Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  “Yes sir, that's him,” Belknapf replied, wanting to get it over with. He'd once made the mistake of arresting a semi-famous and very drunk TV anchorman for indecent exposure, and paraded him through the squad room. He was lucky the union provided a lawyer.

  He called to the other detectives in the room. “Come get your selfies with the famous dog, then I got work to do.” He pulled on latex gloves, and delved into the shopping bag, removed the Timberland, and played to the gathering crowd. “This here is the boot ol' Buge found in the Iron Works. I need to get it to the lab, see if that's the missing man's blood on it.

  “And I got a toothbrush with some of his DNA.” He held up the brush, sealed in a zip-top plastic evidence bag. “Assuming he brushed regular. As I understand it, DNA has a short shelf life.

  “Then there's the weapons. One Colt Python, .357 caliber.” He theatrically sniffed the barrel. “Unfired, but fully loaded.” He laid it on his desk. “It needs to be dusted for prints. I suspect a suspect will emerge, once that is accomplished.”

  Lastly he produced the Taser. “A Model X26. Fifty thousand volts, and it's been fired. We have what looks like blood on the barbs. All in all, my case has an overabundance of hard evidence.” He turned to the chief. “And I got a suspect in mind. I saw a fella at the site that tickled my memory. The name will emerge in due time.”

  Duane thought it was time he started earning his keep, and maybe got some credit. True, ol' Buge found the boot, but it was his arrest of the desperado, well before his partner caught any scent of drugs, money, and explosives, that started the whole shebang. “Detective Belknapf, I still think there's a possibility McClintock and his wife are pulling an insurance scam. And I'd like to follow up on that theory.”

  “Son, I got a more important job for you. In all the excitement I missed lunch. So I need you to run down the street to the Subway, and get me a meatball marinara and a diet Coke. Bring back the receipt; I'll see you get paid, somewhere down the line.” He picked up the three evidence bags containing the boot, Taser, and toothbrush. “I'll be down in the Forensics labs.”

  Melanie Pelt, a large woman, with ample cleavage she used to intimidate petitioners, held a pipette in a gloved hand, and swiftly transferred a milky white substance from an evidence bag to a test tube. The police labs were in the basement, formerly the parking garage for post office trucks, and the absence of windows was made up for by fluorescent strip lights that cast harsh, high-noon light on the stainless steel benches. Chemical smells competed with equally unpleasant natural ones.

  “Stay back, Belknapf,” she warned, her voice muffled by a mask. “This here is either semen, carrying any number of highly contagious STDs, or it's Lactobacillus bulgaricus. That's Greek yoghurt to you.” She capped the test tube with a rubber stopper, and placed it in the UV light box.

  “Why don't you just give it the old taste test, Mel? I bet you got ample experience to call upon.”

  “Don't be a wise ass, Horace. You know I'm lactose intolerant.” She pulled off her mask and gloves. “What brings you to the lab? I thought you didn't believe in technology. Aren't you the old school copper who likes a hundred watt bulb and rubber hose instead of scientific process?”

  Belknapf placed his hand on his heart. “You wound me, Mel. True, I prefer a quick confession to a lengthy wait for your lab results, but sometimes the courts require expert testimony. I have a case here that will make you a media star. And I need a rush job on a bloody boot and a Taser, and DNA on a toothbrush.”

  “The DNA will take a month—three weeks, if the chief green lights it.”

  “The CSI people can do it between commercials.”

  “Then give them your toothbrush.” She launched her litany for the uneducated populace. “First I have to screen the sample for serology. Titrate for the presence of semen, saliva, blood. Then comes extraction, separating the DNA from the aforementioned. Followed by quantitation, amplification, then detection and analysis. Because if I have to go to court, the defense will have their own experts.” She pointed to his bagged toothbrush. “Why do you need the DNA?”

  “The man who allegedly used this is missing. And both the boot and the barbs may contain his blood. I need to connect the dots.”

