South Of Hell

Chapter Three

The air smelled of freshly turned earth. Was it just the wind bringing in the odor of a nearby farm? But Louis didn’t remember there being any fields this close to the city.

That’s what Ann Arbor was now, still a college town, the one he remembered from his four years here. But since he had left, it seemed to have taken on the rigor of a bigger place, with traffic and noise encroaching on the quiet sanctity of the University of Michigan campus.

Louis left the rental car in a lot, thinking a walk to the police station would do him some good after the long trip. Two hours sitting on the ground at the Tampa airport before they finally got in the air. Another lost hour at Detroit Metro while a Northwest clerk tried to find his missing suitcase. It had turned up in San Antonio, and the clerk promised it would be delivered to his hotel that night.

The one sweater he had packed — hell, the one sweater he had kept since moving to Florida — was in the suitcase. And now, as he headed down South University, he zipped his windbreaker to his chin against the chill, thinking maybe he should have driven after all.

A bell tolled. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was the Burton Tower. He counted three bells. Shit, on top of everything else, he was going to be late. He spotted a phone and dialed the police station.

“Don’t bust your hump,” Shockey said. “Where are you now?”

“By the Law Quad,” Louis said.

“You know Krazy Jim’s?”

“The burger place?”

“Yeah. Meet me there.”

Louis stepped out of the phone booth into a cold drizzle. He hurried across the street and through the stone archway leading into the cloistered confines of the old Law Quad.

He didn’t stop. Neither did the memories.

The cold marble floor of the dining hall where he usually ate alone. The cell-like feel of his dorm room. The sound of his roommate’s drunken snores that drove him to the quiet solitude of the Law Library’s reading room. There, under the fifty-foot vaulted ceiling, there, under the soft glow of the brass lamps, there, under the stained-glass weight of tradition, time seemed to stand still. There, in that vast Gothic cathedral of a place, the ache of loneliness was somehow lessened.

As he neared the western arch, his eyes went up to the old leaded windows of the Lawyers Club. It was where the law students lived. It was where he had so desperately wanted to be.

Once. Another lifetime ago.

He emerged onto State Street, heading west. On Division, he spotted the red awning of Krazy Jim’s Blimpy Burgers. The windows were fogged over, blurring the sign that boasted “Cheaper Than Food.” Inside, a vapor of grease and smoke enveloped him.

Louis spotted a man in a gray raincoat at the front corner table. He was red-faced and beefy, with the kind of hard, darting eyes that could never belong to a college professor. The man stood up as Louis approached.

“Kincaid?”

“Yeah. You Shockey?”

“That I am.” When Shockey held out his hand, Louis caught the glint of his gold detective’s badge and a holstered automatic beneath the raincoat. Shockey’s handshake was hard, his hands rough. Not the hands of a detective who spent long hours at a desk.

“So,” Shockey said, “you remember me now that you’re looking at me?”

Louis took in the pockmarked but roughly handsome face with its coffee-colored eyes and chopped dark hair.

“No, I don’t. Sorry.”

“I remember you,” Shockey said. “I was there the first day you showed up in uniform. We all wanted to get a look at the poster boy.”

“What?”

“You know, the new cop of the 1980s. Someone who was-”

“Black?” Louis said.

Shockey stared at him, then broke into a crooked-tooth smile. “No, man,” he said. “Someone with a friggin’ college degree.”

Louis let the words just hang there until Shockey cleared his throat. “You hungry?”

The smell of frying onions made Louis’s stomach churn with hunger. “Yeah, I could use a bite,” he said.

“Let’s get in line, then,” Shockey said.

Shockey went to the counter and got a plastic tray. Louis followed suit.

“You know,” Shockey said, “when I looked you up, I was expecting to see attorney-at-law after your name. Kinda surprised to find out you weren’t nothing but a lousy peeper living in a cottage and working insurance crap.”

Louis dug a Coke out of the cooler and slid his tray behind Shockey’s.

“I heard you got kicked out of Michigan a few years back for screwing up some big case the state guys were working on,” Shockey said.

Louis stayed quiet.

“But I guess that just proves what I been saying all along,” Shockey continued. “Police work is all about instinct and guts. Either you got them or you don’t, and you can’t get them from a diploma.”

They had moved up to the griddle, where a big black woman in a white apron and a red head scarf was making hamburgers in a fog of steam.

“Gimme a quint egg on onion roll, Irma,” Shockey said.

