“One-Adam-12 PM watch clear,” Jim announced, in the usual
droning tone he used when talking into the radio mic.
“One-Adam-12 clear.”
“Too bad the day isn't,” Pete grumbled as Jim replaced the
mic. The senior officer squinted through a blurry windshield as a steady
rain pounded the City of Angels.
“Yeah.”
“How were the days off?” Pete asked.
“Fine.”
It had been ten days since the soul-shattering incident at the Winstead
residence. They had just ended a rotation of working Day Watch with the customary
two days off. Today marked their first shift back on their preferred PM watch.
Unfortunately, the unseasonably warm weather of the previous week had ended
abruptly with a couple of days of dreary, cold weather. Now the rain had
set in, and they found themselves patrolling in rain gear and sitting in traffic
moving at a crawl due to the wet weather.
“My godson go on any late-night expeditions lately?”
“No.”
Pete glanced over at his partner. The younger man had all the symptoms
of still being in the middle of a serious funk. Jim had the set jaw, the
vacant stare and chopped communication that usually meant his thoughts were
directed inward, and usually on something troubling. Not that Pete doubted
for a moment what troubling things Jim continued to brood about. They both
had been on the down side for days after the death of the little girl. Even
on their forced day off, they had been bombarded with the event by the media
-- newspaper, radio and TV covered the horrendous story with their usual overkill.
When they'd gone back to work, homicide detectives had talked with them
about the case and their fellow officers had questioned them endlessly about
it. Routine patrol had provided them with their only moments of peace.
Luckily for them, the days had been full of routine.
They both had almost recovered from the traumatic event by the end of their
Daywatch rotation, even though the Winsteads and Jim's 211 suspect remained
at large. Jim had even started smiling again and seemed close to his usual
upbeat self. Now, suddenly, his partner appeared to be down in the dumps.
I wonder why all of a sudden he's brooding over that Winstead girl again.
That has to be what it is. But I thought he'd pretty much gotten over that.
Unless . . . Pete thought back to when he'd first seen Jim at the station
that afternoon. Jim had been fully dressed and ready for roll call when Pete
had first arrived. He'd run into his partner in the hallway, when he went
to check the bulletin board before he'd dressed. Jim had been coming from
the opposite direction. Pete hadn't given it much thought at the time, but
now he thought he could piece a likely scenario together. He talked to
Sanchez in Homicide . . . something's bugging him all over again.
Pete decided for the moment to just keep his mouth shut and see if Jim
would initiate the conversation.
So for almost the next hour, the only sounds in Adam-12 were the rhythmic
squeaking of the windshield wipers, the pinging of rain off the roof of the
car, and the occasional quiet droning of the radio. No calls belonged to
Adam-12, and the citizens in their particular section of Los Angeles seemed
to be behaving themselves. The dreary day eased into a dark, chilly, rainy
evening. Traffic built, and the words “rush hour” became an oxymoron
-- no cars rushed anywhere in the inclement weather. Jim continued to brood,
but Pete noticed that he was alert, so again, he said nothing.
Jim sat up straighter, suddenly, and his left hand snaked out to the hotsheet
mounted on the dash of the patrol car. His index finger moved down one of
the columns until it stopped. He then grunted and dropped his hand.
“False alarm?” Pete asked.
“Yeah. Numbers were backwards.” Jim stared back out the window.
“Bad weather's put a damper on crime today.”
“The night's young,” Jim reminded him.
As if to prove Jim right, the radio came to life with a call for Adam-12.
“One-Adam-12, One-Adam-12, see the man, a 459 report. 1732 Eastmont.
One-Adam-12, handle code two.”
“One-Adam-12, roger.” Jim acknowledged. He scribbled the address
down and shot Pete a look.
“Okay, so I jinxed us,” Pete admitted.
******
“Now you show up here! After my house is burglarized!
After I lost the family silver! After some schmuck took off
with nearly 5,000 dollars of my hard-earned money!”
Pete bit back a sigh and gave the irate little man who stood in his doorway
yelling at them a longsuffering look. He and Jim stood over a head taller
than the balding, diminutive man, but the manner in which the complainant
scowled up at both of them indicated that neither their height nor their uniforms
intimidated him in the least.
Rain water dripped off Pete's hat into his face and, despite his slicker,
rain found its way down the back of his neck. The cold water irritated him
and did nothing to improve his rapidly souring disposition. He glanced over
at Jim, who looked as miserable as he felt, standing in the chilly rain and
wind, then turned his attention back to the PR, who stood inside his door,
still dry.
“We're here to help you, Mr . . . .?”
“Pearson! Isaac Pearson!” The little man spat at him. “Some
help! Useless, that's what you are! Useless!”
“Mr. Pearson, if we could get some information from you, maybe we
can help you,” Pete continued, letting a bit of an edge creep
into his voice. “May we come in?”
“Not on your life!” Pearson crossed his arms and stood in the
door as if to block it. “I don't want anything to do with you incompetent
bluesuits! I want detectives!”
“Mr. Pearson,” Pete's voice grew rock-hard, and he returned
the little man's glare. “Detectives will come out later, but we have
to make the preliminary report.”
