If you are following my story, you will know it’s about the love-hate relationship between Nick and Lily. Nick is typically English and reserved; Lily is typically American and extrovert. Nick’s parents were killed in an accident, he felt alone and set off in a camper van to tour England. He didn’t get very  far before he met Lily.

I have decided to write the story in the past tense. There is narration and I have decided the narrator should be omnipotent – the narrator knows all. I haven’t quite decided exactly how the narrator will tell the story though. The narrator can be quite dispassionate and have perfect English, but the narrator can be anything I want him or her to be. I read some tips for people writing fiction yesterday, I agreed with most of them except one. It said when you do dialogue use the word ‘said’. So I can say, “The weather looks nice today” said Nick. Rather than using, “The weather looks nice today” said Nick, looking out of the window. I prefer to not only tell the reader what the characters say, but try to describe how they say it and what they might be doing as they say it. This can be difficult, I don’t like using obscure words, the last thing I want is the reader reaching for the dictionary. I prefer not to use words like ‘exclaimed’ to describe how the dialogue said.

I read another possible tip for writers and that was to imagine your characters being played by famous actors in a film. That might work! Who would I have play Nick in my story? A younger version of Pierce Brosnan perhaps? Jennifer Aniston would make a good Lily, she is American. Keira Knightley seems English enough to play the flirtatious Victoria who flirts with Nick. The other male character is Mr Knight and I think Colin Firth would be ideal for that older admirer for Lily.

Mr Knight is the Lord of the Manor at the big house where Nick and Lily have arrived to visit Victoria, Lily’s friend from university.

I have decided that Nick will get a job working for Mr Knight as an assistant gardener at the big house. The head gardener is Matt who lives in the lodge with his wife Margaret and Victoria, his grand-daughter.

I have set the scene for a lot of dialogue as Victoria flirts with Nick and Mr Knight tries to seduce Lily. Characters need something in common and there needs to be conflict between characters. Matt and Nick will get on, they are both gardeners and will work together. Nick and Mr Knight will antagonise one another and only accept one another reluctantly. Mr Knight doesn’t want Nick to leave because that would mean Lily would go too; but sees him as a rival for her affections. There would be tension between Lily and Victoria too, despite their friendship they would be rivals for Nick’s affections.

“I am so glad you got the job as assistant gardener” Vicky smiled seductively at Nick, “We can all get to know one other properly now.”

“No need to get too friendly, Vicky” Lily said teasingly, “I remember you from uni, you had all the guys besotted”

“I’ll be glad of some help in the garden” Matt interrupted, “You can start tomorrow f you want Nick”

“That would suit me if it’s OK with Mr Knight” Nick replied, looking out at the garden, as if surveying it.

I think I need to improve the dialogue, but when you’re writing a novel, you immerse yourself in the plot and then it becomes easier to imagine what the characters might say. Before you can imagine what they might say, you have to imagine the characters and so I suppose imagining them as favourite film actors might help.

What do you think? Can you write a few lines of dialogue? Do you have an idea for an ante-climax for my story? Please comment and contribute towards it!

There are more blogs to read on the home page and over on a zillion ideas.

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If you’re following these blogs about writing a novel, then you will know the story is about Nick and Lily. Nick is typically English and a little reserved and Lily is American and extrovert. So far they have travelled in Nick’s camper van to Shropshire in England, after being thrown together by circumstances. That sounds plausible, doesn’t it?

We have to be imaginative, but still keep the story plausible. It is supposed to be an amusing story and most of the comedy will be in the dialogue.

“Take the next turning, left,” the sat nav instructed.

“Wow, this is narrow” Lily exclaimed excitedly.

“Applebury Manor should be along here on the left” Nick replied calmly.

“What happens if someone comes the other way and we’re  in the middle of the road?” Lily asked in a puzzled tone.

“We pull over to the left and hope they do too”

“Are any prayers involved in getting two vehicles to pass on these roads, because I’ll be praying!” Lily joked.

Nick turned into the long driveway and the black and white beamed gatehouse came into view. Victoria was outside the front door of the gatehouse waiting to meet them. It was a typical country cottage in a Tudor style, complete with hanging baskets overflowing with colourful blooms and roses around the door.

We have to set the scene before the next part of the story begins, before Nick and Lily meet Victoria and her grandparents. This part of the story where the scene is set for another story within the novel would come at the end of a chapter. Then the new chapter can begin with the introductions. Lily would introduce Nick to her friend Victoria and Victoria might introduce her grandparents to Nick and Lily. We can then establish the relationships between the five characters. Then at the end of that chapter perhaps set the scene for the introduction of Mr Knight, the Lord of the Manor from the big house. We already have some conflict between Nick and Lily, they have a love-hate kind of relationship despite the fact that they are attracted to one another. We can now introduce Victoria and she will be attracted to Nick and a rival for Lily, then later introduce Mr Knight as an antagonist to become an admirer for Lily.

We have to make the story interesting or better still fascinating, but also believable; plausible. What do you think? Does it sound plausible? What do you think will happen next? Can you imagine the characters? Matt, the calm and older gardener and his wife Margaret, would they be the voice of reason perhaps? Mr Knight would be trouble, using his wealth and position to impress Lily. How would he do that, do you suppose? We can stretch the imagination of the reader and make Mr Knight devious and a little dastardly! Can we shock the reader? I don’t think I’ll be using profanity just for effect, but we can perhaps break some social conventions to surprise the reader. I imagine, Mr Knight as having very questionable morals. What do you think?

There are more interesting blogs on the home page. Please comment if you like the story and I need more ideas. Do try to inspire me to write more!

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They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxxiv )

     THE SUN HAD RISEN ABOVE the neighboring homes and trees across the street. A ray sneaked through the sliver of spacing between the drapes of the bedroom window and fell on Lana’s face. She opened her eyes, then squinted from the beam’s irritation. She shifted her naked body toward the center of the bed to get out of its path, and stopped when she felt her back resting up against the skin of Terrance’s chest. He let out a low moan and his right arm crossed over her, resting on her shoulder. She moved in closer, now their bodies in full contact. His left hand and arm slid between her and the mattress; she was always surprised at his strength and ability to move her as if she were weightless. She took his hands in hers and brought them to her breasts.

     “Good morning,” she whispered, “where did all that energy come from last night?”

     He kissed the nape of her neck.

     “You wiped me out,” she said, “but I loved every minute of it.”

     “You can do that to me,” he said, “I’ve been missing this.”

     “I know,” she said, “we haven’t had any time for ourselves, not for a while.”

     “We’ve got time now,” he said, turning her over to face him.

     She could feel him growing, and he lifted himself. She moved underneath him and pulled him to her with her arms and legs, wanting to feel him inside, to be one with him. Their lovemaking was passionate and strong, and they remained in each others’ arms after climax, letting their chests naturally fall in sync with their deep breaths.

     She kissed his shoulder, “I’ll go make some coffee,” she said.

     “I’ll take care of it,” he said, “stay here as long as you like.”

     She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him one last kiss, “OK,” she agreed.

     He rose from the bed, then tucked the covers around her. He found his drawstring flannel lounge pants in a pile on the floor, where he had thrown them in haste the previous evening. He slid them on, then went to the closet and took out his robe and slippers. He donned the robe and tied its sash while he slid his feet into the fleece- lined moccasins. Getting out of the cozy bed caused a shiver, and he heard the air from the floorboard’s heat vent start, as he headed for the door.

     Lana heard the thumps of Terrance’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, as he descended to the first floor. She curled up into a fetal position, hugged a pillow, and enjoyed reliving the moment in her mind.

     Terrance went down the hallway and pushed the swing door open to the kitchen, where he found Parker, busy at the center island. Parker sat on a stool, deeply engrossed in the process of trying to get the strawberry syrup that was layered at the bottom of a glass to mix with the milk above it. Thoughts of mad scientist came to Terrance’s mind, as Parker swirled a spoon, causing a good portion of the milk to spill out of the glass onto the countertop.

