Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.
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new leads were being investigated.
When the others finished, I added our info.
“We’ve got an odd incident, Captain. When Nelson’s apartment was tossed, the report mentioned a box containing bank statements, correspondence, newspaper clippings, and the like. Harry and I checked the box—its contents were gone.”
Squill waved an imperious hand and revisited an apologia designed for budget-request meetings. “A mistaken entry in the catalog,” he dismissed. “Happens all the time, much as we’d like to believe the contrary. Too many cases, too few personnel, tired eyes doing the cataloging…”
“Bill Harold and Jamal Taylor did the cataloging. Taylor definitely recalls going through the box and itemizing.”
“It was a thief, then, Ryder. We can’t put a twenty-four-hour guard on everything.”
“The tape was intact. Plus this thief ignored a TV and about fifty bucks in order to steal a handful of paper.”
Squill shook his head as if amused. “Are you going somewhere with this?”
“It’s in the report. Deschamps and Talmadge met through the personals in the NewsBeat. I wanted to see if any of the newspaper clippings mentioned were from the NewsBeat, or the personals section of the Register. Maybe Nelson was contacted the same way. It’s a long shot, but I want to rule out personals ads as the victim-selection process.”
Burlew emitted some form of noise, a burp or a grunt. Squill looked at him before aiming his eyes back at me. “It’s not your goddamned job, Ryder. You and Nautilus are supposed to be the Psychopathological Crime team. If I remember from the forming of this cobbled-together unit, that’s the angle you’re supposed to be working. The psychological aspect? Like what does the writing on the bodies mean?”
“I have no idea.”
“No idea? Great. How about, do you know if the writing’s important?”
“To the killer, yes. But it may be so intensely personal that—”
Squill smirked. “You think it’s important. But here you are chasing your tail about some supposed newspaper scraps.”
“It’s all we have.”
Squill shook his head. “Damn right it is. For all your squatting and grunting you’re producing nothing. Nada. Zip. Who is this guy? What’s he think like? What do the words on the bodies mean?”
“You don’t just rub your hands over the words and they come to you.”
His smirk turned to shark teeth. “Don’t you smart-mouth me, mister.”
“I was explaining why papers removed from the home of a dead man might have significance.”
Squill sat back, suddenly disinterested, and made his pronouncement. “Let the district detectives handle the day-to-day work, Ryder. If Piss-it does nothing but walk the tracks of the other teams”—he flung his hands up—“what the hell good is it?”
Harry said, “It was walking the tracks of the other teams that gave us the missing papers in the first place.”
Squill ignored Harry and stood. “Anyone have anything else to say?” His tone said he wouldn’t be happy if they did.
“Dismissed,” he said. “Next time let’s try for some hard leads.”
As he strode out the door he spat the words Piss-it just loud enough for everyone to hear.
Harry and I sat at the table and studied our hands as everyone filed out. Tom thumped us each on the shoulder as he passed. “Y’all really eating the shit sandwich on this one, guys,” he said, dolefully. “I’ll be damn glad to get you back.”
“And we’ll be damn glad to get there,” Harry growled.
We returned to the office and I flung my notes on my desk. “Squill calls us in, he waves us off. He wants us on the street, he wants us off the street. He’s got no idea what the hell he’s doing.”
Harry sat heavily in his chair. “It’s Squill, Cars. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Trouble is, we don’t.”
I tumbled thoughts over in my head. “Harry, if the PSIT turns up leads, but someone else pursues them to a bust, does the unit get any credit?”
Harry’s sad eyes provided the answer. We’d been ripsawing the cases night and day and in return had just been informed we were incompetent screw-ups, an opinion now churning up the pipe to the brass. But if we did uncover something, Squill could subvert it by claiming the leads had arisen within the normal parameters of the investigation and had had nothing to do with the PSIT. I began to hear the clock ticking on the unit. Or the first faint notes of a death knell.
The offices of the Mobile NewsBeat were in a strip center on the south side of town, tucked between an alley and defunct hobby shop. A hand-lettered sign was taped inside a front window ghosted with the lettering of the previous occupant, AAA-Printing. Darkness hung behind the window and a magnetic sign inside the glass door informed me I was a half hour late. Hands cupped against the glass, I peered inside at cheap plastic furniture in a waiting area. A long counter separated the front from the rear work area, and a sign taped to one end of the counter said, ADVERTISING—DISPLAY AND PERSONALS. There was a sense of bare-bones, ramshackle enterprise, and I surmised the optimum employee would be a reporter who could run a printing press while selling advertising space. Opening time noted, I picked up the latest copy from a rack by the door and headed home. I was rolling south on I-10 when the car suddenly veered off an exit and turned north, as if responding to a distress call from another world.
Ava lived in a compact white Creole near the end of a cul-de-sac. I drove by slowly, staying low, wearing shades, my cap pulled down. Flowers and a sextet of crepe myrtles bordered her drive and several flower boxes sat on the porch. A Japanese magnolia stood in a circle of pine straw. Everything wanted water, including the yellowing lawn. The morning paper nudged the front door. Her Camry was in the drive. I phoned the morgue and Vera Braden answered. I Yankee-voiced her, talking fast, pushing flat sounds through my nose.
“I need to talk to Dr. Davanelle and right now.”
“Ah’m sorry, she’s not in the o-fice,” came Vera’s creamy drawl. “May Ah take a message, sir?”
“Is this her day off? This is Sanderson. I’m the sales representative from Wankwell Testing. Dammit, I thought she’d told me her day off was tomorrow. Listen, I’ve got some new products I want to show your people—”
Vera spiked her southern cream with venom. “She was in earlier today, Mr. Sanders, but I do believe she went home feelin’ ill. How ’bout I have her phone you up when she feels perky enough to trouble with it.”
Click.
My next call was to Ava. I left nothing at the beep, and drove away.
I made it two blocks before returning to park behind her car. There was a hose falling from the side of the house and I gave everything a good soaking, almost hearing the dry lawn drink its way back to green. I found it oxymoronic that the word dry described sober but lush meant drunk, when few things parch body and mind more than addiction to alcohol. I stayed fifteen minutes and didn’t knock at the door. If she was awake she knew of my presence, and the choice of coming out was hers to make.
Morning took me straight to the NewsBeat’s offices, hoping for information to set my day’s structure. Harry had a meeting at the DA’s office on a previous case, and would spend most of the day either there or in the courtroom. I smelled wet ashes before turning onto the NewsBeat’s block. Where yesterday stood an alternative newspaper, today squatted a fire-gutted building. The interior was a sodden