Sweet Dreams Boxed Set

by Brenda Novak

  Lazy good-for-nothings, like his father had always claimed.

  The whole situation disgusted him.

  He felt rage at the injustice of the system rise again in his gorge and remembered ...

  The quiet, deserted park. The man leaning against the tree without a care in the world. His approach and the raw exchange of words.

  Then the accident. It was an accident, he told himself. No planning. No premeditation. No intent. The phrases of TV crime shows lolled lazily inside his brain like drifting clouds.

  An accident, he argued to himself. Not murder!

  Still, the death of the homeless man had shaken him up. Not that the world was experiencing any great loss with him gone. But a kind of shame raced along his nerves in tandem with the same fire that burned there, the same unacknowledged thrill. He compartmentalized the emotions, but they lingered, two giants battling for dominance.

  He was ashamed, yes! He’d taken a man’s life, but still ... the secret tinge of excitement remained. Even now, he felt himself remembering, dwelling on the feeling of emotional power. It was a seductive aphrodisiac.

  After the clean up at Ryder Park, he had walked hurriedly back to his car, glancing around to be sure he wasn’t seen. He’d stowed the backpack and his tools in the car’s trunk on an old blanket.

  Ditch the backpack, but where? None of this could lead back to him.

  Before he drove to his grubby apartment in Old Rosedale – the only thing he could afford since his wife divorced him – he’d decided what to do.

  In the kitchen at home he made a good strong cup of coffee, added a bit of brandy, and sipped it slowly at the counter. It was almost morning, and by then he’d stopped shaking and only a slight tremor remained in his hand.

  Glancing at the clock, he thought about work, considered calling in sick. He quickly discarded the idea. Business as usual was the best way to proceed, but he didn’t like leaving the tools and blood-stained blanket in the trunk of his car.

  He hadn’t tossed those items in the dumpster with the backpack. Too risky. The tools would be safe for the day in his car, he finally concluded. Then he’d determine what to do with them – dump them in the lake or a bleach soak to remove stains and DNA.

  Would the tools be ruined? He thought he might enjoy using them ... again ... for other purposes, of course.

  He took long, deep breaths, calming himself. No one would ever suspect him.

  After a long, hot shower, he lay down in his shorts on top of the bedding. Stared at the white, water-stained ceiling. He’d have to repair that soon. Maybe a leak in the apartment above him? He relaxed a long time, letting the terror of what he’d done play itself out in his mind like an old-time movie – jerky and disconnected, shades of gray and an occasional bleep of white or black.

  He worked through the whole event in his mind – from the time he’d left work the night before until, edgy and restless, he’d gone for a drive. He’d left his apartment and eased his late-model car through the dark, empty streets of Rosedale, past the million-dollar-plus homes in the ritzy part of town to the pawn shops and empty store fronts in Old Town. On almost every corner one or two street people slouched against a lamp post or sprawled in a darkened alley, a bottle of vodka clutched to their worthless bodies.

  The sight had made him sick. Was that why he’d snapped?

  The night was chilly for northern California in late fall. Low forties, high thirties the news said. Hard to keep warm, living on the street on a night like this. He tried to conjure up a thread of emotion, force sympathy or pity, or even civic duty for the wretched night creatures.

  But he couldn’t. Hell, most cities had passed an ordinance making it illegal to sleep outside anywhere in town. Why was Rosedale so lax?

  Where did they go, he wondered, if not to the alleys and abandoned buildings? If they got arrested for sleeping in the parks, they’d spend the night in jail. A stir of irritation sifted through him. Who was supposed to pay for that? How did arresting the bastards do anything except give them food and a bed for the night?

  And always his father’s words came back to him, dashing through his mind in a crazed 100-meter race. Lazy good-for-nothings. Sucking life out of hard-working folks.