     “Whoa, there, Doctor,” Terrance said, breaking Parker’s trance, “there’s got to be a better way.”

     Terrance went to an upper cabinet and opened its door. He removed another glass, then brought it over to the island, setting it down next to Parker’s.

     “You’re up early,” Terrance said, taking the filled glass and pouring its contents into to the new empty one, leaving only the syrup stuck to the bottom. He took the milk jug, still on the countertop, and poured a small amount onto the syrup, then stirred the red juice with the spoon until it dissolved, leaving a pink concoction.

     “Early? Daddy, it’s almost eleven o’clock,” Parker said, as he watched his father mix the liquids together, into the original glass.

     “Oh, shi..oot,” Terrance said, glancing at the clock, as he took the milk container and returned it to the refrigerator, then took a washcloth from the island’s sink, turned on the faucet and rinsed it, then wrung out the cloth and wiped the countertop clean. He rinsed the cloth once more and hung it over the middle divider of the double- sink.

     “You want some eggs?” he asked Parker.

     “Cap’n Crunch,” Parker said, finishing his first gulp, which left a pink mustache on his upper lip.

     “Get a bowl,” Terrance said, and Parker went to a cabinet, then removed a bowl from its shelf, and returned with it, placing it in front of him on the island.

     Terrance crossed to the pantry, took out the box of cereal, a coffee filter and the plastic cannister of grounds, then set them all on the island. While Terrance’s back was turned, Parker took a napkin, then removed the top to the cookie jar, located in the middle of the countertop. He took out two cookies, placed them next to the bowl, then covered the cookies with the napkin. Terrance noticed the opened cookie jar, as he scooped grounds from the cannister into the coffee filter.

     “That’s a pretty lumpy napkin you’ve got there,” Terrance said, lifting the paper to reveal Parker’s stash, “you planning on desert?”

     “They’re peanut butter,” Parker argued, “one of my favorites.”

     “Your mother would kill me,” Terrance said, then reasoned, “but peanuts have protein. Two…no more,” he placed the cover back on the jar, then took the filled filter and crossed over to the coffee maker on the countertop under the cabinets. He he lifted the lid on the coffee maker, then placed the filter and grounds into the top basket. He pulled the sprayer hose from the sink on that counter and filled the machine’s reservoir, flipped down the lid then pressed the brew switch. Parker poured the cereal into his bowl while Terrance took the milk out of the refrigerator.

     “How are you liking football practice?” he asked, as he added milk to the bowl, then returned the jug to the fridge.

     “It’s OK,” Parker said, “but can I ask you something?”

     “Sure.”

     “Did you ever wanna be quarterback?”

     “Every lineman does, son.”

     “Why din’cha?”

     “Well, sometimes you have to use the talents God gave you. I didn’t have those skills, but I was good at other things.”

     “Like kickin’ butt?”

     “Where did you hear that?”

     “Grampa T.”

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxxiii ) continues…

     The back of the shop emptied, the employees following Becker out the door. Sid shook his head and laughed, amused by the grown men acting like five- year- olds; Becker hadn’t had time for this in the last few weeks.

     Sid liked and respected Becker. There was the character he demonstrated, the Detective had never lost the soul of a beat cop. When Becker was around, he’d walk the neighborhood. He kept tabs. Like ninety- five percent of his comrades in the fraternity of ‘On the Job’, he took ownership of his duties to his City. He knew their names, their families, wanted to know what was going on in their lives. He cared and reacted when there was trouble. Locals had his cell number. Courtesy. Professionalism. Respect. It was the reason he carried a gold shield. He took pride in his responsibility to make a difference.

     Sid went to the doorway to watch the antics. The Detective nestled into the bucket seat behind the steering wheel and dropped the warm paper bag on the passenger seat. The Cobra ornament on the wheel’s center hub – poised in striking position, the reptile’s distinctive hood spread open on its back – gave Becker a fanged smile. He pulled the seatbelt across his chest and buckled it in, slid the key into the steering column’s ignition slot, and turned over the 5.4 Liter V8.

     He heard the whistles of approval from his audience, up until he revved the engine, drowning them out with a tailpipe roar that combined the growl of a Rottweiler with the turbine rumblings of an F-14 Tomcat. He felt the GT’s body instantly pitch clockwise’ when he tapped his right foot on the accelerator, throttling 480 foot- pounds of torque. He grasped the cue ball handle atop the chromed stick shift located in the floor’s center console with his right hand, and guided the rod toward him, then forward into first gear.

     He let the engine idle and pulled up his left foot on the clutch pedal, enough to initiate the Mustang’s slow crawl away from the curb into the middle of the street, then depressed the clutch back down toward the floorboard, letting the car ease into a stop. He checked forward, then in his rear view mirrors, confirming the street all clear. He turned to his onlookers and gave them a short salute, while his dark blue machine stretched its muscles with one long, throaty yawn.

     Becker turned forward once more and tightened his hands on the steering wheel, at 10:00 and 02:00.

     “This is so wrong on so many levels,” he grinned.

     He floored the accelerator pedal and released his left foot off the clutch simultaneously.  The 500 horses laid thirty feet of smoking Goodyear Eagles on the asphalt. Two new black strips replaced the faded patches, left from weeks prior.  Good morning, New York.

     We all have dreams, aspirations.  When these thoughts, passions, and desires penetrate our minds’ eye, we gravitate toward examples, models if you will, to teach us and inspire.  I still marvel at those with the ability to take the written word, and communicate to us in a way that tells a story, makes us laugh or cry, invites us to escape to other worlds.

     These two renderings hang on my wall; gentle reminders (sometimes irritating goaders) of what is possible.

     There are those moments, sitting at my desk in the middle of the night, the room pitch black, save the glow from the reading lamp; when the trash can is overflowing with crumpled drafts, or the only key on the laptop getting consistent use is “delete”.  I look at the wall, and press on.  Does this scenario sound familiar to anyone out there?  Drop a comment.

(For those of you new to this site, please click back to the July 16th posting, They Had the Right to Remain Silent (1), in the Archives section, where the tale of two New York City detectives begins.  Thanks for stopping by.  The story will proceed where we left off in my next post.)

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxxiii )

     BECKER ENJOYED SUNDAY MORNINGS IN THE CITY, especially in the Fall; the sweltering heat of summer forgotten, the air crisper and cleaner with the weekend’s reduced traffic, and, albeit not without a search, street parking. He wanted to pick up something for T and Lana as a ‘thank you’ for the dinner invitation. How long had it been, he thought, an actual sit- down meal?

     The job dictated his actions. He ate on the run. Coffee occupied the top group triangle on his food pyramid. At his apartment, dinner preparation fell under the ‘ten- minute rule’ and required a fork, knife, plate, and microwave; at times the plate was optional. The local Chinese take- out was on speed dial.

     He followed his Sunday early- morning ritual. He stopped at the bagel shoppe on 91^st, just as their business commenced. The temperature outside was still chilled enough from the night to see his breath. Becker found it difficult to remember it being this cold so early in the season from years past. He got out of the Mustang and shuffled across the sidewalk, the sky turning from black to grayish- blue, as the new dawn approached. The toasty ambiance – warm, water- simmered, baked dough, terra cotta tiles and hustling, flour- dusted bakers in their white T- shirts and aprons – caressed him the moment he opened the door of this hole- in- the- wall storefront, its windows veiled with condensation. He made his way to the counter, using the narrow path which led to it from the entrance, since ninety percent of the customer area was lined with paper grocery bags. Addresses were written in magic marker on their sides; the contents were ready for deliveries to apartment houses filled with The New York Times readers, anxious to apply a schmear of cream cheese.

     Becker’s was the first face they saw come through the door, on the day most of the city chose to sleep in late.

     “Morning, gentlemen,” he said.

