by Silent Draco
The Narcotics lieutenant, looked down at the patrolman’s grisly “find.” “That’s ten this week, so far. Jonesy, got anything besides pics? Track marks, needles, anything?” “Nothing, sir, like the others … hey, wait, take a closer look at the nose.” Shining my pocket blaster on the deceased’s face, the lieutenant crouched down and looked harder. “Nosebleed … maybe a sniffer. Inhalant, make a note for coroner, possible inhalant. Good eyes, Jonesy!”
I rolled my eyes at that – you too, LT ? – and stood carefully. A girl has to care for her back and, ah, assets, especially when working plainclothes, even with a sports slimmer. And with my red hair, I really, really have to keep simmered. C’mon, Lieutenant Kelly was your dad’s best friend, best man, and “Uncle Rick” when off duty! Yeah, but some days, and it’s one of those days.
… Oh, yeah. Jill Jones, “Silly Jilly” to family, 22, made the department height limit – honest! – and trained up enough so I could pass the strength and fitness testing, even for a girl. My dad had been the Homicide Captain, and I remember him leaving the house at all hours, coming home with a face that could curdle milk or make granite weep. I loved Daddy and wanted to help him, but he retired from the force before I was 14. He had a sudden fit and died about four years ago, something the docs couldn’t figure why, and I thought I can’t help him out, but maybe his best friends. Cop kids can go either way: real hoods, or straight-lace. I was a straight-lace kid, and until about 19 kinda … nevermind!! Anyway, on duty (four on, three days off) it was plain clothes, plain makeup base, dark wash for hair. Daddy said that once, when I was running beers for them at Saturday poker, “Ya know, Rick, that’s how I got here. I played dumb and looked dumb all that time, and they gave away everything! You and the bumbling Do-Right thing are legendary! Honey, don’t let ‘em warm up…” Oh Daddy, I miss you! Didn’t miss a word of the stuff they’d say, and just shivered at the stories they hinted at when they thought the kids couldn’t hear. But … cop kid, wanted to do right by him. Four years to detective, then sent to Narco. I was about ready to quit then, but Uncle Rick told me to give him two years. “I won’t make Captain, but two more years to pension. Stick it out kiddo, and if you leave at the same time as your dad’s best buddy, looks fine. And I’ll be watching; those creeps from Vice, hurrr!”
… Umm, OK, I better finish. Narcotics was a weird start; took me about six months on book stuff and to learn the street basics. Needed so much skin cream from constantly washing my hands. And that dumb look? Hey, I dressed and did my hair to blend in as best I could, just be one of the guys. That got old fast, but I promised Uncle Rick. Two years. About the time I could do more than paperwork and follow-ups, new stuff hit the town. At first it was the usual suspects coming up dead – long time junkies, low level dealers taking a cut, that sort. Statistics, from a cop view. Then it got into real people, with “nice people” and then good kids tripping out, or just keeling over with stroke-like symptoms. (Hey, cop kid. Sorry, but hard edges, and I really want away from the edge now!) The Lieutenant was getting a lot of pressure from the Chief and the Mayor to do something quick, after some of the Right People and them some of the good kids I knew from high school “died suddenly.” Yeah, I had a personal stake in it, after Betty and Tim were found on the sidewalks. Back to my story.
There wasn’t anything odd or punctured on the body, so I back-tracked and looked around. Something rustling against the wall got my attention – looked like a candy wrapper, bouncing on some other junk. After a good look, I got an evidence bag and pushed it in with a gloved hand. Can’t be too careful on this duty. Unusual – no printing, odd elongated shape, creased funny. “Got something odd, here,” I said, “maybe the victim dropped this.” Jackson came around and looked. “Hmm, tag it, and have them do a full workup on residue. Not right for candy, but about right for a dust mite.” (Inhalant or powder, folks).
Lieutenant Jackson called the shift together later, after we got the complaints and lab report back from the wrapper. He spent some favors on that, but looked happy. Uh-oh. “Let’s credit this right, people; Jonesy hit for extra bases this morning. She found something before it could blow away. Our magic stuff? Inhalant, and she may have found the delivery wrapper.” All eyes on me again, and I hated eyeball tracks recently. “It’s not pixie dust,” the Lieutenant continued, showing some pics of the wrapper. “This is what got analyzed, and here’s what it looked like in the wild.” All eyes snapped to the screen, and I head a couple grunts of surprise, and one low whistle. “Hey, LT,” one of the plainclothes guys offered, “ah, undercover T mentioned something new he want to get and drop, if he could get close to the source. Something called ‘Riddenhood’, new and a real rush, or what he heard from the sniffers. But … he heard that once or twice, didn’t see them again.”
