Dimly, Through Glass

by Knight, Dirk

  The hotdog vendor’s cart billowed out cottony steam into the downtown December morning, little ghosts of water, as he handed the men their lunches.

  This had been a ritual for his old partner and him, anytime they had to be in court they were sure to make a stop at the hotdog man’s cart. Evidently, it was a cop ritual, instead of something exclusive, because the kid wouldn’t shut up about them. Even went so far as to ask Staley if he’d ever had one from this particular stand. Naïve and eager kid didn’t realize every cop in Phoenix had stopped to grab a dog here.

  Hotdog whore, Staley thinks, handing the man his due, plus a meager tip.

  Today was the arraignment for a pusher who pushed more than dope. He had a slew of female clients, wouldn’t deal with men. According to some of the names in his little black book, he wouldn’t even let the boyfriends wait in the car.

  The girls, the clients, generally thought he was just paranoid, but the ones who couldn’t pay, the ones who got hooked and spun out, he smacked around. He would make them trade sex for dope, which, for most of them, they were happy to do anyway; better than turning tricks to get money for dope, when you could get the hit directly from a john. But that wasn’t good enough for Johnny Rojas; he liked to beat on them, too.

  The Rojas case was a “Vice” bust, should have been, anyway. He was on their radar for a year, but they were gathering evidence, and trying to get a witness who wasn’t spun like a fucking top, one who might be able to testify.

  They wasted so much time trying to build a case that would stick, they ignored all the beat-up junkie skanks, until a day too late.

  It had remained a Vice case until Rojas pushed too hard and Hanalei Gilchrest didn’t come out of his apartment alive. That’s where it may have stayed, if the girl hadn’t turned out to be someone’s daughter. But she was, and then it landed on Carron’s desk with all the others.

  One dead rich white girl later and Johnny Rojas is in custody on charges that would stick, and Carron has to talk to another set of stunned parents.

  “Not Hanalei, she would never . . .” they had said, oblivious.

  He couldn’t bring their daughter back, but he could at least be there to watch the judge preside over their justice . . . as much justice as a burned-out junkie bitch can hope for, anyway.

  Afterward, and after hotdogs, of course, his “Spidey Sense,” as Eleman refers to it, draws him inexorably to the building at 44 Monroe, the oldest and tallest residential structure in Phoenix.

  The skyscraper is more than a building; it’s a monolith, an icon to the city that used to be before Downtown had been reduced to a haven for gays and homeless, the homeless sometimes being the nicer dressed.

  “I used to nail a lady who lived in this building, a stripper, actually,” Eleman remarks.

  Staley forces himself not to notice that his young partner is an amalgamation of all the famous Latin American young actors of the Twentieth and Twenty-first centuries. He has forcibly looked the other way as witnesses and bystanders have hunted him with longing eyes and asked for his card; or even given him theirs. Staley thought he looked like a baseball player who had missed his shot at the “Bigs” because of a torn meniscus, or maybe a problem with the booze, and now he was trying to make good by becoming the youngest detective the department had seen. But he still had a weakness for the soft spot under a lady’s skirt. Not that the girls that threw themselves into his long muscular arms were what Carron would call ladies.

  “So if she’s a stripper she’s no longer a lady?” Staley says.

  “No, I was just saying. This place is expensive.”

  “It certainly must be if strippers live here,” he says before starting to giggle.

  Carron is rarely in such a jovial mood, he wonders if it is the hotdogs and nostalgia, or if he is actually beginning to like ‘The Kid.’

  “Man alive, the view from her apartment would make you shit!” Eleman says.

  Carron almost asks if the phenomenal view of which he spoke was of to the city or the stripper, but he decides against following his perverse partner any further down this rabbit hole, and instead replies with a simple, “I’m sure it would.”

  “Especially since you’re getting old, just shit right in your pants.”

  “Nobody never taught you to respect your elders?”

  “I respect you enough not to tell anyone if you do need a quick change and a duck waddle to the cruiser.”

  “Well, that’s something I suppose,” he says, hoping the conversation is over.

