The Interstellar Police Force, Book One: The Historic Mission

by Raymond F. Klein

  Colus’s oblong bald head glanced up at the IPF agents with small dark eyes then back down to himself. “Well?” he said while raising his arms and using long bony fingers to pull at the loose fitting clothing. “Now what?” Valda asked, now speaking his native language which Genghis and Jeff both could speak fluently. And they responded in kind.

  “We now transport you to the detention center’s cryogenics holding cell.” Genghis said, while watching Trent remove the TU37 teleportation unit from the duffle bag. He set on the ground using a small tripod assembly that pointed the front nozzle toward the intended individual or item to be teleported.

  “Nooo!” Valda protested. “Can’t you just put me in a regular cell? The computer will take care of all my needs.” He spread his arms out, clothing hanging loosely. “Com’on! What do yah say, fellas?”

  “That all depends,” Trent said, as he entered keystrokes on the keyboard of the unit. “What else can you tell us about Bollar?”

  Exasperated, Colus dropped his arms to his side, his clothing making a flapping sound. “I’ve told you everything I know about Bollar. That’s it! I know nothing else about him.”

  “Well, Valda,” Trent said, while standing up, teleportation coordinates set, unit humming. “Since you have no more information for us, we don’t need you any longer.”

  “Now . . . now hold on a minute, Agent.” Valda argued his case. “I still can be of some use to you, can’t I?” He glanced down at the unit that was pointing at him. “I can contact Bollar and meet him somewhere, then you and your hairy partner here can swoop in and make the arrest.”

  “And then what happens with you, Colus?” Genghis asked.

  “Meee . . . Well!” Valda nervously said while shifting his eighty pounds from one foot to the other. “Of course, being that I assisted you in the apprehension of a known felon I could get a reprieve on my past . . . indiscretions.”

  “Are you referring to the fact that you've murdered people on this planet as an indiscretion?” Trent said while looking into Valda’s eyes.

  “No . . . no, no, you misunderstood me. That’s not what I meant at all,” Valda said waving a bony hand in the air. “All I’m saying is that I could pay back my debt to society by working it off.”

  “Like how?” Jeff asked, bewildered.

  Valda was silent for a moment, then looked at Trent, down to Genghis, then back to Trent. A drop of perspiration rolled down his back. “I . . . ah . . . could groom your partner for you! HA! HAHAHA!”

  Genghis gave Colus Valda a dirty look and said, “Groom this.” And triggered the teleportation unit.

  A cone of yellow white light hit Colus. He used his thin arms and over-sized human clothing to shield his eyes from the bright light. “Hey! I’m a DOCTOR!” his words slowly fading into the night. He was gone in seconds.

  Colus Valda's atoms were broken down and sequenced. Their locations were mapped and stored in milliseconds by the computer, then electronically sent to the third deck of the cruiser.

  On the third deck, behind a security door, were the eight holding cells, a morgue, and five cryogenic tubes. The long shiny metal alloy tubes were recessed into the wall opposite the cells. The only visible parts of the tubes were large, round, hermetically sealed hatches that were configured close together on the wall. Two hatches on the top, two on the bottom with the fifth in the center. The right top hatch’s life support computer display activated as Valda’s atoms were reconstructed inside the tube. Colus Valda lay peacefully naked on his back. All of his earth clothing and personal belongings were removed by the computer and stored in an evidence locker. He felt nothing and was not aware of his surroundings. He was already in hyper-sleep. Colus Valda would remain this way throughout the duration of Jeff Trent and Genghis Khan’s mission on Earth.

  When they returned to the apartment later that night, Jennifer was up and waiting for them. She explained that she saw the tall man and started to follow him for about fifteen minutes until he spotted her. She explained the exchange they had and was thankful that he wasn’t interested. Jeff was a little concerned and admonished her for taking such a risk. This was nothing, she reassured him. Once, when a guy tried handcuffing her, she punched him so hard in the nose she could hear cartilage crunch.

