No Way To Die (A John Santana Novel)

Media uplink vans had parked behind roadblocks a half-block from the bone site. Reporters and camera crews kept the engines and heaters running as they ventured out for a few minutes to yell questions at police officers in the vicinity before retreating back into the warmth of their vans. Despite their efforts, Santana couldn’t help but chuckle as the rotor noise generated by the three local television helicopters circling overhead drowned out any chance of asking questions.

Wearing a watch cap with the St. Paul Police patch facing front, gloves, boots, and his Blauer-style fleece jacket over a heavy SPPD sweater, he and Cruz watched as Tanabe and Solace examined and then confirmed that the pelvis, femur, and the six long, flat, curved rib bones belonged to a human.

Santana knew that over ninety percent of men and women had twelve pairs of ribs, refuting the Adam and Eve myth the Catholic priests and nuns had taught him in his catechism classes in which Eve was made from one of Adam’s ribs. The exceptions were those few born with a specific genetic anomaly where they either had more or less than the standard twenty-four ribs.

Yellow-and-black crime scene ribbon had been strung among a series of bare sugar maples in the park, though at this early stage of the investigation Santana saw nothing that indicated a homicide.

“Bones could belong to a homeless person,” he said. “Animals could’ve scattered the rest.”

“Possible,” Tanabe said.

Condensation fogged her wire-rimmed glasses every time she spoke or breathed. Frustrated, she yanked off the scarf covering her nose and mouth and stuffed it in a pocket of her parka.

“We’ll need a grid search,” she said.

Kim Solace nodded in agreement.

Once the ten uniforms had been gathered together, Santana told them that they would now be under the supervision of Dr. Solace, who would instruct them in the proper techniques of a grid search. The uniforms were all wearing watch caps, black overcoats, gloves and boots, department-approved balaclavas that covered the head and neck, and cold-weather pants.
After turning the search over to Solace, Santana turned to the black, heavy-set uniformed officer standing beside him, whose nameplate identified him as Jefferson.

“Who discovered the bones?”

“Kid named Jadyn Hartley,” Jefferson said.

The name sounded familiar to Santana, but he couldn’t place where he’d heard it before or if it had any significance.

“Kid said he was looking for the Winter Carnival medallion,” Jefferson continued.

The medallion treasure hunt, which began in 1952, was part of the annual ten-day St. Paul Winter Carnival festival celebrating the legend of King Boreas, Queen Aurora, the Vulcans, and the age-old battle between cold and warm. Twelve clues were printed in the St. Paul Pioneer Press on twelve consecutive days. The clues indicated the medallion could be found in a local park. Treasure hunters flocked to the park they thought the clues pointed them
towards to search for the medallion, worth $10,000. The treasure hunt had started last Sunday. But Jadyn Hartley was the only treasure hunter observable at this hour in Como Park.

“Had him wait in my squad,” Jefferson said, handing Santana Hartley’s wallet.

According to Hartley’s license, he was twenty years old and lived on N. Churchill Street near Como Park.

Santana thought Hartley looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. He handed the wallet and license to Gabriel Cruz. “See if we’ve got any record on Hartley while I talk to him.”

“Gives me an excuse to get out of the cold,” Cruz said as he hurried to their ride.

Jadyn Hartley sat in the backseat of Jefferson’s squad, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his parka, the hood pulled back on his shoulders. He had a scraggly beard and wore his hair long in a relaxed copper-colored Afro. He had Caucasian features and a complexion that nearly matched his hair.

Sitting on the passenger side of the front seat, his body half-turned so he could look at Hartley, Santana held up his badge wallet and introduced himself. Then he said, “Tell me how you found the bones.”

Hartley shrugged. “I was just digging around, searching for the medallion. Didn’t know I’d find the bones instead.”
Santana noted that Hartley avoided eye contact. He wondered if the kid was lying or if there was another reason.

“Little cold to be out digging. Don’t see anyone else out here.” Santana gestured toward the park and then realized that Hartley was still not looking at him.

“Not too cold for me,” Hartley said. “Got to keep ahead of everyone if you want to win.”

“You search every year?”

“Try to.”

“Ever won?”

Hartley shook his head.

