The little rat got all excited right about then, like he thought that Big Jim might have been taking down case notes or something, but I knew from experience that Jim was only playing a game of solitaire on the desktop. I could tell Squealer was starting to get excited, though, because his face got flushed and he started speaking in these choppy little bursts of sound.
“So I called him … on the telephone ... and we talked. He said he’d been working late Tuesday night and that his car had been parked in the hospital garage all evening.”
I began to clean my fingernails with my keys as I watched Jim from the corner of my eye, trying to judge his reaction to this saga. His good eye moved slowly down to the lowest drawer of his filing cabinet where he kept a liter of vodka in case of emergencies. It was still a little early in the morning by both his standards and mine, but Squealer tended to have that effect on people. “Get to the point, Mealor,” he growled.
Squealer stopped short, taking a moment to re-think his entire speech. Knowing that nerd, I bet that he’d practiced his story in front of the locker room mirror a couple times before working up the nerve to come into Jim’s office. “Yes, sir, Lieutenant. So I asked Dr. Demming why he didn’t just report the break-in to us on the night it happened, to which he replied that he didn’t want to bother us so early in the morning.”
I groaned even louder, since that was probably the first time anyone had ever used the phrase “to which he replied” in Big Jim’s office.
Squealer flushed up a little around the collar but unfortunately for us, he kept going. “And I said he was being real considerate but that the police are available for service twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, even on Sundays and holidays.”
Jim drummed his thick fingers on the desk with increased energy, almost as if he was trying to knock the nicotine stains off them. I tried to imagine how Jim might react if someone ever had the nerve to bother him about some stupid break-in case on a Sunday or a holiday but knowing that guy, he’d probably be so far into a drunken stupor that he wouldn’t even be able to hear his pager go off.
It looked like Squealer was winding up for a big finish, and he took another deep breath. “I told him I could meet him anytime to take his report, so at least he could make a claim with his insurance carrier. I ended up staying late last night so we could get together at MUSC, just as he was heading into work.”
Big Jim leaned forward to jab a hotdog-looking index finger across his desk at Squealer. “Mealor, you are a crime scene technician. That means that your job is to snap on latex gloves, dust for fingerprints, and take Polaroids. Nothing more. Do you understand that?”
Squealer’s face turned a solid shade of red. “Y…Yes, sir.”
I sat up in my chair, ready to enjoy the show. It’s always a nice change to see somebody besides me get the shaft.
Judging by his level of energy, Jim was just getting started. He snatched a copy of the CPD policy manual off the bookshelf behind him, then raised it high over his head. My boss was turning a little red in the face himself, and for a second it looked like he was literally going to throw the book at Squealer. He sucked in a deep breath before kicking off his tirade: “Do you know what this is?”
Squealer stole a glance back over his shoulder, towards the still-open office door. It looked entirely possible that he might actually try to make a break for it; but unfortunately he took a deep swallow and stood his ground. “It’s the department’s policy manual,” he whispered. “Sir.”
Jim thundered, “I’m damn sure that I know what it is! I’m asking if you know what it is, you moron!”
Squealer tried to say something then, but the words simply caught in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down along his neck in a thick fold of baby fat. It looked almost like a bobber riding up and down on the waves, and I suddenly remembered that my state fishing license was about to expire. I made a mental note to sneak out of work the following week so I could drive out to the Folly Beach pier and renew it.
Big Jim flipped open the policy manual with a speed that surprised me. He quickly found the page he was searching for and stabbed it with the yellow tip of his index finger. “Do you see this section? The one titled, ‘Investigations’?”
Squealer just nodded his head.
“Would you like me to read Chapter 18 to you, since it’s clear that you’ve never read it yourself?”
Squealer didn’t say anything. He just stuck with the head nods, which in my humble opinion was the smart move. When you’re catching an ass chewing from one of the commanders, your best option is to just sit there and take it. Trying to explain yourself never works out well, since most managerial types can’t stand to be confronted with logic.
