The Seventh Wave

by Fred Galvin

  Actually, reading the News was pretty entertaining. There was quite a bit going on in New York City. Now that’s a brilliant observation. After all, it’s a city of 8.5 million people so I guess that’s an understatement. I’m willing to bet there’s more going on in the Lower East Side than in all of Omaha, Nebraska. My apologies to any Omahaians. (Is that even a real word?)

  When I was done I would fold up the paper, do the dishes, brush the old fangs (again, a Jen mandate) and find myself sitting there wondering where the day went. Oh, wait! It wasn’t even nine a.m. Most of Florida wasn’t even awake yet.

  Earlier, in discussing my postretirement ambitions (I believe I mentioned being inspired by The Maltese Falcon) I had had an epiphany. I would become Sam Spade! That’s it! I wouldn’t be bound by the formalities and politics of the NYPD. I would make my own hours and take my own cases. Thus Double-D Investigations was born.

  Well, you may recall how that turned out: plenty of boredom, punctuated by occasional interesting cases. After a particularly disturbing surveillance of a husband supposedly cheating on his wife with a young female (who turned out to be a young male) I ended up sitting on the dunes of Garbage Cove watching the surfers do what I once did decades earlier. To both my and Dante Immelman’s surprise (goofy-foot surfer, remember him?) the waves, actually the seventh wave of a set, washed a corpse up onto the beach.

  I usually would have reported the gruesome discovery to one of the local Long Island authorities. The problem was, I was out on one of the barrier islands and I had no idea which Long Island township I should call. Some instinct told me that the proximity to New York City (only about thirty-five miles as the seagull flies) probably meant that there was a better than fifty-fifty chance that the poor unfortunate soul who was facedown in the wet sand had a connection of some sort to Brooklyn or Manhattan or maybe even Staten Island. I don’t know why since it was just a gut feeling, but gut feelings are a detective’s best friend. Those and warm donuts with good black coffee, of course, and a good MLT … mutton, lettuce, and tomato sandwich when the mutton is nice and lean, and the tomato is ripe. (Forgive me, kinda got carried away there. I just had to pay tribute to Miracle Max in The Princess Bride, one of Jen’s and my favorites.)

  So I called my former captain at the 7th Precinct, Billy “Izzy” “Notso” Smart. He would probably be happy to hear from me, not because he missed me and wished I was back in his division solving homicides, but most likely because I lost twenty-five dollars to him on a Yankees–Mets home-and-home series two months earlier and I had yet to pay off. The lowly Mets had taken four of six games from the Bronx Bombers. My excuse was—well, I didn’t really have one. Yes, I had stiffed him. But I knew sooner rather than later he’d catch up with me and collect.

  But that wasn’t really why I called him. I hoped I could pass the DB (dead body) on the beach situation off to him and he’d contact the appropriate people to collect the corpse, make an ID, and pursue the case.

  “So, former Detective Deckler, you’re calling me to set up a lunch so you can finally pay me the twenty-five, right? And also pay for the lunch.” Cops have long memories.

  “Right Billy, I mean Captain. No, wait, I do mean Billy. Anyway, being a die-hard Mets fan I would think you’d be accustomed to waiting for any sort of payoff given they haven’t won a World Series since 1986. How many years has that been? About thirty?”

  He was quick to interrupt. “Yeah, yeah, former Detective Deckler. What can I do for you?”

  “Don’t worry. I have the twenty-five and I’ll get it to you.”

  “Sure. Just don’t say it’s in the mail. Okay, what’s up, Dan? And what’s that sound? Are you in a washing machine?”

  “That sound is the ocean. This is going to seem very strange to you but hear me out. I’m standing on a beach across the Great South Bay from the Nassau–Suffolk County line. I was just sitting on the dunes watching some kids surfing and—”

  When I was done telling him about my facedown friend washed up on the beach, there was a momentary silence. I expected him to ask me about the body, did I find any ID on it, any signs of foul play.

  Instead, “What the hell were you doing there watching kids surfing? Were you working ‘The Case of the Topless Surfer Girl’?”

  “I wish. The answer to that question will be a topic for our next lunch. Actually, they all have their tops on. I made sure to check each one. For now, let’s say I had wrapped up a case that took me out here and I was relaxing in the sunshine for a while to clear my head.”

  Well, that was the truth, right?

  Billy said the best move for me was to call the State Police and have them take over. He asked me to call him back after my call to the NYSP. I agreed since I had to wait for them anyway.

  I eventually reached the New York State Police at the Republic Airport barracks in Farmingdale, which was on Long Island almost directly across the Great South Bay from my location. While I waited, Dante and some of his surfer cronies came in from the waves and gathered around. Obviously he had spread the word. They looked at the corpse half covered on the sand and I looked at the girls half covered in their bikinis. As I had told Billy, none was topless. Damn!

  “Geez, man. Who do you think he is?”

  “What do you think happened to him?”

  “What are you going to do with him, man? You can’t just leave him there.” Then, looking up, “Geez, the gulls are gonna be all over this guy.”

