#2 - Chapter Two "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

 

#2 - Chapter Two " It Hurts to Say Goodbye" 

 Chapter Two

Detective Lieutenant Doug Boswell gunned the engine of his unmarked police cruiser at Third and Lombard. He didn’t want to wait out a red light, so he just powered his way through the intersection. Action speaks louder than words, he knew that, so it was his way of showing Sergeant Eddie Buckley who was in charge. 

      “Don’t ever do that to me again. Don’t you even try, don’t even think about it. Got it?” Boswell knew what he had to do. Look straight ahead, lower his voice, use his authority. 

      It was a pleasant spring afternoon, with a clear blue sky, and there were crowds of people on the sidewalks of Society Hill. For Boswell, these people just got in his way, tourists with guidebooks and smartphones, and maybe even some Philadelphians, chatting, laughing, with too much time and money on their hands. Not like us, the police, he told himself, we gotta keep the peace, we gotta enforce the law, and for what?  

      “Look’it Doug, you gotta admit, Jesus, the guy was outta his head,” Buckley was talking calm, trying to smooth things over with Boswell. “What could we gotten outta him, the way he was?  He’ll come around on his own.”

      Boswell knew what was going on, but he wasn’t going to be talked out of anything. “Don’t need that shit. You don’t know, you just don’t know. Just remember, if we’re gonna get along, I don’t need that. Jus’ back me up. That’s all.” 

      “Okay fine, I’m just saying. You can’t change the reality of the situation.”

      “Woah there! What’re you saying?” Boswell pushed out a fake laugh. “‘Reality of the situation.’ You a philosopher or something? A big intellectual, that’s it? Let’s just talk regular, okay?” 

      Boswell was at the tail end of a line of cars at Market Street, so he had to bring his police cruiser to a full stop. He wanted to confirm he controlled, he was in charge with the only tool he had under his control – his vehicle. 

      Picking someone, it sure wasn’t easy. When Boswell agreed to take on Buckley as his partner, they told him Buckley was a good cop, and easy to get along with. So, why did every little thing need a discussion? Why couldn’t the guy just do what he was told? Was it a mistake? Boswell asked himself. Maybe I should’ve accepted that Chinese kid; I don’t like ‘em, but they respect rank and follow orders. That’s what they say. 

      When the light changed, what looked like families of tourists were crossing Market, so Boswell was forced to slow his cruiser, then he turned left on Market. Gotta show ‘em early on, he told himself. Once you let ‘em interfere, there’s no end. 

      “So tell me, Buckles, how’d you get so smart? How come you got an answer for everything?”

      Buckley was trying to decide what to answer. He didn’t have a good feeling; the conversation couldn’t end good. “Look’it, I don’t mean any harm. With that Siegel guy, I just thought he was outta it, no way we were gonna anything useful from him.”

      This isn’t the time, Buckley was thinking, but he noticed that Boswell wasn’t heading back to the 6th District, he was turning onto the Vine Street Expressway. Who knew what the guy was planning, what he was trying to prove this time? 

      Buckley said, “But you know, you and me, when it comes to getting smart, like you, I did the academy, just like all new cops. And just like you, I’m on the job, trying to learn, trying to pick up the things that help you survive and advance. And like you, I study and I take the tests I can. I’m trying to do good, that’s all.”  

      “Think so, huh? Well, you’re gonna have a chance to prove that, hear? You’re gonna get that Siegel guy to come into the precinct. Got it? He knows a lot, I’m tellin’ ya. You turn on your charm, hear?” 

      “You got it. No problem.” Buckley was keeping his voice calm. “But you know. You know we got no right, no legal right. We can’t force him, he’s not charged. You know, nothing’s going on with him. I’ll get it done, don’t worry. You know it’s not gonna be tomorrow. Just saying. But I’ll get it done.”

      “You better. It’s an official assignment. So, don’t fuck up.” Then, Boswell’s voice changed, became less aggressive, almost soft. “Look Eddie, I’m not a bad guy, really. I wanna be fair with you. I don’t know if you read the file on this case. Kinda thin, not much. Well, the guys had this case, they fucked up, big time. They couldn’t do anything right, no shit.”

