by DL Cook
“Still don't see why you couldn't leave town.”
Swinton pointed the gun at him. “Don't question me.”
“Alright, alright. I don't want to be number three or four. You mind telling me for the record? How many did you kill? And why?”
The floor creaked again. Tom held his breath, his hands still clasped over his mouth.
“What animal is that heavy?” Swinton said.
Dunn replied. “I never said it was an animal.”
“You said it was a bird.”
“I never said anything.”
“Who's up there?” Swinton demanded.
Tom suppressed his urge to say “no one.” Instead, a squeak escaped between his fingers.
“I've enhanced the audio,” Peggy said.
“Let's hear it,” Libby leaned next to the speaker.
Over the pops and crackles (which made Libby crave cereal) they heard Swinton's voice. “Start the car and drive slowly out of the lot. Then go to the abandoned mill.”
Don was instantly on the phone. All cars were instructed to block access to and from the mill and to ignore anything they heard on the radio. Don called Lucus and instructed him to coordinate the ground operation. “Now play along,” he told the deputy. “We got him. It was Tom. He resisted, but he's in a cell now,” Don said into his radio as he and Libby rushed out of the building.
“It was Tom?” Lucus replied.
“Yeah, he's responsible for the murders. All units, stand down. Repeat, stand down and come on home. We need to locate officer Swinton. He's missing. Tom might have hurt him.”
“You hear that? They're looking for you at the station,” Dunn said. “They think you're a victim, possibly hero.”
“Then I don't need you anymore, do I?” Swinton pointed the gun back at Dunn, who closed his eyes and whimpered.
Tom didn't understand Don's radio message one bit. Was someone impersonating him? Sherlock Holmes, one of his favorite cartoon animals, said something like, once you eliminate the impossible, all that remains is the truth, no matter how improbable it might be. Someone at the station pretended to be him. He had to get over there. Not only to straighten things out, but because that was Don's order. They were looking for Swinton at the station. Tom would help them. Boy would they be surprised that Swinton wasn't there at all and that, in fact, he was the real killer. Maybe Tom would get another gift certificate for solving the case.
He crept away from the peep hole toward the stairs. Something cut into his ankle. Tom howled and hopped on his other foot, and onto a patch of rotten floorboards. His weight, concentrated into the narrow point of his toe, obliterated the floor. Tom plunged to the lower level. Whatever he landed on cracked like a potato chip. Swinton's gun fired. Tom passed out.
“He's waking up,” Libby said.
“About time,” Don said. He folded the day's newspaper, which featured a front page editorial by Finnemore Dunn. The reporter heaped effusive praise on the “gentle giant hero Tom Klump.”
“How long was I in a coma?” Tom asked groggily.
“Coma?” Libby asked.
“You were asleep,” Don said. “You went to the bathroom a couple of hours ago. And a couple of hours before then you talked to my dad about workers' comp.”
“I see,” Tom said.
“Maybe he hurt his head,” Libby worried.
“No, he's always kinda doofy,” Don tried to reassure his wife.
Marcy walked in and smacked her kids on their heads, as she was wont to do when she was excited.
“Hi mom,” Tom rubbed his head.
“Someone from the mayor's office came by to give you this,” she handed him a gift certificate. “Now if you'll excuse me, I must go shopping.” She woke her husband, who snored by the window.
Tom lifted his bandaged leg. “Was I shot?”
“No. You walked into broken equipment.”
“Oh. Will I still get a purple heart?”
“You're not in the military, genius.”
Tom grinned. “Did you ever find Swinton? Because I know where he is.”
“He's on the other side of the hospital,” Don said. “You wouldn't recognize him, all bandaged up like that. I can't even say what parts of him you broke. The doctors are surprised he's alive.”
“Will he be alright?”
“I don't know. Sure would save us a trial. But if he ever wakes up from his coma, maybe he can explain a few things.”
“Did you catch the imposter?”
“Who?”
“The guy pretending to be me.”
“Um. I wouldn't worry about that,” Don sighed. His phone rang, no doubt another reporter. He excused himself out of the room to take the call.
