Primary Justice

6

BEN STOOD IN A dark alley on the north side, the Bad Part of Town in the common parlance, wondering how he got entangled in something so seedy on his very first day on the job. On the street, a red neon sign identifying the Red Parrot Café and a smaller sign providing the key information BEER blinked on and off. A small crowd of disreputable-looking people was beginning to form. Their faces were illuminated by the whirling red and blue lights atop the police cars and ambulances. Ben watched as the paramedics and coroner’s office interns lifted the stiff, blood-caked body onto a stretcher. It had taken them nearly fifteen minutes to lift the body out of the garbage Dumpster where it had been found by a street person.

Ben gazed at the hideous, mutilated corpse, barely recognizable as the remnant of a human being. The body was coated with thick black blood. A violent blow had crushed the left side of the face and left precious little of the right. The jaw was broken and limp, dangling freely from the upper part of the skull.

The body had suffered numerous other blows as well. Something had smashed the knees from the front. Something had split the scalp above the right ear, and again at the base of the skull. And there were numerous puncture wounds, blotted and stained with repulsively large quantities of coagulated blood.

There was no question: these were the remains of Jonathan Adams. True, his face was mutilated beyond all hope of recognition, but he was wearing the same clothes he had worn in Ben’s office, with the same distinctive pencil holder. And he had the business card, the only one Ben had ever dispensed, precisely where Ben had seen him place it. But the sense of bearing, of quiet strength, Ben had perceived before was utterly erased; the body had collapsed in on itself like a popped balloon.

The police photographer, a man who must possess a stainless-steel stomach, was photographing the corpse from all heights and angles. Ben winced and looked away.

“Have you found a weapon?” Ben asked.

“No.” The man who summoned Ben, Lieutenant Mike Morelli, struggled to light a pipe against a strong headwind. He was wearing a hat and an overcoat—rather heavy gear for summer weather—but Ben knew that for Mike, an important part of being a detective was looking like a detective. “I’ve got my men combing the area, but I don’t have high hopes. Not a cooperative neighborhood. I’m lining up a crew to look for bloodstained clothing. Once morning breaks, they’ll be searching refuse collections and dumps throughout the city.”

“Think you’ll find anything?”

“It’s possible. Assuming the killer is from around here and doesn’t have the smarts to burn his clothes. Our best shot is to find the knife that made the puncture wounds.”

“What kind of knife was it?”

“I can’t say for sure. Might know more after the coroner’s report. It was a big one. Thick. Sharp. Might be a kitchen knife.” He puffed twice on his pipe. “The kind you can find in every home in Tulsa.”

“But why would anyone use a knife? It’s so … messy. Any idiot can get a gun from any pawnshop in town. Especially in this part of town.”

“You’re assuming someone planned this in advance,” Mike said. “Remember, Adams’s wallet was missing. The five-mile radius now surrounding us houses ninety-five percent of all the lowlifes, drug addicts, drug pushers, and pimps in Tulsa. Probably, Adams was just a stupid rich guy looking for some action who got robbed. The robbery got messy, or maybe Adams was really stupid and tried to fight back. The robber got mad and Adams got offed.

“Also consider, Counselor, that although a knife may be messier than a gun, it’s a hell of a lot harder to trace.” The exhaled pipe smoke formed a halo around Mike’s head. Ben wondered if he practiced that. “No registration numbers. No licenses. No paraffin or ballistics tests. And a knife is quieter, too. Despite the appearance of this neighborhood, it is still inhabited. Some people have been coming here all their lives, and they aren’t going to stop now. I understand a lot of older guys come here for a little nonspousal sexual activity.”

“Adams wasn’t the type to do that.”

“Says you. And you’ve known him for all of what? An hour?” Mike took another puff on the pipe. “This area has also become a favorite haunt for young professionals like yourself who think it’d be fun to go slumming for an evening and score some coke or something.”

Resentful? Ben shook his head. How did that happen? Just six years ago, Ben had been a groomsman in Mike’s wedding. They had met in college during Ben’s junior year, in a poetry-writing class, and discovered they had common interests. Pizza. Music. Saving the world.