  Sure enough, the ocean’s garbage cleanup crew, the seagulls, had discovered a potential feast and were circling and squawking loudly. Some had landed and were cautiously making their way closer.

  It had become evident I needed to take charge of the situation. I flashed my PI creds and said officially, “Everyone, please gather around me.” (Bikini-clad girls front and center, please.) “I’m Detective Deckler and I need your help while we wait for the State Police to arrive to claim the body. Can you all assist?”

  It was unanimous. “Yeah, man.”

  “Sure. What do you want us to do?”

  “Do you need statements from us?”

  “Do we have to go downtown?”

  “Do we get to have mug shots?”

  Downtown. Mug shots. And I thought these kids didn’t watch any TV. After a mental eye roll I said, even more officially, “Going downtown at this point is not necessary. But until we can ascertain what happened to this poor person, I need to consider this a potential crime scene. So I need you all to form a close perimeter around the deceased and keep the seagulls at bay. We cannot have them corrupting the scene in any way.”

  Again, unanimous.

  “Yeah, man. We’re with you.”

  “Do you have that yellow crime scene tape?”

  I was feeling pretty heady. I had a posse of seven surfers of various sizes, shapes, and genders. I was tempted to “deputize” them but where would I pin on their shields, especially on the bikini-clad girls? Hmm, if only I had shields.

  “No, I don’t have my crime scene kit with me. Besides, I doubt the seagulls would respect the tape. So, for the time being I need you all to be my crime scene tape. Do not let one seagull cross your line and especially do not touch the body yourselves. Okay?” I made eye contact with each to emphasize the gravity of the situation. I had to struggle to keep a straight face, and to keep eye-to-eye contact, rather that eye-to-body contact with the girls. I know. By now you’re rethinking any positive thoughts you may have had about my character. Can’t say that I blame you. Trust me, I’m quite harmless. In fact, if Jen were witnessing this, she’d be laughing and probably egging me on.

  Giving me a salute, Dante took charge. “Right man. I mean, Inspector.”

  “It’s Detective.”

  “Right. Okay dudes and dudettes. Let’s make a tight circle around this John Doe and fend off the birds.”

  Dudes and dudettes? I was beginning to think I was in a scene from Beach Blanket Bingo. I half expected Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello to appear
at any moment. And had he actually referred to the corpse as a John Doe? Perhaps Dante had potential for the Homicide Division. Maybe I’d talk him up to Billy and set up an interview. That would be entertaining.

  Billy: So, Mr. Immelman, what experience have you had as a detective?

  Dante: Well, I watch reruns of Hawaii Five-0. Book ’em Danno! And I once was part of a human crime scene tape around a deceased dead body on a beach. Not one seagull made it past us. Man, the surf was epic that day.

  Billy: (turning to me, one eyebrow raised) Detective Deckler, can I have a word with you please, in private?

  Our makeshift human crime scene tape held although the gulls were becoming very impatient, very loud, and very aggressive. Visions of scenes from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds came to mind: gulls dive-bombing the bikini-clad girls, requiring me to rescue them (the girls, not the gulls). I considered shielding them with my body but immediately rejected the idea.

  Thankfully, within an hour the corpse was picked up and on its way in a State Police van to somewhere. I pocketed the receipt they gave me. I really didn’t care where they took him, although in the back of my mind I figured I’d be hearing more about our waterlogged friend sooner rather than later.

  I wasn’t wrong about that.

  I called Billy back to report that John Doe was on his way to Farmingdale, or wherever their forensic lab was and that I had given them my contact information.

  On this call, Billy was all business. “Good work. Let me know what it turns out to be.” After a pause, “Dan, we’re being slammed here with a sudden rash of homicides. I don’t know why, maybe the phases of the moon. More likely it has something to do with increased drug traffic and a spike in mob activity lately. I need to get our clearance rate up to a respectable level again.” Another pause, this one pregnant, waiting for me to fill the void.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I was pretty sure I knew the answer to that question. I was right in my speculation.

  “Dan, have you thought about possibly returning in a consultant capacity? I can use the help and it sounds to me like you could use a change of scenery. You did say you were sitting on that beach to clear your head.” He let that sink in for a moment, I’m sure waiting to hear either “no fucking way!” followed by a disconnect, or “continue,” followed by me waiting.

  “Continue.” I waited.

  “Good, you’re still there. As I said, you would be a professional consultant to the NYPD, Homicide Division, 7th Precinct like a paid independent contractor. While I can’t provide you with benefits, I can arrange for your consultant fee to equate to your gross salary as a detective first grade when you retired. Your seniority with the NYPD will be respected and you essentially would have your pick of the open cases, subject to my final okay, of course.”

  I let the air be dead for a few moments, an old detective trick that I’m sure Billy knew I was utilizing. Then, “So, I’d be working for you?”

  “Yes and no. As a paid consultant you’d be self-employed, contracting to the NYPD. But you’d be getting your assignments and direction from me.”