      While he was talking, Boswell slowed noticeably down. “Maybe that’s why I’m kinda uptight about it. Listen, the victim’s body was discovered, that makes five days, five days ago, just two kids looking for their soccer ball. Young kids, they musta shit their pants. Anyway, that was five days ago, and we don’t know anything. We gotta catch up. We gotta catch up and have something to say before we see a bunch of stories in the papers and on TV.”    

      Without using his turn signal, Boswell pulled the cruiser to the right at the Montgomery exit and then turned left to enter Fairmount Park. It was only around four in the afternoon, and there were few cars. Boswell had beaten the traffic getting out of the city. As the cruiser advanced up Belmont, some players in sports uniforms were gathering up their equipment at the baseball diamond on the right side. On the left side, one tree after another was in full bloom. 

      It was becoming clear to Buckley. He knew. He’d read the initial reports in the file on the case. It was true, there wasn’t much to go on. And the reaction of that Siegel guy, we weren’t very subtle with him. We didn’t try and prepare him. We just came out with it. That’s what threw that guy outta whack. It was days, he didn’t know. He musta been wondering what happened to his girlfriend. No genius here; sure, we’re heading for the crime scene. Now we gotta produce. 

      Just like any other visitor to Fairmount, Boswell parked in the lot near the Japanese House. And Buckley noticed that Boswell didn’t block any other cars with the police cruiser. Maybe Boswell’s not such an asshole. 

      Boswell pulled his evidence kit from the vehicle’s trunk and then both officers started trudging toward the Reflecting Pool. 

      Buckley knew this corner of Fairmount well. As a kid, his family used to picnic on some weekends on the grassy areas alongside the Reflecting Pool, in the shade of the trees and in between the statues of the greats of Philadelphia’s history. Buckley used to play catch with his dad while his mother relaxed on a blanket with his younger brother.  

      The family drove over from University City in their only car, an old Chevy that kept running even though it sounded like it was on its last gasp. When he was old enough to understand, Buckley learned about the boundaries near their home. Their modest house was on 54th Street, while the better neighborhoods were below 40th Street, closer to the Penn campus.  

      Someday, Buckley dreamed, someday he’d attend Penn, something he certainly wouldn’t tell Boswell. 

      As the two officers hiked past the Horticulture Center, Buckley spotted the yellow tape attached to a stand of trees next to a path that descended back toward Belmont Avenue. As they approached, the printing on the tape couldn’t be ignored: “Crime Scene Do Not Cross.” 

      Boswell said, “Since you’re such a smart guy, I’m sure you know where we are. So, like I’m gonna tell you, what we gotta do, we gotta make up for lost time, we gotta check up on those other guys, we gotta see if those other cops missed anything.”

      The stand of trees was made up of a tight grouping of some tall evergreens common in Fairmount, like pine, spruce and cedar. From a distance, the trees appeared smaller and less numerous, less imposing than they were in reality, and their placement formed a wall that blocked the view inside past the first rows. 

      Boswell lifted the tape and ducked under it. “Hey, you coming?” he shouted, as he pushed past the outer row of trees. 

      “Think I’m gonna walk around this, around the outside, to see,” Buckley shouted back. “Kinda situate things, you know. See you in a second.” 

      “Sure, of course. Don’t get lost, hear? I forgot, you’re the smart one.” Boswell pushed past the branches, and they made snapping and breaking sounds as he made his way toward the center of the growth. He mumbled to the trees, “Back you bastards, or I’m gonna cut you all down.” 

       Studying the placement of the trees, Buckley walked around the entire perimeter, around the massive trunks and thick weeds and bushes. But then he returned to a spot where he noticed a break in the branches almost directly across from the location where Boswell entered the stand. 

      As Buckley approached the break, he noticed that most of the ground was covered by small, rounded flat rocks. But there were also areas where the bare soil was exposed. It was damp. 

      No mistake, this sure is the crime scene, Buckley was certain. This is where the victim’s body was found. And if this trail is the easiest entry to the center of the trees, this musta been the route followed to bring the victim to the center of the stand. 

