Knocking on the door to apartment eleven, Detective Smith took a quick look around. He could see the small parking lot to his right, as the building was barely fifteen feet from the sidewalk. Not a bad area for an older, two-story, red brick complex. Small, only twenty-four units, yet still quite cozy, he thought.
The door creaked open slowly until the chain-lock stopped its advance. Donny spied the thin-framed, elderly lady peering out at them.
“I’m Detective Smith, and this is my partner Detective Jones. May we have a moment of your time?”
“I’m no fool; show me your badge,” Agnes shot back. Donny glanced at Angel, who rolled her eyes as he produced his shield, and held it up for her to view. Closing the door, they heard the chain slide off, and then the door was pulled open.
“I’m Agnes Blakewood; would you two like some tea? I just brewed a fresh pot,” she said as they entered.
“No thank you, ma’am, we’re fine. We need to speak to you about the shooting in apartment twelve,” he said taking out his notepad. “Did you happen to hear anything?”
“Why, yes, I did. Sounded like two men arguing, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. My hearing isn’t what it use to be.”
“Is there anything you can tell us?” Angel asked.
“Not really, just that I heard the shot at 12:17. I remembered looking at the clock, and telling Horace that didn’t sound good,” Agnes said.
“Horace? Might we have a word with him?” Donny inquired.
“Oh, no, he’s my cat, my best friend. Do you like cats, Officer?” She asked looking intently at his face.
“Yes, I do,” Donny replied smiling.
“How about you, young lady? You like cats?”
“Can’t stand the gruesome fur balls. I’m into attack dogs myself.”
Agnes arched her shoulders, and took offense at Angel’s remark. She made her way to the door. “I think it’s time you left,” she said, looking directly at Angel.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Blakewood,” Donny said, heading for the door.
Horace jumped up on the old sofa, and hissed as Angel followed her partner out. Agnes slammed the door, almost hitting Angel.
Angel stopped, “What’s her problem?”
“I think you insulted her cat,” he answered.
“Well, fuck her, and her mangy cat,” Angel said as she started up the stairs. “What’s the number on that ‘Ryan what’s-his-name’ kid?”
“Its apartment twenty-four, directly above twelve,” he said following her up to the second level.
Angel pounded on the door with her fist. “Police! Open up!” she shouted.
Donny stood there, shaking his head, and wondering if his new partner had some mental problem he wasn’t yet aware of. “This isn’t a drug raid, Angel; it’s just a fact-finding mission.”
“Whatever,” she replied indifferently. She was raising her fist again to pound on the door when it started to open.
Young Ryan greeted the officers. “You here about the murder?”
“Yes, may we come in?” Donny asked.
“Sure can,” he opened the door wider. Angel advanced, with Donny bringing up the rear.
Ryan launched right in telling his story. “It was around quarter after twelve when I first noticed the loud voices. I was watching McLintock on TV at the time…”
Angel interrupted, “Mac who?”
“McLintock, the movie with John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara. I’ve got it on VHS. I just love westerns,” Ryan lamented to the officers.
Please continue,” Donny said.
“Anyway, a few minutes later I heard a loud noise, but I didn’t think it was a gunshot at the time.
“Why not?” Angel asked.
“Well, it didn’t sound like the guns on TV.”
“So, then what happened?” Donny asked.
“I went on watching the movie, but then I heard a car as it drove off. So I looked out the window. It was dark, I couldn’t make out the color, but it was an older model Buick. At least, I think it was a Buick; maybe it was something else,” Ryan said as he checked out the detectives’ facial expressions. He felt he wasn’t helping much.
Angel asked, “What did the driver look like?”
“I don’t know, the car was so far up the street, I couldn’t tell.”
“Is that when you called 911?” Donny asked, still writing everything down.
“No, I slipped on my shoes and thought I’d sneak down the stairs to see what was going on. That’s when I saw Agnes’ door start to open. She saw me on the stairs, so I came on down and asked if she was all right. That’s when we discovered the door to apartment twelve was ajar. Looking in, you could see that Butler guy on the floor. Then I went and called the police.”
Looking around the sparse apartment, it brought back memories of Donny’s earlier days as a college student at the University of Arkansas. Clothes, empty beer cans strewn about, sink full of dirty dishes, and only a mattress on the floor to sleep on. Typical college kid Donny reasoned, except he figured Ryan was into girls.
