by Diane Kelly
I’d previously had the good fortune of working under a couple of FWPD detectives who’d recognized my abilities and dedication and allowed me to be involved in their investigations. I’d helped them take down a bomber and violent pickpocket. But who knew when I’d have the chance to work such a case again? In the meantime, I’d have to bide my time as a street cop, fighting for truth and justice as I racked up the minimum four years of police work required to apply for detective.
A mere twenty minutes into my shift and a dispatcher’s voice came over the speaker. “Noise complaint near TCU.” She rattled off an address on Shirley Avenue. “Who can respond?”
I was currently cruising down Park Hill, not far from the location. I slid the car’s mic out of its holder and pressed the talk button. “Officers Luz and Brigit responding.”
I waited on the light, then crossed University, making my way into the older neighborhood that contained a mixture of pretty, restored owner-occupied residences and slightly rundown rentals. As we made our way up Shirley, there was no need for me to check addresses. My window was down and the raunchy rap music blaring from a stone house with a gable over the front door let me know this was the place. The purple and white flag featuring the horned frog mascot further informed me that students lived here.
I climbed out of the cruiser and stepped away from the car, intending to leave Brigit inside, when she emitted a soft whine. Looked like she might need a potty break already. I returned to the cruiser and let her out, giving her the order to stay close to me.
I waited while she crouched in the dry winter grass and relieved herself. When she was done, I headed up the three steps to the porch and pushed the doorbell. The music was so loud neither the ding nor the dong was audible. I tried again to get the occupants’ attention, this time banging on the front door with the outside of my fist. Bam-bam-bam.
Still no response from within.
I stepped to one of the front windows and rapped on the glass. Rap-rap-rap. “Fort Worth police!” I hollered. “Come to the door!”
Still nothing.
I cupped my hands around my eyes and put my face to the glass. I caught a glimpse of a twentyish guy walking down a hallway in nothing but a pair of tightie whities with a quarter-sized hole in the left butt cheek. “Hey, you!” I yelled. It was of no use.
Both irritated and out of ideas, I stepped back to survey the house. The window on the end was open an inch or two. Young guys didn’t tend to be as careful about home security as they should be. Not as concerned about their utility bills, either.
I moved down to the open window and took another look inside. Judging from the empty pizza boxes littering the floor and the overflowing ashtrays on the coffee table, the tenants had had a party last weekend.
I could not only hear the music now, but I could also hear the guy singing along with it, belting out the four-letter words as if his life depended on it. I removed the screen, leaned it up against the outside wall, and pushed the window open a few more inches.
“Hey!” I yelled again through the open window. “Fort Worth PD! Come out here!”
Nothing but more singing.
I pushed the window all the way up, leaned against the windowsill, and stuck my head inside, scanning the room. Enormous speakers at least four feet tall sat in each corner of the room. The stereo itself sat only a few feet from the window. Maybe I could reach in and unplug it.
Nope.
Try as I might, my fingers could not quite reach the cord. Dang. Whipping my baton from my belt once again, I extended it with another snap! Amazing how often the metal stick came in handy. Sticking it through the window, it easily reached the cord. One quick upward jerk and the cord came out of the plug. Instant silence.
“What the hell?” came the boy’s voice from somewhere down the hall. A moment later he appeared in the doorway and spotted me at the window. “Shit!” he shrieked, his hands instinctively moving to cover his crotch. As if there was anything there I wanted to see. “What are you doing?”
“Putting an end to this cacophony.” I placed the end of my baton against the stone wall outside and pushed it closed. I angled my head to indicate the front door. “Come out on the porch. We need to talk.”
“Can I put on pants first?”
“Please do.” Justice may be blind, but I wasn’t.
A moment later, the boy opened the front door, now dressed in a pair of tan shorts so wrinkled they appeared to be made from Shar-Pei skin.
