Bones Omnibus (10 page)

Now, Vernon was often in haze throughout the day, time flying by as it never had before, which he didn’t really mind at first. He’d take the pills during the week and drop off during weekends or holidays. This led to such a violent reaction — he’d go from moody to furious anger to straight-up pitch-dark depression in the course of a handful of hours — that he decided to take a few pills on the weekend, too. When even they didn’t do the trick, he supplemented with alcohol.

Only, he’d woken up that morning to find that not only had he forgotten to refill his prescription, he’d also exhausted his supply of booze. He figured he’d be able to shower, dress, eat breakfast, and get down to the bodega on the corner for a couple of tall boys before it did too much mental damage. In the short term, however, the pain the pills were actually designed to suppress raged through his muscles. There were short sharp shocks just below the surface on the top of his feet and through his hands. But in his lower back, it was a dull throb that had him bent over and grabbing the sides of the shower stall to keep steady.

He knew at least one thing that would make him feel better, but he also knew Helen would see right through him it if he tried to get her to join him in the shower. She’d make a crack about not wanting to get her hair wet, then go back to doing whatever she found to occupy her mornings now that the bank had cut her hours to almost nothing.

“Hey, Vernon!” came Helen’s voice from the hall. “You’ll never believe what was sitting on our doorstep just now.”

Got me there, woman
, Vernon thought.

Vernon figured she had him there.

Helen entered the bathroom. Through the frosted glass, her husband saw that she was walking what he took for a massive black dog of an indeterminate breed.

“What the hell is that?”

“I don’t know,” laughed Helen. “But he sure was hungry. Found him nosing through the trash bag I’d put out there earlier. I gave him a piece of chicken and he smiled from ear to ear.”

Vernon opened the shower door a little and saw the dog. He couldn’t tell what it was. Maybe a mastiff of some kind, but with the upper body musculature of a Brahma bull. Vernon figured, if the thing put its mind to it, it could knock him straight to the ground.

“You planning on keeping it?” Vernon asked.

“Oh, no,” Helen replied. “I’m sure it belongs to somebody in the building. Just reminds me of my dad’s dog from when we were kids. He babied that animal.”

Vernon nodded and eyed the dog a moment longer. It looked back at Vernon the way a hungry man might regard a turkey dinner just out of reach.

L
eonhardt and Garza climbed the stairs of Building 7 in silence. For Leonhardt, each step sent a shiver up his spine, particularly as they neared the floor of the shooting. When he’d gone up only a few hours before with the other emergency responders, there’d been a task at hand. He could allow himself to get caught up in the situation. Now, it was revisiting a scene from which all traces of the crime had been removed, relying on Leonhardt’s memory to fill everything in.

That corner? That’s where he’d seen the captain slumped over, his half-open mouth drooling blood through shattered teeth.

That doorway? Where one of the Nigerians was sitting with his throat ripped to hell, though whether it was from gunfire or the missing police dog had yet to be determined.

The ceiling? Where Leonhardt had ducked under a congealing pile of hot brains blasted out through an officer’s forehead, sticky stalactites of blood, brains, and spinal fluid only just beginning to form.

All of this had been scrubbed away by whatever trauma scene cleaners were on retainer to the buildings once the location was released by law enforcement. Leonhardt was never less than amazed at the work of these outfits, which could turn even the most heinous of abattoirs into a livable space within hours of a bloodletting. Just another thing New York did well.

All that said, the one thing they never managed to fully disguise was the smell. Chemical cleaners mixed with blood, shit, sweat, and flesh had such a peculiar odor that even a ventilated space, which the sixth floor of Building 7 clearly was not, would reek for days after.

The two detectives broke the seal on Mrs. Fowler’s apartment and let themselves in. Flipping on a light, the pair were hit with a new but no less familiar scent.

“Yeah, an old lady lived here, huh?” Garza snarked, glancing from the cherry-finish console television to the curio shelves lined with blown-glass animal figurines.