“You know this Butler guy very well?” Angel now took over the questioning.
“I saw him coming and going a few times, but he never spoke to me. Never even nodded, or gave a little wave; not a very sociable person, I figured.”
“Why you say that?” Angel continued.
“Most of what I heard about him came from Agnes. She said he was a jerk, and not to trust him. Something to do with him disliking cats. She said people who hate cats have no soul and end up in hell or something like that.”
Donny glanced over at Angel to see her reaction to his statement.
Angel sneered at Donny. “Fuck cats and old people.” Turning back to Ryan, Angel asked, “So, anything else you can remember, besides the shit about fur balls?”
“Not that I can recall. I was pretty nervous, I guess. I never called 911 before.”
“You have any more questions?” she asked, facing Donny.
“No,” he said placing his pad in his inside jacket pocket.
“Thanks, if we have more questions, we’ll contact you. Oh, and if you think of anything else, just give us a call,” Angel chimed in as she started for the door.
“What’s the number I can reach you at?” Ryan asked.
Donny handed him one of his personalized cards containing his rank, name and office number. Ryan thanked him and secured the door as they left.
Midway down the stairs, Angel stopped and turned to Donny. “Look,” she said, now pointing at Agnes Blakewood’s apartment window.
Donny focused on the window just in time to see the white lace curtains close. “So, what’s your point?”
“Nosy old motherfucker,” Angel said, descending the last few steps.
“Let me guess, you’re mad because she said you’re going to hell for being a cat hater?” Donny said with a chuckle.
“Don’t take her side, you cat-lovin’ faggot,” she snapped back.
Once in the unmarked cruiser, Donny radioed the dispatcher for the parents’ address of James Butler. He was informed the mother was residing at 553 Frederick Lane. As the detectives pulled away from the curb, they spotted a TV news van pulling up in front of the apartment building.
“Here come the goddamn vultures,” Angel quipped.
Donny stepped on the accelerator as they sped down the street heading for Frederick Lane, which was only a few miles down the road.
A small house, with white aluminum siding, stood about sixty feet from the roadway. They turned slowly onto a narrow, gravel driveway located on the left side of the older house. The grass was sparse, with patches of red clay areas all about. It had been neglected for quite some time, they noticed as it came into view. The houses on both sides of the street were in the same condition. No middle-class here; just lower-class older folks.
“Pretty quiet neighborhood,” Donny said exiting the vehicle.
As they approached the front door, Angel noticed the handwritten note taped to the screen door. “Says not to knock, to go to the rear door.”
They made their way around to the back of the house. Donny rapped on the door with his right knuckle. As the door opened, they froze when the barrel of the .22 caliber rifle came into view. A tall woman looking to be in her mid to late fifties leveled the gun on Donny’s midsection.
“Why you two snoopin’ round my house? No drugs here for your kind,” she said eyeing the two intruders.
“Wait a minute, we’re police officers,” Donny rattled off. “Let me show you my credentials, and my badge,” he said, slowly reaching into his jacket. Pulling them out, he held them up for her inspection.
Lowering the rifle, “That biker-chick with you?”
“That is Detective Jones, my partner,” Donny responded, grinning at her comment. “Are you Mrs. Butler, the mother of a James Butler of 2218 Park Street, apartment twelve?”
“Call me Geneva, and yeah, I’m his mother. Jimmy in trouble with the law?”
“May we come in for a moment?” asked Donny.
“No, say your piece from there,” she said blocking the doorway with her body, still holding the rifle.
Angel stepped up beside Donny and asked, “So when was the last time you saw or heard from your kid?”
“Why?” Geneva asked.
“Because he’s dead, that’s why,” Angel blurted out.
“Somebody kill him?” The expression on her face never changed.
“Why you think someone killed him?” Angel asked, leaning closer into the doorway.
“Jimmy ain’t no saint; everybody who ever met him knows that. Mean to the core, that boy was.”
“Anyone special you care to mention who might have wanted him dead?” Donny interjected.
