He appeared in the doorway of the detectives’ bullpen as the telephone number I’d dialed began to ring. As I stood at my desk watching him across the tops of the cubicles, a knot formed in my stomach. His presence irritated me so much I almost didn’t hear the small voice answering at the other end of the phone line. “Medical Examiner’s Office.”
“Call you back,” I whispered without taking my eyes off the cheesy grin he was wearing, a smirk that always meant a headache for someone else. As I hung up the phone, his bodybuilder bulk, with his close-cropped black hair, pale skin, and disturbingly green eyes, made its way through a maze of cubicles. Even his walk revealed the arrogant demeanor which dominated what passed for his personality. I sat back at my desk and returned to the pile of burglary reports I’d been working on all morning.
He stopped outside my workspace. He said nothing, but waited for me to acknowledge his presence. This was a power thing. And I’d rather have crawled over two miles of broken beer bottles on my hands and knees than to give him the satisfaction.
Finally, “his highness” spoke. “Sorry to disturb your slumber, Woody.”
“I’ve told you before, only my friends call me Woody.”
“You’ve got friends, Woody? Or should I call you by your true first name?”
My irritation grew at this remark. I have never liked my true first name. “What do you want, Fraser?”
“That’s ‘Sergeant Fraser’ to you,” he said in his best remember-who-you’re-talking-to voice.
He’d risen to the bait, so I jerked the line. “What do you want, Fraser?” The voices in the nearby cubicles, going about their normal routines, suddenly became quiet as they waited to see where this was going. The others recognized the tension between us. They didn’t understand why it was there, but were aware it was always smoldering below the surface.
Fraser started to say something fairly ominous, but decided otherwise. Instead, he tossed a stack of reports on the corner of my desk. “More burglaries reported. Same circumstances, same M. O. Why don’t you do the taxpayers a favor and earn your pay on these, before the perpetrators hit every home in the county?”
My frustration and anger rose, but I held fast. The storm passed. Through a weak attempt at a grin, I shot back, “Instead of truly earning my keep, maybe I’ll just get lucky. I could stop a guy for a routine traffic violation and find stolen goods on the back seat of his car.” My voice dripped as much sarcasm as I could muster.
With this, his face turned a deep red, and his beefy hands became menacing fists. Before I could stand to meet what I took to be a challenge, he turned and quickly left the area. He didn’t leave because he feared me, and I knew it. Right on cue, those other voices returned to the dull roar of their routine.
Don’t you love watching professionals at work? I was conscious of the outrage my last comment was certain to bring. Okay, okay, I also knew the whole thing was childish, but there was a history between us. And as I watched Fraser stomp away, that history ran through my mind.
* * *
Only a year earlier, Jay Fraser and I’d been uniformed officers, assigned to routine patrol, on the police force in our county in the suburbs of Washington, D. C. At the time, each of us had recently scored very well on the sergeant’s examination and was hopeful of promotion. With a little less time on the force than me, Fraser was fairly sharp at his job, though not always too swift on the uptake. Some guys laughingly claimed the steroids he must have taken to get the mass of muscle he wielded had caused it. Whatever the explanation, I suspected Fraser wasn’t as dull witted as many thought, only slower at getting the brain cells engaged. Methodical, a few might have called it.
Well, one day Fraser was out on patrol when he made a huge cocaine bust at a local gas station a short distance off the interstate highway. It turned out to be the largest coke bust ever in this area and one of the biggest ever on the East Coast. Soon the DEA was involved big time, but the individual glory was entirely Fraser’s. Before the hullabaloo died down, the Feds had broken up a large, newly formed drug ring.
Fortunately for Fraser, the arrest he’d made preceded one of those get-tough-on-drugs policy speeches which emanates from our nation’s capital occasionally. So when the story hit the papers, Fraser was invited to Capitol Hill to serve as part of the backdrop for the speech. Of course, the publicity-savvy public relation types in our department made the most of it, taking every opportunity to use it as an example of the diligence and expertise of our officers. Meanwhile, notwithstanding our pride in the recognition of our police department, the rest of us sat back and wondered what the hell had happened with Fraser and how. Despite whatever talent he had as an officer of the law, this plainly didn’t sound like the Jay Fraser we knew. It didn’t add up.
The answers weren’t long in coming. At the last minute, the lieutenant volunteered me to drive Fraser’s collar, named Jake Haverd, a rodent-faced man with a jagged profile and a unibrow, to the feds. Normally, Jay would’ve had the privilege of the “perp walk” in full view of the news media, but he was busy being congratulated or decorated or something somewhere. While I was driving into DC, we passed a police officer with a motorist pulled over. I made an offhand remark about cops catching the bad guys in the act.
