Dead: D.W.I. - Driver Who’s Indiscrete by L.A. Preschel (Part 2)

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.


Part 1 is the prior posting. This continues that story. Part 3 will be posted this week. Enjoy.

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

by L.A. Preschel 
Part 2

The next morning, Ryan brags over coffee at the homicide meeting that he would, “breakdown that guilty woman when he interrogated her today.” He stares at me. “Wonder Woman, you gonna protect your sistah? Stop being a nursemaid. Be a tough cop.”

The men at the table laugh like he’s Jimmy Fallon.

I get my coffee, and hold my temper. The department sent me for anger management. It is working sort of.

He stands behind me and flicks his finger against my ear. He slaps his hands together. His face holds a mock beseeching look. “I’m catching the killer. Pleeeze help me.” He laughs.

I flinch, then purse my lips tight to hold in a snide remark that I’d regret saying in front of a hostile audience. One, two, three… “She is not proven guilty yet. My mind is open.”

Today’s five minutes of moron-amusement have commenced.

“Open or empty?” Ryan replies.

Just don’t hit him in the face. Four, five, six… The facts I knew, did not add up well for Ronella. The gun came back with the victim’s and her prints on the barrel, not the trigger or the handle; no other prints. The victim owned the gun, and she lived with him. That offered her access. The two bullets from his chest while deformed, showed enough spiraling to prove the Browning as the murder weapon.

Who else had access to it besides her and the victim? Good question. Did anyone else? 

Ronella’s race to innocence runs up hill. As we gather the evidence, the hill becomes steeper. Ryan is an artisan at building Mount Everests out of circumstantial puppy poop. If he piles it high enough, the jury will be impressed and ignore reasonable doubt. Ronella is in trouble. She needs a cop with an unbiased opinion.

I have doubts about her too. Most women take being dropped much worse than she did.

Ronella brings Douglas Pittman with her to the interrogation. For a public defender, he plays the game on the square, but with a second child on the way, he has one foot out the door to a private practice. After mailing in his last two efforts, Doug is a certified cream puff in court.

We sit in the twelve-foot by ten-foot interrogation room with cream cylinder-block walls. The video surveillance is turned on. The wood table in the center of the room is slightly larger than a card table. Four chairs surround it. The window’s air-conditioner hums like the back-up singers in a do-wop group. Even so, the room is humid and close. Everyone, including me has their jacket off. The men’s ties are at half-mast, and Doug’s white Oxford shirt shows he is sweating out this case, significantly.

I take out a cigar to smoke and three men protest that lighting up is a crime in this humidity. They stop me, so chewing the unlit panatela has to suffice to quiet my nerves. I can spit the tobacco bits into the trash basket in the corner. 

When this case finishes, my nerves will demand a long ride in the country on my BMW motor bike.

Doug says, “Ronella will make a statement of her own free will first, before anyone asks a single question. Ronella.”  Doug stands and leans on the wall within Rosella’s line of sight.

In the interrogation room, we tape the interview, so notes are superfluous, but old habits die hard. I’ve got my index cards out, for the significant statements. It helps my thought processes later.

Ronella admits she waited at the terminal last night after her run from Northern Jersey. She had planned to break it off with St. James. She stowed her locked packed suitcase under her bus on the second floor. She brought the gun for self-defense. St. James had been physically abusive the last time she tried to leave him. She wanted to make a clean break this time.

Pittman produces copies of two arrests for domestic violence that stopped short of a trial, because Ronella refused to testify. The most recent is two years old. 

If he got abusive again, would she have the nerve to shoot him?

I assess her willingness or psychological ability to kill. How high did her emotions run?

Once she announces she brought the gun, Ryan becomes aggressive. “Don’t lie, he broke it off. We know he was seeing other women. That made you mad. You shot him.” He walks up behind her.

“Of course, I be mad, wouldn’t you?” She turns in the chair to watch where he is. “But I didn’t shoot nobody,” 

Ryan hangs his face over her as she sits. “Can you prove it?” He whispers.

Ronella does her best to ignore the ape violating her personal space. “But I couldn’t shoot no one, no body.” She’s ready to cry. She reaches up to push his face away.

Ryan stands back and yells, “He broke it off, so you killed him.” He stomps his foot and threatens her with his look. “Then threw the gun in the trash.” He turns his back to her, and walks toward me. He winks. “Motive, means, plus opportunity.” He counts his points on his fingers, while speaking to the video camera near the ceiling. He spins and runs three steps at Ronella. “We got ya. Admit it.” He pounds the table where she sits. “You killed him.”

Ronella jumps from her chair and retreats five steps. Doug steps between her and Ryan.

I shove Ryan to the corner and whisper, “That’s intimidation, not interrogation.”

“I’m getting the job done. Back off,” he whispers, and pushes me away.

I grab him by his shoulders. My ire summates to rage. I whip him around to face me. “Don’t screw this case,” I whisper. “Do it by the book. Stay cool. No physical contact. No threatening for once. Your work has to stand up in court.”

“My cases always do. Don’t let your female sympathies interfere,” He stares heat at me. “My eye is on the prize. You better be looking the same way, or else.” His left hand grabs his fisted right hand. He slowly grinds them together. “Get my meaning. No female shows me up.”

“Don’t you threaten me, ever, or you’re dead meat.” My stare stops him cold. “Got it?”

He goes silent. Unlike him, I’ve been in self-defense situations, and three people are dead by my hand. I carry that sorrow-filled burden, even though the situation earned me a medal of valor from the NYPD.

I look him in the eye, as I quiet down. “Stay calm and I can help. Lone wolves die alone.” I push him away and sit down.

 Pittman ushers Ronella back to sitting. “You’ve made your statement, now only speak with my permission. She answers questions. If I let her. Yours are?”

Ronella shivers, weeps, and stares at Ryan.

Ryan doesn’t notice, because he and I are still holding a staring contest. The slam of the interrogation room’s door closing directs our attention to one of the two ADA’s on the case as he marches in. He pulls Ryan out, while whispering to him. In transit through the door, Ryan nods continuously. He makes a writing motion, points to the ADA, and mouthes ‘getting an arrest warrant.’

The door slams close, like a lock-up at Riker’s. There is a beat of silence.

I pivot to Ronella. “What happened when you confronted St. James?”

Ronella looks at Pittman.

He nods.

Ronella says, “He be on two phones at once. Texting Alicia Taylor, but that tailor, she specialize in makin’ pants tighter.” Ronella gives off a giggle. “At the same time, he talked on ’nother phone with another woman, ‘Sweet buns.’ She be Tasha Washington. I went to high school with that bitch. She’s why I planned to break up. I can play a little second, but I don’t never play me no third fiddle. ’Specially not to a stripper-’hoe. I thinks a whole orchestra played on Stephon’s instrument, one time or ’nother.” She stares at the overhead camera. “Tasha be a ’hoe since high school. Ask the fo’ball team. They knew her in the biblical sense, every player.”

I’m writing this down, though surely, the ADA watches, unseen in the video room.

Ronella continues, “You hear me good, you sneaky snoops.” Her tears look real. “I still loved him. I killed no one.”

Sympathy biases your vision of evidence. Detectives must be objective. Ronella hurts like a person who had her Porsche stolen and crashed by the guy repossessing it. Even though she did not own the car, she loved the ride, and now it was gone.

Ryan bursts into the room. “He embarrassed you, and put you on his third team. Therefore you shot him six times. He cheated on you with a stripper? A whore?”

“Don’t answer that. Fifth amendment. But that’s a question, Ryan.” Pittman applauds. “We should call your fifth grade English teacher to inform her of your progress in grammar.”

“Screw you Pitty-man.” Ryan slams himself into a chair.

“You brought the gun with you?” I ask Ronella. “Was it loaded?”

“Of course, it be loaded. How the f else could I be sure to be safe with his temper.”

“Ok, so when did you shoot him?” Ryan asks.

“I never ever shot any gun at nobody, never.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“I stood on the bus stairs. Stephon winked at me. He two-timed both women while his live-in girl watches, and he winks at me. What kinda man do that? But his punishment,” she sobs, “came from someone else. It be much worser than I can do. Not wastin’ no double-dime in prison on a shit-bag Casanova. The gun be his. I never wanted it, so I put it on the dashboard. I left. He be too busy with Tasha to hit me or notice that I be gone. Probably didn’t care.”

“Then what did you do?” I ask.

“My ears can’t endure anymore lies.” Ryan pulls the door open. “Dougie, I’m obtaining a warrant as soon as those phones come back. They’ll prove she’s lyin’. Tell her be available. She’s all yours Wonder Woman.” He leaves.

“His time of month?” Doug asks me.