  Chapter 14

  When Cruz reached the Jesus Saves office, a squad car was parked in front of the drive-in across Washington street. He pulled into the convenience store lot and walked over, flashing his badge to the officers standing beside a dumpster. “Find anything?”

  The male officer eyed the badge carefully and then relaxed. “Looks like some blood smears inside the bin. Crime scene’s on the way.”

  Cruz deliberated a moment and then jutted with his head. “What about the Jesus Saves woman?”

  “What? The 911 dispatcher said there was a call about evidence in the dumpster.”

  Damn, Angie. She probably thought she was helping, but she could get in a hell of a lot of trouble for concealing evidence. “Anonymous call?”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “Lots of homeless people around here. They hang out at the shelter across the street. Maybe one of them saw ... ” He let the sentence trail off, hoping they would be smart enough to fit the pieces together, but not too clever to nail Angie for obstruction.

  “Come on,” Cruz offered. “I know the woman in charge. We can ask her.”

  “You go,” the pretty female officer offered. “I’ll stay here.”

  When Angie saw the police officer with Cruz, she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut.

  No, she didn’t know nothing about no backpack. No, no one had used her office phone, far as she knew. Sure, he could search without a warrant, no trouble at all.

  “Honey, we ain’t got nothing to hide here.” She ended with an expansive sweep of her hands around the comfortable, but worn lounge, just as the female officer stepped in.

  Cruz gave Angie a look of approval. They waited patiently while the partner, Officer Summers, the redhead who’d been at the park crime scene earlier taking names and contact numbers, searched the Jesus Saves building.

  The middle-aged officer noticed Cruz watching Summers. “She’s new, but ... enthusiastic.”

  Summers hurried back with a grin on her freckled face and the bloody backpack dangling from her latex-covered fingers. She looked so green and eager her shield sparkled like a shiny new button on the waistband of her pants. Cruz watched her alacrity and tried to remember if he'd ever been so freshly unaware.

  When Angie saw Summers holding the backpack gingerly by one bloody strap, she gave a genuine-sounding little squeak.

  Well played, Angie.

  Cruz didn’t question why he’d allowed the subterfuge to continue. If one of the street people had murdered Dickey Hinchey, he wouldn’t let them get away with it.

  The thing was, at one time in their lives one of these guys, or even a woman, could’ve killed a person, but not now. He was sure of it. Life had leached the intellect or nerve or rage out of them.

  He’d swear on his life that not one of them had the ... bravado to carve up a person so brutally. He hoped he wasn’t staking his career on that belief.

  After the discovery was called in, the evidence bagged and tagged, and the homeless had boarded the bus, Cruz caught Angie alone in her office. “Which church tonight?”

  Every local church provided a hot meal and a place to sleep for the night during the winter.

  “Presbyterian,” she replied shortly, and held her hands up, palms out to ward off his next question. “I ain’t gonna talk about this, Officer Cruz. I just ain’t.”

  “I understand,” Cruz soothed, “but don’t you find it odd that the backpack turns up near Jesus Saves, the very place Dickey always hangs out?”

  Angie set her mouth in a thin, stubborn line. “Sergei didn’t do this.”

  “I’m not saying he did, but somebody stabbed Dickey multiple times and then added insult to injury by smashing him to bits with a metal pipe.” He wasn’t sure that wa
s the way it’d happened, but what the hell.

  Angie chewed on her lower lip, then her thumb. “You’re saying someone’s trying to frame one of us, huh? This is a set-up?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Cruz frowned. “Look, I know you’re scared – ”

  “No, you don’t,” Angie spat. “You don’t know what it’s like for these people. They don’t need any more hassle from cops like Officer Rawley, who’s always harassing them, and parole officers who give ‘em trouble.” Here she flashed a gimlet eye at him. “Life’s hard enough without more shit.”

