Game of the Blues

by Kenn C. Kincaid

  “It says here in the official teletype—so it’s gotta be,” he laughed reading, “‘a green ladies purse was stolen’. I’ve never seen a green lady.”

  “Saw one at Saint Paddy’s Parade last year,” Martin said.

  “It also says a blue Chevy Nova is wanted for running over a ‘Presbyterian in the crosswalk in front of Saint Paul’s Church’.”

  “That’ll teach him to stay out of Catholic neighborhoods,” an officer quipped.

  The sergeant continued in a more serious light. The large window AC kept the room comfortable with occasionally clatter and spitting steam. When it started shooting out condensation into O’Toole’s hair he scooted his chair shoving his papers along. Martin moved over providing space. All done matter-of-fact.

  “Okay, teletype’s been read. You heard the memos and you have your assignments,” O’Toole leaned back lighting his pipe, putting the men at ease to banter.

  “Clemons, you get your flashlight back? Last I heard, you let some Iron Horseman steal it,” Martin chided.

  “Matter of fact, next day. Farnholz spotted it. Stupid enough to tie it to the back of his seat.”

  “Better ’an Dan, he’s still begging Roadhaul drivers.”

  “Speakin’ of braggin’,” Dan rebutted. “You bagged that robbery suspect real good. Most of us lock our suspect in a holding room.”

  “They were full. Everybody thought he was a witness.”

  “When’d you get your first clue, Martin? When he crawled out the squad room window?”

  Sergeant Fleischer entered to oversee late roll call. “Sounds like a slow night?”

  O’Toole nodded, “So far.” Then addressing the squad, “Okay, men, make room for the late cars. Summer nights and dastardly villains await. No hanging out in the station. Snag a delinquent tag after 0300, and I’ll buy coffee for your wrecker wait. Get in, get done, and get out.”

  “Ah, Serge, have a heart,” Harkins replied.

  “And, stay in uniform. Put those ties in place.”

  “We don’t want any ‘tie time’.” Dillon replied.

  “These,” Reynolds asked holding his tie out, “ain’t ties, they’s Preacher nooses.”

  “Be forewarned. Sour spot with the chief right now,” the sergeant said. He turned to Dan, “Lieutenant’s waiting for you in the Captain’s Office.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You’re entitled to a witness.”

  Dan looked at Ben. He nodded. They rose and followed O’Toole to the office. O’Toole closed the door behind them. “Have a seat,” he offered pointing to the chairs. Hess was behind the desk. Sgt. O’Toole stood in the background.

  “You finally tripped over your own arrogance,” Hess addressed Dan smiling.

  “This? The tie thing, already?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “I kind of expected the captain would preside.”

  “He signed off this afternoon. Wasn’t happy being called by the Chief at 1700 hours. You’ve put him in the middle this time. Told ME to handle it.”

  Whu-ee, not getting canned!

  “Seems I now have his ear,” Hess continued. “You plan on fighting this one?”

  “No Sir, I acted hastily, didn’t think it out.”

  Hess paused, seemingly surprised by the response, and then clearing his throat made a show of reading the charges. After another pause he stated, “The Chief’s action on this matter is a suspension of five days without pay. To be scheduled by the relief commander.”

  “Five days!” Dan shouted.

  “Not nearly sufficient, but your popularity’s waned. It’s just a matter of time ‘til you get yourself fired.”

  Glory be! I was expecting five weeks!

  “Have him sign off on the order, and assign them sergeant,” Hess said leaving.

  “Could have been lot worse, Dan,” O’Toole bolstered.

  “Don’t I know. Like to do ’em ASAP, so I can get back to business, Serge.”

  Dan had to refrain from skipping out of the office. Gary waited in the parking lot and caught Dan at his cruiser.

  “Erie trip’s all set. Found a charter for Saturday. Booked The Sandpiper. Never used it before, but we can’t be picky. We’re still on our own Friday and Sunday. Let’s meet later; work out the details. Your share’s eighty-four bucks.”

  “Meet for coffee around 1400?”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll call you?”

  Gary nodded.

  “Five days.” Dan whispered to him as Gary turned to walk away.

