Dead: D.W.I. - Driver Who’s Indiscrete by L.A. Preschel (Part 3)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or circumstances is purely coincidental. 

* Alert, this is not your father’s hard boiled mystery; it rates R for content, concepts, occupations and language - banal and crude. I’d advise it is for mature adult readers.

Dead: D.W.I. - Driver Who’s Indiscrete

by L.A. Preschel 

Part 3 (conclusion)

At the table the next morning, Ryan looks a hell of a lot better. “Where’s our warrant? You ride shotgun to Jersey with me? We’ll bring her back in cuffs. Then you’ll get a little credit too.”

“Everything is too circumstantial. Have to sell it to the local cops out of state. Too much trouble, you’re on your own.” I’m being diplomatic. Just calling him a dumb-ass, I’d be right.

“Circumstantial my ass. Women cops? I’ll get a warrant and a man to help me. Then wait at Ronella’s job. She works in New York.” He storms out.

His fellow members of A-S. M.B.C. (All-Star Mysogynist’s Boys Club) give me their wordless assorted puckered looks, as I retrieve my coffee from the maker in the corner. Ryan’s coffee is good. He’d be a good wife for one of these guys, if he learned to be more docile.

I scanned the room. Their group’s collective smirk gets to me. “I know the cure for that look. Guys, buy a Costco-sized box of Ex-lax. Get a group rate and share. You’re all full of it.”

They laugh.

A group rate? That’s the answer, industrial lot buying. I bring my coffee to my desk.

Marco calls after me, “Nice one. For a female cop, you’re all right, Wonder Woman.”

I take out the yellow tag in the clear evidence bag. CID called it, industrial quality rubber for work gloves; jar openers; and things of that nature. I stare at the tag. I’ve seen the transit terminal maintenance men wear yellow gloves like this. E.Z.’s gloves on his cart were blue. Why?

I take the subway to the terminal. The day crew works. No E.Z. Eddie, no Ronella, three men clean buses from last night. The drivers from the night shift are home.

The first cleaning man comes from a bus wearing his protective yellow gloves. Tall and skinny, he walks like he is on stilts. A second guy pushes a trashcan with yellow gloves hung from the side. Yellow is a beautiful color. Seems they all have ’em.

“Guys.” I give them a badge flash. “You buy your gloves in bulk together?”

They look puzzled.

“Discount for a group rate? Something?” I ask.

“They buy us these shit-ass thin yellow gloves.” The tall, knocked-kneed giraffe flaps them at me. Standing up straight, his pants do not reach his boots, and the top of his white socks show. “Don’t protect worth a damn. They buy us these shit-ass uniforms too. Can’t afford my size?” He holds up long skinny fingers. “Gloves and pants, both be too short, but free is the right price, even for shit-ass quality. I hates me the color.”

The second man wears oversized glasses with thick black rims. They make him look like a tree frog. “They let you buy your own gloves if you wants. I don’t make that much money. But E.Z., he done bought new gloves t’other day, baby blue. Said he wants to match the uni’s. He be smoother than he be E.Z.” The frog’s eyebrows go up. “I think his reason be B.S., but I say nuthin’. Know what I mean.”

“Oh yeah. I do,” I answer.

“Right. Nice color,” The first man adds, “said them yellow ones tear when he uses them. Wants pro-text-shun, when we dumps the trash in the cans on three. It be so dark up there, you worry ’bout getting stuck with somethin’ in the trash, needle, scissor, or plastic knife.”

But E.Z. saw the gun in the trash, in the dark at midnight. His stroke of good luck?

“Thanks for your help, guys.” I take a quick run to the third floor. In the late afternoon, with the sun on the other side of the building, you can’t see diddly in that trash bin without a flash light. E.Z. saw the gun in there at night? I return to the station house.

Back at my cubby with a desk, I write my warrant. Should I bring Ryan on board? It would make him look good. He needs help. Nah, he’d nix it, so screw him. I’ll submit the warrant myself.

