A Man's Partner: A Detective Jericho Single

by Walter Marks

  Jericho parked in front of the building and asked Keisha if she wanted to go in and talk to some of Mouse’s colleagues.

  “No… that would be,” she broke off. “I’ll just wait for you in the car.”

  “I shouldn’t be long,” Jericho said. “I just need to see Mouse’s suicide note, and tell Reardon we’re headed down to the Medical Examiner’s office.”

  He hadn’t been back to the precinct house since he quit the force and moved out to East Hampton. The Two Five contained too many painful memories — late nights of drinking and doing coke with the guys, humping hookers and druggies, and squandering his considerable talent as a detective. When his wife divorced him, taking their daughter with her, he knew he’d hit bottom. His wife remarried an East Hampton construction contractor, so he moved out there to be near his daughter, Katie. And in doing so, he was finally able to put his screwed up life behind him, and become the good cop he was meant to me.

  But as Jericho entered the building, none of the past mattered very much. All he felt was mixture of grief and determination — his partner was gone and he had to find out what happened.

  The cop at the reception station smiled as he came through the door. “Hey, Detective Jericho. Long time.”

  Jericho nodded.

  “Prob’ly you don’t remember me,” the patrolman said. “Danny Santos. I was just a rookie the year you left. But I knew Mouse pretty good. He talked about you a lot — tellin’ me these cool war stories about the shit you guys did back in the day. I’m so sorry what happened to him. Can’t believe it. You think you know somebody and then...” He broke off, shaking his head.

  “I’m here to see Detective Reardon.”

  “Oh yeah. I heard he caught the case. He’s up on the second floor, third door down the hall on your right.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jericho was glad he could avoid the first floor. Like Keisha, he had no appetite to walk past the muster room or the detective squad room and listen to awkward condolences.

  “How’s the investigation going?” Jericho said to Reardon.

  “Good.”

  “I guess Mouse’s face was pretty shot up, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Reardon said. “He fired his Glock straight up into the roof of his mouth. The hollow point really blew apart his face and skull.”

  “Hollow point?” Jericho said. “Since when do we use hollow points? It’s not a defensive bullet.”

  “The department switched over a few years ago,” Reardon explained. “Turns out they can stop a bad guy faster, and they won’t pass through a body and hit some innocent bystander.”

  Jericho nodded. “Did you see Mouse at the crime scene?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was he recognizable.”

  “As far as I could tell,” Reardon responded. “He had, y’know, that grey hair that kinda grew out in patches. And his personal effects — wallet, credit cards, keys, wristwatch — they all confirmed it was him.”

  “Did he have a platinum wedding ring? Not gold, platinum?”

  “I dunno. I’ll check with CSI,” Reardon said. “Did you bring Mrs. Davis in so she can give us an ID downtown?”

  “Yes. She’s waiting in the car,” Jericho said. “I’d like to take a look at Mouse’s suicide note.”

  “Listen, it’s evidence, and we’re not supposed to let the public...”

  “I’m not the public.”

  “I know.” He took a clear plastic evidence envelope from his desk drawer. “You’re his friend and his ex-partner, so I’ll let you take a peek. But keep this to yourself, okay?”

  He handed the suicide note to Jericho.

  Jericho looked at the note through the plastic. It appeared to be Mouse’s handwriting, but he was not an expert. Reading it quickly, the writing seemed clear- minded and reasonable.

  He tried to parse the words, looking for something uncharacteristic of Mouse, suggesting he didn’t write them.

  He could find nothing. Still, he felt there had to be some clue hidden in the text. He needed time. He needed a copy.

  He sniffled loudly and Reardon, thinking he was about to break down, turned his back to give Jericho some privacy. He quickly whipped out his iPhone, and took a photo of the note.

  A female voice rang out. “What the hell’s goin’ on here?”

