The Memory Killer. J. Kerley A.

      “We’re appropriating the case. The Doc figures it’d take a psycho to sicken and weaken people, turn off their screams, then fill their head with hallucinations while he rapes them.”

      “No matter how lovely Señorita Morningstar may be, isn’t she a pathologist and not a—”

      “Heard it from Roy,” I said, cutting him off.

      I called and found Vince at his desk in MD’s headquarters and said we’d be by in minutes. He had two words: Bring coffee. He meant real brew, not the stuff cooked up at cop houses across the land, desiccated brown crumbles boiled into a bitterness no sugar could blunt. We stopped at a bodega and filled my large Zogirushi with righteous espresso thunder and were at MD in minutes.

      Vince Delmara was in a cluttered cubicle in the Homicide unit, his wingtips on his desk as he reviewed jai-alai scores in the Miami Herald. He looked up, saw us approaching, and folded the paper. Vince was medium height and slender and his dark complexion was marred with acne pocks, his black hair brushed straight back. His dark eyes were large and piercing and with his prize-sized proboscis Vince called to mind a thoughtful buzzard. He always dressed in dark suits, white shirts and neon-bright ties, capping the ensemble with a Dick Tracy-style fedora to enter the bright Miami sun, which he regarded with vampiric suspicion.

      I poured his ceramic mug full of caffeine and Vince’s toucan-sized beak sniffed. He drank, leaned back his head, moaned, then, as if his day had been re-booted, set his eyes on Gershwin and me. “Jesus … too much Scotch last night. I’m surprised I didn’t wake up wearing a fucking kilt.”

      “Your wife still make you stop and get a few pops before you come home?” Gershwin asked.

      He nodded. “Says it makes me easier to live with.”

      “She must have found you real easy to live with last night,” Gershwin said.

      “Beatrice is in Tampa visiting her sister. I had to live with me last night.” He took another blast of java. “What can I do you gents for?”

      “We’ve got a guy who was a Missing, Vince. He’d been drugged, kept for a week, then dumped. We’re planning to pull the case into our purview. Doc Morningstar thinks it’s a psycho at work.”

      Vince gave me a raised eyebrow. “Last I noted, Carson, the gorgeous doc was a pathologist and—”

      I sighed and raised my hand. Had everyone been handed the same libretto? “I know, Vince. But I figured you might smooth the way, politics-wise.”

      He sucked coffee and thought. “Well … given that details are just getting clear, the case will transfer from Missing Persons to Sex Crimes, but I’ll bet it’s still officially in MP. Lemme see what Missing Persons has listed.” He sat at a blank screen, pecked the keys. Nothing happened.

      “Works best when you turn it on, Vince,” Gershwin said. “Let me do the honors.”

      Gershwin flipped the switch and seconds later we saw a photo of Dale Kemp in the corner of a screen of missing persons. His well-attended blond hair sparkled with highlights above sculpted cheekbones and penetrating gray eyes. His occupation was listed as medical-products salesman, and I figured his good looks created a buzz among the female staff when he entered a physician’s office.

      Vince read the investigative report: “Moved here last April from Minneapolis. Liked to hit the beach and bars, but who doesn’t when they’re twenty-seven and in Miami.”

      “Gay?” I asked.

      “Yep, but you got to read between the lines. Lemme see who owns the case.”

      Vince expanded the screen to the full report, tapped a bottom line. “The case is still in Missings, headed by Katey Beltrane, twenty years in the biz, eight in MP, and a pro. She’ll thank you for lightening her case load. Step in and snatch a case from an insecure pissant and you’ll—”

      “Wind up in shit-fight corral,” Gershwin finished.

      Vince tipped back the fedora and nodded at Gershwin. “For a young buck, you know a couple things. Let’s get it done so I can see how much I lost on jai-alai last night. Here’s a tip, never call your bookie when you’re smashed.”

       5

      We elevatored down to a wide hall, a sign above the first door saying MISSING PERSONS. Opening the door revealed a thirtyish guy with his feet propped on the desk and reading a Hustler magazine. He stood, six feet plus, heavy in the shoulders, with hair so blond it had to be dyed. He wore it long over his ears and down his neck. His face was oddly lopsided, and his nose slanted off to one side. He slipped the mag into a folder as if filing official business.

      “Where’s Lieutenant Beltrane?” Vince asked.

      “Getting her ass fixed,” the big guy said.

      “What’s wrong with her ass?” Vince said. “I always liked it.”

      “Beltrane busted her hip falling off a ladder. She’s got physical therapy for six weeks.”

      The guy glanced at the clipped-on temp IDs Gershwin and I had received at the desk. He made no effort to extend a hand, so neither did I.

      “I need to speak to whoever’s running the department,” Vince said.

      Big boy crossed his arms and leaned the wall. Even with full sleeves I could see the guy had guns. “So start talking.”

      “You’re heading the unit?”

      The guy looked irritated at Vince’s emphasis. “I came here two months before the loot took the big dive. Smith retired two weeks later, Jalesco transferred to Bunco. I outranked the others, so when Beltrane hit the floor, I was in charge.”

      Vince simply stared like the guy was a scotch-generated mirage, the first time I’d seen Vince at a loss for words. I stepped in, glancing at the nameplate: Det. Figueroa.

      “Look, Detective Figueroa, given certain insights into the case by the pathologist, the FCLE has decided to put Dale Kemp’s case under our jurisdiction.”

      The guy scowled. Delmara’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it, muttered “Got to take this. A snitch who usually pays off.” Vince hustled to the bathroom across the hall, an appropriate venue for talking to a snitch.

      I turned back to Figueroa, who was squinting in thought. “Your jurisdiction?” he said.

      I tried upbeat. “Look on the bright side, bud: one less hassle to deal with.”

      “Fuck your bright side, mister. This is Miami-Dade, not a bunch of county clowns with cowshit on their boots. We can handle it.”

      Upbeat wasn’t his preferred métier, so I tried making nice. “I mean no disrespect to your abilities, amigo, but our interest in the case stems from—”

      “I read the report,” Figueroa interrupted. “It smells bogus. I’m not even sure it should be here.”

      “The victim was drugged, abducted and raped,” I said, puzzled. “How’s that not a crime?”

      Figueroa shook his head like I was a moron. “A couple hot boys meet up at a bar, go somewhere to hook up and do drugs. They get all sexed up and time don’t mean jackshit. Then one guy decides he’s tired of it. The other has a hissy fit, gets his butt-buddy all dopey and drops him in the Glades to teach him a lesson. Don’t say you haven’t seen it.”

      I had encountered variations of Figueroa’s scenario, and had considered it in this case, but the drug combo wasn’t anything near recreational.

      “You didn’t see the tox reports, Detective Figueroa. He’d had some nasty stuff.”

      Rod Figueroa smirked, probably his