The Man on Little Sweden

by Sam Harding

  “Don’t thank me, son,” Shultz says. “Just get this job done. Somewhere in Solace County, there is a little boy counting on you to prevent his murder.”

  Yeah, I think to myself. And he doesn’t even know it yet.

  In an exhausted croak, Dr. Shultz says, “Welcome back to hell, Detective.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Going to Be a Problem

  The Solace Police Department is located near the city center, just across the street from City Hall. It’s a single-story brick structure, big enough to house a department of seventeen patrol officers, three patrol sergeants, three detectives, a detective sergeant, and the Chief of Police. Of course, not all of the staff works the same hours and days, but you’d think they did judging from the size of the building. A couple blue and white Ford Explorers bearing Solace Police Department on their sides are parked out front, and I recognize one of the SUVs to be the one assigned to the Chief of Police.

  I park my Bronco in a public slot near the police cruisers and take a moment to reflect on why I am where I am. Although I have two leads, both being patients of Dr. Shultz, I have to remember these leads didn’t pan out five years ago, and so, I really don’t expect them to pan out this time. That leaves me with really one other choice, and that’s to see if the department will be kind enough to let me go through my old case files, that maybe something in those photos and pages will be enough to send me in the right direction.

  Before stepping out of my car, I take another look at the leather attaché case on the floorboard of the passenger seat. I still haven’t fully come to terms with what’s inside, not quite fully grasping the fact that I am now a millionaire. To me, this entire experience has been one giant nightmare that just doesn’t make any sense, and even though receiving a million-and-a-half dollars isn’t what a nightmare is typically made of, the circumstances surrounding it definitely are.

  I lock the Bronco behind me and, after testing icy sidewalk with my left boot, make my way towards the double glass doors of the precinct. I pause before reaching out for the cold, metal handle, realizing I hadn’t stepped foot in this place since resigning after my last dance with the Christmas Eve Butcher.

  As usual, there is a near-finished cigarette burning between the index and middle finger of my left hand, and so, I take a final drag, burning the rest of the cancer-device down to the brown filter. The nicotine does a piss poor job calming my anxiety, not at all enough to keep my hands from shaking. Fuck it. I make sure the cigarette is completely put out by smooshing it against the cool bricks, and then drop it into a silver garbage can to the right of the doors. Now, I reach for the door.

  The inside of the police station starts off like the inside of a doctor’s office. It’s a sitting area with chairs lined up in neat rows and against the walls. There are magazines on small tables in between some of the seats, and even a couple toys in the corner for those unable to leave their children at home. Where it gets a little different, however, is at the front desk. There isn’t a nice receptionist waiting to give you directions, but a grizzled old police officer on his way to retirement seated behind a bullet resistant sheet of plexiglass.

  Officer Jerry Rickets recognizes me the moment I walk through the front door from over the top of his Mark Greaney thriller. He lowers the book and squints at me, the crowfeet in the corner of his eyes deepen as if he’s trying to decide whether or not I’m the person he thinks I am. Making sure the lobby is void of any civilian presence, I give Rickets the middle finger, and a shit-eating-grin replaces the look of confusion.

  “Motherfucker, it is you,” he says in his trademark voice. It’s akin to the sound of gravel in a blender, which is both cool and off-putting at the same time. Sitting up in his chair, he adjusts his bullet-resistant vest under the dark blue class-B uniform shirt. Unlike a lot of the younger officers on the force, the sixty-five year old had never switched over to the ever-popular jumpsuit / outer tactical vest uniform and remained in the traditional two-piece uniform of the old days. I’m not sure if it’s because he feels it looks more professional, or if he just likes the way the uniform shirts hug his massive arms. Jerry was always the guy who would forgo his lunch hour just to spend it at the gym, pumping the heaviest iron he could find. I see that even today, not much has changed.

  As I do with most things, I hide my anxiety away behind a façade, and approach Jerry as if I’m still the hotshot detective that used to work here. “Hey Jerry, how’ve you been?”

