As Dan drove, he speculated how they might play out this hand in the “Game of the Blues.”
“He wants parkers, does he? Then we’ll GIVE him parkers! If he interviewed victims, maybe he’d get it? Maybe if he hauled the bleeding to the hospital, or explained to widows how they’re gonna eat after their purses are snatched! He’s skippin’ through his own Wonderland.” Dan watched a car pass through the intersection. “Parkers!”
“Dan, we can’t fight the system. It’s numbers to him.”
“Parkers don’t beat people and rob ’em. Parkers don’t kill people. Crime on the rampage and he wants parkers? I’ll get him parkers.”
“How?”
“I’ll come up with them—somehow.”
“We’ll keep our eye out. Pick up a couple a night. We don’t have to let it keep us from the important stuff.”
“Be sure on that! But, Hess needs to learn people are getting hurt. I’ll figure an angle.”
Dan was the brain of the Duo, an ingenuity to conspire and plot with deviousness bordering depravity. His conniving stings were renowned. Even with laws favoring the criminal, once Dan set his sights on a villain, they felt the obsession. In fifteen minutes, Dan had a plan.
“Think I’ve solved the parkers glitch.”
“I’m all ears and more ’n a bit worried, Partner. Can’t we just get along with the lieutenant for once?”
“Weren’t you just moanin’ in my ear about suppositories?”
“Yeah, so I gripe about taking out the garbage. It gets to the curb.”
“You’re dreamin’. Ben, we don’t suffer fools well, let alone ego inflated by-the-book supervisors. You really suggesting we tuck tail?”
“It’s co-existence!”
“You’ve gone ‘blooey’ on me!”
“Of course not! It’s the good guys against the bad guys, and on nights parkers aren’t the bad guys. I vote for burglars and thieves.”
“Well, we can do that, and maybe, get him off the parkers kick same time.”
“And, without shoving it in his face—right?”
“Hear me out.”
“Your plans tend to bend rules.”
“Ease up, Ben. Hear me out!”
“I’m listening.”
“The plan’s simple. We strategically choose streets for OTP enforcement.”
“OTPs on nights! That law is for clearing abandoned clunkers on days.”
“Tell it to your buddy, Snaggles. All I know is 508-12 doesn’t stipulate reason. It says they can’t remain over fourteen hours. That’s the whole point; Day Run versus Night Run. He doesn’t get it.”
“All you’re gonna do is fire citizens up.”
“If we’re going to get him parkers, it can’t be helped. The key is the towing.”
“Towing! OH NO! no, no.”
“It’ll be temporary. We select streets maximizing opportunity for complaints. Tonight, we mark a street. Tomorrow, we mark another, and tag the first street; and the third night, we mark one, tag one, and tow one. Sooner or later we’ll hit a nerve.”
“‘Hit a nerve’? Thought your plan didn’t shove it in his face?”
“Maybe a little, but if we follow procedures…”
“Partner, I’m telling you up front, I DON’T LIKE IT!”
“Do it by the book, and his fuming is hot air up a chimney. Snaggles’ll have his blasted parkers, and we’ll have done everybody a service by educating him.”
“Why do all YOUR plans include ME getting MY butt chewed?” Ben asked. “I’m not up for that right now. You think on it. We’ll rehash it in an hour.”
They made their business checks between routine radio dispatches of domestic disputes, bar fights, and auto accidents. Around 0300 hours the radio traffic quieted.
“You thought on it long enough?” Dan asked.
“What?”
“The OTP Plan.”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Benn said “The way you play the game amuses, but frightens me. We start laying paper; it’s a chain reaction we can’t stop. I’m not comfortable pushin’ fines on people who don’t have a dog in the fight.”
“Easy, Partner, I’m figuring warning notices first night. After that, they’re not so innocent.”
“Reckon that dog’ll hunt, but if Hess sees ’em, it’ll kill your plan.”
“Why you keep putting it on me? Are we partners or not?”
“I don’t see gettin’ my butt chewed so you can ‘one-ups’ the lieutenant.”
“Okay, it’s MY plan, but it’s OUR problem. Got a better idea?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You don’t see a problem burnin’ time chasin’ parkers?
“Of course I do.”
“Well then, trust me, Partner. It’ll work!”
“OH, CURSES! Partners we are. By your side should I die.”
“Then, might as well get started.” Dan said pulling to the curb. Will start on Gordon, do Pitts tomorrow. He slid out of the car. He began marking tires at the first vehicle and Ben worked the other side of the street.
Minutes into the chore Dan noticed a shadow moving fifty yards ahead disappearing near Gundy’s Grocery. A cardinal rule of patrol work demands partners maintain full awareness of each other. It is critical when separated. Thus, Dan quickly caught the eye of Ben and signaled what he saw. Ben worked around the backside of the grocery, and they closed on the doorway from opposite directions.
Dan stealthily approached within twenty feet of the figure. Preoccupied it stooped in front of the door. Sidestepping to avoid a bucket, Dan stirred a pebble. The man turned, spotted Dan, and bolted around the corner of the building toward Ben. Extending his nightstick it raked across the man’s shins. The suspect lurched forward rolling into the gutter issuing a stream of curses.
“Gosh, mister, seems you tripped,” Ben said. “Let me help you up.” He twisted each arm of the burglar in turn behind him applying handcuffs. Dan joined his partner.
“What’s your name?” Ben asked.
“Tim.”
“Put a last name to it, Tim.”
“Tim…uhh…Tim Freeman.”
A search found a five inch “pegged” knife in his ankle high shoe, seventeen cents, a washer, and a leather bi-fold wallet worn through at the corners. The wallet contained several unimportant notes, a four-month-old pay stub, and a social security and welfare card bearing the name of Fred Morgan.
