Almost Beards...

Beards are like erasable tattoos...

                         " The morning fog,  may chill the air...  I don't care...."  ( I'm retired )

Doo-Wop

Had we fallen in love, in this other place, in this other time, it would have been my time.  When Doo-Wop was in labor, when a girl could love a guy who had a Nash but would have loved him even more if he had a Chevy, when Lucky Strikes fit a t-shirt sleeve perfectly, when a ducktail was cooler if you were in chinos, when streetlamps shone down on a few brave greasy-haired guys who practiced all day to sound good for one hour at night …  It wasn’t the words, or even the melody—it was the harmony that made us sit silently on our fire escapes and listen as the notes drifted up through the humid night and echoed something familiar and permanent for us.  You learned to yearn, ‘cause Doo-Wop was about stories and dreams, about hearts and broken ones, black music and white music.  It was about a time, just after the unthinkable and just before thinking became mandatory.  So laugh if you will, if you must.  The words, after all, weren’t sung to be heard today.  They were for a simpler population, when you got credit for earnest blushes … when being cool was the day you had your “cool” clothes on; the other days were for laundry, and everyone understood.

                                           ( BTW, I have gone back and added things throughout the blog and will continue to do so )

Observation...

Life is about golf, sex … and friendship—though the order can change, depending on the green fees.

Random Chapter: "The Curve"

Williams watched Jordan park his car and walk across the street.  He remembered all over again “the walk” that was Jordan’s involuntary trademark.   It always appeared a bit arrogant to Williams, but he knew it wasn’t arrogance, nor did it have anything to do with Jordan’s character.  Still, it made an impression on chiefs, commanders, and criminals alike, Williams thought.

Williams was curious about Jordan’s invitation—he and Jordan had never really liked each other but had somehow miraculously avoided any serious collisions during their career overlap.  It had been nearly four years since he had retired, and the only times he had talked with Jordan were at retirement parties or funerals. 

Williams had been assigned to perform internal interviews on Jordan a few times, and had found himself undressed after each interview.  He never could figure out whether Jordan had outflanked him with his candidness or with his guile.  In either case, he had ended both internal investigations somewhat inconclusively, one with a “no merit” and the other with an “unsustained”—the latter leaving a bit more “cloud” in the room.  “Unsustained” sounded a little more like, “Well … we just couldn’t prove it … this time.”  That complaint had centered around a field interview.  Jordan had spotted a man squatting down between two cars.  A moment later a call had come from a citizen about a suspicious-looking black man looking into cars.  The description of the clothes matched.  The description of the race matched.  Jordan was convinced, but didn’t have anything firm to go on.  The black man, knowing this, began to berate Jordan for “stopping him because he was black.”  To which Jordan replied, “You know, some officers would say you were full of shit.  They’d say you were a lying sack of shit.  They’d bust you just for being ugly.  But not me.  No, I’m not one of those officers—‘cause some of those officers could be real cruel and talk about your missing front teeth and how you look like a Buick with some grill missing.  But not me …”  Williams knew it was great police work catching the man at all, even if Jordan had caught him a bit early.  The man’s rap sheet was taller than both of them.

On Jordan’s side, his natural dislike for Williams had nothing to do with Williams’ choice to become a sergeant, nor with Williams’ subsequent appetite for performing IAs.  No, it was more the laborious way he went about conversing—never answering a simple question with a simple answer—that drove Jordan crazy.  Even though Jordan went to great lengths to avoid needing Williams’ advice, on more than one occasion he had been present when someone else did—and on those occasions he had been subjected to the painstaking route the questioner had to endure to arrive—finally–at his answer.  Usually at those times Jordan could just slink away.

Unfortunately, there were times when he was trapped at the briefing table when some rookie would pose a question he already knew the answer to, simply to prove to the table how sharp he was by asking an ostensibly clever question.  Williams always—but always—paused at this tactic, which automatically caused Jordan to adjust his seat and pray for his pager to go off.

Of course, there was that time at briefing when Ron Prickett, who shared Jordan’s distaste for Williams’ circuitous routes, suddenly stood and began mimicking a man casting and then pulling back with a jerk to set the hook, yelling “FISH ON!”  Unable to resist, Jordan shot up and pretended he was the fish, began jerking his head back and forth as if to shuck the hook, reacting perfectly to Ron’s reeling-in motion.  Jordan would pull away but Ron would reel him back.  This of course went on for a few moments, Ron finally “reeling” and walking towards the door, the “fish” in tow.  The remaining badges were on all fours gasping for air in full falsetto laughter.

