestine and Hazel's, around the corner from the crime scene. Billy could see Red's body already laid out on a gurney, encased in a white vinyl body bag.

While Frankie typed her report on the computer console, he drank coffee and tried to get his wits about him. He rolled down his window for some air. A prosperous-looking young couple, people from the new homes built on the bluff, waved as they walked past.

This part of town had been a different scene in the forties. Earnestine and Hazel's was a skinning joint back then with prostitutes working the warren of rooms over the bar. A variety of fools walked across the street from the train station, looking for a drink and some quick action from the ladies, only to regain consciousness with a knot on the back of their heads and their wallets emptied. A few blocks north, Beale Street had been home to gamblers, showgirls, street preachers, river men, blues players up from the Mississippi cotton fields, medicine men, voodoo priests, and housemaids. There was no more creative, stimulating, or dangerous fifteen square blocks in the country.

Billy noted the sun lighting up the peeled blue trim on the windows of E and H—the bar's nighttime potency having given way to exhaustion. What's enticing in the nighttime can look like hell in the morning. Daylight changes the nature of things.

He downed the last of his coffee and turned his attention to Frankie, who was speaking to him between rapid-fire keystrokes.

“Dispatch is pushing for this report on Davis. Dunsford isn't going to let me back on the scene, but he can't kick you out. Behind the bench you'll find a pile of plastic bottles. I dropped a small gray bag there, a conjure bag, used to transport
ebbos
.” She glanced at him. “That means charms or spells. I'd say we're dealing with Santería.”

She threw out
ebbos
as if she were comfortable with the word. Red had done the same. Billy knew almost nothing about the religion. Apparently Frankie did.

She read the text on the screen, tapped a key, and turned to him with the same earnest expression he'd had when he was a patrol cop.

“There's not much Santería activity in Memphis,” he said. “The big evangelical churches rule the city.”

“You'd be surprised by what's going on behind closed doors. I tried to explain the significance of the bag to Dunsford. He cut me off, told me it was trash and to throw it away. I couldn't let him toss evidence, so I squirreled it away behind the bench.”

“I'm guessing there's a voodoo potion in the bag.”

“Technically, it's not voodoo. The stuff looks like it came out of a vacuum cleaner bag: ground eggshell, pulverized coal, bits of a wasp nest, rock salt, guinea pepper. You knock it down in a blender then blow the dust into the face of the person you want to do away with.” She flattened her palm and blew air in his direction. “Poof. You're dead.”

“From eggshells?”

“In a believer's mind, it's a bona fide death curse. It could stop a person's heart.”

“Did any of that devil dust show up on Red?”

“His jacket and face looked dusty when I checked him over. Then I found the bag, but before I could compare the two, Dunsford showed up.”

Billy crumpled up his coffee cup. “I'm not saying you don't know what you're talking about, but I can't believe a savvy guy like Red is into that crap.”

“He's wearing a necklace of green and yellow beads. That's a Santerían collar. I found rooster feathers, a red bandanna, and a red apple in his pocket—all elements of a charm meant to counteract a curse.”

“No room for coincidence here?”

“Nope,” she said with certainty.

“You don't believe in this stuff, do you?”

She made a face. “You know a lot about the Delta blues. That doesn't make you a sharecropper with a guitar. I saw evidence of Santería at a number of Key West crime scenes. This appears to be death by natural causes, but it's a mistake to take Santería off the table.”

“Let's be clear. You got me out of bed to verify your theory that a voodoo curse killed Red Davis.”

“Santería isn't voodoo, but yes, I'd like to hear your opinion.”

He almost laughed at her cockiness. “You should take the promotions exam. You'd fit right in with the squad.”

“I took it a month ago. Scored ninety-eight percent. Three candidates are up for two positions in the investigative squads. I'm going to land one of them.”

Her score impressed him, but her attitude put him off. “Look. Most times, a heart attack is just a heart attack. I haven't heard how you're going to connect Red's death to this bag of dust.”

“Just take a look at his face.” She handed him a pair of latex gloves. “I have to sign off my shift. Give me a call when you're done.”

D
etective Don Dunsford was coasting through his final year on the force. The fact that his brother-in-law was a Memphis Police Association union rep along with Don's announcement that he would take early retirement at the end of the year had saved him from being slapped with probation for flunking the latest technical-training upgrade. He was never much of a cop. At this late stage, any case Dunsford caught was at serious risk of being underinvestigated. He had earned the nickname “the Dud.”

Billy ducked under the tape and headed toward Dunsford. He was standing next to the bench where Red's body had been discovered, wagging a clipboard in his face to create a breeze. Dunsford was a low-oxygen type, a mouth breather.

“What's up, Don?” Billy said in a cheery voice.

Dunsford stared at him, a little blank. “Hey. You back in town?”

Billy shrugged.

