Chapter 4 - Notes on Good Policing

Snell, as usual, wasn't being too helpful in the details of the case.  Tannehill decided to give him the benefit of the doubt in this case, though, because most of Snell's face and the back of his head had been severely displaced by a bullet.

"How are you so sure it's a bullet?" The patrolman scribbled some notes down and squinted at Tannehill.

Tannehill gaped back at him, "I assumed it wasn't a hit and run because the front door's still affixed."

"So let's run through this again," The patrolman continued scribbling unphased - or oblivious - "how did you come to discover your partner like this?"

"Well, I opened the door after returning from an investigation to drop off my equipment and," Tannehill spread his arms wide like a magician in a grand reveal "voila!"  Only the affect of his voice betrayed his magician's showmanship.

The patrolman continued scribbling.  "No, I mean, when did you find him and why did you come back to the office in the first place.  It's a bit late for office work, no?"  Oblivious.  Definitely oblivious.

"Well," Tannehill rested a hand on the desk that didn't contain pieces of his partner's - former partner's - cheek on it, "I'm not in the habit of schlepping binoculars, a camera, and a loaded revolver around when I don't need to, and I only live a couple of blocks away, so it was a convenient enough stop."

The patrolman pointed at him with his pen, "you got a permit for the revolver?"

A full beat passed before Tannehill responded, "yes."

"I'll check on that paperwork in a bit. When did you find him?"

Tannehill briefly considered telling Patrolman Oblivious that he found Snell about three hours prior, but really needed to nail his lines for the community theater production of Othello. Prudence urged him to think better of the notion.  "8:30. About 15 minutes ago."

"And then you called us."

"And then I called you."

"You don't seem too broken up about the whole ordeal."

"We weren't the closest of friends.  Just business partners."

"Still, a scene like this would tend to unnerve just about anyone.  I haven't seen too many."

Tannehill glanced over at the lettering on his door.  Private Investigator still shone through as clear as day.  He'd have to take off the Snell portion, though.  Or not.  Maybe he could start a side career writing penny dreadfuls - "The Ghost Detective Meets the Wolfman."

"How long have you been on the job?"

The patrolman glanced up and silently counted his fingers.  "A little over a year."

"Uh-huh."

"Business partners or not, you gotta' feel something."

"To be honest, I'm a little disappointed that he died in my chair sitting at my desk.  I'll be cleaning bits of brain out of my drawers for the next six months."

"You could always just switch desks."

Tannehill snapped his fingers and pointed at Patrolman Oblivious, "now that's an idea!"

At that moment, the door to the office opened and two detectives in rumpled brown suits entered the room.  One of the detectives was a head taller than everyone else present.  He glanced casually around at the mess in front of him and remained silent.  The shorter one gnawed on a toothpick while staring at the nails on his left hand and emitting a brief sigh.

"Murph," Tannehill uttered toward the taller one and then turned back to the patrolman.

"CH," the taller one responded while still taking in the scene.

"We've got a gunshot victim, lieutenant," the patrolman chimed in while reviewing his notes.  The three other men in the room briefly pursed their lips at his statement.

"Looks that way, O'Malley." Lieutenant Murphy's gaze didn't change.  He continued looking around.

"I haven't had a chance to question Mr. Tannehill about his whereabouts, yet."

"That's OK, O'Malley, we can do it now.  Where have you been all night CH?"

"Downtown.  I was working a case and eating the world's second-best egg sandwich.  I can get two of the most scholarly doormen in history to vouch for my timeline."

"I don't think that's necessary, CH.  If I've got burning questions on Don Quixote or Hamlet, I may come calling, but I think we're good for now."

"I don't know, lieutenant," the shorter one leveled his gaze at Tannehill, "I don't think we can rule Tannehill out as a suspect, yet.  We all know how good he is with a gun.  Can hit a small child at 20 paces."

Murphy stopped gazing around the room and turned toward his partner.  "Cram it, Novak."  Novak smirked and resumed surveying his nails.

"Say, CH," Murphy took a step closer to Tannehill, "how about we head out to the diner around the corner and you tell me your version of events.  O'Malley and Novak can stay here and keep the scene secure until the coroner arrives.  That sound good to you Novak?"

Novak, head still down, nodded in agreement.  O'Malley continued checking his notes and moving his lips.

