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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

September 17, 1996

Tuesday morning

I was back at the corporate flophouse by ten-thirty. I cleaned the Ruger as best I could, then loaded it. I had no idea if it would fire. Hopefully, I’d never have to find out. I put on the shirt with a collar I’d bought, dabbed on some Aramis, pulled the tags off my new jacket and put it on. The gun fit nicely in the pocket.

Then I drove back to Top Dog. Except for a few scraps here and there, the crime scene tape was gone, but they’d left the cement blocks. There was a janitor with a bucket and a mop working on the spot where Joanne’s body had been.

I drove around the building looking for two thing: first, a silver BMW and second, security cameras. I didn’t see any BMWs. I did see security cameras at the front entrance, which would include the front parking lot where Joanne was killed, the back entrance, and one side, the west side. I made a second ring around the building and parked near the back entrance.

On the first floor, like the second, a long hallway ran from one end of the building to another. I walked to the front. That’s where the security desk was. It looked just the same as it had on Sunday. There was clipboard for signing in but no security officer. That seemed odd. Especially, the day after a shooting.

I stepped behind the desk, which was custom-made. There was a cheap monitor hidden beneath the shelf where the clipboard sat. The screen was split into three: One angle showed the front parking lot—the janitor was still out there with his mop; another showed the west parking lot.

There was something odd about the desk and it took a moment to figure out what it was. Then it hit me like cold water to the face. There was nothing personal on the desk. No photographs of kids, no cute pencil erasers, no mints, no take-out menus, no souvenir coffee cups. Nothing. The desk was there to give the appearance of security—and nothing else.

I went up to the second floor and walked down to the Top Dog offices. I turned the knob and the door opened. Claudia was sitting at her desk, Discman plugged into her ears. Taking the earphones out, she said, “My, my, my… look who’s back.”

“Hello Claudia. It’s awful about Joanne, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” she said. And that seemed to sum up their relationship.

“I was wondering… is there ever a security guard downstairs?”

“I’ve never seen one.”

“Can you tell me what you’ve heard about what happened?”

“What have I heard?” She snorted. “Well, I’ve heard that some Black kid came up from the city and tried to steal a White lady’s car but couldn’t even manage to do that right. That’s what I’ve heard. That’s what people say to my black face.”

“And by people you mean the police?”

“I don’t know that people is the best way to describe the police, but yeah… that’s who I mean.”

“What do you think happened?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Her whole family’s in the Mafia. One of them decided to whack her.”

She was right. That was more likely than some random kid from the city. I doubted it was the whole story. I also doubted the police would do much more than look for a Black kid in the wrong neighborhood.

“Did anyone actually see what happened?”

“Not that I’ve heard. There’s a lot of empty offices in this building.”

“Did you leave before or after Joanne?”

“I work ten to seven. Those last two hours I make calls.”

I didn’t ask whether she made them for Tog Dog or herself.

“I went out when I heard the sirens. Everybody was out there. It was like a fire drill.”

“When did Mr. Cray leave?”

“Right after Joanne.”

Something bothered me about that, but I forged ahead. “Did he see what happened?”

“I don’t think so. He called to tell me he wasn’t coming in. He’s kind of in shock, I think. Could barely talk about it. Anyway, he parks in the back. His car is crazy expensive. He was always telling Joanne she shouldn’t park in front.”

“Wait, did he always leave after Joanne?”

“He usually left at four, sometimes three-thirty.”

“Did he say why he was leaving late?”

“He didn’t have to. He dumped a stack of filings on my desk. Said he wanted them in the mail first thing.”

“Was that unusual?”

“No. He’s like that. Most of the time he’s not that interested in what we’re doing, then he runs around like chicken with its head cut off… fits and starts, fits and starts.”

“Do you know who found the body?”

“Some lady down the hall. Re-insurance, I think. What do you think of that? An insurance company has to have insurance. What’s the world coming to? Pretty soon we’ll all be doing nothing but insuring each other.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“No. Everybody was treating her like she was some kind of movie star. Huddled all around her. They put a blanket over her. All these White folk never seen a dead body before.”

“Did you see where Joanne was shot?”