I’ve heard sexist bull so frequently I’ve grown immune to it. “No. Plays the male dumb bastard card. I’m sure you’ve a couple in your deck. For him, the trouble is, it’s his only card. Thinks it’s an ace and wild. Plays it all the time. It never wins.”

Ronella laughs for the first time today.

Dougie gives a whistle. “All right then. My attitude is adjusted. Thank you, very much.”

“You’re welcome.” I smile at Ronella. “So girl then what?”

“Maybe you be all right.” Through her giant smile she says, “I took my sweet ass to my auntie’s in Newark.” She forms the sign of the cross in front of her chest and looks to the sky. “The commuting will kill me for a while. Oops bad choice of words, but I can live with it.” She looks at me and raises her eyebrows. “That be all the truth I know.”

“Ronnie, a gun shot residue test can clear things up quickly.” I turn her hands palms up.  

Doug says, “Problem. She shot the gun prior to the murder at the gun club. We have witnesses. Practiced, in case he became rough.”

“We have to do a GSR. Even if it is positive.” I implore, “Doug, I’ll get a subpoena.”

Since Ryan left the room, Doug had been leaning against the wall, now he stands up straight. “A subpoena is coercive, changes the environment. Fifth amendment. We’ll fight that. Even if you get it, the GSR will be done too late to be effective. Don’t waste your time.”

“Refusing looks bad,” I say.

“I’ll do it,” Ronella offers.

“No you won’t. This interview is over.” Dougie pulls Ronella to stand. “Is she charged?”

“No.”

He pushes her to the door. “Then bye. When you want us, call me first.” He leads her out.

*      *      *

“Sweet Buns,” aka Tasha Washington, aka “the hips that rips” dances at the Double DDee Club in Sunnyside Queens. Inside the heavy wooden doors, the air smells stale from old smoke and feels dirty damp, like the water flushed from the dishwasher before the rinse cycle starts. Seedy is the first word that comes to mind for a description. You avoid touching anything that hasn’t taken a Clorox bath recently. I visit the club around 4:30 p.m. before the evening shift gets busy.

The joint wears more velvet on the walls than a convention of fake Elvises. During show time, more swords are raised than at Medieval Times during the duel scenes. For an extra charge, in a back room meant for private dancing, a knight can sheath his sword in any manner of choreography that he can afford. Money is the only limit to the extent of your dance. The vice people raided this joint several times in the past 18 months, but little changes. The club paid its fines and business returned to normal.

I walk into the club with Ryan a step behind. Somewhere between coming through the entrance, passing the stage on which one woman dances, and arriving at the manager’s office, Ryan goes AWOL. He’s probably monitoring the stage for any illegal moves. In this environment and easily distracted, he wasn’t worth half his normal value as an investigator.

I reach the manager's office, but the door is closed. I knock, open the door, and walk only one step into a large closet with a desk, a file cabinet and a phone. Closets have no windows. The manager stands before I’ve fully crossed the threshold. His large abdomen blocks further entry. “Yeah, what?” he says, while looking me up and down as if I was his estranged felon brother just escaped from the pen. “I’m Mugsy, the boss. Open ya yap or scram."

Mugsy is a classic. His thick-boned mug looks like he has damaged more than a few fists with his face. He smokes a robusto stogie, blowing the smoke like a fogging machine. “Ya deaf.” The matches to light his cigar cost more than it does. “Speak or Go.” He points over my shoulder.

Guess, he has no idea, cigars are perfume to me.

I don’t move. “Mugsy, I need your full attention, every brain cell.” I point to his head.

He twists to deposit his nickel’s worth of tobacco in a brown clay ashtray on his desk. More bouncer than club manager, he can’t be happy to see a woman fully dressed in his bump’n’grind, asking questions. He says, “Wah ya want, shortcakes? We’re for men, so leave.”

When I don’t move, he runs his hand to his hair scrunchie that holds his dyed purple ponytail. “Ok.” He gives it a tightening tug. “Unless, you want an audition, you’re not wanted here, and your chest disqualifies you from the business.” He laughs, making his rotund belly bobble. “Flat as my desktop.” He runs his hand over his blotter as if to show me what he means.

Attitude and level of play established. I can play this game better. “Police.” My left hand grabs his shirt in a twist and pulls his bulk into me. “I don’t like your attitude or this place. So be pleasant, and cooperative.”

His face shows he wasn’t expecting that, but he not intimidated.

I say, “From now on, your lips move only to answer me. Get me Tasha, out here, now.”

“Police my ass, let go.” He swipes my hand from his shirt. “Show me a badge, pixie.”

As he pushes my left arm down, my right hand buries my Beretta Nano, in his gut. “Nana and I want to know, is she here? Want a second belly button?”

He looks down to see Nana kissing his stomach dead center mass. “Oh, ok, a 9mm beats a badge, but Tasha don’t play in the back-room with women, only men.”

I flash my badge. “Hard of hearing or death, which is it for you?” Nana nudges into him once.

“You don’t scare me. Police or not, you ain’t shooting me, and that badge could be from Amazon. Make an appointment to see her. Book’s outside by the bar. Ask Ralph.”

“NYPD, we don’t make appointments. We don’t back-room. We get warrants. I saw three violations walking through. You admitted prostitution. Make Tasha free to speak? Don’t waste my time explaining. Go.”

Reluctantly, Mugsy nods. “Yup, I’ll get her.”

I holster Nana.

Before he moves, Ryan appears.

 The dancers must have left the stage.

Ryan says to me, “I’m the lead detective.” He asks Mugsy, “Where is the hips that rips?”

Mugsy smiles at Ryan. “You her boss? She have a personality disorder or somethin’?”

“Yeah.” Ryan flexes his pec-muscles. “I’m the man. She’s the hysterical lady cop.”

“In his fantasies,” I answer, “I still see those violations, but I don’t see Tasha.”

“He’s the boss. I obey him,” Mugsy answers.

“But at the moment, he’s not thinking about his police work.” I turn to Ryan. “Be patient, detective, these women undress themselves. Mugsy, you had 60 seconds to produce her, you’ve burnt 20. Do the math. Remember, I’m the crazy one, get me mad, I’ll do something insane.”

He looks into my eyes, “Yes sir.” He turns to Ryan. “Who is the boss?”

The human mountain ducks into an archway and through a curtain to the dressing room area. He reappears pulling a half dressed amazon, by her left arm. Her right hand tries to keep closed a blatantly inadequate white translucent cover-up. Untied it flows behind her like a flag in the wind. Mugsy hustles her toward us. “Keep up, sister. These cops need answers, so be nice.”

My turn to mess with him. “Fifty-two, fifty-three…”

Ryan’s eyes work overtime. He never looked that hard at or for evidence.

Tasha wears a red satin and lace bustier with matching bikini bottoms. They contrast with her black nylons. Her bleached orange hair is teased in all directions like a space helmet. “What ya wan? I’m not ready to perform.” She looks at Ryan. “Although for you big boy, the back room is open for business. As in messin’ around.” Her tone is salacious.

“Really?” Ryan’s jaw looks unhinged. Mr. lead detective wordlessly salivates.

“You Tasha?” I ask.

She hadn’t seen me. Startled, she twists. Her upstairs and downstairs shimmy in multiple directions, like a truck full of Jell-O on black ice, skidding out of control. “Yeah, why?”

“What time two nights ago did you talk with Stephon St. James?”

“No women be a detective, meter maid maybe. Who are you, and who said that?”

“I’m Detective Samantha Cochran,” I answer with a badge flash. “His girl told me.”

“Ronella beat me up in high school over nothing. She lied then. I had a little fun, that’s all. She talk shit ’bout me now too? That woman is cold and has her a temper. If-in anyone did, she shot him. He too much for her alone.” Tasha winks at Ryan. “But I can handle him… all… by… myself.”

“Temper?” Ryan jumps in, “That a fact? She shot him? Will you testify to that?”

“Everyone know that.” She steps closer to Ryan. “The Daily News, front page, Bus Driver’s Girlfriend Bus-ted for Killing.”

“Tasha.” Her focus bounces back to me. “You talked with him about what time?”  

“Two times, be ah-zact. He keep sweet-talking me, wanting some… you know.” She poses. “Most men do.” Ryan gets another wink. “Know what I mean?”

Ryan offers a soft low wolf whistle. “Do I.”

I look to him, and he isn’t even blushing.

I say, “The last time you talked?”

“Sometime after midnight. He asked for a private dance before he went home. Wanted me to hang here, but I’s tired. Then he paused, said ‘wait a minute. don’t you do that.’ Then there was a brushin’ sound, after that a bunch of muffled bangs or bumps and grunts... oh my God, did I hear her kill him?” Tasha took several rapid breaths, holding her hand over her throat to regain her composure. “I’m ok. I’m ok. He never got back on the phone. I thought we was done, so I went home. That be maybe 12:15. I danced till 11:55 that night.”

