by Randy Alcorn
Some days any visitor had direct access to the central precinct elevators. It always amazed Jake when he could go straight up the elevator and walk unimpeded right into the office of the chief of police. Other times, like today, they’d roped off the lobby, and you had to check in at the main desk before getting through to the elevators.
A thirtyish woman in blue uniform put down the front desk phone and asked, “May I help you?” A flash of recognition. “Oh, Jake Woods. Hi! I love your column—usually, anyway.” She grinned. “Got an interview with the Chief or somebody?”
“Not an interview. Not even an appointment. Something important just came up. I need to see Ollie Chandler.”
“Just saw him come back from lunch, hot dog in hand. Let me check his office.” She pressed a button and spoke into the headset microphone. “Detective Chandler? Jake Woods is here to see you. By himself. He says he doesn’t have an appointment, but was hoping…Yeah, sure. I’ll tell him.”
She pushed the button and gave Jake the nod. “Detective Chandler says”—suddenly her voice was deep and raspy—“Jake Woods doesn’t need an appointment. Send him up, but tell him the hot dog is mine—he can stop at the vending machines if he’s hungry.”
“Nice impersonation,” Jake acknowledged. He always kidded Ollie about his habit of eating out of the fourteenth floor vending machines with their “Steak sub with pizza sauce” delicacies that looked like they’d been created just before the pyramids.
“Fourteenth floor. I guess you know that. Any elevator but the first one.”
“Thanks.” Jake walked to the elevators on his right, getting nods of recognition from a few uniformed officers standing around chatting. He noticed a veteran telling a young cop who he was. It felt good. He stepped in the elevator, which gave him only five options despite the building’s sixteen floors. Floors two and three were courtrooms, four to eleven were jail space, both accessible only from the other side of the building. Twelfth floor, his first option, was ID, Intelligence, Juvenile, and Narcotics. Thirteenth floor (yes there was one) housed Internal Investigations, the D.A.’s office and a hodgepodge of smaller departments. Fourteenth, the button he pushed, was the detective floor. Above it was the Chief of Police’s office, the media room, and the police museum.
Jake hadn’t seen Ollie on his turf for six months. The display photos, the first thing he saw when the elevator door opened, had changed. They featured six bright shiny photos of detectives at work. One was Ollie, who looked decidedly uncomfortable posing for this “natural” shot. Jake chuckled.
Almost everyone was plain clothes on this floor, so Jake didn’t stand out. Unlike every other floor, which allowed free access to hallways, detective division had only one place the general public could go, the reception desk, with a thick bullet-proof window but no accessible door. You didn’t just go in. Someone had to come out for you.
Jake gave his name to the receptionist, who picked up the phone and motioned him to sit and wait. Two minutes later Ollie came through the lone door on the far end of the floor and motioned to him.
“Jake! Come on in. Want a bite of my dog?” Ollie asked the question just as he popped the last remaining inch in his mouth, followed by a “that was delicious” expression and a big swig of Coke from the giant-sized red cup. Jake smiled because Ollie’s raspy basement voice had been so perfectly captured by the girl at the front desk.
“No thanks, Ollie. Just had a sandwich down at the deli.”
“Still hang out there, huh? I’ve looked for you a few times. I always figure when I’m chowing down you’re over there churning out a column. By the time you’re ready to enjoy your afternoon, I’m back keeping the city safe so civilians like you can walk the streets.”
“Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.”
Ollie wrinkled his nose thoughtfully and retorted, “A rolling stone gathers no moss.”
“A stitch in time saves nine.”
“Hell knows no fury like a woman scorned.” Both laughed.
They walked through or by all the major detective divisions—Robbery, Sex Crimes, Child Abuse, Fraud, Burglary, Auto, Pawn Shop Detail, all the way to the far end, where Ollie worked in Homicide. This place always fascinated the investigator in Jake, the tireless researcher who loved to solve problems and find answers. Sometimes he envied Ollie’s career.
