When Angels Fail To Fly. John Schlarbaum
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questions you might have but this show of fire power is a bit much, don’t you think?”
“We’ll see,” Anderton replied coolly. “Up against the wall.”
“Are you out of your freaking—”
“Shut up and assume the position!”
I glanced at the steely faces of the two younger cops and then saw a fourth officer—probably the back door knocker—come around the side of the house.
“No problem, guys,” I said as I placed my hands against the porch wall. I spread my legs as Anderton holstered his weapon and stepped toward me.
After an unproductive pat-down, he spun me around by my shoulder. “I want you to sit on that chair right there and don’t make a move.”
Like any law-abiding citizen, I followed the nice officer’s orders and sat in one of two lawn chairs Linda had bought in the spring.
“Want to clue me in on what this is about?” I asked.
Before answering Anderton turned and barked, “Dwyer, Salem—go inside and do a search.”
“Hey, you can’t just enter my house,” I objected. “Where’s your search warrant?”
“We don’t need one when there’s a reasonable belief a crime is in process,” Anderton said with a devilish smirk.
The brain fog began to roll in again.
“What are you talking about?”
“We received a call from Linda Brooks’ employer, who felt your fiancée may be in danger after she didn’t show up for work this morning.”
“I would never hurt Linda. This is ridiculous.”
Anderton cut me off. “Plus, we were in touch with her brother in Bismarck, Chief of Police Burkhart.”
Okay, here we go, I thought. “Acting Chief Burkhart,” I corrected him. “With all due respect, Keith is a moron and would love to pin anything on me. He still thinks I killed his mentor, Chief Gordon, while I was locked up in a prison cell earlier in the year. Did he mention Gordon died from a gunshot wound and that I was unarmed at the time?” Anderton gave me a blank stare. “Of course he didn’t. What a tool.”
“Enough chit-chat, Cassidy. Is Ms. Brooks in the house or not?”
“No,” I answered. “After finding out I’d cheated on her, she left me.”
“And when was this?”
“I don’t know—sometime during the night. When I got home she was gone.”
“When was the last time you saw her alive?”
“What do you mean, saw her alive? Unless you know something I don’t, she’s still very much alive—somewhere.”
“Answer the question.”
“Fine. If you must know, we talked on the phone yesterday afternoon for about ten minutes. Are you happy now?”
“Not until I see Ms. Brooks alive.”
Officers Dwyer and Salem returned to the porch.
“Nothing,” Dwyer stated.
“No sign of the girl anywhere,” Salem chimed in. “We did find this on the coffee table, alongside a set of keys.” As Salem showed Anderton the song inspired kiss-off letter, I was stunned to see he was wearing a latex glove to hold it.
“What is this?” Anderton asked me.
“Don’t they teach newbies the significance of Dear John letters at the academy anymore?”
He ignored me and turned to Salem. “Bag it as evidence.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Officer Salem,” I spoke up in a surprisingly easy tone that belied the rage welling inside me. “It’s evident your superior skipped the Rules of Search and Seizure class.”
Salem, a young copper I pegged to be about twenty–three, looked to Anderton for some much-needed guidance, which I provided.
“Even though your search of my house was technically legal, having found no evidence a crime was being committed or has been committed here, you must now leave everything exactly as you found it. You can’t take my personal correspondence or any other items—that’s stealing. Furthermore, from what I can recall from my days on the force, stealing is against the law. It would be like attending a noise complaint call, finding no problems at the given address and then confiscating the owner’s CD collection for the heck of it. Just from looking at you, Salem, I can tell you graduated near the top of your class. Think about what I’m saying.”
I sensed I shocked Salem by stating I had once been an officer.
“But this letter could be part of his plan to cover up his crime,” Salem stammered to Anderton.
“And what crime would that be—infidelity?”
“Enough!” Anderton screamed at both of us. “We’ll get a warrant and then bag it,” he addressed Salem sternly.
I hated senior officers like Anderton. He was probably a twenty-year veteran, each year promoted to a higher rank based on “time served” instead of merit. Today, he was trying to impress his young, wet-behind-the-ears officers, for which I gave him full marks. His problem was that from a legal standpoint, his overblown porch bluster would not have a snowball’s chance in hell in a court of law.
“With all due respect, it’s bloody near impossible to get a judge to sign off on a search warrant of a private citizen’s residence, on the basis a librarian failed to show up for work approximately four hours ago. Trust me on this one, boys,” I said to the rookies.
That brain fog I had mentioned previously was now apparently invading the space between the ears of the officers in front of me. The youngsters looked dazed and confused, as their fearless leader stood red-faced with anger. He glared at me, while silently conveying his desire to crack my skull open with his nightstick.
“Why don’t you just tell us where she is then?” Dwyer asked, exhibiting some courage.
“If I knew I’d tell you. Right now, I don’t have a clue. If I did, I could apologize for turning out to be such an idiot.” I paused and added, “But I’m sure you’ll communicate those sentiments for me when you speak to her in the near future.” I looked at each officer present and asked, “So, are we finished here?”
After an impassioned, yet useless, “We’re not finished by a long shot,” speech, Sergeant Anderton and his minions begrudgingly departed, much to the neighbourhood’s relief.
Show’s over. Everybody inside, I wanted to tell all of the sidewalk gawkers.
I carried Linda’s letter into the house and bolted both doors. As I walked toward the fridge to get a cold beer, I noticed my answering machine light blinking.
“Hey Steve-O, it’s your buddy Doogie, the world’s ultimate pig farmer. I was surfing the web and saw an interesting story on the Darrien Free Press page. Do you have a death wish or what, buddy? Anyway, call me on my cell. Do not—I repeat—do not call me at home. Wifey will go ballistic when she finds out about this. Don’t delay, call today. Talkatcha.”
***
The World According To Me
WHEN A GOOD P.I. GOES BAD
Jeremy Atkins
Darrien Free Press
August 14, 1997
A little more than six months ago, Private Investigator Steve Cassidy returned to Darrien a hero—but just barely. Today he is being investigated in a bizarre love triangle gone bad. Very bad.
Cassidy had been hired to learn if a visiting plumber from