“Perfect. The schedule says Ronella finished her route at 11:35. Ryan scribbles on his pad. “Gives more than enough time to do it. I’ll have the warrant tomorrow. Case solved.”

“Ok, come on.” I wave Ryan to leave.

Tasha heard him slide the phone under his ass, and then he was shot. That fits.

Narrowing down the time of death, my needs have been met.

Ryan says, “Nah, further investigations to do. I’ll stay around. Maybe go under cover?”

Don’t need to be a cop to detect, his unresolved needs, dumb-ass.

He says, “Marco can pick me up. Can you handle signing me out partner?”

“Sure.” I drive to the bus terminal.

I check the driver’s schedule with the Station Master. The revised schedule was effective one day before the murder. Ryan missed out on that fact. Ronella’s ETA was 10:55. The paperwork signed by the Station Master documented an 11:03 full discharge of her passengers in the terminal. Quote, “Bus empty 11:03.”

I call Doug Pittman, “The name and number of Ronella’s Jersey Aunt is?”

Within ten minutes, he returns my call, “Estelle Parker. phone area code 213… ”

That’s a Newark exchange, and the White Pages gives her a Newark address too.

Google earth reveals her apartment is over a PNC ATM. Life is good, probably a surveillance camera there too. The tapes will document when she arrived at her aunt’s.

I dial. “Hello, this is detective – ”

“Detective Cochran?” Her voice is pleasant, as if we’re old friends. Dougie probably coached her on the answers to my questions. He is back on his game, good for Ronella, not as good for me.

“Is this Estelle Parker?”

“Yes that be me. Shame about St. James. Certain men want sex too much for their own good. Now he be playin’ a harp or playin’ with fire, instead a playin’ around. How can I help?” She sounds like a Bible lady.

I picture her in her Sunday get-up with a pill-box hat, dog-eared family hand-me-down Bible under her arm, ready for a sermon. But even religious people might lie for close family.

“Estelle, two simple questions, one: did Ronella stay with you the other night.”

“She damn-well moved her ass right in,” She chuckles. “Crimps my socializin’ style.” Her voice rings playful, “Got me boyfriends. I’m seventy-four, but I ain’t dead yet.”

“Two: what time?”

“Oh, let me see. I cooked a ham for Sunday dinner. ’Bout eight, put it in the oven, that silly Big Bang were showin’ on TBS. Whiny-assed Sheldon moans ‘bout nothin’ ’portant all the time. He be so smart, how come he can’t figure sump-thing out for hisself? A ham needs four hours. As I went to check it, Ronella be banging on my door. She came here just afore midnight. News be over, and Fallon played one of his dumb games with a blond woman. Don’t see no African-American girls doing that stuff, no how. We gots us some pride. Movie star? New picture or what, dignity ’portant too.”

“Don’t have the time to watch tv. Ronella was in Newark by midnight?”

“Or a little after, stayed the night while I cheered her up. She need-a place to stay of her own. My man git hisself worked up serious if-in… and I needs me some lovin’ too,” Estelle says.     

“Thanks, bye.” I hang up the phone.

I telephone the bank. They’ll ship the surveillance tape of their ATM to me. I’ll get CID to process it looking for Ronella’s arrival. That usually takes a couple of weeks, and I’m working against my partner, who doesn’t care to wait to prove his facts.

Fallon’s guest that night: a blond starlet, whose name I did not know. Who has time to see movies? However she has a new movie out. As to the Big Bang being on, it’s televised on some channel every night at 8 p.m., 8:30 p.m., 9 p.m., etc.

Estelle’s answers leave no doubt of Ronella’s innocence. If the video backs up her statement as to time, that makes Estelle’s testimony hard evidence.

Estelle re-experienced the night during the interview, the hallmark of an honest response. St. James was on the phone with Tasha, after Ronella arrived in Jersey. Unless he was TWD, talking while dead, Ronella did not pull the trigger.

Who might want him dead? Gotta take a swim in the suspect pool.

*     *     *

I arrive 20 minutes late for the start of the general homicide meeting next morning; Ryan struts around the conference table, like a male peacock. Every gent in the room pays Ryan attention, following his path with their vision. Ryan’s mouth is moving so even though I can’t hear him, he must be explaining how he knows Ronella is guilty. They can wait for me. I refuse to run down the hall.

I arrive. The men make like they are working, and everything becomes hush-hush.

Ryan’s face betrays a late night out.

“Rough night?” I ask.

“You have no idea.” Ryan walks to within a foot of me. He’s eight or nine inches taller than my five foot one, so he stares down at me. “Marco was busy. Needed a damn Uber to get home.” His breath is old booze. “I’ll expense it,” he leans closer with a chuckle, “like usual.”

“Back off.” I push him, so he stands at a socially appropriate distance.

“However.” He smiles at the three detectives seated at the table, offering a here we go grin. “I finished a thorough investigation. Exhaustive probing. Uncovered everything there was to see. Examined a lot more than initially met my eye, and nothing worth seeing stayed covered.” He winks at his audience. “I inspected it all.”

The gentlemen around the table snicker, or smirk, while they monitor my reaction.

I’m stoic. I’ve played this game with more capable opponents. It’s called can I make you blush using bragging male mendaciousness, or do you believe me now?

Marco, the metro-sexual in the group, stands by the coffee pot. He stage whispers to me, “Hey Wonder Woman, ya shoulda stayed. Ya coulda learned a trick or two.”

With that remark, the gentlemen of the audience go from snickering to guffawing.

I just nod. “Knowledge is always good. Bet you guys could use a lesson… in whatever.”

They stop laughing. One coughs a loud, “Bull-shit.”

Then they laugh some more.

I ignore them. “You’re worthless Ryan, take today off. Coop with lots of java. I got this.”

Ryan reaches to the table and retrieves his paperwork. “Tell you what, you wrangle the warrant.” He hands me the papers. “They suggest a second-degree murder charge against Ronella Gibson. I’ll bring her in later.”

On his papers, he lists the time of her bus’s arrival wrong; he sights her prints as the only ones on the gun (another serious error), and her refusal to get a GSR test as evidence of her guilt. Motive: her boyfriend dumped her. His warrant contains sloppy work, his forté.

I give it a pocket veto; bury it deep in my jacket pocket. “Yeah sure. Which ADA gets it?”

“ADA Bob, er, what’s his name. He drinks cappuccinos all the time. Wears a bowtie?”

Marco croons, “Oh the new young man.”

I nod. “Sure Ryan, scram.”

He signs in. “I’m off to Starbucks.”

He’ll investigate the coffee, the sport page, and comics. He’ll see if his legs reach far enough under the table to rest his heels on the chair on the opposite side. He’ll try to complete the crossword. If cooping was a police division, he’d be its commander. He’s done this act before, about four cases ago, when we investigated several after hours clubs in lower Manhattan, because of a murder case. He collected the late night drinking evidence, personally.

That time, in the aftermath of being out late with booze, he compared two types of breakfast sandwiches. Lunch, he investigated salads with the Mango Lemonade ice tea. To the Captain, he claimed he was on stake out at Starbucks, and expensed it all. Even the Uber home from the coffee shop. Dumb-ass. They let him slide. Today, he’ll return to the station house in time to sign out at 4:00. Good work if you can get it.

I can work faster without him. If he is our rudder, he’ll steer us up the wrong creek.

My next lead has to be ambushed alone. CID tells me the ATM tape is in, but the earliest they’ll process it will be after next Thursday. Ryan will be closing the case by then, and I’ll have my name on the folder. The case will blow up in court, and he’ll point his finger my way. Our captain, who cannot believe a woman is working homicide, might believe I pressed the charges.

Therefore, I review the Newark ATM’s tape on the night of the murder from 11:05 p.m. to 12:25 a.m. myself. My computer screen is not so large, but I can tell a female from a male on it. It is tedious, but necessary. The work helps me mark time until the night shift starts at The 24 Hour Donut Shop on Eighth Avenue.

St. James’s personal Taylor’s evening starts at 8 p.m. Tonight is her first shift back since the murder. I need to talk to her without E.Z. around. We’ll celebrate her return to work.

At 9 p.m., I walk in. The store is long and thin like a wide corridor. Only one waitress and a tall thin African-American man with a gray beard, that matches his bushy eyebrows, are inside. There are no booths and the counter is a row of empty stools, except for gray-beard’s stool. He has smooth coal-black skin and blue elfin eyes - probably contacts. They make him handsome in an off beat way. He pages through a tattered copy of Ebony magazine. He watches me with his head down, as if I won’t notice his scrutiny. His clothing style is not my taste, but does draw my attention. He wears a pink shirt, under a scarlet and pale blue plaid sweater with half-dollar sized silver buttons, and a pair of embroidered faded Carnaby Street bellbottoms.

