Chapter Text
♦♦♦
The cases were never easy; the cases were never ending. For Organized Crime Bureau’s Vice division, there was a price never accounted for in those case jackets stamped ‘closed’. Somewhere between the stapled and signed pages were the untallied cost to the detectives responsible for the bust. The toll was usually extracted drop by drop over the course of a career; a payment in soul and blood that left the officer injured and branded with scars of duty and honor.
Some cases were only talked about after the take-down sent the band of survivors to sanitize the horror with copious amounts of alcohol. In the sanctuary of a hallowed bar, in low lights and blaring music, the names of those officers that buckled were spoken in slurred growls. They were remembered for who they were before the job broke them; before they bled out. Before they were sequestered away – to be helped to live by a raft of mental healthcare professionals. Once, they had been at the table, raising glasses in the circle, offering prayers to the list of names that were slowly, steadily forgotten.
Ray Gilmore was now one of those names. A dark obsession with the perpetrator of a series of bizarre home invasions had shredded the Homicide Lieutenant’s mental health. After a difficult arrest, ‘The Shadow’ was evaluated and admitted to the same facility that housed Gilmore. Two weeks after closing the case that put the veteran officer into County Psych, Detective James Sonny Crockett was still having nightmares.
The case had stretched Crockett beyond his comfort zone. In trying to understand the Shadow’s motivations and process, Sonny found himself experiencing a similar dissociative state that had broken Ray. Once concluded, the case was wrapped, the perpetrator sent into permanent care and – after a day off – Crockett was back on the job and back to business as usual.
Except — it wasn’t usual.
♦
“Crockett, my office,” said Lieutenant Martin Castillo, as he walked through OCB.
Sonny had been on the desk for three days and was due to return to full duty. Glancing up, the senior detective watched his boss disappear into the corner office. Across the small pile of paperwork, he caught his partner’s eye.
Detective Ricardo Tubbs worked with other officers while Crockett had been consigned to desk-duty. Closing the file jacket in his hand, Rico said softly, “And he’s back! From outer space…”
Sonny rolled his eyes, then shook his head. “All right, Gloria Gaynor, don’t jinx me,” he warned as he gathered up the manning report for their Supervisor’s signature.
“Do you know a Marjorie Lowell?” Castillo didn’t look up from the fax in front of him as the blonde detective came through the door.
Crockett had an uncanny ability to remember names and the information attached to them. It may take him a few minutes to access what face went with what name, but once the basics clicked, it was all there – where he met them, who had talked about them, their occupation or crime. After a moment of sifting through memory, he shook his head.
“Who is she?”
“She’s a body in the morgue.” Castillo scanned the sheaf on his desk. “They found your name and the office extension number in her pocket and a card in her purse after they processed the crime scene.”
“Crime scene?”
“It came in as a traffic accident, but after an investigation, Highway Patrol turned it over to Homicide. It looks like a murder suicide.” Martin offered the facsimile. “She was dead before the accident. Mister Lowell was dead at the scene after driving the car into the Metrorail abutment north of Coconut Grove station.
Sonny scanned the copy in his hand: Marjorie Candice Lowell, 23 years old, 5’5”, 119lbs, blonde. There were few details – a preliminary description of where her body was found, and in what condition. But none of it rang a bell.
“Stop down at the morgue before heading out for the weekend,” Castillo’s voice was barely loud enough to be heard over the Friday bustle echoing through the door.
Still looking at the paper, Sonny nodded, “I’ll let you know tomorrow…”
“No. Crockett.” The Lieutenant’s sudden growl punctured the air, “You’re off this weekend. All weekend. I don’t want to see you in here until Tuesday. Tell the coroner what you know and go.”
Dark eyes met green over the report in a challenging glare. Focused on his Second-in-Command, emphasizing his orders, Castillo said, “The past few weeks have fucked with your head. You got a lot done while on the desk, but before you hit the streets you’re on the injured reserve for the next three days.”
Laying the fax on the desk, Sonny pressed his lips together to stifle any retort. Castillo had cursed and used an NFL reference; just how bad had his job performance been? Sure, he’d been sleepless due to intermittent nightmares but he was sure that he had pulled himself together every morning to get shit done. The silent glower from his boss told Crockett that it was useless to argue.
“All right.” Sonny broke the stare down first. Looking out the open door he saw Rico at their conjoined desks clearing their files into the outbound records basket. “All right,” he repeated.
“Sonny.” Turning back to his commanding officer Crockett recognized the expression. Castillo was still concerned. In a warm tenor that offered friendship rather than hierarchy, Martin said, “I want to know where you are, but you’re out for – what do you call it? Sanity maintenance?”
Crockett laughed. Sanity maintenance: that’s what his father and uncle used to call fishing. Taking their boys out on a flat-bottom johnboat on the Econfina river or sitting on the banks of the Fenholloway – waiting for the white of a bobber to disappear. The grinning blonde wondered when his boss had overheard that phrase, and how long had he waited to use it for this effect.
