Page 52 of A Gathering of Secrets

The air is hazy above the hip-high weeds and grass where insects swirl and crickets sing a raucous chorus. The windows of the house are open and chain saw rock blares from inside.

“Sounds like Martino’s having a hell of a party,” Skid says as he gets out.

“There’s an image I don’t want in my head.” I’m hoping Martino isn’t intoxicated.

We take the sidewalk to the house, go around to the front door, and ascend the steps to the porch. The door stands open about two feet. Through the screen, Neil Young proclaims that rock and roll will never die loud enough to rattle the windows. There’s no sign of Martino or anyone else; no movement inside.

Since Martino is a felon, it’s illegal for him to possess a firearm. That doesn’t mean he’s not armed. Worst case, he’s drunk and armed and pissed off.

Standing slightly to one side, I knock firmly. “Mr. Martino?” I call out. “Painters Mill Police Department. Can you come out here and talk to us a moment?”

Skid’s got a decent amount of experience under his belt. He’s laid-back, likes a good laugh, especially at the expense of someone else, and he doesn’t get too excited about much of anything. But I can tell he’s as antsy about this as I am.

I wait half a minute and knock again, using the heel of my hand. “Chris Martino! Painters Mill PD. Can you come out and talk to us!”

A thump sounds from inside. I tense, step right. Skid moves left, sets his hand over his sidearm, leans over to peer inside.

Through the screen, I see someone approach. An instant later the interior door swings open and Chris Martino appears on the other side of the screen. I step back, keeping him at a prudent distance. Yanking open the screen door, he staggers halfway out and squints at me, holding the door open with his right hand. “The fuck you pounding on my door for?” I glance past him, check for other individuals, but he appears to be alone. “Mr. Martino, can you come out here and talk to us for a moment please?”

“What’s this about?” The big man moves through the door, steps onto the porch, and lets the screen door slam behind him. His hair is mussed, standing up on one side. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans with flip-flops. Dirty feet. Dirty hair. He’s impaired, but not unsteady on his feet. I can smell the alcohol on his breath from where I stand. His eyes are glassy and red, telling me he’s likely on something else, too. Either a narcotic or prescription drug or all of the above.

“Okay, here I am. What do you want?”

“You alone this afternoon, Mr. Martino?” I ask.

“Just me and Jack Daniel’s.”

I hand him the neatly folded document. “This is a warrant, Chris. I suggest you read it carefully. We have permission to conduct a search.”

“A search?” He stares down at the warrant as if I’ve handed him a live snake, but he doesn’t unfold it; he doesn’t read. Instead, he raises his gaze to mine. A weird smile overtakes his face. He’s got a missing eyetooth. The rest are yellowed from tobacco. “Just out of curiosity, what the hell are you looking for?”

“Everything you need to know is in the warrant.” I look past him, toward the interior of the house. “Do you mind if we come inside and take a look around?”

A search of the house isn’t included in the warrant, but it never hurts to ask. If he grants us permission, we can lawfully conduct a search and use anything we find in whatever manner we see fit.

Martino unfolds the warrant. “If it ain’t in the warrant, you ain’t coming in.”

Skid and I wait while he reads. After a full minute he looks up at me and smiles nastily. “Fuckin’ Nazi cops.”

“Thank you, Mr. Martino.” I step back. “We’re going to go ahead and take a look in that shed, then we’ll get out of your hair.”

“Knock your socks off,” he says. “You ain’t going to find shit unless you plant it.”

Skid and I turn and start toward the shed. When we’re out of earshot, Skid mutters, “That’s one squirrely son of a bitch.”

The overhead door is open about a foot, but has fallen off the track and hangs at a precarious angle. We go around to the side door. Skid tries to open it, but it jams and he has to put some muscle into it. Not for the first time I’m glad I brought him along.

“Holy cow,” he mutters as we enter.

My heart sinks when I get my first look. The small space is jam-packed with every imaginable variety of junk. An old car of indiscernible origin is parked in the center of the mess. Both front fenders are missing. One tire is gone, the other is flat. The hood is raised about a foot. Every square inch of the rusted metal is covered with bird droppings. I look up and see half an inch of buildup on the rafters and I realize it’s a pigeon roost.

Beyond the vehicle, a wheelbarrow lies on its side. An ancient bicycle is propped against the wall. Half a dozen clay pots sit on the concrete ledge of the footer. An old door that’s being used as a workbench is covered with what looks like engine parts. Cinder-block-and-board shelving lines the far wall. The stink of bird droppings, dust, and moldering wood permeates the air.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in a while,” Skid mutters as he circumvents the car and heads toward the workbench.

He’s right. Dust and cobwebs coat every visible surface. Again, I wonder about the veracity of the tip. “You take the workbench. I’ll start with the shelves and we’ll work our way toward the door. Let’s make it quick.”

“You’re not going to get an argument from me, Chief.”