by Mike McKay
***
Kim arrives home at something past eight. He bangs his bike against the pole and curses the cable lock in the darkness. The investigation hasn't gone too well, I conclude. So I must make my husband talk, or he will be upset all night long.
“The Homicide Unit gave you shit for the unnecessary call, did they?” I ask, crawling to the porch.
“Something along these lines,” he sits at the stairs tread kicking off his sandals. “Anything to eat? I am bloody hungry.”
“Kimchi and rice soup. With kimchi on the side. Fried kimchi rice with kimchi salad. Steam rice…”
“Stop being silly.”
“OK, just joking. Your Mom will not allow us to die of starvation. We have vegetable curry, pickled daikon and even a quarter of fried chicken. Kimchi and steam rice, naturally. Coffee and brownie with jam to polish off.”
“Sounds good. Have you eaten?”
“Waited for you, Mister Coyote. Water?”
I open the jerrycan and pour water on his hands. Kim washes his neck and face. With his hair spiking in all directions, now he positively resembles Wile E. Coyote from the cartoon.
“Do you want to know who is in-charge of this investigation?” he asks. Great. We are talking.
“Who?”
“His Highness Deputy Investigator Woxman!”
“That buffoon? You are not joking?” Admittedly, Woxman is not exactly a buffoon. Two months ago he topped the written test, and by wide margin. Kim came the second. That's why Woxman is a Deputy Investigator now, and my husband is still just a Deputy. Although, Deputy Investigator Woxman is nothing more than a pompous jerk. He is an investigator as much as I am – a Korean cook.
“If I was joking, I wouldn't be pissed off,” Kim reaches for the chopsticks.
“Take it easy. The Homicide Unit had to come for nothing, so bloody what? Woxman must be thankful. He was delivered to the place by a horse, in full comfort, like a damn VIP. If not for the reported homicide, he would sweat all the way on his bike, correct?”
“What: correct?”
“The old Taiwanese man is alive, right? A stubbing is a serious violence, but no fatality. So we must call an investigator from the Station. Our Standard Operational Procedure, remember?”
“It's much worse than that.”
“Much worse? You are saying the old man is dead? Well, what are they freaking unhappy about? If somebody dies from a gut-driver – it's hardly a death of a natural cause. The Coroner is not required; must call the Homicide Unit, period. I did everything right!”
“Much worse than that, partner!”
“OK, tell me.”
“Aha! Our Sherlock-Holmes-on-wheels can't guess!”
“First, your Sherlock-Holmes-on-wheels can't do magic. To make a guess, I need information. Second, I believe the case is very darn simple. Victor Chen thinks his father is dead, but the old man is just knocked down. While Victor runs to the Beat, the old man comes to senses and goes to find a doctor. After that, we have a bunch of possibilities: he dies before reaching the medic, he reaches the medic, but dies anyway, or he is OK. Don't ask me what is more probable: it depends on the position and depth of the wound and other such medical stuff. But I can't see any other possibility.”
“Much worse! Admit, Holmes, you are totally stumped.”
“OK, I am stumped. But not totally, only from below. Stop teasing me.”
“Victor Chen insists there has been no dead body whatsoever. More or less – a hallucination.”
“What?” Good I am stumped from below, or I would break the roof of our shack with my head. “What do you mean: hallucination? What about the freaking gut-driver? What about the freaking rag? With all the freaking blood on it?”
“Keep munching, Road Runner. If you talk too much, I will eat all the daikon myself. The freaking gut-driver and the bloody rag – that's all the evidence we have.”
“What about the blood drops Tan noted on the floor? Also, – a hallucination?”
“Yep, ma'am. There were no drops.”
“About Victor Chen – he could be on drugs. But about Tan, so far, I presumed he's not using any.”
“In our Beat, only one person is on drugs. No finger-pointing.”
“Now you stop being silly. The Grass isn't ‘drugs’. It's a medicine. And I have a good reason.”
“OK, I am not silly. Of course, I am no expert, like some records clerks… No finger-pointing… But I am sure your To-Ma-Gochi can't create this type of hallucinations. To see a dead body, somebody must use some very serious stuff: synthetic drugs or magic mushrooms. If our client was using something like this just before coming to the Beat, we would see at least some symptoms. Besides, I am not aware of any magic mushrooms that can make the imaginary gut-driver real.”
“Your reference to the mushrooms gives me an idea.”
“Let me guess. Sherlock Holmes needs his pipe.”
“Yes, but a bit later. After we start on our coffee and brownies. Do you mind if I finish the curry? Your Mom is so good at cooking, I'm jealous. Meanwhile, dear Watson, tell me all from the beginning, with no omissions.”
