The Cold Room

Twelve

The J. C. Napier Homes were one of Nashville’s nastiest projects. Many of the city’s homicides happened there; Napier and its fellow, the Tony Sedekum Homes, accounted for half of the arrests in all the housing projects in Davidson County. Poverty begat deeper levels of poverty. Guns were rampant. Some murders and assaults were fueled by drugs, most others by desperation. Whatever the cause, the effect was that the Napier projects saw nearly thirty percent of all the murders in Nashville in a given year.

The patrols in these projects were on bikes-the streets were few and far apart, running lengthways. There was little to no access between the buildings and courtyards. On bikes, they had a chance. But it was dangerous work. The residents didn’t have much hope, anyway. Taking potshots at cops was a favorite pastime.

Taylor’s window was down; she heard the usual catcalls. She smelled burning garbage: another boredom-killer on warm summer days, setting fire to the Dumpsters. In these projects, men, women and children roamed the streets aimlessly at all hours of the day and night, talking, watching, being. The typical crowd gathered around her Caprice; McKenzie grew pale under his already light complexion.

“Ignore them. They’re just playing.” But she put the window up.

“It’s not that. How can people live like this?”

Taylor glanced at him. “Do you think they have another choice?”

“Yes. They could try. They could get a job instead of having babies so they can collect more food stamps for beer. Have you ever been inside one of their apartments? They’ve got better electronics than most yuppies. Where’s the money coming from? Certainly nothing legal. And if they have enough to trick out their homes, why in the world would they choose to live here? I’ve never understood it.”

That was quite a speech.

“To use a terrible cliché, McKenzie, it’s not that black and white. I want all of them to get jobs, as well, to stop running crack and heroin, to clean this shit place up and try to make a better life. You give them driveways and pretty houses, the crime rates dwindle. Look at what HUD did with the Hope IV grants-John Henry Hale, Preston Taylor, Vine Hill are all clean, safe places. It’s amazing the difference architecture and bright colors can make. But down here, they’re still in the land time forgot. The power of a few overrides the desires of the many. They’re scared. They’ve been brainwashed not to trust anyone who wants to help them. The dealers and pimps threaten the women, rape them, force them into this life. They terrorize the children, conscript them into the game by making them run the drugs from the buy to the sale. I agree, they should want out, and I applaud the ones who try. It’s sad, but it’s out of our hands. All we can do is enforce the law to the best of our abilities.”

Father Victor’s Chevy Lumina slid in behind Taylor’s Caprice. She and McKenzie got out of the car and met him by the trunk. It was department policy that a clergy member attend all death notifications. It was a welcome policy; having a spiritual guide along certainly helped.

“Ready?” she asked the chaplain.

“As I’ll ever be. Detective McKenzie? I’m Father Victor.” The two men shook hands. The chaplain’s blue eyes were sad, and Taylor realized that he’d started to go gray. His predecessor, Father Ross, had been stolen away by a diocese in Maine just two weeks earlier. Father Victor had been the backup chaplain. But Taylor knew the Father from around town. He’d been a fixture in the archdiocese for years, was a priest at the Cathedral. She knew he was in his late forties, but didn’t know his exact age.

“It’s good to meet you, sir,” McKenzie replied. Taylor glanced at him sharply. He seemed deferential to the priest. Catholic, maybe? With a name like McKenzie, it was a good chance.

They turned to the building that hopefully housed some answers about Allegra Johnson.

Taylor ignored the rude gestures, the propositions and threats. She walked through the manufactured similitude of the run-down buildings to the front door. The screen was cut. The wooden door stood open. The homes had been renovated just a few years earlier; they were already falling in on themselves again. No one cared enough to worry about upkeep.

They knocked. A cracked voice yelled, “Come in.”

