Favors and Lies Read online

  The detective’s notebook flipped open and he wrote for a moment.

  “In addition to the recent injection mark, the subject also has a burn on the underside of his right arm. The forearm. It was healing well until . . .” The medical examiner’s voice trailed off.

  “Until he died,” Dan finished.

  “Correct.”

  “How old is the wound?”

  “I estimate the wound at a week to ten days.”

  “Then probably unrelated to his death,” the detective added.

  “A good assumption. The body shows no additional signs of outward wounds. No habitual track marks. No substantial cuts, no abrasions, no bruising. No wounds on the knuckles. There is no evidence, on the outside of the body, that indicates the subject was involved in a premortem struggle of any sort, which, if you connect the dots, would indicate the possibility the subject had been forced to ingest a drug. But without defensive wounds, it makes a forced injection less likely.”

  Dan absorbed every word.

  “There is residual vomit in the throat, which is not surprising. Most heroin overdoses, if that is indeed what we are dealing with, are caused not by heroin itself, but usually a combination of heroin with alcohol or some other drug. Asphyxiation on one’s vomit is the most common outcome and thus the cause of death in many heroin overdose cases. This may run contrary to what you have seen in the movies where the victim takes the drug and then falls into immediate unconsciousness. The subject also shows discoloration of the tongue, another telltale indication of heroin overdose.”

  “What are the other causes of death with heroin?” Dan asked.

  “The lethal dose of heroin is quite high: 500 milligrams for a non user, up to 1800 for a regular user. Once again, the toxicology report will solve that mystery. A lethal dose will affect the central nervous system. This will manifest itself first in labored, shallow breathing followed by complete respiratory arrest. The heart will follow a similar path of deterioration.”

  “Death always boils down to the same two factors. Breathing and heartbeats. Everything else just leads to those,” Detective Nguyen added expertly.

  Dan glanced at the detective and then back at the medical examiner. “Please continue.”

  “Internally is where things get interesting. The body shows signs of physical—shall we say—wear and tear.”

  Detective Nguyen interrupted. “What do you mean?”

  The doctor paused and looked at Dan, his long nose pressing against the inside of his mask. The medical examiner pulled a handful of X-rays off a mobile table and adjusted the overhead light.

  “A fracture of most bones results in a very slight overall increase of bone mass in that particular location.”

  “Which is why it is hard to break the same bone in the same place twice, once the original break has healed,” Dan stated.

  “Exactly, unusual circumstances notwithstanding. As you can see here in the X-rays, your nephew shows signs of multiple breaks.” The doctor flipped through several X-rays with pauses in between.

  “There is evidence of at least nine fractures. And those are the ones I can be sure of. Left arm twice. Right arm three times. Both ankles. A tibia. A fibula. A femur.”

  The doctor paused again. “The femur is particularly intriguing. It’s the largest and strongest bone in the body. As substantial as concrete. Obviously, it’s not easily broken. Large-scale, high-impact collisions are the usual culprit. Often a collision hard enough to break a femur is also fatal.”

  Dan could feel the weight of the detective’s stare to his right. The doctor’s eyes were penetrating Dan from the front.

  “Conner studied hard and played hard. All kinds of sports. He had a few breaks over the years that I know of. Jumped out of a tree house once in the backyard and broke one of his ankles and the other leg. Broke his arm once playing tackle football in the schoolyard with his friends. I’m sure his medical records would have more specifics.”

  The detective’s notebook and pen magically reappeared.

  There was another moment of silence.

  “Was your nephew ever in a severe accident? Car, boat? Skiing perhaps?”

  “No,” Dan answered.

  “Well, then, there is one additional possibility. I have seen several cases of severe physical abuse resulting in multiple fractures. Usually this occurs before adolescence.”

  Dan felt the stares again. This time they were hotter, more penetrating, more accusatory.

  “He wasn’t abused at home. I can guarantee you that. His father wouldn’t have touched him. His mother was a saint. And my nephew, well, he wasn’t the victim type.”

  “Were you around when he was younger?”

  “Around enough to know he wasn’t being abused. And you can bet your ass I wouldn’t have allowed it to continue if I did suspect it.”

  The conversation reached a stalemate and the detective interjected. “What about personal effects?”

  The doctor moved to a square stainless-steel box at the foot of the table. “We have jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of leather shoes from a company named Born. There is some dirt on the shoes and clothes, but nothing that registers as unusual given my understanding of the location of the body when it was discovered. There was no wallet. No cell phone. I did find twenty-six dollars in his pocket.”

  “No wallet?”

  “No.”

  “So someone stole his wallet but left him with cash?” Dan asked.

  Detective Nguyen looked at Dan. “Any ideas?”

  “I need to see where the body was found.”

  Chapter 5

  —

  Dan rode shotgun in the black unmarked police cruiser. They cut across the National Mall and Dan stared stoically at the Capitol on the left before turning his gaze 180 degrees towards the Washington Monument. The car rounded the corner from Ninth Street onto Independence Avenue near the Air and Space Museum and Dan noted the exceedingly empty sidewalks.