“Then you can make it from right there!” Pearson pointed to
his front step. “If you'd been patrolling the neighborhood like you
should have been, you wouldn't have to be here now! Useless!”
Pete took a deep breath and started to speak, but Jim beat him to it.
“I understand how upset you must be, Mr. Pearson.” Jim's voice
was calm and reasonable. If Pearson was getting on his nerves, it wasn't
coming out in his voice. “The loss of your family's silver must be
very distressing.”
“You don't know! You have no idea! I hid that silver from the Nazis
back in 1939, smuggled it out of the country, and brought it here to America!
Now, some, some . . . .” flustered and angry, Mr. Pearson stammered
and flailed his hands about, “ . . . criminal . . . . comes into
my house and takes it from me! What good are you people?”
“Your silver must be very distinctive, if it's a family heirloom.
Do you have pictures of it?” Jim asked.
“Pictures? Of course I have pictures! Every piece catalogued and
appraised! What do you think I am, stupid?” Mr. Pearson didn't seem
assuaged by Jim's reasonable tone.
“That's good, Mr. Pearson,” Jim praised. “You should
have them ready for the detectives when they arrive. When did you notice
that your property was missing?”
“Thirty minutes ago when I came home from the office. I'm a CPA.
I work downtown.” Pearson took a deep breath. “When I got home
I found my back door wide open and my house ransacked! I called you people
right away. But if you'd been doing your jobs instead of eating donuts somewhere,
this wouldn't have happened! Useless!”
Jim hunched over the report book, scribbling, trying to keep the water
from falling on it as he wrote in the dim light.
“We patrol here as often as we can, Mr. Pearson,” Pete assured
him. Jim's diversion had given him a moment to regain some of his calm.
“In between coffee breaks, I suppose!” He paused and raised
his eyes heavenward. “Thank God my Rosie didn't live to see this day!
Kill her, it would!”
“Mr. Pearson, if you'd please just give me a list of the items missing
and their approximate values, we'll turn this over to detectives and they'll
be out as soon as possible,” Jim spoke up as Pete once again bit back
irritation.
The angry man started a litany of his losses, talking loudly and rapidly,
gesticulating for emphasis. Jim wrote furiously, trying to keep up and trying
to keep the rain from smearing the report. Finally, Mr. Pearson finished.
Jim asked him for the correct spelling of his name, then thanked him.
“Just get those detectives out here fast! I'm through talking to
useless bluesuits!” Mr. Pearson huffed. He slammed the door with an
angry flourish, leaving Jim and Pete standing in the rain, looking at each
other.
“Let's get out of here,” Pete growled.
“Right behind you.”
They jogged to the car and got in, shaking their hats and slinging water
from their slickers.
“What a jerk,” Pete groused. “Sometimes people like
that really set me off.” “Yeah,” Jim said noncommittally.
Pete started the car, but paused before dropping it in gear, watching Jim
peel the very damp report sheet from the book and wave it around, trying to
dry it. “Uh, look, Jim, thanks for keeping your cool back there.
I'm afraid I didn't do such a good job of keeping mine.”
Jim shrugged. “No problem, Pete. Maybe I just understood where
he was coming from.”
Pete fixed Jim with a have you lost your mind stare.
“I mean,” Jim's face colored a bit under Pete's scrutiny, “he
felt violated. He lost something important to him and he just took it out
on us. He had a point. To him, we were useless.”
“Are you back on that kick again?” Pete couldn't keep the irritation
out of his voice.
“What kick?” Jim pretended innocence.
“The 'what's the use' kick, that's what kick. I thought you were
over that.”
“I was. I mean, I am . . . mostly.” Jim made a show out of
replacing the report back into his book.
Pete cranked the car. “Put us out to the station,” he snapped,
feeling an unreasonable and uncharacteristic surge of anger toward his partner.
“If we don't get the detectives out here soon, Pearson's liable to
have a stroke. We'll talk later.”
“This is One-Adam-12. Show us out to the station on a 459 follow-up.”
“One-Adam-12, roger.”
*******
“Buy you a quick cup of coffee, Jim?” Pete offered.
The two had returned to the station, briefed Mac and then detectives on
the situation with Pearson, and took the opportunity to dry out just a bit.
They had gathered their rain gear again in preparation for their return to
patrol when a pang of guilt overtook Pete. The senior officer had let his
sour mood brought on by Mr. Pearson overshadow his concern over Jim's brooding.
Pete wanted to be sure Jim understood he wasn't really angry at him.
Besides, a hot cup of coffee would go a long way in improving his own disposition.
Jim looked at him, an expression of mild surprise on his handsome features.
“Sure, Pete.”
The two men stepped into the break room and found it deserted. Jim took
their raingear and draped it over a chairback while Pete procured the two
cups of coffee.
“Thanks, partner,” Jim said, when Pete put the steaming cup
in front of him.
“Peace offering,” Pete shrugged. He pulled out a chair across
from Jim and sat down.
“For what?” Jim's brows furrowed.
“Growlin' at ya in the car.”
“Nothin' new about that,” Jim quipped lightly. He softened
the gibe with a slight smile, then took a long sip of his coffee.
“Wise guy,” Pete scowled, then added his own smile to Jim's.