Taylor rested her hand lightly on her weapon, just force of habit entering a strange building. They entered the cramped ground-floor apartment. The walls were paneled with dark walnut. Lace curtains, yellowed with cigarette smoke, hung limply over the window. Taylor could see a bullet hole in one pane. The carpet was a dirty orange shag, about a million years old, that didn’t quite reach the four corners of the room. Fetid despair hung from every corner like deserted cobwebs.

Wrinkling her nose, Taylor took the four steps that led her into the kitchen. Small things scuttled away from her feet-mice, roaches, silverfish? Taylor didn’t know, didn’t want to know. She immediately realized why the home was such a mess-there was an old woman sitting at the tiny, unstable kitchen table. Her eyes were milky white, made more opaque by the contrast with her blue-black skin. She was old, very, very old. Her blind eyes searching for her guests. Taylor bit back a curse. The woman should be in a home with people to take care of her, not living on her own.

There was something akin to recognition behind the woman’s blank eyes. For a moment, it seemed they were alone, just the two of them in the putrid little kitchen. She looked right into Taylor’s soul. Taylor got goose bumps, rubbed her hands up and down her arms to shake off the creepy feeing. She stopped a foot away and didn’t stretch out her hand to shake.

“Ma’am? I’m Detective Jackson with Metro Homicide. This is Detective McKenzie, and our chaplain, Father Victor. Do you know a young woman by the name of Allegra Johnson?”

“She dead?” the woman asked.

“Ma’am, are you related to Miss Johnson?”

“She my grandbaby. She dead?” she asked again.

“What’s your full name, ma’am?” Father Victor asked softly.

“Ethel Johnson. My girl’s dead,” she said with finality, then started to cry, silent and haunting, tears slipping unchecked down her mahogany cheeks.

Taylor recognized the tone in the old woman’s voice. Despair, tinged with irony. With the knowledge that there would be no other reason for a police officer to be in her home other than to inform with bad news. Her shoulders slumped a little, and Taylor moved closer. She hated that she had to bring a lonely old woman so much pain, but she had to press on, needed to get as much information as she could.

“Yes, ma’am. We found Allegra’s body late yesterday. We matched her fingerprints to prints in the system this morning.” Taylor had brought a picture to do the notification, a morgue shot, but that was a moot point. “Is there any way we could do a formal identification? A picture of Allegra, perhaps? We want to be absolutely sure we’re talking about the same girl.”

“Gots a picture in her bedroom down the hall. That should do it for you. That Tyrone finally beat her to death, huh?”

“Who is Tyrone, ma’am? Her boyfriend?”

“Haw,” the woman spit out. “Boyfriend. Girl, child like that, she got herself a pimp. A sugar daddy. Tyrone Hill been whoring her out, give her the drugs. Allegra been acting a fool for a while now. I told her it would come to no good. I told her that man would kill her, one way or the other. She don’t listen to her Gran, though.”

“Do her parents live close by?”

“Her daddy’s in Riverbend. Three strikes. Her momma done died when she was ten. I been raisin’ her since. Best I can, leastways. The good Lord don’t always give us the right tools to do His bidding.” She waved a hand toward her face. Prophetic blindness, it seemed.

A young woman, probably in her late teens, came through the front door into the kitchen with a baby on her hip. Curiosity was obviously getting the better of the neighborhood.

She stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. “Miss Ethel, what’s dis about? Why da police here?”

The grandmother just snorted. Taylor reintroduced herself.

“May I ask your name, miss?” Taylor said.

The woman regarded her suspiciously for a few moments, then said, “D’Andra. I’m her cousin. Allegra be dead?”

“Yes,” Taylor answered.

“She hurt bad?”

Taylor glanced at the grandmother, who was leaning forward a bit. She had no intention of going into detail, but she still hated this part.

“Allegra was very, very thin. We don’t have all the answers, but it seems she starved to death. Did she ever have any issues with anorexia?”

D’Andra just looked at her like she was an idiot. The baby started to squirm, and she set it down on the filthy floor. It scooted under the table on all fours. Jesus.

“Let’s back up. When was the last time you saw Allegra?”

