Tannehill's rate of ascension in the CCPD was commendable. His ability to keep his mouth buttoned about internal police affairs and to solve crimes attributed to actual perpetrators were skills the department could proudly display. Now they had an officer the public could place their trust in - someone who wouldn't scapegoat the poor of the city in order to beef up a case clearance rate and someone who wouldn't rat out the other officers who'd scapegoat the poor of the city in order to beef up a case clearance rate. Murmurs echoed throughout precinct hallways that he'd make detective, or even skip to detective sergeant, before his fifth anniversary. In a system rife with patronage that kept even well-connected individuals from significant promotions for a decade, this was an impressive accomplishment.
This, however, did not prevent the occasional tedious check-in from his superiors on his progress, as occurred one day in 1917:
"Tannehill, have you been talking to army recruiters?"
"I had to interview one in relation to the soldier who knifed that socialite to death a couple of weeks back. So, yes sir."
"Did you talk to him about joining the military?"
"During a lull in the conversation, I asked him about the situation in Europe and what our government's current position is, specifically since we've just instituted a draft. But, no sir, I did not express a desire to join the military."
[Some gnawing on a cigar and grunting.] "Good."
"If I may be so bold as to indulge my curiosity, sir, why are you asking?"
[More gnawing on a cigar and continued grunting.] "It's department policy that until our government takes an official position, we remain neutral in our outlook toward the conflict in Europe. We're a cosmopolitan city with a diverse population and we need to respect the views of all of our citizens without the appearance of bias."
Strange, Tannehill thought, considering that murder of two German-Americans in the previous month - for the slimmest of reasons related to the war that affronted everyone's personal views in Capital City - was effectively closed. As was the investigation into the arsonist who'd torched one-quarter of Chinatown the previous December. Stranger still that the department heads of the CCPD had contributed funds for arms to support the Easter Rebellion in Ireland the year before - an act most people would consider overtly political and singular in its respective view.
"I understand, sir. I have no interest in forwarding the perception of bias within the department or futhering a misguided opinion that we don't protect and serve all people of the city."
"Good. We know the Germans have committed some atrocities, but those are no less heinous than the acts taken on behalf of the British. It would be wrong to choose sides without weighing all the facts."
"Yes, sir. The Irish neighborhood I grew up in always prided itself on being a pillar of the surrounding community and contributing to the city's welfare as a whole."
[Final grunting.] "I think we understand each other, Tannehill, and, more importantly, what's best for the department."
"Yes, sir. I believe we do."
---
"Funny, I had a similar conversation with my employer. Except without the ham-handed attempt at propaganda." Spinoza stabbed at his scrambled eggs and salted them a bit more before shoveling in another fork full.
Tannehill hill looked dolefully up from his egg sandwich. "Is there something wrong with wanting to represent all people of the city in an equitable and compassionate fashion?"
"That reminds me. How's the investigation into the Chinatown arsonist going? Is the department any closer to determining it was an accident due to multiple malfunctioning fireworks that exploded simultaneously throughout the quarter as part of a tragic Chinese New Year mishap?" Small bits of scrambled egg plastered the table between them as Spinoza spoke.
"Chinese New Year is in February."
"Ohhhh. Well then, obviously CCPD wouldn't miss a historical detail like that when filing away an investigation. It's probably just the Chinese celebrating our New Year a few weeks early. Or maybe Santa's sleigh malfunctioned during a test run."
Tannehill sighed and let the rebuttal pass without further comment. "My desire to join the army or not may be a moot point now since Washington's instituted a draft."
"You're a public servant vital to the city's interest in law and order. That probably knocks you down lower in the draft order."
"That only means that we're in Class II of the draft."
"And you don't think the brass of your department is going to take care of their Golden Boy?"
"The department may be understaffed and perpetually starved for good publicity, but I'm not that important. If I go under, I'm sure they'll be able to make an equal case for any distinguished member of our canine unit in a pinch. Anyway, you said that you had a similar conversation?"
"I'm not going."
"That's not much of a conversation. Why?"
"Russia isn't exactly a friend to the Jewish people. British policy doesn't align well with our interests either."
"My employers made a case along similar lines, even if the reasoning was a bit more veiled than your take."
"I'm assuming not for the same reasons as mine."
"Your assumption is likely correct."
"So," Spinoza for all of his intellectual ability, had the vicious habit of talking with his mouth full, "what happens if you're drafted?"
Tannehill shrugged, "I go and pray I don't get stuck in a trench. What about you?"
"If you can't fight city hall, then you certainly can't fight the city hall of city halls. I don't think Washington's going to give a damn about my views, and I don't know that I have the fortitude to register as a conscientious objector."
"Look at us, a couple of coffee house ideologues caught up in patriotic fervor. How can we not be future war heroes?"
Spinoza finished his last bite of scrambled egg in agreement and signaled for the check.
[Author's Note: This week's edition was 994 words for a running total of 13149 words in the story. I actually had to throw out the first half of my work this week after doing research on American sentiment for WWI. No department run by staunch Irish nationalists would support entering a war on the side of Britain without strong justification or influence. I did learn quite a bit about American points of view leading up to WWI. Much of the populace was actually against the war for a variety of - generally thoughtful - causes. It was simply the political will of Woodrow Wilson that eventually aligned the country's interests to support the war.]
