Dave Zeltserman: Bad Karma

“I really am doing okay. I haven’t felt self-conscious, and it hasn’t bothered me when I catch people staring.” He removed his hand from Susan’s so he could rub the joints around his knuckles with his good hand. After five years and a half years, he still occasionally suffered phantom pains from where his missing fingers had been. “It’s funny, I think more people stared when I wore the glove, like I was some sort of Michael Jackson wannabe.”

“Eli thinks you’ve rid yourself of him also?”

“He does.”

A tear started to roll down Susan’s cheek. She dabbed at it quickly with her napkin and looked down at her food. “Both our lunches are getting cold,” she said. “We really should eat.”

In between bites of her Aloo Mutter, she commented on how she didn’t need to ask whether he took on the double-murder investigation. “I caught you a few times with that far-away, introspective look you always have when you take a case,” she said. “Eli’s not going to be happy when he hears about it.”

“No, I don’t suppose he will.” Shannon chewed a mouthful of his Vegetable Korma, and signaled the waiter to refill his mango lassi. “But the Yankees have been teaching their fans the last couple of years how to live with disappointment. I think he’ll be okay”

“How’s the case look?”

“Too early to tell. Okay if I take the car this afternoon? I’ll probably be needing it a lot the next week or so, but I can always rent a car if you’re going to need it.”

“I’m fine without it. It gives me an excuse to ride my bike more.”

“Ah Lord, the chiropractors in Boulder are going to be having a field day treating all these guys getting whiplash trying to catch you riding past in those spandex bicycle shorts of yours!”

Susan laughed heartily at that. They didn’t say much after that-they didn’t have to as they ate the rest of their lunch in comfortable silence.

The desk sergeant put his paper down to look at Shannon. “Yeah?” he asked.

“I’d like to see Lieutenant Mark Daniels.”

“What about?”

“The Carver-Gibson murders.”

The desk sergeant’s expression shifted from annoyance to suspicion. “You a reporter?” he asked.

“No. I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to look into these murders.”

“Jesus Christ. That’s all we fucking need.” He gave Shannon a long stare before holding out his hand, palm up. “Let me see some identification.”

Shannon took his investigator’s license from his wallet and handed it to him. The desk sergeant shook his head as he looked it over, then handed the license back to Shannon. “Take a seat over there,” he said with his thumb pointed towards a wooden bench on the other side of the room. Shannon smiled pleasantly and asked the desk sergeant if he was from New Jersey.

“So you can tell from my accent I’m from Jersey. Big deal.”

With a dry smile Shannon told him it wasn’t just from his accent. “People around here at least make an effort to be civil,” he added. “Even if they’re thinking ‘fuck you’ behind their smiles.”

Shannon sat on the bench and watched as the desk sergeant got on the phone, all the while maintaining a hard glare in his direction. When he hung up the phone, he kept his glare going for another minute or so before turning back to his paper. A couple of minutes later, a man about fifty wearing khaki-colored cargo shorts, a polo shirt, and loafers with no socks entered from the squad room, walked over to Shannon and introduced himself as Mark Daniels. He was mostly square in shape with a thick neck, hard, flat face and gray hair that was cut close to his scalp. Except for the way he was dressed, he reminded Shannon of his ex-partner, Joe DiGrazia.

“I’d like to see your license.” Daniels’ tone was soft and easy, but his face had the cold, dispassionate look of a slab of granite. Shannon showed him the same investigator’s license he had shown the desk sergeant. Daniels peered at it indifferently, then looked away. “Let’s talk someplace private,” he said. Shannon followed him through the squad room to a small interrogation room. Daniels indicated to Shannon to take a seat while he leaned against the table, arms folded across his chest.

“It’s Bill, right?” Daniels said.

“That’s right.”

“Bill, let me get this straight, you do have a client?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Bill, that could be why you’re here, but the thought did occur to me that you might be freelancing. You know, trying to use these murders to get your name in the papers. It’s not something like that, is it, Bill?”

“I have a client.”

“You do, huh? Well, Bill, maybe you can tell me why someone would hire you-excuse me, Bill, am I saying something amusing?”

“No, not really-just the way you’ve been overusing my first name. It’s a good technique, and if used properly, can really unnerve the hell out of a suspect. When I was on the force I used it frequently during interrogations, except maybe with a little more subtlety.”

“You were on the force?”

“Ten years. The last six as a detective.”

“Where was this?”

“Cambridge, Massachusetts.”

“You handled homicide cases?”

“I worked my share of them.”

Daniels scratched his jaw as he considered this. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m afraid you wasted a trip here,” he said.

“Why’s that?”

“I can’t discuss this investigation with you or anyone else.” Daniels breathed in deeply as he filled his lungs, then slowly let the air out through his nose. His square face seemed to deflate with his chest. “As you probably know, we’re getting the hell beat out of us by the media. I’ve got to go strictly by the books. I can’t jeopardize this investigation by losing evidence due to any procedural problems.”

Shannon understood the rules of evidence as well as any cop, and the idea of jeopardizing evidence by discussing the case with Shannon sounded close to paranoia. At this point, all forensic evidence must’ve been collected and tagged months ago. Still, Shannon could see the stress built up in Daniels’ face and in the muscles bunched up along his neck. He could appreciate the pressure the man was under. It was also very likely the police were withholding information that could damage their investigation if it got leaked to the public. For one thing, there had been no mention of the murder weapon in the newspaper reports, and Shannon had to think that the police knew what it was. He also strongly suspected they knew whether there was a drug angle involved. But as he looked at the vein beating like a rabbit’s heart on the side of Daniels’ neck, Shannon realized there was no point in asking about any of that.

“My main reason for coming here was I wanted to give you the professional courtesy of letting you know I’ll be privately investigating these murders. Also, I’d like to enter the victims’ condo.”

“I appreciate the professional courtesy. I can’t let you into that condo, though.”

“It’s been three months.”

“It doesn’t matter, it’s still the crime scene for an ongoing investigation.” Daniels held both palms up in an apologetic gesture. “It probably looks like I’m stonewalling you simply for the hell of it, but I’ve really got no choice. Put yourself in my shoes. I’m sure at some point you’ve been where I am now.”

Shannon thought briefly about arguing that after three months the case was cold enough that a second pair of eyes looking things over couldn’t hurt, but instead held out his hand to Daniels. “When I was on the job I never had to worry about a private citizen gumming up one of my cases. I can appreciate your concerns.”