TWENTY-FOUR

The quick search program which matched the deceased’s photo with perps in their database didn’t reveal much. Then again, when Phil Edwards scanned it in, there wasn’t much considered recognizable between the water bloat, toothless mouth, and the fish nibbles. So he tried the old-fashioned way. Keyed in the basic description. The computer awarded him with 1,892 hits. Number 754 glared back at him. Nope.

Phil rubbed his eyes. The mug shots on the monitor blurred as he yawned. Who knew Houston had so many perps on file? He glanced at the clock on the lower right-hand side: 7:08 PM. He downed the rest of his now cold coffee and stretched his arms behind his head.

Hornsby came up behind him. “Any luck?”

Phil’s spine shot into a straight line. “Um, no sir. Just giving my eyes a rest.”

Hornsby peered into the monitor. “Well, it’s a long shot. Perhaps when the DNA comes back...” He squeezed the rookie’s shoulder. “Go home. Tackle it in the morning with a fresh mind.”

Phil clicked off his monitor. “Yes, sir. Thanks.”

Hornsby walked with him to the door. “You’ll do fine, Phil. First few weeks are always rough, and you are coming on at a harrowing time.”

He shrugged. “So are you, sir. Everyone is glad to have you back.”

“Blake the most, I suspect.” He stopped. “Dag-nab-it. I forgot my car keys. You go on without me.”

The rookie pushed open the back entrance and waved good night as his superior headed back down the hallway to his office.

~*~

The TV in the homeless shelter blasted the latest news. “A body was discovered in the San Gabriel River yesterday evening by a father and son on a fishing excursion. The body was unidentifiable, but police sources say they believe this was a drug deal gone awry. DNA results are pending.”

The one hundred plus temperatures drove the street people inside early today. Every inch of the place filled with bodies, some playing cards, others chatting. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to the local news anchor. Who cared? It didn’t affect their world at all—that is until the weather forecast aired.

Arnie reached under his cot and crammed the change of clothes he’d gotten at the charity shop into his duffel bag. He pushed open the door to the mission center’s bathroom and turned the handles on the sink. They screeched in protest before sputtering and spewing slightly rust-colored liquid. He splashed the tepid faucet water on his face and glanced in the cracked mirror. He barely recognized himself. Two days ago, he shaved off his moustache and his sandy locks. The recently acquired tattoo sprawled across the back of his neck added to his new appearance. He’d fit in with the homeless just fine over the past few days.

“So, they found Joe. You need to cover your tracks, man.” But how? He stared at his reflection, but it didn’t provide him any firm answers. Then, as he exited, an idea seeped into his skull. His mouth curved into a wry smile. He’d never unloaded Joe’s things, thinking he’d wait until he got back to Houston then anonymously mail them to Joe’s wife from the downtown post office. A serendipity for sure. Hmmm. Once a new plan formulated in his mind, his mood lifted.

After dinner, when the temperatures cooled back into the low nineties, the beggars filtered out to earn a few bucks, most likely to buy a bag of crack or a few cans of beer. Arnie followed the group of nameless, faceless men the world had long forgotten. The group began to disperse, each headed to his favorite begging corner to catch the party people in downtown Austin.

He stalked an invisible who appeared similar in stature, hair color and eyes to Joe. A quick side whack to the jugular brought the guy to the ground. Arnie twisted his neck until he heard the crunching pop, and felt the man go limp. He dragged him into an alley littered with discarded cardboard boxes behind the new age shops off South Congress. Arnie dug into his own backpack and pulled out clothes similar to the ones Joe wore the day he died, dressing the bum in them. Next, Arnie planted Joe’s watch, wedding ring, and wallet on him. Then he bundled the dead man into a fetal position and covered him with the stack of boxes.

Phase one complete. He whistled as he walked to the parking garage where he’d stashed Joe’s car on the night of his death. A flash of panic coursed over his chest. What if it had been towed or stolen? It had been several days since he left it there.

No, the car sat in the same place. Good. He climbed in and inserted the key in the ignition. The engine came to life. Yes. He backed out and drove to the alley.

His burner phone beeped with a text. Call home. He dialed the number.

The caller answered on the third ring. “Guess you heard the news report?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry. Got it handled. If they suspect a drug deal, they’ll be looking at perps’ records for a match, not a cop’s.”

“Hmm. I’ll see what I can do to persuade the Alamoville crime force to continue in that direction. Still...”

“I told you. It’s handled. They’ll find Joe’s body at the bottom of a cliff tomorrow morning, west of Austin, burned to a crisp in his car.”

“Who’d ya find to play the part?”

