Steve’s shorts: Mayhem, Murder, and Music’s Sunday Mornin’…
[Note from Steve: July 2015 data show 58, 270 homeless people, including 13, 875 families and 23, 490 children slept in NYC’s shelters. These are the sheltered; the numbers don’t count the many who wander aimlessly and sleep on the streets, heating grates, and park benches. Many of them have mental and health problems. A good number are veterans. Mayor De Blasio recently changed his opinion and recognized the problem, but it isn’t just a problem for NYC. Nevertheless, in this story, the homeless person isn’t the victim. The story was inspired by Kris Kristofferson’s “Sunday Mornin’s Comin’ Down.” Enjoy.]
Sunday Mornin’
Copyright Steven M. Moore, 2015
Jimmy kicked the can down the street and enjoyed the tolling of the church bells as he made his way to the soup kitchen. He saw the lines, decided he’d rather panhandle some change for breakfast than wait for the slop they served, and headed for his favorite corner. It was shady in the morning and had plenty of street traffic as New Yorkers headed for a day of worship or a day of labors within and among the brooding skyscrapers. The day still had a lazy feel to it…God’s day, a day of rest, and work for those who provided city services, often 24/7.
He decided to save some time and cut through an alleyway. “C’mon, old boy. Who knows? We might find a trash bin or two with some edible scraps. Saturday night’s always a good scrap producer.”
He’d named the mongrel Emyouteetee, for M-U-T-T. Colleagues were surprised when they asked about the name and he told them it was the name of a famous Buddhist monk. One old fellow named Benjamin had even held the dog’s head and looked into his eyes, searching for divine revelation. Out of guilt, Jimmy had almost told the old man about the name because he and Jimmy often shared weed, but Benjamin had seemed so at peace gazing into the dog’s eyes that Jimmy hadn’t wanted to ruin the spell.
James Earl Pennington, Jr. had served in both Afghanistan and Iraq. Except for the nightmares, he thought he was sane. The medics had saved his left arm and leg in the battlefield hospital, but not his left eye. He spoke southern Pashto, Iraqi Arabic, and Colombian Spanish, but most of his night school students had spoken either Arabic or Spanish. He was facile with languages because of his mother, a Louisiana Creole, who spoke her maternal dialect, French, and Spanish, as well as English (he had no idea who Mr. Pennington, Sr. was). The Army had considered him a natural for a home-grown translator, but that had put him into squads that combed the streets of towns and villages looking for the enemy.
He had recovered from the battlefield surgeries and endured a few more, first in Germany and then Walter Reed, before teaching night school. The Big Apple had many immigrants who needed the courses, but he wasn’t paid enough to stay off the streets. He had become homeless, one of the many thousands down on their luck. Good teacher’s pay required a college education and certificates; he only had his Army record.
***
That time of the morning, the alley was shrouded in deep shadows. But he didn’t need good eyesight to hear the woman’s screams from the opposite end. Emyouteetee growled, barked, and took off, Jimmy right behind.
The screams had ended by the time he found the body. The wire around her neck was the weapon. The torn skirt raised to the waist and shredded underwear said rape. The contents of a purse strewn across the alley said a mugging had escalated.
“If you see something, say something.” The city’s security slogan pounded in his head. He ran onto the street’s sidewalk, saw a patrol car approaching halfway down the block, and stopped it. The cop in the passenger seat assumed the worst, attacked Jimmy, and put handcuffs on him after pushing him down on the hood.
“In the alley!” Jimmy screamed. “A woman’s been murdered!”
The cop who had been driving put the flashers on and dashed for the alley. In five minutes, three other squad cars were at the scene.
“Why’d you do it, man?” said the first cop, who was also black.
“I didn’t, I swear. I ran to help. Where’s Emyouteetee?”
“Who?” said the cop.
“My dog. I don’t see him.”
The cop remembered the mongrel taking off down the street. “Forget the damn dog!” He pushed Jimmy into the backseat behind the meshed barrier. “You aren’t going anywhere until we have this sorted out.”
***
The media were as unforgiving as the cops. A video of Jimmy sitting forlorn in the cop car was featured as breaking news on the four o’clock news channels. Reporters were already looking into his background.
The next morning public defender Jean Hardy saw the headline “Why did this decorated veteran rape and kill a woman?”