Tannehill and Murphy settled into The Happy Hour Diner, a place Tannehill had more than a passing acquaintance with.  Though the egg sandwiches here were definitely not listed among the world's best, the corresponding price was at least indicative of their status. 

Tannehill and Murphy settled into a booth and a waitress - one Tannehill hadn't seen before - appeared from behind the counter to greet them.

"Can I get you something?"

"Two coffees, black," Murphy responded.

"Decaf or regular?"

"Regular."

"That's going to keep you up all night."

"I wasn't planning on sleeping much tonight anyway," Tannehill chimed in.  The waitress shrugged and turned back toward the counter.

"Novak just can't lay off, can he?"

"You know how he is, CH.  Even among the hardened cynical bunch that is Capital City's Finest, he's nobility."

"Uh-huh.  Or just a garden variety sadist."

"Let it go.  What's happened has happened, however unfortunate.  And now, we're living the lives we've accepted for ourselves, so I don't think there's any point in dwelling on the past.  And, however much he may deserve it, you still can't touch him.  He's a cop."

"Huh.  Don't dwell on it.  Easy for you to say."

"Yes, I suppose it is.  So maybe we can dwell a bit later, but for now, there's the current matter."

"Yeah, The Case of the Man Without a Face."

"So, what happened?"  The waitress stopped by the booth, handed the men their coffee and retreated behind the counter again.

"I walked into the office and found an unseemly sight."

Murphy sighed.  "Yes, I obviously understand the rhetorical points, Tannehill.  What are your thoughts on why it happened though?"

"That's just it, Murph.  It could've happened about 100 ways if we consider all of the angles.  Snell obviously wanted me out of the office, but I just chalked it up to some petty grift or some fling that was imminently approaching.  He was never one to do everything above board, but he was smart enough to know where the limits were.  His cons were small enough that no one would be inclined to do more than throw a well-placed punch.  The husbands he humiliated could always be easily intimidated into silence."

"Do you think one finally crossed the line here?"

"Nah.  The scene in my office doesn't seem to fit the scenario.  If it were some angry husband, the room would be in disarray from some sort of physical altercation.  This was just Snell leaning back in a chair with a bullet between the eyes."

"You said he wanted you out of the office.  How's that?"

"He gave me an address downtown and told me it was a lead worth pursuing.  I've grown into the habit of not asking why me and not you too closely."

"Do you think that job might have something to do with it?"

Tannehill shrugged and slurped his coffee. "Might."

"Well, the name of your subject can give certainly give you a passing clue."

Tannehill frowned and mumbled into his coffee. "I didn't get her name."

Murphy guffawed and slapped the booth table.  "It really hasn't been your day, has it?"

[Author's Note:  This week's installment is 1353 words for a total of 4076.  Don't phone me about the stereotypical police names.  I did claim that this may wind up tilting drastically into pulp fiction.]

Chapter 3 - Always Be Prepared

513 High Water St.  "Now what?" Tannehill muttered.  In his haste to part company with Snell, Tannehill left without a few key details.  Like the name of his subject of observation.  Or any plan to observe said subject.

He decided to start with the most straightforward approach and headed toward the lobby.  The doorman looked up from his desk as Tannehill entered.

"Hello, I'm here to see the couple in Suite 802."

"The couple?" the doorman replied.

"The woman," chimed in without missing a beat.  He couldn't let the doorman know he was spitballing, but, inside he cursed himself for his lack of preparation.  An annoying day was beginning to sour even more.

"And, what's your relation?"  The doorman's flat tone let Tannehill know this wasn't going to be an easy task.

"I'm her uncle." Was she in her 20s, 30s, 40s?  Tannehill could only hope he was wandering in the right direction.

"Gee," the doorman feigned mock surprise, "she must be having a party for all of her uncles."

"Damnit!" Tannehill cursed himself inwardly but outwardly shrugged. "Sometimes you can't fight coincidence," he smiled back. 

"No, I guess somedays you can't," though the doorman's tone continued to indicate you could, "OK, Uncle...?"  

"Jack." It was certainly common enough to be plausible.

The doorman snorted and muttered "not likely," but kept up with his line of questioning.  "Ok, Uncle Jack, and you're here to see your niece....?"

