Foot in the Door
Two dead, one a state trooper, the other a Jane Doe. With no clear suspect in sight and the threat of federal intervention looming over their heads, Harris and Tillman decide to split up and gather evidence separately.
There's something strangely captivating about cigarette smoke. Can't quite place it. Shapes and forms maybe. Breezes. Wind. Change. Evidence lies. People twist in the breeze of a traumatic event. But smoke, smoke always rises in the same way.
Tillman pushed the doors of the station wide open. I step into the building. Looks nothing like a police station from the outside. Council lacked funds, and here we are. Single-floor compact office building built from cheap concrete. Walls painted in cigarette yellow. State of the art interrogation rooms that leaked noise like nothing else. God forbid you sneeze in the observation room. Lobby looks like a mix between a clinic and a concentration camp. Five or six cheap chairs, complete with grooves in the armrests from restraining garbage. A folksy painting sits above the table between two chairs. Said table is home to a single vase. The edges are cracked in places. Three roses, not watered since the place was built. Hence why it is turned away from the wall. Jameson is at the front desk. Documents came in for us. Folders, neatly stacked, perfectly bureaucratic. Each of us takes two and we shuffle to our office at the far end of the left wing hallway. Our shoes clack and squeak against the ground as we swivel around corner after corner. Hallway after cramped hallway opens into rows of offices and archive rooms, each separated from the other by a section of easily-torn and overall piss-poor drywall. Crooked paintings and familial mementos line the shelves and open spaces. Leave a little individuality in each space, even if it kills you. Only thing that separates us from the average spook. We've got families. They don't.
I open the door to our office and Tillman steps past me. Door swings shut behind us. They're all on swivel hinges, just like the diner door. Probably due to the alcoholics that are prevalent in the department. Wouldn't be able to find the knob even if it were painted in fluorescent paint. Turn to drink when a case fails. Police officers and detectives are few and far between in a town like Alton Woods. Can't afford to fire anyone. Just keep them out of sight and out of mind and hope they don't soil themselves as they pass out in the evidence room. Only one desk in our office. We share. I sit on one end and Tillman sits on the other. Being the junior here, I usually get the guest chair. Hard as shit, but you get used to it. My partner takes his rightful place on the dilapidated leather recliner. Nicotine stains on the leather, foam showing in places, at least three of the five buttons in the back missing. Standard Alton Woods PD equipment. Our names are written on the glass of the door in neat lettering, save for a paint drip beneath my surname. Moist footprints stick to the carpet as I step to my chair. I pull myself towards the table and open the first folder. Autopsy reports. Early. Nothing conclusive yet, but it can give you a good idea of what's what. Tillman opens the other folder and finds a post-it stuck to the inside of the cover. It rustles in his paw as he flips it over, checking if there's anything on the other side.
"What's that?" I mumble past the filter of my cigarette.
"Notice from Mosey's. Forensics is in there now, taking the car apart, looking over the ballistics and blood splatter." He reaches into one of the desk drawers and fishes out a USMC Zippo "As soon as we're done sifting through all this paperwork, we're gonna go down there. I expect you to take notes."
"Sure thing, boss." I say and stand up, dragging my feet as I approach the window. Squinting against the brightness of the day, I inspect the intersection across the street, stop lights changing to warn no one. Papers scrape against one another behind me, followed by the distinct shuffle of a chair being pulled across carpeting.
"First victim." Tillman says and struts around the office like a proud peacock with the papers in hand, occasionally flashing through my peripheral vision "Male, grizzly bear, brown fur, brown eyes, height 6' 1", weight 180 lbs. Name: Arnold Lyman. Age: 43. COD: Internal haemorrhaging and trauma due to four gunshot wounds. Address: Hawthorne Road 12b. Employment status: Employed, Minnesota State Troopers."
Papers fall onto the desk as he retrieves the second file "Time for our Jane Doe. Female canine, exact species unknown, awaiting DNA processing. Name: Unknown. Age: Between 17 and 25. Height: Unknown due to compression of spine and freezing of soft tissue. Weight: Unknown. Eye colour: Possibly blue. Hair colour: Brown. COD: Same as the trooper. Needless to say, address and employment status unknown."
"Fantastic." I add pessimistically and stub my cigarette out in the marble ashtray on the table, the smoke rising straight up due to the lack of airflow "Part of me was hoping that he just stole that jacket. Better yet, if state doesn't have anything on our Jane Doe, we're gonna have to ask the feds. And that's less than optimal. Fuckin' monkeys in ties."
