196
Aligned Design
Ch 36
Eames drove through the nearly empty streets. Neither she nor Bobby had spoken. Silence between them was not unusual. This silence, however, was swollen with unspoken words.
Bobby was glad to be going to a scene, but he would rather be in bed with Gleason. They needed to talk. She needs to see a doctor, he thought. I'll get one of those home pregnancy tests. Then we'll know what to do. It may be nothing. Maybe it's nothing. Let it be nothing.
Eames' head was swimming. Gleason had nearly thrown up in the sink. Morning sickness? Apparently, she had thrown up earlier. Is she pregnant? Oh, my God, what will they do? How old is she, anyway? Older than me and I just squeaked by with my nephew. Bobby with a baby? She had to smile. Holy mackerel!
The silence thickened.
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"This is Clinton, coming up." Bobby said. Flashing lights reflected high in the bare limbs of the old trees lining Clinton. Eames put on the right signal and slowed. "It should be just around the corner on the right." He opened her glove box and removed a pair of latex gloves from a box of size small for her and took a pair of extra large from a plastic zipper bag for himself.
They made the turn and the street was alive with flashing lights. Eames pulled up behind a black and white, near the corner. They started up the block and both pulled their shields from a pants pocket and clipped them to their lapels. They were snapping on the latex as they reached the high main gate. Gleason took the lead.
"Who called this in?" she asked a uniformed.
"Hey Paganowiecz, Bales," the officer hollered, "Major Case is here." Then to the two detectives, "The bodies are down there, between the third and fourth buildings. Follow your nose."
Eames and Goren walked to the third building and turned. Portable floodlights had been set up and lit the area between the two buildings like a stage.
The smell of decomp was pervasive. "Geeze," said Eames, putting her hand to her nose. She hated all things gross. Bobby didn't seem to notice or mind. He strode up to the bodies and bent down.
"These bodies have been here since sometime Wednesday, right? It looks like animals have been at them. See how the cheek and lips are torn? Is this Navicky?" he asked, looking up at Eames and she nodded. He moved to the other body and examined both hands. They were palms up and the fingertips were shredded. "Teeth did not do this, though." He thought, "Maybe carrion birds."
He set down the hand, went back to Navicky's body and swept his eyes over it. Bobby spoke aloud as if to himself, "Two shots to the front of the head. Two shots in the back of the head on the other guy. Do we know who this man is?" pointing and looking up again. She shrugged and mumbled, "I'll find out."
Bobby continued, "Both shots are close together, the shooter was expert. They don't look close range." Bobby stood up and looked to his left, toward the back of the facility. Eames watched him think. She knew to be quiet while he visualized the scene.
Bobby swallowed, pursed his lips and then said, pointing, "The shooter was back here." He walked toward the far end of the building and looked back toward the bodies. Eames watched him process, watched him envisage the scenario. "He parked somewhere where these two couldn't see or hear him." Bobby turned and looked along the driveway between the two rows of buildings. "He probably parked back here and hid behind the end of the building. His aim is too exact for him to be any further away." He turned and looked at the building directly behind this one, to the left again. "Yeah, he stood here and waited for his moment. He shot one, turned back, hid, waited and then shot the other." Bobby moved as the shooter may have moved. "He's good but he wouldn't be able to get off four shots in quick succession and maintain that degree of accuracy."
"I could," Eames said, with her hand still her over nose. Bobby looked at her, smiled knowingly, and nodded.
"He used a silencer. He did this during the daytime. This neighborhood would recognize gun shots."
Bobby walked back to the bodies. His hands indicated the action as he said, "They were moving the art from the unit to the boot. Do we know who this other guy is?" He asked again, looking at the uniformed standing by.
"J. T. Pangborn," he replied.
"Do we have anything on him? Who is he?" He looked from the officer to Eames who shook her head and shrugged.
The officer asked, "Detective, are you finished with the bodies? The ME called and is waiting to examine, she's not happy."
"Uh, yeah, I'm done," Bobby looked at Eames who was not looking too well.
Bobby stood quietly thinking and then said, "Let's open that unit. Snap the hasp and bag the lock." The officer nodded and went to get the bolt cutters.
Eames had to walk away for a bit. She was going to pull a Gleason right here if she didn't get away from that smell.
"The place has video surveillance. I'll arrange to get the tapes," she said to Bobby.
He nodded and asked, "Did anyone contact the owner?"
"I'll find out." Eames nearly trotted away.
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Alphonse woke slowly and saw that he was with two other men. What did I . . . oh yeah. Not bad, he thought, remembering, a little sore, but not bad. The other two were sound asleep, hanging onto each other. His heart saddened at the sight. They were lucky to have each other. He had watched them with each other last night. Alphonse saw a tenderness he had never known.
Carefully, he extricated himself from the bed. He quietly picked up his clothes and walked into the bathroom. Seven minutes later, he crept back into the bedroom and looked around. Ah, there, on the dresser, just what he wanted, needed. Alphonse helped himself to the two wallets and the set of keys left out for the taking. So he took.
Alphonse left the hotel room door unlatched and hung the 'Service Please' sign on the handle. In the parking lot, he walked around, clicking the unlock button until he found the right car. It was small, dirty, and – what is this, six crates stacked in the back. Well, we will have time to check that later. Alphonse got in, checked the gas – will need to fill up soon, and headed out. Bye, bye Baltimore.
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Bobby moved to the car's boot. He pulled his high power penlight from his jacket pocket and peered inside. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The rear seatback had been unlatched, pushed forward and laid onto the back seat to expand the cargo space. Nothing caught his eye. He walked around the vehicle looking, just seeing what was there. He saw nothing.
