by DL Cook
“It's working. The phone's just inside his pocket.” Peggy turned up the sound.
“What is that? Is he being tortured?” Between a nasal voice going on and on about “the technology of art in modern life” was a deep rumbling.
“No. That's just dad snoring,” Libby said.
“Oh my God. They've drugged him,” Don had a bad feeling about this. “Do you have a location?” he asked Peggy.
“Yeah. Corner of Wilton and Reid.”
Don raced to dispatch, grabbing the mic away from Jackie. “Calling all cars, calling all cars!”
“Don, sweetheart, you have to push this button,” Jackie said.
“Oh, this is too confusing! We don't have time!” Don let Jackie do it.
“This is dispatch. Who's near Wilton and Reid?”
“Tom here,” heavy breathing came from the speakers. “At the pizzeria a block away. I'm waiting for my mom. What's up?”
Don instructed Tom to rescue his dad.
“Oh, what's the big fat idiot done this time?”
“No time for this, Klump. Go help your dad. We're on our way.”
They jumped into the car. As they peeled out of the parking lot the flasher Libby stuck to the roof fell off. It dangled under the passenger window as the out of tune siren blared over the engine's roar.
Tom finished his pizza. He muttered as he wiped his face with greasy wax paper and headed out the door. His keys laughed at him from the ignition. Tom stuck his massive hand through the crack in the window, but it didn't reach far enough to open the door. He was in a hurry, damn it. He'd have to run the great distance. It was his dad, though. He could do it. But his hand wouldn't come out. “I'm stuck,” Tom made his worried face.
“Are you listening to me, Ted?” If Ted were awake he'd see a psychotic gleam in Gerald Oakley's eye.
“Hmmm, hrrrmm.”
“Good. I thought for a second that you might have dozed off.”
“I'll get right on it,” Ted said automatically.
“Yeah, so as I was saying,” he slowly and stealthily pulled out a black metallic object from his pocket. “I don't like it when people don't pay attention to me, Ted. Godfrey never listened to me, and he's dead now.” Were Ted awake, he'd be aware that Oakley pointed a gun at him.
An old lady crossed against the light. The paper shopping bag in her hands was almost as big as her. Don skidded to a stop. The line of cop cars behind them somehow avoided a series of rear end collisions. Don honked. He didn't have time to watch a snail cross the road. The sound startled her. The bag ripped and all sorts of round fruits and vegetables rolled around her. She stooped to pick them up, spilling more from the top of the bag.
“Seriously?” Don honked again. So much for the short cut in taking this narrow street. He glared at Libby like it was her idea. “Never should have listened to you,” he told his wife.
“I never told you to go this way,” Libby countered.
“You never told me not to.”
Men.
The car rocked back and forth. Tom tried his hardest to dislodge his arm. It had reached equilibrium, refusing to move in or out. He pulled his gun out to threaten the car before the realization of how silly that was made him put it back.
Oakley brandished the weapon in his hand. “I don't think you're listening to me, Ted. I hate it when people don't listen.”
The old lady finally got out of Don and Libby's way. Their car stalled. It cackled like Arthur the janitor, but it wouldn't start.
Just for good old time's sake Tom tried pulling the door handle. It opened and a number of burger wrappers spilled out into the street. Tom tried to get in, but his stuck hand prevented him.
Oakley pointed the gun at Ted. “You awake there, buddy?”
Don and Libby got out of their car. With the help of Deputy Chalmers, who had been waiting behind them, they pushed their vehicle off to the sidewalk. They got in Lucus' car and the long police convoy resumed its trek.
Tom managed to start his car. The plan was to open the window to take his hand out. But the cruiser had plans of its own. It rolled down the street. Tom ran alongside. It was either that or be dragged. He tried desperately to hit the window button. As if to taunt him, the rear passenger window slid up and down.
Gerald Oakley toyed with the trigger. Ted reclined further into the bench, oblivious. The artist's dopey smile became a smirk.
