Deception Page 17

  “You need everything pronto. Bates is on those. He’s way behind.”

  “It’s urgent!”

  “Like always. Something else on your mind, Detective?”

  “I have a confession to make,” I said. “Keep it confidential?”

  “Long as it’s not murder.”

  “Last week, at the professor’s house, the murder scene … you remember?”

  “Be a while before I forget that one.”

  “Anyway, I got this terrible itch on my palm.”

  Phil held up his hands like stopping traffic. “You’re not going to tell me you took off a glove?”

  “Just for a second. Right then I saw something on the floor, by the couch, and instinct kicked in … I picked it up.”

  He whistled. “You contaminated evidence.”

  I produced the sealed bag.

  “Gum wrapper? Black Jack? I didn’t know they still made this stuff.”

  “They didn’t for a long time.”

  “What was that other one, you know, um …?”

  “Beemans?”

  “No.”

  “Clove?”

  “Yeah. They still make Clove?”

  “You’re talking to an expert. Every three years they produce Clove and Black Jack and Beemans too. I stock up on Black Jack.”

  “You’re chewing it right now, aren’t you? I can smell it. You sure it didn’t just fall out of your pocket at the professor’s?”

  “That’s what I’ve been wondering.”

  The truth is, I knew I had no gum that night. No way it fell out of my pocket. But this isn’t something you tell the criminalist.

  “What you want?”

  “I know these wrappers can hold a print.” I nodded toward the bag.

  “Usually inside the wrapper, the white part. You want me to run it for you outside the system, that it? Don’t want it officially entered as evidence?”

  “As long as it just shows my print, either I contaminated it or just dropped it. But if someone else’s print comes up …”

  “Okay, Detective, I won’t tell on you. We all make mistakes. Even Mr. Have-you-checked-the-keyboard-for-prints? I probably won’t even tell anyone you ate the corpse’s Snickers bar.”

  “You said you checked it for prints. It was unopened, so no saliva. Why waste it?”

  “There’ve got to be rules against eating evidence. I should ask the chief. You not only contaminated evidence; you removed it from the crime scene. You’re a piece of work, Chandler.”

  “You remember that journalist, Abernathy? If I’d told people what happened, it’d be in the paper, and we’d all look bad.”

  “You’d look bad.”

  “Not just me. CSI team had been all over the part of the room where I found the wrapper. I shouldn’t have picked it up, but that never would’ve been an issue if you guys had done your job.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “If I dropped it, okay, you’re clear. But if it was already there, you guys should have seen it. While we’re at it, I could mention how on the Danny Stump case you forgot to take prints from the orange juice glass, and on the Eric Wood case you knocked the houseplant on the bloodstained carpet.”

  “It was 3:00 a.m. I was tired!”

  “It’s always 3:00 a.m., Phil. We’re always tired. Anyway, check out the gum wrapper for me. And get it back to me directly. ASAP.”

  “You guys always want it yesterday.”

  “Today would be fine.”

  “Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. After that, we’ll see.”

  “Remember, this is just between us, okay?”

  When I returned at three, Clarence was at my workstation, looking over the crime scene notes and lab reports.

  “Insulin bottles have an expiration date on them,” he said without saying hello. “What’s the date on that bottle you found in the professor’s fridge?”

  I called the evidence room, and five minutes later Wanda had the bag and said, “Let’s see, expiration date is … wow.”

  “What?”

  “It expired in June … nine and a half years ago.”

  When I told Clarence he said, “You can use it a few months after expiration. A year’s pushing it. Nearly ten years? Nobody’d keep it that long.”

  “Nice catch, Abernathy. There has to be a reason somebody held on to it. Could’ve been found in a drawer that hadn’t been cleared out for years. But once you find it, why keep it? Why not toss it?”

  “You know how I said that big syringe reminded me of the ones I used to have? I’ll bet it’s as old as the insulin.”

  “We figure out where that insulin and needle came from,” I said, “and why someone held on to them ten years … and why they’d bring them to the murder scene and leave them there … we’re in business!”