“If you’re Tim Freeman, why do you have Fred Morgan’s papers?” Ben asked.
“He’s a friend. He’s sick, so I cashed it for him.”
“You’re a lousy liar.”
Dan returned to examine the doorway, while Ben called the dispatch on the belt radio relaying the available data on the suspect. Dan’s flashlight revealed paint flaking from pry marks on the jamb. Both near the bolt. Within minutes Dan returned carrying a dark brown canvas bag. The bag contained several large screwdrivers, a clawed pry bar, hacksaw, cold chisel, hammer, and flashlight.
“What are you doing with these?” Dan interrogated.
The man did not reply.
“What were you doing in Gundy’s doorway?”
“I weren’t doin’ no door! Twas walkin’ home from Stacy’s when some dudes got t’ chasin’ me. Feared f’r m’ life, I run, and hid from ’em. Then you comes along and I thought it was ’em, so’s I run. And, that’s d’ honest God’s truth officers. Swears it.”
“Where you suppose the fresh pry marks came from? And, there’s this bag of burglary tools?”
“Them ain’t burglar tools! ‘Sides ain’t ne’r seen ’em before. You ain’t got not’in’ on me!”
“Wrong mister two names,” Dan said. “The lab’ll match this pry bar to the door marks.”
“Ain’t mine. Y’u gots not’in’.”
“The cuffs, bag of burglary tools, fresh pries, and an unlawful peg knife are big clues trouble’s coming your way,” Ben advised escorting the suspect to the cruiser.
“Car 508,” the radio called, “you have a Signal Thirty-H [History Record], S-S matches.”
“508, copy. We’re double, subject in custody. Disregard backup.”
They transported Morgan to the district station, and secured him in a holding cell to stew while completing their paperwork. On the way to the desk Dan turned the thermostat controlling the room to eighty. Uncomfortable solitude increases cooperation. They went to the front desk.
“Rap sheet in on Morgan yet?” Dan asked the desk officer.
“On the side bar. Get it and get. Snaggles’s on the prowl over something.”
“Yeah, we know.”
The rap-sheet listed a dropped petty theft charge and an active trespass warrant.
Returning, Dan lowered the thermostat to seventy-six. They entered without closing the door hoping to clear the stale air. The prisoner sat at the end of a small aluminum table his head buried in folded arms. He was neither sleeping nor crying, but resigned. Ben raised the long narrow window’s sash revealing exterior bars and straddled a gray metal chair backwards. It wobbled from the bent leg causing a “tap-tap-tap.” Morgan sat erect. His face carried the expression of a hardboiled egg. Dan leaned back against the brick wall as if weary and spoke softly.
“Fred, it’s a busy night. We don’t have time to dilly-dally.” Then seeing Lieutenant Hess passing Dan raised his voice, “You’re a burglar. Tonight’s parker night; so we don’t have time for burglary work.” The Lieutenant continued down the hallway. Dropping the tone Dan reopened, “Simply put, Fred, we have two felony-four charges. Toss in the concealed weapon, and they’re first degree felonies. Your facin’ three to twenty.”
“But, I…”
“But I nothing” Dan interrupted pulling a chair to the table its legs scraping across the concrete floor. He sat ninety degrees from the prisoner leveling clear blue eyes on Morgan. Many a suspect mistook them as compassionate. They were all business. “I’d like to clear this up and get you back with your family, but…”
Ben knew his cue, “BUT, we both know you’re guilty as sin! You’re going down, and with YOUR RECORD, its bangin’ out plates ten to twenty.”
“Not necessarily, Ben,” Dan said holding his arm out to block Ben’s approach. “If he’d level with us, maybe we could cut him some slack.” Turning to the prisoner Dan said, “No promises, Fred. We’ve got you cold. Do the math. Give me somethin’ to bargain with.”
Fred hesitated. Dan and Ben sat quiet. Ben’s chair leg tapped.
“If I’m sent up what’ll happen to my wife and kids? How they gonna make it?”
“Should’ve considered it before goin’ night shopping,” Ben said harshly.
“Your kids, Fred, they deserve any break you can give ’em,” Dan added.
“I can’t do time!”
“Can’t promise, but we can’t do anything for you ’til we know the score.”
Fred rested his face in his open right hand, his elbow supported on the table. The room was quiet with the exception of the whirring exhaust fan.
“Okay. I’ll spill it. I needed food. My wife and kids ain’t had real food f’r weeks, and one of m’ kids’ sick. I know’d ‘twas wrong, but I ain’t had no work. Last worked ne’r three months back for two pennies a brick. Don’t salvage bricks like they use to. Anyway, money’s gone weeks ago. I’m not trying to make what I done right. Just tellin’ what ‘twas pushin’ me.”
“Aren’t you on the food stamp program?” Dan asked.
“Sara took sick. Mos’ of ’em went f’r potions. She’s better now, but m’ little one’s caught it.”
Dan was aware of the custom of selling food stamps off market to provided cash for tobacco, beer, and illicit drugs. Unfortunately, proceeds were less than half value.
“What about a church association?” Dan asked.
“Church! You go to church? They might help your family. I don’t know church people. What church goin’ to help the likes of us. Did church when I was a kid. Momma made me go, but I don’t have much use for religion. Sometimes, Thanksgiving or Christmas church folk drop off a box of food. Guess it makes ’em feel good. It do help us for a few days.”
Dan studied the arrest record. “What kind of beer you drink?”
