A Long December

by Richard Chizmar

  The call had come in at 12:41. Anonymous, of course. You’ll find him in the back was all they’d said, along with the street address. The operator ran a check on the address and rushed a call through when she recognized the name.

  They’d found him in the backyard. Shot twice in the midsection. Still alive. Barely. Asking only for me. They were waiting for the medivac copter.

  4

  A pair of patrol cars appeared behind and followed me off the Hanson exit, through an empty intersection, and onto Tupelo, the secluded dead-end street where Ray and his wife lived. An officer recognized me and waved me through the line. He stopped the other two cars and directed them to the curb.

  The area was abuzz with activity: officers standing in small groups talking, others shuffling to and from the backyard. I parked at the end of the asphalt driveway and waded through the crowd. A young state trooper side-stepped from my path, looking terrified and sick and embarrassed. Jerry Higney, a fifteen-year vet with a locker near mine, called my name and pointed toward the back. I looked at him and his eyes told me the same thing the rookie’s had.

  The ambulance was parked far back in the yard, near the open field that bordered Ray’s property. Its overhead lights were flashing, the twin back doors standing open. A ring of on-duties surrounded the scene, shielding all the activity. I slowed to a jog, pointing at my badge, when a cop I didn’t recognize stepped out to intercept me. He nodded and moved out of the way, and I saw Ray on his back on a stretcher, surrounded by paramedics.

  I stepped closer, moved over him. His eyes flickered open and when he saw me…he smiled.

  I froze.

  His face was perfect, untouched, and smiling. I tried to smile back—I honestly did—but couldn’t. Two paramedics knelt at his side, fist deep in his open stomach. I reached for his hand. He took it and squeezed; his grip so very soft, almost nothing. I squeezed hard enough for both of us and leaned closer.

  A man with a blood-smeared jumpsuit and a nose the size of Cleveland touched my shoulder. “You’ll have to stay back so we can—”

  I shook my head and interrupted, “He’s my partner.”

  Someone called him and the paramedic glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at me and said, “Okay, but if I tell you to move, you damn well better do it.”

  I felt Ray’s fingers twitch, and he whispered in a voice that made my heart hurt and my eyes water. “You get a look at his nose? Sucker’s almost as big as your’s.” He smiled again, but this time it hurt him, and he gritted his teeth and groaned.

  I think I did smile then, despite his pain. His goddamn nose jokes got me every time. I pressed closer. “Take it easy, buddy. Bird’s on the way; everything’s gonna be all right.”

  A paramedic knocked me off balance momentarily and when I looked back at Ray, his stare was savage. “Mailman,” he hissed.

  “I know,” I said. “Couple of his boys were waiting for me at the house tonight.” I rubbed the back of my head instinctively. “The sons of a bitches surprised me.”

  He shook his head and said, “They were waiting…waiting outside. They…” He rolled his head to the side and vomited. I cleared his mouth with my fingers.

  “Don’t talk anymore. Just try to—”

  “Listen to me,” he whispered, his voice almost gone. “Connie’s at her mother’s. They were gonna…gonna go shopping tomorrow. You tell her, okay? Tell her…”

  I shook my head, knowing what was coming but not wanting to hear it, not wanting to be there anymore.

  “Tell her…”

  I waited for more, but he just stared at me, eyes pleading for an answer to this mess. “I will,” I managed. “Don’t worry about that now. I’ll take care of it.”

  And then he closed his eyes and said, “I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t know what the hell he meant, and didn’t have much time to think about it before two paramedics pushed me aside, both yelling, “Code Red,” and the rest of the crew went bat shit.

  It was ugly. The backyard looking like a scene out of one of those high-tech science-fiction flicks. Lights everywhere, big white skylights shining brightly upward. Police red-and-blues flashing through the darkness, a bizarre laser show for the onlookers. Police officers and medics scurrying across the lawn. The paramedics pushing and poking and breathing into Ray, until the one with the big nose is standing up in disgust, snatching the radio, telling the copter to turn around. And then it gets very quiet and the lights blink out like in a stage play, only this act is real, and my partner is dead.

