The Pallbearers

Chapter 12

It was my second breakfast of the morning. I still wasn't hungry, so I just ordered coffee. Seriana had a bagel and orange juice. We were at a little coffee shop across from Parker Center called the Time Out. The place was full of day-watch officers on Code Seven and the background noise was somewhere between a din and a roar.

"Jack Straw said you didn't want to help us find out what happened to Pop," she said.

"Jack Straw may not be the most reliable person to listen to."

"Mr. Scully, I go back to Iraq in about two weeks. That means I've got to look into this right now, because I need to find out who did it. I know Pop didn't kill himself, but when I was a kid he did keep me from killing myself. I loved him. I owe him. Now I've got to do right by the man."

"You're sure he didn't kill himself?"

"Absolutely certain, sir. For one, it just wasn't something he'd do.

He was religious. A Catholic. He believed suicide was a sin. For another, he promised to be at my going-away party before I redeployed. It's at my foster parents' house in South Central next Wednesday. When he made me a promise, he never broke it. Not once since I was eight years old. He wouldn't miss my send-off. You know how-Walt was."

"Yes, I do."

"In my unit, we've got this rule. We always get everybody home. Dead bodies included. You don't leave a teammate or his remains in the field. I gotta be sure I get Pop home."

She was looking at me with those intense ink-black irises, her handsome ebony face showing almost no expression. I was beginning to realize this was her way. Her look. Her features rarely varied, but there was no lack of emotion. In her eyes, I could see pain and sorrow. T he eyes said it all.

"You're a cop," she said. "You knew him like the rest of us. He had to have made a huge impact on you. Look how you came from nothing and made something of yourself."

It was exactly what Jack Straw had told me yesterday. Seriana continued. "I know firsthand how hard that had to be. I know Pop helped you get there, just like he helped me. Jack said you agree he wouldn't kill himself. So why won't you help us find out what really happened?"

I reached into my small briefcase and pulled out the ME's report but left the copies of the gruesome autopsy photos behind. I shoved the file across the table to her.

"What's this?" she asked, opening it up.

"Pop's autopsy findings. I went to the coroner's office this morning and got a copy."

"Then you are working on it."

I shrugged, but didn't answer. Then I sat back and watched her as she scanned the lead paragraph, which, once you got through the medical babble, said it was death by his own hand. She finished and looked up at me.

"This is a lie."

"No, that's a legal finding. Done by a competent medical examiner. No evidence of a beating. He had no drugs or unusual substances in his blood, and he left a suicide note."

She studied me for a long moment. Her strong gaze was frank, unrelenting, and unsettling. I could see exactly what Alexa had been talking about. Seriana Cotton was definitely somebody who made up her own mind about things.

"Are you saying you agree with this, sir? You agree with this medical examiner that Pop killed himself."

"I didn't say that. I said the ME report said that."

She looked at me, trying to figure me out. "I guess I don't understand," she finally said.

"I'm going to devote a little time to it and shake this tree. See what falls out."

"Good." Her mouth shifted slightly. It was probably as close as she usually got to a smile. "We're having a pallbearers' meeting at six tonight," she said. "We've also all decided we're going to work on this. I want you to attend it with the rest of us, sir."

"The Pallbearers' Murder Club. Slick. Who's got the movie rights?"

"Don't make fun," she admonished.

"You're all amateurs, Seriana. You're just going to slow me down."

"You weren't the only one who loved him, sir," she said without expression.

"Who said I loved him?" I shot back. "When I was at Huntington House, I wasn't capable of love. Back then, and for most of the last twenty-five years, I was running from my past. I barely ever went over there to see what he was up to. I never helped him. I have no idea why he wanted me to carry his coffin. But I'll grant you one thing, Corporal. I sure do owe the man. So I'm going to take some time and see if I can put a case on somebody. If not, then it's like that report says. Suicide. We suck it up and all go on with our lives."

"Bullshit," she said softly.

"What about that sounds like BS?"

"You loved him, sir. I can see the truth in your eyes. I see the pain and loss."

Of course, she was right. But admitting to her that I loved Walt made my betrayal seem even more devastating.

Til tell you why he picked you to be a pallbearer," she continued. "It was because he also loved you. He saw past the cruel stuff we all did. He understood our selfishness. That's what made him so special."

I felt about six inches tall. I knew all this. Its why I had already decided to look into his suicide. But I didn't need their help. Didn't want it. The idea of doing this with my fellow pallbearers was way too Agatha Christie for me.

"Come to the meeting at six tonight," Seriana said. "It's at Sabas Vargas's office in East L. A. Here's the address." She slid a piece of paper across the table. I glanced down at it.

She had neat, careful handwriting. Sabas's office was on Whittier Boulevard in the twelve hundred block in Boyle Heights. The Hispanic hood.

"I'm not sure. I've got a lot to do," I said.

Seriana leaned forward and studied me. "Please come, sir," she said. "I promised the others I would convince you because you're a homicide detective. You're the only one who knows how we should go about this."

I sat there looking at her. A very imposing woman. I don't know exactly why, but my resolve suddenly weakened. "Okay, but you have to stop calling me sir."

"Shane, then." She finally smiled. It came and went so quickly I almost missed it. But it lit her face, turning it beautiful for a brief second before it fled.