by Mike McKay
***
The lunch time is approaching, so our search party slowly returns to the Patch. We have done everything imaginable, thoroughly combing the grounds within one and a half mile radius. The boys look much disappointed: none of them will be cleaning my Glock tonight. The body has not been found. As the matter of fact, nothing of importance has been found, despite we have checked every ditch and every rice paddy, and even poked a pole into the communal latrines. As a by-product of the search exercise, the boys caught two coypu rats and killed one snake. Two families in the Patch-5 will have ‘rabbit’ for dinner tonight, and someone lucky will get an oriental delicacy plus a great snake-skin belt in the bargain.
Woxman stumbles along the dirt path totally deflated. More than anything he resembles now a skinny kitten, which has miscalculated a jump and ended up in a ditch. Well, our Deputy Investigator ended up in the irrigation ditch for real. One Chinaman shouted: I have it! Looks like a body! Woxman even didn't bother to take his boots off. The slippery mud worked exactly as I predicted in the morning, and the brave policeman plopped into the murky water. Naturally, there was no dead body. Woxman's trophy was a rotten snag. For the rest of our search, he kept telling me that it was a crafty trick, just to see how this poor gullible Station deputy was going to struggle in the ditch. If it was set by one of the boys, I could believe it. But the snag was discovered by an adult. Why would a serious man trick a policeman, half of his age? Volunteer's imagination ran wild, no other explanation required.
Besides the jokes, if you come to check the ditches and rice paddies, why do you wear pants and boots? My grossly reduced uniform, for example, is way more practical. The shorts have dried up in minutes, not a bit worse than in the morning. With my Police baseball cap on, and with my badge clearly visible in the water-tight box, I look like some real Police officer, and not like some… poor lost kitten. I've learned a thing or two during my barefoot childhood, unlike some Station buffoons, no finger-pointing intended.
“Do we have a plan, Deputy Investigator?” I ask. I know Woxman has no further plan whatsoever, but it's nice to be polite.
“I propose we go to the Station, what else? Try Victor Chen again. Maybe, he decides to give a statement, after all.”
“Riding bikes in this heat? I have a better idea. What if I talk to the locals and borrow you some suitable rag? We can wash your pants and hang them to dry. I suppose you boots also need some cleaning and drying, are they not? And while the things are getting dry, we can inspect the crime scene once again.”
“Great idea, Deputy Kim,” naturally, he doesn't want to waltz into the Station looking like some poor kitten.
Have you seen the Highlander Scots' outfit? Our Deputy Investigator now resembles one of those fine human specimens. Above the waistline – the Police uniform jacket and the Police cap. In the middle – a belt with his gun, baton, handcuffs and all. And below – watch this! A kilt! Well, not exactly a kilt, just some old oilcloth, but with the real tartan pattern. The attire is completed with hairy bare legs. The Highlanders have no use for socks and shoes! The only thing: the Highlanders have no use for underpants either, but Woxman has refused to remove his underwear. So much for all my efforts, we've failed to produce a proper McWoxman.
The cross-dressing complete, Deputy Investigator gets out of the shack, and all the Patch kids burst out laughing. The adults smile too. Even а legless beggar at the corner tries to laugh, but only manages a hoarse cough. Terrible sight: a man in a wheelchair, his hands and face all wrapped in soiled bandages, eyes covered with cracked sunglasses. Behind the chair, there is a girl, about eight, barefoot, dirty rags instead of clothes. The poor bastard's daughter, or some other relative? As I pass by, I pull a couple of dollars out of my box and drop into the beggar's tin. The Slum Rules are for everybody. The girl mumbles: “Thank you, sir”. Freaking wars! What do the US want in all these endless mexicos, ukraines, and saudi arabias?
We proceed to the Mr. Chen's shack, ducking under the police tape. The key clicks in the lock, the rusty hinges try to voice objection. The stagnant midday air inside smells of dust and mice. No blood smell whatsoever. But, I am not a bloodhound.