  “Someone up there likes you,” Gary said pointing skyward.

  Upon entering the cruiser, Dan dangled his noose, “Mickey Mouse ties!” Ben drove away without replying. Wonder what Mickey Mouse episode is lurking on the agenda tonight?

  Chapter Five

  A Potpourri of Pleasures

  A hundred feet out of District Five’s drive they took their first dispatch. “Car 508, 508, fight in the street, 1622 Blue Rock.”

  “508, copied,” Dan replied.

  “Natives are restless already.”

  They turned the corner and approached the 1600 Bar. At the curb of the street two men were attacking a third man. Both about five feet seven and hundred seventy-five pounds, yet the third, stout and capable, was giving “tit for tat.” The Duo waded into the ruckus.

  “You fellows chat with me,” Ben said grabbing the two smaller ones by their collars.

  Dan stepped in front of the third man, “I’m ringing the bell. This rounds over.” He yielded more to the uniform than the man, allowing Dan to steer him to the sidewalk.

  “What do you go by, Hoss?” Dan asked.

  “Bart.”

  “What’s this donnybrook over, Bart?”

  “That jerk in the green scrubs spilled beer on me!”

  “Spilled versus poured? Implies an accident, right?”

  “It WAS an accident!” the man in green scrubs shouted.

  “Hold on, Dr. Welby, you’ll get your say,” Ben said pulling him back.

  “I’m not Doctor Welby, my name’s Jimmy Simpson.”

  “Sorry, outfit had me fooled.”

  Dan addressed Bart again, “An accident. Did he apologize?”

  “We swapped words. Weren’t no apology.”

  “Tried,” said Simpson, “’for I could, he was bashing and shoving.”

  Ben turned to the unidentified man, “What’s your name, and how do you fit in?”

  “Mark Wilson. Jimmy’s half his size. I was making it fair.”

  “Gentlemen,” Dan said, “I suggest making apologies is simpler than going to jail.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bart said offering his hand.

  “Me too,” Jimmy responded and shook. Mark did likewise.

  “I’m going in and talk with the bar-keep,” Dan informed. “You three start up again; I’ll split heads with this stick.” Dan went to the door. Inside, half-dozen patrons were among overturned chairs and tables and the proprietor was busy mopping beer off the floor. Seeing Dan, he approached.

  “How much damage you got, Cecil?”

  “Spilt beer and overturned tables. No big deal. Big one took it outside like a snow plow.”

  Dan rejoined Ben on the sidewalk, “How they doin’?”

  “Becomin’ best of friends.”

  “The owner’s not pressing charges,” Dan said. “You’ve got a choice. Jail or shake hands and forget it.”

  “I guess we overreacted,” said Bart sticking out his hand again. The other two shook.

  “I’ll buy drinks all around,” Simpson shouted as he headed for the bar.

  “Whoa there!” Ben countered. “Ye men of quick wit”, yon proprietor of yon pub has lost eagerness for thy patronage.”

  “It’s okay, now, Officer, everything’s forgiven,” Mark insisted.

  “Noble men of the night let us be clear. IT-IS-OVER – fighting and drinking both.”

  “And, that’s the way it’s gonna stay,” Dan added emp
hatically. “You two are going your way, and he’s going his—different trails. We see either of you again tonight – it’s jail.”

  The new friends separated. As they walked away Dan sang, “Separate trails to you, least we meet again…”

  “Car 508, 508, investigate disabled motorist South Seventy-five high speed lane, two hundred yards north of Hopple,” sounded the radio.

  “508 copy,” Ben acknowledged, then asked, “How’d she know we’re green?”

  “By now you should know they’re omnipotent.”

  Five minutes later they were on the scene, but found nothing. Continuing south toward the next exit Dan spotted a Roadhaul eighteen-wheeler. “Suppose that’s Manning with my flashlight?”

  “Nope, not him. Don’t need to stop it.”

  “How you know, Ben? Stop him and see.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Darn tootin’! I want my flashlight back.”

  Ben closed the distance pacing the truck at fifty-five miles an hour before flipping on the bar lights. The truck slowed and made its way on to the berm. The driver met them at the rear of the rig. “What’s wrong Officer, I was dead on double nickels?”

