This time of year I spend time on other things; like updating this blog; like reading novels; like watching more football; like writing; and pursuing my aquarium keeping hobby (Tiger Oscar, Jack Dempsey and Gold Severum).
The precipitation was the kind that
Detroiters hated. It made driving a pain in the ass. Cold enough to turn the
light rain into snow flurries, but not cold enough to actually melt when
impacting the windshield. The driver flipped on the wipers alternating between
low and intermittent settings. One was too fast and other too slow to keep the
window cleared.
He lowered the driver’s window an inch
and lit a cigarette doing his best to blow the smoke through the crack and out
into the early December night. Promising himself to give up the cancer sticks
for good after the New Year, he took another puff.
The radio played a non-descript Simon
and Garfunkel tune as the vehicle merged onto I-94 east. Something about
parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme, but he didn’t care. The radio was used for
background noise more than actual listening.
Soothed by the familiar rhythm of the
daily commute, he had to remind himself to concentrate on the driving. The
freeway was sparsely lit except for occasional headlights from the west bound
lanes. With hours to go before sunrise, traffic was light.
He hugged the right lane and set the
cruise control on 60 mph; driving well below the posted limit. Occasionally switching
lanes to allow an eighteen-wheeler to merge from an on-ramp, pass a delivery
van, or navigate around an airport shuttle transit bus. It was all so mundane. No
reason to hurry. The work would be there when he arrived. It always was. But he
needed the paycheck.
He coasted down the off-ramp and turned
right. Through a stop light; a right turn at the stop sign and then into the
industrial park. Past one warehouse for a trucking company; another for an
office supply operation; and a third that cleaned high dollar imported rugs for
the well-healed. He continued driving toward the back of the park.
The vehicle rolled up to the guard shack
at 2:26 a.m. as it did every other day reporting for the early morning shift.
The security officer stepped out of the
shack and faced the vehicle. The driver extended his access badge to the
officer.
“What’s your name?” the officer asked.
“Nathan Stutgardt.”
“Date of employment?”
“July 14”
The guard flipped over the badge to the
back and scanned the barcode. The hand held chirped its approval. He extended
the vehicle search mirror haphazardly to view the undercarriage near the
driver’s side door area, walked to the vehicle’s rear, repeated the ritual
under the trunk, walked to the passenger side, and then to the front extending
the mirror under the engine compartment.
“Proceed,” the guard said, giving the
thumbs up sign.
Nathan wheeled the Nissan Maxima through
the gate, past the thermal scanners on either side, slow enough for the
surveillance camera to capture images of his license plate before passing over
the three speed bumps and through the facility gate.
Home
for the next 9 hours.
#
Detective Kerry Cates had been with the
department for 27 years. His career spanned 3 precincts, put three kids through
Catholic school, fueled an ulcer, high blood pressure, and burned through two
wives.
A thirty minute drive from downtown
Detroit, he entered the apartment in Farmington Hills, flicked on the light and
proceeded with the familiar nightly ritual.
Place the car keys on the peg by the
door. Cell phone on the kitchen counter top near the sink. Drop the loose
change in the dish by the can opener. Proceed to the refrigerator to grab an
Atwater Redford Red Ale. Pop the top before heading down the short hallway and
into the bedroom and de-holstering the department issue Smith and Wesson .40
caliber M & P for storage in the gun cabinet sitting toward the rear of the
walk-in closet next to the out-of-date and out-of-style sport coats and suit
jackets that had accumulated in the years since wife number two decided she was
no longer desired to be married to a Detroit police detective.
He walked down the hallway and into the
living room to assume his familiar position in the Lazy Boy and tune the remote
to Fox Sports, ESPN or ESPN2. With luck the Tigers, Red Wings or Pistons would
be on, but he would also settle for highlights of whatever college teams were
being featured on Sportscenter.
Between the Wolverines and Spartans the odds of catching the latest news and
highlights about the Ann Arbor or East Lansing juggernauts would be high.
Tonight it would be the ‘Wings wearing white at Joe Louis arena vs. the L.A.
Kings – ‘Wings leading 4 -2 in the third period. And like most nights, Kerry
fell asleep in the recliner before finishing the Atwater; and before the final
buzzer sounded on the hockey game.
Shortly after 4:00 a.m. he was awakened
by the ringing cell phone.
“Cates,” he answered.
“When?”
“Uh huh.”
“O.K.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
Cates arrived within thirty minutes. He
was greeted at the checkpoint near the entrance to the parking lot by two
uniformed Detroit Police Department officers and a member of the private
security firm contracted to control entry.
“I need to see some identification sir,”
the security officer said.
“I’m with them,” Cates said pointing the
DPD officers.
“Sir, your identification,” the security
officer repeated.
Cates flashed his badge, satisfying the
requirement.
During the walk across the parking lot
the two uniforms filled him in. Mass casualties. Blood everywhere.
Unfortunately he’d seen it several times before, but it never got any easier.
They entered the building through the
front doors and were greeted by Sergeant Larry Smithfield.
“Morning’ Cates,” Smithfield said.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“What are you doing here Larry?” Cates
asked.
“Cates, this is not a one man job. It’s
all hands on deck. You’ll see soon enough.”
The Sergeant led the detective through a
maze of rooms, work bays, rooms filled with cubicles, and hallways an onto the
factory floor.
Unprepared for the scene, Cates gasped
for air.
“Oh my god.”
“God had nothing to do with this,”
Smithfield responded.
The first four bodies lay ten feet ahead
on the stained concrete floor near a stack of wooden pallets. Face up in pools
of blood, arms at their sides, shoes pointed upwards.
“Who moved the bodies?”
“Whoever killed them I guess,”
Smithfield said.
Smithfield continued walking.
“Where you going?”
“Come on. There’s more.”
Three more bodies lay forty feet further
down the aisle. Like the others, arms at sides, shoes facing up in pools of
their own blood next to rolls of plastic sheeting.
