Freeney

by Clay Zimmerman

  “Patrick, you can’t do that. We could get in trouble.”

  Her point was valid. Initially, they’d felt foolish alerting a superior force to their presence. As they waited, they struggled with their feelings. How else were they to summon it? But then, when it became obvious that nothing was responding, there was the failure of the task and guilty relief of avoiding a difficult challenge.

  “Nothing’s happening, Patty. We need to get out of here.”

  Patrick searched Maddy’s eyes. Please don’t tell me our journey was in vain. But it wasn’t her fault. You can put yourself in a position to win, that doesn’t mean all the variables are going to come together to allow you to seize victory.

  “Where do we go? What do we do?” Patrick fretted. “There’s nobody. Our parents aren’t going to help us. No one believes us. We can’t go to the police, especially with this hot gun.”

  Maddy brainstormed for a moment. “I don’t know. You know, in times like these, my dad says you can always turn to God.”

  After another pause, as her words of wisdom sunk in, a light went off in his head.

  He broke the silence, “What about the church? Isn’t that the best place to talk to God?”

  “I think so, yeah. Aren’t they having a lock in tonight? They should all be there, in the gymnasium. Maybe Pastor Coleman can help. We can trust him.”

  They moved with purpose now. Patrick resisted the urge to walk with the fire arm in clear view. Always a good idea to be prepared but no sense in inviting unwanted attention. He had just discharged a stolen weapon within the boundaries of a municipality on a nationally recognized holiday. Sometimes, the same thing you take for granted as a safety net is the same thing most threatening to you.

  Predictably, they hadn’t traveled five properties past the park when headlights flashed and exposed them as they emerged onto the thoroughfare. They were caught like unsuspecting deer, frozen in time, their eyes wide with shock.

  Maddy was already on edge and couldn’t counter the opportunity to run. She broke out onto the sidewalk. Patrick, forever loyal to his friend, reluctantly followed suit, cursing under his breath. If only she could’ve chosen to return to the park where at least they would have the advantage of unpredictability and a bit of cover. It was a hasty decision, an anxious one. And it would cost them.

  They were barely parallel with the vehicle before Patrick noticed the unmistakable blue and red flashing lights of the law man. Maybe Maddy hadn’t noticed because she’d kept moving to Patrick’s chagrin. But they both knew their evasion was futile when the cop simply pulled the police cruiser directly behind them in one fluid u-turn motion. He didn’t need to get on the loud speaker. They knew there was no point in continuing their flee. Though they’d never been on this side of the equation before, they’d witnessed attempts to escape the grips of law enforcement on reality t.v. and it had always ended in favor of the authorities. From the layout of the neighborhood, someone on foot would have little chance at concealment unless they could dart quickly into a backyard. The streets were wide, long, well-lit and packed with houses. The neighborhood association, perhaps intentionally, had sanctioned the excessive use of hedges and bushes, trees. There simply weren’t many options for one wishing to elude an automobile on foot.

  The kids exchanged worried looks, squinting with frustration. A tall, hefty patrolman emerged from the cruiser gripping his utility belt like John Wayne. The way he sauntered over seemed to scream ‘You in a heap o trouble boy’. His waist bulged like some kind of human tuber as he approached the kids, a code relayed to central command through his shoulder radio unit.

  “Hey, guys. What’s goin on?” The candor was light and harmless.

  Patrick answered reluctantly. “Nothing much. I guess you startled her.”

  “Hmm.” The cop considered this, rolling his kneck side to side. The reaction made Patrick uneasy. It was like he was gearing up for a bar room brawl. “So, that’s why you guys ran from me, an officer of the law?”

  They glanced at each other from the corner of their eyes. This feels like a trap.

  “We didn’t know you were police.” Maddy reasoned.

  The police man cut her off. “It’s not that dark out here under the street lights, young lady. Why would you be scared of the police? What do you have to hide?”

