Buddies

by Kip Cassino

  As he always did, he stood on the balcony, by a low wall, at the top of a stairway. Before him, across a courtyard, stood a magnificent castle-like structure—parapets, enormous arched windows, and turrets glistening in the slowly setting sun. He was in a scene out of the renaissance and dressed accordingly: a cape flowed from his shoulders, and low boots covered his feet. He carried a heavy cane, or had … where was it? He looked around, perplexed. Somehow, the cane was gone. It had to be found. He began to retrace his steps: down the stairs, then across the courtyard past the fountain. There he stopped. Something else was missing now—his cape! Less calm now he looked around the courtyard, silent and still as ever. He rushed back toward the stairs he had just descended, began to mount them—and looked down to see that one of his boots was now gone as well.

  As Pauley darted around the empty courtyard, more clothing vanished. Finally, he found himself cowering under a massive archway with no clothes at all. Now he heard movement, almost a sigh of wind. Someone, something was coming. As it turned the corner, he saw all the clothes he now lacked, now worn by—something, someone he could never quite see. As it confronted him, he knew that every atom of him would soon be gone as well. There would be nothing left. He opened his mouth to scream …

  … and found himself in a burning room. Everything in the room was on fire, including Pauley himself. He crawled along the floor, trying to find air to breathe in the inferno as he searched for a way to escape it. As he crawled, he bumped into objects. They could not be identified, except as masses of flame. He screamed and moaned as he pushed himself along the smoldering floor. One side of him was already seared numb from the effort. He thought he saw an opening, a place not yet burning, and forced himself to move toward it through the incredible pain he felt. Yes! It was there, right before him now. He gathered last resources to flee the fire, but as he did something grabbed his legs. Something was pulling him back into the inferno. Mewling and gibbering, he cast about for something to hold, anything to resist the steady pressure that was sliding him back into the terrible burning place. He looked back, to see who or what was doing this terrible act and saw himself, glowing, incandescent, laughing. He cried out … and awoke, still screaming.

  The Captain handed him a cold, damp washcloth. “Time to get up, Pauley,” he said gently. “We’re going to have to get moving.”

  *****

  Two Weeks Later

  Cardiff and Medina sat with their lieutenant, going over case load. The clock on the wall said a little after nine a.m. The temperature outside was already touching eighty. It was going to be another scorcher.

  “What about the Tanner murder?” the lieutenant asked, thumbing through the file. It was one of many on his desk.

  The two detectives looked at each other. “We got nothing,” Medina finally said.

  “He’s got no family we can find,” Cardiff explained. “His place is a little rathole off Shannon. Nothing there but dirty clothes and empty beer bottles. No gang or drug activity on record. Worked as a bouncer at a local bar. No friends who want to admit it. Born in San Diego. Drifted here with the wind a few years ago. That’s about it for Mr. Tanner.”

  “We thought we had a lead on the cook, Abbott,” Medina continued. “We checked with Tucson Electric Power. They gave us an address―about half a mile from the convenience store, it turns out. Empty when we got there. Landlord says he hasn’t seen Abbott or his buddy for several days. We did get some prints, though.”

  “Abbott had a buddy?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Apparently so,” said Cardiff. “At least, somebody who shared the rent. No I.D. on him, either. So far, we’ve come up bone dry. One clue left to look into. The murder weapon was nothing we’ve seen before. A very particular kind of knife. Coroner couldn’t identify it, so we sent photos of the wounds to the Southern Regional Crime Lab. They say it’s a Ka-Bar.”

  “That the one the Marines get?”

  “Yep. It’s got a blade shape that makes it unique. There’s got to be thousands of them around, but they are issued to the Marines. Maybe Abbott was in the Corps.”

  “Seems worth checking.”

  “It’s all we’ve got, right now,” Medina said. “Looks like Abbott has left town.”

  The lieutenant nodded. “You guys have plenty more caseload,” he said. “Pass this file to Sarah Won’t. See if she can match it to crimes in other jurisdictions. Get on with the rest of your work.”

