Readjustment (Restitution #2)

3

Adam Dawson

Policing your hometown must suck.

As one of only three local officers, Caleb inevitably would know someone affected by anything we investigate. I lifted my gaze from the scene and watched my partner rub a hand over the back of his neck as he spoke to Chief Branson on the phone. His voice was void of all emotion, but professional.

Why doesn’t Caleb understand his own worth? He was too good for this place. He’s a great cop with an elite eye for detail and ability to build rapport with witnesses, victims, and even suspects. He’d do great on a larger force, and he’d make more money.

Maybe that’s why we worked so well together; we both knew what it was like to see something through, even to our own detriment.

I sympathized with him, and all the other officers who’d end up touching this case. Homicide cases come with a certain level of stress, but with a high-profile victim, the pressure doubled. I’d handled my share of notorious cases before, but it was the last thing I expected here.

“Are you alright?” Caleb put his phone in his pocket.

“Huh?” I looked down to find I was absently rubbing my sternum. “Oh, yeah,” I murmured. “Heartburn.”

The daylight peering through the trees gave our victim’s skin a waxy, pale sheen. His eyes were half-closed, but not clenched. It was almost like he’d been resting peacefully before being shot. The bullet hole just below his heart was small, and round, with minimal blood splatter on his jacket or ground around him. There were no other visible wounds. No blood or dirt under his fingernails. No indication of why the son of a sheriff was dead in a field.

Medical Examiner Candice Kane joined us on site, a black medical bag in her pale hands. The sun gave her red hair a fiery glow, and freckles peppered her cheeks.

“Cold one today, Detectives.” She kneeled, set her bag down, then rubbed her hands together. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” She carefully studied the corpse. “When did you get the call?”

“Around eight.” Caleb stepped back and breathed into his hands.

“It’s hard to be sure with these temperatures, but the blue and purple hues around the lips and near the neck suggest he’s hit rigor mortis.” She groaned with a hand on her knee as she stood back up. “I’ll know more when get him to the morgue, but I’d say he’s been gone nine to twelve hours.”

Forensics set out yellow markers and carefully documented evidence. DSLR cameras clicked and flashed, and a pair of Cardinals in the tree above us flew away. I touched my frozen cheeks as I followed Caleb back to the road.

“First impressions?” Caleb said.

“Looks like they used a pistol. Point blank range. No splatter.”

Caleb stopped to pull his foot loose from a tree root and I almost ran into him. “Could be a nine-millimeter?”

“Pretty common weapon,” I said. “The body’s position was odd though.”

“Yeah, it was.” Caleb forged ahead, his strong hands pushing back wild, low branches with ease. “Arms over the head. Legs together and straight. Nobody falls like that. He was either laying like that when the shot came or got positioned after.”

More vehicles had joined the fray ahead of us. News reporters were setting up inches away from the taped off area. It reminded me of when Perry and I were kids, and he held his hand above me yelling, “I’m not touching you!”. I grunted with disgust and barely avoided stepping in a pothole.

“I didn’t see any blood on the trail,” Caleb pursed his lips, “Did you?”

“No.”

“Do you think it’s because of his coat?”

I shook my head. “It’s thick, but the disruption in the brush starts at the edge of the road, and the depression is consistent all the way back there. Too much disturbance for just footsteps.”

Caleb jerked his head in the direction of our victim. “Could be that they dragged him back there. And unless our perp is a behemoth, it’d be hard to carry a body that far. Especially if he was dead weight.”

“Toxicology might show something.” I peeled the covers off my shoes. “I’m interested to see if the M.E. finds any defensive wounds.”

Before Caleb could respond, Chief Branson waved us over to his cruiser.

“We’ve got an abandoned vehicle up at the old Tesco gates.” Branson said, “I need one of you to oversee that scene. Sheriff Antu is on his way to, uh…”

For an uncomfortable second, all that hung between us was the mist of our breaths.

“I’ll stay,” Caleb said. “I played ball with his oldest. It might help.”

Three months ago, I’d argue that the homicide detective should stay at the scene, but I wasn’t sure I could handle a grieving father today.

