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.]
Sunday, October 20, 2019
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.]
Sunday, September 29, 2019
Chapter 8 - In Lieu of Flowers
In the early days of modern detecting at the CCPD, Tannehill often had to rely on the press to assist in an investigation.
Sometimes it was through quid pro quo - (a) Give a reporter an exclusive insight into one case. (b) Wait a sufficient amount of time as etiquette dictated. (c) Drop by a spot that both the detective and reporter frequent. (d) Notice that the reporter has accidentally left information on a confidential source in the open. (e) Verify its the reporter's information by examining it. (f) Promptly return the information to the reporter.
Sometimes it was through subterfuge - (a) Leak erroneous information about a case during a press conference or via a confidential tip. (b) Allow the press to publish the information. (c) See which helpful citizen comes forward to correct the misinformation that only a suspect would know.
And sometimes it was just through (a) plain begging.
Tannehill stood now in front of the Capital City Daily Courier just shy of the city's habitual 9 AM start time and just blocks from the newly minted Emily Brunner's apartment flat. A tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair and an aquiline nose approached him. He wore no coat and his light brown button-down shirt was a size too big for his already gaunt frame. The thinness of his face matched his frame, but his dark brown eyes illuminated a deep intelligence that contrasted his otherwise harried and disorganized appearance.
"Hello, Phil."
"Hello, Tannehill. Surprised to see you downtown so early on this fine morning." Whisps of the morning's fog and a ten-second rain shower responded to Phil's greeting in agreement.
"Yup," Tannehill tilted his eyes toward the sky and scratched his chin, "my schedule's been a little off-kilter the last couple of days."
"You expecting the usual?"
"I am," Tannehill handed the previous day's roll of film over to Phil. "These photos are ones that you and I generally agree go in the 'sensitive' category."
Phil looked down at the roll, "another one of Snell's errands?"
"Uh-huh."
"OK, it'll probably be a couple of days. I've got a backlog and the glee with which people seem to be assaulting their fellow brethren these days will likely add to it."
"Yeah, about that. Can you rush it for later this afternoon?"
"Why," Phil looked up, "what's your angle?"
"You haven't heard?"
"No," now it was Phil's turn to rub his chin, "I don't suppose I have."
"Snell's dead."
Phil cocked an eyebrow wide in surprise. Even Phil's 20 years of experience as a crime beat reporter in one of the most corrupt and violent cities in America couldn't contain his reaction to Tannehill's flat demeanor in announcing the death of his partner.
"Yeah, someone got to him at my office last night?"
Phil knew that condolences for Tannehill's recently deceased partner were unnecessary. "So, homicide? Not some sexy party game gone awry?"
Tannehill chuckled."You know, er, knew him too well. But, yeah, homicide."
"And this is on the record? I can use you for a source when chatting with CCPD?"
Tannehill thought for a minute. "Yeah, no use in hiding where it's coming from. Everyone's gonna assume I know my partner's dead. But, do me a favor - get that film processed before following up on the story."
"Why, what's a roll of smut have to do with Snell?"
Tannehill smirked and Phil smirked back in realization at his own rhetorical question. "I have no basis for it, but I think the photos there may be linked to Snell's death. I'd like to see if I can get a jump on something before anyone gets too wise."
"Alright, I can have the photos done by 1 pm. Stop by then."
"Thanks, Phil." Tannehill turned to leave.
"Oh, and CH," Tannehill turned back, "no charge for this roll." Tannehill nodded and walked away. If Phil wasn't going to offer condolences or send flowers, he could do something to stave off his complete loss of humanity a bit longer.
---
Tannehill landed back at the World's Best Egg Sandwich Diner and sat down at the counter. He ordered a coffee, and OJ, and a bowl of oatmeal with a side of bacon.
He started reviewing the case. "What do I know?" Snell's dead. A simple fact, but a fact nonetheless. Given Snell's eagerness to get him out of the office the day before, could he infer that the apartment had something to do with his death? Or was the address just simply far enough away from the office to buy time for Snell and his moonlighting business?
