A Good Bunch of Men

by Danny R. Smith

  “Try me.”

  Floyd closed the magazine and tossed it on the desk. “He’s at Cedars-Sinai, recovering from open heart surgery.”

  “What?!”

  “It gets better. He went in the day before our little shootout. Apparently, he’d gone to the V.A. for a psych eval and got shipped to the E.R. when he complained of chest pain.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Guess what day he had surgery?” he said, rifling through desk drawers now, no doubt checking to see if he could use anything that was just laying around.

  “The morning we were dodging bullets in front of his house?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Just figured, I guess, seems to be about our luck. It’s his good luck for sure.”

  “Good alibi, huh?”

  “Being under the knife? Yeah, I’d say it’s as good as it gets. So, have you figured out just who the hell it was shooting at us, if it wasn’t Fudd?”

  Floyd stood. “Whoever it was has to have something to do with the murders. No way that was a coincidence, not if our resident nut case didn’t do it. Which means our murders have something to do with Donna and her band of merry Mexicans, or whatever. Which means you need to get your ass in there and get that snarky little lesbian talking. She and I aren’t speaking.”

  The distinct rattle of jail keys drew my attention toward a solid metal door behind me, telling me the jailer was returning from the cells. I turned back to Floyd and said, “If this case isn’t solved when we split up next month, it’s yours.”

  The gray door opened to reveal the presence of a uniformed deputy sheriff, his shirt sleeves tailored for a tight fit around bulky arms that revealed portions of colorful tattoos. These were not the type of tattoos seen on bikers, convicts, military personnel, or even cops; these were more the type found on young men and women with spiked hair and multiple body piercings, tattoos of brilliant colors, cartoon-type or maybe comic book characters, swaths of colorful ink recklessly strewn about his body. Nothing artistic about any of it.

  “What’s up?” he said as the heavy door closed behind him with a thud. He tucked the ring of heavy, brass jail keys into his waistband and stood with his chest out, his hands planted on his hips as he strained to keep his muscles taut.

  “We’re from Homicide,” Floyd said, “I called earlier about Donna Edwards.”

  He looked up toward the ceiling. “Edwards . . . Edwards . . .”

  “Surveillance team brought her in,” I said, “Sergeant Dwight Campbell? Probably charged with Possession for Sales.”

  “Oh,” he said, dropping his hands but maintaining his posture as he stepped toward his desk. “Donna. I thought you said Donald. She’s in the back. You dudes need her? I can drag her out for you, if you can give me a minute.” He looked at his watch, pulled a cooler from beneath the desk, and retrieved a plastic container filled with a thick brown liquid. “I’m behind on my meals.”

  I looked at Floyd and rolled my eyes as the young deputy chugged dinner.

  “Whenever it’s convenient, slick,” Floyd said, puffed up a bit also. “It’s not like we have anything else to do.”

  “Yeah, no hassle at all, man,” he said, completely missing the sarcasm. He had another chug and said, “That girl, Donna, she’s a cool chick. I was rapping with her in the back, asked her about the dope bust. She said it wasn’t her dope. That’s messed up, man, a bum rap on the babe. Anyway, then we talked about some cool clubs, and it turns out we hit some of the same places, clubs over on the west side.”

  Floyd said, “You don’t say.”

  He paused to drain the remaining contents. Floyd and I exchanged glances as he placed the empty container back in the cooler and slid it under the desk. Then he stood and stuffed his thumbs into his waistband.

  “Yeah, dude, she’s real cool. In fact, it turns out—if she’s telling me the truth—she’s half owner of a strip club in Hollywood, on Santa Monica Boulevard. Club Cabo? I haven’t been there yet, but I told her I had a transfer pending to West Hollywood Station, so that’s super cool to know. She said that’s totally cool, and said they like having cops come by, as long as they’re not dicks. She said it would be totally cool if I came by, and if I’m off-duty, she’d hook me up with a couple free drinks and maybe even the V.I.P. room, sort of a professional courtesy.”

  I couldn’t believe it.

  “You happen to ask what she wants in return?” Floyd asked, his head cocked now to the side a bit, his jaw jutted out. Incredulous.

