If I Die Again

By Tim Younkman

It is Black Tuesday, the day the stock market crashed in 1929, and Detroit police detective Patrick Quinn is gunned down by gangsters in a downtown skyscraper, only to awaken moments later in modern-day Detroit.
Quinn finds he’s still a cop in this strange new version of the Motor City, but he has a new partner and a fresh homicide case to solve that feels all too familiar. What troubles Quinn is the question: if he is dead, can he still solve his own murder?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483505763

Tim Younkman

Raised along the sandy shores of Lake Michigan, Tim Younkman is an author of both non-fiction and fiction works and an award-winning journalist for four decades. He has worked for the Clinton County News, the Muskegon Chronicles, the Bay City Times and mlive.com. Tim is a graduate of the Michigan State University School of Journalism and Muskegon Catholic Central High School. He has authored four novels as well as essays, commentaries and short stories and gives presentations on historic crime.

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9781483505763

ONE

It wasn’t the last thing he remembered, but it was close: the newspapers were calling it Black Tuesday.

It sure as hell was a black day for Patrick David Quinn since it turned out to be the day he died. The stock market began to implode on Monday and all of the Detroit papers had been updating the latest dark reports of the plummeting Wall Street fortunes by the hour. There were stories of speculators and brokers in New York and other big cities taking flyers off their rooftops, but that wasn’t his problem. The everyday life and death struggles on a more mundane scale were his venue.

Detective Quinn, or PDQ to his friends and detractors, had suffered the misfortune of calling in to the duty sergeant in the Chief of Ds office at the wrong time, or maybe it had been the right time based on what happened later but the irony was lost on him. Anyway, PDQ was told to make his way down to Grand Circus Park to join his partner, Phil Amsterdam, and other officers handling a homicide. That was it. No details, no description of a suspect, no identity of a victim or if there was more than one—typical desk-jockey bullshit.

He jumped onto a streetcar on St. Antoine in Black Bottom where he went on his own to get the lowdown on a shooter in a week-old homicide and now he had a lead but chasing it down would have to wait until the Grand Circus Park thing was handled. He hadn’t been very far away—Black Bottom and Grand Circus were only a half-mile apart, but worlds apart in real life. They called it Black Bottom, not because it was a black neighborhood, which it was, but it had been rich farmland in the early days with black bottom soil. Grand Circus Park was in view of the city’s business elite from office towers up and down Woodward Avenue.

Gangster shootouts were common enough as the Downriver Boys, the Paradise Valley hoods, and the growing Italian mob fought each other and all three were targets of the vicious Purple Gang, but it wasn’t their style to wander around a city park in daylight settling scores. That was more the work of the religious crackpots and wine-soaked crazies who wandered the alleys. The trolley turned south and he jumped off, walking the last few blocks, and enjoying the late autumn sunshine.

Grand Circus Park was part of the early city plans which created a half-moon grassy plaza bisected by Woodward Avenue and the curved streets around the park were lined with the shining new skyscrapers and business towers that the riches of the Roaring Twenties had provided. A bubbling fountain and a few noteworthy statues dotted the landscape along with fat oak and maple trees. It provided a bit of eye-appeal, some greenery to contrast with the brick and steel. The street was blocked off by police cars and sawhorse barricades as a squad of uniformed officers held back the curious and took down the names of potential witnesses. Quinn spied the tall angular Phil Amsterdam standing near the fountain in the middle of the south portion of the park, and didn’t get a good look at the victim until he was almost up to the fountain.

In a town where there wasn’t much left to shock seasoned cops, what Quinn saw when Amsterdam stepped aside qualified as truly bizarre. The victim, a man of about fifty, balding with gray and brown hair mixed, along with dull brown eyes staring straight ahead, was sprawled on the lip of the fountain, his elbows propped on the rim as if he had been lounging when he took a bullet to the right temple. There was no blood and no exit wound, and the man was naked.

What in the hell is this? Quinn grumbled as he stepped up to the dead man’s feet.

Your guess is as good as mine, Petey. It was Amsterdam’s articulation of Quinn’s initials, P.D.

He didn’t have a wallet with him, by chance? Quinn smiled.

Well, I haven’t checked any cavities, but I strongly doubt it, Amsterdam answered, grinning back. Pretty odd, is what I’d call it.

