Chapter Text
For some people, Christmas was the most wonderful time of the year. For detectives, it was the most stressful time. Calls came flooding in around Thanksgiving, when Aunt Bertha got into an argument with Uncle Jack again and pulled the carving knife out and before you knew it, there was a homicide call. As the date crept steadily closer to Christmas, the problems kept coming. Nick was profoundly grateful he wasn’t on patrol anymore, dealing with disturbances at Wal-Marts because “that bitch grabbed the last toy!” and two-bit crooks who knocked over Salvation Army greeters and stole their kettles full of loose change from generous shoppers because apparently no one had ever explained the meaning of Christmas to them. Or, Nick's personal favorite, the people who heard the Paul McCartney's "A Wonderful Christmas Time" one too many times and just snapped. He could appreciate the sentiment, if not the end result.
Even detectives get some weird ones around this time of year, though.
“Got any holiday shopping to do?” Hank asked, shrugging on his jacket. Nick looked up and automatically pulled his own jacket on and double-checked his holster.
“What have we got?”
“A mall Santa just got knifed in front of a crowd and no one saw a thing.”
Nick sighed as he followed Hank out of the station.
“So much for good will toward your fellow man.”
The mall was crowded and bustling, shoppers laden with packages pushing past to get to the next store, kiosk workers hawking their wares, and small children screaming because their harried mother wouldn’t let them ride the carousel. Thick fake pine garlands were strung up in graceful, draping swoops on the second floor balconies, and a gigantic Christmas tree shining with a million lights and ornaments gleamed in the middle. The two detectives made their way through the crowd until they reached the small corner that had been turned into Christmasland for the holidays, complete with plastic candy canes following a path of felt snow. They ducked under the yellow crime tape and glanced around. One of the beat officers was busy consoling a pretty woman dressed in an elf costume as she gestured frantically and wiped streaks of mascara onto her cheeks. Another was talking to a stern looking security guard who had an unhappy expression on his face.
In the middle of the scene was a gigantic pile of red velvet trimmed in white fur, the hint of curly white whiskers askew, and a pair of gold rimmed glasses lying discarded on the ground.
One of the CSU guys finished snapping the last of the pictures and waved to a patrolman standing nearby.
“Scene’s contained. The vic’s name was Stan A. Alcuse. The elf found the body. Me and Rodriguez will drop these,” he held up baggies sealed on top with red tape, “at evidence if you guys want to take over.”
“We got it,” Nick thanked him.
Hank was shaking his head at the crowd of gawkers and parents shielding their children from seeing Santa lying dead on the ground. Nick nudged him. “Elf or guard first?”
“Words I never thought I’d hear,” Hank shook his head as he walked toward the woman dressed as Santa’s little helper.
The woman had black hair hanging to her shoulders, brown eyes that flickered red and yellow with the reflections of the holiday lights, and tall, lanky limbs. She sat on a display block where an incongruously cheerful train happily tooted past as it wound its way through a small village. Her hat was lying discarded beside her and every time she shifted position, there was a faint sound of bells from her green shoes.
“Ma’am?” Hank asked gently. “I’m Detective Griffin and this is my partner, Detective Burkhardt. We’re here to ask you a few questions.”
She nodded, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. She smiled thinly, sharp teeth slightly yellow. Smoker, Nick thought automatically. “I’m Lisa. Lisa Gingrich.”
“Hi, Lisa,” Nick said warmly, crouching next to her. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“I told the other officer,” she gestured vaguely to where the two patrolmen had left. “I was just working my shift like normal and, and—"
Her face crumpled and Nick broke in. “Okay. That’s fine. What time did you get here?”
“I got to work at 2:00,” she said, twisting the small bells decorating her uniform between her hands. Her thin fingers smoothed the material down before repeating the process again. “Stan got there a little bit before me, but it takes him longer to get into his costume because of the beard and stuff.”
“Okay, that’s good. Did anything unusual happen while you were working?”