  “Guess what,” Sergeant Seymour said, leaning down over my desk, where I could see the hairs climbing out his ears. “The chief wants to meet with you, me, the lieutenant, and the captain.”

  “I talked to you, what, two hours ago? Word travels quickly.”

  “You know the drill. If it affects the larger police force, I have to take it to the lieutenant. He took it to the captain, and you know who he took it to. Now the four of us get to have a meeting. Thanks for messing up everybody’s day before Thanksgiving!”

  “Chief’s office?”

  “He’s coming here. Fifteen minutes.”

  “But I was supposed to—”

  “Doesn’t matter. Drop it. You think the rest of us were doing crossword puzzles?”

  Fifteen minutes later, Sarge called me into a conference room. Immediately in front of me sat Lieutenant Taylor Nicks, a bead of sweat on his forehead, which gravity was toying with. To my right was Captain Justin Swiridoff, expressionless. To my left was Chief Edward Lennox, in a suit worth more than the combined value of all clothing I’d bought in the last five years.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Lennox asked.

  Sergeant Seymour gestured for me to sit. I examined the chair. It didn’t have straps and electrical wiring, so I sat.

  “I’m doing what I always do. I’m going where the evidence points. I don’t know how to do detective work any other way.”

  “You’d better learn another way,” Lennox said. “You realize what you’d do to this department if you send the message that one of our own killed a popular college professor?”

  “What difference would it make if he was a college professor or a plumber or a homeless guy? And why does it matter if he was popular?”

  “You’re trying to goad me. My point is you can’t just go off, head over heels, like a chicken with its head cut off. We just can’t afford more bad publicity. And the worst publicity I can imagine is acting as if one of our own murdered someone!”

  “Nobody’s acting as if. It’s a working hypothesis. If it turns out to be wrong, I’ll be thrilled. I’m just saying that’s where the evidence seems to point.” I stood up, stretched my torso, then sat back down when I saw the looks. “Doctors, lawyers, accountants, teachers, and grocery clerks have all killed people. Why not a homicide detective? Who’d be better at it? The more murders you’ve worked on, the more you know about murder. And how you can get away with it.”

  “Inconceivable,” Lennox said. Captain Swiridoff nodded vigorously. Lieutenant Nicks nodded moderately. Sarge nodded slightly. The higher in the chain of command, the greater the head movement.

  “Why is it inconceivable?”

  “How can you even ask that question?” Lennox rubbed his moist gray forehead, swirling his makeup. “Captain? Lieutenant? Sergeant? Can you tell this man why it’s just unthinkable?”

  “We have good people here,” Swiridoff said. “Our detectives solve murders; they don’t commit them. Chief’s right. The public would eat us alive if we tagged a detective.”

  “Wouldn’t they eat us alive,” I asked, “if we looked the other way because we knew he was one of us?”

  “Lieutenant
?” Lennox’s voice sounded whiny.

  “The evidence can be interpreted different ways,” Nicks said. “There’s no proof it’s one of the detectives. We should operate on the assumption it’s not. Trace down all the other leads first. Naturally, everything’s complicated by your friend Abernathy working with you.”

  “It wasn’t my idea.” I stared at Lennox, whose lower teeth were moving out and back against his upper lip.

  “If the newspaper gets an inkling of what you’re thinking,” Swiridoff said, “it could tear apart the department.”

  “You … haven’t said anything to Abernathy, have you?” Lennox asked, his face drained of blood.

  I thought of how I’d unveiled my suspicions to Abernathy, shocking him with the prospect that a detective could be the murderer. I hoped no one noticed my slight hesitation.

  “Like I’d drop so much as a hint to a Tribune reporter that I suspected a cop? What kind of a dimwit do you think I am?”

  I was holding a hand of nothing, seven high. Folding wasn’t an option. Bluffing was my only chance.

  “You’re an idiot,” Lennox said. “But I’ll grant you, nobody’s that big an idiot.”