 

Jordan reached his hand out to Williams and could only offer a sheepish smile.  He sat across the table and noted that Williams had put on considerable weight.  He was momentarily stunned when Williams said, “You wait, it’ll happen to you, too …”  Jordan smiled a genuine smile and told Williams he had only two months left before he would join the ranks of larger pants and fresh excuses.  The small talk was always the same with cops: “You hear about So-and-so?”  “What ever happened to …” and news of the most recent divorce.

With all the small talk used up, Jordan found himself looking down at his own hands.  Williams knew just to listen.  Jordan began to explain about finding the car, the woman.  How it appeared to be an accident.  That he had to do some real “road work” but that he was sure it was exactly that, an accident.

William only interrupted him once, to ask her name.  His facial expression told Jordan he knew the name.  Williams nodded curtly and indicated for Jordan to continue.  When the story was all done it was Williams who blew out a gush of air from his swollen cheeks and raised his eyebrows.  He motioned to the waitress for another Diet Coke, then leaned forward on his forearm and whispered to Jordan, “You know what a benchmark case is for a dick?”

Jordan shrugged and offered, “Like the Simpson/Morrow deal?”

“Exactly,” Williams replied.  “I read about this one over twenty years ago.  I was just getting into the dick bureau.  This investigator from Petaluma sends out fliers on this woman he’s sure has been murdered.  He sends out pictures of the husband too.  Pictures of the car are plastered all over the network.  The feds gets invited into the show and every clue is broadcast on the evening news.”

“Because they had shit?” Jordan offered.

“Yep.  They roust this poor bastard and leak everything they guess at to the press.”  Williams paused and looked out the window. He whispered an “Oh, shit” and rubbed his hands into his face.  “You know, Jord, I always had a fear that I sent someone up who didn’t do it.  The cases where the DA was so sharp he could make a case with half the ingredients he needed because the circumstantial evidence was so strong. This guy hasn’t been in jail, he’s been in hell—if you’re right, if he didn’t kill her.  Is this why we’re having lunch?”

Jordan nodded absently as he began to see Williams’ point.  The gravity of their discussion kept them from the menus; neither could eat.

Williams finally asked Jordan, “So what do you need from me?”

Jordan smiled.  “Advice?”

Williams returned the smile and said, “You’re not going to become a fish on me, are you?”

To which Jordan quickly began to blame Prickett, then stopped.  “Hey, you were pretty full of yourself back then, Don.”

Williams lifted his Diet Coke in a toast.  “My ex-wife would agree.  In fact I was so full she decided to leave me practically empty …”  They both laughed.

“You remember or know the guy who was on the case?”

 “Not off the top, but I can find out.  Oh hey, you’re not going to contact this guy and tell him that you want his help in proving his benchmark case was bullshit, are you?”  Williams put his hands behind his head and leaned back.  “One thing about cops you already know—egos!  And detectives have larger ones than normal.  Even if you could prove that she died in that car, you couldn’t prove he didn’t run her off the road.  You see?  This guy only knows what is now cement in his brain.  You give him your case and he’ll come back with the Warren Report—guaranteed.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Oh, so you want an itinerary with directions!”  Williams smiled but Jordan could see his brain was in full motion.

 “Uh-huh.  Look, I’m a cop.  I’ve investigated crimes to a point—then they always go on to you guys.  Only now I’m being told by the powers that be to let this one go, because it’s a no-harm-no-foul thing—that she’s dead and it’s been 22 years.  They don’t want to spend today’s money on 22-year-old news.”

 “Goitia?”  Williams asked.

 “Yep.  It’s still all about the budget,” Jordan replied.

 “Is he still talking to himself?”

 “Oh God, it’s gotten nothing but worse—you feel like you’re eavesdropping every time you walk by him!”  They both failed in trying to hold back a real roller; the only other patron in the café was chuckling in sympathy. 

Williams didn’t hesitate when he got started.

“Start with the car.  Start with the largest, most obvious items and work your way down the smallest.  Categorize everything.”

“Categorize?”  Jordan hated to interrupt, but his pen would only work so fast, and he hated to think he might only try to read his writing later.  Williams stopped for a moment.

