The Serpent and the Light

by Bo Luellen

  His friend slowed the car to a stop, put it in park, and announced, “John, I know you pretty well considering our past. You’re sitting there, contemplating your comeback. Your tiny brain is spinning on how to get back out on the street and redeem yourself. You’re looking at the other officers on the Force, and all of them are half your age. I know you’re a prideful man that should have called for backup instead of trying to chase that suspect down a steep embankment. It would have been better to run back to his car and follow him rather than pursue on foot.. Now, you sit there asking me little questions like I don’t know you’ve decided you’re not through trying to get back that busted pride.”

  Utterson looked out the window at some city workers and admitted, “Since your brother died, I’ve had a hard time trusting ordinary people. I spent 16 years as a detective for the Tulsa Police Department and was a uniformed officer for 18 years before that. Honestly, I could retire at any time I want, but I feel bound to the job.”

  Terry put a hand on his shoulder, “No one says you can’t retire, man.”

  Utterson played with the car door handle as he pressed on, “I wake up in the morning, both loving and hating the work. Upholding the law to me has always been a calling. Even though I have a talent for handling people, I still find it impossible to be around the general public I serve. I consistently find them lacking in character needed to make just decisions, and they only love to be self-serving. It’s because I know what people are capable of that I’ve been at peace watching my nephews grow up and never regretting sacrificing a family.”

  Johnston put the car in park and replied, “The things you put yourself through isn’t necessary or normal, man. People in the department have families. My brother had a family. There are treatment centers you can go to, John.”

  John rubbed his eyes and continued, “Did your brother ever tell you about my first year working with him as a detective?”

  The man shook his head and replied, “David didn’t tell anyone shit. That’s part of the problem. No one knew what was up until it was too late.”

  Utterson let his head rest on the seat as he continued, “A few months in, David and I were called to a prominent business man’s estate in west Tulsa. We walked in to find the millionaire dead in his bedroom. The wife told us he had stage four cancer in his lungs, bones, and kidneys. The family was less than broken up, and the subject of inheritance came up more than once. David and I labeled the death as suspicious on our reports due to the lengthy list of motivated members of the deceased family that had become instant millionaires.”

  Johnston held his hands up and asked, “Where is this going, John?”

  The detective pulled out a prescription bottle full of Oxycodones and added, “The deceased was a tremendous supporter of local charities and was known for his moments of extreme generosity. The Tulsa newspapers called him, The Saint of T-Town. One Christmas, he gave 30,000 dollars to a waitress who served him coffee. That delightful event made page two. Toxicology and the autopsy determined “The Saint” had been given a lethal amount of morphine, enough to kill three people. There was no way to know who had injected the morphine into his IV.

  David was the lead, and he left the case open, and we kept looking for a witness, evidence, or leads. Two weeks later, the wife shows up at the station with her attorney. The woman says she has information on the death of her husband. We bring her into an interview room, and she hands us a letter. Your brother read it out loud, “I couldn’t stand to hear his suffering. He begged me to ease his pain and inject him with a high dose of morphine. I refused.” Her attorney took out his cell phone and dialed the Mayor. His Honor told us, “You’ve done fine work, detectives. He is gone. He took his own life. It’s time to let the city mourn his passing.”

  Johnston’s forehead wrinkled as he exclaimed, “Holy shit!”

  Utterson turned towards his friend and finished his story, “When we brought the letter to the DA, he was already expecting it. No charges were filed. That was the first of hundreds of compromises that we were forced to make. Dirty cops, politicians, streets that knew how to work the justice system and a society that uses victimization as a hammer to beat down the law all worked like a worm to rot the core of the job. What happened to your brother was my fault. What got us is another matter. I honor his memory by doing the job and trying to fight fire with fire. When I saw that homeless guy running off with evidence from that bridge, I went after him. Not because I don’t believe in the ability of other officers, but because I don’t have faith in them. That’s why not having a family is an acceptable sacrifice to me. This society is corrupt, and I won’t give it a child to beat on.”

