Murder Mountain Page 2

  I should have known. Until the day I am dead and rotting, I will never understand their fascination with Kincaid and I arguing. Boz, also in his mid-thirties, had to be the crudest of the bunch. Twice divorced by the age of twenty-nine, his main goal in life was to see how many women he could nail by his fortieth birthday, regardless of looks or possible venereal diseases. With his hair oil and ten pounds of gold jewelry, he stereotyped a greasy Italian pimp to perfection.

  “That’s lovely, Boz. I’m thrilled that you’re happy,” I curled my lip at him.

  Now it was Sinclair’s turn. “I gotta disagree with you guys for once. Kincaid’s a hot chick and all, but she’s the only hot chick that makes me want to turn gay the minute I see her.”

  Sinclair was the oldest of us all. He had only three years until retirement. He looked like your regular old-time street cop, with an overweight body, a bald head, a bushy gray mustache, and rosy plump cheeks. He was on his third marriage and was putting his two kids through college. The cost of college tuition loomed large in his life. He was constantly complaining about it.

  “Not me,” said Boz. “She’s hot. Yup, definitely one-night-stand material.”

  I couldn’t believe I was actually standing there listening to this conversation.

  Apparently, the disgust showed on my face because Sean finally cut in and said, “Alright guys, enough.”

  I wasn’t that disgusted. I grew up in a family of cops, my father and his two brothers still going strong here at the department. A third brother, shot in 1979, is now living nicely in Raleigh, North Carolina. I’d been hearing conversations like this one since I was five-years-old, but even I had limits sometimes.

  Sean Michaels was another old-timer, although not as old as Sinclair was. He was the problem solver—his role in life. Sean always tried to make you feel better and to resolve whatever conflict you were having that day. He’d been married for 18 years and had four kids in college, who had yet to wind up in jail—a feat unheard of in the police world, where Hollywood marriages looked like the Bible belt.

  Sean looked like a Nordic fisherman, with blonde hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. He also had one glass eye, the result of a shooting 15 years before. He’d been handling a domestic violence call when the perp (the bad guy) had grabbed a .40 caliber Glock handgun and started firing at him. Sean ducked for cover behind a wall of wood paneling and then stuck his head around the corner to fire back at the perp. Just as he did, the perp fired a round off, striking the wood directly next to Sean’s face. The wood exploded from the impact of the bullet and a large fragment of it went directly into Sean’s right eye.

  Sean had, miraculously, continued to fire back, fatally wounding the perp. He received the highest award the department gives out for that incident, and another criminal was dead and buried. On the flip side, when you talk to Sean, you can’t figure out if he’s looking at you or not because his eyes seem like they’re all over the place. Mostly, I just look down or shuffle papers when I talk to him, but we were standing there in the hallway and I had to look at him when he talked.

  “Hey, CeeCee, you used to be a model, right? Hey, you’re hotter than her, if that makes you feel any better,” he said, winking his glass eye.

  “That was a long time ago, when I used to have a body and be alive, but thanks, Sean,” I said, politely.

  “I still think you two should oil up and have a throw-down,” Boz insisted.

  “Boz, would you control your hormones for one day, please?” I replied in my authoritative, professional voice, and then muttered, “I don’t know why she hates me so much.”

  “She’s jealous ‘cause you are ten times the cop she’ll ever be, and she knows that,” Bill said. “She worked uniform patrol for what, a whole year and a half before she went into an office? She doesn’t know a goddamn thing about police work, CeeCee. Plus, like Sean pointed out, you’re better looking than her, and that really hacks women off.”

  “I really don’t believe that’s the case, Bill, but thanks anyway. She just gave me some crazy missing-persons case and ordered me to work on it and nothing else.” I explained.

  “Yeah, I overheard her talking about that on the phone this morning,” said Coop, scratching his nose. “It’s political back-scratching time. You realize that, don’t you? Her ultimate goal is to make Major, if not Chief Deputy, and Commissioner Phillips is the man who can make that happen.”

