Cold Medina

by Gary Hardwick

  “With all due respect, you're way out there, sir,” said Hampton.

  “I know, it's extreme,” said Tony. “But the reason we have laws is to put limits on ourselves. Sometimes, when you point your gun at somebody, you feel like God-- you have the power of life and death.”

  Tony smiled a little. He knew that the rookies all recognized the first line of the old Police Academy poem.

  “Since you guys studied at the academy, I'm sure that you know that the first police were soldiers,” Tony said.

  The rookies nodded in unison. It was eerie to see, Tony thought.

  “They fought wars as well as policing the cities,” Tony said. “Today, we're still soldiers, only it's an urban war. You never know if the car you stop has a joyrider in it or a killer with a gun between his legs. Wars are fought for honor. Without honor there is no good or bad, just death. So, we have to be part of the system, because to not be would be disaster.”

  “OK, sir,” said Carter. “Since we are talking theory here, I say honor won't solve the drug problem. The system is just a training ground for criminals and drastic measures are needed. Look what the Chinese accomplished--”

  “The goddamned Chinese killed drug pushers and users by the thousands!” said Jim. “What the hell good will it do to waste a bunch of sorry crackheads?”

  “Cut out the demand,” said Hampton flatly.

  “That's it. I'm outta here,” said Jim. “You rookies,” he said the word with contempt, “have a lot to learn.” Jim walked away.

  “Excuse my partner,” said Tony. “He has this crazy belief that innocent people shouldn't be killed.”

  “And you?” asked Hampton. “What do you believe, sir?”

  Tony stood again. “I believe every rookie thinks he can change the world. I did and I still became part of the system that I condemned. You see, experience is the big dick around here. You get screwed to the ways of the world and you change or you get rejected. That's the way it works. Trust me, 'cause if you ever fuck up, I'll be one of the guys that puts your ass back into civilian clothes.”

  Tony's beeper went off. He checked it. It was a call from 1300. He mumbled a curse. “Gotta go fellas. But remember what I said.”

  Tony walked away, looking for Jim. The young officers said halfhearted good-byes.

  Tony found Jim and told him they had a call. They quickly went to the locker room and grabbed a shower. Tony turned on the hot water. The heat felt good as the water ran over his tired body. The rookies bothered Tony. He hoped the academy was not turning out a lot more like them. A cop should never admire a killer.

  When Tony was rookie he was arrogant, but not like these guys. His arrogance was born from a belief that he could play by the rules and just do a better job than the next guy. These guys were obviously out to change the rules altogether. Their success at the academy made them believe they knew better than street-seasoned old warriors like him.

  The rookies were idealists and most cops were cynics. An idealist with a license to kill scared Tony.

  Tony and Jim got themselves together and went to the call-- a murder on the northwest side that could possibly be related to the Handyman.

  8

  Body Bags

  Tony and Jim pushed through the crowd on Cullen Street. They walked toward the camper with a sense of dread. They were informed on the way that this was not a Handyman death, but looked to be an escalation of drug dealer animosity, a not-so-subtle euphemism for a war.

  The dead bodies were where the killer had left them. The young black roller was on the street face down and the white man was in the camper, sitting in the driver's seat.

  Tony struggled to remain focused. He promised himself that he would follow Lincoln's advice and tell someone about his troubles with Darryl Simon. But he didn't know where to begin.

  Pete Carter and Fred Hampton approached Tony as he walked to the crime scene. Tony remembered that they said they were going straight back to duty after their workout. They both looked serious, but their eyes betrayed excitement.

  “Sir. No one saw anything, although one witness says he thought he saw a black car drive away;” said Hampton.

  “Good. Where is he?” Tony asked. He tried not to stare at Carter's blond hair.

  “Well, sir,” said Carter. “He's over there.” Carter pointed to their police cruiser. In the backseat was a shabby-looking man of about forty. He was slumped against the window.

  “We want to talk to him,” said Jim. “Wake him up.”