But to reach the apartment at just the right moment to catch two people having sex? That certainly seemed like a Snellian touch. And most people drew their blinds during amorous moments - especially high-end professionals - if that's what the lovely Miss Brunner was - who had reputations (and arrest records) to keep intact. But, unless the two lovers were world-class marathoners with the self-control of saints, it would seem unreasonable that they'd been making love during Tannehill's entire sojourn downtown. Besides, the Uncle looked like he'd be short of breath scurrying to the store around the corner for another pack of cigarettes much less partaking in extended bedroom session.
If that were the case, then it meant they had to be tipped off to Tannehill's arrival, which meant someone had to tip them off. Snell would have no way to determine how long it would take for Tannehill to arrive, since traffic from the office to downtown was invariably predictable, which meant...? The Doorman. Tannehill smiled slightly at the thought of another round with his new nemesis.
His breakfast arrived. The coffee was a bit colder than he'd like, the oatmeal lumpy, and the bacon limp. The orange juice, however, was delicious.
"That'll be 80 cents."
Tannehill sighed and dug into his pocket for a dollar bill. He could afford a bit more extravagance today since Phil decided to pick up the photo processing pro bono. "Keep the change," he replied to the surprised server, "it's worth every penny for your egg sandwiches. They're my favorite."
[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1020 words for a total of 8248 words in the story (Hey, it's like an official short story now!). I've got at least a couple of more chapters of exposition and one of history, so it looks like we've got at least another month together before writer's block threatens to strike. I've been happy with the way the story's taken shape so far. Some of the character development - and some of the future character development based on what I've written so far - is taking on a life of its own that I hadn't originally anticipated.]
Sometimes it was through quid pro quo - (a) Give a reporter an exclusive insight into one case. (b) Wait a sufficient amount of time as etiquette dictated. (c) Drop by a spot that both the detective and reporter frequent. (d) Notice that the reporter has accidentally left information on a confidential source in the open. (e) Verify its the reporter's information by examining it. (f) Promptly return the information to the reporter.
Sometimes it was through subterfuge - (a) Leak erroneous information about a case during a press conference or via a confidential tip. (b) Allow the press to publish the information. (c) See which helpful citizen comes forward to correct the misinformation that only a suspect would know.
And sometimes it was just through (a) plain begging.
Tannehill stood now in front of the Capital City Daily Courier just shy of the city's habitual 9 AM start time and just blocks from the newly minted Emily Brunner's apartment flat. A tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair and an aquiline nose approached him. He wore no coat and his light brown button-down shirt was a size too big for his already gaunt frame. The thinness of his face matched his frame, but his dark brown eyes illuminated a deep intelligence that contrasted his otherwise harried and disorganized appearance.
"Hello, Phil."
"Hello, Tannehill. Surprised to see you downtown so early on this fine morning." Whisps of the morning's fog and a ten-second rain shower responded to Phil's greeting in agreement.
"Yup," Tannehill tilted his eyes toward the sky and scratched his chin, "my schedule's been a little off-kilter the last couple of days."
"You expecting the usual?"
"I am," Tannehill handed the previous day's roll of film over to Phil. "These photos are ones that you and I generally agree go in the 'sensitive' category."
Phil looked down at the roll, "another one of Snell's errands?"
"Uh-huh."
"OK, it'll probably be a couple of days. I've got a backlog and the glee with which people seem to be assaulting their fellow brethren these days will likely add to it."
"Yeah, about that. Can you rush it for later this afternoon?"
"Why," Phil looked up, "what's your angle?"
"You haven't heard?"
"No," now it was Phil's turn to rub his chin, "I don't suppose I have."
"Snell's dead."
Phil cocked an eyebrow wide in surprise. Even Phil's 20 years of experience as a crime beat reporter in one of the most corrupt and violent cities in America couldn't contain his reaction to Tannehill's flat demeanor in announcing the death of his partner.
"Yeah, someone got to him at my office last night?"
Phil knew that condolences for Tannehill's recently deceased partner were unnecessary. "So, homicide? Not some sexy party game gone awry?"
Tannehill chuckled."You know, er, knew him too well. But, yeah, homicide."
