The Mystery Maxims of Jake Spade - Case #1 FORGIVEN

by Henry H. H. Hittlebloome

  Jake powered his window down and whispered to the ex-footballer something about the location of 212, telling 8 to go there. 8 nodded and then scrunched down like a cat stalking a bird as he headed toward the alleyway. I noticed his one bare ankle and missing sock, now stuffed in his back pocket. He’s a strange and scary man.

  “Why is he here? He scares me!” I asked Jake, as Epic 22 leaned toward him making her inquisitiveness obvious as well, wondering the same thing I imagine.

  “Not now Darby, SILENCE!”

  It bothered me that Jake was quieting my inquiry – also reminding me of him being some low-life circuit judge, filled with self-importance, reprimanding a lowly defense attorney. Having experienced this scenario many times in the past and not wanting to ‘let it rest,’ as in previous times, I pouted for thirty seconds. Also, his mentioning my name ‘Darby’ made me aware he had changed personalities to his ancestral Sherlock, and what next would come from his big mouth. Tasting minute regurgitation from stimulation of my obvious nervous tension, coupled with my sensitive reflux problem, I snapped back…

  “Don’t you shush *burp* me, Mr.…”

  “QUIET, please” he snapped. “I realize you’re anxiety at the arrival of Epic 8, knowing his saturnine history with the criminal element, et al, yet, as you well know from past ventures, he compliments our inquiry of sordid villains with his unique, hasty manner and bold technique...both most circumspect to this present inquiry. You’re angst is well noted, nonetheless, I must ask your indulgence of Epic 8’s introduction to the case – no one cuts through bureaucracy like his noble self, moreover, the occasion requires it. Additionally, what you fail to comprehend my dear Darby is that our Mr. Burris’ involvement in this case engenders more complexity than you credit him. You failed to notice the ‘black rook’ pendant attached to his shirt pocket during our interview…this medal ornament obviously connotes membership or station relative to some chess fraternity – his backyard game reveal him playing chess not checkers. Chess! Dear Darby, a game requiring long-term strategic thinking coming from a mind of complexity and cognitive capacity...not an aged, tired and minimalistic maintenance worker. Secondly, you missed Mr. Burris’ pronounced eyelid flutter when speaking to his daughter, a sure sign of either heightened anxiety on his part or perhaps some arcane method of communicating with his daughter, or both. Thirdly, dear Watson…ur, Darby, there exist traces of white powdery substance on the back porch steps upon which we set during said interview, possibly if not probable from similar residue found in the alleyway where concrete drilling occurred on the back walls of the 2nd Precinct building. All observations, however minute, causing me to travel here, to the Burris’ home, where clues suggest the case foundation lies, not in the assassination inquiry of Detective Jones, who may very well have discovered inconsistencies on his own resulting in his being here, near where the shooting occurred…and that my faithful chronicler should answer your question as to why we’re…”

  “Okay, okay, give me a break and just so you know I’m not writing any of this stuff down. You forget sometimes, no chronicling going on here, OKAY?”

  “Uh, yes…okay, I remember now Clarice.”

  “Fine, so where is Leo? Is he not in the house with the others?”

  “Undetermined at this point in time, as music coming from the home covers any individual conversation. Earlier, prior to the music being so loud we did hear Leo’s daughter quieting the child per Junk Dog’s instruction. Nothing has been heard from Leo nor did any conversation indicate he is inside the home. I’m not convinced Leo would even permit the gang-member being in his home as he may be oblivious to his daughter’s friendship with this person.”

  “So, how do we proceed?” I queried.

  “We’re waiting to hear any conversation coming from the alley vehicle, 212 is about thirty yards behind it with ‘big ears’ tuned in.”

  The instant Jake had finished explaining where we we’re in the stakeout, we picked up shouting and moaning coming from the alley vehicle. Thirty seconds later 212 reported on the net that Epic 8 had secured the person in the alley vehicle and was now moving to the Burris’ back porch.

  Jake murmured aloud, like he was talking to himself…“Looks like 212 and 8 are taking charge; I love it when they push things forward; advancing developments, making decisions to thwart the perp’s crime flow, it’s bold, it’s beautiful.”

