Chapter 8
Sipping her tea as Brass drove to the hospital, a growing unease fell over Sara. While she didn't regret telling Greg about her background, she felt relieved that he hadn't asked what became of her mother. He'd probably been too shocked by her story to realize she hadn't talked about her. Eventually, he'd want to know.
It wasn't like she lied to Greg when she said there was no real family left to visit – not exactly. Sure, the woman locked up in the mental health facility had given birth to her, but it wasn't the same woman she'd known as a child. The woman she'd been taken to visit by social workers and foster families had been … different.
Even now, Sara wasn't sure if the change was because of the medications or if the psychotic break that led to murder had permanently altered Laura Sidle's personality. Either way, she had been unprepared to deal with the stranger in her mother's body.
It had been nearly twenty years since she'd visited her mother in person, and she tried to avoid thinking about her. Even the few times she talked to Gil about her childhood, she had to force herself to continue.
Her PEAP counselor had tried to talk her into visiting her mother, but Sara had balked at the suggestions. That was additional drama she didn't need in her life.
"Hey!"
Brass' yell startled her out of her daydream, and she nearly spilled her tea.
"Okay, so you're not completely deaf," he said bluntly.
"Sorry, I got lost in my own thoughts."
"Must be some thoughts if you ignored my entire monologue," he groused. "Or I guess soliloquy is more accurate."
"What did I miss?" she asked contritely. She must be tired if she was zoning out over her mother.
"Well, I think my last question is the most pressing – should I be worried that you're mainlining candy canes?"
It took her a moment to figure out what he meant, and she gave him an annoyed look. "I'm drinking peppermint tea because it tastes good and doesn't have caffeine. I want to sleep when I get home. I'm not trying to cover up the smell of alcohol on my breath."
His broad grin surprised her. "Didn't really think you were, but it's not like you to tune out like that."
"I was talking to Greg earlier. It brought up some bad memories." She took a long sip of her tea, stalling for time as she gathered her thoughts. It had been a relief to talk to Greg, but it wasn't a conversation she was ready to repeat just yet. Still, she felt he deserved a better answer. "I didn't have the happiest childhood."
"Yeah, I figured that out a long time ago," Brass stated, giving her a kind look.
"You did?" she said, sounding out the words slowly.
"I left home when I was big enough to hit back. I know something about bad childhoods."
"I," she said, unsure of what to add and wondering if Greg had felt this way earlier.
"You don't have to say anything. I know something about how hard it is to talk about, too."
"Maybe later, if you want to know," she said. "I don't think I want to go through it twice in one morning."
"No problem. You want me to drop you off? I can do an interview by myself. They let us captains do that on occasion."
Sara gave him a wicked smile. "I'd hope so. I'm busy enough without having to hold your hand all the time."
"Oh! Here I am being nice and you're giving me grief."
"Hey, it's the highlight of my day!"
Brass chuckled for a moment before turning somber. "You really okay?"
Sara let out a brief snort. "That's a loaded question if I ever heard one."
"Don't ever sell yourself short to me," he said seriously. "We both know how it could have turned out. We deal with the consequences everyday. You did good by yourself."
She wasn't sure if she completely agreed with Jim, but she wasn't going to argue. "Thanks. You didn't turn out too badly yourself."
"I made my share of mistakes along the way," Brass said. "But life is easier when you're as charming as I am."
"I'll take your word for that," she replied, sharing his smile. "So, what did I miss while I was zoning out?"
"I said I heard from Narcotics. The addicts are starting to stick together, safety in numbers, all that. They've realized someone is hunting them down," he said.
Sara took another sip of tea. "Too bad they don't take this as a clue to get into rehab."
"Everyone has their own personal level of rock bottom. For too many, that's six-feet under," he said wearily as they pulled into the hospital. "Glad it wasn't for you."
"I'm fine," she insisted, getting out as soon as he parked.
It didn't take them long to find the floor where Stan was being kept, and they quickly introduced themselves at the nurses' station.
