Loose Ends

by Amos Gunner

CHAPTER 5: ZEKE

  Some pansy in blue worked crowd control. Least he tried. The small crowd didn’t pay him much mind. I pushed him aside and barked at the rubberneckers to go home or go get a job. Nothing to see. A few losers stayed on but I dispersed most of the crowd. Slapped him on the back and told him that’s how it’s done.

  Homicide pulls up in the shape of Evan Gruber. Homicide’s presence on the scene was nothing but a formality, a hack’s gig, and Gruber hated my guts anyway, so he was a real sour-faced son of a bitch. His job was to ask a few questions, fill out some paper work, then kick the mess up. He thought he was above the chore.

  He saw me but pretended he didn’t and made a beeline through cops and medics and zeroed in on Sutler sitting on the motel steps holding his head in his hands. Gruber tapped him on the shoulder and Sutler lifted his empty melon. His face was pale except for his red eyes. He gripped Gruber’s arm for some reason.

  Man, Sutler sure as shit didn’t look like a narcotics detective. Problem was, he didn’t act like one either. If there’s one thing Gruber and I have in common, it’s the belief that cops should act like fucking cops, y’know? You develop a swagger when you become a cop, a true cop. It’s not because you’re too big for your britches. After awhile, it just becomes natural to walk that way. Sutler never developed the swagger, so part of me always forgot he wasn’t a civilian. After a few minutes in conversation, it looked like it slipped Gruber’s mind too.

  He worked a stick of gum while interviewing Sutler, jotting down some answers and rolling his eyes at all of them. I made my way over. Closer, I caught Adam say, “I think there were two suspects.”

  “You think? I doubt it.” Gruber snapped his gum.

  I slap him on the back and call him a bloodhound. He calls me a sharpshooter. He asks for a statement and I give him one: perps come, flee, I chase. One pulls a gun, I shoot. The end. He takes none of this down. He shouts over to some CSU guy, asks if they recovered a weapon. Nope. Gruber fakes a yawn and says I’ll be the grand jury’s problem soon enough. Sutler about shits. Don’t know how you don’t see that coming. A grand jury, I mean. The pants shitting, too, for that matter.

  Gruber’s too happy to tell us we’ve been summoned by our lieutenant. Well duh. No reason to make it sound threatening. But Adams voice turns rickety. “Now?”

  Gruber’s like, “No. Why don’t you stop by the beauty shop first and get your nails done.” Such bitter words from so fresh a breath.

  I pat Adam on the back and tell Gruber to go fuck himself. He gives me a lame-ass Clint Eastwood impression, then struts over to the ambulance, to go fuck himself for all I know.

  Adam’s not sure why my hand’s gently resting on his back. Well, up till then, the nicest I’d been to Sutler was when I apologized for calling him a douchebag. Actually, what I said was, “You’re not a douchebag. A douchebag’s useful.” But no more lowdown jabs, even if he deserved every one. From then on, damn it, I’m going to bite my tongue and Sutler was going to be my new best friend. The foulest pile of shit I ever had to eat, but necessary.

  As we drive back the station, I go on about how what a prick Gruber is. A kid just bit it and this dickhead detective lobs fucking insults at us? Meanwhile, I’m secretly thanking Gruber for being a prick so’s to give me a means to be nice to Sutler. The day was packed wit new experiences. Adam bites and joins the attack. By the time we pull into the parking lot, he’s telling me we need to stick together if we’re going to pull through and how he won’t let me down. Shit, like shooting water in a barrel.

  Lieutenant Marner’s office was freezing. A giant air duct over his desk poured out sub zero winds, way overcompensating for the heat outside. Adam fidgeted with his legs on a chair in front of Marner’s desk and, like he forgot how to sit. I stood steeled, my arms folded.

  Marner never liked me too much no matter what I did. Me and Gavin Quinn, we were together for years and Marner hated every second of it. It’s not that we caused all sorts of hell on the streets. Well, at first we did. Then Quinn sorta mellowed. But that pissed Marner too. Quinn calculated how few hours we could put in and still keep our jobs, and Marner couldn’t decide which was worse: our pep or our sloth. Marner’s discipline for our laziness amounted to a chew out given a few times a year. After a reaming, we’d go out and snare a few small bunnies, then go back to slacking till the next chew out.

  That’s why everyone’s been pretty cool to me here, considering. Mostly, I was never really a cop, y’know? I never really gave a shit and I went easy on a lot of folks. When I was a kid, I always said I was either gonna be a cop or a criminal, and the cops had the better dental plan.

  Whatever. The job was a joke. I mean, for every lame we bust, there’s a hundred more to take his place. Trying to reduce crime’s like trying to empty water from a leaky boat. You never get the boat dry. You just try to stay afloat.

  But then Quinn retired and screwed up my cushy life. He had to quit. Stomach cancer. Marner thought I had a good cop in me dying to come out, and now with Quinn gone, it just needed a push. Told me he was getting this new kid, Sutler, who looked to be a real straight pisser. Said Sutler was going to midwife the good cop inside me. Right.