“OK, Holmes. We arrived to China-Patch Five at 17:28. I checked the time on my phone, for the records. Opened the shack door, looked inside. Naturally, I didn't allow Victor to come in. In the shack, everything was in relative order, nothing unusual. No dead body either. Suddenly, Victor Chen said: ‘Sorry. It’s my mistake.’ Exactly these words.”
“OK. Next?”
“I said: ‘But you came yourself to report that your father is dead, is that right?’ And he said: ‘No. My father is not dead. My mistake. Sorry.’ At this point, the Homicide Unit arrived. Four of them: Woxman, ‘Python’ Tom from the CSI lab, and two brand-new trainees. Those two, I didn't see before. So Woxman said: ‘Very well, gents. Where is our patient?’ He was playing this super-duper-expert type, very important man. For that I said: ‘Our patient suddenly felt better, professor. He got up and walked away. Didn't bother to wait for your consultation.’ I just couldn't hold it!”
“Nice!”
“Nice, but I'd better keep my mouth shut. Python, with his natural nerdy sense of humor, but limited social awareness, started laughing like mad. His Royal Highness Woxman, with no sense of humor whatsoever, went bananas. He was showing off in front of the bloody trainees, of course. Bang! And the circus started: Woxman shouts, the trainees in panic! He sends them to check the rest of the Patch-Five and look for possible witnesses. Then he jumps on Victor Chen: ‘Where is the freaking body?’ Chen repeats like a freaking robot: ‘My father is not dead. My mistake. Sorry.’ Woxman jumps on me: ‘Deputy Kim, have you taken a written statement at the Beat? No? Damn! Why not?’ Circus! I have no other word for it.”
“It was my advice to skip the statement and go straight to Chen's place. I screwed up.”
“No, you didn’t. Who would know the body was going to disappear? To make the things even worse, Tan arrived to the scene. He went to call you, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Woxman jumped on Tan: ‘Deputy Tan, why did you leave the crime scene unguarded?’ So Tan said: ‘Do you watch detective movies, sir? Once in a while, on TV? At the crime scenes, you know, there should be so-called traces of those crimes, right? Let say, a couple of dead bodies lying around, or a bag full of money, or, perhaps, a nuclear bomb with big red numbers rolling on display, something along these lines. If I saw a nuke, I would guard it! For all the remaining seconds, sir! But in this case, there was absolutely nothing. I made a little loop, asked some kids, if they saw anything out of the ordinary – still nothing. So I decided the Dispatch sent me an incorrect address. Went to double-check it, that's all.’”
“Guarding the nuke! For all the remaining seconds, sir! You, boys, have a conspiracy against Woxman, do you? But technically Tan is completely right. If you are directed to the c
rime scene, but there is no crime, the first thing you assume is an error in the text message.”
“He's technically right, but it's still against the standard procedures. When they wrote those manuals, nobody thought that half of the area would have no cell phone coverage.”
“OK. What happened next?”
“Next, the trainees came back. Nothing. Woxman said: ‘Must be a mistake, then. Nothing to investigate, let's go back to the Station.’ But Tom meanwhile opened the evidence bag and sprayed the corner of the rag with Luminol. He pulled his jacket over his head and lit his magic flashlight. So he said: ‘Not so fast, Deputy Woxman. The blood seems to be real.’ Then Tan recalled some little blood spots at the floor. Tom pulled on his coverall and went into the shack. Came back and said: ‘No visible blood, but Luminol shows some traces.’ He believed there was blood, but somebody wiped it clean.”
“Very interesting,” I pour myself coffee and start rolling my To-Ma-Gochi. Who cares what my in-law thinks about three a day.
“Well, Python did the proper search. He is a good reptile, cold-blooded, not like Woxman. But he got out of the shack totally disappointed. Besides the wiped traces of blood on the floor, he said, – nothing certain. A lot of fingerprints, of course, but looks like all of them belong to the owners. He will double-check in his lab, along with the gut-driver and the rag. Do I get some coffee too?”
I pick blackened coffee pot, “Don't forget the brownie. What did Woxman decide at the end?”
“Woxman scratched his head and said: ‘Fine. Lock the shack, Mister Victor Chen goes with us to the Station, tomorrow we will look for the body.’”
“I obviously have to ask this. Mister Chen Te-Sheng himself. The old man. Is he a real person, or a hallucination?”
“Real. The neighbors confirmed. And they saw him today at around lunch-time.”
“Have you called all the hospitals and private doctors within a reasonable radius?”
“Not yet. In Patch-Five cell phones don't work. But Tom is doing it tonight from home. Although, he hinted me it's no use.”
“Why?”