A woman wearing purple nurse's garb slunk into the room. Amid all the mechanical beeps and whines lay a bandaged figure. The woman examined the chart to make sure she had the right patient. Replacing the chart, she took a syringe from her pocket. She filled it from a small vial and injected it into the IV.
Alarms sounded. Doctors and nurses rushed past her in the hall. She walked out into the sunshine and got into a waiting car. As it drove off she removed her wig.
Episode Four
“The Warehouse”
“Good riddance to that,” Don hung up and balanced his feet on the mound of papers on his desk.
Deputy Chalmers gave him a questioning look.
“Swinton died from his injuries,” Don explained. “I guess some of these,” he rustled the documents, “can be filed now that we've found the mole.” He'd do that as soon as he got up.
They hadn't seen the filing cabinet in months, buried under various garbage that Don refused to throw away because it might someday be useful. His wife Libby glanced where the cabinet most likely stood. Don turned away. “I have a system,” he said.
Libby smiled and shook her head.
“There was always something off about that guy,” Chalmers poured himself coffee. “I'm sorry I didn't realize what it was...”
“He did have all those tattoos,” Don mused. “Well, what you gonna do? Don't worry about it, Lucus. If I fired someone for incompetence I'd have to fire the entire department,” Don tried to reassure Chalmers.
The deputy furrowed his brow.
Libby decided to change the subject. “It's almost eating time. How do tamales sound?”
Don nodded eagerly. Lucus accepted.
Libby asked if she could sign out a squad car.
“Where's our car?” Don asked.
“My mom and dad borrowed it,” she said.
“Where's their car then?”
“In the driveway. It doesn't work.”
“What's wrong with it?” Don wrinkled his nose at the thought of Ted sitting in his seat. He wondered where his tablet was so he could look up the cost of steam cleaning.
“It doesn't have oil.”
“How the hell did that happen?”
“Dad drained it so he could fix the cart.”
“What cart?”
“I don't know,” Libby said. “Do you want me to find out?”
“No,” Don sighed.
Lucus gave Libertad the sign out sheet.
“I'll be back in an hour, so work up an appetite,” she kissed Don's bald head and left.
Don knew better than that. He moved to get up. “Better get a snack.” The documents on his desk crashed to the floor. Don cursed.
Lucus helped him with the papers.
“Thanks. Just put them anywhere.” He sighed. “Not there, or there. Give that to me. Thanks.”
“Sorry Chief.”
Don waved the apology away.
“I heard that lawyers are already challenging Swinton's arrests, is that true?” Lucus asked.
“Indeed. Nothing to do with us, as far as I know,” Don leaned against his desk to catch his breath. His dad mentioned something about it earlier in the hospital, after he spoke with Tom. Norman complained about not being hired by anyone yet. One case in particular interested him. It invo
lved the son of a local business leader. The man, whose name escaped Don for the moment, was involved in some kind of weird stuff. Don didn't remember that either. Cannibalism maybe? Or cannabis? In hindsight he should've listened more carefully instead of saying “uh huh” and nodding every few seconds while thinking about how funny it would be if he drew a mustache on the sleeping Tom. Anyway, Norman complained that that particular criminal already had a lawyer. A team, actually, from the big city. And they had already filed all the paperwork. Norman wondered how they found out about Swinton so soon, as it hadn't even been in the paper yet when they petitioned the court.
“Uh huh, very interesting dad,” Don had said as he ushered his father out of the hospital room.
“I wonder if any lowlifes are coming here because of that,” Don headed for the vending machine.
“I'll try to find out,” Lucus replied.
Thoughts of tamales made Libby's stomach growl. She took a deep breath, trying to remember the self hypnotism for weight loss she listened to every night. Her weight remained the same, but the droning of the man's voice helped her sleep. Don scoffed when she told him about it. He insisted she didn't need help sleeping.
The breathing made her tummy louder. One small treat wouldn't hurt. Libby drove to the new bakery. She had been meaning to stop by and try a little something.
