Dead Run: A Lieutenant Beaudry Novel

ONE

It was the near-perfect end of a spring day. The western sky glowed with a soft pink cast. Trees and bushes waved their newborn foliage, and evening songbirds were chirping goodnight to the setting sun.

From where I stood, a light breeze wafted up the appetizing aromas of someone's barbecue from further down the hill. The only thing that spoiled the scene was the body of the young woman at my feet.

When I found her, she was on her face. I got a load of shit from the captain for turning her. The young patrol officer said.

I knew from a recently suffered harangue that my boss had a short fuse these days. His wife was ill, and he was taking it hard.

Don't let it get you down. He roars at everybody. It's a requirement for a captain. You were checking for a lack of pupillary response to light, to see if she still had brain function?

How did you know?

That's what I would have done.

The officer traded his perturbed look for a smile.

She's blue in the face, He said. At first I thought that she was strangled. Then I realized that she slipped and fell forward, the blood pooled.

I chose the flash option on my phone and took a picture of the woman's face.

Your captain said, he caught our radio call on his way home. He was the first officer on the accident scene after me.

Not an accident, I said, Someone murdered her. Those long marks over the embankment aren’t because she slipped and fell over. The heels of her Under Armour's are black with earth. Someone dragged her backward through the bushes. Look at all the torn leaves and broken branches. She was a big woman, five foot seven or eight, I'd guess. She put up a fight. Her assailant wanted to shut her up. He picked up a stone and struck her above the temple.

I took hold of his wrist and pointed his hand to a spot a few feet down the slope. A memory retention trick a precinct sergeant taught me near twenty years ago when I was on patrol.

"There's a baseball-sized rock with blood on it next to that cherry tree. Her shoes and that stone tell the whole story. Had she fallen and hit her head, her body would not have rolled uphill."

I moved his arm down and to the right.

You can see branches bent and broken where her attacker ran down. Stay here until the SI team gets here. Let no one but them, here or down there. 

When I let go of his wrist he said, Holy shit.

The new nickname for the homicide division, I replied.

I left him and climbed the slope toward my boss.

Two patrol cars had arrived to secure the area. The precinct sergeant was instructing the officers working at taping up the scene.

I saw the captain leaning against the hood of a police cruiser. Topped with a more salt- than- pepper brush-cut, and at six-foot-six, he was always easy to spot. He had called me an hour ago. His tone, mellow and restrained, as if inviting me to a garden party. O'Neil towered over the balding middle-aged biker that had reported the body. The man dressed as if he was a competitor in the Tour de France. The colorful skintight suit didn't flatter his plump body. He looked like a rainbow Michelin man.

I walked up to them. In the fading light, my boss looked drawn and tired. Not the drooping mustache and the stern look reserved for me. The reasons, often because in my investigations I hadn't followed a few pages in the police procedure manual and my case reports were several miles from Agatha or Nero literary award status.

The captain acknowledged me with a nod; however, there was no introduction.

Continue with your story, He said to biker man.

I heard thrashing in the bushes, it stopped me. I was sure a dog would run out after my bike. It happened to me once before when I was on another trail, just a week ago, it was rain––.

I gave him the blistering look of impatience I had learned from my ex-wife and pointed to the scene in the woods to our right. He got the message, cleared his throat, and resumed his today adventure. 

I walked my bike to the edge of the road, that's when I saw a leg sticking up from behind the tree. I called out but got no answer. The dirt and mud at the side of the road were mussed up, I figured someone had slipped and fallen over the edge. I put my Ridley against the lamppost and stepped into the bush.

In a gesture of encouragement, I smiled and put my hand out. I'm Lieutenant Beaudry.

Jerry Donovan. He kept his little glove with the missing fingers when we shook.

Did you touch the body? I asked.

Did. I didn't know it was a body. I poked her calf and asked if she was hurt. Her leg was cold and spongy to the touch. The strange feeling, and no response scared me and I called nine-one-one.

There was nothing you could have done. I said. Did you hear any screams or thrashing noises as you came up the hill?

