by Jack Wallen
A Blade Away
Jack Wallen
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Wallen
PUBLISHED BY: AUTUMNAL PRESS
Edited by
Lynn O’Dell
Karen Brogan
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events, or persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
* * * * *
This book is dedicated to anyone who has been wrongfully bullied, persecuted, or hurt for simply being true to themselves.
* * * * *
Also by Jack Wallen
Gothica
I Zombie I
Shero
ONE
The rain wasn’t cold tonight, but the coffee was. That came with the job. I had the misfortune of overseeing the security for “Thunder Over Louisville,” an enormous fireworks display in celebration of the upcoming Kentucky Derby. Over a million dollars had been spent for a two-and-a-half minute dash to the finish line. It made no sense to me. But to the hundreds of thousands of those in search of any excuse to get drunk, it made plenty of sense. However, being an officer of the law who had to babysit those hundreds of thousands of drunks, I could be a bit biased. The unwashed masses, umbrellas in hand, waited impatiently on the Great Lawn for the first of the fifty-three thousand or so ka-booms from above.
And there I was, an officer with the Louisville police, standing sentry in case one of the drunks got out of hand. It almost seemed a disgrace. I had been on the force long enough to be promoted into the field that had drawn me to the force in the first place – homicide. It had been my dream since I was a little girl romanticizing the idea of catching the bad guys, preventing murders, and saving the innocent. As soon as high school was finished, I hit college with a vengeance and graduated at the top of my class. From there, it was straight to the Louisville Metro Police Department, where I had served enough time to have been moved up the ranks to Homicide. I even went back and took additional courses geared for the field, so I assumed I would be the next in line to be promoted, but it never happened. Instead of being decorated, honored, celebrated, promoted, prissed and preened, here I stood, in the rain-soaked crowd, hoping like hell this event would either get canceled or underway.
“Cinderella to Mary Jane. Open up and say ‘Ahhh’!”
That was Skip Abrahm. Skip and I had been partners for the longest time. Skip had more time on the force, and it was customary to pair up new recruits with someone who knew the ropes. But when the department was hit by the usual budgetary cuts, so common to the country, partners went the way of the dinosaur. I hated that, because having Skip at my side was an emotional security blanket nothing else offered. Every year, I anxiously awaited the budget to give me back my partner and mentor, but the fates could be a real bitch. So, for the time being, Skip and I stuck together as much as we could. I had even managed to haul his cute little ass around in my squad car by reminding the chief how much money it saved in gas. He fell for it some of the time. Other times, he preferred to chew my ass off and make Skip drive his own damn self.
Skip had a sense of humor that was endearing most of the time. Most of the time. Quietly I spoke into my radio. “Cinderella, this is Mary Jane. I read you. What do you have?”
“I have this hot little piece of fresh meat in my sights…”
Did I mention my partner was gay?
“Cool off the queen, Skip. Just give me the details.”
“You’re just no fun.”
“I’m standing among one hundred or so thousand Louisvillians, I’m wet, my coffee has gone the way of the Titanic, and I deserve better than this!”
“Oooooh, someone done pissed in Miss Thing’s latte today!”
My partner never knew when to tone it down or straighten up. Too often, it got him into trouble. Fortunately, the one thing he hadn’t managed to do was wear his tiara at the precinct. A gay officer wouldn’t go over so well here in good ol’-fashioned Louisville. But like a cataclysmic version of tonight’s little humor du jour, I was partnered with a rainbow warrior in the heart of the bluegrass. So, it was keep it clean, straight, and on the path of the righteous so I could easily walk up the ranks of the force…all the way to the top.
It was a tall order for a female police officer. Much to the chagrin of both my partner and myself, I closeted Skip as best I could. I had even managed to bribe one of my oldest friends in the world to serve as his beard, when necessary. I managed to get him to keep his dating game to the barest minimum, and I had never humored Skip once with a mention of Babs, Abs, Ab Fab, or Tab when in the company of our fellow officers.
Skip and I were two very small fish in a very large ocean, one very gay man and one very alone woman, who met during a rather heated briefing, sized each other up, and knew they would wind up as partners. Fate had a funny way of slapping together the lonely and persecuted. Five long years later, we were still here, partners and support, all wrapped up in a well-toned package.
Before I could berate Skip’s inner girl for being out of line, my emergency pager chimed three times, telling me that something serious had gone down. I looked at the display and saw that it was the chief of police calling me directly. This was out of the norm. The chief had never paged me before. Hell, I wasn’t even sure that Chiefzilla knew how to page, much less manage to poke out a telephone number with his sausage-like fingers. But lo and behold, his high-and-mighty-ness was tapping me on the shoulder with his magic wand.
“Skip, I’ve got a call to take. Can you cover both our areas?”
“Who’s the call from, girl?”
“That’s Jamie, and the call is from the chief.”
“Get outta here! The chief doesn’t give anything without a glaze or jelly filling the time of day. And even if he did, what makes you so damned pretty?”
