“Forget the suit,” I countered firmly. “I’m already wearing a real uniform. Let’s just get this head thing on.” Gordon didn’t argue with me. He seemed happy, even eager, to assist in my embarrassment any way he could.

  Slipping the head on over my ears, I was pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn’t that difficult to see out of the grill front and that the head was not so heavy that I couldn’t hold it up without staggering. In fact, the papier-mâché cranium stayed in place with only periodic need for hand adjustments when I actually walked.

  Although I could hear Gordon laughing at me, I was beginning to feel good about the assignment. After all, what could be more important than giving young, formative minds a positive view of law enforcement? I was actually eager to see the reaction of the kids to this goofy outfit.

  “Let’s go, Boston. The door’s this way.”

  My peripheral vision was nonexistent so I allowed Gordon to guide me to the door, which may have been my first mistake. When we were positioned to leave, the principal slipped through the door ahead of me to hold it open. I was somewhat shocked to see what must have been close to one hundred children standing politely on the playground outside, eagerly awaiting my arrival.

  Fully prepared to do the deed, I walked toward the door, propelled by an unnecessary shove from Gordon that made me stumble. Then I stopped cold. I don’t mean I stopped walking, I mean that something stopped me, and abruptly enough that my feet almost slid out from under me. It didn’t take long to recognize the fact that Officer Bill’s head was stuck in the door.

  “Turn it sideways, Boston,” Gordon demanded.

  “Too late,” I explained in a low voice. “I’m stuck. Better pull me back.”

  And sure enough, I was stuck. My head was jammed snuggly between the door frames, which prevented me from going forward, backward, or even turning my head. Before I could come up with another idea as to what to do, I felt Gordon beating on the back of my head in an unhelpful manner. The loud concussions were giving me a headache.

  “Gordon, what are you doing? That hurts!”

  “Trying to get your fat head through the door.”

  That’s when I heard it. The sound of the youngest children standing in the front beginning to cry.

  “He’s trying to kill Officer Bill,” one of the children exclaimed.

  “Officer Bill is having a fit,” an older kid called to amused laughter. “Call 911.”

  “No kids—Officer Bill is fine!” I shouted, in a very un-Bill-like voice, but the crying continued and actually began to spread, the kindergarten equivalent of mass hysteria.

  I could only imagine what it must have looked like. Officer Bill jerking left and right with his head stuck in the door while Officer Gordon attacked him from behind. Gripping the frame and pulling as hard as I could, I tried to put an end to the horrid scene. And I succeeded, in a way.

  With little warning my head became unwedged and I flew forward onto the playground almost on top of the children. Hands out, I tried not to fall but couldn’t help myself. I hit the pavement with a resounding “umph.” Officer Bill’s right ear was lying on the ground beside me and I feared for his nose. I reached for the strap holding me in and dislodged the left ear. That’s when the children started to run and screech.

  “He killed Officer Bill,” a little girl in a yellow dress screamed. I hoped she was pointing at Gordon.

  I tried to get up but found that the head was too heavy when I was prone. Never mind making an officer lift a sandbag, how about trying to get up while wearing an Officer Bill head?

  I reached again for the Velcro fastener but couldn’t find it. The best I could do was crawl across the pavement toward a bench, pushing my massive head before me. The head made a loud grating noise as it scraped across the asphalt. An eye screen popped out, leaving a hole. I scooped up the eye and put it in my pocket. Of course, the children regarded this as an additional act of aggression. Zombie Bill was rising from the dead and collecting body parts. There was more screaming.

  Finally I dragged myself upright, found the strap, and managed to pop my head out of the Officer Bill costume. I put the damaged Bill head on the bench.

  Looking around the playground I saw that almost all of the children were gone. They were running behind buildings and for the bushes at the far end of the playground, looking for places to hide.

  School. I had always hated being there.

  I sensed Gordon standing behind me even before I turned around.