Caleb tossed me the keys to the Charger, and I left. A mile down the road, a silver, early 2000s Honda Civic was parked parallel to a gate that was secured with a chain and lock. A forensic tech was struggling to zip up a white Tyvek jumpsuit over his puffy coat outside a CSU van. Officer Barrett was the first to approach me. It had only been three months since the Jerry Stanford case, but the kid looked like he’d aged ten years. The fearful stare and green gills at the scene of the principal’s murder had been replaced by a sad wisdom that comes from exposure to trauma. There comes a time in every cop’s career where they learn to accept the world for the cesspool it is or quit and go back to blissful ignorance. He stuck with it though, and I was proud of him for that.

“I opened the driver’s side door.” Barrett pointed a nitrile-gloved hand at the vehicle. “No keys left in the ignition.”

“So not a carjacking gone wrong.”

“Doesn’t look like it, sir.”

“Good work.” I took out a fresh pair of gloves and rolled them over my knuckles. I walked around the vehicle’s exterior. Rust damaged the wheel wells, the plate was missing, and a long crack ran diagonally across the windshield. The hood had minor dents, but the point of interest was the dime sized droplets of blood on the driver’s side headlight.

A forensic tech approached with a silver case, the vinyl swish of his coveralls rubbing together with every step.

“Start here.” I pointed at the blood then bent over to peer inside. No sign of a struggle. No personal items left behind besides an empty Red Bull can on the floorboard and an empty Hostess snack wrapper. Questions mounted as I straightened and stretched out my back.

Why would the killer abandon a car a mile from the body? Did they break down? Is the blood on the headlights our victim’s? The drivers? A third party? Was this all part of our perp’s plan—to turn a single crime scene into two while they work to get further ahead of us?

A quick search of the VIN on the sticker inside the driver’s door revealed the owner as Jessica Houston, making her our first person of interest. The rest would have to wait for lab results. Forensics were still lifting prints, so I told Barrett to stay with the techs, and I returned to the homicide scene. When I approached, it looked as if every cop in the county was bidding for access. I scanned the crowd for Caleb and found him sitting on the tailgate of a truck with Sheriff Antu, who was sobbing into his hands while Caleb rubbed his back and spoke to an older guy in a tweed suit.

I exited the car and walked over to Branson. “Who’s that?”

“Deputy Detective Brass.” The chief crossed his arms like Mr. Clean. “He and Deputy Myers will be support. You and Straus are the leads, but the Sheriff handpicked these guys to help.”

“Understood,” I said, in a carefully neutral tone. “What can you tell us about them?”

“Brass worked a decade in Chicago before coming out here for a simpler life,” Chief said. “I don’t have any info on Myers, but you can find out when he gets here. In the meantime, I need you and Straus to interview the owner of the car. We’ll get the body released and wrap things up here.”

As my partner wrapped up his conversation with Brass, I took a moment to process my morning. Waking up with Caleb. The PI’s email. The pendulum swing from overwhelming emotions to numb emptiness. My heart, body and mind were living three different lives, and it was dizzying.

My thoughts were interrupted by the stench that precedes Officer Kershaw.

“You’re rubbing off on that little fuck,” Kershaw pointed towards Caleb.

“You been waiting all morning to tell me that?” I turned my nose away.

Kershaw grinned, revealing black stubs that used to be teeth. “Wonder if he’ll be so tough once his faggot backup leaves town.”

The peace I found in anger these days was almost frightening. I might not be a good husband, brother, son, or even partner sometimes. But I could be an angry, bitter mother fucker with the best of them.

“Listen here, you son of a fuck,” I said through gritted teeth. “If you so much as look at him wrong when I leave, you better sleep with your eyes open.”

Kershaw’s eyes narrowed. “You think you’re tough shit Detective ? With your fancy suits and fucking attitude like you ain’t working in a shithole.” He stepped in front of me, and I had to recoil away from his breath. “You ain’t shit, boy. And you better watch your back. That woke shit in Chicago? It ain’t like that round here.”

