Hard Case

by Kylie Dodson

  “I just realized,” Blake whispered. “I haven’t seen a game in years. The last time I was here was to see this hilarious stand-up comic. He had this one joke where—“

  “Rivers,” Jennifer silenced him.

  Blake turned to her and noticed her finger pointing ahead. He followed it to a scraggly looking man wearing a tattered sleeping bag for a vest. His wiry brown and gray hair stuck out from a knit cap. It was nowhere near cold enough to wear such things. Jennifer tossed it up to alcohol or even the starting of drug withdrawals. Booze and drugs were fairly easy for squatters and the homeless to get a hold of. When a person had nothing left to lose, breaking the law became less harrowing because being arrested came with the promise of a roof overhead and at least two meals a day. That could be a lot more than street life had to offer.

  The man’s wide-eyed pupils shrank as Jennifer got closer, the light dilating them.

  “Sir,” she said. “Can I ask what you’re doing here?”

  “Just needed a place to crash for the night,” the man told her.

  “Well, you do realize you’re trespassing, right?”

  “I didn’t see a sign.”

  Blake leaned in to her ear. “I didn’t either.”

  Her arm nudged him away as she pulled out her badge. “Well, sir, this is private property.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” the man protested. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Police always trying to chase off—“

  “No, sir, I’m not trying to chase you off.” Jennifer put her badge away. “How about this: you answer my question and you can stay here as long as you want.”

  “You’re not going to arrest me?”

  “You see any handcuffs?”

  The man looked at her distrustfully. His eyes floated to Blake. Jennifer knew that the investigative journalist did not look like he belonged in a closed stadium at that time of night. He looked more like one of those rich uptown types who should be at a museum gala or charity event. The man sneered at Blake. “What about him? Is he a cop?”

  Jennifer scoffed then caught herself. “No. Just me. Do we have a deal?”

  He returned his attention to Jennifer. “It’s a pretty good deal. But what about after this place reopens? Can I still stay?”

  “You won’t get any argument from me.”

  “Good enough.”

  “OK. I just have one question for you,” Jennifer said. “Have you seen anyone or anything suspicious going on here?”

  The man looked up at the ceiling in a dramatic and thoughtful expression. “Well, I wouldn’t call it suspicious, but it was weird.”

  Jennifer turned to Blake who looked like he was going to burst with I-told-you-so.

  “It was just before sundown. A rat was dragging around about a half-full bag of potatoes,” the man said.

  Blake’s shoulders slumped in defeat. It was a particularly satisfying thing for Jennifer to see.

  “One of them fell out of the bag when it tried to pull them in its little rat hole," the man continued. "But that was on the other side of the stadium, so…”

  “But no people?” Jennifer asked.

  “Just me. I rush the others out when they show up. This is my corner.”

  “OK,” Jennifer said. “That’s very helpful. Thank you, sir.”

  “Just remember our deal.”

  Jennifer winked at the man and turned away. She grinned at Blake. “I hope you have a very complimentary headline planned, Rivers.”

  Blake stayed silent over the comment. Even in the dim illumination from their lights, Jennifer could see the determination on his face. He wasn’t done with this, nor was he satisfied with the eyewitness testimony of one lone vagrant.

  “We’re not done yet," he said. "I knew we weren't going to find the next victim in the hallways. The riddle sets up a scene more ghastly than that.” He turned into one of the entries to the field.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Open air,” Blake said. “That means above the field.”

  ***

  The two of them stood on the first row of seats in the stands. Jennifer shone her light above center of the field.

  “Above the field, eh?” Jennifer said.

  “Your flashlight just can’t reach out that far.”

  She turned to Blake with a flat expression as she lowered the beam to the seating on the other side of the field. She swung the light side to side, illuminating the other seats, before shining it back above the center field. The beam only disappeared into the night sky. She knew that if an aircraft pilot were to look down, they’d see the light. It was that bright. But at that point, it shone on nothing.

  “OK. OK. I get your point,” Blake said.

  Jennifer swung the light toward various spots above the field, just to make Blake feel better about his incorrect theory.

  “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It makes total sense, actually,” Jennifer said. “You had a theory. It was wrong. It’s not hard to understand.”

  “It can’t be, though. I tested out of all the intro classes, Ones, and Twos and took a whole year of The Intricacies and Breakdowns of Poetic Pros at Stanford. I was top of that class for a full semester.”

  Not totally sure what he was talking about, she said, “I guess the other other semester is where all the real learning was.”

  “My point is, I was right about this.”

  Jennifer stopped just inside the entry leading back to the hallway.

  “You were right about this? I’m sorry, were we not looking in the same spot? There was nothing there, Blake. You were wrong. And I don’t care what college you went to. A fact isn’t going to change just because you disagree with it.”

  “Blake?” he asked.

  Jennifer stared at him, waiting for elaboration.

  “You just called me Blake.”

  The detective stepped back, suddenly aware that she had. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but you haven’t used it before just now.”