"Is Stan up for visitors?" Sara asked, refusing to use his nickname of Stinky.
The frazzled nurse didn't pause as she worked her way through the stack of charts at the station. "Mr. Lloyd? He wanted to leave this morning, but we knew you wanted to talk to him. We 'lost' his clothes until you're done with him. Come on, the doc approved a sedative if he gets too worked up." She showed them a syringe before pocketing it.
"Any chance you know someone who can talk to us about Henry Van Buren?" Brass asked.
"Who's he?" their nurse asked.
"He was murdered a couple years ago," a second nurse said as she came up behind them and grabbed another chart. "Seth Meier would be a good place to start. He has one of our patients in surgery now, but he should be done soon. I'll call up and let him know you want to see him."
"Thanks," Sara called out as they followed their nurse to a room at the end of the hallway.
"Mr. Lloyd, these folks are from the police department. They want to talk to you," the nurse said brightly.
'Stinky' Stan Lloyd was sitting up in his bed, staring blandly at the news report on the television. It was hard for Sara to guess his age. He was tall and thin, with a heavily-lined face. His hands had obviously been injured badly at some point; his knuckles were all swollen and scars covered them from fingers to his wrists. She assumed that was from his run-in with the Mafia years ago. Other than that, he looked remarkably well for a man who lived in the loft of a rundown warehouse.
After a beat, he turned to stare at them.
"Hey, Stan," Brass called out in a friendly voice. "I'm Jim Brass and this is Sara Sidle. We want to ask you some questions."
"About my clothes? They're missing."
"I told you we're looking for them. I only got two hands," the nurse said, but without any rancor.
Stan stared at her for a beat before looking back with a mild expression. "Oh."
"No, we want to talk to you about what you saw in the warehouse the other day," Brass told him.
"Oh. That."
"So, you saw what happened?" the detective asked.
Stan shuddered. "Karl was murdered."
"Do you think you can describe the guy to us?"
"Karl? He was skinny."
"Not Karl. We know what he looks like," Brass said. "Can you tell us what the guy who killed him looked like?"
Stan stared blankly, his head tilted in confusion.
"Mr. Lloyd is a chronic alcoholic," their nurse whispered softly. "Elevator doesn't always reach the top floor first time around, if you catch my drift."
Brass sighed softly. "Stan, did you hear me?" he asked, waiting until he got a nod in return. "So, you were home when the murder occurred?"
He nodded.
"And you saw the whole thing?" Brass asked, waiting for the next nod. "So, what did the guy look like?"
Stan just looked confused. "You said you knew what Karl looked like."
"Yeah, we have his body in the morgue. Now, you saw the murder," Brass insisted, his impatience starting to show. Again, Stan's head moved up and down. "So tell me what the guy looked like. Was he tall, short, fat? Give me something here."
Sara leaned forward, putting a restraining hand on Brass' arm. Stan's responses reminded her of her mother's behavior when the outside world didn't share her perception of reality. He wasn't able to process something in Jim's questions.
"Hi, Stan," she said in a friendly voice. "I know it's hard to talk about."
"It was all so horrible," he said, his voice amazingly rich. In another life, Sara was sure he could have had a career on radio or in commercials.
She kept her own voice low and calm. "And you had to see the whole thing?"
"I like Karl. He gives me food when he finds a good haul at the grocery store dumpster. He knows I like grapefruits. He always gives them to me."
"And you saw who killed him?" she continued.
"Yes," he whispered.
Sara gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, hoping her suspicions were correct. "Can you tell me what she looked like?"
"Oh, she wasn't as tall as you, but close," he said clearly and without any of his earlier confusion. "But she had dark hair like yours. Yours is nicer, though. Hers was up in a bun. I like it down."
"Thanks," she said, steering the conversation back on track. "What else can you tell me about her? Was she black or white?"
Stan seemed embarrassed, but he leaned towards Brass and spoke softly. "She was more of a tan color. Is that the correct term?"