Haverd laughed sarcastically and grumbled something regarding the ‘dumb luck’ of cops. With a glint of expectation, I looked in the rear-view mirror at him. His comment immediately aroused my curiosity, so I asked Haverd what he meant. At first, he clammed up. His tiny, close-set eyes darted from side to side, avoiding looking in my direction. Then, after a time of quiet contemplation, he muttered we’d caught him red-handed, and he’d already admitted his part in the conspiracy, so what the hell.
Haverd’s voice cracked thin and high as he told me he was only a “mule,” hauling the cocaine on Interstate Highway 95 to his partners farther up the East Coast. He had pulled off the highway and into a service station for gas. When he did, Fraser pulled in behind him. Because Haverd was part of a group of freelancers trying to make the big money fast and it was his first run, he panicked.
The man assumed the cops had spotted him somewhere along the highway. He got out of the van and lay on the ground with his arms spread so the officer wouldn’t shoot him. When Haverd freaked out, Fraser noticed the bundles on the front passenger seat, partially covered by a bed sheet. The bundles were cocaine. Lots of it. And lots more in the back of the van. Later, while he waited for backup, Fraser told Jake he’d only stopped to cite him because his brake lights weren’t working. Haverd wasn’t smart enough simply to determine why the cop had stopped, take a traffic ticket, and move on.
Because of his lucky break and the accompanying media coverage, the department leapfrogged Fraser to sergeant and made him deputy chief of the burglary division. They did so over other more experienced, more senior officers. These actions were unprecedented. The press he’d received further inflated his considerable ego. Although he believed the division was beneath him, the department brass was willing to go only so far in rewarding Fraser’s exploits and bowing to the media clamor.
Even the promotion and the deputy division chief’s job he received were too much for some on the force. Especially now that I was aware of the truth of his “drug bust,” I was on the list. He walked around as if he had single-handedly solved the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa. Within the department, I’d kept what I’d learned to myself. For whatever reason, I’d never confronted Fraser with Haverd’s version. I might drop occasional hints about what I knew as he went through life living the myth. I’ve begrudged no one’s success earned through hard work and determination. But, to me, his story was different.
* * *
Now, I was working for him and dealing with his highhanded attitude daily. God, I couldn’t stand the sight of him. Fraser displayed such an arrogance I wanted to let the air out of his balloon at every opportunity. And he wouldn’t let up on me about this series of residential burglaries I’d been working. These damned burglaries. Nearly all the property taken in the break-ins was recently purchased, high-end electronic equipment, such as big-screen televisions, stereos, and computers.
Although the breaking and entering’s were spread across the county, I had worked the angle of a common denominator because there had been so many of them in a short period. However, victims had bought the electronics from many diverse stores, including big box specialty stores, department stores, and so on. Different salespeople, with no known connections among any of them, had sold the merchandise. And, finally, a few victims had used cash, most purchased with credit cards, others bought on a payment plan, so there was no common link there. As hard as I worked, I was at a loss for answers. Beyond the political heat involved, it was becoming a matter of pride to get these cases solved.
I redialed the number I’d called a minute earlier. Again, the same voice answered on the other end, “Medical Examiner’s Office. This is Dr. Pirkle. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Diane.”
“Was that you who called a second ago? I didn’t recognize your grunt.”
“Yeah, sweetheart. I’m sorry I had to hang up,” I pleaded quietly, close to the phone.
“Fraser again.” This was more a statement than a question. Sometimes her powers of deduction convinced me she should have been a cop instead of a forensic pathologist.
“Yeah. He really irks me sometimes with his–”
“You give him too much power.” Silence. It drove me crazy when Diane said things such as that. Mostly because she was right. After letting me stew for a short time, she continued, “You know you do.” Another pause. “But you understand I’m on your side.”
My shortcomings embarrassed me, but her voice was so disarming in reminding me of them. “You’re right.” She knew what was good for me. Awkwardly, I tried to go on to another topic. “So how’s business in the ‘tomb’?”
“The usual. Just dead,” she responded, relishing every opportunity to use her morgue jokes. “I was laying out work for tomorrow,” she giggled.
Relieved to move on, I laughed as if I hadn’t heard this a dozen times before. Her chuckle always made me smile. Actually, the sight of her walking into a room made me break into a wide grin. I had it bad.
“Are we still on for dinner tonight?” she asked.
“So long as nothing else comes up here unexpectedly. I need the diversion of you.”
“Am I simply a ‘diversion’?” she taunted.
“You know you’re more than that to me.”
“I’m only checking.”
“See you at Lindy’s at 7:30.” I hung up the phone and, again, returned to reading through the stack of burglary reports.