"And this is on the record? I can use you for a source when chatting with CCPD?"
Tannehill thought for a minute. "Yeah, no use in hiding where it's coming from. Everyone's gonna assume I know my partner's dead. But, do me a favor - get that film processed before following up on the story."
"Why, what's a roll of smut have to do with Snell?"
Tannehill smirked and Phil smirked back in realization at his own rhetorical question. "I have no basis for it, but I think the photos there may be linked to Snell's death. I'd like to see if I can get a jump on something before anyone gets too wise."
"Alright, I can have the photos done by 1 pm. Stop by then."
"Thanks, Phil." Tannehill turned to leave.
"Oh, and CH," Tannehill turned back, "no charge for this roll." Tannehill nodded and walked away. If Phil wasn't going to offer condolences or send flowers, he could do something to stave off his complete loss of humanity a bit longer.
---
Tannehill landed back at the World's Best Egg Sandwich Diner and sat down at the counter. He ordered a coffee, and OJ, and a bowl of oatmeal with a side of bacon.
He started reviewing the case. "What do I know?" Snell's dead. A simple fact, but a fact nonetheless. Given Snell's eagerness to get him out of the office the day before, could he infer that the apartment had something to do with his death? Or was the address just simply far enough away from the office to buy time for Snell and his moonlighting business?
But to reach the apartment at just the right moment to catch two people having sex? That certainly seemed like a Snellian touch. And most people drew their blinds during amorous moments - especially high-end professionals - if that's what the lovely Miss Brunner was - who had reputations (and arrest records) to keep intact. But, unless the two lovers were world-class marathoners with the self-control of saints, it would seem unreasonable that they'd been making love during Tannehill's entire sojourn downtown. Besides, the Uncle looked like he'd be short of breath scurrying to the store around the corner for another pack of cigarettes much less partaking in extended bedroom session.
If that were the case, then it meant they had to be tipped off to Tannehill's arrival, which meant someone had to tip them off. Snell would have no way to determine how long it would take for Tannehill to arrive, since traffic from the office to downtown was invariably predictable, which meant...? The Doorman. Tannehill smiled slightly at the thought of another round with his new nemesis.
His breakfast arrived. The coffee was a bit colder than he'd like, the oatmeal lumpy, and the bacon limp. The orange juice, however, was delicious.
"That'll be 80 cents."
Tannehill sighed and dug into his pocket for a dollar bill. He could afford a bit more extravagance today since Phil decided to pick up the photo processing pro bono. "Keep the change," he replied to the surprised server, "it's worth every penny for your egg sandwiches. They're my favorite."
[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1020 words for a total of 8248 words in the story (Hey, it's like an official short story now!). I've got at least a couple of more chapters of exposition and one of history, so it looks like we've got at least another month together before writer's block threatens to strike. I've been happy with the way the story's taken shape so far. Some of the character development - and some of the future character development based on what I've written so far - is taking on a life of its own that I hadn't originally anticipated.]
Sunday, September 22, 2019
Chapter 7 - Silence and the Model Employee
Tannehill met the rigorous requirements for employment as expressed by the Capital City Police Department - he was Irish and he was silent. Though his high level of education - he'd graduated from high school two years prior and had apprenticed briefly in law and architecture - set him apart as a risky candidate, CCPD department heads had invested in the idea of a new Model Community Officer prototype that didn't rely solely on brawn for policework duties and believed Tannehill could fit that mold.
After his intensive two-week CCPD training period, Tannehill's first opportunity to display the new MCO methods occurred when he joined his fellow officers to break up a large bar fight that threatened to spill over into the quiet areas of downtown. Using these new modern methods, he was able to reason with and subdue rowdy bar patrons by knocking out four teeth from four separate individuals and splitting a fifth's forehead so wide the patron's skull gleamed white.
