My strength, and my patience, are tested as stand before the Halls of Justice, waiting for the only man who can help me now.
The Sentry.
13.
I tossed around in the warm bedsheets for a few minutes before finally working up the courage to peek at the alarm clock. I was a little surprised to find that I’d been able to wake up on my own at the crack of seven, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually bothered to setting the alarm. I’ve never been a fan of having a buzzer wake me up at the same time every morning since my daily schedule is more of a rough guideline than as a fixed itinerary. As I rolled over and clutched the blankets under my chin, I noticed I’d forgotten to close the blinds the night before. The smug rays of sunshine creeping into the bedroom assured me I wasn’t going back to sleep, so I kicked off the covers and headed to the bathroom to rinse down in the shower.
It was the first morning all week where I hadn’t gotten paged in to work, and I was determined to enjoy it. In fact, I felt so relaxed that when I stepped out my front door to grab the News and Courier I made it halfway down the walk before I realized I was wearing nothing but an old pair of white boxer shorts. A few punk kids were hanging around their school bus stop, snickering and pointing at my forgetfulness. I couldn’t tell whether they were laughing at the stains on my drawers or at the spare tire hanging down over my waistband, but for the sake of modesty I unfolded the paper as I walked back inside. Yeah, even I’ll admit that my old physique is just a little past its prime. It probably wouldn’t be much longer before I’d have to break down and start using that old treadmill I kept in my bedroom, but that would mean I’d have to find somewhere else to hang my laundry.
I sat out on the back patio and read the paper while waiting for my breakfast to heat up, and the greasy smell of leftover Kentucky Fried Chicken lifted my spirits. As far as the paper, well, the News and Courier isn’t a top-notch publication by any stretch of the imagination, but that’s really not its own fault. Nothing particularly newsworthy ever happens in Charleston, so our daily paper is nothing more than a bunch of feel-good fluff articles. I never missed reading the classifieds section, though, just to get a peek at all the secondhand crap people were trying to pawn off on other suckers. My favorite was this one ad in the jewelry section that read, “For sale: One-carat diamond engagement ring, never worn.” The headlines didn’t carry any mention of the Chief’s tirade the day before, but that didn’t come as much of a surprise. The editors always seem so concerned about the possibility of offending any of their subscribers that if there’s a controversial story you can be sure it won’t be covered in the News and Courier.
Once I’d torn through the paper, I enjoyed a quiet morning without my pager beeping or my cell phone barking, but after a good half hour of lying out in the sun like a beached whale it was finally time to put my nose to the grindstone. I found a light blue dress shirt that wasn’t too wrinkled and some old khaki pants lying in the back of my closet, and I managed to squeeze into both of them. There was a striped necktie lying on the floor so I grabbed that too, just to be safe. It didn’t quite match the shirt but I decided to go with it anyway since it still had a knot tied in it.
Traffic was light on the Connector as I worked my way downtown. The sun was beaming down rays of happiness, and I tried to keep my thoughts off police work for as long as possible. Some rookie from Team Four was pulling out of the station’s front parking lot at the same time I was pulling in, so I cut the wheel hard to swerve into his parking space. I spotted this old black lady in a minivan packed with kids who’d been waiting with her turn signal on, and she gave one hell of an evil look after I cut her off. She sat there glaring at me for what must have been a full minute, but finally drove off when I continued to ignore her.
I was feeling pretty good that morning, and I wasn’t about to get upset over the antics of a hood rat momma. I literally bounded up the Department’s front steps, taking them two at a time until I had to stop halfway to catch my breath. I was glad to see that Big Jim wasn’t there manning a post out front, swaying back and forth and smoking away, so at least I wouldn’t have to hear any smartass comments about being out of shape.