* * *
Seven-fifteen that evening found me ensconced at a table toward the rear of Lindy’s Restaurant, our favorite place, a Cuba Libre firmly in my grasp. This one was not my first. Shortly after seven-thirty, I looked up to see Diane wending her way through the other diners toward our table. I broke into a broad smile.
* * *
Diane and I met a while back at a house where a grisly multiple-victim murder had taken place. Not your usual answer to the “How did you two meet?” question. I responded to the 9-1-1 call of “shots fired” and was the first uniformed officer to arrive at the location. Having found the bodies, I confirmed the situation to dispatch. Then I secured the scene and started a log, noting everyone who entered the area marked off with the yellow crime-scene tape.
Soon, other uniformed officers arrived. Dr. Diane Pirkle appeared at our location shortly thereafter to act as the representative for the Medical Examiner’s Office. Normally, in our jurisdiction, the ME’s office sent an investigator to the scene to make any death-scene examination they needed in conjunction with their autopsy report. On that occasion, Diane had been nearby, returning from an aerobics class, when she heard the radio dispatch on the police scanner in her car and took the call.
At the time, Diane was new to the region and was the first female forensic pathologist we’d ever had. She was still unknown to most of us on the police force. So, when she got out of her car in workout clothes and walked to the tape, another uniformed officer stopped her. He made a condescending remark indicating a woman had no business there. Somewhat indignant, the woman flashed her credentials at him and identified herself as Dr. Diane Pirkle. The officer was Jay Fraser.
As I listened to him stumble through an apology, I realized I might well have received her response. “But for the Grace of God,” as they say. Although I want to think I wouldn’t have been so disdainful, given her obvious physical allure even in her sweat clothes, I was glad it was not me. Fraser’s inept apology only made things worse when he again referred to her gender. Diane quickly reminded him Ginger Rogers had done everything Fred had, only backwards and often in high heels. Other men had cast such inane remarks her way, and it prepared her with a riposte. She left Fraser standing in stunned silence.
Diane then proceeded with clipboard in hand to my location to have me note her entry into the site. She was all business at that point. Thank you, Fraser, I thought. Since no detective had arrived on scene yet to take over the case, I explained what I’d found after responding to a neighbor’s call about shots being fired. Apparently, she saw my discomfort with what I’d found and was describing. I have to admit mine is not the strongest of stomachs in dealing with the blood and gore of some crime scenes. She smiled at my uneasiness. Later she described it as “surprising but sweet.” But for me, as a somewhat burly police officer, it’s been a constant source of embarrassment.
Anyway, Dr. Pirkle waited for the detectives to arrive at the scene and for them to give her the okay to enter to do her job. After she had completed her tasks there and the lieutenant relieved me of maintaining the log, she asked me if I wanted to get a cup of coffee. Because my shift had ended while we were at the murder scene, I gladly accepted. I was thankful she wasn’t hungry, considering how my stomach felt. The woman’s hazel eyes, intense and yet soft and comforting, had instantly struck me. Her dark hair set off a mischievous smile on a captivating face.
Something inside told me getting to know her in any serious way may be a long shot, but I was up for the journey. Over coffee that night, I apologized for Fraser’s behavior. Diane dismissed him out of hand, saying her opinion of men in general had already been tainted enough before she ran into his wretched sexist butt. She opined he was just a guy who only wanted a woman willing to play second fiddle to his daily, self-centered barbell workouts. He was only one of many men who likened women to pianos: if they’re not upright, they’re grand. Wow! I thought it was perceptive for such a brief encounter. Insight like that can be intimidating.
Diane relaxed and changed the subject. She explained she was a newcomer to the area, didn’t know anyone yet, and wanted someone to show her the sights. I accepted the “undertaking,” a term she found hilarious when I used it at the time, given her profession. We hit it off and things had progressed from there. As it turned out, she was the funniest, most intelligent person I’d ever known. She always had a comeback to my smart-aleck remarks and never let me get away with anything. I responded in kind. We had evolved a way of teasing each other to a point where other couples might have felt uncomfortable. But not Diane and I. And our common interests seemed to have no bounds, from music and food to old movies. I grew to love her.
Diane and I met and started seeing each other four months before Jay’s big “drug bust.”
* * *
I rose as Diane reached our table.
“Always the gentleman,” she teased as she settled in.
“Just a southern upbringing,” I smiled. “You look great!”
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks. I love you, too.”
She ordered a drink, and, as the server walked away, she asked, “So how was the rest of your day? Did you and Jay play well together this afternoon? Or did the teacher have to separate you two?”
“C’mon, Diane. Please, let’s talk about something else. I’m sick of the guy living off dumb luck.”