  “Hey, I’m not stupid, bro” he said, an awkward grin convincing me otherwise. “I told her she wouldn’t get anything special here, don’t even bother trying. She said she knew that, and it was totally cool.”

  I said, “Really, didn’t even ask for a cup of coffee, or a sandwich, or anything?”

  “She doesn’t drink coffee and wasn’t hungry. She did ask if I had anything to drink around here, you know, alcohol. Said she could really use a drink. I laughed and told her, come on, dude, you know I can’t do that. Then she said how about just a smoke, said she’d give about anything for a cigarette.”

  Floyd said, “You didn’t—”

  “Not like I bought some, man. We have a bunch of confiscated stuff right here in the drawer,” he said, and reached for a metal cabinet next to the booking cage. He opened the drawer to show us a collection of cigarette packages, lighters and matches. “They’re not allowed to keep this stuff when they go inside, so we have all this crap here that just gets thrown out, or taken by the trustees, so—”

  “You gave her some smokes.”

  “A partial pack, already opened, would’ve been thrown out anyway.” Then he looked from me to Floyd and back. He shrugged. “I figured, what could it hurt, man?”

  We followed the young deputy through the gray door heading into the jail with the big man’s footsteps and his joyful whistling leading the way. I said to his back, “Club Cabo is a transvestite bar.”

  “Dude, no way,” he said, stopping to turn and look at me.

  “Way.”

  I turned to Floyd, the thought just hitting me. “There was a murder at one of those drag bars about seven, eight years ago when we were fairly new to Homicide. May have been the same place, I don’t remember the name of the joint. There’s a couple of them up there, the Kitty Kat, China Blue, Club Cabo . . . You remember that?”

  Floyd shook his head.

  “Well, it was one of them freak joints, and I remember the victim was a transvestite. Jerry Newhouse handled it, remember him?”

  “Of course I do,” Floyd said, “big, fat guy with a red nose. He came out on a couple of murders when we worked patrol, and he was still here when we came to Homicide.”

  The three of us had stopped to face each other, finishing the conversation before walking in to see Donna.

  “I still remember him briefing the case after it happened,” I said. “Jerry was one of those guys who could get away with saying whatever he wanted, anytime, anywhere. The captain was standing right next to him when Jerry’s briefing his case and goes, ‘So it turns out this broad’s got a johnson bigger than my partner’s’ . . . his partner at the time was Maurice Tillman, a black guy.”

  Floyd and I chuckled. Buff-puff stood there frowning, which made me wonder if he didn’t get the reference, or if he was stuck on Club Cabo being a tranny bar.

  I continued: “Then he laughs himself into one of his coughing fits, his big face turning bright red as he holds his hands out, a foot apart, and says, ‘biggest tool I ever saw.’ The captain—I think it was Mullens at the time—just stood there shaking his head, and Newhouse keeps going . . . ‘You should’ve seen the nuts on that son-of-a-bitch!’ Honestly, it was unreal. The entire bureau was dying. Nobody else could get away with that kind of shit.”

  “Big balls in Cowtown, Dickie, that’s what I’m talking about.”

  My smile faded as I finished up, saying, “Jerry was a pretty bad drunk, from what I remember.”
<
br />   “Go hard or go home, Dickie, that’s my motto.”

  “Probably what killed him,” I said. “Anyway, kind of a strange coincidence. Maybe something we should look into, see if there’s any connection at all.”

  We continued down the hallway to the end, stopping behind the jailer at the last door on the right. The sound of keys rattling and then clanking against metal preceded a heavy clunk, the lock turning over, and then buff-puff stepped through the doorway in his tan and green uniform. He stopped, stood still for a moment, then turned with a frown on his face, his arrogance replaced by fear, or maybe confusion.

  I stepped up, unable to see around the deputy—his large frame blocking the doorway—knowing something was wrong.

  I said, “Where’s our girl?”

  “Dude, I think she’s dead.”