“If Victor Chen insisted that there was a dead body, it would be something like your original version. The old man was not really dead, came to his senses and went to see a medic. But now Victor Chen says there is no dead body. At all. As if he is sure nobody could go to any doctor.”
“Apart from Victor and Te-Sheng, nobody else lives in the shack, right?”
“Right, as usual. How did you guess?”
“Did you see how many buttons Victor Chen had on his shorts?”
“What a wonderful sexual perversion – counting buttons on strangers' shorts! Have you indulged in this for long?”
“Not on purpose. It happens more or less by itself. About the buttons, Watson, he had exactly two. Out of three intended. One button is missing. The two remaining are attached by different threads: one is black, and the other one is white. There is also a patch, attached by a black thread. And if you recall the shorts, they are made from the desert camo trousers. The needlework is clearly man-like, but it wasn't done in the Army. How do I know the last thing?”
“In the Army, your sergeant will kick your ass for any white and black threads on a desert camo. Besides, as far as I know, in the war zone they even don't issue soldiers the white thread, unless you are deployed somewhere in Arctic and potentially have something white to fix. This is called logistics rationalization.”
“You are getting familiar with my method, my dear Watson! Judging by his age, Victor Chen got these pants from the Army. But even if he bought them at a flea market, it doesn't matter. It's important the pants are quite old: about five or six years since their Army days. Buttons fall off, one after another, and Victor re-attached 'em as needed, and with whatever thread was at hand. This suggests there is no woman in the family: mother, wife, sister, niece – all excluded. And when you say ‘in relative order’ about the things in the shack, plus the massive amount of owners' fingerprints, everything becomes even more likely. Of course, I can be wrong. For instance, three men live in the shack, not two, or Victor Chen is a widower and lives with a three-year old daughter. I simply used the most probable version.”
“You're never wrong, Holmes. But you'd better deduce what happened to Mister Chen Te-Sheng. Is your pipe telling you anything at all?”
He is completely wrong about my pipe. The cigarette does help your thinking. I can share a know-how with you. If you blow the Grass smoke into the mug, the coffee doesn't taste like roasted acorns.
“The Chens. How long did they live here? What do the neighbors say about them?” I ask.
“They are not totally new to the area: have been living in the Patch-Five for just under two years. But the neighbors don't say anything specific. The Chens were extremely quiet and kept for themselves.”
“What did Chen-senior do for living?”
“He spent most of his time tending to his vegetable beds. Once in a while, he helped Victor fixing computers and other electronics.”
“That's what I needed! If you said Chen Te-Sheng was making synthetic drugs right in his shack, that would be a different story. But now I don't believe in the hallucination. For a working version, we may assume the entire deal was just a stupid joke of Victor Chen. The gut-driver is real, but covered in pig's blood, as in some old Hollywood movies.”
“Yeah! Listen more to our Tan. Who is he: a former cinematographer? In the action movies they used only tomato sauce!”
“To hell with the movies. I'm about the missing body. There is no motive, whatsoever! Victor Chen is long past the age to make such pranks, especially with the Police. You're about the same age with Victor Chen. Would you go and show the Police a gut-driver with some tomato sauce? Or even with the pig blood?”
“I don't use magic mushrooms, as you may know.”
“Version number two. Victor's father had somehow disappeared, so Victor wants to present this disappearance as a murder. Next, he prepares a gut-driver, finds pig's blood, and plays the rest.”
“Much better, Holmes. Suppose Victor Chen wants us to find his missing father. To make the search a top-priority, he presents it to the Police as a possible murder case.”
“The game is not worth the candle. If we fail to find the old man, or if we find him dead, Victor is in on suspicion of murder. If we find the old man alive, Victor is still in – for making a prank with the Police. The tomato sauce will not do. And the pig's blood will not work. Besides the Luminol, there are lab methods. The CSIs can tell the pig's blood, no problems.”
“What if it was a human blood?”
“The rag was covered with it. Would you punch a person to drain so much blood for a stupid prank? Besides, if Victor Chen wanted to portray a nonexistent murder, why would he wipe the blood drops from the floor? By the way, this automatically suggests an accomplice. Tan saw the blood spots, and later they were wiped clean, while Victor was with you at all time. He was at your sight at all time, right?”
“Right. I can account for every second.”
“No, Watson. Version number two doesn't work. If Victor Chen wanted to find his runaway father, he would simply come to the Beat and declare a missing person. We're not in Los Angeles, thanks God! Texas Police works fine. We diligently search for the registered missing persons, and often find them. No pig's blood needed.”
“As always, you're right, Holmes. More versions? What is your pipe telling you?”
“My pipe is telling me the version number three. If we discard the silly prank and the deliberate deception, it looks like someone is indeed punctured with a quarter-inch screwdriver, right?”