“What?” Jordan asked.

“Look, I can’t think of anyone who will pick this up faster, but it’s vital that you do.  It’s a bit different from patrol or traffic.  You’re used to taking the obvious, throwing in a hunch, and passing it on to the dicks.  Now you have to be a dick and go with your own hunches.  Don’t assume anything.  Don’t make a mountain out of a lipstick, but examine every item in the car and especially … did you find a purse?”

“Yep.”  Jordan nodded.

“I don’t imagine there’s much you can make out in the purse?”

“Well, actually it was one of those sorta plastic jobs that snaps at the top and has a strap.  The contents look pretty good for 22 years.”

Williams thought for a moment and then continued, “If there are items that are damp, take a picture of them—micro, if you have it—and dry them out, naturally.  Then package them, when you’re sure they’re completely dry, in a baggie.  It’s possible you might lose some evidence in the drying, so take a close-up of everything with a good camera—again, micro if you have it.  In fact, borrow one if you don’t.  When you’ve emptied the purse, examine every little crumb or paper at the bottom of the purse.  Collect that stuff as well.  Twenty-two years ago, it’ll likely be full of bits of tobacco.  Save them as well.  Make a journal.  Include everything you do, find, and think in it.  Your guesses too—especially your long-shot guesses.  I remember your long shots always seemed shorter than everyone else’s.  Get your hands on a phone book from 22 years ago if you can.  Places, names of businesses …  A lot could have changed since then.  Don’t ask me where to find those old phone books, but on cold cases they can be real valuable.”

Williams watched Jordan’s face change as he listened. It grew more and more solemn, his brow wrinkling into long horizontal lines.  Williams paused and Jordan looked up, appearing unfocused and a bit confused.  Williams reached over, took the pen from Jordan’s fingers, and slid the pad out from under his hand.  He pitched a page over the pad to a clear page and wrote something in large letters on it, then turned it back toward Jordan.  It read, "Stop whining, you can do it."

“Jordan’s expression changed.  He smiled and said, “I see you’ve finally learned to spell the small words … look, I just don’t know if …”

Williams interrupted him, slid the pad back over, tossed the pen atop the pad, folded his hands, and began, “Look, I’ve had to make changes to myself all my life—the human chameleon.  I wanted to be a detective, so I became who I thought the brass would like to see as a detective.  I wanted Mary Foster, so I acted like the person I thought she would want.  To everyone else I had to be the person who had the answers, who knew.  Christ,  I had so many personalities I was buying clothes for each of ‘em!  I was too busy keeping up with my own internal ‘family’ to look outside it.”

Jordan began to say something, but Williams held up his hand and told him to shut up and listen.

 “You see, I don’t give a shit about this woman, or this guy, this case, or the 'truth'—not really.  I’m going to get into my SUV when I leave here and get back on Bitch Dot Com and try to find someone as shallow as I am.  You, on the other hand, are sitting across the table worrying about whether you going to let down some stranger you’ve never met because you may or may not have what it takes to find him, to find the real truth.  You’re the same wonderful asshole I’ve known all my life and wanted to be like and knew I could never be.”

Jordan stared at Williams and pointed back at his chest in a “Who, me?” gesture.  “Bullshit!  You can re-invent yourself anytime you want.  If you’ve got so many personalities, then pick the one you like most and make the best of him—who cares?  There’s no jury following you around taking notes.  It’s where you end up, buddy, not where you’ve been.”

Williams smiled with his eyes and stared across the table for a time.  “You really believe that?”

“Not for a moment!”  Jordan laughed.  They both fell into that laughter and then an uneasy silence.  Williams began to pull out his wallet and Jordan quickly signaled that this one was on him, to which Williams replied, “No shit, I’m just getting out my business card!  Call me if you run into anything you can’t figure …”

They rose and shook hands.  Jordan gripped tighter and said, “For what it’s worth, Williams, I vote for this guy... I like this guy, where's he been?"

The drive back home was filled with a thousand thoughts.  He had always thought Williams hated his guts.  He wondered how many other guys at work he might have misread. He wanted to quit; it all seemed too complicated, and frankly impossible.  Find a guy 22 years later so you can tell him what he already knew: he didn’t kill his wife.

All he wanted now was to look into Shelly’s face.  Whenever he needed direction, confidence, she was his compass.  She never failed to be his north; right now, at this moment, all he wanted was to see her face.