“Was the door open?” he asked.
“Closed but unlocked. Anonymous 911 call at 5:52 a.m. No witnesses, of course.”
Will looked around at the blank black faces watching them from windows and gritty doorways.
“How do you know his name?”
“Wallet.”
“So not a robbery?”
“Probably a robbery,” Dodds said. “The vic was making a purchase from Nubian pharmaceutical salesmen late last night and something went wrong, then they were scared off by something else and didn’t get the wallet.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re not on homicide anymore, Mister PIO.” Dodds gently stuck a cigar-sized finger in his chest at exactly the place where Jeremy Snowden had met his fate.
Will knew this too well. He was the public information officer. The PIO. His job was to walk over to the reporters and give them a statement that told them the basics of the crime, but not too much. Not the victim’s name, for next-of-kin would have to be notified. Not specific information about the crime, especially details the detectives wanted to hold back. Nothing that a clever defense lawyer could later use to undermine the case once they had a suspect. He’d be on the newscast with “Detective Will Borders” under his image as he relayed as little as possible.
At that moment, he saw a young woman ambling up the other side of the street. She saw him.
“Hello, Detective Will.”
“Can’t talk now, Tori,” he called. “You’ll have to go back and wait.”
Tori was Victoria Missett, a reporter for WCPO.
“Get that girl outta here,” Dodds commanded and a uniformed officer walked toward her, even though she was already retreating.
“Not that I wouldn’t do her,” he said. “Young enough. I’d teach her how to fuck. Speaking of which, have you called that nurse? Cheryl.”
“Cheryl Beth. And no.”
“Why not? You’re a free man. Divorced. God, wish I were free of my ball-and-chain. Twenty-two years of ball-and-chain.”
Will badly wanted to change the subject. He said, “I’ll tell Karla that and let her kick your black ass up and down the street.”
“Cheryl Beth’s a cutie. I’d do her.
“You want to do everyone.”
“Why don’t you call her?”
“Because I’m a cripple.”
“You have a serious confidence problem, partner. Nobody’s going to notice that cane. I bet you could use it as a kick-ass police baton.”
Will didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in the open car door, shifting his body to rely even more on the cane. “Went right into his heart, right between the intercostal spaces.” The shirt showed little more than a trickle of blood. He had bled out inside his body. If the assailant had twisted and pulled out the blade, it would have released a torrent. Will went on, “That’s either major luck, or a lot more care than a random robber would take.”
“So here’s the statement you’re going to give the media. Quit doing my job.”
Will stood and faced Dodds. “That’s not a knife,” he said. “That’s a letter opener. Looks expensive. Maybe sterling silver. I think it’s Tiffany.”
Dodds almost pushed him aside to peer inside the car again. “God damn,” he said.
“Obviously a drug dealer of letters.”
“Whatever. He stole it. Makes a nice weapon, as you can see.”
“What’s that in the back seat.”
“You don’t give up.” Dodds shot him an annoyed glance, then bent into the car again. “Guitar case. So what? He looks like a hippie.
“There haven’t been any hippies for thirty years, Dodds.”
“This is Cincinnati, Borders.”
“Whatever. It’s not a guitar case. Too big. Cello.”
Dodds faced him. “Now how the hell… Oh, yeah, you were a music-fucking-minor in college, weren’t you? That was helpful in the career choice you made.”
“It helps me now.” Will wanted to sit down. His legs were aching and tired. All the muscles he was using to make the walking and standing look normal were stabbing at him. He pushed this aside. “It doesn’t take college to know a cello case.”
“You.” Dodds pointed to a uniform. “What’s your name?”
The young man gave it.
“Tim, I want you to go to the other side. Use these.” He handed the uni some latex gloves. “Open that back passenger door and pull out that case. And do it carefully.”
“Yes, sir,” the young cop squeaked. It was probably his first homicide.
When the cello case was out, Dodds had the uni place it on the trunk of the Lexus.
“You know what they call the color of this car? ‘Starfire Pearl.’ I want one.”
“Not on an honest cop’s salary,” Will said.
“There’s always overtime.” Dodds carefully undid the latches. The case was fiberglass, purple, and well worn. What was inside wasn’t.
“So Mister Music, it’s a cello. You’re right. Now, go get those fucking reporters out of here.”
Will stared at the instrument and didn’t speak for several seconds. “That’s a Domenico Montagnana.”
“So? Sounds like a baseball player from the Dominican Republic.”
“It’s one of the finest cellos in existence,” Will said, a tingle running across his chest. “Yo-Yo Ma plays one. I think he calls it Petunia.”
He stared at the fine wood, the intricate workmanship on the scroll at the top, the neck, and fingerboard. Dodds exhaled heavily. He knew what Will was going to say next.
“Maybe it was dumb luck this didn’t get stolen, like with his wallet. But this is no freshman at CCM.” The College-Conservatory of Music at the University of Cincinnati.
Dodds stared at the ground.
“Music Hall is two blocks away,” Will added.
Dodds waved a finger in his face. “Now don’t try to make this some hoity-toity symphony thing, Mister President. You know as well as I do that most homicides are simple.”
Will smiled mischievously and walked back to his car.
Yes, most were simple. That’s why cops didn’t read murder mysteries or watch police television dramas: they made the business sound too interesting. In real life, the homicide beat was tedious, repetitive, and unexciting. Most victims knew their killers. Drugs were a big motive: A deal gone wrong, a mule stealing from a dealer, a small-time dealer ripping off a bigger supplier. Domestic violence was another common denominator. Husbands killed wives and their new boyfriends, and often finished the job with a bullet in their own mouths. Sometimes wives and girlfriends killed their men.
If a person turned up in a suspicious death, their lover was always the prime suspect, and that bias on the part of the detectives rarely turned out to be wrong. When couples didn’t fight about sex and jealousy, they fought about money. Sometimes a slap became a kick became a bullet. Cops themselves were no different. They offed their exes and then ate their guns. Cops also slept with a lot of other cops’ spouses or girlfriends or boyfriends, and then things went lethally bad.
Most victims and suspects came from the same socioeconomic class, and, in a city like Cincinnati, from the same race. Most were black, living in the poor and forgotten neighborhoods overrun by drugs and offering no jobs. The cops knew the suspects and victims already. In most cases, the homicide had been only a matter of time.
Hold-ups went wrong. Some kid with no impulse control wanted to play gangsta. He thought pulling the trigger was no different than what happens in a video game. Concepts like mortality, forever…forget it. It wasn’t wired in their brains these days. Try to get ahead of it and the ACLU and the ministers and all the do-gooders who never spent a night in the ghetto would be all over you. But the same things happened in the white-trash neighborhoods like Lower Price Hill. The really lurid stuff occurred out in the suburbs, but don’t try telling that to the average Cincinnatian.