Authors: William Lashner
“After a while we sort of drifted apart, the three of us,” said Wayne. “The connections just seemed to disappear.”
“What were you on, son?” said Father Kenneth.
Wayne rolled his shoulders guiltily. “Everything. Pills, cocaine, reefer laced with embalming fluid we swiped from the funeral home.”
“My God,” said Father Kenneth.
“Not bad, actually, if you could get over the taste,” said Wayne. “And then heroin.”
“Was Seamus on heroin, too?” I asked.
“We started together. That’s what made what happened so strange.”
“Him getting killed by a drug dealer? That doesn’t sound so strange at all.”
“No,” said Wayne. “Before that.”
I looked at Father Kenneth. Through the whole of Wayne’s sad, lurid tale, I had been expecting the father to explode in some sort of righteous condemnation. But that hadn’t happened. Instead he had kept a benign expression on his face, showing only the measure of disapproval required of his position at the more troubling points, enough to say that the story had registered, not so much to discourage Wayne from continuing. He was good, the good father, I had to give him that. Probably had plenty of experience in the confessional, but still it was impressive.
“Tell us about it, Wayne,” said Father Kenneth. “Tell us what Seamus did.”
“There was an addict name of Poison, a big guy with this sort of electric gaze that drew to him the most desperate losers on the street. Which is how I fell in with him. He had contacts with some dealers, and he could keep you supplied so long as you stayed with his program. But his program was mostly about following his orders and taking the risks for his risky schemes and letting him hit you when he wanted, which was pretty much all the time. But you couldn’t just walk away from Poison. Once you were in, that was it, he’d kill you sooner than let you walk away, and he had done it once, right in front of us. Stuck his knife into some guy’s gut.
“Now, I hadn’t seen Seamus for over a year. I had heard things, though. I heard some old poof had sort of taken him up, was keeping him off the street. He even had arranged to get Seamus’s teeth fixed. It sounded worse than Poison to me, and I didn’t know that Seamus was like that, a boy toy. But, you know, when you’re desperate like we were, anything goes, and I figured he had followed Kylie down that route. So I had written off Seamus. I figured I’d never see him again.
“And then one night we were in the fort, Poison and his crew. It was a cold snap, and I had showed Poison our old place so we could build a fire to stay warm. And we were huddled around this fire, the crew, strung out, talking about our next scam, when this shadow just appears in the doorway. You couldn’t make out anything but the outline. It was tall, wide, and it was wearing this long coat that almost reached to the ground. And then the shadow talked.
“ ‘I’m looking for a piece of scum called Poison,’ it said.
“Poison scurried out of the light of the fire and said, ‘What do you want with him?’
“ ‘I have a proposition,’ said the shadow. ‘It can be worth some money to him.’
“ ‘Go ahead,’ said Poison.
“ ‘Not until I know who I’m dealing with,’ said the shadow.
“ ‘All right,’ said Poison, and he was standing now, with his hand in his coat pocket, and he stepped forward until his ugly, scarred face was lit by the fire. ‘How much?’
“ ‘Five hundred dollars,’ said the shadow.
“ ‘All for me? What do I need to do for it?’
“ ‘Nothing,’ said the shadow. ‘I just want to take away one of your gang without you giving me trouble.’ And the shadow stepped forward into the circle of light from the fire, and it was Seamus. Like he was stepping toward me from out of a dream. And he said, ‘I want to take away Wayne.’
“Poison looked over at me with a sneer and said, ‘Wayne’s with us.’
“ ‘Not anymore,’ said Seamus.
“ ‘Do you have the money on you?’ said Poison.
“Seamus took an envelope out of his pocket. Poison stepped forward to reach for it. Seamus jerked it back. ‘Do we have a deal?’ he said.
“ ‘We’ll have to discuss it some,’ said Poison with an eerie smile plastered on his ugly face, but just as he said it, his hand jerked out of his coat pocket and he charged at Seamus, the fire shining in the knife’s long blade.
“Seamus turned sideways and kicked him in the face. Poison went spinning to the ground, his knife flying out of his hand. When Poison raised himself onto his knees, Seamus kicked him in the face again. Jesus, he just wiped him out. Then he looked around at the crew, saw me, and said, ‘Let’s go, Wayne.’ And I went. And he brought me here, to you, Father Kenneth. Do you remember?”
