by John Knoerle
Wes was conscious of the creak of their leather gunbelts as they advanced. How did cops ever sneak up on a suspect in these get-ups? He stole a glimpse of himself in the wavy glass of an apartment window. The short sleeves of his uniform shirt were too long to show his 'ceps.
They stopped in front of apartment 26. A plastic Big Wheel lay on its side next to a rusted hibache. Bell tapped a knuckle on the door. "Oh, Let-ty," he singsonged. "It's me again, Occifer Belllll."
Wes eyed the carport behind the apartment building next door. Several tatooed young males lounged around the open hood of old car, tall boys of malt liquor in hand. They were staring at him. Wes shifted the polaroid camera to his left hand, leaving his gun hand free.
"Shouldn't we call for back up?" he asked. The Academy taught that, on a percentage basis, domestic disturbance calls were the most perilous to officer safety.
Bell stopped tapping. He ignored the watching woman with the cigarette and turned to Wes. "Don't worry. Shithead ain't home."
Wes assumed this was a reference to the husband. "How can you be sure?"
Bell tweaked an eyebrow toward the carport. "Because he's leaning on the fender of that '71 Duster."
The door opened a crack and a nappy-headed little boy peered out at them with one eye. "Hey there, Artis, is your mama home?" asked Bell in a jolly voice. The little boy turned and ran back into the apartment. Bell swung the door open and stepped inside.
A fragile West Indian woman with long shiny black hair sat on an orange couch holding a bloody paper towel to her forehead. The little boy took up a position at her feet and observed them from behind a heavy, carved-wood coffee table.
Bell crossed to Letty and bent to her wound. The Department required officers to wear surgical gloves in any contact with blood but Bell peeled away the paper towel barehanded, bobbing from side to side, checking the laceration from different angles. Letty didn't flinch when Bell inched back the ochre skin above the cut and said, "Well, it don't look terminal. You may want stitches to reduce the scarring."
Letty nodded. Her little boy pulled a barbecue-flavor Dorito from a bag between his legs and mashed it into his teeth. Bell signaled Wes to take some pictures.
"Did Jerome do this to you?" Wes moved in with his camera. "Look up for a second, dahlin'," said Bell.
Letty looked up. Wes sighted through the lens finder and flashed the camera two feet from her face. She didn't blink. Wes stepped back. The little boy mugged at him, posing for his picture. "How did he get in?" said Bell.
Letty nudged a shoulder toward the sliding window in the kitchen. The glass in one panel was busted out, the pale yellow curtains pushed aside. "Were you cut when he broke the window?"
"He could have come in," said Letty. "Because the lock in the window it don't work. He could have come in. He don't have to break it." She got up and went to the kitchen for another paper towel. Lyedecker heard a knock at the door and wheeled, his hand on his holster. A melodic voice called out, "Florence Jillison."
Bell groaned, but the corners of his mouth turned up as Florence Jillison entered. She was a woman in her middle 30's with a pert freckled nose, bright hazel eyes and blonde highlights in her boyishly-cut hair. She was wearing stone-washed jeans, a white silk scarf loosely knotted around her neck and a teal rayon blouse that struck just the right balance between the dark blue and bright green of her designer warm-up jacket. Letty edged out of the kitchen to stare.
"Thomas J. Bell, good to see you!" sang Florence as she crossed the room. Letty, Bell and Lyedecker stood and watched her approach, transfixed. "And who's this good looking young man?" she asked, giving Wes a bright-eyed once over.
Bell recoiled. "This peckerneck? He's a first day rookie, you don't want him."
Letty took a tenative step forward. "Letty, this is Florence Jillison. She's with the…Who is it this time?" Florence addressed Letty directly. "I'm with the Battered Women's Shelter."
Wes observed all this from a distance. This striking blonde woman had called him 'good looking'. Though Wes looked at his reflection as often as possible, he was not vain about his appearance. In fact he had no idea what he was going to see in the mirror or shop window the next time he looked. This was why compliments were so important to him. They confirmed a fleeting impression he had had. But he decided that Florence Jillison had probably been kidding.
Florence fussed over Letty's laceration, careful not to touch it. "Did your husband do this?"