  “Man, oh man, you really did it this time, Boston.” Gordon sounded gleeful.

  I looked sadly at the mutilated Officer Bill head.

  Man, oh man, was he right.

  But, on the bright side, I was convinced that no one—meaning me—would ever wear the stupid head again. It might be worth getting chewed out for destruction of police property.

  Chapter 6

  The process of investigation, according to my college textbook on law enforcement, is half science and half art. Everyone is aware of the science part of an investigation with so many well-publicized cases involving DNA evidence and lapses in proper procedure being televised. What most people aren’t aware of is the artistry that goes into gathering and processing less tangible facts to produce a logical result. This is the area of law enforcement in which I’m most interested. It was also the area that I was about to dive into head first; I privately referred to it as the Jeffrey case.

  Stopping by the station, I grabbed a file folder and a pad of legal paper from the supply cabinet. I was supposed to sign for it, but didn’t since that would involve explaining in triplicate why I needed a file folder. I wrote Jeffrey’s name on the manila folder. That made everything seem very real and I was half-thrilled and half-terrified.

  I sat down at the desk I shared with Jeffrey to outline a general course of investigation along with the few facts that I knew so far. While I worked I ate the brown-bag lunch I’d prepared for the day. I had two sandwiches, one for me and one for Blue, who was resting discretely under the desk. When I was done munching I found that I was light on known facts and heavy on people and places to investigate. I was also still a little hungry, but that always happens when I’m frustrated.

  Clearing the desk of my telltale work and the remains of lunch, I tossed Blue half an oatmeal cookie and looked around the room. I had snuck her into the station through the back door so that she could lie beside me while I worked. I didn’t think my agreement with the chief covered Blue being inside the police station so we needed to be careful.

  I began by rifling the desk that I shared with Jeffrey. I found nothing in the old desk other than dust balls, antacid and a large collection of rusted paper clips jammed into its corners.

  Grabbing the thin Jeffrey case file, I rose reluctantly to begin my afternoon rounds. I was reaching for Blue when I was interrupted by a call from the door leading into the law enforcement bullpen.

  “Officer Boston, may I please have a word with you.” It was, of course, Chief Wallace, standing tall and looking unhappy. I’m sure that deep, deep, deep down the chief is a kind person who probably likes kids and animals, but I wasn’t sure that I was ever going to see this part of him.

  “Why certainly, Chief,” I responded, giving Blue a hidden signal to stay and shoving the file into the center drawer, which I locked. I walked around the desk and followed the chief through the door to his office. Once there I took the seat he offered me with a hand gesture and stoically awaited my dressing down.

  “So, how did things go this morning at the elementary school?” he began.

  “Not as well as I had hoped.”

  “Oh, why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “Well, we had a bit of an equipment malfunction.”

  “An equipment malfunction?”

  “Yes. You see, Officer Bill’s head got stuck in the doorway to the playground.”

  “Go on.”

  “Officer Gordon finally got me through the door by beating on the head.”

  “Yes.”

  “And in the process some children became upset.”

  “Some children became upset?”

  I always find that it’s a bad sign when someone keeps throwing your words back in your face. I decided to amend my last statement to reflect reality a bit more accurately.

  “A lot of children became upset.”

  “Yes. So I’ve heard. In fact, I just got off the phone with an irate principal who spent the afternoon chasing down and calming an entire school full of upset children. They are bringing in a counselor.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” And didn’t add that I thought they were totally overreacting.

  “Yes, that is too bad, isn’t it?”

  I decided to shut up and accept my fate. From the look on his face, the chief was trying to figure out how to make my destiny a particularly bad one. When he finally smiled, I knew that I was in trouble.

  “I’ve come up with a new assignment for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “It involves Officer Bill and the Falls, and the need to show a positive police presence at the Falls for at least one hour every day at noon for the next two weeks.”

  “But Chief, I….”

  “Do you really want to question my decision?” the chief asked with fire burning in his eyes.

