Archer
ARCHER
M arigold Street is a sad, shitty lie the town planners thought they could get away with several decades ago when they were dropping names. The word Marigold implies a street of shady trees. Lush green leaves. Towering, trailing nature that makes the concrete pretty and softens the blow of a five-day-a-week commute.
But this Marigold Street is filled with overflowing trashcans, the stench of day-old fried food, boarded-up windows, and at nighttime, I imagine the corners bustle with business and men who watch their assets with an eagle eye.
“Gangs have tagged the buildings,” Fletcher observes, moving slower now that we’re on the scene and our dead guy is, well, already dead. He’s in no rush. Uniforms cordon off our street, and cruisers park haphazardly to keep others from coming down here.
Already, media vans pull up and attempt to get their exclusive scoop, dragging out massive cameras and plopping them on the shoulders of shorter, uglier dudes who look that much worse in direct comparison to their on-air counterpart.
“We haven’t had to deal with gang violence in Copeland in a long while.” I turn my back to the flashing cameras and instead scour the shopfronts, most of which boast For Lease signs. “Their comeback is pissing me off.”
“Gang activity means mafia activity.” The very corner of Fletch’ s lips curl with a subtle smirk. “Mafia activity was extinct in Copeland City until recently. You wanna tell your brethren to back up?”
“Not my brethren.” I take out my phone and jump to my text screen. Instead of calling, I type a message. “I’m requesting an M.E. from the George Stanley. The sooner they get out here, the sooner we can clear this street.”
“You’re bringing Doctor Dimples in?” He sets his hands on his hips and turns to study the long street. “I thought you wanted her and Aubs away from the mafia stuff. Something about a conflict of interest.”
I’d hit him, if not for the Channel Nine camera pointed directly at us. “I’m texting Mayet, because she’s in charge of assigning a tech to our case. She won’t come out, though. She’s flying to New York in a couple of days.”
“Yeah?” Spying our dead body, he angles that way and meanders closer. “And yet, you just caught a case. You calling in sick already?”
“We’ll tie it up and put it to bed before Wednesday night. Then I’m on the plane beside my wife and taking time off. We’ll consider it a work-trip, seeing as how I’ll probably meet with the fuckin’ mob while I’m over there.”
He chuckles, bringing a hand up and scratching his jaw to hide from the cameras eagerly waiting for their million-dollar picture. “A decade, Arch.” He steps under the police tape and straightens out on the other side as I follow. “ More than a fuckin’ decade I’ve known you. I knew what you were. Where you came from. I even knew who your daddy was. And not once in all that time was your blood connection an issue for the job. But now Felix is back in your life and suddenly, Copeland City gang violence is up, executions at the bay are up, and our little city is getting a tad noisy.”
“It’s not Felix.” I flash my badge for the waiting uniform, patient as he scans the details and steps out of our way to reveal our dead guy. “I asked. He answered. He has no reason to lie, so whatever is going on here is not from my family. He’s looking into it, but until then…” Slowly, I lower into a crouch and press my fingers to our deceased’s neck to ensure he’s actually dead.
It’s a thing. A lesson learned this past year after a dude woke up in the morgue fridges.
“I’m turning the recorder on.” I glance back at my partner and squint as the sun gleams over his shoulder. “You ready to keep it clean and not focused on my family?”
He grins, taking a recorder from his pocket and makes a show of switching it on. “Record is on. Detectives Charlie Fletcher and Malone are the primary investigators. We’re on the corner of Marigold and Ninth. Vic appears to have been gunned down, close-ish range G.S.W. to the upper chest. Medical examiners are on their way, expected on scene momentarily.”
I push up to stand, backing away from the body and checking my phone, only to nod when I find Minka’s return text. I’ll take care of it .
“Vic looks to be thirties. Mid. Male. Caucasian. Black hair, slight regrowth on his jaw and down his throat.” Carefully, I peek under his shirt, frowning as I look past the blood soaking the fabric and pooling in his navel. “Just one wound. Pretty neat entry. Once the M.E.s arrive, we’ll flip him over and check for the exit.”