Sunday, October 27, 2019
Sunday, October 20, 2019
Chapter 11 - The Devil's Note
Tannehill and Vera arrived reached The Tritone at the very jazz-reasonable hour of midnight. They descended to the entrance ten steps below street level in an alley dotted with numerous broken cobblestones. Tannehill wore the same suit he'd been wearing for the last two days. Vera's pencil was replaced with a modest hairpin. She wore short-heeled monk straps with a slender black dress. The shoes were mildly scuffed and there was no noticeable wear on the heels, while the dress had been rehemmed. In the darkness of a jazz club, though, neither would draw attention. The puffiness under her eyes disappeared with the excitement of a new adventure and her eyes shone radiantly even in the late evening, further pulling potential gazes away from her second-hand ensemble.
The pair were simultaneously assaulted by flat notes from the brass section and a waitress slinging gin-heavy martinis upon arrival. They accepted the waitress's proposal and sat shoulder to shoulder with other patrons at a table for two identical to every other set up in the room.
15 minutes after their arrival, mumble, mumble "...we're going to take a short break." The crowd clapped enthusiastically with a few loud, high-pitched whistles scattered among the room. In front of the stage, a solitary figure stood up, clapping enthusiastically, her eyes following the band off stage.
Vera nudged Tannehill in the ribs "silhouette look familiar?" Tannehill nodded. The klieg lights at the front of the stage illuminated enough of the figure that both of them could make out a statuesque blonde with shoulder-length hair curling gently at the ends. She was dressed in a form-fitting emerald taffeta dress and her head continued to follow the arc of the band as they headed for the bar. Once they alighted, she headed stage right along with numerous other women in the room.
"I'm going to powder my nose." Vera followed the woman into the ladies' room.
She jostled her way to a sink adjacent to the blonde and began poking at the remnants of the puffiness under her eyes. "Some set, huh?"
The blonde responded. "Yes, certainly. I like the group quite a bit. I'm happy they're playing more extravagant parts for a guitar than just a simple four-to-the-beat rhythm progression." Her accent had a clipped pronunciation Vera couldn't place.
"Have you heard of Django Reinhardt? What he can do with a guitar is simply amazing."
"I've actually seen Django play in Paris." She smiled warmly, "he's not bad for a two-fingered gypsy." She winked at this last phrase and extended a hand. "Most of the people I meet around here are casual fans out for a fun evening, but you seem to be a bit more involved, Miss...?"
"Oh,Vera. You can just call me Vera" Vera returned a hand and the two shook. "It's no mystery. I had access to a piano when I was younger and I loved working through ragtime pieces. I've been hooked ever since."
"Yes, the music and the people who make it have such a..." the blonde paused for a searching second, "...passion. Don't you think?"
"Certainly. The history of the music is amazing too. It helps color the backstory of the pieces."
"Yes," the blonde winked again, "color. Exactly." Vera was beginning to wonder if her counterpart had a facial twitch.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name and I don't want to let an opportunity to make the acquaintance of a fellow aficionado pass by."
The blonde put a hand to her breast. "No, I'm sorry, the fault is all mine. Where are my manners? I'm Emily. Emily Brunner."
"Nice to meet you. Hope to see you again soon" Vera turned to walk away.
Emily placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, "if you don't mind me asking, where are you sitting?"
"At the back with a friend of mine who has no clue about anything going on here."
"I'd be delighted if you and your friend would sit upfront with me. I'm by myself and can easily find another chair for a third."
Vera shrugged nonchalantly, keenly aware that her plans for the evening had gone from soaking her feet in Epsom salts to sitting stage-side at one of the most popular clubs in the city. "Certainly. We'll meet you in a few minutes."
She walked back to a waiting Tannehill. "I'm pretty sure the dame in the ladies' is your girl. What's her name?"
"Emi--"
"It's her. She invited us up to her table for the rest of the show." She extended the crook of her elbow. "Shall we?" Tannehill threaded his arm through hers and pushed his way into the crowd. Two minutes later they were facing a seated, smiling Emily Brunner. Tannehill noticed her eyes widen a bit when his face appeared in the klieg lights.
"Welcome, Vera and friend." She patted the seated nearest to her and motioned for Vera to sit. Tannehill followed after and sat next to Vera.
"So, I hear from Vera that you don't know much about modern music?"
"Modern, ancient, I don't know much about either genre."
"Well then, this will be a treat to guide you through. Jazz is quite a complex form."
"Huh," Tannehill leaned back a bit. He gazed at her quizzically. "You're not originally from Capital City, are you?"
"Quite perceptive even in this," she circled a bored hand around the room, "commotion. But, no, I'm not. My mother is English and my father is German. I've spent significant time in both locations before settling in the US."
English and German. Emily and Brunner. It fit. "Well, pleasure to meet such an eclectic world traveler. I look forward to learning a bit more about at least one mode of music." At this Vera patted his arm playfully and shushed him as the musicians took the stage again.
For the next hour, Emily graciously and enthusiastically explained the broader points of jazz - the use of syncopation, the role each of the players in the ensemble had, the spirit of innovation that captured the genre. At 1:30 AM, with the band still showing no sign of slowing down, Vera leaned between the two of them.
"My apologies, but I need to work an early shift in the morning and it's a loooong way back home."
Tannehill leaned in to respond, "I suppose it would be impolite of me to allow the lady to travel home unaccompanied."
"Certainly. I understand. Thank you both for being gracious guests at my table. If it's not too forward, please accept cab fare from me for keeping you past your appointed hour."
"Thanks very much," Vera extended her hand to receive the gift, "it will make the ride home much easier."
