by BL Burke
“He’s such a dick,” James said.
The alarm blared. James jumped and spilled some of the burning coffee on his hand. “Of course,” James said.
“We’re in business,” Leroy said. They hit the fire pole and slid down, Leroy first. James ran to the ambulance with his chest pounding from the rush. His white-haired boss, a member of old guard Conroy was in the driver’s seat, James slid into the passenger door. The garage door opened and they burst into morning spring air.
“Where are we going, Webb?” Conroy asked him, as calm as if he were asking what happened with the game last night. James consulted the GP; the address, wirelessly sent in from dispatch gave the route.
“Right at the next block... half a mile and turn left,” James said and looked out the windshield. A rising sun reflected brightly through the windows.
Three red lights and four minutes later he saw the gray and black smoke blowing with the wind west over a house.
“Left,” James said.
“I see it.” Conroy took the turn at almost thirty miles an hour and slammed on his breaks as he narrowly missed some gawkers standing in the middle of the street. James felt his body fly forward then immediately snap back; the seat belt tore into his skin.
Conroy laid on the horn to get them out of the way; some moved while others glared as if the ambulance was impeding their view. A man kicked James door, his head almost even with James.
The ambulance stopped across the street from the burning, four-story complex. James knew the place, a lot of calls here. Half brick outside, all crap inside.
The street was lined with cars, even in front of the graffiti covered hydrant. Meter maids didn’t come here, nor the cops… finest my ass James thought. Glancing around, he spied a huddle of people around something, it had to be a person.
James was out the door, pushing through the crowd of people. He felt a smack in his arm and someone mutter something; he ignored it. James squatted next to an old lady, the gray in her black hair had just begun to sprout. Her breath was fast, her yelling faster. The few that were concerned seemed to be attempting to calm her down.
“My baby is in there,” she pushed out between fading breaths, “my little boy Isaac.”
James looked at the building. “Where?”
“315,” she said pointing a shaky finger toward the main entrance. James looked at the building; the smoke was coming out of the far-right side and was creeping toward the center. A window shattered on the fourth floor, they all looked up expecting to see someone, but no one showed. Pressure implosion.
Conroy appeared at his side, holding a canister of oxygen and their bag of tricks over his shoulder. James looked up at him.
“We got at least one still in,” James said. Conroy looked at the building and shook his head.
“They’re a minute out,” James looked back at the fire, the lady’s kid didn’t have that much more time to wait.
“You got this,” James told himself as he pushed through the crowd toward the front door. He reached it, putting the back of his hand against the door. It was cool. He tested the knob, very little heat. He tried to turn, locked. He scrolled the buttons more than 40 buzzers, stopping at 315 he read the name ‘Simmons.’ Isaac Simmons. Why does that name sound familiar? James held the buzzer but the door didn’t click. James stepped out from under the awning, looking up he saw the fire was approaching at a steady pace. He ran his hand down buzzers, maybe someone in the north wing was still in there.
“Stop that,” a voice called.
“Fire Department, open the door,”
“Ha ha,” the man grumpily said. “This Marty?”
“Building’s on fire, look!” James waited for what seemed like an hour, then the door buzzed, James yanked it open. As it was about to close he saw the stopper on the ground. He kicked it into place for Leroy and the crew.
Small puffs of smoke came from his right, but not many. He saw 115 at the rear of the building, ten feet closer to the fire than he’d like. 315, exactly two stories above it. He sprinted to the stairs, testing the exit door he found it cool. He yanked it open and started to climb, three steps at time. At the second level he glanced through the small pane of glass. The floor was smoky with muted orange flames bouncing. James had no gear and sweat poured down him in puddles, his heartbeat too fast. His body almost turned itself around and ran back down to safety.
He could prove himself here... to the Chief, to Leroy, to Austin... to himself. James pressed upwards, his lungs straining.