When this particular patron consistently fretted immediately after the engagement how he was mere seconds from death due to the blood loss, Tannehill calmly took him aside and explained that forehead wounds could easily be repaired with a cauterized needle and thread and tended to look much worse than they actually were. Tannehill also mentioned that there may be some residual scarring if the operation was carried out by a non-medical professional. The patron, who's nose was broken in two places and had a few missing teeth of his own (not due to Tannehill's modern policing) shrugged off the cosmetic concern but thanked Tannehill for the advice. Thus was born Tannehill's first fruitful venture into community policing as both a newly minted officer - and newly minted citizen - of Capital City. From the standpoint of his employers, their investment in him looked as though it would pay strong dividends.
What Tannehill didn't relay to his employers prior during the interview process is that he'd had every intention of matriculating into one of the university engineering programs in downstate Illinois after high school. However, an ill-timed fire interceded and destroyed his family home just prior to his expected enrollment. Rather than leave his family without living arrangements, he used his meager savings to rebuild the family estate. Given the opportunity to continue working in a city with the perpetual stink of offal and recoup his savings or start afresh, he chose the latter. He bid the beef of Chicago and the cows of Urbana farewell and moved west for new scenery. Upon arriving in Capital City he didn't feel the need to the police department as part of an ethnic enclave or as a noble calling. He just needed a job.
After joining the force and completing his formal training for the CCPD, Tannehill spent his off-hours visiting libraries to further augment the courses thrown at him during his time at the police academy. Luckily, Capital City had grown large enough to be considered the preeminent metropolis of the West and, as such, was now center to several highly regarded academic institutions.
Though the university libraries often barred non-students from entry, a uniformed CCPD officer accessing a library could usually flout protocol with little resistance from the student or administrative staff. For the same reason, Tannehill was able to borrow books from the library without a student account, always being careful to return his borrowed volumes at the agreed-upon date.
And, though the libraries did provide information on legal codes throughout the city and state, much of the language within the formal literature proved to be overwhelming even for someone in possession of natural curiosity. Instead, he leveraged his ties with district and defense attorneys alike to compose a more practical view of the law.
For further target practice, he'd find farms south of the city to hone his craft with both revolver and rifle, befriending the farmers whose lands he used by assisting with manual labor and odd jobs.
He even learned some rudimentary Polish and Gaelic.
Though he enjoyed indulging his intellectual curiosities, he knew that his peers and employers would look on someone like him with suspicion and he had enough insight into his place and era to know that Lady Justice occasionally peeked out from under her blindfold. Bribes were the order of the day, even for beat cops. He knew enough to stay away from "can't miss" opportunities with high-level figureheads in case his "can't miss" opportunity involved an introduction to a very large, deep body of water in the area should rough edges need to be hewn.
The bribes he did receive would either go to an orphanage, the bank, or a steak dinner, depending on his mood. When called on for the department's traditional enforcement duties, he didn't shy away from his use of a truncheon but made sure his application of its usage was judicious.
Above all, though they may have disqualified him from the force had they learned about his academic ambitions, his employers' trust in his silence was rewarded. When he rode along for brothel raids, while his fellow officers tested the viability of the business before arresting prostitutes and johns, Tannehill stood silently in the parlor room while his co-workers accompanied new-found friends upstairs. Afterward, when asked, he'd be hard-pressed to remember what other officers were along for the raid, much less who'd done something inadvisable.
When fellow officers fortuitously found a four-inch blade on the dying person of a violent criminal representative of the city's minority population, Tannehill would be far enough away from the scuffle scouting for other evidence.
As a result of his detached demeanor coupled with his silence, he reached an unsaid agreement with the other officers in the department - "I won't partake in your shenanigans, but I won't rat you out either. I won't get greedy and demand my cut, nor will I be too righteous and demand real justice for yourself or others. Therefore, there's no reason to shoot me in the back and decorate me after the fact as a fallen hero of the department."
It was this agreement that allowed Tannehill to build a solid, if unspectacular career, in his time at the CCPD.
[Author's Note: It looks like I'm back on track with my publishing schedule. Today's edition is 1031 words for a total so far of 7228.]
After his intensive two-week CCPD training period, Tannehill's first opportunity to display the new MCO methods occurred when he joined his fellow officers to break up a large bar fight that threatened to spill over into the quiet areas of downtown. Using these new modern methods, he was able to reason with and subdue rowdy bar patrons by knocking out four teeth from four separate individuals and splitting a fifth's forehead so wide the patron's skull gleamed white.
