“We miss a run?” Dan asked.
“Didn’t hear one. Bet it’s Ghost Rider.”
They waited for the car to pull to the curb, and an officer of medium frame and height with dirty blond hair emerged. Officer Gary Follert exhibited no clear distinguishing features. A popular tale told of him visiting Kings Island Amusement Park with his kids earned him the handle “Ghost Rider.” They persuaded him to have a character sketch made of the foursome. When complete, Gary’s face appeared as a plain oval ‘smiley face.’
“Sorry if I missed a run. I’m Two-Six,” Gary greeted. “What’s up?”
“Relax, you don’t miss anything on your beat and you know it,” Ben said.
Gary looked around as if lost. “This is MY beat?”
“Just an arrest notify,” Dan said. “Sorry, should have alerted you.”
“What kind of bust? Better I know my people, better I can look after ’em.”
“Caught Fred Morgan takin’ the door off Gundy’s Grocery. Told us he needed food for a wife and sick kid. No phone, notifying his wife he’s locked up.”
“If he’s living in this broken down barracks, like as not, he’s being truthful,” Gary said. “Let’s check it out. Make sure they don’t need medical attention.”
They found the appropriate entrance, entered the foyer, and ascended to the second floor. Ben raised his night stick to beat on the door frame, but Gary pushed it away tapping on the door with his key ring.
“Who is it?” a female answered.
“Police,” Gary announced.
The door opened until caught by the night chain. An eye peered through the opening. “What you want?”
“Are you Sara Morgan,” Dan asked.
“What you wan’a know f’r?”
“We have a message for Mrs. Sara Morgan, from Fred.”
The door closed, the hall fell silent, and then the door swung open.
“Come in,” she said, suspiciously. “I’m Sara.”
Gary stepped back allowing the Duo to enter first.
“Sorry to bring bad news, but Fred’s in jail,” Dan said. “We caught him trying to break into Gundy’s Grocery two hours ago.”
Mrs. Morgan stared at them several silent minutes. Tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks like large dew drops off a sagging leaf. She was a slim woman not lacking posture or dignity, with short slightly curly auburn hair, and uniform features. In all her plainness she remained statuesque.
While Dan searched for words, Ben stepped in, “His bond will be set in the morning, Court Room Three, at nine.”
“Ain’t got money for bond. ‘Sides, I got a sick child here. Can’t be running off to no court,” Sara whimpered. A child’s crying cut into the conversation and she turned to look toward the only other room.
“I got to fix ’im somethin’,” Sara explained turning to a kitchen sink nearby. The kitchen consisted of two base cabinets with single sink top, a small two-burner gas stove, and in one corner the oldest working refrigerator Dan ever saw. She took some bread from one of the two doorless cabinets over the sink. Breaking the stiff slices into water she made mush and carried it into the adjoining room.
Waiting, Dan surveyed the apartment. A dinette set completed the tiny kitchen. A mop handle taped to the broken metal stub substituted for a table leg. Plain brown patches in the patterned imprint of the barren top testified to age. Alongside it were two wobbly chairs, and a wood stool.
Old paint and wallpaper peeled off the walls, two missing window panes were replaced with cardboard, and cracked linoleum partially covered the floor planks. Furniture was scarce. A sagging couch, the missing front leg replaced by a brick served as a bed for a five-year old. Two side chairs with worn ragged upholstery and a fold-a-bed against the wall completed the small apartment’s furnishings. Dan noticed an occasional roach, but the apartment exceeded the cleanliness of most he’d seen in this area.
Sara returned to the room. Her tears were dried and her composure regained. She cradled a year-old child to her chest. He fussed as she patted him lovingly. “Is there anything else?”
“How sick’s the child?” Gary asked. “Any fever?”
“No, he ain’t fevered. He can’t keep nothin’ I feed ’im down. Mostly hungry. Cries all the time. Why you care?”
“Well now,” Gary said ignoring the question. “You bundle those young ’ns and I’ll run you to the hospital. Make sure he’s okay.”
