2 If It Bleeds, It Leads

by Amanda M. Lee

  When I got home, I opted to cook – meaning I heated up a can of Campbell’s tomato and rice soup and had a grilled cheese and pickle sandwich with it. Then I curled up to order the latest movie On Demand. I was debating between the latest touchy-feely Oscar winner and a shark eating people gore fest when I heard raised voices outside.

  I live in Roseville. It’s not one of the richest communities in Macomb County, but it’s certainly not one of the poorest either. It’s about four miles north of Detroit and six miles south of Mount Clemens via Gratiot Avenue. Essentially, my neighborhood is made up of middle-aged white people – a lot of whom are racist. Ironically, despite its tumultuous past, or maybe because of it, Macomb County has some severe race issues

  The funny thing is, the minute I heard the yelling outside I knew it wasn’t a racial issue, though. I wasn’t going to go outside and find a cadre of bangers outside causing problems. This was going to be worse. I was positive it was a white trash issue.

  The neighbors on one side of my house were essentially urban hillbillies. You had two brothers in their 50s living in a two-bedroom house with the wife and toddler of one of the brothers. The other brother – the unmarried one – had one of those shriveled little hands pulled up tight to my chest. Yes, I know, I’m awful. It freaks me out, though. Sometimes I think it’s going to come alive like Thing in ‘The Addams Family,’ or that attached fetal monster in that second season ‘The X-Files’ episode.

  What’s interesting about my neighbors is that, despite having three people in a very tiny house, not one of them appears to work. The brothers start drinking on the front porch – no matter how hot or how cold – at around 10 a.m. and things usually deteriorate so badly by 6 p.m. that one of the brothers has passed out on the front porch by the time I get home from work.

  Those are the good nights.

  On a bad night – like tonight was clearly going to be – one of the brothers usually decided to beat the crap out of the other. Then the wife/sister-in-law would get involved and things would turn into a backwards episode of ‘Jersey Shore’ – without the warm and endearing characters that show boasts. That was sarcasm, just in case you missed it. Once, the brother with the shriveled hand actually beat himself up and called the cops in an effort to get his brother kicked out of the house. Yeah, they’re classy.

  I had a choice, drop $4 on a bad movie that would bore me (or the shark movie) or go out and enjoy White Trash Theater. I opted for the latter – but not before I grabbed my own beer from the fridge. If you can’t beat them, sit outside with a beer and watch them beat themselves. That’s my motto, at least.

  My favorite part about my house – aside from the ‘Star Wars’ library, of course, is that it has one of those really large front porches that runs the entire width of the house. In good weather, I have a lounge chair and table, little bistro set and swing on it. Since I can’t stand my neighbors, I also hang really tacky beach towels at the far end so they can’t tell when I’m out there. Otherwise I have to hear their inbreeding stories – and nobody wants that. Trust me. During the winter, I’m forced to store all that stuff in the garage. Luckily for me tonight, though, I’d been too lazy to put my summer stuff away yet so I had some place to sit.

  I opted for the lounge chair, even though it was on the far end of the porch. I might not be able to see as well in the waning light – but they were so loud I’d still be able to hear everything. Plus, down at the other end, it wouldn’t be as obvious why I was out there. I didn’t want to make them feel self-conscious. After all, I’m nothing if not a good neighbor.

  When I got outside, I could tell right away this was going to be a doozey. The married brother was accusing the handicapped brother of trying to make a pass at his wife. This would be funny if you’ve ever seen the wife. Just picture Susan Boyle, only fatter and less attractive.

  “I saw you. You were trying to peek at her through the shower curtain!” The married brother, I think his name is Jim, was shaking his fist at the handicapped one. I happened to know that the handicapped one’s name is Larry – only because he always tried to talk to me.

  For his part, Larry was listing to one side, trying to keep out of his brother’s grasp. “I was not. Who would want to see her fat ass naked anyway?”

  “Are you calling me fat?” Another country heard from. Susan Boyle had joined the fray out on the front porch. I had no idea where the baby was. Given her dubious gene pool, though, I didn’t think she had much a future in front of her.

  “Have you looked in a mirror? Of course you’re fat. Women don’t shop in the plus sizes if they’re skinny.”

  “I’m still working off the baby weight!”

  “The baby is now three. How long are you going to use that as an excuse?”

  That was a fair question. I took a sip from my beer. I noticed that the three guys who lived across the road had come out to enjoy the show. They brought a bowl to toke on instead of a beer, though. They seemed to be enjoying themselves as they started whooping and hollering their support of various family members. To me, though, they were just as bad as the white trash family next door. They were all potheads who thought they were black – even though they were as white their great-grandfather’s Klan sheets.

  For his part, Jim didn’t seem to be standing up for his wife. “You could stand to lose a few pounds.”

  That was rich coming from the guy who could balance a plate of KFC – and two sides -- on his beer gut.

  “You are an ass.” Susan Boyle stomped back in the house. I turned my attention back to the brothers.

  “See, why would I want to see her naked?” I’m not sure that was the smartest tactic for Larry to take. Neither did Jim. Without warning, Jim cocked back his fist and slammed it into Larry’s face.