  “We need to backup 8 on the porch,” Epic 3 chimed in.

  As Jake and 3 exited the vehicle – 22 was looking at my tablet screen’s green night-vision display, with drone night vision of the entire neighborhood area so as to visibly trace anyone exiting from any Burris’ home door or window – I scurried toward the alley vehicle to make contact with 212 who obviously guarded the captured perp.

  Approaching the area I could see 212 had the person out of the vehicle and was now resting his knee in the middle of the perps back as he lay on the gravel alleyway.

  Earlier I wondered why 8 had a sock hanging from his back pocket, now I knew…the perp was now gagging with that same sock in his mouth; his eyes were duct-taped along with having both hands tied behind his back with the usual nylon, black wire tie. It seems Epic 8 never leaves home without those handy, black wire ties.

  “Looks like you have this guy under control,” I whispered to 212.

  “I was way back there listening with my headphones when E8 ran by me; he reached in from the cars back window, grabbed this guy by the neck and pulled him over the front seat and out the back window onto the ground. He then tied him up and headed for the back porch…it was like watching a rodeo calf-roping contest.”

  “8 pushes things along all right, Jake loves that about him.”

  “Help me roll this guy down into the culvert where you can stay with him while I backup E8 on the porch.”

  We dragged the perp along the gravel alleyway and rolled him into the grassy ditch beside the car, I whispered, “Jake and Epic 3 should be with 8 now, go ahead, I got this covered.”

  I watched as 212 ran to the porch and entered the back door. My prisoner was lying quietly, too quiet I thought, so not knowing whether he’s conscious or not I held my stun gun beside his ear so he could hear the buzzing. He stirred, shaking his head back and forth, so, I’m guessing he’s awake and not passed out. Darn! Now he knows he’s not alone and someone is present, keeping tabs on him.

  My phone scared the hell out of me when it began vibrating, held tight in the back pocket of my jeans. I pulled it out with the glow of its face lighting up the dark alleyway. It was 22 sending me the feed from Epic 3’s sunglasses-camera streaming action inside the Burris’ home. It was crystal clear.

  I could see Epic 8 scuffling with someone, he had the guys arm twisted, and shaking what appeared to be a gun out of the perp’s hand. About that time, Jake advanced forward and stunned the perp, rendering him limp as he fell to the floor. I couldn’t get over how clear the video was, it was like watching a thriller movie on TV. Then, they, specifically E8, grabbed up the guy slinging him over his shoulder carrying him out of the room.

  Next, the live-cam video became a hodge-podge of darkness and lighted hallways, stairs, more hallways, through a kitchen, heading to what looked like the rear of the house and Leo’s back porch. As I looked up I could see Jake kicking the backdoor open as Epic 8 fluidly threw his load into hands of Irregular cohorts, 212 and 3, who without hesitation hurriedly drug the man to my location at the rear of the alley vehicle.

  The unconscious perp from the house was then thrown into the back seat while Jake and E8 grabbed-up the guy resting in the culvert, pitching him in on top of the guy in the back seat. 212 jumped behind the wheel while scary-man E8 climbed into the shotgun seat, both were smiling like kids playing cops and robbers.

  Jake swished his hands together several times as if dusting off ‘perp scum’ from the encounter, he then hollered...

  “Take them to 666b, we’ll follow.”

  12:13 A.M., Friday, June 14, 2013
<
br />   666b is a code-speak term we use to indicate the basement of the building where Jake and I live on 15th street. We seldom use the basement for much of anything but storage and the occasional Irregulars meeting relative to some new gadget or device they want to inspect, thinking it might be handy or useful in our investigations. The basement was the same physical dimensions as the floors above it, only dark, dank and replete with all the makings of a devilish torture dungeon, not that we necessarily wanted to think of it for that purpose, nonetheless, it is what it is. The basement was accessed from the garage floor above it by a huge opening in the concrete, covered with huge railroad ties strewn across two three foot diameter maple tree trunks fashioned into a ramp leading down to the ‘dungeon basement.’ Jake was extremely proud of his construction techniques as it was solid enough to support a huge delivery truck traversing the incline with ease. It was our own concept, now authentic, darkness space contrasting the light of our outdoor roof area, each with different missions, different tasks and purposes.

