Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Eleven

John was late getting in to the squad room Monday morning after a not-so-restful weekend of on-and-off arguing with Lizzie. "I kept reminding myself to tell you about your mom, Johnny, I swear I did! And then something would happen and I would forget!" At least he had figured out a way to locate the elusive Cabbage Clay: the last thing he'd done Friday was stop at a mailing services company and mail him a large cardboard box sealed in red tape. He'd put in a couple of short curtain rods and some packing peanuts so it would rattle.

John pulled his blue '72 Olds 442 convertible into a space and cut the ignition. Mike Little's Monte Carlo sat in another space directly across the parking garage.

John could have handled the situation the other day differently. He could have—no, should have—waited for a better time to tell Mike ... well, pretty much the same thing, but in a much calmer manner. Saying that in a quiet moment, he supposed, was probably the best way to approach things. Which he would definitely have to do, since his desk stood right next to Little's.

Mike Little sat studying a file, his chair swiveled to face the wall and away from John's desk. John walked in and tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, Mike ..."

Mike shot around as fast as a chopper blade, poked his finger in John's face, and hissed, "You are not here! You. Are. Not. Here!" And snapped around and continued reading his file.

John blinked, and noticed Savonn peering over from his desk in the corner. With the eye contact, Savonn gave him a frown, a head shake in the negative, and a quick "cut" gesture across his throat.

John felt like a kindergartner seated next to the class bully. Was it permissible to change desks? He sat down to his own files and found, on top of the pile, an unexpected, and unwelcome, name.

He got up, searched for Arlene, and found her in the corridor. "Sarge! Why've I got the Greenhouse file back again?"

"The father refused psychiatric treatment, and now Daughter is saying he tried to kill her." "Father" sounded like "fahtha" and "daughter" sounded like "dawta." "You caught it the first time around, so it's all yours. Oh, and John. Meet me back in my office and brief me about you and Little on that case. I haven't got a clue what the deal is with Little even after reading your report. I've got to run upstairs. Back in a few."

Arlene hurried off. So much for John's attempt at not mentioning specific problematic actions in the report.

John wandered back into the squad room, stopping to lean over Savonn's desk and murmur, "What's up with Little?"

"Light duty pending I-don't-know-what," Savonn mumbled back, eyes glued to his computer screen. "Bad mood. He needs those yellow hazardous waste signs over there, with the triangles."

                                                                                           ***

After John spilled his guts to Arlene—and felt like the world's biggest weasel—a trip to the evidence room was in order. John signed out Tyler Greenhouse's .44 Smith and Wesson revolver and the evidence bag of rounds and brought them back with him to his desk. The serial number matched what he had in the file. Six rounds; things appeared to be all present and accounted for.

Animosity rolled across the space at him like an invisible tidal wave, although all John could see was the back of the tall, ergonomic chair Little had purchased and brought in himself. The prospect of filing more paperwork and going out to interview these people again loomed, like a tax audit or an annual physical. Something about Tyler Greenhouse, the manipulative feel of that entire afternoon, pressed on John like a giant hand. He turned the rounds idly over in his fingers, procrastinating.