They sipped their coffee in a comfortable silence after that, and the distant
stare returned to Jim's eyes.
“You seem preoccupied,” Pete commented neutrally.
Jim dragged his gaze back from somewhere east of the ocean where he'd had
it. “Yeah.”
Pete waited for Jim to elaborate. When he didn't, Pete played out his
theory. “What'd Sanchez have to say this afternoon?”
Jim looked startled, and his face reddened. “Who squealed?”
he demanded.
Pete couldn't hold back a grin. “I just used my extraordinary powers
of deductive reasoning, partner. That's all.”
Jim grunted and drained his coffee cup. “Now who's a wise guy?”
Pete turned serious. “Jim, we've both -- struggled -- to put that
incident behind us. Maybe it's not such a good idea to keep dredging it up.”
Jim stared into his empty coffee cup. “I know. But it keeps nagging
at me. When I least expect it, the whole thing just shows up in my head,
uninvited. I thought if I talked to Sanchez, I might could resolve something.”
“That plan appears to have backfired.”
“Yeah.” Jim snorted.
“So, what'd Sanchez tell you?” Pete asked.
“A big fat nothing. The Winsteads are still out there, and there's
no record of the girl's footprints in any hospital in California, so she's
still 'Little Jane Doe.'”
“We'll turn 'em, Jim. They can't hide forever. It just takes time.”
Jim shook his head. “It's not that. I know that's out of our hands.”
“Then what?”
“Sanchez had a copy of the preliminary medical examiner's report.”
Even as he said it, Jim's whole expression changed.
“Ahhhh,” Pete nodded. No wonder. I'm sure that's a horror
story to end all horror stories.
“You know how much she weighed, Pete?” Jim asked, that sad,
distant stare back on his face.
“Jim, this is pointless.”
“Six and a half pounds, Pete. That's it. Six and a half pounds.
Jimmy weighed more than that when he was born.”
Dear God. Six and a half pounds. Pete shook his head.
“She had four broken ribs and both legs were broken. The report
said there was evidence that both arms and her collarbones had been broken
in the past and healed incorrectly.” Jim's voice trembled slightly.
“She was starved, of course, but the report said the cause of death
was internal bleeding -- there were multiple internal injuries, apparently
from the parting beating the Winsteads gave her.” Jim sighed heavily.
“I guess reading the report brought it all back. That helpless, useless
feeling just came back.” He reached out and crushed the empty Styrofoam
cup flat.
“And so tonight you were ready to agree with Mr. Pearson's evaluation
of our usefulness.”
“Yeah.” Jim glanced at his watch. “I guess we'd better
get back out there.”
“Yeah.” Pete gathered up his cup and the one Jim had flattened
and tossed them in the trash. He wanted to say something encouraging, but
nothing profound came to him. So he simply took his raingear from Jim and
followed his partner out the door.
*******
“The rain's gettin' worse,” Jim commented after they'd been
back out for twenty minutes or so.
“But the traffic's thinned out. Helps with the glare.” Pete
still had to squint through the windshield. The wipers worked properly, but
the rain fell so heavily they weren't keeping the glass completely clear.
“You want me to drive?” Jim offered.
“No, I don't want you to drive,” Pete shot back, amused at
the hopeful tone in his partner's voice.
“Just thought I'd offer, Pete.”
“And I appreciate it,” Pete grinned, not taking his eyes from
the road.
“I'm surprised that we haven't seen a half-dozen fender-benders already.”
“Probably happened in somebody else's district.” Pete gave
a right turn signal and wheeled the unit onto a side street. “I'm gonna
cruise these neighborhoods for a while,” he informed Jim. “Maybe
Mr. Pearson's burglar isn't satisfied with a sack full of silver and $5,000
cash.”
Jim snorted. “Hard to imagine. But it's a good idea.”
“Maybe we'll get lucky.”
They drove slowly for several blocks, straining to see against the glare
of the headlights off the driving rain. Nothing was amiss; at least not anything
they could see. Not a single car drove past, and the houses were all illuminated,
no doubt their inhabitants sitting down to a warm dinner, or a cozy night
on the couch.
Jim sighed quietly. He wished he was home, warm and dry, curled up with
Jean on the couch. He always missed her when he was working, but on nights
like these, the attractions of hearth and home pulled at him doubly strong.
He kept his eyes trained on his side of the street, looking for signs of
anything that looked out of place.
Pete turned the unit onto Rockport Drive, a street that ended in a cul-de-sac.
About a half-block ahead, a car was stopped, parked almost in the middle
of the road.
“Pete.”
“I see it. Car trouble, maybe.”
Jim squinted as they got closer and made out the form of a man, holding
an umbrella over himself, standing on the passenger side of his car. The
man was bent over, staring at something on the road. Jim straightened as
he saw what the man was looking at.
A pair of small legs stuck out of an opening to the drainage culvert, kicking
frantically.
“Pete! There's a kid stuck in that culvert opening . . . at least
I think he's stuck!” Jim exclaimed, reaching for the radio mic.
“I see it,” Pete accelerated slightly, flipped on the reds,
and pulled in behind the parked car as Jim showed them Code 6 at the location.
