“I think I’m going to give up crosswords and just do the Jumble,” Rumbaugh said.
“Why?” Frank said. “Are they scrambling two-letter words now?”
“What’s so fascinating about that calendar?” Rumbaugh said.
Frank lifted his eyes just enough from under his dark eyebrows to glare at Rumbaugh.
“Don’t you have drunks to hassle at the beach?” Frank said.
“What was your phone call about? Find out she’s sleeping with the pool boy?”
“Impossible. The pool boy has the warmies for you.” Frank said as he rose and headed for the men’s room.
“Thank God. I can cancel tonight’s speed dating session,” Rumbaigh said with a sweep of his arms, splattering his orange juice onto the floor.
Frank passed a line-up of gray-walled, office cubicles and turned at the receptionist’s desk where an overly-tan young woman sat playing solitaire on her computer. Her low-cut top advertised an ample cleavage Frank called “the line of ruin.” She looked up at Frank and smiled as he passed, batting her blue eyes at his. Frank considered her possibilities for a second. Nice bod. Maybe one day, but she probably likes to talk about surfing.
He strode farther down the corridor and entered the naptha-heavy aroma of the restroom, sat in a cubicle, and latched the banged-up door, that doubled as a graffiti medium. Frank liked this particular stall, which contained the phrase:
The world is flat. – The class of 1491
Frank liked it because it had the only tissue dispenser that evenly rolled out the paper instead of forcing you to claw it off in shreds the size of Lotto tickets. It wasn’t cozy, but it was where he could compose his thoughts. Today, anywhere was better than at his desk swapping insults with a dullard like Carl Rumbaugh.
The men’s room door opened and thumped closed.
“Why don’t you use the handicap shitter, Frank? Brain damage counts,” Rumbaugh said as Frank caught a slotted view of him heading for the bank of sinks.
“Why don’t you ask the mayor to use his nepotism to place you in a job where you’re better suited? Like being a greeter at the morgue,” Frank said.
“My father had nothing to do with me getting this job.”
Frank stepped out of the cubicle and towered a full head over Rumbaugh standing at the nearest sink.
“Sure. And Porky Pig is setting up an airline,” Frank said and pulled open the outer door.
“You’re a mental case, Dugan. Time for a check-up, seriously,” Rumbaugh said to the ruddy face in the mirror.
“I’ll jot that down,” Frank said and vanished into the hall.
Baltimore was a thousand miles up the road from Stuart, but Frank knew he was overdue for a vacation, and a death in the family was certainly reason enough to put in for leave. He figured their homicide division would survive for a week without one of its two detectives, since Martin County wasn’t rife with murders. Even Rumbaugh might be able to handle it. Except for Oliver Smoot, the fifteen-victim serial killer Frank had put away during his first year on the job, less than a half a dozen homicides every couple of years was about par for the county; even then, those were usually among the tourists, not the year-round residents.
Frank had transplanted himself five years earlier from the Baltimore City PD where murder had kept him busier―
About a-murder-a-day busier.
Chapter 4
“I need to take some time and go to Maryland,” Frank said to Sheriff Roland Brand sitting behind his desk like a sumo wrestler in a too-tight shirt and choking tie.
“What for?”
“My father died. Back in Baltimore.”
“I’m sorry,” Roland said. “You’ll need bereavement leave.”
“Hardly bereavement.”
Roland raised an eyebrow and stared at his detective.
“I hated the sonofabitch,” Frank said. “I’m going up there to settle the estate and get the bastard in the ground as fast as I can.”
“How long will you need?”
“I don’t know… a week, maybe two. It’ll be one boring trip.”
“Don’t you have friends in Maryland?”
“Couple old cop buddies.”
“I don’t want to impose on anyone’s time of mourning–“
“I won’t be mourning. You can bank on that.”
“You’re sure you’re not covering your grief with anger at your loss?”
“The only thing I’m angry about is wasting time with a bunch of lawyers and funeral people.”