“I remember,” said Father Kenneth, nodding. “And we cleaned you up, bought you some clothes, and got you into a treatment program. But it was you who did the hard work. It was you who stuck with it.”
“Because Seamus visited and told me I had to. Because Seamus told me there was something golden on the other side.”
“And was he right?” asked Father Kenneth.
“What do you think, Father?”
“I think you’ve come a long way.”
“But if it was so golden, why did Seamus get back into the life? Why did he get himself killed like that?”
“I don’t know, son,” said Father Kenneth. “I don’t know.”
“And that’s why you think you were betrayed?” I said.
“He left me here alone,” said Wayne. “Without him.”
“Who was the old man who had helped him?” I said. “Did you ever find out?”
“No,” said Wayne. “He didn’t want to tell me anything about him, and I understood. That kind of thing, who would want to talk about it?”
“Was Seamus always a good fighter?”
“Hardly. He was one of those big, timid guys.”
“It didn’t sound like he was timid when he took on Poison.”
“It was like he was a different person, like he had turned into some sort of comic-book hero.”
“Was he ever arrested by the police, do you know?”
“Not that I was aware of,” said Wayne. “Not when he was hanging with me.”
“You have any idea what happened to Kylie?”
“She disappeared. Maybe you should ask her mom.”
“I tried,” I said, “but she didn’t know. She’s been too busy picking up her Mother of the Year award.”
“Is there anything else you need for that legal case of yours?” said Father Kenneth.
I looked at Beth, she shrugged. I slapped my knees and stood. Beth stood, too. “I think we’re through here, Father. Wayne, it was a pleasure meeting you. Thank you so much for your time. And good luck.”
“Give me a minute, Wayne,” said Father Kenneth before he led us out of the small room.
He was quiet for a long moment as we walked up the church aisle. “I don’t know if that helped,” he said finally, “but if you need anything more, give me a call, and I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Now let me ask you, Mr. Carl. After hearing all that, is Wayne in any legal trouble?”
“I wouldn’t think so. All this happened a while ago. The statute of limitations on most everything he might have done would have already run.”
The priest glanced back toward the still-open door. “That’s good to know.”
“It looks like he’s trying,” I said.
“Oh, he is, Mr. Carl, believe me. But it will be a struggle still for a long time to come. Sometimes confession alone isn’t enough. Sometimes you can’t move forward until you’ve gone back to take care of the past. It would help him, I think, if we could find Kylie. And that man he beat up. He didn’t seem like a nice man, but even so, maybe I’ll find out his name. Maybe Wayne will find some way to make amends. You’ll keep me informed of anything more you find out about Seamus?”
“Sure, Father, if that’s what you want.”
“Oh, I do, yes. And best of luck in saving your client in that prison.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “We’ll certainly need it.”
“Quite the story,” said Beth as we wended our way out of Fishtown.
“Yes, it was,” I said.
“Three old friends, descending into the maelstrom of crime and drugs and prostitution, their bonds seemingly obliterated. And then, out of the blue, like some superhero with a cape, this Seamus Dent emerges to save his friend before succumbing to the dark side once and for all. But does anything we learned help François?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Then what’s the point?”
“Most of the facts behind the murder of François Dubé’s wife were fully presented in court. They will become relevant if we get to try the case again, but not when we’re fighting to get a retrial. For this we need something new, something that will pique the judge’s interest. Seamus Dent’s story is exactly that.”
“But you said facts that might have affected credibility aren’t enough to get a new trial.”
“The facts themselves, no. But who else knew those facts? If the police were aware of his background, then the prosecutor might have known about it, too, and her failure to turn over the information to Whit would be a
Brady
violation.”
“Let’s subpoena her records.”
“They won’t show anything. Whatever anybody knew wouldn’t have been written down. We’re going to have to make the connection ourselves.”
“How do we do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Victor, we’re not getting anywhere.” There was something in her voice, a line of frustrated desperation.
“Calm down,” I said slowly. “Don’t take this all so personally. It’s just another case. It’s been three hours today already, times two lawyers, times our usual fees, plus expenses, including mileage on the car. We’ve got a retainer to run through, and with our morning’s work we’re making a good start.”
She laughed. “My God, you get more cynical every day.”
“It’s just that over the years I’ve learned that most people in prisons deserve to be there.”
“I don’t believe that of François.”
