In my stories I use language appropriate to the scenarios and characters portrayed. Sometimes this is not language I myself would use or approve of being used in real life. If you have a problem with such derogatory terms then please take note.
My plan is to present this story in two large sections. So lets get started.
He was a big man. In this area he was also very identifiable. He HAD to be the one they'd been told about.
Claire looked at her temporary partner. Skeet had something of a reputation but that didn't alter the fact that he would be totally reliable if things went wrong.
Skeet sensed her eyes on him and gave her a crooked little smile. He nodded at her and then bellowed at the top of his voice.
"PO-LICE. Stay right there boy and show your hands slow."
The last words were spoken with cold menace but they hadn't been needed. The man had reacted instinctively to that first word - almost to that first syllable. His arms had started up with his hands obvious and his fingers spread to make it clear he was unarmed. There hadn't been a moment's hesitation or even a partial attempt to turn to face them.
That told them a lot. It wasn't this suspect's first time to the dance. He knew how to behave and how to minimise the likelihood of getting a bullet in the back. Chances were that he was a professional - just as Claire had suspected.
She moved carefully forward and patted the man down thoroughly. He was indeed unarmed. He didn't move as she searched him. He didn't speak either. He seemed even bigger close up and there wasn't much flab on him. He was a man who was in shape.
"ID?" That was Skeet, his voice clear despite a slight tremor caused by the adrenalin coursing through his system. Claire bit down the frustration. She knew what she was doing and didn't need reminding. The man had his license on him and she quickly checked the photograph against the man in front of her.
His face was calm and impassive. Deep brown eyes observed her with no hint of emotion or concern. That got to her. Out here you were mainly dealing with drunks, petty thefts and traffic violations. Every now and then they'd find some locals cooking up meth or distributing any of the array of illicit pharmaceuticals out there. Always the collar saw resentment, noise, protest and rage or despair. Often there were tears or some pleading. Sometimes some futile resistance that let Skeet and the boys use their batons.
"Right boy you'd best tell us what you're doing round here."
Skeet had moved up covering him as she put the cuffs on. When he didn't get an answer he moved in close and shouted his repeated question, spittle spraying the man's face.
"WHAT YOU DOIN' ROUND HERE NIGGER?"
Claire hated that word - though it was nothing new to hear it from Skeet and the boys. She knew Skeet was pushing the man into speaking, into opening a dialogue they could exploit.
Nothing. No answer, no reaction at all.
"Fuck it," muttered Skeet and they pushed the man into the back of the patrol car.
***
She'd first heard about it a month or so before. The Chief had asked her to sit in on the interview with Mr Butler. It had not been pleasant. The man had been furious as he raged about the 'nigger' - that word again - who had stolen his wife away from him.
She didn't know Butler but in a way she did. He was just like thousands of men from around those parts. Careering into middle-age with a waistline expanding almost as fast as his hairline was receding. He might have been quite handsome once but the extra weight did him no favours and his face wasn't improved by being red with fury.
Claire had been married herself once but this job ate up marriages whole. Her husband had married her knowing what the future would be but knowing it and actually living it had turned out to be two very different propositions. So what had she done? She had devoted herself to her career first and then, well, the hours didn't exactly assist romance. She'd seen enough colleagues' marriages fall apart over the years. Unless, of course, you married a colleague. Claire had contemplated that once - for about half a second. Thanks but no thanks!
She'd sat through Mr Butler's impotent ranting about the Blacks stealing his wife away. The Chief had gone through their routine and established the nature of his complaint. Maybe he couldn't read between the lines but Claire could. Some of Butler's answers and some questions he couldn't answer had been very revealing to her. Butler no doubt knew his job and his automobile inside out. His wife was maybe a different matter. Claire could sense that he had probably taken his wife for granted for a long time. This moment was probably the most he'd even thought about her in years.
"Damn but I feel a fool letting that whore go out to work. Should've kept her home looking after me and raising kids - ain't that a woman's job, ain't that all they's good for." Butler's eyes had flashed with rage before he had noticed Claire's eyes on him. Then he had gone silent.
The Chief tapped his pen on his desk. "This man - the man you say your wife has left with... I understand your position but unless an offence has been committed."
Butler reacted furiously. "You ain't been listening Sheriff - the man's a fucking nigger. Ain't no way my wife would be running off with him. So its kidnapping or he's drugged her or something. Anyway he needs to be... he needs to be..." The sentance ran into the sand as Mr Butler cut himself short.
Claire knew what he was thinking and the Chief did too. The Chief, however, was nothing if he wasn't a politician.
"Assuming that to be the case Mr Butler, where would we find the man or men concerned?"
Claire wanted to smile but didn't do so. The Chief knew how to handle folk like this. He also knew that the men concerned were highly unlikely to be living in his jurisdiction. They were supposed to be African-American weren't they and this place was the poster-location for 'white-flight.'