Is the circus in town? No wait, Couture: 1960’s pimp. Where’s his white Cadillac?

The shop’s glass counter donut display, lacks half their varieties, but I’m not hungry. I order a regular coffee and a Chocolate Cream filled from a woman who wears Allie’s name-tag on her white lace lapel. She is skinny with chicken legs and wears a pink and white waitress’s uniform. She is the whole night staff.

Have I walked through a time warp and arrived at the original Dunkin’ Donuts.

She also wears a recent bruise on her cheek and her arm. She moves with a limp. Her left hip hurts too? She delivers my coffee and donut without looking me in the eye and leaves my written receipt on the counter. Without a word, she walks to the back for a ciggie break near the frying oil just inside the door to the back room. She roams as far from my seat at the counter as she can be without leaving the store. No doughy life preservers float in the brown sludge vat for her to tend in the back. Her hand shakes as she raises her lighter to the cigarette. She looks as calm as a Persian cat boarded in a kennel of Pit Bulls. Her eyes never leave me, but she waits for me to leave.

I disappoint her, sipping my coffee, while letting the sugar-cholesterol bomb on the paper plate go untouched.

Don’t need love handles. I have no one who wants to grab onto them right now.

She finishes her smoke, and I haven’t left.

“Alicia?” I ask.

She ignores me.

The bearded man changes seats, sits on my left side and offers his pick-up bar smile. “Ma’am, can I be of assistance?” His voice is deep and warm. His right hand covers my left one as it rests on the counter top.

This is not social, but he can’t see my badge, yet. My right hand drifts under my leather biker jacket to Nana, who remains undiscovered in my waist holster on my right hip. I give him an unfriendly stare, and then frown at his hand.

He doesn’t take the hint, and leans closer. “I can help,” he whispers, “really I can.”

I know things will take care of themselves, so I let them play out. I look to the only server in the place and say, “Alicia Taylor-Smith. I’m Detective Samantha Cochran, homicide,” I flash my shield.

Gray-beard ejects from his seat and moseys three stools down, carrying his full cup of coffee with him to where he left the Ebony magazine. His voice ranges up an octave to routine communication from basso seductivo levels, “Forget I met you, ma’am.” He calls into the back where Alicia remains, “Hey Allie, the fuzz woman wants you.”

She shakes her head no, lights another smoke, and steps on the one she dropped to the floor.

“Damn it Alicia. I’m here. We can do it now or at the station house or...” I ring my coffee cup with my spoon. “Hear ye, hear ye, the court of New York City is called to session. First witness, Alicia Taylor-Smith. You want to hear those words? Will E.Z. let you live to hear ’em?”

From the back, she calls out, “I smelled cop when you walked in. I tell you jack-shit.” Her face turns distressed and her eyes glaze, as the back of her hand caresses her cheek over the facial bruise.

She is remembering the impact that caused it. I am starting at a disadvantage.

Her other hand trembles, painting a smoke doily in the air above her lit ciggie. “He ain’t called E.Z. because he is. You know?” She smashes out her cigarette against the fryer’s steel frame, making burning ashes spiral to the tile floor. A few fly upward and land in the oil. “The old coot think he be owning my ass. Be watching me all the time. He have a phone app trackin’ me.”

“‘No one messes with his,’ I remembers him saying just that to me, Alicia.”

She shakes her head, “I’m no cleaning cart. He don’t own me. I be free.”

“Then tell me what he did. What happened? I’ll get him.”

She yells, “He don’t do nuthin’ to me. I don’t want him got.” She takes in a shuddering sigh of air. At normal volume and with regained calm, she says, “I fell over a chair at home. Hit my face and arm. I do that a lot. I can handle this. Don’t need ya help.”

I can’t stop my mouth. “Seizure disorder? Better see a doc… to stay alive. Or talk to me.”   

“Must be seizures, and I will.” Her crooked smile betrays the truth. “See my doctor. Thanks for the advice. Bye.”

“I’m not leaving till I hear the whole fish tale. Lie to me on the record.”

“It be a far far better thing to fall and get a boo-boo, than if I ever be dead for snitching. Dickens said that?”

“Dickens on crack maybe.” I leaned toward the back. “Don’t let the fatal disease fester in your home and bed. We got a cure. Take it.”

“Yeah, a cure,” she walks to the doorway between the front and the back. “Wanna know what kind of men they is. Stephon was gentle, and sweet.” 

“Yes he was.” The man at the counter looks up from his magazine. “I liked that man.”

“E.Z., he think he a bad man. He keeps souvenirs from every time they arrested him. He has a scrap book. Shows it to me and looks at it hisself. He be proud of that shit.” She spits in the trash can near the mop and pail at the door. “That’s for him.”

“So make your life safe. I can make it happen for you. Help me,” I talk gently, but I can’t calm her down.

She stomps to the counter, holding the decaf coffee pot. “Yeah, you help, for a while, but never forever.” She pours a second cup for Gray-beard without offering me any. “Right Joe? Protect you ’til ya talk in court. After, you on your own. Ratting him out, you catch the DBT’s.”

“The whats?” I ask.

“Death by talking, woman,” Joe says. “Order of protection helped my wife live three extra years, then bang, she dead. Boyfriend got man-two, five years in Attica, off early thanks to the governor. He drives a Livery cab. Still deals smack. Was talking worth it to my dead Donna?” He shrugs. “A clown’s question. Needs no answer.”

You’re dressed to ask it. Help me Bozo. Back me up here.

“He told you, he murdered your boyfriend. Makes you a liability.” I sip the house-brewed paint thinner. Ryan brews better. It’s about the only thing he does well. “Dead lips tell nothing.”
“I have me no boyfriends. My husband would gets himself berserked up. Sister-fuzz leave me alone. He say-ed nothing to me at no time. Nev-vah!”

“The more we press him, the more worried he becomes, you’re a loose end. We’ll protect you. Any doubts he holds about you has only one final answer. Don’t give him time to do it.”

“I takes my chances.” She shrugs at me. “That’s four-fifty with tax, but without no tip.”

“That night going home, what did he tell you?” I ask.

Allie looks at her watch, walks over and leans down to whisper in my ear. When her breath touches my ear’s scrolls, she yells, “Detective, fuck off. Go away.” She snatches the check off the counter and waves the tab in my face. “You owe $4.50.” She drops it on the counter and trudges off.

Old Joe laughs. “Must be tough being feminine fuzz. The boys’d rough her up for answers. She’d squeal, and nobody’d say nothing ‘bout the rough stuff. Too scared of re-tellie-asians.”

“Your name’s Joe right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His smile shrinks to a grin. “Not meaning no trouble.” He adjusts his sweater, buttoning the top two buttons. “Just my feelin’.”

“No worries, Joe. More than one way to skin a cat.” I wink. “Necessitates a different knife and cutting technique that’s all. In the end, the cat still squeals… sometimes she lives too.”

“Woo-wee.” He rocks back on the stool. “Ain’t you somethin’.” He chuckles.

I leave four dollars on the counter. A cop’s coffee is usually free. Let her come after me for the rest. I call to her, “Hey Allie, want a tip? Talk to me, stay alive. I’m with homicide, office is uptown a little. I’d welcome a visit.” I leave a card next to my money. “Tell E.Z. I said hello. And I know who the murderer is. What’s he gonna do ’bout it. You can even give him my card.”

Alicia said E.Z. has a rap sheet.

Another thing both Ryan and I forgot to check. Can’t get sloppy like Ryan.

Back at my desk, I check it, petty stuff, related to a bad temper: a couple of domestics, pleaded no contest; with counseling, he served no time. A few disorderlies with three months suspended sentences from drunk bar-debates that became physical, bare hands, no weapon used. This time, E.Z. Eddie jumped up in class. We’ll nail him for the murder.

With what I know, Ryan’s warrant request gets filed in four separate pieces, where it belongs, in the circular file, under garbage.

End of Part 2.

Dead: D.W.I. - Driver Who’s Indiscrete by L.A. Preschel (Part 1)

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 

The NYPD made a mistake when they pinned a gold detective’s shield on my chest and promoted me to the homicide division. The error wasn’t in recognizing my talent. Immediately, I was the best detective at the table. Their mistake: leaving the M.B.C. (the Misogynist Boys Club) unprotected from me, a TNG (Take No Guff) woman on a constant mission of male-attitude adjustment.