“Can’t ‘fords no beer, officer. ‘Sides, don’t much care for it; bitter’n vinegar. I’d much rather do sodee-pop, if’n you’re offer’n?”
Dan ignored the hint, “Record shows a petty theft and an open trespass warrant. Care to explain?”
“I took some copper off the site at one of my brick jobs. Foreman told me I could, then went backwards on me. Nobody showed at court, ‘cept me. I was let off. The one last year was when I’d sold this feller a radio. Needed cash. He give me ten and promised ten next day. He welshed on me, so’s I snuck in his garage to get it. Figured I had right, what you call it? Reprocess it?”
“Repossess.”
“Anyways, his fool dog, didn’t count on no Doberman, cornered me. He called you guys, and I got jailed.”
Dan glanced at Ben to get his impression. Ben nodded implying he bought it. They were in agreement.
“You don’t have a phone? Want us to notify anyone you’ve been arrested?” Dan asked.
“Sara, she’s got to know.”
“Who’s Sara?”
“She’s gonna be madder ’n a saint in Hell. It puttin’ her on her own an’ all.”
“Sara your wife?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“This address good?”
“No, 2843 Sidney, secon’, num’r five. Everythin’ else y’u got’s honest.”
“Be right back,” Dan said leaving the room. He returned with a can of Coke and handed it to the prisoner, “Drink up, won’t be any where you’re going.”
Morgan popped the tab and dropped it into the can. He didn’t waste time nursing the refreshment. Raising the can he took a long gulp. With a guttural belch, he wiped his mouth on his dirty sleeve. “Thanks, Officer, you …”
Dan smoothly grabbed the half-empty can, “Good grief man! You gonna kill yourself gulping a pop-tab in my jail! I’ll be writing paper for a week!”
“Sorry. Be okay if I sip it?”
“Okay—but, SIP.”
“A wagon’ll take you downtown in twenty minutes. I think we can write tonight’s mess as misdemeanors. You’ll see the judge in the morning.”
Ben called for a transport while Dan babysat. Bond would not be set until morning, but the charge sheet read “Criminal Trespass, misdemeanor-four.” Bound would be less. The amount made little difference, but the charges did.
“Next stop: 2843 Sidney Street,” Ben said as he entered the cruiser. Dan pulled away.
“How do we remain sane dealing with tragedy after tragedy?” Dan asked driving away.
“Who says we do?”
“For real, Ben. Take Fred, perfect example, hunger forcing him to steal. I understand it’s wrong, but we do our job and it makes matters worse.”
“The system is supposed to rehabilitate by teaching him a trade. In which case we’ve done him a service.”
“That appeases your conscience? It doesn’t mine. I know better. The bigger offender is the society which forced him to steal.”
“What’s society got to do with it? It’s a dog eat dog world.”
“I don’t think it’s supposed to be, Ben. I keep running into this question.”
“What question?”
“What causes crime and why’s it on the rise?”
“You and your itches.”
“If there’s no God, Fred and the rest of us, are the product of chance, and when we die it’s back to dust. Nothing else—dust. So logically what does our purpose become?”
“Get as many toys and play with them as much as you can.”
“Right, and poor Fred was trying to survive. People everywhere, but hope nowhere. Why? As for society, where’s Fred’s neighbors?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll soon find out,” Ben answered as the cruiser brought them into a former industrial area. Three story row-houses from the turn of the century lined the streets like teeth in a bad smile. Most converted to flats among intermittent litter strewn lots from raised buildings. Disrepair plagued all. By the time they stepped from the cruiser to the sidewalk another police car approached.
“We miss a run?” Dan asked.
“Didn’t hear one. Bet it’s Ghost Rider.”
They waited for the car to pull to the curb, and an officer of medium frame and height with dirty blond hair emerged. Officer Gary Follert exhibited no clear distinguishing features. A popular tale told of him visiting Kings Island Amusement Park with his kids earned him the handle “Ghost Rider.” They persuaded him to have a character sketch made of the foursome. When complete, Gary’s face appeared as a plain oval ‘smiley face.’
“Sorry if I missed a run. I’m Two-Six,” Gary greeted. “What’s up?”
“Relax, you don’t miss anything on your beat and you know it,” Ben said.
Gary looked around as if lost. “This is MY beat?”
“Just an arrest notify,” Dan said. “Sorry, should have alerted you.”
“What kind of bust? Better I know my people, better I can look after ’em.”
“Caught Fred Morgan takin’ the door off Gundy’s Grocery. Told us he needed food for a wife and sick kid. No phone, notifying his wife he’s locked up.”
“If he’s living in this broken down barracks, like as not, he’s being truthful,” Gary said. “Let’s check it out. Make sure they don’t need medical attention.”
They found the appropriate entrance, entered the foyer, and ascended to the second floor. Ben raised his night stick to beat on the door frame, but Gary pushed it away tapping on the door with his key ring.
“Who is it?” a female answered.
“Police,” Gary announced.
The door opened until caught by the night chain. An eye peered through the opening. “What you want?”
“Are you Sara Morgan,” Dan asked.
“What you wan’a know f’r?”
“We have a message for Mrs. Sara Morgan, from Fred.”
The door closed, the hall fell silent, and then the door swung open.
“Come in,” she said, suspiciously. “I’m Sara.”
Gary stepped back allowing the Duo to enter first.
“Sorry to bring bad news, but Fred’s in jail,” Dan said. “We caught him trying to break into Gundy’s Grocery two hours ago.”
Mrs. Morgan stared at them several silent minutes. Tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks like large dew drops off a sagging leaf. She was a slim woman not lacking posture or dignity, with short slightly curly auburn hair, and uniform features. In all her plainness she remained statuesque.
