Chapter 25 starts with Margie heading back to the office after losing Sparne and Morales.
Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.
As Margie skulked into the station after losing Sparne and Morales, she saw a man she didn’t recognize in Grandisha’s office. Ray and the man were standing behind the windowed door. Ray was gesturing, his visitor listening.
Eight other members of the team remained in the bureau. All of them stopped their work and turned tired eyes towards her as she neared her desk. She snuck a peek down herself, to make sure everything was in order, like a man surreptitiously checking his zipper. One by one, each detective returned to his or her task, no longer interested in the straggler.
Before sitting at her desk, Grenk asked, “Who’s the guy with the Lieutenant?”
A voice from a desk abutting hers answered, “The Pisser.”
Margie pulled her battered chair out and sat. A semi-understanding look framed her face. She knew who the “Pisser” was, now if she just could figure out where she was supposed to have been. Ray said to keep her activities quiet. Luckily, no one asked.
Grandisha’s office door opened. The Pisser came out and stood a foot away. Ray closed the door, then yelled something. The Pisser shook his head and pointed to his ear. Ray cocked his head, opened the door a fraction, then yelled again. A thoughtful haze crossed Recker’s face. He raised his hand, cupped his fingers and stroked them back, almost nicking his cheekbone. Ray repeated the shout. The Pisser hung his head for a second, looked up, and smiled. The department had become very quiet by the second test run. All eyes were glued to the pantomime. The silence was interrupted by a surprised, “That’s it.” The other familiar noises immediately returned.
Grandisha jerked the door wide open, shook Recker’s hand and pulled him back in. The Pisser was thrust into a seat. Ray stayed with him for a second, then rushed out to the middle of the detective bureau. He spoke quickly and forcefully. “I need all the media up here, right now. I want TV and radio exposure tonight, newspaper stories tomorrow morning. Drop whatever you’re doing and start contacting them. Tell them we have new information and need coverage.”
Ray returned to his office, spent five minutes with Recker, then hustled him out. One of the team escorted the Pisser to his car, to prevent anyone else from talking to him. Grandisha stood in his office doorway and loudly asked Grenk to come in.
The inflection contained a tinge of displeasure. Margie rose and trod through the door, like a disorderly kid entering the principal’s office. She sat, readjusted her elbow-hugging, sweater sleeves, crossed a leg and demurely cowered. Ray closed the door and returned to his desk. He saw the reserved demeanor and asked, “What’s wrong?”
She hesitated, then spoke, “Well, for starters, I let a high school kid outfox me. I know that doesn’t make you too happy.”
Grandisha backswept his hand in a dismissing motion. “You were out on a limb with no backup or phone, and I told you to keep me advised. You did a hell of a job, considering the situation.”
Margie perked up. “Thanks... How come I got the cold shoulder from my brothers and sisters, when I first walked in?”
Ray looked through the office windows at his crew. “I’m sorry, but I told them you weren’t ready yet. You were going home to regroup, maybe try it again, later. I thought it was a good cover.”
Chapter 25
As Margie skulked into the station after losing Sparne and Morales, she saw a man she didn’t recognize in Grandisha’s office. Ray and the man were standing behind the windowed door. Ray was gesturing, his visitor listening.
Eight other members of the team remained in the bureau. All of them stopped their work and turned tired eyes towards her as she neared her desk. She snuck a peek down herself, to make sure everything was in order, like a man surreptitiously checking his zipper. One by one, each detective returned to his or her task, no longer interested in the straggler.
Before sitting at her desk, Grenk asked, “Who’s the guy with the Lieutenant?”
A voice from a desk abutting hers answered, “The Pisser.”
Margie pulled her battered chair out and sat. A semi-understanding look framed her face. She knew who the “Pisser” was, now if she just could figure out where she was supposed to have been. Ray said to keep her activities quiet. Luckily, no one asked.
