Chapter 2 #2
According to the information Dan had been given, the shop wouldn’t close for another two hours. He had plenty of time to get it done and get back before the shelter locked up for the night.
He patted his pocket as he walked out the door to reassure himself that he had the money with him and headed down the street. According to the guy at the desk, it was four blocks north, then two blocks east. All he had to do was watch for the old-fashioned barber pole at the door.
After the intermittent rain they’d had the past few days, and the midday heat they’d had earlier, the night air was still thick and muggy. The back of his neck was sweaty by the time he got to the intersection to walk east.
Dan was curious as to what he looked like now.
He hadn’t been clean-shaven in at least ten years, and the gray interspersed within his hair and beard had to be hiding age-related wrinkles as well.
Except for the occasional car full of gang members driving by, car traffic was almost nonexistent in this part of the city, and he was still at the corner, waiting for the light to change.
Finally, the lights turned red, and the signal for foot traffic lit up. He stepped off the curb, barely wincing at the sore on his heel, and was halfway through the crosswalk when he heard the roar of an engine coming out of an alley behind him.
In the few seconds it took for Dan to realize what was happening, he’d missed his chance to run. The oversize truck hit him from behind, breaking every bone, every rib, turning the shattered shards inside his body into shrapnel and deploying a force that caused instant internal decapitation.
The impact threw Dan’s body a good twenty feet across the pavement, but he never felt the pain. His last chance to start over had been a short one.
A few moments later, a woman came out of a nearby bodega with her shopping bag full of purchases, saw the body lying in the street beneath a spreading pool of blood, and started screaming.
Cop cars soon descended upon the scene, and people were coming out of surrounding buildings to see the aftermath. Officers began taking control of the gathering crowd and stringing crime scene tape around the area.
And in the distance, the high-pitched shriek of an ambulance’s approach somehow seemed less urgent to the onlookers, considering the old man’s body didn’t have enough unbroken bones left to hold it together.
* * *
Whistler was back across town in the convention center parking lot.
The space where he’d stolen the car had been taken, but there was another one close by.
He put the keys back behind the visor, got his Slim Jim from the seat, and locked the door from inside before getting out.
He couldn’t do anything about the dent in the truck grille, or the blood splatters on the hood, but he left the paintball gun in the back of the truck.
A little added evidence against the actual owner. Explaining it away was not his problem.
After a quick glance around, he got back into his truck, drove out of the lot, and returned home without incident.
He removed the clothes he’d been wearing, bagged them up with the other clothes he’d left in the closet, then dumped all of his kitchen and bathroom garbage in the bag on top of the clothes and carried it outside to the dumpster. The timing was good. Trash pickup was tomorrow.
He went back inside and sent Dixon a text.
Boss. I’m feeling better. Do you want me back tonight, or come tomorrow as usual?
It was code for “the job is done.”
Within a couple of minutes, Dixon replied.
Tomorrow is fine. Get some rest.
“Damn straight,” Whistler muttered, then ordered a pizza via DoorDash, grabbed a beer, turned on the TV, and settled down to wait for the food to arrive.
* * *
Gunner and Cliff were back in the department, writing up their reports on the hanging-man case, when Gunner got a phone call from another division of the Dallas PD.
“Homicide, this is Kingston,” he said.
“Detective, this is Officer Waters in Traffic division. We’re working a hit and run, and have a victim here who had your card in his pocket, along with a hundred dollars. Does that ring a bell?”
Gunner’s heart sank. “Does he have long gray hair and a beard?”
“Yes. Do you know who it is?” the officer asked.
“If it’s who I think it is, his name is Dan Helford. Where are you taking him?”
“The morgue. If you’d be willing to make a positive ID, it would be helpful. I know it’s late, but they’re loading up the body now. I’ll tell the medical examiner you’re coming to make an ID.”
Gunner hung up, looked across the desk at his partner without speaking, then got up and walked into Lieutenant Samuels’s office.
“I have to go down to the morgue to ID a body,” he said.
Samuels looked up, saw the expression on Gunner’s face, and frowned. “I hope it’s none of your family.”
“No, sir. I think it’s the old homeless man who found Freddie Welsh’s body. The one we brought in this morning to get his statement.”
Samuels frowned. “Well damn, what happened, and why did they call you for the ID?”