  Cruz ignored the criticism. “Sergei found the backpack, right? His prints will be all over it and probably inside the dumpster. You know I can roust him and make it harder than it needs to be.” Cruz sighed. “Look, Angie, Dickey was one of mine. He wasn’t the brightest guy and he was wasted most of the time, but ... ”

  Cruz felt the same overwhelming emotion he’d felt a lot lately. Like he was swimming upstream all the time. That what he did was useless because neither the system nor the people in it – felons and cops alike – changed. “It’s just a matter of time before the police catch him,” he warned.

  “What if he’s got an alibi?” Angie suggested.

  “Hell,” he muttered, “let’s hope so.”

  Chapter 15

  By the time Frankie was able to closely examine Cole Hansen’s note again, she discovered he’d already been paroled.

  So fast!

  Administration must have processed him through the system right after he left the hospital wing. The question nagged her – why had he given her the note? Should she pass it on, or remain silent?

  Conflicted about what to do, she retrieved the message from her jacket. She flattened it out on the desk, examining the series of figures on the faded page.

  1BTO+O-HKDD11-15RP10P

  The letters, numbers, and symbols made no sense. Some sort of code, she guessed. Not mathematics or the two zeros – or were they the letter “O”? – would have another letter or digit after them instead of the plus sign, right? Was the next sign a minus, or a hyphen, or ... what? The harder she stared at the message, the less she understood.

  Even if she were inclined, how could she take such flimsy evidence to the warden? She sat at her desk in the SHU medical wing, the paper curled in her fingers. Harry and Mike were tending two newly-admitted flu patients. The regular inmates on the ward were relatively quiet, sleeping or resting from their recently-administered doses of pain meds.

  Rising from her desk, she pulled out a file cabinet drawer and rummaged through the patient files, looking for Hansen, Cole.

  His file wasn’t there.

  That didn’t make sense. Maybe she hadn’t returned it to the cabinet after she’d seen him. Or misfiled it. She riffled through several dozen folders before and after the alphabetical position where Cole’s record should be.

  Nothing.

  Walking down the corridor, she stopped at the hospital bed where Harry was adjusting an IV tube. She motioned him aside. Most of the patients in the SHU hospital were critically ill, but they had excellent hearing. And snitches were everywhere.

  “Harry,” she asked, touching his white jacket sleeve. “I can’t locate Cole Hansen’s medical file. Have you seen it?”

  The nurses weren’t supposed to enter her office without permission, but those regulations were loosely kept. The truth was that the medical dispensary lay behind her office, and although the nurses didn’t dispense narcotics, they did have access to the closet that held other medical supplies necessary for them to perform their duties.

  “No, doc,” Harry answered easily, his large homely face showing a gap-toothed smile.

  She shrugged casually. “Oh, well, it’ll show up sooner or later.”

  It wouldn’t do to make a fuss over the missing file. Better for anyone who might’ve taken it to think she believed she’d misplaced it. The patient was discharged and paroled, and the matter no longer concerned her.

  Nonetheless, Frankie didn’t like being duped. She was very certain she had not lost Cole Hansen’s medical records, and she thought she knew how to obtain a copy.

  She didn’t know why she felt so protective of the hapless inmate. Probably because he projected a vulnerability that she identified with. She didn’t believe for a minute that he was smart enough to engineer the murder in the prison exercise yard. And she didn’t think prison admin believed it either.

  More than that, Cole didn’t have the passion for murder. She’d never known a person so apathetic, as if he’d given up on life.

  Although the official medical file didn’t contain the entire inmate history, she convinced Officer Jake Turner in records to make her a copy. Jake had a crush on Frankie – unfortunately, one she didn’t reciprocate – and easily bought her story about needing to look at some family history to complete her medical report – stave off liability, you know.

  She flashed her brightest smile, feeling only a little guilty for the subterfuge.

  After finishing her shift, Frankie made her way through security to her little Toyota Corolla, threw her briefcase into the back, and left the prison grounds. She drove the winding road north to an isolated acreage where she rented a small house close to the ocean, just outside the Crescent City limits and very close to the Oregon state line.