Grandisha’s office door opened. The Pisser came out and stood a foot away. Ray closed the door, then yelled something. The Pisser shook his head and pointed to his ear. Ray cocked his head, opened the door a fraction, then yelled again. A thoughtful haze crossed Recker’s face. He raised his hand, cupped his fingers and stroked them back, almost nicking his cheekbone. Ray repeated the shout. The Pisser hung his head for a second, looked up, and smiled. The department had become very quiet by the second test run. All eyes were glued to the pantomime. The silence was interrupted by a surprised, “That’s it.” The other familiar noises immediately returned.
Grandisha jerked the door wide open, shook Recker’s hand and pulled him back in. The Pisser was thrust into a seat. Ray stayed with him for a second, then rushed out to the middle of the detective bureau. He spoke quickly and forcefully. “I need all the media up here, right now. I want TV and radio exposure tonight, newspaper stories tomorrow morning. Drop whatever you’re doing and start contacting them. Tell them we have new information and need coverage.”
Ray returned to his office, spent five minutes with Recker, then hustled him out. One of the team escorted the Pisser to his car, to prevent anyone else from talking to him. Grandisha stood in his office doorway and loudly asked Grenk to come in.
The inflection contained a tinge of displeasure. Margie rose and trod through the door, like a disorderly kid entering the principal’s office. She sat, readjusted her elbow-hugging, sweater sleeves, crossed a leg and demurely cowered. Ray closed the door and returned to his desk. He saw the reserved demeanor and asked, “What’s wrong?”
She hesitated, then spoke, “Well, for starters, I let a high school kid outfox me. I know that doesn’t make you too happy.”
Grandisha backswept his hand in a dismissing motion. “You were out on a limb with no backup or phone, and I told you to keep me advised. You did a hell of a job, considering the situation.”
Margie perked up. “Thanks... How come I got the cold shoulder from my brothers and sisters, when I first walked in?”
Ray looked through the office windows at his crew. “I’m sorry, but I told them you weren’t ready yet. You were going home to regroup, maybe try it again, later. I thought it was a good cover.”
“Okay. I can live with that.” Grenk scratched her head, then continued, “Did my moonlighting help?”
“You betcha.” Ray bent, turned a key, and pulled a file from his previously locked drawer. “Morales you know about. He and his mother live with his aunt and her family. The mother is a prostitute, or at least had been a prostitute. The boy has no rap sheet. He does have a paternity pending.”
Margie broke in. “The neighborhood looks rough. There was a party of some kind starting when I drove by. I got the feeling more than potato salad and hot dogs were going to be served.”
“You’re right. About once a month, squads get called to the location. It hasn’t happened for a while; they’re about due. “The other kid’s car and house are owned by Richard and Delores Sparne. They have a son, also named Richard. He’s a high school senior. Mr. and Mrs. Sparne don’t even get traffic tickets. Their son has never been in trouble, either. He’s a basketball star.”
“I was in the school. I saw both of ‘em. They’re tight. Almost like partners. If Morales is involved in anything, this kid is too.”
“Anybody else hanging around with them? Any other tight friends?”
“Yes and no. No other students acting friendly towards them. But, younger looking kids sniffing around them. Two or three of ‘em. Almost like an admiration thing.”
“What’s your impression of Morales and Sparne? Could they have done these things? Butchered people?”
Margie drew back in her chair, took a deep breath and exhaled. “Jesus, I don’t know. What do killers look like? I wouldn’t exclude them. They had kind of a smug, cruel look about them.”
Grandisha snorted quietly. “Interesting choice of words. The house Sparne visited belongs to an Albert Moffit and his wife. He’s self employed, sells things in bulk. She’s a housewife. No kids. They’ve been married thirty three years. No record of any kind.”
Margie asked, “Any connection between the school boys and this Moffit guy?”
“None that I could find. But that doesn’t mean anything.”
Margie continued, “How about between Moffit and the Donas people, or ‘Zola’s?”
“Nothing in the information we’ve put together so far. Maybe we’ll get lucky tomorrow when we recontact people. Run names by ‘em. See if anything rings a bell.”
The part about getting lucky wasn’t lost on Margie. She tucked it away and asked a different question. “So we’re gonna run with these guys?”
