“What’s the big deal, you asking me about opening a homicide investigation?”
Chief John Taylor sat behind his desk, the top of which was, as always, clear. He was a big, dark-skinned African American—a little bigger every year Mars had known him. Taylor talked slowly, dressed with severe neatness, and in public spoke with a formality that suggested a man of few emotions. It wasn’t until after Mars got to know the chief better that he noticed that the chief had two personas. In public, playing the role, the chief was formal to the point of rigidity. He spoke the king’s English, never using contractions, his diction never giving a hint of an Alabama upbringing. It was after the chief and Mars got comfortable with each other that the chief’s second persona emerged. The chief’s physical presence and language would relax and you could see the whole man. Even his devilish sense of humor. The chief, it could be said, suffered fools gladly. He enjoyed them no end.
When Taylor had been hired as chief of police more than four years earlier, Mars had read the appointment as a politically correct move by the city to deflect the black community’s criticism of the police department. A couple of cases after Taylor’s appointment, Mars signed on as a fan. The chief was a quiet man, but when there was something that needed saying, the chief said it—no matter the result. Taylor
understood police work—and police politics—better than anyone Mars had worked with. He respected good police work but had profound contempt for lazy cops whose only loyalty was to their own best interests. And he knew that running a police department on the cheap was an expensive proposition in the long run.
“I just thought,” Mars said, “given the discussions that have been going on among city council members about the department’s budget, that this particular investigation might raise a few eyebrows. Thought you should know the details in case someone comes after you about it.”
The chief sat back in his chair, elbows on the chair arms, hands folded over the girth of his belly. “Do tell,” he said.
Mars sat down in front of the chief’s desk, leaning forward. “The case a week or so back. The guy found hanging in his warehouse office.”
The chief glanced up at the ceiling, his lower lip extending slightly. “The suicide?”
Mars shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Right now, my guess is maybe not.”
The chief raised one hand to his face, covering his mouth. He didn’t say anything.
“I just figured,” Mars said, “with all the flak you’re getting about the murder rate being down but homicide division resources not being reduced—well, somebody could say this investigation was busywork.”
“I assume you’re gonna tell me why that wouldn’t be true.”
“After a few hours’ work, I’ve got at least four significant issues. First, there’s universal agreement among people that knew the victim that he could not have tied the noose knot—and I can’t find his source for the noose fabric. Second, I’ve talked to a witness who says the victim was planning on meeting with someone shortly before the time we estimate he would have committed suicide. I need to find out who that was and why they were meeting. Third, there was a series of numbers written on the victim’s right arm. We can’t find anything in the victim’s personal records that matches
up with those numbers and the victim was right-handed. I figure if he’d written the numbers, they would have been on his left arm—also, I compared numbers written by the victim to the numbers of the arm. They don’t look anything alike. The number formation is completely different.”
The chief’s expression was unreadable. “You said four things.”
Mars nodded. “A small detail, really, but I don’t think it can be disregarded. We’ve estimated the time of death as taking place between three o’clock and six o’clock in the afternoon. That’s based on a store clerk who talked to the victim at three o’clock and that the victim did not call his son at six o’clock as they’d planned. It’s probable the store clerk sold the victim twenty-five dollars’ worth of Powerball tickets at three o’clock on a Friday for a drawing that would take place the next day. I just find it very difficult to believe the guy is going to spend twenty-five dollars on lottery tickets and an hour or two later kill himself. Now, if I can find the person he was supposed to be meeting with, and that person tells me something that explains why the victim would have had a material change of attitude in that space of time—okay. But in combination, these are things that need a second look.”
The chief nodded. “Agreed. I got no problems you going ahead. Would be easier if your vic was a nice black grandma livin’ on the near north side.”
Mars hesitated. “One other thing.”
The chief’s eyebrows went up and stayed up.
“The guy who died—Franklin Beck—was a friend of Karen Pogue’s.”
The chief’s lower lip extended again. He rolled his eyes sideways. “The woman we use for training seminars?”
