by T. K. Thorne
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks. “It’s a little different from the police academy training.”
I’m not sure, but I am sure I don’t want to be afraid anymore. Not that martial arts can stop a bullet. It might be a waste of time, but at least I will be trying to get my self-confidence back.
Tracey hoists a gym bag and closes the trunk.
I follow him to a room in the complex that Tracey referred to as a “dojo.” That’s about the extent of my knowledge. Physical training in the police academy was squeezed into a crowded curriculum.
The dojo is a long rectangular room. Several mats pushed tightly together cover the majority of the floor. The inner mats are blue and the outer ones are green. A ballet bar runs the length of one wall.
A few people stand or sit on the mats, stretching. Tracey approaches a large man in a robin’s-egg-blue gi, an outfit resembling shapeless, thick pajamas that would have appalled Becca, at least the fashion-conscious Becca-before-the-Ordeal. The end of the man’s black belt is embroidered with crimson Japanese letters.
Beckoning me over, Tracey introduces me to his teacher, his sensei, Richard Worthington.
“Welcome,” Richard says with a friendly smile. He is a big bear of a man, matching Tracey’s size.
Tracey is already wearing white gi pants, but peels out of his shirt to put on his top. It’s the first time I’ve seen him shirtless. I can hear Becca’s gasp in my head. “Oh my!”
I silence her and try to follow the process when he ties his black belt, which is very long and has to be looped around twice and then knotted in front. For all the convolutions, it comes out looking neat.
At the mat’s edge, Tracey gives a little bow to no one in particular and steps onto it with his left foot first. Feeling out of place in my gray sweats, I copy him. We do a few stretches.
At a barked Japanese word, we all line up before Mark, another sensei, who seems more taciturn than Sensei Richard. I’m relegated to the far end of the line. Tracey’s position is at the other end with an assortment of black, white, blue, and brown belts between us in ranking order, I presume. Some wear a white gi, some blue. I’m the only one in just a t-shirt and sweat pants. I’m also the only female. Mark points to Tracey and, at Tracey’s command, we all bow at the waist to Mark, then turn and bow to Richard.
So far, this is a piece of cake.
Mark leads us in a series of light warm up exercises. Then we follow him in what he calls a “walking kata,” a series of steps, some with just footwork and then with sweeping arm moves that thoroughly confuse me, but I follow as best as I can. My assessment of Tracey as a “clumsy” bear crumbles. Despite his size, on the mat, every movement is agile and suggests constrained power.
Falling in various ways follows this exercise. Richard has me start from a squatting position for the back falls and then lie on my back and roll from side to side, practicing landing positions. I just watch when the rest line up and one by one take graceful forward rolls that look easy, but I suspect take practice, as I’m not allowed to attempt them. When that is done, we work on what is termed “the releases,” where we take turns grabbing a partner’s wrist and practice how to get out of it in several different ways. This seems strange, but I sense it fits into a larger pattern I haven’t grasped. When Mark demonstrates variations of the releases and how they lead to wrist locks and throws, I’m pretty lost, although I recognize one move from police academy training.
For the rest of the evening, we work on turning someone’s punch into a wristlock. I’m realizing that my suspicion of a wide gap in my hand fighting education was correct. Birmingham Police Academy PT, in retrospect, consisted of getting into shape, getting yelled at, practicing with a short baton, disarming people, handcuff techniques, ground fighting, and more getting into shape and getting yelled at.
My partner in the releases is a baby-faced man named Chris with sandy brown hair in a military buzz cut. He wears a brown belt and looks familiar.
“Do I know you?” I ask.
He smiles. “Chris Lane. I work West Precinct.”
“You’re a police officer?”
“Yeah.” He grasps my wrist, and I try to mimic his smooth movements and end up where I’m supposed to, on the outside of his arm. With great patience, he corrects my posture. “It’s about moving your hips,” he says. “You don’t want to be standing still when attacked. Move out of the way.”
“Sounds simple.”
“It is, but it’s not that easy to do it. You have to overcome the reflex to stand your ground and flinch.”
I get that and try to move the way he wants me too. He’s really cute. If Becca weren’t a mental five year old—
The hour passes way too fast and way before I have any feeling of having truly accomplished anything, except being aware of the difference between where I’m supposed to end up and where I do. The founder of this style is dead, but his students, our teachers, hold him in high esteem. From the way Richard speaks of him, I find myself wishing I could have met him.
We line up and repeat the bowing thing, including a reverse of what we did stepping onto the mat, this time stepping off with the right foot first.
Back in the parking lot, I’m strangely happy.
“Well?” Tracey asks.
“I like it. I want to come back.”
He laughs. “Okay.”
“What is it anyway? I mean I know it’s a martial art, but which one?”
“It’s called Akayama Ryu.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Means the Red Mountain style.”
“Really? Like our Red Mountain, the one Vulcan stands on?” Vulcan was the Roman god of fire, metalworking, and the forge, but in Birmingham he is a huge iron statue and the city’s icon, a source of pride and a reminder of the Magic City’s roots in the iron and steel industry.
