Tag: Fiction

Where is the Evidence

Captain Jamison, nicknamed ‘Grizzly’ because of his gruff manner, was an imposing man, both physically and metaphorically. He had to be. Growing up in Detroit was tough in the sixties, and for decades after the 1967 riots, anyone who wanted to be somebody had to fight for a place to thrive. He was one of the lucky ones. His father had owned a profitable business in Black Bottom. He was used to community support, and in all his time as a street cop, he never forgot that support. He returned it to his community then, and now to his officers, but still his mannerisms intimidated most of them. Not Maureen Thompson, she had fought her way to the top as well, and loved him as one loves a dear, favorite uncle who has led the way to success.

She knocked on his door before she opened it.

“Come in,” he growled.

He sat slumped over a stack of reports on his desk, disheveled and pale, as if he held the world upon his shoulders, and as such, it was a fight he couldn’t win.

“You okay, Cap?” she said.

He sat up and attempted to smile at her. “Fine. Just fine.”

He could say that, but she was under no obligation to believe him.

Jack stepped into the office after her. Jamison placed both hands on his desk as if by doing so he could gather strength from it. He sighed and said, “What do you two want?”

“We wanted to talk to you about the cases we are working on,” said Maureen.

“I’ve just finished your reports. What I want to know,” he glared at Jack, “is why I have a report from an officer who is supposed to be on medical leave.”

Maureen said, “My fault. I called him last night. Got a call while on scene at a murder.”

“This one.” He picked up a file. “Says here, there was a body dump at the river.”

“That’s where the evidence points. A Taiwanese boy, between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, maybe nineteen, stabbed and left there for us to find. While there, I received a second call about another boy. He didn’t make it home last night.”

Jack spoke. “Evan Fischer, nineteen. He’s been missing nearly twenty hours now.”

“I called Jack because I was working with rookies last night, Cap. Didn’t want to send them on a missing child case.”

“Why do I get the feeling you two think these cases are connected?”

Jack looked at Maureen. She took a deep breath when she caught his eye, and said, “Well, we have two witnesses down the hall that seem suspiciously connected to both of them. One is a cashier from the same Walgreens where Evan Fischer works. I pulled her in because she lied about picking up a prescription for Percocet for the boy. It’s a heavy painkiller. It suggests that Jack’s suspicion that he’s been in a fight is correct.”

“That weird second sight thing?”

“Yes,” said Jack.

“But no direct visual evidence.”

“None, Sir,” said Jack. He added, “The second witness is the manager for that same Walgreens.”

“What’s his story?” said Jamison, rubbing his jaw.

“He recognizes the tattoos on Maureen’s Taiwanese boy.”

“He told you that?” said Jamison.

“No, but it is very obvious he recognizes the tats.”

“So this manager knows both Evan Fischer, who you believe has injuries, and the dead Taiwanese boy, who also, according to these photos, was in quite a fight. And in your minds, without any evidence to corroborate this collaboration, these two cases are linked because….” Captain Jamison pursed his lips.

Jack stuttered, “J-j-just let us continue.”

Jamison waved him on.

“During my interview with Heathe, he confirmed a tip that Maureen got from him earlier in the day when she interviewed him at the store. Evan has a girlfriend named Bree. Coincidentally, a girl named Sobrina Morelli –.”

“Let me interrupt you. The Morelli gang?”

“Not confirmed, but possible. She quit Walgreens before Christmas, which is why Evan now has a full time position there. The manager says she was pregnant and looked beat up, but he wouldn’t confirm it. Says she might have fallen.”

“Which is it, beat up or injured falling?” said Jamison.

Maureen said, “We have yet to confirm, Sir.”

“Seems that a lot still needs to be confirmed. Well, Balmario’s team has been following the Morellis. His report says there was a possible retaliatory event last night that may have included one or two of their members. Did either of your witnesses bring that up?”

Maureen said, “No.”

“How long have they been in the hold?” said Jamison.

Jack said, “Almost two hours now.”

“Hold the cashier for obstruction.”

Maureen said, “Captain, I’d like to release her and put a tail on her. If Evan Fischer is really the one taking the Percocet, she may lead us back to him.”

“Done. We have three undercovers on the street. I will let them know.”

“Thank you.”

“I think we can put some pressure on Heathe, the other witness, Sir,” said Jack.

Jamison stared at Jack, waiting for him to continue.

“He frequently makes purchases to indulge in, in the back offices of Walgreens.” Jack made a semi-obscene pumping gesture with his hand.

Jamison scowled. “He told you this?”

Maureen said, “No, Emilia Rodriguez, the cashier, indicated as much.”

“That’s hearsay,” said Jamison.

Jack said, “Yes, but she says everyone knows. We can corroborate.”

Jamison looked at Jack, but pointed to Maureen. “She can corroborate. You can take advantage of your sick leave. You’re outta here.”

“Sir,” said Jack, squirming. “I’m just trying to help.”

“And I appreciate it, but I need you at your best. If you are seeing this with your mojo, I need your head clear, and your partner, bless his heart, is not in any shape to be helping you with this. Take care of him first.”