She didn’t seem to have heard me. Then she looked deeply into my face and said, “Sure. Only know I care very much for you and hate to see you let something like this guy and his attitude keep eating at you. You need to rise above him.”
“Thank you, doctor. And your college minor was in psychology, right?” I realized my words had a harsher effect than intended as I saw Diane’s face redden slightly. So I quickly continued, “Seriously, Babe, you’re right, and I appreciate your understanding and your advice. I’ll work on things. Promise.”
Diane leaned forward with an elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. “Speaking of luck, didn’t you tell me once of a lucky break you caught on a stolen car case?”
* * *
Diane had a memory like a steel vault. What she said was true. Several days before Fraser’s big incident, I’d been on evening patrol, driving through the parking lot of an apartment complex. I found a vehicle the owner had reported stolen earlier that afternoon. The section of the city had a reputation as a “high crime area,” involving everything from drugs to robberies and so on across the spectrum of criminal behavior.
A massive and unrelenting higher-end car theft epidemic had recently plagued our county. The brass assumed it was the work of a single ring of thieves. But knowing the ring exists and catching them were different matters. They were crafty. Anyway, when I found the car, I wasn’t sure whether this culprit was part of the ring, but wanted to get him, whoever he was, wherever he was. And the thief could have been anywhere in the large complex, although my hunch was the perp was in the apartment building in front of which he’d parked the car.
I sat in my patrol unit and confirmed the status of the stolen car on the computer while trying to think of some course of action. Around the time the confirmation on the car’s status came through, the blare of fire engine sirens coming into the complex from the main road diverted my attention. Although I didn’t know where the fire or emergency was, I immediately ran to the building where the car was parked and started banging on doors. As I did. I yelled there was a fire, and the owners needed to move their cars so the emergency vehicles could do their job.
With that done, I waited the short time until a mope came tearing from an apartment, jumped into the car, and started it. In the excitement, he didn’t even see me walk up beside the car where I reached in and turned the engine off with whatever type key he’d been using. To my amazement, he was part of the theft ring. He had stopped off to get something to eat before delivering the car to his pals. The suspect spilled his guts on the delivery location and his fellow conspirators. Although this led to a major break in the case and brought me a measure of recognition within the department, the banner headlines accompanying Fraser’s accomplishment easily overwhelmed my arrest. Drug busts are always a sexier story than the breaking up of a group of car thieves. But I had been fortunate. And so Diane was right. As usual.
* * *
I flagged down our server in time to get another drink at the same time Diane’s first one arrived.
“Can ly!” I said as we raised our glasses.
“What?”
“‘Cheers!’ Vietnamese,” I answered, finishing the drink I’d had in front of me when she arrived.
I picked up my latest rum and coke and proposed, “Budem!”
“Now what?” she said as she sipped her chardonnay.
“A Russian toast.”
“Well, at least you didn’t totally waste that year sailing aboard freighters. How many foreign languages can you make a toast in?”
I grunted. “Enough to put me under the table.”
“Great!” she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “Next subject. Is your Mother still coming for a visit next weekend?”
“Yeah,” I said, finishing my drink. “She’ll be here Friday night and then leave Sunday morning.”
Watching me finish my drink, she asked, “Do you drink this way in front of her?”
“Are you kidding? She’s too much the old-fashioned southern lady. She wouldn’t tolerate it.”
Diane swirled the liquid in her glass and frowned at it. Then she set her glass down without drinking from it further. “Am I supposed to tolerate it?” she asked, half in jest.
“Diane, you know I don’t normally drink like this. It’s been a very rough day in a very tough week. These burglaries I’ve been dealing with keep happening, and Fraser won’t ease up on me about solving them. I just can’t get a lead on them. But, please, I want to forget them for tonight.”
“Okay, let’s not talk about your work.”
“Well, let’s not discuss your work either if we’re going to eat,” I quickly added.
Her laugh lightened the moment, and she moved on to another topic. “I picked up my new stereo system this afternoon. Are you still going to help me put it together?”
“Uh-oh. Yeah. Well, I was hoping you’d wait to get it after I’d solved these B&Es.”
“Sorry, big boy. But I want to use it while my CDs are still on the charts and not gone the way of the eight-track tapes you probably have squirreled away somewhere.”
I always loved her playful nature, even when it was at my expense. “All righty then.” I raised my glass. “Live to serve you, ma’am. I will assemble it as promised. When do you want me to do it?”
“If you’re going to spend a lot of time with your Mother this weekend, I’d like to have it set up before then.”
“I want you to be with Mom and me at least part of the weekend. It’s up to you, Diane.”