     “Heads up, Detective,” was the only forewarning to a ‘holey roll’ lobbed his way over the counter, fresh from the stone- lined oven. The dough still hot and pliable, the employees got a kick out of Becker’s habit – he squeezed the handful down to the size of a golf ball, then ate it in two bites.

     He ordered his variety of twelve and Sid, the owner, dropped two more into the bag; a ‘Becker’s dozen’, Sid called it, chuckling at his own pun. Becker paid, then turned to navigate his way through the bags toward the door.

     “Hey, Detective, ya gonna do it?” a voice from the ovens yelled.

     Becker checked his watch and turned, “OK, Sid?”

     “We got a lotta work heeya, make it quick,” Sid replied.

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxxii ) continues…

     Terrance and Becker met with the Captain and Mrs. Elaine Bradford just outside the viewing room. Brief introductions were made and they entered. This area’s ambiance was diametric to the atmosphere of the space occupied by Doctor Newsome and the lifeless body. Indirect sconce lighting gave warm illumination off the beige- cream paint, the walls decorated with oil originals depicting forests of solitude and moonlit ocean waves. Footsteps and voices were tempered by the burnt umber carpeting. Molasses- hued leather sofas and club chairs offered comfort to the anguished.

    Peace and ice. Serenity and reality. Hope and despair. Heaven and hell. The spectral opposites, separated by a quarter- inch of glass and closed drapes.

     As the Captain described the process, preparing Mrs. Bradford on what to expect, Becker analyzed. Five foot- seven, late twenties. Athletic body. Feather- cut blond hair framing the high cheekbone face. Designer quality clothing. With the right makeup, under different circumstances, definitely a trophy wife, he thought. But today, Becker observed a face pale and gaunt, with dark semi- circles under the eyes. This face told the story of the last few days being a roller- coaster ride of worry, anger, anguish, and apprehension. Her moves were cautious, fearful of what was to come next. She held her clutch- purse tightly, arms criss- crossed against her chest.

     Biting her lower lip, Elaine took small, deliberate steps toward the window. The Captain stood on her right side, Becker and Terrance directly behind the pair. She could see a faint reflection of her face floating the a haze of darkness, like an image in a crystal ball. Mirror, mirror, a voice inside her whispered. Flashing fragments of her brief life with Owen, jumbled like a kaleidoscope, raced through her mind. Her chest tightened and needles poked at the pit of her stomach.

     She turned her head to face the Captain. She forced a deep breath, holding it, and gave Berry a short jerky up- and- down nod, then turned back to the window. Let this be a mistake, she prayed.

     Eric heard the rapping on the glass and pulled back the curtain. He stood frozen, watching the young woman shriek NO!, cover her face with both hands and sob violently. Eric saw her shoulders heave and her body becoming spasmodic. Her knees buckled, but he witnessed Mason and Marshall catch her before she fell. He saw them assist her to one of the club chairs as he slung the curtain over the window, then ran into Autopsy to get a cup of water and tissues for the now- confirmed widow. Years of work in Forensic Science had not calloused Eric to humanity. But, on these occasions, it was so much simpler dealing with the dead, Eric thought.

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxx ) continues…

     “Doctor Newsome followed me in,” Berry said, examining the appearance of the two, “give me Mrs. Bradford’s phone number and address. I’ll pick her up.”

     “No need Captain, we can do it,” Becker offered.

     “Right now, you both look like shit,” Berry replied, “four days nonstop tends to have that effect. Have you gotten any sleep?”

      “Not much,” Terrance said, looking over toward Becker. His partner gave the impression he’d slept in his clothes. His Captain’s attire — dark suit, starched white shirt, silk tie and spit- shined shoes – was as crisp as the Marine ‘dress blues’ Berry donned while in the Corps.

      “I have nothing but the utmost respect for your dedication, gentlemen,” Berry said, glancing down and noticing the newspaper on Becker’s desk, with its splash back cover about the Marquis.

      “This case is already getting attention from all angles.”

     Becker handed Mrs. Bradford’s information to Berry.

     “All right, you two get to the lockers and clean up a bit. I’ll meet with you and the doctor for identification. If it’s positive, we’ll make a judgment call on questioning her right then, or later.”

     Berry picked up the newspaper, “You mind?”

     “All yours,” Becker said, as he and Terrance headed for the door.

     Berry walked to his office and tossed the NYC Bulletin on the top of his desk, then picked up the receiver, and dialed Mrs. Bradford’s home number.

Chapter ( xxxi )

     TERRANCE ALWAYS KEPT an extra set of clothing in his locker. Becker had a sport coat.

     “It’ll cover some wrinkles anyway,” he muttered, pulling out his kit then heading for the sinks. Terrance changed, then joined Becker to shave.

     “The Captain’s a good guy, doing that,” Terrance said.

     “Yeah,” Becker agreed, “I don’t envy him the trip.”

     “We’ll probably be the transport home,” Terrance reminded.

     They gave each other a quick look through the mirrors and finished shaving.

Chapter ( xxxii )

     ERIC PULLED THE LEVERED HANDLE DOWNWARD. The gasket made a gentle pop as its seal released and the Medical Examiner swung open the three- foot square door. The frigid breeze wafted across his face. He grabbed the thin steel tube just inside the opening with both hands and walked backward. The metal slab slid smoothly on the telescoping framework attached to its sides. Now fully extended, it rested horizontally in mid- air, four feet above the floor.

     Eric rolled a gurney parallel to the left side of the slab, pushed them together and locked the gurney wheels. He leaned over the gurney, grasping the edges of the sheet lying beneath the body and dragged it toward him, transferring the corpse.

     He drew back the sheet covering Bradford, examining the ragged black hole and exposed chest cavity. Something is odd, just doesn’t fit, he pondered, his mind hashing over the conundrum these unfamiliar patterns of damage presented; challenging his expertise.

     “I’ll figure you out,” he said, replacing the sheet over the body.

     He wheeled the gurney through Autopsy into an adjoining six- by- ten room. It was empty, walls and ceiling painted a glossy stark white, which intensified the overhead lighting. The dark green vinyl tile flooring squeaked with each of Eric’s steps. There was a window that ran across one of the long walls, allowing observation from the viewing room on the opposite side of the glass. Eric spread the black curtain along its top rod until the window was covered entirely. He then turned to the body and folded the sheet back to expose the victim’s face. He tucked the flaps under the shoulders, concealing any sign of the fatal wound.

     The tinny crackle of the intercom unit on the wall interrupted, “Doctor Newsome?”

     Recognizing the voice, Eric went to the unit and pressed the TALK button, “Yes Captain.”

     “We’re on our way down.”

     “I’m ready, just knock,” Eric replied.

A special thank you, to those who served in the NYPD eleven years ago today….

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxx )

     HOMICIDE CAPTAIN MICHAEL BERNARD BERRY had been with NYPD for fourteen years. He created his own fast- track, straight out of the Academy, driven to earn a gold shield and move up the ranks. He approached everything as one big classroom. While a uniformed officer, he studied the streets during his watch as fervidly as he devoured the police procedure manuals and tomes regarding Law, when off- duty. Historic accounts of the Force and its role in New York culture, politics and psychology were casual reading. He bled Blue.

     Application is the Key a personal mantra; you took what you knew and put it to use on the streets. Through tours in Vice, Narcotics and finally Homicide, his education never waned.

     But Mike possessed the quality anyone ‘on the job’ swore you were born either with or without. ‘Hunch’, ‘street- smart’, and ‘gut feeling’ were simplifications that described the innate characteristic of taking complicated scenarios and breaking them down to bare bones. His record spoke for itself– he solved tough cases and the bad guys did time.

     Jealousies of his progress, held by a handful, but respect was high from the members of any precinct with which Mike had association.

