by MF Moskwik
“And do you know if he asked anyone to cover his shift Sunday night?” Izzy asks as she scribbles in her notebook.
“No, I don’t think so. At least not in advance—that would have shown up in the schedule, and our supervisor, Chuck, would have let us know so we could try to pick up the shift.” Gabriela puts down her mug and wrings her hands.
“Does that happen often?” asks Izzy.
Gabriela shrugs. “Larry regularly takes time off, but we always know about it in advance. He’s very responsible and always makes sure his shifts are covered.”
“Is there a reason for the time off?” Izzy probes.
Gabriela pauses and shifts her eyes furtively. “I don’t like to say. It’s not my business.”
Izzy nods and puts down her notebook. “It’s okay, Gabriela. We know about his surgery and about his chronic condition. I would guess that he regularly takes time off for medical reasons related to that?”
Gabriela nods. “But we’re all happy to help out, and he always helps us. I mean, when I started taking classes, if I needed time off to study, Larry helped. Everyone did.”
Izzy picked up her notebook again and resumed taking notes. “So he was well liked by the other custodial staff?”
Gabriela nods. “Well enough. We don’t get much time to spend together—we rotate buildings every two weeks, and if any two of us are assigned in the same building, it’s always to clean different parts of the building. But we know each other. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt Larry.”
“And you, Gabriela? Where were you Sunday night?”
“With my study group. It’s finals week, and we were studying at my classmate’s house.” Gabriela puts down her mug and scribbles an address with a nearby pencil and paper. “You can check with them.”
“I see. Thank you.” Izzy closes her notebook and replaces it her uniform’s pocket. “Well, Gabriela, thank you for your time.”
“No problem, Officer. I’m happy to help anyone at the sheriff’s department with anything,” she says as she walks Izzy to the front door.
“I’ll see you around the station, Gabriela,” Izzy says as she turns to make her good-bye.
Gabriela shakes her head. “Actually, Officer, you won’t. Not for much longer.”
“No?” asks Izzy.
“Next week, I am graduating from my nurse aide class. And I begin work at Phelps Memorial in two weeks!” Gabriela says, beaming.
“Oh. Congratulations,” says Izzy with surprise.
“Thank you. And I’m so glad I get the chance to thank you personally, Officer Swift.”
“Me? For what?” Izzy asks, bewildered.
“For the advice you gave me a few months ago.”
“Advice?” asks Izzy.
Gabriela nods her head. “I don’t know if you remember. It was when you got the results of the detective’s exam?” At Izzy’s shake of her head, Gabriela continues. “You were at your desk, tearing up a letter, and when I asked what it was, you said that it was the letter from the promotions committee, denying you the rank bump.”
Izzy sighs. “That was a tough night.”
Gabriela nods. “You were so angry—you said the promotions committee wanted you to get more experience before they gave you the bump up to Detective.”
Izzy huffs a small laugh. “And I thought that was a bunch of bull, so I tore up the letter and threw it at my waste basket. But I missed.”
“And you covered the floor in trash,” finishes Gabriela. “Thanks for that.”
“Sorry,” Izzy says as she flinches at the memory.
“Don’t be. Because what you said next was something that touched me.”
“What was it?”
“You said that you weren’t going to let a stupid letter stop you. That it was your life, and you weren’t going to let someone else tell you that it was the end of your journey.”
“I did?” asks Izzy.
“You did.” Gabriela laughs. “But it was a little more colorful than that,” she admits.
Izzy laughs ruefully. “I was so upset. Except for getting the letter and ripping it up, I don’t remember anything.”
“But I did. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” With a smile, Gabriela steps out of her home and gently takes one of Izzy’s hands in her own. “The next day, I applied for the nurse aid class. Now I’m finishing, and I’ll start my new job soon. It’s a start, but in two years and with more classes, I will be a nurse, and it’s all because of you.”
Izzy stares at the bright smile of the woman in front of her and feels the warmth of her hands on her own. She’s so happy, Izzy thinks with surprise.
