Thinking about my career plateau made me too depressed to cruise the Battery so I swung a right turn onto Broad Street instead, but seeing the headquarters of the Charleston Police Department certainly didn’t do anything to improve much my mood. A squatting, flat building with two low-slung stories, our headquarters darkened an otherwise prime piece of real estate where Lockwood Boulevard met Fishburne Street. The city must have chosen the lowest bidder to design the dump because the guy certainly hadn’t been picked for his artistic vision. It looked almost as if someone had used a raw lump of ground beef for architectural inspiration. To make things worse, our police station is built on top of a reclaimed landfill, so when I call the Department a dump I mean it literally. The entire building is slowly sinking back into the earth, and the sooner it happens the better off we’ll all be.
I eased over the bumps and dips in the asphalt, pulled into an empty space and got out as quickly as I could, hustling in through the back door like I had somewhere to be. I was running a little later than normal, and it’s been my experience that walking quickly makes you at least seem like you’re overloaded with work. Every so often it’s good to project the image of being a busy worker bee.
My office was up on the second floor. The daily climb was a strain on my calf muscles, but somehow I survived the trek. Central detectives share one large, open room that looks more like a warehouse than an office. All of the desks are paired off in groups of two, with the cops facing off against one another in a never-ending staring match. Some days I prayed to stay busy and hunched down over my paperwork just so I wouldn’t have to make eye contact with all the broken down lifers who were confined in that holding pen.
But before I could even grab a cup of coffee and settle into my morning routine, I saw my boss, Big Jim Cobb, wave for me to come over to his tiny office. Whenever a guy gets promoted to Lieutenant, the Department will go all out for him and wedge a desk inside an empty broom closet. The final result isn’t really much of an office, but at least Jim had the ability to lock himself in whenever he got sick of dealing with people. Us mere mortals had to actually work on our disappearing acts.
I want to say that Jim Cobb has worked at CPD for thirty years or so, but the truth is that no one really knows how long he’s been kicking around. And when I say that he works at CPD, I mean that he shows up more often than he doesn’t. Usually Jim just mans a post out in front of the station with a cigarette in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other, rocking his bulky frame back and forth as if he was still back in his Navy days, riding out a storm at sea.
The whole department had been caught off guard by the way Big Jim finally managed to get himself promoted. The way it happened was, back in the day there’d been this one freak southern snowstorm on the same day they’d scheduled the written exam for promotions to the rank of Lieutenant. All of the bridges coming into the peninsula were iced over at sunrise, and traffic was an absolute mess. Since Jim Cobb had been working as the Desk Sergeant on midnight shift the night before, filling that penalty box assignment where CPD hides its deadweight supervisors, he just happened to be the only supervisor who made it downtown to take the test. A lot of people griped about having to wait another whole year to try again, but none of the gossip held Jim back from wheezing his way up the career ladder.
Jim used his nicotine-yellow fingers to snatch a manila folder off his desktop and toss it over to me. I only hesitated for a second before picking it up with two fingertips, pausing to examine the folder for residual tobacco stains. Normally, I made a habit of washing my hands whenever I had to shake hands with Big Jim or touch his property. That guy literally had carcinogens oozing off him.
He paused for a few seconds to catch his breath, almost as if his weak heart had been overworked by the physical activity of tossing the file. “It’s all yours, Goosey. Have it cleared out by the end of the week.” Jim smiled and leaned all two hundred and seventy five-plus pounds of his frame backwards in the chair, which shook beneath the weight of his rump. I wasn’t at all interested in picking up yet another investigation, but I turned my attention to the case folder just to avoid catching a glimpse of Jim’s teeth. They were nearly as yellow as his fingertips, and probably twice as greasy.
See, all of the commanders’ offices around the Department were set up the same way, with the desk facing outward towards the door. I’d heard this design was the standard so that the boss could get his work done while supervising his troops outside, but I personally think the command staff just didn’t want anyone looking over their shoulders while they were surfing the Web. There were always two heavy metal chairs lined up directly in front of each desk, never any more. Just to be on the safe side, I sat in the chair on the left, well out of the line of fire from Jim’s lazy eye.
I opened up the folder and gave a cursory flip through the papers inside. It was a copy of a police report from the Champaign, Illinois PD, titled quite simply “Missing Person.” Jim was picking his nose with his pinky as he shuffled around in his desk drawers, probably searching for his hip flask. I got the impression that he expected me to actually read the report, so I skimmed through the pages in order to humor him.
According to Champaign’s finest, Leonard Encienario, a forty-eight-year old white male, had left his home over four months earlier. The dude hadn’t bothered to give his family any notice that he was slipping out, and he hadn’t been seen since. I’d never heard of the town of Champaign, Illinois, but I guessed it was one of those small podunk places in the middle of nowhere. Judging by the effort they’d put into a simple missing persons report, their detectives must have treated the case as their Crime of the Century. The tightass cop who typed out the report took nearly five pages to write what I could’ve said in five lines. I shuffled the pages for what seemed like a reasonable amount of time before looking up at Jim. “What’s this?”
