Authors: Patricia Cornwell
“What were you doing out here in the alleyway?” Andy asked.
“Getting a little air.”
“If you were getting a little air, then you must have been
inside some place that didn’t have much air. So where were you before you walked out here?” Andy inquired.
“Having me a little drink.” She nodded at Freckles. “It was mighty smoky in there, ’specially ’cause that big trooper never puts one out without lighting up another one.”
Andy immediately thought of Macovich. So did Hammer.
“Check to see if he’s still in there,” Hammer said to Andy.
He trotted around to the front of the small old neighborhood bar, and scores of bleary eyes turned on him as he walked through the door. Macovich was sitting in a booth by himself, drunk and sucking on another cigarette. Andy slid into the seat across from him.
“We just picked up Major Trader in the alleyway,” he said. “Didn’t you hear all those gunshots?”
“Thought they was car backfires,” Macovich slurred through a cloud of smoke. “And I’m off duty,” he sullenly added. “I know Trader was in the area, though. ’Cause he was sitting up there at the bar for a long time, drinking beers all by himself. Now, I didn’t speak to him or draw no attention to myself.”
“Did you notice him interacting with anyone or talking on the cell phone? Anything that might give you reason to believe he was here to meet someone and maybe buy a package of guns?”
“Wooo! Ain’t nothing but trouble these days,” Macovich said, turning a beer bottle in little circles on the table. “Much as I don’t like that man, I can’t say I saw him up to nothing.”
“Then we can’t prove he had anything to do with those guns,” Andy said, disappointed. “At least not at the moment. And it’s really not our jurisdiction to charge him with promiscuous shooting. The city police will have to do that, if they are so inclined. Were you in here with Hooter?”
“Wooo, that was a mistake. She don’t hold her beer worth a damn and got nasty. That’s what I get for picking up a toll lady.”
Macovich tried to act as if he didn’t care at all for Hooter. She was beneath him—a lowly tollbooth operator. So what if she got ugly and stormed out? He could find women every minute of the day, and he sure didn’t need a tollbooth operator, senior or not.
“Guess I’d better give her a ride home,” Macovich said. “She don’t have a car.”
“I think a better solution is for me to call both of you a cab,” Andy replied. “But she may have some explaining to do to the police.”
Hammer was asking Hooter about the police even as Andy said this.
“Are you the one who called them?” Hammer inquired. “Because somebody must have.”
“I yelled up at all them helichoppers.” Hooter looked up at a Black Hawk thundering overhead. “So I reckon one of them radioed for help.”
“It’s not possible that people in a helicopter heard you yelling down here,” Hammer pointed out as Trader continued to splash the alleyway behind the Dumpster.
“Well, all I know is I was yelling up at them and waving my arms, so it had to be the helichoppers who called the police ’cause I didn’t call nobody. I never heard nobody pee that long before, either.” She stared off in the direction of the noise. “That one strange man. I think you better check him out. Bet he done other things that ain’t right, you ask me. Maybe he’s a homosensual, too, ’cause he was trying to shoot his privates off like he hate his manhood. So that probably mean he got AIDS and lots of dirty money in his pockets. I wouldn’t touch him without gloves, you want my advice. I got a pair in my purse, you want to borrow ’em,” she offered Hammer. “I figure you gonna have to lock him up,” she added as Andy emerged from the back of Freckles.
“Trader was inside drinking,” Andy told Hammer. “Macovich saw him. Did you?” he asked Hooter.
“I didn’t notice him, if he was in there,” Hooter replied. “There was too much smoke hanging over the table.”
“I’ll call the city police and see what they want to do,” Andy said to Hammer. “But I don’t think this is our case at the moment. And we need to get you a taxi,” he added to Hooter.
“Now you listen,” she said indignantly. “I ain’t drunk.”
“I didn’t say you were. But you don’t have a car.”
“He got a car and is the reason I got here.” She jutted her chin in the direction of Freckles, obviously referring to Macovich.
“He’s in no condition to drive,” Andy said. “He’s had way too many beers and is in a bad mood. I think his feelings are hurt.”
