J. Konrath: Fuzzy Navel

Munchel sucks in some air and lets it out as a laugh. How ridiculously easy. He checks to see if anyone around him noticed the gunfire. The sidewalks are clear. No one opens a door and sticks their head out. Everything is completely normal, just an average fall day in the city.

He reaches for his canteen – also an army/navy store purchase – and slurps down some purple Gatorade. His untraceable prepaid cell phone vibrates, and he stares at the number. It’s Swanson. Anxious to see how it went, to meet at the rendezvous point and brag over beer and chicken wings.

Munchel ignores the call. He has other ideas of how to celebrate.

A streetlight comes on, its sensor activated by a timer. Munchel loads a round, aims, and takes it out. That’s two shots now. Still, no one seems to notice. How disappointing.

He takes out his phone and dials 911.

“I was walking down Leavitt and heard someone shooting. I think my neighbor has been killed.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“He’s at forty-six fifty-two. I think someone shot him.”

“Can you give me your name?”

Munchel hangs up, sips more Gatorade, and hunkers down to wait for the police to arrive.

MY PARTNER, Sergeant Herb Benedict, crams the last mini chocolate donut into his mouth, wipes a hand across his gray mustache, and then tries to heave his bulk out of the less-than-comfortable confines of my 1984 Chevy Nova. He has to rock, twice, before he gets enough momentum to break the tug of gravity between his ass and the seat.

“Thanks for not judging me,” he says as we approach the yellow police tape.

“Because you ate two packages of donuts even though your doctor put you on a high-fiber diet?”

Herb nods. “Man cannot live on bran alone, Jack. Every day, as a snack, my wife mixes me a high-fiber sugar-free weight loss shake. Then she adds even more fiber.”

“Sounds healthy.”

“You want some? I got a zipper bag in my pocket full of the stuff. It’s like drinking a stalk of wheat.”

Dried leaves in shades of gold, red, and brown blanket the sidewalks. The cool air carries a crisp, woodsy scent. Spring and summer smell like garbage and sewage. Winter, like car exhaust. Fall is the only time of year Chicago smells nice.

The setting sun casts long shadows on the street, and ours walk ahead of us. I like September because the climate is moderate, and because I have brown hair and brown eyes, and 85 percent of my clothing matches this particular season.

“Does your wife know you’re snacking between nutritious meals?” I ask.

Herb’s basset hound jowls are turned down: his serious face. “She suspects. Last night she found some powdered sugar on my tie. I spent twenty minutes trying to convince her it was heroin.”

A rookie guards the crime scene, keeping away reporters and gawkers. Young, curly hair, eyes intent. I don’t recognize him, and he doesn’t recognize us, asking for ID. This is perfectly acceptable. I’m wearing a pumpkin-colored Anne Klein jacket with a red chevron pattern, taupe Armani pants, and rust Gucci pumps. He probably thinks I’m a waif runway model looking for my photo shoot. Well, a retired one, maybe. There aren’t too many fashionistas in their late forties.

I open my clutch – a Wal-Mart purchase, but hey, it matches the outfit – and remove my star, flashing it at the noob.

“Lieutenant Jack Daniels, Homicide. This is Sergeant Benedict.”

The rookie – his name tag reads Sakey – doesn’t seem impressed with either my rank or my outfit, but he lets us pass. We walk into the first floor of a two-flat vintage brownstone, the space already crawling with cops: uniforms, plainclothes, and techies taking pictures and video. I feel my stomach go sour, something that has been happening more and more whenever I visit a crime scene. Without letting Herb see, I remove a roll of antacids out of my jacket pocket and pop three. Not that I fear showing weakness in front of my partner. My concern centers around the fact that my antacids are mint flavored, and Herb likes mint. I haven’t discovered a flavor that Herb doesn’t like, even though I’ve looked. I only have a few tablets left, and I don’t want to share.

“She’s just trying to look out for you, Herb,” I say.

“I know. But I have a feeling that the extra years this high-fiber diet may allow me to live will get cancelled out by the amount of time I spend on the john.”

Herb and I each take some plastic booties out of the box by the door and slip them over our shoes. There are gloves as well, and I snap one on.

The house isn’t very well lit, one thrift shop floor lamp and a living room chandelier with two bulbs not working. The CSU has brought in a portable halogen light, which illuminates the space to operating room brightness. There’s a computer desk, empty pop cans, fast-food wrappers, and CDs randomly strewn over the top. The monitor is a flat screen, and there are speakers screwed into the walls. A red beanbag chair which doesn’t match the red shade of the sofa which doesn’t match the red shade of the drapes. The TV is an older model, sitting on a cheap pressboard cabinet. The walls are bare except for a poster of a topless Jenna Jameson.

The victim is a male Caucasian, average build, sprawled out facedown on the floor. He’s wearing jeans and nothing else. His blond hair is matted with blood, and a halo of red has soaked the beige carpeting around his head. I’ve seen enough gunshot wounds in my day to recognize the cause of death.

I crouch down, squint at his right hand. In the webbing between his thumb and index finger there is a black tattoo of a tombstone. Written on its face is a number five with angel wings on it.

A bulge in the back of the vic’s pocket appears wallet shaped, and I tug it out with a gloved hand. Driver’s license shows me a picture of a man named Robert Siders who resides at this address. The hair seems the same. I pass the wallet to Herb, bend down, and gently turn the deceased’s head to the side. No one looks like their driver’s license picture, but in this case I can’t even make a comparison – the victim’s face has been blown off.

The wallet holds thirty-three dollars, a check stub from a local oil and lube place, and a wrinkled time card signed by the manager of same garage. No credit cards.

Without prompting, Herb yanks out his cell, calling Dispatch. I stand up, take a few steps away from the body, and let my eyes sweep the room while Herb speaks into the phone.

Sakey – the curly-haired rookie who carded me earlier – walks up next to me and peers down at the body.

“Roommate got angry,” he ventures.

“One-bedroom apartment,” I say. “No roommate.”

“Girlfriend, then.”

“No girlfriend. The house is messy, badly furnished, and there’s a poster of a porn star on the wall. No woman would live here.”

Sakey folds his arms and puts a hand on his chin. I watch the wheels spin. “Okay, drug deal gone bad. Dealer shot him in the face.”

“No drugs. He’s got ink on his hand. Prison tattoo. Did five years, got paroled. There’s a signed time card in his wallet – he needs to turn it in to his PO, which means he’s getting random drug tests. If he’s holding down a job, he’s keeping clean.”

He nods. “Fine, we check for former associates. One of them must have came in and-”

“No one came in,” I say.

Sakey raises an eyebrow. “Then who shot him in the face?”

“No one shot him in the face. They shot him in the back of the head.”

“I’ve seen GSWs. He clearly was shot-”

“By a high-velocity rifle in the back of the head,” Herb finishes for him, snapping his cell phone closed. “Higher velocity causes a shock wave in tissue, which makes big exit wounds.”