AHMM, April 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  No argument. The man was his.

  Once they escaped the penumbra of light, Johnny said, “"What you doing sellin’ shit in my territory?” Johnny had no idea of whether Williger sold in the meager territory allotted to him by the Brothers, but he saw that as a technicality. So far as Williger knew, any part of the Corridor was his territory.

  Williger mumbled something.

  Johnny stopped, spun the man toward him so they were facing. “I aksed you a question."

  Williger, head apologetically down, shaking from side to side, said, “Hey, I didn't know. So I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry."

  "You mix F with Horse, what you think goin’ to happen?"

  Williger shrugged, wagged his head, still not looking up. “People said they wanted Magic. Thought they knew enough to be careful."

  Johnny pushed him on the shoulder. “Walk,” he ordered, again moving toward Third. Lot of dark places on Third.

  "Where we going?” Williger asked.

  "None o’ your business.” Johnny fingering the thirty-eight in the small of his back. “You think some sixteen-year-old white kid know enough?"

  Williger stopped, facing Johnny now, at least looking him in the eye. “You can't tell anymore how old they are, the way they make themselves up. They might be twelve or twenty-five. You just can't tell.” Another shrug and shake of his head. “And I really needed the money."

  Yeah, Johnny thought, we all need the green. Kid comes to him wanting Magic, he had it, he'd sell. “What you need money for that bad, you need to sell in my land?"

  Williger's hands came out and Johnny almost reached for the piece, but he saw the man's hands up, just gesturing, and he stayed cool. “I got this aunt who helped raise me. She has no insurance. She needs help. Medical help. I needed the money."

  "Yeah, right. You some kind of Robbing Hood, takes from the rich, gives to the poor?"

  Williger shook his head again, “No, I just needed money, take care of her.” Then, looking Johnny in the eye, saying, “Look, I'm sorry. I didn't know there were these territories. I didn't mean anything. I won't do it anymore. Okay?” Whine to his voice. Scared witless.

  Johnny pushing him on the shoulder, again getting him walking, saying, “Don’ matter you sorry. Thing is, you sell this shit, bacon come down on my back, thinkin’ it's me that's sellin'. They were at Third, no one on the street, either direction, Johnny forcing a turn toward some vacant lots next to concrete block buildings.

  Williger beginning to figure what's going down, saying, “Hey man, what do I got to do to square with you? If it's money, just say so. I can get you this stuff. You can sell it."

  Johnny snorted. Man's still not getting it. All the shit in the world, not going to get bacon off his back. “How ‘bout you confess to the police? Tell them you the one sellin’ that shit to the little white girls."

  Again Williger stopped, looked at Johnny. “I can't do that. They'd charge me with murder."

  "Yeah, well?"

  "No, no. You don't understand. They charge me, there's no way I can get you stuff. No way to square with you."

  "An’ no way you can take care of that aunt of yours."

  Smiling, Williger nodded. “Yeah, that's it. Look, I can make lots of this stuff. You'll be rich."

  They were next to a concrete block building that once housed the most notorious dive in the Corridor. It had been a place where for a dollar a Devil could buy a soul. Now, though the place was painted white and the neon had been torn from the facade, it still had the look and smell of the hell it had once been. Johnny said, “Rich?” Nudging Williger toward the empty lot next to the dive. “How rich we talkin'?"

  Williger said, “Rich. I can make this stuff all day."

  "You got any, this stuff on you now?"

  Even in the shadow of the building and the darkness of the night, he could see Williger's eyes brighten. “Yeah, yeah.” He reached into his pocket, but before he could get his hand out, Johnny's thirty-eight was on him.

  "Slow,” Johnny said, and Williger's hand came out holding a packet of white powder.

  It made Johnny smile. He'd figured he'd have to stuff a few of his baggies in the guy's pocket. Man made it easy, saving him trouble. “You got more?"

  "Three more."

  Only needed one for bacon to find.