"Yes." Tannehill knew where the line of questioning was headed but tried to stall it in the hopes that the doorman may suffer a stroke or rush out gawking at a spontaneously erupting citywide fire.

"No, wise guy, what's your niece's name?"

"Doris?"  There was no getting out of this one with vagueries.  If the stars aligned here, Tannehill would think seriously about a career in horse betting.

"Scram!" No horse betting career for Tannehill this time out.  He tipped his fedora in gracious defeat and walked out of the building.

Tannehill crossed the street and surveyed the building.  At 12 stories, it was one of the taller buildings in this part of downtown.  Across a narrow alley, another luxury art deco building resided, at a shorter height of seven stories.

"Seven stories," Tannehill murmured. "Lucky break."

Tannehill re-crossed the street, entered the lobby of the second building and approached the doorman there.  He flashed his PI badge hastily and exclaimed "I need access to the roof.  We're setting up a stakeout and need to ensure the area is secure."

The doorman chortled.  "If you're a cop, then I'm Dick Tracy."  So much for trying to bluff his way to the roof.  Since when had the doormen of the city become so cynical?

"What if the security fee for the stakeout included a $10 bill payable directly to you?"

"Well, then, I must be Dick Tracy."  Cynical Doorman #2 pawed the outstretched bill.  "Service elevator's on the left past my desk.  Access to the roof is immediately accessible on the left once you reach the top floor. Lock's broken, so you shouldn't have problems." Tannehill briefly reconsidered his horse betting career before realizing he was down $10 with nothing yet to show for his efforts.

Tannehill bounded into the cooling evening air and faced the first building. There was a gap of about 15 feet between this building's parapet and the windows to the units across the way.  He moved over to the corner of the building assuming that an address of 802 was more likely to be at the end of the building then buried in the center.  

"Just hope it's at one of the ends I can reach and not facing the bay."  He glanced at his watch.  6:45 PM. He still had about 30 minutes worth of daylight left before his job turned more exasperating.

He pulled out his binoculars, kneeled behind the roof's parapet to keep him sufficiently concealed from all but the most direct gazes and searched through the first open window. It revealed a spacious living room with a modest breakfast bar and kitchen directly behind it and door out into the common hallway.  To the left, another room obscured by curtains led to what he assumed was the bedroom.  

In the living room, a man in a gray suit wriggled his crossed foot up and down while seated on the sofa and faced toward the curtained room.  A minute later, a woman in modest evening dress walked from the curtained room into the living room while fumbling with a stubborn earring.  

"So, yeah, bedroom." Tannehill continued watching as the man stood up.  He walked toward the door.  As he opened it, the woman pointed a subtle finger skyward in the universal signal for "one minute" and the man's lips turned down, his foot tapping the floor.  She darted back into the bedroom, the entrance door still wide open.

801 read the plate across the way.

"Huh, maybe no horse betting today, but I've had worse luck." 

He must be staring directly through apartment 800, meaning the target of his observation was the next unit over and wouldn't require an incredibly long, conspicuous latter or the ability to hover 80 feet in the air over the bay.

Tannehill slid further along the roof to 802. As with the previous unit, the curtains to the first room he encountered revealed a similar living room and kitchen setup.  The furniture in this unit was a bit shabbier than in 800, but still out of reach of his salary.  He moved further along to the bedroom of 802 and encountered a completely different scene from the one that played out in the neighboring apartment.

Here, no curtains were present and Tannehill was able to fully absorb a scene of an attractive blonde woman in her late 20s or early 30s tangled in bedsheets astride a fat man about 20 years older.  The presence of hair around only his temples gave him the appearance of an uncle, but their activities appeared to be anything but avuncular.

Tannehill stared for a full minute appreciating the scene and snapped a few photos. He jotted a few notes down - a description of the couple, in case the photos were underdeveloped, a couple of ideas for outsmarting hardboiled doormen, and a simple drawing to help him determine what position from the Kama Sutra the couple were engaged in.  Then he headed back toward the roof access door.

He glided through the lobby on his way out signaling the doorman with a two-fingered salute, "Hope you get lucky with Tess tonight, Dick," and made his way to the nearest diner, realizing he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

Striding through the diner door he sat at the nearly deserted counter and ordered an egg sandwich.  "Say, how much will that be, anyway?"

"75 cents."