Quinn squatted down and took a close look at the dead man’s face, moving his head from side to side by manipulating his chin. Clean, he noted. Just one shot. Bullet’s still inside. The barrel was against his head when he was shot, powder burns all around the entry.

Suicide?

I wouldn’t go that far. I mean, he didn’t do it here, that’s for sure. No roscoe, right?

Amsterdam shook his head.

And the bottoms of his feet are clean. He didn’t ankle his way here. Whether he shot himself or someone did it to him, they took great pains to bring his bones here and pose him the way he is. He wasn’t just dropped here, but was laid out, his arms up on the fountain. It must have been done early this morning.

The stiff isn’t light so if one guy did it, he’d have to be pretty big, or there was more than one involved, Amsterdam offered.

Quinn nodded. Why here? What’s so significant about this particular greenland or the fountain for all of that?

It’s the center of town, Amsterdam pointed out. Maybe he was killed nearby and just plopped down here.

No, Quinn frowned. It’s a long way into the park and to carry someone that distance in the open, a naked man on your shoulders, that’s begging to be caught. It’s a lot of work just to get rid of a body. Whoever did this was making a statement.

Okay, Sherlock, but what was he saying? Clearly this guy isn’t telling us anything.

Quinn bent back down. Oh, not true, Watson. Look at the way his right arm was positioned and his fingers were bent so that just one is sticking straight out as if he was pointing at something. He was put in this exact spot for a reason.

Quinn winked at Amsterdam as he lowered himself all the way to the ground, leaning his back against the outside of the fountain, feeling drops of icy water carried on the wind. He sat alongside the victim aware of what it must look like to anyone watching him, stretching out all palsy-walsy with a naked corpse but he didn’t care if it got him some answers. He studied the dead man’s head. It had been pushed back so it was in line with the top portion of the building across the street. The dead man’s crooked arm also was pointing in that direction. The object of the dead-man’s stare was the new giant on the Detroit skyline, the year-old Eaton Tower, a business office skyscraper now casting an equally giant shadow on the park in the morning sun.

What? Amsterdam asked him with some trepidation.

That building, Quinn pointed. He was put here to direct us to that building.

Amsterdam sighed heavily. Now you’re reaching, Petey.

I don’t think so, Phil, he said, clambering to his feet. I’m going over there to check it out. Why don’t you scour around for a witness. I mean there are a couple of all night diners around and some buildings have doormen or night watchmen. I’ll meet up with you back here. He started to walk away and turned. You can let the coroner take the body.

He liked Phil Amsterdam who was about eight years older and had six years seniority on him in the department, but even though Phil was supposed to be the lead detective, he tended to follow Quinn. It was an arrangement that suited Quinn who hated paperwork and it was the lead detective who was responsible for writing the reports of an investigation.

Quinn made his way through the crowd of gawkers—there’s nothing like a naked dead man in a fountain to attract people with no lives—and moved up to the front doors of the Eaton Tower. There was no doorman and no receptionist, just a directory on the wall with the firm names and room numbers. The lobby was impressive with its walls of black marble, replete with extensive white veining, and a long hall for the elevators with an ornate vaulted ceiling of copper-covered tin. Even the elevators were elaborately decorated with bronze reliefs of the mythological Zeus in a chariot wielding lightning bolts—at least that’s what Quinn thought it looked like.

What floor, sir? asked the elevator operator, a skinny, balding black man of at least sixty. He was nattily attired in a maroon jacket and black trousers, white shirt and black tie. The jacket had gold epaulets and gold trim on the cuffs. He smiled politely, perhaps aware Quinn was a cop.

I think I’ll start with the top, Quinn said, pulling out his badge. He removed his hat, clutching it in his left hand.

Yes, sir, the elevator man said, closing the door and then the metal safety gate. He pushed the buttons and the car began to move up.

I’m investigating the murder of a man in the park, Quinn said moving around to look him in the face.

Yes, sir, the elevator operator said politely, his eyes straight ahead.

What’s your name?

Frederick, sir, he answered. Frederick Douglas Williams.

Did you hear about the body found in the park, Mr. Williams?

Oh, yes I did, sir, he said, his eyes flickering towards Quinn and back again. Saw it, you might say, comin’ to work and all.

What time was that?

Well, it was near abouts five-thirty, sir, he answered with a nod of certainty.