  As Jake, E3 and I sped along the streets of Detroit I wondered aloud about the absence of regular police and detectives at Leo’s house, noticeably absent which was incredibly unusual when one of their own is struck down. Also the whereabouts of Leo, his daughter and her daughter in the melee capture of the two perps, where were they? “Not now Clarice,” was his answer, “we separated them from the encounter...they’re quite safe” he continued. Believing in their innocence, Jake’s quick and bold assurance calmed me of their wellbeing. Still, one had to wonder about Leo and his daughter’s involvement with these thugs who we have now captured. It was at times like this I’ve thought of Jake’s enormous concern for the innocent, the collateral beings which many times become causalities in the rapid-fire, sometimes brutal escapades of the event...not this time. I loved that about Jake, always attentive to extraneous components of an encounter, whether it person, place or thing. He’s good that way.

  We zipped our vehicle down the 666b basement ramp making a one-eighty turn as our headlights spotted the far corner area where two struggling perps rested beside what Jake called, a ‘hydroponic play area.’ The HPA was a twenty by twenty foot square, three-foot high, brick-built enclosure planted with wild water grasses and exotic hosta’s where piped and circulated spring water fed a twenty-four inch deep pool providing a cozy home to a couple frogs, a hundred or so minnows Jake used for fishing and three harmless, icky-looking water snakes. The dimmed grow lights cast an eerie focused radiance on the grassy pool separating the remaining darkness of the basement level.

  We exited Jake’s vehicle to two busy, smiling faces pasted on Epic 212 and the huge and scary, E8. I should have known smiling faces from those two meant something weird...and gory. The perps were each roped down to a 2x12 wood plank – a large, thick, pine board about eight feet long – used in those instances when Jake and the Irregulars needed to interview a uncooperative, typically hostile wrongdoer. The wood plank was functional in that it allowed easy mobility of the person keeping them safe and secure while being interviewed among the several ‘work stations’ the Irregulars had set up. It also made a great teeter-totter when employed with the hydroponic play area, now becoming a tool for extracting information from uncooperative interviewees. Jake wanted to emulate the military’s technique used in the ‘war on terrorism,’ figuring if it was good enough for them maybe it was useful in our ‘war on crime.’ The irregulars agreed wholeheartedly, in fact they loved it as the device made typically short work of the interview. They loved things quick and effective.

  E8 had picked up one of the perps, along with the board he was attached to, and was positioning it on the pools brick edge, readying the guy for his first plunge when Jake mumbled...

  “If we’re going to question him you might want to remove the tape from his mouth first.” E8 just shrugged his shoulders as if it really didn’t matter.

  “A quick dunk prior to the interview might free up Junk Dog’s memory...he seems kind of anxious with all the squirming he’s doing. It might cool him off a bit,” Epic 3 suggested.

  “Maybe you’re right, you know better than me about these kinds of things,” Jake said, chuckling.

  E8 lifted his foot from the boards end and down went ‘Doggy’ with a splash. No more than five seconds later the teeter-totter raised the perp from under the water.

  Having never before seen this questioning technique, up close and personal so to speak, I’ll have to admit the guy quieted right down after only one dunk. Can’t imagine what was running through Doggy’s mind at this point in time but from his demeanor he was concerned. E3 ripped the tape circling the perp’s eyes and ears. He could now see and hear and appeared to be definitely frightened as his eyeballs were the size of golf balls. One had to believe Doggy was reflecting on what was to happen next.

  “First things first Mr. White,” Jake interjected, positioning himself no more than six inches from the perps face. “Hear me well on this point Mr. White, before we take the tape from your mouth. We are on a tight schedule, thus my associates and I wish you to answer our questions with only a simple yes or no. Do you understand me on this point?” Doggy blinked his eyes and E3 tore the duct tape from the perps face.