At my first morning conference, Detective Hoguard, who never gave me any respect while I worked general detail, says, “Hey girlie, the black coffee mug with the gold writing, ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ is mine. I take my coffee black, and prefer chocolate-glazed donuts. In the box on the counter.” He sat up from writing his report and pointed to the coffee maker.

My answer, “Thanks, but no thanks, I brought my mug, and I don’t go for donuts.”

“No, the machine’s in the corner. Make it two-thirds full, so your delicate fingers don’t spill it.” He continues writing his report. “Then bring it right here, girl.” He pats the table.

A detective’s gotta make an impression, so I gather his cup and fill it to the brim. Then I walk it to his side. Four pairs of male eyes observe from around the six by eight foot wood table. They smirk. Hoguard is the only one sitting. 

I deliver the java, wearing an innocent smile, and then deliberately dump the hot coffee over his crotch and the report. “Oops. Sorr-eee,” I sing.

Hoguard erupts, knocking over his chair. “What the hell? I said be careful woman!”

I gently place the empty cup on the soggy paperwork. “Wanted it here, right?” I stare into his angry eyes, without flinching. “It is a little less than half full now. No worries ’bout spilling anymore.”

Hoguard huffs, tugging his pants as they cling to his thighs, but remains speechless.

I pat his shoulder. “The way my world works, Hogie, if you want it done right, do it yourself.” I walk around and sit on the dry side of the homicide work table. “The paper towels are between the coffee machine and the donuts. It’s called wiping up after yourself.”

While several detectives smother laughter, Hoguard stomps over to retrieve the towels. His pants from his knees to the belt loops are drenched, like a failed potty trained child who had an accident.

Good morning homicide bureau. I’m your newest member Samantha Cochran.

I am the first woman admitted to the team. I work with seven old-time male detectives, who sit in their Neanderthal man-cave of an office, thinking my job description reads: secretary, follow orders, keep my valueless theories to myself, and shake my cleavage, while I hustle my bustle. Don’t talk, you’ll only be annoying. I’m not guessing, I’ve been told each of those suggestions to my face. Each author was dead serious, not pranking.

I do not play that way; never did, never will. An armed independent thinking woman, I know how to express myself, and be heard even over male voices.

Life’s a bitch, filled with disappointments, deal with it, ‘cause boys, I’m no one’s slave.

Detective Frank Ryan is my first partner, although associate is a more accurate term. His attitude prevents partnership. At 38 years old, twice married and twice divorced, he actively stalks personal servant number three. His Adonis build and blue eyes come with Paleolithic attitudes. He expounds to me as he drives back to the precinct house after I worked my first crime scene as a homicide detective. “Let me tell how it is in this world, Wonder Woman.” He gives me a glance and returns his view to the road. “Frivolous and incompetent, women are tolerable only because of their inherent ability to satisfy male wishes and needs, like Aladdin’s genie.” His eyebrows question my comprehension of his meaning. “It’s that simple. okay? Learn to stay out of my way, and I’ll take you to the top.”

“Learn this.” I flag him my raised middle finger.

He response was a soft chuckle. “Ok, and so it’s on.”

I am not his cup of coffee, and he will never be mine, not even a demitasse.

Each morning he asks, “Girl, how can I make you look good, if you don’t hold up your cute little hind end?” Then he jiggles his Robert-Pattinson-eyebrows at me. “Cover my back now, and later, I’ll cover your —”

“Consume excrement and expire, dumb-ass,” I answer, or words to that effect.

Everyday, we grow less cordial. After each shift, as I ride the subway home, I think how could tomorrow be more bellicose. The next day, surprise, it is.

Four months into our pairing, we are up when a call comes in. A transit bus never made its morning run. They found it in the terminal, with a dead driver behind the wheel. His skull’s contents splattered on the driver’s side window. His company shirt perforated and turned from light blue to dark purple from his blood. His face kissing the steering wheel.

My fifteen-minute ride to the crime scene with Ryan at the wheel is more demoralizing than investigating the murder of a guy whose brains are strawberry yogurt served-on-the-side-view-window of his bus.

Congested traffic causes Ryan to wail like he is giving birth, “Women drivers, jeezes. Look at that one. A gray-haired snail.” He honks the horn and gesticulates.

Granny drives down Seventh Avenue, maintaining her 10 mph, straddling two lanes.

“Honey, police, pick your favorite lane and own it.”

Granny creeps downtown, maintaining a “middle of the road” presence.

At the terminal, the local-beats have taped off the crime scene. They announce to Ryan, with body language meant to exclude me, “The vic’s already in rigor. A human-sized cherry Popsicle, red, rigid and frigid.” The officer makes a grand show of turning to me. “Pixie, even his wild thing.” His ignoramus partner fist bumps him. Then they dance the floss together. 

Childish jerks. Dealing with this constantly is a learned art. I try not to let the term pixie upset me as much as it once did. With blond hair and being just over five feet tall, its use is meant to demean me. 

Am I that threatening to male officers?

Ryan gives them a thumbs up and ducks under the tape onto the bus platform. 

I attempt to follow.

Patrolman Borracho, a wrinkled-faced cop with at least twenty years on the job (half of it cooping in a bar), smiles over a cratered, glowing, globular nose. He blocks my way. “Stop. This is work meant for Police-men.” To emphasize his opposition, his pelvis cruises into my path, like a Chippendale dancer looking for a tip.

“Very funny, move, I’ve got work to do.” I attempt to step around him.

“Pipsqueak woman, where do you think you’re going? I’m controlling the crime scene.” His smirk grows as if he is pranking on a tv show. Alcohol-breath wafts my way.

I allot five minutes per day for male-morons to amuse me and vice versa. Three of those minutes had been wasted on Ryan during the drive. The flossing follies was another minute.

I flash Borracho my badge. “I’m investigating. You are obstructing justice.”

“Got a badge in Crackerjacks?” He remains in my way, while eyeing the floss boys, who snicker at his rolling eyes. Borracho stood between me and the unloading platform number 419 that held the crime scene.

I’m investigating a murder and the good-old boys are giving me crap?

Borracho deepens his voice, “No sightseeing. Stay on your side of the tape. Police-men’s work.” He pointed to Ryan as he enters the bus. “See, not police-girl’s.” He smirks and rolls his eyes at the flossing twins.

I grew up with a cop father, and two brothers, future police-men. At an early age, I became fluent in asshole and all its masculine off-shoots. Not every man or cop speaks it, but this group was learned in the dialect. It’s a language that has no feminine equivalent, but my familial education gives me fluency. I take no shit.

“Patrolman, do your job, sit on your dumb-ass and guard the purdy-yellah tape, but sit down gently the ground is hard, don’t want a concussion.” I re-flash my Gold Shield under his nose. “It’s gold, and I solve cases. Step out of the way, or go to jail.”

“Just havin’ fun, Pixie.” In mock chivalry, he lifts the tape letting me under.

That used up my moron-amusement time, so I ignore his remark, and stomp to the bus.

Ryan stands on the bus’s entrance steps; his outstretched arms hold both railings. Right foot on the top step and his left on the next one down as if he stopped in mid-climb. Is he preventing me from entering, or is he steadying himself? He’s frozen and a little green. With a slight wobble, he blocks my view.

I peer under his arm at the crime scene. The cadaver’s necklace ID card says, Stephon St. James. He sits in the driver’s seat. He leans forward and what is left of his skull rests on the center pad of the steering wheel. The two empty cellphone holders hang from his belt.

Was he on a phone when he bought the farm? Then there is at least one audio witness.

Sixty feet away, in the next bus bay, a few local beats interrogate a sobbing woman in a clean light blue bus driver’s uniform. Maybe because she is heavy-set, they decide to out-number her four to one. They create a half-circle of NYPD, taking turns asking questions, I can’t hear them, but by the look on their collective faces, they aren’t asking for her phone number or a date.

She wails, “No, no, no. Even if he is, I did not do it.”

The wolf pack of officers’s body language makes her their prey. She scurries on the platform trying to peek in the bus through the open doors. The pack corrals her before she travels twenty feet.

The cop in her face says, “You know how he looks, since you did it. Why look now?”

My deduction: the dead man’s significant other, always the first suspect.

Ryan glances her way. “She’s fat.” Then he studies the vic. “He was handsome and fit, like me. He dumped her. Told her here. She killed him. Let’s get her.” He pushes past me.

Ryan competing in word problem solving with a second grader is a toss up. Maybe neither gets it right the first time.

I’ve told Ryan jumping to convictions without getting evidence first leads to landing on conclusions as strong as balsa wood. The landing’s aftermath could hurt you and/or your reputation.

While Ryan catechizes the lady on the platform, I find the victim’s two phones hiding under his butt. Wearing latex gloves, I pry them free and out from under. Early rigor plus dependent edema (swelling) makes the phone leave a mold in his butt. They’ve been there since the murder.

