21. Lukas Opens the Case.
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Room 699
Lukas Lane, six-foot-four with a flattop crewcut that made him look carved out of ice, exited the elevators onto the sixth floor. Every swinging dick from the 14th Precinct turned at the sound of the elevator’s ding and gave Lane the once-over before going back to taking up space in the hall, as if the city had no other pressing problems that needed their attention.
Lane ducked under the flimsy strip of drooping yellow police tape and walked into the clown show. He saw a few familiar faces, but none that knew his.
Barreling through the ruckus came Captain Volley, a round man with a shock of white hair and a clean-shaven face that somehow always looked wet. He extended his bulbous hand.
“So you picked the short straw,” Volley said.
“Something like that,” Lane said, accepting the shake.
Volley gave him the basic rundown as they walked to the room at the end of the hallway. One of their own had offed themselves. Steven Harrison, detective from the 14th. Nineteen years on the force, one more to go before full pension.
Unlike the commotion in the hall, the room itself was quiet and clear, save the stiff face down on the desk. Its knuckles rested on the carpet at the end of a dangling arm. Blood and brain and other bits were spattered across the wall and TV.
“We already had them pull up tonight’s Perry Mason,” Volley said with a smirk at the muted TV set. “See if it was a particularly upsetting episode.”
Gallows humor, even now. Incredible.
An hour ago, the chief had called Lane at home just as he was sitting down to Adele’s turkey and potatoes. He said he needed Lane across the river right away for this one.
It looked open and shut, Lane thought as he walked the scene, laid out neat and pretty. Revolver on the ground, Harrison’s fingerprints no doubt on the trigger, the fatal spent casing still in the chamber. He bet there was even a note left behind.
“He left a note on the nightstand,” Volley said.
And there it was.
Lane opened the envelope and gave it a quick read. It was written in a hesitant scrawl, and seemed to be the standard fare for this kind of thing. Getting too hard out there, no end in sight, tell my wife and my daughter Abigail that I tried, blah blah blah.
“Maid heard a shot around 7:30,” Volley said. “We got the door down an hour later.”
“Why so long?” Lane asked.
“Didn’t know where the shot came from,” Volley said. “Process of elimination took some time.”
Lane looked at the door. Splinters near the busted-open hinges. A broken chain dangling.
A few patrolmen were standing outside looking in. Lane scanned their faces and found mostly curiosity, except for one with red, swollen eyes and a weary face.
“You think you’re good here?” Volley asked.
“Getting there,” Lane said. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”
“I’m going out for a smoke,” the captain said, and walked out into the hall.
Lane followed him out and approached the looming patrolman with the red eyes. His name tag read Hoover.
“I’m Detective Lane.” They shook hands. “Can I get some help in here?”
The patrolman wiped the stubble on his chin, nodded solemnly, and stepped inside. Lane closed the door to the room and began his true investigation.
He got on his hands and knees to examine under the bed. Nothing but dust balls, skin flakes from previous guests. The pillowcases were empty of stains; the bed sheets showed nothing special. The bathroom had a used towel over the shower curtain rod that had since dried, some toiletries resting on the counter, and on the sink’s edge, a razor spotted with dried shaving cream.
He opened the closet door. Inside was a briefcase. He brought it to the bed and lifted it open. It was full of clothes; nothing worthwhile. The bedside table was empty except for the Gideon Bible rattling in its top drawer. Lane grabbed it and held it up.
“Favorite passage?”
Hoover shook his head.
“Maybe in the next life,” Lane said.
He dropped the Bible back into the drawer and slammed it shut.
The scene clear of suspicion, it was time to work the body.
“I was Steve’s partner for a bit, awhile back,” Hoover said, unprompted. “I asked for a transfer back in ‘62. Was getting tired of working homicide so I had them put me on traffic duty. More stress but fewer nightmares.”
“I get that,” Lane said.
He went down to a knee to examine Harrison’s pockets. Empty.
“Felt like I left Steve holding the bag on a few things,” Hoover said.
