Murder Over The Bones: A Detective Bass Mystery

—Part I—

—Chapter 1—

A piece of land at Prospect Park, which had been re-zoned for the sole purpose of development, had been dug and re-dug numerous times in the city’s hundred and fifty year history. Indian arrowheads had been found numerous times as were scraps of disintegrating buckskin. But never before had anyone found prehistoric artifacts: fossils, dinosaur bones, and coarse animal hair. That was news and it was reported widely by all the local television stations.

For the curiosity seekers who drove by that section of Prospect Park, they saw that the equipment rented by the land developer, Fleet Development Enterprises—the orange crane which towered next to the neighboring buildings and the two backhoes—were put on standby. The city allowed Fleet Development to use the grassy area of the adjoining park to store their equipment on a temporary basis. The plans for a twenty-story building, which would be squeezed in on that section of land ceded to Fleet Development by the city, was now being legally blocked by an activist group.

Their arguments were chattered about on talk radio. Newspapers reported them in headlines. And when the excitement faded, the story reappeared in the human interest section under the caption: History Tops Progress, followed by in-depth analysis of the activist groups and the organizations who mounted the legal challenge.

So on that cold pre-dawn morning in October when a man was found dead in the excavation hole, Detective Gilbert Bass was all too familiar with the controversy.

Bass arrived hastily dressed in his brown suit, but without an overcoat, or overshoes to protect his shoes from the damp grass and mud. The area had already been cordoned off with police tape. The hole itself had been previously marked off with twine and metal stakes by the university’s excavation students.

The two construction workers who found the body were pointed out to Bass by the officer in charge, Sergeant Phillips.

You said it was around five o’clock? Bass asked the workers. Why were you here so early in the morning? Isn’t this site shut down?

We were checking the equipment. the first worker replied. Our company works for Fleet Development. You wouldn’t believe how often our stuff gets stolen during the night.

Yes, I would, Bass said. I’m a police detective. He glanced over their shoulders in the direction of the street. He was looking for his partner, Chet MacIntyre, Macky as he called him. The time was not yet six o’clock. It was early for everyone.

Bass did see the forensics van pull up, that put his mind partially to rest. The vehicle parked next to two police squads which still had their lights spiraling about, presenting an odd mix of colors, the blue and red lights aglow across the autumn leaves.

Shaun Pinely, of the forensics team, stepped out of the van. Bass watched him slip into white coveralls and then approach Sergeant Phillips, who had just handed another roll of police tape to a fellow officer. Naomi, the second team member, followed behind Pinely and they both stepped around the cone markers set out at points of interest.

I hear you have a hole in one, Pinely said jokingly.

Bass was familiar with Pinely from other cases. He was half Bass’s age. Thirty-something? Bass wondered when thirty looked so young.

Pinely’s expression changed when Bass did not respond. Sorry, Pinely said. A little morning humor.

Where’s the regular guy? Bass asked.

You mean the one you always get stuck with? Jed. Jedidiah? Pinely replied, laughing as he said Jed’s first name in full.

I guess so. Was that morning humor, too? He’s your boss, isn’t he?

Pinely did not reply directly to the comment. Over at Twenty-third Street, he said.

A shooting?

Pinely bent down, slipped under the police tape, and approached the hole near Bass. What else can I say? Pinely replied with a shrug. The boss likes the easy ones. Gunshot wound to the chest. Gunshot wound to the neck. Take a few pictures of shell casings. It must make your job easy.

Compared to this?

Naomi followed close behind. Bass wondered if she received hazardous duty pay for having to put up with Pinely’s bad jokes.

Pinely looked down at the corpse. Homeless guy, he said.

Homeless? Naomi asked. She ducked under the police tape and stood next to Pinely.

From their bewildered expressions, Bass thought the two were unsure how to climb down. You didn’t bring a ladder? Bass asked.

The hole was shallow: three, four feet deep in the wet earth and eight to nine feet across either way. The ground was damp from last night’s rain, making it difficult to differentiate the dead man’s body from the mud that surrounded him at the bottom of the hole. The victim was facing upward. Bearded, he might have had a ruddy complexion if death had not discolored his skin. Nowhere near young: the victim could have been Bass’s age, or a dozen years older. It was hard to tell in that state. The overcoat around the victim was old and out of fashion. Wooly, beige in color, it was an overcoat Bass might have worn himself twenty years ago. At least the victim was smart enough to wear an overcoat, Bass thought.