Maureen looked at Jack and shrugged her shoulders.

Jamison told her, “Let the cashier go, but put the fear of God into her. Hold Heathe. Let Vice work him. If they can prove his indiscretions, we can hold him; otherwise, we have to let him go. In the meantime maybe someone should find Sobrina Morelli.”

“Yes Captain. We’ll get right on it,” said Maureen.

“You’ll get right on it. He’s outta here.”

As Jack stood to leave, someone knocked on Captain Jamison’s door.

“What now,” he said. “Come in.”

An officer from Dispatch stepped into the office waving a piece of paper. “Just in, a BOLO from the FBI in Stockton, California, CARD division.” CARD was an acronym for Child Abduction Rapid Deployment. He handed it to Jamison.

“Wonderful,” Jamison said, sarcastically. “We have another missing boy. Have either of you seen this one?” He showed them the picture.

Jack fell into his chair. Maureen grabbed his forearm and took the flyer. “Yes, Captain. This is one of our own. Jonathan Tyler is Jack’s son.”

Captain looked at Jack with a laser-focused stare that pinned him to the chair. “Your plate is full. Get outta here.”

“Yessir,” said Jack who attempted to stand. It was clear he was in shock. Maureen held onto his arm as he shuffled toward the door.

“Get him out of here, and don’t let him come back,” said Jamison.

“Got it,” said Maureen as she hauled Jack out the door.

He leaned against the outer wall.

“You okay?” said Maureen.

He scrubbed his face and then grabbed his hair. “Gotta see Tomi,” he said.

“Go, Jack. Get out of here. We’ll find your boy, Jack. You know we will.”

She clapped him on the shoulder and left him glued to the wall where he stood, trying to regain some strength to move again.

She couldn’t imagine what Jack was feeling right now. All she could see was her own little one, waving goodbye this morning at the window. She would do everything in her power to save her little Michael from such a fate.

She had no doubt that Jack would do the same. 

Missing Boy

Standing in the middle of Evan Fischer’s bedroom, Jackson Tyler spoke softly into the recorder in his phone. “Either these sheets are brand new, or Evan doesn’t sleep here every night.” The bed was unmade, as he expected. What he did not expect was the absent traces of sweat and other teen aged boy emissions.

He dusted the bedside table and the lamp switch. There was one good print on the edge next to the bed. He pulled it. He opened the drawer. Inside was a half pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He stood up and sniffed the air. The room didn’t smell like stale smoke. He walked to the closet and smelled the clothes hanging there. They smelled fresh.

He lifted a dirty shirt off the floor. It smelled like boy, but not cigarettes. A teddy bear stuffed into a corner of the room under the window didn’t smell of smoke either. Whose cigarettes were these?

He looked out the only window at a featureless brick wall. It was  not screened. A nimble young man could sit on the wide ledge and drag a cigarette, but the sill was free of ash stain. He leaned out the window. The alleyway below was clear of smoker trash, although he supposed he wouldn’t see ash from two stories up. Evan Fischer didn’t smoke here if they were his.

He dusted the window’s sill and the latch on the window frame.

His phone buzzed. “Tyler.”

“It’s Maureen. Where are you?”

The flash of a match or lighter caught his eye. Was someone watching the window?

“Tyler, you there?”

“Yeah, sorry Maureen. Still at the Fischer apartment.” Whoever was at the end of the alley had moved away. Maybe someone had paused to light up.

“How long?”

“What?

“How long will you be there? I want to meet up to share notes.”

“I’m pulling prints from a window in the kid’s bedroom. Maybe ten minutes by the time I explain a BOLO to the grandmother.”

“Okay. I’m at the Ninth. Meet me there?”

“Got it.”

“Okay, out.” Maureen hung up.

Maureen’s voice sounded as tired as he felt. At some point, he would have to get some sleep before he sat with Tomi.

He pulled the prints and walked back to the small living room. Grandma Fischer was quietly sitting in her chair, reading from her Bible. When Jack stepped into the room, she shut the Book, set it on the oval table next to her, and looked at him expectantly.

Jack held up the bag with the cigarette pack and lighter. “Ms. Fischer, are these your grandson’s?”

“I’ve never seen those. He doesn’t smoke.”

“Do any of his friends?”

“I don’t know. I guess one of them could have left those here.”

Jack put the bag into the evidence kit attached to his belt. “I am going to initiate a BOLO. That means we will ask all of our officers to be looking for Evan.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I thought for sure you were going to tell me I had to wait twenty-four hours.”

“No.” He smiled. “That is never the case in real life. We always take a missing person’s report very seriously. I will call you to keep you informed about our investigation.”

“Thank you so much,” said Claudine Fischer.

Jack handed her his card. “Call if you think of anything else, no matter how trivial. Call the second he comes back, no matter the time.”

“You think he will? You think Evan will come home?”

“I’m hoping he lost track of time, overslept at a friend’s house, and will show up at work. He’ll be begging for forgiveness over dinner.”