"Better be the world's best egg sandwich," Tannehill thought while putting the events of the last couple of hours together.  He still had no other leads in the case but could get any supporting details from Snell in the morning.  At least he had proof to present to a jealous husband (and paying customer).  If it were one of Snell's shakedowns, so much the better, he could just turn the picture over to Snell, collect his standard cut, and let his partner deal with the particulars.

"Could've been a worse day." He stared back at the diner kitchen as he consumed what was decidedly not the world's best egg sandwich.

[Author's Note: Today's chapter?  1248 words for a running total of 2723.  Don't worry, I've got another 2000 or so in my before this will start to go off the rails.  I've also started re-reading Don Quixote.  Guess which one's gonna be better?]

Chapter 2 - Regal Capital City

[Author's note:  I made one small, but significant edit to the first post.  While grabbing his revolver and a camera in the last chapter, Tannehill also grabbed a pair of binoculars.  This is the fun you get to have following along while I'm in the process of writing.]

Capital City sits between the confluence of two rivers that slide off into the Golden Bay that leads, in turn, into the Pacific Ocean.  Its geography lies precariously between five gigantic hills and interconnecting flatlands.  These flatlands aren't really valleys in the historical sense, which otherwise evoke a pastoral beauty, but rather sandy landings giving an eager hiker the illusion of a brief respite before the next hill begins.

The five hills themselves are roughly compressed into a six square mile perimeter with the surrounding area smoothing out quickly for several miles before reaching the foothills of more imposing mountain ranges in all directions.

Tannehill's office was located in the southwest corner of the city trapped between the deepest water of the bay, where all shipping traffic made its way, and the ocean.  As the area was highly industrial, it was highly non-desirable, and, therefore, perfect for the rent Tannehill and Snell could afford.

Downtown was located in the northeast corner of the city, surrounding the highest hill in the city - and affording the best views for the most expensive tastes - and protected by the calm waters of the back bay.

Capital City itself was now a misnomer.  When the territory was first incorporated, the city's location was a natural spot for population growth and a logical location for a capital due to the high population.  As the territory, and then state grew - along with the political machinery that recognized the state's rich natural resources, agricultural possibilities, and temperate weather - many prevailing voices called for a "more centrally located state capital" to better serve the needs of the people.  This "more centrally located state capital" was moved slightly east in a state that was six times as long as it was wide and still resided near the northern boundary of the state.

No mention was ever made that the ruling state party spearheading the move resented the opposing party's lock on city politics thus hindering their ability to govern without constant protests anytime the proletariat opposed a perfectly reasonable bill.  Because the name Capital City had become common not only to locals but also the country at large, the state legislature decided to leave the name in place, if not partially as an albatross hung around its neck to indicate what purpose it once served and which now fell fallow.

Making matters worse, at least as far as Tannehill's commute was concerned, was that ward boundaries clustered around the base of each of the five hills.  Due to years of intra-council squabbling that blocked the formation of a logical mass transit system, transportation depots terminated at the base of the hills and required transfers from one bus to the next.  Times being tough, bus departures were often sparse.  Further complicating issues - in order to yield ground to the more profitable cable car lines - the buses, rather than traverse the hills themselves, drove around the bases from station to station.

Tannehill had the option of using the cable car system that traversed the summit of each hill, but they too faced the same transfer dilemma at the base of each hill, were more expensive due to their scenic views of the city, and had equally difficult schedules as their bus counterparts.

All of this resulted in Tannehill's delightful trek from one corner of the city to the other during rush hour - a commute that for him lasted much longer than the mythical proclaimed hour.

A curious pre-teen girl across the aisle glanced up from a novel and over at Tannehill and spotted his camera and binoculars in the adjacent seat.  Tannehill noticed the glance and responded.

"I'm an avid bird watcher." It could be true.  Sure, night was approaching but he may have been returning from a day's worth of aviary fun.  The girl turned back to her novel.

Tannehill, in an effort to distract himself from the misery still surrounding the city, state, and nation -and further awkward stares - from fellow passengers decided to read up on foreign affairs in the Capital City Beacon.  "Nazis Enact Laws to Strip Jews of Their Citizenship" the first cheerful foreign headline exclaimed off the page.

"Yeesh," Tannehill muttered, placing the paper in his lap and wearily staring up at the hill awaiting his next depot transfer.