E.Z. likes souvenirs, so… 

I rush the process. I want to do the search before 8, when E.Z.’s shift begins at work. He’s killed once. Being a cop does not make me immune to gunfire. Obtaining the warrant takes longer than usual. On my way to the terminal All-News Radio broadcasts a breaking story. The news anchor reports, “Ronella Gibson arrested for the murder of her common-law husband.”

One of the ADA’s had been fooled into climbing on top of Ryan’s Everest of poop. The thin air deranged his judgment enough to sign that arrest warrant. If you believe the facts, the conclusion is logical. His facts are misleading and wrong. Sloppy is as sloppy does. I gotta move.

However, the Gods of law and order shine on this poor confused female detective. E.Z. is off tonight. At the terminal, I wave my search warrant at E.Z. Eddie Smith’s supervisor. He opens E.Z.’s locker. On the inside of the door is a picture of Alicia in a skimpy bikini. She signs it, “It’s easy to love my E.Z.” I inspect the locker. Two old and dirty work boots sit on the floor. The hook on the right side is empty. The hook on the left holds a sweat shirt. I guess the terminal can get drafty at night during the winter. On the back hook, a clean work shirt hangs. I stand on the locker’s floor to look into the shelf on top. Nothing of interest there either, no souvenirs. I lift the sweat shirt, nothing under it. I lift the clean work shirt, and underneath are two pairs of yellow rubber gloves.

I take them.

The supervisors says, “Regular issue, just about everyone has a pair of those.” 

“Yeah, but they don’t look like this.” I hold up the cuff of the second pair of gloves. It has a hole, into which the “tag of rubber” would fit perfectly. 

E.Z.’s souvenir, the weapon handle kicks back when its fired. Might have torn the rubber. Or, maybe the victim tore it off fighting for his life.

His crusty-laced work boots sit on the floor. A closer looks tells me the boots have been polished recently. Why clean them now? I take them with me too. Blood splatters everywhere in a 9 mm shooting. The boots may no longer have blood splatter, but shoelaces act like a sponge. These don’t look new. Luminol might light-up the boots as well.

My next move, I order tests on the laces, the boots, and the gloves inside and the outside. If he wore the gloves, they have touch DNA inside to prove he used them during the attack.

Before I leave for home, I visit Ronella Gibson in the detention center.

“What’s you want? Lyin’ snitch.” Her face rivals her greeting for cordiality.

“I can prove who killed Stephon. Don’t do or say anything stupid. I’m off duty, so that’s unofficial. Be cool. You’ll eat dinner with Auntie tomorrow.”

“Get my ass out of here. I am innocent.”

“Tomorrow, I’ll prove it.”

*      *      *

The next morning’s meeting of the A-S. M.B.C. is boisterous. Congratulations ring louder than a foghorn on the Long Island Sound at 2 a.m. The other detectives play Ryan’s back like it is the bass drum of a blues band, patting it to a steady beat.

I take a lot of bad-natured ribbing. Women are too soft, female foolishness; I should learn my trade from the master, Frankie “Fry ’em” Ryan. Learn to think the right way, a man’s way, if you want to stay a detective. There are other comments, that don’t deserve repetition in mixed company.

Ryan brags, “There is a reason they call real detectives, dicks.”

 Oh, there is a reason, but you have reached another wrong conclusion dumb-ass.

Ryan continues, “Got the warrant from the new ADA. Break ’em in good and early.”   

I have no answer for that.

9:30, no one but Ryan is still in the office. The last of my expedited tests comes back, GSR from the gloves. I’ve hit the pick-six of hard proof. Ronella is innocent.

Ryan watches me read the report. “What’s that paperwork?” His confidence flags. 

I stand to leave. “Don’t worry about it. It’s woman’s work.”

“Hey partner, is that paperwork from our case?” He takes a step toward the door as if to follow me out.

“The one you solved all by yourself? Yeah. I solved it differently.” I walk away.

No audience present for the moment, Ryan is free to run after me, like a little boy wanting his big sister not to tattle to mom about his ditching school. “Oh no, not this time.” His mouth moves as fast as his feet, “Wait, show me first. This is bullshit.” His face turns red as his strides lengthen. “We work together. I should see it too.”