Phone number one’s battery is dead as if it was never turned off. That suggests he was on it right before he was shot and hid it under himself while it was on. Phone number two’s battery has a ten-percent charge. It is off. I turn it on. Password protected, useless for now. I drop them into separate plastic bags and hand the bags to Sid the CID man. “Sid, you know the deal. Last caller, each phone?” I like CID Sid. His unisex vision sees me as a detective, without the female modifier.

“Sammie.” He pulls from his large black bag, an evidence ziplock with a gun inside. “Here’s a weapon, caliber appears right. A guy, “E.Z.” Eddie Smith, found it in the trash. He works in bus maintenance. The office and lockers are on the second floor. The vic caught six 9-millimeters. Overkill?”

“Passion.” I inspect the weapon inside the evidence bag. I crack the seal. The acrid bite of burnt powder floats out. “Browning Hi-powered 9 mm pack enough punch to have painted that window with blood and brains.” I give the closed evidence bag back.

The woman that Ryan interrogates shrieks, “No! We weren’t fully broked-up. Ronella still loved him. Still do.”

Ryan grabs her by both shoulders setting up his shake ’em-up-baby maneuver. I’ve seen it before. If he weren’t a cop, it would be called assault. The cops that had circled the woman, step back, as if clearing space. There is enough room to open up a ten foot circle. No one says, “Stop.”

I jump down the bus’s stairs and run to intervene. Ryan only uses this maneuver on female suspects. Men fight back, so Ryan uses guns on them. Ryan’s Revolver Roulette is his preferred modus operandi for males. The ACLU will not certify either technique, but Ryan reckons what they don’t know can’t… however, a good defense attorney would… have to move to stop this or we’ll both be in hot water.

Ronella is larger than Ryan usually shakes, and his first attempt is weak. I arrive as he is leaning her back for his second try. He widens his stance for leverage as she outweighs him by forty pounds. He takes in a deep breath. “Lady gimme the truth, or…”

“Ryan wait.” I grab her left shoulder. “This cannot end well, partner.”

He squints at me with one eye closed. “Wonder Woman, I got this. Let go.” He slowly, gently leans his victim back into the pre-snap position; his arms extended. You could hear a tire iron drop. A bus arrives three dock-bays down as I continue to prevent his next mistake.

The look in the woman’s eyes is pure terror. “What you be plannin’ to do to Ronella?” However, she is frozen and does not resist.

He’s planning to snap your neck like a whip.

“No, stop.” I pull one of his hands off her. “Let go. Calm down.”

“Wonder Woman, this girl looks faint.” Ryan winks at the four male officers watching us. “You saw it. She practically fell over backwards. I saved her. I’m a hero.” His free hand thumps his chest. “Here-oh.”

The woman stares to her shoes, and shuffles back a step, scraping the platform.

Ryan follows, maintaining his other arm’s grip on her shoulder. “We’re not finished."

“Leave me alone.” She shrugs off his arm. “Ronella is just fine. You may be a cop, but you has no right. Nope, not one reason in hell of touching me that way.”

“Ronella is it? Come over here please.” I usher her ten feet away.

“Nancy Drew derails the lead detective’s interrogation.” Ryan stomps over to the four cops, who are joined by the Flossie boys. Ryan expounds, “Another three minutes, I’d have a confession,” Ryan’s stage whisper delights his audience.

They offer smug confirmatory nods, huddling like pigeons on a apartment building’s ledge.

One pats Ryan’s back. “Policewomen so softhearted, workin’ with one, how’d ya get anything done?”

I walk Ronella farther away. “You know the deceased? How?”

“He is, or was my boyfriend. I planned to break it off. I never hadda chance. That liar cop, he say the evidence points to me. I didn’t kill Stephon. I couldn’t. I didn’t.” Ronella pulls a tissue from her purse. She covers the corners of both eyes and presses. “I loves him."

“I believe you. Why’d you want to break it off?”

“Why’d I tell sister-fuzz?” She aggressively eyeballs me, in a way, she never do to a mister-fuzz. “You a woman on donut patrol?” Her face puckers. “I wants me a lawyer. Not saying no more, ’cept I did not shoot him nor nobody ever. I don’t own a gun.”

“She knew he was shot. I never told her.” Ryan has snuck back. “The guilty demand a lawyer.”

“Yes you did. You told me, whens you asked if I owned me a gun,” Ronella wails. “Cops. Can trust none of you.”

I walk her from Ryan. “If you can’t afford an attorney, here’s the number of the public defenders office.” I hand her a card. “Come to the homicide department tomorrow around noon. I’ll take your statement. Bring counsel. Ask for me.” I hand her my card, with the address. “But if you don’t show, I will hunt you down. Your employer has your home address.”

She takes a calming breath. “I don’t need this. It was over, but...” She bites her lip.

“Then we’ll prove you’re innocent.” I offer a half-hearted smile. “My job is to get justice and find his killer. If it is not you, you have no worries. I trust you.”

“My ass you do.” Her face darkens with rage. She steps to me, and I appreciate her size as she towers over me, but I stand my ground. “I’m not no donkey,” her scolding finger is in my face, but she doesn’t make contact, so I let her rant. “You won’t pin this tale of murder on my ass. I can go now?”

I point away from where Ryan is bullshitting with a gaggle of cops. “Yes you can.”

She escapes through the silver and glass door to platform 412 and into the terminal itself. 

Narcissistic Ryan holds court so intensely, he’s too busy to notice her exit.

The bus terminal is more a warehouse than a way station. The open maze of roadways stretches over three floors, winding through glassed-in waiting areas with wood benches and silver posts to lean on while a passenger marks time. The city’s perpetual budge crisis leaves no money to clean the terminal’s windows. The ventilation system can’t keep up with the traffic, so the soot-filled roadways live in the stagnant murk of bus exhaust.

I walk to and re-enter the bus, to take another look at the crime scene. The body has been removed. You can appreciate the blood splatter better. It’s spray-painted everywhere but the seat the victim sat in. The rest of the area looks routine with his personal bag stowed under his seat. I crouch down to see what else might be in his floor cubbie and… wait one minute. Something yellow lies on the floor under the gas pedal. You can only see it from down here. Being tiny has its purposes. Using gloves, I deposit the tag of rubber in an evidence bag.

I pull out a panatela from the box, since I cannot smoke it here, I chew on it. Need to think. Need to relax. That yellow rubber tag bugs me. Drivers don’t usually wear rubber gloves. I walk to the second floor locker rooms. E.Z. Eddie Smith might still be around. No one has bothered to talk to him. Ryan still carouses on level three. 

My cigar is my carousing. She promotes more valid conclusions than my partner. Plus, I don’t have the same sense of humor as those men. What’s funny about a murder? How do you get cozy where someone was just killed? Do your job, find the killer.

I come across E.Z. Eddie Smith exiting the locker room, in civilian clothes that appear to be from the 14^th Street mission. His Mets t-shirt says “E.Z.” on the back. He opens a pack of blue rubber work gloves. He hangs them on a cart labeled, “E.Z.’s Wheels.” It’s a clean up cart the maintenance people keep supplies on, so that they can be efficient, when they prepare the buses for the next day. E.Z. locks his cart with a chain to the thick brown metal beam that helps to support the whole building. He looks at the cart and smiles. “That be good now.”

I introduce my badge and donate my card to him. “Everybody has their own personalized cleaning cart?” I tap the side of his.

“No.” He adjusts the gloves on the cart. “There, that be better and don’t be messin’ with my stuff. I lock it up, so no body do.” He gives an effortless laugh, and moves his cart away from me. “My title: senior maintenance engineer.” He flashes a gold front tooth when he smiles. He hands me a card. “Long-jet-it-tee. I be the shift boss.” He nods slowly, confirming that fact. “Yup, the king rates special privileges.” He finishes tucking in his Mets t-shirt. His waist looks like its twenty-six inches around. 

I’m jealous of that.

His smile widens, but his eyes are Antarctica cold. E.Z Eddie is as calm as an Asian monk  praying while on Quaaludes. He looks older than his stated age, 45, but has a rubber face, a classic Clark Gable mustache, and that easy smile. His eyes are tired slits until he speaks and then they explode wide, as words flow from them like beer from a tap at a frat party. If he were not called E.Z., I would think his chatter is from nerves. However, he is smooth. He could sell heating units in the Sahara. He stands shielding his cleaning cart from me. It goes beyond protective to possessive.

“Is that cart so special?”

