The Breakfast Club At 0630 hours the world was always there in spits and sputters of serious radio traffic, but they didn’t pay much attention to it anymore. What needed deciding was where they would go for breakfast. "Duffy’s?" offered George 212, leaning back in his chair. "Went there yesterday," mumbled George 265, eyes heavy with sleep. "How about the Caprice, then," George 202 put in. "I heard they weren’t police friendly anymore." "We went there last week and it was half price," responded George 212. "Caprice it is, then," There weren’t a lot of requirements to be on their breakfast list. "Police Friendly" was one. They could ill afford eating out every day if they had to pay full price for their food. There were those restaurants and cafes that gave them a break on the charges, happy for the security of a group of uniforms sitting through their breakfast rush. It helped if the waitresses were friendly, but it was important that the interior be well lit. This was nothing they actually thought about, but, if pressed, would probably reflect on how, with more than a hundred years of law enforcement experience between them, they preferred being able to see just whom they were sharing their space with. There was that. And something more. It needed to be warm. Warm. Well lit. Half price. And semi-edible food. That just about did it. "Here’s the ‘Items’ from last night," the Sgt. said, tossing some stapled papers on the worn, oatmeal-colored tabletop. "Bunch of CRS’s," he said. "Cars Reported Stolen." No one at the table moved to pick one up. "Don’t forget inservice training at the range," he continued undaunted. "You might check the date you signed up for." Then he shuffled some papers and looked up at the standard Government Issue clock on the wall. "Radios," he said, and everyone reached to their side to turn on the electronic boxes that linked them to the 911 system like giant umbilical cords. Pushing back from their chairs, they filtered slowly from the room. Out into the pre-dawn cold. "George 202 and a Backer. George 202 and a Backer. DOA. 1924 S Troost. Break" "Shit," George 202 mumbled to himself. "What’s the fuckin’ hurry? I mean, he’s dead, right? It ain’t like he’s goin’ anywhere. He’ll still be there after breakfast." Shaking his head, he reached for the mic, pulled it close and answered. "George 202." "George 202 and a car to back. See the lady. Florence Wilkerson. Complainant stated that she went outside to get her paper and saw what she believed to be her son, hanging in the garage." "Victor 286, I’m close," said a voice from the tinny radio speaker that drained the last hint of emotion from the short clipped phrases. "Victor 286, 10-4. Your time is 0705 hours." Victor 286, The Screaming Skull. George 202 admired the Skull for his intensity. Had actually participated in his naming. "Skull" from his appearance. Small and skeleton thin. The skin pulled so tight across his head, there was never enough to grow hair. A skull he was. The "Screaming" came from a bar fight George 202 had witnessed years ago. The bouncer, a moonlighting CruiserWeight boxer, refused to quit fighting, even after the troops had arrived. From nowhere Skull flew across the crowded room like a rabid alley cat and, with an inhuman howl, landed on the big man’s back. It was so unexpected everyone in the bar stopped fighting and stared as the big boxer twisted and turned, trying to see exactly what was clinging so tenaciously to his back. "Get this little Mother Fucker off me," he screamed. "What’s he doing back there?" The conjoined tandem bounced off tables and bar stools, the Skull still wailing. The bouncer, beginning to panic, screamed again. "Get him off me," he pleaded. "The Mother Fucker ain’t right. He ain’t right." Finally George 202 and another Uniform rescued the frantic fighter, placed him in handcuffs and sat him on a barstool. "Take these handcuffs off and we’ll see who’s the man," the bouncer said later to Skull as he walked by the shackled man. Skull stopped and turned to the boxer. Looked at him through sleepy, half closed eye lids "Had your chance. Couldn’t do ‘er," he said, ashes falling from the trademark cigarette hanging loosely from the corner of his mouth. Yes, Skull lived in a very literal world and George 202 respected that. It also meant that he brooked no nonsense. Maybe he’d get out of here in time to meet the guys for breakfast after all. "George 202. George 202. Be advised Nora 506 has been cleared." A chaplain. He was up early today, and so much the better. If the Skull, long a Detective, took charge of the body, and the Nora unit took charge of the grieving mother, maybe he could sneak in quietly, get the facts, and be gone before she knew what had hit her. Avoid complications. If he was going to make it to breakfast, he needed to avoid complications. Monotonous years of repetition came into play as he pulled the black and white to the curb. Releasing his seat belt a block away. Noiselessly easing the car door closed. Carrying his report holder in his left hand and his flashlight tucked under his left arm - always keeping his gun hand free. All of these things he did without thought. Details that had past beyond what he did to become what he was. Standing to the side of the door so he wouldn’t get shot when he knocked, George 202 was startled when the door flew open just as his knuckles made the first contact. "Oh, Officer," cried the lady in the heavy white robe. "Thank God you’re here." She threw open the screen and latched on to his arm, squeezing it painfully as she pulled him inside. "It’s Jimmy," she sobbed in a high pitched voice. "I think it’s Jimmy." He pulled away, trying to extricate his arm from her desperate grip. "Where is it?" "In the garage," she said. "He’s in the garage. I think it’s him. Oh, God, it’s him isn’t it?" George 202 looked around the small living room. Comfortable. Lived in, but clean. Well kept. "Where’s the garage?" he asked, looking back to the crying woman. "I’m sorry, Officer. It’s in here," she responded. "Through the kitchen." He followed her lead into the kitchen, warm from the oven’s heat, and thought again of breakfast. "Stay here," he said, pointing to a kitchen chair. "I’ll go look." He opened the door and the cold air from the unheated garage slapped him in the face. "Like a freezer out here," he mumbled to himself, pulling his coat tighter at the neck. Then seeing the figure hanging by the