While Dan searched for words, Ben stepped in, “His bond will be set in the morning, Court Room Three, at nine.”
“Ain’t got money for bond. ‘Sides, I got a sick child here. Can’t be running off to no court,” Sara whimpered. A child’s crying cut into the conversation and she turned to look toward the only other room.
“I got to fix ’im somethin’,” Sara explained turning to a kitchen sink nearby. The kitchen consisted of two base cabinets with single sink top, a small two-burner gas stove, and in one corner the oldest working refrigerator Dan ever saw. She took some bread from one of the two doorless cabinets over the sink. Breaking the stiff slices into water she made mush and carried it into the adjoining room.
Waiting, Dan surveyed the apartment. A dinette set completed the tiny kitchen. A mop handle taped to the broken metal stub substituted for a table leg. Plain brown patches in the patterned imprint of the barren top testified to age. Alongside it were two wobbly chairs, and a wood stool.
Old paint and wallpaper peeled off the walls, two missing window panes were replaced with cardboard, and cracked linoleum partially covered the floor planks. Furniture was scarce. A sagging couch, the missing front leg replaced by a brick served as a bed for a five-year old. Two side chairs with worn ragged upholstery and a fold-a-bed against the wall completed the small apartment’s furnishings. Dan noticed an occasional roach, but the apartment exceeded the cleanliness of most he’d seen in this area.
Sara returned to the room. Her tears were dried and her composure regained. She cradled a year-old child to her chest. He fussed as she patted him lovingly. “Is there anything else?”
“How sick’s the child?” Gary asked. “Any fever?”
“No, he ain’t fevered. He can’t keep nothin’ I feed ’im down. Mostly hungry. Cries all the time. Why you care?”
“Well now,” Gary said ignoring the question. “You bundle those young ’ns and I’ll run you to the hospital. Make sure he’s okay.”
“We don’t need no hospital. Been to the clinic. Two days back,” she snapped withdrawing.
“Okay, won’t make you go. What’s the boy’s name?”
“Roy.”
“I’ll be checking back on you and the kids. If Roy takes a turn for the worse, call me?” He handed her a card.
Sara nodded and stood silent.
“We’ll be going,” Ben said. “We’re notifying you for Fred. Good luck.”
They started to depart, but half way out the door Gary lingered speaking quietly with Sara. The Duo waited until Gary turned to leave, and they all departed silently not wanting to further upset the woman. At curbside Gary remarked “What are we going to do for them? Can’t leave it like this can we?”
“Don’t know there’s much we can do,” Dan answered opening the driver’s door of the cruiser. “Some things are beyond our control. It’s your beat. Come up with something let me know.”
Gary’s face showed confusion from Dan’s unreceptive response and Ben interjected, “He’s got an itch were he can’t scratch,” and slid into the car.
“Oh, can I help?”
“No, he’s lost sight of his purpose in life.”
“Can’t lose what you never had,” Dan shouted through the open window.
Gary grunted as the cruiser pulled away.
“Radio’s been quiet, let’s head over and work the OTP plan,” Dan suggested.
“You’re drivin’.”
On the way Dan asked, “Well, did you figure out where they were?”
“Who?”
“Fred’s neighbors.”
“Indeed, his whole family’s in a desperate plight, and where are his neighbors?”
“From the looks of things they’re consumed in their own survival.”
“And, to what end all this striving? It spews out violence, and speeds us toward our end which is nothingness!”
“I gotta find you some salve.”
In minutes Dan and Ben were back on their beat working the OTP Plan. The radio remained quiet. They used the opportunity to finish marking the cars, and then focused on preventing burglaries. Methodically, once more, they began checking their businesses.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving it hang on Ghost Rider,” Ben said.
“Letting what hang?”
“Sara’s kids, AND you know it! No problem coming up with OTP plans. Numerous ways to mess with Snaggles cascade off your brain like hail from a steep roof. You expect me to believe you can’t come up with an angle on the Morgans?”
“Rein your horses in, Ben! I’m chewin’ on it! Let Gary have first go. It’s his beat, you know.”
“Why so testy ? Just asking,”
“Alright already! And, I’m not testy.”
“Sound testy to me.”
“I didn’t STICK nothin’ on Gary! He invited himself in. There ought to be some shared responsibility. It’s his beat.”
“Forget it. Just curious.”
“Sure my heart gets yanked around a dozen times a night. Life’s a lousy grind and then you die! Nothing more. What can I do?”
“Said forget it. Means nothing to me.”
The radio ended the discussion. “Car 515, 515, on Crawford Avenue near the rear cemetery gate, investigate single car accident, no injuries.”
“505, my wrecker is pulling away, I’m probably closer ‘n 515.”
“508,” Ben cut in, “We’re available. It’s our beat.”
“515, okay on 508’s disregard.”
In five minutes they parked behind the accident vehicle and activated their beacon lights. The grill and radiator of an old Impala was wrapped around a metal telephone pole. Not just crushed, but smashed into the motor. The hood resembled a wavy potato chip. Radiator fluid flowed from under the vehicle. The kaleidoscope reflected in its pools contradicted the beat of the blaring rock and roll.
“You’re favorite kind of accident,” Ben remarked.
“Indeed! No innocent people hurt, and a fool destroyed his own car.”
A man squirmed in the driver’s seat as if dancing to the thunderous music. Ben was first to realize the driver was working feverishly at the wheel with a large wrench. The driver cursed, shouted, twisted, and banged at the steering wheel.
Ben approached. “Sir, set the wrench down. Step out of the vehicle.”