Big Jim’s eyes narrowed into a tight squint as he peered down at the manual. He usually wore reading glasses, and I’ll bet he was kicking himself for not taking the time to put them on before launching off on his rant. He probably thought he’d lose momentum if he stopped to look for them or worse, the pause might allow Squealer an opportunity to pipe up. It didn’t really matter, though, since Jim had most of the policies memorized by that point in his career. The rules hadn’t changed much over the years since no one has ever bothered to update or enforce them.
“It says …” Jim said, with a short pause for effect, “that property crimes of a value of less than ten thousand dollars shall be the investigative responsibility of the Team Commander of the Patrol Area in which the crime occurred.” He stopped there to look back at Squealer. “Do you understand that, son, or do I need to read it one more time?”
Squealer nodded again, but with more feeling this time. It was the subtle move of a pro, and I couldn’t help wondering if he’d been called to the carpet at least a few times before.
Jim set the book down on his desk and leaned his weight forward on both elbows. He took another moment to catch his breath, which seemed to give him the time he needed to recover from the exertion. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Big Jim put it on someone like that, and the last thing I wanted was for him to stroke out before I’d had my lunch.
After the benefit of a nice, long break, he finally managed to compose himself. “Would you care to tell me why, then, you chose to overstep your authority as a crime scene technician and interfere with what was clearly an investigation that Team One should be handling?”
At hearing the direct question, Squealer sat upright in his chair to point at me. “Because Mike told me to!”
Damn, I thought, shaking my head. But I tell you what, with most cops you can never really tell how they’ll act under pressure. An officer might seem like a decent, stand-up guy, but when the bosses threaten them with a polygraph you can never be sure that they won’t roll on you to save their own ass. I had to hand it to Squealer, though, at least the guy was consistent. He was a rat all right, no doubt about it, but at least I could depend on him to be a rat.
I leaned in towards that little snitch to give him an icy stare of hate, but he wisely kept his gaze focused straight ahead.
Jim turned back to his computer screen, but I could tell he was doing his best not to laugh. In about ten minutes’ time, Squealer was sure to be the laughingstock of the supply room coffee club. Still, Big Jim did his best to keep a game face on. “I’ll deal with Detective Larsen when I’m through with you. Now is that all, son?”
Squealer’s voice was no louder than a whisper as he started talking faster, probably trying to backpedal and get out of there before he could do any more damage. “No, sir. After I met with Dr. Demming, I wrote an incident report for the break-in. The doctor told me he didn’t bother to file a report that night since the only thing stolen was his briefcase, and it just had a few papers inside. Nothing valuable.”
My better judgment told me not to open my mouth, but I still couldn’t resist the urge to jump in. “So we’ve got a kleptomaniac pencil pusher loose on the streets? He sounds like just your type, Sque
aler.” Yeah, it was funny, but not my best.
Big Jim lifted a single shaggy eyebrow to shoot me a shaky look of warning from his lazy eye. Despite the lack of focus in his gaze, my boss was making it clear that the window for smartass comments was officially closed.
Squealer’s pace slowed to a mumble, as if he still hadn’t learned when to shut his mouth and cut his losses. “Um, sir, you see, at first it looked like just a simple larceny of a briefcase, but because it happened the same night as the suicide I went ahead and processed the doctor’s car as a full crime scene. It didn’t take too long, just a few dozen digital photos and a quick dust for latent prints. I also swabbed some samples of the blood droplets that had splattered across the concrete floor. Judging from the smears, it looked as if the culprit cut his hand on the broken window glass while reaching inside the car.”
Big Jim’s eyes started to bulge, and he looked pretty close to the breaking point. “So. What?”
Squealer sat all the way up in his chair again. “So,” he said, “I lifted three full fingerprints and several partials off of the car’s rear door handle. Once I got back to the station, I had big Tony run them through the AFIS computer.”