  “One year, two months, nine days,” Jerry replies. “That’s how I’ve been.”

  “And then what? You ride off into the sunset?”

  “More like, sail off. ‘Bout to buy myself a nice fishing boat and a house over on the westside and do some ocean fishing.” He takes a pause, as if reminiscing in his old Navy days. “Only for fishing though. I won’t live there full-time, not with all those fucking social justice idiots running around on that side of the mountains.”

  By “that side of the mountains,” Jerry is referring to the Cascade Mountains which essentially separate eastern and western Washington. The general rule of thumb was that western Washington was where the rain pussies, and the democrats lived, and eastern Washington was where the rednecks and republicans lived. Of course, that wasn’t necessarily always true, but it was just how people tended to see it in my neck of the woods.

  “Sounds like a decent plan. What’s the wife think about all that?”

  Jerry shrugs as if to say, who gives a shit? And then, “I dunno.”

  “Well, before you sail off into retirement, is Art here?” I ask the question even though I already saw his SUV parked outside the station.

  “Does a bear shit in the woods and wipe its ass with a white rabbit?”

  “I’m going to assume it does, yes.”

  Jerry winks at me and presses a button underneath the desk, disengaging the lock on the door leading back to the bowls of the precinct. “He’s always here. We’re at full-staffing now, so Art rarely does any patrol work anymore.”

  “Good for him,” I say, heading for the unlocked door. “Thanks, Jerry.”

  “What do you need to see him for, anyway? Trying to get your job back?” Jerry ran his hand up and down his jawline. “Should of probably shaved first.”

  I shake my head. “No, just need to look into a case.”

  “So, it’s true.”

  I stop walking and turn to face Jerry. “So, what’s true?” How the hell did people already know about my job for The Man on Little Sweden?

  “That you’re a private dick now,” Jerry says. “Like Magnum P.I.”

  I sigh as a wave of relief hits me. The last thing I want is for people do be aware of my current assignment and start spreading rumors that end up reaching the ears of the public, or worse, the man I’m hunting. For now, it appears as if the cat is still in the bag.

  “Just like Magnum,” I confirm, reaching for the door. It’s a total lie, though. There’s no way I’d look good with just a mustache, much less in a Hawaiian shirt and short-shorts.

  *

  Chief of Police Arthur Daniels’s office is located towards the backside of the station past nearly every other office in the entire building. To get there, I have to go pass civilian administrative offices, the detectives’ office, the sergeants’ office, and a couple of patrolmen who are hard at work on reports in the break-room. What’s funny is that I haven’t been gone for that long and I don’t even recognize most of the faces I see. It’s amazing how fast things change, even in a small place like Solace.

  The door to Art’s office is open, and I can see him bent down next to a filing cabinet, oblivious to my presence. He’s gained a little weight since I saw him last, his belly just making its way beyond the borders of his belt buckle. The horseshoe of hair surrounding his bald top is now gray, and the mustache I remember him having before is now gone. What remains the same, however, are the photos of his wife and kids scattered about the office and the Kimber 1911 .45 caliber pistol o
n his right hip. With the knuckle of my index finger, I knock on the doorframe.

  Art turns his head away from the filing cabinet and gives me the same exact look Jerry had given me at the front desk. “My old eyes must be deceiving me.”

  “Not likely,” I say, stepping into the office without being invited. Considering Art is a friend, (one of the few I have left) I don’t think he’ll mind.

  “Sit down,” Art says, motioning at one of the two chairs in front of his desk as he takes a seat in his own leather swivel chair. Before saying anything else, he sniffs the air. “Have you been smoking?”

  “Shit, the smell is that strong?” I lift the collar of my jacket and sniff, not noticing anything. Maybe I’m just used to it by now.

  “Not particularly, my nose is just keen to the scent. I quit about a year ago. But I see you’ve taken it up.” He looks me over and then adds, “As well as CrossFit it seems. Weird combo.”