  “Sir, he's not asleep,” said Hampton. “He passed out. Drunk.”

  “Great,” said Tony. “Take him to dry out and if he remembers anything, take a statement.”

  “Yes, sir,” the two rookies said, almost in unison.

  “What else?” asked Jim. He was not happy to see the rookies again.

  “The camper has what appears to be a drug residue, but no drugs were found,” said Hampton.

  “It looks like a theft and a hit,” said Carter.

  “No shit,” said Jim.

  “We wanted to talk to the forensic guys if it's OK with you, sir,” said Carter. “We can give you a report.”

  “Sure,” said Tony. “Go see what he--”

  “Partner,” said Jim. “We have that order from City Hall we need to take care of. Maybe these uniforms should take care of it.”

  Tony looked at Jim and for a second he was confused. He was not aware of any City Hall mandate. But the look in Jim's eyes was one he had seen a lot of lately. It said, ''I'm covering your ass.”

  Tony realized he had no business letting a rookie be first on his forensic evidence in the middle of a big investigation. Especially after the T-Lab fiasco. Another fuck-up, Tony thought.

  “Yeah,” Tony said. “City Hall wants constant news containment. Make sure the cameras don't get turned on. We'll get back with you later. “

  Carter and Hampton walked away. Carter took off his hat and quickly swept his hand through his hair. Hampton cast Jim an evil look.

  “I'd like to punch one of those bastards,” Jim said.

  Tony was silent as they walked over to the forensics team. The leader told them to wait and he would have a preliminary report in a few minutes.

  Tony scanned the crowd. The faces all looked angry, as if he had let them all down somehow. He turned away and looked at Jim, who was trying not to make eye contact.

  “I want you to know that I'm gonna get it together,” said Tony. “It's just this case, it's a bitch.” They stood silent a moment.

  “We gotta get something going or we'll be yanked from this,” said Jim.

  “I don't think that will happen,” said Tony. “Fuller is behind us.”

  Tony noticed a man waving in the crowd. The cops pushed him back, but the man stepped forward again and waved, yelling something.

  Tony moved toward the man and recognized his face. He signaled to the cops to let the man through. They did and the small man walked toward Tony and Jim.

  “Is that Blue?” Jim asked.

  “Yes,” Tony said. “The dead kid must be one of his.”

  Sullivan “Blue” Jones was an ex-con and one of Tony's former street informants. He was also a good friend. Blue ran a neighborhood youth center on the west side.

  Blue was dark-skinned and about fifty. His most striking features were his bald head and blue eyes. Tony had seen blacks with blue eyes before, but never one with skin so dark.

  Blue walked up and shook hands with Tony and Jim.

  “This boy, Melvin, was one of my kids,” said Blue. He had a soft Jamaican accent.

  “We thought as much,” said Tony.

  “I'm sorry, man,” said Jim.

  “It's OK. I wasn't doin' so well with him,” said Blue. “He liked the money and the girls too much.”

  “You want to ID the body for us?” asked Tony.

  “Sure. His mother will have a heart attack if she has to do it. I'll tell her myself.”

  “How are the people at the
center taking all this?” Tony asked.

  “Terrible, terrible,” said Blue. “At the neighborhood meetings, the people are angry. Angry at white people, the black people who run the city, the drug dealers. Everyone. And those who didn't already own a gun, are buying one.”

  “Man oh man,” Jim said.

  “Will you come and speak to them again, Tony?” Blue asked. “They always respond well to you.”

  “Blue, I don't have the time right now, but I'll come back as soon as I can.”

  ''I'll hold you to your word.”

  “Come on, Blue, I'll take you to the officers,” said Jim.

  “Good,” said Blue. “Don't be a stranger, Tony.”

  “I'll try not to.”

  Tony watched Jim lead Blue away. Tony had great affection for the man. He was a success story, a hard-ass street dealer who went to jail and came out a better man, dedicated to helping the community he'd hurt. They should have Blue's picture on the front page, instead of Handyman headlines.