“And you could tell by looking in his eyes.”
“Yes.”
“See, but you can’t. That’s just the way of it, Beth. He might be innocent, he might be guilty, he might be a saint, he might certainly be a sinner, but whatever he is, you can’t tell by looking in his eyes. The eyes aren’t the window to the soul, they are just sacks of jelly.”
She stayed quiet for a moment, unhappy, I could tell, with her cynical partner.
“You want to stop for lunch?” I said.
“And charge it to the client?”
“Sure, but we’ll consult about the case over Cokes and a burger. I could use a burger.”
“Victor.”
“All right, no lunch, but we still have one more visit.”
“Where?”
“The intersection of Whitaker and Macalester, just next to Juniata Park,” I said.
“What’s there?”
“Someone who might know how Seamus Dent was killed.”
The sergeant sat hunched at his desk, heavy eyebrows raised wearily. He looked as tired as the entire squat brick building, swamped as it was with a steady torrent of crime. There are twenty thousand auto thefts a year in Philadelphia, twenty thousand a year, every year, year upon year. And against all odds, the great majority of these cars are recovered. What condition they are recovered in is another story, but they are recovered still, and the center of this Sisyphean effort is the Philadelphia Police Department Auto Squad.
“Did you file a report with your local district?” said the sergeant when he saw us walk in the door.
“No,” said Beth.
The sergeant breathed in heavily. He seemed too exhausted to get upset at this failure of protocol, too exhausted even to shrug. “You have to file a report with the local district.”
“I don’t want to file a report,” said Beth.
“You don’t got no choice. It’s procedure.”
“But my car wasn’t stolen.”
The sergeant scratched his nose with his thumb. “This is the auto squad, lady,” he said. “We don’t do televisions.”
“My television wasn’t stolen either.”
The sergeant wiggled his eyebrows. They looked like caterpillars sliding along a pale leaf. I almost felt sorry for him.
“The way I remember it,” I said, leaning on his desk, “it was Who on first, What on second, and I Don’t Know on third.”
“Mister,” said the sergeant, “I might have some idea of what you’re talking about, except I don’t speak Greek.”
“I’ll make it easy on you.” I slowed down my speech, as if I were talking to a Frenchman. “We’re looking for Detective Gleason.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so from the start?”
“You didn’t give us a chance,” said Beth. “Is he in?”
“Yeah,” said the sergeant, picking up his phone. “Elvis is in the building. Who’s looking for him?”
“Tell Detective Gleason that Victor Carl is here for a visit. That will be sure to make his day.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” said Detective Gleason, not deigning to rise from behind his desk and greet us. “My old bad-luck charm, Victor Carl, here to ruin an already lousy day.”
“How have you been, Detective?”
“Taking care of business,” he said, his voice deep and slightly southern. “I haven’t seen you since you called me a liar on the stand in the DeStafano murder trial.”
“Nothing personal,” I said. “Just doing my job.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “Nothing personal on my side either, when I called you a scum-sucking piece of crap with his head up his ass, to that reporter waiting outside the courtroom.”
“I wanted to thank you for the plug,” I said. “They spelled my name right, which is all I care about. You’re looking swell.”
“I got lucky. After ten years of humping homicide, I finally pulled a cushy spot here in the auto squad. Two years to my twenty, and then I can sit back, smell the roses. Can’t you see how happy I am?”
“You’re positively glowing.” Except he wasn’t, was he? Beyond the false smile, I could sense something defeated in him. He was a tall, thin man with arrogant sideburns that tapered wide at the base, but there always seemed to be something anxious in the surface of his hatchet face. With his bulging eyes, he had never presented the cocksure arrogance of the usual homicide dick. Instead he had the perpetually startled expression of a man who had just accidentally swallowed a squirrel. And it looked as if the squirrel had finally gotten the best of him.
“Can we sit?” I said.
He stared at me as he rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, and I caught a brief whiff of something sweet, sweet as bourbon. The thing about Gleason was that, despite his dated style and startled expression, he had always been a pretty sharp cop, first on vice and then at homicide. But there was something going on with him now, something not right. Maybe he had started drinking and that had thrown him off his game, or whatever had thrown him off his game had started him to drinking. It didn’t matter much, did it? He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand and then pointed at a couple of chairs in front of other desks.
I pulled two around to face him, and we sat. “Detective Gleason, I’d like you to meet Beth Derringer.”
