Violation

by Sally Spencer

  Violation

  Sally Spencer

  © Sally Spencer 2017

  Sally Spencer has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2017.

  This edition published by Endeavour Media Ltd in 2018.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  1

  We are driving down Lee, towards Mercy Hospital, and because Ringman hasn’t said a word since we left headquarters, I decide to turn on the radio.

  What I’m looking for is a little music to raise my spirits. What I get is a commercial for the local evangelical church.

  “It is six years to the millennium,’ the pastor says, in a voice which is either thick with either devotion or alcohol. ‘Two thousand years since our Savior was born. And he is coming back, my friends – coming back to reward the faithful and smite the guilty.”

  I turn the radio off again.

  “What’s the matter, Kaleta?” Ringman asks from the back seat. “Ain’t you got no religion at all?”

  About as much as you do, I think.

  But aloud, I say: “No, Chief, I haven’t.”

  “No, Chief, I haven’t,’ he repeats, in a voice which imitates mine. And then, in his own voice he adds: “Big-city-smart-ass-liberal-shithead.”

  There are many reasons why Chief Ringman doesn’t like me, but the top two are probably that I once wrote a book, (while Ringman himself has never even read one), and that the mayor is my father-in-law.

  I follow Lee around the east side of Beauregard Park, and then take a left. As we pass a neighborhood of run-down clapboard houses that lie just beyond the southern boundary of the park, I say: “That’s where she lives.”

  “Where who lives?” Ringman asks, making it sound like he really doesn’t give a shit what the answer is.

  “Jeannie Quail,” I tell him, and then, in case he’s forgotten, I add: “The victim – the reason we’re going to the hospital.”

  “Oh yeah,” Ringman replies.

  He doesn’t care. He really doesn’t care!

  But I do.

  I run through Jeanie’s mother’s statement in my mind.

  When Jeannie was a tad late coming home from grade school, she’d been annoyed with her daughter, rather than worried about what might have happened to her, Mrs Quail had told the officer.

  And that was fair enough, because this wasn’t the big city, where bad things happen – this was Harrisburg for God’s sake.

  But then ten minutes grew into twenty, and twenty stretched into thirty, until finally she was forced to accept that something must have gone wrong.

  She should have called the Police Department – but she hadn’t. Instead, she’d thrown on a topcoat and set out along Riverside Walk.

  Jeannie hadn’t been by the river. We’ve had a cold April this year, and, except for a couple of dedicated fishermen, there was nobody by the river.

  When she’d reached the end of Riverside Walk – the southern boundary of Beauregard Park – Mrs Quail had gone straight through the cast-iron gate that led into the park itself. She’d taken the Carriageway, like most people do, and it was at the end of it, right under General Beauregard’s statue, that she’d found Jeannie. The girl had been huddled against the base of the statue, her cute little Easter Bunny panties around her ankles and her legs sticky with blood and semen.

  “Bastard!” I say, just thinking about it.

  “What?” Ringman asks.

  “She was penetrated from both the front and the rear,” I say. “There were traces of sperm in her mouth.”

  “Yeah, I read the report,” Ringman tells me.

  The man is all heart.

  *

  The large – and somewhat faded – billboard at the turn-off to Mercy Hospital announces in large letters that the hospital’s orthopedic center and maternity wing were donated by the Mustang Tobacco Company. There is no mention of the cancer unit – but that’s hardly surprising, because that would have looked less like a commitment to the community and more like blood money.

  The hospital is maybe fifteen years old. It is four floors high, built out of glass and concrete, and serves the outlying districts, as well as Harrisburg itself. As I pull up on the hospital forecourt, I can’t help noticing that since the Mustang gravy train dried up, the place has started to look kind of shabby.

  Ringman looks around.

  “Where are the television cameras?” he growls.

  “They were here yesterday, when the story broke, and now they’re gone,” I say.

  ‘So why weren’t we here yesterday?’ he demands.

  ‘There wouldn’t have been much point, because Jeannie wasn’t in any condition to talk to us then,’ I say.

  But I understand that, from his angle, there would have been a point, because it would have created the impression that the chief – who so desperately wants to be mayor – works hard to make sure that the taxpayers get top value for their tax dollars.

  We get out of the unit, and Ringman takes me by the arm.

  “Leave the talking to me,” he says.

  We go in through the main door, and head for the reception desk. The pretty black nurse is sitting behind the desk. She looks up at us and smiles.

  “Visiting doesn’t start till five,” she says apologetically.

  Ringman flashes his shield. “Police.”

  The smile vanishes from the woman’s face, and is replaced by something which could almost be pain.

  “Have you come to see Jeannie?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” Ringman says, “we have.”

  The nurse shakes her head helplessly, like people always do when they can’t think of anything to say which will make the situation better.

  “Children’s Department,” she tells us. “She’s in Room 36. Just follow the blue line.”

  There are seven lines leading out of reception, ranging from pale yellow to the dark blue one which will lead us to Jeannie. As we set off along it, I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror and decide that we look like one helluva double act.

