Leaving the Scene Page 4

  “Both of them?”

  “You mean both eyes?”

  “No, sir. Both masks.”

  “Oh. Yeah. The both of them was wearing the same masks.”

  The germ of a seed of an idea formed in Boston’s head. “Was it a Star Wars character?”

  “Coulda been, I guess. I don’t follow Star Wars. Saw the first three when I was a kid, but the newer ones all look stupid to me, being a grown man an’ ’at.”

  “What color was the face?”

  Mroczka applied real concentration now that Boston had shown genuine interest. “Hard to say. Sorta brownish greenish. Mostly brownish. One of them dinosaur colors.”

  “Smooth or lumpy?”

  “Snout was pretty smooth. Had teeth like a person, now that I think about it.”

  “Was it Jar Jar Binks?”

  Mroczka shrugged. “If he wasn’t in the first three, I got no idea. Chewbacca I know. Them robots, you know, R2-3PO and the one looks like a garbage can? Them I know.”

  Boston pulled his cell. Googled Jar Jar Binks. Showed the result to Mroczka. “This the face?”

  Mroczka’s eyes snapped open. “That’s the one. Who’d come up with a goofy-looking cocksucker like that?”

  Boston thought of mentioning George Lucas. Saw no upside. “Can you tell me anything else about them? Tall? Short? Thin? Fat? Anything distinctive about either of them?”

  “One was over six foot tall. The other was six, eight inches shorter. Average builds. The tall one has one of those speech ingredients.”

  “A what?”

  “You know. Couldn’t say esses. They all come out like T-H.”

  “Ah.” Boston crossed out “ingredient.” “What were they wearing?”

  “T-shirts and jeans. Dirty T-shirts and jeans.”

  “Dirty how? Grease stains? Paint? Yard dirt?”

  Mroczka shook his head. “No no no. Not stained. Dirty. One said he was an orgasm donor and the other advertised free mustache rides. Dirty like that.”

  Boston crossed out “dirty,” wrote “obscene.” Looked around the store. “They touch anything with their hands?”

  “Not so’s I noticed. The big one pushed the door open with his ass on the way out.”

  Boston looked at the entry doors. Curved metal handles about a foot high to pull on. “Were they wearing gloves?”

  Mroczka pulled a face. “Ninety degrees outside and two guys come in wearing gloves? I’d a known something was up right away.”

  Boston called the shop for a detective. Neuschwander head down on the hit-and-run. Dougherty and Shimp in with a witness. Positioned himself inside the door to open it so anybody who wanted in wouldn’t touch the outside handle, not expecting they’d get anything of use off it. Forty-five minutes later, his radio squawked with more pressing business. Told Jake Mroczka not to let anyone touch the outer handle until a detective dusted for prints. Knew he wouldn’t. Left to answer the next call.

  5:58 p.m.

  Helping out with the hit-and-run that might or might not be a homicide turned into way more than Teresa Shimp bargained for. Opening her notebook and giving Melody Rushnock the standard “Anything you can think of. You never know what might turn out to be important later” speech inspired the recitation of Patty Polcyn’s life story. More to the point, the parts of Melody Rushnock’s life story that intersected with her Aunt Patty’s. By the time Teresa disengaged, Dougherty had left for and come back from dusting the door handles at Mroczka’s. He walked in as Teresa was signing out. Hung his jacket on the hook in their office, sat down, opened a Coke from the mini-fridge, and said, “What’d you get?”

  Teresa was grateful not to have had to put up with Dougherty trying to be patient while listening to tales of the trip to Kennywood Melody’s junior year—or senior—with all the cousins and who did what and who Angie ended up sleeping with years after and what happened when Aunt Patty caught Greg and Rina making out behind the Exterminator. Took over an hour, but Teresa was able—through patience, deft questioning, and stifled exasperation—to piece together a decent timeline for Patty Polcyn on the night she died.

  “Melody’s been living with Patty for a couple of months now, ever since she—Melody—dumped Ricky and moved out.”

  “Who’s Ricky?”

