Tin Men

by Mike Knowles

  Woody said nothing.

  “C’mon, you know he’s unstable. He’s always roughing suspects up. Hell, he grabbed me yesterday. And if the rumours are true about what he does in the interrogation room when the cameras are off, then he’s no fucking cop.”

  “No fucking cop?” Woody said. The sound was loud in the interior of Dennis’s car. “Let me tell you about cops, you fat fuck.”

  Dennis winced.

  Woody reached out the window and drove his index finger deep into the flesh of the Dennis’s chest. He kept the finger there and leaned in close. “Os has saved my life more than once. He puts shitheads behind bars, and I don’t give a fuck how he does it with some of the uglier ones.” Spit landed on Dennis’s cheek and he flinched. Woody used his finger to jab him back towards the passenger side. “You want to get on a guy who gives a kid-toucher a little extra time? You want to sell out a cop because he roughs up some pimp who’s raping whores? Os is more of a cop than you on his worst day.” Woody pulled his finger back and rested his elbow on the window frame. “I’m going to tell it to you straight. You’re a joke. Everyone fights to get away from you. Why do you think you never have a partner? You walk around like you’re some badass hombre, but everyone knows it’s bullshit. That’s the right word for it. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but I can smell it. You’re playing a part—pretending to be a cop while the rest of us are out there doing it.”

  Dennis opened his mouth to fire something back, but Woody cut him off.

  “I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to brag about all of the cases you’ve closed. You’ve got good stats, but the cases are all paint by numbers. You’re not solving anything, you’re just filling out the paperwork in order. Woody pushed himself away from Dennis. “Just when you thought you couldn’t be more of a joke, you show up here ready to sell out a cop without even giving him a chance to explain himself. Right now everyone gives you a pass because you’re not worth the trouble, but if you go and accuse Os—a guy who everyone owes favours to for all the times he’s saved their ass—and you wind up being wrong, you’re going to find out exactly how everyone feels about tubby pretenders.”

  Dennis said nothing. He just prayed silently that his lip wouldn’t quiver.

  Woody inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly before he went on. “I’m willing to start clean with you. Give me a few hours to find Os and hear him out. If his story doesn’t add up, I’ll march into Jerry’s office with you and back up whatever you say.”

  Woody stared at Dennis. Dennis felt his eyes misting, and he forced himself not to blink.

  “C’mon, Dennis. Show me I’m wrong about you. Be a cop.”

  Dennis took a deep breath. He shuddered just a little bit. “You got till four,” Dennis said.

  Woody nodded. “You’re good police.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “At least you sound like a natural.”

  Woody drove away, and Dennis slumped over the steering wheel. He sobbed loudly and the open window allowed the sound to echo in the empty parking lot. He got a hold of himself when a pick-up truck came into the lot and parked by the front doors. A guy in a baseball cap, flannel shirt, and torn, faded jeans got out of the truck and started for the doors. He got halfway there before he noticed Dennis’s car and turned around. Dennis wiped his face with the sleeve of his suit jacket and felt the scratchy material chafe against his face.

  When the guy got close enough, he called out, “Arena manager won’t be in until noon. He’s the one to talk to about ice time.”

  Dennis nodded and put the car in gear.

  The guy stepped closer. “You okay, buddy?”

  Dennis didn’t answer, he just reversed in a wide arc and put the car in drive. He wasn’t alright, not at all. Who the hell was Woody to talk to him like that? What did he know about anything? Dennis was a cop; it was in his blood. Woody might not have respected him, but he couldn’t deny that Dennis cleared cases. He could try and make it sound like they were floaters, but Dennis knew the truth—there were no easy cases; he just made it look that way. And why was that? Because he was a good cop. Why else would Jerry have put him on this case? He was the guy to go to when you needed something done. Fucking Woody was just pissed that he didn’t realize what his partner was into. Woody was supposed to be the second coming of Columbo, and Dennis was a step ahead. Woody was pathetic.