  Johnston put his vehicle in drive and replied, “John, there are about eighty things wrong with what you just said. I don’t have a supercomputer handy to outline them all.”

  Utterson tapped his crutches on the floorboard and said, “Terry, I need a favor.”

  Johnston turned into his drive and parked next to his car, replying, “You mean you want me to come over and help you mow your yard? Yes, I’d be happy to do that, John. Now, if you are about to ask me to help you do something stupid, then I want to remind you that Captain Andino said you were on desk duty. Now, say something normal to me. I dare you.”

  Utterson stared at the windshield and announced, “I need you to take me to see Lady Bell.”

  Johnston tilted his head and gave an aggravated, “Lady Bell! Why do you want to go to a soup kitchen? Nancy Bell is a stripper, a prostitute, and a drug addict!”

  Utterson held up his index finger and replied, “Former. She cleaned up, and she is a source.”

  Johnston chuckled and snorted out, “You know that homeless shelter she runs is just a front for drug running. She’s a source alright, a source of cocaine and pills. Half the damn department thinks she is your drug dealer; you know that, right, John?”

  He unlatched his door, adding, “Bell has helped the police on several occasions, and she never allows drugs into her place.”

  They got out and walked up to Utterson’s old grey trailer and waded through the overgrown grass that dominated his yard. To him, this was a place to sleep, eat, and get ready for work. He didn’t even like to have women over and instead would pop for a hotel room to keep his privacy. Luckily his new arrangement with Amy fit that model nicely. She always insisted on meeting at her place, which was fine by him.

  Johnston helped the detective negotiate his steps, and asked, “Why go see Bell? You know she was one of the first people Cobb and Michaels reached out to. You’re the only person that defends that crazy old woman. If she had something to say, she would have said it.”

  Ten minutes later, Utterson plopped down on his well-worn recliner, winded, sweating, and hurting. The two had a hard time getting him inside in one piece. His head started feeling the warm fuzzy sensation he had come to love about Oxys, and soon, the pain slipped away.

  Johnston rummaged around in the refrigerator for something to drink and observed, “All you have is beer and beef jerky. Why do you have beef jerky in the fridge, John?”

  He adjusted himself in the chair and reminded Johnston, “You need to take me to see Bell. Not tomorrow, tonight.”

  Johnston opened a Budweiser bottle as Utterson continued, “Just because a rookie detective makes a call doesn’t mean she will tell them everything she knows. She cares too much for that trash that mooches off her to give one of them up easily.”

  Johnston tipped his beer towards him and gave a disingenuous toast, “Very compassionate, John. During all your hatred of those ‘mooches,’ did it ever occur to you that all it takes is one or two bad decisions in life to make you homeless? You make dozens of those a day. That means you could be the next person to need a good meal and a place to sleep.”

  Sidestepping his point, Utterson informed him, “She will be there until 5 p.m. If we leave now, we can still catch her.”

  Strolling into the barren living room, Johnston replied, “You know
if my Momma knew I was even talking to you, she wouldn’t stop beating me until Christmas.”

  He looked at the carpet, stating, “Millie’s views on the past aren’t going to change, but I’m asking as a friend and as a cop.”

  Johnston upended his bottle and then offered, “Look, man, I want to help get some kind of dignity back in your life, and the Good Lord knows you don’t have any to speak of. Just tell me, why would she tell you and not another cop?”

  He looked away, and sternly replied, “She owes me, and I trust her.”

  Johnston studied him for a moment and then gave in saying, “Okay, but I’ll only do this on one condition.”

  Utterson began working his way out of his chair as he asked, “What’s that?”

  Pointing his finger at him, Johnston replied, “If, and when, she says the same shit to you that she did to Cobb and Michaels, you let this go. The department isn’t lost without Detective Utterson, you know? The Force is a team. Your cocaine-addled brain does understand that, right?”