  The wiggers across the street cheered. I was even a little amused.

  A river of blood started gushing out of Larry’s nose. It was obviously broken, given the fact that it had turned cockeyed on his face.

  Larry didn’t take the disgrace lying down. With that much alcohol fueling your rage, adrenaline is a great equalizer. Larry probably didn’t even feel the pain – he would tomorrow of course – but I didn’t really care about that. If the pattern held true, these two would have forgotten their squabble and become friends again once they slept off their liquid courage.

  For now, though, they were mortal enemies and were treating each other as such. Larry launched himself off the ground and tackled his brother. The two started hitting and screaming at each other in a mass of arms and legs. I couldn’t tell where one brother began and the other ended. It was like one of those cartoons where you just see a big pile of dust and the occasional arm coming out to whack somebody.

  It was pretty entertaining.

  I looked up from the fight when I saw a glint of light flash off the hood of a car. I could tell right away it was Roseville’s finest. One of the other neighbors must have called about the fight. They didn’t find the family’s histrionics nearly as entertaining as I did.

  To be fair, the cops weren’t exactly strangers in this neighborhood. Heck, most of them knew Jim and Larry by name. One or both of them were being hauled off for some sort of drunk and disorderly conduct charge at least once a month. Due to jail overcrowding, though, neither spent more than a weekend locked up in the county jail.

  I didn’t recognize either of the cops that got out of the car. I don’t know everyone in the department, but I do know quite a few of them. When you run in the same circles, even if you can’t stand each other, you do start to recognize one another.

  After breaking up the fight and placing both brothers in handcuffs, one of the officers noticed me on the porch. As he made his way over – ostensibly to get my statement, I’m sure – I saw the other cop start across the street. I noticed right away that there were only two guys out on the front lawn when there were three mere moments ago. I bet someone was madly hiding their pot and bong right now, I thought with a self-satisfied smirk.
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  By that time, the officer had made it on my front porch. I could see his name was Newsom under the badge affixed to his pocket.

  “Ma’am.”

  “Officer Newsom.” He looked confused for a second, wondering if he’d met me before this evening. Probably wondering if he’d arrested me before. Then I pointed to his name and he smiled in relief.

  “Could you tell me what you saw, ma’am?”

  Now, I know this is petty, but whenever someone calls me ma’am I turn around and look for my mother. I am nowhere near old enough to be considered a ma’am.

  “They got in a fight.”

  Just for clarification purposes, I hate my neighbors, but I have a genuine distrust of cops. I think the majority of them go into the field because they have control issues and they want to be able to exert some form of power over others. So, while I’d like both Jim and Larry to go away for a nice quiet month, I knew on a misdemeanor – especially with the jail overcrowding – there was no way that was going to happen. I didn’t want to help the cops – especially if it wasn’t going to give me at least a couple of days of peace.

  “What kind of a fight?” Officer Newsom didn’t find my lack of interest entertaining.

  “One of them hit the other.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t know. Then the one who got hit tackled the other one.”

  “Did you hear what the argument was about?”

  “Not really. I think one of them was looking at the other’s wife naked or something.” I looked across the street, where I saw the two remaining idjits were nervously shifting back and forth while they were being similarly questioned. Pot makes you paranoid under the best of circumstances. These two must be freaking out.

  “Does this happen a lot?”

  “Eh, at least once a week.” I took a pull on my beer as I regarded the officer. “Are you new?”

  “No, why do you ask?”

  “I’ve just never seen you before. You look fresh out of the academy.”

  “Ma’am, I’ve been a police officer for a full six months. I ain’t no rookie.” Good grief.

  “I didn’t say that. . . “

  Officer Newsom cut me off. “Ma’am, may I have your name for the report.”

  Well, this should be fun. “Avery Shaw.”

  The officer froze. I could tell he had heard my name before and I was guessing it wasn’t in the best context. I piss off cops in every precinct. Sometimes I do it on purpose. Sometimes it’s purely accidental.

  “The reporter Avery Shaw?”

  “No, the Jedi Knight Avery Shaw.”

  Officer Newsom narrowed his eyes at me dangerously. “Ma’am, it is a crime to impede an investigation.”

  “Well, then take me in,” I stood up and offered my wrists out to be cuffed. “I’m sure Jerry will be thrilled to see this in the paper tomorrow.”

  I had him. Officer Newsom knew that Jerry, aka Police Chief Rhodes, would pitch an absolute fit if I was dragged in – mostly because it would prompt Marvin to delve into some expose on the Roseville Police Department as payback. Marvin may be a hypochondriac with commitment and mental health issues – but he’s loyal as hell.

  “Ma’am, why don’t you go back in your dwelling? The show is over for the night.”

  It sure was.

  The next morning, I sent an email to my boss Fred Fish, detailing what I had learned about Darby and telling him to keep it on the down low. We didn’t want the news to get out to a lot of people – because if the wrong person got wind of the investigation then everyone would find out. Then, if the Polish shyster who covered the cop beat got any information, he’d feed it to the cops because he had a hard-on for law enforcement. Fish agreed that until I had something solid we should keep it quiet. I told him I had tracked down an address for Kevin Walker in Detroit and, while I wasn’t for sure, I believed it was the Kevin Walker we were looking for. He warned me to be careful but sent me along with his blessing and a short admonishment.

