Crossing the Line

by Hugh Macnab

  I remove the glass topper and take a sniff. I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but I think it’s the same as I detected in Jason’s apartment.

  I lift the magazines and find three small clear bags with white powder inside. I guess cocaine, but forensics will tell me the answer to that. I shout the technician back in and tell him specifically to bag these up while I continue to look around.

  There’s a dressing table in the far corner, but it seems like Miss Wilson didn’t believe in make up. There’s hair spray, several face creams, and that’s about it. A woman of simple needs - at least in her personal life. Maybe any other needs she had were being fulfilled in her professional life?

  On the way out, Arnie’s assistant is giving instruction on Miss Wilson’s removal. I sidestep my way out the front door, and head for my pool-car. Just walking towards it reminds me of my transport problem. I already know a bank-loan is out of the question, and the limits on my credit cards won’t cover what I need. Maybe I have to seriously consider a cycle. Then, I imagine turning up last at a crime scene and everyone laughing. No, I need a car of some description.

  I decide to stop by my friendly garage on the way home and talk through the options. He had already kept my previous car alive way longer than I would have thought possible. Eventually, the cost of further repair wasn’t worth it and it had to go.

  First, I have to fill in the incident report for Pamela Wilson’s death, and start a second case book. When there are multiple homicides in a case, the District Attorney’s office insists we keep separate case books. That way at least we’re giving each victim the same respect and attention.

  Then I’ll worry about a car.

  9

  The conversation at the garage goes better than I expect. Jonny, who owns the place, says that his daughter has an old banger but can’t afford the insurance anymore as she’s going to college. It’s a Honda Civic, one-point-six liter, two-door in metallic blue. Hey, at four hundred bucks it could have been puke colored and I would still bite his hand off.

  I’ll have to ask my parents for the money. They’ll have no problem with that, but I will. It’s always the same. I run out of cash. They bale me out. I’m thirty-six, for God’s sakes. I carry my education round my neck like a fucking anchor. I’ll go see them tomorrow.

  Having missed my morning run, I quickly change into my running gear and add a light-weight wind-cheater. After the sun goes down, it gets chilly in February. I’ll be glad of the extra warmth. It also helps cover my shield and Glock. Since I started wearing them when I run, I always feel very self-conscious.

  I leave the apartment and head west towards the gulf, then turn north. Going this way, I can run for as long as I like. Tonight I’m planning on around ten miles, so five up, and five back. It doesn’t happen.

  I’m only a couple of blocks north when I notice a woman shouting at someone I assume to be her teenage daughter. Wrong again.

  As I get closer, I can see they’re actually tussling over a purse with long straps.

  The teenager wins the battle, turns and starts running in my direction, but when she sees me, she turns again and starts to run away from me. The woman is screaming after her from the car park. Shouting that the girl has stolen her purse.

  Even though my knee isn’t a hundred percent yet, I’m still a damn fine runner, so I set off after the youngster. She must have heard me coming as she ups her pace, I not only keep up but start rapidly closing the gap. Looking over her shoulder, she sees the problem and makes what turns out to be a foolish decision. She suddenly hooks a right into an alley. A dead-end alley. There’s a ten foot high meshed fence directly in front of her. She stops and turns. I stop ten paces away and lift my wind-cheater to flash my badge.

  I expect her to be around seventeen or eighteen, but she isn’t. More like fourteen or less. Skinny. No breasts showing yet. Long hair could do with a wash. Intelligent eyes.

  I watch her think. She’s weighing up the possibilities. As I see it, she only has two options. Turn and try to get far enough up the fence before I catch her, or give herself up. I’m wrong. She has three.

  She pulls a kitchen knife from the back of her trousers and points it in my direction.

  I play her at her own game, pull my Glock and point it right back at her.

  We stand like that for an eternity. She has no idea what to do. I don’t want to shoot her, but I’ve learned not to mess around with someone pointing a knife at you. Regardless of how old she may be. One of us will break, and it’s not going to be me.

  She seems to come to the same conclusion and drops the knife. I walk slowly towards her, lowering my Glock. When I’m almost there, she throws the purse in my face and tries to dash past me. I duck and in the same movement hook her arm and spin her around. Before she knows what’s happening, I have both hands behind her back and tie-wrapped.

  I turn her round and examine her more closely. I think fourteen is maybe on the high side. Without the knife, she’d morphed into a tearful adolescent. Probably more like twelve. An age she would later confirm.

  I frisk her quickly, just in case she has any more surprises for me. She doesn’t. In fact, she has nothing at all. No cash, no cell, nothing. Just empty pockets. I bend down, pick up her knife and stuff it down the back of my running pants, then reach down for the woman’s purse. It’s faux-leather. Nothing expensive. But it isn’t the girl’s to have. She hasn’t had time to open it, so I assume the contents will still be intact. It’s time to find out more about her, so I start with the straightforward stuff.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  She mumbles her response, making me repeat the question.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Trace.’

  ‘Trace what?’

  ‘Just Trace. I don’t have no other name.’

