by Leif Wright
She had two witnesses, neither of whom would go on record. Without thinking about it, she slammed the phone down. It would be another week before she realized the receiver was cracked in the slam.
“Knew that shit was happening too easy,” she said to no one. “Fuck!”
“Decaf?” Russell poked his head into the room. “You okay?”
“No. The bishop won’t identify our guy, which means we can’t get a warrant for his DNA. I can’t believe this shit is falling apart.”
“It’s just a setback. You’ve got a name and an address. You’ve got pictures of the son of a bitch at all three scenes. We can go look at the thumpers, compare them to the letters in the old woman’s head, and then get a receipt of him buying one. You’re going to get this guy.”
“Holy shit!” she said and sat down hard. “Of fucking course! Holy shit!”
“The thumper?”
Bain shook her head to clear it and focus on what Russell had just asked. “Thumper?” At first, it didn’t register. Was he asking about the cartoon character rabbit? Oh, she thought, the little baseball bat. “No, no. Not the thumper. The Jessica.”
“Jessica?”
“Vann,” she said distractedly. “Long story. Sorry, I’ve got to make a call.”
20
LIFE WHIZZES BY WHILE PEOPLE ARE PAYING ATTENTION TO EVERYTHING else. Jogging through a park with earbuds jammed in, the runner didn’t even notice the squirrel trying to pry the cap off the top of an acorn. She probably didn’t even see the squirrel as she was caught up in whatever memories accompanied “I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight”, which was blaring so loud Robby could hear it as she passed by him for the third time so far.
The squirrel, noticing her coming, twitched its tail, poking its head up, still holding the acorn in its little hands. As she passed by, the squirrel, deciding beheading the acorn was work best relegated to a safer time and location, jammed the whole acorn into its mouth, then resumed the hunt for more. Robby knew the squirrel had room in there for a LOT more acorns—an amazing amount, by his estimation. If he could have turned his head, he would have stopped watching the squirrel, instead focusing on the jogger’s yoga-pants-clad ass as she jogged away, but his head wouldn’t obey.
He wouldn’t have felt bad about staring, either. She was jogging so her ass would look good, so in ways, him appreciating it was simply an acknowledgement of all her hard work. But it was a moot point, because his useless lump of a body had decided he would watch the squirrel instead. The jogger would complete the circle around the park again soon, and he would again have five, maybe seven strides to appreciate her hard work. Right now, however, he had lots more time to appreciate the deer tick crawling along the blades of grass behind the squirrel, trying desperately to catch up as it flitted away on the primary mission of its life—finding enough food to survive long enough to pass its DNA along to a new generation of bushy-tailed bundles of nerves.
The tick had been stalking the squirrel since the jogger had started her rounds, and though it had gotten tantalizingly close several times, the squirrel, oblivious to how rude it was being, had always skittered away just in time. The tick, nonplussed, soldiered on, patiently pursuing its prey.
A cool breeze tousled Robby’s hair, reminding him that autumn was approaching. Amie would be back soon with ice cream, but for now, he could imagine he was independent, just a regular guy sitting in the park watching a hot jogger do her thing. Maybe later, that independent guy would find a chess partner and wile away the afternoon moving wooden soldiers along a checkerboard. Then he would stop by a bistro, grab a bite, and go home to unwind with a good book, radio playing softly, unobtrusively, in the background, falling asleep with the book on his chest, waking up later, and walking off to bed.
It was the simple things he wished. Turning his head slightly. Moving his hand enough to advance a chess piece. Holding a book. Turning the pages. Walking to bed. Hell, eating ice cream without requiring someone else to spoon it into his mouth.
Not that he didn’t appreciate Amie doing that for him—ice cream was one of his newfound pleasures since she had been around. But he longed to be able to do things for himself. He had vague, foggy memories of walking as a child, of playing with toys, of talking. Of his mother. But they faded every year, weaving the line between memory and fantasy. He feared they might disappear altogether—erasing themselves from his mind, relegating him to remembering only the bed, only the wheelchair, the isolation, the frustration, the pain, the despondency. He was never suicidal, but he’d at least like the option.