At the third floor he glanced through the window. Smoke took up the upper half of the hall and was dropping quickly. He opened the door and dropped to his knees. No flames to the left, but down the right he could see the floor starting to let the inferno through. The floor thirty feet away cracked open like shattered glass. Just to his right was 315, inside was Isaac Simmons, a victim... but why doesn’t he sound like one?
James crouched and ran to the door and tried the handle, locked. Inside he could hear the beat of loud percussion. It carried over the crackling fire in waves. No way could he shout over that.
He took a breath and kicked the door as hard as he could; it moved in slightly. James kicked again as the smoke covered his eyes. It was dropping too fast. James dropped to the floor and took a deep breath and looked at the flames. Only two units away.
He hopped back up and threw another foot at it. The lock buckled, door crashed against the wall. Falling forward he and a wave of smoke dropped in.
James crouched and dog-walked under the smoke. Rap came from the rear of the apartment.
“Isaac!” he shouted as he moved toward the sound. He would smell like fire for a week. James reached a shut door where the music was the loudest and tested it. Cool. He opened the door and saw a man on a bean bag chair, eyes closed, nodding his head and singing along with the rapper.
The man was in his late twenties. Of course he was, mom was old. Why didn’t he realize that before, would it have mattered? All of a sudden his eyes popped open and he looked directly at James.
“The hell are you?” he shouted over the music.
“Fire Department,” James shouted back, Isaac looked him in the eye. James knew that face, seen him before... from the papers? “Fire.”
“Where your suit and shit is, don’t you…?” Isaac saw what must’ve been more smoke than he was used too because his eyes blew up like they were bubbling from their sockets. The smoke was at the top of his head now and dropping. Isaac nodded and started to crawl towards James.
Isaac went out first and followed him to the front door. Then it hit him: the name, the face, local news. James started to feel his heart beat faster again and it wasn’t the fire now. “Isaac Simmons, arrested for killing of a neighbor’s young dog, nailing it to a tree. He even bragged by posting the video to Facebook.” The ‘journalist’ didn’t even call it murder; Isaac’s excuse: he was bored.
They made it through the apartment door. James started to feel light-headed, the oxygen was leaving, he glanced toward the fire, it was close, raging toward them. A random thought crossed his delirious mind.
His right arm cracked and burst out. It hit Isaac on his hip and launched him sideways toward the fire. The stairwell door burst open and James watched the horrified look on Isaac’s face as the ground collapsed beneath him. At the door he saw a pair of colleagues in full gear, Austin and Leroy, both excited, screaming. Leroy grabbed his arms and yanked them into the brick stairwell. James’ head was cloudy, his body wouldn’t respond. His eyes shut against the burning smoke.
Chapter 2
“Wake up, Spanx,” Perry said slapping Marshall on the shoulder. Marshall rubbed it briskly and opened his eyes and looked up at his partner.
“I was thinking,” Marshall said, “and they weren’t Spanx.” Someone pounded their keyboard too loudly to Marshall’s left. He didn’t look, probably Burke; old man didn’t know how to use a computer.
“Call them whatever you want, you’ll always be Spanx to me,” Pe
rry said. “Come on, some blues are in need of our excellence.”
“Mine maybe,” Marshall snorted taking in a whiff of Perry’s fruity cologne. “You always need to smell like a man whore?”
Perry smiled, cracking the knuckles on his hand. “Yes.” Marshall shook his head and flipped the pen dangling from his fingers an inch from its holder. It tumbled across the desk taking a nose dive to the floor.
“So close, cleaners can grab it.” Perry said. Marshall shrugged, grabbing his burgundy sport he trudged behind his partner.
“Where we headed?” Marshall said as they reached the elevator. His eyes watching the numbers light up as it rose.
“The shit show,” Perry said, “23rd and North Ave,” Marshall took a deep breath. He knew the area from patrol: minority neighborhood of gangs, drugs and apathy.