  Carron is unsure how to define his relationship with Rodriguez. The kid is growing on him, and he is beginning to open up little by little. He is trying to reserve his final judgments, but the kid has one thing working against him; he isn’t Bill, and that isn’t his fault, but it is the truth.

  He and Rodriguez were paired six months ago, and only after Staley’s partner of seven years had been forced into retirement and out of his pension, to avoid further investigation into his home life. He’d beaten his wife quite publicly after having a few too many.

  Or, maybe it was a few too few.

  He just snapped one day and socked her in the stomach in the middle of an Olive Garden. Carron and he still spoke, but Bill Carrington was nothing more than a drunk nowadays. Still, Carron trusted the man with his life and was always careful to listen to what the old-timer had to say.

  “This job destroys a lot of marriages,” he remembers Bill saying when he’d had gotten the divorce papers from his third wife.

  “They just don’t get us, Staley. They will never understand what it’s like to do this job day in and day out. To be pulled from your life by an instinct, that ‘hound on a scent’ feeling, that feeling that you’re always missing something. Trust me brother, you should just get a cat . . . and sign the papers.”

  “I already have a cat,” he’d said.

  “Well, then, get another one. It’s either that or quit the force; God knows you don’t need the money. But, you can’t, can you? See, that’s what I’m talking about. You’ll never quit. You just can’t. You’re here more than any of the other guys in the bullpen. You have to do this work, or you’d explode. There’s just some things in life that a man has to choose. I’m afraid you made your choice long ago.”

  Eleman is talking, still. Carron hasn’t heard a word he’s said. He does that sometimes. Instead of asking what he’s blabbering on about, which is his first instinct, Carron interjects, “Since you’ve been here before; what’s the layout?”

  Rodriguez just laughs and shoots him a sideways glance. A look that says ‘seriously dude’ and tells him that that’s what he’s just told him. After Staley is silent for a few seconds, Eleman repeats his description of the buildings access points and parking setup. He misses Bill, still. Eleman is a good kid, but he’s just that.

  On a different wavelength.

  From the first time he saw Eleman, with his thick dark hair, greenish silver eyes, and the youthful smile of a man who hasn’t yet learned reasons not to go flapping his gums and flashing teeth all over town, he had felt an unnatural aversion. Standoffish.

  Perhaps it was this untainted and unspoiled purity that Eleman wore like a stolen hotel robe, along with his boyish charm and lady-killer repertoire of colognes and watches that made Carron dislike him at first. Maybe Carron saw too much of himself in ‘The Kid’ and what he could have become without all the misery.

  Without the effects of gravity.

  He’d been trying little by little each day to forgive the man for how he looked, and for not knowing the hell under the curtain, and instead judge him on his character and work ethic.

  There was no doubt that he had earned his spot in Homicide, and that he belonged in the bullpen. Carron isn’t prone to jealousy, but he isn’t so naïve that he doesn’t recognize it coating his hotdog where the mustard should be.

  The department, or the captain, rather, has the two men working in tandem as a way to balance Carron out. Kind of a yin to his
yang. He tends to get obsessive and somewhat strange when working a case, he knows that, but the captain is uncomfortable letting him work alone. Maybe he’s worried about the level of attachment, perhaps Carron just acts too morbid or schizo when he’s been up for seventy-two hours, face buried in a lightbox full of images of severed heads and tire tracks. Then again, maybe it’s just a department regulation. Either way, now he has ‘The Kid’ with him and he is doing his best to feel easy around him, but progress is slow.

  The building on Monroe is breathtaking; sharply designed with hard lines and precise angles, it is a piece of art, and history, jutting into the sky and catching the purest slivers of sunlight to decorate its glass skin in glimmer and shine. Staley is sure, though, that the structure would be no less captivating should he come back to capture its essence in the moon glow. There simply aren’t enough buildings like this one in the metro area.

  The concierge, or bellman, or security—he isn’t sure of the inoffensive title for the man who should be at his post—must be attending to different things, because the lobby is empty. The glass double doors are closed, and the card reader is the building’s only guard.