“The Lord says we should all forgive each other.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

 

In the basement of the Ninth, Jack stood next to Maureen and stared at the body on the cold metal table. The coroner had confirmed that they were looking at a Taiwanese national, probably transported specifically to fight. These particular boys had the reputation of being fierce and unbeatable. They were worth a lot of money on the market. If the build on this one was an indication of his prowess, someone had lost a fortune.

The bright light above him outlined each bruise that littered his torso, arms, and legs. His colorful injuries on his battle-crushed face were surreal, almost fluid, like the melting watches in a Salvador Dali painting.

As he calculated the type of strike it would take to create the particularly nasty bruise on his right cheek, a wave of dizziness hit Jack as a vision obliterated reality. Another boy’s face superimposed over the disfigured face at which he was staring. A sweet face, asleep on a pillow…

…dark colored, softly curled hair. Evan. His face looked as battle scarred as the young Taiwanese on the slab.

Jack couldn’t breathe. Maureen was instantly by his side, rubbing his back. “Blow it out, Jack. Just blow and relax.” She rubbed harder.

Jack understood her orders, but he had trouble making his body comply. He pursed his lips and blew. Suddenly he gasped, inhaled a gallon of air, and bent over, panting.

“For Heaven’s sake, you’re not going to throw up, are you?” said Maureen.

“Oh, my god,” he mumbled. “No.”

“Then what happened?”

“I think Evan’s been fighting.”

“A vision?” she said.

Jack shook his head. “Maybe I am tired and projecting my fears. I saw a boy, Evan’s face, uhn.”

Maureen patted his back. “Just breathe. Is this what Tomi deals with?”

“Unfortunately,” said Jack, grimacing. Through whose eyes was he seeing this? “If I am tripping out again, and actually seeing Evan, he was asleep, not dead.”

“Thank God,” said Maureen.

“It’s not usually God I attribute this to,” Jack mumbled. He shook his arms. “It feels like my arms and legs weigh a thousand pounds each. I am so tired.” He stretched his eyes open, trying to make sense of the multi-sensory vision.

Maureen turned to the tech. “I think we’re done here for now.”

He nodded and covered the body.

To Jack she said, “Let’s grab something from the vending machine and find a place to talk a few minutes.”

 

Maureen and Jack sat at a small table in the break room.

Jack said, “One more thing before we wrap this up. It may be related, it may not, but a group of street kids was creating a ruckus in front of the building when I arrived. The tenants were yelling at them to shut up and go home. They may have been practicing mixed martial arts. I counted five boys, three girls. Kind of hoped the missing kid was one of them, but that was before I talked to Ms. Fischer. When they saw me, they all ran, except for a bear of a kid named Phillip. Calls himself “Rat Snatcher.”

Maureen huffed. “Rat Snatcher. Sounds obscene.”

“Yeah.” Jack chuckled.

“You think we should check into him?”

“I do.”

“I’ll contact Balmario.”

“He’s back to work so soon?”

“Same as you. As needed. What are your plans for today?”

“Sleep, for one thing. I want to sit with Tom for a while.”

She said, “I need some sleep. Need to make amends with Larry.”

“Geez. That’s so hard,” said Jack, thinking about how his work affected his marriage that dissolved so long ago. “I think I should follow up at the Walgreens where Evan Fischer works. They may know more about his social life than his grandmother does.”

“Fair enough. Let’s call it quits for tonight,” said Maureen.

“Excellent. I’ll check in tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Jack.”

He rapped his knuckles on the table twice as he stood. “Goodnight, Maureen.” Then he turned and strode out the door.

 

M is for Mirage…

(Author’s Note: Sara Myers is a character from a novel I copyrighted twenty years ago, called The Shaman’s Mirror.  I am considering revising it.  Let me know if you are intrigued.)

Sara Myers never did anything like this. For fifty-six years, she had been a “good girl”, seemingly put on this Earth to do what was expected of her. Now, her children were grown. Her divorce finalized a few weeks under a year ago, and her new man had proposed. She was not ready to accept it. The Sonoran Desert surrounded her as she drove toward her best friend and a chance for a little late-in-life adventure. It was a rash decision, so unlike her. This trip punctuated the possibility that she was not firing on all cylinders.

The desert flowed past as she sped south toward Tucson on Interstate-10, a monotonous stretch of nothingness as far as she could see. Her mind dredged up memories of her latest dreams. She had always been psychic, but this last round of dreaming had upset her enough to follow Patrice’s advice to leave her life behind her, at least for a little while.

The specters from the dream would not leave her alone. What did they want? The cave was new. The dead weight of a man lying on top of her was a new twist as well, but the man himself was not. Three times, he had visited her slumber, standing before her naked and glistening, trembling in want with need no less than hers. As he approached her, awe and wonder lit his face. She wanted him, and reached out for him each time, but as she did, he disappeared; replaced by an awful, bony, and weathered old man dressed in shabby deerskins and feathers. Claws and teeth hung from cords around his neck. His hair, most likely bug infested, was long and matted. He seemed to be a mixture of races, representatives of which kaleidoscoped across his features. Interrupting luscious dreams of carnal bliss, he had approached her every time she dreamed of her beautiful lover, waking her at some god-forsaken hour. It was always the same. At the end of the dream, he shook a horrid, rattling staff in her face and croaked, “Now is the time.”