  The three of them then climbed into the Thunderbird and drove to Bollar’s last known location and slowly drove up and down Fifth Avenue. But this street was all retail shops. There were antique and consignment shops, used book stores, and of course Dave’s; all closed at this early hour. But there were no boarding houses, apartments, or rooms for rent. He could not be living in this part of town. Jeff surmised that Bollar knew early on that he was being followed and purposely led her in the wrong direction.

  The three of them continued searching several blocks of Old Town until the sun broke the horizon. They then decided to go to Dave’s, which had opened an hour earlier, for some breakfast. Jeff, Jennifer, and Genghis sat at their usual table, eating egg, bacon, and sausage bagels. Monica came over several times to chat and refill their coffee. The three of them were exhausted by the time they got back to their apartment, and all slept until about two that afternoon.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  It had been three weeks since they had sent Colus Valda to cryogenics and there had been no sign of Bollar anywhere. Genghis was in the living room on the computer, tapping into the local police department’s computer systems. The coffee was brewing while he printed out and read memos on the search for the Old Town Arsonist and the ongoing investigation of the Old Town robberies.

  Genghis had gotten up at six that morning, trying very hard not to wake Jennifer. She decided one night a few weeks earlier that she felt bad that the Doberman was sleeping in the living room alone and insisted that he start sleeping in her room. Genghis started out on the floor at the foot of her bed, but eventually wound up in the bed with her on top of the covers. Jennifer would dote on him by covering him with a blanket on cold nights, and Genghis was beginning to like the attention.

  Trent came out of his room at six ten, fully dressed in one of his dark linen suits with a red-and-white striped thin tie. They both talked in a whisper, not wanting to wake Jennifer and not wanting her to hear a strange voice in the living room.

  “Well, no sign of Bollar,” Genghis said, while handing Trent the copies of the different police reports. “News and print media have nothing either. And the local PD still are staking out the Compton Square district of Old Town for the arsonist.” The coffee maker made a beeping sound, and Trent walked into the kitchen reading the memos while grabbing their three mugs from the cupboard. Genghis followed. “I don’t think they really need to worry about any more fires.” Jeff agreed, while removing a box of frozen waffles out of the freezer. He took out several waffles and started inserting them into the two slice toaster.

  Jeff and Genghis drank their coffee and ate waffles while watching The Three Stooges. They both heard Jennifer get up and enter the living room. “Morning, Twinkie!” Jeff .

  “Morning guys,” she said, walking into the kitchen and grabbing her red Buccaneers mug. “Your normal morning routine of coffee and The Three Stooges, I see.”

  “Yes, it’s a great way to start one’s morning,” Jeff replied. “Coffee’s made and there are waffles warming in the oven for you.”

  “Yeaa, waffles!” she said and opened the oven door.

  The three of them sat eating waffles and watching TV. Jennifer brought the coffee carafe in with her and refilled their mugs. Nothing really surprised her anymore about her two new friends. Jeff laughed hysterically at the antics of Moe, Larry, and Curly and loved to watch The Cartoon Network. But when it came to his work, he was a very serious and professional police officer. And the big Doberman sitting next to her, she thought to herself, was just a cool dog, from the way he always seemed to respond to everything that was said to him, to the way he seemingly watched television, to the way he was trained to use the bathroom when he had to go. And of course,
the way he lapped up his coffee from his “Death Before Disco” mug, and the incredible fact that he even drank coffee. Genghis always made sure never to hold the mug in his paws when she was looking. He loathed lapping at his coffee.

  “Oh, Twinkie,” Trent said, with a mouth full of waffles. “Genghis and I were in the kitchen early and we realized that we’re out of a few things.”

  “We did! Did we?” she replied with a grin.

  “Yes, so if you would like to come with us to the Food and More we would appreciate it. You're better at picking things out to eat than I am.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Stan.” she said, without taking her eyes off the television.

  Jeff and Genghis shared a glance with each other, then both looked at Jennifer as they both thought, “Who?”

