Apprehensions & Convictions

by Mark Johnson

  “He can’t see a thing, Detective, you know that,” Kelly Ann snarls. “Let me look at that. Heather hasn’t been here since you both tore up our front yard. Daddy, this is the detective that tore up our yard.”

  I put the warrant back in my sports coat’s inside pocket and motion to Mitch, standing at the backdoor.

  “C’mon in, Mitch. Mr. Kennedy’s given us permission. You take the upstairs, I’ll check down here.”

  “Just a damn minute!” Kelly Ann says. “I live here, too. You don’t have my permission to come in here. This is my house!”

  Mitch is bounding up the stairs to the bedrooms while I glance around the great room and peek into a small oak-paneled den with built-in bookcases to the ceiling and twin tacked-leather wingback chairs. On a polished mahogany and glass table between the chairs is a cluster of cut-glass brandy decanters.

  Kelly Ann is following me around ranting about her rights and demanding to see my warrant. I return to the great room and Mr. Kennedy.

  “My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, Detective, and for that matter, neither is my hearing,” he says, smiling apologetically. “But I do think I would know if my daughter and I had a guest in the house.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Kennedy, I’m sure you’re right, but we just have to report to our sergeant that we gave the place a good once-over, you understand. It’s just procedure.”

  “Of course, officer, of course,” he replies, over Kelly Ann’s protests. “Just let them do their jobs, Kelly Ann! It won’t take but a minute, for goodness’ sake. Why are you getting all upset, dear?”

  “I must say that’s a mighty fine library you have there, sir,” I interject, before Kelly Ann gets a chance to blather on about her constitutional rights. “What’s over here on the other side?” I say, walking toward the master suite.

  “Oh, that’s my bedroom. I can assure you, there’s nobody in there, Detective,” Kennedy says. His face clouds over. “I’m the only one uses that side of the house since my bride passed. We were married fifty-eight years!”

  “That’s quite an accomplishment in this day and age,” I remark, entering his bedroom. I check under the king-size four-poster bed, then enter the master bath. It’s massive, nearly as big as the bedroom. A large mirror runs the entire length of the double-sinked marble vanity. A chandelier hangs above a two-seater Jacuzzi. I check in the shower, which has a curved stone entry that precludes the need for a curtain, and is big enough to party in. Nozzles point from all directions but the floor. Finally I check the water closet, which has its own door. Inside, I find a gleaming black porcelain low-profile commode, complete with a mechanical seat-assist to help the user rise when finished, and to my surprise, something I haven’t seen outside Europe: a matching bidet.

  I hear Mitch’s footfalls upstairs. His search is apparently about as successful as mine. I start to head back to the great room to call Mitch down to depart, when I notice the walk-in closet.

  I switch on the light and open the door. Both sides of the large closet are lined with fine suits. It’s quite an extensive wardrobe. I startle myself with my own reflection in a floor-length mirror on the far wall, and then I spy in the mirror the reflection of another: the backside of a female form, squatting tight against the wall behind one of Mr. Kennedy’s summer seersuckers.

  I pull the Taser from my coat pocket.

  “All right, Heather. Let me see your hands, and come out real slow.” Heather crawls from behind the seersucker on her hands and knees. I key my radio.

  “Got her down here, Mitch, in the old man’s closet.”

  “Ten-four. Comin’ to ya.”

  The dispatcher comes over the air. “Hold all traffic, 163’s taking one into custody.”

  I key the radio again. “You can release traffic, operator. Everything’s 10-4 here.” Then to Heather: “You dipped on me last time, bitch. Almost wrecked my car.”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Johnson, really, I . . .”

  I hear myself say, “Please, just try something now, Heather. I’d love you to try it again. Been too long since I’ve tased somebody, and nobody needs it more’n you.” The adrenalin’s got me good. Do I really mean this? She is just a thief, and a female thief at that.

  Heather seems even more shocked at me than I am.

  “What? Why? I’m cooperatin’, Detective, really I am. Don’t shoot that thing. I surrender, Detective Johnson.”

  Mitch comes up behind me with his cuffs already out and snaps them on both Heather’s wrists behind her.