  Dennis left the window down and let the freezing air blow against his face. His tears dried and he felt better. Let Woody have a few hours to talk to Os. Let him find out Dennis was right.

  “Then, I’ll tell him what I think of him,” Dennis said out loud. He couldn’t wait to rub it in.

  Dennis’s phone rang and he looked at the display. Jerry was calling. Dennis put down the phone and let it go to voicemail. Dennis had given Woody until four to come to his senses. Jerry would have to wait too.

  When the phone was silent again, Dennis unlocked the cell with his left hand and used his wrist to steer. His right hand went through his pockets until he found the card Julie’s doctor had given him. He dialled the number.

  “Dr. Kelsey’s office. Dr. Kelsey speaking.”

  “Doc, this is Detective Hamlet. We spoke yesterday.”

  “I had been meaning to call you,” Dr. Kelsey said.

  “Really? Something come to mind about Julie Owen?”

  “No, about Lisa O’Brien. I looked in the papers, and I couldn’t find an obituary anywhere.”

  “You don’t have a clue what a cop does, do you? We don’t handle the obits, Doc.”

  “What? No, I called her mother to ask about the arrangements, and she had no idea what I was talking about. It was awful.”

  “And you wanted to call me because?”

  “Why wasn’t the family notified? The police called me to find out Lisa’s name. I gave them everything they would have needed, yet I had to break the news to her mother over the phone.”

  “I was calling about Julie, doc. Auto accidents isn’t my department. Have you remembered any information that might be of help in Julie’s case? Feelings of worry about the father of the baby? Any mention of him being dangerous? Did she hide the baby from him out of fear?”

  “No, none of that. Julie and I focused on the pregnancy and her stress triggers. Not having the father around seemed good for her. She didn’t want to be working on a relationship while she was getting ready to be a mother. But seriously, when is someone going to notify Lisa O’Brien’s parents about her death?”

  “I really don’t know. I’ll look into it,” Dennis said.

  “Don’t patronize me, Detective. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Her poor mother had to hear it from me—a woman without any details to give other than, I’m sorry, I thought you knew your daughter was hit by a car.”

  “I’m sorry, but like I said, it’s not my department.”

  “Oh, that’s just great. Just put the blame on someone else.”

  “Thanks for your time, Doc.”

  Dennis hung up the phone and found a Tim Hortons. The drive-thru was full, but he got in line anyway. He had a lot of time to kill. There was nothing to do but wait and think. Dennis spent a good minute on what a bitch Dr. Kelsey was. But thinking about her made him wonder about the lack of a notification to the mother. Maybe the name had been purposely held back because there was something more to the case than just a car accident. What if she had been murdered? What if Os had killed her for the same reason he took the baby? Lisa could have connected Julie to Os, making her a threat. Dennis made a call to find out who was working the Lisa O’Brien case. Dennis had just made it to the window when the clerk came back on the line.

  “Nothing came up on that name,” she said. “I checked the date for any reports that matched what you said, and there was nothing. You sure about the name and date, detective?”

  Dennis was so foc
used on the phone that he missed the coffee handoff and the cup fell against the door, sending scalding liquid into the car and onto his leg.

  “Motherfucker!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Who do you think you are talking to, detective?”

  “What? Sorry, I dropped coffee on my leg.”

  “Un hunh.” The clerk sounded like she didn’t believe him.

  “What you said made me lose my train of thought. There were no accidents like the one I mentioned?”

  “None. Anything else?”

  “No, and sorry for swearing.”

  “Honey, I hear worse before I get off the elevator.”

  Dennis closed the phone and suddenly noticed the pissed look on the drive-thru attendant’s face and the horns sounding behind him. The attendant gave him some napkins and Dennis asked, “Can I get another coffee?”

  “You have to pay for it,” the woman said. She had a voice cultured by a lifetime of smoking.

  “Seriously?”

  “You dropped it, not me.”

  “Fine, fine, whatever.” Dennis dug a toonie out of his pocket and traded it for a new coffee and some change. He put the cup in the holder between the seats and pulled into a space so he could dry his pants and call back Dr. Kelsey. She answered on the third ring.