  “So?” She needed to regain control. “You got excited when I called you Rivers and now you’re questioning me calling you Blake. What should I call you?”

  Blake stepped past her, making his way toward the exit. “I just hadn’t heard you say it before. Felt kind of good.”

  Jennifer watched him walk ahead, the light from his phone silhouetting his form. She could swear she noticed a slight bounce in his step. She looked back out at the empty field, concerned. But not for the lack of a body. Her concern was for her confusion. Had she been foolish in following him on his hunch? Or was she interested in alone time with him? And worse: why couldn't she tell the difference?

  ***

  Jennifer Case sat at her home desk, half-dressed, wearing nothing more than her button-up shirt. A half-empty glass of wine sat on her desk.

  The irony was not lost on her.

  She scrolled through the same Samantha Casell article she had been looking at earlier.

  Her eyes moved from the computer screen to a photo on her desk, framed in a very basic black rimmed frame. In the photo were two young girls, both smiling as cheesy as they could. Both of them wore t-shirts that said Casell. Jennifer smiled just a little, noting how the shirts were on backwards. She and her sister Samantha were always goofing around. It was a personality trait that Jennifer had long since lost after Samantha disappeared.

  She thought about Blake's words of how the kidnapper was never found. It wasn't long after Samantha's disappearance that strange notes were left in her family's mail box, attached to the front door, and one even at Jennifer's bedroom window. The notes were always the same. A cryptic message in the form of a riddle or poem. The whole ordeal convinced her parents to move, and authorities to place them under witness protection, changing their last name from Casell to Case. After that, the notes stopped.

  The nightmare of it all may have been over, but the same question still remained. It was the same question that made her become a cop.

>   “Who took you away?”

  A long sigh escaped her mouth. She kissed two of her fingers and placed them on Samantha in the photo. "Love you, sis."

  Jennifer glanced at the time in the lower right portion of her computer screen. It was after one in the morning. At least she was done with Blake Rivers. They made a deal and she was sure he would honor his end. Maybe he’d even have that nice article about her and the department out in the morning. Though that was probably too early. He’d have it done by Friday at the latest. That gave him three more days. She was sure he’d have it done by then.

  Jennifer sat straight up, wondering why she would have any level of confidence in Blake’s ability--positive or negative.

  She reached for the wine glass and downed the rest in two gulps. It was no way to enjoy it, but then again, it had come from a box.

  A drop of liquid that missed her mouth, ran down the side of the glass as Jennifer stood from her desk. She would let the computer put itself to sleep. Just as she was about to do with herself.

  ***

  Jennifer rarely had nightmares. But when she did, it was always the same one.

  She was fifteen, hiding under her parents' bed. On the other side of the room was a closet. She stared at the closet, afraid of what was inside.

  The double doors swung open like a hurricane had stormed through them. Suddenly Jennifer’s gaze switched to the bedroom door and the young girl being dragged out of the room by a single individual. The girl’s fingers clawed at the carpet, drawing lines into it but finding no grip. Jennifer reached out just as the bedroom door slammed shut.

  Suddenly, the bed was flung off of her and Jennifer found herself staring at a man dressed all in black. His hair obscured most of his features. But even if it hadn’t, the eyes were the most prominent visual of all. They were dark, as if they had no irises. Like both eyes were made up of all pupil. The man reached a gloved hand over Jennifer’s face and before she knew it, she was reading a poem to her parents. It was the poem the man left on her own bed. Except Jennifer was reading it to her Mom and Dad like a rehearsal for a school assignment. They both applauded her while the same man walked up behind her, placing a hand over her mouth.

  ***

  Jennifer opened her eyes, remembering the nightmare. She sighed in silent reaction to it. She’d grown used to it, unfortunately. There was a time when she feared going to sleep because of it. Now it was just a part of her life. Being a cop helped take much off the edge off. The rest was just maturity.

  She reached for her phone and opened the pictures app. The first image that popped up was the photo of the wall graffiti near the drive-in murder scene. She silently read the poem, her lips gingerly parting with each word.

  “You’re too close to this one, Jen,” she said to herself. “Even without Blake Rivers being around anymore. Let Taggart handle this one.”

  ***

  Jennifer sat outside the precinct in her car, responding to a racy text message Taggart had sent her on her way in. She knew it wasn’t the kind of response Taggart was hoping for. Off hours was one thing. But once the work day started, she kept things professional.

  She hit send as fingers tapped on her passenger side window.

  Blake Rivers stood outside, holding up two coffee cups from Jennifer’s favorite little coffee shop.

  “How..?' she asked, rolling the window down.

  “Good morning, Detective,” Blake said. He reached one cup in through the window. “Black with three sugars, right?”

  She took the cup. “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “Despite last night’s mix-up, I really am good at investigations. I saw three of these empty cups in your trash bin and nine opened packets of sugar. I’m pretty decent at math, too.”

  She looked down at the cup and stifled what small smile she could feel crossing her lips. “Thanks, but we had a deal.”

  “I come as a friend, not a ride-along. Permission to enter?”