“Step back, Officer,” I growled. “That’s an order.”

Kershaw stepped back; his face screwed up in fury.

“Do you anything useful for my case?” I asked, “Officer?”

“No,” he grumbled.

“No, what?”

Kershaw’s face burned red as he said, “No, sir.”

“Then get back to work.” I shouldered past him and met Caleb by the Charger.

“Got the address plugged in.” Caleb held up his phone, “Ready to roll?”

“Yeah.” I pulled open the passenger door, slammed it shut, and stared out the windshield while my breathing evened out.

The heater pumped out warm air to bring things to a tolerable temperature as we headed towards the Greater Pines trailer park. A Water Department truck was parked at the highway’s on-ramp and the rancid odor of sewage made me regret having whiskey for breakfast.

“So,” Caleb drummed his fingers on the wheel, “anything interesting at the car?”

“Blood droplets on a headlight. No sign of struggle. No personal items.”

“Do you think it’s related?”

“The plate was stripped, so yeah.”

Caleb’s mouth thinned. “Someone’s trying to make our life harder.”

“Well, the morons didn’t account for the VIN number in five fucking places.”

“I didn’t say they’re doing a good job.” Caleb’s lips curved into a wry smile. I studied his features and the fury in me fled. Even after three months, his grin never ceased to catch me by the throat. The way the skin pinches at the corners of his eyes. The small scar above his tight upper lip where he told me he snagged himself with a fishing hook. All it took was a glimpse at him to rescue me from my own head.

“Let’s hope she’s home.” Caleb exited the freeway and headed west on Anderson Road.

We drove past a Valero where a woman dressed in jeans and an oversized hoodie was smoking too close to a gas pump. I locked eyes with her as we turned into Greater Pines trailer park, and she flipped me the bird.

Jessica Houston’s lot was a block off Treble Road. Caleb cut the engine as a squirrel scampered under the trailer’s broken skirting. Despite the algae on the white exterior and duct taped over crack in the window, it was one of the better-looking homes in the neighborhood.

Frost slicked the worn, rotting steps up to the deck, so I gripped the railing where Christmas lights hung haphazardly. In the far corner was a rusted charcoal grill, like the one my father used back in Ann Arbor. An unexpected smile tugged at my lips as I recalled him teaching Perry and I how to clean out the coals. He was the opposite of Hank from King of the Hill—he considered propane a sin against grilling. He gave it up for a long time after Perry died, and when he was finally ready to return, life played another cruel trick and gave him MS.

Caleb opened the storm door and knocked twice.

A smoker’s cough preceded a small, gravelly voice that gave off the impression she was an older woman. “Just a moment.” The deadbolt clicked, and aside from the lit cigarette dangling from between her lips, Jessica Houston wasn’t at all what I expected. She was short, in her mid-twenties, and petite head to toe. Her brown hair had highlights of strawberry blonde, with amber eyes and a round face. She inhaled her cig, held it between two fingers then exhaled out the side of her mouth.

“Can I help you guys?” She planted the hand with a cigarette on her hip and eyed us warily.

“Ms. Houston, I’m Detective Straus from Peyton PD.” Caleb gave her a charming smile as he held up his badge. “This is Detective Dawson. Do you own a silver 2010 Honda Civic?”

“Uh, yeah.” Jessica stubbed out her smoke on the doorframe. “Why?”

“It was found abandoned by the old Tesco factory this morning,” Caleb said. “The plate was stripped, and—”

“Oh God!” Jessica covered her mouth and her voice shook. “I fucking knew something was wrong.”

“With?” I asked.

“Milo.”

Caleb and I exchanged glances. “Who’s Milo?”

“Wait,” Jessica blinked rapidly, “you didn’t find him?”

“No,” I said. “We’re here about another case. Can we come in?”

Jessica craned her neck forward and looked for nosy neighbors. “Sure.”

“Thank you.” Caleb said, and we followed her through the door.

Just past the entryway sat a table with mail and laundry baskets piled on top. To the right was an aged, maroon Naugahyde furniture set and a television on a wobbly entertainment center someone probably built from scrap in a garage. In the corner near the duct-tape repaired window was a four-foot, pre-lit Christmas tree. The air was ripe with the smell of nicotine and Pine-sol.