“What’s mine is mine. No one messes with it.” He tilts his head, laughs loudly, and offers a quirky smile. “I claims it. No one else but me touches it. Till I’m done. Then you can have it. See, that’s how my world works.” He snorts and steps aside. “Look all you wants, but no touchin’. I’m funny that way. Always have been and always will be.” His eyes never laugh. “Smart peoples stays ’way, ’cause we don’t need us no drama.”

I walk around the cart. “No drama offered. Just wants some simple answers.” His cart doesn’t look different from the other seven parked nearby it, except half the others have blue gloves and half have yellow hanging on them.

I receive a brusque purse-lipped nod. “Okay, but I’m off duty. Let’s us be quick.”

“Where did you actually find the weapon last night.” I pull my index cards from my jeans’s back pocket so I can take notes. Cards are painless to rearrange when I change how I’m thinking.

“My job be to clean buses on the first floor. I find that gun up on three. We done? ’Cause I got me no other answers for you.” He walks past me. “Don’t clean no buses on three.” He tries to herd me away from his cart. “Bye now,” Having moved me twenty feet from his cart, he circles past me and starts to leave.

I follow as he leaves to the stairs down to the street.

He turns, “Don’t be following me. I’m off.”

“To where?” I ask.

“Wife’s waiting. Gotta drive us home. She be mean, if-in she wait too much for my ride. Lucky for her, her old man is the easy one.” He gives me that smile. It’s got mischief in it, even while he taps his foot. “Gotta go. So come or don’t.” He resumes walking.

 “So you don’t mind if I walk with you?”

He shrugs. “Nope. Free country. Can’t stop you. See? Easy.”

We walk. “How did you find the gun?”

He talks without looking at me, as if focused on the stairs. “Drop my wife off at 24 Hour Donuts and come here. She works night shift. I clean the buses. thirty of ’em most nights. At the end of my shift, I goes to dump the trash in the bins on the third floor. This morning, I sees alotta commotions here, but I don’t give it no never-mind ‘cause the bins be far away from it. I minds my business. Then I sees a hand cannon trashed by someone. It be lyin’ on top of some newspapers. Right there on top, like some turtle sunnin’ itself on a log. I knows, even wearing my gloves, don’t touch it. Don’t want my fingerprints on it. I calls one of them boys in blue from over on the platform. I be done with it.”

I’d been up to look at the bin that morning. The roof’s atrium glass window let in enough light to see in. There were newspapers right on top, as E.Z. had said. “Never touched it?”

“No ma’am.” 

“You did not hear any shots?”

“Nope. I works two floors down on level one. Buses comin’ in and out. I hear ‘em, but no guns, nope. Don’t needs level three ‘cept to dump my work in the bins at the end of the night. That’s what I know.” He gave a firm nod.

“See anyone suspicious or a person you did not recognize? On the platform or hanging around while you cleaned up?”  

“Always people I don’t know coming off those buses. Lotta people.”

I’ve perfected the art of writing on index cards while walking. It’s become a job requirement. When I glance up, his facial expression doesn’t change. His voice sounds strong and sure. I ask, “No one running away?”

“Nope, gotta go. Don’t need an unhappy wife.”

*      *      *

End of Part 1

Funny How Things Happen Sometimes

Today, I finished reviewing my short story Dead: D.W.I. Driver Who's Indiscrete. It is a Samantha Cochran story and a prequel to the Sam-Cat mystery series, as Sam is still on the police force for this murder mystery. The work I have just completed, made me ruminate about how over five years ago, I started to write a hard boiled, female detective series. I have written several short stories and 1 full manuscript with another manuscript a completed rough draft. I present my thought patterns for review.

When I first thought about writing a hard boiled detective mystery, I initially decided that I wanted to change the paradigm of a lone male wolf detective, In particular, I wanted to escape the cliche of a jaded world-weary cigarette-smoking stubbled-face stoic with a weapon, who lives alone and does not want to have a friend, because friend would be too much effort and impose on his lifestyle.

Also, I believe in today's society, a female is able to be as good a detective as any male. I believe that a female can do most anything as well as a man, as evidence I offer the U.S. Woman's National Soccer team which has had more world wide success than the men's. In support of that cause, I have written a female detective and given her a motive for her life style, attitude and her adventure in the life of a private eye. Giving her enthusiasm and emotions, as well as determination to prove that a woman can function as a detective, because that is what she wants to do. Dorothy Kenyon when she was a teenager (in the early twentieth century), asked her father who was a lawyer., if a woman could. become one. His answer was classic, "Why not?" I feel the same way.

I quickly decided that the cliche of a motherless daughter raised in an all male family would work as her backstory, even if it sounded clichic. I wanted her to have valid reason for being her choice of becoming a private investigator. So she grew to be a woman who wanted to be a cop, like all the males in her family. However, the glass ceiling and the male wall of silence would force her to become a private eye. She met the level of anti-feminism that existed (?still exists?) in the male oriented world like law enforcement. I cannot state that today's police anywhere act in this fashion. I am writing fiction, and my fictitious world is not completely irrelevant (has some relationship) to the real world.

Harassment, bias, and a glass ceiling remain present today, and are documented in our recent past - Matt Lauer, Andy Lack, and Harvey Weinstein although not in law enforcement but... The military just reported sexual assaults against female soldiers dropped 3% in 2019. This was a smaller percentage drop than 2018, but in 2019 just under 1,400 assaults were reported. This does not included verbal harassment and intimidation. It also excludes those assaults that went unreported. This adds credence to my artistic concept.

So to those who say, my stories seem exaggerated, I say, in the male world of law enforcement and military forces, women still have to tread lightly. I also think that if you read the newspaper, you will find Sam's motivation to leave the police force rings true. So maybe my presentation is not so much cliche, but fictitious fact, a form of docu-fiction. However, all this first came to be in my mind and once it was on paper, the news of the world made my logic more reasonable.

I needed someone to employ Sam to do the detective work. This added the opportunity to have a second woman - a lawyer - assume an important role in the story. So, I have a narrator who is a female hard boiled detective and a side kick who is a lawyer as well as rich. My side kick is name Allyson Catherine Worthington. She is the daughter of an international industrial magnate. We added to the fun of conflict by making Sam lower middle class economically as might be expected since her father was the sole support of his family, which include Sam plus two brothers. Allyson goes by her middle name, Catherine, and has her own angst that even money cannot repair. This sets up basic class conflict between them. They are both loners, who have suffered a close and extreme family loss.

The short story offered here at this time, is before Sam leaves the police force and before Catherine and she join forces. However, what I find most interesting, from an author's stand point, is that while I did not try to update or re-establish in a female world the Nero-Archie-relationship, and the two women, Sam and Cat, while less cordial than Nero and Archie, still possess some of the tradings of my early exposure to mystery writing.  I did re-create similarities to my old favorite, Nero Wolfe on purpose, but the mind will have what the mind wants.

I expect in the next two days, I will publish on this blog the first installment of Dead: D.W.I. Driver Who's Indiscrete.

L.A. Preschel

It all started with Rex Stout and Nero Wolfe for me - Now I'm writing the Sam-Cat Mystery Series

It all started with Rex Stout and Nero Wolfe for me; the art of loving mysteries and then mystery writing. 

It turned much darker after Hammett, Chandler & Caine.

The first mystery novel my mother let me read (got me to read - there is some controversy as to the accuracy of these facts) was Nero Wolfe. As a child, I did not sit much - too busy playing anything with a ball. However, between the obese, orchid-growing, genius detective; his townhouse; and his chef Fritz, not to mention his go-fer--body guard-detective Archie Goodwin, I was hooked. I read multiple Rex Stout mysteries until I discovered the Maltese Falcon via the movies first, and later Dashiell Hammett novels entered my field of vision. Sam Spade and then Nick and Nora held my interest when I was in high school and early during my college years. Although the married couple seemed lame, Spade was the entree of my reading meal. The Man and wife were at most an amuse-bouche . I also became acquainted with Raymond Chandler and Phillip Marlowe. He ran to the top of my reading list like Usain Bolt in a sprint.

Interesting to note that the eighth Marlow mystery was completed posthumously by Robert Parker who’s Spencer also held my interest for a while in my forties. 

With further reading I can upon the third in the hard boiled trinity, James Cain. Although I did my due diligence, I never loved The Postman Always Rings Twice or Double Indemnity. His style just lost my interest. I never read Mildred Pierce, and maybe that would have change my mind. Never even watched the movie, oh well.

Since I have retired from orthopedic surgery, and have more time to read for pleasure, Walter Mosley and Lee Childs have gotten read, but they too have passed to the wayside. I even thought about reading Earle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason mysteries, but I am afraid his early fifties style will put me off now. However, I have incorporated court room drama in both novels in my Sam-Cat series so far. 