A bell sounded and a light went on the panel of buttons in front of Frederick. He cranked the elevator speed down and as it approached the twenty-first floor, he stopped it, opened the gate, and the outer doors slipped open. Two men in blue business suits stepped in. Quinn didn’t move so they brushed past him to stand in the rear of the car.

Twenty ninth, boy, one of the men grunted.

Quinn shot a glance at him and was about to ask Williams another question when he was interrupted.

What’re you lookin’ at, dickhead? the grunter demanded.

Quinn’s head swiveled and his body turned slightly as he eyed the man. First of all, this elevator operator’s name is Mister Williams and from now on that’s the way you will address him.

Who the fuck are you? the grunter snapped. I’ll call that nigger whatever the fuck I want to call him…

Quinn had reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved his lead-tipped sap. In one motion, his hand arched above his shoulder and whistled downward, the flat end of the sap cracking the grunter on the side of his neck. The impact caused his knees to buckle and he bounced back against the car. Quinn eyed the other man who raised both palms in a surrender gesture, his eyes wide and frightened, and shook his head for added effect.

His name is Mister Williams, Quinn repeated.

The car lurched and stopped. Frederick Williams opened the doors and the two men stumbled out. The grunter tried shouting back as the doors were closing again. I’m callin’ the cops, you asshole, but to Quinn the voice came out sounding more like Stan Laurel with a cold.

The doors shut and Williams shakily closed the gate.

Now, Mister Williams, you were saying you saw the body at about five-thirty?

Yes, sir, I was walkin’ through the park after gettin’ off the trolley. I came around the fountain and there he was. I thought he was a drunk at first and I kept movin’ but he didn’t seem to be breathin’. I walked around and saw that he’d been shot in the head, so I ran here to the buildin’ and called the police.

You called it in?

Yes, sir, but they says someone else called and they had men comin’, so I got ready for work.

Did you see anyone else in the park?

He thought a moment as the car stopped moving at the 33rd floor. "I did see somethin’ now you ask me. I didn’t get much of a look, but there was a man on the other side of the fountain as I was walkin’ up to it. He was movin’ away with his back to me. He was fairly tall, maybe six-feet. It was kind of dark but it looked like he was wearin’ a windbreaker jacket not a suit. He had a cap on, tweed maybe, they call ‘em Ivy caps.

Just one man, alone?

Yes, sir, just the one.

No one got on the trolley as you got off?

He thought again as he opened the doors. Well, there was a man, older, fifty or so. He was dressed in a suit. Had white hair with two streaks of black left in, almost like horns. I knew who he was, of course. He didn’t look at me and didn’t get on the trolley. There was a car parked on the curb and he got in the back, a big, black limousine, it was, Lincoln, I think.

You recognized this man?

Oh, yes sir, I’ve given him rides up to the top many a time since the building opened, he smiled. He is Mister Fitzhugh.

Well, Mister Williams, that helps quite a bit, Quinn said and stepped off the elevator but turned to him.

You know this building pretty well, Mister Williams. Since most of the trees in the park still have their leaves, how high up in the building would you have to be to have a clear view of the fountain without the trees being in the way?

Williams’ eyes brightened when he realized what Quinn was getting at. Oh, to see that body clearly you’d have to be up pretty darned high, if you pardon my language, sir. I’d say above the twenty-fifth floor, and just the windows at that end of the hallway, he said pointing to the right. I think the best view might be from right here on the 33rd floor balcony. You can go up one more floor if you take the stairs, but this’ll be the best, I think. Now, there’s lots of vacant offices still, so that might narrow it down fer ya’, too.

Quinn thanked him again started down the hall.

He passed a couple of empty offices, but the one at the end, which would have a balcony facing the park, was occupied by an investment company: Clarke and Fitzhugh Investment Management.

Quinn opened the door. The office was furnished with expensive oak tables and an oversized reception desk. A woman he guessed to be in her early thirties, light blonde hair, hazel eyes, nice skin, tight sweater, top two buttons undone, great smile.

May I help… she started and stopped when he showed the badge. The gentlemen are not in yet… she tried again but he raised his hand.

I’ll just have a look at the balcony, he said and walked around her desk to a set of double doors. He opened them and walked out. Up in the air 350 feet the wind felt stronger with more bite than down below, but it smelled a helluva lot cleaner. He peered over the edge and felt a knot in his stomach as he surveyed the ground with the ant-like people milling around the streets in front of the park. He had a clear view of the fountain beyond the tree tops and the ant-sized naked dead man sprawled on the edge of it. If he had binoculars, he would be able to see the dead guy pointing his finger at him. He had to admit it wasn’t exactly damning evidence that this was the office he was pointing at—or the one below, or two stories down. But it was a starting point.