"She was Hispanic?" the detective asked, relieved to be getting somewhere.
"Maybe. It's hard for me to tell sometimes," Stan said with a blush.
"That's okay. What was she wearing?" he asked.
Stan pointed at the nurse.
"Say what?" she exclaimed. "I said I'd find your clothes, Mr. Lloyd. There's no call for you pointing me out as a killer!"
Sara and Brass exchanged a look. The nurse was wearing typical scrubs, fitting with the possibility their killer had a medical background.
Without prompting, Stan continued. "But hers was an indigo blue. That nurse is wearing periwinkle."
Brass raised an eyebrow in question.
"My father worked in the garment district in New York. I know dye colors," Stan said, sounding slightly put out.
"Hey, anything that makes my job easier," he said.
The nurse whispered again. "Only surgeons wear dark blue scrubs here. Can't say about other places."
Brass bobbed his head in acknowledgment before turning back to Stan. "Can you start at the beginning? What all did you see?"
He shuddered and started to rock. "I was asleep. I heard Karl scream. He kept screaming and screaming. I looked out the window of my loft, and I saw her slashing at him. He begged her to stop. I was too scared to help him."
"Hey, there was nothing you could have done," Brass said kindly. "She was armed. Was it a knife?"
"Something smaller. Silver. Like a scalpel."
"Well, tar me in shit and call me a stinker," the nurse muttered as she took out the syringe. "How you doin', Mr. Lloyd?"
"I want to go home. When can I go home?" he asked Sara.
"The warehouse is a crime scene. You can't go back there yet," she said. He was obviously upset, but she hoped he'd be able to answer a few more questions. "Stan, did the killer say anything?"
"I don't think so. All I heard was Karl. She never said a word to him."
"Was this someone you saw hanging around the warehouse before?" Brass asked him. "Did she look familiar?"
"I don't know. I'm not usually home that time of day," he said, looking at Sara in embarrassment. "I had an upset stomach."
"It happens. Do you think you could work with a sketch artist?"
Stan shook his head. "I only saw her from behind, never her face."
"It's okay. Did you know the person in the other room?" she asked.
"Rocky. That's what everyone called him. He's from Minnesota," Stan said, frowning. "Or maybe it was Milwaukee. Miami? No, no, it was somewhere cold. Michigan? Anyway, one of those places that starts with em. He ran away when he was a kid."
"Thanks," Sara said. It wasn't much, but it gave them a chance of identifying their John Doe.
"I want to go home," he repeated softly.
"How about I give you a shot and you can sleep until after lunch?" the nurse suggested. When he hesitated, she added. "I'll probably take me that long to find your clothes."
"Oh."
"Would you like me to see if I can get you in a shelter?" Sara suggested kindly. His loft had been clean, but the 'furniture' was plastic bags stuffed with newspaper.
"Oh, no, thank you. I don't like shelters. They don't let you drink there."
"You need somewhere to stay," Brass said.
"I'll stop by my sister's house. It's where I get my disability checks sent."
"Will she let you live there?" Sara asked hopefully. She wanted to see him off the streets.
"No, no. She doesn't let me live there, 'cause she doesn't like my drinking, but she'll let me stay in the pool house for a day or two. She always makes sure I have something to eat and clean clothes."
"Well, that's something. Here's my card. You give me a call if you think of anything else," Brass told him.
Once in the hallway, he let out a sigh. "Well, I guess it's a good thing you were holding my hand today. You knew how to get through to him."
"Practice," Sara admitted after a moment's hesitation. She couldn't very well include Greg in her secrets and leave out Brass, especially after all he had done for her. "My mom had … issues. She self-medicated with alcohol."
"Yeah, that'll give you bad memories," he said softly, shocked when she gave him a haunted look.
In a quiet voice, she added, "I ended up in foster care after she killed my dad."
Before he had time to respond, a nurse came up to them. "That's Dr. Meier at the nurses' station."
Sara stalked off quickly, silently cursing herself for dropping that on him without warning and while at an interview.
TBC