“So?”
“Suppose we sit here, at home, at four PM. Nice weather. Sunny. The kids are just back from the school. The women are cooking dinner. And even some men started arriving home from work. Imagined?”
“Easily. Alt
hough I don't remember when we're back from the Beat at four o'clock.”
“OK. So I, for no reason at all, get a gut-driver, and make you a quarter-inch hole.”
“You're a dangerous woman!”
“You have not seen me in rage. Next, we have three options. The first option. You're still alive. Covered in blood, you bail out of our shack and…”
“And stumble upon some neighbor's kids. ‘What's wrong with you, Uncle Kim?’”
“Exactly! So, the first option doesn't work for us. Discard. Option two. I stab you to death real quiet, no one heard anything. I pop up from our shack with the dead body. Next?”
“What ‘next’?”
“Well, if it's me, specifically: a legless girl on a skateboard, I have no chance at all. So don't you worry: I will not kill you at home. I will come up with something more exciting.”
“No doubt you will. Just smoke a couple of your favorite To-Ma-Gochi.”
“Besides the jokes. Let say, it's not me, but two strong men, and each with two legs. OK, these two men grab your body, leave our shack, and…”
“The same Patch kids! ‘Uncles, who are you? And what's wrong with our Uncle Kim?’”
“Spot-on, Watson! Or if they know one of the persons with the body, the kids run through the Patch and yell: ‘Uncle Kim's dead! Auntie Kate stubbed Uncle Kim!’ Do you think I can get very far on my skate? And even the strong men with healthy legs will not be able to get away with the body. They may drop the body and flee, but we will have two hundred witnesses.”
“Yeah. And four hundred very different descriptions…”
“To hell with it if they're all different! In our case, nobody had seen anything at all! And nobody dropped the dead Mister Chen at the Patch. Hence, our second option is also a total dud. More coffee?”
“The coffee's cold. By the way, where did you get these yummy brownies?”
“Light the Primus, sybarite. Mister Coyote doesn't like cold coffee! We waste all my salary on kerosene, you know? And about the cookies, I am not telling you. Your Mom will be jealous… OK, just kidding. But I must swear you to an absolute secrecy. It's a dark secret.”
“OK, I swear. Policeman to policeman.”
“Accepted, partner. So if instead of racing on your bike, somebody rides sensibly, on a skateboard, with two nice wooden blocks, once upon the time… OK, OK, I will make the epic saga short! Just in front of our Beat, yesterday I stumbled upon a one-legged vet with a vendor cart. He bakes these wonderful brownies and sells them hot. For me he even gives a special discount, because I have one leg less… than him! If you behave, I'll buy more of these brownies, promise. By the way, two options of our version-three are gone. Do you see the third?”
“I don't.”
“And if you look a bit more?”
“I still don't see it. By the way, presently I'm looking at the Primus, so our coffee doesn't spill.”
“OK, listen in. Don't turn, watch the Primus. The third option is: instead of dragging your dead body out, our two men place it inside some large container. But this container must be of a decent size, such as a wardrobe or a chest.”
“Can they dismember the corpse?”
“Doesn't work for us. There will be not just few drops of blood as Tan said, but all the floor covered.”
“I agree. Hey, I like the wardrobe idea! But in our slums… Not very often people move furniture.”
“Today in the China-Five, did anybody move?”
“As I understand it, no. Although, we must double-check. The trainees probably missed it altogether.”
“Woxman's a buffoon. Why did he send the trainees to talk to the neighbors? Wait, there is a fourth option.”
“What is it?”
“I've slipped some drug in your coffee. Those magic mushrooms. While you're off, I punch a hole, drain enough blood on the rag, then stitch and bandage your wound. You wake up, but still under influence. I make a hypnotic suggestion that the screwdriver hole is such a wonderful thing to have. You're under hypnosis…”
“Bullshit. Option five. You dial a flying saucer on your mobile phone and your alien friends drag my body out through the fifth dimension.”
“Yeah, total garbage. Most importantly, if I arrange the cover-up with the little green men, I don't need to run to the Police. The fourth option is also eliminated. The conclusion, Watson. My pipe didn't help much. We have no working versions, except maybe those movers with a wardrobe.”
“The conclusion, Holmes, coffee has boiled. Let's finish it and go to bed. I have to get up at four tomorrow morning.”
“I thought Tan is on-duty tomorrow. Or did you give him a day-off? For his screwed-up birthday?”
“Tan's birthday is still screwed-up. He will be on-duty at the Beat. And I have to go and search for the missing body. Woxman wants me to assemble two hundred volunteers by seven-thirty. We must perform some massive area search, he said.”
