Time Clock Hero

by Donovan, Spikes

  “We’ve got a half-dressed woman matching the description of a June Buckner holed up in a bathroom at the Nippur’s Corner Dollar Theater,” Alaia said. “And she’s gettin’ pretty ugly.”

  Phoenix took a deep breath and placed his left hand on top of his head. “June Buckner? Do we have a positive ID?”

  “What did I just say?”

  “Is there anybody with her?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Half dressed?” Phoenix asked. “And what does ‘she’s getting pretty ugly’ mean?”

  “We’ve got her locked in the men’s room,” Alaia said. “If you can get here faster than your brain works, it’ll be a miracle.”

  “I’ll be there in ten.”

  “And you’re talking hours or days?”

  Phoenix ended the call. He jumped into his standard, office-issue Focus, hit the blue lights, and sped out of the condo parking lot. He came to Edmondson Pike and turned left. He arrived at Nippur’s Corner in seven minutes, parked, and got out.

  The press standing outside the Dollar Theater, a larger, snarlier pack of wolves than usual, probably on the prowl because June Buckner’s name had been heard over the scanners, were held at bay by more than fifteen officers. If the press was here, all of Nashville’s stations would be carrying the story live. June Buckner, wife of wealthy banker and financier Ronnie Buckner, found half-naked at, of all places, The Dollar Theater. Such a story might have been news had the woman been a nobody. But this was something epic – a novel in the making – not only because it involved June, but also because everyone would shortly learn that she’d been cheating famously on her husband with NPD’s brightest detective only hours before.

  Phoenix cringed when he rolled that picture through his brain. There’d be a medical exam for sure, invasive and intimate, as intense as the one June had probably given him the night before. They’d take samples and do DNA scans; and the computer results would show that she’d been all over him – or he on her – like white on nice.

  Phoenix pushed his way forward. Some in the press recognized him without his dark blazer. Those that did showed restraint, knowing that he’d just arrived at the scene and that he hadn’t a clue. The last the thing they wanted was to make his job more difficult. They’d done it once before, with the missing persons case that seemed to devour his entire schedule; and Phoenix had completely cut them off for two-weeks. Now, Phoenix’s relationship with the press was a dream come true, that is, if they didn’t crowd and harass him, and if they let him do his job. If they’d just back off and let him through, he’d throw them a nice treat once he’d gotten his hands dirty.

  Detective Alaia Jenkins was looming in the doorway of the theater, pushing the glass door open when she saw him arrive. The scowl Phoenix heard in her voice a few minutes ago had now become a red flash of contempt in her eyes. He stared back at her. Twenty-eight, the single mom of a ten-year-old boy, barely making ends meet – the perfectly-jilted black woman who would’ve loved hating Phoenix more if only he’d been black.

  Chief Cobb was standing behind her with his eyes glued to his OnTimex. He’d been a few blocks over having a couple of drinks, Jack and water – mostly Jack, with the usual Friday night set at the Blue Bayamon, a little Puerto Rican dive known locally for its sandwiches and tight skirts. Phoenix might have been late, but Chief Cobb had probably driven himself all over the road getting here, probably driving over the speed limit and missing a few stop signs. Not because of the situation at hand, but because Detective Alaia Jenkins, a nice squeeze on all accounts, had called him. Phoenix slipped past him, and his boss dropped an inhaler into his front left pocket.

  “Looks like June Buckner, as far as we can tell,” Alaia whispered gracefully, with a perfectly-glossed smile over a perfectly-sloped overbite. She turned around and wiggled through the theater lobby with Cobb trying to catch her and Phoenix hurrying to throw up. The smell of theater butter, some of it coming fresh from the popper and some of it emanating from the dark, lush carpet, reminded him of moldy, week-old vomit.

  “We already said it was June Buckner on the phone,” Phoenix said.

  “But this woman is nothing like the June Buckner I remember, though,” Alaia said.

  “Nothing like?”

  “Three people taken away in ambulances, another refused treatment and just walked away,” Alaia said. “She put up a hell of a fight. We’re talking cat-tastrophe here.”