“Well, if you’re serious about wanting to stave off boredom, I can present an idea you might take to.”
“Shoot,” Frank said and sat in the one of the chairs in front of Roland’s desk.
“Funny you should use that word. While you’re up there, maybe you could do the department and me a favor,” Roland said and removed his Stetson hat, plopped it on his desk, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“What kind of favor?”
“I’d like you to compete for us in The National Law Enforcement Marksmanship Tournament next week. It’s being held in Maryland near DC.”
“How will that do you a favor?” Frank asked.
“You do well, it’ll make Martin County look pretty special.”
“Every crack shot in the country will be there. What makes you think I have a chance?”
“The contests are part accuracy and part psychology. You have to use your head in the criminal recognition tests, and you have to out-psych your competition.”
“I’m not a psychologist.”
Roland laughed.
“The hell you’re not. I’ve seen your work with suspects in the box. You can talk salmon into spawning downstream.”
“I don’t know…”
Frank rose and stepped toward the door.
“Look, you’re a fantastic shot and you can out-noodle these bozos who think they’re Wyatt Earp. Wear your old Marine shooting medals just to piss ‘em off.”
Frank stared at the door and shook his head.
“I don’t expect miracles,” Roland said. “Just give it your best.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll register you online and email you the details.”
Frank turned back to face Roland, who busied himself with paperwork on his desk.
“It won’t be boring,” the sheriff said low.
* * * * *
The plane landed at Baltimore-Washington International-Thurgood Marshal Airport in a sultry, 85-degree afternoon. Frank decided to pull up the nearest bar stool, get a cold beer, and make a call on his cell. He wasn’t going to visit his old hometown without contacting his former Baltimore PD partner Alasdair MacGowan.
Alasdair left the force shortly after Frank relocated to Florida. He knew Alasdair always fantasized about being in the movie business and, while Frank never imagined his friend would become another Steven Spielberg, he’d encouraged him to form his own video production company. Since both men had been long-standing bachelors, Frank slipped in his barbs about Alasdair being in such a lucky profession like video work where he could take part in hundreds of weddings without ever having to marry. Alasdair countered by addressing his letters to Frank in Florida to: The President of the Lonely Alligator-of-the-Month Club.
The phone rang three times.
“MacGowan Productions,” a familiar voice on the other end said.
“I want to make a porn movie and was told you’re the go-to guy in Maryland,” Frank said.
“Well, we’re kinda busy right now shooting the Titanic sequels and Rocky Meets Bigfoot,” Alasdair said.
“Aw, I hope you can fit me in. Doing this is number three on my bucket list.”
“Sorry, mister. You may have to scratch that one off.”
Whenever Frank or Alasdair referred to anything on a “bucket list” it was code for being a blatant lie.
“Good to know you’re busy, you big Scottish lout.”
“Scotto-
American, to you.”
“They’ll give anybody citizenship in this country.”
“How ya been, laddie?”
“I’m at BWI. I’ve inherited a big old barn in Catonsville and thought I might drop over and let you take me to dinner while I’m here. I’m particularly keen on Irish cuisine.”
“I can’t go spending my hard-earned money taking every annoying Irishman to McDonalds, you know.”
“Just took a shot.”
“Inherited a house, eh? Who died?”
“The old man.”
“Sorry for your loss, but if memory serves, you weren’t too fond of him.”
“I mostly despised the sonofabitch.”
“With that nasty attitude you’ll never flummox some blind honey into marrying you.”
“There’s time,” Frank said. “Marriage is for later.”
“You’re already at later. What are you now, 49? 50?”
“38, and looking 25.”
“Do I have to come collect you at the airport?” Alasdair asked.
“Shit, no. I’d probably have to buy you a tank of gas,” Frank said. “I’ll walk.”
“Good. It’s been five years, you know. And if you really look 25 I’d have a bit of a time sorting you out.”
“I need to stop at St. Luke’s to identify the body, and I have to see the lawyers. I’ll be a couple of days dealing with funeral arrangements and all the legal crap.”