“You working, Jadyn?”

He shook his head as he continued gazing out the side window, seemingly lost in his own world.

“You live with your parents?”

He shook his head again.

Santana waited for a more complete answer. When he didn’t get one, he asked Hartley who he lived with. “My mother.”

Santana stared at him for a time, searching his memory bank. Then it hit him.

“Your father was Steven Hartley.” “Yeah. I’m the one who killed him.”

***

Later that same morning Santana sat at his desk in the Homicide and Robbery Unit at the Law Enforcement Center, reviewing the report on Jadyn Hartley that Gabriel Cruz had prepared. At the age of fifteen, Hartley had killed his father with a twelve-gauge shotgun that his father had bought him prior to their first deer-hunting trip.

“Hartley’s mother said her husband had been abusing her for years,” Cruz said.

He was seated at his desk in the cubicle next to Santana, his tie loosened, his sport coat hanging over the back of his swivel chair, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to the elbows. Cruz wore his black hair short, military style. He had a slight scar on his forehead and spoke in low, quiet tones, but the words he uttered were crisp and clear.

Rita Gamboni, Deputy Chief of the Major Crimes Division, had added Cruz to the ten-member unit a month ago after a retirement and right before a hiring freeze had hit the department. Santana had been working solo on cold cases and had argued against training a partner, but Gamboni had insisted.

“Being we’re both Latino had nothing to do with your decision,” Santana had countered.

“Nada,” Gamboni had replied with a smile.

Cruz had completed a criminal justice degree at St. Thomas University in St. Paul. After four years as a patrol officer, he’d applied and been promoted to the Gang and Gun Unit and then to Narcotics and Vice. At thirty-two years old, his first murder case had triggered an animated energy and an eagerness to learn.

Cruz pronounced his first name Gah-BRYEHL while rolling the R, which was common for his Mexican heritage and in other Latino countries. But cops on the force often used the American pronunciation Gay-Bree-Uhl. Cruz didn’t seem to mind how cops pronounced his name, but Santana stuck to the Latino pronunciation.

“Seems Jadyn Hartley’s old man had a nightly ritual,” Cruz continued. “Come home from the office and start drinking. After dinner, knock Mom around before passing out. When Hartley intervened, his father threatened to kill both of them. Kid got the shotgun out of the gun rack and blew away the old man.”

“I remember the shooting,” Santana said. “Don’t remember much about the father.”

“Hartley’s mother testified in defense of her son at the trial. Basically, said the kid saved her life. Had the x-rays proving how she’d been battered over the years. Anyway, Hartley was tried in adult court and convicted of voluntary manslaughter. He had a clean record and the mother was convincing. Due to the circumstances and age, the DA recommended Extended Juvenile Jurisdiction.”

Extended Juvenile Jurisdiction, known as EJJ, was a program designed to give a young kid like Jadyn Hartley an opportunity to avoid an adult sanction. EJJ applied to teens fourteen and older but younger than eighteen who committed serious felony-level offenses. Normally, the court could only retain jurisdiction over a child until they reached the age of eighteen. EJJ allowed the court to retain jurisdiction until the age of twenty-one. If the kid failed to satisfy conditions of the juvenile court sentence, the court could impose their adult court sentence, sending the juvenile to an adult prison.

“You think Hartley killed someone else?” Cruz asked.

“Easier the second time, but too early to tell if we’re looking at a homicide.”

“What’re the odds he finds human bones in a snowbank?”

“Probably less than finding the Winter Carnival medallion. But that would mean he knew the bones were there in the first place.”

“And then he dug them up on purpose and notified the police,” Cruz said with a disbelieving shake of his head. “Not real logical.”

“Most murders aren’t. But Hartley doesn’t strike me as an attention seeker. Just the opposite, actually, given his background and EJJ classification.”

“Read the last paragraph. Hartley’s also mildly autistic.”

“No wonder he wouldn’t directly look at me.”

“You noticed that, too, huh?”

Santana nodded.

“In the meantime?” Cruz said.

Santana’s desk phone rang. He answered and listened quietly before hanging up.

“In the meantime we’ve got a DB,” he said, referring to a dead body. “Let’s roll.”