His body was a wreck. I mean that. The bastardhad been beaten so badly that I even felt bad for him and considering ourhistory I wouldn’t have thought that possible. Big as he had been in life, he’dbeen whittled down.
Dom looked at the corpsefor a long time. I guess we both did, but his scrutiny of the crime scene wasmore intense than usual – as I already said, he was the one who liked to studycrime scenes.
“No part of his face isintact.” He gestured me over so I could look with him. Without touchinganything, he pointed to the markings on the ruin and where the flesh had beentorn away, where the imprints of knuckles like the ones we had in an evidencebag could be seen clearly. “He got hit harder than I thought a person couldpunch.”
“He got nailed to thefucking wall, Dom.” There were a couple of uniforms standing nearby and I knewthem both. They were good at their jobs but I could see both of them had beenbusy looking because, seriously, they were a bit green around the edges andlooked ready to toss their last meals as soon as they could.
We waited for the M.E. andsaid nothing. They’d collect the body and be on the way and then we would be onours. Until then, we both thought long and hard about the kind of force neededto break that many bones with a fist, whether or not brass was involved. Thehuman skull is strong. It has to be. Its bone can withstand a lot of force. Notas much as some of the leg bones, but still, you have to work at it to breakthat much. I’d seen freshly ground meat that looked more intact and right thenI never wanted to see hamburger again. It struck too close to home.
When it was allover, and the scene secured, we went on our way. I didn’t leave theevidence with the guys who picked up the corpse. Until they said otherwise theold movie props and the crime had nothing to do with each other, and I didn’twant to taint the scene or their perceptions. Also, Dom would have shithimself. The idea of pointing out the possible connection wouldn’t sit wellwith my partner.
“How did yourgreat-granddad die, Dom?”
His brow got all knottedup in thought. “I don’t know, but I guess maybe I should look into that.”
“Your folks never said?”
“I never asked ‘em, Billy.Never crossed my mind, but something is going on here and I need to know what.”
While he talked, IGoogled. Took me all of three minutes to find out that Anthony Galliano, AKA Walter Slade, AKABlake Hadley vanished and was presumed dead along time ago. No body was ever found, no proof of a death, and they waited themandatory seven years to make sure it wasn’t just a case of the man walking offfor a pack of cigarettes and finding another family. Believe me, strangerthings happen every day. There was evidence of foul play. That was as faras the article said. I told Dom what I’d found and he told me that his ancestorhad died here in town and was buried in the cemetery on Mill Street. Local madethings easier. We’d have to dig a bit but the police report, if one existed,would be local, at least.
More paperwork. Have Iever mentioned how much of the job is paperwork? I’d bitch more about it, butthe next clue we were looking for would revolve around, you guessed it,paperwork.
It didn’t take a lot ofwork to find out the truth of the matter.
Anthony Galliano had, infact, vanished. His body was never found, but the very night that hedisappeared, the cops answered a complaint at The Benson and discovered serioussigns of a disturbance. The pub had been trashed and it looked like there musthave been a serious fight somewhere along the way. Broken furniture,shattered beer mugs and of course, a copious amount of blood all over the floorand the bar.
No surprise, no oneclaimed to know what had happened. There would have been no mention of anythingat all, but a couple of off duty cops had stopped by to grab a brew after workand came across the evidence.
The place where three menhad been beaten to death was also the last place Dom’s celebritygreat-grandfather had ever been seen alive. The difference was fifty years intime, but I got a chill just the same, and I felt it where it counts: there wasa genuine connection.
I told Dom and he nodded.“My old man talked about that a few times. Said The Benson used to be a classyplace. Hasn’t been for a long time, though. I guess maybe signs of a murdergoing down could do that to a pub’s reputation.”
I snorted at that. I’vebeen to plenty of locations where a body count didn’t change a thing. But thatisn’t always the case, is it? We’re talking about a neighborhood pub, andsometimes people don’t like to go back to places where the atmosphere hassoured. I know a lot of places like Benson’s that survived fifty years inneighborhoods that changed a dozen times, falling into ruin and then being“gentrified,” etc, and they always managed to stay popular. Benson’s? Not somuch.
“Well, maybe it’shaunted.” I meant it as a joke, honest.
The look I got from Dom saidhe didn’t much think it was funny. Next thing I knew we were on our way back tothe pub.
Dom kept looking around,his eyes studying everything in the place. The old wainscoting, the hardwoodpaneling, all had long since passed their glory days. The old marble tile floorthat had seen better days half a century ago. I could see the previous grandeurhidden in the decay. It made me sad some days, but right then as I looked atthe taped outlines of bodies on the bloodied floor, it made me nervous.
The day was fading andnight was creeping in. Dom didn’t say what he was looking for, but he took histime scrutinizing the place. I did some looking myself, wondering if hisgreat-grandfather, a man who had been my idol when I was a kid,