When this particular patron consistently fretted immediately after the engagement how he was mere seconds from death due to the blood loss, Tannehill calmly took him aside and explained that forehead wounds could easily be repaired with a cauterized needle and thread and tended to look much worse than they actually were. Tannehill also mentioned that there may be some residual scarring if the operation was carried out by a non-medical professional. The patron, who's nose was broken in two places and had a few missing teeth of his own (not due to Tannehill's modern policing) shrugged off the cosmetic concern but thanked Tannehill for the advice. Thus was born Tannehill's first fruitful venture into community policing as both a newly minted officer - and newly minted citizen - of Capital City. From the standpoint of his employers, their investment in him looked as though it would pay strong dividends.
What Tannehill didn't relay to his employers prior during the interview process is that he'd had every intention of matriculating into one of the university engineering programs in downstate Illinois after high school. However, an ill-timed fire interceded and destroyed his family home just prior to his expected enrollment. Rather than leave his family without living arrangements, he used his meager savings to rebuild the family estate. Given the opportunity to continue working in a city with the perpetual stink of offal and recoup his savings or start afresh, he chose the latter. He bid the beef of Chicago and the cows of Urbana farewell and moved west for new scenery. Upon arriving in Capital City he didn't feel the need to the police department as part of an ethnic enclave or as a noble calling. He just needed a job.
After joining the force and completing his formal training for the CCPD, Tannehill spent his off-hours visiting libraries to further augment the courses thrown at him during his time at the police academy. Luckily, Capital City had grown large enough to be considered the preeminent metropolis of the West and, as such, was now center to several highly regarded academic institutions.
Though the university libraries often barred non-students from entry, a uniformed CCPD officer accessing a library could usually flout protocol with little resistance from the student or administrative staff. For the same reason, Tannehill was able to borrow books from the library without a student account, always being careful to return his borrowed volumes at the agreed-upon date.
And, though the libraries did provide information on legal codes throughout the city and state, much of the language within the formal literature proved to be overwhelming even for someone in possession of natural curiosity. Instead, he leveraged his ties with district and defense attorneys alike to compose a more practical view of the law.
For further target practice, he'd find farms south of the city to hone his craft with both revolver and rifle, befriending the farmers whose lands he used by assisting with manual labor and odd jobs.
He even learned some rudimentary Polish and Gaelic.
Though he enjoyed indulging his intellectual curiosities, he knew that his peers and employers would look on someone like him with suspicion and he had enough insight into his place and era to know that Lady Justice occasionally peeked out from under her blindfold. Bribes were the order of the day, even for beat cops. He knew enough to stay away from "can't miss" opportunities with high-level figureheads in case his "can't miss" opportunity involved an introduction to a very large, deep body of water in the area should rough edges need to be hewn.
The bribes he did receive would either go to an orphanage, the bank, or a steak dinner, depending on his mood. When called on for the department's traditional enforcement duties, he didn't shy away from his use of a truncheon but made sure his application of its usage was judicious.
Above all, though they may have disqualified him from the force had they learned about his academic ambitions, his employers' trust in his silence was rewarded. When he rode along for brothel raids, while his fellow officers tested the viability of the business before arresting prostitutes and johns, Tannehill stood silently in the parlor room while his co-workers accompanied new-found friends upstairs. Afterward, when asked, he'd be hard-pressed to remember what other officers were along for the raid, much less who'd done something inadvisable.
When fellow officers fortuitously found a four-inch blade on the dying person of a violent criminal representative of the city's minority population, Tannehill would be far enough away from the scuffle scouting for other evidence.
As a result of his detached demeanor coupled with his silence, he reached an unsaid agreement with the other officers in the department - "I won't partake in your shenanigans, but I won't rat you out either. I won't get greedy and demand my cut, nor will I be too righteous and demand real justice for yourself or others. Therefore, there's no reason to shoot me in the back and decorate me after the fact as a fallen hero of the department."