Over seven years ago, I wrote a Jim Butcher-esque mystery and had several agents give it a full read, I thought, I was on my way to getting published. However, my style for that paranormal murder mystery mixed romance and humor with the murders. This apparently put off the agents, whose comments were similar, “we are not sure where on the shelf this book would be placed, mystery, humor, paranormal. Three agents had the same opinion, so maybe I should believe the writing was up to par and not the cause of their refusal to represent me. With their comments echoing in my brain, I decided to write a hard boiled mystery ala the ones I loved in college and high school. So here we are, however, I did not want to copy the old masters as if I were re-writing that era. Life and the world have changed and today's audience wants more of today's world. I may be mistaken as their is a market for historical mysteries, but they are not my stein of beer. I would find my style of mystery writing and try very hard to stay in my lane, whether the lines on the road were broken or solid where I wrote. (An activity that seems impossible for my creative mind. Maybe all those years following the rules to reach a diagnosis and treatment made me want to liberate my efforts when no one will suffer from my deviations.)

My mind returned to the type of stories I read in high school and college. I loved the hard boilers, that TNS detective who was not afraid to take one on the chin so that his client gets justice, or even paybacks. However, it seemed that during the 1930’s and 1940’s the female side of the equation - the Lillian Hellmans / Mata Huri - type of the detective were ignored as subject matter. Feminism was not even a egg waiting to be sat on, much less hatched. Woman were an after thought in most plots unless they were the iconic Eve seducing men into E-VIL.

Remember Lillian? She wrote but she also was a spy leading up to world war ii. If her memoirs are correct, and Joan McCarthy had her doubts, Lillian was a Jewish woman who spied on the Nazi for America during the 1930’s. Pretty brave, and pretty tough. We are talking, she did the same work as that which made James Bond famous (possibly, her memoirs were as fictional as Ian Fleming’s). So I asked myself, where are the Mata Hari stories about the women who spied in that time. They do not seem to exist. If they do, they are called into doubt by many of the people of that era. I wanted to up-date the plot lines and write a female protagonist, and maybe have her overcome the cultural attitudes that often still restrain females in the work place even today.

So in my perverse manner, I decided to write a character who was a hard as nails female detective. She became Samantha (Sam) Cochran. (“Sam” ? a subconscious tribute to Mr. Hammett?) I wanted to twist the paradigm and make my detective a feminist who does not care about advancing the woman’s cause, because she is too involved advancing herself. Confident in her ability to succeed, she is a model, not a suffragette. And it seems Rex Stout wanted to influence me as well, because in my Sam-Cat novels, Sam works for a very rich lawyer who lives in a Fifth Avenue townhouse. A writer’s mind lives below the surface all the time. Innuendoes are our business. Old influences die hard, if they die at all. The court scenes that end the novels also draw on Earle Stanley Gardner. As an author, you are what you read.

Sam’s mother died during her birth and she was raised by her father a beat cop from Queens and was the youngest of three children. She has two older brothers who are both cops. Her father did not know how to raise a girl and could not be bothered learning. She was raised as his youngest son. She became a cop. The short story that I will be posting on this site in the very near future is a prelude to Identically Dead, the first novel in the Sam-Cat series. In the short story, Sam is still on the police force and solves her first case as a gold shield homicide detective. She has to manage herself with the boys, as she is the only and the first woman on the homicide squad. The male officers do not plan to make her life easy. 

An after thought; I think Sam takes some of her spirit ironically from Mary McCarthy, who would hardly be called Lillian Hellman’s friend. In fact, Nora Ephron’s play, Imaginary Friends is based on their feud, which ended with Hellman suing McCarthy for liable. And, as if written to suit dramatic fiction, the trial concluded shortly after Lillian Hellman died. Life is so complex, sometimes we cannot match its drama no matter how much we overwrite our plots.

Part two of the after thought: in my retirement, I have had time to read James Lee Burke, and his style of writing and his presentation of the story make me so envious. He is truly a Grand Master. However, I would not dare call his works hard boiled, they are literary pictures of a mystery. I strive to add a modicum of his descriptive atmospheric touch to my writing. I am sure I fail in this valiant effort. I probably should not try to mix his style into mine, because once again, I will leave myself no single place on the bookstore’s shelf. If that is so, then so be it, because I am enjoying my writing. I hope you will enjoy it too. You emulate who you admire in life, and James Lee Burke is the top of the line for me.

L.A. Preschel.

Noir Mysteries are based on: dark secrets

I initiated this draft on noir mysteries before the Coronavirus (COVID-19) changed the landscape, however, what could be more noir than a disease that spreads with little interpersonal contact needed, and is more deadly than its cousins the flu. Better yet, or worse as is the real picture, we don't even have good test to tell whether you have it or not, but we will have a test that can tell us if you did have it and have antibodies to the virus. That might be ready in a month or two. Until we know who has what, and how severely, we are in the most noir mystery ever told.
If I wrote something approximating this on paper, people would call it unbelievable.

Noir Mysteries are based on: dark secrets. If this disease is not a dark secret, I don't know what is.
Is life today in the United States an unedited noir manuscript?
Is our life {global warming, trade wars, police abusing the public and the public abusing the police, politicians lying and both sides of the congressional aisle refusing to possess an open mind to objectively study the facts. And the disease shutting down the economy while the congress is offering money to small businesses and people who aren't working so that the world can just survive.) My I could never conceive of something this dark.

Our physicians are the modern day Sam Spades or Phillip Marlows fighting darkness with weapons that are insufficient and overwhelm. I hope the ending of this novel is happier than most noirs that just seem to settle for continued existence without any significant improvement.

Noir is based on dark deep secrets, and today we have more convoluted hidden secrets in every aspect of life than ever before.

This is what I wrote late last year when I stopped because it depressed me too much. How much of it still applies to our existence.


The darker the secret, the greater the need for illumination.
There are dark secrets that our country has hidden in the depths of ...
This is not limited to fiction, but our reality every day.
Our national darkness, needs illumination, by a neutral, non-biased party.
Politics must be set aside and answers based in fact, not opinion must be found.
At this point in time, I do not believe that such a neutral person is an endangered species, rather they are extinct, and a new genetic mutation will be required to create our referee.
Human bias is universally present, a global condition, similar to Global Warming.
Our future existence depends on curing both conditions in an urgent manner.

-- Samatha Cochran private investigator. 12 December 2019

I like my mystery like a Rubik's Cube

I like my mystery like a Rubik's cube

                                                     


For those of you who missed the decade between 1975 and 1985, the Rubik's Cube is a 3-D combination puzzle and toy. Ernő Rubik invented in 1974. He was an Hungarian sculptor and professor of architecture. Originally its name was "the Magic Cube." Multiple squares in different colors line each side and move independently of each other. Rows can be moved as a unit in the north-south direction or the east-west direction. By twisting and spinning the rows, using differing axes, you can create a cube that has only a single color of squares on each side. They have invented computer algorithms to figure out the solving process. Of course, that is cheating the same way, reading the last chapter of a mystery instead of starting at the beginning of the book and reading straight through to the end is.

As in my favorite mysteries, the solution should be hard to reach, but it should in retrospect be logical and almost obvious when all the facts are considered from the right point of view - via the retrospectoscope. Every pertinent fact must ring true. They must fit like jigsaw puzzle pieces.

Red herrings viewed from the book's conclusion should have been discountable, but somehow are not dismissed immediately by the reader. The process of solving must be not so hard as to discourage the reader from trying, and yet, not so easy so that the reader needs no effort to reach the right conclusion. Certainly, the final answer of whodunnit, should not be so obvious as to make the story unable to hold the reader's interest, but at the finish, the reasoning and logic must stand out like a single color on each side of the Rubik's Cube.

I love colorful characters. I love wonderful setting that bring me into the picture to stand next to the detective, but most of all, I want to struggle to figure out who killed the victim, so that I have a feeling of accomplishment when I reach the conclusion. I want lots of pieces that I must move around and align just right so that I can conclude who dunnit.

If I accuse the wrong character of being the murderer, that is better than if I know who the killer is before the middle of the book. Those type of manuscripts fit into the genre of suspense, where we know who is the bad guy, but we don't know if he will be caught. I'm a mystery fan, not suspense.

Think about it. Suspense by nature is more about the procedural part of crime apprehension, and mysteries were more about the mental aspects - deducing from facts, and using logic to reach the conclusion. Often they have physical apprehension, but just knowing who the killer is represents the goal in murder mysteries.

In a good mystery, like the Rubik's cube, all the facts are on the table before the end of the book, and we, the readers, have the opportunity to succeed, but it takes perseverance and brain power to reach the goal of who, how and why - to align all the colors on their side.

-- L.A. Preschel



The art work for this essay was taken from non-copyright Rubix Cube Clip Art.