The Drunk Detective

by Mary Jean Curry

  She sucked in air deeply and slowly exhaled. She was calm knowing she had one man on her side still listening to all of her words thanks to the wire that police had yet to discover. Come save me, Hankie Pankie, she thought, before she asked the detective for a toothpick.

  25

  A video camera had been cued up and recorded all of Dotty’s tale—her sordid version of events leading up to her instant arrest. Lieutenant Boxer and Sergeant Rodriguez, the arson investigator, sat relaxed in their uncomfortable chairs, watching an animated Dotty on a TV camera giving her eventual story to a jury a test run. She sounded like the narrator of an Alfred Hitchcock Presents special: clear, concise, mysterious, and a dose of animation.

  Boxer stopped the recording, and said, “What pure unmitigated hogwash. I’m not buying a word of it. You’re not smart enough to have given a homeless woman your car to pretend you got away. Who in the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

  “The truth is stranger than facts, or whatever the damn cliché is,” Dotty said.

  Rodriguez spoke up. “What we have here is a sleazeball PI, no, scratch that, she ain’t even employed, which makes her simply a sleaze bag. She claims to be able to implicate a dead bishop and the secretary of state—"

  “Attorney General,” Dotty said, correcting him.

  “Why not add POTUS?” Boxer said, rolling his eyes.

  “Just indirectly, Trump is at fault. He picked these people.”

  “You’re a real piece of work,” Boxer said, rewinding the tape. “I don’t care how psychotic you talk, you won’t get off on an insanity defense.”

  “So you’re going to submit this video to the prosecutor?”

  “I’m erasing this crock of bologna. The mayor would have me nailed to the William Penn statue above City Hall for allowing you to incriminate the AG and President in this nightmare.”

  “Keep it,” Rodriguez said to Boxer.

  “I’m sorry, but this isn’t your case, Rodriguez,” Boxer replied. “You’re only here out of respect for your investigation into the Frankie Robinson arson.” Boxer then turned to Dotty and said, “How can we contact this Lynch fellow?”

  “Beats the hell out of Dotty,” she said and smiled. “I don’t know anything as long as I am in custody being charged with murder.”

  “I could just call Politico,” Boxer said.

  “I will,” Rodriguez said, leaving the room.

  When the door closed, Dotty said, “Oh, did I say Politico, I may have meant the Washington Post. Perhaps the Daily Beast. Definitely one of the political papers or blogs out of D.C.” She smirked. “A Philly cheesesteak would be great with a vodka-laced Pepsi.”

  “Eat the fucking toothpick,” Boxer said.

  Five minutes passed before Rodriguez re-entered the room. He said, “Politico has never heard of this Lynch guy.” His face was so close to Dotty’s she smelled cigarette smoke on his clothing.

  “You really need to go drown yourself in Chanel No. 5. I learned about that recently. It’s a perfume,” Dotty said, and then chortled. She stopped long enough to add, “You ever think he’s undercover; ergo, they would never confirm his whereabouts to existence?”

  “Tell the prison staff at RCF, Dotty Davis. It looks like it’s going to be double murder in the first degree.”

  “You think so? I have zero motives for this heinous, murderous spree.”

  Boxer said, “Look you drunk detective—”

  “Former. She’s been fired,” Rodriguez said.

  “I quit,” said Dotty, folding her arms over her breasts. “And I resent being called drunk. Very um...unprofessional to talk about suspects in that fashion.”

  Boxer said, “Possibly you were on a mission to kill anyone better than you. The DA will tell the jury that frying you would save the human race.”

  “The receptionist said right away that there was no, and never has been any Albert’s or Lynch’s working at Politico during her seven years there,” Rodriguez said.

  “And? Your point?” Dotty asked, curling up her lips.

  “Obviously, he doesn’t work for them, or he gave you a bogus name. She didn’t check any directories or anything. She knew there wasn’t an Albert Lynch employed there,” Rodriguez explained.

  “They sound very smart, unlike this bullshit operation we’re running here,” said Boxer.

  “Welp, you got me,” said Dotty, throwing her hands into the air.