The man looked out through the open door and spoke with heavily slurred diction, “Offishers, I wush jush putshin’ sha sherring wheel backsh on.”
“Sir, drop the wrench. Step out of the vehicle.”
He dropped the wrench.
“Do you realize you hit a telephone pole?”
“Itsh notsh my faulsh. Sheering swheel come offsh!”
Ben and Dan exchanged looks shaking their heads.
“What’d he say?” Ben asked.
Dan stepped in front of the driver to get his attention, “Sir, I want you to think careful before you answer this next question, because it will determine if you are drunk or not.”
“Okish.”
“Is Mickey Mouse a dog or a cat?”
“Thatsh a tricks quesshun, Offischers. He’s ‘u famish bashball plaser.”
“Right what team was Mickey Mouse on?”
“Wassh it du Yanksh.”
Using big words Dan played with the drunk, “Your immoderate intemperance transcends coherently comprehendible communication, but you know your baseball.”
“Huh?” the drunk stared dumbfounded.
“Said you’re drunk as a skunk,” Ben interpreted. “I think?”
“Nooo Shursss!”
Shaking his head, Ben ended it, “Enough ‘shish’ talk. We’ve work to do.”
Dan took the hint querying the license plate and investigated the claimed defect while Ben escorted the man to the cruiser. No defect existed. Overlooking one little detail risked embarrassment in court. Neither Dan nor Ben harbored animosity for lawyers. They viewed attorneys as doing their job the best they knew, and the Duo were determined to do theirs better. It made the system effective sometimes. The vehicle was registered to a Benjamin Henderson. There were no wants, but a record of three D.U.I. arrests. Dan joined his partner waiting at the open cruiser door. “Are you Mr. Henderson?”
“Yesh, Shirs, Benshamin Hendershun, jush call me Benshy.” he proudly admitted.
Knowing the tedious routine of testing and processing a D.U.I. subject, Ben suggested, “I’ll wait for the tow and catch a ride in. You run him.”
“Not so fast, Partner. I’ll flip you for ‘Benshy’. Call it.” He thumbed the quarter into the air.
“Sorry Partner,” Ben snatched the descending coin. “I did paper on the last one.”
“Like you said, I’ll process, you tow,” Dan smirked. Closing the prisoner’s door he slid in and drove off.
Ben cleared the scene in twenty minutes and called 505 for a lift to the station. He found Dan in the briefing room working on reports. “You’re done in twenty minutes?”
“Refused to blow.”
“That him in the tank screaming slurred profanities?”
“Yep, saved me bunch of work.”
“Curses! Next one’s mine. It’ll probably take two hours.”
They transported Henderson to central lock-up. Secured behind the protective screen he remained obnoxious, but harmless. Deputy Ternnka, the jail intake officer, took custody while murmuring in song, “My silence is stolen; robbed of my peace; more scarce ‘n hens teeth, Silence is golden, for this I am told. My silence…”
“You can handle it,” Dan mused. “Nature of the job.”
“Comes with the territory, eh? Easy for you to say. You two are walking out.” Then passing the man through the barred gate to another deputy he instructed, “Way in the back. Way wa-a-ay in the back.”
The off tune singing faded away as they walked down the hall.
“That’d get on my nerves fast,” Dan said. “Aren’t you glad you have me for a Partner?”
“Put that way, reckon so. And to show my appreciation, I’ll spell you at the wheel?”
“’Bout time you earned your keep.”
“Save time taking the interstate and we can spend it on eatin’.”
One hundred yards across the district line they came upon a Roadhaul truck on the shoulder with its hazard lights flashing. The driver was working on the hitching mechanisms.
“Rather check it now, than do paper later,” Ben said pulling in behind the truck and activating the bar lights. They checked the trailer seals on the way to the driver. He worked at a coupling behind the cab.
“You can’t see much. Don’t you have a light?” Dan asked.
“Fool thing went dead. I think one of these lines is leaking. Can I borrow yours?”
Dan handed the trucker his flashlight.
“Nice torch.” The driver returned to his inspection and found a loose connection. Tightened to his satisfaction, the trucker jumped down from behind the cab.
“Could we get a quick look at your log and paperwork?” Dan asked. Smart to verify people are who they appear to be. Helps avoid embarrassment.
“Sure thing Officer,” he said retrieving his logbook and handing it down to Dan.
“Your license, please?”
The driver complied. Dan walked the driver to the front of the rig for safety. The paper work matched up and Dan handed it all back.
“Good luck Mr. Manning. Traffic’s light, but we’ll stay back with our lights. You be careful pulling out.”
“Appreciate it Officer,” he said climbing into his tractor. Dan and Ben returned to their cruiser. The trucker pulled away without incident, and the officers were on their way with food on their minds again.
“Radio traffic’s light. Want to chance the Blue Bird Grille?” Ben asked.
“You’re driving.”
They ordered the daily special. It was quick and Sharon, their waitress, delivered the orders with her customary, “Bon ‘app-e-teet’.” Dan took his first bite as the radio interrupted.
“Car 509, and 507, Epworth and North Edgewood, Christos-Drivakis Building, in the candy shop, alarm drop, robbery, shots fired, Rescue 24 responding; 507 copy?”
“507, responding,” Officer B.C. Castleman replied on the radio.
“Car 509, copy?” asked the dispatcher.
No response.
“508, 508, cover the run.”
Dan tried to get a gulp of coffee to wash down the mouthful of sandwich, as Ben keyed the mike, “508, responding.” Both took a longing look at their food, shrugged it off, and headed toward the door. “We’ll be back for it,” Ben shouted over his shoulder.
