Good Lookin' Page 5

“Yeah,” he laughed, retreating to his office.

  Well, this put things in a whole different light. Meaning, I’d have an entirely different set of reasons why to worry about calling. I stretched in my chair and returned to Darnell’s interrogation.

  For even the most experienced criminal, Detective Bosco was a formidable challenge in the interrogation room, or “the box” as cops referred to it. Darnell, for all his street savvy and personality, would prove no match.

  For example, Darnell fell victim to the entirely reasonable assumption that during interrogations, the police were prohibited from lying to suspects. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Countless times, I’d seen officers extract confessions by lying to one suspect about his partner in crime’s statement. “So Bugsy, your partner Slick just told us you guys robbed the bank. He says it was all your idea.”

  I remember my dad telling me one tale about an interrogation when he was a young Deputy D.A. He and a detective convinced a less than intelligent suspect to undergo a polygraph examination. They set up with the accused’s back against an old copier and affixed random cords and wires to his arms with Velcro and tape. Each time he would deny committing the murder, another cop would surreptitiously hit the copy button and the machine would produce a single piece of paper that read, “lying” in bold letters.

  The detectives sat patiently as Darnell began with his transparent spiel about having no idea what was going on. I cringed as he chuckled nervously, claiming that when he was arrested, he had assumed all those unpaid parking tickets had finally caught up with him.

  When he finished, the detectives sat quietly until their suspect squirmed in his seat. “So, Darnell, your car’s on video doing the drive-by on Monday and there’s a witness who says you were the shooter.”

  “That’s impossible,” Darnell said, shaking his head. “I wasn’t even in the area. I was home all day.”

  “So, here’s the thing, Darnell. It’s possible the witness is mistaken. It’s actually hard for me to believe that you were the shooter, given your background. But for you to say you weren’t even there is simply not being truthful.”

  The detective produced documents and placed them on the table facing their suspect. I couldn’t see detail on the video, but they appeared to be city maps overlaid with colorful symbols and graphics. “Darnell, do you know about cell phone tracking?” The young man shrugged slightly, staring at the table. I could see his wheels turning and I groaned audibly, knowing what was coming.

  “Darnell, your phone—the one that was on you when you were arrested—was within at least a block or two of West Eighth and Maybeck at the time of the shooting. That is not open to debate.” In fact, there had not been near enough time since Darnell’s arrest to generate a cell phone tower analysis. It would take at least a week just to subpoena the records from the cell phone provider. Who knows what documents were on the table—perhaps a cell phone report from a prior case or maybe they were entirely falsified?

  “Like I said, Darnell, I don’t think you were necessarily the shooter, but I know you were there, and I think you know who else was in the car.”

  By now, the smile was gone from Darnell’s face and he mumbled, “I guess I might have been in the area, but I don’t know nothing about that shooting.”

  Moments later, the interrogation ended. Darnell had stopped responding to questions and the detectives left him staring at the table. The cell phone hadn’t told the detective if Darnell was at or near the scene of the crime, but now the suspect himself had done so.

  I paid some bills at my desk, wondering about Edna. I hadn’t dated in almost a year since a torrid fling with an old college friend ended in catastrophe. The nervous excitement of something new felt good. On my drive home, I practiced the voicemail I would leave, trying to sound casual and confident.

  My phone rang, and Chuck’s voice interrupted my rehearsal. “Hey Joe, have you seen the surveillance video?”

  “Briefly. Why?”

  “There’s a red muscle car parked at the northeast corner of the intersection. A blond guy gets into the car as Moore turns left—”

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry, as the suspect turns left on West Eighth Street. He’s still in his car after the shooting as the car drives away.”

  “I missed that. Sounds like he might be a witness.”

  “Yeah, but you can’t make out the license plate without enhancing the video. I’ll send it to our guy.”

  “Thanks. Sometimes you’re like a real investigator.”

  “I resemble that remark. How did the kid do in the box?”

  “Well, let’s see, Bosco tricked him into saying he was nearby when the shooting happened but had nothing to do with it.”

