City Primeval

8

THEY WERE QUIET MEN who discussed murder in normal tones.

Robert Herzog, Inspector of the Homicide Section, seated at a glass-topped desk in his glass-walled office: twenty-nine years a policeman, a large man with a sad face, a full head of gray hair. And Raymond Cruz, whose gaze came away from the window when Herzog asked him if the glare bothered him.

“No, it’s fine.”

“You look like you were squinting.”

The window, directly behind Herzog, facing south toward the river, framed late afternoon sunlight and the top half of a highrise in the near distance.

“So what do we know about Adele Simpson?”

“Worked for a real estate company, divorced, no children. Lived alone, apartment over near Westland, dated a couple of guys from the office. One of them married.”

“Can you tie in either of the guys to Judge Guy?”

“I don’t know yet, but I doubt it.”

“You’re gonna need help on this one. I’ll see what I can do.”

“I don’t know…” Raymond said, easing into it, wanting to hear his own theory out loud and not rush it or leave anything out. Herzog was looking at him expectantly now; but he knew Herzog would ask the right questions and let him take his time.

“Maybe it was luck you gave us both cases,” Raymond said. “I mean the two investigations might’ve never been related, but the first thing we did was look for a nexus and there it was. Same gun was used on Guy and Adele Simpson.”

“So,” Herzog said, “you assume the same guy did ’em both, but you don’t know if it was revenge or jealousy or what.”

“Actually,” Raymond said, “I’m not too anxious about motive right now. Take the most obvious approach, you’d say it’s a hit and the girl, it’s too bad, happened to be with the judge.”

“How do you know the girl was there?”

“Witness heard five shots, exactly five. Then a woman scream, though he’s not positive about it. Three slugs in Guy plus two exit wounds, two slugs found in the car upholstery, in the backrest of the seat. Two matching slugs were taken from Adele Simpson’s body. They caught her in the back, shattered her spine and were deflected into her lung. A third gunshot was through and through.”

“But the scream,” Herzog said, “didn’t necessarily come from Adele Simpson.”

“No, I wouldn’t want to offer it in court,” Raymond said, “but we’ve got a valet parking attendant at Hazel Park by the name of Everett Livingston who tells us Guy left there in his silver Mark VI with a blond lady wearing like a pink dress, gold chains and dark lipstick. Which matches Adele Simpson.”

Herzog said, “What’s Everett doing parking cars?”

“Everett remembers the judge because he knows him by sight. And, because the judge was involved in a little bumper tag with a black car that was either a Buick or an Olds.”

“He describe the driver?”

“He described the driver’s left arm-sort of sun-burned with reddish hair, sleeve turned up. Which brings us to Gary Sovey-white, twenty-eight years old, he saw a black Buick Riviera pushing or racing the judge’s car down John R.”

Herzog said, “Where do you find witnesses like that?”

“It gets better,” Raymond said. “A guy was standing on the corner of Nine Mile and John R, one-thirty this morning, when a black late-model GM car, possibly a Buick, nearly jumped the curb and almost ran over his dog taking a leak. License number, the guy says, PVX-five something. Lansing doesn’t have a Buick with a PVX five-something number, but they sure have a PYX-546… Buick Riviera registered to a Del Weems who lives right over there in that building.”

“What building?”

Raymond nodded toward the window. “Thirteen hundred Lafayette East.”

Herzog swiveled to look over his shoulder at the highrise and came back to the desk again. “Del Weems have red hair on his arms?”

“I don’t know what color hair he’s got. He was out of town last night.”

“Then why’re you telling me about Del Weems?”

“He’s got a dinged front left fender,” Raymond said.

“That’s interesting,” Herzog said.

“And he’s got a young lady living in his apartment who was out at Hazel Park last night.”

“The lady have red hair?”

“Sort of, but more blond than red. No, the young lady wasn’t in the Buick, she was in a Cadillac with-you ready?-Skender Lulgjaraj.”

Herzog said, “That’s kind of a familiar name.”

“Skender’s Toma’s cousin.”

“Ah, Toma,” Herzog said, “the Albanian. We haven’t heard from him in a while, have we?”

“No, at the moment the Albanians are quiet,” Raymond said. “We talked to Skender and he said yes, he was at the track with a young lady, but wouldn’t give her name.”

“Why not?”

“It’s the way they are, a very private group. But it doesn’t matter,” Raymond said, “we know it’s the same young lady who’s living in Del Weems’ apartment, the guy who owns the Buick Riviera, and the young lady’s name is Sandy Stanton.” Raymond waited.

Herzog waited. He said, “I give up. Who’s Sandy Stanton?”

Raymond said, “Let me take you back to November, seventy-eight, to a little house on St. Marys Street…”

“Ah, yes,” Herzog said.