  Eleman swipes them in with his emergency personnel access badge.

  The elevator is silent and elegant, feminine as she climbs the considerable height to Foster’s floor. No groans or frightening hitches surprise him along the way, as one might expect in a building that’s seen as many birthdays as this one.

  Opulence awaits. Carron had been looking for this phrase, since he saw the shimmery tower in his windshield, moments ago.

  Carron has a pretty elaborate house for a murder dick. Karl had been quite well-to-do and from an even wealthier family. Though Carron had spread the fortunate inheritance around a bit between three ex-wives and spoiling his niece and nephew, he still has a sizable nest egg to incubate.

  The building on Monroe is so seductive, it makes Carron think he’ll to have to move, again.

  When the junkie-looking teenager opens the door, Carron assumes for a second that he they’ve come to the wrong unit. He also notes that she is the least appealing, the least impressive sight his eyes have absorbed since stepping out of his unimpressive sedan on First Avenue and walking up and into the opulent tower. Her hair is a tangled mane of blacker-than-black frizzy knots pulled loosely back to reveal thin shoulders and multiple earrings.

  Her eyes are a dull brown, her face plain, except for a tiny diamond stud implanted in her cheek. She’s wearing an oversized grey sweatshirt with her slender thighs revealed in as much totality as if she were nude. She wears, also, big fluffy socks that stretch to her knees. They appear, at first, to be leg warmers, as thick and cushiony as they are. Her hand is tugging the shirt down in front in an effort to hide her womanhood. Carron isn’t a gambler, but, if forced, he would wager she hadn’t a thing on underneath.

  He thinks of the movie Flashdance. She is only missing the pointy red high-heeled shoes to have completed that tableaux. She is obviously impaired, and seems quite shocked to have opened the door to find a couple of cops with badges draped over their wallets.

  Eleman is staring, mouth slightly ajar.

  He must see something I’m missing, Staley thinks, before nudging his new partner in the ribs with a quick elbow.

  “I’m sorry, miss, can you tell me: is this the correct apartment for Dennis Foster?”

  “Um, yeah. Who are you guys?”

  Suddenly Eleman’s jaw is working again and he puffs his chest to be the first to tell her his name.

  “Oh, well Dennis isn’t here right now. He went to get something for lunch. He should be back any time now.”

  “How long ago was that, miss . . .”

  “Oh, sorry, I’m Libby. He left just before you knocked on the door,” she says, diverting her eyes slightly to the left while searching for a lie, unwilling to give any information she doesn’t have to.

  “That’s why I just answered without looking. I assumed you were him and that he’d left his keys or wallet or something,” she added.

  Convinced that she knows nothing worth knowing, but assured that she is lying—if only to the slightest degree—Staley offers his card, and asks that she or Dennis call as soon as he returns.

  The young Flashdancer caresses his mangled hand in the card exchange and shoots him a look that must’ve been what Eleman had seen in her before. Her eyes are bottomless pits: though muddy brown and plain, they seem to invite him in, to beg to be held, and more.

  “Thank you ma’am,” he says and turns away.

  When the sound of the deadbolt striking the home plate hits his ears he turns back to his awestruck partner and catches a glimpse of the light in the peephole disappearing as she studies them through the glass. Eleman starts to speak, but Staley cuts him off, motioning him to the elevator bay.

  “Oh my God that chick was hot!” his partner explodes as soon as they round the corner.

  “That’s what your idea of sexy is?” Staley asks.

  “You’re going to stand here and tell me that bitch isn’t sexy?”

  “One day you will look at girls that age, dressing like common street walkers, and see them for what they really are, Rodriguez. Trash.”

  “Oh, whatever dude. If you were ten years younger, you know you’d be saying the same thing. You’re just in a foul mood because you don’t want to tell me you pooped yourself.”

  “The only thing about her that caught my attention”—he says, thinking that if he were ten years younger she would have fulfilled a lifetime Flashdance fantasy—“is that she was lying about Foster. Call it a hunch, but I believe Khamal Penn, over her.”