  Utterson stood and gave a determined nod in agreement. A few minutes later, he had on a pair of jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a windbreaker jacket to replace his tattered clothes. Johnston helped him back into his squad car and loaded his wheelchair for him, and the pair sped off in his cruiser towards downtown.

  They pulled up to the Bell’s House Shelter to a small parade of homeless people walking out from the morning's breakfast. They all peered suspiciously at the cruiser and veered widely to avoid the officers. Johnston helped him get situated into his wheelchair, as the injured man felt the sudden realization of his vulnerability. The two rolled up a ramp to the front door, as the cold wind cut through his coat and chilled him to the bone. Familiar eyes followed him as they approached the front door, as the lowlife homeless he so hated now saw him as weak. The feeling made him sick, and he hated being this exposed.

  As they passed through the double doors, he saw the renovations to the old warehouse were still ongoing. Large sheets of plastic were draped over large sections of the walls, and two volunteers stood on scaffolding, installing a part of sheetrock. Underneath the laborers were a dozen homeless, laying on bunk beds and sleeping off whatever trip they had from the night before.

  Terry wheeled him along the concrete floor as he thought, This is where people come to decide whether their fall towards rock bottom is going to end in a bounce or if it will break them.

  A woman took one look at Johnston’s uniform and trotted out the side entrance as John considered, Good. Let them get a little scared. It will make this easier.

  Lady Bell’s voice rang out from her office, “John! I heard someone finally put you down.”

  They wheeled towards her as he replied, “No, although I’m sure it’s coming.”

  Utterson pushed open the door to her cluttered office and found her sitting in an old metal folding chair behind a card table. The walls of the office were covered in a mixture of help numbers for addiction, advertisements for work, and missing persons posters and photographs. Lady Bell was a slight woman in stature, whose former dependency on crack cocaine made her look twenty years older than she was. Her face was sunken in, which matched her wrinkled skin and bugged-out eyes.

  John shook her hand and thought, It’s hard to imagine that just 20 years ago she was the daughter of a wealthy businessman and had the means to do anything she wanted with her future. Money is no guarantee for a sweet life. Addiction will get you no matter how much you have.

  The nose of a German Shepherd stuck out from around her desk and gave Utterson a look-see as Johnston leaned down and exclaimed, “Well, who is this?”

  Lady Bell jabbed her finger at the dog and replied, “That’s Charlie. He’s been with me since I opened this place.”

  Terry rubbed his chin and noticed his leg was missing as he asked, “What happened to you, fella?”

  Lady Bell pointed to the animal's vest that read “TPD” and replied, “That is a retired member of the police department. Charlie was one of the top drug-sniffing K-9’s in Oklahoma before he got shot by a drug-running redneck.”

  The tall police officer looked over at Utterson, who confirmed, “Two years ago, the ATF moved on a section of an animal refuge in Wagoner County. Charlie found the camouflaged trailer. The dog got a shotgun blast for his efforts and lost a leg. Now, he walks the floor of the shelter, still doing his job. If he gets a hit, Lady Bell calls us.”

  She rubbed the dog’s back and added, “He helps me keep a good reputation with the Department.”

  Utterson scanned the pictures of the lost faces on her wall and reflected, “It also helps that she has me as a friend. You see, this bleeding heart ex-stripper likes to thinks she is Mother Teresa. So, when one of her little projects goes south and disappears, Bell calls me and I do what I can. She gets another shot at redeeming them and I get information.”

  Johnston looked genuinely surprised as he replied, “Wow, John. That is almost human of you.”

  He pulled out a cigarette and remarked, “I give her what she wants from time to time, even going as far as to lose evidence. The favors stack up. She was a bleeding heart case that doesn’t realize these junkies will just break the law again in the future and turn up dead or worse. I just kept the tab running.”

  He turned his chair around to her and inquired, “The yellow t-shirt guy, what didn’t you tell Michaels and Cobb?”

