The Subtle Art of Brutality, page 10
“Probably not.” I didn’t care for Moody at all. Hearing he’s dead over and over again is my idea of fun.
Clevenger clears his throat and says, “And not Reichland either.”
“No? You’re shitting me. The Nazi holdover is gone also? Who then?”
“You’ll love this. Flemming’s the new captain.”
“When?” Sour. Sour memories.
“Maybe two months ago, now. It’s still fresh.”
“How does an incompetent shitbird like her get commander? Seriously?”
“I know. We all asked that. She’ll be chief one day. You wait and see.” Clevenger leafs through the notebook some more, and then, “It was her that crucified Burns, Smole and Philips, right? When she was IA?”
I nod, blow smoke through my nose. “Indeed, friend. Indeed. She spent the majority of her formidable years hunting cops. Burns, Smole and Philips weren’t the only ones she strung up. You know that.”
“I do.”
I have to force the next words out of my mouth. “Captain Flemming. Unbelievable.” It leaves a bitter taste with me. Flemming and I butted heads enough to leave scars. I owe her something fierce.
“And the word really is that she might be Chief of Police later in life,” Clevenger says. “Travesty, I tell you. A blood sucker like that calling the shots.”
“If she becomes chief I hope Sheriff McDonald is still around. That guy is too old school to put up with her shit. Who’d she blow to earn those stripes anyways?”
“Always the sweet gentleman, you are.” Clevenger keeps reading the ledger, flipping back and forth as if Nicky’s chicken-scratched ignorant script will vanish like the details of nightmares upon waking.
“I gave Flemming her fair chance and she showed her true colors.”
“That’s true, Buckner. Despite your abrasiveness—which Molly and I both love—you do give fair chances. And if they don’t impress you, well, you shoot them.”
“But seriously, how did Flemming get commander?”
“The major passed it around through his drinking buddies that the chief thought she did a bang-up job during all those years in IA. Asked her what she wanted.”
“What she wanted? Is she a detective?”
“No. Administrator. You don’t need the qualification to get the desk in the detective’s shop anymore.”
“Incredible. I wish things happened like that before they tossed me,” I say.
“Yeah. But ten years ago it was a different PD.”
“True. Ten years ago you looked up to me,” I say.
“I wouldn’t call it that,” he says, shutting the notebook. “But ten years ago I was green, you had a real job and Molly was dating a loser. Two out of three of those things improved.”
“I have to run to Three Mile High for a day or two. How’d it go digging for what I was asking?” I say, suddenly feeling the weight of the day.
“No problems.” I love Clevenger. No hesitation, no excuses. He’s the guy you want in a foxhole when a grenade comes flying in. Both of you will jump on it to save the other, but he’ll instigate a fistfight to get you off. “Here you go.”
He hands me a sheaf of papers. I leaf through them. Reports about the Bellview house and Boothe’s disappearance. There’s some arrest reports about Benny.
“So, again, where’d you get this notebook?” Clevenger asks.
“That Benny guy told me a line of complete bullshit but he laid the tracks back to this dealer named Nicky.”
“And I’ve got Nicky’s ledger in my hands?”
“That you do.”
“Sweet. Thank you by the way.”
“I roughed up Benny and followed him to Nicky. You’ll find them in the manager’s office.”
“And the labs written in the ledger?”
“All in the complex,” I say. “I assume. I didn’t go to the doors and knock. But if the ledger is accurate Nicky has his budding operation spread throughout the complex. He told me the manager was a client who was letting him crash. He said the manager was on ‘extended vacation.’”
“Where do you think he dumped him?”
“I don’t know.”
“I bet this punk has a rap sheet a mile long.”
“I’m sure he went down for distribution somewhere before now. His book keeping and operation, clients, all that, it’s too experienced for this to be his first start.”
“I’ll look into it. So, what do I tell Captain Flemming?”
“Tell her to go fuck herself.”
