“Not much help, is it?”
“Nope, churches skip across the hereafter like flat rocks on a still pond.”
“I thought you gave up on God; midlife crisis and all?”
“I did…” Dan gazed out the window, “…could be… He didn’t give up on me.” Dan checked out two men standing by a parked car as they slowly cruised by. “Ben, I don’t know why I’m here! Is that a deep enough pond for your pebbles?”
“A kid runs away from home, doesn’t change who his daddy is. You gettin’ homesick?”
“Could be—if I knew where home was.”
“Who can know? We’re here. So, we play out the hand dealt.”
“That your take on it? Didn’t Plato build his philosophies on the assumption everything has an opposite?”
“I don’t know, Dan. I never met him.”
“We both agree there’s a Devil. Right?”
“Deal with his handiwork every day.”
“Based on a reality of opposites; if there’s a Devil, there’s a God. Even if He isn’t involved.”
“Still don’t see your point, Dan?”
“We keep chasing bad guys and every day there’s more an’ more to chase.”
“It’s job security.”
“In a pig’s eye! Violence keeps escalating, why? If we can’t stop it, it’ll overtake us. In God versus Devil terms, the Devil’s winning! Doesn’t that make you itch?”
“I don’t know about your itch, but I think that Rambler busted the light.”
“Think!” Dan asked turning to pursue.
“Pretty sure, but I was tryin’ to scratch your cursed itch.”
“Forget the ‘mover.’ We’ll get gas and go on in,” Dan said checking his Mickey Mouse watch.
“Pass it up!”
“Well, you aren’t sure, plus, it’s quitin’ time!”
Dan turned toward the city’s garage. They gassed their vehicle and arrived in the squad room with ten minutes to spare. Dismissal was routine and Dan went home to Trouble. Dan’s garage opened into the kitchen where he made a snack, prepped the coffee maker, and then attended to the needs of his recently acquired pet. Trouble, the ferret, ate a few bites; but realizing he wasn’t being let out, curled to sleep.
Hoping to close out his world, Dan went to the main room composed of the dining and living areas. He reclined in an overstuffed chair, set the alarm on a nearby travel clock, and then adjusted a set of headphones. The sax in the instrumental jazz stirred his blue soul. Too many unresolved atrocities kidnapped Dan’s peace long ago. The ransom price remained beyond him. Sleep often marked time for Dan, but this was one of the few exceptions. Delayed, it came, and Dan’s mind was numb until the buzzing. He ignored it. It grew louder. He reached out swatting, knocking the pipe stand to the floor. The clatter woke him. It was noon.
He went to the coffee pot. Good, the timer worked. Still dopey, he filled a cup and drifted into the bedroom to shower and change clothes. Why’d I ever get involved in this?
The weather report optimistic, Dan mounted his Harley. The twin cylinders rattled the interior of the garage as he pulled on gloves. Not enough gas. flipped the kill switch and took the Corvette. The faded paint fit his mood better anyway.
Ten minutes later he walked into the Sunbright Diner. Taking a stool at the counter, he exchanged nods with the cook. With little delay and no fanfare, his food was before him. Dan looked at the food. It mirrored his mood as two white eyes with yellow pupils staring up from a pea green face wearing a crooked bacon frown. I know how to make you go away. He smashed it all together and ate it.
An hour later, Dan stepped out of the elevator into the hospital’s cafeteria. The aroma of coffee and fresh bread stirred comforting memories. He paused doting on it while he watched a woman stuffing envelopes across the room. Taking a deep breath he walked toward her. Half way he exhaled in a puff.
“Good afternoon, Dan,” the blonde behind the table greeted.
“It’s always middle of the night for me.”
“Pull your head out of the clouds and see the sunshine.”
“I stay in the clouds so I don’t feel the rain.”
“It’s not always raining, Dan.”
“What you got me on?”
“You can bag bread or do brochures. Your choice, Sunshine.”
I love the aroma, but the old women bakers get on my nerves. “Brochures.”
He made his way around the tables arranged in a horseshoe. Beside the blond woman, another womaen and man were seated at the table. Stacks of brochures surrounded them. One side table stored boxes like children’s blocks left behind after play. On the other, cobblestones of brown paper bags contained bread. Blue letters on a cream overhead banner read: GOOD SAMARITAN CANCER RESEARCH.