Many officers patronized the Blue Bird, and the waitresses were accustomed to sudden departures. She heard the radio, knew the drill, collected the food and sent it back. If they returned, it was ready. If not, it was forgotten.
Ben reached the cruiser first. By the time Dan cleared the sidewalk it was rolling. Several cat-like strides of Dan’s stubby legs brought him to the open door. Grabbing it, he appeared to be sucked into the cruiser as the door slammed shut. Halfway to the destination they heard Car 507 announce his arrival.
“508, two minutes away,” Dan notified the dispatcher.
They arrived sooner. Spotting BC’s cruiser parked at the far corner in front of the Methodist Church, Ben pulled to the curb one plot south of the Drivakis Building. The turn of the century building housed three street level shops. The corner door opened to a confectionary and ice cream parlor, the middle door opened to a grocery store, and the end was a dry-cleaners. A fourth side door led to the third floor Masonic Lodge. The candy store owners lived on the second floor with access to the store’s kitchen. Canvas awnings were rolled up revealing blinds lettered with “Closed Please Come Again.”
Dan reached for his flashlight as he exited the cruiser. It was not by his side, BLAST! Let Roadhaul run off with it! He grabbed a spare from his war bag and caught up to his partner. The officers approached the store from their different vantage points. Distance between Dan and Ben increased with every step positioning Ben centrally, as Dan arrived at the right side, and BC merged from the left keeping the officers out of their own line of fire.
First at the corner entry, BC saw the shattered glass on the floor reflecting golden-yellow twinkles of light from within. “Police! Anyone in there declare yourself!”
“Back here, help us,” a woman’s weak voice wailed followed by sobbing. “Hurry! My God! Please help. They shot him!”
BC reached through and opened the door with his left hand, his gun ready in his right. Dan joined him while Ben hung back. After the two officers entered, Ben took a position at the door.
Dan’s eyes fell upon a man’s ashen face clothed in pajamas lying on his back. A woman in her late sixties knelt beside him stroking the balding white hair of the overweight victim. She wore a light terrycloth full-length nightgown. Its white pristine softness smeared with gooey shades of scarlet. The stillness was broken by her sobbing.
They were the owners of this “Mom and Pop” candy store and lived in the upstairs apartment. They addressed patrons by first name, and gave unlimited samples to the children. Year after year they worked to eke out a simple life; his now draining away amid her tears. Her panic wrinkled brow and sunken cheeks bore holes through Dan as she pressed the wadded hem on the man’s chest wound. The grapefruit sized bundle of cloth oozed. “Help him please! Do something – please! Oh, why? Why’d they do it?”
The aroma of chocolate in the air and the menthol of peppermint on Dan’s tongue collided with the images in his eyes. Dan’s mind momentarily went blank. He hesitated.
The woman cried out again, “Help us, please!”
Dan shot like a bullet from a magnum to her side. Blood had left a crimson trail down the victim’s side to the floor. Kneeling he checked the victim’s wrist for pulse. Very weak. Checking the chest wound he saw frothy blood. Not a good sign! sucking sound of the last sip through a straw reached his ear. grabbed some plastic wrapping from the counter to seal the wound. Placing it over the hole, he reapplied the compress with as much pressure as he dared. Bending his ear over the man’s mouth listening for breath, he saw a long nose hair flutter. He’s alive!
Then came an angelic whisper, “Can you see it? Glorious…never imagined…” The voice faded, the eyes flickered as a candle and went dark.
Dan gently pulled the edge of the compress away. Blood no longer flowed from a now silent wound. He replaced it. “Keep pressing. The paramedics are on the way.”
BC looked into Dan’s face. It affirmed his suspicion. He knelt at the lady’s side, “Did you see who shot him?”
“No,” she shook her head. “I was upstairs. I heard shots. Ran down… saw Henry…lying there. A dark car squealed off through there,” she looked out the main doorway. Hearing approaching sirens, her eyes locked there in anticipation.
“What’s Henry’s last name?” BC asked.
“Tolson and I’m Miriam,” she answered between sobs. “I told him not to go. Call the police. He couldn’t hurt them. I begged him. Why’d they shoot him? Only forty seven-dollars in the drawer. He did everything they said. He’ll be okay—won’t he?”
No one answered her.
Dan avoided her pleading eyes. How can I answer? How do I explain wanton depravity?
The paramedics arrived. The “WHAP” of their bags dropping mirrored their urgency. Dan greeted them without moving. “Gun shot. No pulse. Sucking chest wound. Sealed it with plastic.”
Rick, a paramedic, pulled at Tolson’s night-shirt. It tore open with the sound of a hissing snake. He checked under the compress. His partner, Phil, prepared paddles. Maybe he’s got a chance, dared hope, but noticed raise his thumb inconspicuously in an ever so slight circling motion. He understood the signal, Circling the drain. Lost cause. Phil knelt with the paddles.
“Clear!” KAZAP!
Miriam cried out between sobs, “Why! Forty seven-dollars”
“Clear!” KAZAP!
Dan put his arm around Miriam’s shoulder nudging her trembling body aside. Both remained fixed on the flurry of action. Serenaded by the sobs of grief the medics worked frantically to resuscitate Henry Tolson.
“They wouldn’t be trying so hard if there were no hope,” Dan lied to her thinking, too many times I’ve encountered violent death at the door; shoving, pushing, unrelenting. Almost never is it repelled!
After several minutes the medics stopped, silently shook their heads, and rose from the body. Their extraordinary efforts were inadequate to bar the door; powerless to call him from beyond. Dan counted the eyelets in the medic’s shoes not wanting to face the eyes around him. His stomach quivered, and he stood emotionally empty. He no longer tasted nectar of peppermint. Taking Miriam’s hand a tear slid down his cheek denying his stoic facade.