  * * * *

  The problem Bracer had was he wanted to search Johnny Doogle's pad, but he had no way to get a warrant without giving up that this was extracurricular work. And he very much wanted to see what the pusher had in his apartment before collaring him. The girl, Missy Conlan, had told him she'd made Cass Corridor with the dead girl, Brandon, twice. Both times Brandon had made contact with Johnny Doogle, though Missy insisted she'd just been there for the ride and never touched any of the stuff Brandon bought. The last time they'd made the trek was six weeks ago and Missy had not seen Brandon in the two weeks before her death. Lucky. Otherwise, she might now be sleeping on a slab too.

  Good as the information was, using it was tricky, since he was a renegade on this case. He figured once he pegged Doogle, he could get the investigating officer to open Missy up again, but it was a good chance he'd contaminated her as a witness.

  He called Cooley, asked him if he wanted to take a ride before their shift started. Cooley didn't but went along anyway.

  "You know you're queering the case,” was the first thing Cooley said.

  Bracer knew he was, but he kept seeing LuAnne, sitting in that McDonald's eating fries with the white kids, talking suburban, getting an education at the school down the street, escaping the stigmata ghetto-Detroit left on the tongue, the brain, the attitude. And what would it take? Bring just one of the animals to heal? No, that was wrong. Animals were incapable of improving themselves. These city hoods threw away their future. They were worse than animals. They were slime, slush, and shit that poisoned and contaminated everything around them.

  "She's already six,” Bracer said. “Don't move now, it'll be too late."

  "You could always quit, take a job at Wal-Mart and move up there. Make more sense than this stuff you're trying to pull."

  Not the first time Cooley had brought it up. Man didn't understand. “I'm a cop, not some glad-handing greeter. Besides, takes money to live in that neighborhood, not some nickel and dime job.” His face got hard. “Look, don't rag me on this. You want out, say so, I'll do it myself."

  "You're being stupid, but we're partners.” As if that covered it all. And it did.

  They had two hours before the start of their shift. Bracer aimed his personal car toward the Corridor. “Going to see if he's home."

  "If he is?"

  "Routine follow-up on one of the cold ones.” Since Johnny Doogle had some priors, he was fair game when it came to talking to the usual suspects.

  "And if he's not home?"

  "We'll see."

  Turned out, Johnny was not. After three sets of knocks and the appropriate wait, Bracer tried the door. Locked, as expected. The four-story apartment building in which Johnny lived was old, built during the twenties when they still believed in real wood and plaster lath walls. They might be able to bust the door, but half the neighbors would be watching them before they finished. Nice thing about old apartments, though, was they usually had fire escapes. “Stay here,” Bracer said and headed back down. Within five, hands in plastic gloves, he'd snared the steel rung of the escape and was up the creaky metal steps to the third floor and Johnny's pad. The window was painted shut, but an elbow through the glass and a little shard-clearing had him inside. Piece out, hanging at his side, he walked the rooms confirming their emptiness. Last thing he did was spring the bolt to let Cooley in.

  "What we looking for?"

  "His stash. Need to see if he's into Fentanyl."

  "Few minutes ago you were pretty sure."

  "Still sure, just need the proof. I'll start here, you take the kitchen. No need to be neat."

  Cooley was the one found the stash, thirty odd bags of coke,
MJ, ‘ludes, and bennies. None of them had the look and feel of the killer drug. “What now?” Cooley asked.

  "Finish tossing the place."

  It took another half hour but netted no new dope. Pocketing a packet of coke, Bracer said, “Stash the rest where you found it."

  Cooley raised an eyebrow. Bracer said, “It's in here. Once we collar that shit, this'll get us the warrant, give the pros a crack at finding it."

  Bracer's plan was to run Johnny Doogle to ground as soon as the shift started, but life got in the way. A pimp, his woman working Woodward, started hammering his true love on the corner of Alexandrine. By the time they got there, half the crowd was laying money on the pimp, the other half on the hooker. Given the pimp's broken nose and bleeding eye, Bracer called the contest for the hooker.

  By midnight they were finally cruising the Corridor, looking for their boy. Up Second, down Third, making all the cross streets, Bracer rode shotgun, eyeing the alcoves and empty lots. The ink night made seeing difficult, but the spot telegraphed the prowl. Twice he flashed it on: one time catching a couple humping and the other time a lone traveler cutting across a lot. Had it not been for the black jacket against the peeling whitewashed cement block, Bracer would have missed them. Squinting, he said, “What's that?"