"Well, then, I certainly do hope to see you both again soon. Goodnight Vera. Goodnight CH." Emily turned toward the band again, smiled, and nodded in time to the music.
Vera grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him through the still-packed room, annoyed at his glances back toward Emily that impeded their egress. "What?"
"I never told her my name."
[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1182 words for a running total of 12155. I laid off some of the finer points of jazz in order to overwhelm the reader too much. And if you're interested in how I had any idea about what type of footwear Vera would be likely to don, check out this article. I originally wanted her to wear flats, but, at least according to article, that would be anachronistic.]
The pair were simultaneously assaulted by flat notes from the brass section and a waitress slinging gin-heavy martinis upon arrival. They accepted the waitress's proposal and sat shoulder to shoulder with other patrons at a table for two identical to every other set up in the room.
15 minutes after their arrival, mumble, mumble "...we're going to take a short break." The crowd clapped enthusiastically with a few loud, high-pitched whistles scattered among the room. In front of the stage, a solitary figure stood up, clapping enthusiastically, her eyes following the band off stage.
Vera nudged Tannehill in the ribs "silhouette look familiar?" Tannehill nodded. The klieg lights at the front of the stage illuminated enough of the figure that both of them could make out a statuesque blonde with shoulder-length hair curling gently at the ends. She was dressed in a form-fitting emerald taffeta dress and her head continued to follow the arc of the band as they headed for the bar. Once they alighted, she headed stage right along with numerous other women in the room.
"I'm going to powder my nose." Vera followed the woman into the ladies' room.
She jostled her way to a sink adjacent to the blonde and began poking at the remnants of the puffiness under her eyes. "Some set, huh?"
The blonde responded. "Yes, certainly. I like the group quite a bit. I'm happy they're playing more extravagant parts for a guitar than just a simple four-to-the-beat rhythm progression." Her accent had a clipped pronunciation Vera couldn't place.
"Have you heard of Django Reinhardt? What he can do with a guitar is simply amazing."
"I've actually seen Django play in Paris." She smiled warmly, "he's not bad for a two-fingered gypsy." She winked at this last phrase and extended a hand. "Most of the people I meet around here are casual fans out for a fun evening, but you seem to be a bit more involved, Miss...?"
"Oh,Vera. You can just call me Vera" Vera returned a hand and the two shook. "It's no mystery. I had access to a piano when I was younger and I loved working through ragtime pieces. I've been hooked ever since."
"Yes, the music and the people who make it have such a..." the blonde paused for a searching second, "...passion. Don't you think?"
"Certainly. The history of the music is amazing too. It helps color the backstory of the pieces."
"Yes," the blonde winked again, "color. Exactly." Vera was beginning to wonder if her counterpart had a facial twitch.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name and I don't want to let an opportunity to make the acquaintance of a fellow aficionado pass by."
The blonde put a hand to her breast. "No, I'm sorry, the fault is all mine. Where are my manners? I'm Emily. Emily Brunner."
"Nice to meet you. Hope to see you again soon" Vera turned to walk away.
Emily placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, "if you don't mind me asking, where are you sitting?"
"At the back with a friend of mine who has no clue about anything going on here."
"I'd be delighted if you and your friend would sit upfront with me. I'm by myself and can easily find another chair for a third."
Vera shrugged nonchalantly, keenly aware that her plans for the evening had gone from soaking her feet in Epsom salts to sitting stage-side at one of the most popular clubs in the city. "Certainly. We'll meet you in a few minutes."
She walked back to a waiting Tannehill. "I'm pretty sure the dame in the ladies' is your girl. What's her name?"
"Emi--"
"It's her. She invited us up to her table for the rest of the show." She extended the crook of her elbow. "Shall we?" Tannehill threaded his arm through hers and pushed his way into the crowd. Two minutes later they were facing a seated, smiling Emily Brunner. Tannehill noticed her eyes widen a bit when his face appeared in the klieg lights.
"Welcome, Vera and friend." She patted the seated nearest to her and motioned for Vera to sit. Tannehill followed after and sat next to Vera.
"So, I hear from Vera that you don't know much about modern music?"
"Modern, ancient, I don't know much about either genre."
"Well then, this will be a treat to guide you through. Jazz is quite a complex form."
"Huh," Tannehill leaned back a bit. He gazed at her quizzically. "You're not originally from Capital City, are you?"
"Quite perceptive even in this," she circled a bored hand around the room, "commotion. But, no, I'm not. My mother is English and my father is German. I've spent significant time in both locations before settling in the US."
English and German. Emily and Brunner. It fit. "Well, pleasure to meet such an eclectic world traveler. I look forward to learning a bit more about at least one mode of music." At this Vera patted his arm playfully and shushed him as the musicians took the stage again.
For the next hour, Emily graciously and enthusiastically explained the broader points of jazz - the use of syncopation, the role each of the players in the ensemble had, the spirit of innovation that captured the genre. At 1:30 AM, with the band still showing no sign of slowing down, Vera leaned between the two of them.
"My apologies, but I need to work an early shift in the morning and it's a loooong way back home."
Tannehill leaned in to respond, "I suppose it would be impolite of me to allow the lady to travel home unaccompanied."
"Certainly. I understand. Thank you both for being gracious guests at my table. If it's not too forward, please accept cab fare from me for keeping you past your appointed hour."
"Thanks very much," Vera extended her hand to receive the gift, "it will make the ride home much easier."
"Well, then, I certainly do hope to see you both again soon. Goodnight Vera. Goodnight CH." Emily turned toward the band again, smiled, and nodded in time to the music.
