Cale Dixon and the Moguk Murders

by David Dagley

  Cale looked up into Victoria's blue-gray eyes and absorbed her posture, arms firmly planted at the edge of the desk supporting her upper body, legs leaning straight out from under her skirt and crossed at the ankles. Cale knew she was attracted to him. That was part of the problem—he was attracted to her as well, his boss. And right now she was waiting for a reply. Cale finally spoke, “If you wish to come up with something like that and try it on the captain, yeah, I'll go along with it. But let's let the captain do his job in the end.”

  Victoria's lip gloss glistened as she smiled down at Cale. A lock of her red hair seductively drifted out from behind her ear and swung over her eyes as she got up to leave. “I'll see what I can do,” she said as she opened the door. “Oh, and by the way, happy belated birthday.” She closed the door behind her on her way to the captain's office.

  Cale reclined in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, grinning and staring at the door.

  Victoria walked into the captain's office gracefully, “Good day. You wanted to speak to me?” She sat down in one of the two chairs in front of the captain's desk.

  “I don't think today is a good day, and I have a feeling it's going to get worse before I'm done talking to you,” said the captain melodramatically.

  “Is that an apology for something I don't know about yet?” asked Victoria.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, am I connected to the problem or part of your solution?” she asked.

  The captain leaned on his elbows and sighed, “I don't know. I asked you to my office to talk to you about Dixon. How's he doing?”

  “Cale's great. Good to work with, self driven, thorough… Since he's been working with me, our workload has doubled, and we've been able to split up the projects pretty evenly. His strong points are my weaker work areas and vice versa. We make a good team, and I like working with him.”

  The captain looked into his open hands in front of his face and explained, “This is the situation; Dixon, you recall, was transferred to your department about one year ago due to suspension circumstances. That ends in about two weeks. He's helped the force a great deal in his present position working with you in the research department. Dixon was pulled from detective status and duty because he took a case personally and became obsessed, resulting in some far-out theories about a particular bank robber he chased through Southeast Asia on scraps of hearsay, rumors, and a pack of Camels. The joke around here was that he had been drinking from a bad batch of acid rain. His reports were, well, unrealistic. Not possible. We sent him to get his head examined, and the doctor said the problem was stress, related to the challenge of solving the crime in a timely manor, accompanied and compounded by sleep deprivation and dehydration. Dixon lost twenty pounds in a month over there. Otherwise the doctor said he was normal and fit for duty. But the doctor also recommended that we take him off the case and give him another task for awhile. Later the shrink sort of went public with Cale's case information, using him as part of a study for stress-related manifestations. The psychiatrist didn't use him by name, but, to those who knew about the case, Dixon was easily identifiable. I read that section of the doctor's book myself. Dixon was somewhat laughed into the research department. Now I'm supposed to offer him his job back with the risk of him doing something bizarre again. Or, I can offer him a raise at his present job with you.”

  Victoria's shoulders dropped in disappointment as she whined, “Captain, with his last raise you gave him, he's making almost what I make. Don't you think that's a little unfair?”

  “Ms. Short, put yourself in my shoes. I'm probably the next guy to be laughed out of a job if he screws up. I find myself in a situation where Dixon has become the focal point of a great deal of pressure, both political and practical. In less than two weeks he's going to make a decision. That decision is going to set off a chain reaction, which is going to change some people's lives in this building.” The captain bounced his finger on his desk. “Martin wants him to take a case. I don't want him to do anything, but I need him to take a case so others can be more effective. Then again, he may just take the pay raise and stay in the research department.”

  Victoria erupted, “Martin needs him, you need him, and I need him. What about what he needs?”

  The captain smiled sympathetically and agreed, “Yes, we need him, and you need him, but he put himself in this situation. Now it's up to the rest of us who need him to figure out how best he can serve the force.”

  “Captain, are you aware that your officers’ workload and ours are directly related? In ten days Cale may walk out of my office, leaving me stranded to train someone else while the workload piles up!” Victoria exclaimed.

  The captain added, “It gets worse, Victoria. The commissioner and some city officials informed me this morning that it's possible that Cale's job in your department will close when he leaves, meaning you would be back on your own until further funding, which wouldn't be until the following fiscal year.”