  The tourist season was in a lull, a break between the masses of ‘tourons’ as they are called by most government workers who practice avoiding them during the summer rush. A smaller influx of tourons occurred over the holidays, but most of the federal government ran a skeleton crew between Thanksgiving and the New Year. It was a schedule envied by the private sector and yet considered overwork by Congressional standards.

  The police cruiser turned left in front of the red Smithsonian Castle.

  “Did you know the Smithsonian, the greatest American collection of museums, was initially a gift from a Brit named Smithson?” the detective asked.

  “Yes,” Dan replied tersely as the car drove under the Department of Energy’s Forestall building. The DOE structure was built on huge concrete stilts perched over the road, a reminder of what architecture could be before 9/11 changed everything.

  Detective Nguyen pulled the unmarked car into a space along the L’Enfant Promenade, a desolate swath of cobbled pavement devoid of trees that boasted a title far more grand than it deserved. The Mandarin Oriental stood on the horizon a half-mile away, a diamond in a sea of coal, a showcase of possibility for the future of the area.

  “This is us,” Detective Nguyen said, throwing his official park-anywhere pass on the dash. “Welcome to the most undesirable real estate within a block of the Mall.”

  “The Mandarin is just up the street.”

  “Another universe exists between here and there. Don’t let the proximity fool you.”

  Dan followed the detective out of the car and up the sidewalk of the promenade.

  “Essentially, this portion of the promenade is a large bridge, though it is hard to tell when you are topside. D Street and the train tracks are right below us. At the top of the promenade are four of the ugliest buildings in DC. An architectural style known as ‘brutalism.’”

  “Everythin
g sounds better with a name.”

  “You know the area?”

  “I’ve driven through on my way to the Fish Market. Never walked it.”

  “There’s probably a reason for that.”

  Detective Nguyen turned right onto a concrete staircase leading downward. The high-walled, concrete staircase—with a twisting landing at the midpoint—was a descent into hell, a path to the abyss underneath the promenade.

  “Nice place,” Dan said as he eyed the pile of syringes, condoms, and broken bottles that littered the landing as the staircase turned downward.

  The detective stopped on the landing and motioned over the edge of the shoulder-high wall. “You ready for some climbing?”

  Dan looked at the detective’s slight frame. “Are you?”

  “Been climbing city walls since I was a kid.”

  Dan nodded, reached up, and threw his foot to the top of the wall. Without breaking momentum he effortlessly stood, looking down at the detective and then at the depressing terrain below. Train tracks ran ten yards off to the left, the rusted underbelly of the promenade support structure above.

  “There’s a ladder on the other side,” Dan said as Detective Nguyen struggled to get his leg to the top of the wall. Dan offered a hand. Detective Nguyen ignored it and worked his way into a seated position, his legs hanging over the edge.

  “Grab the ladder,” Dan said.

  Detective Nguyen looked at the makeshift chain of shipping pallets and crates nailed together to cover the twelve feet to the ground below. “Not very promising,” the detective said.

  “There must be another way down. People live here,” Dan said.

  “There are all kinds of tunnels and paths around here. You want to look for one?”

  Dan looked at the detective, smiled, and then stepped off the wall, landing twelve feet below and executing a perfect roll to displace the downward energy.

  Dan stared up at the detective and watched as Nguyen’s face froze and then melted into a look of disbelief and concern, eyebrows furled. Dan stood waiting below, listening to the detective curse and mumble as he lowered his slight frame down the stack of old pallets.

  The ground under the promenade and next to the train tracks was a wasteland. Dirt and clay filled the retaining walls of the shared commuter and cargo rail tracks. Glass shards and rocks protruded from the earth. A dusting of trash, metal fragments, and shreds of discarded clothing littered the ground. The stench of human waste was overpowering. Blue tarps curled around the main support column for the promenade above.

  “What a hellhole,” Dan said.

  “Welcome to the Third World.”

  “I have seen Third World and this is worse. This is the Third World with guns and crack. Most of the real Third World is just trying to find water and food.”

  “How about welcome to the Capital City?”

  Dan walked in the direction of the support column and a patch of earth unmistakably being used as a shelter for a homeless soul. Several strands of displaced police tape fluttered about.

  “This is where they found him.”

  Dan absorbed the details of the location where his nephew took his final breath. He stepped onto the concrete base of the support column and surveyed the area. “Not sure how someone would have gotten him down here.”

  “Assuming he didn’t overdose and was carried here,” the detective retorted.

  Dan stepped down from his perch and wiped at the moisture gathering in the corner of his eyes.

  “OK, Detective . . . tell me, how does a kid from Northwest DC end up in a shithole like this?”

  “My guess?”

  “Your best guess.”

  “The search for a bigger and better high. Starts with a few beers, moves onto pot, maybe a little ecstasy and shrooms, and then onto the really hard stuff—meth, coke, heroin.”

  “Not this kid.”

  “You think your nephew is immune? I have seen millionaires strung out on heroin, politicians on crack.”

  “They have the latter on video.”

  “There have been others. And I’m telling you no one is immune to a fall from grace. No one. Not even your nephew. And if your nephew was abused as a boy, well, maybe there is more to him than you know.”