“The very one.”
“Is that a coincidence?”
“Nope, it originated here. A short old man named Alex Marshall designed it. It’s primarily Jujitsu, but contains a mixture of techniques from Jujitsu, Aikido, and Judo.”
“Alex Marshall?” I wrinkle my forehead. “Sounds familiar for some reason.”
“He taught at the Police Academy years ago. Somewhat of a legend.”
“How long have you been at it?”
“I started as a child, actually. Not in this system. I did karate when I was younger and then studied Aikido and Judo. I’ve only been doing Akayama for five years.”
I eye his big frame. “Why do you keep doing it?”
He shrugs. “Keeps me from hurting people.”
My brows rise. “Keeps you from hurting people?”
“I have a temper.”
I study his blunt features, but can’t tell if he is being truthful or facetious.
Chapter Sixteen
Enduring a City Council meeting is on my list of not-fun things to do, ranking up there with shopping. Instead, I sit in vigilance in a hallway that doubles as a waiting area. Councilman Orson Hobart will have to pass me to get in his office.
I told Tracey and Lieutenant Faraday I had a doctor’s appointment. True, but I’m skipping the going to it part.
The numbers to City Hall in Crompton’s phone records were to Councilor Hobart’s office. I pay no attention to politics, but I do know he is the council president. I casually quizzed his assistant, and she didn’t know Crompton. She could be lying, but I don’t think so.
In addition to investigating behind Tracey’s back, I’m now putting my career, or at least my position in Homicide, in jeopardy. A city councilman isn’t immune to investigation, of course, but even I know that protocol would be to give my lieutenant a heads-up before interviewing him. She would want to know details, however, and I can’t give her any that would support me questioning Hobart, at least not anything that did
n’t involve Tracey lying or magic. I’m going to bluff my way. What’s the worst thing that could happen—they send me back to be a patrol officer, something I repeatedly requested?
A well built, distinguished-looking man, maybe in his sixties, steel gray at his temples approaches the receptionist’s counter. I recognize Hobart from his photo on the city website and restrain myself from jumping up and confronting him in the hallway. The receptionist knows I’m waiting, and that it’s official police business. He stops at her desk, and she leans toward him over the counter. He glances at me.
The receptionist hands him a piece of paper, which he consults before turning to me.
“Detective Brighton?”
I stand and take the offered hand.
“Shall we go to my office?”
I follow him down a hall to an office that is smaller than I expected. Inside, I close the door behind me. The office is uncluttered—a desk, shelves of books and two chairs arranged to slightly face each other and the occupant of the desk. Several certificates hang on the wall. I can make out an “M.D.” on one of them.
“Please sit down.” He glances at his watch. “How can I help you?”
“I’m investigating the death of Benjamin Crompton.”
His mouth tightens. “That was an accident, an overdose of insulin.”
“How do you know that?”
He shrugs. “That’s what roared through the halls of the University ten minutes after it happened. Is there something I don’t know?”
“Did you know Dr. Crompton?”
“Yes, I did. Why do you ask?”
“I—we aren’t completely convinced it was an accident.”
“We aren’t?” asks a voice behind me.
I twist in my chair. A large hunk of a man fills the doorway, a familiar hunk. “Lohan?”
He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. “What are you doing here, Rose?”
I stand and face him. “What are you doing here?”
He stares hard at me. “I’m visiting my father.”
Confusion hits and then unravels. “Councilor Hobart is your father?”
“I am,” Hobart says.
“Then that’s how you know Benjamin Crompton?” I ask Tracey.
“Is that what this is about? You’re going behind my back about that?” There is a creeping stain of red at his neck.
“Why did you lie about it?” I ask.
“That’s not . . . your business.”
“It is my business.” My fists clench. “We’re supposed to be partners.”
“There’s absolutely no evidence of foul play. If there was, I’d be the first person to insist on solving the case.”
Guilt stabs me. I’m keeping the truth from him as much as he is from me. But that doesn’t change the situation. My ear lobes burn, an annoying side effect of anger.
Hobart clears his throat.
My ears burn hotter, now in embarrassment.
“Maybe you kids need to take this outside,” Hobart says in an even voice. “I have work to do.”
Tracey and I continue to stare at each other. He reaches behind him and opens the door, motioning me ahead.
We don’t speak until we exit the building and reach a small concrete walkway on the basement level connecting a side door of City Hall to the employee parking deck. Efforts have been made to turn the utilitarian space into a garden area, but I catch the faint odor of urine and suspect homeless folks camp here during the night. We stay on the concrete walkway and face each other.
“What was that all about?” Tracey asks.
“I’m just doing my job investigating a murder.”
“There is no murder. Why are you being so stubborn?”
“Why did you hide your relationship with Crompton?”
“It’s complicated, but I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re implying.
There’s no doubting the tension in him, and I recall the ease with which he threw people to the ground in the dojo and what he said about his temper. Tracey Lohan is a dangerous man. But I’m angry myself.