Vera grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him through the still-packed room, annoyed at his glances back toward Emily that impeded their egress. "What?"
"I never told her my name."
[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1182 words for a running total of 12155. I laid off some of the finer points of jazz in order to overwhelm the reader too much. And if you're interested in how I had any idea about what type of footwear Vera would be likely to don, check out this article. I originally wanted her to wear flats, but, at least according to article, that would be anachronistic.]
Sunday, October 13, 2019
Chapter 10 - Of Seagulls and Smut
Tannehill sat on a bench next to the inner bay throwing someone else's discarded stale to the gathering crowd of seagulls. They squawked in protest of their breakfast offering, demanding both more and better.
His gaze focused loosely on the suburbs across the bay and he felt the acid of the orange juice begin to settle uncomfortably in his chest.
"Why bother? Why not let the police do their job -or not- and move on? He wasn't worth a damn as a partner - sloppy in his methods, sloppy in his choice of clients, spending more time convincing me why he deserved a 55/45 split of any proceeds because he was the 'face of the business.'"
"He wasn't worth much as a human being, either. How many marriages had he ruined either in pursuit of his own amorous needs or the desire for a quick buck? How many crimes - petty or otherwise - had he committed? Tannehill coughed up some of the orange juice while a seagull next to him shat in protest at breakfast's early closing time."
Human, though. He was human. I let this one go, then it's just another voice silenced without any reason. Then I'm no less sloppy than he was, abandoning a case because it wasn't convenient to see through to the end. Whatever the guy's moral composition, he was a man and deserves some dignity in death even if he didn't choose to pursue it in life.
Tannehill sighed, stretched, brushed the bread crumbs from his jacket and looked at his watch. 10:37. Nearly another two and a half hours before his photos would be processed.
---
Tannehill spent the next two hours wandering downtown admiring the mix of new art deco buildings and tenements while listening to the echo of traumatized seagulls who were quickly wasting away to nothing throughout the city.
He appeared at the main entrance of The Daily Courier promptly at 1 PM where Spinoza was waiting for him with a sealed manila packet.
"You weren't lying about those photos," Spinoza handed the packet to Tannehill.
"Nope."
"That broad would be some looker even with all of her clothes on."
"Yup."
"Gee, you're chatty this afternoon."
"You eat lunch yet?"
"Nope," now it was Spinoza's turn for verbal tennis.
"C'mon, I know this place around the corner with the world's best egg sandwich. My treat."
"You're just killing time until I get off and can drive you back home rather than take the jigsaw puzzle that is our municipal bus system."
Tannehill shrugged. "At least you get a free lunch out of it."
"Curious turn of phrase, don't you think? By the way, when are you getting your car back?"
Tannehill shrugged again. "Hard to say. When a car goes into the bay, it can take a while to repair it. Good thing it didn't go into the ocean. The added salt would've been killer on the paint job."
"You got any leads on this thing?" Spinoza pointed to the packet.
Shrug. "Your sexy socialite's name and a very surly doorman."
"From terse to cryptic in one fell swoop. I assume you're going to explain these things to me?"
"Sure, if you come with me to get that egg sandwich. I'd also recommend the orange juice."
"OK," Spinoza sighed, "but I'm not leaving the office until 4 PM. And that's assuming I don't get called to a crime scene."
Tannehill crossed his finger of his heart, "I promise that no crime will occur in Capital City until you've safely deposited me back home."
---
Spinoza dropped Tannehill off in front of his office and then sped away to brood silently at a neighborhood bar or moonlight as a cabaret singer - two options Tannehill always assumed were equally likely.
Tannehill opened the door to his office and was instantly confronted with the overpowering smell of bleach. Less than 24 hours after the violent death of his associate, the CCPD had inspected the crime scene, removed the body and cleaned every potential shred of material evidence at the scene. Whatever else citizens assumed about the CCPD, the department was efficient. If they bothered to solve this particular crime, they'd likely have a suspect caught within the next 24 hours and executed another 24 hours after that.
He swapped his chair for Snell's and sat at his desk, digging through his bottom drawer for his rye. He took the final pull from the bottle before acknowledging the realization that the smell of bleach wouldn't do much to facilitate his concentration, so he got up and left.
He found his way to The Happy Hour Diner and sat in the previous night's booth, unwrapping the cord on the photo envelope and flipping through the pictures.
The waitress from the previous night appeared behind him. "Is that why you drink so much coffee? So that you can look at smut all night?"
He didn't alter his gaze. "I produce it too. These are my original creations."
She peered over his shoulder and squinted, "never imagined we had an artist in the neighborhood." She whistled low, "that's some dame. Looks and acrobatics all in one package."
Tannehill turned to face her. She was taller than the average woman but attractive. Her light brown hair was pulled back and fastened with a pencil. The escaping wisps messily framing her face. Faint freckles spreading from the bridge of her nose complimented her green eyes. The eyes had some puffiness, which he assumed was due to long, late shifts at The Happy Hour. Her even greener dress was complimented with faint grease stains spreading across her breast. Tannehill guessed her to be in her late teens or early twenties.
"None of this scares you off?"
"I've been around long enough to know what men are capable of and this isn't a capital offense. Besides, you don't strike me as a trenchcoat and smile type of guy, if you catch my drift." She sat down in the booth across from Tannehill.
