Jury of Peers

by Troy L Brodsky

  Another man stood there, fastening his trousers, bathed in the light from the camera. “What the fuck?” he cried. His face was tight with anger, but this dissipated into the light, replaced with fear in an instant. “Wasn’t me,” he said just before wheeling around and disappearing back into the darkness of the room.

  Beeman clawed his way back up to the front door, completely disheveled and covered in black sludge. The cameraman kept filming from the relative safety of the doorway, content to let the reporter fend for himself.

  Siclo reclined in his chair and put his feet up, bits of foam still clinging to his lips.

  “That’s it, we’re outta here,” Beeman said. “Fuck this… come on.”

  But the cameraman stayed focused.

  “Let’s go man,” the reporter said. He followed the cameraman’s aim. Below them, standing in the very doorway that had nearly swallowed him alive, Beeman could see a little girl.

  Nude from the waist down, she was as filthy as the pimp in the recliner.

  The one she called daddy.

  Chapter Fifty–Three

  Trip

  “This whole ‘sweating hostage duct taped to a chair’ gig must be like a vacation for Ray,” Tonic said he fiddled with the phone they’d found. Smokey’s wasn’t exactly on their way to the next stop of the day, but they stopped for something to go anyway. Now they sat in the parking lot hunched over what could only be Ray’s telephone.

  “Hope the poor guy never loses this thing, it’d be a bitch to replace all these numbers.”

  Finn watched, reading glasses perched on his nose. “What about sent and received?”

  “No big surprises there,” Tonic said. "'Bout forty from his wife. Before that it was a run of a dozen from someone else...” He traced his finger down the screen. "Here, right in the middle. Wanna bet that this one of Meek’s new cell phones?”

  “And what do you wanna bet that he doesn’t leave it on?”

  “It’d be worth a try though right. If it’s on, we can work on finding the mast he's on. It would give us…"

  Finn was shaking his head, "Fuckall. It would give us about a fifty-thousand doors to knock on in the city. The guy isn't giving us anything."

  "We're a few days behind man, he had time to plan things out, but we'll get the guy. It just takes time."

  "I'm thinking that we don't have much more of that," Finn exhaled and closed his eyes tightly. "Son of a bitch. Nobody can think of everything. What are we missing here Spence? We're getting seriously low on time, he's gonna slip away on us if we don't catch a break. I still want to win."

  "Something this complex… well, there's always a loose end." Tonic tossed the phone over, "You call it in and find out, I’ll go get our food.” He hopped out of the car and ran across the parking lot to Smokey's. Inside, it was warm and busy. The televisions were up and tuned to CNN, not the usual array of sports interests, and it took just long enough to slide up to the bar to discern the topic of most of the conversations.

  “Heyas Spencer,” one of the bar tenders said. "Ribs?”

  “Yeah, to go.”

  “Right, hey Smokey wanted to talk to you. Got a second? Hang tight,” he said and then disappeared into the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

  Above him a television was showing the current weather complete with meteorological mime. He watched without much thought, listening instead to the conversations of the patrons. There was the usual cop talk, but it was clear that those who had been near the televisions had primed themselves with interesting conjecture regarding The Trial.

  Smokey ambled over, leaned over his bar and slid Tonic a can of soda. "On the house, hey you boys going to need the back room tonight?”

  “I dunno,” Tonic said. “Things have taken a turn for the surreal. Prolly not tonight, Finny and I are beat, but tomorrow morning for sure.”

  “Yeah I figured,” Smokey said. “You boys always have the first crack at it, just let me know.”

  “Thanks Mearle.”

  “You betcha, oh hey… here we go…” he was looking up at the television. For a few seconds he searched the bar for the remote, and then just reached up and cranked the volume.

  …joined us, yet another shocking turn of events surrounding the recent killings of a mother and child in Washington, D.C. As you might recall, just one member of this family survived the brutal attacks and this morning, CNN learned that Mr. Seth Meek, a computer programmer and analyst in Washington, and son of former PIOB Chairman Whitaker Meek, had allegedly become involved in a plot to hunt down and abduct his attackers for reasons unknown…

  “Reasons unknown,” Smokey scoffed.

