2

Roscoe, NY—the following day

My name is Matt Davis, and I’m the chief of police in Roscoe, New York, a quaint Upstate fishing village with just over six hundred residents.  Long touted as "Trout Town USA" by its Chamber of Commerce, most recently Roscoe was officially voted the World Fishing Network’s "Ultimate Fishing Town USA," garnering more than a quarter-of-a-million votes—a glowing testimony to its overwhelming popularity with fly-fishermen.

The position of chief was supposed to be a “tit job,” compared to my former occupation as a homicide detective in New York City.  A friend secured the job for me as a sort of favor after an on-the-job brush with death forced me into early retirement.  I figured that the bucolic setting in the Catskill Mountains would not only soothe my soul, but also allow me to pursue my favorite pastime, fly fishing for trout.  I was wrong on both counts. 

I’d just spent the better part of a week preparing the annual budget for my four-man department—including a request for a patrol car—and I’d had all the paperwork I could handle.  If the town council didn’t like my asking for the car, well, that was too damned bad.  It wasn’t like I was asking for a new one, mind you; I just wanted a “real” patrol car.  I couldn’t have cared less whether it was the latest model or a used one—even something donated would have been fine with me—as long as it was owned by the town and not by yours truly.  I’d been using my own ’91 Jeep Wagoneer as my official vehicle ever since becoming Chief, but “enough is enough” was how I put it to Mayor Harold Swenson at the last council meeting.  To his credit, Harold asked me to “put it in the budget, and we’ll see what we can do.”  So, I did.

It was drizzling as I pulled the Jeep onto the thinning gravel surface of the parking lot and slid to a stop alongside a car parked in the spot designated for my own vehicle.  I laughed aloud at the car’s distinctive license plate; it belonged to the mayor, and it read: His Honor.  It was affixed to the bumper of a somewhat garish red Cadillac CTS, whose spotless finish gleamed brightly, the rain beading as it hit the car’s surface.  Interestingly enough, the town’s only new Cadillac belonged to its singular chief executive.  The irony wasn’t lost on me.  Power had its perquisites; that’s how it was back in the city, and it was no different here.

“Morning, Nancy,” I said, as I waited patiently for my secretary to buzz me through the security door separating headquarters from the entry vestibule.

Nancy glanced behind her at the clock on the wall.  “More like afternoon, don’t you think, Matt?”  Thrust.

“Whatever,” I muttered.  Parry.  “Where is he?  In my office?”

“Yep.”

Nancy Cooper and I liked each other from the moment we first met, and we loved to engage in the verbal fencing that kept our working relationship from growing stale; to casual observers we might even have appeared at odds.  Nothing was farther from the truth.  Glancing at my wristwatch as I passed through the doorway, I realized Nancy was right.  Hell, it was nearly nine.  Shouldn’t have made that trip to the landfill this morning, I thought.  Oh, well.  What’s the point of being on salary if I can’t go to the landfill when I want to?

I hurried down the hallway until I reached my office.  The door was ajar, and I could see the mayor through the opening.  Although not a large man, he had a firm, upright carriage that commanded instant respect, and a distinctive mane of silver hair that caused him to appear taller than he was.  He always dressed immaculately, and today was no exception; a regimental, red-and-white tie over a pale-blue, button-down shirt, complimented a dark-blue, two-button suit perfectly.  He was the quintessential big fish in our small, country pond.  He appeared agitated, walking back and forth with his hands clasped tightly behind his back.  Probably came to tell me I’m not getting the car.

“What’s up, Harold?  Been waiting long?”

“Not too long, Matt.  Just got here a few minutes ago.”

“I didn’t realize we had an appointment today.”

“We didn’t.”

“Oh.”

It wasn’t that I didn’t like Harold; I did.  It was just that I would have appreciated a bit more respect from my “boss.”  So, it was only natural that the mayor’s first words caught me completely by surprise.

