Melancholy Baby

39

Brian Kelly called me. “I’m working homicide,” he said. “Last year or so. And we got a stiff in Park Square with your business card in his wallet.”

“What’s the name?”

“George Markham,” Brian said.

“Suspicious nature?” I said.

“He was shot.”

“You there?” I said.

“Yeah. Parking lot behind the Castle. I thought you might want to stop by.”

“I do,” I said, and hung up the phone.

The Castle, in Park Square, is a gray granite building that was once a National Guard armory and looks like a medieval fortress. They use it now for trade shows and other events. There were half a dozen police cars parked on Huntington Avenue in front of the Castle, and a bunch more in and around the parking lot off Arlington Street. Lights were set up in the parking lot, and the place looked like a movie set. When I pulled up, a uniform stopped me.

“Crime scene, ma’am. Can’t park here.”

“Brian Kelly asked me to come down,” I said.

“Sit right there,” the uniform said.

He walked over to a cluster of plainclothes people that included Brian. They were looking down at something. The uniform spoke to Brian, who nodded and half turned and waved me in. I parked next to an EMT vehicle and got out.

“Detective Kelly’s over there,” the uniform said.

I smiled and said thank you. I decided not to tell him that I had slept with Detective Kelly and would have recognized him anywhere. What the plainclothes group was looking at was the late George Markham. When I joined them, Brian put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze.

“Frank,” he said to one of the other cops. “Sunny Randall. Sunny, Frank Belson.”

Belson was very lean, midsized, and clean-shaven, though he showed what must have been an eternal five-o’clock shadow.

“Phil Randall’s kid,” he said.

I nodded. We shook hands.

“Liked your old man,” Belson said, and squatted on his heels next to the body.

“What have we got?” I said.

“So far, looks like he took one in the chest, and one in the middle of the forehead.”

“The one in the head to make sure?” I said.

“Reasonable guess,” Belson said. “There’s powder burns around the head wound. Haven’t dug out a slug yet but it looks like standard-issue. A nine, or a thirty-eight, maybe.”

Belson stood and began to walk through the crime.

“Vic’s walking along here,” Belson said. “Shooter appears about here, shoots him in the chest. Vic falls over backwards. Shooter walks over, puts the gun against his forehead, and makes sure.”

“Don’t sound like a robbery gone bad,” Brian said.

“No,” Belson said. “It don’t.”

He stood, looking at the crime scene, as if he were taking slow-exposure pictures.

“Sunny,” Belson said, “whyn’t you tell Brian what you know about the vic.”

“Sure,” I said.

“And when you see your old man,” Belson said, “give him my best.”

I said I would, and turned and followed Brian into the Castle, where they had set up temporarily for business.