  “And that was as easy as catching the clap from some dancer slash prostitute at the Onyx strip club. I knew if we went to every bar in downtown you’d show your face.”

  Rodriguez said, “You make a good point, Boxer, but what if they’re trained to deny, deny, deny? You know, just in case someone gets onto the undercover reporter like this imbecile.”

  “Look, you’re going to stop calling me names.”

  “Shut up. Shut the hell up,” Boxer yelled at Dotty. His was scratchy and laced with anger. He turned back to Rodriguez, and said, “You’ve been watching too many Law and Order episodes. Real police work isn’t like what you see on TV. Get a uniform in here to drop this thing off at County. I’ll get the room sprayed down in the meantime.”

  “Let’s let her go and put a wire on her. See what flies this shit attracts.”

  “Let’s let her go and put a wire on her. I wanted you to hear how stupid that sounds. You must have stock in the makers of the wiring device. Take a look at this darling young woman.” The lieutenant sounded more sardonic than usual. “She’d pawn the wire on her way to Hong Kong.”

  “To hell I would,” Dotty said. “I don’t even know the hell where Hong Kong is.”

  “It’ll be cool, because she’ll get a tail too.”

  Boxer was speechless regarding his ideas that misused the precinct’s budget. “Let’s say we wire her up,” he finally said. “Who’s she poised to entrap? We have to have that down.”

  “Lynch.”

  “Maybe we give Loretta Scalia a twirl.” Boxer was coming around. They couldn’t solve this case with Dotty in jail if she’s been telling the truth. “But I bet you’d hop on the next plane and flee. I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you, and I doubt that I can even pick your fat ass up.”

  “That’s because you’re not man enough for me. In my Toni Braxton voice,” she said, laughing.

  “I like the Scalia idea,” Rodriguez said. “Dotty could set up a meeting at a shady DC watering hole. She loves those.”

  “First of all, in DC on your coin, I’d be Louis the Thirteenth by the bottle at a swanky hotel near the White House.”

  “What the hell, this ain’t TV. She’d send a flunky to meet a sleaze-ball PI.”

  Dotty said, “J. Edgar Hoover, I bet.”

  Rodriguez lit a cigarette and tossed the match over his shoulder. It burned a hole in the cheap flooring. He said, “We’re talking murder, cover-ups, and the Church, Lieutenant. Scalia has no idea that Dotty is on to her and maybe she’ll do something crazy. We’ll be right there to arrest her. Think of the commendations and awards and raise.”

  “Or maybe we get super lucky and this douche bag gets killed. We pin all of our crimes on her and close the cases.” Boxer tapped his fingernails on the table. “You’re very clever. Sergeant.”

  “Do we get the wire?”

  There was a knock at the door before it opened, and a female officer leaned inside. It was the cop that had pat searched Dotty upon her arrival at the precinct. “There’s someone here for this suspect, Lieutenant.”

  “Killer or lawyer?”

  “He has a bar card but said he’s never represented anyone though. Very handsome, nice ass.”

  “Must be Hankie Robinson,” Dotty said. “He’s the finest and that ass. God.” She kissed her fingertips and school her head.

  “I’m lost. I gave you a call to get an attorney and you called the living victim’s brother. I should arrest you for obstruction of justice and tampering with a witness.”

  “Look, everyone hung up on me.
And you should arrest all of the woman that has been tampering with your witness.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him that he couldn’t see her?” Boxer said.

  “First of all, he’s a lawyer. And did I mention his broad shoulders, bulging arms and stunning smile?”

  “Have him take a seat in the lobby. Then get Conover and tell him to come wire up this device.”

  “I ain’t no device.”

  “You are my device to get the killer, and if you’re not, you can just take on the role of the killer again.”

  “I’ll be the device.”

  “Good, maybe while being wired you’ll be electrocuted.”

  26

  Conover was an iguana-faced cop in a suit and tie number that looked like a one-piece. He had a bald fade and slim hands like those women in manicure ads. He used them to open a case he had brought and pulled out a transmitter in a black shell the size of a deck of cards. “Strip to the waist, please.”

  “If I learned anything from Frankie Robinson, never strip tease for free. I have to go to the bathroom before we start this crap.”