  29

  MONDAY MORNING TRAFFIC rarely flowed at all, so today’s average speed of about ten miles per hour seemed normal but had me agitated nonetheless. I steered the gray beast into the carpool lane and flipped on the blue and amber excuse me lights to the rear, just to keep the highway patrol off my ass.

  When I successfully reached the Alvarado Street exit free of CHP intervention, I phoned my partner to confirm our plans for the day: he would go to the off-site Homicide library and search for the murder file from seven or eight years ago, the case Jerry had handled, while I followed up with last night’s incident involving Donna Edwards, buff-puff the jailer, and a medical emergency. The first stop would be the crime lab where I would hope to glean a little information about a certain package of cigarettes. Then, if all went well, I would meet my partner at Cedars-Sinai Hospital around noon where we would have a go at the recovering heart patient, Randall Scott, aka Elmer Fudd.

  Floyd answered on the second ring. “What?”

  His tone irked me. I came to a stop light, rolled down my window and called out to a homeless man with a sign that read Hungry and Homeless Vet – Please Help.

  He stepped toward my car with due caution, his shifty eyes scanning the interior. He likely recognized me as a cop.

  “Yes sir?”

  “What’s your name, partner?” I asked with my hand covering the mouthpiece of my phone.

  “Wayne.”

  Floyd saying through the earpiece: “Dickie?”

  “Do me a favor, Wayne,” I said, extending my cell phone toward him, “I’ll donate five bucks if you tell this guy he’s an asshole.”

  “What guy?” he said, looking into the back seat again.

  “The guy on the phone,” I said, shoving the phone toward him while displaying a five-dollar bill. “Tell him he’s an asshole and you’ve got five bucks, buddy.”

  A grimy hand materialized from the soiled sleeve of a brown sport coat, Wayne reaching out to take the phone. He continued watching with scrutinizing eyes as he lifted it to his face.

  “That’s good,” I said, “don’t put it in your beard . . . there you go, now tell him.”

  “You’re an asshole!” the homeless man shouted into the phone.

  “His name’s Floyd.”

  Wayne narrowed his eyes at the phone, intense now. “Hey Floyd, you’re an asshole, you sumbitch!” Then he smiled, revealing a mouth of rotted and missing teeth.

  I reached out for the phone.

  Wayne pulled it back and started yelling at the device: “Asshole! Asshole!”

  Earning every cent.

  “That’s good,” I said, handing him the money. Wayne took the folded bill, laughing now as he returned my phone. He then retreated to his overturned milk crate and sign, seemingly pleased with the effort and reward.

  “Thanks, Wayne,” I said, while wiping the phone against my trousers. I raised the phone to my ear.

  “What the hell?” Floyd asked through a chuckle.

  “That’s my new buddy,” I said, turning south onto Alvarado, “and apparently, he thinks you’re an asshole.”

  Floyd laughed. “Who the hell was it?”

  “Wayne, my new buddy I told you about. He lives under the freeway at Alvarado. This guy’s got everything it takes to be a captain on the sheriff’s department, maybe a commander. He’d be a big improvement over Stover.”

  “Wayne, huh?”

  “Wayne. So, what are you so pissed about this morning anyway?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing, Dickie, why do you think I’m pissed?”

  “You sounded like a dick when you answered your phone.”

  “Just tired,” he said. “What’d I get, four hours sleep?”

  “You sounded pissed; my bad. Oh well, sorry about that,” I said and laughed. “It was kind of funny though.”

  “I’ll give you that,” he said. “Hey, I’m at the library now, let me find this file and I’ll call you later.”

  “Sounds good. I’m almost at the lab, I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  After nearly a two-hour wait, Karen Provost, Ph.D., returned to her office in the Narcotics section of the crime lab where I passed the time dictating a report. I turned the recorder off and lowered it along with a blue Homicide notebook to greet the doctor who wore no stethoscope.

  I rose from my seat. “Well?”

  She closed the door behind her and removed a lab coat, revealing a beige-colored silk blouse tucked into a tight, black skirt. The very tasteful ensemble was maybe at the edge of professional, maybe more in the vicinity of evening apparel, but very complimentary of her shapely figure. She hung her coat on a hook behind the door. “Finish your dictation?”

