The Ten-Mile Trials (9 page)

‘You don't need to worry about that,' I said. ‘Training's been put on hold throughout the department for all but new recruits.'

‘Your good news is all bad news, isn't it? So from now on we'll make do with folklore, is that it?' He turned sideways and stood still in my doorway, peering at the door jamb while he said what was really bothering him – ‘I guess you and I just stuck ourselves with weekend chores for the foreseeable future.'

‘
Un
foreseeable,' I said. ‘Everything is unforeseeable now.' I looked past him into the hall and added, ‘Kevin's got to share the chores, too. And maybe Cathy Niemeyer could occasionally change
her
days off.'

‘Well, but she waited years to get weekends—' He turned twenty degrees back toward me and inspected the bottom corner of my desk. ‘How did you know . . .' He shifted the notes in his hands and said softly, ‘God, this building . . . everybody knows everything!'

‘That's why we're all so tactful and kindly.'

He contented himself with a derisive snort.

I said, ‘She's a nice lady and I hope it works out for you. I'm sorry I can't be more help with the schedule. Right now I'm just trying like hell to keep the doors open.'

‘Yeah, right.' For a moment he sounded like the old Ray Bailey, grim and cynical. Then he took a breath and his emotions boiled over. ‘You know I love my job. But once in my life I get lucky enough to have a chance with a wonderful woman . . . I'm not going to let that get away.'

I'd supposed the story about Ray's gushy Friday night conversations with the boys was one of Kevin's usual exaggerations. Now I realized it was straight reporting. Ray Bailey, historically the most circumspect man in Rutherford law enforcement, was panting to talk about his love life.

To avoid that clear and present danger, I grabbed up my desk phone and said, ‘Oh, hell, what time is it? I promised to phone Pokey first thing this morning.'

Pokey only kept me waiting four minutes before he answered the phone call I had never promised him. As I was hoping, though, he had saved out one whole hour for what by his reckoning was a leisurely lunch. He graciously agreed to join me at an eatery near his office, after he'd maneuvered me into offering to buy. Comfortable years as a middle-class American doctor have never quite erased the cheapskate habits he formed in his hungry childhood. Pokey loves to freeload.

We wasted two whole minutes on greetings and menu questions before we got down to the body.

‘Didn't need to do much testing to figure out what killed this fella,' Pokey said, tearing into the bread basket, buttering two rolls. ‘Had six .38 slugs in him. They punctured liver and spleen, took chunk out of left inferior lobe of lung and right atrium of heart, tore up the superior vena cava . . .'

‘I hear you.' I grabbed a piece of zucchini bread before he spotted it. Watching Pokey eat always makes me feel the famine is at hand and I need to get my share fast. ‘He was shot. What else?'

‘And stabbed. Right here.' He drove an imaginary knife into his belly. I winced. His dissertation went right on, muffled slightly by a mouthful of crusty bread. ‘Nicked top of pancreas, sliced edge of stomach . . .'

The waitress rolled her eyes sideways to watch him as she put down our Mexican plates. She walked away shaking her head, and I saw her mutter something to one of the other waitresses as their paths crossed.

I asked him, ‘A knife like the one he had in that holster on his leg?' I meant, do you suppose they all carry the same kind of a knife? But Pokey vented a gleeful chuckle and said, ‘Yah. Ray tell you about that? We ain't proved it yet – counting on BCA to find enough blood. Got crosshatch pattern on handle, looks like it mighta kept some blood down in them little ridges.'

‘Wait, what are you saying? They stabbed him with his own knife?'

‘Think so – Trudy gonna try to prove it. Looks to me like they wiped it off careful and put it back in holster. Pretty cool, huh? But I told Trudy – ain't no water in that garage, might be enough left for DNA sample.'

‘So you think—' I wept into my guacamole as the salsa hit my palate – ‘he was stabbed before he was shot?'

‘Not much reason to stab a guy after you shot him six times, yah?'

‘OK, stabbed first . . . it kind of seems like he might have started the fight himself, doesn't it? Pulled the knife and gone after somebody—'

‘Maybe. Them two druggies in jail tell any good stories?'

‘The woman's stories are all about herself, and the man won't talk at all till he gets a lawyer.'