“She been gone for ages,” D’Andra said.

“How long is ages? Weeks? Months?”

“’Bout three weeks.”

“And you didn’t report her missing?” McKenzie asked.

This time both women laughed joylessly. D’Andra spoke first. “Why would we go and do something like dat? Din’t know if she were off with her man, or what. Like you’d ever even give a shit to look for her? Come on, brother. I weren’t born yestaday.”

Taylor looked into the woman’s eyes. The whites were yellowed and bloodshot, the brown coagulated. Track marks cruised up and down her arms. Lacking hope, so many of these women sought refuge in drugs. It usually became so bad that they’d do just about anything to get their fix.

“I would have looked for her, if I’d known,” Taylor said.

“Yaw, sure. I believe that. Where Allegra be now?”

“At the medical examiner’s.” Taylor turned back to Allegra’s grandmother. “Once we’re finished, she can be released to you, ma’am.”

She looked confused. “To me? What would I do wit her?”

“Bury her, perhaps. Give her some peace. She deserves that much,” the chaplain said.

They both shook their heads. D’Andra spoke quietly. “Ah, hell, preacher man, we don’t have money for dat. You folks get her in the ground. She be your problem now.”

Taylor watched as she scooped up the baby, who was gnawing on its dirty fist, and walked out into the sparse backyard. Shoulders slumped, head down. Another generation oppressed by drugs and poverty. God, it was depressing out here in the projects.

McKenzie was busy scribbling in his notepad, actively avoiding the situation. Father Victor sat at the table, took one of the old woman’s hands in his. She grasped onto him like he was a tiny bit of flotsam in a wide ocean. Starved for a touch of kindness.

“Is there anyone we can call to come be with you?” Father Victor asked.

“No. There’s just me. I take care of myself. The girls come round, D’Andra and her momma, look after me some. One of the neighbors takes me to church and gets my groceries.”

“Do you mind if we look at Allegra’s room?” Taylor asked.

The old woman waved toward the hall off the kitchen. The apartment was a two-bedroom with a single bath at the end of the hall. Maybe eight hundred square feet, if they counted inside the cabinets and closets.

The tiny room to the right was the grandmother’s; it smelled of urine and sandalwood and dark things. The one on the left was smaller, but less fragrant. A black cloth, draped half on and half off the window, let little bits of sunlight stream into the room. A single, unmade bed was pushed into a corner; the pink-and-white striped sheets looked like they needed a wash. A wooden cross hung over the bed, and a yellowed photograph of a smiling young girl, maybe eight, with her arms wrapped around an older version of herself. The picture was definitely of the same woman at the medical examiner’s office. Taylor stared at it without removing it from the wall. The older woman must have been Allegra’s mother. They had the same nose, the same tilt to their eyes.

The picture and the cross were the only adornments on the gray walls. There was nothing superfluous in the cheap decor-a bed, a small wooden dresser with a scratched top, clothes on the floor. They moved systematically through the room, looking in drawers, under the bed, sifting through the small pile of clothes in the corner. Taylor found what might have started as a diary but had turned into a doodle pad. She set the journal on the desk.

“We need a crime-scene tech to go through here. See if there are any foreign prints or DNA that we can trace to her abductor,” Taylor said.

“I’ll make the call.”

The bathroom had the usual female accoutrements, cold cream and lotion, makeup, mascara, a crumpled box of yeast-infection treatment, all the things that would signal a young woman used it. There were two syringes in the makeup kit, a little spoon, and a crack pipe. Allegra’s tox screen would be interesting. She was definitely into narcotics. And she hadn’t taken them with her, which was a surprise. It told Taylor that Allegra wasn’t planning to be away from home for very long.

So how does a girl from the projects end up hung on a column in a house on Love Hill?

“Damn shame,” McKenzie whispered.

“No kidding,” Taylor said. “Get the crime lab on this and let’s get back to them.”

She walked down the short hallway into the kitchen. Father Victor was saying a prayer of solace over Mrs. Johnson.