I realized Diane was studying my face, smiling softly. “That’s great. I’d love to meet and spend time with her. It just sounds like a big step for you. Am I to read it that way?”
“I’m not afraid of commitment, if that’s what you’re getting at. It’s important both of us be certain before we make any big decisions. I’ve made an impetuous leap before, and as Jimmy Buffett said, ‘It cost me much more than a ring.’”
“Yes, but from the talks we’ve had, the time we’ve spent together, and the way we feel, we’re both as sure as any couple can be. Besides, you were too young to get married when you did the first time. She got you when the grapes had just been made into wine. Now, the wine has had time to age to perfection. And, as Frank Sinatra said, ‘It was a very good year.’” Her warm smile enchanted me every time.
I feigned a wince as I responded, “Somehow being compared to a bunch of grapes just doesn’t give me a warm and fuzzy feeling, you know?”
When the server returned to take our dinner order, I put my palm over my cocktail glass, declining any further adult beverages. I didn’t want to push on the envelope too much.
Later, as we ate, another thought occurred to me. “Speaking of meeting my mom, Diane, there’s something I need to mention. She’s always been a delicate, southern flower. Mom’s led a somewhat sheltered life, protected as she was from everything by my ‘old-school’ father. As a retired schoolteacher, Mom’s classroom is as far into the world as she’s ever ventured. I don’t think we should get into what you do for a living too much.”
“Is that for her benefit or yours?”
“No, seriously, it just might upset her to hear … well, you know.”
“Okay. I’m sure she and I can find plenty of other things to talk over.” She paused before continuing, “And just so you know, those of us from Pennsylvania know how to treat a genteel lady.”
“Yes, dear,” I said sheepishly, sounding as though we were married.
* * *
“Dinner will be ready in five minutes. Making any headway, sailor?” I was sprawled on Diane’s living-room floor with wires running everywhere, trying to set up her new stereo two nights later. Diane was calling to me from her kitchen.
“It’s coming together with what I’m sure you’d deem a surprisingly slow pace.”
“I thought you’d have it done by now,” she said as she came into the room. “Sheesh! Didn’t you tell me you worked with electrical wiring in the engine rooms on those freighters?”
“Well, yeah, I did, but I don’t recall ever wiring a stereo in a boiler room.” I held up my hands in mock fear as she entered. “Please don’t hit me.”
“A flogging should be the least of your worries. Not having completed your assigned chore, I shouldn’t even feed you. But wash up, sparky.”
After dinner, the stereo was ready for its trial run. I gave Diane the owner’s manual and the accompanying paperwork and cleaned up the mess left from the installation. Then, we put on music and relaxed with a bottle of wine. I was sitting on the floor leaned up against a sofa and she was curled up on the sofa behind me. Diane had an armed draped over my shoulders and was playing with one of my earlobes. When I said nothing for a few minutes, she asked what was on my mind.
“Sorry, Babe. I’ve just been retracing the steps I’ve followed in trying to trace the perp or perps in this rash of break-ins. There was another one last night.”
She snuggled closer. “Still no leads?”
“No. But I have to believe there’s a common element.”
She squeezed my arm. “You’ll find it. If anybody can, you can. I know it.”
I loved her for saying so, but only wished I shared her confidence. With that, Diane went to the kitchen for another bottle of wine. When she returned, she curled up on the settee across from where I was sitting and snuggled up with an afghan throw. After a few minutes, Diane slid a bare calf from under the blanket and gave me an enticing smile. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders. I was beguiled anew.
* * *
Later in the week, I was out of the office interviewing burglary victims when I decided to track Diane down during the lunch hour. I wanted to confirm our plans for dinner with Mom on Friday night. I went to the Medical Examiner’s Office where the autopsy area was adjacent to the offices. While standing in the passageway waiting for Diane, the chief medical examiner for the county, Saul Bizar, trudged wearily along the hallway. His big rounded shoulders supported a pair of bright red suspenders, which, in turn, held up a pair of jeans. The suspenders were undergoing a stress test on a thick middle, owing to too many years of Jewish desserts.
Like their owner, the jeans had seen better days. His rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed wiry black hair covering his arms from the backs of his hands to his elbows. Smelling vaguely of formaldehyde, Bizar was a soft bear of a man with baby-fat cheeks, thinning hair parted on one side, and small light eyes. He casually carried a clipboard in one hand and a partly eaten sandwich in the other. The sandwich was tuna, judging from the aroma wafting my way as his intentionally exaggerated hand motions threw the thing closer to my face.
I laughed. “Judas priest, Doc! You look like Junior Samples! Are you selling used cars in that getup? Just call BR549?”
