by Liz Turner
Hallie was surprised. She hadn’t expected Johnny to be so clever. This was the very question everyone at the station was wrestling with as well. She nodded slowly. “That’s right. That’s exactly right.”
“Well, we’re going to find this guy, right? The murderer?” Johnny was shaking with anger.
“We’ll find him, alright,” Hallie said. “Would you like to come in for some coffee?”
Johnny agreed. Hallie set the coffee on to brew, apologizing for the mess of notes still covering her desk and spilling over onto the dining table. “I’ve been a bit preoccupied with the case, I suppose. Haven’t had the motivation to tidy this up!” She laughed half-heartedly.
Johnny chuckled. “I know the feeling. I’ve got the sense that this incident was a wake-up call for me.” He had a strange look on his face.
“How do you mean?” Hallie asked. She poured two mugs of coffee and held up a carton of cream in question. Johnny shook his head that he didn’t want any.
“I’ve felt for a while that the club isn’t…where I belonged. Surrounded by men who are, for the most part, wonderful upstanding men, doing what they can to make a difference in this town.” He paused, running his hand through his hair. “While I’ve just been a bartender for the better part of my youth. What am I doing? I couldn’t even prevent a murder from happening right outside my door.”
“Oh Johnny,” Hallie said. She sat down across from him and slid the mug underneath his face. “There was nothing you could have done. Especially since it’s looking like, more and more, Captain Tannen did not fall from the club’s roof after all.”
“You and the sergeant and all those men at the police station are doing everything you can to fix this. I’m not doing anything!”
“Nobody can ‘fix’ this one,” Hallie said somberly. “A man is dead. All we can do is try to get justice for him.” She studied Johnny closely. “You know, Sergeant Jackson often speaks about needing more, in his words, ‘young blood’ to ‘revive’ the force. Maybe you’d want to consider becoming an officer yourself.”
Johnny stayed silent, rapping on the wooden dining table with his knuckles. Finally, he replied, “I suppose I just might. Thank you for being so generous with your time, Doctor Malone.” He smiled sheepishly. “I know you’re a busy woman.” He gestured around to the cluttered surfaces.
“Oh, hush!” Hallie joked, swatting at him.
Just then, the telephone rang. Hallie and Johnny exchanged glances.
“Hello?” she answered breathlessly.
“Doctor Malone, I’ve been trying to reach you,” came the voice of Sergeant Jackson. “We found something. Can you come to the station right away?”
****
Hallie stared at the small black pouch Sergeant Jackson had laid out on the table in the evidence room. “And that’s—” she began.
“Tobacco,” Jackson responded. “Straight from the black market. See the way it’s packaged?”
Hallie peered at it. The bag contained a small but dense mound of foul-smelling tobacco. The pouch itself was oily and had none of the usual certification stamps on it. People were hard-pressed these days to find legal tobacco to purchase, so most people who wanted it bad enough had to get involved in illegal dealings. The punishment for possessing such a pouch as the one apparently found on Captain Tannen’s person was a hefty fine—if you turned in the person who dealt it to you. The sentencing for trafficking illegal goods was years of prison time.
“Captain Tannen was buying illegal tobacco?” Hallie asked.
“It appears that way,” Jackson replied, looking distressed. “I knew he used to purchase tobacco for his pipe back in the day, but he felt it was his duty to uphold the law. That said, this pouch certainly wasn’t purchased in any legitimate stores in Warrenton.”
“And you think the illegal tobacco is connected to his death,” Hallie said.
“I do. It’s our first real lead. We’ve got to track down his connections to the black market. Question every person known to have dealt in the black market and single out anybody who has ever taken a flying lesson.”
“How are you going to track down people in Warrenton who have black market connections?”
“I think we should ask Johnny.”
Hallie was surprised. Johnny? How would he know anything? “Oh?”
“He knows everyone and everything that goes on in this town. People always love to sidle up and share their secrets to the bartender. Not to mention what he must overhear at his place of business!”