“Please, have a seat.” Jessica cleared the laundry basket off the table, and we sat in the scratched wooden chairs.

“Thank you.” Caleb pulled out his note pad. “You said you own the vehicle in question, correct?”

“Yeah.” Jessica twisted her shoulder length hair around two fingers. “Milo’s been driving it, but he’s been missing for four days.”

“Have you reported it to the authorities?” I asked. “And what’s his last name?”

“Davonte. And yeah, last night.” She let go of her hair and her hands fell flat and stiff on the table.

“Why’d you wait?” I asked.

“I thought he was with his friends,” She traced a spot on the table with her thumbnail, “He goes off the grid sometimes, but I saw them yesterday and they said they haven’t seen him.”

“Does he have an employer?” Caleb asked.

“He does cash jobs with his buddies. Construction work, I think.” She shrugged. “He’s just doing what he can to help me through nursing school.”

I did a quick scan of the home’s interior. No boots on the shoe rack. No hard hat, tool belts or Dickies jackets. Nothing that showed a construction worker lived here. “How long have you been together?”

“Almost eight months,” she said.

“Has he ever been gone this long before?” Caleb asked.

“No,” she said, “not with my car, at least.”

“Have you reached out to his family? Friends?” I added.

“He only has a few friends,” she said. “I went to his mom’s trailer, but she hadn’t seen him. The guys he works with hadn’t heard from him either.”

“Was there anything different about his behavior lately?” I asked as I wrote.

“He’s been acting a little jumpy.”

Caleb scribbled something down. “Any idea why?”

“I thought it was because he’s short on money.” She picked up her pack of cigarettes and took one out. “He hasn’t been working as much since it’s cold now. But we were doing okay. I work at Circle K, and I’m almost done with my Patient Care Tech course. I told him not to worry.”

A car passed by with bass that vibrated the small glass vase on the kitchen windowsill.

Jessica made a disgusted face and rolled her eyes. “God, I can’t wait to get out of here.”

I couldn’t either. So, I took out my phone. “Do you or Milo know this man?”

She leaned in for a closer look. “No, but I think I’ve seen him around the trailer park before. Why?”

“His name is Keola Antu,” I watched her carefully, “and his body was found a mile from your car last night.”

“ What?” Jessica gasped and her face blanched. “That can’t…Milo would never hurt anyone.”

“Never said he did.” I leaned in further. “Why would you assume that?”

“I’m not.” She shook her head. “There’s gotta be another reason you found my car. What is Missing Persons doing about this?”

“We’ll follow up with them,” Caleb said calmly, “but we’re investigating what happened to Keola Antu. You said you’ve seen him around?”

“I mean, if it’s actually him.”

“Let’s assume it is, for now,” I said. “Does he hang out at a specific trailer?”

“No, I just seen him and some other people walking around bags from Valero,” she said. “I think he has friends in the park because he’s always dressed too nice to be from ‘round here.”

“How often is he here?” Caleb asked.

Her shoulders rose toward her ears. “I’ve only seen him a few times. He just stands out, you know?”

In my peripheral, the lights on the Christmas tree changed from blue to white. “And you’re sure Milo doesn’t know him?”

“He never mentioned him.” She rolled her cigarette between her fingers. “It’s sad that he’s dead, but Milo wouldn’t have hurt him.”

Caleb tucked his notebook into his jacket and slid her a card. “If you hear from Milo, please call us immediately.”

“I will.” There was a tremor in her voice, and when she stood, she placed a hand on the table to steady herself. “Oh God, do you think he’s in trouble, too? Like that kid?”

“Let us worry about that.” I followed Caleb out the door and into the bitter blast of winter.

Caleb stopped at the car, rubbed his eyes, and sucked a deep breath through his nose. “So,” he turned over the engine, “Milo’s missing.”

“Yep.” I closed the door and grabbed my safety belt. “Which means he’s not just a suspect; he might be another victim.”