  The scene cut to the now familiar tape of Meek in his suit talking to the camera, and then to the glassy eyes of the hostages. Tonic watched as if he’d never seen it before, it was just fucking unreal. Captivating in its scope, yes, but also in a fundamental, primal sort of way – it was an age old inclination toward revenge, and exceedingly easy to fall into as it took only one question to stir the mind to action, what would you do?

  It was a question that Tonic had already asked himself a couple of hundred times.

  “You boys think you’ll run this kid down?” Smokey asked from behind a big hand. The guy knew a little bit about everything, but he was discrete.

  “Depends on his time line I guess." Tonic said. "It’s not really our case anymore since he had to go and kidnap somebody. I mean the paperwork alone on the parts that we handled is enough to keep us busy for a good month. The Feds don’t know what they’re in for.”

  "Bullshit. You two ain't given' up that easy."

  Tonic smiled. "We'll get 'em."

  Smokey chuckled. "Yeah, well when you run into this fella, tell ‘em that at least one old fart thinks he’s doin’ the right thing. I’ll get your ribs.”

  The right thing. This had also been the topic of much discussion in the car. It was endless, even for two guys who had talked through hundreds of cases and always managed to come up with a fairly solid conclusion. This one was messing up their record. Tonic took the two bags of ribs, his soda, and a watery ice–tea for Finn, then wandered out into the lot. Finn was off the phone, chin in hand, staring out toward the river.

  “Figure it out yet?” Tonic asked as he dumped himself back into his seat. He tossed over a sack of ribs and opened his own.

  “Which part?” Finn asked.

  “Hell I dunno.”

  “Well, the number belongs to Meek. Or at least in his name. Doesn’t pick up though, which isn’t surprising." Finn grimaced and drew a little house and tree in the fog he’d created in the window. “I was sitting here thinking, if we could've nailed down that cell signal, this would have been over in twenty minutes.” He looked over. "But it shouldn’t end until he’s done with it.”

  “Still illegal,” Tonic said.

  “But he’s also right in a way. And those fuckers could wiggle out of this with some good lawyerin'. As bad as this was, they could walk. They’re kids.”

  “Yeah, but they’re gang kids. It’s not like those fuckwads in Colorado, hosing their school, rich kids. You know it’s different, don’t tell me you don’t.”

  “It’s different,” Finn confirmed. “I know it. And the bangers from down in Widmore have got zero prospects for the next ten years if they make it that long. That black kid, Saul, he was getting’ jumped into somethin’ bigger. Movin’ up in the business. And yeah, it’s not like he could just move his family outta town. But fuck man, what they did…”

  “Did you vote?” Tonic asked suddenly.

  “Not yet,” Finn said just as quickly. “Tonight though. Tonight I will.”

  “Yep, me too man. Think it’ll matter though? There's no way the general public will not indict these two. Convict? Dunno… but everyone wants to see more right?"

  Finn erased his pastoral window scene, "Yep."

  “Yep. Okay… where to?”

  “Wanna know who else was calling Ray right before Meek did?”
Finn asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Almost more than his wife did… Irving Hack. There’s a line of a dozen some odd calls within forty minutes. Someone was wantin’ to talk. Bad. And the time received says he started at around 3:00am. I think that’s our next stop.”

  * * *

  The John Hancock Standard Building was not a sprawling layout with busy revolving doorways and manicured lawns. Instead, the JHS resided in what looked to be a tired old drive through bank which stood on a windblown corner like a monument to better times. With dark windows, a faux brick façade, and lawn of equal parts gravel and cigarette butts, the place looked more like a compound than a place of business. The parking spaces were, appropriately, numbered one through sixteen – two cars per each drive through.

  They parked in #1, which was marked as reserved, but didn’t say for whom it was reserved. This, they reasoned, was a good omen. The wind hooted and bayed through the old pneumatic tubes that once carried the business of the nation’s capitol, but which were now little more than an out of tune pipe organ.