  “Who’s Khamal Penn?”

  “He’s the fucking circle K owner—”

  Laughing, Rodriguez says, “Dude I know, I’m just messing with you,” and steps into the elevator.

  Part III:

  “The victim was luring them or trying to arouse them in some way. They deserved it . . .”

  - Ted Bundy

  “For jealousy is the rage of a man: therefore he will not spare in the day of vengeance.”

  - Proverbs 6:34

  Whesker

  Larry Whesker awakens from guiltless sleep to the sound of his home phone ringing. Almost no one has that number. Groggily he answers, “This’s Larry.

  “Okay, just tell him I’ll make a call and to relax. . . . Uh huh, yeah. Okay, I will call him back tonight. Email it to me . . . Okay, bye.”

  He throws the cordless handset aside after looking at the clock. It’s 10:45 on a Saturday morning.

  He jerks his flabby abdomen up from the Egyptian cotton, reaches for the remote to turn on the television to the local news—always looking for a high-profile case to get his name in the papers again—and lunges for the bathroom. Larry’s clean conscience, intact for now, will be subject to some burden later, due to one unassuming client. His office is already getting calls on a Saturday from the dickhead cop. Thankfully he has his cell forwarded to his assistant and doesn’t have to deal with Staley’s incessant Columbo-esque, ‘just one more thing’ grilling this morning.

  A Baileys and coffee is breakfast. He needs to go soon if he wants to fulfill his obligation; it’s a four-hour round trip to Tucson, where he’s abandoned not only his career in public service, but also his college sweetheart, now ex-wife, and the mother of his son.

  Larry got joint custody, though he hadn’t wanted it, and it’s his year for the holiday break.

  He rubs his still-groggy face, waiting for the caffeine to hit his bloodstream.

  To say that Larry Whesker sleeps with a clean conscience would be a lie. If you were to say, however, that he sleeps like a man with a clean conscience, that would be an appropriate description of his ability to turn a blind eye to his shortcomings, in order that he may elicit more comfort from his surroundings. His career is predicated upon his knack for looking the other way when it comes to his clients’ guilt.

  He hadn’t fared too well as a prosecu
ting attorney. He had pictured being a lawyer as an elaborate and important existence, in which he’d take center stage and shine light into the darkness of the world, while grappling with and making bold proclamations of guilt and innocence, right and wrong, from his soapbox.

  He imagined high profile parties with nearly famous young things dressed in furs clinging to his arm like ravenous remoras, where he was the guest of honor. At these parties, he sometimes would snag a tiny, bland hors d'œuvre from the help’s silver tray, complete with white cotton doily, and toss it into the parasite’s mouth.

  She would gobble it down like a baby bird hungry for vomit and attention.

  In Larry’s childish phantasms, these were the types of parties that even Bruce Wayne would show up to. Never ‘The Joker’ though.

  Ah, the foolish gumption and conviction of a law student.

  Going to make a difference, are you? Not like you expected. Not like you said you would. Like many state-run offices, the City of Tucson’s District Attorney’s office hadn’t enough resources or manpower to keep pace with the larger private firms, and Larry felt outmatched.

  His “airtight” cases often ended up plea-bargained out for a lesser sentence to preserve what precious resources they had. Chain of custody errors led to monsters walking the streets. Child molesters, drug dealers, corporate scumbags—anyone with enough money to hire the big guns—would tear through his cases, and the courthouse, like a 155 millimeter Howitzer round, leaving charred limbs, torn abdomens, and circumstantial evidence shredded at the judges’ feet.

  Fucking reasonable doubt, he thought.

  That was not even the real issue. Larry was ambitious: he had graduated top of his class and gone to work for the prosecuting attorney’s office in Tucson so he could take a stance in the public eye. He had seen some successes, litigated a few cases, and he was good, by God. But young attorneys only have so long to make a splash and set the tone for their forward momentum. His pendulum was losing momentum and he saw the window of opportunity closing.