  “Dr. Kelsey, it’s Detective Hamlet again. What was the name of the officer who called to tell you about Lisa O’Brien’s death?”

  “Now you care? I thought it wasn’t your department.”

  “Just tell me please.”

  “It was a Detective . . . Smith. A female detective named Smith.”

  “Let me call you right back.”

  Dennis hung up and dialled the central station. A different woman answered and Dennis gave her his information. “I need the contact number for a Detective Smith in collision reconstruction.”

  Dennis listened to keys tapping while he crumpled up napkins soaked with coffee and stuffed them in the empty cup holder.

  The records clerk came back on the line. “No Detective Smith in reconstruction.”

  “Any Detective Smiths?”

  Dennis heard more typing. “Two.”

  “Female?”

  “None.”

  Dennis thanked the clerk and hung up the phone. Something was wrong. There was no record of Lisa O’Brien being dead, or even in an accident, and an imaginary detective. Whatever was going on might have had nothing to do with Julie Owen’s death, but Dennis had a bad feeling it did. He dialled up Dr. Kelsey again, imagining the shit he would take from Woody if he had been wrong about Os.

  “Dr. Kelsey speaking.”

  “We need to meet,” Dennis said.

  “I have patients.”

  “I need to see you. It’s important, Doc.”

  “I’m seeing two patients back to back starting at twelve fifteen.”

  “What do you have after that?”

  “I’m very busy. I don’t have time to waste. I’ve already told you everything I can.”

  “I don’t think Lisa O’Brien is dead,” Dennis said.

  “What?”

  “I think the whole thing was faked, and I need you to help me understand why.”

  The line went quiet.

  “I’ll be free at two.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Dennis hung up the phone and drove to Lisa O’Brien’s apartment building. He parked out front and did a thorough look around before he walked inside. He didn’t need some reporter seeing him go in. The street was empty of people, and there were no news vans parked in the road. Dennis walked to the entryway and buzzed the building super. A loud static erupted from the speaker before a distorted male voice.

  “No comment. I don’t know nothin’ about anythin’, so go away.”

  “Detective Hamlet, homicide. Get down here and let me in. Bring your keys too.”

  Another burst of static came out of the box before the super said, “If you ain’t a real cop, I’ll call some that are.”

  “If you don’t open this door, I’ll call a few building inspectors to check the place out.”

  “Alright, alright, hold on.”

  Two minutes later, a short, bald man wearing a sweatshirt and jeans splattered with paint opened the door. “What can I do for you?”

  “Don’t you want to check my ID?”

  The little man shook his head. “You aren’t a TV reporter. I’m sure of that.”

  “I could be with a paper.”

  “You don’t look smart enough.”

  Dennis showed the asshole his badge anyway and said, “I want into the unit across the hall from Julie Owen. Lisa O’Brien’s apartment.”

  “I haven’t seen her for a few days. Is everything okay?”

  “That’s what I need to find out.”

  “You got one a them warrants?”

  Dennis shook his head.

  “I’m not supposed to do that.”

  “You think I was kidding about the building inspectors? How many you’re-not-supposed-to-dos are they going to find?”

  “You gonna take anythin’?”

  “No.”

  “Follow me.”

  Dennis took another ride on the elevator. The acceleration was nauseating, and stopping was too violent to be a relief.

  “You ever think about fixing this thing?” Dennis asked.

  “It ain’t broken,” the super said.

  “It feels like a carnival ride.”

  The super nodded. “Yeah, but it ain’t broken.”

  Dennis walked to the door and waited while the super sorted through his key ring. When he had the right key, Dennis held up a finger to signal him to wait. He knocked and waited a good two minutes for a response. When nothing happened, Dennis nodded to the super to open the door.

  “Stick around. I’ll only be a minute and I want you to lock up for me.”