Though I’d been a college kid myself only a couple of years ago, I nonetheless gave him a stern look. Might as well nip this in the bud. I knew how these things went. If I went easy on him, FWPD would be called out here a dozen more times before he’d get the message. “I rang the bell,” I told him, “and knocked, and called to you through the window. We received a noise complaint. You can’t play your music so loud.”
“But it’s my getting-ready-for-class music!” he said, as if that excused his behavior. “I need it to get me going.”
“Use headphones,” I suggested.
As I wrote him up a quick warning, Brigit squeezed past me in the doorway and went as far inside as the leash would allow. She used her snout to push aside a pizza box, found a piece of rock-hard crust, and snatched it up.
The form completed, I ripped it from the pad and held it out to the boy. “You’re on the record now. If officers are called out here again, you’ll get an expensive citation. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he spat, yanking the warning paper out of my hand.
Ma’am. Nice touch.
Without further adieu, Brigit and I headed back to the cruiser, where she hopped into the back, positioned the pizza crust between her front paws, and began working it.
No sooner had I started the engine and pulled away from the curb than dispatch came over the radio again. “We’ve got a report of a body found in Forest Park near the zoo. Who can respond?”
A body?
Holy crap!
Every sphincter in my body puckered. I was less than a minute’s drive away. But the last thing I wanted to do was take this call. I hesitated, waiting to see if another officer would take it.
Several seconds went by with no response.
The dispatcher tried again. “Who can respond?”
Please. Please, someone, anyone, respond!
No one did.
Instead, the Big Dick’s voice came over the radio. “Your last call was right near there, Luz. Ain’t you still around?”
I could hear the shit-eating grin in his voice. When we’d been partners, we’d responded to a call involving an assault and robbery at an ATM. One look at the victim’s bloody, broken nose and I’d tossed my cookies in the bank’s sage bushes. Derek had found my squeamishness nothing short of hilarious.
“C’mon, Luz,” he said, when I failed to respond. “Don’t be a puss.”
Lest I look like said “puss” to my fellow officers, I squeezed my shoulder mic in resignation. “Officers Luz and Brigit responding.”
Blurgh.
EIGHT
FAST AND FURIOUS
Brigit
Wheee!
Megan drove fast, the back window down, a rush of cool, crisp air blowing over Brigit. The dog loved the feel of the wind in her fur. She would have loved to stick her head out the window, but the metal mesh enclosure prevented her from doing so. Rather, she stood at the mesh, her snout lifted, scenting the fast-moving breeze.
Her superior olfactory senses detected a number of smells. Some, like car exhaust and Megan’s lavender body lotion, held little interest. Others, like bacon and squirrel, caused her mouth to water, easily worth the shrill noise of the siren.
Brigit knew what the speed and siren meant. She and her partner were needed somewhere for something important. And when she and her partner did important work, Megan rewarded her with liver treats, the number of which corresponded with the difficulty of the task.
Liver treats. Yum. A drop of drool fell from
her chin to the carpeted platform.
Wherever they were going, and whatever they would do, Brigit hoped it would be big.
NINE
TEEN DRAMA
Dub
Monday morning, as Dub performed the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet in his first period theater class, the events of last night seemed as if they’d been acted out by someone else. There were still scratches on his skin, but with any luck they’d heal before anyone noticed. He only hoped that no one would ever find out. Because what happened last night could be as tragic as the ending of this play.
TEN
HARD TO FACE
Megan
Knowing that a body on occasion might not be as dead as it looked, I switched on my lights and siren, zipped up University, and turned right into Forest Park. The crowd of people near the woods flanking the jogging trail made it clear where the body had been found. Taking a deep breath to steel myself, I parked the cruiser and climbed out.
Opening the back door and steel hatch, I motioned for Brigit to hop down. “Come on, girl.” I supposed I could have left her in the car, but frankly I wanted her along for moral support. Surprising how much comfort a dog could provide.