  I shrug. “Needed to balance the bad habit with a good one, I guess.” And I don’t do CrossFit. My pull ups don’t ever involve a kip, I don’t say.

  “However you justify it, is your business.” He gives me a disappointed look, like a father who just saw their son’s F on a report card. “What can I do you for? If you want your old job back, you’re going to have to shave the beard and get a haircut.”

  “Funny, Jerry said the same thing. No, I’m actually hear to ask for your help on something.”

  “Oh?” He raises an eyebrow.

  “I need you to keep this on the down low, Art,” I say, my face turning serious. “I can’t stress this enough.”

  Art thoughtfully nods. “What’s going on, Micah?”

  “Heinrich Shultz has hired me to investigate The Butcher.”

  “Really?” His eyebrows arch. “I didn’t think The Man on Little Sweden communicated with the outside world anymore.”

  “He does. Actually, he’s still taking clients, but he’s slowed it down.”

  Art nods again and then asks, “Well, then how can I help?”

  “I’ve got two leads that I’m going to follow up on, both of them are Shultz’s old patients, Dennis O’Leary and Alexander Irving. I know we cleared them as suspects a long time ago, but I’m starting from scratch.”

  “That sounds reasonable.”

  “That said, I’d appreciate it if you could grant me access to my old case files.”

  Art goes silent for a beat, but the look on his face is reading as if he’s got bad news for me. “I’d love to help you, Micah, but this is still an ongoing case.”

  “Really, Art? You’re going to sideline me because I’m a civilian now?”

  “Not at all. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a cop, now and forever.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “What I meant to say was this is an ongoing case now headed by another detective. That detective will have all your old files on the case, which means you’ll have to go through him to get them.”

  I can sense there’s something Art’s not telling me and I get a dreading feeling in my gut. “That’s not a problem, who’s the detective?”

  “William Blake.”

  “That’s going to be a problem.” Fuck. William Blake was a patrolman the same time I was. We both tested for detective at the same time, and he’d actually scored higher than me on the test, but due to a suspension in his past, I was promoted ahead of him. Since then, Blake has always had it out for me, even when he got promoted to detective a couple years later. I don’t have many friends, but Blake has no friends. He’s a borderline dirty cop, most of which is unprovable, and the biggest asshole I’ve ever had the displeasure of working with.

  Art nodded. “As far as I’m concerned, you have the full resources of the department at your back. After what the son of a bitch did to you, it’s only right you get to keep after him. I wouldn’t even blame you if you put a bullet in his head – I can say that now, since you aren’t officially one of my officers.”

  “I get the sense there’s a but to that statement,” I say.

  Art nods. “As badly as I want to help you, I can’t force Blake to do the same. I may be the chief and can threaten Blake into working with you all I want, but he knows there’s really nothing I can do to make him cooperate with you.”

  “Don’t suppose you can just yank him from the case and put a better man on it,” I say, knowing the answer to my own statement.

  “There’s always a better man than Blake, but there’s not a better investigator than Blake. Despite the man’s lack of personality, he’s one of the best detectives I’ve ever seen. The problem is, I’m not sure if anyone is good enough to get the Butcher. The guy’s like the Zodiac Killer; we keep swinging and missing. Not to mention, the little help we’re getting from the FBI hasn’t been of any help at all.”

  “That figures,” I say, remembering back to a bank robbery my buddy Jason Kohl solved a few years ago that the FBI had taken full credit for.

  “Look, if you can get Blake to work with you, then more power to you,” Art says. “Like I said, I’ll do what I can from my end and keep you appraised of whatever I can. Just don’t expect me to get Blake to play ball with you.”

  “I understand,” I say, feeling a sour pit in my stomach. I can already tell this is not going to go well.

  “Give me your phone number.” Art pulls out his own iPhone and opens up the screen to add a new contact. “That way if I learn anything, I can give you a call.”