  Okay, so I’m standing there and Marner looks like he wants to kill me. “Nice suit,” he says. “Almost makes you professional.” Then he leans back in his chair and says, “Mea culpa.”

  Adam wags his tail and says, “Oh, that’s a Catholic thing.”

  Marner’s not impressed. Ignores him and says, “It means--”

  And Adam interrupts him. Says, “It means ‘my fault.’”

  Marner makes it plain he’s not impressed. Adam gets hangdog and shuts up. Also, he finally gets some control over his legs and sits perfectly still. Marner goes on and says, “No. It means ‘I honest-to-God truly fucked up.’” He lists all these mistakes he made: let me work in a place I worked before, almost alone, no backup, no street presence, minimal surveillance. He let it all happen and he’s fessing up.

  The case against Marcus is kaput. That’s a given. From my rat to Sampson to Marcus to the sellers, too much plausible deniability’s been built up to let any charge stick. The plan was to get closer and closer till we had Marcus dangling on our hook. As it stands, we barely drop the pole in the water before we have to pull it out and pack it away.

  Marner hopes I’m gonna step up and say, “Ah, poor lieutenant. Don’t say that. It was all my fault.” Nope. I’m like, “Well, I know I didn’t mess up, so...”

  He’s not having it. Says his fuck up doesn’t erase my fuck up. Says it wasn’t just him or just me. We both shoulder the blame. He liked to play that game. He’d be, like, either/or? Then you’d choose, and he’d say, “Nope. It’s both.” One of his pathetic power trips.

  “Damn it. If the kid was just a few years older.” The age, that’s the one little number that’s making the department sweat, but that’s the one detail that can’t be laid on either one of us. No, the blame for that belongs elsewhere: to Marcus for sending the kid out, the kid himself for hooking up with Marcus, the kid’s mom for not having got knocked up sooner. Fate.

  Still, in spite of that, I’m put in the position of having to defend myself, which is pretty easy. I have no idea how the kid knew I was a cop. He pulled a gun on me. I could go on, but Marner holds up his hand and cuts me off. Tells me to type it up and go home. Tells me I have to meet with IA the next day.

  Let me pause here. Whenever there’s a police related shooting, a grand jury is convened. But this takes a long time, months sometimes, and it was decided from on high to have Internal Affairs investigate the shooting right away to appease any crabby, noisy citizens before they make a public stink and I’m boring myself talking about this.

  So, IA. And I have to make an appointment to see a shrink. Adam’s like, “Me too?” Marner looked like he could’ve used some time on the couch himself.

  See, Marner’s third generation on the force. The job was in his blood but you could t
ell he wanted a transfusion. Like that day, when he wasn’t staring me down or ignoring Adam, he’d sneak a peek at a calendar on his wall. I’ll wager my left one he was calculating when he could take a vacation.

  In the department, like they say in the army, shit flows downstream. In the time since I pulled the trigger, his phone must’ve gone nuts with the shit dumping down on him from his superiors. Later on as Adam and I left, his phone rang and I swear I heard him groan, like it hurt him.

  But, if shit goes downstream, authority goes up. You might be covered in shit, but you’re absolved of responsibility. Marner tells us he has no choice about IA or a shrink, and he has no choice but to put us on modified assignment. I bitch and moan but he says his hands are tied from on high. He requests our gun and badge. Adam’s are on the desk in the time it takes him to say, “Yes sir.” I don’t budge. It’s bullshit and I say so. I say, “Don’t do anything until--”

  “Until IA says you stink?”

  Ouch. Well, I know all this is fair. I didn’t expect anything different, but I’m sure you follow why I grumble, why I make this big show about turning in the only things that make being a cop worthwhile. He keeps cool, which must be easy when it’s nearly snowing in his office.

  Adam wants more info on the modified assignment. Idiot. There isn’t one, dig? It’s a fancy trick to keep us off the streets without putting us under suspension. Marner tells Adam to go ahead and make other plans.

  Last thing he says to us is, “No press.” He sits up to say it and he repeats it over and over. “No press. No press. No press.” Like I said, his phone rings as we leave. Poor Marner. Seriously. Struggling at a job he hates, like so many others. Too many others. I grieve for them all. They should be working on their soul, not selling it.

  I tell Adam we’re grabbing some coffee at the place around the corner. He says we have to write our reports. I’m like, “Are you eager to write the report right now?” He says, “Let’s get some coffee.”

  At the shop, he’s dreadful and glum. Glazed eyes aimed out the window, into nowhere. Hand plopped by his coffee cup like he has no intention of picking it or anything else up again. “Should’ve have happened,” he mumbles.

  What you should appreciate is that cops are expected to protect and serve. They’re not supposed to shoot citizens or most times perps. Most cops never need to pull out their weapon, let alone fire it, let alone fire it into someone. And when it happens, it feels wrong. That’s why citizens get upset. But they’re not the only ones. After an incident, an eerie atmosphere descends on the department. Everyone speaks softer, moves slower. And the cop who kills never likes it, never likes himself, usually goes through years of therapy. And more than one cop’s taken their own life after they took another’s, even if the baddie deserved it.