“I don’t think you killed him, but you have totally ignored my . . . instincts about Laurie Stokes. Is it because I’m a rookie or a woman?”
“Whoa. Everything is not about that.”
“Then what is it about?”
“I think you’re wrong.”
My hands settle on my hips. “Well, I think you’re wrong.
We are reduced again to the staring thing.
For a moment I wonder if he is going to break one of my bones. Then, almost imperceptibly, a corner of his mouth twitches.
“You are stubborn, Rose.”
I sniff. “We’ve already established that.”
My adoptive father taught me to be stubborn. A Marine drill sergeant, he made me an obstacle course in the back yard of whatever base housing we ended up in, and when I got old enough, I went on his morning runs with him. He pushed me physically, like I was one of his recruits. Maybe he was trying to break me. I think he thought the world would eventually, and it would be better for me to see that when it happened, it wouldn’t kill me. Maybe that’s what got me through the Ordeal. Standing up to Lohan is nothing compared to my father.
“Where do we go from here?” Tracey asks.
“Well, I guess you can flunk me as a partner, and I’ll go back to Burglary or Patrol.”
“Or—?”
“Or we can discuss this and figure out a path forward.”
“Which means do it your way?”
“That’s the reasonable path.”
He barks a laugh. “How so?”
“If I’m wrong and it’s just an accidental overdose, nobody gets hurt if we do our job and ask a few questions. But if you’re wrong, a murderer goes free.”
For a moment, he’s quiet. “I’ll make you a deal.”
I wait.
“We’ll give your way a shot, but if we don’t find anything, you let it go.”
Chapter Seventeen
The Edge of Chaos is on the fourth floor of one of the red brick buildings that make up the multiple-block campus and medical center of UAB. Still part of Southside, it is only a handful of blocks from the residential neighborhood where Alice and I live.
Stepping off the elevator, Tracey and I emerge in a large corridor that arcs around a central core. The ceiling is composed of chunks of thick white geometric pieces spaced in concentric rings with black, drop-down lighting between the pieces. Abstract artwork in jagged colors wraps columns that help support the unusual architectural design. A large chalkboard displays what appear to be random graffiti and a few equations. The place screams “environment designed to promote freethinking and creativity.”
It makes me nervous.
Our escort is Fred Enslen, the director. He leads us around the circular hall, into a large, open rectangular space. Comfortable chairs arranged to entice conversation are clustered at one end next to large windows, but the rest of the area contains traditional tables and plastic chairs, whiteboards, and a video screen.
“We had a presentation here earlier,” Enslen says, “but we can rearrange the room for other purposes. The idea is to encourage cross-disciplinary conversations and hopefully, collusions.”
“Is it working?” Tracey asks.
Enslen shrugs. “It’s a difficult thing to measure. But it’s a community space too, and we have an active schedule of events.” He waves us back down the circular hallway. “My office is just to the right. Why don’t we go in there and see how I can help you?”
His office is a traditional square cube with enough space for two or three visitors. Somehow, I expected it to be a weird shape or rainbow colors or something in keeping with the avant-garde design. On his desk are photos of two children. “My niece and nephew,” he says, seeing my
attention.
Tracey nods at a photograph of a young lieutenant in an Army uniform. “That you?”
“It is.” Enslen says. “Did you serve?”
“I did. Marine Corps. Afghanistan.”
I give Tracey a quick look at this new information. Not that I should be surprised. I know very little about him other than he looks like a linebacker, takes his coffee black, keeps chocolate chip cookies in his desk and likes Indian food.
“We’re investigating the death of Dr. Benjamin Crompton,” Tracey says.
Enslen glances down. “Terrible thing to lose Benjamin like that. Terrible. But I don’t understand why it’s a homicide case. I heard he had an accidental insulin overdose.”
“Yeah, well, we’re just checking all the possibilities,” Tracey says. “We’re interested in the diabetes project he was overseeing.”
I’m grateful for what he didn’t say—My partner has this hunch based on no evidence whatsoever, but I’m humoring her.
“Why is this place under the domain of Public Health?” I ask.
“To tell the truth, we had some space in the back, and they put a bunch of data people from Public Health there.”
“Data people?”
“Research data people.” His hands wave the air like an orchestra conductor readying his players. “Do you know why there is hype about how good almonds are for you?”
I stare at him.
“It’s because there is lots of research on almonds.” He points at me. “But what about pecans? They’re good for you too, equally as good as almonds, but you never hear about pecans, do you?”
“Uh, never thought about it,” Tracey says. “Do your data guys study pecans?”
Caught up in his teaching moment, Enslen doesn’t miss a beat. “The reason there is research on almonds is because almond growers have deep pockets, or at least the companies selling them do.”
“So they advertise,” Tracey says with a shrug.
“Yes, but not just advertising,” Enslen says. “They have to have data to tout almonds as being healthy.”
“The almond people fund research on their own product?” I ask.
