Letters to Maxine

CHAPTER 6

Dead Body

Saturday, March 18          15:26 Hours

Haley's Woods

"Central to Six-three David, Corporal Kelly."

"Go ahead, Central," I said.

"As per watch command, what is your status?"

"Mark Officer Keegan and I in service and going ten-nine at Brighton and Mill Pond Road. Two-man unit, no O2. Afternoon."

I put the handset into the cradle and backed the black Dodge Charger RMP over leaves and pine needles beneath a budding oak. After putting the car in park, I opened the driver-side door and window.

Across the two-lane street were the remains of the old New York and Long Branch railroad land bridge, stretching from Haley's Woods to the mouth of Shenandoah Creek. Waist-high, big-bluestem grass, and broomsedge surrounded it. The pine was thick with evergreen, catching the rotting leaves in the brush. Though it had been over a century since it last ran, it left its man-made mark on the landscape.

"God," I said. "I can smell it from here." I brushed my nose with the back of my hand.

"The creek rot or the body?" asked my partner, Johnny Keegan. He shook his head and unbuckled his seatbelt before yawning.

"The rot," I said. "DBs don't bother me any—"

"I know, I know. God. The war, the Marine Corps, the mountains, the desert, Afghanistan, and Iraq. Got it."

I smiled at him and held out my palm, and he passed me an open Redman tobacco pouch. Keegs, sniffled and waited until I took my wad.

"Gonna be a long shitty watch," he said.

One-half Irish, and the other Italian, Johnny Keegan, stood five foot eleven and was athletic. His hair was more brown than black and cut short by the departmental grooming standards. His eyes were icy blue, and the locker room ladies called him a hot freak. But, of course, this was before he bedded them and left them brokenhearted. To the scorned, he became a woman-mongering asshole. For others, his notorious reputation was a willful challenge to his supposed skill in the bedroom.

Keegs was the best friend I ever had, but also my biggest headache. He had become a full-time job. His dalliances with female officers and constant issues with douchebag supervisors were exhausting. The Citadel (Police HQ) suspended him twice in three years and required him to attend sensitivity training regularly.

I shoved the tobacco wad into my mouth. Then, through pursed lips, I spat the nuisance leaves.

"Now," I said. "I can get to the business of chewing."

Keegs closed the pouch, stuffed it into his utility pocket, and counted the mobile units on the scene.

"Four—five. Five marked units and two—four—six unmarked. Damn. Second DB in as many weeks. All in this shit crazy weather. I mean, dude—who the hell kills in the freezing cold and tons of snow?"

The bipolar weather gods sent a thirteen-inch blizzard last Sunday. Since this past Wednesday, we've had rain and temperatures in the mid-sixties. Then, as it cleared yesterday afternoon, Spring fever and increased foot traffic caused a rapid melt, soggy sod, and surprises. In this case, another dead body. This one was a female. From the secured radio broadcasts and cross-talk by detectives, I gathered she hadn't been there very long.

Although this wasn't the norm for the Heights, it wasn't surprising. Occasionally, we'd have a body uncovered by dogs or kids playing in the woods. During shallow tides, we'd get the floater, or someone wedged beneath tree roots or rocks. And, of course, there were the two- or three-hundred-year-old skeletons that time eventually surrendered. But mostly, they were explainable.

"So, what do you think?" asked Keegs. He cracked his neck with his hands. "Who's the body?"

"I'm not sure. It doesn't look gang-related, black, or brown. Plus, it's been too cold to be banging," I said. "I mean, this isn't just a body dump, bro. From what I'm hearing, whoever did this buried her."

I rubbed my temples and pressed hard on the tobacco with my tongue.

"If I had to guess, and that's not my job," I said. "I'd say it's probably a sperm catcher that got crazy on a regular."

"Ha," said Keegs. "Bet she played the baby bump—threatened to tell the John's old lady and tell the planet she got knocked up by Mister Fancy Pants and his money bags."

Keegs nodded and frowned. His frustration getting the better of him. "And, pow," he said and clapped. "She's in a ditch."

Johnny Keegan looked out through the passenger side window and shook his head. "Just as well, I guess. That kid's birth certificate would be an apology from the condom factory."

I looked at the clock on my phone and sighed.

"It's only three twenty-nine, bro," I said.

"Yeah, and thanks to the coloring book shit show, your promotion is a babysitting assignment of the preschoolers and mediator between the fine populous of our dear district and the guys on the street."

The latest academy class had just graduated, and we inherited three new probationary police officers, i.e., preschoolers. We hadn't met them because of orientation and the afternoon swing shift (noon to eight pm). In three days, command would assign them their watch and Field Training Officers. That meant it would be difficult to protect him.

2

We were in the throes of a political override that aimed to disavow us of our ability to serve and protect. Our new mayor was elected on a liberal platform to de-fund the police. He was the proverbial new broom that sweeps clean.

The Heights PD was a brass-heavy department with senior guys who were desk-ridden and no longer street efficient.

Eight months ago, they offered those with at least twenty years in the system a buyout. They could retire with sixty percent of their current salary (as opposed to sixty-six and two-thirds) with complete medical.

The result was calamitous. One-quarter of the department took the offer based on the last working contract. We'd been working without one for thirteen months. That meant they had to compensate for accumulated sick, vacation, and personal days within eight weeks of official separation. The town had to pay the dearly departed over three point eight million dollars. They needed to take it from somewhere, and the pension was their first stop. They lost. And the second was the budget. And that's where we lost.

He put his hands on the dashboard and closed his eyes. "And you," he said. "You just had to accept the corporal stripes. A five grand raise for what?" He straightened up, rolled down the passenger side window, and spat.

I finally got my first head-high from the tobacco and leaned against the head rest. I hadn't slept well in three nights and wanted to close my eyes for a quick fifteen. That's when an angry, pain-in-the-ass detective slammed on the RMP's hood.