  “Oh, of course,” Victoria laughed in dismay and folded her arms. “That's great! Your detectives are inefficient, so pull someone from an integral part of the process and make me inefficient as well. That's just brilliant.”

  “I'm sorry. It's not my call,” apologized the captain as he got up and went to the dividing window to look at his staff and their maze of cubicle desks. He laughed halfheartedly and added, “I don't even have a desk for him if he decides to come out of that bat cave of yours.”

  Victoria stood and turned slowly in disbelief towards the captain, “That what?” She shook her head, waved off the slander, and continued, “I realize it's not your fault, but that doesn't mean I can't express my disappointment in you and your backbone. Look, I would like very much to keep him because I'm not going to find anybody as qualified. Martin could really use a hand with his caseload, but you are afraid to have confidence in him, right?”

  “Pretty much. Although I am on his side to the extent I can be on anyone's side.”

  Victoria brought her tone down to a calm, more confident, and persuasive level, “I do have confidence in him, and so does Martin. As a matter of fact, it's the only thing Martin and I will ever agree on. So, what if you give him one of Martin's research cases, like the case at the museum this morning? He knows as much as Martin does. Cale can keep his desk in my office, and he can split his time accordingly between the two departments. You add a research detective to your staff, and I keep a well-trained assistant for half the day, or the week, or however Cale's time gets broken down. I can also pay attention to his progress with little effort, which I know you will be interested in whether you want to say so or not. This would at least give me the time to round up a handful of interns. We can see how it pans out over the next couple of months.” Victoria moved slowly to the captain's side and put her hand on the doorknob.

  The captain glanced down at Victoria and asked, “Has Dixon swayed in either direction on this issue?”

  “No. I think he's also on the fence with the rest of us. See ya later,” she said curtly, letting the door swing swiftly closed behind her.

  The captain stuck his foot between the door and the jam. The door bounced open off his foot, and he asked, “What are you going to tell him?”

  Victoria stopped and turned around to face the captain, “I think this should be handled by his captain. I'll let him know that you're thinking of his best interests and how he can effectively and efficiently be placed in these times of woe,” she said bitterly. Victoria turned and walked down a row of cubicles and out the door.

  —

  4

  —

  Cale parked in a residential neighborhood behind the Old Mill Tavern. He looked at his watch as he moved down the sloping sidewalk and took a left onto a main street. He remembered climbing the redwood trees on the island separating the flow of traffic just ahead. He realized the trees hadn't changed much, but the roots had torn and buckled the curb since then. Mill Valley Market stood in the background.

&nb
sp; Cale stepped up Barnard's two stairs and pushed through the double doors into the lightly smoke-filled darkness. Neon brewery signs flickered irregularly in the recesses of the shadows. He walked the full length of the bar before the bartender looked up from his newspaper.

  The bartender was an elderly Irishman with an old salt's wavy white hair, sea-blue eyes, and a weathered face. He wore a yellow flared-collar shirt under a black suit vest, light blue, elastic–waistband, polyester slacks, and black loafers. He greeted Cale with a genuine smile, “Cale Dixon, how have you been, lad?”

  “Good.” Cale smiled back and relaxed a notch while looking around. “I thought there was a smoking ban in California?” Cale continued to smile.

  “Cale, you're not in California anymore. The bartender grimaced, “Jeez, you look like shit.”

  “Thanks. I hadn't heard that in a couple hours,” Cale said frankly.

  “It's either the Northern Irish showin’ up in ya, or don't ya go out in the sun no more?” the bartender said jokingly.

  “Actually, I haven't been out in the sun much lately, and my Northern Irish is showing up to prove it,” admitted Cale.

  “Pint of our finest, is it?” The bartender moved about to fetch a pint glass and grumbled loudly, “Ya look like a bloody vamp.”

  Cale laughed and replied, “Thanks again, and yes, a pint and a roll of quarters. How've you been, Barnard?” Cale slid onto the last stool and dropped a twenty on the bar.

  Barnard stopped the flow of Guinness about two thirds up the glass, brought Cale a roll of quarters, and said, “I can't complain; no one to tell it to. I only work two days a week now. I've got some solid clean help for a change, and I'm enjoying the calm. How's the research world?” Barnard picked up the twenty and walked off towards the cash register.