“I’m sorry.”
The sounds of the medics preparing to leave, bounced off the walls of an empty cave. She collapsed sobbing into Dan’s chest. Dan first felt the stab of this ice-cold knife when it killed the sweetness in his life. Felt it when his wife informed him, “I’m going to leave you soon. I have cancer. I will not get better.” He had suffered it many times, each time it twisted less. Once more, in a place known for sweet refreshment, death carried in its sour misery.
A silent awkwardness fell on the normally jovial officers. Their work turned all business.
“Don’t stand around,” Dan shouted at two other officers who had arrived. “Go out and catch those gristle-gutted mongrels of Hell!”
They did search. Every available car searched for witnesses, door to door, from flat to flat. They stopped suspicious vehicles and identified the occupants, filled out field interrogation reports, and executed endless paper work. When it ended they had nothing, but a description of a ghost in the night. In time, Homicide Squad responded and Dan and Ben were relieved.
“You were right earlier tonight,” Ben said. “Tragedies wear on even us. Life shouldn’t be like this. It’s, as if it’s cursed.”
“My Dad used to talk about it that way—cursed.”
“Preacher, I don’t mind tellin’ you, these times make me feel it’s hopeless. What kind of curse is it?”
“I’m thinking man’s curse is the lies he believes. Like the drunk who believes he had two beers?”
“Cursed or not, Dan, we’re here, and we must dance the best we can.”
“All that door-knocking, and nobody saw anything. I want a name to write on a bullet.”
“Whatever the curse, we don’t have enough bullets.”
“Ben, we keep volunteering to have our guts pulled out through our noses. Muddling around in the dark tripping over ourselves. We need to switch on a light.”
“Better be as bright as the sun. I’ve done too many warehouse searches with my flashlight.”
“We agree there’s an overbearing force of darkness. So there must be a force of light.”
“Let me guess, the light switch is God.”
“Possibly.”
“And, is it’s broke?”
“Possibly.”
“Getting to deep for me.”
“Well Ben, if we believe there’s no God, doesn’t all life become equally valueless?”
“You’re the one took that road. You tell me?”
“Having only yourself to rely on makes you a bit self centered.”
“I hear that.”
“Thanks! Anyway, I realized I had nowhere to go, no future. Life’s purpose was becoming the present thrill. Ben, I’m coming in for the thrills. And they’re dark encounters.”
“Umm huh. And that’s where you are with the itch thing.”
“Started struggling with my principles, I guess. If I stay on that downhill road long enough, I could be Tolson’s killer. Scares me!”
“You feel responsible for Henry Tolson? I can’t buy it.”
“Not him specifically, but our collective choices are the root of our suffering. Everyone chooses the trail he takes, but not what or who he encounters on the trail.”
“How you figure, Dan?”
“Simple, what did the killer believe?”
“Don’t know, we didn’t catch him.”
“I think it safe to say the killer believes only his needs matter. And with society’s tendency to live without restraint. What can we logically expect?”
“Crime and violence?”
“More important, why did he feel that way?”
“How would I know? But, I know God doesn’t want us to be that way.”
“Whose god Ben? Society’s god is no longer the Creator. It champions evolution and bank vaults of gold.”
“Watch your mouth. You’ll get a ruler across your knuckles.”
“Oh, struck a nerve did I, Sister Mary Ellen Ben?”
“What time is it?”
“You’re right. It’s getting late. Enough ‘phi-los-so-phise-ing.’ Let’s head in.”
The watch ended with little evidence conveyed to the detectives. The Duo headed toward the district in silence.
“Did 509 ever show up?” Dan asked.
“Don’t recall seeing him. Keep in mind Martin’s off, and Sleep-out’s running nine.”
Officer “Sleep-out” Lewis was approaching retirement with fourteen months to go. He took the stance it entitled him to be “selective.” Dan defined it “slacker.” The scuttlebutt at coffee meets complained he routinely napped in the park, tagging him “Sleep-out.” Supervision, aware of Lewis’ attitude, relieved him of his beat and routinely assigned him duties other than street patrol. Tonight a hole existed.
“Don’t care if he has put his time in! He can still take his runs and do his own paper,” Dan complained.
“He probably would have taken it, IF he’d heard it.”
“Probably asleep in the park, eh?”
“Be my guess.”
“Well, let’s go roust Sleep-out up. Wouldn’t want him to miss dismissal! Swing by the garage first. Let’s make it memorable!”
Ben drove to the maintenance barns and Dan borrowed a small hydraulic jack and some bricks. From there they went to Mount Storm Park. With their lights out, they rolled to a stop prior to the parking area. On foot, they located Sleep-out parked between some trees. His head reclined against the headrest.
Carefully slipping up behind the idling vehicle, Dan jacked the rear axle up as Ben slid bricks under it. With the tires a fraction of an inch off the pavement, Dan and Ben snuck back into cover.
“You figurin’ on waitin’ for him to wake up?” Ben asked.
“The deadbeat doesn’t rate our time!” Dan pulled a hand full of Cherry Bombs from his pocket. “Been savin’ these from last July. Perfect occasion.”
“They could blow the floor pan out.”
“Don’t much care. Just came from his beat where Mrs. Tolson had more ‘an her floor pan blown out!”
“He’s parked on a slight grade. Toss ’em careful,” Ben warned. “Snaggles ‘d love to kick it back in our faces.”
“Be just like Snaggles. Fire me, retire him. Ready?”
“I’ll light. You toss.”