"Ex-husband," said Bell.
"No, we're married," said Letty.
Bell jumped his long arms like a marionette. "You're still married to that weasel?"
Letty looked away. "He wouldn't never sign nothing."
Florence held out a shielding arm and escorted Letty to the couch. Artis sat twelve inches from the TV screen and watched a cartoon character's jaw move up and down. Florence sandwiched Letty's small-boned brown hand between her own. "Letty," she said, "There is a way out of this cycle of violence. We can get a restraining order. He won't be able to come within a hundred yards of you!"
"But he lives right over there," said Letty, pointing to the apartment building across the way.
Florence didn't miss a beat. "Which is why you and your son need to come live with us at the Shelter for a little while. Till we can get thing's straightened out."
Bell lowered his eyelids to half mast. Letty cocked her head and sucked in her lips as if tasting something sour.
"If not for yourself, then for your little boy."
"He would never hurt Artis," said Letty softly. She spun her frail neck toward the broken window and its pale yellow curtains. She hugged herself with bare arms. "I jus' can't leave right now. I jus' got the place fixed up," she said, sneaking another peak at the window. "I got some new curtains. At Sears, they were on special." Letty dipped her chin with an embarassed smile. "They're linen."
-----
The black woman with the cigarette was waiting for them on the gangway. "I hope you ain't buyin' Letty's bullshit lying stories," she said. Wes stopped to listen. "Cuz Jerome was definitely at home wit me." Bell pulled Lyedecker along. When they reached the front of the building Wes stole a furtive over-the-shoulder at the hardboys in the carport.
"Jesus, Reese, we're gonna have to get you a cow bell or something," said Bell.
Wes turned to his right and stopped abruptly, eye to eye with a shining equine black face.
"Reese used to be a second story man," said Bell. "That's how come he's so quiet."
Officer Cyril Reese - 6'2", 210, 25 to 30 - sidestepped Lyedecker and faced Bell. Wes was reminded of Tyronn Lee, the star tailback on his high school football team who used to sit by his locker after practice and oil his sculpted body for hours.
"And Bell used to be in show biz," said Reese. "That's how come he's such an asshole."
Bell chuckled, tucking his chin girlishly.
Wes wanted to turn and glare at the carport. It was the way he felt on the sidelines before a game, watching the opposing team watching Tyronn Lee run warm-up sprints on the field. Hey, boys. Look who's on my team. But Wes kept his focus on his senior officers and waited to be introduced.
"We're code four," said Bell.
Reese nodded and stole away.
-----
"I had trouble following that one, sir," said Wes.
"Oh yeah?", said Bell, flagging out his arm to stop an oncoming car. He pulled away from the curb and wheeled the Ford westbound on Hill Street.
"I don't see how we ever determined who assaulted Letty, or, even if, you know, she was actually assaulted."
Bell stopped at a stop sign. A minivan waited for them to cross. Bell pointed his right index finger at the van. When he had the driver's attention, he moved his index finger to the left. "Well, I'll tell ya," said Bell. "That has got to be the tenth time I been out there on a 415 and Letty ain't filed charges yet." The minivan crossed the intersection. "So it don't much matter what we determined."
They cruised past rows o
f closely-packed two-story projects, coming alive at night, old people leaning over balustrades to watch the young people cavort below. "Must be check day," said Bell.
Wes spread his legs and bumped his left knee on the shotgun. Florence Jillison had still been counseling Letty when the cops left. Wes suspected that she would succeed where they had failed.
"Yer typikel female domestic abuse victim is-a always per-tectin' somethin'. A kid, a boyfriend, a puppy, somethin'," said Bell, his eyes on the road, shaking his head. "But Letty's the first one I ever met who was willing to give it up for Sears curtains."
Wes pried open the 10x12 inch metal case on the seat between them and dug out a blank incident report. He filled in the particulars at the top of the page; time reported, time responded, penal code violation number, officer name, unit number, date. He paused when he reached the oblong box marked 'Summary'. He didn't begin to know how to condense their recent call into two concise sentences.
Bell glanced over. "Suspect forced entry into victim's home. Victim declines prosecution."
Wes printed in the oblong box.