“It’s only eight, the half of them shouldn’t be awake yet.” Marshall said rubbing his hand on the butt of his gun. The elevator sang and the doors opened. Marshall took his normal corner, back left; Perry to the back right.
“You know, I never understand movies,” Perry said.
“No surprise,” Marshall said.
“They always show people standing in the middle of the elevator, shoulder to shoulder…”
“Can’t help ya.”
“Figures,” Perry said sarcastically.
The blue undercover was silent as they winded the side streets toward the scene. A random clucking from the dispatch lady interrupted their silence. Car accident, who cared. Perry kept his eyes forward doing the cop speed limit, twenty miles an hour faster than the posted one.
Marshall looked out the window as they got close, a block off North; they were next to an open field with foot high grass. Marshall lifted himself out of the car and looked over the roof. Across the street he saw an abandoned factory, beige brick and fenced off with weeds sprouting from the faded concrete lot. A patrol car was pulled up next to a van, fifteen feet in front of them. He didn’t see an officer.
“You know you got lipstick on your neck,” Perry said. Marshall quickly grabbed his sleeve and started to wipe. The smile came over his partner’s face.
“Jerk,” Marshall said as they started toward the car.
“Mystery girl again?” Perry asked.
“Maybe.
“Mystery boy?” A small Asian girl popped out from behind the van. Marshall jumped.
“Detectives,” the officer greeted, “It’s an abandoned vehicle.” Marshall didn’t recognize her; he tried to read her name tag, some sort of Asian name with more letters than the alphabet.
“This isn’t the neighborhood where people would call that in,” Marshall said.
“WE Energies did,” the officer said. “It’s blocking the pole.” She pointed toward the wooden pole behind the van.
“Could never tell what’s phone, what’s power on those,” Marshall said. They walked around the officer. Marshall kept his eyes open glancing at their surroundings. An old man sat in a rocker on the porch, a mom was taking a stroller, and probably a baby, for a walk. It looked peaceful, but Marshall knew you can’t be too careful in this area.
“You plan on hacking the cable?” Perry asked.
“Only yours, need to block your porn channels.” Marshall said.
“Charlene already did that,” Perry answered.
The little officer cleared her throat behind them. Marshall looked over his shoulder, with all the stupid PC these days, she could go report him, but it was too early and he didn’t care today.
“Yes?” Marshall prompted.
“There’s a pitbull in the back, cage has blood on it.”
“A dog?”
“No, the rapper,” she said smiling. “Of course a dog, won’t let anybody near it… and it looks like it was used for dog fighting. I know there’s a group of them around here.”
“Thank you, Dim” Perry said annoyed.
“What?” the officer said.
“Do we have a registration on the van?” Marshall asked.
“Yes, a company called ‘EJ Distributions.’”
“Distributing what?” The officer shrugged.
“Can’t be doing too well driving a twenty-year-old Astro Van,” Marshall said, following Perry to the rear of the van. “Officer, why don’t you go over there and block the road.” Marshall pointed to North Avenue.
The hatch door was partially open, Marshall put on a pair of latex gloves. “You know your anagram doesn’t work, ‘detective in their own mind.’”
“You’ve told me,” Perry said, moving closer to the hatch with his own gloves on. He pushed it open.
“And there’s the dog with blood, just as advertised.” Little bits of hair, white and some brown, and possibly skin, hung from the dried brown stains on the metal cage. “So it is dog fighting?” Marshall surmised.
“They keep them in these little cages, riles them up.” The dog was looking back and forth between them. Perry started toward the dog with his hand raised, it didn’t move.
Marshall took a few steps forward. The dog sniffed through the bars and laid its head on its paws. He could see the wounds; he looked like a knife fighter from a century ago.
“Should we shoot him?” Marshall asked.
“Why?” Perry returned, putting his gloved fingers through the small squared opening and rested them on her paw. Marshall’s heart was in his throat. Perry continued, “And no, she needs a vet.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Marshall said taking another step forward.