  “Whatever.” I looked at my watch. “I gotta go. I want to run home and see Eric and the girls before I work the road tonight.”

  “I will never,” said Coop, “in a million years, understand why you subject yourself to that cesspool out on the street when you don’t have to. You’ve got it made up here. Why do you work uniform?”

  “Because, as I’ve told you ten times before, I think it’s important to stay true to my roots.” I meant every word.

  Usually when people are promoted to detective, they take their uniforms, throw them in a closet, and never look at them again except for funerals. I don’t believe in that. The road, which is what we call uniformed road patrol, is where everybody starts. I don’t think I can be as effective as I want to be in my current position if I’m not in touch with what’s happening on the street. Detectives often forget how horrible working the street is, and I think taking my turn with it keeps me humble.

  So about once a month I sign up to work overtime on the road for a shift or for half a shift. Not only do I keep the cases that I have to work on from nagging me for a while, but also I get to go out, run around, and even kick someone’s ass if the situation calls for it. Plus, I catch up on all the good gossip from the patrolmen. My husband is on the road. He’s been doing it for 18 years and has no desire to do anything else. He has as much fun now as he did when he first started. As each year goes by, however, he rises to the top of the list for departmental uses of force. He and I are both really proud of this.

  I turned and moved quickly back into my office to grab my purse and my briefcase. Sean followed me to the door and asked if I needed any help getting the missing-person case started. I told him not to worry, that I’d make some calls on my way home, and thanked him for his offer. Once I was in the parking lot, I headed for my powder-blue, department-issued, sticks-out-like-a-sore-thumb Ford Crown Victoria detective car, unlocked it, got in, released a long sigh, and drove home.

  Twenty minutes later, I parked my car and went into my house through the garage’s interior side door, as I always do. And, as always when I walked in, both my girls were standing in the mudroom waiting for me. Selina, my eight-year-old, and Isabelle, my three-year-old, stood at that door every day anticipating my arrival. I listened while both, talking at the same time, gave me a play-by-play of their day at school. When I was finally able to take my shoes off and put my car keys down, Eric walked into the kitchen, bringing on the butterflies in my stomach that I still got when I saw him, even after ten years of marriage.

  “Hi, baby,” I said, putting my arms around him and giving a squeeze. “I missed you!”

  “I missed you, too,” he said after my hug. “Why don’t we go upstairs and I’ll show you just how much.” He began kissing and nibbling on my neck.

  “Hmm, that sounds wonderful, but the girls are here, in case you forgot, and I also have to start getting ready soon.”

  “Your uniform is laid out on the bed,” he said, still kissing my neck.

  Although I hated doing so, I gave him one last kiss and started upstairs to the bedroom. I was glad I wasn’t starting my shift until six o’clock. Summers in Ohio are just as bad as the winters. Everything is extreme one way or the other. The humidity is so thick it feels like you’re breathing mashed potatoes.

  It was only the end of May, but we were in the middle of a record-breaking heat wave, and it was indeed hot. The black polyester uniform shirts don’t breathe, don’t let the sweat evaporate, hold all the heat in, and are utterly miserable to work in—heat magnets. I think the high that day had been around 8
9 degrees, but since I’d been in an office all day, I hadn’t paid much attention. It would still be hot when I went in. I hoped it wouldn’t be too uncomfortable, though.

  I took a quick shower, put my uniform on with my bulletproof vest underneath, and grabbed my gun belt. I decided at that point that the heat would probably make me miserable all night long. Sometimes I forgot the way my vest restricts my breathing when I’m wearing it. I don’t think it’s the same for guys. Top that off with about twenty pounds of gear on the gun belt, and, yes, I was definitely going to be miserable.

  I was already sweating when I walked into the kitchen and saw that Eric had made me a light supper of a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. I didn’t realize until then how hungry I was, and I shoveled the food down, drinking the tomato soup as if it were water out of my favorite big mug. It had a surfboard design and Selina had given it to me one summer at the beach in North Carolina.

