Our radios had been squawking like a mob of magpies for at least half an hour. That amount of chatter was unusual for that time of day. Something big must have happened.
"Unit Twenty-Four, what's your ten seventy-seven for Magnolia?"
That was the latest thing from dispatch to come over the squawk box. Ten Seventy was a request for how long it would take to get to the scene. Unit Twenty-Four... That was us.
My new partner keyed the mic on his radio and answered. "We're ten seventy-six, looking at fifteen." An ETA of 15 minutes. At least he got that right. My last partner never did catch on to the codes we use to keep the radio chatter to a minimum. At least this new guy had that going for him.
"Ten four."
The crackling radio voice came back.
"See Officer O'Malley on scene when you arrive."
"That's a ten dispatch." Bill signed off, trying sound cool instead of sticking to protocol. I made a mental note to talk to him about that later.
Four-Twenty-Four Magnolia Street. That's where we had been dispatched, and the call came in just as I was about to bite into the first warm meal I'd had in days. It's just as well. This was a call to a murder scene, and from what I could gather from the radio chatter it was going to be a messy one.
My experience told me that it's best to go into these things on an empty stomach. My new partner Bill didn't see it that way. He started wolfing down his dinner the moment we got the call. I made a bet with myself that he would puke it all up in the next 30 minutes.
I got up and dropped a twenty on the table, and let Flo know I'd come back later for my dinner. A twenty was nearly double the price of my meal, but she deserved every penny. Despite the name, the Copper Cafe wasn't exactly the kind of place that caters to the police, but Flo always took special care of me whenever I dropped in.
"I'll box this up and keep it for you Hon." Flo offered as she took up my plate.
"Thanks. I really appreciate that Flo."
"When you are ready, you know where to find me dear." Flo smiled and winked, just before heading back toward the kitchen.
Bill didn't say a word. I guess he must have been really hungry. In the thirty-odd seconds it took for Flo to gather my plate he had completely cleaned his. He was still chewing when he got up to head to the scene. I had to remind Bill that my twenty was a tip for Flo and he needed to pay for the burger he had just inhaled. He threw a ten on the table and we headed out the door.
Bill blabbed at me the whole way to Magnolia Street. Trying to pick my brain I guess. I didn't say much. My mind was already hard at work on the case. I'd seen my share of these sorts of things over the years. A woman was brutally murdered in the prime of her life. Nine times out of ten that meant we were on our way to see a dead addict or a hooker, but we weren't investigating a hooker on this one.
This time the victim was a wife and a mother. Unlike the hooker cases, odds were someone close to her did the killing. A husband, a sister, even a disgruntled child. They call these sorts of murders a crime of passion. I never did see anything passionate about it.
The radio chatter told me most of the squad already had their money on the husband for this one. It's a sad commentary that cops are still allowed to run betting pools on cases like this. We called them doer pools, and the guys would all bet on who the perp was. Most of the squad had nothing more to go on than what they heard come over the radio, but that didn't stop them from placing their bets.
I hated that betting game, and years ago I stepped away from it for good... Right after I realized just what kind of damage a doer pool can do to a case. Placing one of those bets provided a younger me with a hard lesson in life. I now know that each and every person we happen to share this miserable planet with deserves a fair shake, and those doer pools can take that fairness away in the blink of an eye.
I was one of the lucky ones I guess. I got that lesson about the doer pools early in my career. I was a new detective and my field Sargent was showing me the ropes, not unlike what I was doing with Bill on this case. I was working my very first murder back then, and I placed my bet on a man no one else suspected. Somehow, I thought I was smart. I acted as if I knew better than all the seasoned veterans on the case put together.
That one stupid bet clouded my judgment. I just couldn't think clearly. It made me see things that weren't there. It made me jump to conclusions. That ridiculous bet nearly cost an innocent man his life... And my miserable fuck of a field Sargent didn't say a damn word about it. He didn't care who really did the crime. All he cared about was making an arrest. He just cared about making his numbers.
From that point on I swore I'd never be that kind of cop, and now as Bill's sergeant I wasn't about to just stand by and let him make the same kind of mistake I did. Not on this case anyway. If I didn't teach my new recruit anything else, I was going to teach him to stay clear of those doer pools.
Of course I know things are different now than when I was new on the force. There are new laws and procedures help protect the innocent against the kind of railroading that suspects were up against back when I first started working this game. Still, from the very day I fucked up by making that bet, I swore I'd never take part in wrongly accusing a man again.
Maybe my stance makes this job a lot tougher, but I don't care. I never want to wrongly accuse the innocent, but by god I'm not about to let a guilty man go free either. In the end, being honest and forthright is the only way to do this job, even if the world is filled with liars, cheats, and scumbags.
What did all this mean? It meant that Bill and I had our work cut out for us. We needed to be careful in how we took our witness's statements, and even more careful about how we collected evidence. One misstep by any one of the cops on this case, and those new laws that protect the innocent could be used by some slick defense attorney to get the case tossed.
Getting a case tossed on a technicality is always damn shame too, because it basically allows a guilty man to get off scott free. On the other hand jumping to the wrong conclusion, like I almost did on my first case, and an innocent man could end up riding the lightning. Doing this job right is a lot like walking tightrope.
As we rounded the turn onto Magnolia Street it wasn't hard to see which house was number four-twenty-four. A sea of flashing lights, and barricades of yellow tape surrounded the place. It all seemed strangely surreal. It isn't often that this sort of thing happens in the class of neighborhood we were in. I showed my badge to the officer at the barricade and he waived us through.
"Pull into the driveway Bill." I instructed my new partner as I slid the bubble light off the top of our unmarked unit and pointed to a uniformed officer. "That's O'Malley standing there at the edge of the garage."
"Got it Sarge." My young recruit spouted trying to sound official as he pulled in.
"Bill, if we're going to work together, you're going to have to call me by my name. The name is Joe, not Sir or Sarge."
"Sorry Sir... I mean got it Sarge." Bill didn't even crack a smile when he called me both Sir and Sarge again. I had to assume he said it as a joke. No one on the force could be that fucking dumb and still remember to breathe... but this guy had been saying stupid shit like that all night.
All I could do was shake my head, wondering how the hell a guy this dense ever made it through the academy. It must have been a slow day at the recruiting office. I know the force has test score standards, but in these first few hours of working together, I figured Bill to be about as dumb as a left handed nail.