Just then, the station telephone rang, and shortly after, the place spun into action, with several officers hurrying down the hallway and outside to the parking lot. One of the officers grabbed Jackson by the shoulder as he rushed past.
“Sergeant! We got a call for a hit-and-run on Timothy Street!”
Jackson turned to Hallie. “Want to take a ride, Doctor?”
Chapter 4
Hit and Run
W hen Hallie arrived at the scene in Sergeant Jackson’s car, there were already two other police cars there. They got out of the car to find a few of the officers huddled around someone lying on the street. Hallie could hear someone moaning. Must be the hit-and-run victim, she thought.
Suddenly, Sergeant Jackson broke into a jog toward the scene. Hallie followed, and when they reached the man, she saw that he had a gun holstered inside his jacket. His face was somewhat bloodied, but he looked alright otherwise.
“Officer James, are you alright? Can you tell us what happened?” Jackson said worriedly. Then, when the man didn’t respond, abruptly he began barking orders. “Officer Cardinal, call for an ambulance immediately. In the meantime, Doctor Malone, can you tell us what we need to do for him?”
Hallie gathered that the man who had been hit was a fellow officer who must have been off-duty at the time. She couldn’t tell right away how serious his injuries were, but she didn’t like that he seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness.
“Let him lie down, gentlemen,” she said firmly. “Give him space. Someone find something we can use to prop his head and shoulders up a bit.”
Quickly, someone thrust a thick coat at her and she arranged it underneath the man’s shoulders. Feeling around, she determined he had a head wound behind his left temple, which was the source of the bleeding. Using the first-aid kit from one of the police cars, she fashioned a thick bandage tightly around the wound and stayed there applying pressure to stop the bleeding.
“Officer James, can you hear me? Stay awake,” she said gently as the man’s eyes fluttered. Then the sirens of the ambulance could be heard coming down the street. James was lifted into the back while Hallie quickly explained to the paramedics what she had deduced so far about his injuries.
Hallie and Jackson followed the ambulance to the hospital, sirens blaring to clear the roads. After James was admitted, Hallie left to speak to the doctor assigned to the case.
“How is he?” she asked Doctor Williams, the emergency room on-call doctor that night.
Williams nodded—a good sign. “He’ll make a full recovery. I believe he’s got a minor concussion, so I’d like to keep him overnight for observation. The rest of his injuries are remarkably superficial for the force he suffered. Some pretty serious scrapes and bruises, but nothing that will require anything other than rest and pain medication.”
“Thank goodness,” Hallie said.
“He’s a lucky man. Or an unlucky one, depending on how you look at it. He was hit from behind by the vehicle and landed on his front.”
“That would explain the bloody face,” Hallie said grimly.
“Ordinarily, in cases like these, we call the police, but I take it you and the force are already on the case?”
Hallie nodded in response and thanked the doctor. She ushered Sergeant Jackson into the man’s room, while relaying what the doctor had said.
“James, what happened?” Jackson said as he entered. He stood at the side of James’ bed, a concerned expre
ssion on his face. James had circles under his eyes and a large bandage around his head, but he was cheerful.
“Ah, Sergeant, you didn’t have to come visit me. This isn’t anything serious,” he said playfully.
“Well of course it is!” Jackson boomed. “A driver hit you—you, on foot! —and sped off, leaving you to bleed out in the middle of the road! I’d say that’s serious.”
Officer James became pale. “Ah, right. I apologize, I keep forgetting what it is I’m doing here.”
“That’s perfectly normal after suffering a trauma like you just did,” Hallie reassured. “We’d like to bring the driver who hit you to justice, though, so can you tell us anything? Do you remember what type of car it was?”
“Car? Oh no—it wasn’t a car. You think a little ole’ car could do this much damage to a stud like myself?” James grinned broadly. “No. But I saw the vehicle alright. It was the local baker’s van. You know the one always delivering bread and other goods to the grocers?”