Losing his memories of life before the chair was his greatest fear, one he hadn’t even shared with Amie.
The jogger strode by again, her breasts bouncing slightly, her ass struggling against the yoga pants. Robby knew she would be horrified if she realized the broken man in the wheelchair was admiring the way her body moved as she jogged, but he couldn’t help it. And his eyes didn’t even follow her—they couldn’t.
“Enjoying the view?” Amie’s voice came from behind him. “She’s cute. Good taste, Robby.”
“Haaaaa,” he replied. He didn’t mind his face’s permanent smile this time. He would have smiled anyway at being caught.
“I’m kind of jealous,” she teased, rubbing his head. “You never check me out like that.”
“Haaaaaa.”
Yes he did, and he was pretty sure she knew. Amie was beautiful, and Robby had no problem at all having a beautiful nurse dote on him. He held no illusions that he would ever have romantic contact with a woman, so he felt no guilt in enjoying a look whenever he had the chance.
The squirrel ran halfway up an oak trunk, cheeks crammed full of the oak’s children. It peered around the trunk at Amie, watching for any indication that she might be about to try to eat it. Satisfied that this particular predator was otherwise engaged, it crawled gingerly back down to the ground, stopping every few seconds to make sure Amie was still behaving.
Amie spooned ice cream into Robby’s mouth and his eyes involuntarily closed as he enjoyed the flavor, the texture, the feel of the cold. Amie smiled. It was gratifying to see Robby enjoy something so thoroughly.
“Your girlfriend is getting into her car,” she interrupted. “I’ll have to take you to the mall next so you can find new people to watch.”
“Haaaa.”
Neither he nor she were sure whether he meant yes to the mall or to new people to watch, but in the end, it didn’t matter; he got both.
21
“I WAS WONDERING WHEN YOU’D CALL,” JESSICA VANN SAID INSTEAD of “Hello.”
“Actually, I’m calling for work,” Bain said, glad that her smile wasn’t showing through the phone. “Can I come by your house next time you’re off work?”
“I’m off work right now. Kids are gone, too, so we can … talk about anything.”
The prurient pause didn’t go unnoticed, though Bain pretended it did. “I’ll be there in ten.”
Later, she would remember that her better sense had told her to take Russell with her before it had been overruled by her lizard brain. She had, she knew, rarely ever let better sense get a word in edgewise, so at least she was being consistent.
After loading the frame grabs from the three videos onto her phone, she got into the car and started driving, allowing her mind a little indulgent fantasy about Jessica and what she might be wearing as she automatically navigated traffic. She was just going there to get a witness to identify a suspect, she told herself. A gorgeous and clearly willing witness who was practically throwing herself at Bain.
I didn’t get this far in a man’s world by throwing caution to the wind and fucking every hot witness who came along. I’ll just have to deal with blue balls.
Men were always looking for signs of weakness in women who dared encroach into their world, but she knew what they were up to, and she was better than they were. Men were so childish. They needed her to be weak to prove to themselves that they really were the stronger sex, th
at they deserved more pay for the same work, that they couldn’t be totally replaced. They needed to secretly believe a woman’s place was in the home—even those who proclaimed that they believed in equal rights. They needed Bain to be just another ball of estrogen, a weak, emotional woman who couldn’t handle the realities of a man’s world.
If they were looking to her to prove you needed a dick to be a good cop, they would just have to keep on looking, because she would show she was better than they were—at everything. This case was just the beginning. No hurdles would stop her. It would be solved, and the fat little fuck who was doing this would end up behind bars for the rest of his life—end of story. So what if her bishop was pussying out? She would find another way. She would win. Fucking misogynist, anyway—otherwise, why were no women bishops? She smiled at the thought of telling the bishop just that. Who the hell was still Catholic anymore? How did that guy even have a job? Fucker.
Non-fucker, I guess.