“That sounds like a great idea.”
“Tell her some tweaked out Big Fry addict who was pissed at Nicky for a raw deal decided to be a real bitch and stole the ledger and gave it to the first cop he saw.”
“I’m the first cop a pissed off junkie sees?”
“Yup. Sounds solid enough.”
“We have done busts on less.”
“Oh, and I should tell you, you’ll find some dead bodies.”
“Naturally.” Clevenger eyeballs the ledger and I can see the gears turning behind his eyes. He’ll adjust the story a little bit before he tells Flemming. He knows she won’t buy it because she’s never been a real cop. Real cops know that sort of thing happens here and there. Maybe not to every cop, but it does happen. “Where you going now?”
“Back to my office.”
“Want a lift?”
“No, thanks. I’m going to think.”
“You get some sleep. Tell Molly I said hello.”
I slug his elbow and walk off into the snow, shadows trailing a thin line of smoke behind me.
23
Clevenger was his academy class president.
He did well in patrol and was qualified as an FTO for two years before Molly got pregnant. A detective’s test coincided with their pregnancy so Clevenger put in for it and was selected. The raise was nice but two weeks later they lost the baby.
“Your new partner will be late reporting,” the captain said. Up to this point I had heard Clevenger’s name a time or two but that was it.
“Why?” I ask. “His pussy hurt?”
“Took some time off. His wife miscarried or something so he wants to be with her. I guess it’s bad.”
Those were the first and last ill words I put out into the world against Graham Clevenger.
“Coffee first,” I said to Clevenger when he finally did arrive at the homicide bureau.
We stewed in silence for a moment. Clevenger knew me by reputation and said later while he was glad to be partnered with SAPD’s most brilliant, handsome, cultured and successful detective he would be lying if he didn’t admit he was also intimidated. I do that to people.
“There’s a place called Gina’s Kitchen on the 8600 block of West Fulsom Boulevard that makes it the best,” Clevenger said.
“Gina’s been arrested for opiates before, you know,” I said. “But you’re right. Her coffee is the best.”
We left the detective’s bureau to the elevator. Inside the car was the most gangsta-looking female I had seen in a long time. She reeked of weed and I knew her face from somewhere. And, of course, in her hand was an application for the PD.
“Sweet, the poh-poh,” she said, her mouth full of gold. “I’m gonna apply. I can’t wait to be the poh-poh.”
In the world of Richard Dean Buckner, the word poh-poh is on equal footing with nigger, spic, peckerwood and all the other glorious epithets used to instill hate and resentment. The mere fact this broad called me the poh-poh raised fury in my veins.
“Applying, huh?” I asked. Clevenger hit the G button. The doors closed. It was just the three of us.
“Yeah. Never thought I’d do this,” she beamed.
“Well, we wish you the best of luck,” Clevenger said with a smile I soon learned was his phony one. “I’m sure you’re well-qualified.”
“Thanks. I got my GED last month.”
“Congratulations. What made you want to apply?”
“My momma’s house been shot up twice now this year. Ain’t no poh-poh helpin’, neither. We call, they just show up and ask if we know the people who done it. Then they leave. If we was white it’d be different. No offense. But I guess I got to do it myself. So I’m gonna do it myself.”
“That’s terrible. What’s your mom’s address?”
Some house over on 10th and Watson. Now I know where I’ve seen her. I recognize the address. I’ve been there. Bad neighborhood. Our city, like the rest of the country, has huge difficulties getting inner-city folks to cooperate with investigations. It’s the whole snitches wind up in ditches bullshit. They won’t inform on the bad guys.
This gal’s mom was a bigger bitch than most. Half the time we’d show up we’d wind up arresting her for battery or drugs.
Mom has this daughter and three sons. One son is dead. Gang violence. I knew both the others have spent time in prison. Gang violence. Mom knows who has shot at her house, and they were probably trying to do it to kill one of her kids. She’ll just turn her boys loose on them and then whine that the poh-poh aren’t doing enough.