“If, I blow somthin’ up, he can explain it. Time he took heat for something.”
Ben fired fuses and Dan tossed them as fast as he could. The firecrackers landed beside Sleep-out’s cruiser exploding like giant popcorn echoing off the hillside. Sleep-out erupted flooring the gas pedal. The engine roared, the rear tire whined as it spit loose gravel, but the cruiser did not move. He slammed it into reverse. Metallic noises sounded, faded, and the wheel whirled in the opposite direction. The door flew open and Sleep-out rolled out on the ground with his weapon drawn. He keyed his mike. “Officer needs assistance – under fire!”
The dispatcher having recognized Sleep-out’s voice was unrelenting, “Car 509, 509, your location. 509, are you alright. 509, respond!”
The quiet returned. Thick bluish-white smoke lingered. The smell of gunpowder heavy, eyes stinging, and ears ringing, the Duo laughed heartily.
Sleep-out realized he was the recipient of a “Dansting.” He snatched the mike from his shoulder, the rubber band holding it to the lapel broke snapping back into his cheek. Dropping the mike, he let go a string of vulgarities.
“Car 509, 509 forty-four location.” The dispatcher persisted, “Attention all cars, no location on 509, last contact was 2143 hours at White Castle.”
“509, disregard, all under control!” Lewis finally broadcast.
“It’s just a bad dream,” Dan added to the broadcast.
Lewis came at the bushes swinging his night stick.
Dan and Ben stepped out and faced him, “Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Ben said.
Up against two sizable opponents, he retreated back to his car venting his anger with streaming curses. Running out of strong words, he got back in the car and tried to drive away. Reminded of the problem, he soon found the cause.
“I don’t suppose you donkey farts intend to unblock it?”
“After that scathing!” Dan said. “Not in my lifetime! Let it be a lesson.”
“I don’t need none of your advice!”
“I ain’t advising! I’m tellin’ you! Take your runs and patrol your beat, or I’ll file charges with internal. There’s a dead man down there on your beat. A woman’s torment and misery you can’t change now if you wanted to! Had you been patrolling, maybe she wouldn’t be laying in a bed of tears? Think it over! Maybe it’ll help keep you awake on patrol.”
Dan turned and walked back to his vehicle. Ben followed.
“You think it would’ve made a difference? If – if he’d been patrolling?” Ben asked Dan.
“Doubt it. Be foolish to think we’re all that effective. We’re too few to be everywhere. Sometime yes, sometimes no, and that’s why we do it.”
They went into the station and stowed their gear. Gary intercepted them leaving the lockers.
“Hey Preacher, I’ve got someone you should meet. You ever go fishing?”
“Some, but mostly see it an excuse to burn time.”
“I’m not talking pier fishing for bluegills. I’m talking real fish; Walleye!”
“Never been,” Dan said flatly.
“I think you’d like it and I have the deal of deals. The fish are running hot right now! Tonight I thought of you and Ben. What do you say? Checked the line-up. Your three-day weekends are coming up. A professor friend of mine’s already in. You guys ‘d get along great with him.”
“Sorry,” Ben declined, “Wife’s got me committed to a family picnic, and there’s no way out. Wasn’t for that, I’d go. Dan you ought to. It’s fishin’ at its best. When they’re runnin’.”
“Gary, I don’t have any big lake equipment.”
“Taken care of. All it’ll cost you is for the headboats, hotel, and food. We drive up to Port Clinton Friday. Takes three and half hours. If Erie isn’t rough, we rent a skiff for the afternoon. That gives us all day Saturday, and early Sunday, and we drive back late Sunday.”
“Fall in,” Fleischer bellowed.
“I’ll think on it,” Dan said heading for the line.
Eleven tired gloomy men formed a sagging line. The sergeant looked the men over and counted heads, “What was all that with 509,” he asked looking at Dan. “He on his way in?”
“Think he’ll be a bit late.”
“He’s got car problems, Serge,” Ben added.
“I heard the radio. I want to know IS HE OKAY, or need I send someone?”
“We just left him, and far as I know he’s okay,” Dan answered.
“Blood pressure’s up a little bit though,” Ben chuckled.
“Don’t need to hear anything that’s not police business. Do I have to send Day Run to fetch him?”
“The wrecker ought t’ handle it,” Dan replied. “Guessin’ twenty minutes. He’s kind of up in the air over that run he missed.”
“Wrecker! Is there going to be paper on this?”
“No need when we left.”
“Fine! Keys in? Radios charging? Reports and tags? Jansen, hair and mustache. Kirby, clean that weapon. Black and White, did you get Lieutenant Hess his parkers?”
“Not yet Serge, but we’re working on it,” Dan said.
“It’s your butts on the line, not mine. I won’t be in the middle. You like your job? I’d hate to see you out driving a bread truck.”
“What’s to like or not like? It’s a life,” Dan replied.
“Then consider what it’s worth.”
Dan’s eyes made contact with the sergeant’s, “Tonight — ‘a life’ is worth forty-seven dollars, Serge.”
A cold silence, like at the closing of a casket, overcame the room.
“It’s a job, men. Don’t take it personal. It’ll eat your insides out.” He paused, “God made tomorrow for the creeps we didn’t catch today. And if we never catch ’em, He’ll sort ’em out for us.” Fleischer paused again then said. “Go home and get some rest. You’re dismissed.”
Dan glanced at the clock going out the door. 7:06. Route one. The minutes past the hour determine the route. mentor taught him as a rookie to create five differing routes home. Picking one at random reduced the chance of some vindictive thug tailing him. He laughed it off until the first time a car followed. Dan’s never forgot. Not even on nights he left grieved.