  Poor old Mr. Kennedy is mortified when we emerge from his bedroom with a woman he didn’t even know was in his house.

  “My God, Kelly Ann! What have I told you about bringing people here! And in my own room!”

  He turns to me. “You might as well go on and take my daughter, too, Detective. I certainly won’t put up with this kind of behavior here any longer!”

  I look at Kelly Ann. “You know, he’s right, Kelly Ann. We can take you for Harboring a Fugitive, Hindering Prosecution—not to mention how you’ve totally disrespected your father, endangerin’ him with the likes a her.”

  “Boy howdy,” Mitch chimes in. “I think that’s Elder Abuse, don’t you reckon, Detective?”

  “Sure is, Mitch. Whadaya think? Take her, too?”

  “It’s your call, Detective. You da man,” Mitch says.

  We decide to leave Kelly Ann for now. We can always come back for her, depending on what Heather tells me.

  Back at the precinct, Heather (predictably) tells me she was never even at “Stumpy” Brock’s house with Kelly Ann, but she’s more than happy to let me know who was.

  “It was Victoria Barnhart did that with Kelly Ann. I wasn’t even in Mobile that night. I was over at my mama’s, in Daphne, visiting my baby girl. You can call them, they’ll tell you I was there.”

  “Then how do you know Victoria was the one, Heather? Besides, Stumpy—Mr. Brock—picked your picture out of a photo spread.”

  From a file folder, I pull the spread, the one that Brock had been unable to pick from, for certain. Just before starting this interview with Heather I had circled her mugshot myself, anticipating her denials. I push it across the table.

  Heather doesn’t even glance at it. “I know because they were braggin’ to me about it! They split the cash, it was about $300 apiece, and they bought everything they could on the card until Stumpy canceled it. Check the jewelry Vickie’s prob’ly wearin’ right now! She showed me! Got these big gold hoops for her ears, a couple bracelets, a necklace, all at Walmart on Stumpy’s card, I swear!” Heather begins crying. “Check the cameras there, the Tillman’s Corner store, if you don’t believe me!” Her tears are real enough, but she seems more pissed off than sad or desperate.

  Walmart has great security video. Their cameras hover over every checkout register, scan the parking lot, and record every customer at eye level coming and going through the entry doors. Heather knows this as well as I.

  “You’ll see it’s Vicky, not me, buyin’ all that stuff on Stumpy’s card. And while you’re at it, pull the video from the parkway state store. They put two liters of Stoli on his card there!”

  “But if it wasn’t you, why the hell’d you run from me, Heather? Try to ram my car? Besides, I’ve got a positive ID on you, from the victim himself. Why should I go runnin’ all over town tryin’ to get store video when I’ve already got what I need right here?”

  “’Cause it wasn’t me, Detective Johnson, I swear! I just ran outta habit, I guess. I know it don’t make no sense. I knew my PO had already violated me, ’cause I missed my last few tests. Not ’cause I’d piss dirty, just ’cause I’m bad about missing appointments, and I been havin’ car trouble, honest. Just put me on a lie detector, I’ll prove it!”

  Heather pauses, fixing her gaze right into mine.

  “An’ ole Stumpy Brock, all he sees when he looks at a woman is tits ’n’ pussy, anyway. He’s so drunk mosta the time he’d pick his own mama out of a lineup.” She push
es my doctored photo spread back across the table. “This don’t mean shit, an’ you know it! I’m telling you who it really is, and you can take it to the bank! Why I gotta lie for?”

  Heather’s tears are dry now, and her composure regained. She takes a deep breath and makes her closing argument.

  “Listen, Detective Johnson. You got me fair ’n’ square on the Violating. I’m goin’ back for that no matter what happens with this. I got nothing to gain or lose by just telling it like it is. I just wanna see justice done, don’t you? This is what Vickie does, Mr. Johnson. I know her, believe me. Ask Kelly Ann. Hell, ask Vickie’s own mama, she’ll tell you: this is what Vickie does. And she’s good at it. Been doin’ it for years. With some o’ the same men, over n’over. They get to where they don’t even bother to report it, almost expectin’ it when they take Vickie home. If you don’t get her now, she’ll just keep on doin’ it, ’n’ that just means more people ripped off ’n’ more work for you.”