“Grab a seat,” the petite woman in her twenties said. “Do you know what we’re doing?”
“Yep, stuffin’ mailers,” he said sitting on a metal folding chair fitted with a thin tie cushion and beginning the routine. “Anybody know if they’re making any progress?” Dan asked indifferent.
“There’s progress.” the man sitting on his left answered. “It’s tediously slow, but someday there’ll be a cure.”
Dan didn’t answer immediately. His mind bounced between the competing scents of cinnamon vanilla potpourri, bread, and the disagreeable effluvia from an attendant wiping down tables. “Not to dampen your spirits, but if science was going to save us, it’d done it by now?”
“Can’t deny advances. Look back ten years. It’ll come for cancer in time.”
Cure cancer? Sure? Then they’ll find a pill for crime. “Don’t count on it. All I see is confusion. Every new discovery reverses some past finding. Medicine’s an imperfect science at best.”
“Quite the pessimist,” the man said before walking off to the coffee pot.
When am I gonna learn. Keep it to myself. He stuffed mailers, taking care to avoid any further personal issues. He didn’t really know these people, and didn’t want to. In the years he toiled there the people changed, but the futile hopes did not. Two hours later he walked back to his vehicle and drove home. It left his mind listless.
Pulling into his driveway, the bump of the curb jarred his awareness. Why do I do this? went in. Tossing his keys on the drainer he went to the bedroom, set the alarm, and went to bed. Because it’s something I just have to do. fluffed his pillow. Ben‘d call it penance. He slept ‘till super time.
At 2230 hours Dan lumbered into the District, prepared his gear, and joined others milling in the squad room. He leaned against the wall and chit-chatted impassively, but his charged subconscious meandered through resident flash-backs. Vexes cloistered there encroached upon him randomly. They were the curse of an anchor car. First on the scene is seldom an accolade. A recent prisoner of his conscience asserted itself, and Dan’s mind returned to the past.
He approached the door half off its hinges. Stepping across the threshold, he saw a woman lying on her side, her back to him with no noticeable wounds. The sour odors reminiscent of rotting fruit numbed his sinus. She was fully clothed. His mind told him she would push herself up from the palette shaped mahogany stain on the braided oval rug, but he sensed a stillness his mind ignored: an absence of movement in the silk blouse from gentle breathing. He drew close, his mind denying reality, he took her wrist searching for a pulse noticing her warmth gone. The coo-coo clock crowed midnight. He jumped nudging the woman she rolled on her back. His mind was forced to accept what his eyes viewed. The ragged pieces of the slashed silk blouse draped open, revealing several stab wounds and three long slashes. A bleakness similar to what he had felt carrying fallen comrades from battle visited him.
A nearby recliner cradled a man’s remains now sprawled sideways, his face placid as a mannequin frozen in a plea for mercy. Frothy dried blood painted a streak of red scum from the corner of his lip down his jaw line. His chest was half blown away. Blood and tissue splattered over the cream leather of the chair. A sweeping smear
, appearing to be made from a large painter’s brush, dwarfed the six punch holes in the chair back. It created an angry painting like Dan had seen in the Art Museum. He hated those paintings. Now by the victim’s side, smoky eyeballs stared through Dan after a departed spirit. Dan felt uneasy, heavy-hearted.
He secured the scene, made a search, and a cursory evaluation for the responding Homicide ‘Dicks’. The raw gruesome scene invaded Dan’s subconscious as a conquering army. Memories he wished he could erase, but never would.
“They had nothing to take,” a distant voice said, “Wasn’t burglary; the place was trashed as a cover up.”
“Still no husband,” interjected another, “My money’s on him as the doer.”
“Mark my words. Drug deal gone bad,” a third offered.
“What do you think, Dan?” Officer Reynolds pressed. “HEY! DAN! What’s your take?”
Dan jerked upright, “Oh—what? I wasn’t listening.”
“Who killed the Gormans last week?”
“Beats me. We did our job.”
“Gotta have an opinion.”