Tannehill looked around the diner to see who she might be neglecting but only spotted a blue-collar at the end of the counter nursing a meatloaf and staring ahead. "I do. I'm a PI. This is a job I'm working on."
"Ooh, exciting," she opened and closed her palm rapidly, "hand them over. What are you trying to solve, whether or not she or her paramour is bustier?"
"No, the death of my partner."
She stopped browsing and looked at him, "I'm sorry."
Tannehill shrugged, "we weren't close."
"What are you looking for in these photos?"
"Any clue that connects my partner to either of the two people in the photo."
"I don't know about any clue, but she's got good taste in music."
Tannehill cocked an eyebrow, remembering Mrs. Sugarbaker's comment earlier about jazz. "How do you figure?"
The waitress pointed to a poster on the wall behind the lovers. "That's The Tritone. It's an old-speakeasy that's a jazz club for local musicians now. It's on Lafayette. Never been, but I've heard a lot of good things."
Lafayette was a couple of blocks west of Highwater street downtown, so likely close to Emily Brunner's apartment. If she liked jazz, had a poster of a jazz club on her wall, and lived near it, she was likely to be a frequent patron. It'd be easier to approach her at a jazz club rather than stalking her outside of her apartment or finding one dumb excuse after another to get past the doorman.
"Do you want to go?"
"Are you asking me out on a date?"
"Er, uh," Tannehill colored, "no. I just thought if I'd go, I'd better take someone who appreciates jazz and you said you've never been..."
"When?"
"Tonight."
She whistled again, "you're a fast operator." She paused and turned her head in thought. "I get off at 10. I'm Vera by the way." She extended her hand.
Tannehill took it. "Charles. Everyone calls me CH, though."
"Alright. I'm in. How could I not trust someone claiming to be a PI while looking at pornography in a diner. And don't worry, I'll change. I've got this exact same outfit except in a lovely powdered blue." She stood up from the booth, smirked and curtseyed. "I'm assuming you want something to eat?"
"A cheeseburger with fries, please. You don't happen to have access to a car do you?"
"My, you really know how to butter a girl up. No, sorry, but I can probably show some leg and get us the front seat of the bus." She turned and headed back toward the counter.
Tannehill looked down at the pictures again, muttering. "The things we do for love." He took comfort in the fact that his new aviary friends would likely approve of his dinner choice for the evening.
[Author's Note: This week's edition is 1469 words. The running total is 10973. I didn't originally intend for Vera to be so quick-witted (only that she'd make the connection to the jazz club) but realized that if she doesn't mind a diner patron looking at porn, she'd need to have a personality to match Tannehill's.]
His gaze focused loosely on the suburbs across the bay and he felt the acid of the orange juice begin to settle uncomfortably in his chest.
"Why bother? Why not let the police do their job -or not- and move on? He wasn't worth a damn as a partner - sloppy in his methods, sloppy in his choice of clients, spending more time convincing me why he deserved a 55/45 split of any proceeds because he was the 'face of the business.'"
"He wasn't worth much as a human being, either. How many marriages had he ruined either in pursuit of his own amorous needs or the desire for a quick buck? How many crimes - petty or otherwise - had he committed? Tannehill coughed up some of the orange juice while a seagull next to him shat in protest at breakfast's early closing time."
Human, though. He was human. I let this one go, then it's just another voice silenced without any reason. Then I'm no less sloppy than he was, abandoning a case because it wasn't convenient to see through to the end. Whatever the guy's moral composition, he was a man and deserves some dignity in death even if he didn't choose to pursue it in life.
Tannehill sighed, stretched, brushed the bread crumbs from his jacket and looked at his watch. 10:37. Nearly another two and a half hours before his photos would be processed.
---
Tannehill spent the next two hours wandering downtown admiring the mix of new art deco buildings and tenements while listening to the echo of traumatized seagulls who were quickly wasting away to nothing throughout the city.
He appeared at the main entrance of The Daily Courier promptly at 1 PM where Spinoza was waiting for him with a sealed manila packet.
"You weren't lying about those photos," Spinoza handed the packet to Tannehill.
"Nope."
"That broad would be some looker even with all of her clothes on."
"Yup."
"Gee, you're chatty this afternoon."
"You eat lunch yet?"
"Nope," now it was Spinoza's turn for verbal tennis.
"C'mon, I know this place around the corner with the world's best egg sandwich. My treat."
"You're just killing time until I get off and can drive you back home rather than take the jigsaw puzzle that is our municipal bus system."
Tannehill shrugged. "At least you get a free lunch out of it."
"Curious turn of phrase, don't you think? By the way, when are you getting your car back?"
Tannehill shrugged again. "Hard to say. When a car goes into the bay, it can take a while to repair it. Good thing it didn't go into the ocean. The added salt would've been killer on the paint job."
"You got any leads on this thing?" Spinoza pointed to the packet.
Shrug. "Your sexy socialite's name and a very surly doorman."
"From terse to cryptic in one fell swoop. I assume you're going to explain these things to me?"
"Sure, if you come with me to get that egg sandwich. I'd also recommend the orange juice."
"OK," Spinoza sighed, "but I'm not leaving the office until 4 PM. And that's assuming I don't get called to a crime scene."
Tannehill crossed his finger of his heart, "I promise that no crime will occur in Capital City until you've safely deposited me back home."
---
Spinoza dropped Tannehill off in front of his office and then sped away to brood silently at a neighborhood bar or moonlight as a cabaret singer - two options Tannehill always assumed were equally likely.