  Kinda compelling, I gotta admit (though I don’t, not here and now, anyway). But I’m thinking: her estimation of my victim is right on, and I don’t doubt that Vickie’s caught up in this some way, too. Hmmm.

  “Tell you what I’m’onna do, Heather. Gonna cut you a break. Can’t do anything about your Violation. Warrant’s already been signed by your PO. But I’m’onna hold off on chargin’ you for Stumpy’s thing. That doesn’t mean it goes away. I can always charge you with it later. But I will look into your version a little more first.”

  “Thank you, Detective. You’ll see I’m right about Vickie.”

  I tell Mitch to take her on to Metro for the probation warrant only. He gives me a quizzical look but doesn’t say anything. Feeling a little sheepish, neither do I.

  Back at my desk, I call Mariah.

  “Didja catch her, Detective? She was there like I said, right?”

  “I owe you one, Mariah. But listen: I need to talk to Vickie again. She there with you now?”

  “No, haven’t seen her for almost a week now.”

  “You got a number for her?”

  “I think her phone’s out of minutes, Detective. But I can call you when I see her again, I’m sure it won’t be long. You trust me, don’tcha? I got Heather for you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did, Mariah.”

  “We make a pretty good team, don’tcha think, Detective?”

  “Yeah, I guess we do. Let me give you my cell number, in case you run into her after hours.”

  That night, my cell rings. It’s not my week to be on call, but I get up anyway just to find out who the fuck is calling me at 2:30 in the morning. The cell is plugged in to the charger, on the bathroom counter.

  “Johnson.”

  I hear a woman crying.

  “This is Detective Johnson. Who’s this?”

  The crying subsides, and I recognize the husky voice. “Oh, Detective Johnson, I woke you up, didn’t I? I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize it’s so late. Never mind.”

  “Mariah? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Detective Johnson. I shouldn’t have called, I’m so sorry.”

  “Forget about it. Just tell me what you called for. I’m awake now.”

  She starts to cry again but talks through it. “I just called because I . . . I did a rock again tonight, and I’m so disgusted with myself . . . and I don’t want you to think bad of me . . . but I know you’ll never put up with a woman who’s a woman like me, and we could never . . . as long as I’m using . . . you would never . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mariah. We all have our weaknesses. And we can all overcome them. So just get some sleep, that’s best now, for both of us, all right?”

  “All right, Detective Johnson. Thanks. I promise I won’t call so late ever again. Please forgive me.”

  “You’re forgiven. Let’s just get back to sleep now, okay, Mariah?”

  “Okay. Good night, Detective.”

  “Night, Mariah.”

  A day and a half later, Mariah calls me from the Parkway Lounge. The jukebox is playing loud in the background and I can hardly understand her. She goes into the lady’s room to get away from the noise.

  “Vickie’s passed out in a blue Explorer in the back parking lot. Be sure to check her purse. I saw her steal Jordy Blankenship’s credit card when he wasn’t lookin’. Jordy’s pretty wasted, and so is Vickie. But Jordy doesn’t even know his card’s gone yet.”

  I jump on I-10 from the precinct and head for the Parkway. It’s not even noon yet.

  Sure enough, in the front passenger seat of a battered old Blue Explorer behind the Parkway Lounge, there’s Vickie, dead to the world. I walk up and peer in through the open window. She’s got a crack pipe in her left hand, like a slumbering baby might grasp a pacifier. I reach in and snap a cuff on her right wrist, then hook her to the doorpost of the Explorer as she jerks awake and rattles the cuffs.

  “What the fff—”

  “Easy, Vickie. It’s just your old friend the detective. Now, hold still while I check your purse for weapons, and if you would, please, hand me that stem in your other hand.”

  She slumps in her seat and surrenders the glass pipe, blackened with tarry residue from recent use. In her purse is a Home Depot credit card with the name Jordan Blankenship on it.

  “How is it you have a Mr. Blankenship’s credit card in your purse, Victoria?”

  “He gave it to me ’cause he’s too drunk. He wants me to pick out a good color to paint his living room with.”

