by Jaye Wells
“According to this, he’s already been moved from the ER into a room. You can go on up.” She rattled off a room number and directions on how to reach the correct wing of the hospital. “Good luck, Officers. You’ll need it.”
With that cryptic send-off, we started our journey to meet the mysterious Hot Pocket.
When we reached the floor Donna had indicated, we found a uniformed cop standing outside the witness’s room. Morales stopped me just off the elevator and pulled me down a side hall for a strategy session.
“Looks like Hot Pocket’s got a bodyguard,” he said. “You know him?”
I glanced around the corner for another look. “Nope,” I said. “He must be a rookie. They wouldn’t waste a seasoned guy on an assignment like this.”
Morales nodded. “That’s good.”
“How should we play this?”
“Just follow my lead.”
I nodded but didn’t say anything. No sense reminding him that his plan to take the lead hadn’t gotten us very far with Donna. “Yes, sir.” I performed a mocking salute.
Morales grinned. “I kind of like it when you call me sir, Cupcake.”
I frogged him in the ribs. “Don’t get used to it, Macho.”
He rubbed his sore side. “All right, let’s hit it. Remember to act natural.”
I followed him back around the corner and toward the door. The closer we got to the uni, the more I was convinced my rookie theory was right. His posture was too straight and his uniform too perfectly pressed and creased for him to have been on the job long. It reminded me of my early days on the force. Back when I still felt like a superhero in my uniform—ready to dispense justice and make the bad guys pay. I found myself sort of envying the kid in front of the door for still being able to function in the black-and-white world where there was an obvious line between right and wrong.
As we approached, the kid stood straighter. “Evening,” Morales said in a friendly tone. “Detective Duffy got caught at the crime scene and asked us to pitch in and interview the witness.”
The kid’s eyes narrowed. “Duffy didn’t call me.”
Morales sighed. “Listen—” He squinted at the kid’s shiny name tag. “—Officer Harper, is it?” The kid nodded. “If you want to call Detective Duffy, be my guest, but I’m guessing he won’t be too happy to be bothered. You ever work a murder scene?”
Harper shook his head. Morales made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Gruesome stuff. Plus the media’s breathing down Duffy’s neck. When we left he was in a pretty shitty mood.” Morales shrugged. “But, hey, you want to call him and ask him why he sent us to do his job, that’s your business.”
The green officer blinked a couple of times. “Maybe it’s best not to bother him.”
“A wise decision.” Morales nodded, as if it had been Harper’s idea to begin with. “Is Mr. Schmidt awake?”
“Yes, sir. A nurse is in with him now.”
Morales clapped the guy on the shoulder. “Appreciate your help. We’ll be in with him for a little bit if you need to go hit the head or grab some coffee.”
Harper’s shoulders went back another inch. “I’m not supposed to leave my post, sir.”
“Good answer.” Morales clapped the guy on the shoulder. “I was testing you.”
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Thanks for your help.” Morales took my arm and pushed me through the door, where we ran headlong into a fabric room divider.
“Knock, knock,” I called.
“Come on in,” a male voice answered.
I pushed the curtain back. A male nurse was leaning over the patient and attaching some sort of device to his right side. “Oh, sorry,” I said quickly and started to back away.
“It’s cool,” said the man in the bed. “Buck here was just finishing up.”
“The new bag’s in place,” the nurse said. “We’ve added an antibiotic potion to your saline drip to deal with the infection, but we’ll need to keep the area clean.”
The man called Hot Pocket’s lower face was covered with a scraggly beard. His shaggy hair was the color of muddy water shot through with gray. The color of the orange juice he sipped through a straw contrasted nicely against his apple-green skin. His odd complexion color was the result of a longtime dirty magic habit. If I had to guess, he probably favored some sort of abundance potion—the kind that’s supposed to bring fame and fortune to the user, but more often exacerbates envy and leaves the user desperate for more attention.