Three days later, undercover T delivered the goods – post mortem. Urrghhh. Patrol reported someone dead behind a building, possible OD. Coroner showed up around the same time as the night guys. The victim was crumpled like a ball, but gripped in one gloved hand was a piece of red cellophane wrapper, with some fine powder inside. Heavy nose bleed. No ID, of course; wasn’t until they ran fingerprints and hit a couple of flags they we knew who he was. Funeral was going to be the next week, described as closed-coffin ceremony because of traffic accident on duty. The guys went direct to the lab: Riddenhood, with a coke chaser. Uncle Rick just looked grayer, and I wished the calendar would speed up for his sake. “Hey Jonesy, you’re off the next couple days, and your two days’ leave is already approved. Go, come back next week.” I could have said something, but I felt pretty crummy, and Uncl- no, The Lieutenant had that look: take time to recuperate or I’ll get mad. OK.
With a week off, I got time to clean up my room and get some dry-cleaning done. That’s about when I realized I should probably go visit. “Hey Mom, do you want me to take anything? I can go see Grandma.” “Oh! I made extra of the banana-nut bread she likes, so take a loaf with you.” It’s maybe a 25-minute drive over, but the sun felt good and I really wanted to stretch some; about an hour walk. Being out from plainclothes for a week meant I got to wash out the stuff, and put my braid back in. In regular life I look nothing like Duty: red hair, some freckles, more, uh, bouncy. I still wanted a jacket for some concealment, and it was a bit cool when I walked out and over through the park, messenger bag slung over a shoulder. Yes Dad I know, but it’s late morning, sunny, and my surprise was in a fast-pull holster on my waistband.
I was going past the wildlife and songbird meadow, near the ball fields, when a real Sumdood oozed up off the field fencing and ambled my way. “Yo, honey, you wan’ something good”, Red? Dis light up nice an’ fine, feel good!” Yep – Latin-ish, 5’9” skinny dude, typical hoodie with big pockets, chains, jeans, top-end sneakers, attitude, probably carrying something: knife, no pistol bulge visible yet … I was upwind, so took a middle position: “No thanks, man, I’m busy, gotta see someone. Please, keep your distance,” as I pulled out the bottle of pepper spray. Never mind the M32 Real Stuff next to my holster; a girl can’t be too careful. Sumdood looked at me, then looked again funny-like a moment, and backed away, “S’okay, s’okay …”, then looked over his shoulder and said, “hey honey, why’n’ch’a pick ‘em some flowers, huh? Whi’ girl thang,” and slunk off to the trees on the far side of the ball fields. I watched him off, all the way. Then I looked at the meadow area, and saw all kinds of pretty flowers up. You know, a few won’t be missed … Dumbest and smartest thing I ever did, taking ten minutes for that.
I knocked on Granma’s door about 30 minutes later, after some quick harvesting. “Why, Jill, what a surprise! C-come in, come in!” and she closed the door over behind me. She ducked into her kitchen, saying “I’ll start some tea; just let me get a vase for the wildflowers!” “Thanks, Grandma, and I brough some of Mom’s banana bread!” I called. “OK …” came back. Typical Grandm – wait a minute. I wrapped the bouquet in a spare scarf from my bag Something’s not right. Grandma came out with some iced tea and a plate of cookies. “My dear, it’s so nice for you to visit, it’s been a while. My, how big you got! And what a cute nose. I’ll be right back with the flowers!” These were my second favorite cookie, so I had to sneak one – she’d expect it, there was an extra. I took a little nibble – oh yum, the butter recipe – and then realized:
Grandma wanted to kill me.
Remember how I knew about stories? I was the best among the kids about slipping over creaky floors and squealing doors. Five seconds later I had confirmation, and slipped like a wraith back to my chair. Grandma came out with a flower vase, saw a cookie or two missing from the plate, and relaxed. Huh. A bit later, the front door crashed open. “HAN’S UP! DON’ MOVE!” shouted someone. Too bad for him, I was in motion, drew and fired my Glock 19 three times: Two body, one head, just like Dad and Uncle Rick trained me. Sumdood dropped like a stone, while I turned left and whipped a rising Grandma across the face. Her favorite kitchen knife dropped on the carpet with a thunk.
To Be Continued…