by Tom Andry
Chapter 4
I rarely get called by the police, so when that cop first called a few weeks back I blew him off. I wasn't alone in this; the police rarely call anyone unless they are asking for money for their latest community improvement project. The police don't really do much policing any more, just reporting. There was a time, when I was a kid, when the police actually investigated crimes and such. Since supers started showing up on the scene, the police have shifted into more of a community building/support role. They are still important in that they are given direct access to the SB - Super Band - radio. With it, they can report crimes directly to their local supers and generally they send someone out. You can always tell police officers by not only their uniforms, but their watches. The Bulwark have created the watch/communicators for specific police use. Each device is tied directly with the user and can't be used by anyone else. Even if they could take them off without help, they probably wouldn't. They consider them more of a badge than their police ID. It gets them into clubs, bumped to the front of waiting lists, and discounts.
"Bob," Khan's voice rang out over the intercom, "the police officer is on the phone for you, again."
I sighed, "Tell him we already gave this month."
"It's not about that. He's says he really needs your help."
My brow furrowed. Help? With what, fundraising? The last time he had caught me on the phone, before Flamer showed up, I hadn't let him get two words out before blowing him off. "Fine, put it through." A moment later and the phone rang, "Bob Moore here."
"Mr. Moore?" the man on the other end sounded official and smooth, as if he spent most of his time schmoozing people with his voice. He had that forced informality that people adopt when they don't want to sound too smart. "Mr. Bob Moore? PI?"
"That's me," I replied.
"I'm glad I finally caught you. This is Officer Kent of the Hillside Branch?" he said it like a question.
Hillside is out in the suburbs, nowhere near me geographically or economically. People that live in Hillside spend more money on their cars than I did on my apartment.
"Sorry to disturb you, but I have a request."
"What's this about?" If I sounded put out and cautious, it was because that's how I felt. No good ever came out of jobs from cops.
"Ya see, we've got a problem," the officer began. "We've got a report of a crime but no evidence."
"Yeah, that's a problem," I replied.
"The thing is, even our partners say they see no evidence."
Partner was code for super. The police liked to make it sound like they were working with the supers instead of for them. I'm sure some people out there believed them. I wasn't one of them.
"Still not seeing what this has to do with me."
"Well, the bloke who reported the crime," I could almost hear the cop pull at his collar as he came up with the right words, "was insistent. When he wouldn't take no for an answer, I suggested he contact someone else. Someone private. Your name came up."
"Great, thanks for the recommendation. If you're looking for a commission, I don't generally work that way."
"Oh, I didn't make the suggestion, I never heard of ya before."
"Huh? So, if he knows me, what's the problem?"
"Ya see, he's afraid you won't take the case."
"What?" Now I was really confused. "Why?"
"Got me," the cop replied. "Said you two had a history. Said you didn't like him much."
I started to get a sinking feeling in my stomach. Hillside. History. Crap. "He's not a doctor, is he?"
"Hey!" the cop exclaimed. "You're pretty good!"
Damn.
"Now here's the thing. This guy won't shut up about this supposed crime but we can't find nothing that says there ever was any crime," the cop explained. "All I need ya to do is take his money and look into it. Anything to keep him from calling us out any more. It's been three times in the last month!"
That was an awful lot. Crimes, in general, had taken on two flavors. Either they were so small that the supers couldn't be bothered or they were earth shattering. There was no middle ground. If the Doc was calling, and calling this much, he must be worried about something. The thing was, I didn't much care.
"You can tell that son-of-a-bitch to go to hell," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
"Hey, now!" the police officer blurted. "No need for that kind of language!" He paused for a second, waiting for some sort of reply.
I was too busy trying to decide whether or not to hang up to pay much attention. I knew no good would come from talking with this cop.
"Listen, buddy," his voice took on that soothing tone I imagine he used with potential donors and little old ladies who lost their cat, "let's be reasonable. He's a real hero, everyone knows him. He's got good money. I know how you PI types are. Just look into it for a day or two. Just check it out. You two got a history, I get that. But why not use this opportunity to get a little back for whatever happened between you? I'm telling you, there ain't no crime."
I took a few deep breaths. If this cop knew what he was asking me, he'd shut his mouth. Hell, he'd never have called.
"What's he say been happening?" I asked quietly.
"Says a few of his patients have gone missing."