Hallie was stunned. The “baker” was actually a couple, Jeannine and Reynold. They were always the nicest people, as sweet as the pastries they concocted. And they had two small children. Hallie had treated the whole family as her patients over the past two years. “Are you sure, Officer? The baker’s van? Our baker?”
James nodded. “Yes, I’m quite sure.”
Sergeant Jackson shot Hallie a glance. “Listen, Doctor Malone, if Officer James says it was the baker’s van, then it was.”
“But have you met Reynold and Jeannine? I’m sure there’s some other—” But she stopped talking when she saw Jackson’s glare. “Okay, rest well, Officer. Thank you for your time.”
At that, Hallie and Jackson ducked out and began the drive back to the station. The road was dark by now and mostly empty. Hallie mused about the case as she watched the town’s landscape rush by outside the window. They were nearing Timothy Street, two blocks beyond, when Hallie sat up. She had caught a glimpse of something that looked familiar. “Sergeant, turn around, will you? I think I spotted something.”
Jackson obeyed, making a tight U-turn, and this time drove more slowly. Sure enough, Hallie spotted a familiar patch of tan metal blinking in their car’s headlights.
“Say, there’s a drive here!” Jackson exclaimed. “I’ve never seen this before.” He turned the car down the well-hidden, overgrown driveway, and they found themselves in an empty parking lot just off the street.
Hallie looked around. The lot was clearly new, pavement newly poured, not a scuff or tire track to be seen. But from the road, you couldn’t see a thing! The border of the lot was all tall trees and brambles.
“There!” she yelled, seeing what she guessed she had managed to spot earlier. It was a brown delivery van, parked clandestinely in the back corner.
They walked over to inspect it. It was nearly identical to the baker’s van, except for a slightly different logo on its side, only obvious to the careful viewer. It looked newer than the vans the baker used, too, freshly washed.
“Well I guess you were right, Doctor Malone. I’ll bet everything this is the van that hit James. And this isn’t the baker’s.” He shined his flashlight on the front bumper, revealing a slight dent and a barely detectable brown smear. Blood? Hallie wondered.
Hallie agreed. “But what is someone doing with a phony baker’s van? And why are they parking it out here?” Jackson didn’t answer aloud, but Hallie knew he was thinking the same thing she was: no one who has nothing to hide would go to such lengths to disguise their vehicle.
Jackson retrieved a camera from his car, used for snapping photos of crime scenes. He walked slowly around the van, taking photographs of the logo, the empty place where the license plate should be. Jimmying open the locks to the back of the van, he and Hallie peer inside. It’s empty. Jackson takes a photo of this, too. A bit disappointed, they head back to the station.
****
Hallie was at the station the next morning at sunrise. She and Jackson had planned to speak to Jeanine and Reynold about the imposter van.
Jackson yawned. “I don’t know what to make of this new development, Doctor Malone.”
“It certainly is strange. What on earth would someone want with a baker’s van?”
“Let’s see if the bakers can give a hint.”
They drove to the center of town where the bakers had their townhome, located right above their shop. Hallie couldn’t help but breathe deeply and grin, the smell of baking bread and cookies reaching her from where they parked on the street. Despite the early hour, there was already an “Open” sign hanging in the front windows. They entered and were greeted immediately by a man dusted with flour. He was rolling a sheet of dough across the counter.
“Hello there! Doctor Malone, Sergeant Jackson? Is that you?” The man looked up with a smile, the floppy bakers hat falling to the floor behind him.
“Yes, hello Reynold,” Jackson said. “Unfortunately, we didn’t come for your bread today. We’ve got to ask you some questions.”
Reynold frowned and attempted to straighten his appearance—futile, for his apron was smeared with frostings of different colors and even his face had streaks of white powder across it. “Is that so? Here, here, have a seat.” He gestured to the table and chairs by the windows. Then he called upstairs for his wife, and she emerged shortly, her hair still in curlers.