It was this agreement that allowed Tannehill to build a solid, if unspectacular career, in his time at the CCPD.
[Author's Note: It looks like I'm back on track with my publishing schedule. Today's edition is 1031 words for a total so far of 7228.]
Sunday, September 15, 2019
Chapter 6 - Let's Meet the Neighbors
True to his word in the diner, Tannehill didn't manage to sleep until 3:00 AM. He passed out fully clothed on a still-made bed. He awoke two hours later feeling even more exhausted. The day before had started out as a simple annoyance advancing into the promise of a meager paycheck and ended in a full-blown disaster.
From yesterday's perspective, no leads meant that Snell would have been left to connect the dots or that Tannehill was led by his partner on an extended snipe hunt. From today's perspective, no leads meant that a murderer would walk free. And still, he had no leads.
"Was yesterday's job connected to his murder?" Tannehill reviewed the little knowledge he had at hand. Snell definitely wanted Tannehill out of the office. The timing of Tannehill's adventure was fortuitous as well. "What are the chances that I arrive at the building the exact same time the subject was having sex? Then again Snell knew enough high-class callgirls that this may have just been the first appointment of the early evening."
With no other starting point, this was the avenue Tannehill had to pursue however tenuous the thread. He briefly thought about leaving CCPD to their own devices and simply moving on to the next small-time con or jilted lover. But. But, he was a licensed PI. And a former policeman. And partner to a murdered man, however repulsive that man was. He needed to do something, even if it meant tossing a few leads into the mix for his former colleagues.
He arose from semi-rumpled bedclothes, smoothed them, washed his face, affixed his fedora, and left his apartment.
He was firmly planted on the bench across from 513 Highwater street at 7:45 AM, ready for a long day of tedium as the residents of downtown prepared for a typical weekday. He wanted to spot the Blonde, the Uncle, the Doorman - anyone who may be able to give him just a little bit more thread to pull. He also prayed for clear skies and an empty bladder, so his surveillance could continue unabated.
At 8:13 AM his luck held. He saw Impatient Gray Suit from the night before exit the building - this time adorned in a blue double-breasted outfit two sizes too big.
"Excuse me! Sir!" Tannehill quickly crossed the street to intercept the man. He flashed his PI license as the man glanced toward him.
"Yes, officer?" Good, the man's response to a badge was what Tannehill was counting on.
"It's detective, actually." Technically, it wasn't a lie. Tannehill was a detective, just not one employed by the taxpayers of Capital City.
¨Do you live in this building?"
¨Yes, yes I do."
¨I see. First, I want to assure you there's no cause for alarm." Tannehill rested his hand on the man's shoulder. The man gaped at Tannehill open-mouthed and wide-eyed - less in terror than astonishment.
The man nodded in response, still open-mouthed.
"However, we need to check up on someone in your building who took a child in for social services. Normally, I'd simply ask the doorman, but they can be a bit thick and may call up to the unit first. Given the sensitive nature of the visit, I'd like to make sure we're not giving anyone too much on advantage. Understand?"
Open-mouth nod. No questions asked. "Good," thought Tannehill.
"OK, I just need you to get me to the elevator bank in your building and I can take it from there. If the doorman asks, just say your friend Bob needed to pop by to borrow some papers from you."
Open-mouth nod.
"Alright," Tannehill extended his hand, "after you." He had the expectation that he could lead the man in front of a bus and his new friend would oblige without complaint.
"Hi Chuck," the man called to doorman - luckily not his perceptive nemesis from the night before - "this is my friend, Bob. I need to let him up to my place and then I'll be back on my way."
"Sure thing, Mr. Sugarbaker," the doorman called back.
"OK, here you are." They cruised past the front desk to the elevators." Sorry, off- er, detective, I've got to go. I've got an important meeting to start the day." Sugarbaker turned on his heels and exited the building promptly.
Tannehill gave a flagging wave and ducked in the alcove behind the elevator bank into the residents' mailroom.
"650, 750, 799, 800, 801, 802" E. Brunner. "Is that her name? Or someone else in the household? Does she even live here?"