I get all the bad cases, she thought. Declared guilty in the court of public opinion before the man goes to trial.
“Good luck, counselor,” said the cop who brought Jimmy to his interview with Jean.
She was sitting on one side of an old table. She recoiled. The man was a mess. She didn’t know whether the stench was from his homeless life or his night in jail. Or, whether his disheveled look was his normal appearance or a consequence of cops roughing him up during the arrest and booking.
“Sit down, Mr. Pennington. I’m your attorney.”
“Don’t have an attorney. Don’t need one. I’m innocent. Do that DNA thing. I didn’t touch that woman. I’ve seen enough dead bodies to know she was dead, so I ran to get help.”
Jean glanced again at the booking records. He’d been saying that consistently. Could it be true?
“We’ll do that DNA thing. It takes a while even to do the quick check. Instant DNA tests only occur in Hollywood. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
He did. The story was a bit meandering, from flashbacks to his Army service to present day, but she got the gist. The man seemed more worried about his dog, though.
“Jimmy, they could put you away for life if that DNA test doesn’t prove your innocence. We need more info. Did you see the person who did it?”
“Couldn’t see—hey, I got only one eye and there were too many shadows. Couldn’t hear much either over Emyouteetee’s barks and the woman’s screams. How could anyone do something like that? She must have just been walking by on her way to church or work. Where I came from at the other end of the alley, there were lots of people. Why weren’t there people at the other end too?”
“It’s a narrower street and not a major one. Not as many people on Sunday morning either.”
“So, why were the cops there?”
“Good question. I don’t know. Either you were lucky or unlucky, because there they were. Did they check you over physically?”
“Except for roughing me up, no. Guess they thought they had their man. Look at my record. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I wasn’t even in combat overseas because I was a trained interpreter, a go-between for our soldiers and the natives.”
“You didn’t go to basic training?”
“Sure. Everyone gets that basic shit. But they had me pegged as a translator, so that’s what I became. Guess they sometimes get it right. Suited me, because I don’t cotton to killing.”
Jean smiled at the Southern sounding expression. “You’ve lost your Southern drawl.”
“Three tours overseas and years here in the Big Apple will do that. I pick up the local lingo fast. If I moved back to Louisiana, I’d be speaking like a native in a few weeks.”
“I’m from Virginia, but I went to school here. I lost the accent too. Except for that DNA test, I can’t see that I can do much of anything else for you.”
“You can make the cops go after the monster who killed that woman. And find my dog.”
“Emyouteetee?”
“Yeah, he’s named after a Buddhist monk.”
***
Two days later, the preliminary DNA results were in. Jimmy’s DNA didn’t match the DNA in the attacker’s semen. They released him with a gruff apology. The two cops who had arrested him drove him back to his old haunts.
“Sorry, Jimmy,” said the black cop. “You take care of yourself, now.”
“I need to find my dog,” said Jimmy, looking around. “Your—what do you call it?—CSI didn’t happen to see him when collecting their forensics.”
“That would be CSU,” said the white cop. “I didn’t hear anything about a stray dog. We can keep a look out for him. Maybe animal control collared him.”
“I saw him,” said the black cop. “He’s likely going to stay in the area. He might be looking for you too.”
“I’ll find him,” said Jimmy. “You fellows should just focus on finding the monster who killed that woman.”
“We’re doing our best,” said the white cop with a smile.
Jimmy wandered off down the street. He didn’t have much confidence in the cops. They messed up by arresting him. Why wouldn’t they mess up now? Right now he needed to look for Emyouteetee.
Following the cop’s suggestion, he checked out animal shelters first. One manager told him the dog would be better put down than be cared for by him. Another wouldn’t even let him inside.
He found Benjamin, who had a cell phone. The older man had found it in some garbage with broken front and dead battery, but he lived with the first and found a battery to replace the old one. A priest had shown him how to subscribe to a cheap cellphone service. He was already two months late on the bill, but they hadn’t cut him off yet.
“I don’t have many minutes left,” said Benjamin. “Who do you need to call?”
“An attorney. She’s nice and clean and can help me look for Emyouteetee.”
