Victim of a Minor War

ONE

I didn’t know Jerry Wilson very long,

Didn’t know him very well,

Didn’t like him very much,

But I wasn’t happy that he was dead.

And I wasn’t happy that I was the one who killed him.

Wilson wasn’t the first person I ever killed. That distinction belonged to Frankie Thomas.

I had been on the Force for about eighteen months. My partner and I got a call that there was a holdup in process at a small Hispanic market on Hanover Street. Harry Sinclair, my partner at the time, had been a policeman for twenty-two years and had never had occasion to pull his weapon. We got to the market in under two minutes and were just getting out of the patrol car when a guy comes out of the store carrying a bag in one hand and a gun in the other. His first shot smashed our right headlight. His second shot smashed Harry’s left shoulder. My first shot hit the shooter in the chest. There was no need for a second shot.

Harry was able to radio for assistance before sinking down onto the pavement. I checked to make sure the scumbag was dead then checked on my partner. The paramedics came and transported Harry to the hospital. He eventually made a complete recovery but never returned to duty. He decided to take early retirement and the last time I heard from Harry he was living in a small town in southwest Virginia fishing, watching sports on TV and enjoying his grand children.

A lot of people asked me how I was after the shooting and I told them all I was fine and I thought I was. That night, however, after I got home I started throwing up. It went on for at least an hour. I didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t sleep the next night either or for several more after that. Eventually I admitted I needed to talk to someone so they made an appointment for me to see the department shrink. It took several sessions but finally I seemed to regain my equilibrium. It was several months though before the nightmares went away.

The second person I killed was Evan Hopkins. Evan was a known drug dealer and two-time loser. He had done time for selling crack and for armed robbery. It was about five years since my first shooting incident. I was partnered with a rookie cop named Barker. We were on night patrol and heard shots. It was a drug deal gone bad. Evan had arranged to buy a half pound of heroin but got greedy and decided to keep the money and the dope. The shots we heard were Hopkins murdering his supplier.

Evan led us on quite a chase through the streets and alleys of the neighborhood before being cornered. We yelled for him to drop his gun and surrender. He decided to shoot it out instead. My new partner took one in the leg but I managed to drop Hopkins. This time I only threw up once, and the sleeplessness only lasted two days. There was no need to see the shrink. As with my first shooting the review board deemed the shooting justified and I was soon cleared to resume patrol.

The next few weeks were pretty uneventful but my heart wasn’t in it anymore. It wasn’t just the shootings. Being a cop was consuming my whole life. Everything was about the job. I thought about it long and hard and decided it was time for a change. But if I wasn’t a cop what was I? I had my degree in Business but couldn’t see myself sitting behind a desk eight or more hours a day. Then one night I was going into a Chinese take-out to get some lemon chicken and ran into Mike Garvin. Mike had put in thirty years on the force and then retired and became a private investigator. We got to talking and I learned that Mike was going to just do another year or two and then retire for real. When he heard I was looking to leave the police department he asked if I would be interested in working with him, learning the ropes of being a private eye and then taking over once he retired.

I thought about it a lot over the next couple of weeks. I would be giving up a guaranteed salary and a lot of benefits. But I would be my own boss once Mike retired and I wouldn’t have to deal with the departmental politics. Finally I called Mike and told him I was in. The next day I turned in my papers to leave the police department. Maybe if I had a wife and kids I would have made a different decision. But I didn’t have a wife or kids and probably never would have if I stayed a cop.

Being private took some getting used to but I had a good mentor. Mike was well respected in the field and had built a good business. I didn’t make as much money as when I was a policeman but it was enough for a single guy with no expensive habits or hobbies. True to his word Mike retired two years after I joined him, then the business was mine alone. I considered bringing in an assistant but decided for the time being to just run it on my own. That was over six years ago.

And that brings us to Jerry Wilson. My favorite after hours place was a bar/restaurant called Jake’s Joint. That wasn’t the real name of it but that’s what everyone called it. It was owned by an old Irishman named Colin Jake. At least he was Irish on his mother’s side. I’m not sure about his father. Neither was Jake. Whenever I went in Jake was always behind the bar. I think he worked from opening to closing six days a week. They were closed on Mondays. That’s where I first saw Jerry Wilson. He started coming in a couple of times a week. Jerry was one of those annoying people who no matter what anyone else had done or seen Jerry had done or seen something better. I tried to avoid him whenever we were both at Jake’s but you couldn’t get away from his voice. Jerry always talked louder than everyone else because he was convinced what he had to say was of interest to everyone. He put on a big show of being a successful entrepreneur but it was all just a bunch of hot air. He wore nice clothes but they were old. His shirt cuffs and pants cuffs were frayed and the shirt collars dirt stained. He had run up quite a tap at Jake’s and was on the verge of being cut off.