“We’re street cops, Larry. The Dicks’ll figure it out—or not. No purpose chewin’ on it like a dog on a dry bone” An act of anger, passion. ambled across the room and picked up a hot sheet. A love triangle; of that, I’m certain. Impossible balancing two love lives; they always implode.
These were the “Thin Blue Line.” Their job was to maintain order in a chaotic society, to prevent crime by creating a false impression of being everywhere. Theirs was an unachievable goal. As first responders they encounter cases which shanghai their peace. First at the murder scenes, first to pull the dead children from the auto crashes, first to aid grandma’s broken hip caused by some snatch and run thief. They gallop toward catastrophe and peril, race toward gunfire, dash to dangers. Jeopardy is their banquet.
It’s not their job to solve crimes. Theirs is to prevent it; and when they fail, respond and reestablish order. It is their addiction, saddled with the routine and commissioned with the impossible, to serve and protect a sinful city.
“Fall in!” Sergeant O’Toole’s voice echoed throughout the station house at 2300 hours. The clattering heels of men formed a semi-rigid line before the man who bellowed the command.
Among the men in blue scrambling to answer the call was B.B. White. At his heels, darted Daniel Black. Twelve year partners, they had met side-by-side in the academy; now unified in experience, action, and thought.
As interesting as Dan and Ben were in their own rights, they were seldom referred to individually. Both veterans of fourteen years, the last twelve assigned to Northside Beat 508, the anchor car for the northern half of the city’s Fifth District. The unity, trust, loyalty, and shared fervor for crime fighting earned the team the title of “The Dedicated Duo,” often shortened to “Duo.”
Tonight there were eleven men in blue toeing the line. At Sergeant Melvin O’Toole’s command, “Present Arms,” the officers drew their weapons, opened the cylinders, and grasped the revolver around the cylinder and frame ejecting six rounds into the palm of their free hand. Sergeant O’Toole moved down the less than rigid lines with a snappy sidestep. His keen eye checked the cleanliness of the weapons, and verified the bullets were “authorized” loads.
O’Toole was in his mid fifties with eighteen years of service. He conducted briefings with the air of a mean drill sergeant. In spite of his outward appearance, the men knew his true temperament. When out of earshot, he was “Pooh-Bear.”
“How come I count five rounds, Reynolds?” O’Toole snapped.
“Beats me, Serge. I unloaded six.”
O’Toole’s eyes bore into him.
“Honest!”
“Then you best find number six before I finish this line.”
Reynolds broke rank searching the floor under tables and chairs.
“Jansen, hair’s shaggier ’n a stray dog’s tail. Plan to get a haircut sometime in your career?”
“Might consider it, if it don’t hurt.”
“‘DOESN’T’ hurt,” O’Toole corrected.
“Okay, since it’s painless.”
“Get your mustache and sideburns trimmed and the hair off the back of your neck by tomorrow.” His voice deepened, “Or you’ll know what hurt is!”
“Yes, SIR! First thing tomorrow.”
“I found it,” Reynolds rang out from under a metal table in the corner. Rising, he struck his head producing a “CLANK.” His arm stretched out showing his find.
“Oohhh! Bet that felt good,” cracked an unidentified voice from the line.
“Well get back in line,” O’Toole snapped at Reynolds without missing a side-step, “Rest of you, shut up.” He sidestepped confronting Dan, “Your mustache always looks too long.”
“No sir,” Dan said forcing a big smile drawing his pudgy cheeks up which raised the ends of the mustache to conform.
“You going to walk around with that clown face all night?”
“It’s the only one I have, Sir,” Dan responded through fixed teeth and a frozen face.
The sergeant ignored the response dutifully bellowing a guttural, “Fall out!”
The line evaporated as the men took seats at two long tables. Metal chairs clanged in the process. O’Toole read the teletype notices while the hot-sheets and wanted posters were passed out.
“First out of the box is a Form 4-7-5 for Officers Black and White. Homicide complimented you two on the way you preserved the scene on the messy murder last week. Cap’n figured, comin’ from them, it deserved notation.”
“My partner says nobody, then nobody goes by me,” Ben said.
“You did play football in college, didn’t you?” the sergeant asked.