Dunsford shrugged back. His mobile rang. He answered and walked away as if satisfied their conversation was over.

Billy located the gray bag Frankie had described and snapped on gloves to scoop out a handful of the concoction: fine dust with bits of eggshell and lumps of wasp nest.

Dunsford strolled over. “You hear about the hiring freeze? I got four cases running. Could use some help.”

Billy dumped the dust in the bag and rolled off the gloves. “Any idea what happened here?”

Dunsford swatted the air. “Some Sambo named Davis died waiting for a train. Just another damned drunk.”

Billy's jaw tightened. Davis's talent and emotional fortitude made him worth a thousand fools like Dunsford. “The man deserves more consideration than that.”

“Naw. I didn't even call the ME's office. A waste of manpower. What's it to you?”

“My granddaddy was a black man. I'm thinking Mr. Davis might be my great-uncle.”

Dunsford's face swelled with suspicion, then he sneered. “So that's why you're always standing up for the coloreds. You were bred to it.”

He leaned into Dunsford's face. “My granddaddy got around. The white ladies loved him. I hope you and me aren't related.”

Dunsford's lips parted so a whiff of sour breath escaped. Then he laughed, showing a gold tooth on the side. “You're good, Able. Had me going.” He punched Billy on the bicep. Billy punched back harder and raised the conjure bag for Dunsford to see.

“You plan to use this in your investigation?”

“That little gal cop had her shorts in a wad over that thing. What's with you being so interested in trash?”

“I'm going to take a look at the body on the way out, see if I recognize a relative.”

Dunsford's eyes went cold. “That's not necessary.”

“I think it is.”

“Oh,
yeah
,” Dunsford retorted.

That response pretty much exhausted Dunsford's repertoire of comebacks, which meant he'd have to ante up or back down. But forcing Dunsford to assert his authority wouldn't get Billy a look at the body. What they needed was a distraction. He pointed toward the parking lot.

“Hey, Don. The tech with the camera over there has a question.”

Dunsford's head swiveled toward a young woman with blocky shoulders and wide hips who was sorting through a camera bag. He ambled over, their near showdown having flown out of his head.

Billy tucked the conjure bag into his pocket and walked to the transfer-service driver who was standing next to his hearse. The driver apparently recognized him, because he stepped back from the gurney as a sign of compliance. Tech crews divide detectives into two groups—professionals and professional jerks. His partner Lou once said that only geniuses can get away with being sons of bitches on a daily basis. Lou had been a son of a bitch, but he'd pretty much kept a lid on it until the end. He wondered if Lou would've come here this morning with Frankie to check the scene or if he would've blown her off. He used to believe he could predict what Lou would do a hundred percent of the time. He'd been wrong.

The name “Davis” had been scrawled in black marker at the foot of Red's body bag. Billy put his hand on the zipper and glanced over at the driver.

“I got some paperwork,” the driver said and walked to the front of the vehicle.

Billy ran the zipper down the side. Fermented alcohol wafted out of the airtight body bag as he folded back the edge. Instantly, he understood why Frankie had been so concerned. The expression on Red's face made his heart grip.

It's not unusual for a corpse that remains in a seated position for several hours to exhibit a dropped jaw, but he'd never seen anything like this gape-mouthed, Halloween mask of horror that was Red's face. Gravity couldn't create the distended eyeballs, the skin stretched tight around the eye sockets, or cause Red's lips to draw back and expose his gums.

Pain on the face of a dead man was nothing new, but he wasn't looking at pain. There was nothing natural or normal about the nature of Red Davis's death. This was pure terror.

He rocked the head to one side then the other to establish rigor and to check for blows around the face and skull. The fingers and nails of both hands showed no sign of trauma; however, a powdery film coated Red's face and dirt streaked the front of his shirt, something Billy didn't recall from the night before. Was it the same as the dust in the conjure bag? They would never know, because Dunsford wasn't going to include the bag's contents as evidence to be tested.

He heard a door slam and the service driver came around the side of the vehicle, giving a nod that it was time to load the body. Billy reached behind Red's head to straighten it before zipping the bag, noting the green and yellow necklace that Frankie had mentioned. As he withdrew his hand, a wad of organic material the size of a penny came away in his fingers. A piece of wasp nest.

“Hey, Don,” he called. “You need to see this.”

Dunsford broke off his conversation with the tech and came over, making grunting noises in the back of his throat at the sight of the unzipped bag. “What the hell? I told you to leave the body alone.”

“Did you see Red's face?”

Dunsford gave him a sidelong look. “You know the deceased?”

“Everybody knows Red Davis.” He held up the gummy wad. “I found this stuck between his neck and collar.”

He brought out the conjure bag and poured some of the contents, including chunks of the nest, into his palm. “It looks like someone threw this crap in Red's face to make him believe he was cursed. A heart attack may have killed him, but this makes me think someone triggered it.”