She shook her head, thinking about it. “No, not really. A mom was mad because the picture didn’t turn out the way she wanted—the kid was crying—but that actually happens a lot,” she said.
“What happened?”
“I told her our policy about retakes and she went away.” Lisa shrugged. “I mean, it really wasn’t a big deal.”
“What happened then?” Hank asked.
“Stan took his break, and I was entertaining the kids until he got back on, but he was taking a really long time. I went back to see what was wrong and he was lying on the floor. I thought,” she sniffled. “I thought he had a heart attack or something, but then I saw the blood everywhere.”
Her eyes welled up with tears again and she choked on a sob. “Were you and Stan friends?” he probed gently.
“Yeah. He was a really great guy, you know? I do this for the money, but Stan genuinely liked working with the kids. He volunteered every year, everyone knows him. He used to walk me to my car if it was dark out and he would give the Salvation Army bell ringer some money every day.”
“Thanks, Lisa,” Nick said. “You’ve been a great help. We're going to need to ask a few more questions. One of the officers here will take you down to the station."
She nodded miserably and was still crushing and smoothing her green uniform when they left her to talk to the security guard. He was a tall, slender man with hair gone salt-and-pepper with age, an aquiline nose, and thin lips. His eyes were beady and small in the soft folds of his face.
“Jim Ross,” he greeted them as they walked up. His uniform looked neat and pressed and clashed with the red and green decorations around him.
“Cop?” Nick hazarded a guess.
Jim smiled ruefully. “Yeah. Twenty years. Never saw anything like this, though.”
“Neither have we,” Hank said. “What happened?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. I work Section A-3, from here to the food court,” he waved toward the center of the mall. “I usually wander over here as often as I can, just in case there’s any disturbances with parents. Sometimes seeing a security guard is enough to deter any from making any trouble.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“I heard Lisa scream and ran over here. She showed me the body and I cleared everyone out and called you guys. I checked to see if he was alive, but he was dead when I got there. That’s about all I know.”
“Was there anyone in the break room with him? Anything out of place?” Nick questioned.
The man shrugged. “Not that I could tell. You might talk to the manager. He has a key to the break room.”
“What’s his name?”
Jim pointed to a frazzled man currently pacing nervously up and down in front of the people. He had a beaky nose and a few strands of hair clinging desperately to the top of his head and glasses that were too big for his hawkish face. His suit was cheaply made, hanging loosely around his sparse frame, and his shoes were scuffed around the edges. “Corbin Spicer. I've also talked to the guys in the security room. We'll get any footage from the cameras we have for you."
“Thanks, man,” Hank said, clapping Jim on the shoulder. "We appreciate it."
“Sorry I couldn’t be more help.” He nodded to Mr. Spicer. “Good luck with him. You’re going to need it.”
Mr. Spicer suddenly paused in his pacing and looked at the two detectives, his blue eyes wide in his pale face. He clutched a cup to his chest. The features of his face morphed smoothly before Nick’s eyes, transforming his nose into a wide beak and the wool suit into a mangy collection of brown feathers. His hands turned into long talons, topped with wickedly sharp talons. Nick blinked and the image was gone, just a terrified middle-management official sipping nervously from a Starbucks cup again.
“I’ll take him,” Nick tapped Hank on the shoulder. “Why don’t you find out what the ME is saying?”
“You sure?” Hank raised an eyebrow at Mr. Spicer, who was back to his pacing. “These managerial types are always skittish.”
Nick smiled. “I’ll just remind him that not cooperating with police can be very bad for business.”
Hank laughed softly, waving a hand over his back as he headed to where the victim was lying. “Sure. Threaten him with a lawsuit from the city if you have to.”
Nick waited until Hank was out of earshot before walking over to Mr. Spicer, who stood still in his spot, eyes darting nervously from side-to-side. Nick kept his body language loose, not wanting the man to run and cause a panic. “Mr. Spicer?” he said when he got close. “I’m Nick Burkhardt with Portland PD. Can I talk to you for a moment?”
The man cleared his throat with a high, hawking sound. “I know who you are,” he said with a reedy voice. “I know what you are.”