“Huh,” Hooter said as interest lit up her eyes. “He too in-sens’tive to get his feelings hurt.”
“That’s simply not true,” Andy replied. “Sometimes the biggest, toughest men are overly sensitive and keep everything inside. Maybe you can drive him home in his car?”
“Then what do I do?” she exclaimed. “I ain’t staying with no man who still live with his mama!”
C
RUZ
Morales would have given anything for his mother as he sped around half the night. At 3:00
A
.
M
., he glanced around furtively as he shut a pay phone booth door and pulled out the dingy paper napkin the tollbooth lady had given him. She seemed like a nice enough person, and Cruz needed help. He was never going to make it out of the city in his Pontiac with its New York plates—not with cops and helicopters everywhere. Now he at least understood what all of the commotion was about.
While speeding away from the bar where that wild man was hopping around the Dumpster, Cruz heard on the radio that someone had been burned up down by the river and everyone was looking for a Hispanic suspect from New York who might be the serial killer that had been committing hate crimes that could be traced all the way back to a shooting at Jamestown, which was unsolved because some lady police person wasn’t doing a good job, according to the governor. Cruz had no idea what all of this was about, but he was Hispanic, and he was at a loss as to how he had suddenly become a fugitive for crimes he knew nothing about. So he pulled into a 7-Eleven to make an urgent phone call. Cruz squinted at the napkin and noticed there were two phone numbers written down—one on one side, one on the other. He could have sworn the tollbooth lady had written down only one number, so what was the other one and which one was the right one? Cruz dropped a quarter in the pay phone and dialed the first number. After three rings, it was picked up.
“Hello?” a male voice asked.
“I look for the toll lady,” Cruz said, assuming the toll lady must have a boyfriend.
“Who is this?”
“I can’t tell you, but I have to talk to her. She say for me to call,” Cruz said.
Andy was sitting at his computer, working on the next Trooper Truth essay, and he had a feeling the toll lady in question was Hooter. But why was anybody looking for her at his house?
“She’s not here at the moment,” Andy said, which was misleading but true.
Hooter had taken Macovich home, and what happened after that was anybody’s guess. Then Andy had called the city cops, who came and got the package of handguns but decided not to arrest Trader with so little evidence to go on, especially since he was an important government official.
“But if we trace these guns back to you,” one of the cops had said to Trader, “then you’re in a shitload of trouble. I don’t care who you work for. So I recommend you go on home and don’t try to leave town or anything unwise like that.”
“Of course I wouldn’t leave town,” Trader had lied. Remarkably, wires had reconnected inside his head and he was talking normally again. “I will be at work with the governor tomorrow, as usual.”
“Well, I guess you’d better ask the governor that,” Andy had told Trader. “He’s not too happy with you right now.”
“Nonsense,” Trader had retorted. “We have always been on good terms, and in fact, he considers me his closest friend.”
“Maybe he won’t if Regina’s blood work turns out in an unfortunate way for you, Trader,” Andy had replied. “I understand from the news she was rushed to the E.R. a little while ago with a severe gastrointestinal attack that you and I both know was precipitated by cookies you were witnessed to bring into the mansion kitchen and set down on a countertop. You were overheard to say that the cookies were for the governor only, but Regina got into them anyway when no one was looking.”
“No one’s ever gotten ill from my wife’s cookies,” Trader had said.
“When she get back?” the unidentified person with a heavy Spanish accent was asking over the line.
“I’m not sure, but is there something I can help you with?” Andy tried to get this evasive, suspicious-sounding caller to talk.
“It’s just I’m concern, you know? They say this Hi’panic kill someone at the river, and I didn’t kill no one and the po-lice, they be looking for me.” Cruz was out with it as he huddled in the phone booth and noticed a black Land Cruiser parking at the gas pumps.
“What makes you think the police are looking for you?” the man on the line asked.
“Because they stop me at the tollbooth and chase me for no reason. I had to hide and afraid for my life! The toll lady give me her number and say she help me.”
Andy strained to figure out why Hooter would have given out his home phone number to a possible fugitive, and then he recalled working the Bag Man case last year.