I stifled a yawn as I wondered just how late Squealer must have stayed last night to get all this work done. Jim just stared at him with a look of disgust that the kid probably mistook for interest.
“A hit came back immediately on the three full prints, all of them from the suspect’s right hand.” He held up his own hand, using it as a visual aid and raising each finger as he counted them off. “The thumb, the index, and the middle finger.” Squealer paused a quick second for emphasis, which made it look as if he was giving Big Jim the bird. Even worse, he was aiming the gesture directly at Jim’s good eye.
Jim’s face turned a deep shade of purple, but Squealer was on too much of a roll to take notice. “So because of that, sir, we’ve been able to identify a suspect in the B+E case!”
Big Jim had just about had enough by that point. It was getting dangerously close to his second coffee break of the morning, and his patience was wearing thin. “Okay, Mealor, whatever you say. Pass everything you’ve got on to the Team One investigator, that skinny kid, whats-his-name, and then get the hell out of here.”
Jim was talking about Don Samuels, this young punk who hadn’t been with the Department a day over two years before he became the investigator for Team One. There was widespread grumbling about his promotion because only a few months earlier, Samuels had gotten caught using the team office computer to look at Internet porn on midnight shift. So get this, instead of doing the right thing and denying it, this kid pulled the whole “I cannot tell a lie” routine and chose to take a three-day suspension instead. His dumbass lieutenant fell for the George Washington bit, so when the investigator spot opened up, Samuels fell right into the job. His boss said that anyone who has honest enough to come right out and confess to looking at Chubby Chasers websites had the type of integrity that a great detective needed. In my opinion, the kid was dumber than a box of rocks for swallowing three whole days without pay. I swear, you just can’t trust somebody who’s that honest.
It looked liked Squealer was fading fast. I thought the dude was just about done for, but he dug down deep to let loose with one last Hail Mary pass. “But Lieutenant, the prints came back to James Smithson.”
Big Jim’s jaw just dropped. He turned and fixed both eyes—the good one and the lazy one—directly on me. I didn’t know what to say, so I just stared right back at him.
In the long, awkward silence that followed, Squealer seized the opportunity to take control of the conversation. “You know, James Smithson. The guy whose fingerprints I lifted from the air conditioning unit at the O+M Grocery store next to the lot where Hooks died on Tuesday morning?”
Jim still wasn’t saying anything, so Squealer turned the interrogation towards me. “You know, James Smithson. Your old missing person case?”
I snapped, “I know who he is, Squealer!” Damn it, I thought to myself. This was definitely not a good development. In a flash, I had a horrifying vision of being stuck late at work again that night.
“Is that all, Mealor?” Jim asked the question in a low, menacing voice.
The little rat nodded his head. He probably figured he’d screwed me over enough for one day, and fell back on his original strategy of staying silent.
“Then get back to work, son. I’ll call Samuels myself and explain what we’ve got on Team One’s case.”
Squealer stood up and bolted for the door. That little weasel had just seen more confrontation in a single morning than he’d ever seen working the streets. As he rushed out, the twerp ducked his head back in and said in a single breath, “Oh Mike by the way we made an ID on the jumper from yesterday too and I left the file on your desk!”
As soon as we were along, Big Jim looked me up and down. I carefully avoided meeting his eyes by examining my fingernails to make sure they were still clean. They were.
“Well, Loosey Goosey,” he finally said, “as long as you’re going to be putting out fliers on Smithson, you might as well go ahead and pencil in a line that says he’s also suspected for committing a B+E to an auto.”
I nodded and stood up, hoping that was all, moving slowly and trying not to jinx it. I’d almost made it safely to the door before Jim spoke up one last time. “Oh, and you know what, why don’t you go ahead and take over that investigation as well? I’m sure young Samuels won’t mind some mentoring from a seasoned veteran.”
I nodded one more time as I walked out, cursing that damned Squealer and plotting my revenge every step of the way.
15.