The car had barely stopped before Jim was out the door, jogging through
the rain to the child's side. As he got closer and shined his flashlight
onto the scene, Jim could see that the child was a boy, and he was thankfully
not stuck in the culvert opening. The boy was lying in about two inches
of water, reaching into the culvert opening calling out the word “Buddy!”
between spluttering breaths. The man stood watching the scene, under the
umbrella. When Jim approached, the man turned to him.
“Officer, see if you can talk some sense into this kid!” he
exclaimed.
Jim briefly looked the man over as a rush of irritation swelled through
him. The onlooker should have pulled the kid out of harm's way, or at least
offered to hold the umbrella over him. But Jim didn't waste any time asking
the man why he was just standing around watching. Jim wanted to get the boy
up out of the water. Besides, he noted that Pete approached the other side
of the man. His partner would take care of him.
“Son, are you hurt?” Jim leaned down and took the boy by the
arm. The rain had soaked the child to the bone, and he shivered against the
cold. His face revealed obvious distress; Jim knew that some of the water
on the boy's face had to be tears.
“N..n..n. no, sir,” the boy chattered, looking up at him with
sad brown eyes.
“Let's get you up, then.” Jim reached down and took the shivering
boy into his arms.
“N..no!! Buddy! I havta get Buddy!” the boy wailed.
“Who's Buddy?” Jim asked.
“Buddy's my puppy! He's in the ditch! Oh, please, please, Mr. Policeman,
you gotta let me get Buddy!” The boy pointed to the culvert opening.
“Don't worry, son, I'll get your puppy for you,” Jim promised.
“But first let's get you out of this rain.”
“Buddy's gonna drown if you don't hurry!” The boy objected,
but he didn't fight Jim when the officer picked him up and carried him to
the unit.
*****
Pete saw that Jim had the situation with the boy under control. The officer
could see, now that Jim had his flashlight on the figure, that the boy wasn't
stuck and he was apparently unhurt. Pete concentrated, instead, on the man
standing beside the car.
Okay, he's got an umbrella, but he's not holding it over the boy. And
he's not helping, but just standing there watching. What's going on here?
Pete narrowed his eyes as he walked over to the man. The hackles on the
back of his neck stood up. He wasn't sure why that was. The situation didn't
seem threatening, but his “hinky alert” started going off full-blast.
“Sir, is this your car?” Pete asked.
“Yes, sir. I was just trying to get the boy to let me take him home.”
The man turned to Pete. He looked wide-eyed and nervous. “He wouldn't
listen. His puppy is down in the culvert.”
“What's your name, sir?” Pete studied the man's face. He
knew he'd seen that face somewhere before. But between the rain and
the poor light of his flashlight, he couldn't be sure where. Might have even
been the supermarket.
“Alan Markham.”
“Is that your boy?”
“Him? Oh, no, sir. I just saw him lying on the side of the road
and I stopped to check it out.”
Pete considered, studying Markham's face. He looked shifty-eyed, and Pete's
gut told him the man was lying. “Do you have any identification?”
“Am I in trouble for parking in the road, officer?” Markham
reached for his wallet, shifting the umbrella so that he could reach it with
his right hand.
“No, sir. I suppose I was just wondering why you're standing here
looking at the boy instead of helping him.” Pete took the license that
Markham offered him. He flicked his flashlight on it. It looked brand-new,
and a check of the issue date confirmed that it was, indeed, less than three
weeks old. He studied the picture, then looked back to Markham's face. The
name and face matched, all right.
Markham shrugged. “No need in both of us getting soaked,”
he said lamely. “I tried to get him to let me take him home.”
“Is this your correct address?” Pete growled. What a nice
guy.
“Yes, sir. I just moved in a few weeks ago. That's why the new
license. I mean, that's the law, isn't it? Change your address, get a new
license within 30 days?”
“Yes, sir,” Pete agreed. “That's the law.” The
story sounded plausible, and everything seemed in order. He'd run the plates
after Jim had bailed out. The car was clean. Then why did he have this irrational
urge to run the man, too? You can't run the man just because you don't
like him. There's no law against being a jerk. And maybe he was just trying
to help. But why don't I buy it? Pete stared at the license and weighed
the evidence. He finally sighed and gave the license back.
“Can I go now?” Markham asked.
“Yes, sir, you can go. In the future, though, if you stop your car
in the middle of the street, you should put your hazard lights on. Especially
in the middle of a rainstorm like this.”
“Yes, sir. I'll do that.” Markham nodded agreeably.
***
Jim set the shivering little boy in the back seat. They weren't carrying
a blanket in the trunk, so Jim didn't hesitate to pull off his slicker, give
it a shake, then wrap it around the child.
“What's your name son?” Jim asked. He ignored the cold rain
soaking his uniform.
“Brad. Brad Stevens.” Brad's lips appeared almost blue from
the cold. They trembled violently.
“I'm Jim.” Jim smiled at him reassuringly. “How old
are you, Brad?”
“Six. I'm six years old.”
“Where do you live, Brad?” Jim got the slicker in place, then
reached over the seat and started the car. He cranked up the heat full blast.
He then fished in the glove compartment and pulled out a couple of napkins
he'd put in there and started drying the boy's hair.