She smiled again. How in the world could anyone pledge—and keep the pledge—to never have sex again? Did they just not remember how fun sex was? Were priests allowed, as Russell had said, to bop the bishop? Now there was a funny picture: priest sitting on the edge of a bed, hard dick in hand, whacking it to a Sears catalog lingerie section—or whatever passed for porn to a priest. Did they say “oh God” when they came? What did they do with the goo? Holy goo. Probably blessed nuns with it, told them it was good for the skin, or full of protein.
She blushed at the thought, knowing she didn’t believe in all that church hokum, but feeling guilty for it just the same. Fuck that bishop. He couldn’t stop a case that was just starting to pick up steam.
She pulled into Jessica Vann’s driveway and put her cop face on. No more thinking about priestly spunk. Okay, one more giggle at the word “spunk”.
Cop face back on, she walked up to the door and knocked. Her third rap on the door wasn’t even complete before Jessica, wearing boy shorts underwear and a wife-beater with no bra, opened the door.
Bain gasped, her eyes widening and briefly affixing on Jessica’s nipples poking through the barely-there fabric of the shirt. Kids or no, this woman’s body was smoking.
Jessica smiled at the gasp—and the stare.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said to the momentarily speechless Bain. “Come on in, Detective.”
“You know, I almost brought a male uniform officer with me,” Bain said after a pause. “How would that have struck you, dressed like that?”
“Not interested. I think I’m done with boys.”
“Not what I meant.”
“I know.” She smiled alluringly over her shoulder as she led Bain to sit on the couch—a smile Bain almost missed while gazing at the boy-shorts-covered ass.
Police business. I’m here on police business. Dear God.
Jessica sat—unladylike—on the easy chair, business staring at Bain.
“You’re seriously interfering with an investigation,” Bain said to the smile. “Jesus.”
“Glad you approve. How can I help your investigation?”
Put on some clothes, she thought, but did not say. Instead, she shook her head and forced herself to look at Jessica’s face, which didn’t help much. “I have pictures of the man we believe killed your next-door neighbor,” she said, sounding as cop-like as she could. “I was hoping you’d look at them and try to see if they were the guy you saw sitting out in his car.”
“Wow. You really are here on cop business. Okay. I’ll look, but I can’t promise anything.”
“I know. I’m grateful if you try though.” Bain pulled out her phone and flipped to the first photo. Jessica got up and came over to sit beside her so she could look at the picture. Bain clenched her teeth as she felt the warmth of her nearly nude body radiate over. She zoomed in on the portion of the face that was visible in the photo.
“Oh wow,” Jessica said, leaning in, reminding Bain that she wasn’t wearing a bra by pressing her left breast against Bain’s arm. “I totally recognize him. That’s the guy! That’s the car, too!”
“Seriously?” Bain said with surprise. “This was kind of a Hail Mary, actually.”
“Seriously,” Jessica beamed, bouncing backward, momentarily forgetting her attempts to seduce Bain. “That’s crazy! How’d you find him?”
“Lots of coffee,” Bain replied. NCIC had already run the car’s tag, which came back to Chris Jackson. Now that she had a witness placing him in a stakeout of one of the victim’s homes, she was confident she could get a warrant. “Would you be willing to fill out an affidavit stating that you witnessed this man watching Pearl Edwards’ house before she was killed?”
“Well, I didn’t know her name until you told me, but I could say he was watching the house next door to mine.”
“Good enough. You know you might get called to testify, right?”
“I figured. Does this mean I did all this sexy stuff for nothing?”
Bain swallowed. “Not for nothing. I have a huge girl boner right now. I promise, when this case is over, I’m going to wear that fine ass out!”
Jessica smiled, revealing teeth too perfectly straight and white to not be the handiwork of a dentist. “I’m going to hold you to that, Detective Bain,” she said alluringly. “I don’t even know your first name.”
“True,” Bain said. “Let me ask you something. When I called on the phone, what were you wearing?”
