There Are No Innocents

Chapter 1-2

The old man gave me the place because I needed a place to work on and store my babies. The building used to be a garage. The babies I collect are Muscle cars. You know, the Detroit iron of the ‘50s, ‘60s and ‘70s which had enough horsepower to pull the Queen Mary through the Panama Canal. Or maybe bruise kidneys against your spine if you hit the accelerator too hard. I own a ‘69 Z-28 IROC with a 302-cu. inch Chevy small block, green with white stripes and white vinyl interior. There’s also a sweet ’71 Plymouth Road Runner with the 383 engine in it. On a daily basis I use a ’68 Shelby Cobra Mustang 350 G.T. with the small block 289 as my personal transportation.

Oh, I guess I’m a collector of books as well. First edition, autographed books. Mostly detective fiction and novels. But anything which has been signed by the author. The second floor of the garage I remodeled and converted into a loft. More like a giant library really. With a kitchen and some bedrooms added as necessities. Just one giant room for the living room, dining, and kitchen, with an entire wall filled with nothing but books and a few rather expensively framed watercolors scattered about. Yes, amazingly enough, I’ve been known to sit in a chair with a good book and a glass of wine and listen to Mozart as I read. What the hell is wrong with that? Hard to think a cop who likes to get his hands greasy digging in the innards of an engine block can actually read as well, isn’t it?

Well forget it. It doesn’t matter. I know I’m an odd duck.

And …oh, one other thing. I have a flaw. Or, at least, I think it is a flaw although Frank thinks it’s The Gift of the Gods. Some people think I look like a famous dead actor. My curly black hair, the mustache, my eyes, the dimples, make a lot of people think I look like the ‘30s matinee idol Clarke Gable. Believe me, brother, it’s not a ‘gift.’ I’m not Clarke Gable. I’m Turner Hahn. Cop. Bachelor. Someone who, although he admires and likes the cut and shape of a fine-looking woman, nevertheless wants no part of ’em on a permanent basis.

Frank thinks I’m an i***t. With my looks, he tells me, I could have women hanging all over me. Not that I sometimes don’t think about it I’ll admit. But I’m not that interested. The failed marriage, a few badly ending affairs, and I’ve come to an obvious conclusion. Life is a lot sweeter messing around with cars, reading a good book, and going home to an empty house. At least it’s safer.

So that’s it. Color in the lines with the crayon labeled “Cop.”

Grinning, I looked back at the kid in the white smock walking up to me chewing a big wad of gum loudly and with the wind blowing his unruly dirty brown hair around. Joe Weiser was the kid’s name and he worked with the City/County Medical Office. It was Joe who usually came out on homicide cases. For all of his looking like a geeky teenager hardly able to walk and chew gum at the same time, he was very good at his job.

“Jesus, you got nothing here, boys. Have a fine day and see you later,” he said, lifting a hand and waving as he grinned, turning to walk away.

“Joey, get your lily-white ass over here and stop playing around,” Frank growled, something almost like a grin spreading across his block for a head.

“What do you have?” I asked.

“Our victim has been dead roughly twelve hours judging from the way the blood has coagulated and the amount of rigor mortis setting in. Victim’s name is Stewart. David R. Stewart, attorney. Now that’s a kick. A dead attorney. And hey, it’ll come as no surprise to you two the man died of a gunshot wound to the head.”

Joe grinned, his jaw working on the wad of gum in his mouth, pushing the clip board in his right hand up and underneath one armpit. We grinned. Or, at least, I grinned. Frank sort of pulled his lips back in a snarl and rolled his right hand up into a fist, cracking knuckles in the process, before unraveling the fist. The noise of his knuckles barking sounded like car doors being ripped open by a hydraulic jack. Joey got the message. The grin left his smirking lips. So did the color in his face.

“Uh… sorry. That’s all I have for now. Give me five, six hours and I’ll have more for you.”

“We’ll give you a call,” I said, nodding.

With a quick, nervous wave of the hand, Joe split the scene. Frank chuckled quietly as he watched the little geek leaving. That’s what so loveable about Frank. He scares the hell out of a lot of people. Especially when he flexes his fists.

“Who were the first black and whites on the scene?” he asked, turning to look behind the Caddy at the two patrol units parked on either side, “And who found the stiff in the first place?”

“Jones and Bradley got the first squawk. Got here about a half hour ago. Found a Linda Edwards sitting in that Honda over there, almost in hysterics when I pulled up. She used her cell phone and called it in.”

“Where is she now?”

I pointed to the second ambulance behind one of the black and whites. Medics were working on a young woman who was sitting on a gurney. She had an oxygen mask on, holding it there with both hands, but even from this distance she didn’t look too steady. Her complexion looked like it was freshly kneaded bread dough. Odds were, she was going to faint. And soon. Medics stood on either side of her waiting for her to pitch forward and take a header toward the pavement.

“I’ll talk to her. Maybe she can give us something more than just a name.”

“I’ll find out what Mick and Gabe know,” I said, turning to find the first officers to arrive.

It just goes to show you. In this line of business, you can get trapped in doing the usual routine. Police work is nothing more than a routine. Ask questions. Investigate the clues. Ask more questions. Follow up the leads. Ask more questions. In the end you nab your crook. The routine is a safety net to get the job done. But it’s also a trap. A trap which suspends the brain from actually ticking over. Routine work does not ask you to think. Just stay between the lines and color in the dots. The trap springs when a case comes along which nixes the standard police routine.

Sometimes Harry Houdini comes back to life and commits a crime. Not literally. Figuratively. A crime is committed which defies explanation. A crime filled with smoke and mirrors and sublime sleight-of-hand trickery. This case was an act of deception worthy of Houdini.