Izzy carefully extracts her hand and, weighing the need for professionalism with the need for trust building, she offers Gabriela a hug. As the two women embrace, Izzy pats Gabriela’s back. “I’m so proud of you, Gabriela. Your success is all yours, and I’m so touched that you told me about it.”
“Thanks, Officer Swift,” Gabriela says as the women separate. “I’m sorry if I wasn’t much help with your case today. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Good luck, Gabriela,” Izzy says, burning the image of the curly-haired, brown-eyed woman in front of her into her brain. I promise I’ll remember you from now on, Gabriella. With a final wave, Izzy turns and returns to her car.
***
Well, that was unexpected, thinks Izzy as she climbs into her car. Once in the driver’s seat, she leans across the gearshift and retrieves the casefile from her go bag.
Her cell phone trills. The label ‘Station,’ flashes on the screen.
Probably Jameson. She opens the casefile and finds the contact list.
The phone continues to trill, and Izzy ignores it until it falls silent.
She scans the file until she finds the contact information she’s looking for. And then, tossing the folder back into the bag, she starts her drive to the next interview.
***
A few minutes later, she pulls her cruiser into the parking lot of a large apartment complex. The landscaping includes a few straggly bushes that look as if they are in need of water, the red brick walls of the buildings are worn, and the automatic metal gate is stuck in the open position.
Izzy pulls up to building D and finds apartment 409. She knocks on the door with two precise raps.
“Jessie, is that you?” bellows a male voice from the inside. The door opens, and a funky smell assaults Izzy’s nose. “You’re not Jessie,” the man at the door mumbles.
“Are you Charles Morgan?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m Officer Swift. Sheriff’s department. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Um, yeah, sure, Officer.” Charles clumsily shuts the door behind him. “Ask away.”
“Last night, my partner and I found Larry Davis unconscious in his home.”
Charles whistles. “Is that so? Man oh man oh MAN! That sucks.”
“Did you know that Larry was in the hospital, Charles?” asks Izzy.
“No, ma’am, I did not, I did not, I did not,” says Charles in a singsong voice.
“And do you know if he asked anyone to cover his shift Sunday night?”
“That he did not, ma’am. Requests for time off need to go through me, two weeks in advance. Same for ev’rybody, no exceptions.”
“So Larry Davis was supposed to be at work on Sunday?” asks Izzy.
“Yup, yup, yup,” replies Charles. His body sways with each syllable, and he laughs at himself.
“Mr. Morgan? Mr. Morgan. Please focus. This is important. Would Larry have given his keys to anyone? Would he have let anyone else in the building that he was scheduled to clean that night?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. Not at all. That is verboten, as they say. Verboten. Prohibido. No-no number 1.” Charles shakes his head as if trying to clear it. “There’s no shenanigans at work, and no unauthorized personnel are allowed in the buildings at any time. No siree. I mean, ma’am.”
; “I see. Thank you,” Izzy says. “And, if I may ask, where were you Sunday night?”
Charles face turns red. “Um, what?” he asks as his eyes begin to dart around frantically.
The hairs on the back of Izzy’s neck stand, and her elbow finds the butt of her gun. “I asked you, Mr. Morgan, where were you Sunday night?”
Charles begins to take small steps to the right. “I, uh—”
“Mr. Morgan, please stay where you are.”
“Uh—” Charles takes a few more steps to the right.
Izzy places her hand on the butt of her gun. “Mr. Morgan, I am questioning you in regards to a crime committed on Sunday night. Stand still, Mr. Morgan, or I will be forced to take you into custody.”
“I gotta go—.” He takes a full step to the right.
“Mr. Morgan!” Izzy yells as she draws her gun.
“I’m sorry! I gotta go!” Charles runs to the apartment gate and takes off down the street.
“Shit.” Izzy holsters her gun and bolts after him. As she runs, she presses the button for her communication radio. “This is Unit 21. Suspect, tall white male, on the run, on foot, heading west on Laurel toward Hawthorne. I need backup.”