“567 Maple.”
“That's two blocks over,” Jim said as he rubbed at Brad's wet
hair. “Aren't you a little young to be out here in the dark and rain?
Doyour mom and dad know where you are?”
“Mommy was asleep. She had a headache. Daddy . . . .Daddy's in
Heaven.” Brad's eyes teared up again.
“I'm sorry,” Jim said sincerely. “What about that man
out there? Do you know him?”
“No, sir. When I was chasing Buddy down the street, he was following
me in his car. When Buddy fell in the ditch, he stopped. But he didn't help
me get him. He said he couldn't reach him. Oh, please, please, go get my
puppy!”
“Just take it easy, son. I'll get your puppy. How did he get out
of the house?”
“I heard somethin' at the door and I opened it to see. It was just
the wind, but Buddy ran out while the door was open! It's been raining all
day and he'd been inside, and he just wanted to play . . . .I kept chasin'
and callin' but he kept running. And then he got caught in the water and
he went in the ditch! I couldn't reach him . . . ” Brad began to cry
as Jim finished drying off his wet head, but the warmth had stopped his trembling.
“Don't cry, now. I'm gonna go get Buddy. You promise to stay in
the car?”
“Yes, sir, I will. Please bring me my puppy. I've only had him
three days. But I love him so much.”
Jim nodded. “I know you do. Stay here. I'll be right back.”
Jim patted the boy on the head and closed the door.
Jim sloshed through ankle-deep water back over to the culvert opening.
He glanced over at Pete, who still talked with the man. He saw that Pete
gave the onlooker his driver's license back and the man headed straight for
his car. Irritation again overtook Jim. What a real jerk, to let the poor
shivering boy lay there in the water while he stayed dry under his umbrella.
If he was going to stop to help, why didn't he actually do anything?
A strange feeling settled in the pit of Jim's stomach as that thought went
through his head.
But the sound of a pitiful yelping drew Jim's attention back to the culvert.
He could hear the puppy yipping and yelping from the drainage ditch. He
took his flashlight and shined it into the culvert opening. He still couldn't
see anything, so he knelt down and leaned closer. The cold water seeped through
his uniform and he started to shiver.
Finally, the beam of his flashlight located the source of the pitiful whining
and yelping. The small puppy crouched into the far wall of the culvert, trapped
by the torrent of water. The poor little canine yelped at the top of his
lungs.
“Hey, Buddy, stay put now. I'm gonna get ya,” Jim called to
the dog. “Hey, Buddy, calm down. Don't move.” Like that
dog can understand me. Jim evaluated the situation quickly. There he
knew he couldn't reach the dog without lying down on his stomach in the stream
of rushing water. Even then he wasn't sure. But he'd given Brad Stevens
his word that he'd get the puppy, and he had no intention of going back on
that word.
Jim looked back to Pete, in time to see the onlooker drive away in his
car. Pete had a funny look on his face, and Jim wondered at that. “Hey,
Pete!”
Pete walked over to Jim, and the funny look became one of mock disgust.
“You're a disgrace to the uniform,” he quipped.
“Yeah, well, it needed washin' anyway,” Jim grumped back.
“Is the puppy where you can reach it?” Pete asked.
“I'm sure gonna try,” Jim declared as he removed his utility
belt. He handed both it and his flashlight over to Pete. “Shine the
light in there where I can see. I'm gonna need both hands.”
“Both hands and a ladder, it looks like,” Pete observed, as
he shined the light and located the puppy against the far wall. “Poor
little thing, it's scared to death. Where's the boy?”
“In the back of the car. He was half-frozen, so I turned on the
heat for him. What was the story with that dude?”
“He checked out,” Pete said uneasily. “Said he saw the
kid lying in the ditch here and stopped to help.”
Jim blinked and frowned. “The boy told me that the man followed
him down the street while he was chasing the puppy, and that he stopped when
he got down to get Buddy. That's the puppy's name.”
Pete's frown matched Jim's. “I should have held him here.”
Jim shrugged. “Maybe it's nothing. The boy's excited.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Well, I'd better get this poor pup before he drowns or gets swept
downstream.”
“Speaking of drowning . . . ..don't fall in.”
“Thanks for the advice.” Jim stretched out and moaned as the
cold water rushed over him. He had to turn his head to keep the water out
of his nose and mouth. The young officer inched forward, jamming his shoulder
into the opening of the culvert. He reached out for the yelping puppy, but
the little dog remained just out of his reach. He stretched as far as he
could, choking on water that somehow managed to find its way up his nose.
Come on, just a few more inches . . . He felt himself overbalance,
and he flailed for the concrete lip of the opening to keep from sliding in.
“Jim, get up from there!” Pete leaned over and yelled at him.
The senior officer pulled at Jim's arm and dragged him away from the culvert.
“I almost had him!” Jim spluttered, shaking water from his
face. His rain-soaked uniform stuck to his body and he fought against the
chill. “I just need to get in head first. Then I'll be able to reach
him.”
“Let me call the fire department,” Pete suggested. “They
have equipment they can use.”
“Pete, that poor little pup can't wait. He could be gone any minute.
