The Night Gardener

Twenty-Three

 

 

 

RAMONE PHONED REGINA on the way back down to the VCB offices, told her he’d seen Diego at the basketball courts and that their son had promised to be home before sundown. He said he’d be working late and that she should not expect him for dinner, but if she thought of it maybe she could put some of whatever she prepared aside for him. He’d heat it up when he got in.

 

“What were you thinking of making, by the way?”

 

“Pasta,” said Regina.

 

“What kind of pasta?”

 

“The kind comes out of a long box and slides into a pot of boiling water.”

 

“Don’t overboil it. Eight minutes, tops.”

 

“Now you gonna tell me how to boil spaghetti?”

 

“Last time you had it on the stove for twelve minutes and it tasted like mush.”

 

“Come home and cook it, you want it perfect.”

 

“Al dente, baby.”

 

“Don’t baby me.”

 

“I was thinking of you today,” said Ramone.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“In that blue bathing suit, standing on the edge of the academy pool.”

 

“I couldn’t fit in that suit today.”

 

“You look better now, you ask me.”

 

“Liar.”

 

“I’m serious, honey. Neither one of us is in our prime. But I’m saying, when I look at you through my eyes —”

 

“Thank you, Gus.”

 

“You think, tonight?”

 

“We’ll see.”

 

Ramone, heading down South Dakota Avenue in the neighborhood of Langdon, phoned the office and got Rhonda Willis, still on the job. She said that she had some things to tell him, and that Bill Wilkins was in the office and looking to speak to him, too.

 

“I’m ten minutes away,” said Ramone.

 

He parked in the lot behind the Penn-Branch shopping center and entered the offices. Some of the detectives from the morning shift were mingling with the new-shift men and women, crowding one another’s cubicles. They were exchanging information and bullshitting about nonpolice matters. Some of the officers who were done for the day were collecting overtime and others were trying to stay out of bars or simply unwilling to face the loneliness, unhappiness, duties, or plain boredom of their home lives.

 

Ramone saw Rhonda Willis seated at her desk, Bo Green towering over her, both of them having a laugh. He made a one-minute gesture with his finger to Rhonda and kept walking, negotiating detectives, plainclothesmen, and a woman from the Family Liaison Unit. He passed Anthony Antonelli, seated with his feet up, his Glock holstered on his ankle. Antonelli was holding out an overtime form to Mike Bakalis, whose hands were in his lap.

 

“C’mon, Aardvark,” said Antonelli. “Sign my eleven-thirty, will you?”

 

“Put your tongue in my tar pit,” said Bakalis, “and I’ll think about it.”

 

Bill Wilkins was seated before his computer, tapping at the keyboard. Ramone pulled a chair over.

 

“What do you have?” said Ramone.

 

Wilkins handed him a manila folder. Inside it was the ME’s findings on the Asa Johnson autopsy. Ramone began to read it.

 

“The slug was a thirty-eight.”

 

“They’re running it through IBIS?”

 

“Yeah. We’ll see if the markings match to any other murder guns. He died of the gunshot wound to the head, no surprise there.”

 

Left temple, read Ramone.

 

“He wasn’t asphyxiated or drugged or anything else. No foreign substances, alcohol, or narcotics in his body.”

 

“He was killed at the scene,” said Ramone.

 

“Looks like it. Probable time is on there.” Wilkins paused, watching Ramone, seeing his eyes flare and then grow dull. “You got to it.”

 

“They found semen inside him,” said Ramone. His voice was weak. He was sickened, not only for the child but for the parents, too.

 

“Keep reading,” said Wilkins.

 

The ME had detected lubricant along with the semen. There were no signs of rectal tearing and there was only minor bruising.

 

Ramone read the entire report and dropped it on the desktop before him. He thought of the victims of the Palindrome Murders, the traces of semen found inside the kids, a baffling lack of violent entry, evidence of consensual anal sex. On the other hand, the sex could have been initiated after the victims’ deaths. Ramone had to consider the possibility that Asa might have been violated in this way as well.

 

“They found that stuff in him,” said Wilkins. “Like KY jelly or something.”

 

Ramone stroked his black mustache. “I read it.”

 

“It doesn’t look like he was raped.”

 

“Doesn’t prove he wasn’t, either.”

 

“I’m only sayin.”

 

“Right.”

 

Wilkins let Ramone have a moment.

 

“I went through the boy’s bedroom,” said Ramone, having collected himself. “His locker as well.”

 

“Anything?”

 

“Nothing pertinent that I could see. He had a journal, apparently, but it seems to have disappeared. In light of this report, we need to prioritize finding that journal.”

 

“When I spoke to him, Mr. Johnson said there was no cell phone.”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“Did Asa have a home computer?”

 

“There was a PC in his room. I didn’t find much personal stuff on it. The Sent and Deleted e-mail boxes were empty. His Favorites column had listings for games and Civil War sites. Nothing else.”

 

“Did you go into History?”

 

“Uh, no.”

 

“You got a teenage son,” said Wilkins. “You better get hip to this shit. You can delete your e-mails and the Internet sites you visit and bookmark, but it’s still in the computer, in History, unless the kid wipes it out. The really careful kids program their PC to automatically delete the history every day. Sometimes every seven days, or monthly. It’s like brushing your trail away. But if Asa didn’t do that, whatever he was into should still be in there, somewhere. It’s pretty easy to dig it out.”

 

“For you.”

 

“I’ll take care of it.” Wilkins tapped the eraser end of a pencil on his desk. “What else you get?”

 

Ramone hesitated. “Nothing I can think of right now.”

 

“This thing with the boy,” said Wilkins. “Someone’s gonna have to go over the autopsy with the family.”

 

“I’ll talk to the father, the time comes.”

 

“I can understand if you don’t want to. It’s my lookout.”

 

“No, it’s on me.” Ramone stood.

 

“Heading out?”

 

“Goin home,” said Ramone.

 

He stopped at Rhonda’s desk and had a seat on the edge of it. Bo Green was gone, and Rhonda was looking at a mess of papers like they had been powdered with anthrax.

 

“That looks fun,” said Ramone.

 

“You got some paperwork on your desk, too, Gus. Not that you go by there anymore.”

 

“I’m hoping my secretary will do it.”

 

“You get up with Garloo?” said Rhonda.

 

Ramone told her about the ME’s findings and described his day.

 

“Now you,” said Ramone.

 

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