  We are about the same height – 6ft 1in – but that’s all we’ve got in common. Ringman is rangy – almost skinny. I have the body of an ex-footballer player, even though I’m not one. I have dark brown – almost black – hair. His hair is paler, and clings to his bullet-shaped head like a straw helmet. My eyes are green and – I like to think – show the kind of honest earnestness which a good community cop should never lose. Ringman’s eyes are darker, and soaked in cunning. What else? My nose is as straight as you could expect on an all-American boy who is really a Polack in disguise. Ringman’s nose is slightly hooked, and people sometimes think he is Jewish – which a bigot like the Chief must find really hard to bear. And finally we come to the mouths. I have a pleasant smile – when Ringman smiles, his thin lips make it seem like he’s about to bite somebody.

  Well, that’s how I see us, anyway.
Ask Ringman, and you’d probably get a different story.

  We arrive at Room 36. Ringman is already reaching for the handle when I knock, but then a voice says: “Come in.”

  There is only one bed, and lying in it is Jeannie Quail. She is a cute little girl with red hair and freckles, but her eyes are wide with fear – and I can see heavy bruising around her mouth.

  “Police!” Ringman says, rolling the word around his mouth as if he just loves the sound of it.

  There are two other people in the room – a half-pint doctor with a stethoscope round his neck, and a faded blonde nurse. They look at us, then at Jeannie, and finally back at us again.

  ‘Are you here to talk to Jeannie?’ the doctor asks.

  ‘Hell, no!’ Ringman replies. ‘We’ve come to steal her grapes.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to talk to her at the moment,” the doctor cautions.

  “Where’s the mother?” Ringman demands, ignoring the doctor, and glancing around the room. “They told me that the mother would be here. What’s the matter? Don’t she care about her kid?”

  “She’s never left Jeannie’s side since the poor child was brought in,” the nurse says defensively.

  Ringman makes a move like he’s going to look for Mrs Quail under the bed.

  This, he probably thinks, is funny. This, he imagines, will help everybody to relax.

  “I don’t see her,” he says.

  “The strain was starting to tell on her,” the doctor tells him. “She was upsetting the child, and so we thought it best to sedate her. She’s in a room down the hall.”

  Ringman reaches his arm behind his back and scratches his butt.

  “Prob’ly a good thing she ain’t here,” he decides. “With the mother out of the way, it’ll be easier to talk to the kid.”

  ‘I don’t—’ the doctor begins.

  ‘Won’t take long,’ Ringman interrupts him.

  He turns to Jeannie and smiles. She grasps the bed sheet tightly with her tiny hands.

  “Where’d this man pick you up … uh … Joannie?” Ringman asks.

  “Jeannie,” the nurse corrects him.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Ringman says, dismissively, as if doesn’t really matter what he calls the girl. “So where did he pick you up, Jeannie?”

  He is trying to be avuncular, but he is not good at it, and instead sounds as if he is interrogating a grand theft auto suspect.

  “I … I was on my way home from school,” the girl says, so quietly that I have to strain to hear her.

  “You usually go home alone?”

  “No. Most times, I walk with Angie – but she was sick.”

  “What did the man look like?”

  “He was big.”

  The vague response clearly irritates Ringman. Well, what was he expecting her to say? That the man who assaulted her was around five feet ten, and weighed a hundred and seventy pounds?

  “Was he a white man, or was he a nig …. an Afro-American?” the chief asks.

  Jeannie’s lower lip begins to tremble. “I don’t know,” she confesses.

  “Do you like Whitney Houston, Jeannie?” I interrupt.

  “Yes,” the little girl says, risking a half-smile.

  “And what’s your favorite song?”

  “I will always love you.’

  “That’s my favorite, too,” I tell her. “Did this man who attacked you have skin like Whitney’s – or was it more like the doctor’s?”

  “It was more like the doctor’s.”

  “How old was this guy?” Ringman asks, glaring at me.

  “Very old,” Jeannie says.

  “Was he as old as Lieutenant Kaleta here?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would make him 35 … 36,’ Ringman muses.

  And if it was left to him, that’s who we’d be looking for – a 35-year-old white man.

  “Could he have been as old as Captain Ringman?” I ask softly.

  ‘Yes,’ Jeannie says.

  Which means that now we’re looking for a man of around 50.

  “So which was it?” Ringman asks impatiently. “Old like me? Or old like the lieutenant?”

  There are tears in Jeannie’s eyes, and she is clasping the bed sheet even tighter.

  “I don’t know,” she sobs. “He was just …” she is desperate now, “… he was just old like both of you.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “I don’t remember!” She has her hands over ears now, and tears pouring down her cheeks. “I don’t remember. Leave me alone!”

  “I’ll afraid you’ll have to go now, gentlemen,” the doctor says.

  “The hell we will,” Ringman shoots back. “I’m just getting somewhere with this kid.”