Bell slit his eyes and jutted out his teeth. "I-uh heer you spent rong time in Chief Shitamoko's office before-a shift," he said. "Vely rong time."
"He was very pleasant," said Wes, not looking up, printing. "He welcomed me to the force, said his number one priority was to provide support for his officers in the field, made all the usual noises."
Bell nodded, silent for once.
"And he said if I had any problems I should come to him directly. He was really very pleasant."
Bell continued to nod, turning south on M Street. They drove past a Hi-Time liquor store and the Launderland Laundromat. As they waited at the Sansome Road intersection Bell said, "He wants you to be a spy."
Bell pointed the LTD Crown Victoria west on Sansome and cruised alongside the railroad tracks. A locomotive trailing two boxcars idled loudly on a siding. Wes inhaled a nostalgic blend of diesel oil and creosote. "What is it they ship out of here?" he asked.
"Diatomaceous earth." Bell glanced in the rearview mirror and blanched. "DWO violation. We're doomed!"
Bell skidded the unit to the curb and flattened himself against the bench seat. Wes turned to see an Asian woman pass them in a white Honda. She was hunched forward, clutching the steering wheel for all she was worth. He looked down at Bell, whose head was almost in his lap. "Is she gone?" Wes nodded. Bell sat up and wiped his brow in an exaggerated gesture. "Whew!"
Wes looked out the window and smiled to himself. This was one very strange cop.
Bell flung a long arm out the window. "This was all ocean floor not so very long ago," he said. "And this little peckerneck algae called the diatom filled the ocean at that time. See them white gashes up there on the hillsides? Layers and layers of the fossilized shells of the diatom."
"Which is why they call it diatomaceous earth," said Wes.
Bell folded up his lips and studied Lyedecker for several seconds. "There is no puttin' one over on you, Braintree."
"So what's it used for?"
"Filtration systems mainly. The Department of Evil ships tons of the stuff."
"Frank 12"
Bell cadged up the mike in a wink. "This is Frank 12."
"Violent 51-50, at the Coach House. RP says room number 12."
"Roger."
Chapter 3
Bell wheeled the LTD into the driveway of a two story white colonial motel trimmed in red brick. The shingle read 'Coach House' above a Currier and Ives print. Cadillacs and Range Rovers were parked in the lot. Bell and Lyedecker winged open their doors and stepped out. Eyes peered out at them from cracked-open doors and from between drawn curtains. No other units had responded. A bleating pain-filled howl burst from a ground floor room. Bell and Lyedecker froze in mid-step, then crossed the asphalt to room #12.
The man sounded big. Bell wished Cyril Reese would come claim jumping like he usually did, save him the embarrassment of having to ask for help. The man's howl rasped down to a hacking cough. Bell bent to his lapel mike. "Frank 12. We're 10-97 at the Coach House. Request backup."
"Copy."
Bell and Lyedecker took a step back when they heard the groan. It was a loud groan from deep in the bowels, the groan of a man who has just sat down next to something horrid and is trying to push away. They heard the sound of shattering glass. Bell craned his long neck toward the parking lot. No squad cars squealed up, their light bars flashing.
"Police officers, open up," shouted Bell, hammering door #12 with the heel of his fist. The escalation from 'disturbance' to 'destruction of property' had forced his hand.
Wes squared his shoulders and clenched and unclenched his fists. He could see nothing but dim light through the heavy drapes. The man in room #12 quieted for a instant, then roared pure incoherent window-rattling fury at the officers outside. The roar continued for longer than Wes thought humanly possible. Shuddering gasps of air followed.
Bell again bent to his lapel mike. "Frank 12. We're about to force entry to room number twelve. Subject extremely agitated." Bell looked up at the sound of furniture being smashed.
"Roger, 12."
Bell keyed on. "I repeat, we'll be inside."
Wes rested his hand on the butt of his department-issue nine millimeter. Bell pushed his nose to within six inches of Lyedecker's. "Here's the deal. If he won't cooperate we subdue him as quickly as possible. Stay behind me going in. Do NOT draw your weapon unless I'm dead." Bell pulled the steel alloy PR-24 baton from shiny ring on his gunbelt. Wes did likewise, feeling like a swashbuckling swordsman in an old black and white movie. "You got it?"