"Change of plan. We'll split up. Damage control.." A filing cabinet door clatters open as Tillman lays the autopsy report flat on top of the other folders, the noise drowning out some of his words "Go to Lyman's residence, canvass the neighbours, and search his apartment. And no, you don't need a warrant. Flash your badge if someone bothers you. When you're done there, go down to the clinic and get in Dillon's way for a little bit. Cover more ground faster. Just hoping this isn't serial."
"While you do what? Sit on your ass and eat a second breakfast? More to the point, how do I get in? I don't have any keys." Sarcastically I cross my arms and lean against the cabinet he just shut, completely ignoring his last words "You'll be done at Mosey's in five minutes."
He laughs and sits back down "Fuck no. Blood splatter and ballistics will take a while and I have to be present the whole time. Not looking forward to it. Lewis ain't exactly pleasant, y'know? Think of it as a favour." Pausing for a moment, he rolls up the post-it and throws it in the waste paper basket "And then there's the paperwork. Gotta file and re-file everything, pull out the firearms register, go down to the DMV office, tell them to look up the plates, and so on. Now that you're not getting out of. As for the getting in, it's simple. Banal really. Wear heavy shoes."
For a few more minutes we arrange the loose ends that were left hanging. All the while I have one foot in the door, subtly letting Tillman know I don't have all day. Eventually he waves me off and turns away, digging through the topmost drawer of his desk. Last thing I hear him uttering before I walk out is "Fuckin' feds." Absent-mindedly I fetch a padded winter jacket from the locker rooms and make my way outside, into the biting cold of the Minnesota winter. Car refuses to start up again. Fifteen minutes I spend twisting the ignition and checking the battery. Snow falls steadily, blanketing the few points of reference I still had. Finally she starts and I sit down in the driver's seat, buckling my belt and pressing my paws together, silently wondering why I didn't bother to get some gloves. No idea where I am or where I'm supposed to go. Being the quick thinker that I am, I fetch a tourist map from the glove compartment. Three left, five right, I repeat as I pull out of the parking lot and into the street. Alton Woods is a small town. Exceptionally small. Finding most places isn't hard. City limits are a different story. Most of those cheap, locally-built dirt paths don't even have a name. God help you if you're lost out there. A fair share of idiots got shot for trespassing.
Tires scrape against the snow as I turn into Hawthorne Road. Silently I mouth numbers and count houses. Turning left again, I pull into the driveway of what I figured was Lyman's house. Single-story suburban, well kept. Immaculate, as a matter of fact. If I hadn't know to whom it belonged, I would've assumed it to be for sale. With my shoulders pulled high and my gaze pointed at the ground I approach the door and knock. No answer. Metal doorknob cold against my skin. Locked. Stepping back I gather proper footing and kick against the lock. Once. Nothing, no dice. Twice. It pops open. Slowly I step inside and shut the door behind me. It bounces on the broken lock. Front door opens into a plain white hallway. Stains from old paintings on the walls. Boxes everywhere. Someone just moved here. Personal effects lay scattered around, some still wrapped in newspapers and bubble wrap. No books or clothes.
Stepping lightly I duck into each room. Kitchen on the immediate left. Empty. Cupboards open. Walking up to the sink, I search the overheads. One spoiled jar of pickles. Nothing else. Overturned dining chair on the floor. Do people really live like this? My fingers hover inches above everything as I make sure not to touch anything I don't have to. Always put everything back the way you found it. Label turned to the wall? Make sure you put it back in the same way. Dining room is next. Just an empty room. No curtains on the windows. Nothing. Did he live on thin air? Living room is next. Traces on the carpet, left behind by one or two sofas. Small folding mattress in the middle of the floor with a few messy blankets on it. Three pizza cartons on the floor in the corner of the room. Forks and knives nowhere to be seen. Stains on mattress from food. Couldn't have moved in more than three days ago. One suitcase in the corner, filled with discarded clothes. Plastic hamper by its side. Check local laundromat for recent customers. Whole house is freezing. Portable TV with no batteries right in front of the mattress.
Door to porch locked. Backyard covered with untouched snow and empty. Slowly I turn away from the screen door and towards the room. Only one piece of furniture in the house. A sideboard in the corner of the room, done in brown oak. Lock on topmost drawer. I run my fingers over the top. Dust gathers on my paw pads. Two drawers beneath the locked one empty. My forceful tugs yield nothing. Ducking down, I slide the other two drawers out and inspect the bottom of the locked one. Plywood covered with cork. Reaching into my pocket I dig out a knife. Popping it into the corners of the drawers, where the plywood is attached to the rest of the drawer, makes it come loose. Supporting it with both my paws I lower it. Something metallic falls down to the ground and rolls into the side of the mattress. I unload the contents into the back of the sideboard. Guns and notebooks.
