by Wayne Zurl
“Their music falls deaf on the ears of the modern world,” my wife opined.
Women can be very philosophical creatures.
A few hours later, I hit the pillow feeling pretty good and ready for an undisturbed night’s sleep. Guess again, Jenkins.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Overnight all my good ideas and intentions went down the toilet. I experienced another disturbing dream. Not one from Vietnam or any one of the lower socioeconomic communities where I used to work. Instead, I saw myself in a clean and comfortable office at Prospect PD.
I sat behind my desk typing—on an ancient, manual Smith-Corona, just like those we used in the squad thirty years earlier. But I was stark naked. And business as usual went on all around me. No one seemed to notice my lack of clothing.
In mid-paragraph, Rachel Williamson walked into my office unannounced. I took off my glasses and looked at her. She wore a tan Burberry trench coat belted at the waist. Her dark brown hair looked perfect. Someone spent a lot of time and energy arranging her bangs into a casual, uneven line.
“Hello, Sam,” she said.
“Hello, Rachel.”
She unbelted her coat, shrugged it off onto the floor and stood there naked. She gestured for me to come from behind the desk and join her. I circled around the side and leaned against the front edge looking at her.
My earlier comment about the brick outhouse now sounded too conservative. Rachel was a really good-looking woman. I thought my nightmare may not be terribly disturbing after all. I just hoped her husband didn’t own a gun and didn’t show up in the office.
She came closer and then pressed up against me, putting her hands on my chest and looking up into my eyes.
I’m usually not comfortable when someone is closer to me than three feet. But I didn’t mind Rachel invading my personal space. I began feeling amorous. Then she stepped back and frowned, put a serious look on her face and pushed a microphone near my mouth.
Where the hell had she hidden that?
“Isn’t it true a local woman confessed to the Lovejoy murder, and you refuse to tell anyone?” She spoke like one of those reporters I’ve never fallen in love with.
I looked up and saw we were no longer alone. Personnel from the police department and other city offices stood or sat in my room gawking at me.
Stanley Rose leaned against the wall grinning. Junior stood next to him giggling. Vernon Hobbs’ intense, blank stare went right through me. He worked a toothpick around his mouth, from one side to the other. Bettye looked at me with a disappointment mothers reserve for naughty children. Ronnie Shields seemed exasperated and tried desperately to loosen his collar. Ms. Connor shook her head knowingly and showed an expression meaning she had my number all right. More workers stepped into my office, creating a small mob scene.
I used to say I hate getting caught with my pants down, but that went beyond ridiculous.
Rachel stepped back, put her hands on her hips and said, “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”
I woke up. The glowing, red digital display on the clock radio showed 3:18 in the morning. Next to me, Katherine breathed softly. Bitsey, only a few feet away on her bed, lay there zonked out and snoring.
I lay awake for twenty minutes looking for an ending to the dream. I couldn’t go back to sleep. I couldn’t find a finish for what I saw happening to me. Other things began running through my head. My brain started operating at more RPMs than my engine could handle.
I looked at the clock again and saw 3:55. I felt wide-awake. I turned over and put my hand on Katherine’s hip. I moved closer and put my arm over her side. Gently, I rubbed her tummy. She made a soft, sleepy moan. With my face at her pillow, I tried to visualize anything quiet, peaceful and relaxing. I heard the clock downstairs chime four o’clock, then 4:30 and then five o’clock. Sometime after that, I fell asleep.
The next morning, I felt confident that I could still survive a good old-fashioned street fight, a shootout, assorted natural disasters and even an all-out terrorist attack. But I worried about the spiders and scorpions crawling around inside my head causing those invasive dreams.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Three days later, I received a card from Juanita Mashburn that included a note. In a neat, little-girl-like handwriting, she thanked me for my kindness and understanding and the help I offered on the day her son went missing. She hoped God would bless me.
Just yesterday, I saw Randy Mashburn driving his S2000 with the top down along Sevierville Road. He waved and smiled. I gave him a thumbs-up.
A day after getting Juanita’s note, I received a large fruit basket delivered to the PD. The attached note bore the signature Judge Minas Tipton (retired). The text said, “Welcome to Blount County. Best of luck in your chosen career and endeavors.” A bold stroke underlined chosen. He addressed the envelope: Chief Samuel Jenkins. I wondered if the old geezer remembered what I said about the name Samuel. Had I annoyed him? Was he acting parental? Certainly no telling unless some day I asked him.
Kate volunteered to take the fruit basket to the nursing home in town. I appreciated the gift, but the old folks could use a treat more than we could. I thought that donating the fresh fruit might be a good start at ridding the county of scurvy.