  I found Connie’s mother’s phone number inside the house and called. Connie answered after the fourth ring, sounding sleepy and irritated. A few minutes later, she sounded worse. Her mother took the phone and told me they’d be leaving in a few minutes. The courageous bastard that I am, I left before they arrived.

  5

  I spent the next couple of days inside. Alone. Took the phone off the hook. Didn’t dress or shave. Nibbled at something when I got hungry, which wasn’t often. Sat staring out the back-porch window. Thinking.

  I don’t think they meant to kill Ray, just knock him down a lick or two, like they’d done with me. A warning. Ray and I had spent the past six weeks heading up a special task force designed to crush the Mailman and were finally, after a month of drawing blanks, making some progress.

  Mailman’s legal name was Reggie Scales. Black male. Twenty-four. Skinny and ugly. A cold-blooded killer. A self-proclaimed mastermind, he employed others to do his dirty work. Kept his own hands clean. Scales ran Baltimore City’s drug trade: heroin, cocaine, crack. Of course, there were still chump-change dealers on the street—always would be—but Scales handled the main traffic. His gang numbered over thirty. And they called him Mailman on the street because he always delivered.

  We’d been getting closer and closer—one of his street sellers was starting to get nervous and talk—and he must’ve figured it was time for a warning. Something nice and subtle, like a little too-close-to-home-for-comfort ass-beating to soften the hard-ons we had for him.

  Judging from evidence found in and around Ray’s house, I guessed that it had happened like this: Mailman’s men were creeping around the house when Ray opened the back door and let Cowboy out for his final shit break of the night. The dog spotted one of them and attacked. They’d found Cowboy with a bullet in his neck about twenty yards from the back door. A guy I know who works K-9 told me that he’d probably died quickly, and I know that would’ve made Ray feel a little better. Another officer told me that Cowboy had a chunk of human flesh the size of a golf ball in his mouth. Good for him.

  Mailman’s men must’ve either panicked after Cowboy attacked or Ray must’ve fought like a bastard and forced one of them to gun him. Nothing else I can think of. I know that seeing Cowboy gunned down right before his eyes would’ve made Ray crazy, so I’d bet on the latter. Christ, he really loved that mutt.

  6

  We buried Ray on a Sunday. A seasonably cool morning, the sky stretched a crisp, clean blue. A thin layer of fallen leaves blanketed the cemetery grounds. There was no wind, no rain. Didn’t feel like funeral weather.

  I wore my dress blues and if I wasn’t in such a deep funk, I would’ve felt ridiculous. The entire precinct—and over two hundred other officers from as far away as Ohio—were in attendance. And, of course, the media showed up. Reporters, a shit load of camera crews—the whole damn circus. They tried their best to look sincere, but just looked hungry. I found out later that the funeral was the lead news story on all three networks. As usual, I declined all interviews, and threatened several reporters with bodily harm. Off camera, of course.

  I stood behind Connie during the service and felt like a real bastard. Not only had I left before she arrived at the scene, but I’d only called her once over the past three days.

  She’d sounded as well as could be expected on the telephone. Said both her parents were staying with her and that she’d been taking some pills to help her sleep and that they w
ere working. She’d asked me a lot of questions—about Ray and that night, about the Mailman—few of which I had answers for. The conversation lasted barely fifteen minutes; it was all either of us could stand. Before I hung up, I told her what Ray’s last words to me had been—I’m sorry—and asked if she knew what he’d meant. She’d answered me with silence; I told her to forget it and hung up.

  After the funeral service, I spoke briefly with Ray’s parents, then wandered around aimlessly for a few minutes, afraid to get in my car and drive away, but more afraid of staying and saying good-bye to my partner. Connie spotted me, excused herself from the main group, and walked over. We hugged without exchanging words—there was really nothing either of us could say—and she slipped a piece of paper into my hand before we parted. I talked to a few other officers, and then snuck away before the media freaks got brave again.

