EQMM, November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I sat down. “Hard day."

  "Oh yeah,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “Days like this, dear, that's when I miss home the most.... And you?"

  "Working the Mimi Summers case, Mom, just like I promised."

  If she had had the strength, I think she would have smiled. Her lips just moved a bit and she said, “Good."

  "Can I ask you a couple of things?"

  "Sure..."

  "You looked at the case file, didn't you, before you gave it to me?"

  "Yes..."

  I leaned forward on the chair. “So why didn't you tell me?"

  "Tell you what?"

  "Tell me the case had been cleaned up, vacuumed. That's what."

  She closed her eyes and I thought she had fallen asleep, but the whisper came back. “What do you mean, Stef?"

  "I mean the file's full of crap. There's no full autopsy report from the medical examiner's office. No formal investigative report from the two detectives. Just a prelim report from the medical examiner, some notes from you, and some newspaper clippings and other odds and ends and photos. That's all."

  "I see...."

  "Mom, what's going on? What really happened back then?"

  She grimaced and said, “Stef ... I'm so tired...."

  "Mom..."

  "Stef ... please ... you're a smart girl ... just keep working on it for me, okay? Please?"

  I folded my arms, stayed there, stayed there while she fell asleep, and I stayed for a long time, as the room grew darker, and then I got out of my chair and kissed her forehead again.

  "You got it, Mom,” I said, and then I left.

  * * * *

  The next day was a workday, and I had foot patrol in the Market Square area of town, a nice upscale place, and as I gave directions to lost tourists and answered parking-ticket complaints, I thought of Mom, about my age, working the very mean streets of Harborside at night all by herself, with no hand-held radio, no bulletproof vest, no Mace canister at her side to help in fights.

  All by her lonesome.

  But times had changed, had changed a lot, and I was counting on that as I went back to the station for a quick lunch, which I gobbled down to give myself a bit of spare time, which I used by taking over one of the cubicles we lowly street cops use for writing up our reports and such.

  This time, it was a phone call, and a phone call to the county medical-examiner's office. I asked for Rachel Tasker, a classmate of mine from the Academy, who dumped cop work after a few months and went on to medical school, and years later, with me at Porter, and she with the county, we sometimes traded tips and gossip. Part of the all-powerful, all-secret Sisterhood. Or something like that.

  "Tasker,” she said, answering the phone, and I said, “Hey, Rache ... it's Stef."

  "Stef? Girl, it's been a long time. What's up? Got a body in your trunk, need to know what to do with it?"

  "I wish,” I said. “That'd be easier than what I'm doing now."

  "Oh,” she said. “Sorry. How's your mom?"

  "Hanging in there, day by day ... which is why I'm calling you."

  "Really?” she said, and I detected the scepticism in her voice. I went on and said, “Look, I'm on my lunch break, but I need a favor. Mom ... sometimes she has these bad days, when things slip up some, and right now, she's focused on her early days in the department, when she was the only female cop."

  "Poor dear,” Rachel said. “Go ahead."

  "Well ... she's obsessing over this untimely death she helped investigate, back in ‘sixty-seven. She wants to have it ... well, settled in her mind, just in case she doesn't get better and ... shit, Rache, I'm speaking in circles here."

  "Hon, just tell me what you want."

  I took a deep breath. “A case from nineteen sixty-seven. Untimely death. I've gone through the case file but the autopsy report's missing. It'd mean a lot to me and Mom if I could get a copy."

  "From this office? Back in nineteen sixty-seven?"

  "Yeah,” I said. “Mimi Summers. Apparent suicide, August nineteen sixty-seven."

  Rachel whistled. “Hon, I'll see what I can do ... but man, nineteen sixty-seven. I sometimes have a hell of a time looking for something from last year. No promises. That's the best I can do. Is that okay?"

  "That'd be great. Thanks, Rache, I'll owe you one."

  "Yeah, a big one. Now, get your ass back to work and start protecting the streets again, okay?"

  "Sure."

  * * * *

  Home after shift, looking through the case file, looking through the paperwork, and then, picking up a tiny slip of cardboard.