  Jennifer was looking at the back of a box of Hamburger Helper while walking down the aisle. “Three easy steps! That’s a winner,” she said, throwing the box into the cart that Jeff was pushing behind her, adding it to the pile of groceries they’d already collected. “Now let’s hit the meat section and get some hamburgers and hot dogs.” She turned and looked at Trent, “Oh! And some pork chops, I make a mean pork chop.”

  “Sounds great, Twinkie.” Jeff admired the way she went through each aisle with military precision, looking at prices and labels, grabbing sale items, and preparing meals in her head. They had arrived at the Food and More twenty minutes earlier. Genghis stayed in the Thunderbird since he wasn’t a service dog, but secretly was fine with it. It gave him the opportunity to keep an eye out for Bollar.

  “Okay,” Jennifer said, reviewing the grocery list in her hand. “Yeah, the meat department, then produce and we’re done.” They were walking down the main aisle to the meat department when Jennifer looked down the frozen foods aisle and saw Pimples.

  “Hey, there’s Pimples,” she said, as she turned down the aisle with Jeff following.

  Pimples was standing in front of an open freezer door. He had a pack of Klondike Bars pressed to his nose and was inhaling the frozen treats deeply. “Hey, Pimples!” Jennifer said, making him jump.

  Pimples threw the pack back into the freezer slamming the door shut and turned with eyes wide. “Oh, hey, Twinkie. You scared me. I thought you were the store manager again.” He looked past Jennifer at Trent with blank eyes, then back to Jennifer. “How’s it hanging, Twink?”

  “It’s hanging,” she replied, as she looked around. “Where’s Trisha?”

  Pimples looked around the aisle as if he just noticed her missing. He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in two days. Have you?”

  “No, I haven’t. But I haven’t been working lately. Hey, what do you mean, two days?”

  “What do you mean ‘What do I mean?’”

  “Oh! Let’s not do this again,” Jennifer said. “What I mean is that you guys are inseparable. When did you see her last?”

  “I don’t know, the other night. Some guy picked her up.” He opened the freezer case again and took the pack of Klondike’s out. He then shoved them down his pants, turned and started to walk away.

  “Oh! Ah, excuse me, Pimples,” Jeff raised a hand. “Mr. Pimples! But you really should pay . . .”

  Jennifer placed a hand on Jeff’s arm. “It’s okay, let him go.” Jeff saw the look of concern on her face. They both stood and watched Pimples as he walked out of the store and into the parking lot.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Dawson DeLaRue had been with the Westberry Police Department for twenty-five years. He started out as a beat cop and rose through the ranks to become a homicide detective, finally becoming the head of the homicide department with the rank of lieutenant five years ago.

  As always, DeLaRue entered his small office exactly at seven in the morning. He took off his coat and hooked it on the wooden coat stand in the corner by the door, then removed his fedora. The only man in the city to still wear a hat, he put it gently on the top of the stand, then walked over and sat behind his desk. He started to go over the night shift reports. The first one was of a murder-suicide. The usual: husband kills wife, then places the weapon to his temple and pulls the trigger. He reached over and turned his computer on.

  A uniformed police officer knocked on the open door of his office. “Excuse me, Lieutenant.”

  “Morning Chester, what do yah got?”

  “Yes, sir.” The twenty-three-year-old, painfully thin rookie walked in and handed him a slip of paper. “We found another one.”

  Dawson took the slip and quickly read it, then muttered under his breath, “Jesus Christ!” He sighed loudly, then looked up at Chester. “Get my coat and hat, will yah, son.”