They wandered through a maze of desks back to Ollie’s, as far away from the front desk as it could possibly be. He had a great view of the city, but to Ollie it was “just a bunch of buildings.” Chandler excavated a spiral notebook from his desk, buried under piles of papers and notebooks.
“Like my new desk?”
“Don’t know, Ollie. Can’t see it. Come to think of it, never saw the old one either.” Actually, it looked remarkably like half the desks at the Trib, including his own.
“Well, if I take the time to clean it off I figure that’s a few more hours for one of the slime balls I’m chasing to blow away somebody else.”
“So your messy desk is saving lives, is that what you’re telling me?”
“You got it. Hey, the lieutenant’s office is empty all day. It’ll give us more privacy.” Ollie waved him to follow.
They walked past the open door of an unused interview room where suspects were brought in from the custody elevator. That elevator, which could be opened only with a special key, went to and from this floor and the jail. Jake glanced at the stark room, with nothing on the wall, where Ollie had shaken down hundreds of suspects over the years, often playing good cop/bad cop with his partner Steve. While most guys seemed made for one role or the other, Ollie prided himself in his skills both as “bad cop,” intimidating and threatening the suspect, or “good cop,” becoming the suspect’s advocate, getting Steve to calm down or back off, and becoming the listening ear when the guy was willing to talk. Even with all the play this had been given in the movies, Ollie once told Jake, crooks still fell for it all the time.
The lieutenant’s office, eight feet deep, ten feet wide, was the alter ego to Ollie’s workspace—neat as a pin, uncluttered, a single painting on the entire left wall, two posters on the right one, nothing behind the desk, and the front consisting of a big window overlooking the homicide department. No candy wrappers or donut boxes. No signs of life.
Ollie took the lieutenant’s chair, and waved Jake to one of the two chairs across the desk. He eyed Jake and cleared his throat. Jake braced himself for what he knew was coming.
“Listen, Jake, I’m…I’m really sorry about your buddies, Finney and the other guy, the surgeon. Doc? Yeah, Doc. I know how close you were.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“There’s no friend like an old friend. They were good men.”
“They were. I…miss them,” Jake choked. For some reason he could talk about it to Ollie. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew it had something to do with the fact they shared in common an Asian jungle on the other side of the world, a jungle that had no place in the lives of Elaine and Joe and Jerry and Sandy and most of the other people he knew.
“What’s up, bro? I don’t ever remember you dropping in without calling. Not that I mind. What can I do for you?”
Jake opened his briefcase and handed him the envelope, without comment. Ollie handled it by its edges only, turned it carefully, front and back, eyed the postmark, then puffed open the envelope enough to let the yellow card slide out to two fingers of his other hand, which firmly but oh-so-carefully pressed on the cards edges. He showed the skill and care of a surgeon or a jewelry cutter, neither of which fit Ollie’s rough and tumble image. He read the card under his breath.
“It wasn’t an accident.” He looked confused for a moment, then flashed his eyes at Jake. “The car accident? Your friends?”
“I don’t know what else,” Jake said. “It could be a tasteless joke. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“What’s your gut-level feeling?”
“I’m not sure. What’s yours?”
“Well,
we’ve got to check it out. Immediately, while there’s still something to look at. The first seventy-two hours are critical, and we’re way past that now.”
Ollie pulled a clear plastic evidence bag out of a drawer and gingerly placed the envelope and card in it. Then he scribbled something illegible with a black marker.
“Where’s the car? A wrecking yard, I assume.”
“I don’t even know.”
“Yeah, it’d be in a yard unless anything was suspect at the time, or there was a death. Then it would have been taken to the police garage. But this is the first sign of foul play, right?”
“Right, as far as I know.” It unnerved Jake for Ollie to take this so seriously. “Two people died though.”
“But not at the scene. See, if somebody dies at the scene, or even if they’re DOA at the hospital, they always call for a fatal traffic investigator. He examines the car to see if there’s any problems, anything suspicious. Your friends didn’t die till, when?”