She wobbled out of the squad car and paused at the display window outside the shop. It had all sorts of delicious looking sweets. She wondered which one she should try. On second thought maybe just one treat would not be enough. After all she should get her family and Don some too. A creamy and multi-layered cake caught Libby's eye. Tiramisu. It sounded so exotic. The lady inside greeted her.
Libby smiled back.
“What can I get you?” said the lady.
“Hi, ummm, can I please get a tira...” Libby pointed at the exotic sweet.
“Tiramisu. It is one of my favorite desserts. My grandmother taught me how to make it the way she did in Italy. To go or to stay?”
“So it is Italian? It looks so delicious. Maybe to stay.”
“Great. Would you like anything else”
Libby looked around. She couldn't choose.
“What do you recommend?”
“Maybe a Napoleon?”
“Yes! I will take three Napoleons and ummm three, no four tiramiiisos?”
“To go?”
Libby nodded as she devoured her pastry. It was as creamy and delicious as it looked. She never had anything like it. Libby decided to find the recipe when she got home.
The lady packed everything and placed it on Libby's table, handing her a tissue. Blood rushed to Libby's face. She wiped cocoa powder off her nose and cheeks, muttering a thank you. The lady laughed. “You remind me of my daughter.”
“Thank you, it was delicious!” Libby bowed. She bet Tom would eat here all the time once she told him about it.
A small girl bumped into her at the door. dropping a sheet of paper from the stack she carried. Libby picked it up and found a picture of a very cute dog.
“He is so cute!” Libby smiled.
The girl cried and ran to the shop owner. Libby was not sure what to do and was about to start crying herself.
“That is Estrella, our dog. She has been missing for two days. We looked everywhere and put up posters. Sofia misses her so much” the owner told Libby as she hugged the little girl.
“She ran away because I called her fat,” Sofia explained between sobs.
Libby blurted out that she was a detective and that she would find Estrella. She remembered that she had lost a teddy bear last week and how sad it made her. Sofia stopped crying, which made Libby feel better.
On the walk to her car she began to worry. Don would be mad at her. To cheer herself up she took out one of the pastries and ate it. She rubbed her tummy with a satisfaction.
The final gate buzzed open. A guard trailed the prisoner to be released at a distance, palming his baton. A gasp of relief ran through the prison, like a wave at a ball game. The officer waiting in the property office bit his nails. The keys hanging from his side jingled with his body's involuntary movement.
“W-w-w-one comb,” the officer's wavering voice mimicked his shaking hand. The manilla envelope crumpled as he took its contents out. “One g-gold watch,” he avoided eye contact with the grinning con. “One pack of cigarettes. Two spoons. Corduroy underwear...”
Mort's call snapped Don and Libby out of their afternoon nap. The tamales hit the spot. Don didn't care much for the pastries. The coroner requested their presence in his lab.
“Something about Swinton,” Don replied to Libertad's sleepy look.
When they got there Mort led them to a table with the cadaver. He snapped on a couple of latex gloves and picked up a purplish brown thing. Don and Libby squirmed. Mort chuckled softly. “Do you know what this is?”
“Put it away,” Don wrinkled his nose and cast his glance sideways. “Why are we here?”
“Officer Swinton's liver,” Mort answered his own question.
Hearing the soft plunk, Don judged it was safe to look back in Mort's direction.
“Swinton was a registered organ donor. So when he expired a surgeon at the hospital went to extract the organs. He discovered, however, that there was damage. You see here,” he lifted the liver up again.
Don closed his eyes and motioned for Mort to put the organ away.
“It was not just the liver. The kidneys, the lungs, the heart. All damaged.”
“Well yeah, he was in the hospital. Tom fell on him. Bound to cause some damage,” Don said.
“Absolutely true, but not of this kind,” Mort replied. “Anyway, the case was referred to me.” Mort proceeded to explain his investigation and discovery of something with a long chemical name.
“In English please, Doctor.”