“The less you know the better. I won’t call you again. Been nice knowing you, friend. Good luck.”

“You as well. Never be able to thank you enough. The rest of your pay will be waiting for you.”

His voice cracked. “My pleasure. Blue forever.”

After loading the dead hobo into the passenger seat, Arnie drove the winding, hilly roads toward the lakes. Just before a quiet curve, he pulled over and shoved the man into the driver’s seat. He planted Joe’s dark hoodie on the passenger seat. More evidence the body would be identified as his, assuming it survived the inferno. He took the gas can Joe always kept in the trunk and poured it over the body. He lit a paper match and placed it under the seat. A small whooshing sound and a glow of orange appeared.

He put the car in gear and, stretching his foot from the passenger side, Arnie revved the engine. Holding his breath to fight off the fumes, he drove the car to the edge of the cliff at the s-curve. He opened the door and and with a shove the car went over the edge.

The car continued its journey to eternity and crashed through the guardrail with the recently deceased loser strapped inside Joe’s car. Arnie watched it sail out over the cliff, and then plummet. It did a tumble end over end into the gully below.

Va-room. The car went up in flames. The fireball reminded him of sitting around the campfire with Joe’s son and his own kid at Boy Scout outings. He watched the crackling flames for a few minutes as it consumed the automobile and thought of the s’mores they’d shared. Oh, well. Joe’s wife and kids would be better off in the long run thinking he’d ended his life. Arnie’s family would be better off after he disappeared.

It took Arnie an hour to walk back to the new drop off point in downtown Austin to pick up the rest of his earnings. All the way, he reassured himself he’d done the right thing even though it meant four men were now dead. Two burglars out of the way, one eliminated by Joe and one by him, so the taxpayers didn’t have to pay for them to have a fair trial and then a long appeal process.

Thinking of Joe pierced his heart. He’d been a friend, but he’d have cracked anyway. Weak cops always did. Too many years on the force, marital pressures, and too many stops at the bar on the way home did that to a man. The old Joe he knew died a long time ago.

The fourth vic? Only a worthless wart on the face of society now out of his misery. What Arnie did to him was no different than what the Humane Society did to stray animals. The man probably sat at the feet of Jesus now anyway. Jesus always hung out with that type according to the Bible, if Arnie recalled his Sunday school lessons right.

Besides, Hornsby deserved justice for what he went through. Once Arnie and Joe heard what happened, they agreed the burglars who shot their buddy had to die. No one downs a cop and walks on a technicality. Yep, Arnie would have done it for free out of loyalty to another blue. Still, having both his and Joe’s cut of the money didn’t hurt. No one would be the wiser.

The inept force in that Podunk town never caught Holden, so Arnie and Joe had vowed to help out instead. Setting him up to rob those seniors had been a cinch. The threes and sixes angle would have that force scratching their heads for a long time. Cleaner this way, with Arnie and Joe being from out of town. No one would trace it back to Alamoville, and if they did, dollars to doughnuts they’d sweep it under the rug. Especially since the investigation had dropped in Hornsby’s lap. Maybe there was a God after all?

The fact the scumbags were caught in the act robbing the third condo proved to be almost a gift from heaven as well. Nah. He no longer believed in that sort of thing. The order of the universe ensured justice would eventually rule. Karma confirmed Arnie fulfilled his role. Nothing supernatural about it.

“Blue helps blue—no matter what,” he mumbled to himself as he crouched behind a dry cleaner and folded five one-hundred dollar bills to stitch them in the seams of his trousers. That’s the code they swore to each other at the academy where they all met. Had Joe fully embraced that, he wouldn’t have ended up in a river two hundred miles from home. Strike that. At the bottom of a gully in a crash. Arnie chuckled.

If anyone connected him to Joe and Hornsby, his plans would be over. Over twenty years had passed since they graduated and all ended up in different cities after the first five years together on the beat, so that would not be likely. Most of the seasoned cops he knew back then on the Houston force had long since retired. The newer ones never heard of them.

Arnie deposited the rest of the cash in his and his wife’s joint bank account via an ATM. The divorce papers she’d receive in the mail tomorrow guaranteed her full access to it, his Ross IRA and their savings, despite his attorney’s objections. “That way she won’t come after me for more,” he'd told the lawyer.

Then he flipped the bank card back and forth until it easily tore into two, and repeated the action two more times. He shoved the pieces into the trash can three blocks away under several leftover fast food bags and beer cans.

Remaining homeless would allow him to keep his ear to the ground to cipher out any news about his handiwork as he blended in with the other invisibles. If any light flickered in his direction, he’d slither further underground. Hop on the bus to L.A. after all.