***
Jean Hardy figured she was going to regret meeting with Jimmy, but she knew she owed him a favor. She felt guilty, in fact. She’d thought he’d raped and killed that woman.
“I often sit here and watch the sun go down,” said Jimmy, looking across the Hudson. “It’s nice to see so much water and the setting sun. Iraq was dry and the sun was an enemy too.”
Jean nodded. “You said you needed help.”
“I need someone nice and clean to check out shelters for me. I’m still looking for my dog.”
She smiled. “I understand. Maybe we should just clean you up a bit?”
“I don’t have no clean clothes no more. These are pretty much it ‘cept for an overcoat Benjamin stashed for me. I wear that in the winter.”
Jean stood up. “Let’s go then.”
“Where to?”
“My apartment. You can clean up. My Dad was about your size. I still have his clothes.”
“Was? He’s dead?”
“The clothes are all washed, ironed, and folded, Jimmy, and they’re in good condition. I was going to give them to Goodwill. I just haven’t gotten around to it. C’mon. I’ll give you company to the shelters if you want, but we’ll clean you up so well your friend Benjamin won’t even recognize you.”
“That’s not much of a problem, ‘cept for the overcoat. I want my dog to recognize me, though.”
“He will. Don’t worry.”
After his clean-up, it was too late to do anything, so Jean invited Jimmy to stay for dinner.
“I’m grateful you’re doing all this, but wouldn’t it have been easier for you to just go to the shelters on my behalf?”
Jean smiled. “I’ll do that anyway, but Dad lived with me for years. It’s nice to have a man around.”
“Your father and you must have been quite a pair. I never knew my father.” He sipped at his fruit juice. “You make good spaghetti, by the way.”
“I live on pasta. It’s easy, and I burn a lot of carbs. Sauce comes in a jar, so all I have to do is put that in a pot and boil water for the pasta. This came out al dente, but I’ve been known to forget I have it on. I throw it into condensed soup then.”
He laughed. “Not the shortest way to a man’s heart for you maybe, but you’d still make any man happy, I think. Why don’t you have someone special in your life?”
“Because I don’t have time to look for him,” she said. “My work starts at seven a.m. and often goes ‘til late at night. Our caseload is tremendous. I also inherit others’ cases because there’s a lot of turnover. Trial lawyers often start as public defenders, but the pay is lousy.”
“So they find something where they can make better money. Figures. I don’t have a problem with money. I don’t need it anymore.”
“But you won’t live long as a homeless person,” said Jean. “Bad food, little or no medical treatment, even danger—that’s not the recipe for long life.”
“I almost bought the dirt farm in Iraq. I figure that used up all this cat’s nine lives. I’m on borrowed time. The Grim Reaper is homeless people’s friend.”
She pondered that. “What about your dog? He’d miss you.”
He looked at the ceiling and then back at her. “There’s that. I don’t know how old Emyouteetee is. I haven’t had him long.”
“I bet if you cleaned him up, he’d look younger too. You don’t look so bad, you know.”
“I had a girlfriend once. Lost her when I became homeless. The romance was winding down anyways. She thought I didn’t make enough money to help with expenses. She was right. I couldn’t even cover my own.”
They talked about Jean’s father. He’d been a Jersey cop and had encouraged his daughter to study law. He’d been a bit disappointed when she became a public defender.
“He was an MP during the Korean War,” she said, “so it was natural he became a cop. He moved in with me when he retired. Cheaper that way.”
“Kinda put a crimp on your sex life, I imagine,” said Jimmy.
She blushed. “A woman living with and taking care of an elderly parent isn’t in the same class as a man living with his mother.”
“Society has strange prejudices against old spinsters, though,” he said with a laugh. “Sorry. That came out wrong. Just saying this is a small place. Not much room for a guy to woo a gal, especially with a Daddy around who knows how to shoot a gun.”
“This isn’t the bayou, and we didn’t have any guns here. Still don’t. Moreover, my father, until he got sick, was a steady patron of the bars where cops and firefighters congregate. I encouraged that. He wasn’t a drunk; it was his social life, about all he had left.”
“So you had men in here back then. Why not now?”
“I said I’m too busy.”
“OK. Let’s change the topic. Let me tell you the story of how I found my dog.”
After dessert and coffee, Jimmy stood. “I best be going. When can you help me look for Emyouteetee?”
