In Dark Places

by Darryl J Keck

  “Willie McAllister?”

  “Yep. When Prichard told her whom Carolyn must have meant, she said, ‘I unequivocally have no idea whom that even is.’ That’s a direct quote.”

  Unequivocally, disdain . . . these are not words Mandi would sprinkle into a sentence. The nitwit is probably unaware of the definition for either word. I can’t make a thing of it. All I know is that Matthew was trying to handle me—covering up whatever transpired in Carolyn’s office. Only Mandi can make sense of the actual events that ensued.

  “What did Prichard say about Mandi?”

  “He said if they aren’t charging her, then he wants her out of here by the time he returns from lunch.”

  “I better stop in right away to have a chat with her,” I announce. “She might be more at ease speaking directly with me since she has spent the most time at my desk.”

  “Well, you better hurry,” he says. “I’ve been instructed to tail her to the edge of town to make sure she heads directly to Wilkinson Creek.”

  “Prichard has watched Beverly Hills Cop one too many times,” I say, laughing at his predictability. “If I leave now, that’ll give me over an hour to drag the truth out of her. Do me a favor and don’t question her any further. I’ve always been able to impart important details from Ms. McAllister.”

  “That won’t be a problem. She’s sitting in the break room with the door closed.”

  With Mandi’s ongoing kleptomania, she is probably robbing the vending machines as we speak. “Is she still restrained?”

  “She was hyperventilating, so I removed the cuffs,” he says. “She went into full panic mode when I suggested placing her in one of the cells until I finished the paperwork. She was terrified to be in lockup. She assured me that she would not cause any trouble in the break room.”

  She barely made a peep the last time we had to put her behind bars. This could be some type of scheme. I put my laptop on sleep, stand up, and snag my keys from the end table. “From everything you are describing, I’m not 100% sure that the girl in the building is even Mandi McAllister.”

  “It’s definitely her, but it may not be a good idea to question her any further since she isn’t being charged.”

  “She was tased earlier,” I remind him, “so we are within our rights to figure out what provoked the outburst. Is anyone around?”

  “Prichard is here until noon, Dispatch is here, but everyone else is either on patrol or out investigating the suicide from this morning,” he says.

  “I didn’t know anything about a suicide.”

  “Yeah, some guy leaped from the top of the bank. His atoms were spread all over Amsterdam Avenue. If I hadn’t been dispatched over to Leighton, I’d still be cleaning up the area. I’ll tell you more about it later. Pretty gruesome.”

  “I should be there in 10 minutes.” I decide to throw in one last suggestion. “In the report, I’d leave out the lack of compliance regarding the security footage.”

  “Sure, I’ll omit that detail. It probably ain’t pertinent anyway.” Since no mention of the security footage will be documented, my first submitted manuscript may avoid being shuffled to the rejection pile at Leighton.

  Kevin and I have discussed that too many people are recording every movement these days with dash cams and home security rigs. In the old days, businesses were required to have a written post about the use of security cameras. In a case like what happened over at Leighton, having that extra security almost worked against them. Unfortunately, we may never know. Mandi has such a loose relationship with the truth that getting anything legitimate from her may be a challenge.

  I am relieved that Mandi is waiting in the break room opposed to being at Kevin’s desk. She might be able to manipulate him with her femininity. She is rarely cleaned-up enough to compete with the sexy co-eds that usually talk him out of writing up citations. With the copy of Maxim that he often carries into the bathroom, his wife isn’t getting the job done. He is the loneliest married man I know.

  Once again, my creative streak has been thwarted. Writing inside my house is never easy. Those authors fortunate enough to write all those bestsellers undoubtedly have a supportive “significant other” clearing some of the road. I don’t have an accommodating woman in my life, so my progress is typically slow. On a day off, it’s imperative that the interruptions are minimal. Today’s unexpected phone calls robbed my creative rhythm. I only have myself to blame since I forgot to put the damn thing on vibrate.