  A forensic cop walked up to Tony, looking dead-faced. His hollow heels sounded like horse hooves on the dry pavement. “Sir, it looks like we got nothing. It was a clean kill.”

  “Go over it again before we take the vehicle in,” said Tony.

  “But sir, we--”

  “Just do it, OK?” Tony said.

  The forensic guy clumped off. Tony exhaled heavily as two coroner's assistants brought the young boy's body past him. It was covered by a stark white cloth dotted with blood.

  Tony stopped them.

  “Why is that sheet on him,” Tony asked. “Why isn'the--?”

  “An administrative screw up somewhere, sir,” said one of the assistants. ''Apparently, there are no more body bags.”

  9

  Campbell's Secret

  Rosedale Park is located on the far northwest side of Detroit. It is an integrated, upscale enclave of huge houses, winding streets, and lush, tall trees. Many of the city's yuppie employees live there as well as many of Detroit's high-ranking policemen and firemen.

  On Edinborough Street, in a large two-story house at the end of the block, Robert Campbell made love to the married woman who lived there. The bed in the master bedroom made soft, easy sounds as the dark couple thrived in their occupation. Campbell had been seeing her for over a year and he enjoyed these little visits in the afternoon. Doing it to someone else's woman in their own bed gave him a charge that was as good as the sex itself.

  Campbell worked on Lisa Martin with slow, steady rhythms and she clung to him with her usual hunger. Sweat glistened on his chest and sides. She pushed back into him, whispering something he couldn't hear. He slipped his hand around her thigh, then under her, teasing for a moment, and she responded loudly. Campbell smiled and continued, pleased with himself.

  They had met at a supermarket in Southfield. She commanded attention in her tight skirt, high heels, and wedding ring. Campbell knew that whenever a married woman wore that kind of stuff, she was looking for some kind of action. He followed her.

  She walked down the aisle, taking items and walking smoothly in the too-short skirt. He actually got an erection when she bent over to check a cereal box.

  Campbell struck up a conversation and eventually walked her to her car. She told him she was married. He said that it didn't mean anything 'cause he wanted her and that was just something to get around.

  Lisa had not even flinched when she heard his stutter. He liked that. Almost everyone he met showed some sign of shame or surprise at it. But she didn't. She just smiled at him, flirting with her eyes.

  Campbell gave her his phone number. She took it, still pretending not to be interested.

  Campbell was good-looking and knew it. His classic features were covered with smooth dark skin and he had a rock hard body. And he could tell Lisa Martin was instantly attracted to him. Most women were.

  After a few days, she called him and it wasn't long before they met in a hotel and made love.

  Campbell knew women. Lisa had money and a pretty good life, but she wanted back those days when everybody wanted her, those days when her sex was power and she had men waiting on their toes to be chosen by her. He had given it all back to her.

  Campbell tightened his grip on the woman's waist and quickened his strokes as he reached his orgasm. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, then kissed her moist back.

  Lisa rose up from all fours and threw her head back. Her long dark hair hit him in the face. It smelled good. She pushed her body against his and he hugged her from behind.

  Campbell kissed her cheek, then broke the connection and lay next to her, breathing in slow deep breaths.

  “Good job, sir,” Lisa said. “Good job.”

  ''I'll s-s-send you a bill,” he said.

  “Ha, you should be paying me for this good stuff you're getting.”

  “I ain't g-got that kinda money,” he smiled and kissed her.

  “Good lie.”

  Campbell got up and went into the bathroom. She whistled at his ass and he did a dance for her. He was happy. And not many things made him happy these days. Campbell had started to tell her many times how he made his living, but he didn't want to scare her. She was too respectable. He told her that he ran a store with his brother and that's why he always had cash on him and carried a gun. She probably didn't believe it, but it was good enough for now.

  Campbell sat on the toilet in the neat little bathroom. The drug war was on and the cops were all over them in the streets. The jails and Juvenile Hall were filled to the rafters with their people.