  I went upstairs and kissed Selina and Isabelle goodbye, then did the same for Eric, telling him I would see him later. He works night shift at his department, meaning he goes in at ten o’clock. Then I headed back to work.

  As I made the drive to the station, it dawned on me that I hadn’t made so much as one phone call on the Samantha Johnston case. Kincaid had ordered me to start it today, and I had done zilch. I made a mental note to run up to my office when I got to the station and grab the case file. I figured I could make at least one call about it on my cell phone during the night, in between service calls, that is. As I pulled away, a marked cruiser pulled up alongside of me, so I stopped. It was my Uncle Max. Like my Dad and my Uncle Mike, Uncle Max was a day-shift dinosaur. This was an affectionate term for cops who have been with the department for over twenty-five years, and, of course, who worked day shift.

  “Whatcha doin,’ CeeCee?” said Max, leaning his head out his window.

  I told him I was working overtime, and asked him the same question. Max was a lieutenant and loved doing overtime. He told me he was filling in for the regular second-shift lieutenant.

  Then he asked me,” What time you working to, kid?”

  “Midnight.”

  “Well, let’s get together later for some coffee, whaddya say?”

  “Sure, Max. Have a good one.”

  I found a parking spot, pulled into it, then jumped out. I realized I was running late. Remembering the mental note I’d made, I took the elevator up to the third floor, ran down to my office, and grabbed the Johnston file.

  Next, I took the stairs down to the second floor where the road patrol unit was, signed out a Taser, and grabbed the keys for the cruiser I wanted. Then I strode down another flight of stairs and out the door to the compound to start my shift.

  I could hear all kinds of domestic disputes, fight calls, and disturbance calls being put out on the radio, and as I was pulling onto the street, dispatch called me, “Seven-hundred to seven-two-seven.”

  I perked right up, thinking I was getting a decent call, but to my horror, they sent me on what’s called an “assist person call” clear down at the bottom of the county. I was to make contact with a guy and tell him to call a neighboring county sheriff’s department about his dog because the neighboring sheriff’s department could not reach the individual by telephone.

  You have got to be kidding, I thought to myself. I was only working four hours, and my first hour would be blown driving down to God’s country for this bullshit? I cleared on the call (told dispatch I was on my way), and continued spewing obscenities. All this excitement going on out here on the street, and I have to deal with this crap. I told myself it was just part of the job and everyone had to do it, but I was still angry. I called Eric on my way down and checked on the girls.

  “Hello, Mr. Schroeder,” I purred into my mobile.

  “Hello, Mrs. Schroeder, or Gallagher, whichever you prefer.”

  I think it bothered Eric that I still went by my maiden name, but I think my first marriage had convinced me that changing it was bad luck.

  “What’s the matter?” Eric asked, immediately knowing something was wrong.

  “I’m going to see a man about a dog,” I said sarcastically, and then told Eric about the call I was going on.

  As usual, Eric cheered me up and I talked to Selina and Isabelle briefly before hanging up. They were excited because Grandma was babysitting for a half an hour tonight.

  I was still in somewhat of a good mood when I pulled into the driveway of the house where the guy I was to contact lived. The house looked nice enough. It was a red brick number, two stories with white shutters, a breezeway to the garage, and a beautiful view overlooking the valley. I noticed there were two cars parked in the driveway. One was a broken-down old blue Toyota pickup truck with the back wheels up on cement blocks. The other was a beat-up old gray Honda Accord covered in rust.

  The Honda had a West Virginia license plate on it. I thought it was a little odd to see two old beaters in the driveway of a nice house like this, but in my line of work, you can never be surprised by anything.

  At least someone’s home, I thought as I got out of my car. I figured I could be in and out of there and headed back towards the city in less than five minutes. The guy I was to give the message to was named Jack Delphy. I’d repeated the name a few times on the ride in so I wouldn’t forget.

  I went to the side door that was under the breezeway, which seemed like the door everyone used. I knocked a couple of times, and then rang the doorbell, getting no response either time.