The window opened and Tom extricated his arm. He panted with his back on the ground. “Stupid Christine.” The squad car crashed into a mailbox. The impact turned the steering wheel and the car swung around toward him. “I didn't mean it!” He hobbled out of the way. Don's voice erupted out of his radio, asking why he didn't report in yet and commanding him to hurry. Tom jogged around the corner where he found a man pointing a gun at Ted.
Tom unholstered his weapon. It slid from his sweaty palms and clattered to the road. The sound attracted the gunman's attention. He cursed and made to escape. Ted awoke and accidentally tripped the fleeing painter. Tom scrambled to his feet, arrived at the fallen suspect, and sat on him to catch his breath and make the arrest.
“You have the right to not afford an attorney,” he began, but that didn't sound right.
He took the gun out of Oakley's hand. It crumpled in his grip.
“My sculpture!” cried the painter.
“Sorry,” Tom said, “I thought it was a gun.”
“That's what they're supposed to think,” Oakley managed. It was hard to speak with the giant upon him.
“Who?”
Marcy waved at Tom from the burning trashcan. “I'll be a few more minutes,” she said before resuming her lecture.
Ted snored again beside Tom.
“They're trying to kill me,” Oakley said again. That's why he was hiding out in the art district, he explained. Oakley confessed to taking his painting from the curator. “It wasn't my idea. Made me take it,” he said. “I'm so damn broke, I went along with it. Then they killed Gerald. Please, you've got to help me.”
Tom thought about it. “Where did you hide the painting then?”
“It's in my apartment under the floorboards.”
That seemed plausible enough. Tom was about to slap handcuffs on the guy when he remembered how Don yelled at him every time he brought someone in for questioning. He got up and pulled the man with him. “Thanks for the information. Here's my card. Call me if you know anything more,” he said as he had practiced a thousand times before a mirror.
“Watch out!” Libby cried.
Lucus swerved around the oncoming police car. “It was empty. What the hell?”
Libby shrugged.
They pulled up to the burning trash can. The cop cars scared the homeless and artistically inclined. Marcy's students scattered.
Libby jumped out of the car and ran to her father. “Are you okay?”
“Oh hi dear,” Ted yawned. “That pharmacist over there offered me something for the pain, but I didn't have any money.” The man he pointed at ran into an alley.
“What hurts? Have you been injured?”
“I'm all better now, don't worry about me, dear.”
“Where's the artist?” Don asked.
“After he confessed that he stole the painting, I let him go so you wouldn't be mad.” Tom flinched away from Don's smack. “What? You're always yelling at me.”
“Why didn't you arrest him?”
“You yell at me for arresting people.”
Don sighed. “When they're not committing a crime. But he confessed to a crime.”
“Oh. Sorry about that, Mettler.”
“Klump, did you read that police manual I gave you?”
“I'll read it tonight.”
“That's what you say every time I ask.”
“I'll read it tonight. I promise, Mettler.”
“Did he say where he hid the painting?”
“Under the floor at his apartment.”
They found the painting and went back to the station t
o celebrate. Marcy's lecture put her in a good mood and she bought everyone pizza.
“So here's how it went down,” Don said between chews. “Oakley needed money. The curator needed ticket sales. They conspired together to steal the painting for the publicity. When the theft made the news—it was my discovery that set the events in motion—demand increased for the artist's paintings and the museum had more visitors. The curator and the artist then got into a disagreement about their contract in which the curator would act as exclusive agent. The artist threatened the curator, the latter of whom died from fright. The artist then shot him, not only to increase the publicity, but also to make a statement to his future sales agent.”
That didn't make sense to Libby. Why wouldn't the curator report the theft right away if he stole the painting to generate publicity? Why did he wait for someone else to discover it? And where was the murder weapon? She didn't say anything because she didn't want to spoil her husband's moment in the spotlight.
“Don's so smart,” Ted said.
“Indeed,” Marcy agreed. “He needs a raise. Three cheers for Don!”