Hang onto the back of my waistband, and I can wriggle in and get him.”
“You're crazy, you know that?” Pete shook his head.
“Just hold onto me, or you'll be the one having to explain to Jean
how you let me drown.”
Pete rolled his eyes, leaned over, and grabbed the back waistband of Jim's
pants. “Just get it over with, okay?”
Jim took a deep breath and stuck his upper body into the culvert opening
as far as he could get it. He reached out as far as he could stretch and
felt his hand touch the puppy's head. He grabbed the puppy by the scruff
of the neck and pulled, and managed to cradle the shivering, yelping dog in
both hands. But now he had no leverage to wiggle back out. “Pete!
Pull me out!” he yelled. It came out more of a splutter and Jim hoped
that his partner could hear him over the sound of the rushing water.
Apparently Pete did hear him, for Jim felt himself being pulled back until
he finally cleared the culvert.
“You okay?” Pete asked. He helped Jim get to his feet.
“Yeah. Thanks for the assist.” Jim's shivering made his voice
quaver, but he grinned down at the tiny puppy in his hands. The dog still
yelped loudly. “Sounds like Buddy's okay, too.” Jim rubbed the
wet puppy's fur vigorously.
“Cute little pup, isn't it?” Pete scratched the dog under his
chin and couldn't resist grinning himself.
“Yeah. Yeah, you are a cute one,” Jim talked to the pup as
he continued to rub the soaked dog. “Let's get you back to your master,
Buddy.”
Jim walked over to the unit and opened the back door as Pete slid into
the driver's seat.
“Buddy!” Brad exclaimed, reaching for his puppy. “Buddy,
you're okay!”
“He's just fine,” Jim handed the puppy over. As soon as Brad
had him in his arms, the puppy leaped up and started licking the boy on the
face, his wet, stubby little tail wagging at light-speed.
“Oh, Buddy! I'm so glad to see you! You bad puppy! Don't you ever
run out like that again!” Brad fussed, and Jim had to laugh at the parental
tone the six year old managed. But he hugged his puppy in delight, so Jim
didn't think the message got through. He knew for a fact, however, that
Brad was going to get the same lecture from his mother when they got him
back home.
“Mr. Policeman?”
“Yeah, Brad?”
“Thank you for saving my puppy. You're the nicest, bravest man in
the whole world.”
Despite being soaked to the skin by the cold rainwater, Jim suddenly felt
warm all over. “You're welcome, sport. Now, scoot over so I can sit
next to you and Buddy.”
****
“Officer, I don't know how to thank you for what you did,”
Mrs. Stevens repeated for perhaps the 10th time in the space of four minutes.
Pete and Jim had taken Brad and Buddy home, where Brad's frantic mother
paced the floor, phone receiver in her hand, calling friend after friend,
trying to locate her son. Jim had been right, Brad got a stern lecture from
his mother on running out into the dark without letting her know. But like
Brad's speech to Buddy, the lecture had been delivered from a warm hug in
his mother's arms that softened the words.
“The towel helps,” Jim smiled at the teary-eyed woman. She'd
insisted that Jim come in and dry out, and she'd brought a towel for him to
dry his hair and get at least a little of the water out of his uniform.
“I'm sorry I'm dripping all over your floor.”
“The floor will dry,” Mrs. Stevens declared. “But Brad's
all I have left after his father was killed.” The woman's voice broke,
but she managed to hold herself together. “If anything had happened
. . . .”
“Brad's just fine,” Pete assured her.
“Thank God you came along when you did! If you hadn't been there,
he might have fallen in that culvert and drowned!” This she said with
another half-hearted scowl at her son.
“Glad to be of help,” Pete said kindly. “That's why
they pay us.”
“We especially like happy endings,” Jim seconded. He rubbed
his head one last time with the towel and then handed it back to Mrs. Stevens.
Brad, draped with a towel himself, and still holding Buddy, started laughing.
“Mr. Jim, you look funny!”
“You got that right, Brad,” Pete seconded. He and Mrs. Stevens
had a hard time holding back their laughter at the young officer, whose hair
stuck up wildly in all directions.
“I'll get you a comb,” Mrs. Stevens offered.
“No, that's okay.” Jim shook his head, then ran his hands through
his wild mane several times. He finally succeeded in getting his hair to
lay down, but it was slicked back off his face, a look that still amused Pete.
“I hate to tell you, partner, but you still look funny,” Pete
grinned. “I'd better get you back to the station for dry clothes.”
“Probably a good idea,” Mrs. Stevens agreed. “I need
to get Brad a bath and dry clothes too.”
“And Buddy all dry!” Brad chimed in.
“You go put Buddy in his bed with a dry towel and then get to the
bathroom,” Mrs. Stevens instructed her son. “Now, scoot!”
“Yes, ma'am.” Brad grinned at Jim one more time. “Thanks
again, Mr. Jim.”
“You're welcome, Brad. Promise me you won't take any more trips
outside after dark, okay?”
“Okay!” Brad promised, then headed toward the back of the house.
He got about halfway out of the room, then suddenly stopped, turned and ran
back to Jim. He threw an arm around Jim's waist and gave him a hug so fierce
the puppy yelped again.