  “Let me guess. He told him he was visible on surveillance?”

  “No, it was the old fake cell phone records trick.”

  “Of course.”

  “Hey, I know how you hate technology, but is there any way I can email you the latest. I got Moore’s interrogation, and the autopsy report just came through.”

  “Sure. My nephew is in town and he’s busy unlocking the mysteries of the computer.”

  “Beautiful. You’ll be joining the twenty-first century any time now.”

  “You seem particularly whiney, even for you.”

  “Chuck, if you hadn’t noticed, this case is sinking like a stone.”

  “This is the life we have chosen.”

  I was sure it was a movie line but wasn’t in the mood. “See ya.”

  At home, I thought about calling Edna while I poured a glass of Pinot Noir. Recently, I had rediscovered wine after not drinking it in a decade or so. I had hung with a crowd in law school that drank a lot of wine, I suppose to seem sophisticated. The trouble was, all we could ever afford were barely drinkable, so I’d sworn off all wine after I graduated.

  Recently, though, I’d tried a glass that bore no resemblance to the old law school swill, so I had gotten into wine again. That is, I’d gotten into drinking wine. I still didn’t know much about it.

  I realized I was thinking about wine to avoid calling Edna. Maybe I should text. No, horrible idea, Joe. Maybe your first date should be a video chat, so you’d never have to interact in person.

  I poured another glass of Pinot. It was Friday, after all, and I did like the way red wine made me feel somehow more relaxed than whites. Stop stalling, you sackless wonder. It was just a message. Andy had mentioned that Edna usually worked late, and it was only five-fifteen p.m. so I was sure to get her voicemail.

  I wondered where she worked. I realized I had no idea. For all I knew she was a D.A. That could be awkward, but not really. Some of my best friends were prosecutors. My mind conjured a quick fantasy involving an empty courtroom with me having sex with a woman who looked like a model on the counsel table.

  My own screaming voice inside my head finally shook me from the daydream. “Joe, pick up the phone!”

  I found her contact in my phone and pressed the call button.

  “Hello. This is Eddy.” Shit. She answered. “Hello?” she repeated.

  “Hi, Edna. This is Joe Turner. I’m sorry. So, um,” I said stumbling over my words. “I didn’t expect you to answer.” I wanted to kick myself.

  “If you’d like I can hang up and you can leave a message?”

  I laughed. “No, I think I can manage.”

  “So, you must be the attorney that Karen told me about.”

  “Yes,” I answered, regaining composure. “I can imagine how unbelievable it must be that I talk for a living.”

  “Not at all. I probably threw you. I go by Eddy,” she said smiling through the phone in a warm voice. “All this is pretty awkward. How about coffee tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow. Tomorrow? Great. Sure.” Why was I saying everything twice?

  “Okay, there’s a place called Papillon on Piedmont Avenue.”

  “I know it well. Sounds great.” Stop saying great, you moron.

  I�
�m sure sensing that I was in no condition to decide, she kept taking the lead. “How about ten-thirty a.m.? Does that work?”

  “Gr…Good. Yes. I look forward to it.”

  “Me too, Joe. See you tomorrow.”

  After we hung up, I slowly lowered my head in my hands, finally releasing my death grip on the phone. “Good God, Joe,” I said to myself aloud, sighing deeply. “You’ve got to get a hold of yourself.”

  Chapter Eight

  It’s not time to worry yet.—Harper Lee

  Oakland, California 2006

  Damon was surprised to see the same CASA worker across the desk for his monthly meeting. Their Court Appointed Special Advocates, volunteers who were assigned to each foster child, usually lasted less than six months, but there was Happy Cheryl again. That was the nickname the twins had given Cheryl Swillinger because of the giant smile that was always plastered on her face every minute of the day.

  They liked the meetings because there were usually cookies. And even though Happy Cheryl spoke to them like they were five years old, she was nice enough. They’d learned over the years not to trust any of the social workers. He and his twin wanted to stay together in the same house, and it seemed like all they ever did was try to find ways to separate them.