One morning, Stanley Rose, Junior Huskey and Vern Hobbs sat with Bettye and me in my office. We discussed most of the intrigue involved in the case. Stanley and I drank an expensive concoction made from the fresh Kona beans and a few macadamia nuts I brewed up in my new coffeemaker. The other guys drank soda at 9:30. Bettye decided she’d try a coffee. She liked it. We all ate old-fashioned jelly donuts from Richie Creamie.
It turned out to be a good discussion, but again I decided a few things were best left unsaid.
I took Glenda Mae and Kate to lunch at Miss Daisy’s Café in Townsend the next day. Mae flirted, Kate laughed, and I behaved myself. We all ate salads.
Later that week I took Ralph Oliveri for an expensive lunch at Chesapeake’s to imply I appreciated his help. We both ordered the Maryland crab cakes and pints of Cherokee Red Ale from the tap.
“Did you make an arrest on that Lovejoy case?” he asked.
“No, gave it to the TBI. They screwed up and collared the wrong man. I’ve no idea where they are now.”
“So why the lunch? I thought it was contingent on an arrest.”
“I wanted to thank you properly. Your heart was in the right spot.”
“No kiddin’?”
“Sure, we should have a good working relationship. You may need a favor someday. I may need a favor someday.”
“Why don’t I trust you?”
“You’re too young to be so cynical. Try that spinach Maria. It’s excellent.”
He did. “Yeah, you’re right, I never had it before.”
“Stick with me, buddy. No telling what doors will open for you.”
“So how long were you on the job in New York?” he asked.
“Twenty years and five minutes, Ralphie.”
“Do I detect an attitude here?”
Epilogue
I devote about twenty-five percent of my basement to what someone might gratuitously call my office. File cabinets, storage boxes, book cases and a desk all share wall and floor space.
Across from my desk, some of the material objects from my earlier life hung on the wall. Old photos of me in the Army form a collage, as do photos of the first house Katherine and I built on the North Fork of Long Island. A shadow box with the medals and badges I earned as a soldier hung next to another with the badges and commendation bars I received at the police department.
When I retired, I received a watch and a lapel pin for my twenty years of time and trouble. A month or two after I left New York, the county sent me a framed proclamation stating I served faithfully for twenty years and qualified for regular service retirement. I’ve never worn the watch. You’ve heard the story of the dinosaur pin.
None of those police mementos meant very much to
me. An antiqued brass plaque set inside a cherry wood frame, a gift from the people at my last command, told another story. I looked at the inscription.
In appreciation of your professional demeanor, ability
and excellence in supervision during our careers as investigators.
Most of all, we salute you for your understanding and compassion,
and for being one of us.
A valued friend forever.
Even a lifelong tough guy could get emotional over that. I felt pride—they spelled everything correctly. I looked at my watch, an old Rolex Submariner, a souvenir I purchased at the China Fleet Club when I took R&R in Hong Kong.
I recently sent it away for a tune-up that cost me more than I paid for the watch back in 1969. I heard Bob Dylan singing again. ‘…your old road is rapidly agin’. Get out of the new one if you can’t lend a hand, for the times they are a-changin’
I planned on working at Prospect PD for five years. Then maybe I’d quit, apply for Social Security and receive another pension.
I hoped to like the crew at Prospect as much as I liked the boys and girls back in New York. We were off to a good start.
The End
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Leprechaun’s Lament
Sam Jenkins Mystery, Book 2
Wayne Zurl
Chapter One
Monday, October 2, 2006
I dialed a number at the William R. Snodgrass Tennessee Tower on 8th Avenue in Nashville and reached the local Office of Homeland Security. After a brief shuffle, the operator connected me to a woman with information on how local government agencies could obtain grants to pay for enhanced security—one of the “bennies” of our Patriot Act.
“Do you foresee a problem in Prospect, Chief Jenkins?” she asked.
“Not specifically. I just thought your idea of conducting background investigations on civilian employees who work with a police department was a good one.”
“Oh, we’ve said that?”
“Yes, ma’am, and I like your thinking. I also believe there’s grant money available to finance these investigations. With a small police department like mine, there’ll no doubt be a necessity for overtime.”
“Oh. You’re looking for financial assistance, not personnel to conduct the investigations.”
“Correct. If you’ve got the cash, I’ve got the cops.”
Wendy Clabro chuckled. “You make it sound like you’re leading a band of mercenaries.”
She had a nice voice. I wondered if she looked as good as she sounded.