The woman grabbed five golf balls of meat, slapped them onto the grill, and smashed them with her spatula. She cracked an egg next to the meat. Then she looked up at Louis.

“Cheeseburger with fries,” Louis said.

The woman pointed the spatula at him. “You need to order the fries first! And the cheese last!”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Shockey held up a hand. “He’s a virgin, Irma.”

The woman glared at Louis. “Don’t care if he’s a eunuch. Rules is rules.”

Shockey turned to Louis. “What do you want?”

Louis was silent.

“Damn it, what do you want?” Shockey said in a fierce whisper.

“Cheeseburger,” Louis said, staring at the woman with the spatula.

Shockey turned to the woman. “Double on kaiser, Irma.”

She scowled at Louis, slapped two balls onto the grill, and smashed them down.

“I wanted a cheeseburger,” Louis said to Shockey.

“Forget it.”

Shockey slid his tray toward the register, pulling out his wallet.

“What about my fries?” Louis asked.

“Forget them, too.”

A kid in a hairnet deposited two paper-wrapped lumps on their trays, and Shockey paid. They wove through the bodies to the table by the front window. Shockey slid into the wood bench, keeping his eyes on the window and the door. Louis had no choice but to balance his ass on the small wooden swivel chair. His eyes took in the grease-stained walls and battered old tables.

“Why do you come here?” Louis said.

Shockey nodded toward the greasy paper lump. “Try it.”

With a shake of his head, Louis unwrapped the paper and took a bite of the burger. It was delicious. Even without the cheese.

Shockey was still working on his five-patty monster with a fried egg by the time Louis finished his. He was trying to decide whether he wanted to square off again with the griddle woman but decided he would wait to eat dinner later with Joe.

He got a glance at his watch. If he got out of there in the next half-hour, he could still make Echo Bay by ten.

Shockey saw him. “You got somewhere to go?”

“No,” Louis said, wiping his hands with a paper napkin. “So, why don’t you tell me why I’m here?”

Shockey set his burger down and grabbed a napkin. “Like I told you on the phone,” he said, “it’s about a missing persons case. A twenty-four-year-old woman by the name of Jean Brandt was reported missing by her husband December 4, 1980. A BOLO was put out on her ’71 Ford Falcon, which disappeared with her, according to the husband. A week later, when you were on patrol, you spotted the car parked at the Amtrak station down on Depot Street.”

Louis tried to bring the memory back, and it came slowly. It had been an icy night crammed with nuisance calls and fender-benders. He had a habit of rifling through the BOLOs and alerts, hoping to break the boredom of the shift. The old red Falcon was parked in the last space at the train station, pillowed with snow, one of the tires flat. He didn’t remember much else except the license plate. It was hanging, as if someone had tried to take it off but had given up after stripping the screw.

But one memory was clear. The plate had not been from Washtenaw County. It had been from Livingston County, north of Ann Arbor. Which meant that the missing woman’s disappearance would have been Livingston County’s jurisdiction, regardless of where her car was found. So the only way Shockey would be involved now was if her body had turned up in Ann Arbor.

“Where’d you find her?” Louis asked.

Shockey cleared his throat. “What?”

“The body. You guys found it, right?”

“No,” Shockey said.

“What about these new leads? Do you have a witness or something besides the car that connects her to Ann Arbor?”

Shockey pushed his tray away. “Not exactly.”

“So, why are you pursuing a cold case that doesn’t even belong to you?”

Shockey took a moment to grab another napkin and wipe his face. “I’m kind of in charge of the cold cases. This is one that always stuck in my craw. I met the husband, Owen Brandt, when he tried to pick up the Falcon. He was a real scumbag, and he said then he thought his wife had run off on him. My gut always told me he killed her and left the car here to make us think she left the state.”

Louis glanced at his watch.

“I’ll ask you again. You got somewhere to go, peeper?” Shockey said.

Louis looked across the table at Shockey. He was about forty but looked older. And in that moment, everything about the man seemed to crystallize. He was a dinosaur, assigned to brush the dust off a few cold cases while the young cops — the ones with diplomas — were pushing their way up in the ranks. Shockey was hearing their footsteps and was probably fighting like hell to hang on to his gold badge. Solving the case of a missing wayward wife in quiet little Ann Arbor just might help him do that. At least, for a few more years.

Louis knew, too, why Shockey had wanted to meet here instead of at the police station. He didn’t want the other cops to know he had to call on a PI to help him do his job.