One night, it was a Wednesday, I was the last to leave Jake’s Joint. I stayed late watching a game then talked to Jake until closing time. I walked around the block to my car then realized I had forgotten my raincoat. When I reentered Jake’s I saw him behind the counter by the register and a man in a Mickey Mouse mask holding a gun on him. I was reaching for the revolver in my shoulder holster when the gunman turned to face me. He snapped off a quick shot at me as I dove under a table and turned it over for protection.

Jake took advantage of the distraction to pull a shotgun from under the bar. As the robber swung his gun back toward Jake, I shot twice hitting my mark both times.

Jake came around from behind the bar and I got up from behind the table. We walked over to where the gunman lay dead on the floor and removed the mask. Jerry Wilson wouldn’t be feeding us any more of his phony stories.

I guess I’ll never collect on that bar tab now, Jake said sadly.

We called the police. They showed up about ten minutes later, took our initial statements and asked us to come to the station the next morning. The body was taken away and that was the end of Jerry Wilson. I went home and waited to be sick but I wasn’t. I went to bed sure that I wouldn’t be able to sleep but I went out like a light and slept till almost ten a.m. So, as I already said, I wasn’t happy that I was the one that killed Jerry Wilson but what concerned me was that I had killed him and it didn’t bother me at all. What had I become that I could kill someone, even scum like Wilson, and not feel anything? It was time again to take a long look at my life and where it was heading.

After getting up I took a shower, got dressed, and drove to the police station. I answered some questions, read through my statement, and signed it. The cops seemed satisfied with my story of how things went down and soon I was back in my office. I spent part of the day typing up a report and a list of expenses to send to a client on a case that I had just wrapped up. The rest of the day I spent thinking about my future. Maybe it was time to change careers again. It would be nice to not have to carry a gun anymore. Maybe I could get used to sitting behind a desk pushing paperwork after all.

At 4:00 pm I picked up my phone and recorded a new message. You have reached the office of David Channing Private Investigations. I will be out of the office and out of town for an unspecified period of time. If you are currently in need of a private investigator I am sorry but I cannot be of service to you at this time.

I didn’t know where I was going but I knew I had to get away and think things through. I looked around the office not knowing when I’d be back. There were no plants so I didn’t have to worry about them dying while I was gone. I was putting on my jacket and getting ready to leave when there was a soft knock on the door. It opened and a young woman came in.

I’m looking for David Channing, she said.

That’s me, I replied, but I was just on my way out. She looked confused and a little lost. She wasn’t a beautiful woman. I wouldn’t necessarily even call her pretty. But she was modestly attractive and well dressed. Her hair was stylishly cut and her perfume smelled expensive. I would guess her age to be in the mid to upper twenties.

Well, since you’re here you might as well come in and sit down, I said, taking off my jacket and sitting back down behind my desk.

If you’re in a hurry I can come back tomorrow, she said.

I started to explain that I was leaving town the next day and considering a career change but decided to hear her out first.

That’s OK, I assured her. What can I do for you?

You are the David Channing who found Molly Hendrix aren’t you? she asked

Yeah that was me, I told her.

TWO

Molly Hendrix was my claim to fame. After Mike retired business started to dry up. He was the one with the reputation and the contacts. For a while I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to make a go of it. Then one day Martha Hendrix walked in. Martha was a single parent whose husband had died in a car accident. Six months ago her five year old daughter Molly had disappeared from her back yard in Arlington, Virginia. The police were called but no trace of Molly could be found. They waited for a ransom call or note but nothing happened and the months went by. In desperation Mrs. Hendrix decided to hire a private investigator. She picked my name out of the yellow pages or the internet, I forget which.