“The same. She’s also very well wired in the community power structure, as is her husband. I started looking at Beck’s death after I got a call from the uniformed officer at the suicide scene. He’d told me enough to justify my looking at the file—even without Karen’s call. I talked to Pogue after I decided the case needed a little more work—that was the
first I knew that she knew the victim and his family. Anyway, you see where I’m going on this. Pogue’s connection—to Beck and the department—could make this look like we’re doing favors. That someone’s getting access to our resources that isn’t available to everybody.”
The chief pulled himself up. “Long as we’re comfortable there’s somethin’ that needs investigating—and from what you’ve said, that’s clearly the case—we’re just gonna have to take those hits as they come. Where do you stand on a motive for someone killing Beck?”
Mars shook his head. “Nada. The guy lost money and cost his investors money. But apparently, he had a history of making good on debts. And people loved the guy. So motive’s going to be a big hurdle. In my gut, I’ve got a feeling those numbers on the arm carry a message. I mean, if Beck didn’t write the numbers, somebody else did. And they didn’t bother to make it look like Beck had written the numbers himself. Which tells me they were making a point they didn’t want to be missed. But I’m a long way off from deciphering what that point might be.”
“Any idea who the message might be addressed to? You’re saying nobody who knows Beck knows what the numbers mean? What’s the point?”
The chief had raised a question Mars hadn’t yet focused on. It was a different way of asking what the numbers meant. “Nobody we’ve talked to so far knows what the numbers might mean. I just think they have to be important.”
The chief rose, looking at his watch. “I need to get on over to a ceremony for new recruits. How you and Nettie doing on your cross-jurisdictional database?”
“Nettie’s doing great. She’s chairing a five-state task force to set up a pilot database. We’ll start testing it next summer—provided the FRU hasn’t been disbanded under budget pressures by then.”
The chief shook his head in admiration. “I will say, Marshall, that bringin’ that gal on in place of a partner was a bonafide stroke of genius on your part. I thought you’d gone round the bend when you said what you’d wanted instead of
a sworn staff partner was a clerk from the administrative pool, but it’s the best damn thing that’s happened to the department. Next to my makin’ you a special detective specializing in nondrug- and nongang-related homicides.”
“If you remember, when my previous partner retired there wasn’t anyone I especially wanted to partner with or anybody who wanted to partner with me, for that matter. You might say no one had a sweet tooth for the Candy Man,” Mars said, using the nickname by which he was commonly—and without affection—referred to by other police officers. There were plenty of officers on the force who resented Mars’s special assignment and his relationship with the chief.
“Anyway. What I was looking for was someone to get me out from under the paperwork. I didn’t have a clue Nettie was going to take off like a rocket. I think I told you, she’s working on a proposal for automating all the patrol paperwork. It’d mean a big capital investment up front—squads would have fully functioning computers with on-line, interactive formating for reports. And there’d be a pretty significant training component that the union would probably fight tooth and nail. But the time it would save long-term is phenomenal. That, and report quality would improve. She’s including a way of using software for filing charge reports that would prompt officers for the correct legal terms.”
“She’s still working on the interstate information-sharing project?”
“That too. Of course, that was a project we planned on Nettie heading up once we went over to the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension Cold Case Unit, but she’s getting a leg up on it now. Spends a lot of time every day fielding phone calls from other jurisdictions, guys picking her brain about automation initiatives. That’s what the city council misses when they just focus on murder rates. A lull like we’ve had over the past year gives us a chance to do things that will make a big difference to the department over time. Help us avoid murders, help us solve murders that do happen a lot faster, instead of just chasing our tails on cases.”
The chief sighed. “Couldn’t agree more, but it’s still a tough sell. The resources we put into funding Nettie’s and your positions almost three years ago are why the cleared case rate is up. And you were right on the mark when you said guys investigating the gang and drug deaths had to be dedicated to those scenes. But try and tell that to a politician. They just look at the bottom line and say, ‘The murder rate is down, but you’ve got the same number of cops as when it was high.’ Well, no matter. I got no problems defending the department’s record over the past few years to anyone.” The chief hesitated, then said, “I take it you’ve heard the proposal to fund the expansion of the Cold Case Unit over at the BCA is going to be resubmitted next session at the legislature—you and Nettie still committed to moving over there if funding comes through?”