‘McWoxman’ stops on his tracks, obviously puzzled. He observes the room from the doorway and finally whispers: “Shit. It looks different.”
“Different?”
“Yes! The books. All the books were on the shelves. Only one was on the table. That one, see? With the green super. I remember it.”
I stick my head into the room. It's seven by nine feet, pretty spacey for our Slum. Two stools, one bed, one table. Besides the green book, on the table: two dirty plates, one pair of chopsticks, and a tea-pot. Exactly as I remember it yesterday. But all the other books are now scattered all over the room.
“It must be Python Tom,” I say. Strange. I am no expert in the CSI magic, but as far as I know, the CSIs just don't throw things like this. Even if it's a full-blown search warrant, and not just a crime scene check. I have executed few search warrants, not as an investigator, but in my usual local cop capacity: standing at the door and intimidating the civilians through my mirror sunglasses. No way our Python creates such a mess! I've seen how he goes through each piece at the scene: make a photo, pick up, look, put back, adjust to the exact position. And so on. Professional work, like a human robot.
“No!” Woxman replies, “I was with Tom when he locked the goddamn door… Everything was on the shelves! Why now the books are on the floor? I don't get it,” he carefully steps inside, scrutinizing the mess.
“Interesting. Why do they need so many books?” I pick one from the floor. It's a heavy volume entitled Alloy Crystal Structures and Mechanical Properties. The paper is expensive, dense, white, clearly pre-Meltdown. The year on the front page confirms it: ‘2005’. Formulas, graphs, and lots of black and white photos, something like distant planet landscapes from Sci-Fi movies. This is way above my level, although I am a high-school grad, and with respectable marks.
“Bloody Chinese! Let's put everything back on the shelves, or the brass will rip our sore asses.”
“No, sir, we shouldn't. They may rip our asses, but I don't want to ruin the investigation. We have almost no evidence, remember? To me, it looks like someone has been to the shack after you and Python – to make a search of his own. And this someone may leave us some fingerprints, right? We ought to lock the door and give our CSIs a friendly call.” And why, for God sake, I picked the damn Alloy book? Admittedly, I am as much an investigator as… Woxman!
“Yes, you are right,” Woxman agrees. He is clearly not too happy with the developments. We have more and more questions, but still no answers.
“Change for vets? Change for vets?” A high-pitched voice comes in. The same girl with her bandaged beggar father, she parked the wheelchair right under the police tape.
“Hey, you!” Woxman turns to the open door. “You two have no business in here. Bugger off!”
“The Deputy Investigator is right, young lady,” I try to soften the rude response, “Don't you see the police tape? Your Daddy should do ‘Change for Vets’ at some other place.”
But her Daddy does not want to leave. “Kha-kha-ah” he says and lifts the begging tin with his bandaged hands. The vet knows his rights.
“Everybody must give once a day. It's the First Rule!” The girl says.
“OK, fine,” I reach for my water-tight box.
“Not you, sir! Twice a day – no such Rule! Him!” the girl sticks her dirty finger towards the Deputy Investigator.
“Sorry, I have no small money,” Woxman blushes, “the smallest I have is five bucks.”
What a Scrooge! Is he going to ask the beggar to give three dollars of change?
“Kha-kha-ah!” The legless wheezes and raises his tin a notch higher.
With a sigh, Woxman pulls out a bundle of wet crumpled bills. The generous five-dollar dona
tion leaves the safety of the bundle's rubber band for the cruel world of the begging tin.
“Happy now? Get lost!”
“Kha-kha! Kha-ha-ah!” the vet says. He either says thanks or sends Woxman to some distant country never visited by the Ambassadors of the Politically Correct Republic.
“Thank you so big, Uncle Cop!” The girl flashes a foxy smile, backing the wheelchair away from the police tape. Despite the layer of grime on her face, she is cute. Have I seen her recently? Perhaps, but for sure not with this beggar vet. Can't remember…