“That’s just the passage of life. We all have those,” Lane said. “I’m sure he didn’t take it personally. I heard he was a good one.”
“Got that right,” Hoover said. “My name’s Nick, by the way.”
“Alright Nick,” Lane said. “Tell me about your pal.”
As Lane patted down the body, Hoover went through their shared history.
They’d met in the army, overseas in Germany. They soon realized they were both from the city. Back home, they’d decided to convert their newly acquired skills in weapons handling and crowd control into being cops, then moved up the ranks together to homicide. They were good at the gig, but at some point policing the public and policing their own got blurred.
“Any stiff that showed up with a red tag on its toe meant to give it the once-over, but nothing more,” Hoover said. “It meant that someone else, someone above us, had wanted it swept aside. It never sat right with either of us, but Stevie had kids at home, as did I, and another thing you learn in the army is to follow orders.”
Lane lifted Harrison’s head to examine the bullethole. It had entered at the right temple and exited above the left eye, where the gaping wound had already congealed. Not a perfectly straight line, but so much bone and brain matter in there will tweak a trajectory.
Lane smelled Harrison’s hand: gunshot residue. He smelled the mouth: No booze.
“Pretty clean case,” Lane said as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up, leaning against the edge of the desk next to the body. “Which is why frankly I’m a little troubled, Officer.”
“What do you mean?” Hoover asked.
“Tonight, I got the phone call just before dinner,” Lane said. “When that happens, it means they need some real help on a case. Get a fresh set of eyes on something that’s bugging them, but that has some urgency to it. And this ain’t that.”
Hoover sat on the bed. Lane took another inhale and aimed a finger out the door.
“I can tell you some of the worst things that eight or nine of those men out there have done in their lives,” Lane said through a cloud of smoke. “My job is pretty simple. I’m a detective, but I solve the shit that other cops can’t, or won’t, figure out. Those red toe tags you mentioned? I clean up some of those messes.”
Lane turned to Harrison’s body.
“Trouble with this one is,” Lane said, “I can’t figure out why they brought me in.”
The hallway door opened and in waddled Captain Volley.
“Whatcha got, Lane?” Volley spat.
“Clean as a whistle,” Lane said, took another draw from his cigarette. “Your man got sad, so he ended it here.”
Volley looked at Hoover. He gave him a glare that took Hoover a moment to register. But when he did, he bashfully bounced off the bed and quickly hustled out of the room back into the cacophony of cops. Lane and Volley were alone again with the fallen officer.
“Any idea why he’d do it here at this joint?” the captain asked.
“Privacy. Get away from home. Wanted a stranger to find him instead of his kids,” Lane said. “Dealer’s choice.”
“I guess that’s that then,” Volley said.
“I suppose it is,” Lane said.
Volley turned into the hallway.
“Go ahead, roll him out,” he said.
Three officers came in. Lane knew them all. Rogers, who beat up a 16-year-old until his jaw needed to be wired shut. Drake, who shot a pregnant woman in the back. Glavis, who took a percentage from all the street walkers on 5th.
Lane sucked in smoke as he watched them lift the body on the gurney and cover it in a white sheet before wheeling it out. He stood up and put his cigarette out on the windowsill. He lifted open the window and flung the stub out into the courtyard.
“One more thing,” Volley said. “Thought I’d save you the trouble of writing it all out yourself.”
The captain took a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and set it on the desk. It was a pre-written report—the official declaration that, according to Detective Lukas Lane, Detective Steven Harrison’s life ended in a suicide, full stop.
Volley set a pen down next to it.
Lane recalled the gauntlet of officers still in the hallway, still hanging around. As if waiting for this piece of paper to get officialized and filed away. And then Lane thought about Adele and Johnny back across the river, and his turkey and potatoes kept warm in the oven.
Without reading the note, Lane signed his name on the dotted line and went home.
To be continued...
Artwork by Tiffany Silver Braun.
If you like Tales from the Palmer Hotel, tell a friend. If you really like it, the suggested donation for the series is a one-time payment of $6.66. Venmo (@Rick-Paulas) or Paypal (rickpaulas@gmail.com).