  “So, how’s it going in your new home?”

  “Fine, Ms. Cheryl,” he said, eyeing the open package of macaroons on the table.

  “So, how’s Jesse doing, Damon?” she asked, pushing the cookies toward him.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Sure, do you remember my question?” she said after a time, smiling as Damon chewed half a macaroon and shook his head.

  “How is Jesse doing?”

  Antenna up, he shrugged. “He’s okay, I guess.”

  “Well, I just talked with Jesse a little and he seemed kinda down. Really down, actually.”

  Damon shrugged again. Here we go, again, he thought. “Seems okay to me.”

  Actually, Jesse had been real quiet lately. Damon could still make him laugh once in a while, but it seemed like he didn’t care about anything. He also missed the long talks with his brother at night. Dumbass made them sleep in separate rooms. He said it was because they were too noisy. Since his bedroom was on the other side of the house, Damon figured it was just because Dumbass liked to control everything.

  “Can you think of anything that’s bothering him?”

  Let’s see, Happy Cheryl. Maybe it’s because we don’t have enough to eat, and we have to work every weekend while Dumbass drinks beer and lifts his precious weights. Not to mention worrying about the next time he’ll knuckle punch our shoulders.

  He rubbed his shoulder absentmindedly and shrugged again.

  “Nothing?”

  “Ms. Cheryl,” Damon said, trying to sound grown-up, “the only thing me and Jess really worry about is being separated again.”

  “Okay, sweetie. Hey, what do you guys have planned for the big day tomorrow?” He looked at her with a blank stare. “July seventh? Mean anything to you?” she joked.

  “Oh, yeah.” Damon smiled. He had not thought about their birthday in a while. “Yeah, I’m sure we’ll have something fun planned.”

  The conversation moved on to school. Damon would eat another cookie before he left and stuff four more in his jacket pocket for Jesse’s birthday present. That would cheer him up.

  Chapter Nine

  I’ve always had anxiety when it came to the opposite sex, owing mainly to a fear of being rejected by a partner, often without regard to how I felt about her. Romantic rejection is just so personal. It’s not a bad grade on a paper or a lost court case—or even specific criticism of a personal trait by a friend.

  Rejection in matters of the heart is an all-encompassing disapproval of me as a human. So I worried.

  From my first crush on Stacie Wilson in the fifth grade, I worried about my haircut, then my complexion, then my car. As an adult, my worries ran the gamut from my body, to body hair, to being perceived as too snarky or negative. Sex was the big one, with all its accompanying extra pressures.

  With Eddy, I knew her looks would rachet up my stress. Even without Andy’s endorsement, I could tell by her voice. Or so I thought, anyway. At least I’d survived the phone call. I’d worry about our coffee date in the morning.

  I poured another glass of wine, boiled water for pasta, and opened the Moore autopsy file on my laptop. The absurdity of distracting myself from the stress of a casual coffee with a homicide case wasn’t lost on me. Apparently, I was just that crazy.

  The gruesome autopsy photos would have to be reviewed, but they could wait with dinner on the way. The coroner’s report would be bad enough if the summary on page one was any indication.

  On March 22, 2021, Cleveland Barlow was in front of 454 West 8th Ave. in Oakland when he was shot twice by an unknown suspect. When paramedics arrived, Barlow was lying prone on the sidewalk with blood and brain matter behind his head. He was rolled into a supine position for assessment and found to be pulseless, apneic, and with negative heart tones. Paramedics responded and determined death after attaching ECG pads. The hands were bagged for GSR.

  An autopsy was performed. The body was opened via the usual Y-shaped incision. Other than the gunshots, there were no internal abnormalities. The pathologist determined the cause of death to be two gunshot wounds, one to the chest and one to the head. The chest wound was through and through. The death was determined to be a homicide.

  The pathologist really went out on a limb as to the cause of death. I noted that either the shooter had apparently been a very good shot or very lucky. Shooting from a vehicle with presumably one hand on the steering wheel, the gunman had managed to pull off two kill shots, as the report opined that independent of each other, either of the two gunshots would have been fatal.