  The super nodded, and Dennis pulled on a pair of latex gloves. The kitchen was tidy; a few dishes were neatly stacked in the sink, and a dishcloth that had dried stiff was hanging over the faucet. The fridge was full and so was the cat dish. There were no notes on the kitchen pads, and nothing strange in the trash. Dennis passed through the living room and opened the bedroom door. He didn’t step into the bedroom at first. He closed his eyes and looked away as though a migraine had suddenly sprouted. Beside the bed, made of shiny lacquered wood, was a crib. Dennis looked at the doorway and then stepped to the crib. He took in the dimensions and then looked back at the door—it wouldn’t fit back through the door. The crib wasn’t something for Julie. It wasn’t a gift like the others in the living room. Dennis closed his eyes again and balled up his fists. The playpen. That was what had bothered Dennis earlier that morning. He fucking missed it. When he was looking at the pictures of Julie’s closet, there were boxes for a crib, a diaper genie, and a playpen. Julie already had a playpen of her own. Dennis stomped back into the living room and headed straight for the attached dining room. The sound of his feet boomed off the parquet floor. There was no playpen behind the table anymore.

  “Everything alright?” the super called from the door.

  Dennis held up his index finger. “One more minute.” Dennis started down the hall and then paused. “Did you see any cats?”

  “Cats? No.”

  “Me neither,” Dennis said.

  He walked back into the bedroom and opened the closet. There were a lot of clothes inside—too many to tell if some had been taken. Dennis leaned in and checked all four corners for luggage—there was none. He left the door open and walked into the bathroom. He opened the drawers and the medicine cabinet and moved the contents around with his gloved index finger. There was no sign of a toothbrush, toothpaste, or make-up anywhere and Dennis doubted
that she carried everything around with her. Lisa O’Brien had taken things from the bathroom, probably some clothes, her luggage, the cats, and the collapsible playpen with her when she left. The crib in the bedroom stayed behind because it was too heavy, and permanent, to go anywhere. The faked death and missing make-up were bad. The absent playpen left Dennis with a sick feeling in his stomach.

  Dennis told the super to lock up and forget he was ever there. The super had questions about Lisa and what was inside; Dennis ignored them and took the stairs.

  On the way to Dr. Kelsey’s office, Dennis’s phone rang twice. Both times, the calls came from Jerry. Dennis let them go to voicemail each time.

  At the office, Dennis took a seat two down from a man in his forties. The guy was wearing a lime green dress shirt and a silver tie. His hair was a little longer than what was fashionable for a man his age, and he had a thick layer of stubble down to his jaw line. The guy kept eyeballing Dennis—probably trying to figure out if Dennis was crazy or not. Dennis felt a bit of pride in the knowledge that he was the only sane one in the room and it felt good. Dennis gave the guy a few covert looks and set his mind to diagnosing him. He decided that the outfit, the stubble, and the hair reeked of a lame attempt at being a badass. Dennis guessed underneath the disguise lay a bed-wetter, or a compulsive masturbator. The guy caught Dennis looking and they both looked in the other direction. Dennis noticed the Chatelaine he had been reading the other day and picked it up.

  A few minutes later, Dr. Kelsey came out of her office. She walked a pretty young woman to the door and then paused in the doorway to speak to the bed-wetter. “I just need a few moments with this gentleman and then we can get started.”

  The man nodded to Dr. Kelsey and then snuck a glance toward Dennis. Dennis had a wide smile waiting for the bed-wetter.

  “It will just be a minute,” Dr. Kelsey said.

  Her patient looked back at her and found himself placated by her apologetic smiled. He nodded and busied himself with his phone so he wouldn’t have to make eye-contact with Dennis again.

  Dr. Kelsey stayed in the doorway to her office and directed Dennis inside with a tilt of her head. Dennis dog-eared the Chatelaine and tossed it back onto the pile before getting up and walking into the office. Dr. Kelsey sat down in the brown leather chair and waited for Dennis to take a seat on the couch. He looked at the leather cushions and saw no sign of anything weird, so he sat down. He chose the side closest to the doctor’s chair. Dr. Kelsey took off her glasses and folded the arms closed.