Tannehill opened the door to his office and was instantly confronted with the overpowering smell of bleach. Less than 24 hours after the violent death of his associate, the CCPD had inspected the crime scene, removed the body and cleaned every potential shred of material evidence at the scene. Whatever else citizens assumed about the CCPD, the department was efficient. If they bothered to solve this particular crime, they'd likely have a suspect caught within the next 24 hours and executed another 24 hours after that.
He swapped his chair for Snell's and sat at his desk, digging through his bottom drawer for his rye. He took the final pull from the bottle before acknowledging the realization that the smell of bleach wouldn't do much to facilitate his concentration, so he got up and left.
He found his way to The Happy Hour Diner and sat in the previous night's booth, unwrapping the cord on the photo envelope and flipping through the pictures.
The waitress from the previous night appeared behind him. "Is that why you drink so much coffee? So that you can look at smut all night?"
He didn't alter his gaze. "I produce it too. These are my original creations."
She peered over his shoulder and squinted, "never imagined we had an artist in the neighborhood." She whistled low, "that's some dame. Looks and acrobatics all in one package."
Tannehill turned to face her. She was taller than the average woman but attractive. Her light brown hair was pulled back and fastened with a pencil. The escaping wisps messily framing her face. Faint freckles spreading from the bridge of her nose complimented her green eyes. The eyes had some puffiness, which he assumed was due to long, late shifts at The Happy Hour. Her even greener dress was complimented with faint grease stains spreading across her breast. Tannehill guessed her to be in her late teens or early twenties.
"None of this scares you off?"
"I've been around long enough to know what men are capable of and this isn't a capital offense. Besides, you don't strike me as a trenchcoat and smile type of guy, if you catch my drift." She sat down in the booth across from Tannehill.
Tannehill looked around the diner to see who she might be neglecting but only spotted a blue-collar at the end of the counter nursing a meatloaf and staring ahead. "I do. I'm a PI. This is a job I'm working on."
"Ooh, exciting," she opened and closed her palm rapidly, "hand them over. What are you trying to solve, whether or not she or her paramour is bustier?"
"No, the death of my partner."
She stopped browsing and looked at him, "I'm sorry."
Tannehill shrugged, "we weren't close."
"What are you looking for in these photos?"
"Any clue that connects my partner to either of the two people in the photo."
"I don't know about any clue, but she's got good taste in music."
Tannehill cocked an eyebrow, remembering Mrs. Sugarbaker's comment earlier about jazz. "How do you figure?"
The waitress pointed to a poster on the wall behind the lovers. "That's The Tritone. It's an old-speakeasy that's a jazz club for local musicians now. It's on Lafayette. Never been, but I've heard a lot of good things."
Lafayette was a couple of blocks west of Highwater street downtown, so likely close to Emily Brunner's apartment. If she liked jazz, had a poster of a jazz club on her wall, and lived near it, she was likely to be a frequent patron. It'd be easier to approach her at a jazz club rather than stalking her outside of her apartment or finding one dumb excuse after another to get past the doorman.
"Do you want to go?"
"Are you asking me out on a date?"
"Er, uh," Tannehill colored, "no. I just thought if I'd go, I'd better take someone who appreciates jazz and you said you've never been..."
"When?"
"Tonight."
She whistled again, "you're a fast operator." She paused and turned her head in thought. "I get off at 10. I'm Vera by the way." She extended her hand.
Tannehill took it. "Charles. Everyone calls me CH, though."
"Alright. I'm in. How could I not trust someone claiming to be a PI while looking at pornography in a diner. And don't worry, I'll change. I've got this exact same outfit except in a lovely powdered blue." She stood up from the booth, smirked and curtseyed. "I'm assuming you want something to eat?"
"A cheeseburger with fries, please. You don't happen to have access to a car do you?"
"My, you really know how to butter a girl up. No, sorry, but I can probably show some leg and get us the front seat of the bus." She turned and headed back toward the counter.
Tannehill looked down at the pictures again, muttering. "The things we do for love." He took comfort in the fact that his new aviary friends would likely approve of his dinner choice for the evening.
[Author's Note: This week's edition is 1469 words. The running total is 10973. I didn't originally intend for Vera to be so quick-witted (only that she'd make the connection to the jazz club) but realized that if she doesn't mind a diner patron looking at porn, she'd need to have a personality to match Tannehill's.]
Sunday, October 6, 2019
Chapter 9 - Vaudeville Comes to Capital City
Phil Spinoza followed Tannehill to Capital City during the same year as the latter's migration - 1913 - and from the same originating city - Chicago. Spinoza's family had settled in the Uptown neighborhood of the city a few years prior to his birth after emigrating from Europe. The family's original name was Landau, but Phil's father changed their family name to Spinoza to honor the philosopher who espoused the Jewish roots and Enlightenment ideals his father held so dear.
Unlike Tannehill, Spinoza came to Capital City with an express purpose of joining the burgeoning journalism community of the exploding city. Armed with a freshly minted English degree from Northwestern and a recommendation from a cousin in the publishing industry, Spinoza breezed easily through his interview at The Daily Courier and accepted a position as a cub reporter and photographer on the crime beat.
Though he received no small amount of newsroom abuse for his pedigree - Spinoza was amazed that reporters who could wax poetic with 2000 word deadlines looming couldn't come up with a better nickname for him than "College Boy" - the environment at the Courier couldn't be more different than the environment Tannehill faced at the CCPD. Reporters were commended for upholding constant barrages of questions and pursuing lines of inquiry that seemed to have little in common with the matter at hand but resulted in an amusing factoid nonetheless. This was in stark contrast to the police department's taciturn and direct culture.