  During her five years with the Pima County Sheriff’s Department, computer technician Sarah Wontioski had become a legend. Petite and well proportioned, she wore her long raven hair in a series of complicated buns. Her glasses did not hide her big blue eyes, nor the freckles that dusted her nose and cheeks. Sarah was drop dead beautiful, the amorous target of scores of deputies, all trying mightily to win her favors. Sarah enjoyed their company, danced and dated, and even accepted a fervent kiss from time to time―but nothing more. Hence the nickname she carried with pride: Sarah Won’t.

  Sarah’s work fascinated her, though many might have found it boring. She searched databases from police departments, state and federal agencies across the country, looking for other crimes committed by people in Pima County custody, or for crimes reported in other places similar to those done locally. Crime rates were rising. The nation’s population aged and yearned for warmer climates as they did. When northerners moved south and west, they brought their predators, parasites, and scavengers along. In earlier days, before computers had described the nation, trails of crime would often fall away, remembered and recorded only in the places where they had been perpetrated―like insects frozen in amber. Sarah’s job was to discover those trails. She was very good at it.

  After studying the Tanner file, she began scanning the nation’s electronic law enforcement records for similar crimes―assaults and murders committed by drifters, no robbery or sexual assault involved, using a large or Ka-Bar knife. Her primary tool was NIBRS, the national incident-based crime report database. She also scanned the Crime Data Explorer, which holds records from almost half of the nation’s police forces, sixteen thousand agencies in all. Between these two, Sarah found more than a thousand records from the past decade that might relate to the murder just committed in Tucson.

  She checked further, gathering additional local information about the descriptions in the records that looked promising from the agencies that had reported them. She eliminated perpetrators who were currently incarcerated or who had died, which narrowed the search to less than two hundred possibilities. These Sarah examined individually, looking for parallels between each and the Tanner murder―or details that would remove any from consideration. The process was grueling and time-consuming. Without her knowledge of computers and data management, it would have been impossible.

  Finally, after almost a week’s work, a pattern began to emerge from the enormous collection of information Sarah had sifted. A description began to coalesce. The combined data depicted a badly-scarred man, sometimes with an accomplice, who had crisscrossed the nation for the past decade. He took menial jobs, often in food service, and called himself “Pauley,” or “Paddy.” He was wanted for questioning in conjunction with four still-unsolved murders, all of which occurred near places where he was working at the time. In every case, the man had vanished before authorities could question him. The victims were always men. None of them were robbed. The weapon was always some kind of large knife, specifically described on two occasions as a Ka-Bar. Pleased with her work, Sarah Won’t presented the information she’d found to Medina and Cardiff.

  “You did a great job, as usual, Sarah,” Medina told her. “Looks like our pal Pauley has a lot of people looking for him.”

  “Look at this,” Cardiff said, pointing to the file. “Aberdeen, South Dakota; Elko, Nevada; Clovis, New Mexico; El Paso, Texas. This guy gets around.”

  Sarah nodded, beaming.

  “Yeah, and n
ow here,” Medina said, shaking his head. “Only trouble is, it means this one’s not local. Not anymore. We’re going to have to call in the Feds. I’ll go tell the lieutenant.”

  Chapter 2

  Grand Junction, Colorado

  Three Weeks After the Tanner Murder

  The Captain had spent the day at the vet center, looking for work. He had found a gig for himself and was now poring through the listings, trying to find something for Pauley. It had taken them a while to get here. The map said less than seven hundred miles. Lines on paper couldn’t show the way it felt out on the road.

  They’d started out by bus from Tucson, through the paved monstrosity of Phoenix. Their destination was Prescott. Bus tickets all the way to their Moab, Utah destination were too dear. Some money had to be left in the kitty for food and emergencies. They’d have to walk or thumb the rest of their journey. Before they could do that, they had to find a Veteran’s Administration hospital and stock up on meds. Pauley’s supply was almost gone. The lithium carbonate he depended upon to keep his mind switched to low could not be allowed to run out. The Captain himself was better off, but needed Tegretol and Sertraline to keep himself stable as well. With no clear reckoning of where they’d find their vital drugs next, it was wise to keep a good stock in hand.