“Play! Cryin’ out loud—HE WAS THE LINE,” Officer B. C. Castleman chided.
“Glad you gave it up to come play in the streets with us,” O’Toole said.
Officer B.B. White, the bronze of this Dedicated Duo, was known to his peers as “Big Ben.” A black man of thirty-seven years and six feet three, his solid muscular frame easily carried two hundred thirty-five pounds. His curly black hair sprinkled with gray receded at the temples. The steel grayish haze of his tiger brown eyes appeared ice cold. Most who dared to stare directly into them didn’t do so long. He preferred to be called “Ben,” but he allowed “Big Ben.” His wishes were respected.
“Here’s one for you Officer Black,” the sergeant said. “for, quote, ‘detailed way you processed the scene,’ unquote. They didn’t have to spend time on preliminaries. Got right into evidence collection and spent extra time on trace; confident of no contamination.”
Dan accepted it with a slight nod, “Thanks, Serge.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Daniel Black, stood five feet eleven, and weighed a hundred eighty pounds. Short stubby legs and arms gave a false perception of awkwardness. Quicker than a frog’s tongue he was exceptionally agile for his thirty-nine years. Blond highlights streaked his brown hair, a souvenir of Dan’s youth.
“Here’s the teletype,” the sergeant began. “Be on the lookout for a blue Oldsmobile wagon with luggage on top. Driven by male, white, age 48, accompanied by two male teenagers, license Kansas COL 318. If located request driver return to rest stop, I-75 at Lebanon Overlook. Left wife behind.”
“He isn’t going to do it,” Harkins said. “He’s just discovered what vacation means.”
“Not ‘til he drops those teenagers off he hasn’t,” added another.
“You might have a chance of catching this villain,” O’Toole continued. “Wanted for Bank Robbery is Paul Conroy, male, white, five foot eight, medium build, blond wavy hair with reddish highlights. He visited Harrison Savings and Loan to open an account. Teller noticed red stains on the bills, suspected dye pack markings, requested a driver’s license for account information. He complied, but got nervous and left. If you guys can catch up to him in his blue compact car, cite him for no driver’s license. He left it
at the bank.”
“Okay, it ain’t that funny,” O’Toole demanded. “Write this down! Wanted by Indiana State Trooper for homicide is a white two door foreign car, possibly a Renault, rear bumper damage, right tail light out, rust spots on driver’s door, and front fender. Approach with caution! Armed with a sawed off shotgun. Any of you would-be-heroes see it, call in backup. You get your tails shot off and I don’t go home on time.”
The remaining dispatches were serious. The housekeeping matters few. In all, the briefing lasted eighteen minutes. Sgt. O’Toole stopped reading, as Sergeant Fleischer arrived.
“Anything, Sergeant Fleischer?” O’Toole asked.
He shook his head.
Sergeant Fleischer was the “late” sergeant. He handled the second roll call. The shift was divided in half with a thirty-minute interval. This allowed half the squad to be on the street, while the other half secured. Overlapping squads meant the street was never void of officers. Fleischer was in his early forties, five foot eleven, and weighed 190 pounds. He always cussed in German, his native tongue.
“You men expecting Sergeant Fleischer to sing?” O’Toole bellowed.
“No, SIR.”
“Then why you sitting around here? Roll call’s over.”
Without hesitation the officers headed for the parking lot behind the station to find their assigned vehicles. At the door, Dan and Ben paused at the stern voice.
“Not you two. I want to see you two!”
They turned to see Lieutenant Horace Hess a thirty-eight year old black man. His six foot three inch pencil shaped framed rocked on the balls of his feet. His out of proportion head and round face resembled a slip-on eraser. He cropped his hair so short, it appeared as black felt. An overbite and his constant nipping complaints earned him the nickname “Snaggles.” Lieutenant Hess motioned. They walked over to him.
“Yea Lieut, what you got?” Ben greeted.
“It’s lieutenant, OFFICER White. My name is not – never has been Lieu, Lieut, or Lieuy. Understand?” He peered over small square rimmed glasses hanging on the tip of his long nose accentuating his dark brown eyes, bushy lashes, and high forehead.
Game of the Blues Page 2
