Undertow (Infected series), Part 1

1 – Staring At The Sun

Roan hadn’t been to too many parties in his life, but this was a fact he was proud of, especially tonight. It reaffirmed his probably bitter belief that most parties were just a waste of time.

Of course, that probably wasn’t fair. After all, a retirement party for a cop at a cop friendly bar wasn’t a typical party by any means. It was a Friday night, which should have meant a festive time, but O’Doyles had set itself aside for a “private party”, Gordo’s retirement soiree, and in spite of an attempt to be cheerful, it seemed kind of sad.

There were numerous things working against this party. For one, the median age of the crowd, as far as Roan’s math skills told him, was forty five, which didn’t make for a rowdy time. They were mostly white, nearly all straight (Kevin was in the closet, and made only a token appearance before leaving), married or divorced, all cops, a couple recovering alcoholics and a couple of current alcoholics getting down to business. All of this equaled a bad party on its own, but add in the fact that Gordo didn’t want to retire and was in a sour mood was just a final stake through the heart of this party.

Gordo was a career cop, and wanted to continue being a career cop, except his heart problems had sidelined him permanently. It was either get used to driving a desk or retire, and there was something too soul crushing about being a desk jockey after so long in the field that Gordo just couldn’t do it. Some cops would happily do the quiet thing, shuffle off gracefully into the long night, but Gordo was not one of those guys. Roan could sympathize, because he wasn’t the type either. It would be easier if he was.

Roan felt weird here, mainly because he was younger than the median age (although not by much), and of course was part of the only gay couple on the premises. If Dropkick and Kim had shown up like he hoped it wouldn’t have been so glaring, but Dropkick had to work tonight, so he and Dylan were it (and as far as everyone but Kevin knew, the only actual gays in the bar). This earned them some stares from spouses who had no idea their husbands had one of those on the force, and some glares by cops who were offended that he actually brought his husband. He felt like flipping them off, but Seb had already made him promise not to start trouble. Like he started trouble! He just finished it, that was all.

Although Dylan had been nervous about being at a retirement party for a cop he didn’t really know that well, amongst cops he didn’t know at all, he had made a fast friend. Namely the bartender, a guy with a frizzy mop of dirty blond hair and hipster sideburns that looked like he hadn’t showered in a week (not true, as he smelled relatively clean). Dylan sat at the far end of the bar, and every free moment he had the bartender, whose name was Dakota – Roan would have sworn that was a woman’s name, but you could never tell – over by him, and they were exchanging stories of bad customers, great tips, and assorted misadventures. Being a bartender seemed to be an entrée to a specific world, and while Roan was glad Dylan had this, he couldn’t help but wonder where his key to a kingdom was. As a former cop, you’d think he’d be able to just waltz into their society and fit in, but that wasn’t how it worked. Maybe being gay and infected was too big of a bridge to cross. The fact that he was kind of an asshole probably didn’t help.

He tried very hard to circulate, but he gave up pretty soon. The room was essentially divided into thirds: a third hated him, a third was indifferent to him, a third didn’t really know him at all. The ones who liked him he could count on his hand. Connie, Gordo’s wife, was as kind to him as she always was, but she was standing around awkwardly, not at all comfortable being in a bar. It was kind of dark, but clean and relatively modern, despite an old fashioned jukebox in the corner. The music playing was classic rock trending towards middle of the road R&B, nothing too offensive and challenging, which was disappointing. Dylan made him promise he wouldn’t play anything too noisy, but once he got bored he wandered over to see what the jukebox had on display. Mostly not his kind of thing, but he found a couple of interesting things, and decided to start slow and build up. So he walked away as Tom Waits’s raspy voice started growling through the sound system. Dylan tossed him a warning look across the bar, although he liked Tom Waits. Maybe it was because Dylan knew the song “Walking Spanish” was all about an execution. Gordo probably felt that way. This “party” was more like a wake than anything else.

Gordo was finally tucked away at a shadowy corner table, working on a beer his doctor would probably have fits over if he knew he was having it. Roan sat down across from him, raising his eyebrows at the sullen look Gordo gave him.  “Would you like me to shoot you, or would you prefer bludgeoning?” Roan wondered.

Gordo shrugged. “Just make it quick.”

They sat there in silence for a long moment, as there was nothing to say. Gordo didn’t want to retire, Roan knew it, and that was what there was. Nothing Roan could say would make it any better. Finally, Gordo took a long pull of his beer, and asked, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Take it easy, maybe build some oversized recipe card boxes.”

“That is some obscure reference that no one understands but you find funny, isn’t it?”

Roan nodded with a diffident shrug. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Gordo sighed wearily. “You just can’t stop bein’ a smart ass, even for one night.”

“I think I was born this way. Although some argue it’s a choice.”

“Did you miss your calling as a stand up comedian or something? For a gloomy guy, you gotta smart mouth.”

“I am not gloomy. And it’s a purdy mouth, if those guys down at the docks can be believed.”