  “And June Buckner is involved with this? What, like she shot somebody? Stabbed somebody? Beat somebody with a stick?”

  Chief DeAnte’ Cobb, the six-foot-four, two hundred-thirty-pound Titan linebacker-turned-cop, loved by friend and foe alike, even though he’d arrested a few of the former, corroborated every word Alaia had just said. “Nothing like the celebrity you know from the news – that’s why we’re suspicious. Now, I’m just here to observe,” he said, putting his hands up. “And we’ll talk later about your missing the meeting today.”

  “I’d be glad to give Phoenix what we have up to now, DeAnte’,” Alaia said, as if she really wanted to share any of her findings, which Phoenix knew was very doubtful. “And we didn’t need him at the meeting this morning anyway. I gave you his stuff.”

  “DeAnte?” Phoenix asked. “We’re doing first names now? Alaia? Is that okay now, DeAnte’?”

  Alaia and Chief Cobb didn’t respond. They must have been giving Phoenix’s little observation a good chew over – she because of how it looked for her to use the chief’s first name, and he because he’d always insisted on formalities, even when off duty.

  “And you were saying, Princess Alaia?” Phoenix asked, with his light-colored eyebrows raised and his head cocked.

  Alaia stopped and threw her arms up in the air. “You know? Fine. You can do all of this by yourself, Phoenix Malone. But, you know what?”

  Chief Cobb shook his head and rolled his eyes. He liked Detective Alaia Jenkins. He’d even gone so far as to tell Phoenix this new girl he’d hired was built like a brick house – something he’d made him promise he wouldn’t joke about. But Chief Cobb and Phoenix had been best friends since the eighth grade; and Phoenix, when push came to beat-down, had his friend’s back.

  “You can’t do this all by yourself, Phoenix Malone,” Alaia said. “You need a woman’s touch – somebody whose detail-oriented. Something you ain’t got.”

  “You’ve always been the big-picture guy,” Chief Cobb said, taking her side. “What can I say?”

  “You can start by backing me up, DeAnte’.”

  A reflective silence followed, a loud one, which Phoenix interpreted as a train conductor blowing a whistle and yelling, “all aboard!” It ended when Detective Jenkins took a deep breath and let it out like some pissed little millennial who couldn’t decide between an ice cream cone and her five-dollar-a-month college loan payment.

  Phoenix, now the ‘big picture guy’, suddenly understood the scale of his dilemma: Detective Alaia Jenkins wanted his job; and she’d gotten some leverage going, probably a pelvic tilt, with Chief Cobb. Chances were good she’d get his job eventually, just as long Chief Cobb could “get it” after the investigation tonight. He raised his eyebrows at Chief Cobb, swung around, and headed towards the restrooms with Alaia in quick pursuit.

  “Now, you can’t just walk in there like I know you’re going to do,” she said. “This woman will attack you.”

  So what’s new?

  “How long has she been in there?”

  “A minute before I called you the second time,” Alaia said. “Chief Cobb wanted you to handle this by yourself for some reason – and we both know that that’s a mistake.”

  “That’s because you can’t handle yourself, sugar,” Phoenix shot back with a smile and a swat to her perfectly heart-shaped rear end.

  Dang you look nice girl.

  “Do that again and I’ll---”

  “What, follow me home from the next office party?” Phoenix noticed four police officers standing ready as he mad
e his way towards the restrooms. One held a shotgun, one of the new tactical weapons NPD had just purchased, and the other three held their black batons ready.

  All of this for June Buckner? All one hundred-fifteen pounds of her?

  Chief Cobb’s phone went off, cranking out another of his Isley Brothers’ ringtones. He stopped dead in his tracks. Phoenix shook his head and turned, expecting his old friend to break into some kind of boogie. “You two got this,” Cobb said, with his phone to his ear. “I gotta take this call. And try to act like a twosome, okay?” He turned and walked back towards the lobby talking a blue streak.

  Alaia quickly spouted off the absolutely appalling details of the evening’s events, every one of which Phoenix refused to believe, leading up to the time when the theater manager pushed a woman, a woman loosely matching the description of June Buckner, into the men’s restroom, locking her inside.