  “Really? You want to rethink this a minute, Vickie? He gave you his card because he’s too drunk to pick out paint, yet you’re the one who’s passed out behind the Parkway Lounge, and he’s still vertical, inside the joint. How ’bout if I just ask Mr. Blankenship if he gave you his card?”

  “I wish you would. I got no reason to lie to you, Detective Johnson.”

  I enter the backdoor of the lounge and blink my eyes to adjust to the gloom. I key my mike and start backup. “Got one in custody, white female, signal 68 [dope], possible 52 [theft], back lot of the Parkway Lounge.”

  At the end of the bar is Mariah, who signals me with a slight headshake and downcast eyes not to acknowledge her. I go up to the bartender, show her my badge, and ask her if there’s a Jordan Blankenship in the house.

  “You’re shtandin’ right nexta him, Officer,” says a large fella to my immediate right at the bar. In Carhartt coveralls and a stained T-shirt, his leathery red face and heavy-lidded eyes topped with a bristly white flat-top crewcut, Mr. Jordy is at least as sloppy drunk as Vickie is wasted on crack in the parking lot. In front of him on the bar are his wallet, nestled among a pile of loose change, a couple empty longneck Buds, and an ashtray full of crushed Pall Mall butts. Conway Twitty intones “Hello darlin’” on the jukebox.

  “You know a girl named Vickie Barnhart?”

  “Sure I do,” he says, swaying as he turns away to his right with a sweeping gesture. “She was right here minute ago. Hmmm, leastways, I thought she was . . .” He hangs onto the bar to steady himself as he looks around the room for Vickie. “Now where’d she go? Musta went to the little girls’ room . . .” There’s nobody else in the bar but Mariah, the barmaid, and me.

  “I think I know where she is, Mr. Blankenship. I’ve got her secured outside. But tell me, is this your credit card? Did you give it to her to buy you some paint at Home Depot?”

  “What the . . . ? I’ll be damned!” He sways in low to study the card, his unsteady face inches from the plastic in my hand. “Sheesh! Sure as shit . . . where . . . how’djoo . . . ?”

  “I just took this out of Vickie Barnhart’s purse. You didn’t give it to her?”

  “Aw, hayell no! That thievin’ little . . . where’s she at?” Mr. Jordy roars. He slams a huge fist down on the bar, making his empties and quarters dance. “Lemme at her!” he bellows.

  “Hold on, Mr. Jordy,” I say, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I got this.” He shrugs me off, but the barmaid reaches across the bar and gra
bs one of the big man’s meaty paws.

  “Settle down, now, Jordy. Let the law handle it. He’s already got your card back.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve got a unit on the way to take her straight to Metro.”

  A shout comes from the backdoor. A tall skinny fella, only his silhouette visible in the bright daylight flooding in behind him, is yelling, “Which one a y’all’s the law? You got a lady out here just slipped outta some handcuffs, she run off thataways, to’rd them apartments!”

  “Shit!” I dash past him out the backdoor. My cuffs are dangling from the Explorer’s doorpost, but Vickie’s nowhere to be seen. I look toward the apartments across the street, nothing. I stick my head into the barbershop next door.

  “You see a white female, brunette, in a gray sweatshirt and jeans go by here?”

  “She just got into a white van. I think a black guy was driving it. They went north on D.I.P.”

  Dammit! I get on the radio. “One-sixty-three, subject has escaped. Last seen northbound D.I.P. in a white van, unknown make, model, or tag. Possibly driven by a black male subject, unknown description.”

  All I can think is, it’s gonna be hell trying to live this one down.

  21

  Solo Stakeout

  Talk shit, get bit.

  —Fritz, MPD K9 (if he could talk)

  Three times in as many weeks, thieves had struck Theodore Aggregate at its sprawling thirty-acre complex down by the industrial canal on Hollinger’s Island. The soaring price of copper was driving the larceny. At three bucks a pound, copper in any form became the new currency for drug addicts to support their ravenous habits. Copper plumbing and air-conditioning units by the hundreds were stolen every week from private residences, commercial buildings, schools, even churches. A $3,000 central air unit would be gutted, or carried off whole, for its copper components that might bring $100 at the scrap yard—enough for a shared pipe and a night of rough sex at a rundown motel with a willing crack whore.