“In the chest. Maybe in the heart. Hard to tell. She’d be happy it wasn’t in the face. She’s the kind of girl who’d want an open casket. Three inches of makeup, a new do and a goddamn purple dress.”

“Does Mr. Cray know all the things Joanne was up to?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I raised an eyebrow, until she said, “She’s careful. Was careful. She kept all of that out of here. The walls are thin.”

That made me wonder if Claudia had heard any of the conversation I’d had with Joanne twenty-four hours ago. Then I wondered if Mr. Cray had heard it.

“How thin? Every single word or just the highlights?”

“Highlights.”

I remembered Joanne turning on the radio while we were talking. What had I said that made her do that? I remembered using the words ‘kill’ and ‘murder’ a lot more than you would in a typical conversation. I might have mentioned she was embezzling at some point. And then I recalled she’d mentioned explaining me to Mr. Cray when he stuck his head in. How much had she explained? Could it have had something to do with what happened?

“How long did Mr. Cray and Joanne know each other?”

“Forever.”

“They were in Sault Sainte Marie for the weekend? They went gambling together?”

That earned another snort. “Yeah. They called it business trips. They’d charge everything to the company and it’d get deducted from his taxes. But yeah, they’re just gambling and whatever... Mrs. Cray calls over every time they go someplace, wanting to know the hotel and all that. I have to put on my dumb Black girl act. She buys it every time.”

I thanked her and left. I considered asking if I could look around Mr. Cray’s office. She didn’t seem to like him much so maybe she would have let me. But honestly, I doubted it. She might not mind a little gossip, but actually risking her job—with its obvious benefits—was not a possibility.

I walked to the stairs, went back down to the first floor, and out to the front parking lot. The janitor was still there. He was a White guy just under thirty, tall and slender with crisp blue eyes. When he saw me coming he stopped and leaned on the mop.

“Hey, man,” I said, adopting a ‘straight’ persona. “I knew the woman who was killed. I wonder if you’d answer a few questions.” I tried not to look down at the pail full of bloody water.

“You’re not a cop?”

“No. I’m not.” I’d been smart enough to take a small of wad of the cash Joanne had been collecting. I took it out and peeled off a couple of hundreds, saying as I did, “I’m just a friend of the dead woman’s family.”

He considered me a moment, and then asked, “What do you wanna know?

“I see there are security cameras,” I turned and pointed back at the building, though obviously he knew they were there. “Do you know how I can get copies of the videotape from yesterday?”

He was staring at the money, practically licking his lips. “They don’t use tapes anymore. It’s all on computer. All that stuff’s in a closet on the first floor.”

“Do you know how to operate it?”

“I do. I work for JCB. They manage this building, the storage units next door and then two buildings after that. I clean all of them and keep the security cameras running.”

“Do any of the buildings have security guards?”

“No, they’re all on the discount plan.”

“Which is you?”

“Pretty much.”

“Can you show me that video from yesterday?”

He shook his head. “Police took the whole computer. Somebody from the company is supposed to bring a new one by later.”

“Did you see the recording of what happened?”

“Not much. I mean, I got it running for the cops and then they kind of pushed me out of the way.”

“What did you get to see?”

He brightened, clearly thinking this might earn him the money. “They got the guy on video. That’s for sure. He was wearing a hoodie. Walked out the front door, shot the lady, took her purse, then looked around like something scared the crap out of him and he ran back toward the building.”

That sounded like he saw the whole thing.

“So he came out of the building and ran back into the building?”

“Yeah. That’s what the cops were saying. I didn’t get to actually see it myself.”

“Where were you when the shooting happened?”

“Unstopping a toilet on the first floor. Ladies room.”

“Did you hear anything that might be helpful around the time of the murder?”

“I was kind of busy. It was really gross, you know.”

I tried not to think about it. I glanced again at the pail with Joanne’s diluted blood floating around, and gave him the two hundred bucks. He hadn’t told me all that much, but his life sounded disgusting and I figured he deserved the money.

As I started to walk away, he said, “My name’s Rocky. I do a twelve-hour shift, Monday through Thursday. Seven to seven. The last hour gets a little dull.” There was a glint in his eyes that I recognized.