The wallpaper was red, gold, and decades out of fashion. The carpet in the living room was thick and brown with threads of more gold woven in. The carpet stopped at the kitchen where peeling yellow-brown linoleum with a fleur-de-lis design took over. Like the rest of the apartment, the kitchen and breakfast nook looked like something re-created from a Sears catalog circa 1973. Nothing appeared out of place.

Leonhardt found what he was looking for on the counter: a silk lingerie bag with a drawstring. He knew the crime scene guys had given Mrs. Fowler’s apartment the once-over. But as it was a victim’s residence, not an actual site of violence, he wasn’t sure they paid as much attention. She wasn’t considered a suspect, after all. The detective picked up the bag and put it to his nose.

“Shit, man, what’re you doing?” Garza scowled.

Leonhardt held it out to him.

“Gun oil. You know these old ladies don’t keep their guns in a holster on the door.”

“The missing weapon?” Garza asked, walking over.

“Couldn’t have set the scene easier if I’d done it myself.”

“Case closed! The little old lady got scared, walked out, popped off a bunch of shots, but then got popped herself.”

Leonhardt nodded idly. That might fit. But that’s when he spotted the dish on the floor. He stooped and saw the slick red-brown residue of dog food.

“She have a dog?”

Garza shrugged.

“Neighbors didn’t say anything about a dog.”

Leonhardt opened the fridge and saw a half-empty can of dog food with a pink plastic lid on top of it. Moving to the cabinets, he searched through until he found a bag of dry food and a stack of cans of the same brand. The label on the bag suggested the food was “specifically designed to meet the nutritional demands of a dog” between 175-200 pounds.

“Big dog,” Leonhardt remarked.

“Maybe it ran off with the police dog.”

Leonhardt plucked his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number.

“This is Detective Leonhardt. Animal Control came in to the Neville Houses shooting, maybe get a dog out of apartment 632? Can you double-check and call me back at this number? Thanks.”

Leonhardt hung up and sniffed the air.

“What is it?” Garza asked.

“If it had been locked up in here for any period of time, it probably would’ve relieved itself. I don’t smell anything.”

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t the clue that’s going to break the case, detective,” Garza snarked. “Want to keep looking around?”

“Yeah,” Leonhardt replied absently

He was trying to imagine how the diminutive Mrs. Fowler managed to go up and down the stairs every time her massive pet needed to use the yard without a single neighbor seeing her.

“In closing, the reason I admire Benjamin Franklin so much is because he invented so many things and was so smart and knew how to miti…miti…”

“Mitigate?” asked Mrs. Cosmatos.

“
Mitigate
the differences between so many different people. Thank you.”

As April took her seat, Becca did nothing to hide the rolling of her eyes. She took it for granted that the other students got help from their parents on their homework, but when it was an oral report? Well, it lessened her esteem for Mrs. Cosmatos that she let April by with such an obvious fraud.

“Becca Baldwin.”

Becca picked the handwritten page up from her desk, “A Historical Figure I Admire” written across the top, and headed for the front of the classroom. She looked down at April’s desk and, sure enough, her Ben Franklin report was typed and printed out. Easier to hide one’s accomplices that way, Becca thought, smug in her belief in April’s inability to write even a one-page report. There were two roads in to the Carver Academy. Your name was picked in a lottery for places. Or you knew somebody.

As April’s mom was not only head of the school’s parent-teacher association and tended to air-kiss and wave - and hug and flail and embrace and cry – upon running into any number of the administrators or faculty, Becca figured April for the latter category. Having been there the night her name was pulled out of a bingo cage, Becca knew where she stood.

“The historical figure I most admire is Gordon Parks. He was born in Kansas in 1912. He moved to New York during the Great Depression. He wanted to be a songwriter and sold some songs but none hit big. Then he became a photographer. This made him famous. He took many famous photos during the 1940s. He took pictures of women in dresses for
Vogue
magazine and news for
Life
magazine. He made friends with Malcolm X and was godfather to one of his kids. He then wrote a novel called
The Learning Tree
. It got famous. He then directed a movie out of it. After that, he made a famous movie called
Shaft
. He directed
Shaft
here in Harlem. He also wrote poetry. His son, Gordon Parks, Jr., made a movie in Harlem, too, called
Superfly
. His son died in a plane crash. The reason I admire Gordon Parks so much is because he never stopped doing new things and being good at them.”