“Together? We’ll never work together until you respect my feminine opinion.”

“Yeah like that’ll happen.”

I confront him. “Then it’s my shindig. You’re not invited.”

The two ADA’s assigned to our case sit drinking coffee in one office, a Starbuck’s latte, and a cappuccino. The mixed aroma aren’t half bad. I’ll get one on the way to arresting E.Z. Eddie.   

“Oh it’s Cochran,” The cappuccino ADA crows. “Ryan explain to you how he solved the case?” He giggles. A grown man giggling like a teenage girl? “He told me how women detectives think. Is his logic simple enough for you, little pixie?”

The other ADA frowns, sits up, and stares silently. As if he’s watching a man drown, but cannot swim enough to save the victim.

“I’d say simple defines it quite adequately. Simply wrong. Your first case and you’re prosecuting an innocent woman, using easily refutable false facts. That’s a career maker, and you’ve been on the job… six weeks? Oh, wait, six and one-half and Ryan’s false bravado got ya.”

Cappuccino ADA stops laughing. “Really?” His face show some concern. “Nah, Ryan told me he’s the top of the line in homicide, The Man. That’s why I signed the warrant. Always go with the best.”

Latte ADA taps him on the shoulder and finally interrupts, “Then you should have gone with Sam.” Latte man had signed my warrant for E.Z. Eddie’s locker. “Bob, be quiet. You’ll embarrass yourself further. You picked the wrong horse to back. Sam, what you got?”

Latte’s stern tone erases Cappuccino’s smile. “Why? What? Really?”  

Latte ADA says softly, “Quiet, let’s get her facts. Sam is fastidious. I haven’t lost a case she has brought me in my six months on the job.”

“E.Z. Eddie is ready for a second degree murder charge, Fred,” I say.

“Ryan warned me you’d protect Wonder Woman.” Cappuccino answers, “And she’d protect the woman suspect. Ronella is the killer. He proved it.”

The two ADA’s make enough noise to attract two more ADA’s to the room. We’re reaching overflow.

The other female in the room, and the most senior of the ADA’s says, “Let Sam talk.”

Cappuccino ADA slides his chair back into a corner, and glares at me but is silent.

Fred says, “So?”

I stare at Cappuccino. “I protect the innocent, and the stupid, which category are you?”

“Whoa,” the other three ADA’s say in unison.

“I’m an assistant ADA,” Cappuccino says, “show me respect.”

“Then do the same for me. I’m a woman and a cop. Start being a gentleman and an ADA.”

Fred adds, “Had you listened to your trainer when the case started, you’d have waited for Sam’s report. However, you signed Ryan’s warrant behind my back. Sam. Let’s get this right. Talk to me.”

The fourth ADA in the room, the only one who hasn’t spoken, says, “I told you when you started here. Sam’s the top of the line detective male, female or transgender. The best listeners make the best prosecutors. Listen and learn, Bob. Sam lay it out for us. We’ll decide.”

“Sure. One: I have ATM surveillance of Ronella Gibson in Newark at her aunt’s house at 12:12 a.m. the morning of the murder. St. James was still alive then. Two: the victim spoke with Tasha, Ryan’s stripper friend, on the phone alive just before 1 p.m. That is after Ronella was inside her aunt’s apartment in Newark. Her aunt stated she never left. Three: I have a tag of yellow glove from the crime scene. It came off E.Z. Eddie’s work gloves. He claims he was never on the bus, nor even knew the victim. However a part of his work gloves were on the floor of the bus, under the gas pedal. Wearing gloves, he left no prints on the gun, nor will he have GSR on his hands.”

“Ok, but what’s his motive? Why is he there? How’d he get Rosella’s gun?” Cappuccino man smiles. “Tell me that? Six shots is passion, not an accident. They all came from her gun.”