  “You sure you don’t want to see if I can get us some work in out on the coast, man?” Tonic asked.

  “As meter maids?”

  “Would you care?” Tonic smiled.

  “You’ve got rib shit on your lips,” Finn grinned, gesturing to his own lips with a finger.

  The front door gave way to a dreary foyer that in turn provided visitors the opportunity to enjoy the musty fetor while letting their eyes adjust to life as a bat. At the end of the hall was a green desk lamp that acted as a beacon to the wayward. A tiny desk struggled to contain the enormous woman hunkered down behind it. She did not look up as they emerged from the cave.

  The two stood there for thirty seconds before Finn leaned over and swatted the silver service bell that sat near her phone. The clean, reverberating chime seemed wholly out of place, but it served to at least annoy the woman into action. "Yes?”

  “We’re here to see Irv Hack, we have an appointment.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Yes we do,” Finn said.

  “Do not.”

  Tonic watched, smiling.

  “Do so.”

  “You do not.” She threw her pen down and it bounced off into the darkness.

  “Do so,” Finn whispered.

  Annoyance had changed to exasperation. “You don’t have an appointment because Mr. Hack is not here today.”

  “I meant with his boss.” Finn shifted gears without a blink.

  She scowled, or perhaps it was just gravity’s gift to her for years of over–eating, and punched an intercom that hissed in reply. "Two guys here to see you.” More hissing. She nodded. More hissing.

  “Mr. Mason will see you now,” she said after a few more moments of static.

  “Great. Who’s that?”

  “Mr. Hack’s office manager, the one you have an appointment with,” she took a new pen out of a drawer brimming with them, and went back to doing whatever she did.

  Both detectives knew that ambiguity could often be translated into opportunity, so they didn’t press her any further on El Jefe’s location. In fact, secretaries were often Finn’s favorite targets on this score – fluster them and a few moments later you were wandering around inside of a building with an excuse to do so. I was just looking for…

  So they toured the foul smelling printing room, two storage areas with even more pens, and then opened a door at the bottom of a set of narrow stairs which was marked by a torn off notebook paper marked, NET. There was one pallid kid in the dungeon, his crimson tie wrapped around his head like a bandana. They’d startled him and his face was frozen in mid–thought, tongue out, eyes glazed, hands clutched up under his chin.

  “Hi,” he’d said, and food tumbled out of his mouth. “Who are you?”

  “We’re here for the body cavity search,” Tonic said.

  “It’s not my turn,” the kid said trying to contain the crumbs. The room contained two fold up tables, two computers, and enough knotted up cable and wiring to keep a troop of boy scouts busy for months. There were no windows, just fake wood paneling and water stained ceiling tiles. A steel door against the outside wall, the escape hatch if this little Mercury capsule caught fire, was actually blocked by one of the tables.

  A voice from the hallway said, “Can I help you gentlemen?” Evidently El Jefe and the rotund secretary had finally made the connection.

  “Sure,” Finn said. "We’re here for our appointment with Mr. Hack.”

  The man dropped a meaty hand on Finn’s shoulder and Finn stared at it until it was clear that the man had no intention of removing it.

  “Mr. Hack is temporarily out of the office, what can I do for you?”

  “You can get your hand off of my fucking shoulder for starters,” Finn said.

  The man was chewing gum, a particularly large hunk from the sound of it, but it wasn’t helping his breath. "Right.” He let his hand slide off. "We run a friendly ship here, sometimes I forget that not everyone appreciates it.” He glared past the detectives and into the Internet Dungeon. "Get back to work Roos.” The kid jumped again and instantly wheeled around in his chair.

  “Well, unless you’re Irving Hack…” Finn began.

  “Where could we find Mr. Hack?” Tonic cut in.

  “I’m Irving’s office manager,” the guy said by way of evasion. "But he’s not here at the moment, shall I take down your names so that he can give you a call?”

  Finn handed the guy a card that he pocketed without a glance.

