Tim Maleeny - The Weight

“Maybe,” said Rodriguez. “See, he’d been worked over a bit.”

“You said he looked like a balloon.”

“Even so, there were signs.”

“What’d the M.E. say?”

“The heroin killed him. It was nasty, cut with some kind of antifreeze or something.”

“So?”

“So maybe he got beat up by an angry john.”

“One of his girls more likely.”

“You got a point.” Rodriguez shrugged. “He was a little guy.”

“So maybe he got beat up, was depressed, and then shot up.”

Rodriguez nodded. “But this time he crossed the line.”

Sam saw the look in Rodriguez’s eyes. “But maybe…”

“Maybe someone helped Shortball shoot up.”

“What’s the captain say?” asked Sam.

“Captain says we’ve got a dead pimp with no family,” replied Rodriguez. “Says our closure rate sucks, and I should leave it alone. We start an investigation and I come up empty, it looks like an unsolved homicide.”

“Guess things haven’t changed so much since I was on the job.”

“Still got the same mayor.” Rodriguez flashed a cynical smile.

Sam nodded. It was all over the papers. The mayor was young, good looking, and a magnet for the press. His latest crusade was fixing the “dismal” rate of homicide closures. Never mind budget cuts that slashed the size of the force. Forget that most of the deaths were gang-related shootings in parts of town the city council had turned its back on. There were too many suspects, no help from the courts, and no witnesses. The local residents didn’t trust the cops because the force was spread too thin to have any real presence in the neighborhood.

But those were cop problems, not the mayor’s. The press took the bait like sharks to chum, and now the police were second-guessed on every investigation. Under a microscope until a case was closed. It was the one part of the job Sam didn’t miss.

“It’s only gotten worse since you retired,” said Rodriguez. “Our balls are getting squeezed by that pretty-boy, so a messy case just means more pressure. And I must tell you, my friend, my balls can’t take much more pressure.”

Sam nodded again. “But if you go with the overdose story-”

“No case, no pressure, no problemo.” Rodriguez drained his beer, stood up, and walked back across the open kitchen to grab another. He looked over his shoulder. “You mind?”

Sam shook his head. “That’s why I buy them.”

Rodriguez came back and sat heavily on the chair facing the couch. “So you see why I wanted a drink.”

“So you left it alone?”

Rodriguez smiled. “Not a chance.”

“You’re looking into it?”

Rodriguez broadened his smile. “Already did.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “And?”

“I found the perp,” Rodriguez said triumphantly.

“Already?” said Sam. “What did the captain say?”

“Haven’t told him yet,” replied Rodriguez. “Just put it together last night, and I’m still checking my facts-I did this under the radar, called in a couple of favors. Got the boys in the labs to do a couple of tests. Now I gotta see if I can do it by the book.”

Sam nodded. Unless the lawyers would buy it, there wasn’t a case. If Rodriguez couldn’t back it up, it would be worse than if he never went digging in the first place.

“So the perp’s still out there?”

Danny shrugged. “For now; he’s not going anywhere.”

“You sure it’s the guy?”

Rodriguez held up his hand. “Let me break it down for you.”

“It’s your story, but I need an intermission.” Sam drained his beer and pressed down hard on the arm of the couch, getting the momentum behind his good leg. He walked down a short hallway past his bedroom to the bathroom beyond. When he came back, Rodriguez handed him another beer.

“Thanks,” said Sam. “So what happened next?”

Rodriguez leaned forward, obviously pleased with himself. “I figured a scumbag like Shortball, he’s got lots of enemies.”

“Plenty of suspects.”

“Too many,” replied Rodriguez. “So instead of looking at Shortball, I decided to look at his girls.”

Sam nodded his approval. “Smart.”

“I thought so,” said Rodriguez. “I asked around, finally connected with a girl named Molly, who used to work for Shortball before going solo. She hooks me up with one of the girls in his stable, Sadie.”

“And she saw something?”

“I wish,” replied Rodriguez. “But I got a lead on a girl who doesn’t belong there.”

“How so?”

“She’s supposedly a runaway, but she’s not the type, according to Sadie. She tells me a guy came around last week looking for this girl-an older guy.”

“Private dick?”

“Maybe,” replied Rodriguez. “Or maybe the dad.”

Sam nodded. “You get a name?”

“Not right away,” said Rodriguez. “Nobody uses their real names anymore. Sadie was probably Betty Sue back home-you know how it works.”

“So?”

“So the lab guys come back with something from the autopsy, give it to me on the q.t.,” replied Rodriguez. “Narrows the field. I do a little follow-up, I come up with a name.”

“And?”

“Turns out I know the guy.”

Sam’s eyebrows moved up an inch. “The killer?”

“Yeah, a guy I met when I worked the neighborhood, back when I was on patrol.”

“You still knew where to find him?”

“That was easy.”

Sam nodded. “Always is, once you got a name. So what did you tell the captain?”

Rodriguez looked disappointed. “Wouldn’t be much of a story if I just ran it up the flagpole, would it?”

“What did you do?”

Rodriguez took a deep breath, pausing for dramatic effect. “I’m so paranoid these days, I decide to take it a step further on my own. I visit the perp at his house and lay it out for him.”

“No Miranda, no arrest?”

Rodriguez shook his head. “Mano a mano.”

“And?”

Rodriguez held up his hand again, not wanting to rush his narrative. He was clearly enjoying himself.

“At first we’re just talking, like I’m talking to you now. I ask him how he’s doing, tell him I’m working on a case in the Mission, thought maybe he could help out.”

“Nice and easy.”

“Reminisce about old times, tell a few jokes, like that.”

“He didn’t get jumpy?”

“Not so much at first. Just listens, you know. Then, maybe half an hour into it, he starts asking questions.”

“He knows that you know,” said Sam.

“Or maybe he just wants to talk.”

“Get it off his chest.”

“But you never know. So I wait till he leaves the room, then I loosen my gun in its holster.” Rodriguez reached down and patted his Glock, sitting on his right hip in a black leather clip-on holster.

“You think he’s packing?”

“He might be, right? I know this guy from way back, and he always had a piece.” Rodriguez shrugged. “And he’s moving around the apartment during our chat, ‘cause I want to keep it casual-it’s not like he’s always right in front of me.”

Sam nodded. “Can’t be too careful.” He shifted on the couch, moving his weight back to his good leg. “So you brace him?”

Rodriguez shook his head. “I decide to let him make the next move.”

“Didn’t you once tell me a guilty man always runs?”

“Not always,” replied Rodriguez. “Remember that kid Mikey, the one they called The Fly?”

Sam smiled. “Climbed up walls, broke into houses hanging upside down on a rope-guy was right out of a comic book.”

Rodriguez nodded. “They bust down his door, wake him up, tell him that his ass is arrested, and what’s Mikey do?”

The two men spoke in unison. “Mikey goes back to sleep.”