Crime Scene

Chapter 32

“I don’t blame him,” Shupfer said.

She swung the van around and began backing up toward the intake bay. “You got into his personal space and accused him of being on the take.”

“I was careful not to say that.”

“I’m sure he totally appreciated the distinction.”

“Somebody took a statement from Triplett’s sister,” I said. “What happened to it?”

“I’m gonna go with ‘garden-variety incompetence,’ ” she said.

She jammed the gearshift into park and noted the mileage, and we got out to unload the latest decedent. Seventy-nine-year-old Hispanic woman found in the bath by her caretaker. We hadn’t noted any obvious signs of elder abuse, but the location of the body warranted bringing her in.

“Forget Bascombe getting paid off,” I said, unlocking the gurney wheels. “It doesn’t have to be that overt. It could be much subtler — like what Ming felt. Linstad cooks up his story. He tells his wife he’s going to the police, give a statement. She freaks out, calls her father. He freaks out, calls his lawyer, and so on and so forth, up the chain, until the message trickles back down to Bascombe: ‘Handle with care.’ Now, in his mind, he’s no longer talking to a potential suspect. He’s talking to a helpful witness with important friends. Anyone would start to see the situation through that lens.”

“What about you?” she said. “What lens are you seeing it through?”

We wheeled the body over to the scale. I switched it on and saw Shupfer raise her eyebrows. The dead woman weighed just eighty-one pounds.

“You ask the caretaker about her nutrition?” Shupfer asked.

“She said she ate okay. I saw a box of Ensure in the pantry. Couple cans missing.”

“Mm. Could still be FS.”

Frailty Syndrome. Old bodies deteriorating, the damage hastened by neglect and sometimes worse. A memo had directed us, last year, to look for it.

We rolled the gurney into the intake bay. While Shupfer scribbled on the clipboard, I began unwrapping the body. The old woman was already naked — her skin waxy and shrunken — saving us the trouble of having to undress her and catalog her clothing.

I picked up the camera, began taking flicks. “You’re right, though.”

“Am I now.”

“Bascombe. I shouldn’t have gone there,” I said. “No reason to think he’d cooperate.”

“Yup.”

“Anyway I don’t have enough.”

“Nope.”

“But he just — he pissed me off, Shoops. Super-smug.”

She stopped writing. “Just be glad he didn’t hurt you, princess.”

She spoke too soon.

Entering the squad room, wringing out wet hands, I proceeded down the corridor past the sergeants’ offices. Vitti’s door was propped, the man himself slumped over his desk like he’d been sucker-punched. He saw me and sat up, curled a finger, telling me to shut the door and close the blinds.

“If this is about trading for Odell Beckham, Junior,” I said, sitting down, “forget it.”

He ran a hand back and forth over his scalp. “I just got off the phone with Chief Ames at Berkeley PD.”

“Okay.”

“Any guesses why he’s calling me?”

“No sir.”

“None at all?”

“Sir?”

Vitti said, “Have you been harassing one of their guys?”

I said, “Sir?”

“Have you?”

“No sir. I haven’t.”

“Did you go over to some guy’s house?”

“With permission,” I said. “I didn’t show up out of the blue.”

“But you did go to see him.”

“I spoke to him, yeah.”

Vitti’s eyes went to slits. “God’s sake, what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking he and I could have a civilized conversation.”

“The guy’s retired. With health issues, I might add.”

“That’s what he said? I’m harassing him?”

“It’s a little worse than that, actually. He said you took a swing at him.”

“I—? Sorry, sir. That’s bullshit. He came at me. All I did was avoid him.”

Vitti sighed and began fiddling with his Word-A-Day desk calendar — part of his relentless, half-assed pursuit of self-improvement. “What the hell are you into?”

“One of my cases,” I said, “led me to one of his cases. I did due diligence and noticed parts of Bascombe’s report don’t add up. So I went over there to get clarification.”

“How’s that lead to him hitting you?”

“He didn’t hit me,” I said. “He missed, cause he was drunk off his ass.”

“Christ, Clay, don’t pick nits. How does Bascombe’s case impact yours?”

“It doesn’t, directly. But—”

“Jesus.”

I said, “We’re still cops, sir.”

“There are cops whose job it is to deal with things like that and we’re not them.”

“I don’t see anyone else volunteering.”

“Did you bother to ask?”

