The Path of Silence

THE PATH OF SILENCE

EDITA A. PETRICK

The Path of Silence

Copyright © 2016 by Edita A. Petrick

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COPYRIGHT NOTICE—ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The content of this book is protected under Federal and International Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be electronically or mechanically reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or retention in any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from Edita A. Petrick

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, locations, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Book Cover Art by ProBookCovers

Book Layout by Maureen Cutajar

eBook ASIN: B01DI94MGM

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 1

It was one of those nights that hell’s accountants crow about, full of black ink and rising death statistics.

A citizen, running an errand in a dependable quiet neighborhood in Woodbrook, was found lying prostrate on the hood of the car—prone forever.

My shock wore off quickly. Its byproducts were fatigue and irritation.

He’s dead, Kenny, I said to my partner. He had the presence of mind to put on gloves. I was still struggling to understand what the hell happened in those few minutes we spent inside the convenience store.

Ken finally gave up checking for pulse anywhere he could reach the male victim, Caucasian, mid-thirties and dressed like any other Baltimore dweller who skips out to a convenience store at ten o’clock at night, in jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt.

What the hell happened here, Meg? He backed away from the car, bloodied latex-covered palms upturned.

It was a strange question. Viewing dead bodies with professional objectivity was our job. But for some reason, the sight of bloodied latex gloves made my stomach cramp.

On a harsh day, when the pile of cold cases on our desk grew so tall we could no longer see each other, I’d ask him if he wanted to take a rotation—with our bomb squad. It always worked to clear his perspective. He would call Brenda, his girlfriend, to reassure her that he had survived another day as a homicide cop.

Now, looking at the body sprawled on the hood of Ken’s car, I wondered whether, upon rising, I had missed a divine sign—a warning.

The new dawn of work-filled pleasures had started on a decent note. It was a vibrant morning, sunny and sea-fresh, the fifth such glorious day in May. Half the city of Baltimore, which translated into two-thirds of the government employees, decided to take Wednesday off. The traffic was light. I made it downtown in half an hour and stopped to pick up two large cappuccinos at the Urban Bean. The manager had flirted with me. At thirty-two, I didn’t think I looked like his baby-sister’s high school rival but it made me laugh. The coffee sales were brisk. He was having a good morning and tried to get my phone number. I flipped out my badge from my denim shirt and let it dangle on the twisted cotton braid that my daughter had made for me the year before at the summer camp.

He raised his hands, alarmed. Whoa there, officer! I meant no disrespect.

None taken, sir. I smiled.

As I walked away, a couple of suits standing in line did a circle-check. I wished they had whistled. It was that kind of irreverent morning.

By nine o’clock, wired and ready to take on the world, I had attacked a looming paper pile. They were all old and cold cases, waiting for resolution. Our Cold Case Unit was humble in staff numbers but our caseload was three times that of the here-and-now homicide unit.

By noon, Kenny and I had reviewed seven old cases and picked out a dozen tags that we had previously missed. We felt a sense of accomplishment, went outside, bought hot dogs at a vendor’s stand and practiced reading people.

After stuffing down dogs slathered in all kinds of unhealthy condiments, we returned to our desks and spent the afternoon arguing about the order of importance of the seven cases we planned to follow up.

I like to start with the simplest case first.

A list of evidence collected from a stockbroker’s office, had, among the wastebasket contents, a discarded bulldog grip. I checked all the reports attached to this homicide-disappearance. No one had bothered to tour the neighborhood gyms. The stockbroker had left his secretary slumped in an ergonomic posture chair, a bullet hole in her forehead. He was a marksman. He may have toned his muscles in a local gym. Estrelle Gomez did not deserve the kind of job performance review her embezzling boss gave her. We owed it to her next of kin to keep trying to apprehend her killer. I stuck this folder into the first metal filing slot on my desk and moved on.

Ken finally stopped listening to his eco-voice about killing innocent trees and made fresh new photocopies. He’d turned the printer contrast to maximum because the paperwork was five years old. That’s how he discovered someone’s hand-scribbled notes on the margin. Five years ago, Sidhi Ben Ahbib was gunned down at midnight, closing down his gas station franchise in Greenmount neighborhood. Since he was a Syrian immigrant, the Homeland remained keenly interested in the case for three years, fairly interested for another and when the terrorist angle flattened out to an uninteresting line, they passed it on to us. We’d been working an out-of-town gang-member-opportunity angle. He had kept a gun in his till. It was an Israeli issue, a Baby Eagle, Jericho 941, with a 12-round, .40 magnum capacity, the cherished companion of every urban commando. The handwritten notes on the margin claimed that Ahbib was a gambler—and a womanizer. The Muslim community frowned on such risky hobbies. What if it was a jealous husband or an irate father? We decided that we would pay a visit to Ahbib’s family and gently broach this difficult character issue. Five years were certainly enough to speak well of the dead. It was time to reflect on his lifestyle faults and solve the case.

The third case was a paradox. A thirty-one-year old economist, Jonathan Anderson Brick, had disappeared from a 7-Eleven in Dundalk four years ago. I had tried to avoid this file as often as I could. In my experience, there was no such thing as solid moral fabric. A dedicated churchgoer, a devoted family man, might take a walk and never return to his genetic and financial obligations. I told Ken that women grew and sank roots that stabilized the slopes of life. Men just liked to climb them.

Patricia Vanier—Brick’s fiancé—had become unhinged when she’d given a statement at the Central District headquarters. Her Johnny just went out to get popcorn and pop, to spice-up their evening entertainment. The 7-Eleven was a block down the street. He took the car to get back faster. He could not possibly have been steeped in thought to a degree that saw him drive to Dundalk, to visit their 7-Eleven.

Our colleagues four years ago had assured her that he was. She had reported him missing the next morning. Six hours later, the owner of the 7-Eleven in Dundalk handed over the shop surveillance tape and swore on a string of meditation beads that citizen Brick had visited his establishment last night.

A lot more manpower would have been thrown at this case, had Patricia not insisted that her fiancé was kidnapped, threatened, tortured—and possibly murdered. That brought her under the scrutiny of Preston Jacks, a consulting psychiatrist for the Baltimore Police Department

I glanced through his report and felt sorry for her.

Thanks to her four previously filed missing-kidnapped-tortured-murdered reports, when Brick went to the 7-Eleven and lingered longer than she considered appropriate, she was recommended for extensive mental therapy. Since he had returned each time, the reports were stamped with ERROR and the hardcopies were filed in the false alarm drawer.

What I got from the dispirited perusal of her historical-hysterical term papers, showed that Brick was not just a career-climber but also a peripatetic spirit. Each time he had gone out at night to a convenience store, he’d gone further—and lingered longer. She was just starting to question the lingering part when he disappeared.

Jacks had pointed out this developmental trend to her. Her loyal, loving, sensitive and well-paid boyfriend, was most probably trying to walk away from the engagement ring she wore on her finger. He had never returned from Dundalk’s 7-Eleven. Jacks had spelled it out for her. Brick had made up his mind to end the relationship. Patricia went into withdrawal, then depression and finally into full-time residence at the Mongrove Psychiatric Facility.

Brick didn’t resurface. That’s how we ended up with his file.

It had been four years since the 7-Eleven in Dundalk had swallowed him. We should pay a visit to Ms. Vanier, I decided.

I sighed and scribbled down a note to track her down. We should at least ask her if she’d ever heard from him.

The other four cases were homicides where the killer had kept on running—under several different aliases. We needed to check as to whether any of the names might have landed in any of our penal institutions. After all, our criminal and justice system worked—sometimes. We closed three cold case files that way last year.

At six o’clock, Jazz left a message on my cell phone that she was running away from home. I phoned Mrs. Tavalho, my housekeeper. She assured me that my daughter was still in residence and so were three other ten year olds who would be sleeping over.

Blackmail? I sighed.

Not to worry, Miss Stanton, she assured me. You know she always does something like this when she wants her friends to sleep over and knows you wouldn’t allow it. I’ll have a chat with her.

I’ll be home by ten, eleven the latest, I told her. She confirmed that our arrangements for her overnight stay stood and told me to have a good time at the party. I thanked her and hung up.

Kenny nodded at me. It’s time. Let’s change.

Fifteen minutes later, I looked as good as any of those women who deliver authoritative weather reports. I was about to knock on the men’s washroom to see if he was ready, when my text-received notification went off.

Mrs. Tavalho must have told my ten year old what she thought of her prank. Jazz texted me another nasty message. She said that since she never had a father and didn’t know whether there ever was one, she saw no point in having a mother either. She wanted to be an orphan. Ken came out—hair gelled and slicked back. He was dressed in a white shirt and dark slacks. He looked like a groom who had been dieting for months, not a guest heading to a staff dinner party for our office supervisor who was getting married.

Jazz? he asked.

We’ve been partners for three years. He could read my face.

Yep.

Torching the house?

Not this time.

Drowning the cat?

The theory about nine lives is true. She gave up on that.

Drinking bleach?

I laughed. We’ve exhausted that threat.

The father issue? He averted his eyes. He knew this topic would not grow into a discussion.

Let’s go. We’ll be late, I said.

We had a good time at the Carmine Steakhouse. What seemed like the entire Homicide Section was there. Audrey was well liked. She tempered her administrative clout with common sense and compassion. It was her second marriage to a cop. She had buried the first one after twenty happy and loyal years. We wished her and Barry Grant from Traffic, all the best.

At quarter to ten, I said to Ken. I ought to be going. Do you want to stay? I’ll take a taxi.

He shook his head and said he would drive me home.

We headed west on Fayette, when I remembered that with three guests, there better be enough pancake mix and syrup to feed the army in the morning.

There’s a convenience store just up the Woodbrook, I told him. Mind if I run in? I have to pick up some stuff for breakfast.

No problem. You know, they have these mediators. They’re not expensive. They charge fifty, maybe sixty dollars an hour. They come to your house. You tell them what the problem is and they sort of ease the two of you into it…

Ken! No mediation. When I’m ready, I’ll talk to my daughter about her father.

She’s ten years old, Meg. She should know. It’s natural.

Natural? How long have you been dating Brenda—since college? You’re thirty-five years old. Do you think dating a woman for fourteen years is natural?

I’m a cop. Marriage statistics for cops are…

I know damn well what marriage statistics for cops are. People like Audrey are part of those statistics. Hell, if her husband hadn’t died of cancer she would still be happily married to a cop. Don’t abuse words like ‘natural’, all right?

Do you know who her father is?

No.

At least I don’t lie to Brenda—or my partner.

Brenda is a diamond-in-the-rough I can’t figure out, I laughed.

She understands, he said, defending his peculiar lifestyle choice.

Or just likes her freedom as much as you do. Of course, with a woman, you never know when that glorious feeling of independence is going to fade and a nesting instinct will take over.

What?

Would you marry her if she wanted to start a family?

What?

You heard me.

We’ve never discussed…it’s not an issue.

Are you sure?

We’ve never discussed… His voice trailed off.

Take a walk on the wild side, Ken. Try it—but make sure Brenda has smelling salts ready to revive you.

Why didn’t you ever get married?

His question surprised me. The answer was—I still am. There are two more names hiding beneath Meaghan Stanton but that’s been buried so deep there’s no chance it will ever rise to surface.

I’m a career woman. One day I’d like to see ‘Detective Colonel’ as part of my job title, along with a division full of productive police officers, like you.

You’re thirty-two. In nine years you rose from a police cadet to Detective Sergeant, he chuckled. Another year or two and you can make your bid for a Squad Supervisor.

Make a right here, I interrupted him, pointing at the street sign that said Woodbrook Ave.

We pulled into a little strip plaza with a 7-Eleven. He decided to come inside.

Ten minutes later, shopping bags in hand, we stood rooted to a spot on the sidewalk, outside the store.

It was after ten o’clock and the little plaza was deserted. Ken’s Malibu was the only car parked there. Off to the side was an asphalt apron. It belonged to the neighboring gas station. I saw a car parked at the fuel pump but no one was pumping gas. The body lay sprawled on the hood of our car, hands stretched, palms down, as if he was embracing the front of the vehicle. It occurred to me that someone could have tossed him across the car hood.

We were not in a police frame of mind and didn’t move for a few moments. We’ve seen our share of dead bodies but I doubt there was a homicide detective in BPD who had ever exited from a 7-Eleven to confront a dead man sprawled across the hood of his car.

Jesus! Ken dropped the shopping bag and fumbled in his pockets for gloves.

My training kicked in. I dropped my groceries and managed to find one glove.

We turned the body over. Ken tried to find the pulse. When he couldn’t, he motioned for me to climb on the hood. He tossed me another glove.

He’s dead, Ken, I said. Let’s not mess around with the crime scene.

I think I saw his chest rise, he said. We can’t be negligent…what if he’s still alive?

Seriously…! I mumbled and carefully touched his chest. Even under my light touch it sounded as if I stuck my hands into a washing machine, redistributing soaking laundry.

The 7-Eleven was well lit. So was the gas station. The victim’s sweatshirt was dark but I saw the blooming brown splotch when my hands probed his chest. The Malibu was light metallic gray. There were blood smears and rivulets streaming from the body. They beaded on the hard-shine waxed surface. I couldn’t see an obvious point of bullet entry. His entire chest felt ragged, spongy.

It had to be a large caliber projectile. When discharged, it should have awakened the whole neighborhood. We didn’t hear anything while inside the 7-Eleven. The clerk had been playing somber, classical music, a dirge. The bullet that had left the man’s chest feeling like a freshly ploughed field had to have been accompanied by a sonic boom. The 7-Eleven should be a windowless shack by now.

Why didn’t we hear anything, I wondered? The victim could not have walked here without a rib cage. That’s what it felt like under my touch.

His chest is caving in, I said and raising my hands, stepped back. This was now medical examiner’s territory. We were out of it…at least for now.

I should try… Ken puffed and reached for the victim’s nose.

Stop it. There’s no negligence here. There’s nothing more we can do…not that we were able to do anything in the first place. Back off. The coroner will take over when he gets here.

I just thought if I could find something!

There’s nothing more we can do here, Ken, I sighed and ripped off the bloodied gloves.

Ken finally straightened up and backed away.

I found my cell phone. I’m calling it in. You should have called for ambulance the moment you saw him.

Hold on. His pockets look full. He hadn’t taken off his gloves so he reached around the bloody mess to search the man’s pockets. Wallet. He held out a fat black square.

I don’t have a plastic bag. And I doubt either of us has another pair of gloves. Put it down on the hood. Nothing else? No car keys? I hefted the cell phone. We had to call it in.

Just a stuffed wallet. He looked through the bulging portfolio.

I glanced at the gas station again. Maybe that’s his car. I pointed at the vehicle standing at the gas pump.

Meg! his voice rang sharply. Take a look at this.

I went over. Are all those his… Ken was going to leave bloody prints on the plastic but for once I was too surprised to remind him of basic procedures. We could have made a couple of fans with the amount of plastic the victim carried in his wallet.

Six driver’s license IDs, five credit cards, four plasticized birth certificates, seven social security cards. Meg?

I looked at the dead man. The fatal brown rose had spread and started to soak into his jeans. His face was rigid, like a monument. His cold stare looked up toward heaven. I hoped he would not get stuck in the waiting line.

A con artist, Ken?

I’m not sure. Maybe—but look at this and tell me I’m not crazy? He plucked two plastic squares from the wallet.

One was a plasticized social security card. It wasn’t legal to cover documents in plastic but people did it for convenience and protection. The other was a Maryland driver’s license.

Jonathan Anderson Brick, I said, dryly. The mountain of paperwork on my desk sculpted in my head.

He disappeared four years ago from a convenience store in Dundalk, Ken murmured.

In my mind’s eye, I saw him smoothing out the papers, closing the folder and stacking it neatly between the metal partitions on my desk.

His was the third cold case file we worked on this morning.

Ken turned to look at the convenience store, You don’t think that…

No, Ken. Don’t you dare to even whisper it! He disappeared from a 7-Eleven in Dundalk. We’re in Baltimore.

We’re in front of a 7-Eleven.

Ken! No one would spend four years, browsing through snack aisles in a 7-Eleven. The selection is just not that great. I’m calling it in.

Chapter 2

Iphoned Mrs. Tavalho. She knew what my job was.

My daughter and her friends were asleep—in a tent they’d pitched in the living room. I thanked her and closed the cell. I dared not imagine the mess of bedclothes and sheeting I would find in the morning.

Joe Smeddin had finished fencing with his tools above the victim’s body. He stood aside, snapping the wrist band of his gloves, steeped in thought. I knew that forensic pathologists must not be disturbed when ruminating—lest they feel threatened and draw their gun. Joe did it to me in the morgue, when I crept closer to peek over his shoulder. I settled for evaluating the Malibu’s hood ornament from the concrete sidewalk.

As a medical examiner, Joe abhorred educated guessing. When he said something, it was gospel. He was over forty, tall, athletically wiry and unpredictable. He could be as cranky as an ancient wizard, or as spritely as an elf. When he slouched, his humor was napping and caution was advised. Squared shoulders and forward thrust head meant he was ready for a challenge. The forensic staff was digitizing the scene and snapping pictures. It was a routine procedure, calming like all steps that defined the infrastructure of police work. It gave us an illusion of control. I doubted they would find any other smudges, besides ours and the victim’s.

A couple of our colleagues were inside the 7-Eleven, placating the owner with clichés. They urged him to play more classical music.

We’d already checked the gas station and come back. The night attendant was a college kid. He liked his school crest so much that he had the colorful Maryland globe tattooed above his wrist. He was morbidly delighted with the flashing police lights. Then again, his job probably didn’t stimulate anything but his bank account.

The black Pontiac Grand Prix, sitting by the pumps, belonged to the victim. According to the attendant, the customer never came in.

Well, he got out of the car, reached for the pump and then sort of looked up my way—surprised, the attendant told us.

Was there anything happening around here that might have caused his reaction? I asked.

Nah. His eyes skipped over my bloodstained pants. He was shot, wasn’t he?

Did you hear any unusual loud noises?

Nah. It’s been pretty quiet since I came on shift at six o’clock. Gas prices shot up this morning.

So there was nothing unusual going on?

He shrugged. I guess he was surprised because his gas tank lid was on the other side. You know, he pulled up the wrong way. A lot of people do that, especially when driving someone else’s car.

We had already searched the Pontiac—and would do so again. We just wanted to get the attendant’s first impressions, before the incident became influenced by anyone’s imagination.

We had found three more IDs in the car—ownership and insurance papers for Jonathan Anderson Brick and a business card for Mr. Jonathan Anderson Twain, Assistant Sales Manager, Guilford Fine Cars, Import and Domestic, Roosevelt Park, the Jamieson Car Market.

The car belonged to the victim. Whether anything else was true, would be confronted later when we checked the car’s registration and the insurance. Brick’s strange reaction had to be on account of something else.

Did he look happily surprised or shocked? I asked.

He blinked. Well, no, I mean like he looked startled…worried.

But you didn’t hear any loud noise? I thought he might have been shot as he got out of his car. Ken looked at me and I knew what he thought. With a caved-in chest, Brick couldn’t have walked fifty feet to collapse on top of the Malibu. Besides, if he were shot as he got out of his own car, there would be blood and fragments all over the gas pump.

"I think I’ve seen him around here before, gassing up. He was probably scoping out this place. Do you think he wanted to