  So I have a pretty good idea how to act. “Right. Shouldn’t’ve happened.”

  He nods oh so sadly. “You hit the nail on the head.”

  By the way, can I tell you how much I hated Sutler’s clichés without sounding petty?

  “And he shouldn’t’ve even been there,” I say. “Just a kid. Should’ve been in school. Become a doctor. Grow a family. All that stuff. Damn.”

  I take off my tie. It’d been choking me all day and I was far past needing to pretend I was a businessman or whatever my cover was. And I don’t want the chick behind the counter, this hot young tight thing with curly brown hair, I didn’t want her to think I’m a square.

  Right then, she’s counting the drawer, her luscious pink lips silently mouthing the numbers. Yummy. I fondle her with my eyes. She glances over. I wave with my three middle fingers. She goes back to the money, like I don’t even exist. Man, she has the air of indifference toward me that women fully satisfied with their current lover give off. I hate that.

  The only other people in the place are these two old ladies across the room. One has blue hair. Do you think broads like that bother to check the mirror before they leave the house? Are they truly convinced they look presentable? Here’s what happens: they ask their husbands if they look okay and the husbands are so fucking bored answering that same question for the past fifty years they go, “Yes Myrtle,” and the poor deluded wives leave the house assuming if they still look good to their husbands after a few decades, they must look good enough to everyone else. Her friend at least seemed comfortable being old and disgusting. Didn’t make a pointless effort. I respect that. Though I wouldn’t fuck either one with my worst enemy’s dick.

  And then there’s Sutler. He resembled a stunned animal. He asks if I think it’s a sin. I swear he once told me he was an atheist, like I used to be. Sinner that I was, I was so happy to find out he wasn’t a religious nut. I was under the impression that that was the one subject we could agree on. Where’s this sin stuff coming from, I ask? But he’s like, “No. I never said ‘atheist.’ I said I was a deist.” Whatever the hell that is.

  Anyway, I answer that the shooting wasn’t a sin because it says in the bible, “Thou shall not murder.” People think it says, “Thou shall not kill,” but people are wrong. That’s the one part of the bible I had bothered to read. And I tell him it doesn’t matter what the bible says one way or the other because the bible was written by a pack of morons in sandals two thousand years ago. He’s amused at this. Prick.

  Man, he saw himself as the hero, the ultimate good guy, the righteous guy. But he was just self-righteous, which ain’t the same. He always flapped his gums about doing good and saving people, but without God, how can you know what’s good and bad? And if you don’t know what’s bad, how can you save people from it? I hated him for certain reasons then and I hate him for different reasons now. Amazing. He was born to be hated.

  I go back to playing Mr. Sensitive. “But sin or no sin, it’s awful.” I gently cover his hand with mine. My fingers are much bigger. I ask if he’s worried about the IA interview and his big brown eyes quiver. Don’t ask me how eyes quiver. Bastard made it happen.

  I outline the typical IA interview: nothing bad, nothing probing. You tell your story, then they ask a few painless questions for the record. “It’s nothing. By the way, do you know what you’ll say?”

  His puffs out his chest and he says, “I’ll tell them what I saw and that’s it.”

  And what’d he see? What’s going in his report? He starts to hem and haw. Can’t get a complete word out. Finally admits he has no idea what he’ll say or what he’ll write in the report.

  Oh, yes. I’ll be happy to help out. Anything for you, buddy. You’re my partner. And we must make sure we stay in touch through this ordeal. That’s important. I suggest dinner with his wife and me. I call her Linda. He corrects me and tells me it’s Brenda. He says she’s a good cook. Then he droops and says he has no idea how he’ll break the news to her, how it’ll devastate her.

  Out the corner of my eye, I catch the girl at the counter looking my way. This gets my imagination flowing till I realize I’ve been holding Adam’s hand for way too long. I let go to stifle a fake yawn. “Let her read about it in the paper.” After I calm him down, I explain to Adam how a kid like that will get fifteen seconds of attention, tops. He believes me.

  “Ready to tackle that paperwork, buddy?”

  When he stands, the clumsy jackass knocks over his coffee cup. The lid flies off and the steaming brown liquid spreads across the table and spills on the floor. I jump back in enough time to save Gavin’s suit, but the tie’s ruined. I don’t get too upset. Just makes what I have to do that much easier.

  The chick comes with a wad of washcloths. She smells like vanilla and cinnamon. I want to eat her up. But I can tell she’s eager to prance home to her big boyfriend so he can hold her tight while she bitches about tedious her day with the clumsy customers.

  Adam’s apologetic and makes some cute, self-effacing remark, but I know I’m not getting anywhere with this bitch so I tell him, “Let’s get out of here. We got some real work to do.” I leave the sopping wet tie on the table and jet.
Adam whimpers for me to wait but I don’t.

  Outside the place, this hobo asks for change. Adam digs into his pocket but I say, “Change comes from within,” and lead Adam back to the station.