  They turned and saw a formidable looking woman in the doorway, glaring at them. She wore a starched white shirt with a gold badge emblem sewn onto it, a black tie with tie-clip, and a no-nonsense black skirt. She had a proud bearing, deep dark-brown skin, and finely chiseled facial features.

  She spoke with an accent — Jericho wasn’t sure if it was West Indian or African. “I was coming in to check on the investigation.”

  Her voice had a lilt, but it was far from pleasant.

  “Oh,” Reardon said. “This is Detective Jericho. He was, uh, just showing me his new iPhone camera.”

  “Bullshit,” she said. “I can see the evidence envelope in his hand.”

  “Jericho,” Reardon said. “This is Deputy Inspector Jenifer Babatunde.”

  “What are you doing here?” she growled at Jericho.

  “I’m with East Hampton PD. I used to be a detective in the Two Five. Mickey Davis was my partner.”

  She snatched the envelope from Jericho’s hand and looked at it. “This is evidence. It can’t be seen by anyone not involved in the investigation. If you were a detective here, you certainly know the rules. And Reardon, you know the rules too.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  “And you, Detective... what’s your name?”

  “Jericho.”

  “Jerry?”

  “Jericho, like in the Battle.”

  “Whatever,” she said. “Why were you takin’ that picture?”

  “Sentimental reasons.”

  “Let me give it to you straight, Detective”, Deputy Inspector Babatunde said, her eyes narrowing. “The investigation into Officer Davis’s death is the exclusive provenance of this department. Any interference from an outside party will be regarded as Obstruction of Justice — a class 4 felony, punishable by 3 years’ imprisonment and $25,000 fine. In other words, keep your ass the hell out of our business.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” He said “Ma’am” with a bite to it, but he wasn’t sure she noticed.

  “Don’t let me see you around here again, Jerry!”

  DI Babatunde whirled and stalked out of the office. Reardon looked at Jericho and shrugged. “She’s Chief of Detectives,” he said. “I can’t help you anymore.”

  “I understand.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll investigate thoroughly.”

  “Looks like suicide, but you can’t be sure,” Jericho said.

  Reardon frowned and said nothing

  “Well, I better get going,” Jericho went on. “Mrs. Davis is waiting for me.”

  “I’ll grab a car and meet you down at the ME’s office.” Reardon said.

  “Right. See you there.”

  On his way out, Jericho stopped and spoke with the patrolman at the reception desk.

  “Hey, pal,” he said. “When you get a chance, I’d like to talk to you about Mouse. It... well, it’ll make me feel better, talking to someone who was his friend.”

  “Any time,”

  “Gimme your cell number.”

  Officer Santos looked pleased. He reached into his uniform pocket and handed him a business card. “All my contact info is here.”

  Jericho looked at the card. It showed a generic silver police shield against a blue background. In a fancy calligraphy font were the words — PO Daniel Santos — NYPD.

  “It was advertised on the TV,” he said proudly. “Eight dollars and ninety-nine cents for five hundred cards.”

  “Well, that oughta last ya,” Jericho said, grinning.

  At the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, there is a small, undecorated chamber called the Viewing Room. It contains four chairs, facing
a seven-foot wide elevator shaft. In front of the shaft is a purple velveteen curtain on a track.

  Jericho, Keisha, and Reardon were seated in the chairs, while an attendant, wearing a blue shirt marked OCME, stood at a control panel.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Jericho nodded. The attendant pushed a button, and there was a clanking sound emanating from the elevator shaft. After a while it stopped.

  “Video’s activated. Elevator’s up. Ready for viewing?”

  “You okay?” Jericho asked Keisha.

  She nodded.

  At the push of another button, the purple curtain slid to the side. The man’s body was displayed lengthwise. It lay on a steel platform, face up, with a sheet covering his torso but leaving his arms exposed at his side. His head was propped up on a four-inch wooden block.

  Jericho had been through this many times when he was with NYPD Homicide. He’d learned to comfort and support the bereaved family members as they endured this devastating trauma. But this...