“A couple days later.”
“Right. So nobody looked at the car. The policy’s not retroactive. If somebody dies later, nobody goes back to the car. Unless there’s a specific reason to check it, case closed.”
Ollie picked up the phone and pressed a few buttons. “I’m calling Records.” He drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. “Jean? Ollie here. I need to see an accident report. Happened over on the Northwood highway. Date was, week ago Sunday?” Jake nodded. “Vehicle owned by a Doctor …” Ollie looked at Jake. “Lowell. Gregory Lowell. Yeah, as soon as you can get it. I’ll be right down. Make two copies, would you? You’re a doll.”
Jake cringed at the word doll. Ollie’s cozy little nicknames for female coworkers, ranging from sweetheart to babe, would have him up on sexual harassment charges at the Trib.
Ollie marched out the front of his office and headed to the elevator, Jake close on his heels. They arrived down at records within a minute, to see the receptionist putting two pieces of paper into a clean manila file folder.
“Perfect timing,” she said to Ollie.
“You’re the best, Jean. She’s a sweetheart, eh Jake?”
“Um, yes, right, sure is.”
“That’s my job, boys. Just give me the credit when you crack the case, Ollie.”
“Count on it, hon.”
As quickly as that they were back waiting for the elevator, Ollie looking over the report, Jake wondering why Ollie bothered with the elevator for one lousy floor when the stairs would be faster.
“Yep, they handled it like we thought—routine. No reason to suspect anything. Okay, here it is.” Ollie pointed to the bottom of the report as he walked in the elevator. “It’s actually legible. I’ve got to put in this officer for a commendation. Car was taken by Brownlee Towing.”
They were back in the lieutenant’s office and Ollie was pulling a phone book out of the lower left drawer of the desk. Within fifteen seconds he circled a number and dialed.
“Yeah, this is Detective Chandler, calling from city police. We need to locate and possibly impound a vehicle towed to your yard week ago Sunday, from an accident on the Northwood Highway. Yeah, I’m sure that’s the one. Hang on. Red Suburban?” Jake nodded. “Yeah, that’s it, the Suburban. Anything been done to it since it came in? No? Good. Don’t touch it. That’s official—I don’t want anyone near it, okay? I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Ollie listened. “Yeah, I hear you. Yep, one survivor. In fact, I think he’ll be coming with me. Okay thanks.” Pause. “No kiddin’? See ya soon.
“Guy’s a real talker once you get him goin’. Ready?” Jake nodded, knowing Ollie must be dropping a dozen important things to help him.
“He says when we see the car we’ll think it’s a miracle you’re still alive.” Ollie swung around the front desk to sign out and get some car keys, without breaking stride. Jake could barely keep up as Ollie charged in the elevator, and again as he marched out into underground parking. His acceleration from zero to maximum walking speed was remarkable, Jake thought, especially for a guy so…round. They hopped in a plain brown, two-door sedan that looked civilian on the outside and cop on the inside, complete with police radio and a few high-tech gadgets Jake didn’t recognize.
The drive to the wrecking yard seemed twice as long as it was. Neither man spoke much. When they pulled in, Jake immediately noticed a familiar cherry red hue on a crumpled wad of metal off to the left. It looked even less like Doc’s car than Doc looked like himself in the hospital. But in the middle of the wad Jake saw a curled but legible personalized license plate that said, “Gusto.” Doc’s. This looked like a car that didn’t just roll, but fell from the sky. Jake felt queasy.
Ollie followed Jake’s gaze and hopped out, heading straight to the mangled car corpse. Out of the “main office,” a shack with a sign, emerged a chubby, grease smeared bearded man wearing a blue striped shirt with a white patch that said “Ed Maxwell” in red script letters. He rubbed his hand on a towel. “You the cops?” He sounded skeptical, eyeing Ollie’s non-uniformed attire.
“Yeah,” Ollie flashed his badge as second naturèdly as a teenage boy runs a comb through his hair. “Let me take a look under the hood.”