"Dust the passenger side door, glove box lid and dash for prints. Pangborn's fingers are too destroyed to get prints," he said to a CSU member standing nearby, waiting for direction.
"Detective, the lock is open," an officer told him.
"Thanks." Bobby watched the officer raise the overhead door. "Catch that light pull," he said, and the officer pulled the cord to illuminate the area. Nothing. Not a thing. It was completely empty. Navicky must have rented this space just to stash the paintings, he thought.
Bobby stood in the center of the unit and slowly turned three hundred sixty degrees. He was looking for anything – anything that would point him and Eames toward the shooter. He stopped and looked at the car again. His eyes strayed to the underside.
What is that? Something sat half hidden behind the left rear tire, pointing to the front end of the vehicle. Bobby bent at the waist and looked again. He straightened and went to the back of the car, stepping over the two bodies and around the medical examiner's attendant prepping the bodies for transport to the morgue. He got down on his stomach, and saw it.
"Uh, let me have those scissors, would you?" he said to the attendant. The fellow picked up the long, narrow scissors and handed them to the detective. Bobby took them and reached for the object. He slid the long, closed scissors into the open end and lifted it. He held it carefully, struggled to his feet, and called, "I need a large bag here, please."
A CSU member appeared holding open a large evidence bag and Bobby placed the foot-long section of wire wrapped hose inside.
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Gleason went to the sofa and sat for a bit. Thoughts swirled. She was happy to be back with Bobby. His love for her was obvious. This is what I want; I want to be with him. I want a normal, regular life. Do you want a family, she heard herself ask. You know what is wrong with you, don't you? You think you are preg– she would not allow herself to continue that thought.
Gleason absolutely could not even consider the possibility. She pushed away any conscious thought of it. She could do that. She had done it all the while she was with Clive. She had pushed away all conscious thought of what he was doing to her whilst it was happening. She had put a wall around all things Clive. She could do the same with this.
Having made that decision, she went to the bedroom. She felt too keyed up to go back to bed. She glanced at the clock, four-fifteen. She opened the closet door and pulled out the clothesbasket. She would wash clothes today. She started sorting and smiled as she made piles of Bobby's things. Estella had done this on her days to clean. Even as Gleason had begun to feel stronger and wanted to do more, Bobby insisted that she not. Gleason decided that was easier to give in to him than to fight him – on certain things. Besides, Estella took great joy in caring for them. She would be here this afternoon and there would be nothing for her to do. Gleason was sure, however, that Estella would find ways to fill the time.
Gleason picked up a one of his socks; he has huge feet she said to herself. He is big all over, she thought with a smile. She made piles for his boxers, undershirts. His dress shirts went into a pile for the laundry; she could drop them off Monday on her way to class. The sheets made a pile of their own. Her things made a small pile. Except for her jeans, her things would be one load; she would wash his undershirts and white gym socks with her things. Her jeans and his jeans would wash with his dress socks and gym clothes. She picked up the sorted basket and took it down the hall, setting it by the door. She opened the hall closet, took the jug of laundry soap from the top shelf, and then set it on top of the clothes in the basket.
Gleason went back to the bedroom and retrieved a few hangers. She took the pottery jar with quarters from the top of his dresser. She returned to the living room and stuffed those items in among the clothes. There. This was nice. She smiled thinking how right this felt.
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Deakins couldn't get back to sleep after the call about the bodies. Angie slept through the whole conversation, the result of being a longtime cop's wife. He sat up, turned and looked at his wife. He pulled the cover up over her bare shoulder and back. Then he stood and pulled on a pair of pants and went to look in on his youngest daughter.
Julie slept like the little girl she had once been. She was fifteen and was at her absolute worst. Boys, drugs, smoking, drinking, two tattoos, a pierced lip, shoplifting, an attitude and that mouth – he and Angie had raised her as they had the other two. Why was Julie so different?
Deakins pulled shut her door and went downstairs into the kitchen. He poured a glass of milk and sat at the table. He brushed crumbs from the cloth; Julie had made a sandwich. She never used a plate.
His mind wandered. Saturday, he thought. Deakins was always on call, but he had hoped he would not have to go in this weekend. He had a list of things he wanted to do around here. However, now he would have to go in to see about the bodies they had found. He would try to get in and out quickly. He wanted to do something nice with Angie tonight.
Deakins mind wandered back to their bed earlier. He smiled at the recollection. They had not made love in a long time. He and Angie were dedicated. He considered himself lucky to have found such a good woman. She was one of a kind. Actually, he thought, Angie reminded him of an older Gleason. Refined, classy, smart, beautiful. Bobby is a lucky man, too, he thought.
What had happened to those two, he wondered. When did Gleason leave? Why? Deakins figured Bobby was not the easiest person to live with, but what could have happened to make her leave? She must have left last weekend, he thought, that's when Bobby's trouble started. I hope they work things out, not just for his behavior at work, but also for them. I want Bobby to be happy. He's a good man.
Deakins finished the milk, rinsed the glass and returned to bed.
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Finally, Gleason felt tired. She went back to bed but couldn't sleep right away. She pulled the covers tight around her, her green throw against her cheek. She began to cry softly. No, no, no. Please no, she thought.
She turned over and pulled Bobby's pillow to her chest. She breathed in his scent. God, she loved him. He loved her. What if . . . no, no. She heaved a shuddering sigh. Slowly, she fell asleep.