      So, how can I confirm that the victim was brought this way? Buckley squatted down and examined the ground. Looks normal to me, he told himself – the flat rocks and the damp earth. But then he noticed just a few small indentions, like little channels scraped in the mud. It was strange, because they appeared sometimes with sharp edges and then, once in a while, the indentions were larger, rounded, concave forms, and then sometimes nothing. 

      His eyes were drawn to the branches that had fallen to the side of the trail, and he noticed a brownish residue in a few places on the branches’ stems and needles. He reached out and touched one spot of the residue, and he rubbed it between his fingers. It was wet, sure, but there were dried clumps in the liquid. 

      With the brown residue still on his fingers, Buckley raised his hand to his nose. There was a distinctive odor. He sniffed, taking in tiny amounts of air, but he couldn’t place the odor. The answer didn’t come to him. It was vague, maybe something between rusting metal and burnt toast. 

      Then Buckley realized that there could be an explanation, a pattern. If the victim was already dead, if she had been murdered at a different location, her body could have been dragged from outside the stand of trees to its center. 

      So, what about the brown residue on his fingers? It had to be human blood, partially dried, but some of it still in a liquid state.  

      Then, Buckley asked himself: If the victim was dragged here, the question is dragged from what? A vehicle, of course, he answered himself. 

      He felt his age, as he struggled to his feet. Gettin’ old, he had to admit. Time sure passes, already mid-thirties. He followed the short trail back to the break in the trees and started surveying the ground. 

      Bad luck, fella, it’s mostly gravel, the path running toward Belmont looked like small, sharp stones that couldn’t hold the trace of a vehicle’s tires or the shoes of whatever bad guys carried out the murder. 

      But the final question! Who’re the bad guys? So, maybe we’re just a little bit closer to finding out. 

      Suddenly, Buckley realized that maybe ten or fifteen minutes passed since he’d told Boswell he was going to walk around the stand of trees’ perimeter. Now, Boswell’s gonna be getting impatient and wondering what’s that phony smart ass doing? 

      Buckley rushed back to the break in the trees. Once on the trail leading to the center of the stand of trees, he stopped, pulled out his smartphone, and clicked off a dozen or so photos of the stones and branches with the brown residue and the patterns in the mud. 

      Then, he rushed forward to find himself in a chamber, measuring maybe a hundred square feet, formed by the surrounding trees. On the opposite side was Boswell, squatting on his haunches, cutting strips of plastic sheeting from large pieces jutting out of a trench.

      Buckley was about to tell Boswell about his discoveries, when he was struck by a strong smell in the chamber. Buckley took a few steps toward Boswell and noticed that the odor was stronger, nearly overwhelming. He sniffed a few more times, trying to define what it was and where it came from. 

      For Buckley, the smell seemed to come from the trees past Boswell, and now there was no doubt; it was definitely urine, but something out of the ordinary. 

       Buckley asked, “Hey, Doug, you smell something? I sure do. Don’t know how you could stand it.”  

      Boswell looked up at Buckley standing above him and scrunched up his face. “To be honest, I noticed it, just as soon as I got here. You notice it less after a few minutes, but still . . . It’s horrible. Fuck, it’s plain wicked. Like some horses been here, or something weird. I don’t know. Frankly, it’s getting hard to take.”  

      Buckley said, “I’d say it might be time to get outta here. Up to you, but I vote for leaving.”  

      “I think I got what I need, anyway,” Boswell agreed. “Yeah, I think the time’s come. But first, listen for a second.

      “See what I’m doing?” Boswell explained. “See those brown spots on the plastic? You gotta be careful, ‘cause there’s all that mud, the soil. I’m talking about that lighter color. This is real investigating, that’s what we’re doing. The crime scene guys didn’t even mention that in their report. There’s gonna be hell to pay when I turn this into the lab.”  

      “There might be even more hell to pay,” Buckley said like he was making an announcement. “I gotta show you something. I think I found where the killer or killers, whatever, the place they used to bring the victim’s body, bring the body into here. I think, that plastic sheeting you’re cutting, I think there’s not much blood if this was the spot where she was killed. A little here, and little there, you’ll see. So, you know what? I’m thinking she musta been killed somewhere else.”