I paused as I digested that. "What do you mean, gone missing?" I replied.
"Just that. They've disappeared," I could hear the shrug in his voice. "He treats them, then when he contacts 'em for a followup, they're nowhere to be found." He added under his breath, "Or so he says."
"Come again?"
"Well, you know how these supers are," he replied, "they're a secretive bunch. This Doc friend of yours?"
I gritted my teeth.
"He deals mostly with them."
"Yeah, mostly," I managed.
"So, it isn't like there are many records. He says they're missing, but there's no evidence of foul play. There's nothing. Just an empty house."
I thought for a moment, "So they could just be off on some mission..."
"Or trapped by their archenemy, or off planet, or God knows where," he continued. "But I can tell you this much, there was no foul play at those homes. Plus, it isn't like it's all of his patients. Just a few. And from what we can tell, they aren't connected in any way. "
I thought about it for a moment. Doc Arts was one of the foremost doctors to the supers. If some mad scientist came up with a super virus, he's the guy you'd call. But day-to-day, he was also the personal physician to many of the world’s most powerful supers. If he was concerned enough to call the police, that means that The Bulwark and others in the Super State government had already looked into it and passed. Calling me was a big step past desperation. It'd be like asking your gropey uncle to watch your kids; your last resort was five ideas ago.
"Ya still there?"
I was so lost in thought I'd forgotten about the cop.
"Yeah," I took a deep breath.
"Listen," Officer Kent continued softly, all pretense of informality gone from his tone, "if I had the money, I'd pay you to get him off my back. This Doc, I mean," he stammered for a moment, "I've seen him on TV and all, but he's a real piece of work in person. Sort of talks through you. Plus, he seems to be able to find me anywhere. I walked by a pay phone the other day and it rang. It was him. I mean, how can you even do that? Can you help me out?"
Seeing Doc Arts again was not something I wanted, no matter what the rest of the world thought of him. My daughter's face flashed through my mind. I blinked it away. Seeing him would bring back all those memories - all the pain from five years ago. I reached down to the lower drawer of my desk and pulled out a bottle of single malt scotch (some stereotypes are true I guess. Never knew a PI who didn't have a bottle somewhere within reach). I grabbed a glass, poured a couple of fingers of amber liquid and looked at it for a moment before answering.
"You tell the Doc," I practically spat his moniker, wincing at my lack of control, "I'll drop by tonight. B
ut you tell that SOB that I'm not making any promises."
"Great, oh buddy, you're doing me a solid," the cop blurted. "You do whatever you have to to put his mind at ease. You watch, ya collect a few fat paychecks and suddenly his missing friends start showing up."
"Yeah, we'll see."
"Bob Moore huh?" the cop said.
"Yeah?"
"Boy, that's a funny name for a PI."
I rolled my eyes, "So I hear."
"I thought you guys were all named Mike or Jack or something."
"Guess not." I hung up and swallowed my scotch in one swift movement. I grabbed the bottle and poured again.
Khan was at the door before I finished my second. "What did the police want?" he asked, eyeing the bottle and my scowl as the scotch burned its way down my throat.
"To ruin my day," I croaked. I shook my head, "Damn, I knew I shouldn't have taken that call." I cleared my throat and put the bottle and glass away. "Listen, clear my schedule. I've got something I got to do."
"Well, that won't be a problem, you don't have anything on the schedule." Khan leaned over the desk, "Seriously, what's going on?"
"It's the Doc."
"Doc Arts?" Khan's mouth hung open. "What? Did you finally kill him?"
I frowned, "Not yet. No, he wants to hire me."
"You're kidding."
I closed the scotch drawer and looked him square in the eye.
"You're not kidding." Khan stood, "Listen Bob, think about this. You don't want this."
"You're telling me?" I yelled. "You think I want to work for the son-of-a-bitch that destroyed my marriage?" I dropped my head, took a deep breath, relaxed the deathgrip I had on the arms of my chair and slowly stood. "Sorry. Sorry. Thanks for your concern. I'm just going to talk to him. That's all. I haven't committed to anything."
"I don't know, man," Khan shook his head as I grabbed my jacket off the back of my chair. The sun was setting outside and the pink and orange light cast vertical lines through the blinds across his face.
I threw my jacket over my shoulder, "Is the car ready?"
He nodded, concern etched in his face.
"Good. Don't wait up."