“Look,” Louis said, “all I did was spot the vehicle. I sent my report to Livingston. The car was towed, and I was done. What the hell could I offer the case now?”

“You searched the car, right?”

“Of course I did. It was procedure.”

“You search it good?”

“Yeah, I searched it good.”

“You sure about that, peeper?”

What was this? He didn’t need this shit. First, he couldn’t get a cheeseburger, and now this old wash-up was on his case. But even as his body was tensing to get up and move forward, get on the road so he could see Joe, his brain was moving backward.

Back to that night at the train station, standing out in the bone-chilling sleet, chipping at the ice on the door handles so he could look inside the car. The car was unlocked, and he found nothing inside but cigarette butts and an old Arby’s bag. The trunk latch was broken, held closed by a rusted coat hanger. Cold, wet, and miserable, he had run his flashlight over the mess of tools and old newspapers, slammed the trunk shut, and retreated to his squad car to call it in.

He met Shockey’s eyes across the table. The question was still there.

“I didn’t miss anything,” Louis said.

“I still got the car,” Shockey said. He had the barest grin on his face. It pissed Louis off.

“How about if we go take another look?” Shockey said.

The impound lot was in a neighborhood of trailer parks and storage rental barns out by the airport. Shockey pulled the sedan up to the gates of the razor-wired chain-link fence, got out and hustled to the gates.

Louis watched through the slow sweep of the wipers as Shockey unlocked the heavy padlocks and swung the gate open. Louis was staring at the big yellow sign that shouted beware attack dogs as Shockey slid back into the driver’s seat.

“What about the dogs?” Louis asked.

“There’s no friggin’ dogs,” Shockey said, putting the car into gear.

Once inside the lot, Shockey parked the sedan at the side of a large metal hangar of a building. Louis got out into the cold drizzle.

A low whining noise drew his eyes up, but he couldn’t see anything in the rapidly fading light. The whine grew into an ear-splitting scream as a smudge of lights emerged from the clouds. Louis almost ducked as the jet streaked overhead and was gone.

“This way,” Shockey said.

They walked behind the building, down a row of cars, which seemed to grow older and dirtier the farther they went. They passed some motorcycles, a few boats on trailers, and an old tractor. Then came rows of old refrigerators, bicycles, and a stack of doors. The farther they went into the yard, the rustier and more random the piles of debris became. It was like some old cemetery where the fresh graves still had someone to tend them while the old ones had long been abandoned.

Louis stopped and lifted a plastic-encased tag hanging from a rusty bicycle. Written on it was a case number, a scribbled name, and the year: 1968.

“How long you guys keep this stuff?” Louis asked.

“Forever,” Shockey said, walking on. “A few years back, we had a guy who was awarded a new trial after twenty years in the pen. Lucky us, we still had the evidence, and he was convicted again.”

Louis followed Shockey around the corner of the building. The red Falcon was parked nose-in against the fence. A weather-worn tarp covered the front end, but the wind had blown it up to expose the trunk. Shockey sighed in disgust as he brushed mud and dead leaves from a back window. Then he looked back at Louis.

“This is it,” Shockey said.

Louis stepped closer and peered in the side window. The interior was clouded with gray shadows, but there was enough light to see. The ashtray was still stuffed with butts, and the Arby’s bag was still in the backseat.

“Have you had anything examined yet?” Louis asked. “Dusted the car for prints?”

“Not yet,” Shockey said. “This sat here for nine years. I told you, I just recently reopened the case.”

“Okay,” Louis said. “What was it I was supposed to have missed?”

The trunk was still secured only by the rusty coat hanger. Shockey unwound the wire and lifted the trunk. Louis peered inside. At first, he saw the same tools and old newspapers he had seen nine years ago, but then his eye caught something else. Tucked under a crumpled Detroit Free Press, the strap of a bra.

He picked up a screwdriver and used it to lift the newspaper. The bra was once white, but the fabric was dull and yellow now, the lace across the left cup rotting away. The right cup was smeared with a brown liquid.

Blood.

Louis looked at Shockey. His first impulse was to deny the existence of the bra back in 1980, but the truth was, he couldn’t be absolutely sure. In the dark and in a hurry to wrap up a report on an abandoned vehicle, it was possible he missed it.

“So, what’s the problem?” Louis asked. “This is evidence of a crime. Why haven’t you bagged it and turned it over to the lab?”

“This is why,” Shockey said. He reached into his raincoat for a piece of paper and handed it to Louis.