     Standing just under six feet, administrative duty had allowed for a little thickening, but visits to the gym, religiously three times a week, kept him a solid one hundred- ninety pounds. Coarse jet- black hair of medium length was brushed straight back on his head. Crystal clear emerald eyes sat below thick brows. His Roman nose took a slight detour at the bridge; a remnant from a literal ‘face- to- face’, tangling with a violent wife- abuser who was hopped- up on Meth. Both his nose and the junkie got busted.

     His beard was heavy, something he’d dealt with from the age of thirteen. He put it to work in undercover Narcotics, and let it grow wild. Coupled with shoulder- length hair, it topped off the ensemble of ratty unwashed clothes. His personage allowed him infiltration to crack houses. First he gained the trust of small- time dealers, then he parlayed their confidences to set up a sting operation. The target was a Columbian drug lord who enjoyed a reputation for being untouchable. Mike was point man, spearheading the bust that ignited simultaneous raids throughout the city. It didn’t bode well with the Feds, but the upstaging collar scored huge points at One Police Plaza. Now clean- shaven, Mike kept a Braun in his office, to remedy the five- o’clock shadow that appeared by eleven every morning.

     He aced exams and promotions followed, to Sergeant and Lieutenant, where his reputation grew as a leader with no hidden agendas. When the previous captain transferred, opportunity and preparedness met for Mike, though some called it luck, as his advancement jumped over the seniority of others conventionally considered next in line. But he knew his territory, and he could deal with any who called it home; from street vendor to societal elite.

     He analyzed the personnel ‘jackets’ of all in his charge, considering their assets and shortcomings. Improvement was mandatory. Some opted out, realizing status quo an anathema to the new Captain, and transferred to other precincts. Those who stuck with him became razor sharp, emulating the man in the office at the end of the squad room.

     Now he stood in front of Detectives Becker and Marshall, his Thinking Man’s Dog and Goliath.

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxix ) continues…

     Pam set the easel against the front of her desk. She picked up a small pile of loose- leaf papers from her countertop.

     “Here are the notes I took on other details,” she said, handing them to Terrance, “height, weight, clothing, body type…that sort of thing.”

     “You are thorough Pam, make no mistake.” Terrance said, then passed them on to Becker.

     Becker held up the papers, “Thanks for going the extra mile, Pam.”

     “Anytime, Mason,” she said.

     They stood looking at each other; neither knew what to say next, in the uncomfortable presence of Terrance and Pete, but tried to savor the moment.

     Terrance broke in, “Well, Pete, let’s get you back downstairs to go over a few more details.”

     Terrance put a hand on Pete’s shoulder and led him out of the office, while the Detective glanced back at the couple.

     “Thanks again, Pam,” Becker said.

      “Drinks again, sometime?”

     “Yeah, OK. We’ll probably be twenty- four seven on this case, though.”

     “You’re married to the job, I know. And you are legend for being the pit bull of the department. But you need a break once in a while, Mason.”

     “We’ll talk.”

     “You have my number.”

     “Right.”

      Becker started to leave. She lightly touched his arm.

     “And I have yours.”

     “I’ll call.”

     Becker entered the squad room, which now included other detectives at their desks. They were on their phones or laptops, and played catchup from the prior weekdays’ work. The aromatic whiff of freshly brewed coffee floated in from the break room. Becker’s body reacted to the scent like a junkie about to score a fix. He heard soda can tops snapped simultaneously and turned to see Terrance and Pete were the source.

     “Everything OK?” Terrance called to Becker.

     Becker recognized that grin from before.

     “Drop it, T,” he said, “I’ll be right there.”

     Terrance swiveled towards Pete.

     “All right, you said this woman had on a lot of makeup?”

     “Sort of…I mean, her eyes were OK, and from a short distance she was fine. But up close, her whole face, you know, what some women start with, what do they call it?”

     “A base foundation,” Terrance suggested.

     “The base,” Pete said, and tapped his index finger on Terrance’s desktop for emphasis, “that was enough to cover all the pores smooth.”

     “Anything else?”

     “I noticed her hands. The nails were short, but polished. It was the hands themselves. They looked like they did manual labor, kind of rough on the palm side. She hid them whenever she could.”

     Becker entered the room, mug in hand, then sat on his desktop, and faced Pete. Terrance continued.

     “Did she bring any luggage?”

     “Just one pull- along.  She didn’t want assistance with it. I mentioned it seemed small for three days. She said she intended on doing some clothes shopping while in town.”

     “She showed you a license from California. You sure?”

     “It was more like flash than show, I barely saw the state, but it was California. It was busy and I was all alone at the desk. I’m sorry.”

     “Water under the bridge, Pete. You’re doing fine. What else?” Becker said.

     “I asked if she came to New York often. She said it was the first time, on business. Computers. That’s why her rough hands didn’t make sense.

     “And first- timers usually ask directions, places to eat, you know. Not her.”

     “Now, she gave you the envelope for Owen and went upstairs. Did she call the desk for anything?” Terrance continued.

     “Not that I know of. She even ordered the champagne and dinner right then. I suggested calling room service, but she was adamant. And with the champagne, she wanted it immediately, but have it left at the door. Then she handed me five dollars to give the server. ‘Just knock and leave’, were her instructions.”

     “Didn’t that seem odd to you?” Becker asked.

     “We get eccentric types, Detective,” Pete said, “there was an artist who stayed here while opening a show at one of the galleries. He wanted a fresh bowl of jelly beans daily. Guess who got the honor of picking out all the red ones, before sending it to his room! We cater to a lot of weird requests. What can I say? Money gets what money wants,” Pete said with a shrug.

     “How about the dinner?” Terrance followed.

     “The order was to be there at seven that evening. Just knock and drop. Another five bucks for the tip. The meal was quirky too.”

     “How so?”

     “It was off the menu. She placed fifty dollars on the desk and asked to be accommodated. I checked with the chef and that was that.”

     “What was the order?”

     “Steak Tartar.”

     Becker’s phone rang. Captain Berry had arrived and was on the way up.

     “Pete,” Terrance said, “you’ve been really helpful. Here’s my card. Anything else comes to mind, don’t hesitate.”

     Becker shook Pete’s hand, but didn’t release it.

     “One other thing we need to ask of you,” Becker said, “there are some papers running stories already on almost nothing but speculation. We work on facts. Understood?”

     Pete’s eyes widened and he nodded.

     Becker continued, “Bits and pieces to the press make our job harder to nail down those facts. No Comment always works for me. What do you think?”

     “No Comment,” Pete echoed.

     Becker shook the hand once more and finally let go.

     “See the Sergeant at the desk on the first floor. He’ll set you up with a ride back to the car you left at the hotel last night. Thanks again.”

     As he left the squad room Pete kept opening and closing his right hand, letting the blood flow return. He opened the door and Captain Berry walked through.

     “Thanks,” Berry said, and headed straight toward the two detectives.

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxix ) continues…

     “We could go downstairs and root through what the investigators brought from the hotel,” Terrance suggested.

     “The lab guys probably haven’t even started on it yet.” Becker countered.

     “We could just look for the obvious…”

     “We can’t postpone it anymore, T,”

     “I know, I know. I’ll call the Captain.” Terrance acquiesced.

     Becker’s cell phone rang. He looked at the display. He saw the ID, and it triggered in him a mix of emotions.

     “Becker.”

     “We’re close, Mason. You may want to check on the progress,” she said.

     “OK Pam, we’ll be right up.”

     He snapped the phone shut and looked over at Terrance. His partner was finishing the call to the Captain.

     “Berry said he’ll be here within an hour. He’s calling Doc in now to prep the body for a family identification.”

     “I’ll call Missing Persons back to get the number and address on the wife. We probably won’t get anything from his workplace until Monday. You head upstairs, Pam’s got something for us.”

     Terrance went back upstairs and opened the office door. There he found Pam seated, her knees supporting a lap easel. She was working on the computer rendering with a mechanical pencil.