Nick glanced around, but everyone’s attention was on the crime scene where the body, covered in a black morgue bag, was being rolled out on a stretcher. He leaned closer and lowered his voice.
“I’m not here for that," he told the man seriously. "I’m just here to investigate the death of Stan Alcuse. Can you tell me about him?”
The man’s hunched shoulders rose and fell. “He was a good worker, always showed up on time, never made any trouble. We had to let another Santa go for showing up drunk to work, but no one ever complained about Stan. The kids and parents loved him.”
“Were there any disturbances recently?”
“No, just the usual,” the man let out an eerie, high-pitched squawk that Nick realized with a start was a timid laugh. “Parents who don’t like the pictures, workers who quit without telling anyone.”
“Did he have any enemies? Anyone at all who didn’t like him or might have had a grudge?”
“No, nothing like that.” Mr. Spicer suddenly looked at him shrewdly. “You know the type.”
Nick let that one pass. “So nothing at all unusual.”
“No, nothing,” Mr. Spicer repeated. He took a gulp of his drink, something that was aromatic and tickled the edges of Nick’s nose enticingly. Mr. Spicer saw him looking and held the cup up. “Cinnamon tea. It helps calm me down.”
“Okay,” said Nick. “Was there anything at all happening today, any special events in the mall?”
“Just the charity fundraiser,” Mr. Spicer said. “We do it every year by the Christmas tree. It’s to help people who can’t afford Christmas presents. Always draws a big crowd this time of year, with the carolers and people in the mood to spend money and all.”
“Very commendable of you,” Nick said dryly. "The security guard said you have a key to the break room."
"Of course. I open it up every day at 10:00 and when the shifts change. It's locked during shift."
"Yet Mr. Alcuse got in?"
"He's a trusted employee," Mr. Spicer said stiffly, as if he could smell a liability lawsuit in the air. His small body quivered. "He's been working at this mall for as long as anyone can remember, even before I got here ten years ago. He's an older man and requested it so that he could rest during his shift. I saw no reason not to give him one."
Nick held up his hands. "I was just asking. No one's accusing you of anything here, Mr. Spicer. Can anyone go into the break room?"
"Only employees are supposed to go inside. I suppose someone could have slipped in, but the entrance is right over there." The stand was covered in red carpet, a fake golden chair sitting on top of it with sacks full of fake styrofoam packages surrounding it. It was backed up into a small changing area, where Nick could just make out the benches, lockers, and a tiny secondhand couch. "Someone would have seen if someone went in there."
"No other ways in?"
"Just a ventilation shaft, but no one could have gotten in there. It's too small for even a child to fit through."
Perfect, Nick thought with an inward sigh. The busiest time of year and no one saw a thing, a locked room, and a man stabbed to death who apparently had no enemies. He reined in his annoyance and gave a tight smile. “Let us know if you think of anything else.”
“That’s it?” Mr. Spicer blinked in confusion behind his glasses.
“That’s it for now,” Nick said.
"But when will you be done? This is one of our biggest draws--" Mr. Spicer began.
"We'll be done when we're done," Nick said firmly. God forbid a man's life take precedent over greed, he thought, inwardly rolling his eyes. He left the nervous Mr. Spicer to resume his pacing and joined Hank.
“Anything?”
“Our manager says that the shift is normally locked, but Mr. Alcuse had a key. Other than that, no one could have gotten in without someone seeing. We can check the camera footage, but who knows?" Nick shrugged. “What’d the ME say?”
“Just the usual,” Hank began.
“She’ll let us know after she does a full autopsy,” they said together, sharing a grin.
Nick shook his head. “Never fails.”
As they walked toward the exit past the gaudy store decorations and cheerful lights, Hank talking about his wife wanting him to hang up Christmas lights and Nick nodding absent-mindedly, he stole one last glance toward Mr. Spicer.
He caught two piercing blue eyes following him intently through the dispersing crowd of people, thin fingers still clutched around his cup.