“Vic is wearing jeans,” Fletch continues. “Button-up shirt and a windbreaker. No overt signs of struggle. Clothes aren’t torn. No ripped knees. Buttons are fastened on his shirt and none are missing.”
“Thin gold chain around his neck,” I add. Then, gently pulling the collar of his shirt back, I peek beneath. “Small religious cross on the end. Looks like real gold.”
“He’s wearing a watch, too. And a ring on his right hand, middle finger.”
“Doesn’t seem to be a mugging gone wrong.” I slide my hand beneath his splayed body and feel for a wallet in his back pocket. “Robber is gonna take the cash, watch, cross, and whatever credit cards they can swipe.”
“So this was a targeted attack. Not random.”
“He’s looking a little high-end for Marigold Street.” I take my hands away and straighten out. “He’s dressed smart. Nice quality threads. Expensive-ish jewelry. So why was he here? And why was he killed?”
“We’ve counted three shell casings so far, Detectives.” A uniform comes up on my right, preppy and ready for his pat on the head. “We’ve found two slugs. One in the wall over,” he nods toward a red brick building with more holes in it than I can count, “there. And the other is embedded in the car over,” again, he gestures off to the distance. “There.”
“Third one is probably in our vic then.” I tilt my head and study our guy. Young enough to still look fresh, but old enough to be mature. Possibly even has a family. Wife and kids. “We’re gonna need an I.D. to start with. His wallet is still in his pocket, so we’ll get a name and address there. Then we’ll pull prints and see if he’s in our system already. If he’s associating with folks on Marigold Street, but looks this good, he could be a mid-level dealer. And if he is,” I look at Fletch, “could be friends with our other case of interest.”
Not an actual homicide case on our desks. Rather, a personal issue that landed Fletch’s ex-wife in the hospital last month.
“Like I said,” he firms his lips and turns back toward our car, switching off the record as he moves. But before he goes, he offers a murmured, “Lots of gangland noise in Copeland City lately. If we tie one up, it might bring us closer to the other. I’m gonna get the wheel from the trunk and start measuring. We gotta figure out where our shooter stood. It’s the middle of the day, and this entire street is kinda exposed. Seems our killer didn’t mind being seen.”
“On that note.” I let Fletch go and bring my focus to the uniform instead. “Start canvassing. Our shooter either walked these streets or drove them. He shot a man in broad daylight, in the middle of a workday. Someone will have seen something.” I cast my eyes around the shopfronts. “Don’t suppose we have C.C.T.V. around here?”
He shakes his head before I finish speaking. “No cameras. These shops are either already shut down, or they’re struggling. There’s no extra money for security, and the things they have to sell aren’t fetching bunches of cash anyway. We’ve got a seamstress a couple doors up,” he nods in her direction, “and an old record store near that. No one is raking in money along here unless you’re selling something illegal.”
Piqued, I turn from the body and look the uniform up and down. “This your usual run, Officer?”
He shrugs, though he nods at the same time. Yes. No. He doesn’t know. “I swing by a couple of times per shift. Residents appreciate it—makes ‘em feel safe—and those who are doing the wrong thing know to be here after hours. We rarely cross paths, so they don’t give me too much trouble. This street used to have a pawnbroker and a few nice clubs where the uh…” He clears his throat, telegraphing to me, without saying, he knows exactly who the hell I’m related to, “there used to be mafia activity around here. Lots of clubs on Marigold where those types conducted business.”
“Which means the shops were protected?” I guess.
“As upside down as it sounds, no mafia involvement means less protection for those who work here. That’s why folks either up and moved, or they went out of business over the years. Looters took what they wanted, often they threatened to take more. Most of the mom and pop stores packed up back in the nineties, and those who stayed quickly learned their lesson.”
“Do you recognize this man?” I look down at our vic and wait for the officer to do the same. “Seen him around before?”
He stands over our John Doe and tilts his head to get a good look. But he shakes his head again, crinkling his lips like the actions helps him think. “No, Detective. I don’t recognize his face.”