“And three cheers for Ted, without whom this case would never be solved,” Don raised a beer.
The next day the Deputy Mayor held a ceremony for Tom for his successful recovery of the painting. It was returned mostly intact. Removing it from the narrow space under the floor in one piece proved more difficult than they thought, but they won that tug of war. Don grumbled as Tom, his arm in a harness, received a $50 gift certificate to the McCaliker Diner (the new owner kept the name).
Across town, Gerald Oakley raised his shoulders against the wind. He looked behind him once more. A police cruiser approached. Oakley tried to act nonchalant. The police car slowed down next to him, its brakes hissing. Oakley bolted.
The car's engine revved. It turned into him as he ran across the street. He bounced off the hood and roof, falling face down in back of the squad car. Its rear lights flickered on and the engine revved again. First the back wheels and then the front rolled over him. The lights blinked off as a uniformed arm put the car into drive. The car rocked over the artist again and sped away.
Episode Three
“The Mole”
Tom giggled at the Gawker article on his phone while his brother in law yammered about two bodies.
“Tom, you listening?”
“Huh?” Tom started. He accidentally closed the tab. A naked lady stared up from the screen. He quickly covered her with his palm.
“I said, have you been listening?” Don glared.
“Yeah, sure.” Tom hastily lowered the volume so Don wouldn't hear the moaning.
“Then what did I say?”
“Some stuff relating to police matters,” Tom winged it.
“Alright then. I want you to go canvas the area where Gerald Oakley's body was found. You know, that painter? Find out if anyone witnessed the hit and run.”
“Okay,” Tom reconnected to the station's WiFi. He hadn't watched any conspiracy videos lately. He rummaged through his pockets for his earphones.
Tom jumped when he realized Mettler hunched down in front of him. “What? I'm not watching porn.” Technically true because he wasn't looking at his phone at the moment.
“Why are you still here?”
“Um...”
“Get out there and find me some witnesses.”
“Okay,” Tom headed for the exit.
“Klump?”
“Yeah?” Oh, what did he do now? He checked his fly. Closed. Good. He checked his uniform. Only a few grease stains. Good.
“Remember. Repeat after me: handcuffs for law breakers, smiles for everyone else. Come on, repeat it.”
“Handcuffs for law breakers, smiles for everyone else.”
“Good, good. Keep going. Out with you,” Don waved him away and then turned his attention to those around the conference table. “Now to more important things. Someone damaged one of our cars. I want all available man power on this...”
Tom knew the way to the crime scene, but he drove in the opposite direction. The pizzeria would open soon, and there was nothing like having the first pie of the day. He'd have to wait an hour, but he had his PSP with him. Tom checked his pocket for the remainder of his tax refund. He kept the money with his video game collection, taking a little each day to buy pizza. One thousand five hundred dollars, it had been. Don, who did his taxes, advised him to invest it or put it in the bank. Tom promised he would. But now with ten bucks and fifty cents left, it appeared he broke that promise. Don would be mad. Nevertheless, Tom felt no guilt. A teacher in high school taught him about inflation. Money spent today is worth more than money saved for tomorrow. Tom took it to heart. He commenced his stakeout of the pizza place.
A woman's screams distracted Tom from his game. She yelled for help as a man wrestled for her purse. Tom's heart beat a tad faster as he wondered what to do. He got his phone out to call the police. The home screen was frozen, a result of certain websites Don forbade him to visit on the station's computers. Tom remembered he had a radio. Then he remembered that he was the police.
He squeezed out of the squad car, promising to hit the gym. After removing himself from the door's grip (Libby would have to fix the tare in his shirt), Tom hustled across the street. He grabbed the purse snatcher and slammed him against a mailbox. He tried to be gentle, but the excitement got to him. He hoped the guy was okay.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you,” the victim said.
Tom wanted to correct her, to explain that he was talking to the man, but she shut him up by kissing his cheek. Tom blushed and pressed his weight against the perp.