“We don’t need no hospital. Been to the clinic. Two days back,” she snapped withdrawing.
“Okay, won’t make you go. What’s the boy’s name?”
“Roy.”
“I’ll be checking back on you and the kids. If Roy takes a turn for the worse, call me?” He handed her a card.
Sara nodded and stood silent.
“We’ll be going,” Ben said. “We’re notifying you for Fred. Good luck.”
They started to depart, but half way out the door Gary lingered speaking quietly with Sara. The Duo waited until Gary turned to leave, and they all departed silently not wanting to further upset the woman. At curbside Gary remarked “What are we going to do for them? Can’t leave it like this can we?”
“Don’t know there’s much we can do,” Dan answered opening the driver’s door of the cruiser. “Some things are beyond our control. It’s your beat. Come up with something let me know.”
Gary’s face showed confusion from Dan’s unreceptive response and Ben interjected, “He’s got an itch were he can’t scratch,” and slid into the car.
“Oh, can I help?”
“No, he’s lost sight of his purpose in life.”
“Can’t lose what you never had,” Dan shouted through the open window.
Gary grunted as the cruiser pulled away.
“Radio’s been quiet, let’s head over and work the OTP plan,” Dan suggested.
“You’re drivin’.”
On the way Dan asked, “Well, did you figure out where they were?”
“Who?”
“Fred’s neighbors.”
“Indeed, his whole family’s in a desperate plight, and where are his neighbors?”
“From the looks of things they’re consumed in their own survival.”
“And, to what end all this striving? It spews out violence, and speeds us toward our end which is nothingness!”
“I gotta find you some salve.”
In minutes Dan and Ben were back on their beat working the OTP Plan. The radio remained quiet. They used the opportunity to finish marking the cars, and then focused on preventing burglaries. Methodically, once more, they began checking their businesses.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving it hang on Ghost Rider,” Ben said.
“Letting what hang?”
“Sara’s kids, AND you know it! No problem coming up with OTP plans. Numerous ways to mess with Snaggles cascade off your brain like hail from a steep roof. You expect me to believe you can’t come up with an angle on the Morgans?”
“Rein your horses in, Ben! I’m chewin’ on it! Let Gary have first go. It’s his beat, you know.”
“Why so testy ? Just asking,”
“Alright already! And, I’m not testy.”
“Sound testy to me.”
“I didn’t STICK nothin’ on Gary! He invited himself in. There ought to be some shared responsibility. It’s his beat.”
“Forget it. Just curious.”
“Sure my heart gets yanked around a dozen times a night. Life’s a lousy grind and then you die! Nothing more. What can I do?”
“Said forget it. Means nothing to me.”
The radio ended the discussion. “Car 515, 515, on Crawford Avenue near the rear cemetery gate, investigate single car accident, no injuries.”
“505, my wrecker is pulling away, I’m probably closer ‘n 515.”
“508,” Ben cut in, “We’re available. It’s our beat.”
“515, okay on 508’s disregard.”
In five minutes they park
ed behind the accident vehicle and activated their beacon lights. The grill and radiator of an old Impala was wrapped around a metal telephone pole. Not just crushed, but smashed into the motor. The hood resembled a wavy potato chip. Radiator fluid flowed from under the vehicle. The kaleidoscope reflected in its pools contradicted the beat of the blaring rock and roll.
“You’re favorite kind of accident,” Ben remarked.
“Indeed! No innocent people hurt, and a fool destroyed his own car.”
A man squirmed in the driver’s seat as if dancing to the thunderous music. Ben was first to realize the driver was working feverishly at the wheel with a large wrench. The driver cursed, shouted, twisted, and banged at the steering wheel.
Ben approached. “Sir, set the wrench down. Step out of the vehicle.”
The man looked out through the open door and spoke with heavily slurred diction, “Offishers, I wush jush putshin’ sha sherring wheel backsh on.”
“Sir, drop the wrench. Step out of the vehicle.”
He dropped the wrench.
“Do you realize you hit a telephone pole?”
“Itsh notsh my faulsh. Sheering swheel come offsh!”