  Campbell felt strangely sad in the nice, family house. He never had a place like this as. a kid. He wondered if his life had been different, would he still have been in the Union. There were rollers from nice families, so it didn't really matter that you had a father with a good job. If you wanted quick money, you sold drugs. And once you made that choice, there was no going back. It was a one-way ride.

  Campbell accepted the fact that he would die in the business. But like all dealers, he had a plan to get out. He had been saving his money and had an open airline ticket. At any moment, he could be on a plane and out of Detroit. But the business was seductive. In a way, it was fun. You had power. The kind of power and wealth you could never get in society. No one could touch you.

  But still, if he'd had a choice, he might have lived differently. He could have gone to college, gotten a degree of some kind, and then a good job. A respectable life. He could even have been like Lisa's husband. He laughed out loud. No, he could never be like that, a limp-dicked office boy.

  He didn't feel any guilt taking another man's wife. It was a sin, but that whole marriage thing was bullshit. He could never promise to only have sex with just one woman. It was a lie he couldn't even bear to think about. He didn't know why women believed it.

  Campbell flushed the toilet and looked at his handsome face in the mirror. Lisa had reminder notes posted on it: “Get Chuck's suits,” “Pick up carpet cleaner.” Campbell laughed. She had forgotten one: “Have sex with my man.”

  Campbell walked back into the bedroom thinking that he had time for one more round with Lisa before he had to get back to the street. School would be out soon and business usually picked up then.

  As he entered the bedroom, Campbell saw the man holding Lisa. She was on her knees, tears streaming down her face onto her naked body, wet and shiny.

  Campbell's mind clicked in rapid succession. Life, death, and fear sped through his brain. The imposing figure stood over the helpless woman and Campbell's gun in his gloved hand pointed at Lisa's head. The Handyman cocked the hammer. Campbell stood there naked, looking at Death, then yelled a battle cry and lunged at the Handyman. The killer sidestepped, and Campbell was tripped, falling hard on his face.

  Campbell heard a shot and a body hit the wall. He got up and lunged again, not wanting to see where Lisa had landed, but the Handyman hit him in the face, sending his body flying onto the bed.

  The killer fell
upon his mark like an animal. Campbell struggled as the attacker cut into him. He screamed, stuttering an endless word. He fought, but the killer was too strong. And his last living sight was the Handyman's face, descending toward his own.

  10

  Lafayette Coney Island

  Tony and Jim watched as the forensics lab techs went over every article in Lisa Martin's bedroom. Charles Martin had come home late to quite a surprise: his naked wife shot dead with a murdered man who was obviously her lover.

  Charles Martin cried like a baby as an officer tried to interview him and no one could tell which had been wounded most, his heart or his pride.

  Tony examined the spray of blood, bone, and tissue on the wall with cool detachment. He'd seen worse, but when they put Lisa Martin's body into a thick, plastic bag, he suddenly felt sick. The dead woman was about Nikki's age and the thought that the Handyman might kill his Nikki snaked through him, leaving him cold. The dead man was typical of a Handyman killing. No hands and his throat slashed. Tony would bet his life that no blond hairs would be found on these bodies either. The Handyman was too smart to make that mistake again.

  The psychological report said the Handyman was a maniac, a killer who fed on power and domination, and that his obsession with hands was a sign of his need to control.

  But the killings were too clean, too planned to be done by a psycho. Tony didn't care what the damned shrinks said.

  The pressure from the murder spree was rising to an intolerable level. The phone lines at 1300 had to be rerouted because of the calls pouring in, and the press was floating a rumor that Chief Fuller would be replaced.

  “What's up, partner? You with me?” Jim asked.

  “What? Oh, yeah,” Tony said. He realized that he was standing in the middle of the crime scene, daydreaming.

  Tony moved aside as the lab techs worked around him. “Do you know who this guy is-- uh, was?” asked Jim. “Robert G. Campbell.”