“Actually, the gun is registered to St. James, the victim. Ronella left the gun on the dash, when she broke it off with him. St. James had it on and on-going with E.Z.’s much younger wife. St. James texted her that night. E.Z. is a very possessive man. Look at his rap sheet, three domestic violence arrests? So E.Z. confronts St. James, an argument starts. He finds the weapon of opportunity, left behind by Ronella, on the bus’s dash board and uses it. E.Z has a temper and takes advantage of the situation.”

“And E.Z.’s wife said nothing?” Cappuccino sounds worried for the first time.

“Ryan never questioned her. Plus she won’t talk ‘cause she is scared. Ever handled a domestic violence case, even in law school?”

“Well, yeah.” Cappuccino hangs his head. “The wives plead the Fifth, to avoid a worse beating later. You’re right.”

Ryan opens the door and leans in. There is no room for him to enter.

“Anything the donut-girl says is hearsay,” Ryan adds. “Why waste time?” He folds his arms and leans on the door frame. “So tell me Wonder Woman, what did Allie Taylor say?”

“That night, after they got home, E.Z. beat her up. She’s too scared to testify. He has domestic abuse convictions. Ever hear of battered wife’s syndrome.”

“That’s your proof? A Grand Jury won’t buy that alone. Ronella did it,” Ryan campaigns. “I’m right. I know I am. I feel it in my bones.” His eyes beg Latte ADA to agree. 

Cappuccino ADA inspects him with growing doubt on his face. “I can’t bring your feelings into court. We need hard proof.”

“Oh yeah, forgot. With the search warrant you gave me Fred, I retrieved the gloves from the back hooks of E.Z.’s locker. Seems he likes souvenirs from his adventures in being a bad boy. The rubber tag found at the crime scene fits the hole in the glove with gun shot residue on it. A grand jury would jump on that.” I give Ryan a crooked glance. “However, this case goes straight to trial. Might plead out. Don’t need his wife’s testimony. Too much hard evidence.”

Ryan has been thinking. “Maybe Ronella stashed the glove in his locker. She is a driver too, has access.”

Cappuccino man answers, “How’d she know the combination to the locker? Nah, that’s a longshot. Sam, I see it now. Nice work.”

“Thanks,” I say, “hey, Ryan, did she implant E.Z. Eddie’s DNA inside the gloves, otherwise how did we find only his inside. Can you ’splain that away?”

A silent Ryan looks like he ate bad sushi. 

Cappuccino ADA, Bob, says, “Yeah,” he scratches his head. “How?” He finishes off his Cappuccino. “Sam, so you have all that documented?”

“Ready to go, Bob is it?”

“Yes, it will be my pleasure working with someone so thorough.”

To Ryan I say, “When you finish ‘splaining the DNA, I’ve another question for the Shell answer men. How did Stephon’s blood get on E.Z. Eddie’s bootlaces? And the answer is...”

Fred says, “Bob, the case against Eddie Smith is a lock. I’ll be second chair. Always good to get a strong conviction under your belt when you start working here.”

Bob says, “Thanks Fred. Ryan, can you handle driving Ronella to her aunt’s in Newark? She and her lawyer require calming down concerning her false arrest. Maybe I should ride shotgun, I signed that arrest warrant. The law demands proof beyond a reasonable doubt. Ryan, neither of us should ever forget that again.” He points to Sam. “Precise detective work prevents mistakes.” 

I stand and leave to find someone to help me arrest E.Z.

Ryan catches me alone in the hallway. “Wonder Woman, your fault this case is this messed up.” Ryan glares at me. “You stabbed me in the back. Shoulda told me. The Captain's gonna hear about this. And you know what that means.” 

I shrug, “Talks cheap, and your names on the file. The Commander will want to believe that you did the heavy lifting. However, you, the ADA’s, and I know the truth, and that’s good enough for me. I found the justice, and you were along for the ride.”

Remember Ryan, how can I make you look good, if you won’t keep your dumb-ass out of my way. I win.

“What are you thinking?” His worried voice made me satisfied. “Tell me right now, what are you thinking.”

The End -- for Now.