Chapter 38 - The Incredible, Edible Egg

 Justice was swift for Tannehill's career as a policeman, but not necessarily impartial.  Scores of jealous peers, tired of years of watching Tannehill rise in the department without participating in requisite corruption that should be needed to secure status were willing to swear witness to his malevolent deeds the night of the shooting.

Each subsequent witness told a more fantastic story than the last.  By the end of the hearing, a bystander in the room could hardly be faulted if they believed a Tannehill, formed of smoke and fire, appeared on the slick city streets that night, stretching incendiary arms 10 feet wide in order to consume any small child in the vicinity while the police present at the scene shivered cowering from such evil and could do nothing to prevent such insidiousness from occurring.

The enormity of the exaggeration worked in Tannehill's favor.

Without it, the department would've had the opportunity to condemn him as a loose cannon - someone who'd become too entitled with his own sense of power and was callously indifferent to lives of those he swore to serve and protect.  This narrative would've opened him up to prosecution or worse. The department, in turn, would have the opportunity to show that they'd reformed their previously (perceived) corrupt ways and were in the process of weeding out the ne'er do wells among them. 

With it, the department would need to admit that they sanctioned allowing the devil incarnate walk through the city streets on their behalf with a group of agitated policeman following him around and speaking up only when the pinnacle of tragedy demanded it.

Instead, the department issued a statement indicating, that while a decorated war hero, a valuable member of the force, and a generally upstanding citizen, Tannehill had exercised poor judgment the night of the raid and, given the circumstances around the event and the growing chorus of voices within and outside the department expressing displeasure with his behavior, it was untenable to keep him employed as a sworn officer.

Surprisingly, this statement wasn't far from the truth.  Tannehill himself believed he exhibited poor judgment and didn't feel he was fit to perform his duties to maintain law and order within Capital City anymore.  He realized that, even in a city that wasn't rotten to the core, the fact that he was simply fired rather than persecuted was a gift he shouldn't overlook.  

Of course, what went unsaid were the institutional decisions and events that led to both the night in question and his firing that shouldn't have occurred in the first place.  He shouldn't have been taken off desk duty while still suffering from the trauma of the war. The department shouldn't have escalated the war on alcohol to the violent level it reached, and shouldn't have allowed the criminal enterprises to grow so large through its own need to bolster corruption and graft to line the pockets of its leaders.  Spinoza shouldn't have let his own singular focus and jealousy of his friend shade his reporting.  The Volstead Act probably shouldn't have been passed in the first place.  However, like most things in life, the most proximate and simple causes were taken to be the root ones, while the underlying infrastructure continues to elude all of those but the most diligent investigators.  And even the diligent typically remain silent, aware that, in whispering their secrets to others, they are simply Cassandra in the land of the deaf.

Posthumously, Charles Peabody's legend grew past what most 9-year olds or their parents could expect.  His penchant for simple jokes was elevated into a precocious rapier wit.  His mischievous streak became an unquenchable curiosity.  His boundless energy became a budding graceful athleticism.  Contrary to other cases in which the city often elevated the reputation of the most base individuals humanity could produce, Charles was an average, or even an above-average, if misdirected, child.  However, his status after death elevated him to the level of a saint for the anguished city.

In memoriam for such a prodigy with unlimited potential, the city named the new park located in the tony Backbay neighborhood "The Charles Peabody Memorial Park" and installed a bronze statue of his quasi-likeness at the entrance.  The park's intent was to remind all citizens of the sacrifices made in the name of justice and the tragic acts that accompanied those pursuits.  Sadly, the seagull citizens of Capital City didn't comprehend the metaphorical intent and took to shitting on the statue with thoughtless abandon, causing the statue to begin to discolor almost immediately.

As is typical with most sweeping change, the mechanism for movement is completely divorced from the underlying causes that brought the problems to bear.  Tannehill, Peabody and the other innocents gunned down, and even the griping police officers caught up in the corrupt workings of their department with little attention paid to their own self-awareness were all simply tangents to the main forces at play.  

Still, Spinoza's screed against Tannehill and the department began to have effects.  Citizens who previously assumed the department would protect its own at all costs began to believe that, if the department could cast out its most favored son, the city stood a chance at actual justice, however erroneous their assumptions may have been about the department's actual motives.  As a result, though, the department recognized the futility of a law that few wanted on the books and were too shamed by recent events to continue to buy into the naked corruption of associating (explicitly) with bootleggers.  Surprisingly, one of the most violent cities at the outset of Prohibition quickly became one of the most reasonable.  Rather than worry about staunching the flow of illegal liquor, Capital City focused on keeping the violence around turf wars in-check in order to avoid naming another public park after someone other than a local politician.