  “You assholes are in deep shiii...” blurted Doggy just before E8 took his foot off the board.

  About fifteen seconds later, Jake made a thumbs-up gesture at E8 who teetered-totted the board out of the water. The perp was now breathing hard and spitting water, his eyes were even bigger it seemed.

  “Are we agreed then, yes or no?”

  “Yeeaassss!”

  “Your name is Jerome White and they call you Junk Dog, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were among the five gentlemen who shot Detective Jones outside the Leo Burris’ home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you the one who shot Detective Jones?”

  “No.”

  Jake then grabbed the board from under E8’s foot and began to lower Doggy toward the water. “Is that the truth, Mr. White?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re wasting my time Mr. White, you need to know I possess a sixth sense about truth-telling...now, for the last time – did you shoot Detective Jones?”

  “No.”

  Jake let the board fall into the pool. Doggy began struggling against the ropes, probably thinking he was doomed regardless the truthfulness of his answers. Several times previous I had witnessed Jake using this questioning technique in field interviews, usually while hand-choking the interviewee – it was his method of reinforcing the urgency, the correctness, the truthfulness of the perp’s response. He thought it set up his next question with a sense of total compliance. Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t, as we never made physical notes to any measurement of its efficacy. Regardless, Jake thought the technique formidable, so that’s really all that mattered.

  It looked as if Doggy wasn’t interested in holding his breath under the water; instead he screamed and yelled for his life, thus, consuming huge amounts of water. He assuredly was not a water playmate, perhaps not even a swimmer I suspect. Junk Dog was frightened to point of wetting his pants, when, after no more than ten seconds he was raised out of the water only to have his anxiety explode when E8 threw a harmless snake around his neck.

  Jake immediately knelt, fronting the perp, speaking in his classically annoying manner – that of a matter-of-fact, monotonal voice inflection (visions of Sherlock crept into my mind), “You do know who shot Detective Jones, do you not?”

  “Aarrrgh! Uh?”

  Doggy was confused by Jake’s elocution, I suspect. Either that or his attention to the snake has subdued his cognitive processes.

  “NO!” “YES!” he gasped.

  “Which is it Mr. White?”

  “Yes, yes...get snake off me!”

  After removing the snake Jake grabbed one end of the board while E8 picked up the other end leaning the perp-attached-board against the wall. Fortunately for Ju
nk Dog they stood it ‘heads-up’ and not ‘feet-up.’ James and 212 had brought down Max and Joanie from their garage pen, our pair of 2XL-sized Bullmastiff, both outfitted with impressive leather muzzle headgear. They were meek sweeties but the perps didn’t know that. All they saw was the bulk of these two animals, a meager 180 pounds each, outweighing both of the perps. Max’s legs were the size of a man’s arm, Joanie’s dark color and piercing eyes, and of course those darn scary muzzles produced the effect we wanted, after all how does one interpret a huge muzzled dog – two huge muzzled dogs?

  Max – the sweetie bull mastiff with his scary mask

  Max and Joanie were purposefully positioned approximately ten feet in front of the two perps still rope-tied to the long 2x12 pine boards which were leaning on the concrete basement wall. The perps previous and continual struggle against the rope had now quieted with their focus and accompanying huge eyeballs now directed at Max and Joanie who were barking and slobbering.

  Epic 212, a hack-master par excellence and most adept at finding any individual’s crime history had researched the other perp, Junk Dog’s patiently waiting partner in the alley vehicle, having run his thumb print through the federal fingerprint database revealing nothing. This fact alone was surprising. However, inconspicuously displayed in his wallet slot, of all things, was a use-beaten Detroit Public Library card confirming his identity; a Mr. James Robert Stackhouse. Who would have thought he was an avid reader? The perp, a young slender built Caucasian was further revealed to be a relocated southerner from Mississippi commonly referred to in the drug streets of Detroit as Jimbo. Jake surmised from his last name that Jimbo was the younger brother of Billy Jo Stackhouse, noted gang leader and drug distributor. And yes, Jake and I were somewhat familiar with the Billy Jo enterprise and its criminal endeavors.