Authors: Len Norman
“Look what you’ve gone and done, Buck. Was the pain that bad?” Reg looked at him and thought it came down to this for so many…squandered lives and the predictable; people looking back on their youth and so many things were nothing more than a fabrication. For some, a maze of events that could have and even should have been. Reg believed with his entire heart it was a curse everyone endured.
“I only wish things could’ve been different for you. More help for you. I think of you as one more lost soul that slipped through the cracks. I look at you and wonder what could’ve been.”
He reached down and closed Buck’s eyelids. Reg was no stranger to death, and that said, he mourned the loss of all life. These were things only his wife Phoebe understood. The other cops were clueless when it came to this part of Reg. He had more layers than an onion and he guarded each and every one.
He turned the volume up on his portable radio and called Kyle. “Everything’s secure, you can come inside.” Kyle acknowledged and drove to the front of Buck’s house and got out. Reg stood by the open front door and warned Kyle about the razor pieces on the door handle and the thumbtacks on the porch.
“It’s safe. I disabled the exterior alarm system.”
“Huh?”
Reg pointed at the hair blower and curling iron. “The video surveillance system. I disabled it just in case the audible alarm goes off. I didn’t want you to get frightened.”
“Is it safe inside? Is Buck in the house?”
“He is and he wants to speak with someone in authority, real authority. I told him about you and he wants to see you.”
“Where is he?”
“Upstairs. He won’t come out of the bathroom until after he sees you. C’mon, I’ll show you where he’s at.”
Reg walked up the back stairway and Kyle followed as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. They walked toward the bathroom and Reg stepped aside. “I brought Sergeant Trapp up here. He’s a man of great importance…”
Kyle saw Buck and let out a scream. “You should’ve stayed with him, Reg. He’s dead. What did you say to him? Do you know how all of this will make me look? This is your fault. You told him I would arrest him or something? Is that why he killed himself?”
“Take it easy, stupid. Buck Seals has been dead a long time. The water in the tub? Ice cold! You really are a chickenshit dumbass.”
“You mean…”
“That’s right. A suicide, and it’s at least several hours old. I bet a slice of hot pizza would taste pretty good right about now, right Kyle?”
The Others
1975
Q
uentin Bunning was a real piece of work. He was born in 1950 and had managed to excel at nothing. After high school graduation he was somehow able to get into skilled trades and became an ironworker, but that didn’t last long; he was involved in an industrial accident and ended up unable to work in his chosen field. The day before the accident he began drinking after work and ended up drinking with his friend Rich Arneson. Rich was a pilot and owned his own plane. When the two of them took off for the friendly skies alcohol was involved.
Rich asked Quentin if he wanted to fly the plane. Rich was licensed and experienced while Quentin didn’t know a rudder from landing gear. Once Rich was at a cruising altitude he showed Quentin how to steer the plane before he nodded off.
Quentin did fine at first, he was able to point the darn thing but didn’t notice he was gradually losing altitude until the trees got very large. He nudged Rich and said, “Does this happen to you much?” Rich took one look and grabbed the controls, barely avoiding a crash.
“You might wanna stick to driving bumper cars or something,” Rich said.
“I was doing pretty well; I bet I could have landed it.”
“You nearly killed us both.”
“Like hell!”
“I wouldn’t let you drive my oldest car on private property, you should always sit in a passenger seat, no matter what the transportation might be. Get in the right side from now on.”
Quentin pretended to be hurt and said, “I could have landed it. Want another beer?”
The next day Quentin and Rich were on a jobsite and that was the last day they ever worked together again. The injury really was accidental. First Quentin was electrocuted, and then he fell twenty-five feet. He realized he needed to find something less dangerous. When he saw the city police were hiring, he applied. There were over four hundred applicants and Quentin was relieved to see someone he knew taking the same test.
Quentin smiled at Reg and sat next to him before the test began. He was feeling very confident. They’d known each other from grade school, and in the eighth grade Quentin frequently copied off Reg’s answer sheet during tests. Reg was a reader as Quentin recalled, and he thought the shithead probably studied for this test just like all the others.
The more Quentin thought about Reg the more he remembered things. They were actually friends in school and he recalled Reg messing with most other students; he dinked with bullies and ass kissers alike as near as Quentin could recall. Did they play pranks on others? He seemed to remember something along those lines. Maybe Reg wasn’t a shithead after all, maybe he turned out like him…a really neat guy.
