Authors: Ken White
Jimmy shook his head.
“Well, he’s working Uptown now, night shift homicide. Joshua and I had a chat with him
last night, about those dead Vees outside Uptown station, and he wasn’t happy when he left.
There’s almost no chance he knows about the Marsch thing, but I wouldn’t put it past him to try
to fuck up one of Joshua’s cases if he could. So make sure your night shift guys only release the
kid to Joshua. Nobody else, even if they’re Uptown cops.”
“I’ll put the word out,” Jimmy said with a nod. “After Hayden, most of the guys on night
shift think I’ve got a hook in with some Vee brass, so they listen good. I don’t think there will be
any problem.”
“Appreciate it, Jimmy,” I said.
“How about the little girl in the cooler? You said Browne and Poole would be picking her
up?”
“Yeah,” I said. I glanced at my watch. It was almost one o’clock. “I’m talking to the
mother in an hour. I’ll give you a call, or you’ll hear from B&P no later than three, three-thirty.”
“I don’t envy you that conversation,” Jimmy said, shaking his head. “We’ve all had to do it,
but it’s harder when you’re telling them that you, personally, didn’t bring their kid home safe and
sound.”
“That it is,” I said. “I’ll be talking to you, Jimmy.”
“I’ll be here,” he said.
Cynthia came from behind her desk and stopped me before I could go into the office. “Mrs.
Klinger is waiting,” she said softly. “Inside.”
“Would have been better if you’d kept her out here until I got in,” I said.
“I couldn’t,” Cynthia said. “She was so pleased that I’d called her this morning and sure that it meant
good news . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I just couldn’t talk to her while she
waited. I didn’t know what to say.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “How long has she been in there?”
“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”
“I’ll holler if I need you,” I said, taking a deep breath. Arranging my face in the most neutral
expression I could muster, I opened the door and went into my office.
Jane Klinger was sitting on the couch as I walked into the room. On the low table in front of
her was the Klinger case file, the one I’d left on Joshua’s desk earlier in the day. The file was
closed.
“Mrs. Klinger,” I said, sitting in one of the chairs facing her. “Thanks for coming down.”
Dowdy was the best word to describe Jane Klinger. She was worn, used-up. Just gray. I
was probably a good five or six years older than her, and she looked ten years older than me. She’d
survived the war, the camps, a rotten marriage and now she’d lost the only good thing to come
from it all.
She brushed a hand over the closed file folder on the table between us. “I am not a snoop,
Mr. Welles. I was over by the window, looking out, and I happened to see this on your partner’s
desk. To be honest, I did consider reading it. But I did not.”
I nodded slowly. It was clear she wasn’t finished. And I wasn’t ready to begin.
“Of course, I was aware that it was on Mr. Thomas’s desk,” she continued. “And I have
spent the past fifteen minutes wondering why. If you had located MaryAnn, why would you
need Mr. Thomas’s assistance, unless his...kind were involved. And if his kind were involved,
what possible news could you have that would require me come to your office?”
I didn’t say anything.
She smiled. It was a forced smile. “I tried to imagine alternatives. There certainly had to be
other reasons why the file was on Mr. Thomas’s desk. But you see, Mr. Welles, every road my
mind traveled while I waited for you ended in darkness.” She paused and her lips again curled
into that forced smile. “So perhaps you should just tell me why you called me here today.”
I cleared my throat. “There’s no easy way to say this, Mrs. Klinger,” I said softly.
“MaryAnn is dead. I’m sorry.”
Jane Klinger sat motionless for a moment, then nodded slowly. Her chin was still going up
and down when a spasm seemed to ripple through her body. I started to get up, thinking she was
having a seizure of some kind. Then she took a deep, wracking breath and I realized she was
fighting back grief.
“How?” she asked, her voice low.
“Mrs. Klinger . . .” I began, leaning forward.
She shook her head violently from side to side. “No. You tell me. How did my child die?”
I sighed softly. “She was murdered.”
Her eyes locked on mine, she asked, “By . . . those . . . things?”
“I don’t know,” I said, lying. “Probably. But I want you to know that I’m not done with the
case. I want to know who did it as much as you do.”
“More than I do, Mr. Welles,” she said, her voice cracking. “My girl is dead. What else
could matter?”
I didn’t know what to say. I was silent for a moment, then said, “It matters to me.”
She was right on the edge of coming apart. I’d seen it before. And I’m not very good with
hysterical women. I opened my mouth to call for Cynthia when Mrs. Klinger asked, “Where is
MaryAnn now?”
“I had her taken to the Downtown District police station,” I replied. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll
see that she’s taken to the Browne and Poole funeral home for you. If you have another
preference, they’ll be glad to take her wherever you wish.”
She nodded slowly.
“Mrs. Klinger, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about the way things turned out,” I said. “I
can’t imagine how you feel.”
“No,” she said, her body trembling. “You cannot.” She lurched to her feet and looked down
at me, swaying slightly. “Thank you for being straightforward with me, Mr. Welles. I will send
you a check when I receive your final bill.”
I stood. “Is there someone I can call?” I asked. “You really shouldn’t be alone right now.”
She cocked her head to one side, like a bird. “I have been alone most of my life,” she said
calmly. “Thank you for the gracious offer, but I think I should go to St. Bonaventure and
talk with Father McCray.”
McCray wouldn’t have been my first choice. Word was that the priest referred to Vees as
“those who have been kissed by hell’s demons” in his weekly sermons. I didn’t think that was
the kind of thing Mrs. Klinger needed to hear.
On the other hand, considering what had happened to her daughter, there was something to
be said for McCray’s opinion.
