Ingrams & Assoc 3: American Life 01

*****

It was the next day. April was up early and touring the soup kitchens and homeless shelters in a five mile radius of where her John Doe had been murdered. She had a plan and she was going to execute it.

She'd already driven around, looking for a likely car that the key she was given would fit in, but found one multi-story parking lot and two flat lot car parks full of cars within walking distance. She could try going back, day to day, to see which cars had not moved, but that would take too long. She had a plan to figure out which one it was much faster. The key she had wasn't a remote, so she couldn't just drive around clicking it, although it did mean the car was older. But given the sheer number of cars in the lots, it was just too much.

She'd seen the package that her guy had dropped when Hillier had been told about it, and she knew what it was for. She also knew she couldn't talk to the place where her John Doe sprung from in the alley, since Hillier would be doing that, and she didn't want to tip her hand – even though once it was understood what the clothes were, it was obvious where he'd come from. Besides, she had another clue, in the key in her pocket. Her hand kept popping into her pocket and gripping it, to be sure she still had it.

She was on homeless shelter number four when she came up with the goods. It was a Salvation Army shelter, with some nuns in attendance. It was full of mostly women, some well dressed, some not. All had that pinched face look that comes from worry and not enough to eat. There was that strained vibe that comes from people who don't trust others much being forced together. Lots of stolen glances and people looking straight ahead. It had taken everything April had to smile and walk in and engage people in conversation.

Eventually she'd found a nun who knew who she was referring to – the mountain man, who dropped off clothes and blankets once a month to them.

"Oh yes, Joe!" the nun had exclaimed, a big smile on her face. "Such a nice man. So quiet, but always here. He drops off clothes and usually works with us doing odd jobs here in the shelter. He's one of the few men we allow in here – he's just so sad around women and he doesn't speak. He just fixes what we ask him to fix, doesn't talk to anyone, and leaves."

"Let me be sure we are speaking of the same person, Sister. Large man. Beard? Wearing flannel?"

"Oh yes, that's Joe. Very quiet, which is a shame. He has a lyrical voice. He told me he sang once."

April thought about how to ask the next question. "Sister, I hate to be nosey, but I'm a lawyer, and we have reason to believe this man might be someone we are looking for. A relative has died and we need to be sure we are looking for a man of this description. Can you tell me his last name? Where he might be living?"

The sister stopped ladling soup into waiting bowls and wrinkled her brow. "You know dear, I don't think I ever heard his last name? As you can imagine, last names are not used a whole lot here. Joe just showed up, helped and left. As to where he lived, I think he said something about living in the woods. I know it was out of the city. He always drove that beat up truck and it's always covered in mud. I think that must mean he lives somewhere muddy? Is that ok, dear? We don't tend to keep detailed records here."

April hesitated and said, "Anything more than that? I really need to locate him as soon as possible. What kind of truck does he drive?"

The nun poured soup into one more outstretched bowl and said, "No, I don't think so. It's a brown truck, at least I think it is, under all that mud. It's an older model – manual windows and so on. I honestly don't know more than that – just that he's a blessing in disguise for us here. When I see him, I'll tell him you're looking for him. Although I'm not sure this is the man you are looking for."

"Why do you say that?" asked April, curiously.

"Well, you mentioned relatives? Joe was alone in the world. He mentioned it a couple of times – that he was alone; no siblings or parents."

April could have kicked herself. Her story wasn't panning out. This was what happened when you went in unprepared. However, it had opened the door to find out more about him.

"So Joe wasn't married?" she asked, plunging on.

"No, not that I'm aware of. He once had dinner here with us and someone asked him about that. He gave them a stare that said a lot. He said something about 'Not again.' No, I don't think there was anyone at home waiting for him."

April smiled tightly and said, "Well, I won't keep you, sister. Keep up the good work," and got out of the shelter as fast as she could, before the nun asked for a business card or something to pass on.

*****

Two hours later she was standing in front of a battered old Ford pickup truck. It was in the corner of the second ground parking lot. It was, as reported, spattered with mud. So much so that the front windshield showed only clear glass where the wipers had been employed.

She stood, looking at it for a moment, trying to imagine the man who used this truck. It was at least thirty years old, before fuel injection and plastic bumpers. This one had chrome bumpers, or would have if it hadn't been covered in mud.

She walked around the truck, peering in the bay in the back. There was nothing big there, just some blankets, a couple of gardening tools and a bag of mulch.

"Ok, girl. Time for some answers," she said to herself, and with that, she inserted the key into the lock on the driver's side.

The door opened and she noted there were no creaks. It was well maintained, then. She pushed into the cab and sat there, drinking it all in. The leather seat – real leather she noted – was smooth from years of use. There was a tear on the surface of the seat that had been neatly stitched up. Before doing anything else, she slid the key into the ignition and turned the engine over. It started with no problems and as she sat there in the cab, she could feel almost no vibration.