  Chapter 8

  Derek

  From a block away, I patiently wait until Prichard’s restored Cutlass pulls away from the parking lot. The guy is undeviating, departing exactly at noon each day—taking a full 90 minutes for lunch. I make it my mission to avoid the asshole outside of the station. I’m not a slacker, but I rarely do a single thing that isn’t listed in my job description. Whenever Prichard is around, I hear the asperity in his tone. If not for my impressive arrest percentage, I’d have been bounced on my ass years ago.

  With the captain running the show in an autocratic manner, everything is handled like an episode of Dragnet—you know, it’s all about facts and securing concrete evidence. I’ve never been pragmatic, and that’s what he expects. He’s too by the book to gel with my instinctive methods. To him, intuition is specifically for big city cops attempting to solve big city cases. With only 58,000 residents in Bluff Ridge, it’s too small for alternative investigating styles.

  Thriving in law enforcement almost requires having a stationary chip on your shoulder. I lack the hardness necessary for valuable police work. Our job, essentially, is pointing out people’s mistakes. We’re either handing out citations or locking a lawbreaker behind bars. Try waking up every morning knowing that you will undoubtedly rip apart someone’s world as the day progresses. I usually savor every drop of coffee before leaving the house because that’s about as good as the workday will get.

  “To Protect and To Serve” may be printed on the side of the police car, but that doesn’t translate when a civilian is pulled over for doing seven miles over the speed limit. Hell, I will see a civilian driving along just fine until I pass them in the other lane. Like clockwork, they will tap on the brakes—even when abiding by the posted speed limit. Typically, I will not flash my lights unless a driver is swerving in the lane or barreling down the road like a lunatic. Although my department is on the quota system, I’ve yet to hand out a single ticket for an expired license plate sticker. The hell with that nonsense!

  So, why am I still a cop? I use “cop” all the time, much to the dismay and disapproval of everyone in the department. While I will not tolerate being called a “pig,” I could care less about most other monikers. I’m not about to play into that ‘micro-aggression’ nonsense. I wear a badge because I need to pay my mortgage, and I’m fearful about embarking on a writing career. Other than Kevin, no one in the office knows about my aspirations to be a novelist.

  Although I’m inspired to write today, figuring out the conundrum surrounding Mandi’s behavior takes priority over my creative goals. After receiving two unexpected calls, whatever went down in the human resources office can only be understood by talking with her face-to-face.

  Do I have it in me to deal with Mandi McAllister on a day off? She can be exasperating and makes communicating a painstaking experience. Between her excessive smoke breaks, gloomy facial expressions, and ceaseless stammering, I’ll have my work cut out. It’s not that I dislike the girl; she just moves lethargically from week to week until she gets caught with her hand in the wrong cookie jar. It’s hard to relate to someone breezing through life in a desultory fashion rather than creating a plan. Mandi will never be accused of being altruistic.

  It piques my curiosity that Mandi is a Wilkinson Creek resident. Some of the crimes and accidents in that little town defy logic. Even though evidence usually turned up to prove otherwise, I’ve had many moments when I’ve wanted to look deeper into the discrepancies surrounding those investigations. Since there
isn’t money in our budget to chase down personal suspicions about odd crimes in a neighboring town, I’ve spent more than a few sleepless nights as a result of conjecture. I had lived in Wilkinson Creek from the time I was in second grade until my high school graduation, and I’ve never been a fan of that community.

  As I enter the lobby, McDaniels is at his desk typing up the report. Without looking up, he says, “I’m not sure if that tasing did a number on her nervous system, but she has not made a peep.”

  “That’s a switch. Did you print a copy of the previous signature from her file?”

  “It’s right here.” He hands me a printout of her arrest from March along with her application from Leighton. I place them next to each other on his desk. McDaniels wasn’t exaggerating about the radical disparity between the handwriting styles. The most recent signature looks similar to the way my mother signs her name at the bottom of my birthday card.