“I got you the car!” he exclaimed.  “It wasn’t easy, mind you, but I persuaded the boys to go along.  You owe me, Matt—big time!”

I was speechless.

“Well, don’t you want to know what we got you?”  The mayor was ebullient.  He bounced up and down on his toes, waiting for me to respond.

“Well...you kind of caught me off balance there, Harold.  Okay, what is it?”

“It’s a Jeep!” exclaimed the mayor.  “Lot newer than yours, of course, but almost the same color.  It’s only got thirty thousand miles on it, too.  In fact, it’s still under warranty—well, at least for another six months or so.”

I was a bit disappointed.  First off, my ’91 was the last production year for the authentic Wagoneer, so everything since then was ersatz in my opinion.  Undoubtedly, whatever Harold had secured for me was probably actually a Chrysler product, and therefore not really a Jeep at all.  Secondly, I’d hoped for a real police cruiser, maybe even a new Ford Crown Victoria Interceptor.  The seminal American automaker had virtually cornered the market on police cars ever since Chevrolet discontinued the old rear-drive Caprice.  Who am I kidding?  This is Roscoe, remember?

“Uh...that’s great, Harold.  At least I can stop using mine.”

The mayor looked genuinely upset.  I could tell I’d hurt his feelings.

“I’m sorry, Harold,” I offered.  “It’s just that I was hoping for something...well, something more...traditional.  But, it’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

Harold’s face brightened.  “It’s got a light bar, Matt—newest one—halogen!  Car’s got all kinds of stuff—digital siren, all-wheel drive, new radio, the works—it’s really neat.”

I started to smile at the outdated adjective and then stifled it.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Harold.  “Gotcha a raise, too.  What do you say to that?”

“A raise—”

“Okay, it’s not much, but it’s something.  Twenty-five bucks a week—and I had to beg ’em for that.”

I scratched my head, and then it hit me.  The election!  That’s what this was all about.  The mayor needed my support, and this was his way of enlisting my assistance in securing his re-election.

“Well, Harold, I certainly appreciate it.”

Actually, Harold did a damn good job balancing the needs and wants of our little community—on a budget that was perilously deficient.  And, to make matters worse, it was a thankless job.  I didn’t understand why he even wanted it.  Better him than me.

The two of us stood there without uttering a word for a full minute.  It was a Mexican standoff.  Finally, I broke the silence.

“So...uh...when do I get the new vehicle—euphemistically speaking, of course—next week?”

“Today—if you still want it.  You do want it, don’t you?”  Harold appeared desperate.

“Of course I do.  Where is it?”

“It’s over at Joe Chesler’s garage in Livingston Manor.  I thought I’d have him spiff it up for you.  He’s already had it for a couple of days.  It should be ready.”

“Good.  Good.  I’ll have Val drop me off later to pick it up.”

Harold stood in place like a bellhop waiting for a tip.

“Oh, yeah,” I added, “and thanks, Harold.  Thanks a lot...really.” 

“No need to thank me, Matt.  But there is one thing you could do that would make me and the council very happy.”

“What’s that?” I asked, a note of caution tempering my enthusiasm.

“Find that fucking Meth lab!”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that!

Rumors of a Methamphetamine laboratory located somewhere on the outskirts of the city limits had been circulating for several months, but with the limited resources I had at my disposal, I was having a difficult time developing any leads.  I knew who the local dealer was, but we certainly didn’t have the manpower at our disposal to put a twenty-four-hour tail on him.  Just the same, I made a mental note to have my new patrolman, Pete Richards, make it a priority.  He was a savvy guy with lots of big-city experience, and I figured he was the best man for the job.

“We’re doing the best we can to find it, Harold.  But, we’re a little bit limited in the manpower department.”

Harold winced.  “Then use it better, Matt.  The council doesn’t like seeing little boys and girls all strung out on that crap.  And neither do I.”