“Your Woxman is positively a buffoon. How do you collect two hundred people on Saturday morning and with no prior notice?”
“He's not my Woxman. He's Woxman for life. Mister Deputy Investigator knows how to spell ‘impossible’. But its meaning he hasn't grasped yet.”
“Hey, can you take me tomorrow? As a volunteer?”
“No way.”
“Why not?”
“Firstly, there will be Woxman. I don't want you two to meet. He is already unhappy about you, because you've called the Dispatch, and so he has ended up with this case in his capable hands. Secondly, if I bring a skate-bound legless vet and try to pass her as a volunteer, I will get a demerit.”
“A demerit – you're getting it anyhow. Where are you going to find two hundred people?”
“I will manage. If there is no choice, I will gather some teenagers. It's Saturday, so they're not at school. Let say, from ten-year-old and up. The instructions say nothing about using the kids, so it must be legal.”
“And you have ten-year-old girls running around and looking for the dead body?”
“Well, I admit the ten-year-old girls don't fit quite well in the picture. But the ten-year-old are still more useful than legless.”
“You're a low-extremity racist! This is profound discrimination! On the basis of legless.”
“No discrimination, whatsoever. You're a child of concrete jungles. And as such you constantly forget that here in Houston we have a well-developed agriculture. The search will be commenced at the fields, including all the irrigation ditches and the rice paddies. No way your skate can work in such places – physically. Do you want to crawl on your hands, neck-deep in mud? By the way, it's the perfect time to tell you one thing every slum policeman must know. The! Dark! Secret! Of! Houston! Naturally, I have to swear you to an absolute secrecy.”
“The Dark Secret of Houston? Wonderful. OK, I swear. As Road Runner to Wile E. Coyote.”
“Accepted, Runner. Listen in. The farmers in Houston have a conspiracy.”
“A conspiracy?”
“Yes. They developed a secret weapon, all-mighty concoction, which will eventually consume the city… with all the suburbs… turning us all… into agricultural zombies. They call it ‘organic fertilizer’… But really it's… shit! Mostly – human shit. Tons and tons of shit. Are you scared?”
“OK, I'm scared and I surrender. You're not a racist, despite your profound low extremities. I let our well-developed all-agricultural kids deal with the ‘organic fertilizer’. Wandering barefoot in shit is not my dream job.”
Kim shifts the dirty dishes to the side and spreads his futon on the floor, “Let's catch some sleep, Runner. And don't even dream about being agricultural tomorrow…”
Kim Den Gir, Deputy, Harris County Sheriff’s Office.
Tan and I meet at the agreed spot on the highway. My partner is going on-duty, so he has arrived properly dressed and with the full gear: his baton, his gu
n and everything else. In striking contrast, my attire consists of a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and from the Police uniform I have only a cap. On my neck I put a plastic water-tight box with my badge, the cell phone, and some money. The back pockets of my shorts hide the rest of my law-enforcing equipment: brass knuckles in the right and handcuffs in the left.
I've selected the shorts for one reason. Collecting two hundred adult volunteers on Saturday morning is not just difficult, but totally impossible. All more-or-less fit adults in the Asian slums have something slightly more important to do than helping the Police to look for a missing person. For example, trying to earn enough to feed the family in the evening! Fortunately for us, on Saturday the kids are not at school, so I hope to enlist the local children. Now imagine you wake up at six AM. At the door, there is a policeman in full uniform, with a baton and a gun, who asks if your kids can volunteer. Naturally, your son will be more than interested to check my Glock-17 and the rest of my equipment. But you, being a responsible parent, will immediately find some urgent chore for your kids. Guns? Batons? Handcuffs? Chasing criminals? Better be safe than sorry. To make the recruitment successful, the local deputy must come without any visible weapons, and wearing shorts instead of the uniform. Nothing out of the ordinary, simple and boring search through the fields. If it's so safe, why don't we help our Police?
For few seconds I ponder how to assign our single Walkie-Talkie. It would be logical to have it with Woxman and me at the China-Five. Without the cell phone coverage, having a radio is very convenient. On the other hand, Tan may be called to some emergency, in one of those ‘temporary unavailable’ GRS areas, and he may need the radio way more than us. If there is no obvious reason to do one way or another, the officer must follow the Standard Operational Procedures. Some brass (no finger-pointing) even believes that the officers must follow the Procedures always. Mrs. Reason must shut up, she has no rank in the Police Force. I sigh and surrender our old Motorola to my partner. Simultaneously, Tan receives my strict instructions not to be our radio operator. If somebody calls Woxman – don't even think jumping on your bike to play a delivery boy. Call a pedicab to the Beat and send with a message. Woxman can find fifty bucks for the pedicab driver, no sweat. After my fully-instructed and fully-equipped partner departs to the Beat, I ride towards the Chinamerican Patches.