Morales cleared his throat. “Mr. Schmidt? We’re with the BPD,” he half lied. “We were hoping you could answer some questions about what you saw at the church earlier tonight.”
Schmidt set down his juice and wiped his mouth with the back of his green hand. “Mr. Schmidt was my daddy. You can call me Hot Pocket.”
In his voice was the clear invitation to ask him the story behind the nickname. But I wasn’t about to go there. If the hospital staff knew him well enough to give him a special moniker, it meant the reason was probably extremely disturbing.
“You’re all set,” said Buck, gathering his supplies. Once he was done, he passed by carrying a bag filled with something I really hoped was not shit. I stepped back out of his way.
“Make sure they bring me my dinner soon,” Schmidt called after the nurse. He received a quick wave before Buck closed the door behind him. “So,” I said slowly. “What can you tell us about what happened at the church?”
“Already told the guy at the scene. Doody?”
“Duffy,” I corrected, biting my lip.
“Right, Duffy.” He put his hands behind his head, which made his hospital johnny stretch across his torso. It made the suspicious lump on his right side more noticeable. “I was freaking pretty hard earlier, but I know what I saw.”
“May I?” I indicated a chair next to the bed. When he nodded, I sat down and opened my notebook. “If you wouldn’t mind going over it one more time? What were you doing in the gas station when the murder happened?”
“Turning tricks.” This was said with a straight face and a matter-of-fact tone.
I paused with my pencil hovering above the pad. “By turning tricks you mean—”
“Selling my body for potion money.”
I bit my lip to hide my shocked smile. Morales cleared his throat.
“Err, Mr. Schm—Pocket,” Morales said, “you are aware we’re cops and you just admitted to breaking, like, three laws.”
Hot Pocket sat up a little straighter. “Are you going to arrest me?” he asked in a hopeful tone.
“Not at this time,” I said quickly.
“Oh.” His face fell. “That sucks.”
“Wait,” Morales said, “you want us to arrest you?”
“Prison’s a lot more comfortable than the streets.” He shrugged. “Three hots and a cot, right? Plus my special skills are in high demand in the can.”
Before I could quickly change the subject, Hot Pocket pulled his hospital gown to the side to expose the colostomy bag attached to a hole in his abdomen. “There’s some real sick fucks’ll pay good money for two minutes with my stoma.”
Bile rushed into the back of my throat. Morales took a step back, as if the distance would protect him from the mental image. The room was silent for a good thirty seconds as we each struggled to figure out how to respond to the disturbing revelation.
“Wait,” Morales said, recovering first, “that’s why they call you Hot Pocket?”
The green man smiled proudly. “Partly. They call me Pocket on the streets, but the nurses added Hot on account of all the STDs.”
My hand found its way to my mouth. I wasn’t sure whether the move was meant to cover my horror or keep in the vomit that threatened to make an appearance all over the sterile hospital floor.
Oblivious to the distress he was creating in two veteran cops who’d seen their share of fucked-up shit, he continued, “I’m kind of a celebrity around here.”
I tappe
d my pencil on the pad in a rapid staccato. “Maybe we could get back to what you saw at the church?” I asked hopefully.
A quick knock sounded at the door before it opened to reveal an orderly bearing a covered tray. “Dinnertime!”
The patient clapped his hands. “Hey, Bob! You bring me a juicy steak?”
The orderly laughed. “Chicken and rice today.”
“Aww, man,” Hot Pocket said.
“Behave yourself and I’ll get you some of them graham crackers you like.”
“Sweet!”
The orderly nodded at us with a smile. Clearly Hot Pocket hadn’t been lying about being a regular around the hospital. We waited until the guy left and the patient started eating before we continued.
“So about the church?” I prompted.
“Well,” Hot Pocket said over a mouthful of chicken, “about five thirty a loud noise woke me up.” He swallowed loudly. “I went to one of the windows and saw a white van had pulled up to the side of the church.”
“You get the license plate number?” Morales asked hopefully.
Hot Pocket shook his head. “Anyways, a dude and a big cat got out and dragged a huge bag to the building.”