  ‘Everyone has a second name, Trace.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Okay, Trace. Where do you live?’

  ‘Around.’

  ‘Vague, Trace. Care to be more specific?’

  ‘Just around.’

  ‘You live with your parents?’

  ‘Ain’t got none.’

  She enjoys brief sentences. I get that. This is going to be hard work.

  ‘How about we give this purse back to its owner, then decide what we’re going to do with you?’

  She shrugs her bony shoulders. ‘Suit yourself.’

  She has a young teenager’s attitude, for sure. Deciding I would not get anymore right then, I do as I’ve suggested and march her back down the few blocks we had run until we get to the car park. The woman is still there, waiting hopefully, I guess.

  I whisper in Trace’s ear. ‘You’re going to apologize. Say your sorry and hope she doesn’t want me to write you up. You hear me?’

  The girl grunts.

  When we arrive in front of the woman, I hand her the purse and explain that I didn’t think the girl had been inside. The woman didn’t believe me as she immediately opens it and starts checking the contents.

  Seemingly happy, she stares at the girl.

  ‘I think the girl has something to say to you,’ I say, nudging the girl with my hip.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Not the most heart-felt apology I’m hoping for, but at least it’s an attempt, and the woman seems to accept it.

  ‘Don’t you go trying that again, young girl.’

  Without another word, she turns and heads towards one of the apartment blocks next to the car park. Leaving me thinking a simple thanks might have been nice. Fuck her.

  She’s dumped her problem on my shoulders and just walked away. Now I have to decide what to do with the girl. I look at her.

  ‘You eaten today?’

  We walk in silence to the next block west, where I know there’s an all-night diner. Just before we enter, I remove the tie, free her wrists and tell her not to try anything stupid.

  Inside, we take a booth, and I hand her one of the plastic encapsulated menus.

  ‘O
rder whatever you want,’ I tell her, realizing that I’ve hardly eaten all day either. I’m hungry. She’s ravenous.

  I drink coffee with several top-ups. She does the same with the 7Up. When the food comes, there’s barely enough room on the tabletop. Between us, we demolish everything. Before we entered, I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing. Now I am. I don’t think she’s seen food for quite some time.

  After the waitress clears our table, we have one more top-up of our drinks and stare at each other, neither of us knowing where the conversation is going. Again, she breaks first.

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’

  I sit back, studying her. I guess that makes me look clever or something, but the truth is, I have no idea what is about to come out of my mouth. This stuff isn’t exactly covered in 101 basic training. I think I’ll prove I am clever and turn the tables. If you don’t know what to say, ask someone else.

  ‘What do you think should happen?’

  ‘You arrest me and I go back into the system.’

  My first two clues. She’s already been in the system, and right now, she isn’t. I’ve a runaway on my hands. There’s only one responsible route for me now. I take her in and enter her into the juvie justice system. Where she’ll probably initially go into a juvie offender public facility. After that, she may or may not enter a 24/7 residential shelter, or a reform school. If it’s the latter, at least she can continue her education.

  ‘What happened to your parents?’

  ‘Never had no dad. Mom was a gang-banger till she died. Never cared for me.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Sex, drugs and rock n’roll she used to say. Never heard her listen to music in my life.’

  ‘You ran away?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you? Laying in bed at night listening to different guys banging your mum. Her screaming, how much she was enjoying it. You come out in the morning, and some guy’s still wandering around. Wants to touch you up.’

  ‘How long have you been on your own?’

  ‘I’m not on my own.’

  ‘Who are you with?’

  ‘There’s a group of us. We look out for each other.’

  ‘This group. Where do you sleep?’

  ‘We got a place. It’s crappy, but it’s our home.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  I look at her for an answer, but it’s clear she isn’t giving her friends up. All I’ve found out is interesting, but it hasn’t helped me decide what to do with her. I’m only too well aware of horror stories in the juvie system. It’s way short of perfect, and I’m not convinced she would be any better off. I ask her if she’s had enough to eat, then walk her out and tell her to follow me.

  Another two blocks inland, there’s a 24/7 that sells just about anything and everything a person could want. The shelves have shelves in this place, and they pack every square inch real high. I nudge her ahead of me and step inside.

  It only takes thirty seconds to pick out what I want. Apparently, throwaway cells are so popular here, they store them right at the check-out, where they would normally sell kids sweets. It makes me wonder about the clientele they’re expecting. Anyway, I buy a throwaway, open it and make sure it powers up. Program in a number I know by heart. I should. It’s my own. Then hand it to the girl.

  ‘You need me. You call, got it?’

  She stares first at the cell in her hand, then at my face as if checking that I’m serious.

  ‘You letting me go?’

  ‘You got a better idea?’

  ‘No, but your a cop?’

  ‘Off duty.’

  ‘Still…’

  ‘If you got a better idea, I’d be glad to hear it.’

  I swear she’s about to well up, so I turn and start to walk away. She shouts after me.

  ‘Can I have my knife?’

  I keep walking, not at all sure about what I’ve just done.