He gave me another wide grin, which I knew could only mean bad news for me. I’d been working with Jim for a while by that point, and I’d only ever seen the man smile when somebody else was getting screwed over. Since the chair next to me was empty, it was safe to conclude that I’d be the one on the receiving end.
“This is your chance to shine, Goosey. Your buddy Mealor already fingerprinted the 07 from MUSC this morning. When he scanned the fingerprint card, a hit came back from NCIC. Turns out ol’ boy Encienario here has been missing out of Illinois for a while now.”
Damn, that was fast, I thought. Apparently, that little rat Squealer was good for something besides snitching out other cops. I flipped through the faxed police report again, taking the time to actually read some of it now. The Champaign PD had their incident report forms set up a little differently from ours, but all police reports are basically the same. The narrative section always reads “So-and-so told the police that this-and-that happened, blahsayblah.” For the life of me, though, I still couldn’t figure out why it took them five pages to say that in Illinois.
I took a long look at Big Jim, who was leaning all the way back in his chair with his hands folded up behind his head. Even though it was still early in the work day, Jim already had dark pools of sweat forming at his armpits. That guy should really just break down and make the switch to short-sleeved dress shirts so he could get some fresh air circulating up underneath those pits, but I doubt I’d ever have the nerve to tell him that to his face. Someday I’d have to steal a page from Slipper’s playbook and slide an anonymous note under his door.
Jim was still grinning like the cat that caught the canary, so that could only mean he was planning to assign the case to me. I’d already come to grips with the idea of getting stuck writing the supplemental report for the 07, so I wasn’t too heartbroken over the prospect. Really, the fact that the dead body had actually been missing from somewhere only meant that I’d have to bang out six sentences on my report instead of five.
Still, it’s been my experience that the moment you let people know all of your work is finished, someone will take it upon thems
elves to find some more for you. With that in mind, I did my best to put on a show for my boss. I closed the folder. “Well Jim, that was easy. Sure saves the major crimes guys a lot of time, huh?”
“Wrong, Goosey.” Jim chuckled at me, which set him off on a coughing fit. I looked away out of politeness and tried to ignore the tiny blobs of brown spittle that splattered across his desk.
After a few more seconds of wheezing he caught his breath and went on. “This one fell in your lap, Jocko. I need you to get on the horn with the Champaign PD and help them close out their case.”
Big Jim was normally a pretty sly boss, as far as lieutenants go, anyway, but I’d seen that assignment coming a mile away. Yeah, if you spend enough time working at the Charleston PD, you get pretty good at sniffing out bullshit. With all the backstabbing that goes on around the Department, the only way to survive an entire career is to plan two steps ahead. By my way of thinking, as long as Jim was going to stick me with the reports, I might as well do my best to milk the case and stretch it out all week long. Just for good measure, though, I decided to try for some sympathy points as well.
“You can’t be serious, Jim! You know I only responded to this one because I’m on night call, right? I’m going to be writing reports all week if this pace keeps up! Besides, I only investigate missing persons! Once someone’s pulse stops, that’s their tough luck and the case should go to those lazy bastards in major crimes!”
When I saw Jim stop smiling and lean forward over his desk, I knew he had bought it. I swear, my job was really getting too easy. “Listen, Goosey”, he said in that I’m-not-just-your-boss-I’m-your-friend tone of voice, “You’re the Department’s Missing Person’s expert, so I know I can count on you to handle this case the right way.”
He was laying on the gravy so thick that I almost choked. It’s true I was the designated investigator for missing persons cases, but the only reason I ever got into Central was because the Chief forgot his glasses the day he filled out the annual transfer list. He mistook my last name for Christine Larken’s, who’s one of those young rookies who still cares about the job and to top it off she’s a female. At first I felt a little guilty about stealing a job that was meant for someone else, but any guilt disappeared after my first hour on duty when I realized that I’d have almost every weekend off and a desk underneath the air conditioner.
I sighed, trying to sound as if I’d heard the same pep talk a thousand times before, but I really couldn’t recall anyone ever referring to me as an “expert”. Usually it’s something more along the lines of “rotten apple” or “sour grape.”
“And,” Jim continued, “you know what kind of month it’s been around here. Denny and Abbie from major crimes are still tied up interviewing witnesses from that double shooting on America Street last week.” He smiled again as he gave his best imitation of the Gullah accent that the Lowcountry blacks spout off. “’Dem Geechee Africanus be wylin’ out roun’ yuh.”
I glanced back over my shoulder more out of habit than out of any concern that someone had heard his blatant display of racism. Big Jim’s already retired and collecting pensions from both the Navy and the state on top of his regular bi-weekly paycheck, so he can pretty much say whatever’s on his mind. Some years back when Jim could still be counted on to make the occasional arrest, he was testifying in Municipal Court against an older black heroin junkie. The defendant told his honor that Jim was nothing more than a racist cop, so the drug possession charges were clearly a trumped-up form of discrimination. The way I heard it, Jim just turned to the judge with an innocent look on his face. With open arms, he asked, “Your honor, now how can I possibly be a racist? My family was the first ones on our block to buy a colored television.” When he finally stopped laughing, the crusty old judge gave the junkie a full thirty days in County.