“Maybe we can help,” Clevenger said. “Got any military experience?”
“Nah.”
“What about college?”
“Nah.”
“Clean driving record?”
“Sure. I got tickets before, but I take care of my business.”
“Good,” I say.
“Ever been in trouble?” Clevenger said. “The reason why I ask now is because they’ll ask after the testing. I figure you’d want to be front-loaded with the process. It makes applying easier.”
“When I was a kid. But what kid hasn’t been?” she said, smiling.
“Okay,” Clevenger nodded and looked away. He walked her right into it.
“You think they care if I got some warrants?” she asked. “Just traffic and shit, but still.”
“I thought you took care of your business?” I asked.
“I do. It’s just that I wanted to work for a few months to get the money before I turn myself in. That’s all.”
My real grin stretched ear-to-ear. “Well, we should find out.” My handcuffs were on her before she knew what was happening.
“What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK!”
“Calm down, honey. The poh-poh’s just checking on your warrants.”
The elevator doors opened to the ground floor, which contains three things: the lobby, reception and the jail.
Traffic warrant? Maybe, buried under all the other ones. She had an NCIC hit for an armed robbery two states over. The stupidity of humanity is unparalleled. She actually confessed that she didn’t think she was a suspect because they hadn’t found her yet. Yet. I love arresting felons, but I’d rather do it after my coffee.
And that was Clevenger and I’s first bust together.
The walk back to my office is bitterly cold, but still and quiet as a graveyard.
The snow dances in swirls as it falls, a ballet of flittering ice, distorting the sallow luminescence from the street lamps lining the avenue.
Eventually I get on my building’s street and I shake off the frost’s arresting grip. Two blocks later and I can see the office building loom over the skyline.
I fix my eyes to the building itself and its surroundings well before I get within its sights. As I walk calmly, hands in pockets, cigarette hanging from my mouth, my eyes inspect every shadow, every pool of darkness, every car parked along the street, every window that could be open to take a shot at me.
All this and I don’t see a thing. The street seems dead. But the best predators act deceased when their prey is expecting it to be alive.
I climb the steps to the front door and go inside. I shed a mantle of snow from my coat as if it were a sheath of dead reptile scales. My footprints follow me written in dirty puddles of melt. The elevator is slow as usual. The doors open with a creak. The button for my floor sticks. The two bulbs that should be dripping light into the elevator car flicker like they always do.
My floor greets me. As second nature, I examine the lock on my door. Look for scratch marks, chiseling. I look at the door jamb. The glass. Watch for black shadows moving through blacker shadows. Once, many years ago a guy I put in prison was waiting for me inside this very office. When it was over, we both left the building. I was on foot, he was not.
The door opens now, .44 Magnum sweeping the room. This is routine. I thump on the light switch. All the shadows evaporate. A quick look behind my desk tells me I am alone, and I sit down in the familiar old leather chair.
I open the bottom drawer and remove my whiskey bottle. A quick pull on it and I exhale with the satisfaction of a good whiskey burn.
Another long pull on the whiskey and I lean back. I draw my .44 and keep it resting on my chest as I shut my eyes to sleep for a few hours.
In an hour buried deep below midnight, the darkness is sliced in half. My phone rings as shrill and unwelcome as a mother-in-law. Clevenger. He never calls at this hour. Not unless someone is dead.
I answer.
Someone is.
24
I get out of the cab and walk up to my old partner.
Sleep still husks my voice. I light a smoke. I’m sure he can smell the whiskey on my breath. He eyeballs me, looking for my night cap. Flutter. I hand him the flask I keep in my jacket. He swigs. Swigs again. Clevenger doesn’t drink all that much. But he is tonight. A tell.
The lawn is all muddy, trampled snow and soaking wet from the fire engine. The rich smell of burnt everything clings to the air like souls of the damned; the burning, the char, the thick bulk of stench.