Jim patted him on the back and mussed his hair. “Go take care of
Buddy and get cleaned up, Brad.”
“Yes, sir. Bye!” Brad scampered off.
“He's quite a kid,” Jim told his mother.
“He's been through so much. His father's death hit him so hard,”
Tears brimmed in Mrs. Stevens' eyes again. “I bought him the puppy
hoping that he could find something that he could love and that could love
him back. It's only been three days but he's such a fool about that dog.
He named him Buddy, because that's what his father always called Brad. Buddy.”
Mrs. Stevens sniffed and wiped her eyes.
“I think Brad and Buddy are going to have a long and happy relationship,”
Pete predicted.
“I hope so.” Mrs. Stevens managed a smile. “You know,
next time somebody says there's never a cop around when you need one, I'll
have a story to tell them!”
“You do that, Mrs. Stevens,” Pete said, with a significant
glance at his partner. Jim was shrugging into his slicker, but he flashed
a grin back at Pete.
They said their good-byes and the two men made a dash through the rain
for their car. Jim laughed as he settled in his seat.
“What's so funny?” Pete asked.
“I don't know why I was running,” Jim responded, putting his
hat on the seat next to him. “I'm already soaked to the bone.”
“That you are,” Pete agreed. “But other than that, I
figure you've gotta be feeling pretty good right now.”
Jim flashed that grin again. “How'd you guess?” he asked.
*****
“You know, Jim, it seems like all I do lately is stand around while
you change uniforms,” Pete remarked as they entered the locker room
back at the station.
“Maybe that's because I'm the only one doing any work out there,”
Jim shot back, then sidestepped the playful punch Pete threw his way.
“Just for that, you can get your own cup of coffee,” Pete pulled
off his slicker and draped it over the weight bench.
“Make mine black!” Jim called after Pete's retreating back.
The door closing cut off most of Pete's acerbic reply.
“Malloy!” Pete hadn't taken two steps before Mac's voice cut
through the silence of the hallway. “Are you two back again
? Just because it's raining doesn't mean you two can camp out here. There's
work to be done.”
“Aw, Mac, we're the good guys,” Pete objected. “We just
rescued a little puppy out of a flooded culvert and returned a child to his
mother. We're just full of good deeds.”
“Yeah, and that's not all you're full of,” Mac cracked, as
Pete approached him.
“I'm deeply wounded, Mac,” Pete put his hand over his chest
and tried to look hurt.
MacDonald rolled his eyes.
“I'm serious, Mac. I'm just about to sit down and write a nice long
report about it while Jim changes into a dry uniform.”
“How many uniforms does Reed go through in a shift?” Mac asked.
“Is he the only one doing any work out there?”
It was Pete's turn to roll his eyes. “Et, tu, Mac?”
He walked over to the report desk, leaving a perplexed sergeant staring after
him.
******
Pete had just finished up the report when Jim came strolling down the hall,
a cup of coffee in each hand. The younger man looked his usual dapper self
again, with a dry uniform and his hair combed back correctly into place.
“Took you long enough,” Pete commented, but he accepted the
cup of coffee gratefully.
“I had to make sure you had time to finish the report, didn't I?”
Jim pulled out the second chair at the desk, turned it backwards and straddled
it, the warm smile still on his face.
Pete managed a half-hearted frown, but he was too pleased to see Jim pull
out of his earlier funk to get too irritated. “Thanks for nothin'.
Look this over and see what you think.”
Jim read over the report as he sipped his coffee. “Markham. That
was the guy's name, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Doesn't ring a bell, but the whole situation struck me as hinky.”
“You and me both. What say we take a look at the FI cards before
we get back on the street and see if anything jumps out?” Pete asked.
“Good idea.” Jim lay the report down, took out his pen and
signed it. “Looks good. What's going on in Mac's office?”
“Some kind of meeting with Vice detectives, I reckon,” Pete
said, looking into the glassed-in-office. Mac sat at his desk, but three
plainclothes detectives who Pete knew to be working with Vice were in there
talking with him.
“Maybe something big's goin' down and they want some blues with 'em,”
Jim suggested. “Maybe we should mosey on in there and see if we can
get in on it.”
“Whatever it is, they're really talking it over,” Pete signed
the report as well, then picked it up. “I'll wave this at Mac and see
if we get invited in.”
They stood and walked to the door to Mac's office. Pete lightly tapped
the glass and held the report up for Mac to see when the Scotsman looked his
way. Just as Pete had hoped, Mac waved them in.
“This the report from the great puppy caper?” Mac asked sarcastically.
“Puppy caper?” One of the vice detectives asked. “What,
are you guys are busting animals now?”
“Rescuing them, apparently,” Mac answered as both Jim and Pete
found their faces growing warm over the unwanted attention. “Malloy,
Reed, meet Detectives Brown, LaHoya, and Tidmore, Vice.” Mac pointed
them out in turn.
“Aw, we've met before Mac,” LaHoya spoke up. “Baseball
games, touch football, on the racquetball court, you know.”
“Yeah, Sergeant Harris still talks about that racquetball match he
had with ol' Reed here,” Tidmore grinned.
“Everybody still talks about that,” Pete laughed. Jim shifted
uncomfortably behind him.