Just then, this old, hunched-over bum started stumbling down the steps to meet me. He was wrinkled and unshaven just like any other homeless dude, but this guy smelled particularly rank. Most of the city’s homeless have this unique flavoring, an odor that’s sort of like a mix of dirty socks and old cheese. Even the cleaner bums who stay down at the Crisis Ministries Shelter still give off a particular funk of armpit sweat covered with institutional cleaning products. This old guy was his own man, though. He smelled as if he’d crapped his pants at least several days ago.
The way he lurched toward me seemed deliberate, almost as if he had some sort of purpose like made it seem like he had some sort of purpose, like he’d been waiting specifically for me to show up. The poor guy’s body was practically shaking, and I swear to God he was actually drooling. This bum couldn’t have been much more than forty years old, but it sure was a hard forty. His face was covered with a layer of gray stubble that matched his wild hair. I couldn’t tell whether he was high or drunk, but he had to be on something to be that off-balance. It looked like he wanted something from me so I patted my pockets, searching for some spare change or maybe a Twinkie to throw at him, but all I came up with was a moist towelette that was left over from my box of fried chicken. I paused for a second, wondering if he might be happy with that.
Almost as a reflex, I used my right elbow to rub my holster and check if I had remembered to pack my Glock that morning. Glancing down, I noticed that the gun’s rear sights were covered with rust and there was a stale French fry wedged down in the holster. I hadn’t shot it since our range day the year before, and I sure as shit couldn’t remember the last time I’d cleaned it, but I figured that it’d probably still work. And anyway, if I had to defend myself but the gun didn’t fire then I could always just club the guy over the head with it.
The encounter made me nervous, at least until I remembered that Thursday morning was the day for Vice Court, and I almost felt sorry for the poor guy then. Our vice unit is a group of fairy rookies who wear their hair all gelled up and who go around busting up college parties and hauling in underage drinkers and writing livability citations like some kind of glorified undercover traffic cops. A few months back, I’d been stuck in municipal court clearing out an old case when I spotted one of those young vice weenies actually wearing a shoulder holster! I swear, some of these rookies we’re hiring these days act like police work ought to be exactly like it’s portrayed on television.
I’d have bet anything that this poor bum had probably just been enjoying a cold beer on the corner somewhere when one of those vice douchebags suddenly rolled up on him and stroked out a ticket for Public Drunk or Open Container or some other lame charge. Either that or one of those horse patrol jerks had spotted him sleeping in a city park. When it comes to petty offenses, those Mounties are even worse, nothing but parade cops who act tough by refusing to cut anyone a break. Me, I’d never had the heart to take someone in for just a simple alcohol violation since I liked my beer just as much as the next guy. Hell, if I looked half as bad as some of those homeless guys, I’d probably stay stoned all the time too.
The bum opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Good strategy, I silently praised him. Keep quiet before you get in any more trouble. It would probably be a lot better for the guy if he didn’t say anything at all when his case was called, either. The judge usually let most of the drunks off easy on the idea that them having to show up in city court was punishment enough.
The old guy just kept opening and closing his mouth, and after a few seconds of the Venus flytrap routine I had no choice but to take pity on him. “Just go up these stairs, pal. In the front door and make a left turn for the main courtroom. Find Miss Maloney, the public defender. She’ll take care of you.” I almost reached down to take his ha
nd and lead him inside, but stopped short when I saw a fresh scar running up the back of his right hand and disappearing under his long shirt sleeve. By the look of that injury, it was a safe bet that he probably tried to commit suicide. I shook my head in sympathy, thinking about how life really deals some people a rough break.
Turning away, I headed back up the steps before the bum could say or do anything crazy. You never know when some tightass lieutenant might pass by and order the dude arrested for public drunkenness or some other nonsense. Personally, I never had any problem with handling situations with an arrest, just so long as it was some patrol rookie doing it instead of me.
14.
Heads turned my way when I walked into Central; and I instinctively glanced down to see if my fly was open. It was sealed up tighter than Fort Knox, so I looked back over my shoulder. The clock on the wall hadn’t quite hit nine, so I was actually a few minutes early for a change. The other detectives must have been surprised to see me show up to work on time, and looking fairly presentable at that. But before I could reach my desk, Big Jim stuck his head out of his office and waved me over. There was no way I could have been in trouble so early in the morning, but just to be safe I chose the chair on his left side.