Ed reached in the driver’s side window, now half its original height, with no glass left at all. He pulled the lever, which didn’t pop.
“‘Fraid of that. Gonna need a crowbar.”
Ed marched over next to the office to a huge metal rack and examined three crow bars, selecting just the right one, like a dentist choosing the perfect instrument for the job at hand. Ed carried the chosen crow bar like it was an extension of his big right arm, placed the end between hood and body, and pushed downward, to the sound of rippling metal. He did this in three places before it released and they could get a good look at the engine.
Ollie worked his right hand into a skin tight plastic glove, then ran it over the engine, distributor, fuel line, wiring, everything. After a few minutes he said, “Everything seems okay up here. If there’s a problem, we’ll find it underneath.”
He got down on both knees trying to get a look under the car, but it was smashed down too low to the ground.
“Ed. Any chance you could raise this thing up for me?”
“Sure. We could jack it up. Or I can just pull over the crane.”
“Whatever you think’s best.”
“Crane.
Ed was already on his way, enjoying every minute of this and thinking about the story he’d have over tomorrow’s breakfast for the guys at the truck stop diner.
Ed pulled over the mini-crane, swung the huge hook in where the front windshield used to be, then hopped back up on the seat and pulled a lever. The taut cable raised the car inch by inch, so it looked like a dog moving up on its back haunches in slow motion. He locked a lever and hopped off again, walking right up to the underside with no visible fear. The huge misshapen vehicle hung at a forty-five degree angle, looking like a trap, eager to drop on anyone dumb enough to get under it.
Jake looked at Ed skeptically.
“It’s okay. It’ll hold fine.”
Famous last words. Ollie was already standing underneath.
“I could use your advice here, Ed. Bottom line, was this driver error or a problem with the vehicle?”
“A year-old Suburban? This was a solid vehicle. I’ll tell you right now it wasn’t the car’s fault.”
“Maybe. Take a look with me anyway, will you?”
Ed went over everything, grabbing this and pulling on that. The search seemed routine and predictable when all of a sudden he said, “What the…?”
“Yeah?” Ollie was right there.
“A broken tie-rod. Broke right here on the thread, next to the adjusting sleeve.”
Ollie took a closer look, then quickly went over to the tie-rod on the other side. “Look at this.” Ed was already beside him.
“Two broken tie-rods? No wonder this baby lost it. Never seen anything like it. One maybe, but not two.”
“Take a closer look, Ed.” Ollie pointed at the clearly exposed surface of the broken tie-rod. Jake looked over Ollie’s other shoulder with no thought now of the precarious hanging vehicle.
“Look how smooth this rod is, three-fourths of the way through. But the last quarter is rough, like you’d expect a break to look. Same thing exactly on the other side.”
Ed’s jaw slackened and he went back to the other side to look. He let out a low whistle.
Only Jake was in the dark. “Excuse my ignorance, but what exactly is a tie-rod? And what are you saying?”
Ollie looked at Ed. With the simple eloquence of a man who knows his trade, Ed said, “The tie-rods connect the wheels and the steering box. They’re what give you control over the car.”
“What we’re saying is,” Ollie added, “the rods broke all right, and that’s why the car crashed and rolled. But they only broke because they’d been cut three-quarters of the way through. With a plain old hacksaw I’d guess, though it could have been an electric saw, maybe a reciprocating saw with the right blade?”
Ed nodded his agreement.
“With slow driving, and no sudden turns or stresses on the tie-rods, the car would be okay. You wouldn’t notice anything different, maybe just a little shake or something,” Ollie said. “But once it got up a lot of speed, then had to make a sudden turn or swerve or hit a bad bump…”
Jake’s brain went numb. A little later, in the distance he could hear Ollie telling Ed to keep this thing under his hat until further notice. Ed was disappointed he’d have to sit on this story for the moment, but gratified he was on the inside of something worthy of the Sunday night movie of the week.