  “You’re telling me – let me get this straight – that this woman attacked four people, three of which are now at St. Thomas,” Phoenix said, as he rolled his eyes. When he reached the restroom door, he pushed on it. The deadbolt hadn’t been unlocked. “You’re telling me June Buckner bit, with her teeth, four people and---”

  “We’ve got the photos, Detective Malone,” Alaia interrupted with convincing firmness. “And you’re going to need to be ready before you open that door. But what the hell do I know? Just you go on in there then. See if I care.”

  Convinced he had to do this alone, mostly for his own preservation, Phoenix paused for a second with his ear to the door. He reeled in the fearful reek. If June Buckner was in there, he only had to knock on the door, call out her name, and wait for her to answer. And she’d answer because she’d recognize his voice. Then he’d open the door and step inside, alone, and lock the door behind him.

  What’s going on June?

  You’re being set up, honey – you know you are.

  Who’s behind this?

  They’re doing this for a reason, Phoenix my love.

  Phoenix didn’t move. He remained still, listening to what little sound he could hear coming through the crack in the door. Maybe June would cough or something. He’d recognize the noise if she did.

  The police sergeant handed Phoenix the key.

  Maybe that’s the shuffling of June’s feet, but maybe not.

  “If you’re going in alone, you’ll need this,” the sergeant said, handing Phoenix a nightstick.

  The creak of a stall door on rusty hinges.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Phoenix?” The sergeant asked.

  A bump, heavy and weighted, against a wall.

  Phoenix inserted the key into the lock. He turned it counterclockwise, retracting the bolt smoothly into the door. Silence followed, like the roar of a city street without traffic, or the ear-shattering pop of gunfire after a shootout.

  The police officers readied their nightsticks and took a few steps backward. The sergeant looked at Phoenix, flat-lipped and eyebrows raised, and gave him the nod.

  Carefully and deliberately, Phoenix pushed the door inward, one inch at a time, and then another inch, and then another, until the door gently stopped against something spongy, something that not only refused to budge, but seemed to push back as well.

  “Mrs. Buckner,” Phoenix said, his mouth up close to the opening. “This is Detective Malone, Nashville Police Department. Will you let me in?”

  No answer.

  “Mrs. Buckner?”

  He heard a soft, delicate moan.

  Yep – that’s June.

  Detective Jenkins, without hint or warning, squeezed in beside Phoenix. She held her thirty-eight in front of her, with the muzzle pointed at the floor, but with her finger off the trigger. “Just in case,” she said.

  “Now, darling, don’t shoot, whatever you do, okay?” Phoenix said as if to a child.

  Phoenix didn’t waste any more time. He turned towards his right and positioned his left shoulder near the edge of the door, listening for any sounds coming from the restroom. Then he called out to Mrs. Buckner a third time, but louder than he had before, hoping she’d reply. Suddenly, without any warning to the officers, he backed up and slammed his shoulder into the door. He heard a heavy bump, loud and sharp, like the sound of somebody’s head hitting a hollow, sheetrock wall. Then he heard the sound of a body hitting the floor. He thrust himself past Detective Jenkins, brushing her aside with his right arm, and squeezed through the partially-opened bathroom door.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out an inhaler, and shot his lungs full with the Oblivium Chief Cobb had slipped him.

  Phoenix looked down at the floor and felt the blood draining from his face, racing from his brain, down into the pit of his stomach. Though utterly ruined for the moment by the shock of seeing June Buckner half dressed, in her lacy underwear, but also wearing his dark blue blazer, white shirt, and red tie, he steadied himself and stepped forward. Her legs, once lightly tanned, now looked the palest of gray. And her hair, never out of place, seemed nothing less than a tangled snake trap reminiscent of one of Medusa’s hairstyles.

  “June?” Phoenix asked, running his left hand through his hair.

  June Buckner, whose back was turned towards Phoenix, and whose head lay in the bottom of the urinal, picked herself up in short, jerky, twitchy movements. She got up onto her knees and clawed at the bathroom stall partition like an animal. Her teeth began making clicking and clacking noises, like someone playing with their new dentures.