  The wounds were further evidence that assuming Darnell was the driver, he was not the shooter. To pull off this marksmanship while driving the car seems even more unlikely. On the other hand, there were ten forty-caliber shell casings documented in the tech report, indicating the shooter had probably emptied a standard ten-round clip. In that light, maybe the ratio of two kill shots out of ten wasn’t that impressive. The D.A. would certainly argue that blind luck played a role.

  The report also listed every bruise and abrasion on Cleveland’s body, no matter how slight. I always thought this was a needlessly intrusive exercise, but I supposed once the body is cut open, everything is relative.

  Struggling to stay focused, I skipped to the description of the path of the bullets. The gunshot wound to the head “entered the right side of the frontal cortex two and a half inches above the right orbit,” essentially the upper forehead. The bullet “travelled generally toward the back of the head, down toward the bottom of the head at a thirty-degree angle before lodging at the base of the skull.”

  This downward angle was interesting. A shot fired out of a car window at a pedestrian certainly wouldn’t be angled downward. The report also described the gunshot wound to the chest as angled downward. This wound was “through and through,” meaning the bullet entered and exited through the body.

  I pulled up the photos folder on my laptop and opened the file containing photos of Moore’s car. The car had a sunroof, and I’d seen a few drive-bys where they had been used by the shooter. This might explain the angle. “Damn it, Darnell,” I mumbled to myself. “You’ve got to come clean at some point.”

  I got up and I took the pasta off the stove top and I grabbed the jar of red marinara sauce from my pantry. Given the images in my head, I opted for some butter and parmesan instead and poured the last of the wine. I would sleep soon with jumbled thoughts of Eddy and brain matter careening off my skull.

  ****

  “You must be Joe. I’m Eddy Busier,” she said, removing dark cat’s eye sunglasses to reveal pale blue eyes. Her cute upper lip peaked in the middle, showing perfect teeth. I’m certain my eyes were wide, my mouth agape.

  I had en
tered Papillon a nervous wreck, arriving twenty minutes early. I had seen the tall blonde walk in but dismissed the possibility that she was Eddy. I didn’t date women like this. Hell, movie stars didn’t date women like this.

  She wore skinny jeans and knee-high boots that showed off long athletic legs. Some sort of cashmere poncho thing showed off her breasts, suspiciously ample given her slender waist. I hoped I’d chosen the blue oxford without the mustard stains.

  “Hi, Eddy. Nice to meet you.”

  “I see you have coffee. I’ll just go get some.”

  My focus remained glued to the jeans as she walked away. Good, I thought. Time to recover. I wanted to murder Andy for significantly underselling Eddy. Then again, I didn’t know what I would have done differently. I was a solid seven and she was a fucking runway model!

  Okay, Joe, breathe. What was that persona I’d read was attractive to women? Mild indifference. Yeah, good luck with that, Turner.

  Why I stood when she arrived back at our table I’ll never know. My parents had burned outdated and overly formal manners into my brain as a child, but I hadn’t done it in years.

  “Wow. What a gentleman,” she said, her pink shiny lips forming a wide smile.

  “I have no idea what I’m doing,” I said, smiling at myself. “Suddenly, I’m having high tea with the royals.”

  “No, it’s very nice,” she said, laughing. “And nobody knows what to do in these situations.”

  “I agree. Let the awkwardness begin,” I said, feeling better about myself. “And I’m sorry, did you say Busier?”

  “Yes, rhythms with Hoosier.”

  “Got it.”

  “So,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her. “It’s probably appropriate for me to ask about your work,” she said, rolling her eyes. “So,” she continued with theatrically feigned interest, “Joe Turner, please tell me about your work.”

  “Actually,” I deadpanned, “right now, I’m sort of between jobs.” I smiled only after a few seconds of awkward silence.

  “Darn you!” she laughed. “You got me. That was actually quite good.”