  “Not my nephew. No way. No how. That goes for both drugs and abuse.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because if I found out he’d been in a place like this, I would’ve killed him myself. And that would’ve been enough to keep him away.”

  “I hope you’re right. But that’s not the kind of thing you want to tell a police detective on the job. Particularly after the medical examiner said your nephew may have suffered prolonged abuse.”

  “I haven’t abused anyone,” Dan said. “And I haven’t killed anyone recently. At least, not this week.”

  Detective Nguyen grunted and wiped some dirt off the front of his grey shirt.

  Dan ran through the scenario. “All right. Let’s assume he knew this place as somewhere he could get drugs. Does that mean he would come here to shoot up?”

  “Generally speaking, drug users like to use their drugs. The scenery is secondary.”

  The ground rumbled underneath their feet and a single blast of a horn forced Detective Nguyen to turn his head. Dan took several steps forward as a CSX cargo train passed and disappeared into a tunnel that ran under the taxi queue in front of the Mandarin Oriental in the distance.

  The surroundings settled and Dan asked, “Who found the body?”

  “Anonymous call.”

  “How often you get calls on dead homeless people?”

  “Anonymous calls?”

  “Yes.”

  “Depends on the time of year. Depends on the location of the body. We had one last year around Christmas turn up at the Capitol. Had throngs of tourists calling in. The guy was frozen in the seated position right smack on the front steps of his elected officials’ place of work.”

  “Appropriate if he was trying to send a message to Congress.”

  “People freezing their asses off usually don’t think that deeply.”

  The detective walked around the support column and moved the pile of blue tarps on the ground with his foot.

  “Looks like someone lives here, at least part-time,” Dan said.

  “Probably more than one person. It’s got a roof above, it’s isolated, it’s close to the Mall, close to tourists. Easy access to high-quality panhandling.”

  “Isolated . . .” Dan repeated, walking backwards, parallel to the train tracks. He glanced up at the edge of the promenade above and then walked to the other side of the structure and repeated his upward stare.

  “What are you thinking?” the detective asked.

  “DC has installed thousands of security cameras in the city since 9/11. It’s hard to find a place where someone isn’t catching your face on video. There are none down here.”

  “Nothing to steal. No one to rob. No need for cameras,” the detective said.

  “A good place to kill someone.”

  “So far, there is no evidence anyone has been killed.”

  “How long have you been a detective?”

  “Long enough.”

  “In your experience, how many times have you seen two relatives die on the same night, in two different locations? Common sense should be screaming at the podium.”

  “Unfortunately common sense doesn’t provide evidence. It’s far more likely that your sister-in-law’s death and your nephew’s overdose had something to do with drugs. If you can ignore the big fancy house and the nice neighborhood, drugs are statistically the most likely connection.”

  “I’ve seen enough down here. Let’s see if we can find another way out.”

  “You can’t scale walls?”

  “No, I can. I
don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Chapter 6

  —

  Dan spent the late afternoon and evening giving and receiving condolences from relatives known and unknown. Aunts in Texas. A great uncle in Hawaii. Cousins on Long Island he didn’t know existed. His sister-in-law’s family was flying in from California in installments, the first batch on a red-eye taking off in six hours. He notified the university on the passing of his nephew, called the funeral home, and made arrangements for a wake. He contacted ServiceMaster to have his sister-in-law’s house professionally cleaned, top to bottom. When he couldn’t think of anyone else to call, he opened a half-filled bottle of Jack Daniels and had a shot. Followed by another. And another. Five drinks in, the photo albums found their way down from the bookshelf in the corner of Dan’s cozy living room. He put on some music and whispered the lyrics to a Passenger song, “My liver may be fucked, but my heart, she is honest.”

  And then he wept.

  When the bottle dripped dry, he went top shelf and opened a seventeen-year-old Ballantine. He poured it neat, held it in his hand while he drank, and set his empty glass on the coffee table when his head swooned. Through teary, bloodshot eyes he was hypnotized by the family photos spread across the sofa cushions and coffee table.

  The Lord family tree had been pruned. The proud Irish lineage ended with him. He was the last Lord standing and, as grand as the title may have sounded when kings in castles ruled as far as the eye could see, he felt lonely.

  Sleep came in spurts, as if the digital display of the clock on the nightstand was nudging him awake, poking him with regularity. He knocked the clock onto the floor and when that failed to alleviate the silent interruptions, he threw one of his pillows over the subtle red illumination. At six in the morning he gave up. “Today has to be better than yesterday,” he said, sitting up, feet on the floor.

  He shook his head, felt the effects of the evening’s indulgence, and then dropped to the carpet and cranked out a hundred perfect push-ups. Push-ups that would make an old-school Marine salute in honor. Straight back, eyes slightly up. Chin and chest to the ground. When he finished, he performed an equal number of sit-ups. Exorcise through exercise. With sweat dripping from his brow, he shuffled to the kitchen, choked down some bread with Advil, showered, and pulled on jeans and a mid-weight sweater. An hour later he pulled into a visitor parking space on the American University campus.