  “She’s only just come out of shock,” the doctor tells him. “And she’s undergone two exploratory examinations to assess the extent of the damage. I simply cannot allow you to put her through any more distress.”

  Ringman is not at all pleased at the way things are developing.

  “We’re the police, you little motherfucker!” he says diplomatically. “We got responsibilities.”

  The doctor squares his shoulders and pulls himself up to his full height – which brings the top of his head about level with Ringman’s angular chin.

  “I also have responsibilities,” he tells the chief. “And, as far as I am aware, you have no jurisdiction in this hospital.”

  “Jurisdiction!” Ringman repeats with disgust – like he thinks the ‘J’ word is not something that should be used in mixed company.

  “If you don’t go voluntarily, I’ll be forced to call my orderlies and have you removed,” the doctor says.

  “Oh yeah?” Ringman says. “Well, let me tell you, it’s gonna take more than a few faggot orderlies to throw me out.”

  But the doctor is not about to be intimidated.

  “If I need to, I’ll bring in reinforcements from the psychiatric ward,” he says.

  Jeannie lets out a single sob. Everybody’s been so busy fighting over who gets possession of her that we’ve almost forgotten she’s still in the room.

  I grab hold of Ringman’s arm.

  “Let’s go, Chief,” I say.

  Ringman stands glaring at the doctor for maybe five seconds, then allows me to wheel him round and aim him at the door.

  “Be careful where you park your car, Doc,” he says as a final warning over his shoulder.

  “Physicians can park anywhere,” the doctor replies.

  *

  Ringman usually gets whoever is with him to drive, because – hell – he’s the chief, but when we reach the unit he takes the wheel himself. Maybe it’s something to do with reclaiming his masculinity after being faced down by a 5ft 1in pediatrician.

  On the trip back to town he burns gas like he’s got shares in Exxon, and though there’s no need for a siren, he uses it anyway.

  When he reaches Lee, he slows down – not out of consideration for the rest of the traffic, but because he’s got other plans.

  “You wanna drink?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I reply.

  I’m surprised he’s asked me, but I’m willing enough to go with him because after seeing Jeannie Quail I could really use a shot of something.

  The Chief selects the Mambo Bar on the corner of 12th. The Mambo has a real Latin American feel – if you happen to believe that Latin America is full of fake bamboo and plastic creeper. I think the place sucks, but then I’m only the lieutenant, and Ringman, who is the big chief, considers it one helluva good watering hole.

  We go up the bar edged with sea-shells and – without asking me what I want – Ringman orders two bourbons. The barman has a squint, and for a second it looks like he’s going to miss the shot glasses by a couple of inches. But he doesn’t, and once he’s finished pouring, he moves to the other end of the bar.

  Ringman takes a long slug of his booze. “Fucking medics,” he says. “They think they’re Christ Almighty.”

/>   I’m beginning to see what I’m doing here. Ringman is still so pissed off with the doctor that, for once, he’s not got enough dislike left over for me.

  “So where do we go from here?” I ask.

  “What d’ya mean?” Ringman replies.

  “Well, we can’t talk to the girl again,” I say. “Leastways, not as long as she’s in hospital.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Ringman agrees. “If I could just get that little cock-sucker of a doctor down a dark alley …”

  He leaves it there, but I get the picture.

  “We need to put a good team together,” I say.

  “We already got a team. They’re working the case right now.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Hughes and McMahon.”

  I don’t mean for my immediate reaction to show up on my face, but it does.

  “Somethin’ wrong with Hughes and McMahon?” Ringman asks.

  Nothing – except that they’re probably the two stupidest, most insensitive cops on the whole force.

  “I don’t think they’re the right men for the job,” I say.

  Ringman pats me on the shoulder.

  Jesus! A red-letter day.

  “Listen, Mike,” he says, “there’s no point in wasting good officers on this investigation. The case ain’t gonna be solved by the Department anyway. It’ll be the Highway Patrol or County Sheriff’s Office that finally picks up the pervert.”

  “You think it’s an out-of-towner?”

  Ringman removes his hand from my shoulder and waves it through the air.

  “Out-of-towner. Hitch-hiker just passing through. One thing’s for sure – it ain’t nobody from Harrisburg.”

  “I don’t think we can make that assumption,” I say.

  Ringman glares at me.

  “Who gives a flying fuck what you think?” he asks, as I am rapidly moved back up to the top of his shit list.

  2

  The way that the upper level of Harrisburg Police Headquarters is laid out, you can’t get to see the Chief without first passing through his outer office, which is controlled by Ruth, his secretary. And Ruth, let me tell you, is one tough lady, with a look that could melt down steel, and a tongue that can cut you off at the knees.

  She’s around 40 years old, I would guess, but has good bone structure and flaming red hair, so that even when she’s in a room with much younger women, it’s her that half the men are looking at. She has worked for the last three chiefs, both as personal secretary and – if you believe what you hear – very personal bed-warmer. Looking at her now, as she holds the phone in one hand and makes notes on a yellow legal pad with the other, I try to imagine her letting Ringman jump on her bones.