  “No, I suppose not.” Nor did I mention that the repairs to Officer Bill might take a while longer than he anticipated. Why pour fuel on the fire?

  “Good. Now, aren’t you supposed to be out on patrol?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get to that right away, sir.”

  Rising, I actually saluted. I couldn’t believe it even as I was doing it. I waited at attention for a return salute, which I never received, then gave up, made a crisp turn and left his office almost doing a goosestep. Once outside I slapped my hand to my forehead in frustration. Did he think I was mocking him? Was I mocking him? I sure didn’t feel very respectful.

  I stopped by my desk to pick up my notes and to rescue Blue. I was guiding Blue down the hall to the rear exit when I looked up and saw that Chief Wallace was watching. He had his arms crossed and was shaking his head, but he didn’t say anything. I smiled and kept on walking until I was out the door. I wondered how many more days like this my career could afford. Probably the only reason I was still here was fear of a sexual discrimination lawsuit.

  The day was still sunny and warm, rare for this part of the country. We usually get showers during this part of the year, but I guess God had decided to spare us the wet and give us some time to play in His garden. I for one planned on using a little playtime this afternoon to pursue my investigation into Jeffrey’s disappearance. But first, I needed to cruise my beat and terrorize a few blatant parking violators.

  Driving the first circuit of my beat was no big deal. There were relatively few cars on the street with the start of tourist season so many weeks away. After completing the route I found that I had some time to kill, so I thought I’d stop by Harley’s to see what I could see, or more accurately, to hear what gossip was going around.

  Harley’s Bar & Grill is pretty much a hole-in-the-wall on Birch Street. As hole-in-the-walls go, this was a rather large one having expanded several years ago into an adult bookstore next door that went out of business; internet porn was cheaper and more readily available and wonderfully anonymous. The owner, Harley Madison, is a relic from the sixties and the summer of free love. He’s also appeared hard as flint to those who don’t know him and the best boss I’ve ever had. I still had some friends at Harley’s so I felt bad about entering the place in full uniform. Harley had said more than once something about a uniform screwing up the vibe.

  Harley’s used to be a place where people—mainly college kids—drank because they were happy and out for some fun. Now it seemed, at least on weekdays, that the patrons were there because they were unhappy and knew they would never be anything else, and they just wanted to forget this sad fact for a while. I guess it is hard to be cheerful when your liver is failing. It also might be less than jolly partly because the fill-in bartender was a grim kind of a man. Mac—Abel MacKenzie—had had a bad time in Iraq. He’d come home messed up inside and out, and talking to him made you think he was mentally caught in some kind of horrible living death the rest of us couldn’t—thank God—know anything about. The human spirit is an amazing thing, but it can be broken—not mine, of course. I bend more than break—but some people get so messed up that there is no gluing them back together. A lot of them end up at Harley’s, which is one of the few places you can go at seven a.m. and legally abuse yourself with alcohol.

  After entering, I stood just inside the club letting my eyes adjust to the relative darkness. It didn’t take long before I was spotted.

  “Hey, look who it is. If it isn’t my favorite cop, Officer Boston.”

  Harley stomped around from the back of the bar wearing motorcycle boots, jeans and a leather vest. The moment he was within range he closed his arms around me, pulling me to his hairy chest in a smothering bear hug. I was glad to be talking to him and not the scarier Mac, so I accepted being spun about like a six-year-old with relative grace.

  “So, how’s tricks, sweetheart?” he asked, putting me away from him but holding me at arm’s length to give me a once over. I could see that he had a new tattoo. This one said: Angela. I didn’t ask about her. Usually Harley breaks up with his girlfriend the week after he has her name inked onto his body. His arms were beginning to look like the guest list for a wedding.

  “Harley, it’s good to see you,” I replied. “It’s been too long.”