The police test took three hours and Quentin figured if Reg passed he’d probably pass as well. He was pleased with the way Reg positioned his answers throughout the test. A couple of weeks later they were both notified that they finished in the top-ten test scores.
Quentin was transferred to nights along with Reg and Frank. He was assigned with an older officer, Albert Brown. Albert was different, and having grown up in the south he’d sometimes revert to southern ways. He fancied himself the best officer on the department and prided himself on his driving skills and defensive driving tactics. In truth, Albert was a menace. He had already been involved in several car chases; each one ended in an accident.
On Albert’s days off he competed in the local demolition derby, usually winning the cash prize. When Albert chased a car he was as happy as a pig in mud—had he not been a police officer his driver’s license would have been suspended. All seventeen of his chases and car crashes had been coded in a manner in which the Secretary of State didn’t attach them to his driving record. This was not an uncommon practice, and in many ways it made sense. In Albert’s case, however, it merely fed the fantasy. Riverside’s drag racers all knew about Officer Brown and when he turned on his overheads they pulled over.
Quentin was riding shotgun, because Albert saw fit to instruct. He was doing reverse spin arounds in a parking lot and explaining to Quentin how he would probably do a few more in traffic once the roads iced over. “You will love how the traffic offender pulls right over and accepts any ticket given to them,” Albert bragged.
“I flew a plane once and nearly landed it without wheels. All by myself. The pilot was busy.”
“Wow! Did you collide with any cars? I bet you did, right?”
“Nah! But the trees were real close,” Quentin said.
“Well, maybe in a year or so I’ll let you drive and see how you do. I have plenty of pursuit-driving tips if you want.”
Quentin looked out the window and saw a possum stray too close to the prowl car’s right front tire. Albert ran the critter over; it made a funny sound. “That reminds me,” Albert said. “I’m hungry, there’s always free food for the guys in uniform.”
Quentin sighed and said, “I guess.” He was wondering why he cheated on the cop test. He was beginning to miss his last job already.
******
Victor Klemm was the funniest of the new recruits. Actually, he was the funniest living soul in all of Riverside. He got into police work because he was curious and thought it would be fun to know what was really going on around town. He already knew plenty of Riverside’s finest. Some of the old timers grew up in the same neighborhood as Victor and they all knew his family. Victor made them laugh. Even as a teenager he’d crack wise and the old timers would chuckle at nearly everything he told them.
The Sisters of Mercy didn’t think he was funny, not even a little. They continually beat him across the back of his hands with their rulers and anything else that was available. Sometimes his knuckles bled. This was done when he disrupted class, making the other students laugh. Even on those rare occasions when he wasn’t acting up, he was slapped around for some reason, things like impure thoughts Victor was probably entertaining as he looked at girls or telling dirty jokes at lunch. Mother Superior secretly liked Victor and urged the other nuns to go easy on him.
Years earlier, when Victor went to confession for the first time he made up sins because he was only seven years old but wanted to impress the priest.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned,” Victor began.
The priest said, “How long has it been since your last confession?”
“This is my first one, Father.”
“Whatcha got for me?”
“I was disobedient to my parents. I stole a pretzel from the candy store and committed adultery.”
The priest inquired more of Victor, “You committed adultery?”
“Sure did and it felt good.”
The priest recognized Victor’s voice and was aware the Sisters thought he might be someone to keep an eye on. The priest continued in a professional manner, “The sin of adultery is a mortal sin and that is serious business. How long you been at it?”
“Usually a half hour is all it takes me.”
The priest began to laugh, “How did you meet her?”
“I don’t want to get anybody else in trouble. Do I have to tell you everything?”
“Do you know her name?”
“Nope…but I’ve got her box number!”
The priest took out his notebook and wrote himself a reminder. Victor Klemm. Are his parents large donors? That would be enough to remind him to look into things deeper.
He told Victor, “The stealing and adultery alone will land you in hell for sure. Try to be nicer to your parents. Your penance is ten Hail Mary’s and ten Our Fathers.”
As Victor recited his Act of Contrition he decided he liked going to confession. He knew darn well the priest was snickering and that made him happy. He had plenty more where that came from.
Years later in high school, Victor would sit in the back of church and time study the girls’ confessions. The ones that were in the confessional booth the longest were the ones he’d try to date. Victor was clever and by then he thought he might want to try police work, investigating things like how long girls took to confess their sins seemed like detective work to him, sort of like a stakeout.
