William Rabkin - The Call of the Mild

Gus didn’t want to. It wasn’t that he was squeamish around dead bodies, just that he found one per week was perfectly sufficient. But Shawn was glowering at him, and the EMTs were getting closer. If he was ever going to do what Shawn wanted, it had to be now, and if he wasn’t, he should have started yesterday before he agreed to go to La Canada.

Gus stepped up to the car, trying not to look too closely at the dead man.

“Recognize him?” Shawn said.

Gus forced his eyes to the body. He couldn’t say for sure that he’d never seen the man before, in the same way he’d never be able to guarantee he hadn’t noticed a specific grain of sand. He was just an average guy with average features and average hair. It was ridiculous to think that Gus would be able to say it was the same man he’d only ever seen covered in whiteface.

“No, and neither do you,” Gus said.

“What if I told you he didn’t listen to his mother?” Shawn said.

“When she told him not to drive off cliffs?”

“When she told him to always wash behind his ears.” Shawn took the pen and gently folded back one of the dead man’s earlobes. In the hollow behind his jawbone was a thick smear of white makeup.

“That’s him,” Gus said. “That’s-”

Shawn stomped on Gus’ foot before he could say the word “mime.” He glared at Shawn until he heard a voice behind him.

“That’s who, Mr. Guster?” Rushton said.

While Gus was still reeling over the fact that the lawyer had known who he was all along, Shawn answered.

“That’s our client.”

Henry Spencer had never had any patience for the concept of mixed feelings, and had never felt any sympathy for those who claimed to suffer them. A man made a decision and stuck to it; it was as simple as that. If you were right, you won; if you were wrong, you paid the price. To bellyache about how you were torn between two possible decisions was nothing more than a way to justify the consequences of your bad choices.

But as he stepped through the heavy wooden doors into the Spanish-style headquarters of the Santa Barbara Police Department, Henry’s feeling were as mixed as he’d ever allowed them to be. He had loved coming to work in this place for so many years, and the mingled smells of bad coffee, overheating computers, and sweaty prisoners made him realize how much he’d missed walking into the station every morning ready to take up the fight in the eternal struggle between chaos and order.

At the same time, though, the same smells made him realize just how happy he was to be retired. After all the years of acid reflux, incipient carpal tunnel syndrome, and aching muscles, he’d had enough of the coffee, computers, and prisoners for one lifetime. Let someone else battle for the forces of order. He’d put in his time and now he was ready to rock.

But no matter what his feelings were, Henry had made a decision and a promise, and he wasn’t about to go back on either one of them. The force needed his help with a case, and he’d agreed to give it to them. He was theirs until the case was over.

Henry was heading towards Lassiter’s desk when he heard someone call his name from across the station. He turned and saw a trim woman in her early fifties, impeccably outfitted in a tailored business suit. Even though she’d had the position for several years now, and had proven herself over and over, it was still a small shock to Henry to realize that Karen Vick was the chief of this department. It wasn’t that he was opposed to women in positions of leadership; it was only that he’d spent so many years railing against the incompetence of his own chiefs that he had a hard time accepting one who was as good a cop as he was.

“Chief Vick,” Henry said warmly as he crossed the station to take her outstretched hand in his.

“Henry,” she said again. “Is there a reason you’ve stopped using my first name?”

“Protocol, Chief,” Henry said, giving her hand a squeeze before releasing it. “As long as I’m here in a professional capacity, you’re my commanding officer. Using the title helps me to remember that.”

“Then let me start by officially thanking you for your help on behalf of the department,” Chief Vick said. “The good news is, I don’t think we’re going to need to take up too much of your time.”

“Making progress?”

She glanced at her watch. “Considering Carlton and Officer Rasmussen have only been at it for a little more than an hour, I think they’re doing pretty well. But I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

She led him through the bustling squad room to a set of glass doors backed with Venetian blinds. Henry turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Henry’s first thought was that someone had set up a charcoal grill in the room and the detectives inside had been overcome by carbon monoxide gas before they knew what was happening. Carlton Lassiter and his partner, Juliet O’Hara, sat motionless in their chairs, staring ahead with cold, unblinking eyes.

The only one in the room who looked alive was the tall blond kid in the tight blue polo shirt and khaki shorts. He was standing by a white board that had been covered with microscopic scrawl, and he was pointing to one tiny collection of letters with a black Dry Erase marker.

“I then spoke to the resident who lived six doors down from Ms. Svaco,” the kid was saying. “Like the neighbors to whom I had previously spoken, she reported that she was not home at the time of the murder, and thus had not witnessed anything out of the ordinary. I moved on to the next house and-”

He broke off as Henry came through the door, and his face broke into a smile of boyish glee before he got it under control. “Detective Spencer, I’m so glad you’re here.”

“That’s ex-detective,” Henry said. “What’s going on here?”

“Officer Rasmussen has been detailing the investigative steps he’s taken since we found the body,” Lassiter said.

“With the emphasis on ‘detail,’ ” O’Hara said.

“Emphasis like you wouldn’t believe,” Lassiter said.

Henry wouldn’t have thought it was possible to miss the sarcasm and irritation in the voices of the two detectives. Somehow Officer Rasmussen managed. “A very great policeman once told me that the solution to every crime lies in the details.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Henry said.

“Of course you can’t,” Rasmussen said. “You’re the one who said it.”

“For which we thank you more than we can express,” O’Hara said. “If it hadn’t been for that pearl of wisdom, we might be out investigating, instead of learning how many cracks there are in the sidewalk between Ellen Svaco’s house and the curb.”

“The number of sidewalk cracks provided the solution to one of Detective Spencer’s most famous cases,” Rasmussen said.

Henry had to hide a proud smile. The Haskell Smith murder had been one of his finest moments. It also had also taken place years before this kid was born. Why would he know anything about it? “Of course that case involved a safe supposedly dropped from a third-story window, so the number of cracks in the pavement was slightly more germane that it might be here,” Henry said as he took a seat.

“You can’t know too much,” Rasmussen said.

“That may be true,” Lassiter said, “but when what you know is nothing, you can just say you know nothing.”

“Please,” O’Hara said. “You don’t need to tell us everything you failed to learn.”

“But I do,” Rasmussen said. “You might spot some detail that I missed. And the solution to every-”

“I think we’ve all got that one,” Henry said before Lassiter could start throwing furniture at the younger officer. “Details are vital, but so is time. Since these two very brilliant detectives have already heard the details, why don’t you give me the broad picture?”