  Held it in my hand.

  "Idiot,” I whispered, and even off shift and off the city's clock, I went back to work.

  * * * *

  In the basement of the Porter Police Department, in the Evidence Room, I lucked out. Due to a series of budget cutbacks, a lot of little functions the department used to pay for are now taken care of in other ways. Part of life, I guess, and if the city of Porter wanted to pay money to fly the mayor to a sister city in Kazakhstan, who was I to complain? But like I said, I lucked out, because the Evidence section this evening was being overseen by a male college intern, working on his criminal-justice degree. I'm sure that most nights this allowed him to catch up on his studying while helping the cops catalog and file evidence, but this wasn't one of those nights.

  It sounds harsh, but since he was an intern, I didn't bother to learn his name, or even remember his name when he told me. I just showed him my ID and passed over the little stub of cardboard that I'd found in the case file.

  "I need everything you've got on this case,” I said. “And don't give me a look because it's from nineteen sixty-seven. If it's back there, I want to see it. Okay?"

  And like all interns who want to impress, he nodded and moved back into the gloom of the shelves.

  I waited. Tapping my fingers on the counter before me.

  Waited.

  Something fell back there, and I heard a muttered curse.

  Progress, I hoped.

  Then, movement.

  He emerged from the gloom. Covered with dust, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, but holding up a paper bag in triumph.

  * * * *

  God bless the Porter Police Department from 1967, for the evidence was in an IGA grocery bag, folded over and held together with brown tape. The intern slid the Evidence Room log over to me and I scribbled something that couldn't be read, and then took the bag away. According to procedure, the evidence bag shouldn't have left the department, but I was way beyond procedure this night. The bag went back with me and then to the kitchen table of my condo, and I had the oddest thought as I undid the top of the bag, that if the bag wasn't permeable at all, then I was opening up air that had been sealed long before I was born.

  A cool thought, but one that didn't prevent me from going inside.

  Pretty thin, was my first thought, as I took out a woman's purse, some papers, and another, smaller folded-over bag. The papers were Mimi's timecards and pay stubs from the Virgin Mermaid—and looking at what she got paid back then, I sure as hell hoped she did well with tips. I put that aside. In her thin black leather purse were keys for an apartment that was no longer an apartment, keys to a bar that was no longer a bar, and reminders of a life that was no longer a life. The purse had some change, a ten-dollar bill, and two singles, and folded up in a corner, a two-dollar bill with a grim portrait of Jefferson. There were some faded black-and-white photographs of some relatives, some six-cent postage stamps, a New Hampshire driver's license, and, poignantly enough, in back, a sealed condom, wrinkled and dried.

  How about that.

  More digging around in the wallet and I found something else, in a little compartment that was easy to miss. A business card. I slid it out and said, “Damn,” in a little whisper.

  A business card belonging to Detective Frank Flannery, Porter Police Department, with a phone number scrawled on the back.

  "Damn
,” I said again, and put the card down, and then went to the smaller paper bag. I opened it up and slid out the contents, or content, for it was a pair of women's underwear, white cotton.

  Or panties. For some reason, all the men I know get giggly and horny at the mention of panties, but this bit of cotton was just underwear. That's all.

  But there was more, as I quickly learned, unfolding them.

  Stains. Urine stains, I'm sure, from when the bladder let loose after her death ... but there were other stains as well.

  How about that, I thought. How about that.

  * * * *

  The next day I did something I rarely do, which was to call in sick. My union being a take-it-to-the-streets-and-let's-hammer-some-heads union, I didn't have to supply a good reason or a doctor's note, so I was safe for the day. Of course, being truthful, I could have said I was sick at what I had to do that day, which wasn't a lie but was a pretty good stretch of the truth.