  I unfolded the paper and read what was written, once in the parking lot and again in the car. Then I went home and got drunk. I read it a third time the next morning and got drunk again.

  7

  Baltimore’s Inner Harbor is a contradiction of humanity.

  If you sit on Federal Hill and look straight ahead out over the harbor, you can see the truth in that statement.

  The harbor attracts money—all kinds. Well-dressed tourists, bored locals, hand-holding couples, businessmen and businesswomen doing lunch. Families wait in line at the aquarium, the science center, the shops and food joints. Catch a show on the Bay Lady, ride a miniature motorboat or paddleboat, eat and drink on an outdoor patio, listen to a concert. Summer, winter, hot, cold, it doesn’t matter; they flock here like ants on a corpse.

  Two blocks away, in the harbor’s shadow, it’s a different story. Barefooted kids run the streets; uneducated, undernourished, underloved. Doors and windows are open—no air-conditioning. Too many people are on the street; it’s a weekday and they should be at work. A whistle sounds from a second-floor window, and the dealers disappear into the cracks. Seconds later, a dented police cruiser turns the corner. The officer inside is hot and bored and anxious to go home to his swimming pool. The squad car passes—the officer never glancing in any direction other than straight ahead—and the dealers reappear with smiles on their faces. Business is good.

  Two city blocks…two different worlds.

  And it’s impossible to prevent these two worlds from clashing. Beggars line the store and restaurant fronts. Drug dealers and pimps wait in line next to visiting suburban schoolchildren. Street people sift through trash cans while spoiled teenagers hunt for the latest fashion rage or cuss the slow-walking elders in front of them. Yuppie women complain because no one notices their new outfit or haircut, while real people die a block away and no one notices or even cares.

  Coming to the Inner Harbor always depresses me, and when I get depressed—which is more often than I like to admit—I tend to preach. But I preach to an audience of one, so I offer no apologies.

  Connie had called late last night to arrange this morning’s meeting. Ten in the morning at Federal Hill. I was early, unusual for me. I sat back in the grass and thought about the note while I waited. I supposed I could play dumb, ask her what she meant or just try to change her mind. The problem was I knew exactly what she meant and wasn’t sure that I wanted to change her mind.

  Kill him.

  The words were handwritten in black ink on lined tablet paper, probably the same pad and pen Connie used to record her grocery list every week. But instead of fruit and vegetables, this request was a little less healthy.

  I hadn’t been able to accept Ray’s death yet—hadn’t said good-bye to him at the funeral or returned to work and faced the job alone—but I wasn’t sure if taking out the Mailman would allow me to. And I wasn’t sure how I felt about Connie. Compassion and pity and…disappointment?

  Revenge was a primitive and intense emotion, one that I experienced fairly often. Hell, I had no moral problems with her request. The badge certainly wouldn’t stop me. I’d been a terrible human long before I became a cop, and unless you listened to Ray, I’d never stopped being one. But, for some reason, I’d never expected it of Connie. At least, not to this degree. I’m a pompous bastard, I know.

  She finally showed at 10:04, walking gracefully down the stone path, looking beautiful in a schoolgirl way, blond ponytail swinging from side to side. I didn’t see her swollen eyes until she drew close and kissed me softly on the cheek. She sat beside me in the grass, and we talked for several minutes before silence overtook us. Somewhere in the middle of the quiet she looked at me, green eyes wide and moist, and I nodded. Her body wavered, all her breath leaving her at once, and she smiled sadly. Then she touched my hand and left me alone.

  8

  Two weeks later and I’m on the street. Past midnight. Light rain falling. Cruising the city, west side, in my beat-up Mustang. I hadn’t driven the junker for months—ever since I’d bought my truck—and the clutch was kicking my ass. I was wearing an old army jacket over a sweater and blue-jeans. Had a wool cap pulled low over my forehead with some fake hair sticking out the back. I looked pretty damn stupid, but, hell, I valued my life more than my pride.