As the two forensics members stood over the hole, looking puzzled, Bass scanned the area for the construction worker he had spoken with earlier. Bass spotted him. He was standing next to an orange backhoe. Bass motioned for the worker to come over. As the man approached, Bass shouted, You have a ladder? A small stepladder?

The man waved and Bass knew he understood. The worker turned around and went in the direction of a pickup truck parked in the lot across from the dead end street.

He’ll take care of you, Bass informed Pinely.

We have a stepladder in the van, Naomi said.

A three stepper? Pinely asked.

Yeah, Naomi said.

Neither of them made an effort to retrieve it.

While Bass waited, he texted Macky. A message came back shortly. Macky was on 23rd Street. He would be there for another hour.

Bass pulled his suit jacket tighter for warmth as he studied the victim. The man’s front pockets were torn. His slacks, a dark brown, were muddy, especially around the knees as if he had crouched when he took the tumble. The mud caking his shoes was showing signs of drying. The shoestrings had the lighter colored mud stuck to them. Despite the sun rising above the tree line, it was still going to be a cold morning.

The forensics photographer arrived and took pictures of the surrounding park. His extra camera gear lay on the wet grass.

An officer reported to Bass that they had found a pair of eyeglasses. He pointed to a spot less than ten feet away.

The photographer went over and snapped a few shots.

The construction worker finally brought over an aluminum ladder and handed it to Naomi. She carefully slid it into the hole and was about to step down when Pinely came over.

Let me go first, he said.

Naomi acquiesced and moved aside.

The photographer said, I want to get a couple close-ups.

I’ll do it for you, Pinely said, and grabbed the camera.

Pinely was careful when he climbed into the hole. He stepped around the victim’s brown trouser-clad legs and his outstretched hand. Pinely was also cautious of the mud as he bent down and moved in close. He snapped several pictures of the victim’s face. An abrasion was near the back of the victim’s right temple. The blood had already dried.

Pinely straightened up. Whew! he exclaimed. I don’t need to be a pathologist to know this man was drinking. He must have put on a real corker.

What flavor? Bass asked with disinterest.

Whiskey. Very strong. Maybe a good brand. I can’t say for sure. I’m a beer drinker myself.

Me too, Bass said, and made a note to ask the M.E. about it. While he waited for Pinely to finish, he again scanned the parked vehicles, looking for Macky. Far to the right was a line of trees. The morning sun just broke above them, casting streaks of yellow into the trees’ orange and brown leaves. Bass thought he saw a rabbit, a white one, which was odd. It was hopping under several oak trees.

Bass’s phone buzzed with a text. It was from Macky. He was still at 23rd Street. Almost done, the text read. Bass wondered if it would be easier to go back to his car and sit, start a report while waiting for Macky.

The Medical Examiner’s van pulled up next. Two assistants hauled out a gurney from the back and rolled it across the grassy park to where Bass stood.

Down there, Bass said. He pointed to the obvious hole in the ground.

Pinely climbed out to let the M.E. assistants get in, saying, Not big enough for all of us.

Bass looked on. He expected to hear the usual from the M.E.’s assistants: abrasion, alcohol. Details finer than those would be written up by pathology.

At one point Bass said, We think he wore glasses. We found a pair a few yards away.

After a few minutes the M. E.’s assistants lifted the body.

Well? Bass asked.

Cause of death could be the head wound. Beside the right temple there’s another abrasion higher up, toward the back. We’ll be able to tell more later.

Bass stepped aside and let the gurney roll past. In spite of the victim’s pockets being torn, and the mud, the man’s clothes did not appear shabby. Bass thought the homeless label came from the fact the man’s beard was long and untidy; and his face, the rough skin, looked like it hadn’t been washed for days.

Bass examined the face closer while the body bag was unzipped, although there was not much to see: the wrinkled skin’s whitish hue; gray, unfocused eyes; a mouth half open, lips covered and matted with beard. The palm on one hand was completely open, the fingers outstretched. Bass knew the hand would be cold. He didn’t need to touch it. The whisky smell that wafted up from the body was brisk and infrequent. It passed quickly in the cold morning air. The alcohol seemed to come more from the wooly overcoat than the victim’s half opened mouth.

Bass signaled that he had seen enough, that they could zip up the bag. He knew the M.E. had better diagnostic equipment than his own meager senses.

How long before the postmortem? Bass asked.

A few hours at least for the preliminaries. Hours, not minutes.

Any identification?

Nothing.

No wallet?

Nope.

Bass recalled the torn pockets and wondered if he was going to spend the next couple days visiting homeless shelters and soup kitchens.