  “Oh, my God,” Keisha cried out, as she leaned forward and viewed the mass of tissue, blood, and bone that used to be her husband’s face.

  Jericho grabbed her and held her as she sobbed. “Take deep breaths,” he said softly. She struggled to comply.

  “Ma’am,” attendant said. “If you identify the deceased as your husband, please speak up clearly for recording purposes.”

  Keisha spoke up, almost shouting. “I... identify this man... as my husband — Michael Davis!”

  She sat up straight, closed her eyes, and moved her lips in a silent prayer.

  “Keep the curtain open,” Jericho said. “I want to take a closer look.”

  He got up and peered down at the body. Reardon joined him.

  “There’s his wedding ring,” Reardon said. “Platinum, like you said.”

  “Yep,” Jericho replied, looking at his limp left hand. Then he noticed Mouse’s fingernails. They were neatly trimmed, shaped, and covered with clear acrylic nail polish.

  His immediate thought stunned him: Mouse would never, ever, in a million years, have gotten a manicure!

  CHAPTER 5.

  When Jericho drove Keisha home, she suggested he sleep over on their convertible sofa. It had been a long day so he said yes.

  At the boys’ request, Jericho sent out for pizza, and they all sat around the kitchen table, chowing down and saying whatever popped into their heads so there wouldn’t be any long silences. Most of the conversation revolved around take-out like Domino’s and Papa John’s vs. frozen DiGiorno and Red Baron. Jericho pleaded for Newman’s Own but he was booed into silence.

  By unspoken mutual agreement the subject of Mouse was deliberately avoided.

  After dinner they gathered around the TV to watch Channel 13. Nova had a program dealing with the Universe. They were informed that there were about two hundred billion stars in the average galaxy and about two hundred billion galaxies in the known universe. And that all those galaxies were moving away from each other at blinding speeds, some surpassing the speed of light, which is 186,000 miles a second.

  “Which means — we really don’t count for shit!” said sixteen-year-old Darius, summing it up with teenage wisdom.

  After the boys went to bed, Jericho and Keisha sat quietly in the living room.

  ”I have to look after the kids now,” she said. “That’s my job.”

  “They’ll really need you.”

  “I don’t think it’s sunk in with them yet,” she said. “When it does, it’ll hit ‘em real hard.”

  Jericho put his hand on hers. “If you need me, just give me a call. I can come into the city any time.”

  She nodded.

  “And let me know about, y’know... funeral arrangements.”

  “I will,” she said. “Jericho, thanks for everything. I… I don’t know how I could’ve managed this without you.”

  “Same here.”

  They hugged each other for a long time. Then they said goodnight.

  In the morning Jericho drove back to East Hampton. He kept seeing Mouse’s face; remembering the laughs they’d shared, the cases they’d tackled — exercises in triumphs and fuck-ups, hits and misses, fear and danger, and always, always having each other’s backs. The tears welled up in his eyes. Why the hell were we so casual about keeping in touch? I guess we both felt we were always there for each other, so occasional phone calls and once-in-a-while dinners were enough. Only now it’s too late to make things right.

  When Jericho arrived at East Hampton Police Headquarters, he saw there was a voicemail on his cell from Rainbow inviting him to her place for dinner. He called her back and asked for a raincheck, saying he’d be heading home to Montauk after work so he could fully concentrate on the mystery of Mouse’s death.

  He spent a routine day at the precinct house, although his concerns about Mouse kept nagging at him. Detective Dobrowolski, his right-hand man, had things pretty well under control. There were a couple of traffic accidents, a drunk and disorderly, a missing Cartier tank watch supposedly taken in a home robbery where nothing else was missing, a Smart Car blocking the driveway of Jerry Seinfeld’s Further Lane mansion, and one major crisis: a woman reported a mallard duck in her swimming pool, who flew away before the police got there.

  As he pulled into his driveway around 6pm, the air was redolent with the unmistakable scent of curry and turmeric. He instantly recognized the smell of Rainbow’s Indian cuisine.