“Grab a picture and start canvassing.” I turn back when Fletch slams the cruiser trunk closed and places a measuring wheel on the road. It’s a simple wheel set on the end of a long handle, and when we roll it, each click gives us a foot. Simple as that, and yet, easy to screw up if we lose count. “Grab a handful of your buddies and knock on doors for us. I want you to talk to every single person who is currently on this street. Even if they say they saw nothing, heard nothing, dig in. They might’ve seen our perp arrive in a car. They might’ve heard his wheels on the road as he peeled out of here.”
I turn as a stark white van arrives on the other side of the barricades. The medical examiners’ ride, with black bags and gurneys strapped in the back. Doctors examine a dead body and tell us the science-y medical stuff, while cops examine the environment he died in. Together, we create a team that usually, eventually, leads to an arrest.
If we’re lucky.
“Let’s move that cruiser.” I raise my hand and my voice to alert the distracted cops to our new arrival. “M.E.s need access.”
“I see Delicious in that van, Malone.” Fletch rolls his wheel closer, grinning when my eyes shoot across to the slender form sitting in the front seat. Sunlight glints off the windshield, making it impossible to see her face. But the closer they come, the more my brain understands. “I thought she was delegating?”
“I thought she was, too.” Narrowing my stare, I start forward and wait for them, as barricades are moved and media starlets attempt to slide through the gap. I firm my lips and glower when Aubree’s playful smile shines almost as bright as the almost-winter sun, then I start forward and grab the door the second the engine cuts out.
“Why are you here?” I snag the med-bag from Aubree, then Minka’s hand as she slides out second. I don’t hold on for long—God forbid the reporters snag footage of something they shouldn’t—then I give the cameras my back and stride beside the doctors as they move toward our vic. “Minka Mayet?” I snarl when she doesn’t answer me. “Why are you here?”
“You asked for an M.E.”
“I asked for a different M.E.” I grab her jacket, the too-thin, too-old fabric I swear to replace before winter kicks our asses, and spin her just ten feet from the police tape. “This is gang related, Mayet. I need you to assign someone else.”
“Aubree’s taking the lead.” She snatches her med-kit back and sets it on the ground, bending over it and selecting a heavy, overly large camera. “I’m playing assistant. Aubree can continue the case while we’re in New York. That way I’m still busy, but I’m not bogging myself down as lead. ”
“Excuse me, lowly assistant?” Aubree snaps on a pair of latex gloves and beams when her surly chief looks her way. “Document the scene, please. Make certain to pay attention to his G.S.W. Please also confirm the decedent is, in fact, deceased.”
Rolling her eyes, Minka peels away from me and growls when she passes Fletch. Things are tense between the two right now— as expected . “Detective Fletcher. Screw my life up any more since we last spoke?”
He flattens his lips and bites down on the not-very-nice things I know he wants to say. He won’t, because he respects her too much to shoot off at the mouth. Besides, he wouldn’t dare say shit when I’m near enough to knock his teeth out.
“I checked for a pulse,” he decides instead, passing a photographing Minka and talking to Aubree instead. Since she’s the boss and all. “Couldn’t find one. We’ve been here about ten minutes. Calls came in to dispatch about an hour ago. Uniforms arrived first and shut the street down. I’m seeing only one puncture wound so far. Unis have three shell casings. Two slugs.”
“Crappy shot,” Aubree murmurs. She, too, checks for a pulse while Minka joins the fray and searches her bag for a scalpel and thermometer. “How do you shoot three times and hit only once?”
“Most folks are crappy shots.” I wander closer, standing at Minka’s back while she’s bent over a body and unable to pivot easily if danger arrives. “Other two bullets are over there,” like the uniform, I nod in their direction. “Says our shooter was here-ish. Pointing this direction. We haven’t established if he was on foot or in a car yet.”
Soundless, Minka slides the end of the thermometer into John Doe’s belly, holding it still as she awaits the reading, then she casts a glance back past me. “There’s no rubber on the road. No skid marks to indicate your killer sped out of here.”
“Shell casings are on the road, though.” Already, the uniforms have little yellow markers set out for the crime scene techs to document. “Folks rarely walk in the middle if they’re looking to commit a crime. It draws attention.”