I want a picture, Bass said. Make sure it’s a good one. Do it after you clean him up.

Bass heard a van door slam and looked up. Behind the squad cars, he saw the antenna on top of a news van. A local TV station. A minute later, Carol, the reporter, wound her way between the squad cars and headed in Bass’s direction. A cameraman, equipped with camera and related gear, followed close behind.

Carol at first had difficulty crossing the wet grass in high heels. Her tight skirt and long legs gave her a crane-like appearance. Her problems with the muddy grass gave Bass a good laugh.

You’re too late, Bass said as she approached.

Carol’s eyes followed the gurney. The wheels had sunk into the mud and the two M.E. assistants were having difficulty rolling it forward. Get a shot, Joe, she said, pointing to the body bag. Quick.

Her cameraman trotted through the mud and then hoisted the camera to his shoulder. He filmed forty to fifty seconds of the body bag and the gurney.

Carol turned back to Bass. Got another one down there? she asked.

You should be so lucky. Nothing there now, nothing but mud.

Carol was an attractive woman. All the local reporters were attractive, that was why they got on-air time: camera presences. Bass also knew reporters were a problem.

You going to hold back on me with this one? Carol asked.

Bass thought back two weeks ago to when they both stood there after the driver of the backhoe first dug up the bones. That was before the M.E.’s office determined that the pale white objects coated in earth were actually prehistoric fossils, not human, and no crime had been committed.

We have an information department, Bass said to Carol. You know that. They don’t pay me for my pretty face.

Don’t sell yourself short.

I’m immune to your flattery.

I got here late. I need something.

I noticed. You usually get here before the body drops.

Carol shrugged. She looked briefly at Joe, who had just finished taking a shot of the excavation hole. I had trouble with my cell phone, she said.

Bass noticed the expression Joe sent her way. Obviously, there was more to that than what she was saying. But that was not his business.

The body’s been here a few hours, Bass began. At the moment we can’t say whether he fell in on his own or was pushed. When he noticed the camera being hoisted up to Joe’s shoulder, Bass held up his hand, palm outward, covering the lens. This is off camera.

Joe was now facing the sun, which was rising directly behind Bass. The sharp rays of light hit the man directly in the eyes as he tried to steady the camera. Bass could see him squinting into the light.

Carol protested. We need something.

You have the hole, Bass replied.

It’s empty.

"That’s not my fault. That’s all I got. I don’t do camera shots. You will only give this incident a few seconds of coverage anyway. And then you’ll rerun it thirty times a day. I will tell you that he was an older man. At the moment we believe him to be homeless."

Carol jotted down his words. Can I quote you on that?

‘The detective on the scene said. . .’ Bass replied, making air quotes around his words. He did not want his name mentioned.

Okay, Carol said. Her voice was conciliatory. You’re a tough one, Bass.

He shrugged off her comment. He knew the policy. It was not his job to be helpful to the media. They paid someone else for that.

So, all we have right now, Carol continued, is that a homeless man fell in a hole? For that, I got out of bed?

That’s what it looks like. He could have been drunk.

Do you have a name?

No. But I do have a name at our information office.

Do you think this will have an effect on the development project?

Don’t know. That’s not my concern.

Bass could almost see Carol’s thoughts as her eyes looked off into the distance.

Carol turned again to Bass. So what you’re really saying is, because this excavation site wasn’t properly cordoned off last night, an innocent man fell to his death?

"No, that’s what you’re saying. Bass glanced down at the hole and added, It’s not that deep."

Bass noticed how Carol’s attention returned to the hole. Her eyes traced the twine and small stakes marking off the excavation site. Why wasn’t this better secured? Carol asked.

Bass heard the barracuda in her voice.

I’m not the one you should be asking. You do know that it’s the university that’s doing this? Not the Smithsonian?

The microphone was quickly out of her satchel and in Bass’s face. Is that a slap at the university? Do you think the university was negligent?

No.

Did you say the Smithsonian was interested?

No. Bass pushed Carol’s microphone away, and wondered when he would learn to keep his mouth shut.

Bass started to walk to his car as Carol shouted after him: Can I get a picture of the man?

Bass did not turn around, but he yelled back: As soon as I do.

I mean, now.

Later.

As Bass approached his car he saw another media van pull up. His eyes followed the circular antenna on its roof as the vehicle wound around several parked squad cars before it stopped.

Bass opened the door to his Crown Vic and sat. He left the door open as he texted Macky: Where the hell are you?