  Cooley eased the gas. “Two of ‘em."

  Bracer lit the spot. Two figures. One against the wall seemed to lunge forward. Muzzle flash. Report. Then he crumpled. The other one started to run.

  "Hit it.” Bracer said as he held the beam on the fleeing black jacket. The squad lunged forward taking the curb, catching the jacket in its lights, running him to ground before he could make the fence at the end of the lot.

  He turned. Bracer saw the white patch on his cheek, saw the gun coming up, felt Cooley hitting the brake, spinning the wheel, doing a ninety-degree to give him a clear line to the shooter.

  * * * *

  The Free Press ran a front page photo of Johnny Doogle and Evan Williger under the headline, DRUG DEALER KILLS BIRMINGHAM MAN. The story below credited Bracer and Cooley for taking down the perp. There was a pint of ink about the drug dealer carrying three bags of Magic, same stuff the poor little Brandon girl had O.D.'d on. No mention, though, that Bracer had fished the bags from Williger's pocket and slipped them into the Snoop Dogg coat. Speculation was that the victim, Williger, who worked at the Medical Center and lived in tony Birmingham, had been abducted from the parking lot of the Snug by known bad guy, Johnny Doogle. No speculation as to the purpose of the snatch. Quote on page 8A, Bracer saying, “Animals on the street, killing innocents, selling dope to kids, it's the duty of the police to hunt them down.” Could have said apple pie, fourth of July, Chevy on the levy; to the suburban reader it would have sounded the same.

  Next day in a follow-up piece, the Birmingham Chief was quoted as saying he admired the thoroughness and dedication of cops everywhere, and if officers like Bracer and Cooley ever wanted a job, all they had to do was ask. It took a week for Bracer to ask. Cooley never did.

  Five hundred attended the dope peddler, Evan Williger's funeral. None showed when they dumped Johnny Doogle in the ground.

  Copyright © 2009 Frank T. Wydra

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: DEATH INSIDE THE BOX by John H. Dirckx

  * * * *

  Ron Chironna

  * * * *

  "Shave in haste,” said Mary Deventer, “and hemorrhage at leisure."

  Calvin Deventer sat down at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee in one hand and the morning paper in the other. “That's a new one, isn't it? I don't believe I've ever heard it before."

  "Sorry, honey. You wouldn't hear it so often if you didn't cut yourself so often."

  "It's just that it sounds so starkly ... clinical."

  "Jargon of the trade. Like when you called Ashleigh a tortfeasor the other night for leaving her skates in the breezeway."

  Deventer unfolded his paper. “Speaking of whom,” he said, “why all the whispering about fishhooks and waterproof matches before she left for school this morning?"

  "She wanted to know which survival kit I thought she ought to take with her today. And she didn't leave for school. She's still up in her room getting dressed. School's closed for teachers’ meetings. This is Mother-Daughter Day, remember?"

  "Vaguely.” He closed his eyes and swallowed half a cup of coffee. “So that means she'll be going to the office with you today?"

  "And the hospital, and a couple of nursing homes."

  "But not the morgue, I hope?"

  "That depends on who did in whom last night."

  "But Mary, you wouldn't—?"

  "Honey, we can't protect her from this ugly old world forever. She has to learn to live in it and defend herself from it sometime. And I don't know another fourteen year old who's better prepared to start. After all, she isn't going to see anything at the morgue that's much worse than the stuff she watches on her favorite TV programs."

  "Well, that's a feeble line of defense if I ever heard one."

  "Look at it this way. Maybe being exposed to the real thing will change her mind about what she wants to do with her life."

  "When did anything ever change that child's mind?” He laid aside his paper and poured more coffee for both of them.

  Mary met his grim smile with one of her own brand, flooding the breakfast nook with sunshine in spite of the gray November dawn. “I wonder,” she mused, “if you're ever going to come to terms with the awesome responsibility of raising a child prodigy."