I took a deep breath, trying to maintain my composure. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Harold.  We’ll find the lab.  It’s just a matter of time.  I’ve got Pete working overtime on it—”

“No overtime!”

“Not literally,” I sighed.  I was acutely aware of just how much that word irritated His Honor, who hated the thought of paying anyone one more dime than was absolutely necessary. 

Apparently satisfied that no additional reimbursement was called for, Harold beamed and headed briskly out of the office.

Ah, what the hell, I thought.  He’s doing the best he can.  At least I don’t have to run for re-election.

* * * *

As soon as Harold was gone, the phone rang.  Nancy answered the call on the second ring.  “Roscoe Police” she said softly.  “How may I help you?”  The voice on the other end of the line was so loud that she had to pull the phone away from her ear.  “Where’s Matt?!”

“Excuse me.  Who’s calling, please?”

“Goddammit!  They’ve done it again!” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“Who’s done what again?” asked Nancy, her patience growing thin.  “And don’t yell, or I’ll just hang up this phone right now!”

I could hear the man’s voice from where I stood.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I didn’t mean to yell.  This is Don Brann, over at the Grime Be Gone Laundromat, and they just broke into my place again last night.  Emptied out all my machines—the coin boxes, that is.”  Nancy held the phone away from her ear so the two of us could receive the news together.

The caller continued, “I need Matt to get over here right away.  This is the second time this year, and I’ve just about had it.”

“Okay, okay,” said Nancy.  “Just a minute, let me write down the information.  What’s your phone number, Don?  In case Matt needs to call you back.  I don’t know for sure when he’ll be able to get over there and...”

* * * *

Twenty minutes later, I pulled my Jeep to a stop in front of the laundromat.  The exterior of the building was badly in need of repair, and I found myself wondering how such a place could provide a decent living for its owner, if, indeed, it did.  It was no wonder that Don was so exercised over the break-in; he probably needed every dime just to survive.  I walked inside and found him sitting on one of the cheap, plastic chairs located in the rear of the establishment.  He was reading the local paper.

“Anybody we know get married?” I cracked.  That’s mostly all the publication contained: marriage announcements, obituaries, and advertisements—but, the people still bought it.  Old habits die hard.

Don stood up and, ignoring my initial inquiry, announced, “They did it again, Matt.  They got every last quarter.”

He could ill afford the loss.  Every business in Roscoe operated on precarious footing ever since the economic downturn that seemingly occurred simultaneously with the Obama administration’s ascent to power.  Whether the two events were related was a subject of much discussion in the local drinking establishments, but regardless of the truth, the fact remained that things were tough all over.  And even though I’d suggested on several occasions that he empty his coin boxes every evening, Don had apparently ignored my advice.  However, I didn’t chalk it up to stubbornness, but instead allowed that it was more an adherence to a set of “country values,” which presumed an innate goodness in the individual.  Either way, it was costing Don money.

Don’s spirits appeared to be in a sorry state, and when I accompanied him to the rear of the building, he showed me the damaged door as though he were revealing the body of a deceased relative.  Whoever had broken in hadn’t majored in finesse.  The door was a mess.

“Sure sorry about that, Don,” I said, examining the broken hasp and cracked doorjamb.  “Have you considered upgrading your security?  Obviously, what you’ve got here doesn’t offer much in the way of resistance.  Hell, a boy scout could probably get in here with not much more than a pair of pliers.”

Don winced.

“Sorry, Don.  But, am I wrong?”

“Nah.  You’re right, Matt.  But, couldn’t you just catch the guy?  It shouldn’t be too hard to find a guy with a shitload of quarters.  Am I wrong?”

The sarcasm registered hard.

“Probably not, Don.  But, things aren’t like they used to be in the old West, you know.  We can’t just ‘round up the usual suspects’ on a whim.  I’ll send Bobcat over to dust your place for prints, but chances are we won’t find much.”