     Pete was pacing behind her, and stopped momentarily to inspect her efforts.

     “No, still a little more shadow there,” he said, and pointed beneath one of the eyes in the picture.

     “Yeah, that’s good,” he said, then clapped his hands, “that should do it.”

     He sat down in his chair, sprawled out as if he’d finished a marathon.

     “Mr. Sheffield has been very descriptive,” she told Terrance, though she never took her eyes off the board.

     She continued to make light strokes on the sketch using a 9H graphite, then slid the pencil behind her ear and picked up an artist’s paper stump to blend in skin- like shading.

     Becker joined them as Pam turned the easel around for inspection.

     “Ms. Adams, you have a true gift. It looks like a photograph,” Terrance complimented.

     Pamela Adams was the best Forensic Artist in the city and was also an instructor in the craft. Her renditions were three- dimensional, jumping off the page. The common suspect sketches of other artists gave the features of a face, but for expediency they relied mainly on the laundry list of components downloaded in the computer’s data base. The eyes especially, were always lifeless. Pam’s portraits were a quantum leap. She honed her talents by asking the right questions, garnering the answers, and transforming them into a collective illustration. For the small amount of extra time invested, Pam’s finished product gave the viewer not only a lifelike portrait, but a sense of what her subject was thinking.

     Becker stared in silence. He scanned the woman’s face on the easel. Impressions ran through his head. Comely. Intelligent. Protective? Calculating. A core of ice.

     “What do you think, Mason?” Pam asked.

     “It’s very good,” he said, absorbed in the picture, “and eerie at the same time.”

     Becker heard the swoosh of blood as it pulsed past his ears, and had a sour taste in the back of his throat, the longer he gazed at the woman, whose eyes seemed to be looking straight into him. He forced himself to break away, from the grasp those eyes held. He recovered and felt the uneasiness subside, and looked directly at Pam.

     “It’s very good,” he repeated.

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxix ) continues…

     The room was still. Terrance could hear the weak whooshing of air passing through a vent somewhere overhead. He turned to the sound. A sunbeam sliced across from a window, into the corner of the room furthest from their desks. Dust particles hung in suspension, slowly being drawn into the turbulence caused by the air stream that came from the vent, like the rip current on the shoreline of an ocean. He recalled Lana teaching Parker about the undertow at Rockaway Beach; not fighting the rush of water head- on, but taking a different angle to escape it’s clutches. Then he thought of only Lana, and what would have happened if she came back to bed this morning. His muscles were sore, tense and shaky. They were mounting their own private protest against sleep deprivation. Terrance closed his eyes, for only an instant, he thought.

     “T!” Becker’s voice broke in.

     Terrance straightened up in his chair and looked over the desks to Becker.

     “Do I look as bad as you?”

     Becker raised his head from his notes, giving Terrance the once- over. “Probably…this has been one long week,” he said, as he raked his fingers from front- to- back through his hair, “California DOT has no record of an E. Genver in their driver database. Big surprise. I wish CSU found something to go on, in those dumpsters,” Becker said.

     Terrance sniffed a laugh.

     “Those investigators were pretty pissed, you screwing up their Friday night,” Terrance said.

     “You were there,” Becker argued, “I bought them all breakfast.”

     Terrance laughed harder. “Mase, a couple boxes of donuts does not a breakfast make.”

     “OK, Rockefeller, next time you buy and we’ll hit Tavern on the Green…” Becker said, then looked down at his notes, “Asshole.”

     Terrance slammed his hand on the desk. He roared, and tears started to roll down his cheeks from his squinted eyes. It was contagious. Becker couldn’t fight it and joined in.

     “You didn’t seem to mind. I saw you pound three powder- coated!” Becker yelled. “You looked like Scarface at the end of the movie!”

     “Say hello to my leetle fren,” they blurted simultaneously, each holding air- machine guns.

     Terrance whooped. Becker laughed himself into a coughing fit.

     “Dinner tomorrow better be one hell of a fucking spread there, Emeril Cordon bleu.” Becker wheezed.

     They were sleep- drunk, and the tension of the last few days finally opened its release valve to drain. They sat, like rag dolls, caught their breaths and wiped their faces. They had escaped, taken a vacation if only for a moment. It’s what kept them sane, while insanity hovered around them on a daily basis.

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxix ) continues…

     “What’s that with you and Pam?” Terrance asked.

     “What?” Becker replied, then shook his head, “Nothin’.”

     “Haven’t seen you in a while. Your phone number still the same?” Terrance continued the interrogation.

     Becker sighed, “We went for drinks one night after work. Spur of the moment thing. We exchanged phone numbers, that’s all.”

     “And you called her?”

     “Nope.”

     “Did she call you?”

     “Left a couple of messages.”

     “And you returned the calls?”

     Becker stared at the phone.

     “Didn’t think so,” Terrance grinned. “I’ll bet you get a another call, real soon…”

     “I don’t really want to talk about…

     “Yeah, this is Detective Becker, Badge 7475. Color of the day is green. I want to find out about any calls Wednesday through today on a Caucasian male, approximately thirty years of age…

     “Manhattan first, then the rest of the boroughs…

     “Yeah, I’ll hold…”

     He felt the stare coming from the other desk. Terrance’s Cheshire smile and raised eyebrows made furrows across the Black man’s shaven head.

     “This isn’t going anywhere, T,” Becker said with an embarrassed half- laugh.

     “Yeah, I’m still here…” Becker said into the receiver. He pulled out a notepad, “OK, go ahead…”

     “And when was this?…

     “Wait, there were two different calls placed for the same guy?…

     “Where does he work?…

     “Yeah, I might. I’ll get back to you…

     “All right, much appreciated.”

     The smirking wrinkles were gone from Terrance’s head, replaced with downward chevrons across his brow.

“Got something?”

     “Call came in on Thursday. A real estate attorney by the name of Owen Bradford.” Becker answered. “I took a look at the suit our victim was wearing before CSU bagged it. Definitely not off- the- rack. I’m thinking this is our Owen.”

     “You want to call down to Forensics, to see if the Doc’s in?” Terrance asked.

     “If he isn’t, I’m sure Berry will be getting him down here.”

     “This Bradford, his workplace reported it?”

     “Yeah.”

     “And?”

     “His wife.” Becker started to dial again.

     Terrance leaned back in his chair. “God, I hate this part of the job.” he sighed.

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxix )

     TERRANCE AND BECKER ESCORTED PETE up to the detective squad room on the third floor and met with sketch artist Pamela Adams. The room was otherwise unoccupied. She sat on the corner of Becker’s desk, and flipped through pages of the N Y C Bulletin.

     “Pam,” Becker stuttered, “haven’t seen you in some time. How did you get so lucky to pull a Saturday?”

     “It has been a while, Mason. I’ve stayed pretty busy, but your Captain Berry approved the time. Sounds like he wants this case over and done fast.”

     She handed the newspaper to Becker, with the back page facing him.

     “MADAM GOES MAD AT MARQUIS” blared across the sheet in white block letters. Behind the words, a full- page picture of the hotel, the crowd and the vehicle lights flashing.

     “Yellow- shit journalism,” Terrance grumbled. “Maybe they can tell us who the victim is and who did it. Save us a whole lot of time.”

     “The Marquis people have political ties. The Captain’s getting heat from upstairs.” Becker explained. He tapped Pete on the shoulder. “This gentleman is going to fill in some gaps.”

     “Let’s go to my room upstairs and we’ll start with a computer rendering,” Pam said, leading the way.

     As they headed up the staircase, Pete leaned toward Terrance.

     “She’s a babe,” he whispered.

     “She’s very talented at her job. You just keep remembering,” Terrance said, then realized Pete’s low vantage point, with Pam already past the landing and climbing the second set of steps, “and keep those eyes down.”