  “I thought you just said I could cherry-pick my cases.”

  “I did. You could cherry-pick from the ones I assign to you.”

  I smiled, and I’m sure he did too. I decided to yank his chain a little. “So I would be working for you.”

  “Right.”

  “Right.” I paused for effect. Then, “No fucking way!”

  “Right.” I could tell he knew I wasn’t serious. “Listen, dickhead. Of course, I’ll sweeten the deal. At your option you can work your cases with Ronnie if she’ll have you.”

  This time no hesitation. “Okay, you’ve got a deal. But just to be clear, I can quit any time, right?”

  “Like I said, you’re your own man. I just would prefer that you not hang up your gumshoes in the middle of a case.”

  “Gumshoes? I’ll have you know that I’ve been wearing top-grade penny loafers. You must understand Double-D Investigations has an image to uphold.”

  “Image, right.” I heard a snort. “So, you’re in?”

  “I assume you’ve cleared this with Ronnie.”

  “Yes, she’s taken leave of her senses and is totally on board, hoping you are interested in the gig.”

  “Then, yes, I’m in.”

  “Good. Be here tomorrow at 0700 for roll call. I’ll have Ronnie save you a seat. After the meeting we’ll square away your paperwork and get you started.”

  Well, that didn’t take long. Double-D Investigations was put on the shelf for a possible, but likely improbable, future resurrection and Dan Deckler, consultant to NYPD Homicide Division, assigned to the NYPD’s 7th Precinct was born.

  ~~~

  The first three cases I took (the cases Billy assigned to me through Ronnie) were rather routine. I hadn’t forgotten my investigative techniques. They are the detective’s equivalent of riding a bike. While I had been retired two years, Ronnie and I fell right back in sync in our ability to work together. Even some of my CI contacts were still around. Confidential informants made a decent (and dangerous) living being sleazy rats. Ronnie had cultivated some for herself, which was helpful.

  There was one primary difference in our relationship, however. This time around she had the role of senior detective. Technically she was the only detective since I was an outside consultant hired to assist the NYPD in investigating homicide cases and I was “assigned to Detective Ronika Deveaux under Captain Billy Smart.”

  I really had no problem deferring to her. She knew well enough to keep our old tried-and-true dynamic intact as far as each of us not being shy about disagreeing with the other and floating theories, some of which may border on the extreme. One procedural change did amuse me. In our previous partnership, I always had the keys to the department Crown Vic and did all the driving. I was senior to her by quite a few years and the protocol was that the senior had the choice. I liked to drive. But now it was different and I was okay with it.

  Occasionally I would automatically walk to the driver’s side door. She would wait patiently while I reached in my pocket for the car keys and came up empty. She would hold them up, dangling them in front of me. “Looking for these?” I’d laugh and sheepishly walk around the car to the passenger side.

  “Old habits die hard.”

  “Especially in old men.”

  “Hey! I’m not that old.” She just grinned at me, waiting. “Well, yeah, I guess I am.”

  We solved our first two cases within three days. It felt good to get back in the saddle. I had renewed enthusiasm that I had failed to capture when I was doing my PI thing. Being a PI was essentially being employed by someone to discover and provide information, usually about someone else, for a fee. Sure, it took some ingenuity and imagination and some stealth, but, as I have said, it was booooring!

  As a homicide detective, even though I was now just a consultant, solving a case was very rewarding. I felt as if I had helped to finally put the victim to rest. A wrongful death had been avenged. A bad person was taken off the streets and held accountable for his actions.

  Our third case turned out to be a dead end. It involved an apparently homeless woman found dead in an alley off East Broadway with her own jacket sleeves wrapped tightly around her neck. She had no ID and none of the locals had ever seen her before. Her DNA and prints yielded no hits in the databases and she was not a match to any filed missing persons. We concluded she was new to the city and had been the victim of a random robbery attempt, probably by one of the denizens who lurked in the shadows living from drug fix to drug fix. We questioned many of them but got nowhere. We eventually filed the case in our “cool case file.” Ronnie and I had always refused to let a case go “cold.” We would revisit such cases every few months hoping to find something we missed earlier. Sometimes we did.

  Four more cases and two weeks after I had returned, Captain Smart asked Ronnie and me to see him one morning after roll call. Our rate of case closures
was tops in his division once again. We still had it. We knew the cases were coming steadily and he had two actives for us.

  “Well, you two haven’t missed a beat. Dan, it looks like you are taking instruction well from your senior partner, Detective Deveaux.” He emphasized the words “senior” and “partner,” which was both a jab at me and acknowledgment of Ronnie’s position. I had no problem with it.

  “Yes, Captain. She gives me extra credit if I stay after school to study. I’m learning a great deal, like which car door to open.”

  Applying her accent fully, Ronnie took up the jabfest. “Yes, I may let you open the driver’s door, mon, but only to let me in. Actually, Captain, he’s showing promise. I’ll probably take him off probation soon.” I smiled like a proud schoolboy who had just been complimented by his teacher in front of his parents on parent-teacher night.