Mars nodded, immediately feeling uncomfortable. He and Nettie had agreed more than a year ago to leave the MPD and join the State Bureau of Criminal Apprehension’s Cold Case Unit. But the expansion hadn’t been funded in the last legislative session. Mars’s reaction had been mixed. It was a perfect job for Nettie since it would give her a great opportunity to develop interagency databases. For Mars, the job had appeal only because he knew the chief would be moving to San Diego sometime in the next year. Mars had no appetite for going through the political and professional upheaval that he knew would follow the appointment of a new chief. And he knew working with Taylor was as good as it gets. Adjusting to a new chief with less skill and character wasn’t something he was up for.
“I have reservations, but long-term, I think it’s the right move. No doubts about it being a good move for Nettie. Just not sure working on cold cases is gonna be my thing. But then, if this political pressure keeps up, who knows. Especially after you go. Being a special detective could go away, and I really don’t want to go back to the old drill, where it’s catch-as-catch-can. Which is why I want to be sure you’re comfortable with where we’re going on this Beck case.”
The chief straightened up. “Can’t argue with your reasoning. Just think it’s too bad the department might lose the two of you. Far as the Beck case goes, you do what you have to do to satisfy yourself. That’ll be plenty good enough for me. Anything else I should know?” The chief got up from behind his desk.
Mars hesitated. It was a big leap to move from suicide to homicide to the possibility that the numbers on Beck’s arm might mean something to another investigation in another jurisdiction. But if there was one thing the chief insisted on, it was being kept advised of investigations that moved outside his jurisdiction.
So Mars said, “Just to be on the safe side, we’ve sent out an information request to the five-state area, asking for information on any hanging deaths where the numbers we found on Beck’s arm are present.”
The chief gave Mars a dubious look. “You are thinking big thoughts.” Then he moved out of his office. “Like I said. Do what you need to do.”
Walking back to the department, Mars thought about what the chief had asked about who Beck’s numbers’ were intended for. There was something about this investigation in general that was making Mars feel edgy. And the chief’s question in particular made him feel that the five-state information request was justified.
Seeing him come back into the department, Nettie said, “The chief is cool with your busywork project?”
“Ice cold. And you’d better not knock his judgment. He had all kinds of good things to say about you.” Mars reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes he always carried. He hadn’t smoked since Denise had been pregnant with Chris. But he found he missed the comfort of the pack more than smoking itself, so he’d fallen into the habit of buying a pack and playing with it until it wore out. Then he’d buy another. Nettie knew that he played with the
pack when he was thinking hard about something. Seeing the pack come out of Mars’s pocket, she waited for what would come next.
“You sent the five-state information request?” he said.
“Mars. For God’s sake. It’s Christmas in less than two weeks. No one’s going to pay any attention to a request like this. Don’t expect to hear anything until after Christmas. After New Year’s probably.”
Mars hadn’t been back at his desk for more than ten minutes when Karen Pogue called.
“I just wanted to thank you for talking with Joey,” she said. “He called me to say he’d met with you, and I could hear a difference in his voice right away. I think you’ve really helped him to see the suicide more clearly, Mars.”
“Glad to hear it. Except I’ve decided to open a homicide investigation. There are some significant unanswered questions. It may have been a suicide, but I’m not willing to put my name to that conclusion just yet.”
Karen’s end of the line was silent for a moment. Then all she said was, “Really?”
“Really.”
“Hell’s bells. Who’da thunk it?”
“Now it’s your turn to do me a favor. On a couple of fronts, actually.”
“Anything.”
“Give some serious thought to who—and why—someone would have wanted to kill Frank Beck. And some serious thought to other people I should talk to about those questions.”
“Yeah, of course I will. But I’ll tell you—that’s going to be tough.”
“That much I already know.”
“Mars? There’s another reason I called. I thought about it after we left Alma last night. Don’t know why I’ve never thought of it before. Why don’t you take Chris up to the lodge? We hardly use it at all, especially in the winter. And it’s magical in the winter. You can hear owls and wolves, the
stars are brilliant, you can snowshoe in the woods, there’s a cove where the ice is like glass for skating … .”
Mars thought about why taking Karen up on the offer wasn’t a good idea. Not least of which was that accepting a favor from someone with a personal interest in the Beck case would be sensitive for all the reasons Mars had just explained to the chief.
Then he remembered something Karen had said at dinner.