  Apparently he’d forgotten I was King of the Idiots.

  “Sergeant,” Lennox said, “you haven’t said anything to talk sense into this man.”

  Seymour looked at the chief, captain, and lieutenant, in that order. He’d been a cop most of his life.

  “If he’s making a rush to judgment, I’d try to talk him out of it,” Sarge said. “Chandler cuts corners, and I’ve had to pick up the pieces. Still, he’s one of the best detectives I’ve ever seen.”

  The sweet talk made me blush and grin.

  “But I wouldn’t underestimate how big a dimwit he could be. He may just be warming up.”

  I stopped grinning.

  “Still,” Sarge said, “the evidence suggests we may have an internal problem. I don’t see how we can overlook it. Our job is to follow the evidence and solve the crime. How it makes us look doesn’t matter.”

  “You’ve been a police officer how long, Sergeant?” Lennox asked.

  “Thirty-five years, sir.”

  “And you were last promoted when?”

  “Fifteen years ago. I like my job. It’s what I—”

  “Yes. No doubt. But perhaps you aren’t qualified to assess how important our public image is. We work for the people. They pay our salary. What they think of us does matter.”

  “But it’s secondary, not primary. And I believe they’ll think more highly of us when we catch killers—whoever they are.”

  I could have kissed Sergeant Seymour. And if you saw his mug, you’d understand what that means.

  “No one’s saying to look the other way,” Swiridoff said. “We’re just saying, use discretion.”

  “It’s essential that Abernathy doesn’t catch wind of this possibility,” Lennox said. “I’m going to tell Raylon Berkley the deal’s off. I don’t want Abernathy on this case.”

  “Won’t that look suspicious?” Nicks asked.

  “I’ll give him a good reason and offer alternatives. Meanwhile, I’m counting on you three men to make sure Detective Chandler stays within his limits and does not damage our image. When it comes to your future in this department—all of you—there are other fish in the sea. Am I clear on that point?”

  The captain and lieutenant nodded. Sarge’s neck went rigid.

  “Am I clear on that, Sergeant?”

  “Very clear.”

  “As for you, Chandler, if you mishandle this case, it’ll be your last. These men are my witnesses. If your career goes down in flames, you won’t be alone. I’ll hold any or all of your superiors accountable. Do you hear what I’m saying? All of you?”

  Everybody nodded. Even me.

  I drove home in the darkness. I didn’t turn on the radio, or Michael Pritchard reading Nero Wolfe. I even turned off my cell phone. My body was behind the wheel, but my mind was elsewhere. My meeting with the brass was bugging me; so were nagging thoughts about the gum wrapper and rope. My mind landed on the discussions with Jake and Clarence. They’d raised again the two events I can never escape … Sharon’s death being one of them.

  Maybe it was the looming shadow of Thanksgiving. Holidays can do that to you when you have great memories of a past but no hope for a future. Maybe it’s the holiday’s name. You know you’re far better off than most people who’ve ever lived, but you’re still not happy. And part of you refuses to give thanks because you’ve lost so much and you feel like you deserve better than what you’ve gotten.

  Then I felt guilty, because I hate entitlement, whining, and ingratitude—three things ruining our country. Yet when I look inside myself, I see the things I hate. Sometimes I think maybe what’s wrong with this world is that it’s made up of people like me.

  During my first years as a detective, I never discussed my work with Sharon. I figured it would depress her. What depressed her was that I shut her out. I kept it inside, but it ate at me.

  “Let me in,” she’d say.

  “You don’t want in,” I’d say.

  “Some wives can live with their husband’s silence. I can’t. If you don’t trust me enough to let me in, it’s going to destroy our marriage.”

  I started doing what my superiors wouldn’t approve. I’d fill her in on a case. It made me feel better. We could talk about it for hours. When I said, “You’ve got to be sick of this,” she’d say, “I’d rather have us talk about a murder case than talk about nothing.” Then magically, once we talked it out, we could move on to other things. And I was no longer shutting her out.