Spinoza's exultation was short-lived.  He realized that the city and the department enacted reforms for the wrong reasons, and that the benefits of change would be short-lived and narrowly scoped.  While Tannehill wasn't completely blameless, Spinoza realized much of the ire directed at his former friend was a result of events neither of them had much control over and tried to make amends in a style typical of the male of the species and the time - 

Both men met, staring the ground beneath them.

"Sorry to hear about your job," Spinoza mumbled as an opening gambit.

"Yeah, well," Tannehill trailed off in response, sighing.

"Look, I think there are some things I could've done differently," Spinoza countered.

"I think there are all things we could've done differently," Tannehill retorted with a philosophical flourish.

Still staring down at the ground, Spinoza awkwardly swung a rigid right paw to awkwardly connect with Tannehill's shoulder.  "Can I offer you food, by way of condolence?"

Tannehill cocked a subtle eyebrow, "what were you thinking?"

"Egg sandwich."

"Egg sandwich?  Just plain egg?"

"You'd be surprised how good they are."

Tannehill shrugged, "ok, where?"

"There's a new diner near your former precinct.  Named The Happy Hour.  It just opened.  I figure it's worth a shot."

Tannehill shrugged again in acceptance as the two men made their way toward the waterfront, suddenly overcome by hunger.

[Author's Note: Hope I don't get sued!  1204 words today for a total of 40996 in the novel.]

Chapter 37 - In Europe It's Known As Rocket

 "A complete manuscript?"  Tannehill slowly stirred a small bit of cream into his coffee.  A piping hot egg sandwich sat next to it.

Spinoza nodded, "the parchment didn't show any defects, so it had to be made for someone of note."

Tannehill whistled and paused, "Miniscule script or gothic?"

Vera's gaze bounced between the two men, "Am I the only one who hasn't taken a course on ancient dark ages manuscripts?"

"Technically," Spinoza was eyeing Tannehill's egg sandwich, "the dark ages occurred a few centuries prior to the creation of the illuminated manuscripts.  Don't worry, kid," he emphasized the last word, "you're just not familiar with the books because you weren't around when they were created, like we were."  He gestured with his pointer finger between himself and Tannehill, eyes temporarily distracted from the egg sandwich.  "I, for one, remember when Constantine sanctioned Christianity as a state religion and had a feeling that would cause trouble for my people."

Vera's mouth was drawn into a shallow pout, but she remained silent.

Tannehill continued, unphased by the exchange between his companions, "So, you think this is some sort of robbery ring against Jewish households?"

"Not exactly.  I don't think anyone's being robbed of goods, at least in the traditional sense."

"Not in the traditional sense?  What do you mean?"  With this last statement, Tannehill stuffed a quarter of the egg sandwich into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

"Given the volume of treasure and the fact that it appears to be predominately - if not exclusively - artifacts originating from Jewish households, I think these are valuables confiscated by the German government."

"The Nazis? I know they're not the friendliest of political parties, but governments enrich themselves through graft, corruption, and, in virtuous cases, taxation.  They don't participate in outright theft."

"You live in Capital City and you can say that with a straight face?"

"Fine," Tannehill amended his statement, "they don't do it at such an egregious rate and in plain view of everyone watching."

"The German government isn't a normal government and who says anyone's actually watching?"

"It's not out of the bounds of reality," Vera chimed in.

"That a modern Western government simply confiscates the property of its citizens without due process?"

"Ah," Vera countered, "but that's just it.  Jews are no longer citizens in Germany."

Tannehill recalled the article he'd read traveling downtown the night of Snell's death.  "Maybe so, but they were just stripped of their citizenship recently.  The accumulated wealth in that room alone - which I can only assume to be a minuscule fraction of what's probably still left back in Germany - indicates that this started long before the laws were enacted."

"This is a government that murdered it's most ardent supporters last summer without trial for no discernible reason." Spinoza's voice was calm but a thread of exasperation was beginning to creep into his tone.

"Ok," Tannehill responded in a placating tone, but one still bordered with skepticism, "if the German government has confiscated these items there's still a more pressing question surrounding them."

"Which is?"

"What are all these artifacts doing in a warehouse storage room 6000 miles from where they were taken?"

The three of them sat in silent contemplation of an answer.  Tannehill took the opportunity to indulge in another bite of his egg sandwich.