  I give Art my number. “Thank you, Art.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I wish I could do more. If I could, I’d put you back on the case full time, but obviously I can’t do that. Even if you were one of mine still, I couldn’t due to the conflict of interest issue.”

  “Maybe it’s best I’m not one of yours then.”

  “At least I’m not breaking any rules this way. Dr. Shultz really hired you?”

  I nod. “Yeah. He’s dying of stomach cancer, guess he just wants to close this chapter of his life before he goes. I’ve tried to avoid the subject, tried running from it since losing Dani, but it’s time I stop running and face it head on.”

  “How much is he paying you?”

  “One point five million.”

  Art blinks. “Come again?”

  “I wasn’t going to take it, but he wouldn’t let me say no.”

  “Yeah, because I’m sure he really had to twist your arm to get you to take a million and a half dollars!”

  “It’s not like that, Art. There’s no price on finding the guy who killed Dani and cut my fucking leg off.” I’m not irritated with Art; his reaction is as normal as anyone else’s would have been. I just want to be clear I’m not avenging my wife for the sake of money.

  “Yeah, I get that – but damn.”

  “This doesn’t leave your office,” I say with a grave tone. “I need to keep all of this as low key as possible.”

  “Shit, you don’t have to tell me that. And like I said, I’ll do all I can to help you out.”

  “I sincerely appreciate that.”

  “You going to need help finding Blake?”

  “It’s Sunday, so I assume he’s not working?”

  “Not until Monday.”

  “Then I know exactly where to find Blake.” I stand from the chair and extend a hand. “Thanks again, Art.”

  Art stands and grips my hand hard. Looking me in the eyes he says, “I don’t know what you plan to do when you catch this guy, but I just want you to know I will understand whatever it is you decide.”

  The message is clear, and I answer with an understanding nod. Releasing Art’s hand, I turn and leave the office, knowing exactly where I have to go next.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  You Had Your Chance

  Although it doesn’t publicly advertise itself as a cop bar, Flannigan’s is the closest thing to a cop bar Solace County will ever see. It’s original owner, who died back in the 1980s, was an Irish immigrant from Galway. First, he’d set up
shop, where most of the Irish do, in Boston, before deciding to see what was available to him out west. He didn’t much like Seattle, so he headed back east across the state before putting in a new bar in Solace. I’ve been told he bounced between the coasts, overseeing his Boston and Solace ventures, but that’s really all I know. To me, the story of Mr. Flannigan is just that, a story. I never met the man, and honestly, I don’t think I know anyone who has. What I do know, though, is the whiskey inside is excellent and that Detective William Blake happens to think so too.

  Some officers on the force claim Blake took up drinking sometime after his first suspension, but I have a feeling he started much before. He’s a former Force Recon Marine, which is cool and all, but it’s not cool when you have a PTSD episode and break up a non-violent domestic argument with a baton. It’s also not cool when you can’t get an assault suspect to admit to hitting his wife, so you dunk his head in the toilet until he confesses, just to find out the wife’s boyfriend on the side had been the one to blame. This all rings true, and yet, Blake hates my guts just because I was promoted over him. I just don’t understand how even the police union has kept him from being fired.

  As expected, when I step inside the dark bar, I see Blake in his own little corner of the bar with four fingers of neat Scotch whiskey in his right hand. His eyes are up and looking at the TV mounted high on the wall behind the bar, apparently interested in the Seahawks vs. Rams game, which is ironic considering Blake had once told me he thought those in the NFL were just “overpaid pussies.”

  Blake is wearing a long dark trench coat over an even darker shirt. His brown hair is slicked back and his goatee is as thick as I remember it, only now it contains a little gray in the chin. He suddenly throws up both hands in frustration, as if he’s actually surprised to see the Seahawks get a penalty for holding.

  I make my way past the taken seats in front of the bar and slide into the only empty stool, which happens to be the one right next to the detective. Either Blake is too consumed in the game to notice me or he doesn’t recognize me, either way, he pays no attention to me even though I’m only a couple feet away from him.