They shared an apartment the next semester and started playing together at a local pizza parlor, Ben on keyboards, Mike on guitar and vocals. Mike met Ben’s younger sister, Julia, during that time. Two months later, Mike dropped out of school and announced that he and Julia were getting married. Any fool could see that, as they say in soap operas, they came from two different worlds. Ben and Julia’s father was an upper-middle-class cardiologist; Mike’s divorced and usually absent father was an oil well promoter. But they were in love. The differences didn’t matter. At first.

Julia was accustomed to the lifestyle of a successful professional’s baby girl. Constant entertainment and all the instant gratification money can buy. Mike got a part-time job as a prison guard and tried to save up enough money for them to pay the bills while he went through police academy training. An impossible dream, as long as Julia had breath in her body and plastic in her purse. Mike, through Julia, had to start asking for loans from his daddy-in-law. Family relations, never good, really started to feel the strain after that.

And, Ben reflected, I started law school and had problems of my own and lost track of my old best buddy and costar. One day Ben got a call from his mother telling him that Julia had left Mike and moved to Montana with an English lit professor. Mom and Dad were mortified. Naturally, they blamed Mike.

With no shopping addiction to feed, Mike had no problem completing the police officer training program. Ben assumed he dealt with the emotional blow in his usual tough-guy manner. Inside of four years, Mike was a detective working in the homicide department. Tulsa PD didn’t get near-college graduates that often.

Ben really had meant to call Mike once he got settled. Really.

“So you think it was a robbery that got out of hand?” Ben asked.

Mike took a deep draw on his pipe. “So it appears. The neighborhood, the victim, the missing wallet.” He paused for a moment. “But I don’t mind telling you, at the risk of sounding trite—something doesn’t seem right. One blow would’ve been enough to rob the old coot. Hell, two blows would’ve been enough to kill him. Why the hell did the killer feel compelled to turn the guy’s body into goulash?”

“Maybe the thief was a psycho^ Or high on drugs.”

“Yeah, maybe. This is definitely the neighborhood for it. But something about this bothers me, Ben.”

A young uniformed officer walked up to Mike. “We had a heck of a time getting the body out of that Dumpster, sir, but it’s loaded into the ambulance now. We dusted the corpse, the Dumpster, and the surrounding area for fingerprints. No latents. We also searched for footprints or any other trace evidence. No luck.”

Mike exploded, apparently enraged. “Goddamn it, what kind of hack rookie are you?” He muttered a few choice curses under his breath. “I want you to take the whole goddamn squad and fan out for ten blocks in every direction. And look, damn it! That means you pick things up, you look around corners. And talk to people. Whether they’ve bathed recently or not. Don’t come back till you can give me something useful.”

The young officer swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“And send the hair and fiber boys in with their tweezers.

“Yes, sir.”

“And where the hell is the lab biologist? Bolton or Dolton or whatever her name is. Give her another call!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And tell McAfferty to get his butt over here. Mr. Kincaid and I are ready to speak to Crazy Jane.”

“Yes, sir.” The young man turned quickly and disappeared.

“Still doing the hardboiled shamus bit, eh?” Ben said. “Dashiell Hammett would be proud of you.”

Mike looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right. Forget I spoke. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that you act and dress like a character out of film noir.”

Mike frowned.

“Don’t worry, Mike. I won’t tell them you were once an English major.”

“I don’t have time to put up with you.” Mike patted down the ashes in the bowl of his pipe.

Ben decided to leave well enough alone. “What’s this about a Crazy Jane?” he asked.

“Street person. She found the body while she was rummaging around in the Dumpster. Looking for supper, probably.”

Another young uniformed officer walked toward them, leading by the arm a desiccated woman who had to be Crazy Jane. She was short and hunched, as if from spending her entire life huddling for warmth. Her hair was thin and gray and sticking out in every direction. Ben could see she had a prominent bald spot on the back of her head, the first he had ever seen on a woman. Her skin had a cold, blue, steely texture; she had a large red scab over her left eye. A black plastic garbage bag was wrapped around her upper body. A poor woman’s overcoat.

“Did you sober her up, McAfferty?” Mike asked curtly.

The young officer seemed hesitant. “I poured a lot of coffee down her throat, sir, but as for sobriety, well …”

Mike understood. He squared himself in front of her. “How long have you been in this alley, Jane?” he asked.

Her mouth was a straight, horizontal line. “All my life, handsome.”