The dog lunged toward him, her body crashing the metal gate. The cage rattled and she fell back with a whimper. Perry’s hand shot back and Marshall retreated at the sudden explosion of anger from the dog.
“Jesus.”
“Quiet,” Perry said.
The little Asian officer came around the side of the van. “You guys alright,” she queried. The dog growled and snapped in her direction; she jumped backwards.
“Officer, please back up,” Perry said.
“Animal control is here,” she returned.
“Then tell them to wait,” Perry said. The officer eyed the dog suspiciously, like it was somehow going to break out and tear her to pieces. She turned and ran out of the dog’s sight.
“She likes you,” Marshall said taking a slow step forward. “Maybe remind her of someone.”
“Cause I’m black?”
“I don’t know, maybe? Who knows what goes on in an animal’s mind,” Marshall said as he pulled his lapel up blocking a cold breeze.
“Isn’t it supposed to be May?”
“Yeah,” Perry said.
“Global warming is such bullshit,”
“Get that dog catcher,” Perry said.
“Maybe it’s a chick?” Marshall said hopefully, walking over to the side of the van. The animal control official was standing next to the Asian officer, neither of them talking, just staring at the van. Marshall waved him over. He turned back and saw Perry staring at the dog, studying her… studying each other.
“It does seem to know me,” Perry said.
The animal control official was a short, round guy with a thick mustache under coke bottle glasses. He held a four-foot pole with a sort of lasso around the end of it.
“Detectives,” he said, joining the party.
Perry nodded acknowledgment. As the official approached, the dog growled again. Perry looked up at Marshall, each knowing what the other was thinking.
“Angry little guy isn’t he,” the official said, his body language showed he was annoyed.
“Not to Detective Jefferson,” Marshall said.
“Well then, this could be tricky. Could you open the door while I slide this around his neck?”
“Her neck,” Perry said correcting again. He slipped his fingers around the gate lock. He looked at the official and Perry opened it very slowly. The lasso like cord slipped down between the gate and the rest of the cage. She didn’t move, she just looked up at Perry like she was waiting for direction.
“Hey girl,” Perry said softly. He put the lasso around her neck, then softly petted her head. “Good girl.” Marshall was on his toes,waiting for her to lunge; she didn’t. Slowly, the official slid his front hand forward as the cord tightened around her neck becoming a leash. The dog bowed her head.
“Alright, let’s get her out,” the official said. Perry swung open the door and the pit slowly inched her way out.
She jumped to the ground and nearly collapsed. Perry was right there; he put his hand on her head. Marshall could see the dried blood that surrounded her left ear. Carefully she stood up.
“I’ll take her back to animal control,” the official said.
“Get her to a vet, I want to know what all happened to her and maybe see if she’s chipped.”
“Fine,” the man said with a huff, “Then she’s going to pound." In a few seconds, they were gone.
“Intense,” Marshall said. “Glad it didn’t like me.”
“Yeah.”
“Chip? You seem to know a lot about dogs, should I start calling you Caesar?”
“Sadie wants one,” Perry said. “I’m on the fence, she claims she’ll take care of it.”
“But you’ll be the one doing all the work,” Marshall said.
“Yep.” Perry started looking at a spot of dried blood at the bottom of the cage. He grabbed a strand of hair between his thumb and forefinger. He reached into his pocket and whipped out his army tactical knife. He scraped off some blood and put both samples in separate plastic bags.
“That’s probably just from the dog.”
Perry nodded and put them into his pocket. “Check the front of the van out, see if there’s anything that can tell us who was driving.”
“Like it matters,” Marshall said. He walked around to the passenger side; he tugged with one finger on the door handle. The latch released, the cold wind picked up and blew it open. He looked on the seat, he could see fast food containers and an empty bottle of gin. He unscrewed the cap and put it to his nose. Just like a Christmas tree. He put the bottle back down and started to sift through the bags.
“Looks like a trucker, tons of fast foot bags,” Marshall said.