  She lite her cigarette and replied, “First, you’re an asshole, John Utterson. Second, I haven’t seen a bearded man in a yellow t-shirt come through my doors. We have the same crew of people out there that we have had for the last two weeks. No one new has come in, and that will cost you a debt marker.”

  Utterson stared at her for a long second, watching for any ticks or tells. She seemed to be shooting straight with him, or at least he thought she was. He rubbed his scruffy face and then combed through his hair, leaning back with his scraped up fingers.

  She flicked her ashes and added, “I’m sorry, babe. You know I would tell you.”

  Terry broke the silence with, “Well, John? Are you satisfied?”

  He sighed in frustration, observed, “This was a homeless guy. He knew right where it was and reached for it.”

  Bell seemed confused and asked, “Reached for what?”

  Johnston pulled his hands up wide, replying, “A weird knife that John saw the suspect pull from the bridge. It looked wild, like something you would see in Lord of the Rings.”

  She raised her eyebrows, musing, “Maybe he thought he could get some money out of it. If one of these people finds something they think can bring a good amount, they will steal it. Have you checked any of the pawn shops?”

  Utterson rolled his eyes and asked, “Have there been any stabbings in the homeless circles that seem unusual?”

  Johnston let out a single laugh and joked, “You mean like other than the usual ones where people will kill one another for a fix?”

  Bell stood up and walked towards the wall of faces exclaiming, “Stabbings! You are concerned with one guy because he gets the best of you, while I have a wall of missing people! Do you know what the TPD said when I told them about the dramatic increase in missing homeless?”

  Utterson rubbed his eyes, replying blandly, “I don’t care.”

  He suddenly felt an urge to be home thinking, A large bottle of Kentucky Bourbon, the ounce of weed sitting next to my bed, and a few Oxys will make this week go away.

  She raised her voice slightly, saying, “They told me to make a missing person’s report! That is what they said.”

  Johnston chimed with a tone of reason, saying, “Bell, come on. These people go missing all the time. Tulsa gets between three hundred and four hundred missing person cases per year. People go missing for a variety of different reasons. A person might be pushed into disappearing because of mental illness, physical or mental abuse, or addiction. The total number of missing people is spread out over a wide demographic, not just the homeless. Runaways, kids
abducted by relatives, spouses that up and disappear, and relatives that decide to disconnect are just a few slices of that statistical pie. There is only so much the Department can do about people actively looking to destroy themselves.”

  She held her cigarette up high, retorting, “Not having manpower is one thing. When I’m busting my balls trying to keep them clean, at least you could do is return the effort. When I showed them my missing persons list, they tossed it in a folder and said they would look into it. I have over one hundred and eleven homeless people who have turned up missing in the last ten months since January! That is over a hundred parents that just lost their kids, and I’m supposed to…”

  Utterson lifted his head and squinted at her, as he interrupted, “What did you say?”

  Johnston stood back up and asked, “Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying, in the last ten months, over one hundred people have gone missing? Are you including the ones that have turned up found?”

  She jabbed a finger at the wall again and replied, “Every face on this wall is from a missing person flier or a photograph that I’ve posted this year. Not one of these people have turned up, dead or otherwise!”

  Utterson wheeled back a little and remarked, “That number has to be wrong. People are just getting on buses or hopping a train. If someone stays missing for a long time, then we turn it into a homicide investigation. I would see this increase coming across my desk.”

  Bell laughed, walked back to her chair, and posed, “Would you? You think the Department would waste time on a homeless person over some missing teenage kid who ran away from some family? Sure there are AMBER Alerts for kids and a Silver Alert for the elderly, but what kind of alert do you put out for a homeless junkie?”

  Utterson looked at back at the wall and observed, “I’ll admit, that is an unusually high number if what you are saying is true.”

  Johnston took down one of the fliers and admitted, “John, I don’t want to feed into your paranoid bullshit fantasy’s. Do you think this is connected to your yellow t-shirt sprinter?”