I still had a lot of friends on the force and they were happy to share what they knew about the abduction with me. Sometimes, maybe even most times, there’s a lot of friction between cops and private eyes, but in this case all everyone was concerned with was finding the little girl. The trail was cold so about all I could do was read through the police files then start re-interviewing the people they had already talked too. I talked to all my usual sources but no one knew anything. I was getting nowhere until I spoke to Alma Hodges. Alma was an elderly woman who lived down the street from the Hendrix family. She had told the police during the initial interview that she had seen a stranger, a woman, in the neighborhood the day Molly disappeared but she couldn’t give any kind of description, not even age or race. The police followed up with her twice in the weeks that followed but she still couldn’t remember any more. I decided Alma was worth one more shot. I drove to Alma’s address and knocked on the door.

Mrs. Hodges? I asked as the door opened. My name is David Channing. I was wondering if I might talk to you.

I’m not interested in buying anything and I don’t wish to discuss my political opinions or religious beliefs, she stated. If you still want to talk to me go ahead.

I’m a private investigator hired by the Martha Hendrix to help find her daughter Molly, I told her. May I come in?

Just a moment, she said. She closed the door and I could hear it lock. I stood there for a couple of minutes and then the door opened again.

May I see some identification? she asked. I showed her my driver’s license and my investigators license.

Sorry to leave you waiting, she said ushering me in. I called Martha Hendrix to verify what you told me. You hear such horrible things on television and read so many awful stories in the paper nowadays. I prefer to err on the side of caution.

You’re a wise woman, I told her.

Pleased sit down Mr. Channing, she invited. Would you like some coffee or tea?

If it’s not too much trouble, I would like some tea, I responded.

It’s no trouble at all, she smiled. I was just going to have a cup myself. And you picked a most fortuitous time to come by. Come with me into the kitchen and I’ll tell you why while we drink our tea.

The tea was excellent and so were the homemade brownies she offered. After eating the first she told me to eat as many as I wanted. After the second I decided to get back to business. You mentioned I’ve come at a good time. Have you remembered more about the stranger you saw in the neighborhood the day Molly disappeared?

It’s so funny how the mind works, don’t you think? she asked. I can’t remember what I wore yesterday or even what I had for breakfast this morning, but I can remember entire meaningless conversations from high school that occurred over sixty years ago. I have trouble remembering my doctor’s name but I remember the name of all the grocery store check out clerks who worked at the store where I shopped before it closed thirty years ago.

My mother was always complaining about the same sort of thing, I agreed. She once told me she couldn’t remember her own phone number but she could recite the names of all the kids in her class from sixth grade.

Is your mother still alive? Alma asked.

No, she died a few years ago, I told her sadly. So Mrs. Hodges what have you remembered concerning Molly Hendrix.

Well I was watching TV this morning, she said. There was an old movie on that I haven’t seen for years. In one scene the main character goes to a hospital and asks the woman at the desk which room Mr. Johnson is in. That’s when it hit me.

The woman at the desk in the movie looked like the woman you saw in the neighborhood that day? I asked.

Not at all, she said. The woman in the movie was much older. But she was wearing a name tag that said Bertha Arnold, Volunteer.

You recognized the woman as someone you knew named Bertha? I inquired.

Of course not, she laughed. Who names their child Bertha anymore? No it was seeing the badge with the word volunteer on it that sparked my memory. Last year I went to the hospital in Alexandria to visit Mrs. Martin, Daisy. She’s a dear old friend, fell and broke her hip. Well I couldn’t remember what room she was in so I asked the girl at the desk. Just like the woman in the movie she was wearing a name tag.

Do you remember what it said? I asked getting excited.

Certainly, she replied. That’s the whole point. It said Allison Parker, Volunteer. Suddenly it came back like it was all happening again. She was on the short side and a little chubby. She had short curly brown hair and brown eyes. She’s the one I saw in the neighborhood the day Molly Hendrix disappeared.

Do you remember what day it was that you visited Daisy? I asked.

I sure do, she smiled triumphantly. It was last St. Patrick’s Day. I remember because I wore my green hat with the feather. I always enjoy wearing that hat.

I thanked Alma and left but not before eating one more brownie.

It was only mid afternoon so there was still time to get to the hospital. I parked and went in the main entrance. Allison wasn’t on the information desk. That would have been a little too easy. I stopped there anyway and asked the volunteer on duty for directions to the Human Resources office. I didn’t have an appointment and wound up waiting twenty minutes to see the HR director, Harold Burke. Burke was a prissy little man with a bad haircut.