“May Christ support us all the day long, till the shadows lengthen, and the evening comes, and the busy world is hushed, and the fever of life is over and our work is done. Then in His mercy may He give us a safe lodging, and holy rest and peace at the last. Amen.”

Taylor watched until he made the sign of the cross and stood before she addressed the woman again. She was almost afraid to speak. She didn’t want to invalidate the prayer, chase away whatever goodness might be hovering around the woman, if only for an instant. Then the old woman coughed-hard, sharp, barking catches-and the moment was gone.

She asked gently, “Ma’am, do you have any contact information for Tyrone?”

“He hangs out at the minimart on the corner of Claiborne and Lafayette. Should be there now, lest someones around here already done tipped him off. That girl just through here, she work for him, too. Best be quick if you want to see to him. She’s got a mouth on her like a motorboat.”

The woman made the guttural noise again. Taylor understood it was a mirthless laugh. She got quiet, then seemed to shrink in on herself, drawing into the collar of her stained dressing gown like a turtle.

Taylor nodded to Father Victor, then thanked Mrs. Johnson. McKenzie was standing by the front door, phone to his ear. She gestured to him to follow her, left the dank space and went into the fresh air. The breeze was tinged with the cloyingly sweet scent of marijuana smoke. She didn’t care at the moment. She just wanted to get out. She felt dirty.

She got in the Caprice, McKenzie slid in beside her. She keyed the radio, asked dispatch to put her through to Gerald Sayers, head of the Specialized Investigative Unit. Gerald’s people handled the drugs and prostitution in Nashville, plus all the other vice-related activities. He was a good man, not afraid to do whatever it took to get the job done. She trusted him.

Within five minutes, Sayers was back to her. He called on her cell. She put it on speaker so McKenzie could hear.

“Gerald. How are you?”

“Good to hear from you, Taylor. You holding up?” The show of support she was getting from her fellow officers was so heartening. No one agreed with the actions taken against her.

“I am. Listen, my new partner’s here, too, Renn McKenzie. We’ve got a question for you. You know a pimp named Tyrone Hill, out of the J. C. Napier homes?”

“Oh, yeah. Dealer, pimp. Informant if the price is right. Got his greasy paws in a few different pies. Took over some of Terrence Norton’s territory after Lincoln popped him last month. Word is Terrence is calling the shots from the inside. Why do you ask about Tyrone? What’s he done now? I hope it’s a jailable offense.”

“One of his girls ended up dead yesterday.”

“OD or hit?”

“Neither. Looks like she was held for a while, starved, then left in a stranger’s house, nailed to a column.”

“Oh, the Love Hill murder. Heard that one was pretty weird. It doesn’t sound like Tyrone. He’d be more likely to smack her upside the head a few times. I don’t think he’s graduated to rub-outs yet. I can have one of my undercovers snoop a bit, see if he’s out there braggin’ he did it. These idiots love to take credit for their work.”

“That would be great. My vic’s name is Allegra Johnson. We just did the notification to her grandmother. She said Tyrone hangs at the corner of Claiborne and Lafayette.”

“Yeah, that’s his little fiefdom. I’ll send one of my boys over there, see what’s shakin’. Call you later?”

“That’d be great, Gerald. Thank you.”

He clicked off. McKenzie looked at her.

“This is breaking, you think?”

“I don’t know. Have you met Captain Sayers yet?”

McKenzie shook his head.

“When you meet him, you’ll see. Gerald knows his clientele. We need to go run down a few other leads.”

“Of course.”

Father Victor tapped on her window. She put it down.

“We’re taking care of Miss Ethel. I’ve got social services setting up a call schedule, and I’ll make sure that we get some folks to come in and get her straightened out. It’s unconscionable to let an old woman like that live on her own.”

“Thanks, Father. I knew you’d find a way to help. I appreciate you coming with us today.”