“Yeah. It’s all we have. There are things that fit. Their age. ‘Maricon.” As he finished speaking, Ray placed his large palm on his forehead, slowly drooped his hand down the contours of his weathered face. His thumb and forefinger caught the corners of his mouth, followed the curve of his lower lip, and touched. His mouth opened into a wide O. He returned both hands to his face, and rubbed both eyes vigorously with his fingertips.
Margie thought of an old rag doll she had as a child, worn, torn and falling apart. But her favorite doll all the same.
Ray sat silent for a few more seconds, mind whirring, drawing on years of choosing the correct road to march down. His eyes narrowed and he said, “My gut tells me it’s them. But more than that. These killings were stupid, unplanned. Whoever did it, got away because of blind luck, somebody answering a phone, rather than looking through a peephole. They made no provisions for getting in and getting out without being seen. No concern about being caught... Like smug, cruel, high school kids.”
Margie couldn’t tell if he was rationalizing or engaging her in conversation. She answered anyway. “Okay. But the big question still remains. Why?”
“In the end, we’ll find out the reason is a bizarre concurrence of improbable forces. ‘Why’ won’t help us catch them. We have to concentrate on ‘Who.” An icy glare sprang from Ray’s face. “They’re the ‘Who.”
“So what do we do?”
Ray rubbed his brow again. “Nothing. We don’t have any evidence... Yet... Tomorrow morning, we start balls out. Everybody will concentrate on Morales and Sparne. We’ll follow every move they make. They’ll give us everything we need.”
It was time for Margie to ask about getting lucky. “What’s gonna happen between tonight and tomorrow morning?”
“The media should be here soon. I’m putting ‘Maricon’ on every newspaper and TV station. If I’m right, and I am, someone will remember Morales saying it, and they’ll call in. That’s our hook. When that happens, we’re off and running.”
“What if no call comes in?”
“It’ll come. We’re due for a break. Someone will have heard him say it.”
Margie believed him. It made sense. “So I forget about everything I did today?”
“It never happened. You were home, healing. You’re fine now.”
She smiled at Ray. “You know I’ve healed. I’m fine.”
Grandisha said, “I know. That’s why we’re having this discussion.”
A member of the team knocked on the closed door. Ray remained behind his desk and gestured for the detective to come in. The door opened, and the officer said, “The media is starting to straggle in. They should all be here in another ten minutes.”
The Lieutenant said, “Good. When they’re all here, bring them in.”
The door closed. Margie asked, “What do you want me to do, right now?”
“Go home. Get a good night’s sleep. Be ready for tomorrow. Be here early.”
Margie started to rise from her chair. The reluctance she brought in had disappeared. She looked fresh and strong. Ray spoke before she turned to leave, “I’m sorry about your husband.”
The words were heartfelt. Margie was touched. She rested her hands on the back of the chair. Thumbs behind, fingers in front. Minimum pressure from her grasp caused little squeaking sounds. She smiled sincerely. “It hasn’t been as bad as I thought it would. The kids are crushed, but my sister has really been helping. But when I’m alone, it’s not that bad.”
She released her grasp and lightly tapped soft fists on the top of the chair. “I suppose our problems, the last year or so, have made things easier. We lived in the same house, but we didn’t live together. Not like husband and wife... The work helps, too.”
Nothing further was said. Margie returned to her desk. She spent a half hour doing nothing, for appearance sake, then went home. Her coworkers didn’t seem to notice. By the time she left, the media had arrived, en masse.
The small horde was ushered into Ray’s office. He laid it on thick, treating ‘Maricon’ as the Rosetta Stone. The necessity for publicizing the word was stressed even though it was offensive. The media representatives didn’t seem to have misgivings over sending profanity through the air waves or print into homes. Nothing attracted wider audiences than warnings about viewing or reading things that may offend. The concept wasn’t lost on anyone in the room.
Ray cautioned the group that his belief that the suspects are young and inexperienced, was pure deductive reasoning, based on the interpretation of known facts. Someone in the crowd interrupted and said, “You mean guesswork?”
Ray laughed and answered, “Yeah. But guesswork sounds bad. It took me fifteen years to come up with that other phrase. Use it. Your editors and managers will love it.” Half of those assembled chuckled. Grandisha finished the interview by warning everyone, again, about using certain names. They understood.