  “Checkin’ to see if you’re Mister Manning. You know Theodore Manning?”

  “No, Sir. He drive for Roadhaul?”

  “Sure does,” Dan said, “And, he’s got my new Mag-light. I called the dispatcher in Mason and got a run around. Said he was out of state and couldn’t get in touch with him.”

  “What’s it got to do with me?”

  “Glad you asked. Tell everybody I don’t care if he’s outer space. Look him up. I want my Mag-light. Every night I work without it, somebody gets stopped and checked out real good.”

  “Now see here! That’ll add time to my run!”

  “Exactly.”

  “That ain’t fair. I didn’t run off with it.”

  “I understand, but somebody knows Manning. I’m counting on peer pressure.”

  “This is harassment. My company’ll send a formal complaint to your chief!”

  “I’m expecting it. And, since I’m stopping numerous freighters I can’t be accused of picking on you. Of course, I’m telling the others it’s your guys’ fault. The sooner I get my flashlight back; well, you get the drift.”

  “Okay if I wait in the cab for your so-called inspection?”

  “No, better stay here, while my partner finishes checking your rig,” Ben answered. “Procedures are procedures.”

  In fifteen minutes, the trucker was on his way.

  Back in the patrol car Ben asked, “You know what my daddy used to do with huntin’ dogs that kept barking up empty trees?”

  “No, what!”

  “Shoot ’em. Said it limited the misery of both.”

  “So, we aren’t on the same page?”

  “Not even same book. How long you gonna keep it up?”

  “Find my light.”

  “Bite the bullet. Buy another one!”

  “Not yet! I can hear those CBs buzzing. Before long, it’ll show up.”

  “Car 509, 509, Fire Company responding to 1422 Apjones.”

  “508, U-T-L on the disabled motorist, we’ll make it,” Dan replied.

  Running ‘lights no siren’, they turned north on Hamilton and fell in behind the fire engine. Soon it slowed at a hydrant and two firemen sprang off the back with a hose. The truck continued rolling toward the smoking house four doors ahead. Ben pulled to the curb fifty feet behind the hydrant. Dan took a traffic post by the car, and Ben walked to the other end of the fire scene to take a post. A news crew arrived, and they pulled in seventy-five feet ahead of the cruiser on the opposite side of the street. From their vantage point they filmed the flames licking the eaves.

  Three minutes later additional fire equipment arrived. Soon there were trucks and hoses everywhere. Once the flames were knocked down and only smoke remained, the news crew opened the doors of the van to pack up. Dan went over to them.

  “You can’t leave now. You’re ‘hosed’ in.”

  “We don’t want to go through that mess,” the driver replied. “We’re backing out.”

  “You can’t! There’s a hose behind you.”

  “It doesn’t matter, it’s flat.”

  “I don’t care if it’s charged or not! The law’s explicit! You cannot drive over a fire hose – period!”

  “Why not? There’s no water in it?”

  “First off, because I said so! But for your information, it weakens the canvas. The hose could rupture next time it’s used and kill somebody. Wait until they roll up the hoses!”

  “Nonsense! I’ve got a Press Pass. It allows me to come and go as I please.”

  “Oh, excuse me, could I see it?”

  The driver slipped the Press Card off the visor and handed it to him.

  “Indeed, it’s in order, Mr. Norton. You’re free to go.” The driver started the van. “OH, you misunderstand. YOU are free. The van stays put! Am I clear? Drive over a hose and I’ll be givin’ you bad news.”

  “This is a bunch of bull! This film has to get to the office!”

  “You have a radio. Call someone to pick it up. Driving over hoses IS - NOT - AN – OPTION!”

  The driver killed the engine. Cursed, but sat waiting. Dan returned to the center of the street. Ten minutes later the Fire Marshal approached.

  “Officer, I think you ought to see what started this fire.”

  “Arson?”

  “No, but I’m sure it’ll interest you.”

  “Okay, but I can’t protect your hoses if I leave. News team’s getting impatient. I can call another officer?”

  “No need, Lieutenant Cotton can stand watch. We’re getting ready to roll up.” He turned to a nearby fireman, “Don, watch the street while I show the officer the ignition point.”