  The duo didn’t quite have the sophistication to manipulate the peace officer the way they may have wanted to. They looked like they’d been caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

  “Don’t have an answer for that, do you?”

  Patrick searched for one but he was hampered with a cotton mouth. This wasn’t going very well.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Patrick Duffy.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Your parents know you’re out here? It’s too late for someone your age to be out here right now. A lot of young people get involved in mischief on Halloween night. Y’all wouldn’t be up to something like that, would you?”

  They shook their heads vigorously.

  “Patrick, would you mind coming over here and having a seat in the back of my car?”

  “Uh, no sir.”

  This did not look good. Patrick’s optimism interjected, maybe he’s going to take me home like some of my other friends.

  The burly police cop escorted Patrick to the back of the Crown Victoria with his arm in his hand firmly, careful not to grip Patrick too hard. The back passenger door opened with a gesture and he maneuvered Patrick into position between himself, the open door and the seat now exposed to the cool night air. Patrick thought he was about to be seated but not so.

  “Ok, now place your hands behind your back for me.”

  He guided his left hand to the crux of his back while he beckoned for the other one. Patrick was filled with a brief impulse to wiggle free and escape but reason restrained him from making a mistake he couldn’t soon erase.

  “Wait, I thought you said I was just going to wait here?” He pleaded.

  “No, sir. Don’t worry. Right now your just being detained.”

  He coolly grabbed his other hand and placed it into the solid grip of this left hand already holding the other. He reached to the back of his utility belt in a well-rehearsed motion and quickly brought hand cuffs out, latched them onto Patrick’s helpless teenage wrists caught in the vice grip of the lawman’s mitts.

  “But don’t I have to do something wrong first?” Patrick tried to find the officer’s eyes behind him, searching for some semblance of pity.

  “No. This is just for your safety and mine.”

  “But what did I do?” He begged.

  “Why did y’all run from me? That’s suspicious activity. Now, do you have any weapons? Any knives? Anything like that? Anything that might poke me? Any needles?”

  He’d taken the liberty of running his hands through Patrick’s pockets.

  “No. No, sir. Nothing like that.”

  Nothing in my pockets. I just might get away with it.

  “See, sir. To be honest, someone had made a call about someone discharging a weapon at the park. They said they saw someone in a pink hoodie, like your friend over there. And-….”

  He’d discovered a lump near the elbow of Patrick’s beige Polo jacket.

  “What’s this?” He squeezed and pinched the lump until it formed an outline. “I thought you said you didn’t have any weapons.”

  Patrick remained silent. He had a right to do so. He could also sense the addition of another police cruiser adding it’s attendance to the scene.

  The gargantuan cop spun Patrick around as if they were dance partners. He gave no resistance. His mind was already wandering to the consequences and searching for any possibilities, however improbable they might be, of salvaging something positive from this situation. Hope wasn’t easily visible for Patrick, unbeknownst to him, though the ramifications were potentially serious, his status as a minor would allow for him a much
more lenient set of punishments. At the most, he would most likely be absolved of any wrongdoing upon his entrance into adulthood at eighteen years of age. Of course, fourteen was exceptionally young to be considering adult sized penalties as he was.

  He felt the massive paws of Officer Mercier, now with blue latex gloves stretched over them, unzipping his coat and forcing themselves down his sleeve. It didn’t take him long to locate and retrieve the hand gun.

  “Oo! Look what we have here”

  He remarked with delight as he carefully laid the evidence on the roof of the cab next to the emergency lights array. His comment carried all the levity of a child emptying his stocking on Christmas day. He clicked on his shoulder unit and casually announced the police jargon.

  “Huh. Now, how did I know you were up to no good?”

  Patrick didn’t dignify a response.

  “Go head and watch your head for me, sir. Ok?”

  Mercier gently compressed Patrick’s body like an accordion into the prisoner hold of the vehicle and shut the door as Corporal Dodd arrived.

  “Looks like you got a hot one.”