‘And after lawyer even less. Well . . .' he spread sour cream over a mound of beef and cheese, ‘you want to hear about victim's other health-related issues?' Pokey gets endless amusement out of American language glosses.

‘Besides being dead, how much more does he need?' But he looked so pleased with himself I relented. ‘OK, tell me.'

‘First thing I noticed was lesions on scalp. Looked like some I seen before on older patient. Was exterior manifestation of metastasizing thyroid carcinoma. So when I got inside John Doe, I did careful scan of thyroid and found what I suspected – this fella had couple pretty good-sized nodules. Ain't got the tests back yet but . . . I think whoever capped this hoodlum shoulda waited a while. Looks like he was already headed toward big lap dance in sky.'

‘Your concept of Paradise keeps growing, huh?' He gave me a little pointy-faced nod and a wink. ‘Would he have known yet, do you think?'

‘Probably doing drugs, drinking plenty too from looks of liver, might not have noticed pain yet. But now, how about if wise old Ukrainian scientist gives you no-cost extra crime theory to chew on? Huh? Free clues – you like them?'

‘Free clues are the very best kind, Pokey. And I'd be humbly grateful, as always. You want some ice cream to go with your gratitude?' I waved at our waitress.

‘Sure. On top of pie is how I like it. You got piece of fresh peach pie back there?' he asked the dubious young woman standing at a careful distance from his elbow. ‘Good, with two scoops vanilla, perfect. Peaches coming up from Georgia right now, Jake, so good they make you cry. Better have some.'

I settled for coffee. Pokey seems to have some kind of permanent legacy from his barely survived childhood; he can pig out all he likes and stay taut as a drum. I was still trying to lose the eight pounds I gained waiting for my leg to heal.

‘Ray tell you about his clothes? All labels missing? Wants to be Mr Nobody, recently arrived from Noplace. So clever – like nobody's gonna guess why alien thug does that. But Ray sniffed through jacket like bloodhound, found pocket inside lining with old dog-eared card looks like it traveled to moon and back. Sewn into seam so nothing shows from front, you dig? Very, very secret. Is good cop, ain't he? Ray.'

‘The best.'

‘Mmmm' He wolfed down another thousand calories and licked his lips thoughtfully. ‘Is printed in Cyrillic.'

‘Sir What?'

‘Cyrillic. Named after St Cyril, old priest in Byzantium . . .' He waved old priests away with a bony hand. ‘Tenth century sometime . . . Cyrillic alphabet is basis for languages all through region where I was born. Ukraine, Serbia, Russia, Uzbekistan . . . Lotta 'stans on old Silk Road. Nobody gave squat for 'stans till 9/11, now dictators from 'stans get White House dinners. Few crazy bastards over there wanna blow up America, so . . . is good reason, yah? Get out best china, wines with French names, make trade deals, so maybe they put plastic explosives back in caves.'

‘Thank you for that fascinating social commentary, Pokey,' I said, sneaking a peek at my watch. ‘Does it connect back to the dead guy any time today?'

‘What's this, upstart cop outa Dumpster gets little boost in rating and starts to think his time worth more than wise old Ukrainian guru?'

‘Sometimes wise old Ukrainian gurus get a little long-winded and full of themselves.'

‘OK, hard-nose, here's where it connects. Kids growing up around Chernobyl after explosion— You remember that, or wasn't you even born yet?'

‘I'm thirty-five years old, Pokey, of course I remember Chernobyl.'

‘Good. Then maybe you remember how many people living in path of fallout, especially little kids, were poor before and are now so poor they gotta beg for charity from Russians? You got any idea how poor that is? But you know one thing those kids got more of than other kids in whole world?' He leaned toward me and rasped, ‘Thyroid cancer, baby. They got many times average world rate of thyroid cancer, and unusually high number manifesting as follicular carcinoma – lesions on the scalp.'

‘I'll be damned. Pokey, how do you know all this stuff?'

‘Is regulation dermatologist stuff in school. After that, in US, we mostly forget it. But not me, because I read things on Internet from my part of world.'

‘Which reminds me, what I wanted to ask you. The Mass card . . . you told Ray you're pretty sure it was Ukrainian?'

‘That's right.'

‘Then how come you can't read it?'