“What’s the diff, detective?” he grinned. “The customers don’t seem to care. Their next ride won’t be important to ‘em.” With the back of his sandwich hand, he smoothed the top sheet on the clipboard. “By the way, are you involved with the triple murder-suicide from the Belmont Apartments? I was just pulling the slugs out of one of the victim’s intestine, and …. Oh, wait! That’s right! Your forte is burglaries. Sorry.”
His grin expanded as he gave me a little verbal twist of the knife in return. Suddenly, the doctor’s recounting his latest foray into human remains coupled with the bouquet of his lunch nearly caused me to double up in revulsion. I suspect he saw it reflected in my face. Doc Bizar smiled and shuffled off to his next “appointment.” Recovering and smiling as I watched him move away, I knew, no matter what else he was, Doc Bizar was quite a character.
Diane finally appeared. I offered to take her and Mom to a fancier restaurant for the special occasion of “my two girls” meeting. She said she didn’t care for those places where the servers hovered in red vests and clip-on ties. If Lindy’s was good enough for us, she was certain it was good enough for my mom, too. Live to serve you, ma’am.
* * *
I picked Mom up at Reagan National Airport on Friday afternoon. After a brief visit and an opportunity for Mom to rest, we went to meet Diane at Lindy’s for dinner. Diane was already seated at our table when we arrived. She apologized for having to meet us there, explaining her work had kept her longer than she’d expected. I gave her a look of concern about avoiding the subject of her work.
“Woodrow tells me you’re a doctor,” Mom said, her face beaming and her voice full of liveliness, as if Diane were the first doctor she’d ever met. “You know,” she went on, “Woodrow Senior wanted our boy to go to medical school and become a surgeon. His father had been planning to do so before the war disrupted his life.” I gripped the table at the sound of my first name, anticipating what might come next. The irony of my long-lost potential “career”, combined with my squeamish stomach, was not lost on Diane. Fortunately, before she could respond, our server arrived and made the obligatory greeting, including a recitation of the evening’s special menu offerings. She finished her spiel inquiring whether we wanted “something from the bar.”
Although I was ready for a drink at this juncture, I said, “Thank you, no. We’ll just–”
“Wait, please, Woodrow,” Mom interrupted. “I don’t know about you two, but I could use a bracer after my flight.”
My face must have shown my shock. “Mom, you can’t mean you–”
“I’ll have a Long Island Iced Tea, please.” Mom ignored my protest. “Oh, and please have your bartender make it with Coca-Cola and not actual tea. Thank you.” Satisfied with her order, Mom folded her hands before her on the table and turned to Diane and me. “Something for the two of you?” Mom was beaming. Diane peeked sideways at me in unmitigated amusement.
Still stunned, I spoke before Diane could place her order, “Mom? Long Island Iced Tea? It has rum, vodka, gin, uh, triple sec, and–”
“And tequila. Oh, my, yes.” Mom enthused. “And I love them! This way I can have all of them in one glass at the same time!”
While Diane, trying in vain to hide a huge smirk, ordered her chardonnay, I sat back and tried to take in this turn of events. My mother, my sweet, unadulterated, proper mother drinking a powerful cocktail disguised as iced tea. I came back to the conversation as Mom was explaining the finer aspects of the drink. “… and I’ve known people to make it with tea. But Coke really does it right!”
“Mom, I cannot believe what I’m seeing and hearing! You ordering a drink like… like a sailor?”
“Now, Woodrow, there’s no reason to make it sound so vulgar! And, of course, I mean no denigration of the time you worked on those big boats.”
“Ships, Mom,” I sighed. “They’re called ships.”
“What? Oh, yes, dear, of course. Ships.”
The steadfast server took our drink orders and departed. Diane was still grinning broadly as she injected, “Mrs. Bradley, you just caught Woodrow by surprise.”
Besides relishing the obvious shock I had just received, Diane was enjoying using the name free of any objection from me. The name was a “gift” from my parents, and I dared not protest out of respect for them. But, years ago, it had kept me in fistfights from elementary through middle school. So, ironically, it had made me tougher than I might have otherwise been. Astonishment aside, I, too, had to smile at the evolution of my mom from the staid schoolteacher I had known all my life to the cosmopolitan woman before me. Fortunately, the circumstance had not stunned me so much I couldn’t order my meal. I may only do a few things in life well, but eating is one of them.
The two women had a brief conversation, during which they referred to me as if either I wasn’t there or was an infant in a bassinet over which they stood talking. Thankfully, our dinners arrived. We settled in to enjoy a pleasant meal. Suddenly, as luck would have it, a thought seemed to return to Mom. “Now, Diane, what type of medicine do you practice?”