“Maybe we should meet and discuss this,” Andy suggested as he absently clicked the mouse and changed a word in the essay he would post momentarily. “There’s no point in running from the police, even if you’re innocent, because all you’re going to do is create more legal problems for yourself. Why don’t I meet you in a secure, safe place and we’ll talk about it? I have connections and may be able to help you out.”
Cruz was tempted and possibly would have done the smart thing and met whoever he was talking to, but an unforeseen event began to unfold right before his very eyes. Through the expansive plate glass of the 7-Eleven, he saw a white woman walk into the convenience store and appear to be asking the clerk for help. Then a white man with dreadlocks staggered in looking stoned, and whipped a pistol out from the inside of his coat and pointed it at the clerk, who was away from the counter and the emergency button that all convenience stores have these days. Cruz couldn’t hear what the white man was saying, but he looked very mean and violent as he mouthed abusive words at the terrified clerk in her orange-checked 7-Eleven jacket. She began to cry and beg as the white man cleaned out the cash drawer. Then, to Cruz’s horror, the woman with long black hair calmly took the dude’s gun, put it
right against the clerk’s head, and fired repeatedly. The explosions shook the phone booth and Cruz yelped.
“What was that?” Andy asked, startled by what sounded like gunfire.
“Ahhh! This white dude with dreadlocks! They just shot the clerk!” the Hispanic yelled over the line and hung up.
Smoke?
Andy wondered as he recalled the description of Smoke that the prison guard, Pinn, had given after Smoke had escaped. According to Andy’s caller ID, the Hispanic had called from a 7-Eleven off Hull Street, south of the river, and Andy called 911 while Cruz jumped into his car and sped off.
Cruz was horrified not a minute later to notice that the black Land Cruiser was right on his rear bumper. He had learned to drive in New York City and swung into several alleyways, gunned through a side street, then another, and roared across a median and threaded his car precariously through others until he ended up on Three Chopt Road in the parking lot of what looked like a huge mansion with tennis courts.
A B
RIEF
H
ISTORY OF
Z
IPPERS
by Trooper Truth
A zipper, for those of you who may never have given the subject much thought, is also called a slide fastener and is a simple device for binding the edges of an opening, such as a fly, the back of a dress, or a freezer bag, although the latter is actually sealed by a
zip lock
that is more like gums—rather than teeth—clamping shut. The zipper device of interest to us consists of two strips of cloth, each with a row of metal or plastic teeth that interlock rather much like a railroad track when one pulls up the sliding piece. This railroad track then separates when one pulls down the sliding piece—unless the zipper gets off track or stubborn, which is what happened to that poisonous, lying Major Trader last night.
The first slide fastener recorded in history was exhibited in 1893 by Whitcomb L. Judson, at the World’s Fair in Chicago. Mr. Judson called his awkward arrangement of hooks and eyes a
clasp locker.
Within a few years, Gideon Sundback, a Swedish immigrant and electrical engineer, improved the device by substituting spring clips for the hooks and eyes, and in 1913 produced the Hookless #2, although it wasn’t called a zipper until BF Goodrich coined the name in 1923, when the company manufactured zip-up overshoes.
It goes without saying that if we happened upon a zipper in what we thought was a colonial grave at Jamestown, then we
could at least conclude with some assurance that the human remains were post-1913. Just to linger with this scenario another moment, let’s assume that while I was uncovering a grave at the archaeological site, I had indeed unearthed a zipper in the pelvic area of the skeletal remains. I would have immediately pointed this out to one of the archaeologists, preferably Dr. Bill Kelso, who is Jamestown’s chief archaeologist and an expert on colonial artifacts, including buttons.
“Dr. Kelso,” I probably would have said, “look, a green stain in the dirt that is shaped exactly like a zipper. It’s my interpretation that the green indicates a brass zipper that has eroded with time.”