  “I can have your blood work done in an hour. If they match, then whoever was wearing the boot was shot by the Taser. Of course, he may have shot himself in the foot.” She signed in the evidence, handed Belknapf the receipt. “Best I can do.”

  Belknapf thought out loud. “A bloodhound found the boot. Because he linked its scent to the polo shirt McClintock was wearing at the Ronald Reagan Memorial Anthracite Processor. If he testifies it is an exact match, I don't need the DNA.”

  “A bloodhound? No court will accept a dog's testimony.”

  “You ain't met Bugle Boy.”

  He fared better in the Latents lab. Chief Technician Warren Fahrenheit lifted prints from both the Taser and the Python, and at the speed of electrons traveling to the FBI HQ IAFIS databank in DC, they learned Known Felon and Current Parolee Harold Mertz had held the Taser. The CEW cartridge markers recovered in the Iron Works strongly suggested he also fired it. “Of course, if the blood on the boot and the barbs match, it could mean he shot himself in the foot.”

  “Jesus Christ, Warren, you and Melanie sound like a couple of defense lawyers.”

  “Yeah, well, it will be yours truly who has to testify.” He tapped the computer screen with a gloved finger. “Convicted Felon George Glum's prints are on the Python.” Fahrenheit sniffed the barrel. “But he didn't fire it. Also, and it may or may not have any bearing on your case, but his fingerprints are not on the brass cartridge cases. Those belong to someone not among the seventy million individuals in the FBI's Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System.” He reloaded the .357 rounds in the Python. “That mystery man is the dog that didn't bark.”

  Belknapf snapped his fingers. “George Glum. That's the mook I saw. I need to pick up the son of a bitch, and sweat him a little. Not that it will do any good. He's been around the block so many times there's a groove worn in the sidewalk.”

  —o—

  Mags and Siri found the Wilkes-Barre Police Department on Washington Street, three blocks south of the job site, which made her wonder why it took so long for the fat detective to arrive. Maybe there were still a few stray donuts to round up. She parked the Mercedes beneath a faded POSTAL EMPLOYEES ONLY sign, not much caring if Daddy Mac got a ticket.

  Inside she asked for Detective Belknapf, showed his card to a uniform, and was escorted up to what he called the Bullpen. After her experience at both the job site and the farm she thought bull dookie was closer to reality.

  She found the detective at his desk, leaning over a square of butcher wrap as he attacked a meatball sandwich. Cashmere Boy and his partner shared a Cold Cut Combo, with the dog getting the lion's share of the meats.

  Mags dropped the sweet feed tag on the desk. “Here's some information to help you find the person who blew up my stepfather.”

  Belknapf wiped marinara sauce from his chin, and glanced at the tag. “Purina Moline? Sounds like a porn star. Where'd you get this?”

  “Look at the other side, detective, and do some detecting. Tazio Tarantella. He's the man my stepfather hired to blow up the Iron Works.”

  “Kansas! We'd have to put in for travel vouchers and per diem. Not to mention the expense of extradition. We already have several hot leads, as well as a prime suspect.”

  “Who is that?” Hoping it was her mother.

  “Sorry, it's police business.” He washed down the last of his sandwich with diet Coke, leaned back, and belched.

  “Hey! It's my father they murdered.”

  “Calm down. Murder's a pretty big word for a little gal. So far your father is just a missing person. And the search for him is about to enter the riverine phase. Since we didn't find any body parts inside the structure, Chief Whelan has authorized us to search the Susquehanna.” He waved a marinara
-stained Subway napkin in the direction of Bugle Boy, who alerted to the scent.

  Belknapf decided to give the girl a bone, something to tide her over, until they could produce a corpse. “And I plan to put this famous bloodhound in one of the boats, because he knows your father's smell even better than the wife.”

  Mags stomped down the stairs, and stalked out of the building, where she found a ticket on her windshield. She assuaged her rage by tearing it in half and throwing it to the winds. Maybe her new lawyer knew a private detective who knew how to detect. Or how to bug her mother's cell phone. She used her own to call King Brewster, a man she had now on speed dial.