“I’m willing to work for nothing,” I said. “To protect and serve is enough reward for me, but I like to take care of my officers as best I can.”
“Should I really believe that?”
Oh, yeah, great voice.
“I’m a cop…would I lie to you?”
“Chief, you sound like an All-American hero. I’d enjoy meeting you some day.”
I was looking for grant money, not a personal relationship.
“Call me Sam. Everyone does. I’m here Monday to Friday, nine to five or by appointment. There’s always fresh coffee, and my desk officer tells me I have a nice smile.”
Sometimes I have difficulty controlling myself.
“Your desk officer?”
“She’s a shameless flirt.”
She laughed again. “I hear it’s beautiful in the Smokies this time of year. Maybe I’ll stop by one day—just to see where the grant money goes, of course. Right now though, I’ll bet you want me to send you the format for making a grant proposal. I really don’t see a problem getting you an approval.”
“Just what I wanted to hear, Ms. Clabro. Thank you.”
“Please, Sam, call me Wendy.”
I gave her my email address and thanked Ms. Clabro for her help and encouragement. We chatted for a few more minutes, and I ended by telling her she was doing a fine job keeping Tennessee and all of America safe for democracy. I dropped my telephone back onto the console feeling confident I could still schmooze my way around the bureaucratic system and glad I sounded younger than I often felt.
But the simple job I thought would be a walk in the park became a nightmare I never saw coming.
About the Author
Wayne Zurl grew up on Long Island and retired after twenty years with the Suffolk County Police Department, one of the largest municipal law enforcement agencies in New York and the nation. For thirteen of those years he served as a section commander supervising investigators. He is a graduate of SUNY, Empire State College and served on active duty in the US Army during the Vietnam War and later in the reserves. Zurl left New York to live in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee with his wife, Barbara.
Zurl has won Eric Hoffer and Indie Book Awards, and was named a finalist for a Montaigne Medal and First Horizon Book Award. He has written seven novels and more than twenty novelettes in the Sam Jenkins mystery series.
Author Links:
Author website: https://www.waynezurlbooks.net
Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/#!/waynezurl
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/waynezurl
Other books by the author at Melange
From New York to the Smokies
A Leprechaun’s Lament
Heroes and Lovers
Pigeon River Blues
A Touch of Morning Calm
A Can of Worms
Acknowledgments:
I’d like to thank several people who assisted me in taking this from an idea to a story good enough to be published.
Elayne, my sister and proofreader.
My comrades at TheNextBigWriter.com who stuck with me through all the chapters, offering ideas and spotting my nits. They are alphabetically: Sandy Anderson, Lee Carey, John DeBoer, James Hawkins, Dirlie Herlihy, Diana Hockley, Christina Howard, Carolyn Kuczek, Micheal Maxwell and “Crazee Sharon”.
Also Available
From Melange Books
From New York to the Smokies
A Sam Jenkins Mystery
By Wayne Zurl
Five mysteries spanning more than four decades in the life of career police officer Sam Jenkins.
THE BOAT TO PRISON—set in 1963 when a teenaged Jenkins and his friends attempt to foil a plot to kill a Long Island union leader and keep Sam’s shop steward father from doing hard time.
FAVORS drops readers into a New York of 1985 when Lieutenant Sam Jenkins mounts an unofficial investigation to learn why one of his civilian employees isn’t overjoyed about her promotion to police officer and uncovers a history of unreported and unspeakable crimes.
ODE TO WILLIE JOE, ANGEL OF THE LORD, and MASSACRE AT BIG BEAR CREEK brings the reader up to date with three adventures of Chief Jenkins and the officers of Prospect PD, a police department serving a small town in the Great Smoky Mountains of east Tennessee. UFO sightings, a serial killer on the loose, and the most brutal murders and feud between mountain folk since the Hatfields and McCoys pushes Sam to use every trick he’s learned in a lifetime of detective work to resolve these incidents on his “peaceful side of the Smokies.”
Family Ties
A John Seraph Mystery
C. G. Eberle
John Seraph's life is jeopardized when he begins looking for a missing woman and learns she was involved with one of his brothers and a New York State Senator.
Family Ties recounts how John Seraph is asked by a former classmate to help find his missing sister, because John's father is Stefano Angelo, head of the local organized crime family. John has not seen or dealt with his family in over three years since he walked away from them over moral differences about the criminal organization. John agr
ees to help and in the course of his investigation he learns a disturbing secret about the missing girl which leads him to her workplace and confronting New York State Senator Kingsley Addar and then his own brother Michael. As John digs deeper his life becomes endangered, but he is determined to learn the truth and see justice served.