  “Are you sure that is actually her signature from back in March?”

  “You issued the report, so my guess is you would have watched her sign the form. All of the earlier ones look like the one from her last arrest.”

  “I don’t get this,” I say, perplexed. “There is more than a large contrast in her signature; her penmanship is completely legible throughout the application—dare I even say that it’s classy.”

  “Do you think a split personality is rising to the surface?”

  I’m not about to dismiss McDaniels’s question, but I highly doubt this is the result of a neurological anomaly. Someone with a split personality could show improved dexterity, but would it be so contrastive?

  “While I’m talking with Mandi, walk to Ernie’s store and apply a little pressure,” I suggest. “Being away from the office might be better anyway; I don’t want her getting wind that we’re in the process of comparing her signatures.”

  “I guess I can stroll over there in a few minutes,” he says.

  “I only have a set amount of time to find out what provoked the violent outburst—charges or no charges.”

  “She’s a McAllister . . . does she need any other reason?”

  “Kevin, we shouldn’t lump everyone together based on their extended family.”

  “Come on, Deke,” he whispers. “She’s always been something of a pariah.”

  “Maybe so, but this was not a prototypical reaction from Mandi.” McDaniels’s narrow-mindedness will need to change if he expects to rise to the rank of deputy. “Have you looked through her purse?”

  “Just briefly to make sure there wasn’t a weapon inside. It was pretty clean.”

  “I better take a quick glance.”

  I dump the contents of her white leather bag onto the corner of his desk. I don’t make a habit of rifling through purses, but if it contains any contraband, we’d have justification to print her. I find a sealed pack of Capri Lights with a Kwik Mart receipt dated from last night.

  “Has Mandi requested a cigarette break since you brought her in earlier?”

  “No, she hasn’t,” he says.

  “Not even on the way back from Leighton?”

  “She was too busy fluttering her gums to make room in her mouth for a smoke.”

  “Hmmm.” I’ve rarely seen Mandi without a lit cigarette positioned between her fingers. The last time she was arrested, she took four smoke breaks inside of two hours. It’s peculiar that she hasn’t removed the cellophane from the pack of cigarettes.

  While rummaging through the contents of her messy purse, nothing is remotely suspicious besides a clean one-hitter. I can’t hold her on drug paraphernalia charges. We’d have to bust Nostalgic Records on Amsterdam Avenue and confiscate over a quarter of their inventory.

  “Anything interesting in there?” he asks.

  “Nothing worth making a fuss over,” I say, returning the contents back inside her purse. “It’s time to have a word with our special guest.”

  I wander back to the break room and peer through the glass door. Mandi is sipping from a can of Dr. Pepper while reading the latest issue of Rolling Stone. Kevin wasn’t kidding—she could have easily been a bridesmaid at the wedding for Prichard’s daughter last month.

  She looks up as I open the door. “Why is it that whenever I’m called in on my day off, it has something to do with a McAllister?”

  “Hey, Delaney,” she greets, looking up from the magazine. “I’m perplexed about your low-grade reading selection. I found three references in this magazine regarding Quiet Riot. I have never understood why that group is so revered. They put out one multi-platinum album in 1983 and a handful of notable songs following. Two of their biggest hits were covers. Can you think of a movie star that made a blockbuster and then a pile of average films and is still considered newsworthy? Well, Sharon Stone comes to mind. When your claim to fame was an unexpected beaver shot, that’ll keep you in the spotlight for a couple of decades.”

  “I can see you are in rare form today.” Compared to past visits, she is being quite the chatterbox. It’s usually a challenge to drag more than ten words out of her.

  “Did they give you the honor of escorting me back to Wilkinson Creek? I’m more than capable of making the journey home without a chaperone.”

  “I didn’t realize we were on a first name basis, Mandi. You’ll need to address me as Officer Delaney.”

  “What ev’s.”

  “I’d like to discuss what happened at Leighton,” I say, taking a seat directly across the table. “Would that be possible?”