“… where you could get top-grade smack when everybody else was dealing that Mexican brown-an evening in November and three white dudes walk in off the street a little past eleven…”

Herzog said, “Albert RaCosta, Victor Reddick… let’s see if I can remember. Louis Nix…”

“He was the driver,” Raymond said. “You’re saving the best for last, aren’t you? Everybody does that.”

Herzog seemed to smile. “And Clement Mansell.”

“And Clement Mansell, yes sir,” Raymond said, “with the reddish hair on his arms and the bluebirds. Remember the bluebirds? Well, Clement’s address at the time was also Sandy Stanton’s. Somebody, I think Norb, talked to her. I didn’t, but I remember seeing her in court… then this afternoon.”

Herzog was moving ahead, thinking of something else. “Louis Nix was killed with a P .38, wasn’t he?”

“We think he was,” Raymond said, “but we only got a frag for the test-remember? Not enough to say conclusively it was from a Walther. But-you remember something else? The woodwork in the house on St. Marys?”

“The woodwork…” Herzog said.

“The frame around the opening between the living room and the dining room,” Raymond said. “Two slugs from a Walther were dug out of the woodwork, but the gun wasn’t found on the scene. We found victims, three of ’em. Guy by the name of Champ, who ran the house. Guy by the name of Short Dog, eighteen years old, he was the doorman. And Champ’s little girl, seven years old, asleep in the bedroom at the time, killed by one shot that went through the door.”

“I remember the little girl,” Herzog said. “And the same gun did all three of ’em?”

“Yes sir, but not the Walther, a Beretta .22-caliber Parabellum. The gun was found in the back alley, no prints, if you recall. But when Louis Nix copped he identified the Beretta as belonging to Clement Mansell.”

Herzog said, “I vaguely remember that part. Is it important?”

“I don’t want to leave anything out that might be,” Raymond said. “What happened-somebody in the neighborhood heard the shots, called in, a squad car arrives and Louis is sitting out front in a van with the engine running. By this time, Clement and RaCosta and Reddick had gone out the back, leaving Louis sitting there not knowing what’s going on. So, we offer Louis a deal and he gives us his three buddies. Reddick and RaCosta were convicted, got mandatory life. Clement Mansell was also convicted, but he appealed on that federal detainer statute-you remember that?”

“Yeah, sort of. Go on.”

“Court of Appeals reversed his conviction and Clement walked.”

“Something about another charge against him,” Herzog said, trying to remember.

“I think the prosecutor blew it,” Raymond said. “At the time Clement was arrested the feds wanted him on some shitty little charge, auto theft, transporting across a state line-he was taking a Seville down to Florida-so Clement’s lawyer gets him to plead guilty to the federal indictment and they send him to Milan for nine months. While he’s there, he’s brought back to stand trial on the triple and he’s convicted. Louis Nix took the stand, told how they planned the whole thing, how Clement had the Parabellum, everything, and off they go to Jackson, mandatory life. All three of them appealed, naturally. Reddick and RaCosta are turned down; but Clement gets his appeal and wins and you know why?”

Herzog said, “This is the detainer part.”

“Right-because when a prisoner is serving time and he’s got another indictment pending in another court, he has to be brought to trial within a hundred and eighty days, otherwise”-Raymond paused, getting the thought clearly in his mind-“if he has to wait any longer it could produce uncertainties in the mind of the prisoner and fuck up his rehabilitation.”

“That’s how the statute reads?”

“Words to that effect,” Raymond said. “If you recall, about that time Recorder’s Court was in a mess, the docket overloaded. Well, the trial that convicted Clement Mansell and the Wrecking Crew didn’t come up until the hundred and eighty-sixth day after they were arraigned. Clement’s lawyer filed on the grounds of the detainer statute and he walked… after being convicted without any doubt… even after Reddick and RaCosta testified the murder weapon, the Parabellum, was Clement’s and that it was Clement who killed the two guys and the little seven-year-old girl… The guy walks because he was brought to trial six days later while being held in federal detention… which fucked up his peace of mind and rehabilitation.”

“Who was his lawyer?”

“Carolyn Wilder.”

Herzog said, “Ahhh-” and nodded and seemed to smile. “That’s a very smart woman. I’ve watched her and I can say I’ve always enjoyed it. Clement’s got the mandatory hanging over him, nothing to lose. She knows the Recorder’s Court docket’s all fucked up, so she hands him to the feds hoping six months’ll go by before he’s brought back for the triple.”

“And makes it by six days.”

“Figuring the prosecutor’s office isn’t counting or might not even be thinking of a detainer,” Herzog said. “Yes, that’s a very smart woman.”

“Clement walks,” Raymond said, “and a couple weeks later Louis Nix is found shot in the head. Up through the head with a gun that was stuck in his mouth… very, very likely the same gun that put the slugs in the woodwork on St. Marys Street and the same gun, I like to believe, that killed the judge and Adele Simpson. A Walther P .38.”

“I’d like to believe it too,” Herzog said.

“Well, the lab’s fairly sure, but they want to test the gun before they’ll say absolutely.”