This was going to be more difficult than he had imagined. “Have you seen anyone in this alley tonight? I mean, other than the deceased?”

She looked at him oddly. “The snowbird done it.”

Mike’s eyebrows raised.

“The snowbird, the white bird of peace. It cum down and took ’em away to the clouds.” She gazed up toward the sky.

Mike and Ben glanced at one another. “I see …”

“It’s heaven!” Suddenly she was shouting. “Great God Almighty open them doors at last!” The woman shook free of McAfferty’s hands “The time has cum. It’s the cummin’ of the Lord! Praise God halley-luah!”

Mike let out a deep sigh. “Well, that’s all we need from you now, Jane. Thanks, though.”

Crazy Jane brought her gaze and her voice back down to earth. “Cert’ly, handsome.” Officer McAfferty led her away.

After they were gone, Ben made a long whistling noise. “Wow,” he said. “What a case. Total crackpotdom. Must be the Oral Roberts influence. Infects the whole city.”

“Yeah, well, you try living on the streets for a while and we’ll see how sane you come out. Those people have a hell of a hard life. Cuddling sewer vents for warmth and scraping garbage bins for food.” He frowned. “If you don’t have any additional insights on this matter, Ben, you may leave.”

“Dam. And just when I was learning to love the north side. So how long till you catch the guy that killed my client?”

“Forever, probably.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“It’s a little early in the investigation to abandon all hope, isn’t it?”

“I’m just trying to be realistic,” Mike said, “and the fact is we don’t have anything to go on. Maybe the lab or the coroner will turn up something, but it’s not promising. The killer was probably some transient loony who took the cash and is now sitting in a motel room in St. Louis.” He glanced at Ben. “What with the business card, you’re my number-one suspect. But I can’t see hauling you downtown. Since you’re family and all.”

“I can’t believe you’re giving up on this before you’ve even begun.”

“Who’s giving up? Tomorrow we’ll go to this breakfast food factory where you say he works, and we’ll quiz everybody who’s spoken to him in the last ten years. We’ll get a subpoena for the Message Unit Detail sheets from the phone company, and we’ll trace every call he’s made from his home or office for the last six months. The physical evidence boys will continue to scour the city. For as long as they can. Until Chief Blackwell decides it’s hopeless, or until the next gruesome homicide comes along.”

Mike was becoming agitated. “Tulsa isn’t New York City, but we haven’t got so little to do that we can piddle away our time on hopeless cases. This murder was a one-man show, possibly a one-lunatic show, and that one lunatic hasn’t left many traces and isn’t likely to confess. Unlike those TV cop shows you grew up on, some real-life cases just can’t be solved.” He paused significantly. “At least not by traditional police methods.”

Ben’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“C’mon, Ben. You’re the shyster; you don’t need me to tell you the law. There’s plenty you can do that I can’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like what happens if I break into a house without a search warrant and take some crucial evidence?”

“It probably can’t be used at trial.”

“And what happens if you do the same thing?”

Ben shrugged. “Nothing. No state action.”

“Well, not exactly. I’d have to arrest you for breaking and entering, but the evidence you found could still be used at trial. Geez, what kind of grades did you make? Maybe I ought to be a lawyer.”

Ben didn’t honor the remark with a reply. “What are you getting at, Mike?”

“Well, my quick-witted friend, I’m saying if you really want to find the guy who deep-sixed your client, hire a private investigator. Do some investigating yourself. And check back with me from time to time. Unofficially, of course.”

A black-and-white police car slowly cruised to a stop on the other side of the street. Ben could see Bertha Adams sitting in the backseat on the passenger side.

“Does she know yet?” Ben asked.

Mike nodded. “Told her on the phone. But it’s not the same. It never really sinks in till they see the body.”

Ben began zipping his jacket. “I don’t want to be around for this, Mike.”

“Don’t blame you. Consider what I said, though, okay? And stay in touch. Oh. Last thing …” Mike reached into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a crumpled bit of white paper. “You can take this with you.”

Ben took the paper from Mike. It was his business card. “Don’t you need this for evidence?”

“Oh, I think I can remember the name.” Mike winked, then thrust his fists into his overcoat. “You know, Ben, I really loved your sister.”

Ben shoved the card into his pocket. “Yeah.” He turned and walked back to his car.