The time for what? She had no business dreaming about beautiful, younger men, that’s what time it was. It was better to keep her mind focused on Carl, and his proposal. She sighed.

Behind her, the sun sank into the Sonoran, the hills behind Tucson shimmered in the heat. She rubbed her sweaty hand on shirt but her clothes were damp with sweat. She was shaky. She took a deep breath and grabbed the wheel so tightly that she drove like an old woman barely in control of her car. Good grief, she needed a rest. A sign to the right said Denny’s – one mile. At the next exit, she pulled off the freeway.

There were only two cars parked in front of the restaurant and none in the lot on the east side where it was shady. She headed for it, turning into a small patch of cool, cast by the building.

He came from nowhere – bam – in front of her car as she pulled into it. She slammed on the brakes as he slapped her fender with both hands.

“Oh no,” she cried.

“Hey,” he yelled. “What the hell?” He slapped the hood of her car again. He flipped his middle finger at her, and then stormed away.

She was tired and shaky, but not so shaky that she would miss seeing a pedestrian in front of her car. She must have blinked or blacked out because for one second, he was there in front of her scowling, and the next he was gone. Panicked, she looked all around. The door of the restaurant was too far for him to have reached it without her seeing him go in. He wasn’t stomping toward one of the other two cars in front of Denny’s.

Maybe he fainted.

She opened the door and jumped out. The Arizona heat rammed her like a blast from a rocket. He wasn’t on the ground. He wasn’t anywhere. She needed to find him to give him contact information.

She honestly had not seen a single soul in the lot when she pulled in. She must be more exhausted than she realized. Sinking heavily back into the seat of her Sentra to grab her purse, she singed her arm on the doorframe. All decorum lost, she licked the burn on her arm and blew across the pain. The landscape around her car was crowding her, hot and sharp, just like her dream. The area was junky and spoke of decay. She couldn’t take a deep breath. Good grief. What had she done?

She grabbed her purse, rolled the windows down, and then decided this was not the side of town to leave windows open. She knew her car would be a bread oven when she got back into it, but she didn’t want to take any chances. People were obviously lurking about.

There was something familiar about the man she’d almost hit. He was tall, and had to bend down to slap her car. His jacket was soft and worn, and matched the soft cinnamon of his hair. His hair struck her as particularly beautiful, but her mind had not registered much else. It happened so fast. He was in front of her one second and gone the next. She lurched to the shelter of the restaurant looking for the man she had hit.

A waiter approached her. “Are you looking for your people,” he asked. He had a friendly smile.

“No,” she replied, then she added, “Yes. Well…he’s not mine, but I almost hit a man out there, and I want to be sure he is okay.” She looked at every seat in the restaurant. He wasn’t in any of them. “He’s about six feet tall, cinnamon colored hair, rumpled, you know?” She pulled at the hair on the top of her head. “I think he was carrying a briefcase.”

“Oh, that sounds like The Professor. No, he hasn’t come in today. Actually, you’re the first new customer we’ve had in here for about,” he looked at his watch, “thirty-six minutes.”

“Thirty-six minutes?” she said, dumbly.

“Here,” he nudged her toward a seat at the counter. “Cool off. People see all kinds of mirages and phantoms in this heat.”

“But he slapped my car. I heard it. I, I…I felt it.”

“Like I said, all kinds of mirages and phantoms. Hey, if there’s no one on the ground out there, you’re good to go. I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.” He handed her a menu and poured her a glass of water. “I’ll be right back.”

She sat down. When he returned, she ordered her usual hamburger and fries, then changed her mind and switched to a cool chicken salad and iced tea. She shivered under the air-conditioning. It was more than just air that chilled her. She was tired, and stressed from driving, and she was seriously wondering if she’d made the right decision. Dear God, she had almost hit a man. She could turn around and take the highway back to her safety net. A voice interrupted that thought, an old voice she’d heard too many times; the old man from her dreams croaked, “Now is the time. The desert…where truth cannot shelter itself…” She could actually hear the horrid staff rattling.

Cripes. Turning around was something she absolutely could not do.

The waiter set a doily right in front of her, followed by a full cup of hot water with a slice of lemon floating in it. “You’re dehydrated. Drink up. It’ll help the shakes,” he said.  Then he winked, “It will scare away those phantoms. I’ll bring iced tea with your food.”

She took a sip. Her body was grateful, if not for the water, then for the heat of it. She took another, and then another.

The waiter smiled at her when he walked by.

She kept looking over her shoulder to watch for the cinnamon haired man, but he was definitely gone. She took another sip of the soothing hot lemon water and watched the waiter as he cradled her salad on one arm and brought her iced tea in the other. She would eat, get in her car, and drive to Patrice’s house and forget about this. He was just a phantom, a mirage dredged up by her heat-addled brain.