  The fifty-year-old lieutenant took the backstairs from his third-floor office. He was 6 foot 3 inches tall and weighed 225 pounds. His doctor wanted him to lose twenty of that, so he tried to use the stairs as often as possible. Born and raised in Lafayette, Louisiana, his father was a sharecropper and his mother, a part-time maid. It was always hard making ends meet, and both desperately wanted their only child to go to college. He would be the first in their lineage to do so. And due to their financial difficulties, he wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for Dawson’s ability on the high school football field that got him the scholarship to Louisiana State, where he excelled on the gridiron and in his academics. The National Football League seemed to be the next logical step for Dawson until he tore his ACL in a game against Auburn. This was a disappointment, but by no means discouraging; Dawson always had a back-up plan in the event of a career-ending injury. While growing up he loved watching football and police dramas on television, so he concentrated on another field just as exhilarating as the fight on the football field. Upon graduation he received a Bachelor’s degree in criminal justice and when a friend told him that the City of Westberry was hiring police officers for their city that was growing by leaps and bounds, he jumped at the chance.

  He climbed behind the wheel of his dark blue unmarked Crown Victoria, inserted the key and started it up. He glanced once more at the slip of paper to make sure he had the address correct, then pulled out of the Westberry City Police Department’s parking lot. Turning south onto 10th St., he traveled the five blocks through the city of Westberry and entered Old Town.

  Traffic was very light and he reached his destination fifteen minutes later. He parked his Crown Vic on the corner of 10th St. and Mason Avenue and got out. The entire block was cordoned off with police cars, barricades, and yellow crime scene tape.

  As he approached the yellow tape, he was met by another homicide detective on the other side. The detective held the tape up high so the head of homicide could enter the crime scene. “Morning, Lieutenant,” Detective McVie said.

  “Hey, Frank, what do we have?” Frank McVie was forty-five, fit, with a bushy mustache and hair that resembled a helmet.

  “The victim was found at five forty-five this morning by this guy out for a jog,” he told the lieutenant as he tried to keep up with DeLaRue’s long strides.

  “Press?” Dawson asked.

  “Told them it was a mugging that went bad.”

  “Good, we need to keep this under wraps for just a little longer.”

  “The victim seems to be in his mid-thirties, naked, no ID as of yet, but found like the others.” He looked up at DeLaRue as he kept up with his quick pace. “But this one was posed.”

  They both walked in front of the two-story Starlight Club that faced 10th St.. From the 1930's to the 60's, it was a department store. Now, it was a very popular dance club. They both walked around the south corner of the building that faced Mason Avenue, then walked the short distance to the back of the nightclub. There were five uniformed police officers and three crime scene investigators. One crime scene tech was taking pictures, the other collecting whatever evidence that could be found. The third was a short bald man crouching over the victim, who looked up and saw DeLaRue approaching. He got up and met him half-way.

  “Morning, Dawson,�
�� the chief medical examiner Doctor Martin Riviera said. “Just like the other three, epidermis folded back, chest cavity wide open. Rib cage missing, internal organs removed. All done postmortem.” He too, had to keep up with DeLaRue’s strides. “But the truly disturbing thing. The eyes weren’t.”

  DeLaRue stopped walking. Frank almost walked into the back of him. “The eyes were taken while the guy was still alive?” He incredulously asked.

  “Sure were! The poor bastard.” Doctor Riviera motioned with his hand. “Come here, look at this.” DeLaRue and Frank followed the doctor to the man on the ground. The medical examiner removed a pen from his breast pocket and used it as a pointer. “See here, how the blood around the eyes ran down his cheeks. Means he had a pulse when they were removed.” Again pointing with his pen, “Now, you don’t find the same amount running from the incisions around the chest cavity. Telling me that the chest was opened after death.”

  Dawson DeLaRue took his large left hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a migraine coming on. “Time of death, Doc?”

  “Hmm,” the ME thought while looking down at the victim, “rigor's begun to set in, so anywhere from five to ten hours. I’ll know for sure when I get him back to the shop and make some tests.”

  Lieutenant DeLaRue reached into his right pocket for his pack of cigarettes, something else his doctor disliked. He shook one out, placed it between his lips, and pulled it from the pack. Putting the pack back into his right pocket, he started rummaging around his other pockets for a light.

  “Like with the others,” the medical examiner added, “the knife used was incredibly sharp, most likely a medical scalpel. And like with the others, cause of death is the single incision into the carotid artery. Bled out in a couple of minutes.”