The Wingless Angel. A detective story. (standard:action, 1953 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 30 2020	Views/Reads: 1380/1009	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Detective Parker is sent to prevent a suicidal jumper.

Detective Parker knew he was at the right address by the number of
police cars, red and blue lights flashing in front of a tall building. 
He carefully edged his way through a gathering crowd, people still 
coming out of nearby buildings to watch. “Shit," Parker mumbled, 
parking his plain Ford behind a black and white. 

Getting out, Parker took a worn brown leather case out of a back pocket,
then opened and clipped it, badge showing, onto a breast-pocket of an 
equally-brown sports coat. 

The gold glint of the badge helped the detective clear a way through
spectators and around a police barrier. He walked up to a uniformed 
sergeant directing patrolmen in the stretching of yellow tape to keep 
civilians back. 

“What's up, Jamison!?” he asked. Already knowing, Parker looked up the
steep brick and glass facade of the building. Gaze following the 
spotlights, he saw a woman perched on a ledge three stories from the 
top. He couldn't make out her face but saw long blond hair waving in a 
slight breeze. The woman wore some sort of white clothing, loose 
because it was also blowing in the wind. At that extreme height she 
looked like an angel – sans wings. He couldn't help thinking that if 
she did have wings he wouldn't be there. 

“Jumper, Sam. You here to handle it?” 

“Yeah, guess so, Jim. Ever since I talked that damned accountant down,
they give me every goddamned screwball that thinks he's Superman.” 

“Shit. Better that than our job. We have to clean the mess up. Do me a
favor and get her back inside before she hurts herself, okay?” 

“I'll try my damnedest. I'd like to sleep tonight.” 

“That makes two of us, Sammy. That makes two of us.” 

There was pandemonium inside the high-rise apartment building. Several
women sat crying together on a couch. Police stood around in clumps, 
some drinking from an urn of free coffee in a corner. The only person 
seemingly unaffected was a middle-aged man behind a long counter. He 
was writing in some sort of ledger. 

Parker saw his lieutenant with the coffee drinkers, holding a foam
plastic cup. He drifted over. 

“What we know about her, Louie?” Parker asked. 

“We know you better get hopping. That's what we know.” The lieutenant
grinned. Sure, Parker thought, and he wouldn't lose any sleep. That was 
one good thing about delegating authority. 

“We don't know anything about her,” the lieutenant continued, taking
another sip. “She probably came from apartment 1506. At least, she's 
standing outside it. We broke in and the place is empty. Leased to ... 
let me see,” he said, pausing to look at his notebook before tearing a 
page out to give to the detective, “Ms. Trina Tripper. Twenty-two years 
old and a, get this Sam, exotic dancer at the ‘Let It All Hang Out' 
club at Sixteenth and Elm, downtown. That's all we know. Transki's been 
trying to talk to her, but she won't answer.” 

Parker wished the positions were reversed. He could use something
stronger than coffee, though. He looked at the torn sheet on the way up 
by elevator. It said just what his boss had, almost word for word. 

*** 

The door to 1506 stood wide-open, six patrolmen standing around inside.
Two were laughing as they searched through what was apparently an 
underwear drawer. 

“Hey, cut it out. You guys know you shouldn't do that shit. It might be
evidence if she jumps,” Parker told them. 

“Tain't no crime to kill yourself,” one of them replied, slamming the
drawer in mock anger, “only when you try and don't make it.” 


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