It was a report — his 1980 report on locating the Falcon. And it was not a copy. It was the original. Louis scanned it quickly.

Upon a routine search of the vehicle and the trunk, I arranged a tow. Tow truck responded at 12:45 a.m. Notification made to AAPD detectives and to Livingston County 12/11/80 that vehicle wanted in their BOLO had been located at 325 Depot Street, Ann Arbor, Mich. Neither Owen Brandt, owner of the vehicle, nor ATL subject, Jean Brandt, was on scene.

Louis handed the report back to Shockey. “I still don’t understand what the problem is. This report is accurate and doesn’t change your finding the bra.”

“I don’t think that’s how a defense attorney is going to see it,” Shockey said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Look at it this way,” Shockey said. “The wife disappears in December 1980. Her car is found a week later, and a cop searches it and puts in writing that there was nothing in the car to indicate a crime. Nine years later, a bloody bra turns up in the trunk.”

“Stuff like that happens.”

“It could happen if there hadn’t been a search of the trunk in 1980,” Shockey said. “Aren’t you smart enough to see how a defense attorney will play this?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“Okay, you’re up on the stand,” Shockey said. “Officer Kincaid, you put in your report you searched the trunk. Inside were some tools and old newspapers. Did you move the newspapers, officer? Of course I did. Did you have a flashlight, Officer? Of course I did. Then how come you didn’t see the bra, Officer? Could it be you didn’t see it because it was planted later by the police?”

Louis looked back at the trunk. He understood what Shockey was saying. He’d faced enough defense lawyers to know how things could get twisted, but he wasn’t sure that’s what this was about. The trunk wasn’t that cluttered. There was a screwdriver, a wrench, and a crowbar. An old can of oil and some newspapers. Even in the sleet, he would have sifted through it. It was procedure, and back then, he never broke procedure. No way did he miss this bra.

“Look, peeper,” Shockey said, “I’m just telling you that it won’t work for a judge or a jury the way it is now. I need you to change your report.”

“You want me to say I never looked in the trunk?”

Shockey reached into his pants and withdrew a second sheet of paper. “I got a blank form here,” he said. “Just like the ones we used in 1980. I want you to rewrite everything and leave out the fact that you searched the car. Say it was frozen shut or something.”

Louis took a step back so he could get a better look at Shockey’s face.

“You’re one stupid sonofabitch,” he said.

“Let’s not get personal-”

“Not only are you asking me to commit a crime, but there are other copies of my report out there,” Louis went on. “How could you expect to get away with something like this?”

“The only other copy was in the missing persons file on Jean Brandt. And it no longer exists.”

“You destroyed it?”

Shockey was quiet, his hand still extended to Louis, the blank paper growing limp in the rain. In the gray light, the lines and whiskers on Shockey’s face looked etched in dried clay, and his eyes were swimming with a sick kind of desperate hope.

Another plane whined overhead.

“You planted the bra, didn’t you?” Louis said.

“I’m telling you, it’s Jean Brandt’s bra, and it’s our only hope of getting a warrant to search the farm,” Shockey said. “Owen Brandt is a monster. He killed her, and she’s buried out there on that farm. I know it.”

“I don’t care,” Louis said. “I won’t falsify a report for an over-the-hill dick who has no other way to hang on to his job than to lie his way into a courtroom with phony evidence.”

Louis walked away from Shockey. In the distance, he could make out the mist-fuzzed lights of the runway at Detroit Metro. The heavy air was suddenly cold. He dreaded the drive back to the city with this jerk.

“I’ll pay you!” Shockey hollered.

Louis spun to face him. “Pay me?”

Shockey came to him. “Look,” he said, “if you had any guts or brains at all, you’d still be wearing a badge. I know all about you. You barely get work as a PI, and your real job is a part-time security gig watching rich people get a tan.”

“Shut up.”

“You got three hundred smackers in the bank, a car that’s damn near older than you are, and your net income for last year wasn’t enough to feed the fishies down where you live. Tell me you couldn’t use ten grand.”

Louis wanted to slug him. “Take me back to Ann Arbor — now,” he said. “And if you say one more word about any of this on the way, I’ll report you to your chief. You got that?”

Louis walked away. When he got to the gate, he looked back. Shockey had returned to the Falcon. The wind had picked up, and he was fighting to secure the tarp back over the trunk, searching for a way to fasten it down.

The blank report was lying in the mud.