“We’re sorry to bother you like this,” Hallie said. “But we’ve become involved in a rather peculiar situation.” She explained the bakers van they had discovered the night before, and their suspicions that the van was the vehicle in the hit-and-run.
“Oh goodness! Is Officer James okay? He comes in for bread every week!” Jeanine said.
“He will make a full recovery. But you see, we want to catch the person who left him there in the street to die,” Jackson said. “Are all your vans accounted for?” The bakers served not only Warrenton, but most of the surrounding little towns as well. They had several vans that they used to deliver baked goods every day to different grocers.
“Yes, yes, they are!” Reynold said. “I know for certain because we send them out every morning at five am. We have five vans, and we sent five vans out this morning. Now, listen, we never have any of our vans out for delivery at night. If one of them was out, it was theft! And I’m certain the garage attendant would have spoken to me if he had noticed one of the vans was missing last night, or worse, was returned with a dent.”
“We ought to question our delivery drivers just the same, Reynold,” Jeanine said, concern crinkling around her eyes.
Jackson heaved a large folder to the table and opened it. He spread out the photos he had taken the night before and spent hours developing this morning before sunup. “Before you do that, I’d like to know if this is, in fact, one of your vans. Can you identify it?”
Jeanine and Reynold studied the photos for a few moments before looking up, confused. “Why… no. That’s not our logo on the side. What’s the meaning of this?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Hallie said. “We just had to rule out the possibility that it was your van after all.”
The couple shook their heads vehemently. “No, it’s not ours.”
At that, Hallie and Jackson thanked them for their time and bid them goodbye, leaving the two in a state of bewilderment, and drove to their next destination: Loch’s Gentleman’s Club.
****
Hallie looked around. One could certainly lose track of time…days, even, in here, she thought. The club was dark, lit only by candles and the occasional electric light; the bar was open even at eleven o’clock in the morning, but there were only a few patrons milling around. Hallie imagined that the club must seem the same during the bright daylight hours as it did in the evening, due mostly to the heavy curtains that blocked out all the natural light.
Hallie and Sergeant Jackson moseyed over to the bar and sat in the high stools. Shortly, Johnny appeared, wearing his barkeep’s apron and looking m
elancholy. When he saw them, he greeted them warmly. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Do you mind if we talk somewhere privately for a few minutes?” Jackson asked.
“What do you need to talk to my bartender about if I may ask?” boomed a voice from the kitchen. It was Samson Harding, the owner of the club. Samson was getting up in his years, but he still possessed an authoritative presence like Hallie had never encountered before. He wore an expensive suit and small oval eyeglasses. His hair was snow white now, but still curled thick and soft on his head. Johnny shrunk at the entrance of the club owner.
“Sam! We didn’t know you’d be here at this hour,” Jackson said, shaking the man’s hand heartily.
“Well, I figured I needed to make an appearance, smooth the waters so to speak. Some of the folk around here have been a bit nervous that the club might have been mixed up in something that led to Tannen’s death.” He said this last sentence slowly, never breaking eye contact with Jackson.
Hallie cleared her throat. “Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Hallie Malone, the ME on this case.”
Samson looked her over and smiled. “Of course, I’ve heard good things, Doctor Malone.” He shook her hand as well. “Now, what was it that you needed to speak to Johnny about?”
Jackson squirmed uncomfortably. Hallie tried to catch Johnny’s eye, but he kept his gaze averted, fixed on the task of washing down the bar’s surface.
“We were just inquiring whether Johnny remembers anything about that night, that’s all,” Hallie offered. She smiled broadly at the old club owner.
“I see,” Samson said. He turned to Johnny. “Well? Cooperate with the police, John. You remember anything about the night in question?”
Johnny looked from his boss to Hallie and Jackson slowly. Hallie felt the tension growing. Either Samson Harding was hiding something about his club or he really was worried about this incident tarnishing its reputation….