“I have no idea. Are you going to watch my area, or am I going to have to bring in the Butcher?” There was a cold silence. I knew that would boil his bottom. The Butcher was a he-woman who absolutely hated, and frightened, Skip. In all fairness, the Butcher scared pretty much everybody. She was the take-nothing-from-no-one dispatcher at the precinct. The woman was rough as rawhide and big as a bull.
“That’s low, Jamie. Go take your call, and I’ll see you in hell.”
Skip had such a way with words. “Thanks. Skip. I owe ya one.”
“Actually, you owe me two, but who’s counting, bitch?”
“Beast,” I said as Skip’s walkie-talkie went silent. We really do love each other.
The way back to the car was filled with the usual stares and catcalls. I had no idea why uniforms aroused the caveman in the average Joe. It really busted my chops to know that I worked my ass off to protect and serve these people, and the best thing they could do was whistle or oink.
I opened the door to the squad car and slid into the front seat. After wiping the rain off my face, I pulled out my cell and dialed the chief’s number. Unless I absolutely had to, I never took important calls out in the open. Not only was it unprofessional, but too many times the wrong information found its way into the ears of some hapless passerby or reporter. Then, I’d get my ass busted for being careless. My ass was always busted, unfortunately not in the right ways.
The chief answered, and I immediately sensed that something was wrong.
“Jamie, I need you on a scene A.S.A.P. It’s ugly. Homicide. Get your partner and head out to
1515 Magnolia Street. We’ll send someone else to patrol the show.”
“On my way.” I hung up the phone and grabbed my radio. “Skip, we’re heading out. Get to the car.”
Although Skip could be a bit prissy at times, when necessary, he was all business.
“Understood.”
Maybe this was it. The chief calling me to this case might be my big moment, my time to shine. My nerves were shooting out of my skin. The chief of police for the metro city of Louisville was a sexist, racist homophobe and a quick-tempered buffoon. I was surprised the man let me stay on the force. Not that I’m complaining, I love my job. I loved protecting the citizens. Being a member of the police force gave me a pride no other job could offer. I belonged here.
I turned on the scanner to see if I could pick up any information on the scene. Sometimes, I could catch some tidbits flying around. This time, however, all was spookily quiet.
There is this feeling that detectives get, a bone chilling that infuses the spine and brings a sweat to the forehead. It was at those times that I wished I had the stuff of Hollywood crime scenes—the unflinching Morgan Freeman in “Kiss the Girls.” But that wasn’t reality. Real crime is not pretty, and it certainly isn’t calm. It’s hideous, and it makes people sweat, heave, and want to curl up into a little ball and remember what it was like in the womb. But then, as Skip was always quick to point out, the anticipation of the latest fall fashion often did the same thing, so it was hard to discern what really mattered.
Okay, I’m only teasing. Thinking of the return of wide lapels and bell bottoms was nothing compared to the horror of some of the crime scenes I’ve helped to investigate. Keeping a sense of humor about it is the only way to stay sane.
“What’s the scoop, Mary?” Shaking off water droplets all over everything, Skip slid into the car. “Oh, sorry about the wetness, but you know I have a slight case of weak bladder.” He laughed at his own joke.
“You have a slight case of everything, Skip,” I said dryly.
“Sorry…drama runs in my family.”
“Yeah, and it all ran straight to you.” My tone was obviously a little too matter-of-fact, because he caught the clue.
“Okay, whatta we got?” Skip always had this way of affecting “cop” when he was trying to be serious about work. It was a genuine, endearing quality.
“No details, just a homicide on Magnolia. Chief said it was ugly.” I wanted to tell Skip that I had that “feeling” again, but I thought it would be better to have him less than jittery, so I refrained.
“Oh, my God! It’s your moment, Mary! Do I finally smell promotion?” Skip shouted with glee.
I gave Skip a smack. “Don’t jinx me.”
“What are you waiting for? Let’s get this can rolling, Detective!” Skip’s proud smile lit up the squad car.
“Ready?”
“Honey….” Skip rolled his eyes. This was a routine of ours that we’d been replaying for as long as I could remember. It lightened up the mood every time.
“I know, darling. Ready as Helene.” I spoke dramatically.
Skip smiled. “I love that!” And the car sped forward.
TWO
The gentle rain had mutated into a torrent, making the short trip to Old Louisville seem more like a road trip to Kansas. At times like this, it was so tempting to just flip the switch and plow through traffic as if we were on our way to an in-progress, or a sale in the Dillard’s shoe department—something we could both appreciate.
“You know, I was working it with this little number when you buzzed me on the bitch. He was about to give me his email address. I’m going to die an old maid. All because of this damned radio!” He pulled the radio off his sleeve and confronted it.
“I hate you. Do you hear me? I said ‘I hate you!’” I knew he was only doing this to lighten the air. I could always count on him for levity. Like my knack for knowing when something bad was about to go down, Skip had this knack of knowing when my knack was getting the best of me. And when he knew this, he did everything he could to create a diversion. Bless his overstuffed heart.
“So, who was the lucky number? Do I know…?” I couldn’t even finish the sentence.
“I seriously doubt you would. He’s…he’s…” Skip was stuttering, which meant he was embarrassed.