Ben and Dan exchanged looks shaking their heads.
“What’d he say?” Ben asked.
Dan stepped in front of the driver to get his attention, “Sir, I want you to think careful before you answer this next question, because it will determine if you are drunk or not.”
“Okish.”
“Is Mickey Mouse a dog or a cat?”
“Thatsh a tricks quesshun, Offischers. He’s ‘u famish bashball plaser.”
“Right what team was Mickey Mouse on?”
“Wassh it du Yanksh.”
Using big words Dan played with the drunk, “Your immoderate intemperance transcends coherently comprehendible communication, but you know your baseball.”
“Huh?” the drunk stared dumbfounded.
“Said you’re drunk as a skunk,” Ben interpreted. “I think?”
“Nooo Shursss!”
Shaking his head, Ben ended it, “Enough ‘shish’ talk. We’ve work to do.”
Dan took the hint querying the license plate and investigated the claimed defect while Ben escorted the man to the cruiser. No defect existed. Overlooking one little detail risked embarrassment in court. Neither Dan nor Ben harbored animosity for lawyers. They viewed attorneys as doing their job the best they knew, and the Duo were determined to do theirs better. It made the system effective sometimes. The vehicle was registered to a Benjamin Henderson. There were no wants, but a record of three D.U.I. arrests. Dan joined his partner waiting at the open cruiser door. “Are you Mr. Henderson?”
“Yesh, Shirs, Benshamin Hendershun, jush call me Benshy.” he proudly admitted.
Knowing the tedious routine of testing and processing a D.U.I. subject, Ben suggested, “I’ll wait for the tow and catch a ride in. You run him.”
“Not so fast, Partner. I’ll flip you for ‘Benshy’. Call it.” He thumbed the quarter into the air.
“Sorry Partner,” Ben snatched the descending coin. “I did paper on the last one.”
“Like you said, I’ll process, you tow,” Dan smirked. Closing the prisoner’s door he slid in and drove off.
Ben cleared the scene in twenty minutes and called 505 for a lift to the station. He found Dan in the briefing room working on reports. “You’re done in twenty minutes?”
“Refused to blow.”
“That him in the tank screaming slurred profanities?”
“Yep, saved me bunch of work.”
“Curses! Next one’s mine. It’ll probably take two hours.”
They transported Henderson to central lock-up. Secured behind the protective screen he remained obnoxious, but harmless. Deputy Ternnka, the jail intake officer, took custody while murmuring in song, “My silence is stolen; robbed of my peace; more scarce ‘n hens teeth, Silence is golden, for this I am told. My silence…”
“You can handle it,” Dan mused. “Nature of the job.”
“Comes with the territory, eh? Easy for you to say. You two are walking out.” Then passing the man through the barred gate to another deputy he instructed, “Way in the back. Way wa-a-ay in the back.”
The off tune singing faded away as they walked down the hall.
“That’d get on my nerves fast,” Dan said. “Aren’t you glad you have me for a Partner?”
“Put that way, reckon so. And to show my appreciation, I’ll spell you at the wheel?”
“’Bout time you earned your keep.”
“Save time taking the interstate and we can spend it on eatin’.”
One hundred yards across the district line they came upon a Roadhaul truck on the shoulder with its hazard lights flashing. The driver was working on the hitching mechanisms.
“Rather check it now, than do paper later,” Ben said pulling in behind the truck and activating the bar lights. They checked the trailer seals on the way to the driver. He worked at a coupling behind the cab.
“You can’t see much. Don’t you have a light?” Dan asked.
“Fool thing went dead. I think one of these lines is leaking. Can I borrow yours?”
Dan handed the trucker his flashlight.
“Nice torch.” The driver returned to his inspection and found a loose connection. Tightened to his satisfaction, the trucker jumped down from behind the cab.
“Could we get a quick look at your log and paperwork?” Dan asked. Smart to verify people are who they appear to be. Helps avoid embarrassment.
“Sure thing Officer,” he said retrieving his logbook and handing it down to Dan.
“Your license, please?”