It was 1975 and Victor had perfected his delivery, and before too long others would only have to look at him and they’d smile and wait for the next part. He never disappointed them, not once. He couldn’t wait to fight crime and rid the streets of pests; he sat in the police supply room waiting for his uniform and gun. He was rubbing his knuckles, a nervous habit he had developed when he was younger. He wasn’t surprised that his knuckles were a little sore and he didn’t find that funny; it reminded him of the Sisters of Mercy and he still flinched when one of them walked by him in church.
The supply sergeant appeared and asked him if he had a preference to a badge number. Victor said, “Is sixty-nine taken?” The sergeant immediately chuckled.
The Oldies
1975
C
aptain Kurt Eberhart was the meanest badass that ever wore a badge in Riverside. It was rumored that even Ivan feared him. The Captain was an imposing figure at three hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. He literally did what he thought was best and wouldn’t allow the Chief of Police input as to how he ran the night shift. He was once overheard telling the Lieutenant, “That meddling fuck of a Chief had better stay away from me and my men. I call the shots around this shithole after hours, he might run the place but he doesn’t belong, this is my town after dark.”
Frank pointed out to the other newbies that Kurt was a German name for a bold counselor and Eberhart was another German way of saying strong as a boar. “We’re fucked boys,” Frank told Quentin and Reg.
He went on to tell them both, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the crazy ass was a former SS Nazi war criminal, there are plenty of them that got away. I’m just throwing it out there for the good of the order.” Frank walked away with a smile on his face.
It didn’t take long for some of the newer officers to see the good Captain in action. Quentin was working with Albert and, of course, Albert was driving. He managed to get into a chase and dinged up the squad car, and Quentin banged up his knee in the bargain. The whole thing started when Albert thought it would be fun to keep an out-of-town businessman from frequenting one of Riverside’s whorehouses. Quentin was able to get the man’s identification and warned him, “Go home. There’ll be no nookie for you as long as Officer Brown and I are on duty.” Albert rolled his eyes and told the potential customer to get lost.
Within the hour the businessman returned. He parked his car around the corner and tried to sneak past Albert and Quentin. Albert said, “Hey Quentin, get a load of this dipshit. I think we should arrest him.” They got out of the car and when the businessman saw them he ran back to his own car and sped off, squealing tires and fish tailing. Albert was delighted, “Call in the chase Quentin, this is important stuff.” Quentin did as he was told but wondered what the big deal was all about; couldn’t they just go and get a warrant? They had his identification already; why did Albert have to drive so fast? He had already skinned a couple of parked cars.
When the crash finally ended the chase, four other vehicles had been damaged, but Albert had prevailed and the businessman was under arrest, they brought him into the station and began to book him. Or at least they tried. Captain Eberhart was sitting at the command desk. His role was the observer and he never missed a thing. He pretended to read the newspaper as the booking began. When Albert told his collar that he wanted to take his fingerprints, the businessman said, “Fuck you.”
Albert said, “This is standard procedure, sir. We fingerprint everyone before they are taken to jail.”
“Fuck you. I’m not playing your silly-ass games. I want a lawyer.”
Quentin wanted to sock the guy, but instead he chimed in, “Sir, you may call your lawyer after the booking procedure.”
“Kiss my ass. You won’t get my fingerprints and don’t even think about trying to take my picture.”
Captain Eberhart lowered the newspaper and said, “Sir, the officers are only trying to do their jobs. Please cooperate with the booking procedure.”
“Fuck you fat ass!”
Captain Eberhart slowly lowered the newspaper to his desk. As he lowered the paper, his face began to turn red. Albert smiled, because he knew what was coming next. The captain slowly got up and took his glasses off. As he approached the businessman he said, “Very well, sir, if you won’t allow the officers to take your fingerprints, I’ll take your nose prints.” He grabbed the businessman’s head and smashed his nose on the ink blotter. When he lifted his head off the blotter, Quentin couldn’t help but notice the blood and what he thought might be nasal cartilage. The Captain wasn’t finished. He smashed the nose back down on the back of the booking card. This time Quentin was sure he saw two of the man’s teeth lying on the counter. “Hey captain,” Quentin said. “Does the Tooth Fairy ever visit the holding cells?”
Captain Eberhart was too busy to answer, because he was holding the booking camera and pointing it at the semi-conscious businessman’s face as he took his picture. Albert was holding the back of his head and propping him up for the camera.
“Officers, take this piece of shit and get him out of my sight. Please make sure he gets his phone call when you take him to the county lock up!”