  I had a 9mm in my shoulder holster, a shotgun under the dash, and a plastic baggie of cocaine underneath my jacket on the front seat. Earlier, I’d jumped a dealer on Fayette Street, out by the hospital, and cleaned out his stash. Knocked out two of his teeth in the process. Didn’t feel good doing it, but I needed the stuff and wasn’t about to pay for it.

  After fifteen minutes of driving, I spotted who I was searching for on a dark corner and pulled to the curb. I leaned over and rolled down the passenger window.

  “Hey, old man. Hey, Snowman. I’m looking for some information.”

  The man didn’t look up. He was sitting on a crumbled porch, chin resting on his hands, oblivious to the rain. He looked close to sixty, but was actually in his mid-forties, a well-known veteran of the street. Because of his round belly and choice of drug habit, the street called him Snowman. He was wearing a filthy wool cap and a recycled trench coat down to his knees. I noted the hat and felt a little better about my disguise.

  I called him a second time, this time offering to pay for the help, and again he ignored me. A young redneck couple, voices raised, obviously arguing about something, turned the corner, and I leaned back into the driver’s seat. I waited for them to pass, then placed the clear bag of cocaine in my lap and poked a hole in the top with two fingers. I scooped a small amount of the powder into my other palm and exited the car, leaving the bag on the seat. Our undercovers had tried unsuccessfully to pry information from the Snowman several times before, usually using small amounts of money as bait.

  The man heard the car door slam and slowly opened his eyes. Dull. Expressionless. Before he could close them again and return to his dream world, I opened my hand in front of his face.

  “It’s all yours,” I said, motioning for him to take the drug.

  He eyed me cautiously, and then craned his neck up and down the street, eyes scanning.

  “This isn’t a setup,” I said. “All I want is some information. I’m looking for someone and if you can help me find him, there’s a bag of this stuff in the car that’s yours.”

  I crouched to a knee and offered my hand again. He lifted a filthy, scarred hand, and I poured the cocaine onto his palm. He touched a finger to the powder, lifted it to the tongue, then, seemingly satisfied that it was the real thing, emptied it onto a scrap of newspaper. He carefully folded the paper and stuffed it under his hat.

  “Who?” he asked, not looking at me.

  “Mailman.”

  “Uh uh. Can’t help you.”

  I walked back to the car, checking the street for wandering eyes. I lifted the coke from the seat and held it level to the man’s face, feeling guilty as hell. His eyes widened, showing human emotion for the first time. Showing hunger. “All I want to know is where he is,” I said. “And all this is yours. No tricks. Otherwise I find someon
e else to do it.”

  He stared at the bag, eyes unblinking, tongue snaking out to lick cracked lips. “One hour. Wait here.”

  I stuffed the bag inside my jacket and smiled. “I’ll be waiting.”

  I watched the old man disappear down the street, then pulled the car around the corner and turned off the engine. I checked the time, then opened a paper bag and pulled out a ham-and-cheese sandwich and a candy bar. Damn if I wasn’t prepared.

  I had actually packed the same snack, dressed in the same pathetic disguise, and loaded the car twice before, false starting both times. I didn’t even leave the curb the first time, and I did a U-turn on I-95 and returned home the second time.

  There was no turning back tonight. I knew that.

  Premeditated murder. Two words that I’d heard and said hundreds of times before; they haunted me now. Since the meeting on Federal Hill, I’d found myself thinking of the Mailman less and less, and thinking, instead, of Connie and the note. Ray’s death had triggered something inside of her—eaten away something good and pure—and she’d turned to me for help. I didn’t know whether to feel honored or ashamed.

  Exactly forty-five minutes after he had left, Snowman returned. He walked to the driver’s side of the car and waited for me to roll down my window. Without a word, he held out his hands.

  “Give it to me first,” he said.

  “You know where he is?”

  He nodded.

  I handed him the bag, and it disappeared inside his coat.

  “Mama Lucia’s,” he said, turning to leave.

  “Little Italy?”

  “Yeah.” Then he was gone, humming as he went.