[Author's Note: This chapter is 713 words.  The running total is now 1475 for words published.  Don't worry.  I've already started the next chapter.]

Chapter 1 - Snell and Tanehilll, Licensed Private Investigators

CH Tannehill wasn't one to dwell on the finer things.  His suit was as shiny as the penny he spent on it, his choice of rye bordered on rot-gut, the spring in his dime-store chair behind his industrial desk wasn't quite poking through the upholstery but was uncomfortable enough to make sure he didn't sit too long.

His former service revolver - and now simply licensed side-arm - was top of the line and kept in pristine condition.  But, given the emotional cost of the sorrow attached to its backstory, it was as cheap as every other item he owned.

Not that any of this concerned him one bit.  He willingly accepted the low pay and mind-numbing drudgery of the cheating spouse cases and two-bit insurance scam investigations that came his way as both penance for his previous sins and a welcome distraction from more in-depth thought.

For what seemed like the thousandth time in his PI career he stared at the lettering of his office door working himself uncomfortably toward the spring until he felt compelled to stand up and leave the office for some pointless errand.

"Snell and Tannehill - Licensed Private Investigators" it read.  "Snell and Tannehill," he thought, not for the first time, "sounds like the start of a poorly written Lewis Carroll poem."

His partner, Dick Snell, was everything Tannehill wasn't - flashy to the point of penury, and vain.  Snell had spent the better part of 15 minutes convincing Tannehill that his name should be first in the company business.  Tannehill, for his part, didn't mind if his name was spelled with one 'n' and three 'l's as long as he could cover the monthly rent.

Tannehill popped up from his desk and walked over to the industrial file cabinet to park his latest case notes when Snell walked into the office.

"Got another one," said Snell, grinning, his large chin looming even larger with the broad grin fixed on his face.

"Care to elaborate?"

"Another unfaithful wife, Tannehill.  Another easy paycheck."  Snell winked in apparent deference to his partner's perceived lesser intelligence.  From Snell's point of view, if Tannehill couldn't read his mind, he must obviously be stupid.

"OK. Tell me, how did we wind up getting a client with not one individual - other than your esteemed self, of course - walking through that door in the last two hours?"

"The husband approached me outside," Snell responded, no change in his grin.

"Your doing?"  Tannehill knew his partner was neither above wrecking marriages simply out of boredom or vanity.  He'd even go so far as to hint to the aggrieved party what was going on (necessarily leaving his own name out of the details) in order to drum up further business.  Tannehill wondered if this new "case" was simply an irate husband approaching Snell for revenge.

"Ha!" Snell guffawed hollowly and slapped his partner on the back.  His grin seemingly widened.  "Why don't you do the footwork for this one?"

"Why me?"  Tannehill was surprised that Snell didn't want to chase down the lead.  Snell wasn't particularly inclined toward hard work and would pawn his duties off on his partner when the opportunity presented itself.  But, given the chance to watch an amorous couple in flagrante delicto before announcing that he'd caught them - and, coincidentally, giving them the opportunity to pay shakedown money to save their reputations - he'd usually be able to tap into his diligent work ethic.  Tannehill gathered that Snell either had a prior engagement, the woman in question was too ugly for his tastes, or that Snell was, in fact, the offending party.

"I don't know, pal.  You've been sitting in this office all day.  I thought it'd be nice to give you the opportunity to get some fresh air and some exercise."  The grin on Snell's face slipped a little as he began to be annoyed by Tannehill's questions.

"Sure, partner." Tannehill ensured that the sarcastic response wasn't too subtle for Snell's understanding.  "Though it'd be nice to have a starting point."

"Here you go," Snell's smiled returned as he slipped a note to Tannehill.  513 High Water St. Suite 802. Downtown.  A nice 10-mile trek to cover when your car's in the shop and the rush hour was approaching.

Tannehill opened the top drawer of his desk, checked his service revolver and holstered it, stuffed a notebook in his coat, opened the bottom drawer, grabbed a camera and a pair of binoculars and headed for the door.

"Enjoy the fresh air!" Snell yelled out cheerily while plopping down behind this own desk.

Tannehill grunted in response and left the office.

[Author's Note - For those keeping score at home, the section above is 767 words, but seemed like a logical chapter break.  I'll still write at least another 233 words today, but they won't be published until next week's installment.]