  “Oh, there's always something,” remarked Cale.

  “At least you've got taste in quiet places to get your mind off your job.”

  Cale thought about it for a minute while looking around, “You know what, Barnard; our offices are similar, minus the smoke. They're both dark.”

  “Yeah, besides the smoke, the one major difference between your office and my office is that you look for crooks, and ‘ere, I'm surrounded by ‘em. Tell someone to come by once in awhile at different times—see what's going on. Will ya tell somebody for me?” Barnard topped Cale's beer off and walked it to him, placing the pint down with a ten dollar bill coaster next to the quarter roll, “This one's on me, Cale. Who are you playin’ tonight?”

  “Martin.”

  “Good. I haven't seen him in forever either. That means tonight is that once in a blue moon kind of night. You better reserve your table for the night right now. It's going to get busy for some reason. The pool tables do get a crowd on ‘em around ten or so. I won't take your money unless…”

  “Unless?”

  “Unless you win money,” Barnard wrapped his knuckles twice on the bar. He turned towards the light created by the double doors swinging open. Three silhouettes teetered in. A man cut through the layer of smoke as he moved towards the middle of the bar, followed by two women maneuvering to sit on either side him.

  Cale picked up his beer, walked towards the pool tables, and declared, “Were gonna play on table two.”

  “Done. Good choice. It's got a new skin and bumpers.”

  “Thanks, Barnard.” Cale set his beer down on a table, peeled off his jacket, and draped it on the back of a chair. He walked over to the cue rack, chose a few pool sticks, and brought them to the pool table for a straightness roll. He chose two and racked the balls for a practice round.

  While Cale knocked the balls around the table, all the bar stools filled up, and more people entered the bar. The jukebox kicked up with everything from the crooners and Patsy Cline to Tommy Bolin and Les Dudek. The night was beginning to take rowdy shape when Martin walked in the door a half an hour late.

  “Hey, Cale, ready for another lesson?” Martin hung his jacket on another chair near Cale's.

  “We'll see whose the teacher and who's the student,” cautioned Cale with a smile.

  “Shall I order a pitcher before we get started?” offered Martin.

  “Why not?”

  Martin turned to the bar, “How you doin’, Barnard?”

  “Hey, you two better behave. I've got friends at the police station, ya know. How are ya, Marty? What can I get ya?”

  “I'm good. Could we get a pitcher and one more glass?”

  Barnard waved an acknowledgement.

  Martin looked at Cale, “Have you eaten? Want to order a pizza?”

  “Pepperoni, mushroom, and double cheese,” announced Cale. “Why don't you finish up these balls and rack ‘em? There's an ashtray of quarters by the slot.”

  Martin grabbed one of the sticks Cale had brought over and began to glide around the table shooting the remaining balls into the pockets.

  As Martin knelt down to retrieve a new rack of pool balls out of the trough and set them on the table, Barnard approached with a pitcher and a glass.

  Barnard set the beer on Cale and Martin's table, “Here ya go, boys, drink up.” He tossed a short stack of cocktail napkins in the middle of the table. “If you get too drunk, I reserve the right to pull your keys with no lip, and you can walk, get a cab, or I'll take ya home to my house when I close. You two can get a cab in the morning to get you back on the other side of the bridge. Deal?”

  “Deal. Thanks, Barnard,” said Cale.

  “It's good to see you both. Is there anything else I can get you boys?”

  Martin spoke up, “Yeah. Could you order a large pepperoni, mushroom with double cheese pizza from La Guinestra for us? There's two pieces in it for you.”

  Barnard groaned, “Augh. I better order two pies, and you boys pay for one.” He headed off towards the bar and to the phone.

  “Thanks,” Cale and Martin chorused.

  Barnard used speed dial and said into the phone, “Hi. This is Barnard. I would like to place a to-go order, two for one, please? I'd like two pepperoni, mushroom with double cheese? Thanks. See ya in a bit.”

  Cale smiled and nodded at Barnard's cleverness, then turned to Martin, and asked rhetorically, “Remember the case file you gave me this morning?”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot to come get it from you. Sorry about that,” said Martin.