Tannehill returned to the elevator bank and pressed the button for the next car. He walked directly to 802 upon alighting from the elevator and stopped abruptly.
"What now?" He pressed his ear against the door listening for signs of life inside. All he could hear was the rush of blood coursing through his ears.
Shrugging, he knocked and waited. Nothing. Knocked again. Nothing. No one home.
He heard signs of life from his new friend's apartment in 800 and decided to wait in the hall. After another ten minutes passed, the tall brunette he'd spotted through the window the evening before - Sugarbaker's wife, he guessed - emerged from the unit.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Sugarbaker?"
"Yes?" His improvisation was paying off much better this morning than the evening before. He'd need to deprive himself of sleep more often.
"I'm a friend of Ms. Brunner's," fingers crossed he was guessing residency correctly, "and she told me to meet her at her door this morning to help her with some items. You don't happen to know if she's home, do you?"
"Emily?" Paydirt. "We don't really chat too much. She just moved in about a month ago. How did you know my name?"
"Emily," the name rolled off Tannehill's tongue with newfound confidence "talks about you and your husband all the time. She always mentions what pleasant neighbors you are."
Mrs. Sugarbaker perked up at this response. "Really? That's odd, we've never exchanged more than a couple of words in passing. I listen to her play jazz records through the wall, and I've always been keen to learn more about jazz but haven't found the nerve to ask her. I really never expected she thought anything of us."
"Well, something you said made an impression."
Mrs. Sugarbaker smiled. "I'm sorry, Mr.?..."
"Roberts."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Roberts, but you'll have to forgive me. I'm running a bit late for an appointment otherwise I'd offer you a cup of coffee. I'm sure she'll return shortly."
"Thanks for the offer, but I understand." Tannehill sucked his teeth in mock exasperation, "With Em you never can tell. She's a bit flighty from time to time. Nice to meet you, though."
"Pleasure to meet you as well." She walked past him to the elevator. Tannehill remained in place to reflect on his morning's work a moment longer. Emily Brunner, jazz lover.
[Author's Note: I'm back. This edition was 1158 words for a running total of 6197. I should be back on my normal weekly Sunday schedule until my next trip...]
From yesterday's perspective, no leads meant that Snell would have been left to connect the dots or that Tannehill was led by his partner on an extended snipe hunt. From today's perspective, no leads meant that a murderer would walk free. And still, he had no leads.
"Was yesterday's job connected to his murder?" Tannehill reviewed the little knowledge he had at hand. Snell definitely wanted Tannehill out of the office. The timing of Tannehill's adventure was fortuitous as well. "What are the chances that I arrive at the building the exact same time the subject was having sex? Then again Snell knew enough high-class callgirls that this may have just been the first appointment of the early evening."
With no other starting point, this was the avenue Tannehill had to pursue however tenuous the thread. He briefly thought about leaving CCPD to their own devices and simply moving on to the next small-time con or jilted lover. But. But, he was a licensed PI. And a former policeman. And partner to a murdered man, however repulsive that man was. He needed to do something, even if it meant tossing a few leads into the mix for his former colleagues.
He arose from semi-rumpled bedclothes, smoothed them, washed his face, affixed his fedora, and left his apartment.
He was firmly planted on the bench across from 513 Highwater street at 7:45 AM, ready for a long day of tedium as the residents of downtown prepared for a typical weekday. He wanted to spot the Blonde, the Uncle, the Doorman - anyone who may be able to give him just a little bit more thread to pull. He also prayed for clear skies and an empty bladder, so his surveillance could continue unabated.
At 8:13 AM his luck held. He saw Impatient Gray Suit from the night before exit the building - this time adorned in a blue double-breasted outfit two sizes too big.
"Excuse me! Sir!" Tannehill quickly crossed the street to intercept the man. He flashed his PI license as the man glanced toward him.
"Yes, officer?" Good, the man's response to a badge was what Tannehill was counting on.
"It's detective, actually." Technically, it wasn't a lie. Tannehill was a detective, just not one employed by the taxpayers of Capital City.
¨Do you live in this building?"
¨Yes, yes I do."