Wes nodded twice. Bell reared back, kicked out a long leg and smashed his calf-high black boot just above the lock hasp. Door #12 splintered open.
A shaft of light from the room enveloped Bell. He made a big target, thought Wes, as he queued up behind Bell's right shoulder and followed him inside.
Room #12 was actually a suite. They entered a living room containing a Tartan plaid couch and matching easy chair, a busted out 25" TV, two broken oak barstools and a naked white man with a gray Fu Manchu mustache and faded tatoos down to his wrists. Bell took two steps inside and stopped. Wes almost bumped into him when his slick-soled black oxfords slid on the plush royal blue carpeting. Wes moved to the right and clasped his baton with both hands.
The naked man - 5'10", 190, 40 to 45 - leaned on an oak barstool, regarding the intruders with surprise. His pupils were dilated, his chest hair matted and sweat dripped from his fingertips. His flesh was bright red. In the instant of appraisal Wes noted that the man seemed to be pulsating, expanding and contracting so rapidly that he almost looked blurred. Though the man had broad shoulders and stingray lats, Wes was in kickass shape after the Academy. And 20 years younger. He didn't believe this guy was going to be a problem.
Bell held out his palm. When he said, "Sir, we are here to assist you…" the man heaved the barstool against the wall and lunged forward with a savage growl. He covered ten feet in a breath and fell upon Wes Lyedecker before he could raise his baton.
Wes toppled backward, dropping his baton. The naked man held him up effortlessly with one hand, the better to grab for his gun with the other. He smelled foul.
Bell advanced, his baton cocked back to strike an incapitating kidney jab. The naked man spun Wes around, shielding himself from Bell as he grappled for the gun that Wes jammed into his holster with both hands. Thus they danced a rondo in room #12 - the naked man reaching for the holstered gun, Wes backing away from his advances, Bell trailing, PR-24 poised.
"Move away," shouted Bell to Lyedecker. "Move away from the subject. Move away. Move away from the subject."
Wes heard his senior training officer, of course, but it was easier said than done. He would happily have removed himself from the stench and slime of the naked man were it not for the man's insistence on seizing his service weapon. Wes gathered himself and wheeled backward violently, careening into a brass standing
lamp. This upset the choreography.
The man sprang after him like a satyr on wet hairy legs. Wes threw his arms back to brace himself in the corner. The naked man pounced, grabbing the butt of the Smith and Wesson, straining the leather strap that secured it in the holster. Wes pushed down, his hands skidding on wet flesh.
The naked man looked up at Wes, his face haloed in the yellow lamp light. His eyebrows were plastered flat, a vein in his forehead pounded four times a second and his nose gushed watery mucus all over Wes' brand new wool uniform shirt. He had a pleading look in his eyes.
Bell raised his baton over his head and, using all the leverage of a long arm on a tall body, RANG the crown of the naked man's skull like a ball peen hammer on a ten penny nail. The naked man spasmed, splashing sweat in all directions. Bell stepped back, pleased with his effort, waiting for its effect.
The naked man smiled at Bell, bellowed like a bull moose and yanked Wes Lyedecker's gun free, snapping the leather strap in two. Wes grabbed the man's wrist with both hands. It was slippery and very warm. The hammer gouged flesh as the man tore the gun through Wes Lyedecker's palms and, raising the pitch of his bellow to a shriek, pointed the gun at the ceiling.
Wes gained his feet. Bell screamed, "Drop the weapon!" and fired twice.
Wes was startled by the noise more than anything. He had only fired a gun at the Academy range, and then only while wearing hearing protection headgear. He was surprised when his eardrums went whump whump and stopped working. He noted that Bell had shot the naked man in the right ribcage and shoulder. He could smell burnt flesh beneath the cordite. His ears began to ring. The aluminum window frames were resonating at high frequency.
The naked man's shriek deflated like a cartoon tire. He took a step toward Bell, still holding the weapon high.
"Drop the weapon, drop the weapon," screamed Bell as Wes lept forward with both arms extended, intent on reclaiming his gun and saving the day. The slick sole of the stiff oxford on his plant foot slipped on the carpet and he fell to one knee.