Somehow, somewhere deep inside, she knew he was more than that. She hoped their first encounter would be better than this one.

K is for Kink…

(A character sketch from Reluctant Witness – a work in process – occasionally, a witness doesn’t come forward because to do so could result in his or her arrest.)

Monday Ricks. The first syllable stretched, like the word yawn, ‘mawn’-day. What did that say about his parents, that they gave their only child a name that made a person sound as if they were bored out of their minds when they said it?

Thinking about it made his head hollow. He yawned. His large, stained teeth protruded from his mouth as his lips peeled back, and a string of spit connected an upper incisor with its lower mate. His whiskers were rough against his beefy hand as he contemplated whether to shave, or not. Maybe the shock effect would be greater if he was scruffy. Monday didn’t have many kinks, but the kink he contemplated was a doozy.

The kink was born out of a lonely childhood. He was a quiet, chubby boy that looked at the ground when he walked. As a teenager, while the other young men paraded the school with frantic, on fire energy, he watched from the shadows and wondered when his flame would ignite. Teachers called him phlegmatic and dull. He had a mind, a good one, he just didn’t use it much, except to daydream that he was someone else, someone with fire in his heart, fire that drew girls like moths to a flame. Girls. Was there anything else to think about at that age? From the moment he woke until the moment he slept, and even then, his mind was filled with girls, girls, and more girls.

However, the reality of his life was solitary, a solitary male hungry for attention but too awkward and brutish to attract it. Beetle-browed and heavy boned, kids cast epithets at him like “Cave man,” “Neanderthal,” “Loser,” and “Gorilla.” What girl in her right mind would want him around? None of them. That was the living truth. High school passed with none of the glory, none of the conquests, none of the fun. As he aged, he became more brutish, more beetle-browed, more solitary, and more obsessed.

College wasn’t better. He shuffled to his accounting classes, head down, defeated and no more social than he’d ever been. His classes droned on until his junior year when he found a listing about human sexuality in the psychology department. If he couldn’t enjoy firsthand experience, he could at least learn about it, so he signed up.

The professor was a kinky sort of dude, with long hair that he kept brushing back. On the first day of class, he wore tight leather pants, and a sleeveless shirt with a faux sheepskin jacket. Monday was fascinated, and took copious notes about kinks and sexual deviations. The class ended quickly, though an hour and a half had passed. As students hustled out of the room, the prof called him back. The class, listed as advanced credit, had pre-requisites he had not completed.

“I can’t let you into this class unless you pass an entrance exam. Come to my office at 3pm today and you can do that. That is, if you want to continue this.”

“Uh, Yessir, I will be there.” As he left, he wondered if the prof was aware that the only thing Monday saw with his lowered eyes, was the man’s male package outlined by the leather pants he wore. It was humiliating, but, also, he couldn’t help feel an edge of excitement.

He walked out of the classroom and the door shut behind him. He could still see that package in his mind’s eye. He felt shocked and unsteady, but it was a heady feeling, a revelation about the power of a man, a part of himself he had never paid attention to before that day.

The next year, he took gym class, an unfortunate requirement. It was an hour and a half of tortuous overexertion. Showering afterward was mandatory. His beetled brows and lowered head hid the fact that he delighted in peeping at all the nude bodies, but it was paramount that no one saw him undressed. That was not a problem if he could get a private shower stall. His luck lasted most of the semester.  Until Thursday, May 11, a day forever etched in his head. Monday was a slow runner. He was the last person to finish the assigned walk-run assignment, a half-mile, four laps around the track. All of the private stalls were occupied. He sat on the bench surreptitiously watching naked men, waiting his turn for privacy.

Coach Summons, the gym instructor, strode into the locker room and announced, “Fifteen minutes, people. Then this place is locked.” He looked at Monday. “Ricks, what are you waiting for? Hit the shower.”

It was lucky for Monday that his eyes didn’t register every emotion that flitted across his mind. Everyone would have seen abject terror reflected there. He shuffled to the darkest corner he could find and slipped out of his clothes. He padded as quickly as he could to the nearest vacant shower head in the communal shower stall. He lathered quickly, and rinsed quicker. Then he wrapped a towel around his private bits and slunk back to his corner.

He heard a soft, feminine “Oh” behind him, but when he turned to see why a girl was in the locker room his towel fell away exposing his flaccid manhood. He curled over his display and looked up.

She stood stiffly, as if tased. Her shocked eyes were wide with fright. Her round ‘oh’ twisted in dismay and repulsion. She uttered a growl of distress, turned, and ran out of the locker room.

Monday was mortified, but his man parts had a different idea. He stiffened quickly, which made it awkward to dress as fast as he wanted to. When he pulled himself together, he hurried home.

After dinner, while he replayed the episode in his head he drew her picture. It was his way of coming to terms with the humiliation. Happy with the outcome, he put her shocked likeness on the wall across from the only chair at the small table in his minuscule kitchen. Just looking at it brought a titillated rush of excitement, so much so in fact, he had to run to the bathroom to take care of his urge. If he were to pinpoint a reason for his major kink, he would probably pinpoint that exact moment.