He looked embarrassed. ‘Well . . . you want life story? OK, short version. Where I grew up, school was mile or so away . . . I coulda walked. But we were so poor I never had shoes, some days no food. Was always gonna go next year. When I was eight, they resettled our whole village . . . men went to work in Siberian forest.' He spooned up the very last of his peaches and ice cream, and sat back with a sigh. ‘Couple of years later I ran away from there, went west with two older boys. My mother said go if you got somebody to go with, one of us should survive. Time I got to US I could speak Russian and German and French but couldn't read any language, knew how to sign my name was all. Adult education, in New York, learned English and did twelve grades in three years. Got jobs and went to college, worked in hospitals, took med school at night. Never time to learn to read Ukrainian.'

I felt like buying him another lunch. To cover that sentiment I said, ‘Maybe when you retire.'

‘So I can go there on scenic tours?' He got a good laugh out of that idea. ‘Listen, I ain't proved any of my ideas about where this John Doe came from, Jake, so don't hang your hat on it. Trudy's trying to find me lab full of smart postdocs might be interested in DNA from far-off lands. But you want my informed opinion?' He made an effete, snooty gesture. ‘Is pretty likely your victim got himself into USA without signing guest book. And if Mr Nobody and hoodlums that killed him came from any of those East European gangs I saw in New York? Better be careful, my friend. You could be chasing some of meanest sumbitches in whole known world.'

FIVE

W
ith three People Crimes detectives in court and most of the Property Crimes crew on the street chasing recently pilfered family treasures, the investigative wing got pretty quiet Monday afternoon. Ray and Kevin were hunched over their desks making flow charts and variable work schedules, figuring ways to stay afloat. I powered through a pile of paperwork and then, typing fast, summarized the two major cases we were working on – the homicide on Marvin Street and the rash of home invasions – in LeeAnn's newly created newsletter. She'd titled it neatly,
FYI: Investigations
, and given it a shortcut and a spyglass icon. I could hear Kevin's mocking laughter already, but trite or not it was easy to find and remember.

‘This is such a great job,' I told her. ‘I hope to bully most of our detectives into reading it before the first snowfall.' I'd walked out in the hall to deliver her attagirl right away, before I found an excuse not to. Not that I begrudged her the praise, but her gratitude for small favors was cringe-inducing, particularly since she was still stuck in her precarious perch in the hall where I'd ‘temporarily' wedged her desk and chair several years ago. Everybody walked past her all day, bitching, asking questions, wheedling favors. It was amazing that she got anything done with all the interruptions she had to endure. As a result, though, she had become an informal clearing house for news and rumors and had a constantly growing array of corkboards and cubbyholes behind and around her desk, holding keys, notes, maps, and inside jokes. LeeAnn, I realized looking at her organized nuthouse, probably knew more about the inner workings of this section than I did.

‘Do me one more favor, will you?' I asked, ‘Try to find time to read this once a day, and let me know if we're all contradicting each other or if you see we've skipped something important.'

She was humbly grateful for the increased responsibility – she chose to see it as opportunity knocking. I got away from her desk right away, humble gratitude being one thing I can't tolerate even when I hold my nose. I have often wished I could transfer half of Kevin Evjan's self-esteem to LeeAnn, but until I figure out how to do that I don't spend much time hanging around her desk.

I gave her Pokey's autopsy report to scan into the log, and went back to my desk to type in his guesswork about the ethnic derivation of the victim. Then I tackled phone messages – the big sucking drain around which my day always seems to be circling. To get myself started I usually cheat, by answering the most interesting message first instead of sticking to chronological order. That day I pulled Bo Dooley's message out of the middle of the stack.

He was that rarity in the Rutherford Police Department, a transfer from out of town. We have more home-grown applicants than we can use, so we hardly ever take anybody from another system. But Bo came up from St Louis a year or two after the first big wave of crack cocaine hit town. He qualified with no trouble and was quickly hired by my predecessor because his specialty was drug interdiction. Rutherford was a mid-size town then, seventy-odd thousand mostly peaceable Midwesterners, hit with a sudden wave of explosive growth and the spillover from what we came to call the ‘yellow brick road' – drugs following the river up from southern gateway cities.