  “Yeah, I guess these are the ones runnin around firing shots in the park.”

  He moved quickly to look as professional as possible in front of his superior, carefully flipping open the cylinder and dumping the shells into his hand.

  “Hollow tips, too. I wonder who he stole this from.”

  “Um, excuse me? Luke, did you say ‘these ones’? Where are the others?”

  Mercier jerked his head in the direction the teenage girl in the pink hoodie was supposed to be and returned with a bewildered portrayal.

  “Aw, crap.”

  Chapter 16

  Dawn brought with it the notorious fog which enveloped the tree tops and larger city structures as though someone had unleashed a geographic sized serving of dry ice onto the pine ridge where the township lay. Today’s murkiness was coupled with an unusual amount of haze, cutting the visibility even more drastically and coloring the normally purple/grey hue with an uncomfortable shade of orange. Even when the sun had risen to an accommodatable height, it gave the appearance of a ‘blood sun’ as it poked through the mist just past the treetops at about 8:45 am.

  Detective Martin Rosicky was caught off guard once again by the office telephone as he peeled a layer of diced carrots and peas and white onions from his combination fried rice dish from the night before he’d left imprinted on the side of his face and fused to the paperwork before him, having served as his makeshift pillow. It wasn’t unusual for him to fall asleep at his desk. Whether it was a convenient excuse for his mother’s beguilement or the fact that he was content in his bachelordom, the job seemed to be tailored perfectly to his lifestyle. It also wasn’t unusual for him to nurse a flask of Wild Turkey 101 housed in the bottom right desk drawer whenever he stayed late at the office, pondering a particularly uncooperative case.

  He still managed to answer the phone in his signature way, though there wasn’t much of an audience to appreciate it. What little there was had long been disenchanted with his antics. The morning patrol had already come and gone, debriefing and all. Anyone who might have been put off with his slovenly appearance had long since bumped their heads against the wall in vain attempts to have him written up.

  “Good morning.” He made a poorly veiled attempt to convey alertness.

  “It’s Willard again. You up and at em?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve got a homicide for you. In Henry sector.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, really. Old lady. Abuela must’ve really pissed somebody off. It’s pretty gory.”

  “Ok, I’m on my way”

  “1604 Tortuga Lane. I’ve got some coffee here for you.”

  Fresh coffee from the murder scene? You shouldn’t have.

  Detective Rosicky pulled the gray Mercury Grand Marquis up to the house on the hill, near the dead end, next to the park on Tortuga Lane to find a hectic display. Upon his emergence from the vehicle, he was made keenly aware of an apparent family member’s grief.

  A well-muscled Hispanic man with a buzz cut was proving to be a tall order for a couple of officers attempting to provide an added barrier for the yellow police tape x-ing out the open doorway to the abode resting at the conclusion of a decidedly lofty set of steps. The indignation in his eyes and cadence was clear to all.

  “So, what? You have me identify my own mother’s body and now I have to go away from here? It’s my mom! You cops are all the same. Probably had something to do with it! Always covering something up.”

  It’s way too early for this. At least it’s not a blank fortune.

  Deputy Willard, a tall, slender man with glasses and cropped graying black hair, met him inside the gate at the base of the stairs.

  “That’s the son.” He gestured behind him with his eyes. “He’s the one that found the body. We’re trying to keep the crime scene as untouched as possible for you. It’s not sitting well with him.”

  Rosicky squeezed his arm in acknowledgement as he made his way toward the steps. This was a touchy situation and no thing for a grunt to handle. As he fought with the nearly vertical stair case, the absence of coffee struck him like a bee sting. He sighed with concession.

  “That’s why it took you a full hour to get here, cochinos!” He was emitting a spray of saliva into a hapless officer’s face that more closely resembled the crash of a tidal wave onto coastal rocks. “Just another dead Mexican in the ghetto, huh? You know there’s a cop station not half a mile from here!”