  A V.A. visit meant as much as a day in queues and waiting rooms. They’d have to find a local place to stay for the night. The bus had pulled into Prescott at the Greyhound terminal on Sheldon Street as afternoon turned to evening. Too late to go to the V.A. today. There were several homeless shelters in town, and the Captain knew about some of them. Forever Blessed was closest to their goal, about a twenty-minute walk up Gurley to Robinson Drive. He woke Pauley. The men left the bus, collected their backpacks and started off.

  Their pace was set by Pauley, so they walked slowly along Prescott’s midtown sidewalks. Spirited rush hour traffic flashed past them in the deepening golden dusk. Higher and cooler, the town’s weather was a welcome relief from the pounding heat of a Tucson summer. The streets they walked were not upscale. Like many western communities, Prescott was brightest and newest at its perimeter. In many interior areas, homes and shops were worn and dusty. They were rented rather than owned, occupied rather than maintained.

  Forever Blessed Mission and Shelter fit well here. In the past, the structure must have been a restaurant and adjoining motel. Now it was a soup kitchen and a shelter. Prayer services were held in what had been the restaurant’s dining room, officiated from a low pulpit near the server’s entrance to the kitchen―every morning and evening, before meals were dispensed. The tables that lined the room held prayer books for each of their fifty seats. The books were tattered and grimy from constant use. Each of the words held in the books had been uttered countless times, until they seemed to permeate the thin plywood walls around them. The people who held the books did so from hunger and the need for shelter, not from any hint of religious zeal. Most had long since stopped begging God to help them. Their collective time horizon was immediate: food and a safe place to sleep tonight was its boundary. Tomorrow’s needs were beyond imagination.

  Pauley and the Captain entered the shelter after evening prayers had begun. A burly doorkeeper nodded them through, and let them deposit their packs inside the door. They made their way to some seats in the rear of the room, picked up their prayer books and began to mumble their chants in concert with the rest of the gathering around them. Like everyone else, their attention was locked on the words they recited. There was no eye contact within the crowded chamber.

  Soon enough, the prayers were over. The man behind the pulpit spoke hollow words in strident tones. The need for all to accept God’s grace, the need to look up and forward, the need to conquer inner demons, were all prominent. He might as well have been speaking another language. Those before him wanted only full stomachs and rest. They hoped he would finish quickly. When he did, they collectively muttered “Amen,” and shuffled to form a queue, anticipating the meal all had awaited.

  Because they had arrived late, Pauley and the Captain were at the rear of the food line. Still, they were better off than many in front of them. They had eaten earlier in the day. Windows slid open at the back of the room, revealing the steaming serving lines. Worn plastic bowls and cutlery were grabbed, and thrust in front of servers. The bowls were filled with steaming dollops of what might be thin goulash or thick soup, depending upon the recipient’s point of view. Definitions aside, it was warm and edible―and quickly consumed. Hard rolls helped diners wipe the last drops of nourishment from their bowls. Most were done eating within ten minutes after finding a seat. Coffee, tea, “jungle juice,” and water were also available, as were small baked goods. The room’s silence was punctuated only by the scrape of plastic spoons against bowls, or an occasional muffled eructation. The mission’s diners were far too intent on filling their stomachs to engage in conversation.

  Dinner completed, bowls and cutlery were quickly collected. Another, shorter, prayer time followed, where The Lord was thanked for his bounty and all were offered His peace. As soon as the last “Amen” had tumbled from audience mouths, all rose and trooped from the dining room, assigned their sleeping places as they left. The whole process was completed in less than an hour―almost military in its efficient use of time.