Jim had to twist around in his seat to make steady eye contact, but he managed to give me a long look up and down before busting out with a huge grin. “Looking sharp this morning, Goosey. Is that tie a clip-on?”
I laughed out loud, more out of relief at not being in hot water than at his joke. “That knot, sir, is what the elegant people call a four-in-hand.”
Big Jim always did his best to avoid wearing ties, probably because his neck was too fat for him to keep his shirt collar buttoned. He did keep one old red tie in his desk drawer, but that thing was so word that it could have been a hand-me-down from Abbie Rothschild. Jim only started putting it on when he had to go downstairs to meet with the Chief, and it always made him look like a Death Row inmate on a long, slow walk to the gallows.
“It’s amazing the difference a good night’s sleep makes, Jim. I feel like I could take on the world today.”
He snorted and rolled his eyes. “I’ve never known you to have a problem with sleeping, especially not while you’re on the clock. How’d you manage to avoid getting called out again? Did you pull the batteries out of your pager or something?”
Jim knew my moves pretty well, but that morning I was in the clear. “Hey boss, are you still uptight about what happened last month? It’s like I told you, those batteries just went dead.”
“Uh huh. Like they did the exact same way the month before that?” He gave me another wide grin as he said it. Judging by the dull layer of brown film caked across Jim’s teeth, I gathered that he must have eaten pancakes with extra syrup for breakfast, which explained his unusually good mood had to be due to a spike in his blood sugar levels.
I knew he was just messing around, so I felt comfortable letting out a little chuckle. “I can’t help it if the Department buys generic batteries, Jim. Take it up with those old skeletons in supply.”
Big Jim leaned back and let loose one of his patented horse laughs, and I knew that line was bound to be repeated at his second coffee break of the morning. Before he could say anything else, I went on. “I guess I just lucked out and caught a quiet night in the Unholy City. The Chief’s latest rant must have everyone scared, or else those rookies on midnight shift actually went out and stopped a few crimes for a change, instead of sitting in the Waffle House for hours on end.”
Big Jim rolled his eyes and smiled. I’m sure he was thinking back to the two or three times when he’d busted me hiding out there. “Go easy on the Awful Waffle, Goosey. It’s the breakfast of champions.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his belly, which I notice was a fair sight bigger than my own. “I know you’ve got loads of work to do, being that you’re such a hard charger. Give me the rundown on your cases and I’ll get out of your hair. Well, what’s left of it, anyway.” He let loose with another throaty laugh. I had to hold back from reaching up self-consciously and touching my bald spot. It wouldn’t have bothered me much if anyone else had mentioned my receding hairline, but it was a low blow coming from Jim. My boss ran his chunky fingers through his own greasy hair, which was definitely looking more and more like a toupee, but before I had the chance to come up with a smart comeback he asked, “Where do we stand on…what’s his name? Encienario?”
I chose to let his wisecrack pass harmlessly by as I slipped into business mode. “It’s all but closed, boss, since Champaign PD didn’t have any new information for me. I already called all the hospitals, nursing homes, hospices, and assisted care facilities in the city but no one’s got Encienario listed as a patient, so it’s anyone’s guess how he ended up at MUSC. The coroner’s office listed the cause of death as an accidental drowning, so the only thing we’re still waiting on is an identification of some chemical that was found in his bloodstream.” I had a flash of genius and added, “You know, he might have been high on some kind of prescription drugs or something, then lost his balance and fell in.”
Big Jim clicked his retractable pen a few times, a signal that meant he was deep in thought. He bent over his desk and made a few notes on a pad with a look of fierce concentration on his face, but I couldn’t quite read the pad to see which word he was struggling so hard to spell. After he’d gotten a few lines down he said, “Okay Goosey, good job. You might as well go ahead and wrap that one up. Get your supplemental reports in to me before close of business tomorrow.”