My desk was in its usual messy state of order when I flopped down behind it. Some time ago, back in the early days of my detective career, I’d gotten in the habit of leaving a few files strewn across my desktop anytime I left the office. It helped give off the appearance that I was extremely busy, but that morning some inconsiderate jerk obviously hadn’t cared much about my workload since a couple new file folders were stacked neatly on top of my decoy mess. I sighed as I dug into the first one, thinking that I might as well try to knock out as much of it as possible before lunch.
The first folder was much thicker than any case file I’d ever put together myself, and I half-heartedly shuffled through the papers. It was only Squealer’s crime scene report identifying the suicide victim from the morning before, but judging by its weight alone it could’ve been a complete report on the Kennedy assassination. I swear, only that little weasel could fill an entire file folder with information that anyone else would’ve just scribbled down on a Post-It note. I skimmed the report as I tried my best to stay awake, wondering if Squealer had actually gone and rolled fingerprints off the corpse’s hands. Messing around with dead bodies is creepy enough, but handling those fingerprint pads is even worse. Just let that black ink get on your clothes one time and it’ll never wash out.
Squealer’s report said that he’d identified the fingerprints and the dead hands they’d came from as belonging to one Shawn McGurn, a guy who’d apparently been missing out of Henderson, North Carolina since December of the year before. I grumbled a little at the prospect of having to go back and update my own reports, but at least having a name to match the body meant that my work was done. I read a little deeper, hoping to find a few relevant details that I could plagiarize. With the foul mood Big Jim was in, I figured I’d better play it safe and scribble out two paragraphs instead of just my usual one.
The report on McGurn noted that his fingerprints had been taken because of a prior arrest, and I perked up a little at seeing that. I flipped forward to his rap sheet, hoping to find some juicy dirt, but I was quickly disappointed when I saw that the charge was a public drunkenness rap from the city of Camden back in 2001. All that meant was that McGurn must have been liquored up at the annual Carolina Cup horse races, and he probably made the mistake of mouthing off to some local cop. Since only big socialites like po
liticians and doctors choose to waste their time watching horses run around a track, that meant I had a missing person who was actually a somebody, and that could only mean more of a hassle for yours truly. I sighed and cursed the jerks at the Camden PD for making the mistake of entering his prints in the first place. I swear, some of those small-town losers would write up their own mothers if they caught them with an open container of booze.
Clyde Edwards burst into the office, making a beeline for his desk since he was running late as usual. The last thing on earth I wanted was to have a conversation with that slug, so I grabbed my telephone and punched in the number listed for the case’s point of contact. “Lieutenant George Ramirez,” the note said, “of the Henderson County Sheriff’s Department.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Clyde sit down at his desk and go about the serious business of getting himself settled. He said something in my direction that sounded a lot like “Good morning,” so I pressed the receiver further into my ear and concentrated on the ringing dial tone.
When a female finally picked up, I politely asked to speak with Lieutenant Hernandez. I could tell she must have been a dispatcher from the impatient tone of her voice, along with the way her tone implied that my call was keeping her from her primary duties of sitting on her fat ass and eating fried chicken.
The line rang once more, but quickly connected to a man with a twangy, hillbilly voice. “Hey, bo’, you gotcherself Lieutenant George.”
If the way that the dispatcher had answered the phone made me suspect that Henderson County was some kind of a backwoods place, hearing “Lieutenant George” speak was a sure confirmation. I choked back a laugh. “Is this Lieutenant Hernandez?”
A faint rustling sound came across the line, almost as if the lieutenant might actually be nodding his head as a response. “Call me George, bo’,” he finally said with his words. “Lieutenant Hernandez was my daddy’s name back when he worked here. ’Course, that was ’fore he got the cancer in ninety-one. Them old intestines, I tell ya what, most folks just take ’em for granted ’til somethin’ goes wrong. But anyways, I got hired on not long after Daddy died.”
Burnout (Goosey Larsen Book 1) Page 14