  She greeted the detective at the door, practically enveloping him in her arms.

  “Surprise,” she said.

  For the first time all day, Jericho felt the tension drain out of him. It was a welcome feeling — something no woman had given him in... a long time.

  “I parked down the block so you wouldn’t see my car.”

  “Rainbow, this is so sweet of you.”

  She kissed him lightly on the lips. “I know you’ve got work to do, but I thought maybe you could use a break.”

  “You figured right.”

  “I can’t stay over because I’ve got an early morning client. So tonight let’s just say I’m — Meals on Wheels.”

  Jericho laughed.

  “So —how are you holding up?” she asked.

  “Hangin’ in there.”

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” Rainbow said. She went into kitchen and lifted a pot cover.

  “Couple more minutes for the rice.”

  Over dinner, Jericho talked about the day’s events. Occasionally he became upset, and when he did, Rainbow responded by making a gently formed “okay” sign with her left hand. The first time she did it, Jericho looked puzzled.

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s the mudra for celestial knowledge and inner peace. I guess I do it reflexively, but I’ll stop if you want.”

  “No, I like it,” Jericho said. He actually did.

  She served a Madras chicken curry with chopped cilantro, basmati rice pilaf, and steamed butternut squash with ginger. Jericho was in heaven.

  As he was finishing dinner, he told her how puzzled he was about Mouse having had a manicure. She shook her head.

  “Lots of men get manicures these days,” she said. “What’s the big deal?”

  “He had this macho thing about men’s grooming.” Jericho explained. “He thought men wearing cologne was unmanly, and hair gel was for gay men and pimps. He was okay with using a nail clipper on your nails, but filing them was a no-no.”

  Rainbow laughed. “You gotta be kiddin’.”

  “Listen,” Jericho said. “It was just a quirk. Mouse was a first-rate detective, a stand-up guy, and the best partner a man could wish for. He had your back, no matter how rough things got.” Jericho paused for a moment. “I really loved the guy.”

  Rainbow smiled. “So... why do you think Mouse had a manicure?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  “Maybe, maybe... he was fooling around,’ Rainbow said. “Sometimes guys change their whole MO when they meet s
omeone else — especially if they’re older and get involved with a younger woman. Take it from me — I’ve been the younger woman.”

  “His wife suggested the same thing,” Jericho said. “I suppose it could’ve happened, but it’s hard for me to imagine.”

  “Listen, there’s a private, secret part in everybody. No one can see that deep into another person’s heart.”

  Jericho thought for a moment. “That’s true,” he said.

  After dinner Rainbow looked sympathetically at the detective. “You look tired.”

  “Long day.”

  She got up, went behind him, and began to massage his shoulders firmly.

  “Feels good,” he said. “Very relaxing.”

  “If I keep doing this, it could lead to something less relaxing.”

  “True dat.”

  “But like I said, I’ve got an early client. Besides, I have the feeling you really need to be in your own space tonight.”

  “You really know me, don’t you?”

  “Workin’ on it,” she said. “You stay still. Put your mind at rest.” She took her hands off his shoulders. He sat motionless as he heard her getting her things together.

  At the doorway she called out.

  “Have a good night.“

  “Honey, thanks for dinner,” Jericho said, turning to her. “And... for everything. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “Careful on the drive home.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  CHAPTER 6.

  After Jericho did the dishes, he uploaded the photo of Mouse’s suicide note to his laptop.

  He read it over several times, searching for some clue as to why his partner took his own life. But he drew a blank.

  In his desk drawer, he found an old photograph of himself and Mouse when they were just rookies. At the bottom, scrawled in ballpoint pen, were the words: Mouse and Battle — Atlantic City Tropicana Casino — two losers.

  Mouse had all his hair, in a modified Afro. Jericho’s face was devoid of lines and wrinkles. In their goofy smiles and the way hugged each other, he could see their bond had already formed. It only grew stronger through the years.