All the pretty, young correspondents, male and female, hurried off, anxious to transmit their images over electronic highways, satisfied that their knowledge of the story couldn’t be expanded. A few grizzled, newspaper reporters, believing that there were always questions to be asked and agendas to be investigated, remained. One of the particularly obdurate beat men peppered the Lieutenant with questions about the timing, necessity, and prologue of the hastily called news conference. His whiskey veined nose smelled something. He just couldn’t identify the aroma.
Ray parried perfectly. The stragglers, facing deadline constraints, ran out of time. Plus, they had dealt with Grandisha on prior occasions. They knew continued chipping wouldn’t reveal anything new. Each newshound left with the vague premonition that tomorrow would be a busy day. None believed in coincidences.
As the journalists filed out through the Detective Bureau, a records technician was winding his way to Ray’s office. New reams of scientific reports were ready. The pile was plopped on the Lieutenant’s desk, without comment.
Grandisha spent an hour muddling through the confusing jargon. The prints from the spent shell casings at the bar were almost perfect matches to some partials found at the Donas apartment. Matching footprints, too. At least two of the tavern killers were involved in the other mayhem. Ray knew the fucks were the same, without evidence, but the confirmation felt good. His intuition was on the right track. Morales and Sparne were the ones. He just had to prove it.
He needed to reach out and touch someone, to share the good feelings. Ray called Jules and Liz. They chatted for twenty minutes. Each raised the others spirits. Jules wasn’t talkative. His pain was personal, not to be shared, but he sounded better. Liz was garrulous. By the time Grandisha was able to convince her to end the conversation, they were laughing like old friends. Her language was salty, but as with all true wordsmiths, she made it an endearing quality.
John Lupico walked in without knocking, and sat. His somber, tired appearance intruded on the mirth created by Liz Pranet. “What is there to be happy about?” he crankily asked.
“I’m gonna catch me some killers. And I just had a conversation with a delightful lady. Learned some phrases I’d never heard.”
The coroner scooched forward, at attention. “What happened? How close?”
“Soon... I need one more break. It’ll come tomorrow.”
Lupico relaxed. “Christ. You still only have the Spanish curse. You’re betting on the come. That’s not like you.”
Ray shrugged. “You can’t always play everything close to the vest. Sometimes you have to recognize when karma takes over. I can feel it. Tomorrow everything breaks.”
Lupico exaggerated a head shake. “Ray... Lucky breaks don’t solve cases. Sifting through evidence does. You know that as well as I do.”
Grandisha maintained his pleasant veneer. “Go home John, you’re starting to reach critical mass. You need a rest.” The coroner left without protest, without saying goodbye.
Some minutes passed before Ray stirred. He raised his bulk from the desk chair. His stoop felt more noticeable. He made a conscious effort to straighten the curved appearance. Gravity and bent bones kept pulling him down, like fish hitting bait. Fuck it, he thought, and stalked out, vulture like, to the middle of the bureau. Eight members were still present, but not much work was being accomplished.
It was time to give everyone a breather. Ray grabbed one of the nicked, black telephones. The Police Department was always the last agency to have their equipment updated. He banged the phone on the top of an empty steel desk. The dull thump got their attention. “Go home, guys. I think tomorrow will be a big day. I want everybody back. Even if you’re scheduled off. Somebody call the other three. Make sure they’re here. Margie already knows.” No comments were forthcoming. He returned to his office.
One by one, the detectives straggled out. Some went home. Some went elsewhere. All would be at work in the morning. The department was quiet, like before the Donas case. Other people were in the building, creating busy noises, but Ray’s immediate area was dormant.
He tucked away all the reports on his desk. Then relaxed. Hands clasped behind his head, long body stretched out, leaning in his chair. Christ, he thought, don’t let the phone ring or anyone else walk in. He pondered his gamble.
I’m fucked, if these guys kill somebody tonight. He had traded questionable arrests for a paper trail investigation. But he needed time. At least one more night.
Well, fuck, I set everything in motion. I have to roll with it now. Play it to the end. He grabbed some paperwork from one of the drawers, turned off the office light and trudged out. Time to find a bottle.