Memphis Streets 4: Skeletons

Chapter 10- Hydeya

Captain Melvin Smith is dead.

The words keep repeating in my head, but they refuse to sink in—not even when I turn onto Frank Road and see that it's lit up like a Christmas tree. It looks like the entire police department has responded. I park behind a line of emergency vehicles and exit my car with my heart enlarged in the center of my throat.

A stint in Afghanistan and years on the police force taught me to be prepared for anything. Still, every once in a while, life throws you a curve ball that knocks you on your ass. This is one of those times. The neighbors have all poured out of their perfect suburban homes to catch a peek at what's happening. No one likes to see yellow crime scene tape go up in their neighborhood. It has a way of affecting property values.

I duck under the tape and shove my way through a cluster of police officers near the front door. "Excuse me. Pardon me."

The officers move an inch at a time, all in the wrong direction. As soon I cross the threshold, the chief barks from across the foyer, "HAWKINS!" Police Chief Yvette Brown barely kisses five-feet, but her presence has a way of filling up a room.

She makes eye contact and gestures me toward her, the deputy chief, and the lieutenant colonel. I blink and then try to swallow my heart back into my chest, but it refuses to budge. "Welcome to your new case," Chief Brown says in her usual no-nonsense tone.

"I'm sure you know Deputy Chief Collins and Lieutenant Colonel Bertinelli?"

"Of course," I lie and shake their hands.

"Well, congratulations," the deputy chief says. "I wish it could've been under better circumstances."

I'm confused. "Congratulations?"

"Your promotion," Chief Brown answers, matter-of-factly. "You're now the new captain of police." She juts out a hand. When I'm too slow to react, she grabs my hand and pumps it like she's jacking up a car to change a flat.

"Captain?" I blink, confused "But—"

"It's all been taken care of. The board and the mayor held an emergency meeting so that we can expedite a new chain of command before tomorrow morning's press conference." She means before more shit hits the fan.

"Press conference?" I sound like I'm stuck on stupid while giving them the deer-caught-in-headlights look. I hate public speaking. Any time I have to say more than two sentences in front of a camera or a crowd, I'm reduced to a blubbering idiot with overactive sweat glands.

"Don't worry about it," the chief continues. "We'll get you all caught up to speed." I nod again and then remind myself to blink.

However, three sets of eyes remain locked on me— that means I need to say something back. "Thank you," I cough up. "Thank you for the opportunity."

Inwardly, I flinch at the way my tongue stumbles over the words. My delayed response must've been what they were waiting for because I'm suddenly flashed three sets of veneers and my hand is passed around for quick handshakes.

"Congratulations," Bertinelli says and then spins away on his heels.

Collins does the same thing, leaving me alone with the chief. "You're on," Brown says, turning toward a room off to the right. I follow close behind. The next cluster of officers parts like the Red Sea when the chief starts barking,

"All right, people. You know how this works. All who aren't on this case need to get out. I don't want a contaminated crime scene—so move it!" They grumble, but peel out of the house.