  “Almost. Did you find anything?”

  She handed me an envelope sealed by red transparent tape, CRIME LAB and EVIDENCE printed in black ink. “You were right, the cigarettes are laced.”

  “With?”

  “Ketamine Hydrochloride,” she said, pulling out a chair at an adjacent desk. She lowered herself into the chair and crossed one leg over the other, gently brushing her skirt before her hands settled over bare knees. “You’ve heard of the Date Rape drug, G.H.B.?”

  “Sure,” I said, taking my seat again. “I’ve heard of it, never tried it though.”

  My awkward smile faded as she continued without appreciating the joke.

  “Same concept,” she said, “it’s a relatively new addition to the growing list of predator drugs. Special K—that’s what they’re calling it on the street—is legal here in the U.S. for use as an anesthetic for humans and animals, though it’s mostly used on animals. It’s available in liquid, powder, or pill form. Your evidence cigarettes are laced with the powder form.

  “The drug is likely to cause hallucinations and amnesia,” she continued, “which makes it an effective drug for date rape. Do you have any idea how many she smoked?”

  The doctor, all business as she laid out the facts, a no-nonsense black woman behind designer eyewear. Educated, intelligent, maybe a bit uptight? Probably a very different woman with a cocktail in her hand.

  “One,” I said, picturing the jail cell in my mind, seeing Donna on the bunk and the one burned cigarette on the ground beneath her, “is what the evidence would suggest. But I can’t be certain.”

  “No matter,” she said, less than interested.

  “Why’s that, Doc?”

  “It’s not likely a person would smoke more than one laced cigarette, if even finishing the first. The effects are realized rather quickly, so it is very likely she would be lethargic after just a few inhalations, and essentially incapacitated.”

  “Now that you mention it, the one butt we found was on the floor directly beneath her bunk, almost under her, as if she dropped it.”

  “She likely passed out and it dropped. It’s fortunate it dropped on the floor, rather than her bunk. I assume the floors are concrete in those cells?”

  “Yes.”

  She cocked her head, appeared to be thinking, maybe picturing the inside of a jail cell. She nodded and pursed her lips, “mmmm.”

  “Where does someone
get their hands on this stuff, Doc, in the powder form?”

  “Drugs of this type are typically stolen from veterinary clinics, or at least that is my understanding from what I’ve read. Apparently, people who seek this type of drug know they are primarily used as animal tranquilizers, so it’s a logical step to target the vet clinics.”

  I nodded but remained silent, processing the information.

  She shook her head, “It’s shameful that these types of drugs are used by adolescents. Or, worse, in many cases, against them.”

  I studied the envelope, visualizing the opened package of cigarettes I had placed inside it the night before. My mind flashed back to Donna Edwards curled on her bunk, the bluish tint to her skin, the cool feel of her hands. Then the earlier image of buff-puff standing next to the drawer of contraband: cigarettes, lighters, and matches, the I grin on his face, his words gnashing my brain, “I figured, what could it hurt?”

  My eyes came back to Dr. Provost who seemed to be waiting for a response that hadn’t come. She sat patiently, giving me plenty of time, but after a moment, she said, “Will there be anything else, Detective?”

  I stood from my chair and paused briefly. “How often do people die from this stuff, Doc?”

  “A fatal dose is rather uncommon,” she said, standing now also. Her eyes were level with mine, putting her close to six feet tall, in her modest heels. “It would take a gram or more, a lot more than the amount used to lace a cigarette. That, Detective, is why the young lady came through relatively unharmed. Though I wouldn’t expect a great deal of cooperation from her for a day or two, she most likely won’t be coherent.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” I said, reaching out to shake her firm but gentle hand. “I appreciate you rushing this through for us this morning.”

  “My pleasure, Detective. Good luck on your case.”

  I phoned my partner while driving north on Alvarado Street from the crime lab. He answered in a snarky tone, like the one he had used earlier in the morning.

  I asked, “You want to say hello to my friend again? I’ll be passing Wayne’s World here in just a couple minutes.”