      “It’s worth a look. Definitely, let’s take a look.” Boswell rolled up the strips of plastic sheeting and jammed them into an evidence pack. “All the more reason to get outta here.”   

      Boswell tried to get to his feet. He struggled, but he couldn’t pull himself up. 

      Buckley stepped forward, grabbed Boswell’s arms and pulled him to his feet. 

      “Hey, thanks! I don’t know what . . . ” 

      Buckley said, “Don’t sweat it. Same thing happened to me. I think our hip locks in . . .  Something  like that. It’s the time stuck in the same position. And, ya know, we’re not kids any more.”  

      “True, sad but true! Anyway thanks. Let’s take a look at your find. We’re gonna show who the pros are. That’s you and me.” 

      Buckley led Boswell back out of the internal chamber to the trail he had followed to reach it. As they walked, Boswell took photographs of Buckley’s discoveries and then extracted plastic evidence packs from his evidence kit and put at least three samples each of the rounded stones, segments of the branches and the needles – all exhibiting the brown discoloration – into the evidence packs.

      Then, Buckley led Boswell to the gravel path that led to Belmont Avenue. “I’m sure that if someone transported the victim’s body, they must’ve used some kind of a vehicle, but this gravel makes it impossible to find any kind of impression.”

      The sky was dimming, and the trees in Fairmount Park were throwing long shadows that informed night was approaching. The light was changing as the sun started to slip toward the horizon. The two officers could see cars and SUVs making their way on Belmont to grab the Schuylkill Expressway back to the city. 

      “Yeah, you got a point,” said Boswell. “But, long as we got a little light left, let’s look at some of that gravel, see what we got.”

      Buckley agreed. “Got nothing to lose.”

      At separate places of the trail, but still not too far from the opening of the trees, both men got down on their hands and knees and examined the bits of gravel for spots of brown residue. 

      “You know something?” Boswell shouted. “Like it’s been five days, and out here, away from the trees, if there are some spots, they’d be dry, ‘cause they would’ve spent a while baking in the sun.” 

      “Can’t disagree with you,” Buckley answered. “But I’m still not finding anything.” 

            “But, look’it. If it baked in the sun, any residue would’ve faded a lot. It’d be a very light brown. Like these babies.” 

      This time, Boswell succeeded in pushing against the loose gravel to regain his standing position, and he walked over to Buckley with the stones in the palm of his hand. “This might be it,” he said. “I can’t tell. Not now. But something else, what we can do is to contact the park’s security detail. See those boxes on the poles around here?” 

      Boswell put the bits of gravel into another evidence pack. 

      Then he pointed out small metal boxes attached to some of the light posts and electrical poles along Belmont. “I don’t know. Those could be security video, and maybe the security detail has footage of this spot from five, or more, days ago. That’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.” 

      It was human nature; the hike back to the parking lot seemed longer than the hike to the stand of trees after their arrival. The two officers noticed that the vehicles leaving Fairmount already had switched on their headlights. 

      Boswell’s step seemed to have just a bit of a bounce. “Listen, Eddie. We did some good stuff there. I’ll admit; it was mainly you. You took a systematic approach, you thought through the situation, and you came up with the results. Anyway, I’ll admit; we’re a pretty good team.”

      The two officers didn’t talk much on the ride back to the 6th District. But the silence was neither tense nor uncomfortable. Rather, both men felt a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. 

      “Don’t worry,” Boswell said at one point. “Just don’t worry, I’ll put everything, all of it in the report I make. We gotta show we’re making progress. And don’t worry, I’ll be careful to mention your name. Buckles, this is no shit: You done good! I guess I can stop riding your ass. You were careful, and you came up with something. Good going.” 

      As they neared the 6th District, Buckley felt maybe they could celebrate. 

      “Hey, Doug, I got a little time free. You feel like a brewsky or two at the bar near the station? We could unwind a little. How about it?” 

      “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’d love to, honest, I would. But I got some places I gotta go. Wish I didn’t. Honest. But next time, no shit, I wanna.”  

      Strange, Buckley thought. I wonder.