  Sharon was my closest friend and I was hers. Until her last days, that is, when she spent more and more time with Janet Woods, Geneva Abernathy, and Sue Keels. “I love those ladies,” she said. “That Geneva—her smile seems lit from the inside, like a big candle flame coming through a carved pumpkin.”

  My wife said things like that.

  “When I’m with them, I feel encouraged,” she said. “I feel hope.”

  “And when you’re with me?”

  “I feel your love. It seems like the love was late in coming. But now that it’s here, I’m so grateful. But …”

  “But?”

  “But when I’m with you, I don’t feel much hope. Long-term hope, I mean. You’re always trying to give me hope that I’m going to beat this cancer. But I don’t know if I can beat it.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “You mean well, Ollie. You’ve become my cheerleader, and I love you for it. But I am going to die.”

  “Stop it!” Hot blood flooded my brain.

  “Okay, let’s say I do beat this cancer. Then what? Does that mean I won’t die? Of course not. I’ll die at a different time, maybe in a different way. You’ll die too. I just want to be ready. Geneva and Janet and Sue are helping me get ready.”

  “They’re helping you give up, that’s what they’re doing! They’re throwing dirt on your grave!”

  “No, they’re not. They’re showing me God loves me and—”

  “God loves you? Then why’s He doing this to you?”

  “I don’t know, Ollie. There’s a lot I don’t know. But I want to spend the time I have left—whether it’s weeks or years—learning more about Him.”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  “Following Jesus is like a fresh start. I feel like I’ve been wasting my life.”

  “On me? And Kendra and Andrea? We’re a waste?”

  “What a terrible thing to say. You know I don’t think that.”

  Her tears started flowing, and my stupid heart broke.

  “Sorry.”

  “Even my death is about you, isn’t it, Ollie?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re the detective. Why don’t you figure it out?”

  My job is figuring out why people died. But I’ll never figure out why Sharon died.

  When she was near the end, J
ake said to me, “God loves you and Sharon.”

  If God loved us, why didn’t He help us? Why isn’t Sharon still alive? If He’s in control of everything … then He’s the one who killed Sharon. So why would I trust my wife’s killer?

  Thanksgiving? For what?

  14

  “They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. It’s a very bad definition, but it does apply to detective work.”

  SHERLOCK HOLMES, A STUDY IN SCARLET

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28

  THANKSGIVING DAY.

  My daughter Kendra hadn’t returned my call—she usually doesn’t—so I drove toward Jake’s house to join his family and the family of Finney Keels, Jake’s old buddy who died years ago.

  I pulled up across the street from Jake’s and tried to find motivation to get out of the car and face another holiday with a group that didn’t include Sharon. After ten minutes, I walked to the front door.

  The first person to greet me was Little Finn, Finney Keels’s Down syndrome boy. He wasn’t so little anymore, but his face was still that of a child.

  “Hi dere, Unca Ollie!” He put his arms around me.

  “Still working at the health club, Finn?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Eisenzimmer says I’m his best ’ployee!”

  “I’ll bet you’re one fine ’ployee.”

  “No, it’s ’ployee,” he said.

  I nodded and smiled.

  “Uncle Ollie!”

  I turned and looked at the familiar smile of the young woman in the wheelchair. I came close to her, bending down. Carly Woods, brown-haired with a hint of red, reached out and hugged me. She was so thin now it was like being hugged by dried-up branches. She felt brittle, and I was afraid to squeeze lest she crack.

  Carly seems to like me. I’m grateful for her naïveté, but I can’t stand what she’s going through. It isn’t right. Her son Finney, named after Little Finn’s dad, Finney Keels, shook my hand politely and firmly. I liked that. He looks like his grandfather Jake.

  Jake gave me his muscular Vietnam vet handshake. Janet fawned over me, taking my coat and offering me malted milk balls, which she knows I love. When you come to gatherings alone, it helps to have something to do with your hands … and your mouth.