Bass sighed after he sent the text, and wondered where he could get a cup of coffee. At least he was sitting down, and that felt good on his legs. From his vantage point, he watched the other media van’s personnel roll out their equipment. He wondered if they had coffee in one of their shiny aluminum chests. But from the way the two men dragged them across the wet grass to the site, he doubted it. The men positioned their camera and microphone. The reporter, this one a young man, stood in front of the yellow tape and the hole and did his last minute straightening of his tie and patting down his suit. The man’s name escaped Bass for the moment. Bass was rarely home nor had the time to watch the morning news.

He did spot Carol near one of the squad cars. A young officer was there and the two were talking. Bass could not see his face properly but knew that he was one of the younger men on the force. He thought it was Rowkowski. Bass watched them for a few minutes, then he noticed that they both turned suddenly, almost simultaneously, in the direction of a black sedan as it pulled up to the curb. A well-dressed man stepped out from the passenger side. The driver stepped out also, but he stayed behind.

Bass rose to get a better view. He braced himself with an elbow on the open door.

Looming over the heads of the two news crews, the man walked toward the site. He was tall, looked to be in his seventies, and his silver hair was trimmed a good measure above the collar of his blue, well-tailored suit. His hair glistened in the morning sun. So did the rim of his glasses. When he turned, Bass could see enough of his complexion to judge him as being well and healthy. In his right hand he held what looked like a phone or iPad. From his posture and determined stride, Bass assumed he was one of the project developers.

The well-dressed man stopped at the cordoned site, cautiously standing on the grassy area so as not to get mud on his shoes. After looking at the hole briefly, he turned to the reporters who had followed him across the wet grass. The distance was too far for Bass to hear what was being said, but the man appeared to be cordially answering their questions. This on-site interview took close to fifteen minutes. Bass couldn’t imagine what the developer was telling the media. Bass checked his cell phone several times looking for a response from Macky. There was none.

Finally, the developer strode back to the squad cars. He spoke briefly with the young officer Carol had spoken with and then went over to Sergeant Phillips.

It was clear to Bass when the sergeant raised her hand and pointed in Bass’s direction that the developer was headed his way. Bass checked his phone again; still no answer from Macky.

Hello, the man said. I’m Wayne Klack.

Bass shook his hand, saying belatedly, Detective Bass.

It’s sad, isn’t it? Klack said, more as a comment than a question.

Bass took his feelings as genuine. Close up, Klack did look like he was in his seventies. Bass had guessed right. But his face still appeared young, and his crystal clear eyes were blue. The well-tailored suit gave his narrow frame structure.

I guess it is sad, Bass finally replied. The car door was still open, and Bass gave it a push shut. It closed with a soft thud.

I would have thought that the university would have protected the site better, Klack said.

Yes, Bass said, and then asked, Is there anything you need from me in particular?

You’re the detective in charge, right?

Yes, me and my partner, Detective MacIntyre.

No, Klack said, shaking his head. I don’t have anything specifically. Just take all the time you need.

You’re the developer?

Yes. One of them. Fleet Development Enterprises, Klack replied. I have a partner, he added, but it sounded to Bass like almost an afterthought.

Bass took out a little book from his inside pocket. He then asked a few routine questions and jotted down the answers in his usual cramped writing style.

I suppose this won’t be too complicated for you guys, Klack said. Us on the other hand? He shrugged. We sometimes have work related injuries. Now and then it’s a death. Either way, we usually get swarmed over by OSHA and a half dozen other agencies. They hold us up for weeks.

Weeks? Bass asked skeptically.

Okay, months, sometimes. But we can usually get work started up again in a week or so, sort of around the edges. If we have lawsuits over malfunctioning equipment, we set those pieces aside and let the insurance companies go at one another. That’s one business I’m glad I’m not involved with. Did the poor man have a family?

We don’t know yet.

I suppose if it wasn’t the hole he stumbled into, it would have been the river. Dragging a body out of a hole is a lot easier than dragging one out of the river, I suppose. You can take drunk divers off the road, but what can you do when they’re on foot?

We’re dealing with it, Bass said.

Klack stretched his neck, apparently looking to see if anything else had to be done. You have my number, if you need anything. If my partner Steve Anser contacts you, tell him we already spoke.

Klack returned to the sedan where the driver held the door open for him. Then they drove off.

Sergeant Phillips, who stood between two parked squads, appeared to be concluding business with several uniformed officers. Organizing the canvassing, Bass thought, and then he looked up at the surrounding apartment buildings.