At the Patch-Five everyone already knows about the ongoing Police investigation. The Emergency Response cart with a real running horse is impossible to hide, especially from the curious Chinamerican kids. Besides, Woxman's trainees have marked their presence by asking their stupid questions, and Python Tom, in his blue scene coverall and with his aluminum CSI box looks just like an astronaut from Sci-Fi comics. Fortunately enough, yesterday I've got a brief second to whisper some proper instructions to the trainees' ears.
“If a single soul in the Patch learns about the blood and the gut-driver,” I've told them, “I am not going to investigate who can't hold his mouth shut. I shall rip the balls from two very specific, known to all of us, trainees. Deputy Investigator Woxman, with all his might, will not be able to help these poor bastards, understood?”
As far as I can tell by asking few indirect questions this morning, two specific trainees have kept their mouths shut, no problems. The Patch population believes Mr. Victor Chen has reported his father missing. To cover the trail completely, I've shared with some key local gossip-makers (“only for you ma'am, I know I can trust you such a secret”) that Victor Chen and Deputy Investigator Woxman have spent the night checking all the medical facilities this side of Sheldon Reservoir. Obviously, the people don't need to know Victor Chen has spent the night in the Station slammer, as the primary suspect in a murder case.
I've managed neither two nor even one hundred volunteers, but my morning recruiting session results turn out above the initial pessimistic expectations: five adults and sixty-seven teenagers, of which fifty-five are boys. Exactly at half-past seven, I line up my barefoot search party in front of His Excellency Deputy Investigator Woxman, may he fry himself in Hell for eternity.
“Deputy Kim, why you are not wearing your uniform today?” Deputy Investigator raises his eyebrows, “And why, for God sake, you have no shoes?” Well, he may not understand the practical psychology, and surely he has no idea how to collect volunteers in the slum, but why does he start the day with a confrontation?
“We will be searching in such places, sir. A bit on the dirty side, you know. Personally I prefer to save my uniform for some better occasion. As for you, I strongly recommend to leave your boots at the Patch and roll up your pants. On the rice paddies, the boots are not very practical. You end up falling in the mud.”
Woxman ignores my proposal. I don't insist. If somebody has no common sense, even the best advices are useless. “And if I remember correctly, yesterday I've asked for two hundred volunteers, but you only have fifty. At that – only kids, goddammit.”
“Quite a bit more than fifty, sir. Seventy-two all together, including five adults. All we can do at such a short notice. Naturally, if you want, you and I can do another loop through the Patch. If you convince five more people to join our search party, I shall give you… let say, one hundred bucks. But hence we don't want our bet to be one-sided, let's also do this: if we can't add five more volunteers, you've got to give me one hundred, deal?”
“OK, Deputy, let's not waste time on stupid bets. Seventy-two volunteers are probably enough.” He is well aware that there is no way he can summon five more volunteers, and he doesn't want to lose one hundred. “Where do you want to start the search?”
Oh, finally! The first reasonable sentence through the entire morning. After all, Woxman is not a total dummy. Just one more guy with near-zero experience but overinflated self-esteem. Honestly, I have been expecting the worst: he would start giving orders himself, alienate the locals, and screw up the search.
“I suggest we start with that thicket in the West.”
“Why not from the vegetable beds?”
“If you have only few hours, no way you can hide a body in there. There are some exceptions, but on average the Chinese here wake up before sunrise and treat each little cabbage as the first child in the family. Those obsessed veggie owners will positively see the beds being tampered with. It would be as obvious as dumping the corpse at the Patch common grounds.”
“Good logic, sir. Well, let's proceed with the thicket.”
OK, and proceed we will. First thing first, the volunteers' briefing. Ladies and gentlemen! Our good neighbor, Mister Chen Te-Sheng, fifty-four years of age, has been reported missing. I trust everybody here knows him quite well. Mister Chen left home yesterday, presumably after four PM. Very likely, he had a medical emergency of some sort, for example, – a heart attack. We must find Mister Chen! Now listen carefully. If someone finds a body: do not touch anything, repeat: no touching! Step back and report the find immediately. If someone finds anything unusual: a garment, or a bag, or something like this, do not touch it. Step back and report! Is that clear? Step back and report – immediately!
Now – special instructions! For the boys. Do not chase small animals! Do not look for birds' nests! And for God sake, leave snakes alone. The snakes don't attack you unless you step on them, right? Is everything clear? Questions?