  Fifteen minutes later she turned into a narrow lot, and parked beside a silver Porsche Carrera in a three-car space reserved for Brewster Law Offices. A quick Google search told her it was a hundred grand ride, and she wondered if he was worth it.

  “Nice ride down there. I assume it's yours, not the paralegal's.”

  King covered a grin with a palm. This kid was a pip. “I don't usually confess this to clients, but it's leased.” He waited a beat. “Paid for with Mac McClintock's retainer.” He fished a bit, wanting to know just how much Mac trusted his stepdaughter. “He said he'd rather give it to me than the IRS. His is a business where cash is king. And he has a substantial get out of Dodge stash.”

  “Are you talking about box number three forty-two?” He didn't need to know she had a key.

  King said, “I have to say I don't know what you are talking about.” He swiveled to a credenza for a manila folder. “I am in a quandary here; two clients, and until Mac is declared deceased, there are conflicts in representing both of you.”

  He studied her for a moment. “But conflict is the mother's milk of my profession, and we sold our souls when we passed the bar exam.”

  He sorted through documents and notes in the folder. “Earlier today, on your behalf, I contacted all the principal entities, and the consensus is the Lackawanna Redevelopment Authority will be the lead plaintiff. They want the two point three million held in escrow, until the clean-up is complete. As you learned from your visit to the bank, they're a day late and a dollar short. Lackawanna should have read the fine print I put in the agreement.” He gave her a wink. “You can thank me later.

  “Lackawanna's attorneys will file the usual papers, petitions, and pleas, as will I, and a judge will probably find you guilty of negligence when you signed off on the rigging. I will mention your tender years, and plead that you only did so at Mac's direction. With him missing, nothing will come of it. But you could be called to testify, and lying under oath is not something to undertake lightly.” He placed a blank form in front of her. “So I want you to assign me your power of attorney, and then take a vacation.”

  “A vacation?”

  “Calm down. Let's call it in internship.” He handed her a letter. On his letterhead it was addressed to:

  Peter J. Abbott,

  Dir. Habitat for Humanity

  1239 Princess Margaret Drive

  Belize City, Belize

  Dear Pete,

  This will introduce Magnolia Poitrine, a client's daughter. She's interested in volunteer work, has some experience in construction, and can pay her own way.

  Regards to the family,

  King

  Mags frowned at the letter. “Belize? Isn't that in South America someplace?” Dr. Q would know, and she intended to discuss any journey with her spiritual advisor, before accepting King's temporal advice.

  “Central America. A wart on the Caribbean coast of Mexico. British commonwealth.”

  “I think Daddy Mac worked there, before he met my mom.”

  “So he tells me. Pete's my law school roommate. Made a bundle on K street, and decided to pay back his hefty societal debt with Habitat. After President Carter twisted his arm.” He returned the folder to his file cabinet. “As they say, get your affairs in order, and head down there for a few weeks. I'll get in touch when it's safe to return.” He unlocked a desk drawer, pulled out an envelope full of cash. “I can front you a few thousand, until we settle your stepfather's estate.”

  Mags stood, shook her head. “Thanks, King, but I have my own get out of Dodge stash.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Duane said, “Detective Belknapf, I know you meant no harm, but showing your napkin to my partner may cause confusion. We can't be stopping at every Subway we pass, because he thinks you want to go inside, get another meatball marinara.”

  “Then give him a refresher whiff of the boot, and we'll get him to work, sniffing the river bank for McClintock's corpse.”

  “I still think we should cherchez la femme.”

  “Son, you got a lot to learn. Ms. Poitrine is a big shot, and her lawyer is a congressman. I am not about to tangle with those twin headaches, when I got me a mook to sweat.”

  Loud, angry voices came up the stairway ahead of two uniforms sandwiching George Glum. “And here he comes now. Pay attention, son, and watch how a pro handles a suspect.” He stood, told the two cops, “Put him in the interview room.” To Duane, he said, “Go watch through the one-way, and try to pick up some pointers.”