He nodded, murmured a prayer over her, then went back to his car and drove off, slowly. Taylor could see him looking left and right, saddened by the area. She felt the same way.

She turned the car engine over, slid away from the curve, following the chaplain’s path.

“So talk to me, McKenzie. Tell me what you think’s happening here.”

“Honestly? I don’t think a pimp who hangs out at a minimart has the wherewithal to transport a body across town, tie her to a post and stick a knife through her chest, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He slipped on a pair of aviator sunglasses. He looked so much like a cop that she wondered if it was purposeful, whether he practiced the move in the mirror before work.

“Better be careful, we might start calling you Miami Vice.”

“Why? I transferred in from Orlando.”

She bit back a laugh, refocused on his words. “Never mind. Before your time. I agree with you about Tyrone. But I’d rather hear from Gerald before I make that decision. What else?”

“I think Allegra Johnson was an easy target. Someone relatively transient, with a sketchy background and a difficult life. Someone no one would miss if she was gone for a few weeks. I think whoever killed her watched her, knew about her, knew she would be easy pickings.”

“Not bad. Lure her with drugs, or a sex act for money. Tyrone might know who she went off with, if he’s really her pimp.” She sighed. “I did a ViCAP search earlier trying to see if this case matches one from Manchester a few years back. If my hunch is right, we’ll need to take a trip down there tomorrow. Will you join me?”

“Absolutely. What else do you want me to do?”

“If you were running the case, what would you do next?”

McKenzie was quiet. They were almost back to the CJC. She glided into the side lot and put the Caprice in Park. She shifted in the seat so she could face him. He was playing with his hands, practically wringing them in frustration.

“This may sound crazy, but I think I’d like to know more about Mr. Bangor. He might be a target. He’s a homosexual, perhaps this was aimed at him, a hate crime.”

There was something odd in McKenzie’s voice, a tone she wasn’t familiar with. She looked at him sideways. Fury. His fists were balled, his brow creased. Those little actions set off her alarm bells. Was McKenzie closeted? Not that it mattered to her, but he’d mentioned a girlfriend. She tucked that away to be dealt with later.

“A message? I’ve thought about that, too. It seems a bit extreme, but he was broken into last year. He might be into something that we don’t know about. Have you run him yet?”

“Yes. Nothing. Clean as a whistle. He’s a law-abiding citizen, pays his parking tickets. His prints weren’t in the system.”

“He could be clean, he could be good at hiding things. We’ll see.”

Her cell rang. She recognized the caller ID, an internal number to the Criminal Justice Center. She answered it, hoping it was Gerald. It was. She put it on speaker.

“We talked to your boy.”

“That was quick.”

“Well, these runners are predictable, at least. Lets us monitor them easier, get them into the fold as confidential informants. My guy had a chat with him, said it was pretty apparent the news upset him. He might have actually cared about the girl.”

“That would be a first. How can you make someone you care about have sex with strangers for drug money?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I’ll never pretend to understand these fools.” Gerald laughed. “Anyway, Tyrone said, and I quote, ‘Shorty was a fine-looking girl, ya know what I mean? Why would I be offin’ her ass? She makes me money. Now I’m sad.’ He seemed genuinely surprised to hear she was dead. My guy asked when he saw her last. He claims she split about three weeks ago.”

“That fits with the witnesses at her house. He didn’t have any ideas where she split to?”

“Naw. He was more angry than anything. Thought maybe another pimp hooked her up. Here’s the other thing. You say the murder was yesterday?”

“Thereabouts. Allegra was placed in the house between 9:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m.”

“My UC was with Tyrone most of the day yesterday. They were over at the minimart, doing a deal with some Mexicans who came through town. My interdiction boys and girls picked up the Mexis on their way out. So the timing might have been close.”

“Okay, Gerald. I’ll strike him from my immediate list. Thanks so much for your help. You guys are miracle workers. Stay safe.” She hung up.

“So, McKenzie, we move Tyrone to the back burner for the moment. Let’s go see what awaits us inside.”