What if we find the old man alive? Easy. If he is conscious, bow politely and say hello! Ask if he needs any help. If he is unconscious, do CPR! No, wait! You don't know much about CPR. Who knows? You, sir? From the Army? Excellent! Boys and girls! Uncle Nathan will be our dedicated paramedic. Call Uncle Nathan for the CPR, OK? More questions?
Can you bang from my gun? Do you see I have my sidearm with me today, young man? No, no, you cannot bang from the sidearm of Mister Deputy Investigator. Why? Because for each bang he has to write a report, that's why! I also have to write such reports. One bang, two hours of paperwork. Absolutely no fun
, believe me. Well, if any of you finds Mister Chen, I will trust this good scout to disassemble and clean my Glock-17, agreed? Yes, I will allow this hero to touch my handcuffs too! What? Of course, my handcuffs are real! We don't have no toys in Police! OK, boys, the other questions you will ask at some later date. Line up for the starting point! Chop-chop!
Twenty minutes later, the line is combing the undergrowth. Woxman and I walk behind, enjoying the cheerful shouts of our young volunteers and providing overall command and quality control. I carefully push tall grass with my bare feet. Fourteen years after the Meltdown, all the metal and plastic garbage has been collected, but in the thicket like this one may still encounter a broken bottle. Woxman stomps the grass with his Army boots. Admittedly, for the forest the boots are quite useful. Perhaps, I have been a bit overconfident leaving my tire sandals at home.
“I admit, the boys are better suited for this type of work,” the Deputy Investigator says. “The adults don't give a damn about the dead body. Instead of searching, they would be thinking their veggies, or the next trip to the 'Fill, or their shops, or whatever else they have here.”
“I believe we have a pretty good cut,” I nod, “Enough adults to keep the boys under control, and enough kids to keep the search enthusiastic. In about an hour, we will be done with the thicket, and can start on the main thing – the ditches.”
“Ditches?”
“The irrigation ditches. The most probable place. To be frank with you, if I had to get rid of the dead body, I would do exactly this: stick it in a ditch.”
“Ah! So why did we start in the thicket?”
Another child of concrete jungles! But of course: he is from the Western slums, on the other side of the 'Fill. They have no agriculture in there, just recycling workshops.
“We started in the thicket, sir, because at eight in the morning only bona fide masochists can clean the ditches. We must wait for the sun to rise a bit higher.”
He should try it himself once – just for his education: stand waist-deep in cold water and shovel heavy silt. Through our school years, my little brother and I had plenty of such experience. We had to clean ditches and carry water for two or three hours every day after school, on Saturdays – all day long, and even a half-day on Sunday. Admittedly, before my eleventh birthday, I also was a child of concrete jungles, one hundred percent. A refined city dweller: from the upper middle class neighborhood, attending a posh British private school. A straight-A student, nicely packed in navy-blue jacket, shiny black shoes and with Eton straw hat!
But then came the Meltdown. My father was shot dead by robbers. My mother had no choice but to grab my brother and me and run away from snow to the South. And here in Houston, the posh private school boys had to acquire some very different skills, shiny shoes off, head-first in the mud. In fact, on a hot summer day, the ditch-cleaning and water-fetching are not unpleasant at all. At least in comparison with all the other slum kids' chores. Weeding veggie beds is easy but damn boring. But what really sucks is cow-dunging. You don't know what the cow-dunging is? Collecting and drying the cow dung – for fuel!
“I've got to ask you, sir,” I begin extracting information from the Deputy Investigator, “Are we positive the dead body really exists?”
“The CSIs checked the blood from the screwdriver. It's human, A-plus type. If there is human blood, there must be a dead body.”
“And did they check the son's blood? I mean: Victor Chen's?”
“He's zero-plus.”
“This means… They're not father and son, are they?”
“This means absolutely nothing. Python said: it depends on what blood type Victor's Mom had. He started mumbling something about genetics and probabilities, I didn't understand much.”
“Still, it's possible to determine the father. By the DNA test, right?”
“Yeah! As if our Major is going to sign for a DNA kit! His favorite song: the budget is tight. Well, if we find the body he may allow the DNA check… On the second thought, if we find the body today there will be no DNA. We will use the face recognition software and the fingerprints. The fingerprints are cheap.”
“What did Victor Chen say?”
“Nothing, goddammit! He decided to use the Fifth Amendment,” Woxman spits in front of his shiny Army boots.
“Did he ask for an attorney?”
“He wisely refused. Said: for a real lawyer I have no money, but I am ready to give a little to your free shit attorney, so he stays out of this business. As far as possible. To be honest, I would say the same. The free pettifoggers are no damn good.”
“So… There may be no dead body at all?”