  “Well,” Cale said as he lined up the cue ball to break, “I think I found something for you. It runs like a Greek tragedy.” Cale cracked the triangle of balls, and they scattered in every direction. He watched the eight ball drift towards the left-side pocket and stop short. The red three ball dropped in a corner pocket at the far end.

  Martin laughed, “Dix, a Greek tragedy?”

  Cale began, “Check it out; Mr. and Mrs. Cooper had a daughter, Ms. Alison Cooper. That's who you're looking for, right? Ms. Alison Cooper?”

  Martin nodded.

  Cale tapped his stick on the top of the side pocket and aimed at the purple four ball. The cue ball struck the four ball confidently and spun backwards into the middle of the table. The four ball dropped into the side pocket. Cale walked around the table and continued with his story, “I phoned the Coopers earlier today. Did you know that Alison Cooper has a younger fostered sister?” Cale leaned over the table into the light to exaggerate his point, “She's fifteen and one-half years younger. Her name is Bridget Cooper. One year after birth, Bridget was put up for adoption because of an unstable family situation. Mr. and Mrs. Cooper said that Bridget was conceived by accident, and at the time they were unable to adequately provide for the child. Back then Mr. Cooper hadn't worked for seven years due to early arthritis, and Mrs. Cooper was addicted to a variety of pain pills. Anyway, I found hospital records for Alison Cooper, but, so far, I'm coming up blank on a birth certificate for Bridget Cooper. I personally think that Bridget Cooper is the daughter of the girl you're looking for, Alison Cooper, and not the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Cooper. It would make them grandparents.”

  Mart
in laughed and exclaimed, “Bullshit. That's ridiculous.”

  “Call me old-fashioned, but I consider a fifteen-and-a-half- year difference between siblings a pretty big mistake, Martin. Hear me out because you have less going than I do right now. Six ball, corner.” Cale tapped the six ball softly, and both the six and the cue ball rolled forward. The six fell in the corner, and the cue rolled slightly to one side and stopped in line with the two ball against the back rail. Cale grabbed the small cube of blue chalk and applied it to the tip of his stick, “Let's say Alison gave birth to Bridget in a barn, or at a bus stop, or wherever, and took the baby home to Ma and Pa Cooper, who agreed to help take care of the child with the understanding that Alison would become financially and emotionally involved and, in the end, responsible for raising the child. This pressure led Alison straight back to the dark side of Vegas at the edge of seventeen, ditching the parents and the responsibilities for her baby altogether.”

  “So.”

  “So, the grandparents put Bridget up for adoption because they did have an inadequate living arrangement. Bridget, at a young age, becomes confused and frustrated with the adopted parent thing and gets put into a foster care program. She strays. The inconsistent surroundings help her to grow into an angry young woman. She begins to fight back. I found out that she had been beaten up pretty badly as a foster child. No one was charged, and she never said anything. It's in her high school file, which she didn't collect because she didn't graduate, and it was probably the furthest thing from her mind. Somewhere in the mix of adolescence, her adopted parents introduce her to her real grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Cooper. The Coopers tell her the facts of life. Eventually, she runs away again, knowing that her real mother is out there somewhere and in trouble. She gets picked up by the cops and sent to another foster family. Repeatedly she runs from every family she lives with and every relationship she ever experiences. She emotionally barricades herself against getting too involved. Eventually, at seventeen, she's sent to a correctional facility with therapy. Nothing works. She remains combative. She's now twenty-three years old. Bridget's had three visitors in four years at the last incarceration facility. Her adopted parents have never been to see her. The grandparents are the first to arrive, that's two. They get permission from Bridget to set up a meeting between mamma Alison, number three, and daughter Bridget. Mother and daughter meet and have a heart-to-heart through the wire and glass.” Cale shrugged his shoulders, “My guess is that they are still in contact; cards at Christmas, birthdays, the odd cry for help, ‘send lawyers, guns, and money’-type letters. If you want to find Alison, I'd say follow Bridget and the lines of communication, especially around their birthdays and holidays. Bridget is out on probation.” Cale bent over and hit the two ball into the corner. The cue ball slowly followed.