Though Spinoza could've nominally applied for the CCPD, he would've been rejected for his inability to speak Gaelic proficiently. When confronted with this fact, he would've pointed out that he had a good grasp of both Yiddish and Polish, the latter of which would've proven valuable in a police force that was nearly 40% Catholic and Eastern European. Upon pointing out this fact, CCPD commanders would've have pointed out, per The Professor's scientific research, that Yiddish could easily be confused with other languages of Eastern and Central Europe causing confusion during periods of intense stress. This fact was often used to discouraged men of Jewish descent from applying to the CCPD, for fear that, when confused or under pressure, they would speak unintelligibly in Yiddish, risking the lives of other officers. However, when faced with this fact, Spinoza would've pointed out that this was of little concern as he was fluent in English because (a) he was a native-born citizen of the United States and (b) had an English degree from a well-known university in those same United States.
When confronted with this fact, the CCPD brass likely would've discovered another flaw that made Spinoza unsuitable for police work - he did tend to be a bit nasal, which could cause confusion during periods of intense stress among officers for those who didn't understand his speech patterns. Spinoza would've responded that the French - a nation known and celebrated for their nasal language - did not face national security risks or crime prevention problems based on their accent. Luckily for both Spinoza and the CCPD, he didn't apply to the police force.
Unluckily for the CCPD, Spinoza used this back-and-forth style in his interaction with officers and CCPD superiors at a crime scene or press conference to deconstruct their often poorly constructed theories or press releases leading to more than one embarrassing political scandal for a city and department that prized political perception above all else.
Spinoza met Tannehill early in their careers while Tannehill was guarding the crime scene of a garden variety homicide Spinoza had been dispatched to report on and photograph. The air was cool and permeated with the mildest of drizzles. While other people around them pulled their lapels around their throats and huddled against the misery of the night, both Spinoza and Tannehill stood proud-chested observing the scene around them - a telling indicator for spotting someone else who'd survived more than one Midwestern winter. Seeing each other set in relief against weather others found unbearable, it was merely a matter of moments before the two men began chatting and discovered that they were, in fact, from the same city.
With this common bond in place and a shared passion for intellectual pursuits, the two soon became familiar with one another an aware of the other's intent on serving the public from their own perspective.
Though he would provide Spinoza the occasional direct tip when he could be assured that his anonymity would remain intact, more often Tannehill would deliver (the often absurd) official statements doled out by his superiors to Spinoza and the other members of the press corps. These statements would often address the precarious nature of the conditions suspects faced in various in precincts around the city.
Spinoza would challenge the official account, fully expecting Tannehill to respond to the challenge in pseudo-defense of the police department's policies. To an outside observer, the interaction would've been indistinguishable from a Vaudeville act. Both participants knew the broad underlying truth, but the point of this particular discourse was to determine who could reach the point of absurdity without crossing into it, for what else was there to do when the parts they played were predetermined than to improvise on the mode of delivery. The exchanges often took place along lines similar to ones that follow:
Tannehill: Unfortunately, the suspect passed away before he was able to be brought to justice. We've notified his next of kin.
Spinoza: How did he die?
Tannehill: The coroner is still finishing his investigation, but it appears to be due to massive internal injuries caused by blunt force trauma.
Spinoza: How did the blunt force trauma occur?
Tannehill: As you may have been aware, the suspect tended to be clumsy and fell down a flight of stairs.
Spinoza: Is that your official investigative opinion? That he was clumsy?
Tannehill: You're right. I shouldn't speculate. The fact, however, remains that he fell down a flight of stairs and expired shortly thereafter.
Spinoza: Quite a solid fact. Any comment on the fact that this is the third suspect to meet the same untimely end in a police precinct in the last year?
Tannehill: Unfortunately, many of our precincts are antiquated and moving around them can be precarious.
Spinoza: Then why is it always suspects, not officers who face these problems?
Tannehill: Officers of the CCPD have more experience in their home precincts than do the suspects we apprehend. We're more likely to know the tricky spots.
Spinoza: Fair response. My sources in the coroner's office indicated that this particular suspect had a bullet wound to his chest. Any comment on that?
Tannehill: It's a police station. Many people are armed. It's not unlikely that a new officer may have panicked at the thought of a suspected violent criminal coming toward him quickly down a flight of stairs and discharged his revolver in defense while the suspect was falling.
Spinoza: So, not necessarily blunt trauma?
Tannehill: It's also possible the suspect fell on a bullet while tumbling down the stairs. As I said, it's a police station, there are weapons everywhere.
...and so on. The cat and mouse game always headed in a direction in which Spinoza made clear he wasn't going to back down, while Tannehill made clear that Spinoza's line of thought was correct, but did so without violating the code of silence the department held so dear. Through these types of interactions and the implicit shared understanding between the two participants, the two developed a mutual respect that served them well in their respective, if contrary, roles.
[Author's Note: 1256 words for this round for a grand total of 9504 - almost to the first 5 figure mark (and 20%) to the 50000 words I promised.]
Unlike Tannehill, Spinoza came to Capital City with an express purpose of joining the burgeoning journalism community of the exploding city. Armed with a freshly minted English degree from Northwestern and a recommendation from a cousin in the publishing industry, Spinoza breezed easily through his interview at The Daily Courier and accepted a position as a cub reporter and photographer on the crime beat.