The roar of the blaze killed off an hour ago by water. The steam and the frigid air fight each other for dominance. Everything painted the colors of emergency flashers. Walkie-talkies squelching. My head hurts.
The ambulance crew puts the body in the back, shuts the doors. Any amount of solemnity that would accompany the duty of transporting the dead is washed out in flashing strobes of blue and red.
Neighbors still perch on their doorsteps. Cop cars in the driveway. Fire engine #3 alongside the road. Three ambulances; one a tomb. The smoke in the air burns my eyes. My shoulders collect small flakes of ash as they swirl about.
Clevenger points. Useless, but he fidgets at times like these.
“Arson,” he says. The sleep in his voice cracks under the weight of the word.
“How’d you pull the squawk on this one?”
“Not mine officially. If it were I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be drinking at the scene. Remember Riggens from Narcotics?”
“Yup.”
“His kid brother is a rookie over at Arson. Fresh meat like three weeks ago. His last beat as a street cop took him here for that call you asked me to dig up. The intruder, Benny whatever. I spoke to Riggens’ kid brother about it earlier; he filled me in and sent the file my way.”
Clevenger looks into the heap the home has been reduced to. Went fast.
“So when the neighbors called nine-one-one on this...the kid brother caught wind of it and called me.”
“What do they figure?” I ask, crushing out my Rum Coast. “It’s the kid brother’s case?”
“Yeah. I think it’s his first one.”
I rub my eyes. I look at the wife, who is only half lucid, sobbing. She holds her head like an axe is buried in it. Abigail Bellview, her life obliterated.
“Ugly shit. Very ugly shit tonight.” Clevenger takes the pack of smokes from my shirt pocket.
“Molly is going to be pissed at you.”
“Let her.”
He lights up. Coughs. Drags again. “Be a pal and make this my only one, will ya?”
“Sure,” I say. Light my own. “So, what’s he got so far?”
“He says the arsonist broke in. Damage to the structure now...probably never know where. Wife’s story is the bad guy came into the bedroom and clubbed the family while asleep. Dad first; eliminates the biggest threat. Mom next. The kid was sleeping in their bed also.”
“He whack the kid?”
“Yup.”
“With what?”
“Judging by the wound, something blunt. Just one strike to the head, keep ’em docile. Baseball bat maybe. Not hard enough to kill; too much of a coward for that.”
“Let the fire kill?”
“Yeah. That way the arsonist doesn’t have to see the fruits of his labor.”
“Like carpet bombing.”
“Yup.”
“What does the mom remember about the intruder?” Give me a description so I can set a fire inside his mouth.
“Nothing besides he was male. It was dark. It all happened so fast. You know.”
“Where’d he set the fire?”
“All over. Must have soaked the home. In the hallway there’s a pool of melted red plastic. Probably a standard can of gasoline.”
“And this?” I nod towards the ambulances.
“Dad came to first. Saw the flames. Probably eating the house by then. A lot. Jimmy figured he had his wits enough to know he had one trip out the door; no time to come back in for round two.”
Exhaling smoke through his nostrils, Clevenger says: “So he carried both Mom and daughter out the front fucking door.”
“No other exit?”
“Who knows what he tried or figured. Conked pretty hard on the head, flames everywhere, smoke, any infrastructure damage he might have come across, losing seconds with every thought. He went out the front.”
I nod.
“The neighbor over there said he was engulfed by the time he dropped the family on the front lawn.”
An old woman is shuddering next door, a cop and an EMT at her side. A down coat over a bathrobe. Coffee mug in her hands. Looking like she aged a decade with one sight.
“She said it was all he could do to not collapse on them.”
I stare into the wreckage. Husk. The heat is still oppressing.
“How’d he catch fire like that? Not the other two?”
“If he slept at the edge of the bed and got splashed, maybe. The mom and kid weren’t soaked...so either he was wet with fuel or somehow it got on him exiting.”