Gordo glanced away, grimacing painfully, trying to stifle a smile. He shook a finger in his direction, still not looking his way. “No. You’re not making me laugh tonight, you smart alecky fuck.”

“You’re determined to be depressed, huh?”

Gordo finally managed to swallow the laugh, and when he looked at him again, his eyes were bright with pain. “This is bullshit. I don’t wanna do this. I’m not feeble. I’ve given thirty years of my life to this job, and I may not have thirty more to give, but I’ve got at least a couple. They’re not so flush with manpower that they can turn me away like this.”

Roan wasn’t sure what to say here. He could point out logically that his heart attacks and subsequent operation made him unable to pass the physical, which meant he couldn’t be a field cop, but Gordo knew this better than anyone. He could say the physical requirement was bullshit, especially with older officers, and while that had an element of truth to it, again it wasn’t something he wanted to hear right now. Roan could offer him nothing comforting or helpful, he couldn’t give him anything he wanted, so he just listened.

Gordo took a long pull from his beer before finally breaking the silence again. “How do you manage?”

That kind of surprised him. “I never retired.”

“No, but you stopped being a cop. Kinda.” He grimaced at what he just said. “Okay, you didn’t. You just got a different job under an alternate name.”

“Yep. What you need to do is get a cushy special advisor job, where you get called at all hours of the day and night by snippy cat squad cops who expect you to drop everything and rush to wherever they are in record time.”

Gordo scowled at him. “That’s the job.”

“So it is. It still sucks.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Once again, Gordo made a sour face down at the table, like it was pissing him off. “I don’t know that I can do this. I already feel useless. You need an assistant investigator?”

“I already have too many on the payroll as it is.”

“As good as me?”

“Is there any way I can answer that question without getting hit?”

Gordo considered that, narrowing his eyes at him. “Apparently not.”

The second song Roan ordered came up on the jukebox, and suddenly heads swiveled towards it as Outkast’s “Bombs Over Baghdad” started playing. It was one of the few rap songs on the jukebox, which had struck Roan as odd, but it had an eclectic mix of songs Roan hadn’t expected to find. Roan knew that the guys in this room probably hated rap, so therefore he had to play it.

Murmurs ran through the crowd, and Roan hardly needed to glance over at Dylan to see him giving him a knowing glare. Of course he knew who was responsible for that. There was no question in his mind, and probably in no one else’s either. In fact, Gordo was now staring at him over the table in open surprise. “You little bastard. You did that, didn’t you?”

Roan just smiled blandly. “Only rap song on there. At least it’s a good one. Wanna dance?”

Finally, Gordo cracked a smile, and then he laughed, It was one of those helpless, tear inducing laughing spasms, as he doubled over and pounded the table with the flat of his hand, making the beer bottles jump. As Roan sat back, waiting for him to get a hold of himself, he scanned the crowd. A lot of people were giving him eviler than usual looks, probably figuring him for the one who played the rap song, but when his eyes found Connie, she mouthed a “Thank you,” to him before looking back at the still laughing Gordo with weary affection.

He knew, given enough time, he could make anyone laugh. Maybe he was a failed comedian at heart.

****

Fiona hadn’t pulled the trigger on moving to Boston, but Roan knew it was just a matter of time.

She wasn’t risk adverse, and as much of a gamble as it was moving to a city she’d never been to for the love of a completely mental French-Canadian goaltender, he could see her doing it. He hated to lose her, but he could also see encouraging her to do it, because she loved Tank, and Roan knew the crazy fucker loved her. Love was such a rare commodity, why not gamble for it? She always had a place she could come back to if things went horribly wrong.

Besides, the job wasn’t going to keep her here anymore. He’d cut down the in office days to three a week, and soon it’d probably be only when there was a case to go in for. He could see losing the office entirely pretty soon, transitioning his business to the internet and an in home office, because private eyes were quickly becoming a relic of the past. Not for lawyers, though, or more specialized clients. Dennis had offered him an office inside his law firm, which was expanding and could use a more frequent in house private dick, but Roan hadn’t really considered that. He didn’t mind working for Dennis, he still liked the guy and was grateful he gave him his first gig, but show up at a genuine office every day, probably wearing a suit and tie? It sounded like death. He didn’t see Dennis enforcing a dress code on him, but he could imagine that the first time he showed up in combat boots and a Pansy Division t-shirt the rent-a-cops on the premises wouldn’t let him past the lobby. On the other hand, he was probably too old to continue dressing this way, but he couldn’t see giving in to the suit and tie alternative.

Since he had the time, Roan found himself imagining a superhero costume for himself. Had to be spandex, right? He’d have preferred leather, but maybe that was too leather daddy. Perhaps he should go retro with spandex, all blood red, save for a big lion’s head codpiece. He could call himself the Crimson Cat.

As soon as Roan finished laughing, he wrote it down, because he just had to share that with Dylan. It was too funny to keep to himself. Would that make Holden Kid Cerise?

It was during this time that his tentative one o’clock appointment arrived.