He didn’t know of course, but the drawing became his first trophy.

Her picture would remain on the wall as the first of so many shocked and repulsed viewers who unwittingly gave him a satisfying release after two and a half decades of ripping open his heavy coat to flash them.

(I want to thank the lovely beta readers from The Women Writers of the Well and their terrific questions. Gentle souls, I appreciate you so much.)

H is for Home…

Possible scene for Broken, a work in progress

All he wanted was some toast. Was that too much to ask? Tom Dubanowski clung to the hospital issued walker as he shuffled across the impossible expanse of Jack’s apartment. His gut twisted. He shook, a quaking leaf helpless in the storm of pain coursing through him. It was a stupid metaphor, but it was all he had to work with.

In the small kitchen, a loaf of Canyon Bakehouse was in easy reach next to the refrigerator. Thank the gods. When he plunged the bread into the toaster, another eddy of pain gripped his side. The walker shook under his grip. He scooted it away from him and grabbed the counter. Every damn move he made, every breath he took, hell, every thought he had, knifed his innards.

“Get it together,” he whispered.

Jack could not find him like this. There would be no reasoning with him, no way of convincing him that he was okay on his own. He wanted to be in his own apartment, miserable with himself, engaged in his own private, pity party.

“Come on,” he said to the pathetic husk he had become. He bent over the sturdy counter until his weight rested upon it. The granite was cool against his swollen cheek; the darkness in the kitchen shrouded him. He could do this. He had to. He could not take his pain medication on an empty stomach.

The front door closed with a gentle snick.

Shit. Jack.

The toast popped with a snap.

Startled, he grabbed his belly. With both arms around the pain, he calculated what it would take to push away from the counter, unfortunately not quick enough to follow through with an actual plan.

“Tomi?” said Jack, stepping softly into the kitchen.

Dammit. Tom’s broken whininess was on full display for Jack to see. One traitorous tear, a beacon of distress, leaked from his unpatched eye, ran over the bridge of his nose, and dripped onto the counter. He sniffed. “Take me home, Jack. I want to go to go home.” A sniveling little baby was what he was.

Jack pressed a warm hand against Tom’s back. “Tomi, Tomi, Tomi,” he said. His voice was soft and comforting.

It threatened Tom’s resolve. “Please, Jack.”

“Uh, huh,” he said, agreeably.

Jack reached into a cupboard above Tom’s head to grab a bowl. When he reached for the toast, he shifted his hands upon Tom’s back. The solid pressure between his shoulder blades became his focus, an anchor against the tide of pain that rolled over him. It took him to a place of calm, a place he could not find on his own. Dammit.

The crisped bread scraped against the basket inside the toaster as Jack pulled the slices from it. He broke them into large pieces and dumped them into the bowl.

He was closer now. The warmth of his body seeped into the back of Tom’s legs and backside.

“You think being on your own is a good idea?” said Jack. His breath caressed Tom’s ear as he wrapped his arms around Tom.

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” said Tom.

“I see. You can watch my blubbering breakdown into insanity, but I can’t take care of you.”

One of Jack’s shoes tickled Tom’s bare right foot.

“You ready?” Jack said into the back of his head.

“I can’t,” he whimpered.

“Yes you can. There’s a chair right behind me.”

“I can’t do this, Jack.”

This. This was relinquishing autonomy. This was molly coddling. This pathetic, mewling kitten act was not him.  

Jack pulled him away from the counter.

Before he could process the wave of pain that flooded him, he was sitting in one of Jack’s comfortable dinette chairs. Jack crouched in front of him, holding his hands against his quaking knees.

“Okay. Here’s what is going to happen next. I’m making hot milk toast with honey. You will eat it. We will get those medications into you. Then I am wrapping you into that bed over there.”

Tom looked across the living room of Jack’s apartment through the open door toward Jack’s bed. He didn’t want to be in Jack’s bed broken and needy. He wanted…he wanted something…he wanted what he didn’t have the energy to accomplish right now. Tom shook his head. “I want my own bed, Jack.”

“What you want and what you’re going to get are two different things now, aren’t they, Tom?” He squeezed Tom’s fingers.

Unable to speak, Tom sniffed and raised his eyes, meeting Jack’s gaze. Determination glittered in a deep, shimmering well of love. Could Jack see how scared he was? Could he see how grateful he was? Could Jack see how much love he felt for him in this moment?

Jack winked. As he rose to warm some milk, he kissed Tom’s cheek, lingering, so his next words ghosted reassurance across his lips. “You’ll get through this, Fly. No worries.”

Tom sighed. Maybe it was his neediness. Maybe the pain dissolved his reticence. Maybe his heart was whispering, “Everything you require is here, right now.”

Why was he trying to run from it?

Jack was his port in this storm.

Jack was his home.

F is for field strip

Backstory for Blood On His Hands

Senior Inspector Jackson Tyler stepped onto the patio at the back of the precinct. “I have been looking all over for you…why have you field stripped your Glock?” he said.