“No one seems interested, sir. And I know when someone’s screwed up.”

“Ames doesn’t see it that way,” he said. “He told me the guy’s a decorated veteran.”

“Veterans make mistakes.”

“I don’t care,” Vitti said. “All right? I do not care. What I — what we — have to worry about is relationships. We gotta work with these people. Not just today. Every single day. People, agencies, they rely on us. They need to know that when we show up we’re there to handle our business, and nothing else. I can’t have you running around stirring up shit.”

He paused. “Is everything good with you?”

“Sir?”

“Is there something in your life going on I need to know about?”

Was he really going to do this? Play Papa Bear? “No sir.”

“You can tell me,” he said. “We look after each other, that’s how we do around here. You are an important member of this team.”

What supermarket checkout aisle management handbook had he picked up? “I appreciate that, sir.”

“I checked your logs. You worked Thanksgiving.”

“Yes sir.”

“You’re signed up to work Christmas.”

“Yes sir, I am.”

“You worked Christmas last year,” he said. “Year before that, too. I checked.”

He waited for an explanation.

I said, “I don’t believe in Santa Claus.”

“Don’t be a wiseass.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Vitti looked at me pleadingly. His instincts were to ream me out, but he wanted so badly to be a Good Guy. “I think you need a break.”

“I’m good.”

“You haven’t taken time in two years,” he said.

He’d never complained about it before. “Trying to do my bit, sir.”

“That’s fine, Clay, but it’s not good for the soul.” He plucked a tissue, blew his nose. “Look, I know how shit gets, okay? I been there. I wasn’t even going to mention it to you, but now, in light of this Bascombe thing, I feel like I gotta say something. This is the second call I’ve had about you in the last week.”

I said, “Pardon me?”

“A guy phoned up hollering about you cremated his father against his wishes.”

Samuel Afton.

I said, “That is a hundred percent not what happened.”

“Be that as it may, he’s going on about he wants to make a formal complaint.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I talked him out of it. I went to bat for you, same way I did with Ames. You’re welcome. But now sitting here listening to you argue with me I’m starting to feel like a prick. Don’t make me into a prick, Clay. If you’re starting to get overwhelmed—”

“Honestly, sir, I’m not.”

“—you need to be clear with me about your state of mind. Things pile up, understandable. But you need to be self-aware. Okay? You need to come to me: Sarge, I’m starting to feel it. Nobody’s going to judge you for that.”

His eyes said otherwise.

“Sir—”

“Overall,” he said, “I appreciate your contributions. But if this isn’t working for you, you can be at a new duty station in twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t want that.”

Interminable silence. “I’ll assume for the moment that’s true.”

I nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“The case led you to Bascombe,” he said. “What’s the decedent’s name?”

“Walter Rennert.”

He swiveled to his computer, moused, clicked. “You’ve had this open since September.”

“Yes sir.”

His lips moved as he ran over the narrative. “What am I missing here? Cause to me this reads like a straightforward natural.”

“I agree, sir.”

“What are you waiting on?”

I said nothing.

Vitti squinted at me, as though I’d receded into the distance. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. First thing, you need to call this Bascombe guy up and apologize.”

“Sarge—”

“Just do it, all right? Be the bigger person. Call the guy up and make it right.”

He slid his desk phone toward me.

I stared at him. “Now?”

“No time like the present.”

I brought up the number on my cell and keyed it into the desk phone.

It rang and rang.

“He’s not answering,” I said, hanging up.

“Then leave a message.” He leaned over and turned on the speakerphone.

I gritted my teeth, redialed.

This is Ken, I’m gone fishin.

Beep.

Vitti prompted me with a hand flourish.

“Mr. Bascombe, Deputy Coroner Edison calling” — tasting bile, swallowing it — “calling to say I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m sorry if it came across that way. All best.”

I punched off.

“Good,” Vitti said. “Thank you. Now I want you to be done with the Rennert case. Get it out of your system. And — hey. While you’re at it, take some time off.”

“You’re suspending me?”

“Clay. Will you listen to yourself? Stop being paranoid. I’m saying go home. Visit your family. Whatever you need to do. See a fuckin movie. Get your head right and then let’s get back on track. Okay? I don’t want to hear no more about this. Go home.”

“Can I get my coffee mug first?”

He said, “Mind your tone, Deputy. You’re dismissed.”