“Swinton did not die from the injuries he sustained when Deputy Klump squashed him. He died from multiple organ failure. He was poisoned. And had he not been on the donor roll, no one would have known.”
“So you're saying...”
“Murder, my detective friends. Swinton was killed in his hospital bed.”
“You're killing me here, doc.”
“Don?”
“The murder rate. Ever since you got here, it's shot up through the roof. Our biggest problem before was suicide. Now we have people killing each other instead of themselves. You're sure about this?”
“Would you like me to go through my analysis once more?”
“No, no. We got it. If only the damned hospital were a little further west. Sheriff what's his face would have to deal with it in the next county.”
Before they left for the station Libby gave Mort the last of her dessert purchases. He nodded in appreciation.
“I don't understand you,” Don said during the drive. “You buy all these sweets and then give them away. We're not made of money, you know.”
Libby smacked her lips plaintively. “They were so delicious. I had to give them away or I'd eat all of them.”
“Why'd you buy them in the first place? Aren't you on a no-sugar diet?” Libby was always on a no-sugar diet.
“Stop yelling at me.”
They gathered around the conference table. If Don wore glasses he'd put them on now. This was serious business.
“So here's what we know,” Don surveyed the expectant faces. “Swinton was a mole, a spy. Someone poisoned him in the hospital. Before that Swinton killed at least two people, possibly three if we count Godfrey Leser's heart attack. Don't know if he was there, but he was involved. Why would I hire such a person? That's what you're thinking, isn't it? I never would. I assure you. Got his employment file?”
Lucus Chalmers was ready. “Yes boss.” Don's filing mountain on the side of the room was reduced to a series of hills, but Lucus's efforts did not come to naught. He opened the manilla folder before him. A photo of a stern Swinton gazed up at the peeling ceiling. When Don nodded at him the deputy took ou
t a sheet. There in Don's handwriting it said, “I don't want to hire this guy. Don't know who he is.” Lucus read it aloud.
“Damn right,” Don said. “My officers may not be the smartest or the strongest, but I hire people I can trust.” He scanned the faces around the table. They nodded at him. “When you have officers you can trust, you have the best damn police department in town.”
“Hear hear,” someone said. A couple of others clapped.
Tom looked up from his PSP and gave Don a thumbs up.
“Swinton, I didn't trust,” Don continued. “What's it say there? Why'd I hire him?”
“'Hiring him because Councilman insists on it. In charge of budgets. Threatened to cut funding. Coffee machine and accessories too important.'”
Don's memory was hazy on the matter. “Ah, so I had no choice.” He cleared his throat. “Okay people. The first thing we have to do is find out why this Councilman—what's his name?—made me hire the mole. We have to pay this guy a visit. But we have to be careful, as he's a powerful guy, able to order me around like that. What's his name, Chalmers?”
“Uh, I don't know.” Lucus flipped through the pages. His phone rang and he stepped out of the room.
Peggy, who had a knack for paperwork took over for him. “It doesn't say, boss.”
“Okay. So the first thing we have to find out, then, is who the Councilman is. Theories?”
“We can find out who was the head of the budget committee when Swinton was hired,” Libby suggested.
“Brilliant!” Don beamed at his wife.
Libby was all smiles. Don reached to wipe some chocolate off her cheeks.
Chalmers returned with a sheet in his hand. “That was my contact at the Pen getting back to me. Turns out there's one town resident getting released early because Swinton was his arresting officer. In fact, he's already been released.”
“My dad said something about that,” Don stroked his chin. He looked at the mug shot the state penitentiary faxed to Chalmers. “Scary looking guy. Alright people. Here's the plan. I'm going to work the town council angle, see what I turn up there. Lucus, you take Tom and follow up on this Travis Quinton. See why he was arrested and convicted. Why was he released so soon? You two,” Don pointed at a couple of officers whose names escaped him, “head on over to Swinton's former stomping grounds—where he used to live before he moved to town—and see what you can dig up on him. We still don't know why he killed Gerald Oakley. Peggy, find out about Swinton's death. Review security logs, and all that.”