“We're about to make a big bust on a porno ring operating out of
a place over on Market,” LaHoya informed them, “and we were just
asking Mac for a couple of units of blues for back up. You wanna join the
fun?”
“Well, now, wait a minute, Rico,” Tidmore put up a hand. “Do
we really want to work with a couple of guys whose biggest action seems to
be rescuing puppies?” The detective tried to look serious, but the tone
of his voice held amusement.
“Good point,” Brown agreed. “Let's see this report and
check it out.”
Mac handed the report over to Brown, a big grin on his face, obviously
loving being able to put two of his men on the hot seat for a change. Pete
thought that Mac was enjoying it just a little too much. He glanced back
at Jim, whose face had turned about the color of a ripe tomato.
Brown scanned the report, making comments along the way that further served
to make the Vice officers laugh, and to further embarrass Jim and Pete, but
suddenly, Brown lost the grin and became serious.
“Hey, what's this?” he asked, his voice sounding interested.
“Listen to this, fellas . . . 'also at the scene was an onlooker, identified
as Alan Markham of 6894 West Valley
Road . . . ' .”
At the sound of Markham's name, the other Vice detectives looked at Malloy
and Reed with interest, and LaHoya drew in a breath.
“This Markham . . . was he about my height, but thin, and had sandy
blond hair?” LaHoya asked.
“Yeah,” Pete confirmed. “License listed his age as 31.”
The Vice officers exchanged looks. “Was he driving a 62 two-door
Nova?” Tidmore asked.
“No, he was driving a '65 black Impala. It was clean; I ran it.”
Pete's eyes narrowed. “What's the problem?”
“What was the issue date on that license?” LaHoya asked.
“September 3, three weeks ago,” Pete said.
Brown continued to scan the report. “He said he stopped to help
this kid on the side of the road, eh?” he asked.
“Yeah, but the boy said he'd followed him all the way down the street
and didn't stop until he lay down looking for his pup in the culvert,”
Jim spoke up. “The differences in the stories bothered us, but the
boy was upset and Markham hadn't done anything.”
“You mean not yet,” Brown said bitterly. “If this is
the same guy, and I believe it is, he just got out on parole August 31. He's
got a package three inches thick.”
“For?” Pete felt his heart hammering in his chest. He knew
he shouldn't have let that guy go.
“288 and 261 pc,” Brown informed them. “His specialty
is boys under 10.”
Pete heard Jim draw in a hissing breath. He bit back his own reaction.
“I can guarantee you he didn't stop to help that boy get any puppy
out of a culvert,” Brown continued.
“He played it real cool,” Pete said. “Said he was trying
to convince the boy to let him take him home.”
LaHoya snorted. “After he was done with him in the back of his car,”
he spat.
“I know a certain PO who'll be real interested in this story,”
Tidmore spoke up. “I think I'll go give him a call. Let me write that
address down.”
“Well, fellas, looks like you rescued more than a puppy tonight,”
Brown handed the report over to Tidmore, who started scribbling on his notepad.
“I think that definitely qualifies you to work with us on this bust,
if Mac here will approve.” Brown grinned at the two officers.
“Sure. Adam-12 is all yours,” Mac agreed. “And Adam-43.”
“You're all heart, Mac,” Brown allowed.
“I'm sorry I let this Markham fella go,” Pete admitted.
“Don't be,” Brown waved it off. “You can't bust a guy
just because you think he might do something. But you've tipped us
off and we'll tip off his PO, and we'll be watching him very closely now.
He won't be able to scratch his nose without somebody knowing about it.
Apparently, he's going right back to his old tricks.” The detective
paused just for a moment and blew out his breath in a sigh. “But that's
for tomorrow. Tonight, we have other fish to fry. Meet us at the corner
of 5th and Market in 20 minutes. We'll lay out the plan when we're all there.
Let's go, guys.”
The Vice detectives cleared out, with good-byes and thanks, and disappeared
down the hallway.
“Nice work, men,” Mac praised. “All kidding aside, I
like it when my officers are in the right place at the right time.”
“We kinda like it, too, Mac,” Pete smiled.
“Well, go on, get outta here, you guys . . . and watch yourselves
out there.”
“Always, Mac, always.”
They left Mac's office and went back into the locker room to gather their
rain gear. After they'd donned their slickers once again and secured the
plastic over their hats, Pete put a hand out to stop Jim from leaving the
room.
“See, Jim?” the senior officer said quietly, with a knowing
smile, “Sometimes we can save 'em.”
“Yeah,” Jim returned the smile. “Yeah. I guess sometimes
we're not so useless after all.”
Pete's smile widened into a grin. “Well said, partner.” He
clapped Jim on the shoulder and the two of them walked out, ready to face
whatever the rest of the watch threw at them.
****
I'd like to thank Cathy for doing a terrific job as beta reader, editor,
and friend. Also thanks to Susu for her advice and support. And as always,
thanks LA, for having this site and taking care of all the little details.
The incident with the child in the closet was loosely based on an incident
that happened in Central Alabama a few years ago. Luckily, that story had
a happier ending, but the tragedy of child abuse is too common an occurrence
in this country.