“Hit and run. I gave him my card when I dropped him off at the shelter. They found it on his body.”
“Take Cliff with you,” Samuels said.
“I’d rather not. I’ll be back,” Gunner said and walked out.
Samuels frowned, got up from his desk, and walked out of his office, eyeing Gunner as he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.
Cliff started to get up. “What’s up. Where are we going?”
“I’ve got this,” Gunner said and kept walking.
Cliff glanced at the boss. “Is everything okay?”
Samuels frowned. “You tell me.”
Cliff shrugged.
Samuels turned around, walked back into his office, and shut the door.
* * *
Gunner hated the morgue. Hated going into it. Hated seeing the bodies in varying stages of being autopsied. Hated the smells and the fact that it always made him want to cry. Grown men aren’t supposed to cry. Gunner had taken that to heart at an early age.
* * *
Dr. Delores Paige, the medical examiner, was at her desk when the detective arrived. She’d met him before, but she couldn’t really claim that she knew him. She just knew the stories and the reputation, and she could tell by the look on Kingston’s face that he was bothered by this call.
“Hey, Doc, I’m here to ID a body,” Gunner said.
Doctor Paige got up from her desk. “Yes, and thank you for coming, detective. Follow me.”
Gunner followed her into the autopsy room and stood aside while the coroner pulled out a drawer and lifted the sheet from the deceased man’s face.
“Damn it,” Gunner muttered, unaware he’d said it aloud, and then nodded. “Yes, that’s Dan Helford. His street name was Yankee Dan. Once you do the autopsy, I want a copy of the findings. If there’s any way of knowing if this was intentional or an accident, I’d appreciate the heads-up.”
Dr. Paige replaced the sheet and pushed the body back into the drawer. “You suspect foul play?”
Gunner sighed. “Less than twenty-four hours ago that man had the misfortune to witness the body dump of a material witness in a federal case. It was at night, in an empty warehouse with no power. All he saw were a few shadows, and then they were gone. But he went down the stairs and found the body, then called it in. I took his statement and dropped him off at a homeless shelter. He didn’t see anything, or hear anything except doors opening and doors closing, but certain people may not see it that way.
They could have viewed him as more trouble. ”
She frowned. “I don’t know what I’ll find, but I will keep that in mind. Best guess is that it’s going to be next to impossible to tell if it was an accident or purposeful, but I’ll make sure you get a copy of the findings.”
“I appreciate that,” Gunner said and walked out, but his heart was pounding. Every instinct he had told him this was because Yankee Dan had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Burgess Dixon was still tying up loose ends.
But there was another issue attached to this tragedy that was bugging Gunner.
The media knew nothing about a witness to the body dump.
Twenty-four hours had yet to elapse from the time the police had arrived on the scene, and yet that witness was now lying in the morgue, which led Gunner to believe that Burgess Dixon had a dirty cop on his payroll, and it was someone in this department.
He drove back to the precinct and went straight to Samuels’s office. The door was open. He knocked and then entered.
“The witness we brought in from the body dump is dead. Victim of a hit and run. No witnesses. No working security cameras. No leads. My Spidey senses tell me Burgess Dixon has a dirty cop on the payroll.”
Samuels frowned. “That’s a dangerous insinuation, detective.”
“I’m not insinuating. I’m saying it outright.
Somebody is keeping Burgess Dixon abreast of anything ongoing related to him.
I took Yankee Dan’s statement, and you witnessed it.
I assume you sent a copy to the Feds. The officers on scene at the warehouse heard him identify himself as Yankee Dan.
I told Cliff his given name, and everyone in this division knew who he was and why we brought him in.
And now he’s dead, and I can’t help thinking that we’re the ones who put him in danger by bringing attention to his presence there.
I’m pissed, and I’m sick to my stomach. I hate dirty cops, and I’m saying we have one… somewhere.”
“Where are you and Beale on the dude found hanging out a window?”
“No leads. Waiting on forensics,” Gunner said.
“Then go home. Get some food and rest, come back tomorrow ready to focus on that, and leave the rest of this to me. I’ll notify the FBI about a possible connection to Dixon, but the rest is up to them.
This is not our case. Right now, in the eyes of the law, it’s an unfortunate hit and run. Not a murder.”