  “From your tone, I can infer that I don’t have a choice in the matter,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “If you must know, this has been a complete waste of what was promised to be a phenomenal morning. Imagine how it felt being rejected from five possible entry-level positions yesterday only to have a repeat today of the same experience. I gave up scoring a cushy office job, but what happened in that office lacked human decency.” She takes another sip of her Dr. Pepper. “This feels as if it’s about to become a good cop/bad cop routine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, that philistine captain claimed to be tired of seeing my face in this office. I tried to convince him that I’ve never been here before. He then said, ‘Young lady, now that you’ve relegated to assaulting an older woman, it will be a slippery slope from here.’ He refused to believe that I had interviewed at Leighton yesterday with the same discriminating wench. She just had no recollection that the meeting took place.”

  “Can you see how suspicious that all sounds?” I ask, baffled by her fluid articulation. “No one at Leighton recalls yesterday’s alleged interview. Is the entire staff all suffering from mass amnesia?”

  I’ll have to walk a fine line when interviewing Mandi. If I’m too charitable, she will be disrespectful. On the other hand, if I’m too didactic, she won’t open up about anything in fear of implicating herself.

  “It’s not that they were in a fugue state, Delaney,” she states. “I was there yesterday as much as I was there this morning. It’s just that . . . ah, forget it. You’ll just think I’m equivocating.”

  Call me suspicious, but Mandi would never have used “equivocating” to close a sentence. She would have said, “You’ll just think I’m bullshitting ya.” The timbre of her voice verifies that this is Mandi, but . . . she has her shit together in ways that don’t seem possible since landing at my desk three months ago. She writes with a different signature, speaks crystal clear, and has a rich vocabulary—maybe I hit my head this morning. It might explain that buzzing I’ve been hearing.

  “You’re going to have to trust me.” This is a big request coming from a police officer. “I want to hear your side of what happened.”

  “Alright, Delaney, I’ll talk but please don’t get smug. The past 24 hours have been intense. Anyone else would be about halfway to a nervous breakdown by now.”

  “I promise to listen with an open mind. Let’s take this to my desk so we can have a private chat.”

  I don’t t
hink Mandi is an imposter, yet her demeanor is unlike the inordinate girl I’m used to booking every two or three months. The stroll to my desk is even trouble-free. Mandi must have endured a metamorphosis since our last visit.

  After we sit, I begin by saying, “I want to get off on the right foot, but you will need to revise your statement about not being here before.”

  “You guys keep asking the same question to which I’ve answered three times. I have not stepped inside this police station—not even for directions.”

  “What if I could prove otherwise?”

  “Take your best shot,” she says, matter-of-factly as if she has nothing to hide or lose. “You’re only assuming I’ve been under this roof because of what happened this morning. Delaney, you know I’m not a loose cannon. After being verbally assaulted twice, I decided to fight back. So, spare me the formidable criminal routine.”

  To put an end to her sham amnesia, I reach inside my bottom desk drawer and pull out a folder. I’ve used this file once before when she was on a vodka bender and tried to play the victim. Even though the majority of our reports are on the server, this particular drawer is reserved for the repeat troublemakers. Printed reports have proved to have more impact than toggling between electronic files. I place Mandi’s folder on the desk. She surveys the upper tab in the right corner with her name and ID number.

  She sighs. “My name may be printed on that label, but I assure you nothing inside this folder belongs to me.”

  “Mandi, if you expect me to believe anything you have to say, it’s time to quit the games and be forthcoming.” I open the folder and turn it face-up toward her. “This top entry ought to jog your memory.”

  She glances at the most recent criminal report, quickly scanning the details. She scrunches her chin and shrugs. “I don’t get it. I practically look gender indeterminable with my hair pulled back like that.”

  “The report was from St. Patrick’s Day when you were arrested for destruction of property at Murphy’s Taproom,” I remind her. “You broke into their jukebox to snatch the bills.”