“It didn’t feel right at the range this morning,” said Tom, a Junior Inspector for Detroit’s 12th precinct, and Jack’s partner.

“Why didn’t you leave it at the armory?”

“I should have, I know, and I will, but I just wanted to see for myself,” said Tom. The truth was, he missed the routine of field stripping a weapon. Each gun had its own peculiarities, its own wear and tear marks, its own patina. Somehow, the character of the gun said something about the character of the man who held it. He wasn’t sure what that said about him and the Gatling guns fitted to the Warthogs he flew.

He shrugged his shoulders, and glared at Jack. Caring for his gun was a form of meditation for him, a chance to reflect on life, and on death. He resented the interruption. He held the empty barrel to the light to look through it. This gun could take a life or save one in a fraction of a second, but only if it functioned properly.

Jack left him to it.  

Since Tom had joined the Inspector Corps for Detroit’s Police Department, there had never been a reason to fire his weapon in the field, but he knew it was there ready to defend him and the people he had sworn to protect. Like all officers, he practiced regularly, cleaned it as recommended, and this was the first time it felt…off. He could not explain it, especially after taking it apart and cleaning it. The barrel was smooth, the pins looked good, he saw no rough patches or scratches anywhere on it. It felt good in his hand. However, when he’d shot it at the range earlier in the day, the recoil just wasn’t right.

He sighed.

He took his time, wiping away excess oil. Sure that his gun was shiny, and clean, he put it back together. He returned to the bullpen and sat at his desk.

Jack came in and sat in the desk across from him. “The armory is taking guns for another hour. You could have it back by morning.”

“Uh, thank you. I didn’t know that’s where you went.”

“Tom, trust your intuition. Turn the damn thing in.”

Tom hugged his gun to his chest. He knew it was just a tool, but he had a personal relationship with an instrument that gave him so much power over life. Calling it a ‘damn’ thing hurt a little, though he knew Jack meant nothing by it. Though he and Jack had never discussed it, he knew Jack was as particular about his Smith and Wesson as Tom was about this gun.  

Tom said, “My place or yours for dinner tonight?”

“Let’s go wild and eat out. My treat.”

“Ooh, is that date?”

“Go turn in your gun,” said Jack, ignoring his jibe.

Tom saluted his partner. On his way out, he whistled “Life’s Lessons” by Lynyrd Skynyrd.

E is for Egregious…

“…shocking, appalling, terrible, shameful; a glaring unpardonable error. I made an egregious error of judgment, okay? What do you want me to say? I’m sorry?” Jon backed up two steps when his stepfather’s face turned hard and angry.

Phillip said, “That’s enough, young man. Get to your room. Your mother will bring you dinner later. And forget about escaping out the window. It’s been screwed shut.”

“You can’t do that,” said Jon. “It’s a fire hazard. I demand egress from my room!”

“Jon, just go to your room,” said his mom.

Jon glared at his stepfather one more time before stomping to his room. He slammed the door.

Phillip said, “I’m torn between taking the door off the hinges, or getting one of those compressors that makes it impossible to slam it.”

Meghan shivered.

“Hey, hey,” said Phillip. His voice warmed as he soothed her. “He’s safe.” He rubbed circles across her shoulders. Phillip was her rock.

“I can’t imagine what gets into his head to run off like that. Sacramento, Phil. He went all the way to Sacramento this time. He lived with a homeless man, on the streets. What are we going to do? What if the police hadn’t picked him up?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Have you called Jack? He deserves to know his son ran away again.”

“Oh my. I forgot.”

“Here.” He took the wooden spoon from her hand. “I’ll stir the sauce. You call the ex.”

Meghan dialed her ex-husband’s number. He worked for Detroit PD, Inspector class, a continent away from Stockton, California. She prayed Jon wasn’t like his dad, mentally tormented with OCD or some other illness. She prayed he was just a boy with wanderlust, like Jack’s father, Hank, had said.

Her eldest, Rick, never did anything like this and he was Jack’s blood too, so…, “Hello?”

“Jackson Tyler.”

“Yes, Jack, it’s me, Meghan.”

“Did you find him?”

“How – how did you know?”

“Hank told me. I can catch a flight this evening.”

“No, no need. We found him. He was rounded up with the rest of the homeless people in Oak Park.”

“Oak Park? Sacramento? Oh, god. Is he all right?”

“He’s angry, Jack. I don’t know what to do with him. This is the second time he’s run away.”

“The second time? Why didn’t I hear about the first time?”

“We knew he was in town, suspected he was at a friend’s house. He was. Sometimes kids do this. I didn’t think much about the first time, but he scared me this time Jack.”

Jack didn’t answer right away.

He was estranged from both of his sons, but especially Jon, who didn’t understand why he left when they divorced. Jon was only three and a half when she’d kicked Jack out of their lives. She hooked up with Phil soon after. Truth be told, Phil was there waiting for her, otherwise she would not have had the courage to ask Jack to leave. Nobody else but the two of them need know that. It certainly didn’t factor in her youngest son’s recent behavior.