  Since they had been among the last arrivals and the mission was almost full, both Pauley and the Captain were asked to use their sleeping bags instead of some of the few remaining cots available. That way, it was explained, some space for the evening’s emergencies would remain. The men agreed. The floor of the room they were shown to would be just as comfortable as a stiff canvas cot. They unrolled their bags and settled down for the night. Pauley was asleep almost instantly. The Captain remained awake for several hours, keeping watch. Thievery was rampant in places like Forever Blessed. Sound sleepers might wake in the morning to find some or all of their meager possessions gone. Their robbers looked mostly for money, but they’d collect almost anything they found. Even shoes were sometimes taken. The night passed, its silence punctuated by the snores, whimpers, and shouts of those slumbering in the mission’s cribs. Many, like Pauley, slept heavily. Just as many battled demons in their dreams, just as the Captain did almost every night.

  The men woke early, packed, and left the mission as the sun rose―eschewing the promise of prayer and porridge. They had enough money for food if they grew hungry, and the rule at any V.A. hospital was first in meant first served. The later they arrived, the longer both would languish in waiting rooms.

  After almost half an hour’s walk, Pauley and the Captain stood at the entrance to the massive white building that was the area’s Veteran’s Administration hospital. The place had a history. Originally named Fort Whipple, it had been a major base in the Army’s twenty-year war against the Native Americans of the west. After that, the fort became headquarters for the Rough Riders, before they shipped to Cuba. Eventually the facility evolved into a sanatorium, and then became one of the nation’s first hospitals dedicated to the care of veterans. None of this mattered to either man. Each had visited scores of V.A. facilities. To them, all were basically alike: isolated groups of dedicated healers surrounded by a nearly impenetrable shell of callous, stultifying bureaucracy.

  They waited in line to be checked in. The Captain made sure they both had their V.A. cards out and ready. The scannable plastic cards were their keys. With them, their path through the edges of the V.A. labyrinth today would be relatively smooth. Without them, a bureaucratic web would descend and trap them for hours or days.

  When Pauley was called to the “triage” desk, the Captain went with him. He explained to a disinterested clerk that his friend was on heavy medication, and needed more―and that they were travelling together. It was still early, so the man they spoke with had not yet been confronted with the bulk of his day. He remained reasonable, even helpful. “All you guys need is meds?” he asked.
/>   The Captain smiled, and nodded.

  “O.K.,” the clerk said, handing him some paperwork. “Veterans in transit. Take these forms with you to the pharmacy. They’ll take care of you there.”

  This pharmacy was housed in a cavernous, high-walled room furnished with hundreds of seats. A small machine on a pedestal dispensed numbered tickets to all who entered. Pauley and the Captain got theirs and found places to sit in a corner. At some point, their numbers would be called and they would proceed to the pharmacist’s booth indicated. There were four, but only two were in use. Until then, the men sat and waited―along with scores of others who soon filled the room.

  There were magazines strewn around the room for the waiting throng to read―mostly old V.A. journals. Television sets were mounted high on the walls, showing soundless morning programming. Neither Pauley nor the Captain talked much. They sat in silence, waiting for their numbers to be called. They had arrived early, so their wait was relatively short. Within an hour, Pauley’s number was announced and they were beckoned to a booth.

  The man the booth looked up as two patients sat in front of his desk. A large computer monitor partially obscured him from their sight. The Captain handed him the forms he’d received earlier, along with several empty amber plastic containers. These had held their now-depleted medications. “We’re travelling,” he said simply. “We need refills on these.”

  “You’re together?” the pharmacist asked.

  The Captain nodded. “My friend is heavily medicated,” he said. “I help him out. We’re travelling up to Moab, Utah, to see his uncle.”

  Their interrogator picked up one of the containers he’d been given and studied it, then keyed an entry to his computer. “You’re out of Tucson, Mr. … Abbott?”

  “He’s Abbott,” the Captain said. “I’m Taws. Vernon Taws. I’m out of Tucson as well.”