“I...can't...breathe,” the man said in a strained voice. His skin turned blue.
“Oh. Sorry about that.” Tom put him upright. Now what came next? Oh yes, Don had told him to smile. Something about handcuffs and smiling. Tom remembered all those times Don hit him, and his sister Libby gave him her disappointed look when he brought someone to the station handcuffed. Tom's blank face became a smile. His mouth curled up to reveal crooked, gaped teeth. The rest of his face remained the same.
The man squirmed. Tom guessed that meant he was ill at ease. Eye contact was important. Many people told him that over the course of his life. He stared at the man's forehead, widening his eyes, just as he practiced in front of the mirror every morning. The man whimpered. Tom lifted him off the ground to make sure he wasn't bleeding or anything. Nothing seemed the matter. He set the man down, smiled again with his wide eyes, and shook his hand. There. The man hurriedly stumbled away.
The pizzeria opened across the street. Tom waited for the light to cross.
“Tommy my boy! You bring a friend today?” the proprietor asked.
Tom smiled back, for the first time noticing that the woman came in with him. He ordered his pie, which the woman insisted would be her treat. That meant an extra pizza tomorrow. “Thanks, you shouldn't have,” Tom said like Libby practiced with him. He scarfed down his pie, oblivious to the woman.
Marcy called. “Hi mom.” Tom should've looked at the caller ID. Stupid phone only worked when he didn't need it. Marcy wanted a ride for her errands. “Why can't the fat man do it?” That's what he called Ted, his father. He put her on speaker to wipe his mouth.
“Oh, he's busy fixing something.”
Tom sighed. “Alright. But I have work to do. Police business.”
“I work with the department,” Marcy said. “I'm sure it's nothing that can't wait. Are you here yet?”
“On my way.” Tom pressed the button to end the call. “Stupid woman.”
“I heard that,” Marcy said.
“Stupid phone,” Tom's fat finger finally found the button.
And so Tom spent most of the morning shopping with his mom. They went several towns over to buy what was cheaper in town. Sometimes Tom thought his mom just liked being driven around. He ate several more times and quite forgot about his assignment. Playing video games
in mall parking lots can do that to a fellow. But Don reminded him with a demand for a status report. Tom explained that he was working very hard, which was true because at the time of the call he was lugging his mom's many purchases into the house.
At last Tom made it to the scene of the crime. If Marcy weren't with him, he wouldn't know what to do. He took Marcy's lead, asking every passerby whether they witnessed the suicide there yesterday.
Don and Libby hovered over Peggy as she inspected the damaged cruiser. The car hadn't been logged out, so whoever drove it took it without permission.
“Have you dusted for prints yet?” Don asked.
“Doing that right now. Duncan, give me a hand,” Peggy said to her assistant. He worked on the areas she couldn't reach because she was wheelchair bound.
“What do you think happened?” Libby wondered aloud.
“The car hit something, not sure what yet.”
“Like something fell on it in the garage?”
“No. It was definitely moving at the time of impacts. We have at least four. One on the bumper, one on the hood, another on the roof, and there's a little something on the trunk. Not confirmed yet, but preliminary evidence suggests that it was the same object. Struck in the front and went over toward the back.”
“Hmmm.” Don stroked his imaginary beard.
Lucus flipped through the logs. “The vehicle was last driven five days ago by Hanson,” he said.
“Get Hensten over here,” Don ordered.
“Hanson, boss.”
“Not Hensten? I picture him like a chicken, all round and feathery...womanly, like a hen.”
“Good image, but his name's Hanson.”
Don shrugged. He answered his phone. “Uh huh, hmm, uh huh. Listen Mort, we're conducting a very important investigation here. Uh huh. Misuse of a police vehicle. Someone's gonna get a stern talking to. Uh huh. Mort. Mort. I'll call you back, okay? Mort. I don't have time for this.” Don ended the call. “That was Freeman over at the morgue. Something about the evidence in the Oakley case. What is it with these coroners? Why don't they mind their own business?”