Diane glanced in my direction before answering. “Well, actually, I’m a forensic pathologist in the medical examiner’s office here. Are you familiar with the work we do?”
“Oh, my, yes. You perform autopsies! It has to be fascinating work! You must see many intriguing things. Would you tell me something of the more interesting cases you’ve handled?”
My knuckles, already gripping at the edge of the table, grew whiter still. “Mom, you don’t want to hear that during a meal!” I objected in the lowest, kindest, yet most forceful tone I could gather.
“Yes, Mrs. Bradley, maybe I should wait until after we eat.” Diane halfheartedly joined my protest, nodding in my direction as she spoke. She covered one of my hands which had returned to the table, resting. Diane smiled sweetly. I read her face and was grateful for her understanding.
Mom spied Diane’s tender caress, smiled knowingly, and then returned her attention to her. “Nonsense, dear. Being a police officer, I’m sure Woodrow sees these things all the time, and I’m fascinated! I’d love to hear more. I assure you, whatever you say will not bother me in the slightest bit. And I have a few questions about the forensic aspects of autopsies. One sees stories involving these things on television and at the movies,” she continued, “but one never knows if it is reality or merely literary license employed by an author.”
As I exhaled sharply, Diane gave me a knowing look and shrugged. “I’ll be happy to answer any questions you may have.”
“Well, on television, they always talk of using the stomach contents of the deceased to establish the time of death. How is that possible?”
In exasperation, I dropped my fork, which unintentionally crashed against my plate with thunderous results.
Mom looked at me with surprise and stern maternal disapproval, “Woodrow! Do be careful!” She turned back to Diane and continued, “Is that really something you can do?”
Diane hesitated. I felt the sudden urge to leave the table and join the scrum at the bar for the duration of this conversation, but I remained at my place. And, what with Mom’s obvious enthusiasm for learning more of the process, Diane felt compelled to respond, “Please understand, Mrs. Bradley–”
“Oh, please call me Margaret, dear!” Mom acted as if she had found a kindred spirit.
“All right, Margaret. If we don’t have an actual eyewitness to the person’s demise, a statement as to the time of death is usually a best-guess estimate based on several factors. And yes, stomach content is one factor.”
Mom leaned toward Diane to get every morsel, pardon the expression, of her lesson. Simultaneously, I leaned as far away as I could and tried to go to a happier place in my mind.
Diane lowered her voice. “If we can learn the time of the person’s last meal and what the meal was, it will help determine the time of death. The stomach usually empties itself in around four to six hours, depending on the type and amount of food ingested.”
Both women continued to enjoy their meals as they talked. Sighing in exasperation, I realized I might well empty my stomach contents in a much shorter time if this conversation continued. I braced myself.
“If we find the small intestine is also empty, death likely occurred at least twenty-four hours after the person’s last meal. If the colon is empty, they have ingested no food for roughly forty-eight to seventy-two hours before death.”
“How utterly fascinating!” Mom enthused as she cut into her steak, grilled to her specifications: blood rare.
“But, Mrs.–, uh, Margaret, just to make it clear, these times depend on several factors. For example, how heavy the meal was and whether the meal was rich in fat and protein versus one which is high in sugars and carbohydrates can impact the findings. There are other issues to consider, too.”
“Oh, that answers my question, Diane! Thank you! Isn’t it fascinating, Woodrow?” I smiled weakly, gingerly, as Mom continued her inquiry, “What about the organs you remove and weigh, et cetera. What happens to them?”
Diane decided she’d had enough fun with me on this night. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Margaret. Since I’m not on call this weekend, why don’t we plan some time together while you’re here? And I’ll answer your questions then. If you want, we could even go to the morgue for a quick tour.”
“Oh, that would be marvelous! You don’t mind, do you, Woodrow?”
Did I mind? At this point, I was ready to insist on it! “No, Mom. In fact, I may have to go to the office for a short time. It would be the perfect opportunity for you two to get to know each other better.”
Mom gave Diane a perceptive smile, reading in my response the advanced stage of our relationship.
The meal progressed nicely, but my appetite had been doomed. As I left the table, I realized this had been the best chicken marsala I’d never eaten.
* * *
Sunday night I stopped at Diane’s place after depositing Mom on her flight home.
“Well, did your mom catch her flight?” Diane asked as I came in.
I laughed, “Yes, and none too soon. If I had to listen to another anecdote you shared with her concerning your work, I might have told her the truth about my queasy stomach and gotten it over. By the way, what’s this about the most important piece of advice you’d give to someone entering your line of work?”
“Oh, she shared that with you, too?” Diane was pretending to be dismayed, but I knew better.