As we sprinted up the path, I attempted to mentally prepare myself for what we would find. I forced myself to visualize a body with a bullet in the chest. A body with multiple stab wounds. A body with a bloody scalp from head trauma. I’d seen enough pictures at the police academy and in various files to know what a dead body looked like. Heck, as cadets we’d even taken a trip to the morgue, seen a number of frozen corpses with toe tags identifying them.
As we approached, the crowd erupted in fresh murmurs. A few people stepped back, giving me my first glimpse of the victim, from his chest down to his feet. He wore rumpled blue jeans, scuffed black biker boots, and a fleece-lined denim jacket. From this vantage point, no wounds were visible. What had he died of? A drug overdose? A heart attack? I’d assumed the guy would be a murder victim, but maybe he’d simply died of natural causes, called home by his creator as he took a late-evening stroll at the park. Could he have been so lucky? Could I be so lucky?
As I made my way forward, more people stepped aside.
Holy shit.
The photographs and morgue visit did nothing to prepare me for seeing what I saw now.
Oh, God. Oh, God! OhGodOhGodOhGod!
I bent over, hands on my knees, and up came my fair-trade coffee and organic oatmeal.
Bruuup.
As the crowd gasped and groaned, a hot blush rushed to my cheeks. How humiliating. Nothing like a cowardly cop to make the people feel safe and protected, huh?
When Brigit went to sniff my regurgitated breakfast, I pushed her away with my foot. “No!”
Standing up straight, I pulled my citation pad from my pocket, ripped off a page, and used it to wipe my mouth. I looked up to find every eye in the crowd locked on me. Great. I clutched Brigit’s leash tightly, hoping it would make my shaking hands less obvious. Stepping forward, I took a closer look at the victim, attempting to force myself to think of the situation clinically.
Easier thought than done.
The victim lay ten feet or so into the woods, behind the trunk of a large tree. He faced away from the trail, as if he were looking into the woods, only the back of his blood-drenched head and blood-soaked shoulders visible from my current angle. Thank God. I wasn’t ready to see his face yet. I needed to ease myself into this.
His patchy, stringy hair was too soaked with blood to tell what color it might have been before he’d been attacked. He rested on his side, his arms and legs scissored. He appeared to be slightly below average in height and on the thin side, the kind of scrawny person for whom the saying “pick on someone your own size” had been invented.
But who had picked on this man? And why?
Kneeling, I took yet another deep breath and reached out over his shoulder to take hold of his wrist, breaking out in a sweat at the feel of his cold, stiff skin. No pulse. No surprise there. It would have been nothing short of a miracle for someone to have survived after losing so much blood.
I stood and slowly circled around to his front. If there’d been any coffee or oatmeal remaining in me, it would have spewed forth at this point. This guy definitely had not died of natural causes. Not unless having your throat ripped open and your face pulverized beyond recognition counted as natural causes. His face and neck were nothing but shredded flesh covered in a thick ragu of blood.
I’ll never eat ziti marinara again.
Wait.
Movement at the man’s mouth caught my eye. Was he moving his tongue? Had I somehow missed his pulse?
Two antennae emerged from between the narrow gap in the man’s lips, followed by the long, flat brown water bug to which they belonged. Gah! My legs turned to wet noodles and I melted to my knees beside Brigit in the moist, leaf-covered dirt.
The dog looked at me with soulful eyes and gave my cheek a soft lick, almost as if she realized how traumatic this scene had been for me and wanted to offer some consolation. But the dog couldn’t be that smart, could she?
“What happened to him?” asked a woman in running gear with her red hair pulled up in a ponytail.
I gulped, forcing my throat, which had squeezed itself shut, to open. “I’d only be guessing at this p-point.”
Good police work involved gathering evidence, critically assessing the clues, and reaching conclusions based on proof. I wasn’t about to engage in idle guesswork here. But between you and me, from the looks of this guy, my money was on werewolves.