“Can I arrange a ride for you?” I asked. I knew Jimmy Mutz had a couple of patrol cars out
on the street in the district. He wouldn’t have a problem getting Mrs. Klinger to St.
Bonaventure.
“No need, Mr. Welles,” she said with another forced smile. “I am sure I will be fine.”
She turned and walked out of the office. Her legs were a little shaky, but she was holding
herself together.
I heard Cynthia say something to her through the open door. The hallway door opened and
closed. A moment later, Cynthia stuck her head in the door. “Charlie?”
“It went about the way you’d expect,” I said softly, looking down at the case file folder on the
table. “Shut the door please, Cynthia. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”
The door closed behind me as I walked back to my desk. There was a sealed bottle of gin in
the bottom drawer. I sat down, broke the seal on the cap, and took a long pull from the bottle.
Then I recapped the bottle, put it back in my desk, called Browne and Poole to pick up MaryAnn
Klinger, and went home.
A fair number of cops go through an boozer phase. You deal with the sharp edges of
ugliness all day, you want life to be smooth and fuzzy when you get home. Some cops like it
fuzzy so much that the drinking becomes a lifestyle. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe
they don’t like it fuzzy. Maybe they just don’t like it sharp anymore.
Gin and I go back a long way. When I was drinking, I was always looking for
something I liked the taste of enough to get plastered. Beer made me want to piss. Vodka didn’t
taste like much of anything. Bourbon gave me a headache. Scotch made me gag. Then I
stumbled on gin.
I liked the taste of gin. The juniper berries gave it a clean taste, almost medicinal. My short
boozer phase ended when Sgt. Jimmy Mutz smelled that fresh, medicinal scent on my breath at
lunch one day, took me out back behind the diner, and smacked the shit out of me. But I’d
always retained a fondness for gin. I didn’t drink often, but when I did, I drank gin.
I started drinking about five minutes after I came through the door of my apartment, and
after almost eight hours, I was almost at the bottom of the quart bottle of gin I kept in the house.
While I drank, I concentrated on the taste of the gin, savored each mouthful. Otherwise I
tried not to think. What’s the point of ruining a good drunk with a lot of unhappy thoughts?
I guess I was pretty far gone when they kicked in the door. My memory of that night is kind
of broken, more like a series of still images than an actual memory. I did recognize Ray Holstein
as one of the three guys coming through the door, and I seem to recall holding up the bottle and
offering him a drink.
They all had their pistols out, and one of them hit me in the jaw with the butt of his gun.
Maybe Holstein. I don’t remember.
I went down. Lights out.
Chapter Seven
The night passed slowly. When you spend the hours being beaten into unconsciousness,
revived, then beaten again, time does drag.
The fact that I was boozed up at the beginning probably didn’t help. If anything, it focused
my mind on the pain as they slapped, punched, and kicked me. It also made me vomit all
over myself, which only annoyed them. They dragged in a hose
from the standpipe in the hall,
gave me a good washing down, then resumed the beating with an extra fury.
There was something strange about the whole thing, though.
In my day, I’d manhandled a few prisoners. Shoved them, pinned them against the wall, that
kind of thing. I never went any further, though there were times I wanted to. But I also wanted to
keep my badge, and in the end, you always get caught.
Holstein said that the rules and regulations were more relaxed, so I guess losing their jobs
wasn’t an issue for these guys. They could beat me as much as they liked, as long as they liked,
till they got what they wanted.
What was strange was that they didn’t seem to want anything. The whole point of beating a
prisoner is to get information or a confession. That implies questions between the punches and
kicks. These guys weren’t asking questions.
They talked and joked among themselves as they laid into me. They swore at me when I
puked on myself. But never once did they ask me anything.
I can sort of remember passing out twice and being revived by a blast from the fire hose.
Beyond that, the night is just a blur of fists and feet. Finally they got tired of it. Or more likely,
the night was ending and it was time to punch the clock and head home. Either way, I must have
passed out and they left me there.
When I woke up, I hurt. Everywhere. Legs, arms, chest, gut, head. It was a symphony of
pain, and all of the instruments were playing at full volume.
I was on my side on the concrete floor, my nose a couple of inches from an open two-inch
drain hole. The last thing I really wanted to do was move, but the stench from the
drain was making my stomach do flips, and I didn’t want to vomit again.
With a groan, I sat up. My body screamed. I didn’t, but it was close.
The back wall of the cell was a couple of feet behind me. Getting there was a
problem, but I knew I’d fall over again if I didn’t prop myself against something.
Fighting back the urge to scream, I used my legs and arms to push until my back rested
against the wall. It wasn’t an improvement, but at least I wasn’t going to hit the floor again.
It was a standard ten by ten holding cell. Three white, concrete-block walls, a wall of bars in
front. The hall on the other side of the bars was empty.
I rested the back of my head against the wall and closed my eyes, trying to think. It wasn’t
easy. Some people say that you can blot out pain, push it into a corner and ignore it. I don’t
have that particular skill. When I’m hurting, the pain does jumping jacks in front of me. It
doesn’t like to share my attention with random thoughts.
There were a couple of things that were obvious. I wasn’t there because of any personal
beef Ray Holstein had with me. If it was personal, he’d have already killed me or taken me to an
abandoned building or a field somewhere for this little party. Holstein wouldn’t bring me to a police
station and get his pals together to beat me up.
So I was in custody. And whatever the charge, it had to be serious enough to stand up
against Joshua’s influence when he woke up.
Cynthia would try to call me when I didn’t show up in the office, and she’d have Downtown
District send a cop around to check the apartment. When they didn’t find me, they’d call around
and sooner or later find out where I was. Joshua would know about it half an hour after the sun
set, and he wouldn’t be happy.