     Once on the fourth floor, Pam opened the door to an office across from the staircase and turned on her computer. It sat on a counter which ran along one wall of her office, perpendicular to her desk. She sat in front of the keyboard and pulled a chair to the left side of hers, then offered it to Pete. She clicked an icon for a program having a split screen, both sides blank. She typed in ‘female’ in the top field and outlines of various faceless heads, running in rows, filled the right side of the screen.

     “We’ll start with the basic contours of the head and face, and fill in the details like a puzzle, Pete,” she said, scrolling through the images on her computer monitor, “after that, we’ll print out the rendering and I’ll make the subtle nuances by hand, based on what you tell me,” she explained, then turned to the detectives standing behind her, “this will take a little while, if you’ve got other things to check on guys,” she said, then added, “I’ll call you when we’re done. Your phone number still the same Mason?”

     “Yeah.”

     “OK, lets get to work, Pete.”

     Becker and Terrance left the office and headed back down a flight to their desks, that were butted together, facing each other in the middle of the squad room. Becker dialed the phone for Missing Persons and was put on hold.

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxviii )

     From: 1momintheburbs@zoomba.com

     To: pixdust123@hello.com

          Marcia- haven’t talked in a long, long while. Are you keeping busy? New stuff for me to check out in the shoppe? I need a new top,     something to make me dazzle! LOL

     pixiedust123: Plenty, Jill. I’m already thinking about a couple for you to try on right now! How are the kids? Did Mike get the promotion?

     1momintheburbs: The kids are great. I’m back to ‘normal’ crazy, now that they’ve been back to school for several weeks Mike got it, the promotion I mean, but he’s putting in a lot more hours. He says it will get better soon. The money’s better, I can tell you that

You got the invite, are you going?

     pixiedust123: Already sent back the RSVP. Same day I got it. You?

     1momintheburbs: Ditto for me. I was surprised it’s paid for. It’s going to cost a mint! Mike’s company had a conference at the Bradley Hotel. He was involved with the setup, since New York is the home office, so he saw all the invoices. They dropped thousands for one day. This reunion includes the banquet, an overnight, and brunch!

     pixiedust123: Did you hear who’s footing the bill? Rumor is Trent Bayberry! Can you believe it?

     1momintheburbs: He can afford it, I’m sure. I’m surprised, really. In school he always acted like everybody owed him. He and his entourage thought they were the Second Coming!

     pixiedust123: Well, they were the state football champs senior year. It was pretty wild.

     1momintheburbs: You went out with one of them, didn’t you?

     pixiedust123: yeah, Tony,something. OMG He was a hottie!

     1momintheburbs: And how long did that last?

     pixiedust123: I know where this is going.

     1momintheburbs: Until he got in your pants.

     pixiedust123: I prefer to remember it as me getting into his pants.

Nice ass

     1momintheburbs: They were all asses! Like they were above everybody, especially the girls. The ringleader was Bayberry. What was their motto?

     pixiedust123: fuck ‘em and chuck ‘em

     1momintheburbs: Exactly. You ask me, Bayberry is putting this on to make his own showcase. Try to rub it in faces, now that he’s pro and all. He probably expects that classmates will line up for autographs. He’ll probably charge for them too, try to get some of his money back.

     pixiedust123: Now that you know this, you still going?

     1momintheburbs: Of course, because I want to see all the peeps I liked and care about. Like you, girlfriend! And now I really plan on partying, on Bayberry’s dime! LMAO

pixiedust123: You know it! Do you think Brock will show?

1momintheburbs: Brock?

     pixiedust123: Brock Ellington. You think he’ll feel comfortable enough after all this time has passed?

     1momintheburbs: OMG I remember him as “Beebs”! I don’t believe I totally blanked on his real name.

I don’t know, it was so horrible for him. Can you imagine? Hanging there all night. I still think it was some of the football players did it.

      pixiedust123: Nothing got proved. Brock didn’t identify anyone. I really liked Brock in the school plays. He was fun and fun to be around. I cried a long time. He was never the same guy after that, right through graduation. Just fell of the face of the earth

     1momintheburbs: Could you blame him? Those pictures showing up all over school? Salt in the wound, you know?

     pixiedust123: I remember, “Touchdown Jesus”. I hope he comes. I’ll be the first to give him a big hug. Maybe he’ll come in disguise. Remember when he made himself up as a substitute teacher for a week and nobody guessed it? He took it off at the pep rally on stage. He was a riot!

     1momintheburbs: He had to have help with that getup and the makeup. Maybe the guy who always hung around with him. Do you remember his name? Beebs was sooooo real! I remember I actually handed in an assignment he made everybody do during a study hall. He graded them and gave them back to us by the end of the week before he took the disguise off. Remember? He took it off like a striptease.

A lot of football players were pissed because it was their rally and their stage and here’s this little gay guy getting all the cheers. That’s why I think they did it. But I do hope he shows up too.

I’d get in line to give him a hug.

     pixiedust123: Well, it’s just one week away. October 14. I’ve been dieting since the invite came in the mail. Baby girl, I gotta run, customers are waiting.

     1momintheburbs: I’ll drop in on Monday. Have those tops ready for me. Maybe I’ll get a new dress for the “Bayberry Show”. Mike just got a raise, right? TTFN

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxvii ) continues…

     Becker looked at the paper, “Peter Sheffield, 1395,” he read. “I called him this morning. He said he’d wait at the corner of 96^th and 11^th.”

     Peter was standing on the southeast corner. His eyes were clearer than the night before, and they now widened, as the car pulled to the curb. His expectation was of a more conservative ride to the station house. Terrance let him into the back seat.

     “How you feeling today Mr. Sheffield?” Terrance asked as they pulled out onto the street.

     “Better. Sorry about last night. Please, call me Pete.” he replied.

     “How’s the memory, Pete?” Becker asked.

     “Owen,” Pete blurted.

     “You just said ‘Pete‘.”

     “Owen was the name, on the envelope,” Pete said, moving up on the edge of the backseat, poking his head between the two front buckets.

     “That’s good man, real good,” chimed Terrance, pulling out his notepad.

     “Still no last name?” asked Becker.

     “No. Just Owen,” Pete confirmed.

     “All right, do you remember more about the woman?”

     “Yeah, the redhead.”

     “Right. Think you can describe her?”

     “She was about five- foot nine or ten. Decent bod,” Pete said.

     “We’ll need something a little more specific, Pete,” Terrance added.

     “Right, right. Sorry. She was fit, looked like she worked out,” Pete said, as the picture formed in his mind. “She was in a business suit with a skirt. Well defined calves, you know, like a runner. She carried herself nicely in those heels. Wait, she had high heels on, so she was shorter,” Pete corrected.

     “I’ll make a note of it,” Terrance continued to jot down the description.

     Traffic was light the rest of the way, people out of town for the weekend. Becker parked by the station house.

     “OK, Pete,” Becker said, and turned toward the backseat, “we’re going to hook you up with a sketch artist to get a make- up of her face.”

     “Yeah, lots of makeup,” Pete agreed.

     “No, no. A make- up, a rendition of the face,” Becker clarified.

     “No sir. I’m saying this woman was wearing a ton of makeup. Real Glamour type, you know?”

     Terrance opened his door and got out of the car, then pulled his bucket seat forward and Pete followed.

     “Just keep remembering,” Terrance said.

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxvii )

     The group of teen-aged boys headed east on 96^th Street towards Central Park. A nucleus of only five players near Riverside Drive, they grew in number with each block traveled.

     “I’m open!” one yelled, as he darted out between parked cars onto the asphalt in a sprint. The football spiraled high overhead and well in front of him. His arm stretched forward in full extension. The strain on his shoulder socket caused his long guttural groan in response to the burning pain, while still in full gallop. His knuckles were white; fingers fully spread open.

     With one last thrust of his arm, he pulled in the single- handed grab on a dead run. He held the ball up high and proceeded to celebrate with a dance that was a combination Michael Jackson moonwalk, and the Funky Chicken. This brought trash talk from the others, and horns from traffic on this main thoroughfare.