Her radio buzzes for a few seconds, and then a familiar voice breaks through. “Unit 21, this is Unit 28. We’re on it.”
Izzy nods imperceptibly and increases her speed. Charles reaches the end of the road and, without looking, throws himself into the intersection.
A car stops just before it hits him, its horn blaring. Charles jumps and skids across the hood of the car and continues his run.
Izzy picks up her radio again. “He’s crossed Laurel and is headed toward the park.” With a flash of her badge toward the stopped car, she runs through traffic and follows Charles into the park.
The sound of sirens signals her backup, and she draws her gun, readying herself for her final confrontation with the suspect.
Charles disappears behind the tall trees that surround the park. In a few seconds, Izzy rounds the trees as well and runs at full speed into public green space.
WHAM! A large, heavy object makes contact with her shoulder, pushing her to the ground.
“Sorry, dude!” Charles calls as he takes off again.
“Damn it!” grunts Izzy as she pushes herself off the ground. She scans the area: there are no civilians, so she could risk using her gun, but the arrival of the squad car on the opposite end of the park makes it unnecessary.
Charles slows at the sight of the police car and turns around, but Izzy blocks his escape. “That’s it, Charles. Now turn around, kneel on the ground, and lace your hands behind your head.”
“Aw, man,” mutters Charles.
“Do it, now!” yells Izzy.
“Police! Do as she says!” yell the two officers as they arrive on the scene.
Izzy jogs up to Charles, places her handcuffs on his wrists, and begins to pat him down. “Mr. Morgan, you’re under arrest.” As she recites his Miranda rights, she finishes checking him for weapons and then hauls him to his feet. “Chang. Edwards. Thanks for the backup.”
“No problem, Swift,” Chang says with a nod of her head.
“Where’s your partner?” asks the middle-aged woman with short blond hair to Chang’s left. “Shouldn’t he be here?”
“I left him back at the station,” admits Izzy.
Edwards grunts her surprise. “What’s his story?” she asks as she jerks her thumb at Charles.
Izzy double checks the handcuffs and starts walking Charles toward their squad car. “I was questioning him about a suspect in the lab break-in, and he took off.”
Edwards takes the other side of Charles and visibly sniffs. “Man. Is he—?”
Izzy nods. “If the smell in his apartment is any indication, yes.”
“Chang!”
“Yes, Sarge?”
“When we get him back to the station?”
“Information, background, prints, and a search, and then confiscation and holding,” recites Chang.
“And?” asks Edwards.
“Possibly under the influence, so blood test and search of the house incident to arrest,” responds Chang.
Edwards nods her approval of Chang’s knowledge of procedure and yields control of the prisoner to the young trainee.
“He’ll need to be questioned about Larry Davis,” Izzy reminds them as they place Charles into the back of the squad car.
“He’ll be ready by 1 p.m., Officer Swift,” responds Chang.
***
When Izzy arrives at the station, Jameson is gone. His laptop is still on the desk, so she figures he will not be gone for long.
At 1 p.m. precisely, she requests that Charles be brought to the interrogation room. A few minutes later, from her seat in the anteroom, she watches as Officer Edwards places Charles in the interrogation room chair and handcuffs his wrists to the table.
The door to the anteroom opens. “Swift.”
“Captain.”
“What have we got?” he asks.
“Charles Morgan, supervisor of the County’s custodial staff. I tried to question him this morning about what happened to Larry, and he ran.”
“Does he have anything to do with the stolen tech?” asks Williams.
“I’m not sure, but he was under the influence when we picked him up, and the search of his house turned up meth.”
“How much?” asks Captain Williams.
“Half a pound.”
The Captain whistles. “Class A felony. That’s ten years.”
“More, if he had intent to sell,” agrees Izzy.
“Well then, you’ve got some leverage to find out if the drugs had anything to do with the theft or with Mr. Davis’ incapacitation, Officer Swift.”
“Sir?” she asks.
“It’s your collar, it’s your show,” he says as he nods toward the interrogation room.