Though he received no small amount of newsroom abuse for his pedigree - Spinoza was amazed that reporters who could wax poetic with 2000 word deadlines looming couldn't come up with a better nickname for him than "College Boy" - the environment at the Courier couldn't be more different than the environment Tannehill faced at the CCPD. Reporters were commended for upholding constant barrages of questions and pursuing lines of inquiry that seemed to have little in common with the matter at hand but resulted in an amusing factoid nonetheless. This was in stark contrast to the police department's taciturn and direct culture.
Though Spinoza could've nominally applied for the CCPD, he would've been rejected for his inability to speak Gaelic proficiently. When confronted with this fact, he would've pointed out that he had a good grasp of both Yiddish and Polish, the latter of which would've proven valuable in a police force that was nearly 40% Catholic and Eastern European. Upon pointing out this fact, CCPD commanders would've have pointed out, per The Professor's scientific research, that Yiddish could easily be confused with other languages of Eastern and Central Europe causing confusion during periods of intense stress. This fact was often used to discouraged men of Jewish descent from applying to the CCPD, for fear that, when confused or under pressure, they would speak unintelligibly in Yiddish, risking the lives of other officers. However, when faced with this fact, Spinoza would've pointed out that this was of little concern as he was fluent in English because (a) he was a native-born citizen of the United States and (b) had an English degree from a well-known university in those same United States.
When confronted with this fact, the CCPD brass likely would've discovered another flaw that made Spinoza unsuitable for police work - he did tend to be a bit nasal, which could cause confusion during periods of intense stress among officers for those who didn't understand his speech patterns. Spinoza would've responded that the French - a nation known and celebrated for their nasal language - did not face national security risks or crime prevention problems based on their accent. Luckily for both Spinoza and the CCPD, he didn't apply to the police force.
Unluckily for the CCPD, Spinoza used this back-and-forth style in his interaction with officers and CCPD superiors at a crime scene or press conference to deconstruct their often poorly constructed theories or press releases leading to more than one embarrassing political scandal for a city and department that prized political perception above all else.
Spinoza met Tannehill early in their careers while Tannehill was guarding the crime scene of a garden variety homicide Spinoza had been dispatched to report on and photograph. The air was cool and permeated with the mildest of drizzles. While other people around them pulled their lapels around their throats and huddled against the misery of the night, both Spinoza and Tannehill stood proud-chested observing the scene around them - a telling indicator for spotting someone else who'd survived more than one Midwestern winter. Seeing each other set in relief against weather others found unbearable, it was merely a matter of moments before the two men began chatting and discovered that they were, in fact, from the same city.
With this common bond in place and a shared passion for intellectual pursuits, the two soon became familiar with one another an aware of the other's intent on serving the public from their own perspective.
Though he would provide Spinoza the occasional direct tip when he could be assured that his anonymity would remain intact, more often Tannehill would deliver (the often absurd) official statements doled out by his superiors to Spinoza and the other members of the press corps. These statements would often address the precarious nature of the conditions suspects faced in various in precincts around the city.
Spinoza would challenge the official account, fully expecting Tannehill to respond to the challenge in pseudo-defense of the police department's policies. To an outside observer, the interaction would've been indistinguishable from a Vaudeville act. Both participants knew the broad underlying truth, but the point of this particular discourse was to determine who could reach the point of absurdity without crossing into it, for what else was there to do when the parts they played were predetermined than to improvise on the mode of delivery. The exchanges often took place along lines similar to ones that follow:
Tannehill: Unfortunately, the suspect passed away before he was able to be brought to justice. We've notified his next of kin.
Spinoza: How did he die?
Tannehill: The coroner is still finishing his investigation, but it appears to be due to massive internal injuries caused by blunt force trauma.
Spinoza: How did the blunt force trauma occur?
Tannehill: As you may have been aware, the suspect tended to be clumsy and fell down a flight of stairs.
Spinoza: Is that your official investigative opinion? That he was clumsy?
Tannehill: You're right. I shouldn't speculate. The fact, however, remains that he fell down a flight of stairs and expired shortly thereafter.
Spinoza: Quite a solid fact. Any comment on the fact that this is the third suspect to meet the same untimely end in a police precinct in the last year?
Tannehill: Unfortunately, many of our precincts are antiquated and moving around them can be precarious.
Spinoza: Then why is it always suspects, not officers who face these problems?
Tannehill: Officers of the CCPD have more experience in their home precincts than do the suspects we apprehend. We're more likely to know the tricky spots.
Spinoza: Fair response. My sources in the coroner's office indicated that this particular suspect had a bullet wound to his chest. Any comment on that?
Tannehill: It's a police station. Many people are armed. It's not unlikely that a new officer may have panicked at the thought of a suspected violent criminal coming toward him quickly down a flight of stairs and discharged his revolver in defense while the suspect was falling.
Spinoza: So, not necessarily blunt trauma?
Tannehill: It's also possible the suspect fell on a bullet while tumbling down the stairs. As I said, it's a police station, there are weapons everywhere.
...and so on. The cat and mouse game always headed in a direction in which Spinoza made clear he wasn't going to back down, while Tannehill made clear that Spinoza's line of thought was correct, but did so without violating the code of silence the department held so dear. Through these types of interactions and the implicit shared understanding between the two participants, the two developed a mutual respect that served them well in their respective, if contrary, roles.
[Author's Note: 1256 words for this round for a grand total of 9504 - almost to the first 5 figure mark (and 20%) to the 50000 words I promised.]
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