Fine leather, smooth under my paws. Expensive. Rubber band holds the pages shut. I open it and look over the contents. Just a bunch of numbers. Every page is covered with them. Handwriting is squiggly. Pencil. Nothing familiar. Calculations? Maybe he was a hobbyist mathematician? Unlikely. Guns themselves can't tell me anything. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing illegal. Two revolvers. Colt Pythons .357. Wrist crackers. Lots of ammo for it. Six boxes worth at least. Three still in tact. Rest is just loose ammo. None of them loaded. One sawed-off shotgun. With the edge of my knife I check the length. Perfectly legal modifications. This one's loaded. Home defence, probably. Pythons for sport, most likely. Two halves of an NRA card fall out of one of the notebooks. Numbers and names scratched out. I lay the items out onto the mattress. No land line in the house. In one last desperate bid for signal, I wave my cell in the air. Nothing. Neighbours probably have a landline. I need to inform dispatch to cordon the house off and seal it as evidence.
A bump echoes through the empty house, interrupting the humming of the wind. Another bump. Footsteps. If something fell down, I would have known. Slowly I rise to my feet and unholster my weapon. Three paces at a time, I approach the hallway, peering around the corner. Shape in the doorway. Unfamiliar. With my thumb I pull the hammer down and exhale. Not a shootout. Not today. Didn't get out of bed this morning for this. With my badge in one paw and my gun in the other, I jump out into the hallway and face the intruder. The silhouette in the door takes on shape. One foot forward, one foot backwards, shotgun in their hands, face covered by hood.
"This is detective Frank Harris, Alton Woods PD. This is a crime scene." I shout and take a step forward, motioning towards the ground with my Beretta. The weapon falls to the ground with a thud and the person opposite me raises their arms. I approach them and kick the shotgun away. "You got a lot of explaining to do." I say and holster my gun, turning the safety on with my thumb. The surprise guest removes their hood. It's a young woman, maybe twenty or twenty-one, with a neutral expression on her face. Cat, white-furred all over, blue eyes, and light red hair. Quite presentable. A long, bushy tail swings out behind her. On her shoulders a thick winter jacket, not unlike my own, concealing an everyday-looking red and green sweater, and plain blue jeans. She crosses her arms.
"Sorry for the inconvenience, Ms..?" I begin, deliberately turning it into a question halfway through.
"Litz." She extends a paw and I shake it, her tone slightly annoyed "Mina Litz."
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I apologize for the..." My words get stuck in my throat as I gesticulate towards her dropped gun "Mess. Should have put some tape up on the door."
"You should. Scared the shit outta me." Mina bends down to pick her weapon up and slings it over her shoulder, her eyes inquiringly looking over the inside of the house "I live next door. Went to make myself some tea, looked out the window, and saw you kicking the door in. Hood over your head, black car. Could've been anyone."
"Why didn't you call the police?" I ask, fully aware how badly this could have turned out, that itch on the back of my neck I sometimes have coming back in full force "They would've told you I was here."
"Truth be told, I was scared. Livin' alone in a place like this ain't easy. What if I was next?" She replies and I notice a faint southern accent in her voice "So I grabbed my shotgun and went to take a look. Darn thing ain't even loaded. Could've bludgeoned you at best."
I put my paw to my chin as an idea appears in my mind "Anyone else in the neighbourhood? I've got to canvass them."
"Nah. These are mostly weekend huts. Fishing an' such." Mina stepped past me and looked into the living room, her words confirming my suspicions "Nobody lives on this street year-round besides me and the trooper. Where is he now? I hope he's okay."
"Can we continue this elsewhere. Damn cold in here." I interject, hoping to steer her in a specific direction.
"Sure, tea should be done by now anyway." Mina turns around and walks out, with me following closely behind, the tip of her tail bumping against my thigh as we walk. Silently we cross the driveway and approach her front door. Fumbling is heard from the direction of the lock. She's shivering. No wonder. Cold as fuck out here. Politely I wipe my feet on the doormat and follow her inside. Mina slips the jacket off her shoulders and hangs it up. I do the same with mine. The cat turns towards me and faces me. Two icy blue eyes penetrate my long-cultivated defenses.
"Detective, before you come in...I'm going to need you to be honest with me."
I nod "Absolutely."
"Mr Lyman...he's dead, ain't he?"