  On this special day, I rummaged through my bureau, pulled out a black lace bra that I've worn twice for dating circumstances that ended in disaster, and a thong panty that some male suitor had given me a few years back, under the ill-conceived notion that the way to a woman's heart was through uncomfortable undergarments. I also struggled to put on a pair of tight white slacks that made my butt look big enough to have its own time zone, and a tight, low-cut black sweater. I spent a few extra minutes with the makeup—as if I needed such support while working the street—and during one final mirror check before I left, I was both cheered and horrified at how easy it was to see my nipples.

  And then I grabbed what I needed and left for the hour's drive to Concord, the state capital, home to many state offices, including the state crime lab.

  * * * *

  Luck was indeed riding at my side that morning, for I was able to see my target with no difficulty: Jeff Wheeler, a very bright and inquisitive crime-lab tech who's done some great work for me and the department. Despite the fact that his weight was nearing the mark where the first numeral was about to slide from two to three, a recurring case of bad breath, and a fondness for creepy writers like H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King, he would make a great catch. Or so he probably thought, as he'd made so many moves on me over the years that he was something to be pitied.

  But not today. It was my time to make the moves.

  When he came into his cluttered office, I thought the poor fellow was going to have a coronary, the way he stared at me and tried to get to his chair without taking his gaze off my boobs. He sat down, breathing hard, smiling, and said, “Stef ... you, um, look great. What can I do for you?"

  I leaned over his desk, feeling the cold air on my cleavage as I slid the small brown paper bag across. “I need a favor, Jeff ... a very unofficial, very discreet favor."

  He swallowed, took the bag, all the while keeping his eyes on all that forbidden flesh, just inches away from his grasp. “Okay ... um, what is it?"

  "A piece of evidence. From an old crime scene."

  "How old?"

  "Forty plus years."

  Jeff shook his head. “Sweet Jesus, Stef ... that's old. What is it, and what are you looking for?"

  "Woman's underwear. Semen stains. The underwear's been stored fairly well over the years, Jeff. I'm sure you can tease out a DNA analysis, can't you? Something that would stand up in court?"

  "Shit, Stef, I don't know..."

  Another lean over the desk. “Come on, Jeff. You've told me you're the best in New England. Don't you want to prove it?"

  He tried to laugh, all the while still staring. Quite the feat. “Um, sure, I guess I could."

  I smiled. “You're a dear. When can I have it?"

  "Oh, not that long. Six to eight weeks."

  I pouted, shook my head. “Jeff ... please, it can't be that long. Can't you speed it up?"

  "Stef,” he said, “I'd love to but ... you're asking for something unofficial, something I'd have to do on off hours, and we're so backed up as it is, and—"

  I sighed and made a motion with my arm, knocked over some papers. I made a show of getting up and bending over and picking them up, making sure my thong-clad butt was waving in his face, knowing the slacks were riding low and that he was getting a view of the other cleavage. Not as attractive as the other white meat, but I was working with what I had.

  With the papers back on his desk, his face even more red, Jeff said, “How does tomorrow sound?"

  "Tomorrow sounds marvelous, Jeff. Thank you so much."

  He swallowed, stammered a bit, and said, “Um, you doing anything this weekend?"

  For you, Mom, only for you. “Not a thing. What do you have in mind?"

  "Over at the Majestic Theatre. This Saturday. It's a day-long marathon: all three of the Lord of the Rings films. I was thinking—"

  I reached out, touched his hand. “Jeff, I'd love to."

  And then I departed, before getting sick on that lovely light-green rug in his office.

  * * * *

  After showering and changing out of my rent-a-tart clothes, I went back to see Mom, and she was doing a bit better, and for some reason, I just held her hand while we talked about nothing in particular, and then she paused and said, “What's bothering you, hon?"

  "Something I did today, and wasn't too proud of doing."

  "What was that?"

  "Oh, stupid stuff. Using my wily female ways to get something I needed from a man with the attention span of a horny sixteen-year-old."

  That garnered a smile from Mom, a victory that pleased me. “We do what we can, with what we have. When I was your age ... Stef, just getting a bathroom to call your own was a major victory. Not to mention a locker room where you could get in and out of your uniform without being spied on ... simple things like that. Or the time we got our first bulletproof vests. The very first ones had no models for women, so I had to order one that was large and tighten up the straps as best I could. But I made do. Just like you. Even if the cops and detectives and chief made everything miserable."