  “You’re a pain in the ass. Let’s go,” Boxer said.

  In the bathroom, Dotty snatched off the wire she’d been wearing to record Lynch and coincidentally her police interview. She wrapped it tightly into a ball, stuffing it into her socks, glad that she’d worn the calf high ugly socks and not the cheerleader ankle booty socks that she wore around the house. Dotty flushed the toilet and then wet her hands in the sink. She exited the bathroom with water dripping from her hands and Boxer walked her back to the interview room.

  Dotty peeled off her shirt. “Bra too?”

  “No,” Conover said.

  “You’ve just reminded me,” Lieutenant Boxer said, looking at Dotty’s sagging body. “My wife asked me to bring home pork rolls for her collard greens on the way home.”

  Conover attached a small battery pack to Dotty’s waist, plugged in the transmitter, and used adhesive tape to glue it to her chest.

  “Watch the chest hair,” said Dotty.

  “You don’t have any damn chest hair. And I’m surprised about that,” replied Boxer.

  “Do I have to walk around with this thing. Can’t we just do a wiretap over the phone with Lynch to get enough goods for you to bring him in for formal questioning?”

  “No. Shut up,” said Conover

  “Tell your mother to shut up.” She rolled her eyes at him. “As I was saying before the help opened his mouth, I’ll call him and get the goods, you bring him in for ID and questioning. Pretend he’s a terrorist suspect, water-board him, and BAM-ALA-KA-ZAM, you have all kinds of killers being snitched on.”

  Conover said, “You’ll have to get used to wearing this thingy. In a day or two, you’ll walk around like it’s a part of your body, and no one will think that you’re walking weird or wired.”

  Dotty put her shirt back on. “Is it on?”

  “No.” Conover was aggressive. “Under no circumstances should you bend over.”

  “I doubt she’s doing that anymore,” said Rodriguez.

  “You’ll be amazed,” said Dotty, and the mouthed the acronym M-I-L-F seductively.

  “You disgust me,” Boxer said.

  Conover went on. “When changing shirts do not wear nylon because the static electricity is a brush with death.”

  “If you get a gift of nylon shirts,” said Rodriguez, “I sent them.”

  “Can I fart? Geesh.”

  “The silent wet ones, yes. But do not sweat a lot. We’ve had one short on a fellow policeman and it caught fire.”

  “How is Madison?” Boxer asked.

  “I bumped into him at Wal-Mart last week. He’s enjoying his paid leave for sure,” Conover said. “He gets another skin graft next week.”

  “Damn, it’s been over a year,” Rodriguez said.

  “Shit, he told me thirty-months. The guy he arrested has been released already.”

  Dotty started unbuttoning her blouse. “To hell with this. Take me to jail.”

  Boxer said, “You’re a bit late for that. Rodriguez and Conover will be following you in an unmarked car. They’re going to go out and get into position behind Hankie before I walk you out. And he’s not to know a thing about our conversation or the wire. Violate either and off to jail you go.”

  “Where’s my Benz?”

  “In the pound, where else? You can get it tomorrow but know that it will have several trackers on it.” The lieutenant regarded her. “You look like you’ve been getting sexed lately. Maybe by that young black kid that’s been tagging along with you, but I suggest you have sex with your clothes on or over the phone until we get something useful on this wire.”

  “I say don’t do it at all,” Conover said, “Unless you want your bed to be a grill and barbecue your asses.”

  “Thank you, you all are so wonderful,” said Dotty.

  “Now that’s a first. No one has ever thanked me for wiring them up.”

  The arson investigator—stuck in the corner with his cigarette and far away from the electronics—ran a hand over his forehead and left a trace of ashes there. “Dotty,” he said, “don’t let me down. One less killer won’t really make me advance much, but Bishop Sinclair taught my boy how to hit a ball, and he can still hit a home run. This is personal for me because as I chased my career trying to financially provide for my family, Sinclair taught him how to play ball.”

  Dotty didn’t reply. She was already perspiring and hoped to God the smell of smoke was from Rodriguez’s cigarette and not her love handles.