“Shit if I know. What about the blood? Human blood? Tom phoned through the private practices and hospitals. Nobody came in with a screwdriver hole. As the matter of fact, nobody of the Chen's age came in with any knife hole or bullet hole yesterday.”
“Too bad.”
“Freaking bad.” He spits again. “If we don't find the body, we will have a dead case.”
“And if we find?”
“Also no good. A dead case too. The gut-driver has no fingerprints.”
“But Chen himself brought the gut-driver to the Beat!”
“So what? As I said yesterday. If only you and Kate took a written statement! But without it…”
“Kate can state under oath what Victor Chen told her at the Beat.”
“It will not work, Deputy. Shove up your ass the statements of your legless cripple.”
Our Deputy Investigator is strange. As soon as you believe you can talk to him in civilized manner, he says something offensive or stupid.
“Hey-yo! Who do ya call a legless cripple? Wanna bloodied nose?”
“Oh, I am so sorry, Deputy,” Woxman backs up.
For a second or two I ponder if I should give him the bloodied nose irrespective of his apologies. About my ass – I'd swallow it with no second thought: we're not at the White House diplomatic reception, and I am not the Ambassador General of the Politically Correct Republic. But why, for God sake, he's called my wife a cripple? Well, Kate has no legs, so what? The United States are at war with half of the world, so in every third family we have a disabled vet. And talking about my Kate, she is not that disabled. With her skateboard, on a paved road, she can go faster than most people with two good legs. Fetching six gallons of water – on her skate, believe it or not. And all the rest: cleaning, dish-washing, cooking… Well, scratch the last one – the cooking is not her strong point. But her missing culinary skills have nothing to do with her missing legs. Besides, she is a fellow Police officer, Woxman should have some professional respect.
The last hurricane and the floods – Tan, Kate and I built an improvised raft, and went around the Slum, saving kids! Kate got herself the Lifesaving Award instead of the Medal of Valor, but only because she was very new to the Police, the second-week trainee, so what? Compare to our hero Deputy Woxman, who rescued printers and computers at the Station! And with all the above, my Kate has much better brains than our brand-new Deputy Investigator Woxman! Woxman is a damn cripple himself: no gray matter in the head.
“I can't say how sorry I am, sir,” Woxman mumbles after an uneasy pause. “I do apologize for my words. It's so stupid of me to call Kate… legless.”
“For the ‘legless’ you don't need to apologize. Kate doesn't mind. How else do you call a person with no legs? But never ever call her a cripple, OK? Just to be sure, could you be so kind to avoid any disability-related definitions in the future? Your apology is accepted.” My temper cools down. We can get by without giving this idiot a bloodied nose.
“I will avoid. No more disability-related definitions. To be honest, I was a bit upset you two didn't take the written statement. Unfortunately, Missis Kate Bowen, with all due respect, could not be the prosecution witness. She could state in the court that Victor Chen appeared at such and such time in your B
eat office with this particular bloodied rag and this particular gut-driver in his hand. And whatever Chen was saying to her at the time, any half-competent defense attorney would smash to smithereens.”
“But Victor Chen told me the same thing, on the way to his house.”
“The same problem. He told you, he didn't write it down. You know what is going to happen? At the trial, Chen will demand a Mandarin-to-English interpreter. And through the interpreter he will tell the Jury: the Police officers at the Beat – misunderstood me. Due to my poor English! Then the defense will call you and Kate. Do you speak Mandarin, Deputy Kim? Are you fluent in Mandarin, Missis Bowen? End of the story.”
“And what if Victor Chen did not kill his father? What if it was someone else?”
“Who cares? It's a dead case, anyhow.”
Naturally, who cares? Sending an innocent man to the gallows is no big deal. Woxman only cares about his first independent case. He must show results! There must be a court conviction, whoever the poor bastard is.
So bad there is no cell phone coverage. Would be real nice to call someone and ask for advice. At the Station they do have some experienced officers: the FBI Special Agent, the Chief Medical Examiner, our sergeants. Even Python Tom will do. Both Woxman and I have zero experience in the murder cases. It's not like through my five years with the Police I haven't seen any murders, but beat deputies are not to investigate any serious crimes. Our specialty is armed robberies (strictly with no casualties), theft, con artists, domestic violence, unlicensed prostitution and drunk misdemeanor. And in the murder cases, our role is reduced to mere helpers: to guard the crime scene, to interview the neighbors, to search for the body – as we do today… Woxman, with his six years of night shifts at the Station, has even less experience than Tan and I. Presumably, they assigned him to this case because the case looked like a no-brainer. Two Chinamen had a family fight. The son stabbed his Dad with a screwdriver and ran to the Police with a confession. But the case turned out way more complicated…