Nodding, he turned the smile to Castillo, “Thanks Marty. I’ll keep the car phone with me.”
♦
Metro-Dade Coroner was attached to the police department’s main office. Only bodies from accidents and crime scenes required Doctor Anthony Brennen’s expertise. Death from natural causes were processed without autopsy. Brennen had been the county coroner for three years, and Sonny liked him. He was younger than the last guy, less prone to gossip, and infinitely more qualified to bring in the medical evidence that could seal the deal for trial.
Doc Bee unlocked the door to cold storage, pulling the rack out of the locker. He was respectful to those in his care. Every body was shrouded with a white cover, even when incased in their lockers.
Pulling back the sheet, Tony asked, “Any idea why she’d have your number on her?”
The slight-framed female was bluish white in the florescent shadows of the exam room. Her curly blonde hair was chin length and slicked back. There were old scrapes and bruises along her clavicle and neck that disappeared below the white cover. Her face was shockingly un-marred by the accident but there was a half healed cut along her bottom lip. The long-lashed eyes were closed and seated in the deep graying blue of sockets distressed from lack of sleep, lack of care, and abuse. This was a battered woman. Crockett recognized all the signs.
“Do you know her?” Tony asked.
“Yes.” Sonny’s voice cracked with unexpected emotion. “Her name is Candy. Candy James. She was a hooker. We cleared her jacket after she helped us with a case last year.” The identification was all that was required. He had filled in the blank spaces on Doc’s report — but he could not walk away.
A flirty memory of the sassy blonde tumbled through him as he stared at the bloodless wounds. She was charming, capable, resilient, and – hooking aside – she was smart. Homicide – it was a homicide – she was killed before the accident. None of the pieces fit.
“Her old man brought here, too?” Sonny asked.
“Yes.” Doc Bee nodded at the locker off Crockett’s right shoulder. “He’s there.” Sliding the ivory-blue woman back into the chilling dark, Tony opened the door of the next locker.
Residual blood spattered the cotton shroud where it touched open injuries damp with coagulation. The man was young, under thirty, with a scruffy reddish beard and dark blond hair. A series of cuts ran across his face just under his eyes and culminated in a deep gash down his temple. The cut ran along the jaw and down to the neck wound that likely ended his life.
“Do you know him?” Brennen asked. “Rodney Lowell?”
“No.” Sonny shook his head. “What killed her, Doc?”
Returning the male to the walled unit, Brennen recited, “Ligature marks on her neck are older, but the petechial hemorrhage of the conjunctiva …”
“Doc,” Crockett interjected, “I ain’t Marty. Bring it down.”
“Asphyxiation, Sonny.” Tony picked up the file on the cart behind him. “She has been strangled before – and recently – that’s what the marks are around her neck. About a week ago, I’d say but that’s not what killed her. She has a crushed hyoid bone. About sixteen hours ago she was hit in the neck and she suffocated.”
Crockett stared at the stainless steel door to Candy’s unit. After a few moments he pushed his hands into his pockets, squinting at his distorted reflection in the bright steel.
“And it wasn’t from the accident?” he asked.
“No,” the Doc said. Noticing the change in Crockett’s posture, Brennen’s voice softened. “She was dead before the accident. Notice how relatively clean she is when compared to him? Her circulatory system… her heart… wasn’t pumping blood at the time of the accident. She didn’t bleed from any cut sustained in the crash. Report says she was buckled in, but there’s no bruising across her chest and shoulder. And, the liver temperature indicates a different time of death.”
He watched Sonny stare at the locker door: lips pressing together, a frown furrowing his brow. “The other injuries are all from previous physical abuse. X-rays indicated the abuse started about eight months ago with a broken wrist and defensive fractures of the forearms. There are other fractures between the wrist break and today in various stages of healing.” When the blonde detective reached out to lay a hand on the cooler door, the M.E. offered, “I’m sorry, Sonny.”
Looking up, Crockett shook his head again. “Thanks, Tony.” Turning away from the coolers he stopped at the door. “Tell Castillo I was here. He’ll remember her. Make the note – Candy James, she was Candy James.”
He left the building without making eye contact with anyone else. There was no pretending, no putting a face on it, no playing the game — Sonny exuded leave me the fuck alone energy as he left the scene of the crime.
Candy James had died choking for air, unable to plead for her life one more time. Candy had died less than twenty hours ago with Sonny Crockett’s phone number in her pocket.
—♦—
The dream always started the same.
The Shadow sits at the polygraph table, shirtless and wired.
The technician, always a woman, repeats the same series of questions:
— what is your name – where were you born – how old are you – where do you live – what is your address
Behind the one-way mirror Sonny watches the Shadow play with the wires, with paper. Martin is there, in the observation room. His back is to the glass. He watches Sonny watch the Shadow.