  —o—

  Bruce, a server at a Nature’s Bounty, was in his mother's kitchen, preparing a kale and almond milk smoothy, when the local news ran footage of the Iron Works Disaster. He turned off the blender and called his employer. “Mr. Twill, turn on the local news! The Rat Man is on the television!”

  Lester Twill and his partner watched in seething anger as George Glum climbed off a stretcher, and disappeared into the crowd. “That's the man I was telling you about! He and another fellow dumped a box of rats in the restaurant, and the police did absolutely nothing about it.” They were in their pied-à-terre kitchen, experimenting with vegetarian sushi recipes as a potential menu addition. “I'm going to march myself right down to the police station and demand they do something.”

  Across the river, in a neighborhood bar, two dump truck drivers watched the same broadcast. “Hey,” said one, pointing at the television above the bar, “ain't that the guy with the Escalade?”

  “Could be.” He shook his head, and chuckled. “First his ride is dumped in the river, then the Iron Works comes down on his head.” He took a sip of beer. “It just ain't his day.”

  “There's McClintock's daughter. I always thought she was hot.”

  “Stepdaughter. And she's a carpet muncher.”

  “What? No way.”

  “Well, I dunno. Last week she's got this grease gun, is working on a skid loader? So I asked her did she want to lube my joint, and she goes, 'Yeah, grab your ankles, and I'll pump some of this lithium where the sun don't shine'.”

  “That don't make her a lesbo, it just shows she's kind to flaming assholes.”

  “Up yours.”

  “Maybe we should tell the cops about that dude.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we just got laid off, and are sittin' here, crying in our beer. If the cops was to arrest somebody, maybe we could get back to work.”

  —o—

  “Cream, two sugars, right?” Belknapf backed through the door, set a paper cup of coffee in front of George Glum, sipped from his own. He glanced at the one-way mirror and winked, hoping the dope with the dog was paying attention to this teachable moment.

  “Right. You always had a good memory, Belknapf. Like the time you plagiarized yourself at my trial. Recited your lies like they was the truth.”

  The detective sat across from Glum. The table and two chairs were plastic lawn furniture from Walmart. Easily washed, and too light to cause damage when thrown. Gone, thanks to the ACLU, was the table and benches bolted to the floor, and the D ring for the handcuffs. Now the camera and microphone were in plain sight, a red light screaming ON!

  George tried the coffee. “This is from a machine. You don't brew your own no more?”

  “Budgetary constraints, George. Not like the old days. Before nine-eleven, when the police got first cr
ack at the money. Now it's all Homeland Security, with the armored vehicles and the robots. College kids hired as psychological profilers, instead of seasoned cops drawing on their years of experience with professionals like you.”

  “Sounds like you got your tit in the ringer.” George smirked. “The new century passing you by?” He pushed the coffee away, reached for his cigarettes. “Am I allowed to smoke in here, or is that a violation of you homeland security?”

  “No, you can't light up in here. You never heard of secondary smoke?” Belknapf sighed. He missed the funk of smoke, sweat, and stale coffee during late night duels with perps. Tuning them up with a phone book upside the head, as you played bad cop.

  “George, things have changed since you went away. Like, we now have computers to do the leg work for us.” He opened a manila folder and scanned his notes. “You celled with the late Harold Mertz. ID'd as the body we pulled from the wreckage of the Iron Works.”

  “Harry's dead? News to me. I wonder, will there be a wake?” George leaned closer. “He was Cat'lic, you know.”

  Belknapf scribbled a note beneath his name. Maybe he'd send the dope and his dog to the funeral. You never knew who would show up at these things, and the kid could shoot the whole thing with his iPhone.

  “We found a Taser, and a boot belonging to a Mr. McClintock. There was blood on the taser barbs and on the boot, and they match McClintock. Can you shed any light on this?”

  “What makes you think I got anything to do with anything? I ain't seen Harry since we was paroled. You know the rule as well as I do, about consorting with known felons.”

  “Your prints are on a Colt Python, recovered same time and place as the Taser. Ipso facto, you and Harry conspired in the demise of the gentleman in question.”