“Do you think it would do any good if I talked to him,” said Jack.

“No. He doesn’t really know you anymore.” She knew that had to hurt, but it was true.

“Still,” he said.

“No, Jack. Leave him be. I’ll ask if he wants to call you, but I know he won’t. I just wanted to keep you informed.”

She heard him sigh.

“Jack?”

“Yeah, okay, Meghan. Thank you for calling.” He hung up.

Was Jon’s poor judgment a delayed emotional response to his father’s absence? She didn’t think so. Phil was a lovely man, and a good father.

“Hon?” said Phil. “This sauce is done. Do we let Jon eat alone, or do we invite him to the table?”

She gazed at him. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Well, I don’t want him to have another reason to leave.”

“That’s the answer. Jon,” she said.

“But, I sent him to his room, told him you’d bring him dinner, later.”

“Then, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Gather up the plates and utensils. Let’s join our errant son for a picnic on his rug. I’m sure he has a story to tell.”

(Author’s Note: This is a backstory for one of my working titles, Broken.)

D is for Desperate

To say that Jackson Tyler was a happy child would be a lie. He wasn’t sullen, he didn’t have a temper, and his pretty, little face didn’t own a scowl, but happy? No. He was thoughtful, and found intimate, personal delight about the world in general, but he didn’t often share that because anxiety was a central part of his being. The world, for Jackson, was titanic: he heard everything, he saw everything, he felt everything, and some tastes and smells were so overwhelming that he had an absolute aversion to them. His favorite place to get away from it was the pantry of canned goods off the kitchen. It was dark, it was quiet and canned goods didn’t smell.

This made life difficult for Martha, his stepmother, who was the only mother he’d ever known. Her greatest joy was feeding her family; she loved being a wife, creating a beautiful home with flowers, candles and potpourris on beautifully set tables, with beautifully prepared foods. But, she didn’t have family often because her husband, Harrison, Hank to his friends, was a foreign correspondent for the San Francisco Chronicle, so he was travelling most of the time, and when he was home he was hustling for the next story.

So, Jackson was her company, but he wasn’t satisfactory, because he didn’t talk much, and he only liked grilled cheese sandwiches with canned pears, at least at this particular moment in his short, five-year history. Eating for him was particularly troublesome if he was involved in an internal drama of imaginings that sometimes came true and sometimes did not, or if some imaginary irritant was bothering him, then, he didn’t eat at all.

One lovely sunny day, after spending the morning in a frantic state of five-ness, Jackson was winding down, minding his own business, sitting on the floor in the dark pantry. Martha, in her haste to get lunch on the table tripped over one of his outstretched legs and fell. Unfortunately, she skinned and bruised her right knee and tweaked her wrist. It took a moment for her to right herself. When she did, she saw him sitting there, teary-eyed and sniveling, balled into a shell, because it was his leg that tripped her.

She lost it. She yanked him off the floor, shoved him out the back door into the light of the day, into the titanic, swirling world, and said, “Why do you have to be so difficult? You cannot come back into this house until I serve lunch.” Then she locked the door.

He threw himself at it, slapped it with his tiny fragile hands, and cried, “Mom, mom, let me in, let me in.”

 An eternity passed with no results for his efforts – and then, a bird, pounding its head against a pole at the base of the yard, caught his attention.

Tear stained and shaky, he slowly climbed down the steps and walked toward the telephone pole where it was performing this strange and wondrous behavior. When he got to the base of it, he leaned his hands against it and looked up at the little bird. For one heartbeat, the bird’s head was a blur while it pounded its beak into the wood, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Jackson suddenly knew the world as the bird did, one gigantic, frantic, hunt for food. Hunger was a monster, consuming every one of Jackson’s senses. Together, Jackson and the bird could think of only one thing, “Find an insect, eat.”

In all his five years, he’d never felt so murderous, had never thought of needing food so desperately.

The bird tapped again, and the world blacked out for an instant, and then Jack heard them, he actually heard the insects crawling, chewing, and scratching inside the wooden pole. He cocked an ear when the bird cocked an ear, and listened. His meal was close. The world blackened for an instant as he pounded, trying to reach them. He listened again. There was an insect right under the surface. Crazed with hunger he rapped again.

When he and the bird grabbed an insect, then two, then three, four; Jackson swooned with relief. He awoke when he heard his mother’s voice, “Jacksie. You okay Baby? Mommy’s sorry she lost her temper.”

“I’m okay. I was a bird, Mom. He was hungry. He eats insects.”

“That’s nice, dear. It’s time to come in. I made grilled cheese sandwiches with sliced pears on the side.”

“Okay.” As Jackson followed his stepmother, he felt heavy with sorrow, though somehow, he knew it wasn’t his. How could it be? He was a bird, he’d already eaten lunch. Life couldn’t be better.

He looked at his stepmother, and saw the heavy, woolen shroud of sadness that she wore. He took her hand and smiled. “Don’t worry, Mommy. I’m okay.”

“I know, Jacksie. Mommy’s okay too.”

He wasn’t so sure about that.