Becca smiled.

Two grades ago, she’d been introduced to Parks when a teacher gave her
The Learning Tree
. This had led her to read one of Parks’s autobiographies,
A Choice of Weapons
. She didn’t think she could admire anyone more than she did Gordon Parks. The fact that he’d lived and worked in Harlem throughout his life only made it better.

It was then that Becca noticed no one else was smiling. Mrs. Cosmatos had a concerned expression on her face. The rest of the class had taken their lead from her.

“Becca, we have a fairly sincere honor policy in this classroom that we’ve all agreed to uphold. This includes excessive help from one’s parents or, in your case, guardians.”

“I didn’t have any help from anybody!”

Mrs. Cosmatos fixed a skeptical look on Becca.

“Becca? I may need to have a word with your older brother. You haven’t seen these movies you mentioned, have you?”

“I haven’t,” Becca admitted. “But I’ve read about them. And my old teacher, Mr. Newton, said
Shaft
was great.”

“But all the rest of it?”

“I read about it in books.”

Someone snickered.
Books
.

Mrs. Cosmatos gave a smile of incredulity.

“It’s just, all of what you’re talking about here is just a little too advanced for someone your age. You really thought you’d get away with it?”

Now everyone in the class sat staring daggers of bemused accusation at Becca. The little girl had no recourse but to fold her arms and stare back.

“Really, Mrs. Cosmatos?” she began. “I mean, what the
fuck?
How are you gonna go and accuse me of that shit?”

Ken had only just fallen asleep when the telephone rang.

“Hello?” he mumbled, just catching it on the fifth ring.

“Mr. Baldwin, this is Mrs. Drucker, the principal at Becca’s school. There’s been an issue with Becca today that we thought we should address with her guardian.”

Ken knew who Mrs. Drucker was. He sat up straight, prepared for the worst. It was only then that he noticed Bones curled up on the floor by the foot of the bed. The dog was eyeing him expectantly as if thinking he might soon get fed.

“Um…what’d she do?”

“She used the f-word on a teacher after being accused of having help on her homework assignment from you.”

Ken closed his eyes again, wishing he back asleep. “What was the homework about?”

“Excuse me?”

“What homework? And I’ll tell you if I helped her.”

Mrs. Drucker paused as if unsure how to respond to his candor.

“An essay on a person from history that she admired. She selected Gordon Parks.”

“Mrs.
Drucker
, is it?” Ken began. “What you need to come around to understanding is just how much smarter Becca is than me or her other brother, Trey. I don’t mean a little smarter, either. I mean, she could come down to my job and tell the
foreman
what he’s doing wrong. The cursing? That’s all me and Trey. I will have another conversation with her about what to ignore from the ignorance she hears coming out of our mouths in this apartment. But second, I’ve never heard of Gordon Parks. You say that’s a name, I think that’s what they’re renaming the dog track down in Riverhead, feel me?”

The other end of the line went silent. Ken wondered if he’d overdone it. Sure, he’d
heard
of Gordon Parks. Becca had told him all about the guy when she started working on the paper. But he wasn’t about to give this woman the satisfaction.

Finally, Mrs. Drucker returned to the line as if having first consulted with others in the room about how to respond.

“The shooting of the police officers last night, this was your neighborhood?”

Ken had to resist the urge to challenge an educator about how she could form a sentence like that.

“Neighborhood, building, and
floor
. Worse, Becca was here alone when it happened. I work nights and her brother was running an errand.”

More silence. When Mrs. Drucker finally replied, her entire sentence a sigh.

“Well, I guess we can agree that the stress of something that dramatic might have impacted her behavior today.”

“That’s probably my fault,” Ken said. “I wanted to keep her home today, but she insisted. She was so excited to share her paper on Gordon Parks.”

No such exchange had occurred, but Ken figured if he was in for a penny, he might as well be in for a pound. Besides, it was literally the least he could do to help Becca out of a tight spot.

“I’ll let Mrs. Cosmatos know. Thank you for your help and your candor, Mr. Baldwin.”