“No…no one special,” Geneva answered back casually. “Now don’t get me wrong, he was a good man until his little brother, my youngest boy, committed suicide. After that, he changed, became mean and ugly, and didn’t seem to care about people no more. Sonny, his younger brother, and him hung out together on weekends. Played ball and all that crap. Sonny’s death hit Jimmy pretty hard; never was the same after that. But, life goes on I tried to tell him. He wouldn’t listen to an old drunk like me.”
“Where is James father in all this?” Donny asked.
“Bastard ran out on us when the boys were very young. Damn alcoholic, always messin’ round with other women. Cheated on me every chance he got, dumb asshole. I had no choice but to start workin’ the streets, and I picked up the bottle along the way. Damn child welfare agency came an’ took Sonny from me, Jimmy was already eighteen. Poor kid was sent to one of those group homes. Jimmy never forgave me for that, said I’d burn in hell for what I let them people do to Sonny,” she said as a single tear ran down her right cheek.
“Who did James blame for his younger brother’s suicide?” Donny asked.
“Sonny wrote in his suicide note that some child care worker, no name given, had picked him up on the highway the night he ran away from the group home. Said the guy let him stay at his apartment, but made him have sex with him. Later, the guy got tired of Sonny and told him to get out or he’d hurt him bad. Sonny was ashamed of being the guy’s bitch, so he wrote a suicide letter, mailed it to Jimmy and made his way to the highway that night. Stood on the side of the road until one of those semi-trucks came barreling down the road. Police said at the last minute, he stepped in front of the truck. Driver said nothin’ he could do; he slammed on the brakes, but he hit poor Sonny doing sixty-five miles an hour. Coroner said he was dead on impact…”
Geneva fell back into the house, down onto the dirty floor. The rifle hit and slid several feet before it came to rest. Sobbing hysterically, she held her chest.
Donny rushed inside and knelt down to offer aid. Angel stood in the doorway, casually, observing the spectacle. Donny helped her to a chair by the kitchen table. Angel now came inside and leaned against the wall, still observing. Donny consoled Geneva until she regained her composure. She thanked him for his kindness.
“So, to continue…” Angel said dryly.
Geneva looked up, still wiping tears from her cheeks. “Some partner you have there,” she said to Donny. “Not much left to tell, except Jimmy said if he ever ran across that bastard who hurt Sonny, he’d be one sorry cocksucker.”
“So you haven’t had much contact with James, I take it?” Angel said, trying to solicit more information from her.
“That’s right.” Geneva glared at Angel; she took an instant dislike to her. “I think it’s time you two left me alone.”
“Sorry for your loss, ma’am,” Donny said as they exited.
Once in the car, Angel broke the silence, “Wasn’t that pleasant? So Mom’s a drunk, a prostitute and God knows what else…”
“Have some compassion; the poor woman lost both of her sons. That’s not an easy thing to face, even under these circumstances,” he said, trying to reach an emotional level with Angel.
“You didn’t fall for that line of shit she was layin’ on so thick, did you, queer boy?” Angel rolled her eyes in mock disbelief.
Donny wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer. Starting the car, he backed out onto the roadway and headed up to the stop sign. Pulling up on the opposite side was the white TV news van.
Angel pointed, “Look, the fuckin’ vultures. I hope your girlfriend, the prostitute, pulls the same shit on them.”
“What?” Donny asked.
“I hope she shoves that rifle in their faces, that’s what,” Angel replied laughing.
“Are you on some kind of medication I should know about?” Donny asked half seriously.
“Medication? You’re joking, right?” Angel registered a puzzled look on her tight face.
“Seriously, something isn’t right about you,” he retorted.
“Fuck you…you stupid faggot! I don’t abuse drugs, shithead!” she shrieked, and then flipped him the bird.
“Well, in that case…maybe you need some medication!” Donny yelled back, now fidgeting and trying to adjust his tie.
One could feel the intense body heat coming off Angel. She tried to control her temper, yet her fuse was already lit. She drew her hands into tight fists as her biceps flared with anger. “If you weren’t my partner, I’d stomp your sissy little ass into the dirt!” she roared, then slammed her right fist into the dashboard.
Donny bristled with excitement, as he knew he had scored a direct hit on a major nerve, and he loved it. Smiling all the way back to the station, he parked the cruiser.
Angel flung her door open, and then slammed it hard as she stormed off. Donny exited the vehicle and made his way to his chocolate-brown 1968 Nova, his pride and joy. He felt he had the upper had now.