The old brick structures were mostly five or six stories high. Several of those across the street were higher and more modern. Most of the brickwork on the older buildings was discolored, time and soot did that to them. Bass wondered about the canvas and wondered if anyone could really have seen anything last night. With the rain and the darkness, would there be anything useful to his investigation?

It was then that he spotted Macky’s blue Buick winding in between a squad car and one of the news vans. By then the day had already lost its morning luster and the autumn sun was drawing the last of the night’s dampness from the air.

Bass went over to the Buick.

Before Macky had a chance to step out, Bass asked, Where have you been?

Work, he replied, looking up from behind the wheel.

Forensics says Twenty-third Street was an open and shut case, Bass said.

At least it is a case. Not a drunk falling in a hole.

Yeah, we’ll probably be dealing with insurance companies arguing liabilities instead of grieving widows.

I don’t know what’s worse.

Grieving relatives? Always the worst, Bass said without a second’s thought.

Macky stepped out of the car. Insurances companies are a close runner-up then. A pain in the ass.

That’s what Klack said.

Klack?

One of the development partners, Bass replied.

The two walked toward the dig site as Bass continued speaking, A distinguished looking guy, like yourself. The latter was said tongue in cheek although there was sincerity behind Bass’s joshing. Macky had the graying hair, but he was far more than ten years younger than Klack. Macky always dressed in gray suit jackets. Klack wore glasses, which mark almost all men, including Klack, as distinguished. What Macky had was that middle-aged bulge, which to Bass’s chagrin, he carried also; not enough to re-tailor his brown suits, but enough to make him feel self-conscious. He saw missing breakfasts on early mornings like this as a plus. It was not having coffee that bothered him.

As the two approached the edge of the grass, Bass stopped, protective of his shoes, and looked for the mud.

What did the developer have to say? Macky asked as he stared into the empty hole.

Take all the time we need.

That was big of him. Macky studied the hole. Victim have ID?

None, Bass replied. Perhaps in his late sixties, possibly early seventies. Homeless, most likely. The M.E. assistant said he smelled of alcohol.

Tripped on one of the stakes?

Possibly. There were abrasions on his right temple and back of the head.

What do they think he hit?

They couldn’t tell. The hole is a squared out section of earth. I don’t see any rocks.

Except that one. Macky pointed at the smooth oval side of a rock that had not been fully excavated.

Too far from the body, Bass said. Not the right angle. We have pictures just in case.

Jed said to say, ‘Hello.’

Thank him for sending Pinely. He was a real delight.

Bass noticed several children who had just appeared, popping up around a group of bushes a hundred yards away. Hey! What are you doing? Bass yelled at them.

Looking for Happy, a boy replied.

What?

Our rabbit.

Bass shouted back in a stern voice, Get out of here. He waved at them for emphasis and searched for an available officer.

Who’s that talking to Sergeant Phillips? Bass asked Macky.

Not sure. John somebody.

When the sergeant finished with the officer, Bass shouted over to him, John?

The officer turned around to look.

Bass, with a waving hand, pointed to the children. Check over there. See if there’s anything there. And get rid of the children.

—Chapter 2—

Bass and Macky returned to police headquarters. The building was a ten-story-high concrete structure, narrow, tinted windows. Bass’s office, the detective squad room, was a relatively long room with an assortment of metal desks. Bass found comfort there, in the even fluorescent lighting, the consistently moderated temperature, the white blinds half closed against the tinted windows, the empty chairs of his fellow officers who were out diligently working on their cases. Why? Because their appreciation of a good desk was not the same as Bass’s. He welcomed the quiet their empty chairs brought. His only regret was that no one was in to make coffee.

Bass turned to Macky. Are you going to have problems wrapping up your other case? he asked.

No, Macky replied. It seems like a typical drug case, one that is also a family affair. They’re out looking for the cousin now.

I wouldn’t want to be at that family’s Thanksgiving, Bass said.

Their choices.

That’s right. Right or wrong, it’s their choice.

Officer Rogers came in. We have something interesting for you two.

Macky looked up.

Bass frowned. I was hoping to catch up on paperwork.

So? Macky asked.

A van break-in. The guy lost most of his tools.

Any witnesses? Bass asked.

Yeah, Rogers replied. Several. Most likely they’re the suspects. He held out the case folder for one of them to take. Both Bass and Macky turned their backs to him.

Officer Rogers dropped the folder on Bass’s desk. You guys sort it out.

Bass thumbed through the