Jessica laughed. “You caught me,” she said, absently brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. “I was wearing an old t-shirt, jeans, and granny panties.”
“I’m flattered you’d dress down for me. You don’t even realize how much willpower it takes to keep this professional.”
On impulse, Jessica leaned forward and kissed Bain, her lush lips enticing Bain to return the kiss, barely stopping her hand from involuntarily wandering up to Jessica’s breast.
“You’re killing me here,” Bain said as she reluctantly pulled away. “Hold your horses. I’m not going anywhere.”
“But who would know?”
“Secrets have a way of finding the light. Plus, anticipation is erotic. Let’s put the brakes on until this is over. It was a good kiss, though.”
“It was. Okay. As you say, I’ll keep it in my pants. Where do I do this affidavit?”
“We should go down to the station,” Bain said. She was starting to sweat a little. “You can ride with me. You should probably change clothes first.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jessica replied, blushing a bit, then raising her eyebrows. “You wanna watch?”
“Hell yes. But we’re not going to do that. You go change and I’ll go out to the car and get my cop face on.”
“Cop face?”
“Lets all the boys know I’m serious.”
“Ah.”
22
MACK RUTHERFORD DROVE A MACK TRUCK, AND ALL HIS FRIENDS, family, and acquaintances never let him forget how fun it was that his name was Mack and he drove a Mack. Had he chosen his brand of truck on purpose?
“You think?” was always his answer.
When he wasn’t on the road, Mack—whose left elbow was covered in a huge, ugly callus from riding so many windows—loved nothing more than a good shot of Jim Beam and a long night of Spades with his old lady and their best friends, David and Loni Fish, who were retired, but still ran a part-time barbecue business from their backyard smoker.
Mack used to love to collect pictures of landmarks and attractions from all the new places his Mack took him, but now that he had settled into more or less a steady route, the truck had started to seem more like a job and less like an adventure.
High blood pressure and clots in his legs had almost forced him to give up and sell the Mack back in ’11, but a combination of blood thinners and swearing off of greasy spoons had gotten him back on the road, where he felt he belonged, even though he knew most truckers never get old.
Have you ever seen the world’s largest ball of twine, he was fond of as
king. Well, Mack had, he was proud to say. Matter of fact, he’d seen all four of them, in Missouri, Kansas, Wisconsin, and Minnesota—and he had the pictures to prove it. The one in Missouri was the biggest, in Mack’s opinion, but because it was also the lightest of the four, controversy raged in the cutthroat world of big balls of twine. Ultimately, it didn’t matter, he told friends, but the sheer amount of effort it took four separate groups to assemble so much twine was fascinating. And were vintage gift-wrapping places having to pay more for twine because of the increased demand? Enquiring minds wanted to know.
Mostly, Mack looked forward to the day when he could say goodbye to the road and spend more of his time on the couch, catching up on all the TV he had missed, he often said. With Netflix and Hulu—two words that had meant diddly squat to him a year ago—he could watch every single episode of every show ever made—and he’d finally know what his wife had been yammering about an island that was alive.
It would have been more symmetrical if Peter Wyatt had driven a Peterbilt, but he was a Freightliner man through and through. Not that it mattered; he had been a company man for the last ten, having sold his old faithful Bessie back then to avoid the big hit he knew was coming when she finally came due for that overhaul. Peter had been single since his first wife had left back in ’86, though for a few years, he was proud of saying, a goofy-looking over-the-road trucker had the hottest game in town with the ladies.
Those days were gone now, he complained, but he still remembered (and sometimes recounted) them vividly. His car carrier was his home. Though he had a house, he was almost never there; instead, he was hauling new cars to dealers, used cars from them. His womanizing days were largely behind him, though he still had a few ports when it got rainy.
The life of a trucker was a life of freedom, he told acquaintances. Freedom from sitting behind a desk all day, or feeding a machine at a factory. Freedom from being stuck in one place all the time. Freedom from a boss harping on you all day, then some nagging bitch running her overfed mouth on you all night.