  “Sure thing, Captain.”

  Dan followed the Fire Chief through the main entrance noticing the charred door laying flat on the floor. “Love the way you guys redecorate,” Dan quipped. “Smokehouse is so in style.”

  “If you like what we’ve done with this one, wait ‘til the kitchen.”

  The fireman led him around a corner and down a short scorched hallway. He stopped at the kitchen door. The corncob textured charcoal panel angled inward on one hinge displaying a gaping splintered hole.

  “We knocked,” the Fire Marshal said. “He wouldn’t open it, so we used our key.”

  “Axe opens most locks,” Dan said.

  “We got in the kitchen, the flames were breaking the eaves, and the fool’s fighting it with the faucet sprayer! He ate a bunch of smoke. He’s with Rescue and lucky to be alive.” They stepped over debris into the flame gutted kitchen. Wet suet covered thing. “Here’s the point of ignition,” the Fire Marshal said opening the oven.

  Dan picked up a long cooking spoon with a melted handle and poked around in a charred vegetable mass. There was less charring toward the center of the pile, and pieces of a green-brown leafy substance stuck to the prod.

  “Not sure, but the smell’s undeniable. My money says he dries his marijuana plants in the oven—or use to!” Dan said with a laugh. “Good thing your men wear masks. They’d be too stoned to drive them pretty red trucks.”

  “Maybe that explains the sink sprayer.”

  “I think I’ll have a talk with the cook. But first things first,” Dan said searching the cabinets for a container.

  “If you don’t need me, I’ve got to make sure everything’s rolled up.” The fireman left chuckling to himself.

  Dan found a small box of plastic bags in a cupboard. He cut through the melted layer and eventually peeled way a good one. He filled the bag with the substance, and then emptied a metal waste basket and spooned in the rest. He returned to his cruiser to secure it in his trunk. The fireman who was directing traffic in Dan’s absence saw him coming, and rushed over.

  “As soon as you left, that news crew backed over the hoses!”

  “Ca
lm down. I know where to find him. Can you identify the driver in court?”

  “Sure can! He came close to running me over!”

  “Trust me. He’s going to be real sorry, as soon as I’m done here. You’ll be notified when to appear.”

  Dan locked the evidence in the trunk, and headed for the Rescue. There were two people in the van, a medic and a man wearing an oxygen mask.

  “What’s your name?” Dan asked the man behind the mask.

  “Kevin Kooker,” was the muffled reply.

  “What kind of cake were you cooking?”

  Kooker made no response.

  “Old secret family recipe, I bet?”

  No response.

  “No worry, the lab’ll figure it out. I suspect you know you’re under…”

  Kooker pushed Dan forcibly to the side and jumped off the back of the van. Rebounding Dan gave chase, but Kooker fled with the evasiveness of a field mouse.

  “508A, in pursuit; north between the houses, painter jeans, male, white.”

  Cars started acknowledging and the dispatcher set quadrant positions.

  “508A, I’ve lost him,” Dan responded between heavy breaths. “He cut through the back. Male white, early twenties, around five-eight to ten…slender…long brown hair…white painter jeans, tie-dyed shirt…red peace sign on the front. Runs like a gazelle!”

  “Copy 508B. What’s the subject wanted for?”

  “Possession for distribution and resisting. Gave the name Kevin Kooker. Wasn’t in the alley when I got here. I’m guessing he’s hiding around the garages.”

  “505, I’m near 1450 Weiglod. I’ll see him if he comes this way. Have the other cars check Weipel alley.”

  “508A, have my partner meet me middle of Weipel Alley. Pretty dark back here.”

  Ben joined him. “Partner, this is perfect for an ambush.”

  “Why I wanted your company.”

  “You’re workin’ point?”

  “Want it?”

  “Nope, rather he shot you first.”

  “Quit worrying. He’s a doper not a shooter.”

  “Does he know that?”

  They searched for ten minutes before Officer Follert radioed, “505, got a dog barking at 1454 Pullan. I’m gonna check it out.”

  “508, we’re near there. Hear the dog. We’ll try and come through and cover.”

  “505, copy.”