"This sandwich is really good," Tannehill's statement was barely comprehensible through a mouthful of bread, egg, and butter.

"We make good egg sandwiches here," Vera responded.

"I've had egg sandwiches here dozens of times and they've never tasted like this."  He picked up the remaining sandwich and inspected it for visual clues to its culinary excellence.

"Most of the sandwiches here are made from fried eggs, so they're either too messy or too over-cooked.  It's tough to do a fried egg right."

"Oh, yeah," Tannehill turned the sandwich to face him, "they're scrambled."

"CH is may know medieval manuscripts, but epicurean he ain't," Spinoza added in defense of his friend's rather obvious statement.

"Ok." Vera said hesitantly, expecting that the fine line between epicurean and not was more nuanced than being able to identify how eggs were prepared.

"Anything else make the sandwich special?"

"It's got more butter than most.  And it's dressed with arugula."

"With what?" Spinoza asked.  Tannehill's look of confusion echoed Spinoza's tone.

"It's like mini-lettuce," Vera deadpanned, a dawning awareness that neither of her companions would likely qualify as epicurean.

Tannehill swallowed his final bite. "How do you know so much about the sandwich?"

"I made it."

Both Spinoza and Tannehill nodded in dawning understanding and appreciation at Vera's declaration.

"What news, ho," Vera quipped, changing the subject, worried that the men would soon begin waxing poetic on the virtues of iceberg lettuce.

"Hmm?"

"You said you had news as well when you arrived at the diner?"

"Oh yeah," Tannehill swallowed a remnant bit of mini-lettuce, "Bertucci's dead."

"Who?"

"Sorry, I mean Bellucci."

"Who?"

"Beederman."

"Who?"

"The john.  Brunner's john."

"Wait, Brunner's a prostitute?  That's new information.  It adds a new complication."

"No, wait.  That's not what I... It's just, well, I don't know what to call him."

"Lover?" She offered.

"It didn't look like love to me.  And I don't think they're married."

"I don't think love and marriage are necessary and sufficient conditions for being together."

"No, that's not what I meant either, I just..."

"Who's Brenner?" Spinoza interjected aware he was two paces behind Vera, who was apparently two paces behind Tannehill in the unfolding of the tale.

"Brunner." Tannehill exhaled.  "Brunner is the woman I caught having sex with Bellucci, Beederman - whatever! - the night Snell was murdered.  She and her goon of a partner," he slowed his speech deliberately unaware if he was annoyed with himself for not communicating clearly before or with his audience for asking too many questions, "Otto.  His name is Otto.  She and her goon of a partner had some connection with Snell and this treasure stash.  Otto admitted to roughing Snell up to find out the stash's location, but swears he didn't kill him."

"And now Otto Beederman is dead?" Spinoza murmured, eager to keep up.

Tannehill exhaled again, "No.  Otto and Beederman are two different people.  Beederman (or Bellucci) is dead.  Apparently strangled himself in his cell even though the laws of physics seem to prove otherwise.  Otto's still lurking around the city.  Probably looking to brain someone else for a good time."

"Looks like any working theory we've got needs a little more work first," Vera picked up Tannehill's empty plate and headed toward the kitchen. She looked over her shoulder and pointed a backward-facing index finger toward Spinoza, "you want an egg sandwich?"

Spinoza nodded vigorously.

"Good.  I'll add extra arugula.  I'll also put on a fresh pot of coffee, because it looks like we may be here a while."

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1137 words for a running total of 39792.  It was relatively easy to confuse Beederman/Bellucci/Bertucci's name, since I constantly have to go back to previous chapters in order to remember his name].

Chapter 36 - Alliteration Sells

 CARELESS COP CAVALIERLY GUNS DOWN CURIOUS KID

DATELINE - CAPITAL CITY

In what's become an all too common occurrence within our city environs lately, the Capital City Police Department engaged in a pitched gun battle with suspected bootleggers last night, throwing caution to the wind and leading to the tragic death of 9-year-old Charles "Chuckie" Peabody.

During what was described as a "routine" raid by Superintendent William Buttons, the lead detective on the case, Detective Charles Tannehill, fired indiscriminately at what fellow officers on the raid assumed was an alleycat prior to the commencement of the raid.

"He gave no warning.  He just drew his weapon and fired into the alley with no apparent cause for provocation.  We all could have been killed," remarked Patrolman Liam "Whisky" O'Shaugnessy of the night's events.