“Great,” said Don.  He was obviously disappointed.  “Guess I shouldn’t open up until he gets here, huh?”

“Probably not.  But, I’ll get him over here as quick as I can, okay?”

“Sure.”

I knew it was probably a waste of time, but I had to offer the merchant some glimmer of hope.  Chances were that it was a local teen with no record, but one never knew; maybe we’d get lucky.

“If it was me, I’d check into getting some metal doors installed—with real locks on 'em.”  I knew Don probably couldn’t afford them, and he wouldn’t listen, but he ought to.  “Or maybe try installing one of those dummy surveillance cameras—up high where nobody can reach it.  At least that might stop the locals.  Of course, it’d be a lot better if you had a real camera.  But, in the meantime I’ll see if we can’t make an extra pass or two by your place over the next couple of weeks.  Sometimes, if they think a place is easy, they’ll come back again fairly soon.  How’s that sound, Don?  Okay?”

“Sure, Matt.  Whatever.”

Walking out the front door, I wondered how in the world I’d ever keep my promise.

* * * *

Inside my car, I keyed the microphone and called “Bobcat” Walker, my recently reinstated patrolman.

“What’s up, Matt?” responded Bobcat over the airwaves.

“I need you to get over to Don Brann’s place.”

“What happened, another break in?”

“Yep.”

“It’s probably drugs,” offered Bob.  “Don’t ya think?”

“That’d be my guess.  Oh, and make sure you’ve got your fingerprint kit.”

“Not a problem,” replied Bobcat.  “I’ve got my kit—and crime scene tape, too.  Four rolls.”

“Well you won’t need it—the tape I mean.  I told Don not to open up until we’ve dusted the place.  Being closed for an hour or so isn’t going to hurt his business—especially with all this rain, but hurry up anyway.”

“Okay, Matt.  I’ll get right over there.”

Bobcat had only been back on the job for a few months, following an unpaid suspension for “failing to follow proper procedure” during the arrest of a murder suspect.  The incident was an ugly one.  The suspect had just confessed to accidentally killing a young girl he had been abusing, and Bobcat had absentmindedly manacled the man with his hands in front of his body instead of behind his back as mandated by proper police procedure.  In the blink of an eye, the suspect grabbed Bob’s service revolver, and before anyone could stop him, placed the gun in his mouth, and fired, ending his life.

At the time, Bobcat’s suspension seemed harsh to some, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as being fired, which is what several members of the council had called for.  Walker knew he had handled things badly, and it was only because of my lobbying that he still had a job.

“Bob?” I called back into the microphone.  “Are you there yet?”

“Not quite, Matt.  But I’m on my way.”

“Well, make it fast.  I don’t want Don to feel like we don’t care.”

That was the problem, I thought.  We did care.  But, with only a four-man police force there was very little we could do unless we caught someone red-handed committing a crime.  It wasn’t much different than it was back in the city—only on a smaller scale.  The truth was, many crimes went unsolved.

* * * *

A few hours later, Bobcat walked into my office, his face flushed.  He’d just returned from the burgled laundromat.  “Well, Matt,” he said, “I dusted all the washing machines and dryers, the coin boxes, the front door, back door, the door frames, even the handle on the john.”

“And?”

“Whatta ya think?”  Bobcat stood in the office doorway, hands on hips.

“Let me guess.”  I paused for effect.  “Nothing?”

“Bingo,” said Bobcat.  “Nothing, nada, zilch, not a damn thing.  Well, not quite nothing.”  Bobcat held up a see-through plastic evidence bag containing a piece of cellophane tape with a piece of acetate affixed to it.  “I did get a pretty good thumb print off one of the coin boxes, but I doubt that it’ll amount to anything.”

“Well, check it against our ‘in house’ records first, just in case it’s a—”

“I know, juvenile.  Already did it.”

Then, run it through AFIS.”  (AFIS stands for Automated Fingerprint Identification System, which is used by all fifty states, Canada, and Mexico.)