No, none, only when I slowed down at the crest, I was winded. It's a hard pedal up. I heard the cracking of branches, like when a dog took after me last week.

I cut him off, You gave your name and address to the emergency operator?

Yes, she asked me.

As a police van arrived, O'Neil mumbled,

Humph, about time, he turned away from our conversation, and plodded toward the vehicle.

Anything else? I said.

I only saw her back, but she may be the colored jogging girl that I cross most days, after supper, when I do my ride. She's fast, always at a dead run.  She waves to me when I pass by, and I wave back. I hope it's not her.

I fished my phone out from my jacket and showed him the picture I had taken.

He turned away fast, a look of dismay on his face that I'd expect if I showed a dirty sex picture to a bishop. He swallowed hard, Aw, Jiminy, her face is all swoled up.

Swollen. Yes, when the heart stops, blood and lymphatic fluid settle to the parts of the body that are the lowest, causing edema. I take it that it's her.

Bicycle man held his hand at his throat.

Yeah, I never spoke to her, but I felt as if we were friends.

Did you see anyone else in the area, another bicycle, a vehicle down the road?

No, no, the cop pedaled here like a minute after my call. Why are you asking?

I think the thrashing you heard in the bush was someone running away.

I don't understand. The bike cop said he thought she fell and broke her neck.

I'm afraid not, I said as I handed him my card.

You think of anything else, call me.

He stared at it, Homicide division–Holy shit.

We have a consensus, I said.

TWO

I found O'Neil at the Service d’Identification van, our Montreal equivalent of CSI. He was berating the officer for the late arrival.  The man stood toe to toe with the Captain, stoic and red-faced.  It disappointed me that it wasn't Tristan Dobson, the technician that I most enjoyed working with. Some detectives labeled him Nerdy. His large vintage tortoiseshell-framed glasses and his mild stutter were some obvious reasons. Anyone that worked with him long enough would realize that his quirky outer appearance hid a technical genius.

He'd take a crime scene apart down to a minuscule detail to find a clue missed by others, and that would often lead to the killer's identity.

Tonight's on-duty specialist was the guy whose name I could never remember.

The officer was a rotund, balding man with a near-featureless face. The notable exception was his perpetual grin, the pasted- on smile of a politician up for re-election or a television evangelist at a fundraiser. A cat from Alice in Wonderland came to mind.

"Hello, hello, the Fridge is here. Is this a high-profile case?" Said the Cheshire man.

The captain shrugged.The VIC is a black woman. I hope it's not a racial crime. The last thing I need, he mumbled.

At five-nine in height, and with the results of years of weight training, I now presented a solid square image. It had earned me the Fridge nickname.

I moved closer and read his name tag. S. Shipley. I'd try to remember. 

Dobson not working today?

Oh, yes. He was in very early this morning, always the first in the lab. He left past his shift time. If he had stayed much longer, we would have had to charge him rent. The grin widened.

I ignored his joke and related what I had observed at the crime scene. I also told him some of my far-from-proven deductions––so far.

The officer on guard will show you the stone with a bloodstain, it looked smooth, you may be able to get a print, I added.

Thank you, very, he said, as his partner officer opened the rear door of the van and pulled out their lab kit bag. 

The Captain had wandered off toward his car. I found him leaning against the driver's door, seemingly debating to stay around or to drive home. His appearance was sad and inattentive. He looked as miserable as a fourteen-year-old girl suffering from the breakup of her first puppy love. 

Boss, you look like shit, I said.

I'll take that as a compliment. Jean replied, If I looked half as bad as I feel, you would have come up with a worse description.

Nothing much to do here, I said. Let the lab boys do their job. Go home and have a scotch.

I'm a bachelor, nobody's home. Irene is at her sister's tonight. She also had breast cancer. They're comparing notes. I'd take you up on that scotch though.

His suggestion that we have a drink together surprised me. The Captain had often stood up for me against politically sensitive top brass, but we never socialized, nor had we ever been drinking buddies. This wasn’t normal behavior for him.

Drop your car off at your house. I said. Then I'll drive us to my favorite steakhouse and bar in Old Montreal.

I trailed his car