by E. R. Mason
Markman sat to one side of the very large oak desk, facing the overstressed chancellor behind it. To his right sat a third person, someone unexpected. The university had called in the FBI.
Agent Ann Rogers wore a dark, very well fitting suit that could almost have been worn by a man. Not a hair was out of place. It was kept short, and perfectly captured. Her makeup was light and precisely applied. She was thin-lipped and had a narrow, terse stare. Markman knew he was dealing with a perfectionist.
To his relief, the meeting was kept short. Agent Rogers was devoting her efforts to the computer breach, and only needed an overview of Dr. Cassell’s absence. Markman reassured them that foul play was very unlikely. Dr. Cassell’s daughter was across the hall in the waiting room, and she agreed that some extraordinary opportunity had probably popped up and her father had taken off on the spur of the moment hoping to capitalize on it. They listened patiently and expressed reassurance at that. But, Markman had felt Agent Rogers studying him out of the corner of her eye. It would not be long before she was between him and the case of the missing Doctor.
The ride home was moody. Cassiopia stared quietly out the passenger window as though she were in deep thought about something. Markman draped one hand over the steering wheel and tried to relax. When the convenience store near the house came into view, he decided to stop to replenish the Cassell supply of coffee, an item that had been in frequent demand lately. They parked directly in front of the glass storefront, next to a beat-up old pickup truck. Inside the store, a heated argument was going on between the lone clerk and a grumpy-looking male customer. The two were at odds across the checkout counter and the situation appeared to be worsening.
Markman cast an annoyed look at his passenger. “Everywhere I go lately,” he said.
“You don’t have to go in,” she retorted sarcastically.
He climbed from the car, keeping a watchful eye on the escalating dispute, while Cassiopia waited and observed. The muted voices quickly changed from insistent to cutting as he pushed his way inside. He recognized the cashier as the older gentleman who had mistaken him for someone else just a few days earlier. The gray-haired man eyed Markman with a worried look while trying to maintain his posture in the volatile exchange.
“Listen, by law I cannot sell you this. If you go back out on the road and kill somebody, they’d hang me too,” the merchant insisted while tapping the cap of the bottle that sat on the counter top.
“I ain’t drunk and you’re gonna sell me this or you’re goin’ through that plate glass winda’, head first,” slurred the red-faced customer.
Markman glanced out the window at Cassiopia and rolled his eyes in disgust. He came up beside the two men. “Excuse me, can you tell me where the coffee is?”
The intoxicated patron turned abruptly and snarled, “Now who the hell asked you to butt in, asshole?”
Markman quietly shook his head, “No, I just need some coffee, that’s all. It’s cool.”
The glassy-eyed customer swayed slightly, keeping one hand on the counter for balance. He tilted his head as though to belch, but nothing happened. He turned back to the clerk. “Ring it up, right now, or I’ll beat your ass.”
Markman interrupted. “Sir, are you driving that pickup parked out there?”
“I told you to bug off.”
“Did he just drive up in that?” asked Markman of the old man behind the counter. He had taken a step back and folded his arms in front of him.
“Yes, he did.”
“Hey, you know that thing qualifies for classic tags? That thing’s probably worth some money. Mister, why don’t you step outside with me and let me take a look at it. I might be interested.”
Markman’s body had already tightened up.
“For the last time,” answered the unsteady man. “Get out of my face. I about had it with you.”
Markman had only to touch the man’s left shoulder, and the melee began. The drunk’s right fist shot up at Markman’s face but was slow and uncoordinated, hardly even a challenge. Markman leaned back almost casually without taking his eyes off him, and let the misguided punch sail harmlessly past. The off-balance motion caused the drunk to spin around and fall forward on the counter, wiping out a display rack of CDs and the colorful cardboard signs that urged their sale. The displaced entourage crashed to the floor and scattered everywhere on the slick tile.
Markman braced his right hand and body weight against the man’s back and pinned him to the counter. He got control of the dirty, flailing left arm and wrenched it up behind, capturing him in an arm lock, but being careful not to harm him. This man was probably a decent person when sober, and who was to say his reasons for drinking weren’t painfully severe, thought Markman.
