CHAPTER 17
Bridger waits for me back at the scene, standing aloof from the circle of detectives who’ve gathered post-canvass to compare notes. In my absence, he’s gotten Thomson’s body bagged and on the stretcher, ready for transport. As I slip under the perimeter tape, all eyes turn. I can see from the glum expression on Ordway’s face and the way Aguilar keeps checking his watch that the canvass hasn’t gone well, so I skip it for now and head straight to the pathologist.
“I’ll have the details once the autopsy’s done,” Bridger says, “but my preliminary conclusion, big surprise, is that he died from a gunshot wound to the head.”
“Self-inflicted?”
A cautious nod. “Seems consistent. Clearly a contact wound. Your forensics people can connect the dots once they check the bullet recovered in the door pillar against the ballistics of his side arm. What I see here is consistent with the time the security guard claims to have heard the shot, but if that changes, I’ll let you know.”
“We’ll need a really thorough tox screen. Alcohol, drugs. Cocaine has been mentioned as a possibility, so I’d like to check for that.”
He gives me a perfunctory nod, not needing to be told how to do the job. I tell him anyway, just to be thorough. Then, after getting him to commit to a quick autopsy, I let him get on with it, turning my attention to the impatient detectives.
“Nobody saw anything,” Ordway says with a shrug.
Lorenz adjusts the sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. “They didn’t hear nothing, either. No gunshot, no nothing. So no help fixing the time.”
I glance through the tree line at the gray fences and low black roofs. Given the distance and the early morning storm, it’s not surprising we don’t have any witnesses from the neighborhood. Still, it was worth a shot.
“Here’s what I’m wondering,” Ordway says, picking up on the conversation I’d interrupted with my arrival. “Why’d he choose this exact spot to punch out? Say you were gearing up for your final sayonara – is this where you’d do it?”
Aguilar rubs his nose. “I’d do it in the bathtub.”
“The bathtub?” Lorenz says, looking over his sunglasses. “Seriously? Then don’t expect us to respond to that scene – ”
“What?”
“- unless you promise to keep your clothes on.”
Ordway chuckles. “Me? I’ve actually given this some thought, boys. At my age, you do. When my time comes, I’m taking the elevator to the top of the Transco Tower – ”
“It’s not called that anymore,” Lorenz says.
“The Transco Tower,” Ordway insists. “And when I get there, I’m gonna leap off into the air and see if I can land right in the middle of the Water Wall, right there on the steps where they take all the wedding pictures. Splat.” He smacks his hands together and gives us a demented grin. “People would be talking about that forever.”
Aguilar scrunches his nose up in thought. “From the Tower to the Water Wall? I don’t think you could make it that far, not as fat as you are.”
“But if I did,” Ordway says, “people would talk about it.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “As interesting as this is, guys, there’s only one death we need to worry about here – ”
“No, but think of it,” Ordway says. “Why did he do it here? There’s gotta be a reason. It could be anything, I guess. Maybe he grew up in one of those houses over there, or maybe he was on his way somewhere important and decided to pull over and get it done with.”
Lorenz gives a dismissive snort. “Or it has nothing to do with the place. He’s drinking, he’s depressed, whatever, and so he’s just driving around aimlessly. What matters isn’t where he’s going on the road; it’s where he’s going in his head. And when he gets there” – he points a finger at his temple, cocks his thumb back – “pop. End of story.”
I leave them to theorize in peace.
The captain has long since departed the scene, so I offer Bascombe, who’s conferring with the crime-scene technicians, a ride back downtown. He declines, saying he’ll tag along with one of the guys and leave me to it. I’m relieved. I need some time alone to think through my plan of attack. Since they were close colleagues, I’ll have to talk with both Keller and Salazar, but before I do that, I want some kind of leverage. Otherwise they’re going to give me the same story they previewed for the captain.
There are only two places I think of to get what I need. Bridger’s autopsy findings, which at the most optimistic estimate won’t be available until late in the day, and Thomson’s art studio. If he had anything worth hiding, maybe that’s where he’d have left it. The keys rattle in my pocket, begging to be used.
And then Brad Templeton calls. I’d forgotten all about my commitment to him, and my first impulse is to dodge. But the man’s a bloodhound in his own right, and it’s just possible I can put him to work. Like I said, I don’t think everything should be left to the police. Sometimes a private citizen needs to step up.
“What do you know about an hpd officer named Reginald Keller? He runs some kind of Homeland Security-related squad downtown.”
“Never heard of him,” Templeton says. “Should I have?”
“I want you to do me a favor, Brad. Take a look at this guy and see what you find. My contact in Internal Affairs leads me to believe he’s the subject of ongoing investigations, which means there’s a story there for you.”
“Not the one I’m after, though.”
“Think of it as something extra. My captain’s put me back to work, so there’s nothing I can do for you at the moment on the other thing – ”
“You’re off the task force?”
“I’m keeping a hand in,” I say, not wanting him to wriggle off the hook. “Do this for me and you’ll not only get the IAD story but I’ll give you what you need on Hannah Mayhew, too. It’s a twofer. You can’t beat that.”
The wheels are turning on Templeton’s end of the line and I know better than to keep talking. After some audible groans and sighs, he finally relents. I repeat Keller’s name and give him Salazar, too, along with everything I know about Comprehensive Risk Assessment. By the time he’s finished writing, there’s an energetic note in his voice.
“You’re gonna follow up on this, right?” I ask.
I hear his pen rat-tat-tatting against the receiver. “You take care of me, man, and I’ll take care of you.”
“Deal.”
On the way over, I try Cavallo’s phone, hoping to make my apologies for ditching the task force. Not that I’d had a choice, not really, but I didn’t want her thinking I was ungrateful, especially for the good advice last night.
It’s not Cavallo I’m abandoning, though. It’s Hannah.
Detectives are reassigned all the time. I took a shot at the Mayhew case and struck out. I did what I could for the girl, and now it’s up to Cavallo. That’s the logic, anyway. Only this isn’t about logic. I’m turning my back on the girl. Moving on. Like it never mattered in the first place. Like it was just another job. The phone rings, Cavallo doesn’t answer, and in my mind the luminescent face of Hannah Mayhew starts to dim.
I leave a message and hang up.
The address is on Morgan Street, a couple of blocks north of Westheimer between Montrose and Bagby, a tight-packed warren of blocks where newly built modernist houses and condos sit cheek by jowl with run-down duplexes and wood-paneled apartment blocks. The sidewalks disappear and reappear, some patches of road pristine and others as fissured as a polar ice cap of concrete. Hipsters and homeless mingle on the block, shiny Volvos and Mini Coopers parallel parking alongside aging rust buckets.
The place I’m looking for is a two-story redbrick affair with tattered awnings over the ground-floor windows. Seventy-five years ago it could have been a factory or a warehouse, but now it has that long-abandoned look, with grass growing up through the sidewalks and the wood-trimmed window splintered with rot. The signs of occupation are slight, the sort of markers left by squatters rather than developers. The original front door, approached by a short flight of cracked steps, has been replaced by a glass commercial entrance with hand-painted lettering announcing the morga n st. café & art collective. Near the handle, a series of adhesive credit cards assure the cash-strapped of a ready welcome, and a taped-in sign indicates free Wi-Fi.