  “He doesn’t matter except for if he hadn’t been such a jerk Melody would never have moved out and we’d have nothing on Patty’s last day.”

  “Patty married?”

  “Not recently. Her kids are grown and gone so she apparently didn’t see the need for a husband anymore.”

  “An emancipated woman. Good for her. Sorry to interrupt.”

  “The reason I brought it up is Melody got worried and started calling around when Patty didn’t come home. From what Melody told me, Patty got around, but she was always good about letting someone know where she went and when she’d be home.”

  “So where’d she go?”

  “Here.”

  “Here? In the station?”

  “On the county side, actually. The jail. Patty had a friend we booked for D and D. She came over to see if she could bail him out.”

  “Could she?”

  “No. The guy’s still here. Might not have had enough credit on her card. Anyway, that’s what makes this interesting. Melody had plans to go out with friends, and Patty let her use her—Patty’s—car since Melody’s needs a battery.”

  “How’d Patty get here?”

  “Don’t know. She appears to have been hitchhiking home, so maybe that’s how she got here.”

  “She hitchhiked? Honest to God?” Teresa nodded. “How old was she?”

  “Forty-eight. Why?”

  “No reason. She seemed younger lying there.” Doc swallowed Coke. “How do we know she was hitching back home?”

  “We don’t, not for sure. Based on what Melody found out from calling around, that’s the most likely thing. She says if Patty wanted to get somewhere, she’d find a way and wasn’t afraid to thumb.”

  “Okay, so for now she’s hitching home.”

  “Someone had to have picked her up because after she left here she went to see an unnamed family friend to buy some grass.”

  “She called him an ‘unnamed family friend’? Honest to God?”

  “Not in those words. Melody wouldn’t give me the name. Said she didn’t want to get the guy in trouble.”

  “She want to help us find out who killed her aunt?” Teresa shrugged. “How does Melody know Patty was there?”

  “She called everyone she knew who might’ve seen her.”

  “Did she call Patty?”

  “Several times. All the calls went straight to voice mail. Melody says Patty sometimes forgot to charge her cell for a few days at a time, so she didn’t worry at first.”

  Dougherty looked inattentive again. Spoke as if no one else was in the room. “Patty didn’t have a cell or a purse or a wallet on her when we found her. Makes me wonder if she had them taken from her or if she left them in the car.”

  “You think she’d been in the car that killed her?”

  “Neuschwander sure does. She had only one shoe on and we can’t find the other one. Noosh’s theory is she was in the car that killed her and getting out might not’ve been her idea. Or maybe it was and the opinion lacked unanimity. Either way, there’s a struggle. A hasty departure. Things get left behind. Anyone Melody talked to see the car Patty was in?”

  “The unnamed family friend pot dealer said whoever drove Patty to his place sat in the car and idled it while he waited.”

  “He sure it’s a he?”

  “Not a hundred percent but that was the assumption.”

  “He get a look at the car?”

  “Something dark. Blue or black.”

  “He say anything about a make or model? Any kind of description better than ‘dark’?”

  “If he did, Melody didn’t tell me.”

  “And Melody’s not giving up the name.” Teresa shook her head. “You give her the ‘This is a homicide investigation; we don’t care about some misdemeanor grass’ speech?” Teresa had. “And she still didn’t go for it?”

  “She said that’s what we’d say today. She’s afraid next month or the month after we’d be looking for an easy bust and use what she said as probable cause.”

  Dougherty stared at the wall he faced—not the one behind Teresa—and said, “Just once I’d like to be able to look at a witness in the box like Bunk used to do on The Wire and say, ‘I’m murder police. That don’t interest me.’ One time.” Looked wistful. “Anyone else see her?”

  “Melody says another friend saw Patty at Fat Jimmy’s bar around midnight.”

  Dougherty perked right up. “She there alone?”

  “Melody’s source says no, but he didn’t recognize who she was with.”

  “Does this source have a name?”

  Teresa checked her notes. “Paul Halicki. He lives off of Freeport Road, up on the hill.”