     The group had an unspoken but rigidly kept protocol, which included a rotation in duties. This allowed them to warm up for the game while traveling; like a band of helter- skelter nomads, as they progressed to the green fields of the Park. The player with the ball was the quarterback, and would launch the next missile into the street. One was a lookout, checking for gaps in traffic. The others blindly placed their lives in his hands, as he would yell ‘OK’, and signal a chance for the them to sprint down the pavement; all eyes skyward, as they searched for a spiraling pigskin, oblivious to the tons of motorized vehicles that sped their way in both directions. Whoever caught the ball became the next passer, while the last QB became the spotter.

     “Oh!” the current ball keeper shouted, as he took on the role of his own sportscaster, “Bayberry fades back to the twenty- five yard line, looking down the field!”

     “OK,” yelled the former QB, now in his spotter role, having checked the street both ways.

     This gave cue to the others, who sprinted down the street with arms raised for the pass. The boy let the ball loose. Four would- be receivers collided in midair. The ball deflected off their hands and plopped into the chest of another player, outside the fray of intermingled bodies. Once again, the obligatory gyrations were performed, as everyone dashed to the safety of the sidewalks, responding to the blaring horns and cursing drivers.

     This ritual continued down the street as the number of participants grew to over twenty. 96^th came alive through the adolescent energy radiating from them. Locals on the lower floors of the apartment towers stared from open windows, as if watching a human pinball machine on steroids. They responded with whistles and applause to the extraordinary feats of skill, while silently praying the ball wouldn’t end up on the hoods of their cars.

     Every Saturday afternoon the scenario repeated. Over the years, the only change was younger brothers replacing their older siblings, now retired from the pickup game.

     Becker steered onto 96^th Street. He turned to Terrance in the passenger seat; his partner ever- trying to get comfortable.

     “You never mentioned how Parker’s practice went,” he said.

     “What’s this guy’s address?” Terrance asked.

     Becker started to fumble for the paper in his jacket side pocket.

     “Well?” Becker pressed.

     Terrance smiled, “Very positive outlook,” he said, “he can only get better.”

     They both started laughing and Becker looked down at his right side. He started adjusting his seat belt to free up the bottom of his jacket to get to the pocket, which was pinned between his leg and the belt.

     There was a sudden thud at the front of the car and Becker slammed on the brakes. Looking forward the pair saw the group, no longer hyperactive. They stood scattered and motionless, like remnant tree trunks of a burnt forest.

     “I’ll handle it,” Terrance said. He flung open the door and exited.

     Becker watched as all heads rose skyward in unison; jaws dropped, faces showed a mixture of awe and fear. Terrance walked to the front of the car and bent down to look underneath. The ball was wedged between the bumper’s skirt and the street. He yanked it free, then stood up.

     “Who’s ball is this?” he roared, doing his best Voice of God imitation. The boys reciprocated, and became pillars of salt.

     Two cars were now behind the Cobra and started to beep. Becker rolled down his side window, took his shield out of his shirt pocket, then held the gold badge straight out in his left hand, facing the cars.

     “Well?!” Terrance’s bark reverberated down the street.

      Damn T, you’re scaring me now, Becker thought.

     “It’s mine, sir,” came a feeble reply.

     Terrance saw the boy slowly raise his hand. The youth was smaller than his cohorts, and Terrance got the notion that ownership of the game ball played a large part for his inclusion in the group.

     “I’m real sorry,” came the mousy whisper.

     Dead Silence.

     “Huh!” Terrance finally grunted.

     “Jesus, they’re gonna be pissing themselves in a minute,” Becker said, loud enough for Terrance’s ears.

     Terrance struck the quarterback pose, arm cocked with the ball at the side of his head.

     “Well go long, big man,” he shouted.

     The boy took off down the street, his companions giving way. Terrance heaved the ball and it fluttered into the boy’s waiting arms. Cheers came from the windows of the onlookers, and honks came from the cars of rubber- necks, who had slowed down on the other side of the boulevard, wondering what the fuss was all about.. Terrance got back into the Shelby.

     “Well…how’s that?” he asked. Becker smiled, shifting back into first gear and easing up on the clutch.

     “Seeing that pass,” Becker said, “I now know why you were a defensive lineman.”

     “Funny, Mase. Oh, before I forget, Lana asked you come for dinner tomorrow.”

     “What’s she making?”

     “She’s not cooking, it’s on me.”

     “So…pizza or Chinese?”

     “I beg your pardon. I’ll be serving chicken Cordon Bleu with asparagus tips and a mild hollandaise. What’s the address on this guy?”

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxvi ) continues…

     She entered the master bedroom, set the mugs on top of her dresser and proceeded to part the front window draperies, letting in light and heat on her face and the surroundings. She turned and stopped, then glanced at her husband; a copy of what she saw at the other end of the house, only a magnified version. She grinned, and wondered if the warmth she felt was only from the sun. She went over and tapped lightly on the sole of an exposed foot.

     “Terry,” she said, “I brought your coffee. Shake a leg. You wanted to see Parker practice.”

     “OK,” he groaned and drew his arms and legs inward, ending up on his knees and elbows in the middle of the bed; a bear breaking out of hibernation. He rolled to one side and propped up in a sitting position against the headboard, rubbing his face with both hands. Lana sat next to him on the edge of the mattress, and offered the mug. He took it from her and downed half its contents in one gulp.

     “I saw the news last night about the Marquis,” she said, rubbing his chest, “it looked crazy.”

     He nodded, blinking the sleep from his eyes. “It’s always messy with crowds…we don’t even know who the victim is yet. How soon before Park has to be there?” he took another swig.

     “You’ve got about an hour,” she answered, “There was a woman involved?”

     Terrance’s back stiffened off the headboard.

      “Who said that?!” he choked on the liquid and spilled some from the cup.

     “The reporter,” she answered, grabbed some tissue sheets from the box on the nightstand, then dabbed off his chest with them.

     “Who was being interviewed?” he asked.

     “Nobody, he just gave the usual ‘sources say’ line. Your captain was on later.  It’s Berry, right? He said it was too early in the investigation to confirm or deny, but the reporter kept bringing it up.” She eased Terrance back into the pillows.

     “Dammit,” he set his cup down on the stand.

     “Relax, Terry. Are you seeing Mason today?” she massaged his shoulders.

     “We’re meeting with the desk clerk who might be able to identify who paid for the room. Paid, and is long gone. This case is already three- days cold…Shit.”

     Lana got up and took the damp tissues into the bathroom, then threw them into the wastebasket, while Terrance swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched his arms over his head. She leaned against the bathroom door jamb.

     “Forget about it this morning, please, and enjoy time with your son.”

     He yawned, “You woke Park up, right?”

     “Only once,” she said.

     “Parker!” Terrance bellowed.

     They both heard the distant thump of feet hitting the floor and pounding across hardwood, followed by dresser drawers sliding open and slamming shut.

     “He’s your little man,” she smiled.

     Terrance went towards the bathroom for a shower. Lana picked up the mugs and headed for the bedroom door, but Terrance suddenly  turned and locked his arms around her waist, squeezing her body tightly to his own. He kissed her. She fumbled to set the mugs back on a dresser, then she put her arms around his neck and pulled hard, wishing her robe would disappear between them. She could feel her husband’s hands making the wish come true.

     “Mom, where are my cleats?” Parker called from his bedroom.

     Both their bodies relaxed and Lana readjusted the front of her robe.

     “We pick this up later?” he asked, as she picked up the mugs and then opened the door.

     “Make no mistake,” she said, exiting the room.

     “Terry,” she called over her shoulder.

     “Yeah,” came the reply, echoing off the ceramic tiles; loud enough to hear over the shower’s running water.