neck from an exposed rafter, he reflected on the appropriateness of that thought. Hanging victims always amazed him. He remembered his first as a rookie. Middle aged woman tied a rope to the inside door knob of her closet, threw the rope over the door, tied a knot in the other end, placed it around her neck and sat down. "Why didn’t she stand up?" the wild-eyed rookie had asked the veteran officer. "Me, I start choking, I’m gonna stand." The old veteran looked up at the rookie. "You ever hear the expression "Dead Man Walking’?" he asked. The rookie shook his head. "It’s an old expression they use in prisons in the South. When an inmate is making his last walk down the corridor toward the Chair, the guards call out, ‘Dead Man, Walking’." "Yeah?" the rookie said. "Same thing. This gal was dead before she ever put the noose over her head. Just a choice she made." For some time George 202 - he’d been a different number then, though he didn’t remember now what - had seen significance in this. Life or Death. Your choice. Now he was just thankful that the body touched the ground so it would be easier - and faster - to get it down. He walked over and touched the hand. Felt the peculiar cold rubber feeling of a body that has lost its warmth. George 202 always hated CPR training because he thought the rubber dummies felt too much like dead bodies. And who’d want to kiss a dead body, anyway? "We need EMSA?" Skull called through the open kitchen door. "Nah. DRT," George 202 answered. An old police expression, poking fun at the phrase for Dead On Arrival. DRT was much more appropriate for the kinds of calls they usually got. No shades of gray about it. It was Dead Right There. "M.E. on the way?" "Called him already," he responded, taking out his notebook and starting to write. "Didn’t get an ETA." George 202 climbed the ladder heavily, leaning close to study the knot. Thirteen careful coils. A perfect "Hangman’s Noose", designed to break a man’s neck. "When I was a kid, I used to try and tie this knot in everything," he said. "Never could get it right." He climbed up higher on the ladder and reached for the simpler knot that secured the body to the dusty 2x6 rafter. "Guess some people are just better at some things than others." "Lift up some more," he said to Victor 286, "I can’t get this knot undone." "Jesus Christ, man, hurry up. I’m breaking my back down here." George 202 bowed his head closer to the heavy sisal rope thrown over the rafter of the garage. "Your hands are shaking like a leaf," Victor 286 said, " You OK?" Grunting as he attacked the knot, George 202 mumbled, " Yeah. I just get like this when I don’t go to breakfast." "Ought to get your blood sugar checked," he said and George 202 said nothing. Sweat was popping on his brow as he let out a triumphant growl. "Got the damn thing," he said, letting the cold stiff body drop into the arms of the waiting detective. George 202 kept watch with the body as the detective went back to the welcome warmth of the kitchen. Began the meticulous process of note-taking that he’d developed over the years. Hundreds, probably thousands of notebooks were laid to rest in boxes in his own garage. Cold bare testament to gallons of blood in varying shades of brown and red, black and blue bruises, yellow bile and body fluids in too many shades to remember - all in black and white. Three of the things they’d beaten into him in the Academy. You always take good notes cause you’ll never remember the details no matter how real they seem at the moment. You always print so the Detectives can read your reports. And you always write in black ink because it copies better on the Department Xerox machines. Periodically his wife pleaded with him to throw out the boxes, but he ignored her. Maybe he’d need them someday. An eerie wail filtered through the garage door, distracting him from his task. For a moment he wondered what it must be like to lose a son. A real son. Someone you loved and nurtured for eighteen years. The only child his wife and he had ever had - the son he’d wanted so desperately in the early years of their marriage - had died at birth. "Turned wrong." "Cord around his neck." He’d heard the Doctor’s phrases, but they made no more sense to him then than now. They tried for a while to have more children, but it never worked. His wife finally went to a Doctor who could find nothing wrong with her. George 202 refused to go. He didn’t trust Doctors anymore. After a while they just gave up. And later he decided it was better, anyway. Glancing at the body on the hard concrete floor, he knew he was right. Shaking his head to clear these thoughts, he returned to the job of filling up one more notebook. Sometimes early in his career, he’d had dreams. Deep in the night things. Sometimes he’d wake up wet and shaking and his wife would hold him close until he’d relax in her arms and fall back into a restless, fitful slumber. Sometimes at first she’d ask him about these dreams in the morning. "I don’t remember," he’d tell her, and after a while he didn’t. Anymore, the dreams only came if he ate something spicy for supper. He popped a cherry flavored Tums in his mouth. Made a mental note to call the wife. Maybe they’d go out tonight. Then he retreated to the warmth of the house. Standing in the clean, well-lit kitchen reminded him of the Caprice. "George 202 to Ida 265," he mouthed, holding the radio close. "Go ahead," it crackled back. "10-20?" he asked, looking at the watch on his wrist. "Just leaving the parking lot," the disembodied voice came back. "Well, shit," he said under his voice. "Yeah, I thought so," he said into the radio, letting it fall into the well-worn holster on his hip. Then, thinking, he pulled the radio back out of its holster. "Ida 265, you still over here?" he asked. "Go ahead." "You decide on a date?" "Not yet," the radio sputtered. "OK," he uttered, setting the radio down on the clean worn surface of the kitchen table. They’d been trying for months to set a date for them to get together off-duty. Take a bus trip to one of the Indian Casinos up North. They just couldn’t find a date when they all could go. Sitting heavily at the table, he pulled a form from the dented aluminum box he’d carried with him for twenty-two years. "DOA/Apparent Suicide" he carefully printed at the top of the paper. Shook his head and sighed. "Damn I hate it when I don’t get to go to breakfast."
Copyright © 2003 Glenn G Deweese |