  “He’s handy to Coxcomb Estates. Maybe you can kill two birds with one stone.” Checked his watch. “No point going to Fat Jimmy’s now.” Teresa breathed a sigh of relief. Fat Jimmy’s the most notorious bar in Penns River. The ladies’ room her worst nightmare: no lock on the stall door, a stained sink, cracked mirror, and bad lighting. Only the crud held the floor tiles together. “Go home. Get something to eat. Take a nap maybe. I’ll meet you there at 10:30.”

  “Do you really think the same people will be there?”

  Dougherty looked surprised. “This is Fat Jimmy’s we’re talking about. They’ll probably be on the same stools.”

  10:34 p.m.

  Getting your first legal drink at Fat Jimmy’s was as much a rite of passage in Penns River as killing a lion with a spear in some African countries or your first “mistaken” foreclosure at Wells Fargo. Cinder block construction with the bar on the right as you entered and two pool tables at the left rear. The regulars were borderline unemployed, borderline broke, borderline criminals, or some combination of the three. Jimmy’s joint also served as a temp agency for the local underworld, a good place to pick up day—more often night—laborers.

  Doc stopped by off-duty once a month or so to shoot the shit with his old high school buddy Jimmy, who always complained about how having a cop there cut his business in half but still comped most of Doc’s drinks. Doc knew Jimmy liked having a “source on the force” if he ever needed one and was not above the random phone call when he became aware of activity that crossed the line of even his broad interpretation of legality.

  “Jimmy!” Doc’s voice cut through the gloom. Space materialized as anyone near the stool he aimed for either turned their backs or departed. Shimp followed with the enthusiasm of a child going to the dentist.

  Jimmy pointed to Shimp. “She can stay. You, Dougherty…ah, fuck it. Don’t matter what I’d say. You’re harder to get rid of than head lice. What’re you drinking?”

  Doc held his hands chest high, palms out. “Thanks, but no. We’re on the clock.” Took a copy of Patty Polcyn’s driver’s license photo from a pocket. “Know her?”

  “Sure. Patty Polcyn.”

  “She a regular?”

  Jimmy made a seesaw motion with one hand. “Semi. What’d she do?”

  “She died.”

  “Patty? Died?” Jimmy took a few seconds to get his head around it. “She was just in here last night.”

  “That’s why we stopped by.” Doc gestured to include the whole room. “Anyone here who might’ve seen her?”

  Jimmy took inventory. “Harley Hagenmeyer over there. Scooter Morris and Big Steve and Fat Steve for sure. Bunch a people. Patty Polcyn is dead? What happened to her?”

  “Hit-and-run. Two kids found her this morning in the lot of the old Gulf station down there by DQ.”

  “Fuck me. Yeah, she was here. You want someplace where you can talk to people?” Jimmy must have thought a lot of Patty. The random surreptitious phone call was one thing. Overt cooperation with the law was something else altogether.

  “Thanks, Jimmy. Really. I have another small favor to ask.” Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “You know who we’re going to want to talk to. Make sure none of them leaves until we do.”

  Jimmy let them use his “office”—a ten-by-ten storeroom with cases of beer and whiskey stacked along the walls. A filing cabinet, card table, and two straight-backed chairs were the furnishings. Doc and Shimp put the witnesses in a chair and stood to take the statements. Showing who was in charge, not so close they’d seem menacing.

  Doc and Harley Hagenmeyer had history—Harley had “history” with every Penns River cop—so Doc scooped him up right away lest he decide to skip the festivities and place Jimmy in an awkward position. “I seen Patty when she come in. Guy was younger than her but that’s only because I know how old she was and it was older than she looked. Not that I would’ve minded a piece even if she was older than me.”

  “What did he look like?’

  “Average.”

  “Average how?”

  “Not as tall as you but taller than her.” Jerked his head in Shimp’s direction. “Blond hair kinda long and stringy, and a mustache he really shoulda give up on.”

  “You catch a name?”