  “June?”

  In one perilous second, Phoenix came up close behind her, dropped his nightstick with a clang on the floor, and reached for her shoulder.

  Alaia, suddenly seized with a sense of duty, came into the restroom behind him.

  “June!” he yelled, and he spun her around. And, in one fleeting moment, through the tangled mass of hair hanging from her head and the dried blood caked on her face, mouth, and nose, Phoenix Malone saw what he thought might have once been the body and face containing the soul and mind of June Buckner.

  Chapter 3

  Radio stations and late night talk shows chattered about the June Buckner incident within hours of her being dragged from the theater under restraint. By nine the next morning, the entire nation had tuned in; and by noon, though medical examiners had only started examining Mrs. Buckner, stumped early on by what they were finding, theories began to appear on online news outlets. One article, Wife of Famous Banker Suffers Mental Collapse, held the nation’s attention, appearing first on the internet and then on local Nashville radio. It went national within an hour of release. There were other stories, too. Stories about how June Buckner, under the influence of a hybrid drug, had bitten several people, two of which had become non-responsive in a local hospital. Half-dressed women walking around the streets of Nashville, so one reporter remarked, was not news. But a half-naked, crazed woman who bit people was better than anything the SyFy channel could come up with, even after ten-thirty at night.

  By noon, at precisely twelve, two things happened. First, a phone call came into NPD followed immediately by an email. The email, which stated that Detective Phoenix Malone had been with June Buckner at the Big Coyote Club the night before, was sent directly to Detective Alaia Jenkins. The source, wishing to remain anonymous, also included a download of the Big Coyote Club’s surveillance footage, footage the informant admitted to having obtained accidentally when hacking into the club’s security system, proving the two had been together. Second, a Fed Ex courier arrived at the front desk at NPD with an envelope marked urgent and addressed to Detective Malone. The courier requested to see Detective Malone and waited impatiently for him to arrive. He got the signature he needed, handed Detective Malone the light-weight envelope, and left.

  Five minutes later, after grabbing a cup of Seattle’s Best breakfast blend, Phoenix headed up to his office on the second floor. He pulled the door behind him nearly to closed, sat down behind his desk, and opened the envelope. He held it by the sides and
shook it. A newspaper article, folded up two times, slightly yellow on the edges, floated out and onto his desk noiselessly. He took a sip of coffee and unfolded the clipping.

  Phoenix looked at the headline. When he saw it, he wind-piped a mouthful of hot joe. He shot up from his chair, coughing and gagging, and he turned towards the wastepaper can on the floor. He’d have yelled for help if he could’ve, but he lacked the voice, let alone the wind to push it. All he could do was struggle for air, taking long, slow breaths that didn’t quite seem to do the job, and he thought he would pass out. He recovered a minute later, but barely, with coffee now soaking the front of his new, white dress shirt.

  He sat back down and picked up the news article. Robin Hood Mystery Remains Unsolved was how the papers carried the story four years earlier. Today, the case still remained unsolved.

  Evidence in the Robin Hood case, a single hard drive, small, sleek, and black, had never been recovered – Phoenix had spirited it away from under the nose of the evidence room clerk nearly four years earlier. Nobody had seen him take it. In fact, nobody had seen him enter the room – not even the security cameras – thanks to the man who had called him, who had proved to him beyond the shadow of a doubt that the security system would be down for no less than sixty seconds, and who had dangled ten thousand dollars in front of his nose via a hot, steaming bag of Krystal’s burgers and pups.

  Phoenix had taken the offer. Others in the department had done worse for less. Officers he’d known had gotten away with things he’d never consider doing, things he could not, because of his conscience, imagine doing in his wildest dreams. But everybody had to make a living. His crime was a small one.

  So what. He let the Robin Hood cyberterrorist get away. A white collar guy who’d hacked into a high-profile First Bank of Nashville savings account and redistributed a hundred million dollars to a hundred thousand households living in the pale squalor of dying East Nashville and other similar areas around the country.