“Done.”

“Jesus.  If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a real cop.”

Bobcat frowned.  He was still sensitive about his tenuous situation, following his suspension.

“Sorry, man.  That was a cheap shot.”

“It’s okay,” replied Bob, with a theatrical sigh.  “I’m tough.  I can take it.”  Only, now he was smiling.

“Good man.  Oh, by the way, don’t forget to get a set of elimination prints from Don.  We don’t want to—”

“Already did it,” replied Bob.  “Got ‘em right here.”

Bobcat waved the evidence bag at Matt.

“First thing I did.  Like you always say, ‘always eliminate the victim’s prints first,’ right?”

“Right,” I said with a smile.  “I knew there was a reason I keep you around.”

“I’ll get started on this right away.”

Ever since Bobcat was reinstated, he’d really tried hard to do whatever he could to restore his reputation and good standing with the department.  As far as I was concerned, the suspension hadn’t been necessary.  The mayor and council had dictated it—not me.  Had it been my decision, Bobcat probably would have gotten off with a reprimand.  It was bad enough he had to carry the burden of the suicide, suspending him just added insult to injury.

* * * *

An hour later, I decided to stretch my legs and took a stroll back to the office immediately behind my own, the one shared by my three patrolmen.  Approaching Bobcat from behind, I couldn’t help but notice that my “second-in-command,” had put on a little extra padding during his forced absence.  His dark blue tunic bulged over the edges of his leather belt like an incriminating fleshy donut.  Now wasn’t a good time to say something, but at some point I’d have to address the issue.

“So,” I inquired.  “Anything?”

“Well,” said Bobcat, “after I ruled out Don, I ran the print through AFIS, but I couldn’t find a match.  So, I checked our ‘juvie’ files—”

“And?”  I was cautiously optimistic.

Bobcat shrugged his shoulders.

“Nothing there, either,” he sighed.  “No match.”

“Shit.”

“Sorry, Matt.  If you ask me, my money’s still on a druggie.”

“Yeah, mine too.”

“You want me to tell Don?”

“Nah.  I’ll tell him.”

“Sure thing,” said Bobcat. 

“I’ll be back in a half hour,” I told Nancy, as I started out the front door of headquarters.  “I’m going over to tell Don the good news—not.”  Nancy laughed in reply.

I walked outside and started toward the laundromat.  A slight drizzle was falling, and I pulled the collar of my windbreaker up to prevent the rain from getting inside.  But, my actions had the opposite effect, and water that had already accumulated on the fabric ran down my neck, causing me to shiver involuntarily.  It seemed as if it’d been raining for weeks.  Hell, it was nearly June, and I still hadn’t wet a line.  It wasn’t that I expected to fish a lot, but this was getting ridiculous.

As I passed the IGA food market (actually, it was called by some concocted, chichi name now, but everyone still referred to it as the IGA), I looked across the street and noticed Wayne Sabolewski leaning against the old, abandoned movie theatre.  I made a mental note to have a little chat with the latest of the town’s Meth addicts.  Apparently homeless, but always visible on the street, the youth was as good a one to start with as any.  He generally hung around the collection of retail stores in the center of town, so finding him wouldn’t be a problem.  Although it would probably be a waste of time, because no doubt one or more of his fellow druggies would vouch for some cockamamie alibi they’d concoct.  There wasn’t much of a rush, though, because he and his half-dozen-or-so buddies were married to the town like rust to a railroad spike.  I shook my head in disgust at the thought of the loss of their collective youth.

* * * *

After I broke the news to Don, I called my wife, Val, and arranged to pick her up so we could go over to Livingston Manor and retrieve the newly acquired police vehicle.  While the “new” used Jeep might not have been exactly what I was hoping for, at least it would pick up my spirits.  Hell, I thought, the week could only get better.  But I was wrong, for a storm was heading my way, and its name was Evil.