He walked back into the office where the receptionist, clearly agitated but frightened at the same time, fidgeted with a pencil in her hands. A phone rang on her desk which she ignored and it stopped. Besides, wasn’t Mister Fitzhugh in the park at five-thirty in the morning?

How’s business today, he asked in a faux cheerful tone. I guess some investments look bleak.

I…I don’t know what you mean, she stammered.

Of course, but if I were you I wouldn’t let your customers out on that balcony today, Quinn smiled.

She looked at the open doors and moved to close them.

You are aware of what happened in the park early today? Quinn asked the receptionist when she returned to her chair.

Yes, I heard someone was killed, she said. It happens all too often in this town, I’m afraid.

Can you tell me a little about your bosses, such as where they are? I would like to talk to them.

I don’t know, she said. Usually they are here before I am on some days, especially Mister Albee. Certainly you don’t think anyone here is involved in that… The phone on her desk began ringing.

Albee’s not a partner? His name’s not on the door.

Yes, well, a junior partner, I guess. He is Mister Clarke’s son-in-law. He does quite a bit of the work. The senior partners seem to bring in the customers and Mister Albee and his staff do the work. The receptionist looked anxiously at the squawking phone and back at Quinn. Did something happen to Mister Albee?

Why do you ask that?

It’s just he has been unhappy lately and…

Do you think he might…hurt himself, Quinn asked, softening his voice slightly.

I… don’t know, she stammered, her ample chest heaving. He works so hard and they treat him…

They being Clarke, Quinn offered.

She bowed her head and then nodded.

Trouble on the home front with Clarke’s daughter?

It’s just he works so hard and she just won’t let up on him, always pressuring him about moving up in the world to a better neighborhood. Her father offered to buy them a house on Windmill Pointe in Grosse Pointe near his own home or up the road by Mister Fitzhugh’s place, but he refused, wanting to move ahead on his own without a handout the receptionist replied.

Quinn smiled sympathetically. Seems like you cared for Mister Albee…

Someone had to, she said, her voice suddenly turning hard. Lord knows he didn’t get any respect here or at home.

Except from you, of course, Quinn added.

Yes, but for whatever reason, he was devoted to that shrew…

Any confrontations in the office?

The smile on her lips lacked humor. A few. He argued just yesterday with Mister Clarke about turning down that house in Gosse Pointe. They were face to face and Mister Clarke hit him, knocked him down. I couldn’t hear every word, but it was loud enough to hear most of it even from down the hall.

Any more threats?

The receptionist sighed and sat down. I don’t know if I should say, but poor Mister Albee deserves to have someone in his corner. Mister Clarke said if Mister Albee continued to make his daughter live in squalor, he’d kill him.

Squalor? Where did they live, in a box under the railroad bridge?

Her somber face turned lovely again as she laughed at his description. No, actually they live in a nice neighborhood, affordable for them, on Atkinson in the University District. I’ve not been inside, but I’ve driven past and it’s a nice place.

Quinn bet she’d parked down the block and watched them, too, but that was another scenario best left to the divorce courts. Is his office open?

The phone continued ringing and the receptionist continued to ignore it. She got up and led him down a short hallway which had offices on both sides and at the end. He couldn’t ignore her hips swaying, wondering if it was for his benefit.

What is your name? he asked.

Diane Barone, she said. Miss Barone.

That answered another question. How old a man is Mister Albee?

He’s twenty-eight, she said. Graduated in business administration from Michigan, got married shortly after, and went to work here. I had started here myself a year earlier.

Albee must have the willpower of mythic proportions, Quinn thought. Try to reach him on the phone at home while I take a look around, Quinn said.

After she left he wandered around the office—it was small, probably much smaller than the senior partners. On his desk were two framed photographs—one of him with his arm around a woman with an hourglass figure, whose red hair was woven tightly on top of her head, her dark eyes burrowing into the camera. He was taller than his wife and not as athletic looking, but he was smiling. He had thick dark hair, a thin mustache, and a tattoo on his right arm. This wasn’t the man in the park. Quinn walked out of the office and down to the end of the hall which split into two large offices. He checked the names on the door and walked into Daniel Clarke’s office. He