“Shout out when you get loose.”
Frank ended the call and sipped his drink.
The entrance to the bar was the length of the entire business front, allowing patrons to fully see the wide corridor of the airport where crowds of people passed by in all directions. An elderly woman tugged her baggage cart and labored slowly by the bar. In her struggle, a wallet fell from the purse she clutched under one arm and skittered behind her. A man, trailing her a few feet back, stooped and snatched the wallet up and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Frank bolted from his barstool and caught up with the man a few yards down the corridor. He grabbed the man by the arm and spun him to a stop.
“The wallet,” Frank said.
“What wallet?” the man said.
Frank reached into the man’s jacket and yanked out the wallet, ripping the pocket.
“That would be this one,” Frank said and thrust his knee hard into the man’s thigh, dropping him painfully to the tiled floor.
“Jesus, man,” the thief said, gripping his cramped leg.
“Don’t ever steal from my mother.”
Frank caught up with the elderly lady and handed her the wallet.
“Oh, my stars, thank you,” she said. “My whole life’s in that wallet.”
Frank smiled and took her cart from her and walked her out to the waiting line of shuttles and taxis. He stayed until she was safely helped into a cab. He turned to leave, but stopped when he saw the back window of the car roll down.
“You’d make a fine police officer, young man,” the old woman said as the cab drove off.
Frank got into an airport shuttle and headed for the car rental agency. He checked the calendar on his cell phone. Today was June 20th, a good time to be up north and avoid southern Florida’s oppressive heat waves, although Frank remembered summers in Maryland weren’t always more merciful.
Frank hoped the next few days would pass without complication. And he hoped no one in Martin County turned up murdered before he returned.
Chapter 5
The morgue at St. Luke’s hospital was chilly and smelled of a blend of formaldehyde and pungent disinfectant. Frank followed the on-duty technician to a bank of stainless steel drawers until the young man stopped and consulted a chart in his hand. The technician bent forward and squinted at a label on a drawer’s compartment door. He gave Frank a nervous smile and pulled on the handle.
“He came in here on Thursday night from a 9-1-1 call. Arrived DOA according to the EMTs,” the young man said as he rolled out the waist-high drawer and removed the plastic sheet covering the body. “He your dad?”
Frank looked at the ashen face and naked body.
“That’d be him,” Frank said and noticed there was no traditional “Y” stitching on the body’s chest. “Is an autopsy scheduled?”
The young man consulted his chart.
“Let me see … Joseph William Dugan, age 72, Caucasian … No autopsy. COD was natural causes. Cardiac arrest.”
“How can they be sure?”
“The examining doctor in the ER certified it. It’s all right here on the chart.”
Frank looked over the pale body and felt his father’s thin, wrinkled skin that had lost its elasticity, and now was dotted with freckle-like age spots. Going from head to toe, he saw broken spider veins on his cheeks, hands, and ankles. He studied his father’s face for a long moment, then leaned in close to see the sides of the head and neck.
“Does the emergency room give injections behind the ear?” Frank asked.
“No injections are listed. Why? What do you see?”
“There’s a red dot behind his right ear. Looks like a needle mark.” Frank said and looked at more of the body.
“You a doctor?”
“I’m a cop. But I’m a bit of an expert on needle marks. In homicide, I see them often on dead bodies. Like this other one here on his arm.”
The young man leaned over the body to see what Frank was calling attention to.
“My God,” the man said under his breath and stood back, staring at Frank.
“I want him autopsied and I want it done now,” Frank said with the authority of a field general.
The technician dropped his clipboard and quickly picked it up.
“Yes, sir. I’ll notify the ME right away.”
* * * * *
Frank knew autopsies often took days to arrange, and obtaining their results even longer, sometimes weeks. His hope was that he could prevail on an examiner he’d worked with back in his Baltimore PD days to expedite the process. Frank also knew when the Medical Examiner’s office was overly busy, the latest arriving dead would be labeled “Not For Cremation,” and buried until the examiner had the time to do the examination. Disinterment would delay things even more, and could compromise the accuracy of the examination and test results. He called the ME’s office and crossed his fingers.