— I want you on the desk for a couple of days. — Castillo thumbs the clasp of his black leather watch band. Adjusting it to his wrist, checking it for fit and comfort.
— i’m just tired. — Crockett sighs, runs a hand over his face. — I’ll be okay. —
— I know. — Castillo stands up and walks away.
Then things would get fuzzy. Sometimes it was the Shadow, sometimes it was a man in a baseball cap. Sometimes the tech was Joyce from MDPD, sometimes she was someone else, but she was always blonde, always a woman. The words “I am sick” floated into the room right before the perp threw a chair, or something through the mirror and the dream shattered, waking him in a panicked sweat.
Over and over the dream played. It was like the guy that used to come into Skip’s Corner Tap & Snooker, put a buck in to the jukebox and hit ‘Walk Like A Man’ twelve times. Over and over and over – until Sonny asked his father if the jukebox was broken. Over and over — until the day Jim Crockett took a pool cue to the nickelodeon, breaking the glass, pulling the 45 out of the machine and smashing it against the corner of the pool table. Over and over and over… the dream played, the glass would break, Sonny would jump, alarmed and gasping for breath.
“You live with me don’t you?” The Shadow had taunted Sonny, as he was hauled out of the last house he would ever violate, the last woman he would terrify. Panting in the dim twilight of the St Vitas Dance, his heart racing, the chorus of a Frankie Valli song fading from memory for the umpteenth time, Crockett had to admit — if he didn’t live there, he had at least driven through the neighborhood.
Standing at the rail of the yacht that pretended to be his home, Crockett pushed the smoke from his lungs, staring at the glowing tip of the cigarette in his hand. The nicotine helped. He could feel the calming effects flow through him. He talked about quitting a lot. But, like the bourbon in the galley below, it was medication that didn’t require a doctor and left no record in your personnel file. Judiciously used, the two vices tempered the sharp edges of a harsh reality.
“Hey, Partner,” Rico’s voice floated over the bow. “How’s it hanging?” Tubbs was beyond the formality of asking to board the boat.
“You checking’ up on me, Tubbs?” Crockett glanced over his shoulder, giving tacit approval to his partner’s presence.
“Well, somebody’s gotta.” Grinning, Ricardo jumped the aft rail. “I brought hoagies, hushpuppies, and pie. You haven’t eaten, have you?”
Flicking the remainder of the Lucky Strike into the bay, Sonny stretched and turned to find Tubbs unpacking food onto the gunwale of the yacht.
“Pretty mommish, don’t ya think?” But the smell of the smoked meat and hushpuppies made his mouth water for the first time in days. “What kinda pie?”
“You need a little momming right now. Don’t worry – it ain’t pecan.” Tubbs held out a bottle. “Pop?”
“You mean Coke?” Sonny gave his partner a sly smile.
“Southern cracker lingo,” the New Yorker mockingly grumbled. Modifying his voice he crooned in falsetto, “What kinda coke you want, honey? Orange, please.” He shook his head. “You people are crazy, man.”
“My people are… down-home. We ain’t got time for all that fancified shit. Coke is anything fizzy.” Coming to stand beside his best friend, Sonny pulled apart one of the still steaming hushpuppies. “Or coke is blast-furnace fuel if your talking about the steel works in Tallahassee.” Popping half of the fritter into his mouth, he talked around chewing, “And then… there’s Florida snow.”
“Well, I’m afraid this is Pepsi.” Tubbs pulled himself up to sit on the roof next to the food. “Whadda ya need? Can I help? Can I do anything? Take ya out – up to Lauderdale? Maybe do something really stupid-wild… like go to Epcot or Disney.”
“It’s the weekend. Are you outta yer frigging gourd?”
“I’ve been accused.” Even in the fading light, Crockett could make out the wicked gleam in Rico’s eyes. “But, if I read my Crockett’s correctly, you need to get away, chump.”
Eating their way through the small feast, the partners fell into a comfortable silence. For the first time in two weeks there was nothing pressing upon them and all their cases were stamped ‘CLOSED’.
“I’m thinking about taking a road trip up to Perry.” Sonny tossed the idea out, fishing for Rico’s opinion.
“Homeward bound, huh, Garfunkel?” Separating the leftovers from the wrappers, Tubbs asked, “Want company or is this a solo trip?”
“I don’t know how long this might take,” Crockett said. “Guess it’s a solo, then. Don’t give Elvis more than two hushpuppies – too much fried food makes him fart. I’ll use the rest for bait.”
By the time the deck was cleaned up and Ricardo left, it was only seven o’clock. Throwing a couple of changes of clothes into a duffle, Sonny packed the fishing pole and tacklebox into the back of the Testarossa and headed north. He’d get there in the middle of the night, but Gandy’s Lodge was always open.