  "A child prodigy I could handle,” he said. “After all, I was one myself."

  "Uh-huh."

  "But a girl of fourteen whose list of Christmas wishes includes permission to get her ears, nose, eyebrows, and tongue pierced, a pocket knife with fourteen blades and nineteen functions, and a copy of the Iliad in Greek—and whose highest aspiration in life is to be a crime scene investigator ...? Well, maybe that last part was inevitable for a kid whose mother is the county coroner. Just so you keep her away from that creep Tredwyn."

  "Cal, that was all cleared up to everyone's satisfaction more than a year ago."

  "Maybe not everyone's."

  * * * *

  For Mary and Ashleigh Deventer, Mother-Daughter Day started at the office where Mary conducted her busy family practice. The cold and flu season was well underway, and today there was a run on babies with earaches. Ashleigh had already had plenty of experience restraining tiny thrashing limbs while her mother examined ears or administered immunizations.

  Around nine thirty the doctor's proficient and unflappable office nurse Bonnie stepped into the room where they were doing a well-baby check. “Lieutenant Doyle just called, Doctor. There's been a fatal accident at the Ruckfell Road Substation and they'd like you to come over right away."

  "An electrocution?"

  "He didn't say."

  Mary quickly saw two more patients while Bonnie started phoning to reschedule the rest of the morning's appointments. Then she bundled Ashleigh into the car and headed for the scene of the accident. Ashleigh Deventer, a young lady who could be by turns supremely feminine, bookishly studious, and ruggedly athletic, found herself at this moment afire with jubilant anticipation even though they were on their way to investigate an accident rather than a murder.

  Three power company trucks, a police car, and an evidence van were parked in a straggling row outside the high chain-link fence that enclosed the power distribution substation on Ruckfell Road. Inside the fence an imposing structure of wooden poles and crisscrossing steel beams supported enormous transformers and a network of overhead cables. Large signs in black on yellow warned, CAUTION—HIGH VOLTAGE—KEEP OUT. A work crew of about a dozen men idled in a rear corner of the gravel-paved enclosure. A growing crowd of onlookers from the neighborhood prowled around outside the fence.

  Police Lieutenant Doyle met them at the gate. He threw Ashleigh a friendly wink and introduced her mother to Lloyd Behrens, safety direct
or for the power and light company.

  Ashleigh's initial appraisal of Behrens was distinctly unfavorable: a narrow tie, long out of style; a sport coat with brass buttons, ditto; and a thin pencil-line of mustache like the male lead in one of those old black-and-white movies her dad liked to watch on late night TV.

  "How do you do, Doctor?” Behrens looked doubtfully at Ashleigh. “Babysitting this morning?"

  Ashleigh's antipathy for the safety director was instantly multiplied a thousandfold.

  "She's working with me today."

  "School holiday?"

  "Something like that."

  "Okay, but this is no place for a kid.” His jittery, petulant manner made it evident that the death of an employee on the job had shaken him badly.

  "Better stay outside the fence, sweet,” Mary told Ashleigh. “What happened?” she asked Behrens.

  Roger Tredwyn, the police evidence technician, answered for him. “Over here.” He led her to a row of tall metal boxes, about the size of shower stalls, with cables sprouting from their tops. Face up on the gravel before the open door of one of the boxes lay a motionless figure clad in an orange coverall. A long tool like a tire iron was partly hidden under his left arm.

  Ashleigh, following the group outside the fence, was only a yard or so farther from the scene than her mother.

  "Don't even think of touching that box,” said Tredwyn. “Each pair of copper contacts inside there carries twenty-three thousand volts."

  "So what happened?” asked Mary Deventer again.

  "This gang was doing routine maintenance here at the substation this morning,” said Behrens. “They pick up litter, look for weather damage and signs of vandalism, test ground lines and relays, and so forth. This is their foreman, Greg Dembault. He was evidently working in this switch and junction box when the tool he was using touched something hot."

  "Any witnesses?"

  "No, ma'am. One of the guys found him after it was all over. They're all trained in CPR and they did what they could, but by the time the paramedics got here he was gone."

  "What's the possibility that something malfunctioned inside the box?"