“Baltimore Medical Examiner’s office,” the even-toned voice of a woman said.
“Is Doctor Clement available?” Frank asked.
“He’s working in the lab until eleven-thirty. Would you care to get his voice mail?”
“That’ll work. Thank you.”
Frank left the doctor a lengthy message and his cell number. He ended with telling him his father’s body was being sent to his lab with the hope that it could be examined without needing to be temporarily buried.
* * * * *
While he awaited a reply from Dr. Clement, Frank checked with the 9-1-1 service that had answered the emergency call from Elm Terrace and confirmed what the hospital morgue report had said. Frank’s instincts told him his father was likely dead by the time the ambulance arrived at the house in Catonsville. He knew people at the facility and persuaded them to let him hear the 9-1-1 recording as a professional courtesy.
The recording presented a new twist to the story. The conversation between the 9-1-1 operator and the caller was dramatically alive and disturbing. The digital file was played for Frank as he paced the office, listening intently.
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?” the female operator said on the playback.
“Send an ambulance,” the distressed voice of the caller said. “I’ve had a lot to drink. I’m sick and need a doctor. My gut’s killing me. Pains in my chest. Please come quick ...”
The strained voice on the phone cut off there. The rest was the operator trying to reconnect with the caller, and then dispatching an ambulance to the address displayed on her caller ID information screen.
As an additional police courtesy, Frank was
allowed to take a disk copy of the call transcript. He thanked the 9-1-1 service personnel and left their office.
There was one important thing the recording told him.
The 9-1-1 caller was not Joe Dugan.
Chapter 6
Certain his father had met with foul play, Frank registered at a local motel in Catonsville, since the house on Elm Terrace would now be a crime scene. He was savvy enough to not enter the house and compromise what might be found there by the CSIs, sure to fine-comb the place for evidence.
A few minutes after noon, Frank’s cell rang. He put the phone to his ear.
“Hello.”
“Detective Dugan,” a man’s voice said, “Been a while, but still sending me work, I see.”
“Yeah, Doctor Clement, but this one’s not off some alley in west Baltimore.”
“Sorry about your father. I knew Joe. Used to see him at the PBA functions.”
“Can you do anything for me?” Frank asked.
“I got the body today before noon, so I can go to work on him right away. Give you the results as soon as I get them.”
“Much obliged, doc.”
“Happy to help,” Clement said.
Frank knew Clement’s work. Thorough was the only word to describe it.
* * * * *
The morning drive into Oak Forest looked like it did when Frank left Maryland five years earlier. The great oaks in full leaf shaded Parkside Drive, which led to Elm Terrace and cooled the large traditional houses spaced widely apart on the rural street. Generous, well-manicured lawns spread for fifty yards or more between the stately, set-back homes, insulating each from its neighbors. Fallen acorns peppered the road and crunched under the tires of the rental car as Frank turned onto Elm Terrace. He drove to the curb in front of his newly acquired estate at 1505 and parked.
From the street, Frank saw the old place through a young boy’s remembrance and felt the nostalgia. The house and grounds were in need of maintenance, but the magic of long ago summers was still alive in his eyes. His gaze panned across the once-beautiful lawn and stopped at something lying in the grass near the driveway that glinted in the bright sun. Frank slid out of the rental and ambled onto the asphalt driveway. About twenty feet up, he stopped and bent down to pick up the object that had caught his attention. It was a brass button. A brass button from a Baltimore Police uniform; a breast pocket button. His father had uniforms that used that style of button, but he’d retired more than ten years ago. The button proved nothing. Cops came to see Joe over the years and one of them could’ve popped loose a button. Frank put the button in his jacket pocket and slow-walked backward to the car, scanning the grounds as he went.
The Omega Formula: Power to Die For (Detective Frank Dugan) Page 2