“Wait—a cat?” I asked. No wonder Duffy had sent the guy to the hospital if that’s the story he’d told at the scene.
Hot Pocket grimaced and shook his head. “Huge.” He extended his green arms to the side. “Black, too. Bad luck.”
Morales cleared his throat and shot me a look. I ignored him. “What did the cat do?”
“At first I thought I was just trippin’ balls, right? But I rubbed my eyes and sure enough when I looked again, it was still there. It seemed like the cat was in charge ’cause the other dude was following it.”
“Can you describe the man?” I asked.
“He was wearing all black. Like a cat burglar? Ha! Get it—cat burglar?” He glanced at me to see if I was amused. I forced a weak laugh. “Anyway, I didn’t see the man’s face or nothin’ on account of he was too busy dragging a big bag behind him.”
“How confident are you with the time?” Morales asked.
“Pretty sure. I checked my watch.”
“You wear a watch?” Most junkies don’t accessorize because those items could be sold for cash or traded for a fix. Plus, they tended to invite beatings from other freaks looking for things to pawn.
He fished around under his pillow and produced a brass pocket watch. “Belonged to my daddy. Still runs like a top, too.” He held it up so it caught the light as it spun. I leaned forward as if to admire it. “It’s tricky having stuff like this on the street so I keep it where the sun don’t shine.”
I froze with my hand in midair. “Uh?”
“Luckily, once the doc rerouted my plumbing my pooper became convenient for storage.”
I lowered my hand with as much grace as I could muster and wiped it on my jeans. I hadn’t touched the watch, but just hearing the story made me feel like I needed a scalding-hot shower. “How long were they in the church?” My tone sounded strangled to my own ears. I chanced a glance at Morales, who was looking at me with exaggerated patience.
“About twenty minutes. I waited another ten after they left to go see what they was doing. That’s when I saw the body.” He shivered. “Ooh boy, I never run so fast in my life.”
“Is there anything else you can tell us about when they left—the man and the cat?” I asked.
“Mm,” he said over a mouthful of juice. “I almost forgot to tell ya. When they walked back out, the cat was a man.”
I tilted my head. “Two men walked out? You’re sure.”
“Yep. The same guy who walked in and another fella who was wrapped up in a blanket that covered his head.” He nodded enthusiastically. “And when I went to look there wasn’t no cat in there.”
I frowned toward Morales, who looked like he was about three seconds away from walking out of the room and never looking back. “We appreciate your help, Hot Pocket.” I moved to hand him a card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”
He took the card and nodded. “Hold up—Prospero? You one of Old Abe’s relations?”
I nodded. “His niece.”
“And you’re a cop?” Hot Pocket shook his head. “Ain’t that a trip? And here I thought I was the black sheep of my family.”
“Thanks for your time,” Morales said, shooting me a grin. With that, we left the room.
Officer Harper nodded at us as we exited. “Get what you need?”
I paused. Morales didn’t stop to talk. Instead he headed toward the nurses’ station to speak to Buck the nurse. “Honestly?” I said to Harper. “I have no idea if that was helpful.”
He looked at a loss for how to respond, so I waved good-bye and went to join Morales.
“He’s excited y’all are here,” the nurse was saying.
I frowned at him. “Why’s that?”
Buck waved a hand. “Oh, Hot Pocket loves attention.”
“Tell me something,” Morales said. “He told us about his nickname. Is it true that he—”
“Oh sure. He’s a minor celebrity around here.”
“But what he does, it’s… dangerous, right?” Morales asked.
The orderly’s smile faded. “Of course it’s dangerous, but so’s being a potion freak. And being homeless, for that matter. You wouldn’t believe the degrading shit people do to score dirty magic.” He shook his head. For the first time, I noticed the permanent bruises under his eyes and the jaded tilt to his mouth. “Naturally, we try to convince him to stop risking his life like that, but in the end it’s his decision. Best we can do is treat him when he comes in, give him a couple of hot meals, and make him comfortable until he ends up ODing, gets stabbed by a trick, or dies from health complications.”
