At home, he checked on his mother. She was unconscious in bed, and snoring with her mouth open. Brazil leaned against the wall in the dark, the night-light a sad dim eye. He was depressed and frustrated.
He thought about West and wondered why she was so heartless.
'e'/ W West walked into her own small house and tossed keys on her kitchen counter as Niles, her Abyssynian cat, appeared. Niles was on her heels, much like Brazil had been all day, and West flicked on her sound system and Eiton John reminded her of the night. She hit another button, changing to Roy Orbison. She walked into the kitchen, popped open a beer, and felt maudlin and didn't know why. She went back into the living room and turned on the late-night news. It was all about the killing. She plopped on the couch at the same time Niles decided she should. He loved his owner and waited for his turn as the TV played bad news about a dreadful death in the city.
"Believed to be another out-of-town businessman simply in the wrong place at the wrong time," Webb said into the camera.
West was restless, worn out and disgusted, all at the same time. She wasn't happy with Niles, either. He had climbed up her bookcases while she was out. She could always tell. How hard was it? He leapt up three shelves, just high enough to knock down bookends and a vase. As
for the framed picture of West's father on the farm, well, what did Niles care about that? That cat. West hated him. She hated everyone.
"Come here, Sweetsy," she said.
Niles made his ribs rattle, knowing how much it pleased her. It worked every time. Niles wasn't stupid. He reached around and licked his hindquarters because he could. When he looked at the lady who kept him, he made sure his eyes were very blue and crossed. Owners fell for that, and, predictably, she snatched him up and petted him. Niles was happy enough.
West wasn't. The next day when she got to work, Hammer was waiting for her deputy chief, and everybody seemed to know it. West left her Boj angles breakfast with out even opening the bag. She dropped everything and hurried down the hall. West almost ran into Hammer's outer office and felt like giving Horgess the finger. He very much enjoyed West's negative reaction to being summoned like this.
"Let me call her," Horgess said.
"Let me let you." West didn't disguise how surly she felt.
Horgess was young, and had shaved his head. Why? Soon he would dream of hair. He would lust after it. He would watch movies starring people with hair.
"She'll see you now," Horgess said, hanging up the phone.
"I'm sure." West gave him a sarcastic smile.
"For God's sake, Virginia," Hammer said the instant West walked in.
The chief was gripping the morning paper, shaking it, and pacing.
Hammer didn't wear pants often, but today she was in them. Her suit was a deep royal blue, and she wore a red and white striped shirt and soft black leather shoes. West had to admit, her boss was stunning. Hammer could cover or show her legs without gender being an issue.
"Now what?" Hammer railed on.
"Four businessmen four weeks in a row.
Carjackings, in which the killer changes his mind, leaves the cars?
Robberies? A weird hourglass symbol spray-painted on the victims' groins? Make and model, names, professions. Everything but the damn crime-scene photos right there for all the world to see! "
The headline was huge:
"What was I supposed to do?" West said.
"Keep him out of trouble."
"I'm not a babysitter."
"A businessman from Orlando, a salesman from Atlanta, a banker from South Carolina, a Baptist minister. From Tennessee. Welcome to our lovely city." Hammer tossed the paper on a couch.
"What do we do?"
"Letting him ride wasn't my idea," West reminded her.
"What's done is done." Hammer sat behind her desk. She picked up the phone and dialed.
"We can't get rid of him. Got any idea how that would look? On top of all the rest of it?" Her eyes glazed as the mayor's secretary answered.
"Listen, Ruth, get him now. I don't care what he's doing." Hammer started drumming polished nails on the blotter.
West was in a worse mood when she left her boss's office. It wasn't fair. Life was hard enough, and she was beginning to wonder about Hammer. What did West know about her, anyway, except that she had come to Charlotte from Chicago, a huge city where people froze their asses off half the year and the mob had its way with public officials. Next thing, Hammer sailed here, that housewife husband of hers tagging along.
Brazil wasn't pleased with his circumstances, either. He was punishing himself again this morning, pounding up bleacher steps in the stadium where the Davidson Wildcats lost every football game, even some they hadn't played, it seemed. He was going at it and didn't care if he had a heart attack or was sore tomorrow. Deputy Chief West was a lowlife cowboy, and as insensitive as shit, and Chief Hammer wasn't at all what he had fantasized. Hammer could have at least smiled or glanced at him, and made him feel welcome last night. Brazil headed back up the steps again, sweat leaving gray spots on cement.
Hammer wanted to hang up on the mayor. She had had just about enough of his unimaginative way of solving problems.
"I understand the medical examiner believes these murders have a homosexual connection," he was saying over the phone.
"That's one opinion," Hammer answered.
"The fact is that we don't know. All the victims were married with children."
"Exactly," he slyly said.
"For God's sake, Chuck, don't pile this on me so early in the morning." Hammer looked out the window and could almost see the bastard's office from where she sat.
"Point is, the theory is helpful," he went on in his South Carolina drawl.
Mayor Charles Search was from Charleston. He was
Hammer's age and often considered what it might be like to bed her. If nothing else, it would remind her of things she seemed to have forgotten. Her place, for starters. If she wasn't married, he would swear-she was a lesbian. He sat in his leather judge's chair, headset on, and doodled on a legal pad.
"The city, out of town businesses, won't be as bothered by this…"
he was trying to say.
"Where are you so I can break your neck," Hammer said over the phone.
"When was your lobotomy? I would have sent flowers."
"Judy." This doodle was really good. He focused on it, putting his glasses on.
"Calm down. I know exactly what I'm doing."
"Of course you don't."
Maybe she was a lesbian, or bisexual, anyway, with a grating Midwestern accent. He reached for a red pen, getting excited over his art. It was an atom with orbits of little molecules that looked weirdly like eggs. Birth. This was seminal.
To make matters ever so much worse this morning, West had to go to the morgue. North Carolina didn't have the best system, it was West's opinion. Some cases were taken care of locally, by Dr. Odom and the police forensic labs. Other bodies were sent to the Chief Medical Examiner in Chapel Hill. Go figure. It was probably all about sports again. Hornets fans stayed in town, Tarheels got their lovely Y-incision in the big university town.
The Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner's office was on North College Street, across from the award- winning new public library. West was buzzed in at the glass entrance. She had to give the place credit. The building, which was the former Sears Garden Center, was brighter and more modern than most morgues, and had added another cold room the last time US Air had crashed another plane around here. It was a shame that North Carolina didn't seem inclined to hire a few more MEs for the great state of Mecklenburg, as some sour senators were inclined to disparage the state's fastest-growing, most progressive region.
There were only two forensic pathologists to handle more than a hundred homicides a year, and both of them were in the necropsy room when West arrived. The dead businessman didn't look any better now that Dr. Odom had started on him. Brewster was at the table, wearing a disposable plastic apron and gloves. He nodded at her as she tied a gown in back, because West didn't take chances. Dr. Odom was splashed with blood, and holding the scalpel like a pencil as he reflected back tissue. His patient had a lot of fat, which always looked worse inside out.
The morgue assistant was a big man who was always sweating. He plugged an autopsy saw into the overhead cord reel, and started on the skull.
This West could do without. The sound was worse than the dentist's drill, the bony smell, not to mention the idea, awful. West would not be murdered or turn up dead suspiciously in any form or fashion. She would not have this done to her naked body with people like Brewster looking on while clerks passed around her pictures and made comments.
"Contact wounds, entrances here behind the right ear." Dr. Odom pointed a bloody gloved finger, mostly for her benefit.
"Large caliber. This is execution style."
"Exactly like the others," Brewster remarked.
"What about cartridge cases?" Dr. Odom asked.