  “We’ll see ourselves out,” Tonic said.

  “Well I’m going that way myself,” Mason said and the three of them climbed back up the stairs leaving the firetrap behind.

  They walked back past the pen thrower who smirked without looking up, and soon thereafter emerged back into the land of the living. The guy stood in the door chomping on his gum. He’d run out of friendly and replaced it with what could only be called contempt.

  “So we’ll get back to you with our report,” Tonic said.

  The chewing stopped for a moment. "What report is that?”

  “I’m sorry, we weren’t properly introduced,” Tonic stepped forward with his hand extended, “I’m Spencer Tonic, this is my partner James Finny. We work closely with the fire marshal.” Translated: We drink beer with firemen.

  “I… I, well.” His eyes narrowed. “I thought you were P.I.’s?” it came out as a question.

  Finn flipped out his phone. “I tell you what Mr…”

  “Mason, Dennis Mason… I’m the assistant office manager here at JHS.”

  “Hmmpfh,” Tonic said.

  “I’m filling in.”

  “Right,” Finn said. "Well then we’ll give you a chance to impress your boss despite the fact that you’ve been busting our balls.”

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “Why don’t you go downstairs and evacuate that tinderbox. Clear that emergency door, and get back to us,” Finn said. “Because we run a friendly ship here, we’ll give you twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll have Roos take care of it right…”

  “Why don’t you do it,” Tonic suggested. "You know, make sure it’s done right. I’ll tag along.”

  The guy disappeared with Tonic smiling in his wake. Mr. Big League Chew been willing to give rent–a–cops shit all day long, but he feared the Fire Marshal–and with good reason; that was one blacklist you didn’t want to be on.

  Finn leaned against the wall and fished out a cigarette. He was a pragmatic smoker, and this was a practical moment to be sure: Less than two minutes later the kid from downstairs stumbled out into the bright light. His tie was loose around his neck, a noose in waiting, and he shielded his eyes. He too was looking for a cigarette.

  Finn had one ready. "Don’t you blister when you get in the sun?”

  The kid took the cigarette and turned against the wall to light up. "Yeah," he said after the second puff. “I can’t see myself in
mirrors anymore either. Fuckin’ sucks.”

  “’Bout time for a career change?”

  “Nah, this ain’t bad. Money’s for shit, but it’s everyday man. Way better when Adolf isn’t down in the Führerbunker with me.”

  “Which one is Adolf, the gum chewer or Irv Hack?”

  “Pervy.”

  “Never met the guy.” Technically true.

  The kid drew hard enough on the cigarette to burn a good quarter inch off of it’s length. "No loss.” He peeked down into the dark hallway, then said, “You guys are cops right?

  “Yeap.”

  “What do you want with Perv?”

  “I thought maybe you’d tell me,” Finn said.

  “Well, I know some things.”

  Finn had the sudden and urgent need to see if the kid was allergic to bullets. It’d been a long, long week and it wasn’t even close to being over. He shoved his hand into his pocket and found a wadded up dollar bill. He tore it in half, handed him a piece, and said, “There’s more where that came from, and I’ll just assume that you’re happy that I’m letting you catch cancer on my dime.”

  Roos didn’t try to come off as indignant, he was too excited to rat out his boss. “Perv drove his car into a bridge last night. Unfortunately, there was no body.”

  “How’d you find that out?” Finn asked automatically.

  “That’s my job.”

  “Where?”

  “Up on the Beltway somewhere. Heard from a guy it was really fucked up. But he was gone. Wanna know why?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “He drinks a lot. Does some coke too. All that shit doesn’t mix very good in anyone, especially him. When he’s doin’ both it’s really tight downstairs.”

  “So you think he ran off to dry out before he had to face the music?”

  A shrug. The kid blew smoke, but the swirling wind kept it in a cloud around his head.

  “Why’s he got private dicks following him around?” Finn asked.

  “His ex–wife doesn’t get her alimony methinks,” Roos flicked the butt into the gravel.