Nocturnal: A Novel

doesn’t happen, it can’t happen.”

Pookie glanced around at the uniforms, seeing if any of them were trying to listen in. They weren’t. “Just keep it together, Bryan. Don’t say another word about it. We’ll figure this out.”

Pookie started to walk away, but a strong hand grabbed his upper arm and pulled him back. Pookie turned to face Bryan, to see the look of anguish in his partner’s eyes.

“Do you really think I could do something like this?”

The logical part of Pookie’s brain said yes, but that, too, was crazy. Why the hell would Bryan have killed this kid? Where was the motive?

“If I didn’t consider you a suspect, I wouldn’t be worth a squirt as a cop and you know it,” Pookie said. “You shouldn’t even be standing here, and you know that, too. You should be in an interrogation room. But you’re my friend and I’ve been doing this job for a long time. We’ll figure this out, but for now just shut up and don’t touch anything.”

Pookie looked back into the alley and watched the CSI team. Sammy walked slowly, with very small steps. He had his head down, a camera around his neck and in his hands. When he reached the far side, he would turn ninety degrees to the right, still looking down, take one step, turn another ninety degrees, then start slowly recrossing the alley. Every three or four steps he would stop, point his camera down and take a picture, then bend to pick something up with tweezers. He’d drop the object into a brown paper envelope, seal it up and label it. Finally, he’d write on a small folded piece of white cardboard and put that in the object’s place.

Jimmy hovered around the body, shooting the grizzly corpse from multiple angles: far back, tight shot, practically sticking the camera into the missing shoulder, on and on. The blue windbreaker was too big for Jimmy’s tiny frame, making him look even smaller than he was.

Sammy stopped walking. He straightened. Still looking down, Sammy used the back of his gloved hand to wipe a few strands of blond hair out of his eyes. Moving only his head, he looked left and right, taking in a wider area. He looked up at Pookie and Bryan, then carefully walked out of the alley.

“Sammy,” Pookie said. “How’s Roger?”

Pookie didn’t feel like making small talk, but it was an automatic impulse. Sammy’s brother had been in a car accident a few days ago. Pookie didn’t remember where he’d heard that. He had no idea why such information always stuck in his head.

“He’s all good,” Sammy said. “Out of the hospital tomorrow, I’m told. As for your one-armed bandit back there, I got an ID for you.”

Sammy reached into a pocket and pulled out a plastic bag with an open wallet inside. A driver’s license showed a kid with thick, curly-black hair. It seemed impossible that this young, healthy face had once belonged to the one-eyed, mutilated corpse in the alley.

“Oscar Woody,” Sammy said. “Pretty sure that’s him, based on the stats. We’ll get confirmation as soon as we can. He’s had that license all of two weeks. Happy sixteenth, eh?”

Pookie watched as Sammy turned the wallet for Bryan to see. Bryan’s eyes widened, just a little. Had he recognized the picture?

Sammy put the wallet back in his pocket. “That body is a real piece of work, eh?”

Pookie nodded. “You can say that again. What do you think ripped that kid’s arm off?”

“In the absence of any industrial machinery, I’d say a big animal. We found some brown hairs, about an inch long. Looks like dog fur to me.”

Pookie looked to the body. The kid had to be five-ten, maybe one hundred seventy-five pounds. “That’s not a toddler, Sammy. Tearing an arm off ain’t no easy thing. How big would a dog have to be to do that?”

Sammy shrugged. “Pit bull, maybe? Probably more like a rottweiler. Get a rottie that weighs one-thirty or so, could happen. Mastiffs can top two hundred pounds. Tear that arm off easy.”

Possible, but still … the patrol officers had already canvassed the area looking for witnesses and come up empty. Hard to imagine no one hearing a scream if a two-hundred-pound dog had bitten the kid’s arm off.

“I’m guessing the dog had help, though,” Sammy said. “There’s a security camera mounted up the building. The nice building, not the old laundromat. It was pointed into the alley, but it’s broke to shit. Looks like it was recently smashed. If the camera had been working, it would have caught everything that went down in the alley.”

Maybe the camera had been broken just before the murder. Maybe this wasn’t some random act of passion — maybe the killing had been planned. Pookie would track down whatever footage it had recorded, of course, but he already knew he’d probably find nothing of use. “Was Woody alive when the arm came off?”

“Oh, for sure,” Sammy said. “Blood splashed around like a fuckin’ fire hose, man. That’s what I want to show you. Come here and take a look.”

Pookie started following Sammy, then stopped when he realized Bryan had remained on the sidewalk. Bryan seemed to be waiting for permission. Pookie tilted his head sharply toward the alley: get over here, now.

Pookie Chang had seen many things that can and did change a person, but so had Bryan Clauser. Maybe Bryan had seen one thing too many.

Bryan walked into the alley. Pookie let him pass, then followed — he wanted to keep Bryan in sight at all times.

Nothing to See Here …

Bryan followed Sammy Berzon into the alley. He felt like he was returning to the scene of a crime — a crime he’d committed.

But he hadn’t done this. Couldn’t have.

Sammy held up a hand showing Bryan and Pookie where to stop. Then he pointed down. Not with a single finger, but with a palm-up, sweeping gesture that said take a look at all this.

“I can see how you guys missed this one,” Sammy said. “I mean, any bigger and it wouldn’t fit into the friggin’ alley, eh?”

On the pavement were two drawings, done in tacky dry blood clotted with dirt, pebbles, bits of flesh, pieces of trash and even a used condom. Each drawing was about fifteen feet wide, as wide as the alley, large enough that Bryan had mistaken the bigger picture for random, individual streaks of blood. Two big circles, both with lines through them, and was that … a triangle?… lines also running through that, maybe …

The image clicked home. Clicked hard.

Bryan knew one of the images all too well, because he’d made it himself.

And there was a second drawing, one he didn’t recognize.

“Interesting,” Pookie said. “Isn’t that triangle drawing interesting, Bryan? It looks familiar to me, but I couldn’t say why.”

Bryan said nothing. He had to force himself to take a breath. He’d sketched that same thing, and here it was, done in the blood of a murder victim. His body hurt. His face felt hot. He just didn’t want to think about any of this for one minute longer.

“You two are great observers,” Sammy said. “I mean, these drawings are only fifteen fucking feet across, eh?”

“Piss off, Sammy,” Pookie said. “Not a good time for sarcasm.”

Bryan stared at the two symbols. They were different, but both had that curve with the two slashes. What did it mean? What did any of it mean?

“And there’s two drawings,” Sammy said. “But anyone could have missed them, right? I mean you two geniuses could—”

Pookie turned fast, grabbed the shoulder of Sammy’s coat and shook, jostling the smaller man. “I said, shut up, Sammy. You got it?”

A shocked Sammy nodded. Pookie let him go.

Bryan looked around. All cop conversation had stopped. Everyone was staring at Pookie. Pookie, who never lost his cool. Pookie, who never said an angry word.