“What’s this?”
“Paperless office, remember? The new county policy. So this,” he tapped it, “is the murder book for your case.”
“Wait a minute, Sheriff…”
He smiled and switched his index finger at me.
I tried again. “Wait a minute, Chris. You have a homicide unit this should go to if you think Frazier’s death was suspicious. I’m not a homicide investigator.”
“You sell yourself short, David. How many murders did you solve for Mike Peralta? Fifty?”
“Sixty-two.”
“There you go.”
I felt as if I had rubbed against poison ivy but the itch was deeper than my skin. I wanted him out of this office. I wanted out of this office.
He pulled a clear plastic bag out of one of his commodious pants pockets and placed it beside the data stick. It said EVIDENCE in red. Inside there appeared to be a wallet.
“Check it out,” he said.
I held up my hands. “No gloves.”
He fished a pair out of his pants. Of course he had some. He probably had a complete crime-scene kit in those cargo-pants pockets. I reluctantly slid them on and opened the evidence envelope.
The wallet was blue nylon with a Velcro seam. It was dated only by its design and materials. Otherwise, it was in surprisingly good shape for being so old. I already knew what it held before I pulled it open and saw Tom Frazier’s driver’s license. He had dark hair and the card said he was six feet, two inches, two hundred pounds, brown eyes.
“He’s not so different from your build,” Melton said. “About the same age. He had lost his mother, his last family member. You only had your grandmother at that age.”
He had done his homework on me. I didn’t like that.
I made a quick inventory of the other contents: an emergency medical technician card issued by the state, an Associated Ambulance employee identification, thirty-two dollars in currency signed by Donald Regan. No credit cards, but hardly anyone that age back then would have qualified for one. No photos.
Other things seemed missing, too: dirt or sand from the desert, and faded material from being out in the sun.
I said, “Where did you get this?”
“Are you interested in the case?”
“Mildly.”
He leaned forward. “Enough to have a conversation with the person who found the wallet?”
“I’m a historian,” I said. “That’s the way I approach cases. It seems like you need a real homicide detective who works cold cases.” I mentioned a couple of names.
“So what’s the difference between a historian and a detective?”
I had been asked this so many times, thought about it when Peralta first brought me aboard, that I should have had a neat elevator speech. But I didn’t.
Good detectives and historians had much in common. They wanted to find the “how” as well as the “why.” Both gave heavy weight to primary sources-whether witness interviews documents, diaries, and other reminiscences of the people actually involved in the event-as opposed to secondary sources such as newspaper accounts. Both were mindful of bias.
There were important differences, too. A good historian wanted to understand causality and complex underlying social and economic forces and pivotal personalities, not merely assemble evidence. He or she was open to new interpretations as fresh scholarship emerged, formerly secret archives were opened and key players who had kept silent decided to talk.
Understanding history meant acknowledging when the facts didn’t go your way, when they challenged or undermined your thesis. Some detectives would cherry-pick facts to assemble a case. Only shoddy historians did that. History was an argument without end. A criminal investigation resulted in a conviction that was rarely overturned, even if the suspect was innocent.
History was especially about distance and objectivity. Unfortunately, I had lived part of this history, being the first deputy on the scene.
“Sounds good to me,” Melton said. “Sounds like what I need here. But don’t worry about footnotes.”
The man had such a wry wit.
I said, “What about the chain of command?”
“You’ll report directly to me,” he said, “like you did with Peralta.”
That was good. Melton had brought in or promoted thugs to the highest ranks of the department. Hard asses with a history of brutality complaints who relished his campaign against illegal immigrants and poor people in general. And as a former academic, I had never really been welcomed by many of Peralta’s commanders, either. The only thing they hated worse than a meddling professor was a reporter.
“You can’t help him, you know. That’s an FBI case, and you can only get in the way. Or worse. You could be charged with obstructing if you start digging around. These feds, believe me I know, they see the suspect’s friend meddling and they don’t like it. It might even cause them to think you’re an accessory.”
I nodded. “How do you know I’m not?”
“Because I’ve checked you out. I know your work. I trust my gut.”
“And you blackmailed me over Lindsey.”
He shook his head and blew out a breath. “No, David. I was trying to help you. I’m going to help you and Lindsey.”
My ass, I thought, wondering about his real motivations besides self-aggrandizement. Sliding the wallet back in the evidence bag, I asked him about forensics.
“I’m going to send it to the lab to test for latest prints and DNA,” he said. “It’s hard to know what we’ll find. But there are photos of the wallet and its contents in your murder book.”
I folded my hands and leaned back. “What’s next for me?”
He pulled out a notepad and scribbled, tore off a sheet of paper in the paperless county office, and placed it on the desk.
“She found the wallet. Go talk to her. That’s all I’ll say. You can approach it with fresh eyes.” He pulled a box out of his cargo pants and handed it over. Business cards. “Do you have a check?”
“A check?”
“So I can get you in the system for direct deposit.”
I pulled one out of my wallet and gave it to him. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer-and get paid for the trouble.
He stood and started to leave. “I’ll hook you up with an IT person so we can get you access to the MCSO computers. A few things have changed since you left. Got a Homeland Security grant to upgrade the system.” He smiled. “Good hunting, David.”
As the door closed, I slipped some business cards in my pocket and remembered the person who had first taught me the Sheriff’s Office computer system, a young deputy named Lindsey Faith Adams.
This was the first time in a couple of hours that I had really thought of her. It made me wonder if this was a natural recharge mechanism or if something was missing inside me. Or, worse that a cold, detached spectator was living in my soul.
“Lie down with the devil,” Lindsey had said.
And wake up in hell.
Chapter Twenty-seven
A century earlier, the Great War was raging. It swept away four empires, sixteen million lives, the first great era of globalization, and it changed everything. The belief of constant progress in the West was forever destroyed. A foolish, harsh peace set up an even deadlier world war twenty years later.
We live in the shadow of the Great War still, even if most people don’t realize it. Right down to the vernacular: no man’s land. Trench coats. Blotto. Brass Hats. Shell shock. Push up the daisies.
It was the last war fought by poets.
In Flanders fields the poppies grow…
Dulcet est. Decorum Est.
Kipling, who lost a son in the war, echoed the book of Ecclesiastes, providing the words engraved in the ubiquitous British monuments: Their name liveth forevermore.
He also captured the cynicism of the later war-poets and the Lost Generation: