Veterans Day: A Mary Jane Morris Mystery

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VETERANS DAY

HALLOWEEN

It was that time of year headed into the dead of winter when dark spirits rise in the night. Spidergirls, wookies, and ninjas were toasting marshmallows around a fire in my front yard. I sat on the porch where my father used to sit in his old navy shirt, sipping his bourbon and smoking a Cuban cigar. My golden retriever and her mischievous black lab offspring barked and chased the sparks that floated across the lawn. Two giggling vampires strung spider webs on the bushes, and taped black paper cats and bats on my old Land Rover. On the way to the kitchen to get more cookies, my roommate Sally Jenkins stopped and checked out my skeleton costume.

You’ve lost some weight.

Diet and exercise. They do wonders.

In the driver’s seat of the Rover older monsters, including Sally’s kid Jackson, placed a big pointy-hatted witch that looked suspiciously like me.

I closed my eyes and remembered myself as a skinny girl swinging too high on the tree swing and calling out watch me, watch me. The freedom that Halloween unleashed was intoxicating. I recalled the air of danger, the rush of eating forbidden candy, and the excitement of staying up late and gleefully leaping out of the dark to scare the neighbors. It was nice to hear happy playing children, find some peace, and get away from the less benign demons of D.C. Why do we have to lose all that playfulness and joy? Across the George Washington Parkway the moon glimmered on the dark Potomac as it silently flowed down toward the sea.

Then my cellphone vibrated. I must have missed the call when we were over in the park setting off fireworks. I saw on the glowing blue screen that it was a message from my ex-partner Davy. Probably he had a case and wanted to work together again like in the old days. Or it was another hair-brained scheme for making millions, or one more lament for his lousy marriage and rotten life. It could probably wait. I thought about turning the phone off. But then like always when it came to Davy, I gave in and listened to the message. His voice was shaky and breathless.

Mary Jane. You have to help me. There’s nobody else I can turn to, and I’m running out of time.

And the line went dead. In all the years I’d known him, even when he was drunk and stumped by a case, Davy had never sounded like that. He sounded confused, desperate, afraid. Stop what? No time for what? I called him back but no answer. I left a message that I was on my way, but something told me he would never get it. I had that awful feeling in the pit of my stomach I always get when something bad was about to happen.

I thought about calling the police, but so many men in blue in D.C. were angry at Davy and me for so many reasons that there was no point. They would probably just laugh. He was only a few miles away. With the usual traffic at this time of night I could get there in ten minutes. The happy noises in the yard continued as I ran to the Rover and tossed the witch into the back seat. The engine gave out its familiar roar. I put Davy’s old police light on the roof to flash red and jumped the curb out onto the George Washington Parkway. I kept it at a steady seventy, leaning on my horn as I passed startled drivers and blaring my way through the red lights.

Trucks aren’t supposed to be on the Parkway, but up ahead a big semi loaded with steel bridge beams was blocking all of the lanes. I jumped the curb and drove down onto the bike path, taking out a row of shrubs along the way. Another bill to pay. As I bumped over the curb and got back up on the Parkway, I called Davy again. He always answered when I called, but not this time.

When I saw the flashing yellow lights up ahead, my heart sank. The 14th Street and Fenwick Bridges were closed for repairs. Again. The bored cop at the barrier waved his flashlight back and forth and I pulled up alongside him. What, I wondered, had he done to pull duty babysitting bridges on Halloween? I flashed my P.I. badge and said it was an emergency, but he pointed to the bridge. A whole section of it had fallen into the river. It would take days, maybe weeks to fix. I though about heading toward the bridges to the west, but several big yellow construction machines blocked the way. He shook his head.

They don’t fix the bridges for a hundred years and then wonder why they break down. Even if you reached the Memorial, Roosevelt, or the Key, it wouldn’t do any good. They’re shut down too.

I asked him what kind of morons would close all the bridges leading from Virginia to Washington at the same time. He said the Virginia and D.C. transportation morons got in a fight over schedules, and there was no way I could cross the river unless my Land Rover had pontoons or wings. It would take me an hour to go out to the beltway, cross the Wilson bridge, and come at D.C. from the east, and I didn’t have an hour. The Metro wasn’t running at that time of night, no ice to cross, and no boats or helicopters in sight. I pounded on the steering wheel and yelled in frustration.

Then I saw it, rising black and beautiful out of the water. Long Bridge. Burned in 1814 to protect the capitol from an invading British army, rammed by barges, wrecked by flood and storm, rebuilt again and again, it had carried trains across the Potomac since 1809. Why not me?

This is crazy, I whispered as I turned around and headed toward Long Bridge Park. You must be out of your mind, I muttered as I drove past the athletic fields. Don’t do it! I growled to myself as I drove through the chain link fence and up onto the two gleaming rails stretching across the river. But I wasn’t listening.

Everything was still. All I could hear was the sound of my breathing and the beating of my heart, and the distant hum of the city across the river. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and my wet hands gripped the steering wheel. The lights showed green all the way down the tracks to yawning black tunnel on the other side. I looked the other way and there was nothing there either. I hoped it would stay that way. Even for me this was a really dumb thing to do.

I took a deep breath and yelled Geronimo! I jammed the throttle to the floor and the Rover leapt ahead. The front end bounced and shook on the ties as I picked up speed. It was a real struggle to keep the wheels straight. When the cop spotted me, he blew his whistle and waved his flashlight wildly. The men working on the bridge waved their helmets and laughed as I drove by. What was so funny? Then I remembered. I still had my skeleton outfit on, and the witch was bouncing along behind me in the back seat. Not something you see every day. Halloween Uber.

It was going well. Two-thirds of the way across and no problems. Three more minutes, I thought. That’s all I need. Three more minutes. Nothing ahead. Nothing behind. The gleaming white monuments on the other side seemed to invite me to join them. Like my father always used to say, I’d rather be lucky than good.

But as I bumped toward the other side, the Rover squeaking and groaning in protest, the green lights at the far end of the bridge began to turn red. First one, then another, then another. Not good. Then I heard the long wailing of a horn. A small bright white light appeared out of the black tunnel and began to grow larger. No mistaking that. A hundred ton locomotive was coming at me, probably pulling several hundred tons more behind it in freight. The engineer sounded his horn in short urgent blasts, and I heard the ear-shattering screech of brakes. I knew he could never stop in time. As for me, turning around was impossible, and I couldn’t back up fast enough to avoid being hit. I couldn’t turn off into the river because the crisscrossing beams walled me in. Looking back on it I could have just stopped, jumped into the river, and left the Rover to its fate, but I didn’t think of it at the time.

A head-on collision wouldn’t be good for the Rover or me, so I did the only thing I could think of. I floored it and raced straight toward the train faster and faster as horn howling, brakes squealing, it sped toward me. The vibration in the front end became so fierce that I could barely keep it straight. Just when it looked like goodbye Mary Jane, I reached the end of the trestle. When I steered hard left and down the embankment, the train missed me by inches. As it sped by, the red-faced engineer yelled something unflattering and shook his fist.

I came to rest in a parking lot, and sat breathing hard and holding the steering wheel in a death grip. Heart racing. Hands shaking. Eyes blurred. That was close. My skeleton getup was soaked with sweat, so I took it off and tossed it in back to keep the witch company. They made a nice couple. The parking lot was eerily quiet. It had a beautiful view of the Jefferson Memorial which, serenely classical and bathed in white light, seemed untroubled by cars or trains. Davy picked a hell of a night to call for help.

Time to rejoin the land of the living. I drove out onto Fourteenth Street toward Columbia Road. Five minutes later I screeched to a halt by Davy’s office. In front of the buildings along the block were toothless jack o’lanterns, ghosts billowing in the breeze, and forlorn skeletons with wind blowing through their ribs. A group of partying college students went by laughing, yelling trick or treat, and blowing little horns at me. They made way as I ran up the stairs with pistol drawn, and kicked open the office door that read David McHale, Private Investigator.

The fluorescent light overhead showed me what I was afraid I would find. At first he seemed to be sleeping peacefully with his head on the desk. But there was a dark red hole in his temple and the pistol he used had fallen on the floor beside him. I checked for a pulse, but everything was deadly still. My first impulse is usually to cover the body, but this time I didn’t. I tried to read the expression on his face but there was nothing there. The pistol on the floor was the Beretta I gave him for his birthday.

Davy, you had lots of pistols to choose from. Why did you have to use this one?

I heard a crash out in the alley, drew my .45, and pointed my flashlight out of the back window. Must have been something rooting around in the trash. I checked the bathroom, the kitchen, and the closet but there was nobody there either.

I sat on the sagging couch and looked around. It always was a depressing place. Sometimes the room doesn’t fit the person, but that wasn’t the case here. Dusty books on dusty shelves. A faded torn U.S. flag from a Navy ship. The old ceiling fan turning slowly and making a rhythmic knocking sound. It had been going round and round like that for years. Just like Davy and me. I always hoped that one day we would make things right between us. Too late for that.

A wave of sadness washed over me as I studied the face I’d known for so many years. Brown hair coloring that didn’t quite hide the grey, the scars on his face he got in the Navy, a wrinkle for every bottle of scotch he’d downed. He seemed at peace. God knows he had little enough of that in his life.

If he wanted to talk, what was there that we hadn’t talked to death? What could I say? Sorry you were wounded in a terrorist attack on your ship, and the Veterans Administration screwed you over? Sorry your wife dumped you, and your daughter’s a hooker? Too bad the cops fired you? Too bad I had to drop you as a partner because you wasted money and were a drunk? Did you want me to feel guilty? Did you want me to find you so you wouldn’t be alone, or like always I would clean up your mess?

He said he rented the fourth floor walkup for the view. Some view. Stained yellowish brown windows looking out over rooftops littered with satellite discs, rusty air conditioners, and metal chimneys spewing smoke into the night sky. I shivered. The cold penetrated the office. I turned on the little space heater in the corner, but it just made wheezing sounds and blew the dust around. I ran my finger along the desktop and it came up dark green from the pollen and soot. If you have allergies in Washington, famously built on a swamp, pills don’t work. The only real cure is to move to Miami.

A half empty bottle of scotch sat next to Davy on his desk. It might be evidence, so I reached into his whiskey drawer that had a dozen different bottles and poured myself a Glenfiddich. It was one of the things I liked about him. He was a single malt kind of guy. Such poetic names. Laphroaig, Glenmorangie, Balvenie. He said a true Scots lass has to know the best that Scotland has to offer, and taught me to appreciate the different brands, some with a mellow, smoky, peaty flavor, some light and grassy with a touch of ocean spray. He said mass-market blends didn’t deserve the name of scotch.

Where was Davy’s cat? Not that she got much attention or needed any help surviving. On the wall was the Gone Fishing sign we used to hang on the doorknob when business was slow and we used to escape to the river or the bay. I picked up the picture of the two of us on a fishing trip. I was holding a nice two-pound rockfish. He was holding an empty lure.

Mary Jane, my fish was bigger than yours, but it got away.

Yeah, well good thing mine didn’t get away or we wouldn’t have anything to eat.

Davy was a liar and he could be very convincing. He could probably sell you your own car. One of the tools of the trade he said. It annoyed people, but everyone admitted he was entertaining. His favorite stories got better each time he told them. Lately, though, he began to believe his own tall tales. He really seemed to think that his schemes could make millions. Looking at the picture with his winning smile, I thought I should have been more patient. I should have checked in on him more. I should have called or come by. But I didn’t, and now it was too late.

The place smelled of whiskey, mold, and sweat. I guess he couldn’t afford his apartment and his ex-wife Tanya wouldn’t put up with him any more, so he moved into the office. A mattress lay on the floor in the back room, a few shirts hung in his closet, and there were dirty dishes in the sink. I couldn’t help it. I found myself breaking all the crime scene rules and washed the dishes, wiped them, and put them in the drainer. Why did I do that? Did I think he was going to come out in the kitchen and make spaghetti? I switched the light on, off, on, off, and stood there in the dark. As quickly as that, Davy’s life was snuffed out.

I looked out and heard the morning stirring. The crashing, screeches, and roars of the garbage trucks. The delivery trucks lined up on Columbia Road. People late for work hurrying along the street sipping from their Starbucks cups. Those people didn’t know Davy, or care that he was dead. Life went on. Did anybody except me, his daughter, and maybe his ex?

An hour later I remembered that I had a life outside of that room. I called my boyfriend Lorenzo who at first was my doctor but became much more. It had been almost five years and he was my rock.

Hello? he said half asleep.

Hi Lorenzo. It’s Davy. He’s dead. It looks like suicide.

Sorry Mary Jane. Are you alright?

No, but I will be.

I could cancel my patients this morning and come over.

No, I have to be here when the police come. I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.

Come over when you’re done.

That was what I wanted to hear. I looked at myself in the cracked dirty mirror on the door. Wrinkled jeans and sweatshirt. Reddish brown hair curled up in the humidity. Red eyes. No makeup. What a wreck.

Next I called Sally my tenant at home. She’s a reporter for the City Paper. She has a precocious twelve-year-old named Jackson, works out everyday, and still finds time to walk the dogs and keep the house from falling apart. She was sound asleep.

Mary Jane, do you know what time it is?

Something bad has happened to Davy. I’ll tell you about it later. Can you take care of the dogs?

Will do.

I swept my eyes slowly around the office. There was something there, but I didn’t know what. No signs of a struggle. Nobody reported an alarm going off, but then he never set it anyway. One odd thing. Davy usually left things in a mess but the office was neater than usual, like somebody had searched the place and put things back carefully. Too carefully.

I looked through his desk drawers and filing cabinets. Business wasn’t good. For a while he was providing security for building sites and a yacht owned by Harris Construction. There were some proposals for some small business contracts with D.C. and a few other government agencies, but they didn’t go anywhere.

Time to call Larson at Homicide. In law enforcement there isn’t one man in a hundred who can accept a woman as an equal, and he’s one of the worst. With him I have to pretend I’m as brutal and calloused as he is. I took a deep breath and dialed 911. They took a long time to answer, and still longer to transfer me.

Larson, its Mary Jane. Yeah, long time no see. Listen, I’m in Davy’s office on Columbia Road. He called for help, but I didn’t get here in time. He’s sitting at his desk with a bullet in his head.

Sorry to hear it, M.J. You could sort of see it coming. Coward’s way out. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he wasn’t the best of partners. You’re well rid of him.

I tried to keep the anger and grief in, but I couldn’t.

You rotten, ignorant, selfish bastard! What do you know about it?

I hung up and everything blurred with tears.

EVIDENCE

It must have been a slow night. Larson and the homicide unit arrived in ten minutes. The neighborhood dogs barked, and people came out when they saw the lights flashing. Several of them had their cell phones out in case there was something gory they could put on Facebook or sell to CNN. Two of them got angry when the uniforms wouldn’t let them climb up the fire escape and look through the windows.

Harlan James Larson is a no-neck ex-marine who put on thirty pounds since he left the service. No matter how often he passes a razor over his face, he always looks like he needs a shave. He overeats for the same reason that he chain smokes and drinks too much. It compensates for a job that forces him to witness the most tragic and nastiest sides of human life.

From the day Davy joined the force, he and Larson had a running feud. Larson is a man of policies and regulations. They simplify his life. It’s as if he never left the marines, where everything was decided for him. It could be very trying to be around Davy. In front of the other cops, Davy said Larson was a slave to rules that existed to be bent or broken. He would spend days on the clock kayaking, dreaming up moneymaking schemes, and fixing parking tickets for friends. Then like an investigative trapeze artist, he would solve a case in an afternoon that Larson had worked on for months.

Larson wasn’t a bad detective, but Davy was an artist and his cases were works of art. He was Sherlock without the cocaine and the violin. I saw first hand his intense concentration, alertness to detail, and nose for seeing through fog and layers of deception. After seemingly pointless delays when he didn’t seem to be thinking about the case at all, there would come that blinding epiphany that made everything seem obvious. Finally it came to blows and Davy was fired. Larson was relieved to see him go, but I think part of him missed the drama and the competition. He tried to keep it going with me, but I told him I gave up playground stuff a long time ago and I quit. In a way Larson was the reason Davy and I became partners.

Antonia Andretti was the forensics scientist on the case. Disgusted with the officers joking with each other and pretending I wasn’t there, she came over and put her hand on my shoulder. I nodded and studied her face. She’d lost the girlish look she had when we were in college together and was beginning to age. Downturned mouth, wrinkles around her sad blue eyes. The job was getting to her.

Larson ordered everybody to get on with it. They had other cases to worry about. He tried to make everything seem routine, but something was bothering him. He had Antonia take pictures of the body and the Beretta from too many angles. He made her to look for fingerprints in odd places, and told her to examine the floor where the gun had fallen to see if she could find an indentation.

So Davy finally decided to turn out the lights and call it a day, he said. An ok investigator, but a lousy cop.

He wasn’t dumb enough to be a cop, and didn’t have the gift for bribes and ass kissing that some have.

Kneeling by the body, Antonia smiled but didn’t look up. She knew how to keep her head down. I had worked with her before. She was small next to her overweight boss, but had twice the skill. While Washington’s finest were going through the motions, she was a professional and did her work with care. She said she might find out more in the lab, but a hundred to one Davy shot himself. Nationwide she counted seventeen hundred vets who committed suicide so far this year, and this made one more.

They zipped up the body bag and lifted it onto a stretcher. One last free ride in a police van. It didn’t seem to matter to them that their families had picnicked with his family, and drank, and got shot at together for years. Larson said he would send the boys around the building to see if anybody