“Hello, little darling,” he said. “How’s the world treating you?”
“Other than the fact that I’m not little and not a darling,” she said, “it’s treating me just fine.”
“Relax,” he said. “I didn’t mean nothing. Prickly, isn’t she?”
“Beth’s my partner,” I said.
“Well, that explains that. So who are you here for today, Victor? Another drug dealer? Another leg breaker? Or is some hard-luck angel looking to slime his way out of grand theft auto?”
“Today it’s your garden-variety murderer,” I said.
“Homicide’s in the Roundhouse.”
“We’re in the right place.”
“Is that so? The perp anyone I know?”
“François Dubé,” said Beth.
Did something flit through his eyes at the name, some fearful sense of recognition? Or was I only imagining it? It wasn’t easy to tell with his strangely haunted expression.
“I remember the Dubé case,” said Gleason, leaning back in his chair, crossing his hands over his chest. “Wife killer, tried about three years ago. Went down hard, I believe. Life. That was Torricelli’s case. Talk to him.”
“But Seamus Dent was yours,” I said.
It looked for a moment as if the squirrel he had swallowed was trying to scamper back up his throat. “There’s no connection,” said the detective.
“Sure there is. Seamus Dent testified at the François Dubé trial, put the defendant smack at the scene of the crime.”
“Oh, yeah, right. There might have been something about that in the file. But it didn’t have anything to do with what went down with the kid.”
“What did go down, exactly?” I said.
“Not totally clear. It happened in a crack house in Kensington, one of the floaters that flit from abandoned house to abandoned house. There was a rip-it-up about something. One rumor said it was over territory, another said it was over money, another said it was over a girl. Or maybe it was just because. There’s always a reason, isn’t there? It’s hard to find out what’s happening when the only witnesses are addicts, who scatter like cockroaches at the first pop of pistols. But we got a pretty good description of the fight before the shot.”
“Who was arguing?”
“The victim, Dent, and some self-styled gangster and rap impresario, went by the street name of Red Rover. There were hard words, hard knocks. Then, as Red Rover took a swing, Dent side-kicked him in the face. Hurt him bad, but not bad enough. On the floor now, Red Rover rolled over, pulled a Glock 9 from his belt, and shot Dent in the forehead. Western Unioned him to Nothingville.”
“And what happened to Red Rover?”
“He was tracked down at his mother’s place in Logan.”
“He say much when they found him?”
“Enough. He was told to put his hands up and surrender. He pulled out a weapon instead. Three in the chest.”
“So you never got a statement?”
“You’re catching on fast. We figured the way he played it was confession enough.”
“Maybe so, but you know the way we defense attorneys are, with all our hang-ups and all. We like the execution after the trial, not before. And a statement would have made things clearer. Anything dirty about the shooting?”
He shook his head. “Righteous. He was a hood, he killed that boy, he pulled a weapon. Not too many cops lost any sleep over it.”
“You learn much about the victim?”
“We knew he was dead, which was pretty much all we needed.”
“What did the autopsy show?”
Gleason leaned forward, curled half his upper lip in a sneer. “What’d I say? The autopsy showed a bullet through the forehead.”
“What I was asking, Detective, is whether or not the victim was clean at the time of the shooting?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters.”
“There was evidence of past drug abuse.”
“But his blood came up clean, is that it?”
“So they said.”
“You figure that one out?”
“Maybe he was strung out, maybe that’s what made him so ornery. Maybe he was looking to score, and Red Rover told him to pound asphalt. It doesn’t matter what he was on with a bullet in his head.”
“We heard that before he was killed,” said Beth, “Dent was taken up by some older guy. Someone who was trying to clean him up, straighten him out. It might have been a sexual thing, but apparently for a time he was straightened. Did you hear anything like that?”
“No.”
“Did you try to find out Dent’s situation at all?”
“Well, he wasn’t a sweet Leilani, if that’s what you’re saying. Look, we did what we needed to do. We investigated what we needed to investigate, we found the shooter, we took care of it. Now, I appreciate the visit, but I got work to do. In the time I wasted with you, another two cars were stolen off the street.”
“It’s nice to see they keep you busy.”
“If any other questions come up,” said Beth, “would you mind terribly, Detective, if we give you a call?”
“Do me a favor, little sister,” he said, “and don’t.”