“That’s a pretty fatalistic view,” Morales said.
“He’s a potion junkie, Detective,” Buck said with a sad smile. “Fatalistic is the only option. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go give Mrs. Strauss a sponge bath.” He walked away whistling, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Morales turned toward me with his brows raised and blew out a breath. “What do you think?”
I shrugged. “Even if Hot Pocket didn’t hallucinate the whole thing, we still don’t have enough to go on to convince Eldritch to give us the case.”
“Agreed,” Morales said. “Can you imagine how he’d react if we told him a catman killed Charm?”
I huffed out a laugh. “Hey, it’s the Cauldron—weirder things actually have happened.”
Morales pushed himself away from the desk and started walked toward the elevators. “I think it’s time to call it a night. I’ll call Gardner and fill her in. Maybe after sleeping on this we’ll be able to come up with a new angle.”
I nodded, but prayed sleeping on it wouldn’t require any dreams about Hot Pocket’s special gifts.
Chapter Four
I dreamed about the church. The pristine snow glinted sharp as knives in the helicopter’s lights. Only this time, instead of Charm, the body on the altar belonged to my mother. The highlight of the nightmare was the moment when her eyes popped open in her disembodied head. Two blue lips parted and hissed at me, “Murderer.”
Needless to say, when I woke the next morning I felt about as refreshed as a zombie rising from the grave. Only instead of brains, I needed coffee.
Danny was already at the kitchen table. I yawned and nodded a greeting. He didn’t look up from his phone, but every few seconds he managed to bring a spoonful of cereal to his mouth without spilling milk.
I stuck a filter in the coffeemaker and scooped in grounds. “Anything interesting planned at school today?”
Heavy silence greeted my question. I turned to see what had happened to the game soundtrack. Danny was staring at me with a betrayed expression.
“What?”
“You’re supposed to speak to my class today.”
I closed my eyes and cursed silently.
>
“You forgot,” he accused.
I opened my eyes and scrambled to cover my slip. “Not at all. I just momentarily blanked.”
“Whatever, Kate.”
“Danny, cut me a break, okay? I was up late and haven’t had any caffeine. I would have remembered eventually.” I turned to pour some coffee into my mug. “Morales, Mez, and I will be there.”
“You promise?” The kid shot me a threatening look that reminded me a lot of the one I used on criminals all the time.
“Yes, sir.” I saluted. “Should I bring lots of embarrassing naked baby pictures of you, too?”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s child abuse.”
I grinned at him. “Will Luna be there?”
His expression went dead serious. “Kate.”
“What?” I asked, all innocence.
“I swear to God if you do anything—”
I laughed. “Give me some credit, kid. I’m not going to embarrass you in front of your girlfriend.”
His cheeks went bright red. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he mumbled. After that, he tuned me out and turned his attention back to the game. Electronic beeps and bops and zings filled the kitchen once again. While I waited for the coffee to finish brewing, I turned on the small TV on the counter.
A morning news show was on. I turned up the volume to compete with the racket coming from Danny’s game and fill my coffee cup. The perky blonde on the screen flashed a thousand-watt, potion-whitened smile at the camera. “Babylon’s power brokers turned out in droves last night to help new mayor John Volos celebrate his inauguration.”
I groaned over the rim of my coffee cup as an image of Volos popped up on screen. On a normal day, he looked handsome, if imposing, but in the tux he’d donned for the ball he was downright devastating. I took a sip of scalding coffee to distract myself from those traitorous thoughts.
“Mayor Volos, what will be your first act as mayor?” the reporter standing next to Volos asked.
He looked into the camera, as if he were speaking directly to me through the screen. “I intend to follow through on my campaign promises. My number one priority as mayor will be to reduce violent crime in Babylon. To that end, I’ll be creating a committee on how to best stem dirty potion traffic in the Cauldron.”