"What made it worse is that he tipped off the bootleggers with his little 'William Tell' stunt," Patrolman John Sutton added.  "Some little kid's dead in the gutter, and the city has nothing to show for it. Those punks got away scot-free."

Unbeknownst to Sutton at the time of publication, the two operators of the establishment targeted for the raid were found dead a few blocks away.  Each had a single gunshot wound to the head.  Though identification has not been confirmed, neither operator is known to be one of the major crime figures inhabiting the city.  Though this is pure speculation, there are unconfirmed reports that the executions were carried out by the police department itself in a misguided attempt to frame the suspects for the child's murder and exact a "street justice" for revenge.

"Nah, it was definitely Tannehill who shot [him]," O'Shaugnessy confirmed.  "Laughed about it and said 'good' when told the kid was dead, too," O'Shaugnessy added.  "Guess these Golden Boy types think they can get away with anything if they have the backing of the [police] brass."

When questioned about his own reputation as a department enforcer and his current pending hearing on extortion charges, O'Shaugnessy demurred.  "There are a few dark corners a policeman needs to inhabit in order to keep the city safe," O'Shaughnessy said.  "Regarding the trumped-up extortion charge, my lawyer has advised me to keep quiet in case the penny-ante liar who brought the complaint finds another reason to use another innocent remark I've made out of context."

When reminded that his accuser currently has his jaw wired shut, O'Shaugnessy waived the claim away and continued.  "It takes a real low-life to shoot a kid in cold blood and brag about it afterward.  I guess the College Boy didn't get enough target practice growing up in Chicago and decided to live a Wild West fantasy once he moved out here."

Detective Tannehill is a native of Chicago, IL who joined the Capital City Police Department in 1913.  His ascendancy through the ranks to date has been rapid.  As some members of the force have speculated, this may have been due to a desire to burnish the department's image with a supposedly "honest" man, rather than based on merit.  Most notably he served as department spokesman for major crimes.  As is typical with many men his age, he served in the war.  Though the department notes that he served "with honorable distinction," the veracity of that claim has been called into question by several sources.

Recently, as a high-profile "war hero", Tannehill has taken over the raids in the enforcement of the Volstead Act with mixed results.  This latest raid is another black eye against the department's current policies of enabling politically connected personnel to lead their tactical operations without appropriate training. 

Charles Peabody could often be seen parading through the neighborhood, wearing a bedsheet as a cape, and chatting up the local policemen on the beat.  No question was too insignificant to ask in regard to their procedural duties and any chance he had to handle a piece of police memorabilia - a tin badge, the patrolman's cap, his manacles - resulted in a squeal of delight.  "If there weren't an age barrier for entry into the department, Chuckie probably would've made sergeant by this time," his father, Richard, reminisced, a tinge of sadness in his voice.

"It breaks my heart to think that the very dream he was chasing was what killed him.  His ma and I know that the city is a dangerous place, but we always expected he'd be protected if he was in the presence of the 'Boys in Blue' as he and I and liked to call the force.  I guess we were wrong."

"It's a tragedy, certainly," Buttons maintained when being questioned on the next steps in the investigation.  "Unfortunately, this city has faced its share of hard times and is likely to face many more before our war against the criminal under element that's done nothing but laugh in the face of law and order is won.  Though Detective Tannehill acted with poor judgment, I feel that the other patrolmen on the scene may have misinterpreted the lens through which they perceived his actions."

"The department is competitive and Detective Tannehill is highly decorated.  It's not out of the question to assume that jealousy plays a subconscious part when giving their statements.  I have zero doubt at all that any officer on the Capital City police force behaves with anything but the pinnacle of professionalism that's expected of them."

"Rest assured that the department will spare no expense in determining the details behind this tragedy, nor in examining the vigilante justice that ensnared the two assailants whose very existence set this horrible night in motion.  Detective Tannehill will have a full and fair hearing in front of his superiors.  As always the Capital City Police Department is here to protect and serve its fine denizens and ensure that impartial, but swift, justice is served towards those who decide to run afoul of its laws and its law enforcers."

At the time of this posting, no hearing for Detective Tannehill has been scheduled.  Unknown suspects in connection to the deaths of the unnamed assailants remain at large.  Charles Peabody will be laid to rest at Our Lady of Eternal Mercy cemetery on Thursday.

- Phil Spinoza

Lead Crime Reporter

Capital City Daily Courier

[Author's Note: Sibilance sells superbly, but the headline didn't lend itself to multiple S's.  This chapter comes in at 1036 words.  The running total is 38655.]