The esteemed archaeologist most likely would agree with me and point out that as brass and copper shroud pins erode, they also leave a green stain, but a pin leaves a pin-shaped stain that is easily distinguishable from a zipper shape. He would go on to tell me that the medieval pin might be made of iron topped by a pewter head that was occasionally inlaid with glass or a semi-precious stone. But most pins found at historical sites are made of drawn brass wire with a conical head that is another piece of wire turned three to five times at the top of the shank and then flattened by a blow. This method of making pins continued until 1824, when Lemuel W. Wright patented a solid-headed pin that was stamped out in a single process.
If we found a pin that was at least five inches long, then we would suspect we had a hairpin on our hands, and the person in the grave most likely was a female. If we found a safety pin, then the grave was post-1857. If we found a shroud pin, then the person in the grave had been reverently wrapped in a winding cloth when he or she was buried. Should we find brass wire fasteners for cloaks, then the grave may very well be seventeenth century. As for needles, Dr. Kelso would probably mention, we hardly ever find them because they rust unless they are made of bone, in which case we might conclude the remains were those of a rugmaker.
“What about thimbles?” I might ask Dr. Kelso as I gently brush soil away from the zipper stain in my grave.
“It varies,” he could very well reply. “Depending on their usage.”
Thimbles of the 1500s and early 1600s were squat and heavy, as a rule, and rarely decorative. Should I uncover a very tall thimble, most likely the grave was mid-seventeenth century, and if a thimble had a hole punched in it, very possibly it had been traded to a Plains Indian who had hung it on a thong as a
tinkler
to spruce up clothing and pouches. The early Native Americans had a great sense of style and very much enjoyed wearing beads, bits of copper, household implements, and heads and body parts of wooden dolls.
Most doll parts available to the Native Americans were cast in pipe clay from a two-piece mold. Highly prized by colonial boys were toy guns and cannons cast in pewter or brass and with fully drilled barrels, suggesting the little boys could shoot up James Fort if they pleased, or if a Native American got hold of such a toy and wore it on a thong, he might accidentally shoot himself in the foot or worse.
Sadly, I did not find any toys or toy parts during my research with the Jamestown archaeologists, nor was it my good luck to find coins or even a button, although I did find a number of musket balls and an arrowhead and the skeletal remains of a woman who had been a chronic pipe smoker and hadn’t cut her hair in four to seven years.
In keeping with being a truthful narrator, I will state for the record that I did not find a zipper while excavating at Jamestown. But if I had, I most certainly would have recognized it on the spot and gathered abundant information from it.
To return to that scoundrel Major Trader, he is at large and unremorseful. He was last seen shooting a pistol behind Freckles and quite likely is still in the city, going about his nefarious business as usual. If you click on the small jail icon in the upper right-hand corner, you can view a recent photograph of him with Governor Crimm, who is the gentleman on the left holding a magnifying glass. Please do not confuse the two. The governor is a law-abiding man and I would like to take this opportunity to say the following to him:
I know it is a delicate subject, sir, but you really must do something about your eyesight, and I’d like to suggest either a guide dog or a guide horse. I actually think the latter is the best way to go because the wait for a minihorse is not as long,
they live much longer than a dog, and you already have a dog who might take exception to another dog. I have taken the liberty to inquire as to how you might get a minihorse, and I’ve found that one is available this very minute. He is housebroken and at ease in sneakers so he doesn’t slip on smooth surfaces. He enjoys traveling in the back of the car or van, likes other pets and children, and his name is Trip, because he loves to travel. I have taken the liberty of e-mailing the breeders to hold little Trip for you and call your office with the information, which they have promised to do immediately.
On another subject, sir, someone should look into your butler’s situation with the Department of Corrections. It has been brought to my attention that there may be a computer error and it is past time for your butler to be released from the prison system and work for you as a civilian instead of an inmate. And if I were you, I would look into Moses Custer’s condition, too, and make sure he is in protective custody so his assailants don’t hurt him again or worse. It is possible these same violent offenders struck again early this morning when a convenience store clerk was murdered, and they may even be connected to the brutal slaying of Trish Thrash.
Governor Crimm, it is time for you to show Virginians that you personally care about them and have no agenda other than what is best for the Commonwealth.
Be careful out there!