  I knocked one more time, waited, and was just getting ready to leave when I sensed someone behind me. It wasn’t that I heard anything. It was the smell. I was overcome by the stink of what I call the hillbilly funk. It’s hard to put into words, but it can best be described as the smell of extremely dirty hair and pungent body odor mixed in with the tang of sour feet and bad breath. It’s a smell that permeates half of Roseland, but Roseland was a long way from this house. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with source of the stinky odor.

  He stood about six feet tall, had brown hair that was matted in some parts and sticking up in others, and brown eyes that were so red and glassed-over that it took me a second to see that they were actually brown. Dried spit, or maybe drool, extended from the left side of his mouth, spreading across his cheek almost to his ear.

  He was wearing a red flannel shirt that looked like the neighborhood dog had gotten a hold of it. Wearing that in this heat, it’s no wonder he smelled so bad. His blue jeans had enough grease on them to lube an entire engine. Under the jeans, I observed ratty brown sandals with toenails sticking out that looked like they had a form of gangrene or some alien virus that we have yet to identify.

  And he was white. Not white like us normal white folk, but an absolutely pale, deathly white. “Honky white,” is what a friend of mine calls people like that, but even that term did not do this guy justice.

  I blinked a couple of times to make sure I was seeing him. It was hot. I was also trying to figure out where he’d come from, because I knew he wasn’t anywhere around when I pulled up. My eyes veered to the direction of the cars parked in the driveway, and I saw the driver’s-side rear door of the Honda standing open. He’d clearly been sleeping in the back seat.

  “What the fuck do you want?” the man snarled, his alcohol-laced breath assaulting me with every word.

  I stepped down off the breezeway, still facing him, and immediately knew I was in trouble. Regardless of shows on television or movies, no normal, everyday, law-abiding citizen would ever consider speaking to a deputy sheriff or police officer in that manner. When people do, they usually are crazy, drunk, on drugs, have warrants, or all of the above. My heart was pounding so loud it felt like someone was banging a drum in my ears. I started to shake, a habit of mine that I hated but had no control over. Whether I was happy excited or bad excited, any time my adrenalin kicked in, I shook. The bad part of this is that I can’t let a perp see me do that or let them see any type of fear on m
y face. I took a couple more steps backward and said, “Are you Jack Delphy?”

  “No, I’m his son, and wh-what fucking business is it of yours!” he stuttered, undeniably drunk.

  I knew I had to get other patrol cars started this way, because God only knew how far away they were, and I couldn’t set this guy off.

  Calmly, I keyed the shoulder mic that was attached to my lapel, and said, “Seven-twenty-seven to seven-hundred, 10-23.”

  That was the code for, “Send me a backup, my shit’s getting weak.”

  The only problem about this was that once an officer called 10-23 on the radio, it started blaring with other officers asking for the location and what the problem was. Knowing this ahead of time, I slid my hand to the volume knob on my portable radio, and turned it all the way down as soon as I requested back-up. It could possibly have set this mental case in front of me off if he heard officers on the radio saying they were coming down to Garber Road.

  Raising my chin up in the usual stoic manner, I told the guy in my official voice that I needed to see some identification.

  “What the fuck for? This is my fucking property and you’re trespassing! Get the fuck out of here, bitch!” He took a step towards me as he finished saying this. Right on the word, bitch.

  My hand immediately went to my Taser, resting on it. Seeing that, he stopped, then smiled with teeth so rotten it made me physically sick to look at them.

  “Okay bitch, here’s your fucking ID,” he snarled. He reached around to his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took his driver’s license from the sleeve and proceeded to throw it at me, but it landed on the ground to my right. We were standing in the front yard with about eight feet between us, with my cruiser to my right also. For a split, and I mean a split second, I thought about something an instructor in the police academy had told us, “Listen to your warning bells and your red flags. Trust your instincts.”

  Right now, I had bells ringing and flags flying from here to Canada, and a really bad feeling on how this was going to play out. Telling the smelly mental to stay put, I kept my left hand on my Taser and bent sideways to pick up the license with my right hand. I straightened up and held it up in front of my face so I could look at the license and still see what the man was doing.