I sighed again. “You know, Jim, if it was anyone but you asking I’d tell them go straight to hell.”
Jim flashed his pearly yellows again and flipped his matted hair back up off his forehead. His hair was jet black on top but speckled gray on the sides, not a handsome sort of growing-old-gracefully-gray but more like he-rubbed-his-scalp-through-a pile-of-dust-on-the-floor gray. There was a lot of speculation at the Department that Big Jim wore a rug because of the two-tone hair style he had going on, but I didn’t buy it. I think his hair follicles are just permanently stuck in the past, re-living Jim’s glory days of playing varsity ball at Saint Andrew’s High School.
“Thanks, Goosey. I owe you one.”
I nodded. Jim did owe me one and since I wasn’t about to forget it, I took a few seconds to consider what I could ask for in return. It might be nice to slide out of work early that Friday for some kind of imaginary doctor’s appointment, but I decided to play it safe and wait a few more days before submitting my request. I smiled back at Jim just as his phone rang, which I took as my cue to leave. Yeah, when it comes to supervisors, I definitely could’ve pulled a worse boss than Big Jim. Usually, if I just show up at the office once in a while and get my reports in mostly on time, he leaves me alone to do my own thing.
Back in the Central office, I had to use some quick footwork to dodge a few plus-sized detective asses sliding around on rolling chairs. I sidestepped my way back to my desk, where a neat stack of pink phone messages had probably been waiting all weekend. On the very top, marked ‘Urgent’ in thick red letters, was a message from the coroner’s office which said that the autopsy for Leonard Encienario was scheduled for one o’clock that afternoon.
Perfect, I thought, working out the day’s easy schedule in my head. After a lunch break, I could easily check out at the county building in North Charleston and be done for the day. Hopefully, the procedure would be good for at least a few hours so I could slide straight back to the apartment afterwards. I thumbed through a few of the other messages, which were mostly about some insignificant details of the previous week’s cases that I’d already forgotten. It only took a minute before I gave up and stuffed them all away in the bottom desk drawer. See, that’s the best thing about working on a hot case: it gives you a legitimate reason to blow off all your other work.
Clyde Edwards was sitting at the desk directly across from me, leaning back in his chair and jawing away on the phone. He was doing his best to sound concerned about someone’s Toyota Corolla that had somehow gone missing after they’d parked it with the engine running and the keys in the ignition. Judging from Clyde’s drooping eyelids, it was pretty obvious that he really didn’t give a crap if the car ever got found.
A long while back, before I’d even gotten hired on at the Department, Clyde had hit a school bus with his patrol car somewhere way out on Highway 61. Normally an accident like that wouldn’t have been a big deal, but that idiot Clyde had been sneaking out of work more than a few hours early. He was so scared of getting caught away from his desk that he panicked and took off from the wreck. To make matters worse, Clyde had the nerve to call the station once he finally got home. He claimed that he’d seen some drunk driver in his neighborhood hit his car while it was parked on the street in front of his house, and that the suspect took off before he could get the tag number. With a weak story like that, it didn’t take Chief Greene very long to figure out what had happened. After all, there was a whole school bus full of tiny witnesses who told a different story.
They probably should’ve fired his lying ass right then and there, but the Chief took pity on Clyde since the dude had five kids to feed. They busted the guy down from sergeant to private instead and took away his driving privileges, effectively chaining him to a desk for the rest of his career. He could never again testify in court because any defense attorney worth a damn would have subpoenaed his personnel record as proof that the cop testifying on the witness stand was a proven liar. No, the only job that Clyde could still handle was investigating auto thefts, since the only thing you can do for those is just cross your fingers and hope the vehicles turn up eventually. He spent most of his time on the phone ad
vising irate victims that they needed to file a claim with their insurance companies, so watching the man in action always made for a depressing workday. Clyde had this way of sitting with his shoulders hunched over, as if all the years of pressure had finally broken his back.
It was still a little early for lunch, even by my watch, but I knew that if I kept staring at Clyde then I’d just slip back into a foul mood. In a snap decision I stood up, stole a couple pens off his desk and hustled out the door before anyone could stop me. I figured that if I hurried, there’d be just enough time before the autopsy for me to duck over to the Citadel Mall and grab a new pair of pants.
3.
Autopsies always turn out to be pretty boring affairs, but it’s been my experience that it’s never a good idea to eat lunch ahead of one. That Sbarro’s calzone in the food court had been calling my name only an hour earlier, but my stomach turned a complete flip just as soon as I saw my new friend Leonard Encienario all laid out in his birthday suit. I’m not normally known for making mature, responsible decisions, but I patted myself on the back for holding off on the grub.
Burnout (Goosey Larsen Book 1) Page 3