“Do I have to guess?” I poked fun.
Skip mumbled, “A little young.”
I think my smile gave away too much. Skip turned bright red and turned to look me straight in the eye.
“Not a word, Jamie Davenport.” His tone was all business.
“Not a word, Skip Abrahm. Not a word.” There was a brief silence. “Was he hot?”
He looked at me as if I had just broken some cardinal rule. “Sorry.” I made a gesture of zipping my mouth shut. Skip smiled.
After a twenty-minute drive, we arrived at the scene. Skip got out of the car and went to the trunk to grab our gear. We met at the front of the car and then proceeded to walk through the crowd of gawkers and the press, which were sometimes the same people, to get to the front door.
The scene was a small carriage house off of an alley. The Mag Bar, noted for its lesbian clientèle, was two blocks down. I’ve been, for the atmosphere, of course. Other than the Thursday night chess tournaments, it was nothing to write home about.
Walking into the house, the smell could have easily knocked us flat on our collective ass. It was an odor I would never get used to. Death. It really sucks.
The chief was standing to the right of the entryway. His eyes were glued somewhere in the center of the room, and he had that smug-as-hell look smeared across his mug. To the left was the city coroner. When we entered, he looked at Skip as a stealthy smile slid across his lips. The two of them had a fling once or twice. Skip wasn’t too forthcoming with the details.
The chief finally locked his gaze on mine, and then he pointed to where he had been staring. “Well, Jamie…” The chief again gestured toward the middle of the room. I nearly did a double take. There was a woman hanging from the ceiling. Judging from the smell, the body had been dead for quite a while. The chief must have seen the confusion dance across my eyes. “Look a little closer.” The chief spoke softly. I suddenly realized that the body was not that of a woman, but of a man in drag. Full drag. From a nicely-styled blond wig to an expensive pair of leather heels. “What do you think?”
I circled around the body and looked for anything that might give away the circumstances. “Well…” I stalled. I wasn’t very good at stalling, and the chief knew it. If this was to be my big test, I had to take my time and nail it right off the bat. My nerves were shooting sparks from my heart to my fingertips. “From the looks of it, we have a middle-aged male hung from the ceiling of a carriage house apartment. The man is in full drag and was hung from a ceiling beam with a pair of woman’s stockings.”
“Conclusions?” The chief seemed to be in a rush. This was odd for a man who was known for being far too microscopic on a case. There was a reason he had once earned the nickname Sherlock, but he obviously wasn’t living up to that name at the moment.
“Well, my initial conclusion leans toward auto-erotic asphyxiation…” I trailed off. There was something that didn’t want me drawing that conclusion. Sherlock caught on to my doubt.
“Don’t hold back on me, Davenport.” I hated it when he called me by my last name. It made me feel like one of the guys. I shot him a subtle, yet menacing, look.
“Suicide?” Sherlock hinted.
“Very likely. He was wearing a wedding band, and I would assume that both he and his wife didn’t both live in this tiny apartment. Maybe this is his secret getaway?”
“I don’t follow….” The master was being bested by the student.
“It’s common among the transgendered.” I tried to hide the nervous impatience in my voice.
“Trans-what?” The chief was officially getting on my nerves.
“Transvestites, cross-dressers, transsexuals….” I spouted o
ff matter-of-factly.
“Oh, you mean the freaks,” he spit out, as if the very thought would send him straight to hell.
It took every ounce of energy I had to not bust the clown across the chops. I looked over at Skip who was giving me that you’ll regret it for the rest of your life look. He was right. As annoying as Skip can be, he’s been my savior on a number of occasions.
“Most cross-dressers are heterosexual males who, more often than not, are happily married. The thing is, many times the wives don’t want to have anything to do with the men when they are wearing the clothes. So, the men will rent little apartments like this….”
“So they can get their freaky little willies off by flouncing around in their granny’s panties. That is sick.” The line was drawn, and he pole vaulted over it.
“Look chief, I’m trying to work here, and I can’t seem to do a good job with your opinions flying around.” Skip’s eyes were about to land on the opposite side of the room. If he’d had a full bladder, I’m sure he would have wet himself. There was a long silence. The chief finally started to walk out of the room. He stopped at the door, mostly for dramatic effect, and turned.
“I’m calling this a suicide. That is exactly what will go in my report. Davenport, I want you in my office first thing in the morning. Is that clear?” He didn’t even wait for me to reply, he just slid out of sight. I turned to Skip, whose eyes were still the size of eggs-over-easy.
“What?” I shrugged.
“Are you out of your mind?” Skip walked over to my side so he could whisper. “You want to get busted down to mall patrol before you even make it to homicide?” Skip stopped and thought a moment. “Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad…all those yummy—.” I had to interrupt.
“Skip, can we talk about this later? I’m in the middle of my first crime-scene investigation, if you’ll remember.” How could he not remember? I’ve been anxiously awaiting this moment for years. Besides, not five feet from where we were standing, a large man in women’s clothing was strung up by a pair of pantyhose. It was probably one of the oddest sights I had seen in a while, and I’ve seen some odd sights.