  “Ron something. Said he worked at a body shop out Greensburg Road, but I know most the guys around here and I never seen him before.”

  “Anything else you can tell us about him?”

  “He loved his car. Nice ride, too.”

  “You saw it?”

  “I took a quick look when someone opened the door. Guy had it parked right out front.”

  “You get the make or model?”

  Harley shook his head. “I didn’t get a good look. Something sporty.”

  “Color?”

  “Black, I think. Dark for sure.”

  Big Steve was too cool to sit in the chair. He turned it around and straddled it, elbows resting on the back. “I talked to him a little. His uncle owns a bar over Plum Borough. Said he worked tool and die across the river.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “About my size but thinner.” Big Steve six-two, two-fifty. “Dirty blond hair and one of those droopy mustaches down past the corner of his mouth.”

  “You see his car?”

  “Not really. Kept talking about what a sweet ride he had, but him and Patty left before I did. I couldn’t see going outside just to look at a fucking car like I never seen one before.”

  “You catch a name?”

  “John something.”

  Scooter Morris said they should have talked to him first. Saved themselves some time. “I knew he was trouble soon as he walked in. Little bantam rooster–looking cocksucker—sorry, miss, excuse me—come in like he owned the joint.”

  The cops exchanged glances. “How big?”

  Scooter turned toward Shimp. “No taller than you. Maybe even thinner, not saying you have any excess on you. Between us, I thought he might’ve been a tweaker. You know the look? Bad hair, shitty teeth?”

  “What color was his hair?”

  “Light brown, I guess. Hard to say between it looking like it hadn’t been washed in a while and the light in this shithole.”

  “Anything else strike you? Something he said? Where he lives? Where he works?”

  “Nah. I only about half listened while I watched the ball game. He might’ve said something about working on cars, but I didn’t catch where. No idea where he lives.”

  “What about his car? You get a look at it?”

  “Nah, but that’s probably why I can’t tell you much else. All he did was talk about what a great job he did restoring it. I tuned him out after the Pirates got a couple men on base.”

  “You see it?”

  “Nah. He sure did talk it up, though. Practically begged people to ask him about it. Fuck him. Anyone wants to show off that bad can kiss my ass.”

  “Did he say what it was?”

  “Not so’s I heard.”

  “You catch a name for him?”

  “Not like we were introduced or nothing, but I think I heard someone call him Don.”

  Fat Steve not as tall as Big Steve and not as fat as Fat Jimmy. He also wasn’t any smarter than the average household appliance. “See, the thing about this kind of guy is he’s always looking to charm you. You know, like the guy killed all them college girls in Florida? Al Bundy? Guy in NCIS played him in a movie, The Deliberative Stranger or something. They said he could charm the pants right off a girl, then he’d kill them.”

  Shimp was not a virgin but had yet to meet a man who could get her to take off as much as a glove on charm alone. “How was he charming?” she said so she’d know what to be on the lookout for.

  “Come on. Nice-looking girl like you must know all about how men are charming.” Teresa knew all about how men thought they were charming, let Fat Steve talk. “Lets her know he has a little cash to spend. Figures out what it is about her she likes best and compliments it. Gives her the idea he’s a guy who can keep his mouth shut, you know, in case she’s married. All the little tricks women fall for.”

  Dougherty spoke up before any more male secrets got out. “What did this charmer look like?”

  “He was sort of…I don’t know…what’s the word I want? Nondescript.”

  Teresa fought not to roll her eyes. Dougherty stared lasers through Fat Steve. “Nondescript in what way? Was he a shape-shifter and you couldn’t get a handle on how he looked most often?”

  Fat Steve didn’t appear to enjoy Dougherty ragging on him. “No, he wasn’t a shape-shifter. Only certain Southwestern Indians can do that, and they have to be on peyote first. This was a white guy. He just didn’t have nothing memorial about him.”

  “What about his hair? What color?”

  “Brown.”

  “How long?”

  Thought, then, “Not too long. Over his ears.”

  “You must’ve heard him talk quite a bit to know he was a charmer. He say where he worked?”