     “Ask Mason if he wants to come to dinner tomorrow. You’ve talked about him long enough. It’s about time we all get together.”

     She met with Parker at the top of the staircase, as he finished pulling a T- shirt over his head.

     “What are we having to eat tomorrow?” Parker asked.

     “Anything your father wants to cook,” she smiled, grabbed both mugs by their handles with her left hand and put her right arm over his shoulders, “this is my weekend off.”

     Parker leaned into the plush warmth of his mother’s robe and they went down the steps.

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxvi )

     LANA MARSHALL CLIMBED the staircase. She loved scrunching the toes of her bare feet into the lush carpet treads on the steps, and she made every effort to keep her balance while carrying two full mugs upwards to the bedrooms. The sun brought a hazy light to the second floor through the arched window above the large oak front door opposite the staircase. The downstairs was still dim due to the shade of neighborhood houses across the street.

     The aroma of freshly ground beans lifted the fog from her head. She stopped midway on the landing, trying to remember if she closed the top of the machine in the basement, then heard the gears engage, and the rhythmic chunka- chunka- chunck of the water, as the load of laundry churned. She continued up the second flight wrapped in her ‘kick- back’ robe, a plush terry cloth. This was her weekend- morning cocoon, the antithesis to her workday garb of silk blouses, tailored suits and skirts. As administrator of a large metropolitan hospital, she welcomed the challenges presented to her on a regular basis. Her acumen and professional fairness gave credence to a sterling reputation in the medical community. Contract negotiations had finally reached a compromise with which both labor and management agreed. This was her first Saturday off in two months and she intended to use it and Sunday doing what gave her the most inner joy; being a wife, mother, and lady of the house. No tensions here, she always won her boys’ votes.

     Lana took a left at the top of the stairs and breezed along the open walkway, to the furthest bedroom, pushing the door open enough to poke her head inside. She found her son as he slept face down and sideways on his bed. His legs dangled, and half of the covers were on the floor.

     “Parker?” she sang.

     “Mmff,” came from underneath the pillow.

     “Practice time, baby,” she said and waited.

     “Daddy’s taking you,” she added.

     His entire body sprung, turned over and sat up on the edge of the mattress in one snap motion. The cobwebs of sleep regained their hold. He sat, shoulders slumped, eyes still shut. She watched his muscles relax in a wave, from head to toe, ready to snooze once again.

     “Parker Anthony…” she said, no tune this time.

     “I’m up. I’m up.” he said, opening one eye to see if she was still there. She hadn’t moved. He opened both eyes wide.

     “I’m awake mom,” issuing more of a complaint than a statement.

     She turned and headed for the master bedroom at the opposite end of the walkway. Parker’s eyelids dropped shut once more and his upper body flopped back down on the bed, feet still anchored to the New York Stallions- logo throw rug, spread underneath them.

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxv )

     BECKER KNOCKED ON THE MANAGER’S OFFICE DOOR and opened it to find the young day- clerk seated, as he told Terrance about the check- in on Wednesday. Terrance entered notes to his reporter’s pad and looked up to see Becker.

     “We’ve got a woman involved, Mase. An ‘E. Genver’, from California. She left an envelope at the desk for our vic,” Terrance reported.

     Becker introduced himself to the clerk. “What was the woman’s first name?” Becker asked. This drew a blank stare from the clerk.

     “How do you know she was from California?” Becker continued.

     The clerk replied, “I saw the driver’s license, but only for a second.”

     The manager stood up from his desk, “You didn’t make a copy?”

     The clerk looked at his shoes, “I saw all those Franklins, let her sign the register, and gave her the keycard.”

     Becker motioned to the manager to sit back down.

     He turned back to the witness, “Let’s try something else. Any idea what was in the envelope?” he asked.

     The clerk chewed on his fingernail, “The extra keycard to the room, and she wanted some paper to write a message. I let her use a hotel notepad. She tipped me ten bucks!” he stated, “That’s all I remember her putting into it.”

     “What was the name on the envelope?” Becker queried.

     “Huh?” the clerk replied.

     “The name of the guy picking it up,” Becker’s said, “it was on the envelope, right? What was it?”

     The clerk gave him a glazed-over stare.

      This kid’s weekend has already begun. He’s half in the bag, Becker concluded starting to pace.

     “It started with an ‘O’, maybe Omar?” the clerk replied halfheartedly.

     Terrance broke in, noticing Becker’s dark circles under the eyes and pasty coloring from lack of sleep.

     “How about the second name on the envelope?”

     The clerk looked forward in strained thought, “Wasn’t any,” he finally blurted.

     “All right,” Terrance continued, “are you sure about the first name, being ‘Omar’?”

     The clerk shook his head, “could have been Oliver. I can’t really remember right now.”

     Impatience and fatigue got the better of Becker.

     “Did you drive here?” he asked.

     “Uh-huh,” the clerk replied.

     Becker put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, “Well, one of the officers will be taking you home,” he said, “but I’ll be there at noon tomorrow to pick you up. We’re going to have a chat about envelopes and we’ll see if you can describe the woman to one of our artists, understand?” he asked. The clerk shook his head vigorously, and started to think he might get busted for being under the influence. Becker went to the lobby and called in a uniformed officer to get the incapacitated man home safely.

     The manager told Terrance that the clerk was training at the desk, and due to sickness and call-outs from experienced staff on Wednesday, the man was left alone at times during his shift.

     Becker reentered the office, rubbing his eyes.

     Terrance reasoned, “We’ve got copies made of the surveillance, and can look into forensics in the morning, Mase,” It’s time to get some shuteye, buddy.”

     Becker countered, “Right after garbage patrol.”

     They went out the front door and found Becker’s car sitting cockeyed in the middle of the street, strobes still flashing, the other official vehicles gone, save CSU. They walked past Captain Berry, who was being interviewed by the local TV stations and print reporters, then got into Becker’s car. The Captain gave a quick ‘we need to talk’ glance their way, as Becker maneuvered around a double- parked green Chevy, eased up to the curb, then shut off the dashboard strobe lights. Becker picked up the plastic- topped paper cup leaning against the stick shift, and took a swallow from his four- hour old coffee.

     “This is going to hit the fan,” he sighed.

     Terrance turned to his partner, “make no mistake.”

     They sat and waited.

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxiv ) continues…

     Becker followed the investigator, who pulled out a spray bottle and wand-like lamp from his case, heading towards the bathroom. The investigator sprayed the luminol from the bottle onto the tile floor around and behind the toilet and sink.

     “Shut off the light, will you?” he said to Becker.

     In the darkness, he snapped on the blacklight and smears of glowing blue appeared.

     “The killer didn’t clean up as well as planned. I found a few minute droplets on the carpet from here to the bed, also. The large bath towels are missing too,” he said. “We’ve gone through all the laundry carts downstairs, no luck.” he added.

     “What about prints?” Becker asked.

     Once again, the investigator’s head was swaying side to side.

     “Partials and blurs. Those we could use were from three separate individuals from a quick check. Figure that one set is from the victim. We’ll cross- reference any staff that’s been in this room tonight and before Wednesday’s arrival. Not a lot to go on, Detective.” the investigator concluded. “We’ll be bringing the mattress back to the lab.”

     “Well,” Becker sighed, “it’s a long shot, but we’ll need units to check all the dumpsters within a four block radius of here. Look for the champagne and the towels.”

     The annoyed investigator frowned, checking his watch. “This is going to be a long night,” he moaned.

      No kidding, Becker thought, fighting back yawns from three days of next- to- no sleep. His cell rang.

     “The clerk’s here, Mase. We’re in the manager’s office, just down the corridor to the right of the front desk,” came Terrance’s voice.

     “I’ll be right down,” Becker answered. He turned to the CSU tech, “I’ll catch up with you in front of the building, after your crew gets here.” Becker began to exit.

     “Fine,” the tech groaned, and shoved the equipment into his bag, then zipped it tight.