“Where’d the gun come from?”

“Champ, the guy that was running the house,” Raymond said, “his wife said Champ carried a Luger. Only it didn’t turn up at the scene.”

“A P .38 isn’t a Luger,” Herzog said, “but I see what you mean.”

“Right, it looks like one and the woman wouldn’t know the difference. So we place a P .38 at the scene of the triple three years ago. Say Clement lifted it off the guy. We find the same gun used in a double that went down this morning. The victims were at the race track, so was Clement’s girlfriend, Sandy Stanton. The car she’s driving around in right now-as a matter of fact-it’s possible we can place it at the race track last night and at the scene where the judge was killed.”

“So why didn’t you impound the car?”

“We will, soon as Sandy gets done riding around. She just went over to a house on Kercheval.”

“Grosse Pointe?” Herzog sounded surprised.

“No, no, way this side, twenty-nine twenty-five, off East Grand, next to a place called Sweety’s Lounge. Maybe she’s a junkie, but I don’t think so. We’ll check the place out.”

“If Mansell did use the car last night,” Herzog said, “she could be riding around with the gun.”

“It’s a judgment call,” Raymond said. “Do you pick up the car, go over it, or follow Sandy around and do the car later? If Clement used it I assume he’s wiped it down. But anything he might’ve missed’ll still be there for the evidence techs.”

Herzog nodded; yes, it was a matter of judgment.

“MCMU’s doing the surveillance,” Raymond said. “If it’s apparent, I mean Sandy drives down to the river or stops by a trash barrel, they’ll jump her. But I don’t want to panic anybody right at the moment, including myself. I don’t want to go bust in the wrong door and have Clement take off on us.”

“He could’ve already,” Herzog said.

“That’s right,” Raymond said, “or he could be in that highrise over there, twenty-five-oh-four. If you remember Clement, he’s got very large balls. The papers at the time called him the Oklahoma Wildman, but he’s more like a daredevil, a death-defier…”

“Evel Knievel with a gun,” Herzog said.

“That’s right, he likes to live dangerously and he likes to kill people.”

Herzog said, “Well, if you don’t get him with the gun, the Walther, what do you get him with?”

“That’s it,” Raymond said, “we got an arm with reddish hair sticking out a car window, but I never heard of a lineup of just arms. No, we got to get him with the gun in his possession, I know that.”

“You seem very calm about it,” Herzog said. “It can’t be lack of desire.”

“No, I’m trying to hold back from kicking in doors,” Raymond said. “I don’t want to blow it and see him walk like he did the last time.”

Herzog said, “Why’d he shoot Guy?”

“I’m gonna ask him that,” Raymond said, “soon as I get him sitting in the corner. He never appeared before Guy, so I don’t think it’s something personal. He saw him at the track, maybe Guy was winning, and Clement set something up. Maybe. Or, the way I’m inclined to lean, somebody paid Clement to do him.

“Or,” Raymond said then, “he was out at the track because Sandy was there with Skender and they’re setting up the Albanian. Same kind of thing Clement used to work with the Wrecking Crew. Find some ethnic storeowner, guy who might be taking his money home… the Wrecking Crew pays a visit, beats the shit out of the guy after they turn his place upside-down and walk out with his savings. I think Clement’s still at it.”

Herzog said, “How about arrests since the triple?”

“Nothing. Clement’s been a suspect-shit, he’s always a suspect, but nothing new on the computer. Less you want to count a drunk-driving charge. He got it in Lawton, Oklahoma last spring. Oklahoma sent it to Lansing and Lansing revoked his license.”

“Well, if you catch him driving without it…” Herzog said. “I’m gonna be off next week, drive up to Leland with Sally.”

“Taking her kids?”

“No, that’s the whole idea, get away alone. If we can work it.”

“What do you need, a sitter?”

“No, her kids’re old enough. It’s the mothers. Sally’s mother asks her who she’s going with, she says me. Alone? Yeah, just the two of us. Her mother’d have a fit.”

“Why?”

“Why?” The large man behind the desk who had been a policeman twenty-nine years seemed self-conscious, vulnerable.

“Because we’re not married. Last winter, trying to get to Florida for a week? The same thing. I tell my mother I’m going with Sally, my mother says, ‘Oh, are you married now?’ Sally’s forty-nine, I’m fifty-four, both of us divorced. Our kids have traveled all over the country with their boyfriend, their girlfriend… see, it’s the grandchildren and they accept that. But if Sally and I tried to do it-”

“You’re kidding,” Raymond said.

“Is your mother still living?” Herzog asked him.

“Yeah, in Daytona.”

“Okay, try it. Tell her you’re coming down with a woman you’re very fond of but you’re not married to, see what she says. ‘You mean the two of you’re traveling alone together?’ Shocked, can’t believe it. I know you’re not as old as I am,” the Inspector of Homicide said, “but I’ll tell you something, we’re in the wrong fucking generation.”