  “Remember, these people in that area aren’t going to find your shtick funny,” he warned. “You might want to play it straight instead of . . . well, being your usual obnoxious self.”

  I should have probably been offended, but I think he had a point so I let it go.

  Since I didn’t have to go into the office this morning, I opted for a standard jeans and T-shirt. I’d recently just got Mark Ecko’s new rhinestone studded Stormtrooper T-Shirt from the ‘Star Wars’ line and I’d been dying to wear it. I couldn’t think of a better time.

  According to the information I’d gotten off MapQuest, the Kevin Walker I was looking for was living in an apartment building near the Renaissance Center. My cousin Lexie lived in that area, so I was relatively familiar with the location.

  When I got down there, I realized that not only was the apartment building located near Lexie, but right next door to the building she’d been living in for the past six months. I figured I could stop and see her when I was done. She’s always good for a laugh.

  Walker’s apartment was on the third floor. What was interesting about his building is that it was actually a converted boarding house. That’s what a lot of the apartment buildings in downtown Detroit were – former boarding houses and motels. Lexie’s building was almost exactly the same – although it had a lot of 1920s architecture that at least made it somewhat visually appealing. This place must have been a roach motel when it was first built.

  I opted to take the stairs rather than the elevator. No one wants to climb three flights of stairs, but I also didn’t want to die in a fiery death trap and I thought the odds of that occurring were probably 50-50 when I saw the ancient contraption serving as an elevator. There was no way that was going to happen, I decided.

  By the time I reached the third floor I was debating whether I should have risked the elevator. I’d opted to wear my new Adidas Darth Vader high-tops and they were still a little stiff. I didn’t want to get a blister.

  I made my way down to 3D and knocked on the door. The guy that opened the door had to be the Kevin Walker I was looking for. He was about 5’8” tall and he was wearing jogging pants with no shirt (and one of his nipples was pierced – that had to hurt). He had about a two-day growth of beard and his dirty blonde hair was shaggy and unkempt. Either I had just woken him up or he was on some kind of bender. Given the smell of stale beer that emanated from him – I was starting to think it was the bender.

  I introduced myself and inquired if he was the Kevin Walker that was friends with Darby Pitts. I told him I was just looking for someone to tell us something about her for a follow-up story. I made no mention of drugs or anything that could possibly be misconstrued as bad. I didn’t want to tip my hand before it was necessary. I didn’t think this guy was a drug virgin – but you didn’t just accuse people of being junkies either.

  Kevin Walker just stood there and stared at me for a minute. I think he was trying to comprehend if I was really there or not. Finally, he spoke.

  “Darby and I broke up months ago. What do you want me to say about her?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe how she was a great humanitarian.” I gauged his response. He didn’t really have one.

  “She did a lot for the church.”

  O.K.

  “She was an animal lover, too, I guess.”

  “Yeah.”

  Great, Attila the Mum. I decided to go for broke. “Someone also says she was into drugs. Do you know anything about that?” This would be an example of me leaping before looking. You know, exactly what Fish had warned me about on the phone.

  Kevin Walker looked startled. “Who told you that?” All of a sudden his eyes went narrow and he seemed a lot clearer than he had a few minutes before. This was an interesting turn of events. Why would anyone fake being stoned?

  “I don’t know. Some guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “I don’t know, just some guy at the paper.” I didn’t want to lead Kevin back to Pittsville. His
countenance had suddenly turned him from loser to loose cannon – in my mind at least.

  “Well, it’s not true,” Kevin had somehow managed to gain control of himself. It seemed as if he had waged an inner war and “good Kevin” had won – at least for the time being.

  “Well, that’s a relief.” I figured it was better to act dumb than go back on the attack. Kevin wasn’t the only one who could pretend to be something he wasn’t.

  “You ought not spread lies about people.”

  “I’m not spreading lies,” I protested.

  “You make sure you keep it that way.”

  The next thing I knew, the door was being shut in my face. I guess that was as far as I was going to get with Kevin Walker today.

  Six

  After leaving Kevin Walker’s charming company, I decided to play a hunch. In case you’re wondering, a hunch for me usually consists of a terrible idea that I somehow make worse when I open my mouth. What can I say? It’s a gift. Some people are naturally charismatic. Me? I’m a magnet for certain doom and disaster. I went to the apartment building next door to see if my cousin Lexie might happen to know Kevin Walker – or any of the scumbags I was sure he hung around with. Lexie has eclectic taste in men, clothes and friends. It was at least worth a shot.

  Lexie’s apartment was on the third floor. I opted to climb the stairs again, instead of getting in an antique elevator. I still didn’t want to plunge to my death because of outdated technology. When I knocked on her apartment door, I wasn’t surprised that her most recent boyfriend – I think his name was Javon, but honestly she goes through them so fast it’s hard to keep up – answered the door.