  10

  First thing I do in the morning. I sweet-talk the duty sergeant into letting me keep the pool-car one more day. Two homicides. People to go see. Lots of travel required.

  Afterwards, I head upstairs and stop at the Juvie desk. I know a sergeant there really well and want to just talk through what I’ve done with Trace the night before. Carol is definitely one of the good guys, but she works in a heavily regulated area.

  My luck is good. Not only is she in and available, she’s heading for a coffee. I don’t need to be asked. Of course I join her.

  Unlike our coffee-making area, Juvie have a room with comfortable seats. Used to be the smoking room. Not now. I never smoked, but I enjoy comfortable seats.

  When we have our coffees, I take her through the events of the previous evening, up to and including Trace asking me for her knife back. Then sit back to see what Carol is going to say. I can see the reprimand in her expression before she says squat. I’m prepared for that. What I want is what comes next.

  I’m spot on. She rips a new one for me. Then sits back and asks how much I know about the girl’s previous involvement in the system. I tell her the truth - virtually nothing. Next she asks if I can look through some photographs and maybe pick her out. I say I’ll give it my best shot.

  She disappears for a few minutes, leaving me wondering what will happen if I manage to identify the girl. I don’t reach any conclusion before she comes back carrying two heavy binders.

  She opens the first. There are six pictures per page, and I guess around a hundred pages in each book. So with lightning speed, I ask if there are really twelve-hundred kids who have fallen out of the system in Collier county?

  She gives me one of those don't be stupid looks over the top of her glasses. I start turning pages.

  Twelve hundred sounds like a lot, but when you’re looking at double pages, twelve at a time, it doesn’t take long.

  Trace is in the second book, halfway through. Her full name is Tracy Elaine Shaw. According to the file, she’s now twelve. Much of the information about her family is as she had told me. The only new info is that her mother had eventually committed suicide, or at least OD’d, leaving Trace in the care of an uncle. That only lasted a few days before she disappeared, and ended up in the system for dealing drugs a month later.

  After that, she has a string of minor offenses - shoplifting, more purse theft and breaking into cars. She’s been in and out of the detention and care system ever since. That’s the past three years.

  She’s down as having absconded from a residential care home. I’ve previously seen some of these, and can’t say I blame her.

  Carol tells me that given the girl’s track-record, I’m lucky I hadn’t given her the knife back. That could have had serious consequences. I get that. As for useful advice, Carol came up light. Whatever might happen with Trace, it’s clear I’m on my own and will have to figure it on the fly. Maybe she’ll never call. I doubt it. She has a homicide detective on speed-dial. Who wouldn’t want to use that?

  Up in my cubicle, there’s a note from the medical examiner telling me the autopsy on Pamela Wilson would start around ten. I just have time to get some help with some further investigation I want done. I wander round the department looking for someone who doesn’t look busy and I settle on Matty White. He’s halfway through a tasty donut when I knock on his cubicle wall and invite myself in.

  Caught with a mouthful, he wipes at his mouth with a paper towel and swallows too quickly. Spluttering, he gulps some coffee and sits back, at least pretending to be back in control. I avoid smiling. Only just.

  He accepts his mission with good grace. Most of the guys never acknowledge my second-grade status, unless I ask them if they would do something for me. I ask him to go to the All American Sports Bar and get their security footage for the seven nights prior to Mark Jason’s homicide. I want to find out if Pamela Wilson was there, and if she hooked up with the three musketeers - Mark, Xavier and Tyrone. If she did, was this a one-off, or a regular thing. Also, which night or nights was she there that week? I tell him all the de
tails he will need are in the case book for Mark Jason in my office.

  Leaving him seemingly happy to oblige, I head downstairs for the autopsy.

  It doesn’t matter how many of these you see, or smell. You never truly get used to it. Since the Covid-19 epidemic, things had improved in that we can no longer be in the same area as the medical examiner. Instead, we’re in a viewing room, separated by perspex sheeting with audio connections so we can talk back and forth.

  Again, I’ve missed the Y-incision and Pamela Wilson’s innards are already splayed out for all to see.

  I tap on the screen to let Arnie know I’ve arrived and he grunts his recognition. Although simply a grunt, it conveys his displeasure. He doesn’t like people being late for his shows. Something again about respect for the dead. Anyway, he’s focussed. That’s fine with me.

  I watch as he carefully removes each major organ one at a time and hands them to his assistant for processing. His maxim is if you’re late, you wait.

  Eventually, when finished, he turns to address me directly.

  ‘Glad you could find the time to join us detective.’

  He likes to play this game where if I’d been like a naughty school-girl, he would call me by my title. Here, I was late. So, I suck it up.

  ‘I’ve got a few things that may interest you today,’ he continues. ‘Even after a preliminary look, I would say that this woman was a regular Cocaine user. I have already noted some left-ventricular hypertrophy and pulmonary edema. As yet I have to complete the craniotomy, but I can almost guarantee cerebrovascular damage. The toxicology tests will confirm, but I would say she has been a long-term frequent flyer.’