“I have a trial tomorrow at ten. It probably won’t last long. I convinced the woman to accept a plea bargain. The cops and DA want her supplier anyway. I should be free by twelve, when I can spare a few hours. How’s that sound?”
“Great. If you buy me a subway pass, I can keep looking even afterwards. Even the places I went to wouldn’t recognize me like this.”
Jean looked at her watch and made a quick decision. “Sit down. You’re sleeping on Dad’s bed tonight. It’s too late.”
***
They’d just left the fourth shelter when Jean decided that she had to prepare Jimmy.
“You know that your dog might be dead, right? And not all shelters are no-kill shelters. He could have been euthanized already.”
“I know that. But I have to look. If he’s still alive, he needs me.”
Maybe not as much as you need him, she thought. She looked at her watch. “One more, and I’ve got to get back. You can go on looking, though. Come by tonight and tell me how it went.” She handed him two twenties.
“They’ll let you have a dog in your apartment?”
“Good question. I don’t know. I’ll have to check the lease. Ring the buzzer and call me down.”
“Even if I don’t find him?”
“Sure. Maybe I can go out some more with you tomorrow. Right now, let’s check this one out. It isn’t no-kill, so it’s an important one.”
Jimmy’s dog wasn’t in the shelter. He even described it to the attendant, who shook his head. “We haven’t put any animals to sleep since the first of the month either. Good luck, fellow. You should get him a chip.”
They left the shelter. Jean could tell by Jimmy’s foot-dragging he was dejected. She was about to say something to cheer him up when two shots rang out. The first bullet hit the brick wall behind them. The second hit Jimmy, spinning him around. He sank to his knees.
But he jumped up immediately. He looked left and right. They both saw a figure in a hoodie run into an alley.
“He must be the killer!”
Jimmy took off, Jean behind him. “Stop! He’ll shoot again,” she called out.
Jimmy ignored her. He was fast. He was already closing in on the fleeing figure when she turned the corner into the alleyway. Jimmy tackled the man. The gun went flying. A brawl began.
She ran and picked up the gun, pointing at the two men. But she didn’t have a clear shot. She didn’t need one. The fugitive was soon unconscious. She covered him while Jimmy tied the hands behind the shooter’s back.
She set the safety, placed the gun on a garbage bin lid, and dialed 9-1-1.
***
“I guess I shouldn’t defend that perp,” she said, walking out of Bellevue Emergency with Jimmy, who had his arm in a sling. “It would be a conflict of interest.”
“And I guess they won’t be questioning him for a while with his jaw wired up like that.” He’d broken the man’s jaw. “We’re a good team, although I was afraid you were going to shoot.”
“I don’t like guns, but my father taught me to shoot one. I knew I didn’t have a clear shot. I’m pretty certain you were correct. This fellow thought you were a witness to his terrible crime and wanted to take you out.”
Jimmy smiled. “Too bad he’s such a terrible shot and so slow. He has the shakes now. Probably withdrawal from somethin’.”
“K-2, meth, whatever—what difference does it make? That won’t help him in his trial for rape and murder. I’m sure they’ll find a DNA match this time. I’d bet on it.”
“Back to looking for my dog, then.”
“Oops! I forgot. Sorry. While they were fixing you up, I received a call from one of the cops who arrested you. They’re holding your dog at their precinct.”
“Let’s go there now!”
She thought a moment. “Hmm. That’s a problem. He didn’t say which precinct—there are so many. I have his name, though, so the mystery’s easily solved. I think we owe your dog a shampoo. I know a place.”
“He’s clean on the inside already, but I guess that would make him feel better on the outside.”
“He’ll feel better seeing you too. Do you worm him and everything? That isn’t cheap.”
“No. He’s clean inside because he’s the reincarnation of a famous Buddhist monk.”
She smiled. “I asked for that. I figured out the name, by the way. I know your Buddhist monk story is just a joke.”
***
[Ready for mystery, suspense, and thrills? Family Affairs, #6 in the “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco Series,” is now available on Amazon. You can read it for free in exchange for an honest review (use the contact page on this website to query me) or by downloading from Net Galley if you’re an “official reviewer” (AKA signed up on Net Galley, I guess). Enjoy.]
In elibris libertas….