  “So, did you stop by to wet your whistle or are you finally here to get your old job back?” Harley asked this every time he saw me. I think that deep down he really did hope that the force wouldn’t work out and he’d get his best waitress back.

  “Neither, I’m afraid. I’m here on business.”

  “Oh, what might that be?” I could see the tension of sudden suspicion take hold of him. “I already bought PAL soccer tickets.”

  “Personal business.” That got him to relax a little. “It’s Jeffrey Little; he’s disappeared.”

  “Has he now?” Harley replied with mock concern. “Are you sure that he isn’t just off on a three-night bender?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the way he was drinking the last time I saw him I thought that he would be out of it for a week. I cut him off finally—afraid he’d die of alcohol poisoning,” Harley confided. “Come on over to the bar. I’ll buy you a sparkling water.”

  Walking to the bar, I pulled up a stool and climbed atop it. My feet dangled, unable to reach the rung. I leaned forward on the burnished wood of the bar top so that I could catch every word over the loud blues tune playing on the jukebox. I glanced out the smudgy window to make sure that Blue was okay.

  “Being a professional bartender, I shouldn’t even be speaking of this,” Harley began. “But since you’re you and I know you’re friends with Jeffrey and all, I’ll let it slide this one time.

  “Jeffrey was in here the last few nights, drinking like a fish. And that’s not all. I seen him getting real close to Helen, which can only be bad news when he’s drunk.”

  “Helen?” I asked, not being up on the current crowd.

  “Yeah. She probably came along after you left. She’s a real mess, a professional barfly, if you know what I’m talking about. Her big claim to fame was getting kidnapped by aliens back in the seventies.” That sounded like a real conversation starter. “She’s in here just about every night. She still has her looks but they’re fading fast, and she’s lookin’ for a sugar daddy.”

  “And she’s picked Jeffrey?” I was dubious. Jeffrey couldn’t afford to be very sweet on his salary.

  Harley shrugged.

  “Anyway, Jeffrey and her ended up drinking together and drinks led to smoochin’ and playin’ patty-cake in the corner booth. I don’t know what the deal was, but Jeffrey was looking at her like he had stars in his crossed eyes. I finally told ’em to get a room.”

  “Did you notice whether the two of them left together?”

  “Nope, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Do you have a last name or a number for this Helen?”

  “Nope again. But if she comes in I’ll ask if she’s seen Jeffrey.” This was probably a lie. My reaction to his response must have been a particularly beleaguered one because Harley slipped his finger under my chin and gave it a lift.

  “Hey, kid. Perk up. Helen has left here enough times in taxis that you can probably get her address from any cabby who drives by. She lost her license about six months ago—DUI. But call Jeffrey at home first.”

  “I’ve been to the house. It’s been trashed and he’s not there. But thanks, Harley. The name’s a help.” Then I decided to try pursuing another lead. “Do you know a man named Rupert Sellers?”

  “What? Rupert Sellers of the Other Falls Foundation? Sure I know of him. Doesn’t everyone?” Harley was looking wary and I bet someone had already been in to interview him.

  “Have you seen him in here at all?”

  “Wow, wow. Now you’re treading outside of your need to know. I’ve been told to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Come on, Harley. This is important. I suspect that there might be a connection between Sellers’ death and Jeffrey’s disappearance.” That idea didn’t seem to faze him one bit. I was glad one of us was calm. Saying those words out loud had frightened me. I had to rein in my hindbrain, which was squirting adrenaline like a fire hose, making my logical mind stutter on the wrong fuel mix. “Please Harley, I need your help. No one at work is taking this seriously and I think Jeffrey might be in trouble,” I said in a small voice. That did it. Harley was a softie when it came to women in distress.

  “Okay. But again, just this once. What do you need to know?”

  “Sellers. Have you seen him in here drinking? Maybe with Jeffrey or Helen?”

  “Yep. As a matter of fact I saw him in here drinking with the irresistible Helen just before Jeffrey made his move.”

 

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