  She paused for a moment, pondering if it was some kind of scheme he was playing. “Sure. Come on in. But no ride-alongs.”

  Blake shook his head, confirming her order. He opened the door and sat inside.

  The two sat in silence for a few moments, sipping the coffee. Jennifer noticed his fingers tapping away on his thigh. Blake had something on his mind and it was eating him up to be silent about it.

  “OK, Rivers, what?”

  He turned to her like an excited kid on Christmas morning. “OK, so I was thinking. I know where I messed up on my theory. Which, by the way, I still think I’m right about. I was just wrong on the location.”

  “Rivers.”

  “See, I think there is another victim. But...”

  “Rivers.”

  “The riddle says—“

  “Rivers!”

  He turned to her. “What?”

  “I appreciate the coffee. You have no idea how much. And I appreciate your enthusiasm, but we had a deal. And even if we didn’t, I’m giving this case to Taggart.”

  “Taggart? Why?”

  “I’m too—“ She caught herself. “I’ve got too much else going on to get tied up in an investigation that could take years to solve.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the Detective Case I know.”

  “Well, maybe that's because you don’t know me as well as you thought you did.” She turned to look out her window.

  “I was hoping to get that chance.”

  The words were unexpected to her and Jennifer turned back to Blake.

  “Are you? Wait, what do you mean by—“

  The scanner interrupted. “Aggravated assault, in progress, Units respond.”

  “That’s a perfect Jennifer Case call. Let’s roll.” Blake buckled himself in.

  Jennifer turned the scanner down.

  “Hang on. That’s not—we’re not going?” Blake asked, disappointed.

  “No, we’re not. And neither am I. Thanks again for the coffee.”

  She could see out of the corner of her eye that Blake was dejected.

  “OK...Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” he said. “Um...I'm glad I got the chance to meet you, and...I’ll have that article written and out by Friday.” He sounded so defeated.

  Jennifer could hear the click of his seatbelt but not the sound of the belt reeling back into the seat.

  “Uh-oh,” Blake said. “I can’t seem to--”

  “Units respond,” the scanner squawked, again.

  Jennifer turned the radio back up.

  “Hit-and-run at Adam Clayton Powel and One-Twenty-Fourth. Officers respond.”

  Jennifer picked up the radio. “This is Case, I’m en-route to hit and run,” she said reluctantly.

  “What?” Blake asked. “You blew off an aggravated assault for that?”

  “Just following orders.” She put the car in reverse. “And since you seem to be stuck in your seatbelt, I guess that means you’re…” She didn’t want to finish the sentence.

  Blake faced the front with a cheesy grin. “I’m still your ride-along.”

  CHAPTER 8

  One car horn honked at the intersection. That was the only true exciting moment that happened as Jennifer stood taking the hit-and-run victim’s testimony. The victim’s car was actually fine. To hear the victim tell it, Jennifer thought the car would have been totaled. Or at the very least had a severe dent. But as far as she could tell it was merely a scratch. One that might have just needed to be buffed out.

  As the woman continued to regal Jennifer with the harrowing tale of how she was hit by another car, the detective's eyes started to glaze over. Without even looking in his direction, she could tell that Blake noticed. The victim was too wrapped up in her own horror story to care.

  “And I got the license plate number. I want them arrested and I’m going to sue them. Do you know how much time off from work I’m going to have to take? And my back hurts so much after they hit me,” the hit-and-run victim claimed.

  Jennifer took the slip of p
aper that the suspect's license plate was written on and handed the woman her own card. “Thank you, Ma’am. I’ll take it from here. But if you can think of anything else, feel free to call me.” Jennifer was sure the woman could think of more to the tale. But it would all be for nought. A: it was probably just going to be more embellishment. B: Jennifer had better things to do than track down a minor offender. Especially since it was probably the first time the suspect had done such a thing. She was sure it wasn’t malicious. Most likely just someone who got scared because they didn’t have insurance.

  Jennifer could feel Blake’s stare of disappointment. She waited till the woman drove away before finally turning to him.

  “Something on your mind, Rivers?”

  “That was the most beneath you thing you’ve probably ever done.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “No. It’s a constable’s job. A beat cop’s job. You’re a homicide detective. You’ve got more important things to worry about than fender benders.”

  “Well, when there's no homicide cases to work, this is what you get. So, I’m so sorry if your article is going to be full of boring commentary about real police work.”

  Blake stood, fuming. Jennifer let him. He was right, this sort of thing was below her pay grade. But she was still an officer of the law. Sometimes that meant doing the small stuff. It may not have been as exciting as homicide, but it had its place of importance. Besides, it was the exact sort of thing that Captain McGhee wanted her doing.

  Blake let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s fine. You can make it up to me by following up another hunch.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Blake pointed at himself. “Look at this face. What do you think?”

  “I think you probably don’t get a lot of phone numbers,” she teased.

  “I’ll have you know, I get plenty of phone numbers. I get all the phone numbers, Case.”

  “Really, because there’s one officer—Pete—I think you two would make a great couple.”