¨I see. First, I want to assure you there's no cause for alarm." Tannehill rested his hand on the man's shoulder. The man gaped at Tannehill open-mouthed and wide-eyed - less in terror than astonishment.
The man nodded in response, still open-mouthed.
"However, we need to check up on someone in your building who took a child in for social services. Normally, I'd simply ask the doorman, but they can be a bit thick and may call up to the unit first. Given the sensitive nature of the visit, I'd like to make sure we're not giving anyone too much on advantage. Understand?"
Open-mouth nod. No questions asked. "Good," thought Tannehill.
"OK, I just need you to get me to the elevator bank in your building and I can take it from there. If the doorman asks, just say your friend Bob needed to pop by to borrow some papers from you."
Open-mouth nod.
"Alright," Tannehill extended his hand, "after you." He had the expectation that he could lead the man in front of a bus and his new friend would oblige without complaint.
"Hi Chuck," the man called to doorman - luckily not his perceptive nemesis from the night before - "this is my friend, Bob. I need to let him up to my place and then I'll be back on my way."
"Sure thing, Mr. Sugarbaker," the doorman called back.
"OK, here you are." They cruised past the front desk to the elevators." Sorry, off- er, detective, I've got to go. I've got an important meeting to start the day." Sugarbaker turned on his heels and exited the building promptly.
Tannehill gave a flagging wave and ducked in the alcove behind the elevator bank into the residents' mailroom.
"650, 750, 799, 800, 801, 802" E. Brunner. "Is that her name? Or someone else in the household? Does she even live here?"
Tannehill returned to the elevator bank and pressed the button for the next car. He walked directly to 802 upon alighting from the elevator and stopped abruptly.
"What now?" He pressed his ear against the door listening for signs of life inside. All he could hear was the rush of blood coursing through his ears.
Shrugging, he knocked and waited. Nothing. Knocked again. Nothing. No one home.
He heard signs of life from his new friend's apartment in 800 and decided to wait in the hall. After another ten minutes passed, the tall brunette he'd spotted through the window the evening before - Sugarbaker's wife, he guessed - emerged from the unit.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Sugarbaker?"
"Yes?" His improvisation was paying off much better this morning than the evening before. He'd need to deprive himself of sleep more often.
"I'm a friend of Ms. Brunner's," fingers crossed he was guessing residency correctly, "and she told me to meet her at her door this morning to help her with some items. You don't happen to know if she's home, do you?"
"Emily?" Paydirt. "We don't really chat too much. She just moved in about a month ago. How did you know my name?"
"Emily," the name rolled off Tannehill's tongue with newfound confidence "talks about you and your husband all the time. She always mentions what pleasant neighbors you are."
Mrs. Sugarbaker perked up at this response. "Really? That's odd, we've never exchanged more than a couple of words in passing. I listen to her play jazz records through the wall, and I've always been keen to learn more about jazz but haven't found the nerve to ask her. I really never expected she thought anything of us."
"Well, something you said made an impression."
Mrs. Sugarbaker smiled. "I'm sorry, Mr.?..."
"Roberts."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Roberts, but you'll have to forgive me. I'm running a bit late for an appointment otherwise I'd offer you a cup of coffee. I'm sure she'll return shortly."
"Thanks for the offer, but I understand." Tannehill sucked his teeth in mock exasperation, "With Em you never can tell. She's a bit flighty from time to time. Nice to meet you, though."
"Pleasure to meet you as well." She walked past him to the elevator. Tannehill remained in place to reflect on his morning's work a moment longer. Emily Brunner, jazz lover.
[Author's Note: I'm back. This edition was 1158 words for a running total of 6197. I should be back on my normal weekly Sunday schedule until my next trip...]
Tuesday, September 10, 2019
Quick Note on the Novel
[Author's Note: I'm at a conference in NYC this week. I've finished my first draft of the next chapter, but need to go through one more round of revision before publishing. I'll try and get the revisions done before Sunday, but you may have to sit tight. If luck holds, I'll publish two chapters this week, but my schedule is a little askew at the moment. Also, if you're ever in New York, visit the Highline. it's free and a very pleasant, reasonable walk.]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)