  It was old and cheap, but she loved the view and felt, if not content, at least stable there.

  Kicking off her shoes, she fingered the now-dried note from Cole, but left it in the jacket pocket when she hung it up. She poured a cup of tea, flipped on the television for some background noise, opened the copied medical file of Cole Hansen, and began reading.

  After pulling double shifts, however, even the hot tea couldn’t keep her awake.

  Frankie danced that night. Deep in her dreams she danced with her father. She was homecoming queen her senior year. She and her father led a waltz during the Homecoming Dance – a daddy-daughter tradition.

  She felt his broad, steady arms around her, his smoothly shaved cheek lightly touch hers, and the slight hint of the aftershave she’d given him for his birthday the week before. He was so proud of her, and that excitement showed in his stormy gray eyes and mobile mouth, so like her own. People often claimed she was a mirror image of him.

  She was happy because he was so pleased with her.

  Roger Franklin Milano was thirty-nine and that night was the last time Frankie saw her father outside a prison cell.

  Chapter 16

  The kite from Anson Stark startled Frankie.

  It lay on the top of her incoming documents like a snake, a menacingly pale green color with black stripes of words running horizontally across the form. She poked it with a tentative finger. Silly, they were only words on paper, nothing more.

  Still, the uneasiness lingered and she shoved the stack of kites aside, ignoring them while she entered medical details into the patient database on her computer. The unit was secure, as protected as any device these days, at any rate. Even the nurses weren’t supposed to access the electronic medical files.

  But Frankie kept another set of files where she changed the password every two weeks and didn’t write it down anywhere. She strained to remember the current password – so many of them whirled through her head – and finally recalled: Fr5th1*1995.

  She always coded the passwords so that it was nearly impossible even for someone who knew her well to figure them out, but also was something she wouldn’t likely forget. The current one was for Freddy Mesmer, her fifth grade boyfriend, from whom she’d gotten her first kiss in 1995.

  She kept notes on written patient charts, of course, but they were brief comments about blood pressure, heart rate, meds prescribed – all the mundane data concerning the mostly terminally-ill inmates. These records were kept in her locked filing cabinet, and copies scanned into the prison network database. All administrators had access to these records because they might be necessary in a court of law, for example.


  The more detailed records which she kept for her private study were maintained in a separate database on a flash drive. Each inmate who’d visited her had an individual, well-documented computer file containing her observations – medical and otherwise. These statistics and observations were unbreachable.

  Frankie liked details. She reveled in facts. She delighted in the irrefutable logic of proof. She liked even more that her records were secret. No one but herself knew about the mountains of data she’d gathered over the last ten months.

  The day got busy really fast. Charlie Cox, the garrulous terminally-ill patient, had seized in the afternoon, and despite their efforts to revive him, he’d passed, not with a whimper, but a bang, she thought, recalling the famous poem. She sighed and called the time of death, pulling the sheet over his emaciated form.

  She’d liked Charlie Cox. She realized as she perused the final notes documenting his symptoms and the COD, along with his long medical history in Pelican Bay, that the man he’d been when he first entered prison wasn’t the man who’d just died in front of her.

  Prison changed them all. Some for the worse, but many, many more for the better. Having no sound religious faith herself, she wondered why, but accepted the simple faith these men often clung to in spite of devastating circumstances.

  Sitting at her desk, drained and exhausted from the battle to save Charlie’s life, she gnawed on the end of her pen, and swiveled her chair gently from side to side. She recalled what Charlie had been saying right before he seized.

  “It’s a tricky path you’re on, Doc,” he said between coughs that were more like carving out something large and malignant from the lungs. “Very tricky.”

  He closed his eyes and rested a moment, and she’d thought he was finished when he opened his eyes and reached for her hand, clutching it with surprising strength. “Be careful. This is a dangerous place for innocents like you.”