“If you open the door, I’ll take him outside,” he said to the storekeeper, who quickly responded by racing around from behind the protective counter and pushing open one of the heavy glass doors.
“Damn-son-a-bitch ain’t got nothin’ better to do but harass innocent citizens--.” The drunk continued to mumble incoherently, all the way out of the store. Markman carefully guided him to the front fender of the Mustang, directly in front of a wide-eyed Cassiopia, and bent him part way over the hood.
“Cass, under the driver’s seat, there’s a big tie-wrap.”
Cassiopia looked back blankly with an expression that said, “Who, me?” but then finally regained enough composure to fumble around under the seat and hand two long plastic tie-wraps out the partly open passenger window. Markman quickly cinched up the man’s hands behind his back. To everyone’s dismay, he had begun to sing.
Subdued, the drunk began slobbering on the car and looked back at Cassiopia. His eyes immediately widened. He grinned a wretched grin and struggled to speak, though it took several seconds for his mouth to form the words.
“Casey, you livin’ doll, where ya been all my life? I coulda’ watched you all night. What a body on that girl,” he said, twisting back to look back at Markman.
“Cass, I don’t want to let go. You have your cell?”
Cassiopia nodded.
“911 for the Sheriff’s Department, will you, please?” said Markman in a tone that begged tolerance.
Though she felt more like hiding, Cassiopia scrambled to comply. On her phone, she waited for a dispatcher and then stammered her way through the request. “Yes, we’re at the convenience store on—ah—Amber Ave. There’s an intoxicated man here. We need a police officer right away.” Cassiopia finally stuttered thanks to the dispatcher, clicked off the phone, and scowled at Markman as though she should not have had to do that.
The drunk started up again. “You’re the best, baby, where ya dancin’ at next? I mean to be there, I’ll tell you that--.”
Markman guided the wobbly soul to the back of the car in an attempt to save his companion further embarrassment. “You got the wrong girl, buddy.”
“The hell I have,” replied the man almost coherently, “She was at the Forum, dancin’ center stage, more than an hour last night. I may be drunk but I wouldn’t forget that. Come to think of it, that’s how I got this drunk...watchin’ her!”
Within two minutes, a patrol car entered the parking lot and two uniformed officers got out to survey the situation. They came to the car and the younger of the two took possession of the half-conscious offender. Markman stepped off to the side with the senior man and recounted the story.
“So you think he really would’ve popped the clerk?” asked the officer.
“The old man was looking for a chance to call for you guys. I think he was afraid to pull out the phone.”
“What’re you, some kind of security guard or something?”
“I was an auxiliary a while back, but I don’t do that anymore. I’m sure you know Parrish. He’s a close friend.”
“Yeah, Parrish is a good man. We’ve worked together. He’s an old battleax, ain’t he?”
“I wouldn’t say that to his face.”
The officer laughed. “You do know
Parrish, don’t you. Hey, wait a minute! I heard a story about a part-timer taking a bullet for Parrish once. You wouldn’t be.…”
“That story’s a little exaggerated. I wouldn’t take too much stock in it.”
“Son of a bitch, that was you wasn’t it? No wonder you didn’t go full time.”
“Hey listen, can you see that they take it easy on this guy. I got a feeling he’s having some kind of really bad time. He was drunk out of his mind in that store, but he was trying to buy more. Must be something pulling him down.”
“Sure, I’ll see what I can do.” They watched as the younger officer pushed down on the drunk’s head to get him into the back seat of the patrol car.
“One other thing, I know this is a lot to ask. Could you keep my name off of your report? You know, just say local citizens restrained the guy until you got there, or something. I’d prefer this guy never see my name in print if you know what I mean.”
“I guess I can do that for you, Scott. I’ll bounce that off Parrish though.”
“That’s all I could ask. Thanks for coming out.”
“Thank you,” replied the officer. Markman shook his hand and they parted ways.
Markman stopped at Cassiopia’s open window. “I’ll spend the rest of the day trying to figure out how I could have avoided all that.”
“Well your first mistake was being you,” she replied comically.
They watched the patrol car pull away. Markman hoped the prisoner inside would spend a peaceful twenty-four hours in the city drunk tank, and forget they had ever met.
Chapter 27