  HANKIE WAS IN THE PRECINCT lobby when she came out behind Boxer. He had on a gray Polo sweat suit and Jordan sneakers. His hair was freshly cut, mustache trimmed, and a bright smile at the sight of Dotty.

  “Hey,” he said. “You good?”

  “I’m OK. Sorry to drag you into this.”

  “I’ve been in bed stressing lately anyway, so I haven’t been sleeping. Brought you something.” He held out a shopping bag.

  Dotty opened it. Inside was a new pair of footwear.

  “Thanks,” Dotty said, sitting to put them on. “I’m sorry but your slippers are ruined.”

  “No worries. I wrote them off when you left in them. Can you go?”

  Dotty looked up at Boxer, who nodded. She stood and they left. Rodriguez and Conover were already outside with the car running.

  “Are you sure, you’re OK? You look awfully stiff.”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve had rest. Back’s sore too.”

  “I’ll rub you down at my apartment in a bit.”

  “No! Um...I mean, it’ll be OK, don’t worry yourself. I got it because of a war.”

  “You fought in a war?”

  “No, it was how I avoided it. My dad was trying to force me to enlist to get me away from him.”

  “You poor woman,” Hankie said, snaking his arm around her shoulder. As two female officers passed, Dotty heard one of them say to the other, “She must be a great cook with a huge bank account.”

  In the car, Dotty was looking for Boxer’s team preparing to tail them. There were several cars out on the street and in a lot marked AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY—it was afternoon, traffic was thick—she couldn’t make out the occupants of any cars.

  “What happened back there?” Hankie started the engine.

  “I think maybe Lynch set me up. This is weird. Did you get everything recorded?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “OK, so we can’t talk much right now.” She looked at him sternly and hoped that he understood. “You glad to see me?”

  He smiled and touched her thigh. She tried to think of a Quentin Tarantino plot to make her hardened nipples soften and prevent her from becoming moist. Finally, he pulled his hand back and pulled into traffic. “They wanted you for murder. How’d you convince them to let you out of there?”

  “My pretty little face. They couldn’t resist.”

  “Come on, Dotty.”

&nbs
p; “There’s a better suspect. I’m not the only suspect, just the prime suspect.” She had been warned about telling anyone anything and she feared Conover could push a button on his end to send a shockwave through her body.

  “Then you’ll be all clear. Dotty, that’s cool. You can get back to finding out who hurt my brother without their interference.” He was driving quite fast and swerving between cars on Market Street. Dotty kept glancing in the rearview mirror looking for her police tail. “We have to celebrate.”

  “If celebrating is just chillen at your place while I try to figure out how to get to the root of who hurt your brother, fine.” She sat back. The car had a calming effect on her. She suspected because each time she was in it she was making a getaway from the police while in the company of a fine man.

  “You need a long hot bath with bubbles, candles and music.”

  “You’re quite the gentleman. You’d be some woman’s perfect husband.”

  “You think so?”

  Pulp Fiction, she thought furiously. Kill Bill Volume 1, Django Unchained. Jerry Springer naked on the beach.

  “Well, I have almond bubble bath and can grab a bottle of your favorite vodka. We can chill all right.”

  Inglorious Bastards. For crying out loud, Conover and Rodriguez had to be thrilled.

  “Have they at least identified who hurt my brother?”

  Her hardened nipples softened. “Nope, but they have a good idea why. Has he told you anything?”

  “Told me? Uh. I haven’t been to see him since I met you. You’ve been a distraction.”

  Feigning pain to sit up, Dotty glanced out the side rearview mirror to see if any of the same cars were behind them. “So, how is he? I guess you’ve at least called the nursing station for updates.”

  “Of course, they just keep assuring me that he’ll be OK. Another reason for us to celebrate.” He reached over and ran his hand along her thigh to her groin.

  The Hateful Eight. She had no idea how many graphic movies Tarantino had made. She shifted in her seat and tried to scoot closer to the door and out of his reach. She couldn’t afford to get any hotter and start sweating. She was already warming near the vicinity of the transmitter. “The cops should be the ones that really know how he is. If the killer is out there they should get him a guard before the killer makes a move on his life again,” she said. “It’s true that unconscious people cannot talk, but neither can dead people.”