“Oh. Really… um, I’m flattered. I really am. It’s been a while. I have a partner, though.”

He pushed his cheek out with his tongue in a very suggestive way and said, “That’s too bad. I guess I’ll just be bored then.”

“Sorry about that.”

“If you change your mind, I always spend the last hour next door. First bay.”

I didn’t really know what he meant by that so I just smiled. And said, “Well, I’m going to take off.”

Afterward, just a little impressed with myself, I walked around the building again. The guy in the hoodie came out of the building. That little phrase meant a lot. I jumped to the conclusion that the target was Joanne. Not a big jump, really. But if the killer was really after her car he’d have been in the parking lot watching the car, waiting for the driver. It sounded like he followed Joanne out of the building. Like he was waiting for her.

He followed her out of the building, shot her and went back in. Then what? He’d have to get rid of the hoodie and the gun. Then, once a crowd of people had formed, he could join the crowd, then eventually return to the vehicle he’d come in.

On the east side of the building, there was a narrow parking lot, and a patch of grass between the lot and the storage company next door. I walked the length of the building, looking closely at the grass. My guess was the killer was a least a little familiar with the building. He knew there were cameras, since he was wearing a hoodie, and he knew where they were. So it was likely he’d parked a vehicle on the east side of the building where there wasn’t a camera. Or he’d parked in the lot for the storage units next door and walked across. Or he’d driven into the lot and then across the relatively level grass to leave via a different parking lot. None of that was supported by the grass, though. I didn’t see any evidence of footprints or tire tracks. The grass looked completely undisturbed.

Then I walked around to the back of the building. There was a bit of landscaping. Prickly bushes, but they weren’t difficult to get behind. The camera was aimed at the cars, so if you stayed close to the wall and got behind the bushes you could have entered and left the building unnoticed.

I went back in. The building was very quiet. Claudia was probably right when she said there were a lot of empty offices. I walked the hallway until I got to the rest rooms at the front. I went into the men’s. There was a urinal and two stalls, as well as two sinks both with mirrors. There was a paper towel dispenser on the wall and a tall garbage can with a plastic lining.

I took the top off the garbage can and looked down into it. There was very little trash in there, so either the janitor emptied it last night or the police took it. Probably the later.

Then I went into each of the stalls, took the lid off the toilet tank, looked inside, ran my hand around the back and the bottom as best I could. Yes, I’d seen The Godfather. No, I did not find the gun. There were not a lot of other places to look.

The ceiling was a drop ceiling, large acoustic-style tile resting on a metal frame. I lifted the flimsy lid on one of the toilets and then, carefully placing my feet, I stood up, clinging to the stall walls and reached up to pop a tile. Sliding the tile to one side, I felt around. Nothing. Nothing was hidden up there. I got down and then checked the tile over the other toilet.

I was out of places to search, so I went into the ladies room next door and repeated the whole process. Nothing. Nada. Then I went up to the second floor. In the men’s room, which was the same as the one downstairs, the first thing I noticed was that on the tile over the stall closest to the wall there were a number of dirty handprints. I opened the stall and saw that there was fingerprint powder everywhere, including the tile above my head. There was no reason to search the rest of bathroom.

The police had already been there and they’d found something hidden in the ceiling. The hoodie or the gun or both. I stood there thinking for a bit. I was roughly six-foot three-inches. The toilet was about eighteen inches at the seat. That was seven feet nine inches. Add an inch or so for my shoes, seven foot ten. My arm was about two and a half feet. Over ten feet total.

I guessed the ceiling hung at about nine feet from the floor. I could have probably touched it if I tried. So… How short could someone be and, standing on the toilet, manage to get a gun and/or a hoodie up into the ceiling? Probably as short as five foot four, give or take. Which meant pretty much anyone, and that didn’t tell me anything.

Back in the Thunderbird, I sat for a moment thinking about what I’d learned. The police had a video of the killing. They had at least one piece of physical evidence, the hoodie or the gun. They might have fingerprints, they also might not. Most of this had not been released to the press.

It didn’t support the idea of this being a random carjacking gone wrong.