This told her several things. Whoever her John Doe was, he had valued his possessions and treated them well. With a car as old as this, it would have a hundred vibrations, and he'd dealt with them all, up to re-setting the engine mounts, which are usually the first to go. He obviously cared about things, and cared about preventative maintenance.

She shut the engine off and took a deep breath. Somewhere in this car would be license and insurance information that would tell her who he was. She leaned over and rummaged in the glove compartment and hit pay dirt. There was license and insurance information in the name of one Julian Sullivan.

Julian. That was his name. Not Joe, Julian. Her savior was named Julian. April sat there for a full ten minutes just looking at his name, the guilt in her almost overwhelming her ability to think.

The address was relatively local, and she took the insurance information with her as she jumped out of the vehicle.

She spent five minutes looking for a nail or a glass sliver, sharp enough to pop a tire. Eventually she found a rusty nail and jammed it into the side of the front drivers side tire, it giving a satisfying hiss as the air rushed out of it.

While that happened, she pulled out her phone and called a number she'd used before.

"Jimmy? Hey Jimmy. Listen, in a bind here. A car I have borrowed has a flat. Yeah, west side. I'll give you the address; can you drive by and pick it up? Brown ford pickup. License is B673-99. Thanks. Bill me and I'll come get it in a few days? Thanks, dude. Say hi to Samantha for me. Yeah, I would be here but I have a thing I have to be at. As it is it'll be hell finding a cab around here. No, don't worry. I can handle that. No, I'm fine. Will you stop worrying? That's great, thanks, Jimmy. I owe you again."

With that, she ended the call and stood looking at the truck again for a moment before murmuring, "I'm going to make it better. I swear. I'm sorry. I will. I will make it better."

*****

Ambrose looked up as Gene Anthony hovered over his desk. It was a matter of office conversation about how Gene could hover. He hovered better than anyone had any right to. He could stand by your desk, in your light, yet make it seem like he wasn't there to talk to you, until you noticed him, when he suddenly lit up and said hi.

It was weird but most everyone in the station put up with it, because Gene came to them, which meant they didn't have to go to him. As a coroner, his place of work wasn't the most popular, even if Gene was considered harmless.

"Something for me, Gene?" asked Ambrose, leaning back and stretching. His spine popped in ways he didn't like to hear.

"Oh hi, Ambrose! Good to see you," said Gene in his nervous way. That was another thing. He was always nervous, and yet no one could figure out why. The man was one of the best coroners the city had ever had – his hunches almost always paid out, his paper work was immaculate and he was conscientious. Like Paul Savage, the cop from the other night, if he said something was so, it was so. You could take that to the bank.

"Yes, so, I just got done on the John Doe. The report is here," he said, offering Ambrose a folder with papers in it. Ambrose took it and flipped it open, still looking at Gene.

"Anything unusual?"

"No, not really. He died of suffocation, brought on by stabbing that pierced both lungs. He was relatively fit, had somewhat high cholesterol, his liver shows signs of some heavy drinking but his blood test shows clear, no drugs or alcohol. He might drink, but whatever he was doing when he was killed, he was sober as a judge.

"There are two major scars, both bullet wounds. One in the shoulder and one in the hip. The one in the hip would also have damaged his pelvis, and there are signs of reconstructive surgery on it. I would put them both at over fifteen years old. He has a tattoo on the right shoulder, but it's not something I've seen before. I think it's military related – I've seen similar types of things before -, but I wouldn't bet on it. It's a got a Latin phrase on it but I've no idea what it means. I hated Latin at medical school. His last meal was a fast-food burger and a coke. That's about it, I think."

"Ok, I'm going to give the VA a call, do you have photos of the tattoo? I was thinking they might be able to ID it, perhaps even our guy."

"They're on the back pages, along with a CD with the images I took on it," replied Gene.

"That's great, Gene. Thanks." Ambrose turned his attention to the file, and then realized that Gene was still hovering. "Something else?"

"Um. I dunno. I think this guy... I dunno what it is. I think he's ex-military. I think he's Gulf war? He got shot. The wounds are indicative of combat, not gang-related. Gangs do headshots, whoever shot him was trained because of the location. If he is military... I..."

Hillier pulled his glasses off and looked at Gene, sympathetically. He knew what this was about. Gene Anthony had an older brother, who had been killed by a roadside bomb early on in the Iraq conflict. He held every serviceman in awe and was constantly looking for justice for all of them, for his brother.

Hillier said gently, "Gene, if he is, you'll be the first to know. I'll keep you up on this the whole way, ok?"

"Thank Ambrose. I just...well, I just want to be sure the effort is put in, you know?"

Hillier smiled at him and said, "Sure thing Gene. You know I will. For you."

Gene smiled back and turned to go.

Hillier sat back and wondered at this simple ID case. What was it about this guy that inspired effort? First April, now Gene? He grunted and went back to his desk, looking through his rolodex for the number for the local VA office.