I nodded, acting as though I hadn’t written the supplementals already.
Big Jim squinted down at his notes again. “Next…How’s that missing person case coming? James Smithson?”
I cleared my throat. “I went out to see his wife yesterday, but she couldn’t tell me anything useful. My guess is that if Smithson’s hanging around with a crackhead shelter rats, it’s just a typical case of midlife crisis. He’s probably shacking up with some little stripper broad down around Meeting Street.”
Jim thought for a second, then nodded. “You’re probably right.” He sighed and ran his hands through his slick hair one more time and it suddenly occurred to me that I’d never seen him actually wipe his hands clean after doing that.
As I made a mental note to never shake hands with Jim again, he went right on rambling. “Hmm. Well, we can’t force a grown man to go home to mama. Just the same, get some fliers out to the patrol guys so maybe they can hem him up on some kind of charge. At least that would keep him in one place long enough for his old lady to give him hell.”
I silently congratulated myself. “Great minds think alike, boss. His wife’s supposed to bring down a photo for me today, so I’ll print up some copies to pass around.” I was feeling pretty good right about that point, since I was two for two on case closures.
Jim banged out a drum roll on his desktop. The impact from his hairy paws sent papers flying down to the floor, and I couldn’t help but laugh. It seemed as if my cheerful attitude was contagious. “Last but not least…” he said, with a long pause for dramatic effect. “The skydiver?”
“The jumper? Well, I don’t really have much to go on at that point.”
Just then, that little rat Squealer stuck his head in the office. Big Jim gave me a look of death that said, “Why didn’t you shut the door behind you?” and my good mood vanished in an instant. I swear, it made this soft whooshing sound as it fluttered off.
“Hey guys! It sounds like I’m just in time!” Squealer plopped down right in front of Jim’s good eye. The tiny office was cramped with all of us in there, and the air turned stuffy and hard to breathe.
I glanced back at Jim and shrugged. My bad.
Big Jim made a show of looking at his watch before he asked, “Shouldn’t you be down at the crime lab by now, Mealor?”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant, I’ve already come and gone from there.” I groaned as quietly as I could, but the noise still echoed in the small
space. I can’t stand those people who show up early for work, even when there’s nothing going on. Those brown-nosers always made a point of letting you know just how hard they were working.
Squealer pretended not to hear me. “But I specifically wanted to catch up with the both of you to pass along some good information.”
Jim rubbed his temples. “Get on with it.” Squealer’s brand of enthusiasm wasn’t welcome in Jim’s office, especially not first thing in the morning, but my boss probably figured that the most painless option was to just play along and get it over with.
Squealer sat up straight in his chair and folded his hands in his lap, looking almost like he was back in Sunday school. “Okay. Well. Where to begin…”
I looked at my watch, then looked at Big Jim. He was checking the time too.
Squealer finally found a suitable starting point. “Well Mike, you see, the thing is, I followed up on that piece of glass from the parking garage. The one we talked about yesterday.”
Jim looked at me and raised a bushy eyebrow. I slumped down in my chair trying to duck out of sight since Jim and I have had more than a few talks about why I shouldn’t dump work off on other cops. Well, it was more like he had talked, and I’d pretended to listen. But even if the truth somehow popped out, I might still be in the clear since neither one of us considers Squealer to be a real cop.
“And?” Jim asked.
Squealer took a deep breath before going on. “And, the piece of glass that I found in the parking garage had a VIN number etched into it. I had Big Tony down in ID run the number through the DMV records and it came back to a 2007 BMW with an address in Mount Pleasant. The registered owner’s name is Charles Demming, and I pulled up his phone number from the reverse directory.”
Listening to Squealer’s brush with law enforcement greatness was simply thrilling. I slouched down further in my seat while Jim turned his attention back towards his computer. He set in on clicking his mouse before giving Squealer a single grunt.
Burnout (Goosey Larsen Book 1) Page 13