The driver complied. Dan walked the driver to the front of the rig for safety. The paper work matched up and Dan handed it all back.
“Good luck Mr. Manning. Traffic’s light, but we’ll stay back with our lights. You be careful pulling out.”
“Appreciate it Officer,” he said climbing into his tractor. Dan and Ben returned to their cruiser. The trucker pulled away without incident, and the officers were on their way with food on their minds again.
“Radio traffic’s light. Want to chance the Blue Bird Grille?” Ben asked.
“You’re driving.”
They ordered the daily special. It was quick and Sharon, their waitress, delivered the orders with her customary, “Bon ‘app-e-teet’.” Dan took his first bite as the radio interrupted.
“Car 509, and 507, Epworth and North Edgewood, Christos-Drivakis Building, in the candy shop, alarm drop, robbery, shots fired, Rescue 24 responding; 507 copy?”
“507, responding,” Officer B.C. Castleman replied on the radio.
“Car 509, copy?” asked the dispatcher.
No response.
“508, 508, cover the run.”
Dan tried to get a gulp of coffee to wash down the mouthful of sandwich, as Ben keyed the mike, “508, responding.” Both took a longing look at their food, shrugged it off, and headed toward the door. “We’ll be back for it,” Ben shouted over his shoulder.
Many officers patronized the Blue Bird, and the waitresses were accustomed to sudden departures. She heard the radio, knew the drill, collected the food and sent it back. If they returned, it was ready. If not, it was forgotten.
Ben reached the cruiser first. By the time Dan cleared the sidewalk it was rolling. Several cat-like strides of Dan’s stubby legs brought him to the open door. Grabbing it, he appeared to be sucked into the cruiser as the door slammed shut. Halfway to the destination they heard Car 507 announce his arrival.
“508, two minutes away,” Dan notified the dispatcher.
They arrived sooner. Spotting BC’s cruiser parked at the far corner in front of the Methodist Church, Ben pulled to the curb one plot south of the Drivakis Building. The turn of the century building housed three street level shops. The corner door opened to a confectionary and ice cream parlor, the middle door opened to a grocery store, and the end
was a dry-cleaners. A fourth side door led to the third floor Masonic Lodge. The candy store owners lived on the second floor with access to the store’s kitchen. Canvas awnings were rolled up revealing blinds lettered with “Closed Please Come Again.”
Dan reached for his flashlight as he exited the cruiser. It was not by his side, BLAST! Let Roadhaul run off with it! He grabbed a spare from his war bag and caught up to his partner. The officers approached the store from their different vantage points. Distance between Dan and Ben increased with every step positioning Ben centrally, as Dan arrived at the right side, and BC merged from the left keeping the officers out of their own line of fire.
First at the corner entry, BC saw the shattered glass on the floor reflecting golden-yellow twinkles of light from within. “Police! Anyone in there declare yourself!”
“Back here, help us,” a woman’s weak voice wailed followed by sobbing. “Hurry! My God! Please help. They shot him!”
BC reached through and opened the door with his left hand, his gun ready in his right. Dan joined him while Ben hung back. After the two officers entered, Ben took a position at the door.
Dan’s eyes fell upon a man’s ashen face clothed in pajamas lying on his back. A woman in her late sixties knelt beside him stroking the balding white hair of the overweight victim. She wore a light terrycloth full-length nightgown. Its white pristine softness smeared with gooey shades of scarlet. The stillness was broken by her sobbing.
They were the owners of this “Mom and Pop” candy store and lived in the upstairs apartment. They addressed patrons by first name, and gave unlimited samples to the children. Year after year they worked to eke out a simple life; his now draining away amid her tears. Her panic wrinkled brow and sunken cheeks bore holes through Dan as she pressed the wadded hem on the man’s chest wound. The grapefruit sized bundle of cloth oozed. “Help him please! Do something – please! Oh, why? Why’d they do it?”
The aroma of chocolate in the air and the menthol of peppermint on Dan’s tongue collided with the images in his eyes. Dan’s mind momentarily went blank. He hesitated.
Game of the Blues Page 4