“Oh. Okay.” Izzy takes a moment to square her shoulders.
“Get it done, Officer.”
“Yes, sir,” Izzy says. With a quick, deep breath, she buzzes the lock on the door to the interrogation room and steps through it into the other room.
“Mr. Charles Morgan?” asks Izzy. She hears the door slam shut behind her.
“Officer,” Charles replies matter-of-factly.
“Why’d you run, Mr. Morgan?” she asks as she sits at the table in front of him.
“It was dumb. Dumb! I know. I’m sorry. Sorry!” he mutters as he begins to sway back and forth in his seat.
“Do you know what happened to Larry Davis, Mr. Morgan?” she asks as she leans toward him.
“No, ma’am. And I’m sorry to hear what happened to him.”
“Where were you Sunday night?” she asks.
“Aw, man. I don’t want to say,” he groans as he sways in his seat.
“Mr. Morgan, we searched your house and found half a pound of meth. Possession of that much meth is a Class A felony, Mr. Morgan. Do you know what that means?”
“That the world is not sexy, Officer. Not sexy at all,” he responds.
“It means ten years in jail, maybe fifteen if you were going to sell it, Mr. Morgan,” explains Izzy.
Charles stops swaying in his seat, and his face begins to contort sharply. “Oh, man. Don’t do that to me, man. I can’t do that. I just want to spread the love—that’s not so bad is it?”
“Then tell us what you know, Mr. Morgan. Maybe we can get you a reduced sentence if you cooperate,” offers Izzy.
“I don’t know nothing, man. I’d tell you if I knew—I got nothing to hide. I’m sorry about Larry, I told you, sorry. But I had nothing to do with it.”
“Then what happened Sunday night?”
He began to sway back and forth again. “Larry had the shift, man. Because Charles couldn’t take the shift. Charles had an appointment. An appointment! He had to keep it, man. And that was that.”
“You met with someone, Charles?” Izzy asks. Charles nods. “Who’d you meet
with, Charles?”
“My lady friend. She’d be mad if I said. I just wanted to spread the love, man. This stuff, she gives to me, and then I give to others. I spread it, I give the money to her, and she gives me some love back.”
“Your friend, your distributor—you’re a dealer for her, yes?”
Charles shrugs.
“Was Larry dealing for her too? Is that why he ended up in the hospital?” she asks. “Do you know anything about the theft of the Westchester County labs last Sunday?”
“What? No, man. I told you. I don’t know anything about no theft. It’s all about love, man. I just spread love. But never at work. ‘And never the twain shall meet,’ you know what I’m saying?” he asks. “Larry’s got nothing to do with that, nothing.”
Izzy sighs. She makes a mental note to refer the drug case to vice; helping take down a new distributor in the county would go a long way to repaying her debts with that division and also would be a feather in her cap for promotion. But she is getting nowhere with respect to her theft case. “Last time, Mr. Morgan. Tell me everything you know about Larry.”
“I told you, I don’t know nothing!” he bellows. “Far as I know, Larry’s just some guy, a janitor for county. He’s a vet. Drinks beer. Got some crazy scars from his time in the war. Some ’em still hurt ’cause he’s gotta go in every couple of weeks to the doctor for some reason. Something about medicine. Like that kid from that TV show—opi, opie, ope?”
“Opiates?” asks Izzy.
Charles snaps his fingers. “Yeah, that’s it. Got some crazy thing too, attached to his side. Limits his mobility so he can only take light-duty assignments. It’s like a needle or a tube or a . . .”
“Pump?” supplies Izzy.
Charles nods his head and then places it on the table. “I’m tired, Officer. I don’t know anything else. Can I go home now?”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. But I can see about returning you to your cell.” Izzy stands and turns to leave.
Charles mutters unintelligibly into the crook of his arm on the table.
Izzy spins to face him. “What did you say?” asks Izzy.
“This sucks!” he cries out, sobbing. “I just want to love everyone. Why do you cops keep asking me about the opi? Opie? Ope?”