She was not quite what he was expecting. She was a relatively average looking woman with strong features and a weak chin, her hair a honeyed brownish blond that Clairol probably called “Golden Wheat”, styled into a bob that probably wasn’t the most flattering for her heart shaped face. Her eyes were somewhere between gray and hazel, but sharp and clear, and she was about average weight. He couldn’t tell height, namely because she was in a wheelchair. He stood and shook her hand as he used his foot to shove aside the chair that usually sat in front of his desk for clients. “Jessica Grimes, I presume.”

She had a hell of a grip. Nicely developed forearms. “Yes. Thanks for meeting me.”

“No problem. You said this was a little too complicated to explain over the phone, and I have to admit that intrigued me.” Of course it could just turn out to be a standard cheating husband case, but he was hoping not.

As soon as he was seated and she was situated in front of his desk, Jessica spun a story he hadn’t expected. Her mother, Melinda Hall, was considered the only fatality of the North Hill Rapist, a rather vicious criminal who terrorized Yakima in the late ‘80’s. He had a penchant for using mace on women, blackening their eyes, shoving a fist down their throat as he raped them, and cutting off most of their hair as a “trophy”. He had eleven reported victims – twelve including the odd case of Melinda – yet the man eventually caught and charged with the attacks, Robert Wayne Shaw, was only convicted on one rape, because the testimony of other victims was thrown out on a technicality (they used a hypnotist to remember details from their attacks). Still, for that one rape he got twenty five to life, an unusually long sentence which he was still fighting in court. Just about everyone was hoping he’d just die in prison so no one had to worry about him ever getting out again.

But here’s where Melinda Hall deviated from most of his victims: she was never found. She was considered a probable victim of his because she lived on the same street as a previous victim, and because she fit his “profile” (he liked petite, long haired blondes, and at five four, one hundred and ten pounds, and with dyed blonde hair well past her shoulders, she more than fit the bill). Still, she was never found. Jessica recounted coming home from school and finding the TV on, and a scene of confusion in the kitchen: the kitchen door was wide open, a glass of tea had shattered on the floor, and on a plate next to the sink was a half made sandwich, the mayonnaise jar still open, with a butter knife sticking out of it. It was like her mother had suddenly stopped what she was doing and ran outside, except when she got outside she just kept running and never returned. She was never seen again.

This was why Melinda was considered a probable victim. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Shaw could have accidentally killed a victim; some were near suffocated, most lost consciousness at some point during the assault. All he need to do was increase his pressure or have one react badly to the mace, and she went from living victim to corpse. But where was her body? Shaw denied being responsible for Melinda’s disappearance, but then again he denied raping any women, even though he fit the description, his DNA was found at the scene, and he had a blonde ponytail in his possession that he claimed was a “gag gift” (it was actual human hair, eventually DNA matched to one of the victims). Shaw claimed to anyone who would listen that he was a victim of corrupt police who hated him, and he usually pinned their hatred on religious persecution, because he was a Christian … like all the cops who arrested him. Shaw was a lot of things, but smart clearly wasn’t one of them. There was also a mishegoss with his frightening harridan of a mother, who was eventually sent to prison for trying to hire a hitman to take out the judge and prosecutors on Robert’s case, suggesting the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Norman Bates and his mother for the modern age.

Anyways, Jessica had always wondered where her mother’s body was, what had happened to her. The cops on the case speculated that Shaw dumped her body in the desert, where elements and animals got at it before anyone could come across it. There was a brutal logic to that that couldn’t be denied, but still, Jessica wondered what became of her mother.

Then, about a month back, she read the blog of Chris Spencer, his former client. While Roan had been unable to find his son Keith, he’d been able to determine that Keith had been in all likelihood the victim of a sex offender who, while now dead himself, was still the most likely suspect in the boy’s disappearance. The fact that he wasn’t alive to confirm Roan’s suppositions bothered him immensely, but Chris had apparently found some closure in his investigation, and he was glad about that.

Jessica basically wanted him to do the same thing for her. She knew her mother’s body probably wouldn’t be found, and she’d given up on ever getting Shaw to confess, but she was hoping he could give her some sense of closure. Roan found himself wondering how he was even going to say this. “I don’t … I’m pretty sure I’ll be taking your money for no reason,” he finally admitted. “If the cops haven’t found anything in decades, I don’t see how I’ll ever find anything of note. This might be all the information available on your mother.” It was sad to think that someone could simply disappear from the face of the Earth, but it happened all the time. Despite what all those forensic crime shows would you have you believe, some mysteries were unsolvable; there was no ending. There were only questions, an aching void that couldn’t be filled.

The look she gave him was heartbreaking. “That’s what the last detective I tried to hire said to me. Please, just look into what they have, see if you can pick up anything someone else might have missed. Chris said you were great at that. Please. Money isn’t a problem for me. No detective will take my case.”

“Ms. Grimes -”

“Please. Look into it for a couple of days, that’s all I ask. If you find nothing, I will accept your answer and go. Okay? Please?”

Goddamn it. His life would be so much easier if people didn’t guilt trip him into hopeless causes.