  Rosicky inserted his portly, non-threatening demeanor into the fray.

  “Mr. Rodriguez, is it?”

  He resisted the urge to extend his hand and offer a shake. This isn’t a car dealership, someone just wacked his mom. Instead, he brushed aside conventional wisdom and hugged the victim’s son. All muscle. Like a Pitbull. Didn’t get a hug back. When he released him, he’d expected to see a disarmed look in his eyes. Maybe there was a faint one, hidden deep inside.

  “Who the hell are you, the Pillsbury Po Boy?”

  Martin deftly sidestepped the jab. He was accustomed to shots at his weight.

  “I am Detective Martin Rosicky, Senior Detective, Allenville P.D..”

  The officers nearby exchanged looks of skepticism. They knew it to be an embellishment but no one was vying to correct him. Apparently, he was willing to make himself the target of any ensuing criticism, which was a welcome gesture. Rosicky was going to freestyle this one. He’d borrow lines from some movies or books and make up the rest.

  “So, you’re the one in charge of fucking up the investigation or just burying it in some file cabinet in a basement somewhere.”

  “No. Nothing like that at all. I know what it’s like to be a minority. My family is Polish.”

  He studied Rodriguez closely. He’d accepted the lie. The vein in the middle of his forehead had begun to dissipate back into his skull. Maybe they had some common ground after all.

  “I grew up in the Bronx. Nobody looked out for the little, fat Pollack. My mother was murdered as well. That’s why I went into law enforcement. So no one would have to go through life like me, wondering who did this to my mom.”

  “I’m sorry about that.” The air force man was a teddy bear after all.

  “Look, I know this is very difficult.” He continued. “But I’m going to do my very best to catch whoever did this. In a way, it’s almost like I have a chance to avenge my own mom.”

  Rodriguez looked like he was just about broken. Rosicky had him staring at the ground.

  “Well, I’m going to get to work. Every second is precious in the first forty eight hours. If you’ll go with Deputy Willard here, he’s going to ask you some questions that we need to ask so we can make progress on this. After, if you don’t have anyone to stay with here in Allenville, he’ll set you up with a hotel room and we’ll pay for it.”

  Rodriguez buried his head in Willard’s chest
and began bawling as the law man was making an effort to gingerly help him down the stepping stone stair case and away from the crime scene or, as Rosicky privately referred to it at times, the executive boardroom.

  Martin Rosicky ducked under the crime scene tape and was greeted by a scenario which could more aptly be described as a cross between Hamburger Hill and Nickelodeon Guts. Surprisingly lonely, the personnel was trying to respect the alien landscape strewn with the strange green goo. Great, I can even hear my own thoughts in here.

  He struggled with his footing, trying to step around the lakes of Gak. An elderly woman lay face down in a comingled pool of blood and Gak near the kitchen table. A bizarre symbol, like the one he’d seen back in Simon’s cell, had been outlined in the pool of Gak.

  It could only be described as some kind of masochistic sun. It was a circle, complete with sun rays but it’s face had been dissected by an upside down cross, forming a somewhat make shift ball gag. Disconcertingly twisted he thought. The etching had an uncanny way of suggesting the defilement of almost everything sacred to man with but a few strokes. An abomination. Rodriguez’s rage could only be empathized with. God help the poor soul that ever tried to desecrate my mom’s house like this!

  The green puddles were littered with indiscriminant paw prints. Typical old lady stuff, he thought. The kitties were nowhere to be seen right now, though. Probably scared off by all the unfamiliar faces. Cats are so secretive and mysterious, he mused. Just like women.

  “Her name’s Alma Rodriguez, 72.” Willard appeared behind him. Martin was startled but he didn’t show it. His reaction time was still slowed due to the lingering hangover and lack of caffeine. “We gathered some statements from the neighbors. She stays by herself, just her and her cats. Goes to church and bingo. Other than that, she’s known as somewhat of a medicine woman.”