“Witnesses?” She’s a doctor for the dead, but I swear, she could have been a cop if she wanted to. She asks the questions and studies more than just a body when she’s on a crime scene. “Anyone see anything?”
“Unis are canvassing now,” Fletch answers. Though when she swings her furious gaze back around, he shrinks into himself.
“No witnesses, as far as we know.” If only to save my partner from dying at the hands of my angry wife, I draw her focus my way. “Unis are heading out now to knock on doors. Typically, witnesses like to stick around and tell us what they saw. Often, they make shit up just to be relevant. The fact no one except the media is rubbernecking right now adds credence to my theory this is a gangland hit.”
“People are too afraid to talk to the cops?” Aubree guesses. “Because retribution follows?”
“Generally.” I set my hands on my hips and glance down when Minka’s thermometer beeps and the doctor takes it out again. She writes notes in a little book, similar to what Fletch and I do when we’re on the job. “Rigor hasn’t set in yet, and the body is still warm inside and out. Your guy died no more than an hour ago.”
“That works with the dispatch call,” Fletch announces. Bravely speaking over Minka’s sneer. “We gotta do the job, Dimples. Be mad at me when we’re off the clock.”
“I’ll be angry with you on and off. Consistency makes me happy. Which, oddly enough, is precisely what you’ve disrupted by upsetting my media relations staff member.”
“I’m working on fixing it.” He pushes up straight and inches behind Aubree. One could say he makes her his shield. But I know better. He’s guarding her back, much the same way I guard Minka’s. “If she’d take a fucking call now and then, my grovel game would be stronger.”
“If no one on this street is brave enough to stick around and make a statement,” Aubree looks up from her work, squinting from the sunlight, “then who called the cops?”
“According to dispatch’s transcription, the lady down at the seamstress shop called.” I point for the doctors. “Glenda Morris. She’s up next. I haven’t had a chance to look into her business yet, but we’ll get to that soon.” I meet Aubree’s sky-blue stare—the same stare my future nieces or nephews are likely to inherit if she and my brother eventually marry. Or, well… go to bed together. “She’s been here awhile, according to the uniform we talked to. Maybe she feels protected. Or maybe she felt petty robbery is no big deal, but killing a dude is something she should report.”
“Either way,” Fletch cuts in, “she’s our next stop.” He nods for Minka when she reaches under the vic’s body, much the same way I did. “Can we get that wallet out and an I.D.? Once we do, we can move forward.”
“I was going to, anyway.” Grumbling, she feels around beneath our John Doe’s body with a gloved hand, battling with his two-hundred-ish pounds. His six foot frame. She rolls his hip and fights with the denim, then she frees the wallet from his back pocket and reveals dark brown leather. Finally, she flips it open, only to startle when she’s met with something shiny. “Shit!”
“He’s a cop.” Fletch snags his phone, dialing and slamming the device to his ear. “For fuck’s sake, Arch. He’s a cop.”
“Hold on a sec.” I place my hand on Minka’s stiff shoulder, holding her still before she touches the body more. “We need to call this in and get new instructions.”
“Lieutenant,” Fletch snarls, turning on his heels and walking just three feet before he spins back. “Our G.S.V. over on Marigold is a cop. He’s carrying I.D. and his badge. No weapons have been recovered. No holsters that I can see. No cuffs. Could be U.C., I suppose. But?—”
“Or maybe he’s just off duty,” Minka adds. Finally, she speaks without poison dripping from her every word. But she twists her neck and looks up at me. “Do you often wear a vest to work, Detective?” Before I can answer—to tell her no, I rarely do—she adds, “Perhaps now is the time you should start. A vest would’ve saved this cop’s life.”
“Lieutenant Fabian’s coming out,” Fletch announces, killing his call and squeezing the phone in his hand. Veins fill and throb in his forearms. His jawline, flexing from the rage he works hard to contain. “Case is still ours, but Fabian wants to be here for it.”
“Undercover or off duty,” Aubree murmurs, placing the bloody wallet on the ground and leaving it wide open for Minka to photograph. “Lucas Mercer is now a dead cop, Detectives. Maybe Doctor Mayet and I should be the ones guarding your backs.”