Using a tree limb for leverage, I pulled myself to a stand, brushed the dirt and leaf fragments from the knees of my pants, and pushed the button on my shoulder mic. “This is Officer Luz. I need backup at Forest Park, a team from crime scene, and a detective.” I also needed another breakfast, given that I’d just lost mine. Mouthwash couldn’t hurt, either. Raising my eyes to the crowd, I asked, “Who found him?” My voice sounded as weak and faint as I felt. Some tough cop I was, huh?
A lanky man with wavy black hair and pointed features stepped forward, raising his hand as if he’d been called on in class. He wore running shoes, a lightweight blue windbreaker, and black spandex running pants that hugged and accentuated his naughty bits. Let’s leave that fashion choice to people without external genitalia, shall we?
“Your name, sir?” I asked, pulling out my notepad.
“Clark Dennison.”
I jotted it down on my pad. “When d-did you f-find him?” Here came my stutter in full force. Great.
“Just a few minutes ago,” he said.
“You were jogging on the trail?”
He nodded.
“And you sp-spotted the b-body from the trail?”
The man looked around as if embarrassed. “Not exactly.”
His gaze met mine, imploring me for privacy.
I willed my stutter to screw off and looked at the crowd again. “Anyone with information wait by that tree.” I pointed to an oak thirty feet away. “Anyone else p-please move on.” They’d only get in the way of the crime scene technicians and detectives.
The crowd dispersed, none of them going to wait by the oak, though several people ignored my instructions to leave and hung out in a group in the parking lot, engaging in speculative chatter.
I turned back to Naughty Bits and arched a brow.
“I came over here to take a leak,” he said. “That’s when I found the body.”
So nature called, then coughed up a dead body. Nature seemed to enjoy toying with us humans today.
“Any idea who he is?”
Dennison shook his head. “None.”
“Did you touch him?” I asked. “Move him?”
“Lord, no!” The man shook his head vehemently. “I was too freaked out.”
Understandable. “Did you see anyone in the area when you found him?”
He shook his head again. “Only other joggers.”
“Anyone run
ning particularly fast?”
“Not that I noticed.”
I obtained his contact information and asked him to wait for the detective. “The detective will have more questions for you.” Probably better questions, too. I was still having trouble standing upright, let alone performing a proper witness interview.
He pulled his cell phone from its clip on his waistband and phoned his office, explaining that he’d be late coming in today. “I came across a dead person in the park when I was jogging this morning and I need to wait for a detective to come interview me.” He paused a moment. “Yep, that’s what I said. A dead person.” Another pause. “No idea. Looks like his throat was slashed.”
Lest he spill a detail the detective would want to keep secret, I motioned for him to zip his lip. He nodded, said “gotta go now,” and ended the call.
Sirens wailed and tires screeched as Derek whipped around the corner and into Forest Park. Given that the victim was halfway to heaven or hell by now, there was no need for the hoopla, but far be it from Derek not to make a show of any case he was involved in. The guy was an attention whore.
He stopped his cruiser at the curb, leaving the lights flashing but turning off the siren. He trotted over with a rolled-up ribbon of crime scene tape, took one look at the victim, and chuckled. “Hoo-ee. That is one unlucky son-of-a-bitch.”
No puke.
No trembling hands.
No falling to his knees in the dirt.
Derek either had nerves of steel or was a heartless ass. Or maybe he was both. Without another word to me, he tied an end of the yellow plastic tape around a tree and began to mark off a perimeter.
A few minutes later, the crime scene van pulled up, lumbering up over the curb and onto the grass, coming to a stop a few feet outside the taped-off perimeter. Three technicians climbed out, plastic tool kits in their hands. A moment later, an unmarked police car drove into the lot and parked next to my cruiser. Detective Audrey Jackson, a fortyish African-American woman with short, perky braids climbed out. She was dressed in her usual khaki pants and loafers, which she’d paired today with a pink button-down shirt and a FWPD windbreaker.