“Oh, yeah. I got to hear your number-one tip for new a pathologist is the same as for a new plumber: don’t lick your fingers on the job. And I heard this over breakfast, no less.” It distressed my stomach merely to repeat her words. I pretended to be upset with Diane as she feigned embarrassment, but neither of us could hold the pretense long enough to pull it off. We erupted in simultaneous laughter and a hug. I held Diane at arm’s length and relented, “Seriously, thank you so much for spending time with her and dealing with her questions. She thinks the world of you.” We embraced, and I smelled the delicate scent of her hair I’d grown to relish. “It must run in the family.”
My girl snuggled her head against my shoulder. “It was my pleasure. She’s a wonderful lady and is so different from what I expected after your descriptions of her. We hit it off nicely. We’re going to get along great. Besides, most of her questions made more sense than the ones I get from attorneys in the courtroom. And she had interesting anecdotes to share regarding you, too.”
“I’m thrilled you two got along so great! But I’m not so sure I’m crazy about her telling you stories relating to me.”
Diane eased back to a place on the sofa and patted the space beside her. “The damage is done now, big guy. I read in the paper this morning there was another burglary in the exclusive Belvedere Estates community. Man, there’s money in that enclave. Were you called on it?”
I sat next to her and sighed. “Oh, hell yes. Detective Harless was on call and went to the scene to handle it. But his report will be on my desk in the morning. No leads. Nothing. Same as the rest.”
She put her hand on my shoulder. “I know you’ve followed every potential lead you could think of. But may I offer an idea which just occurred to me in the last couple of days?”
“At this point, I’ll take anything,” I said as Diane handed me a postcard size piece of paper. Suddenly, a workable solution to this entire series of thefts opened to me.
* * *
The next morning, I sat at my desk and picked up the telephone receiver. Having spent the previous night going over the burglary reports, I’d made several phone calls to the victims to ask a few more questions regarding their stolen items. The cases started to make sense. It added up. I dialed a number, listened as it rang, and looked at the piece of paper Diane had given me the night before. I read the words at the top of the document, “Product Registration Card,” as a female voice at the other end answered, “Postal Inspection Office. May I help you?”
That started the resolution rolling. With the extraordinary help of Postal Inspector Berry, we broke up the theft ring and arrested the culprits one by one. We even got some property back for more than a few victims.
* * *
With the work involved in closing the multitude of break-ins, I didn’t get to see Diane for two days. We finally met at Lindy’s for dinner. Diane was at a table when I arrived.
I kissed her and eased into my chair. “Sorry I’m late, Babe. I had to stop off somewhere.”
“Is your being late the thanks I get for ‘saving’ your career?” she teased. “Where did you go that was so important?”
“Well, you gave me a piece of paper which made a big change in my life. I thought I’d return the compliment,” I explained as I handed her an envelope.
Puzzled, her eyebrows knotted slightly as she accepted my offering. When she opened the envelope and removed its contents, her dancing hazel eyes filled with tears and she broke into a beautiful smile. She looked at me in utter astonishment. “Does this mean what I think it means?”
Tears filled my eyes, too, as my love for Diane filled my heart. “Yes, it does. Of course, it’s only a sample I picked up at a store. We have to order the real thing.”
“I know. I’ve never been there, but I know how it works,” she gushed.
As we stood, kissed, and held each other in the middle of the restaurant, the sample wedding invitation fell from Diane’s hand. I took her response as a “Yes.”
* * *
Several days later, after the dust had settled, I was back at my desk finishing the paperwork on the last B&E case to be sent to the District Attorney’s Office. Fraser appeared at my desk. As I braced myself for a smart-aleck remark, he gave me an uncharacteristically sheepish look and said, “Great work on solving those burglaries! The chief called from the office of the county commission chairman. Both are very happy with the results of your investigation. I told them how hard you’d worked to get them closed. For what it’s worth, I think you did an outstanding job, too, considering all the heat you’ve had on you.” He leaned toward me slightly and lowered his voice as he continued, “Sorry if I pushed too hard. This job is new to me. I’m still learning, okay?” He extended his hand.
As we shook hands, I was so shocked by Jay’s comments and his demeanor, I almost didn’t know what to say in response. “Thanks, Jay. I worked hard on the cases, but, in the end, it was just a lucky break that closed them out. The words ‘Cleared By Arrest’ never looked so good,” I chuckled.
“Well,” he said with a knowing smile, “as I always say, ‘I’d rather be lucky.’”
I laughed at a fact we both, as police officers, knew to be true. “You’re so right.”
He turned and started back toward his office.
As I watched Jay walk away, I recalled the last line in one of our favorite movies. This may not be, as Rick told Louis at the end of Casablanca, “the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” but it certainly was an excellent start. ©