  She squeezed my hand. “If you had to get something important done, then ... don't worry about it."

  "I won't."

  Another hand squeeze. “How are you doing with Mimi Summers?"

  I squeezed back. “When does the doctor think you can go home?"

  "Not now, Daughter. Later."

  "Okay."

  We sat in silence for a bit, and she said, “Mimi Summers ... what's going on with that?"

  I kept my hand in hers. “Not now, Mom. Later."

  * * * *

  The ringing phone blasted me out of sleep, and I had two quick and horrible thoughts: that something had happened to Mom and she was gone and I had screwed it up, not finishing everything before she passed, and the other thought was that something bad had happened at the department, and I grabbed the phone and croaked out something, and a voice said, “Stef?"

  "Yeah,” I said, waking up better and realizing I was on the couch. Damn.

  "Stef, it's Rachel. You okay?"

  "Yeah, yeah,” I said, yawning. “God. Sorry about that. Fell asleep on the couch. What's up, girlfriend?"

  She laughed. “I'm late for dinner with a promising young man, and I wanted to call you first. Believe it or not, I found that autopsy report. Must be a full moon or something, but there it was. Mimi Summers, August nineteen sixty-seven."

  I was no longer sleepy. “What can you tell me?"

  "Customary and usual. Young lady, alcohol in her system, about point-ten, which meant that driving was out of the question if she didn't want to get bagged for DWI. And death was ruled suicide by strangulation. Straight and to the point."

  "Oh. Okay, thanks then."

  She said, “You owe me. Oh, and one other thing."

  "What's that?"

  She told me.

  That one other thing meant I wasn't going back to sleep that night.

  "Rache,” I finally said. “You're a dear."

  "Thank you kindly,” she said. “An
d someday, you'll tell me what this is all about, won't you?"

  "Of course. Someday."

  But not anytime soon, I thought, as I hung up the phone.

  * * * *

  When the sun came up next, I kept on being a very bad girl, and called in sick one more time, and waited by the phone, and my heavyset suitor was pleasantly predictable, when he called me at nine A.M. and said, “I knew I could do it, Stef. Knew it."

  "You got the DNA analysis?"

  "Oh yes,” Jeff said. “Managed to tease it out just fine. Now, if this is something connected to some sort of criminal activity, and you bring me another sample to match, I wouldn't have a problem making a positive ID that could stand up in court. Not at all. Of course, that might mean another date. Hah-hah."

  "Yes,” I said, “hah-hah."

  "So,” and his voice changed tenor in that one syllable. “We, uh, still on for Saturday?"

  For someone as bad as I was being, I suppose I could have begged off. But I couldn't do it.

  "Yes,” I said. “I'm looking forward to it."

  "Honestly?"

  I thought, compared to what I've got planned for today, oh yes, oh yes indeed.

  "Yes,” I said. “Honestly."

  * * * *

  Later that afternoon, I found myself back at Pleasant Valley Estates. Earlier I had done a bit of actual police work involving one of those bureaucracies that had you press every key on your phone receiver before you got to talk to a real live person, but it had been worth the long waits on hold, while hearing “The Girl from Impanema” over and over again.

  Now I was back at the sad-looking trailer with the two happy skunks holding up the BREWSTER sign, and another series of knocks led to Harmon Brewster, opening the same door, apparently wearing the same black sweat pants and white T-shirt. He looked pretty damn grim, but I was carrying something that changed his mood: a paper bag with a six-pack of Budweiser beer bottles.

  "Hey,” he said, grinning. “What's this all about?"

  "I felt bad after leaving yesterday,” I said, which technically wasn't a lie. “And I wanted to make it up to you.” Which was definitely a lie.

  He opened the door, still grinning, and I followed him to the living room and took the six-pack and put it on a coffee table. He grabbed a bottle, twisted the cap off, and brought it up and consumed about a third of the bottle in one long swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down like some damn pump.