The shitty burglar - Detective (standard:mystery, 7273 words)
Author: hvysmker	Added: May 19 2005	Views/Reads: 3979/2748	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Warning - Adult Language. a little over 7,000 A big city detective gets an unusual partner, Hooker to Cop. They don't get along too well.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

spot in the otherwise glass encased cube.  Louie was particularly mad 
at Jablonski himself for breaking the original. 

One day, a month before, Louie had made the detective so mad he had
punched the flimsy glass door on his way out, cracking it as it spun 
off its hinges into the room outside.  The only good things that came 
out of that episode were to enhance the detective's reputation for 
violence and to make the lieutenant more cautious around Jablonski.  
Guess it was worth it, Jablonski thought as he entered the cubicle. 

“You wanted to see me, Louie.”  Jablonski stood at ease in front of the
desk.  He wanted to lean against the thin glass wall, but didn't think 
he should push his luck, at least until he found out what the boss 
wanted. 

“You see those new reports, John?  I sent them to you.  You're the ‘Man'
on this case.”  The lieutenant told him, “put most of your time on it.  
Two of them over the weekend.  We gotta catch this guy before the Major 
gets on my ass.”  The Major was head honcho, or Chief of Detectives, 
Major Jamison.  Not a bad guy, but up at the political level and not a 
good man to cross.  John had only met him once.  That occasion a 
somewhat happy occasion, to be congratulated in solving a double murder 
and forty year old bank robbery.  “Somewhat” in that he had also lost a 
partner during a shootout at the end.  “Don't let nothin' interfere.  
Anything you can't handle, give to Detective Peterson.”  Louie 
finished. 

“Ok, boss.”  John wondered what Peterson would think of the deal.
Smiling he went out carefully, so as not to disturb the door any more 
than necessary.  Jablonski liked the rare occasion where he was left on 
his own to work on only one case, it being more relaxed than a hectic 
shuffling of many. Easier to keep facts straight in his mind, and one 
hell of a lot less paperwork.  Paperwork was the bane of his job.  
Everything he did had to be documented.  Not only that but in the 
proper order.  Forget to fill out just one daily report, or to initial 
a piece of evidence taken from the Evidence Room, and you could lose a 
case.  And you could damn well bet a defense lawyer would find out. 

Going back to his desk, John opened all his padlocks, stacking them on a
corner of his desktop.  That way he might not forget to use them when 
he left, maybe.  He got all the file portfolios together and started 
laying things out, something like dealing cards, and started studying 
the files. 

Half of the cases were still waiting for forensics, even more for FBI
replies on things like fingerprints.  It was the year 1975, before PCs, 
so he had to do everything by hand.  The omissions weren't much of a 
deterrent since the fingerprints and forensic evidence he already had 
proven almost useless.   They knew it was the same guy, or guys, from 
the shit.  He could imagine some white coated geek, taking samples to 
study under a microscope, maybe tasting in to make sure.  No real 
reason to think the missing reports would show anything new.  You never 
could tell though, so he spent a half hour checking by telephone. 

As expected, the FeeBIes gave him a run around, excuses from a half
dozen referred sources.  The forensics were much easier for Jablonski.  
He had a good rapport with the assistant coroner, a nice looking 
honey-blond  girl whom used to be an exotic dancer.  Her name was even 
Trixie, for God's sake, and she looked like a Trixie to him. 

“Hi, Trix, John.” He asked her, “can you tell me if you found anything
important on these shitty break-ins?”  “Yeah, off the cuff's all right. 
 I can't wait, got two more this morning.”  Jablonski listened to her 
sexy voice for awhile, taking notes.  “Yeah, thanks, Trix.  Hey, see 
you later, ok?”  I wish, he thought, as he hung up the phone.  Na, 
nothing new according to her. 

He shuffled paper for a while, putting off the inevitable next step. 
That of going out and knocking on doors in the new neighborhoods.  
Figuring he had screwed around long enough, Jablonski sighed, getting 
up to go downstairs.  He asked for and got a few uniformed patrolmen to 
help and they started for the first neighborhood.  It was a hot June 
day and they spent it going from door to door and stopping pedestrians 
to question them.  They were looking for anyone who had happened to see 
anything, or anybody, out of the ordinary. 

It was the type of police work Jablonski disliked, not hated, it had to
be done.  That and its attendant reports.  Sometimes it gave results, 
like in one case where an oddly decorated pickup truck was seen at 
several locations at crucial times.  You just never knew. 

The next day he did the same at several older crime sites.  Until the
perp or perps made a mistake or other aspects like forensics gave them 
a break, there was little else that could be done.  Thank God for 
portable radios, John thought, at least he would know if a surprise 
witness called in.  Before the small radios, he would have to call in 
at intervals.  Also, now that the case was officially his own, he would 
have to examine each new site.  At first, any detective on duty would 
have the task of examining the crime scene, now it was part of his job. 


It was just his luck that the crimes stopped.  Jablonski found himself
going around in circles, trying to look busy.  Slowly, the rest of the 
test results came back and were filed.  He killed time with second 
interviews, the patrolmen long released from his service to go back to 
whatever patrolmen did those days.  Probably to secret cribs to sleep 
away their shifts, or to eat free doughnuts on their patrol routes.  
Eventually, and inevitably, he had to go back to his full load, putting 
the case on a back burner, so to speak. 

*** 

John was surprised when he reported to work one Wednesday morning a
couple of years later.  He hardly walked into the room before low 
whistles greeted him.  Looking around he saw smiling faces among the 
rooms other occupants. 

“What the hell's going on?” he asked, “Did I finally make Lieutenant or
something?  And I didn't even bring any cigars.” 

“You'll find out, lucky guy.”  “Whhhoooo, why not me, I should be so
lucky?”  “Here's the jock now,” and similar statements greeted him.  
Jablonski looked across the room at the Lieutenant's cubicle and saw 
the top of a head of dark red hair over the partition. 

“You got yourself a celebrity, John old boy.”  Sergeant Peterson,
another detective, almost whispered to Jablonski, “the police chief's 
niece, no less.  She wants to be a detective.” 

“What the hell, Louie knows I like to work alone.”  It had taken him
over ten years in the Job, but John had finally reached a status where 
he could work alone, most of the time that is.  That and an uneven 
number of detectives. 

“If you don't want her, put in a good word for me, buddy.”  Peterson
grinned, going back to his own desk where a suspect sat in cuffs, 
waiting.  Of course, there was that damn yellow stickit note on his 
desk. 

Oh, no!  Jablonski thought.  It was Dawn Delight.  It must have really
been her in that long ago class. 

“ Sergeant John Jablonski,” the lieutenant introduced them, “this is
your new partner, Patrolperson Doris McKey.  She'll be assigned to help 
you.  Teach her the ropes, will you?” 

“I . . . . Uh . . . .  Well . . . . What's going on, Louie?  I don't
need any partner.  My caseload isn't all that bad right now, you know?  
What about Peterson, he wouldn't mind?” 

“Has to be you.  Her uncle . . . I mean higher up, insists.”  The
Lieutenant looked around the room, everywhere but directly at 
Jablonski.  “You're it, John.  Out of my hands.”  He turned to Dawn, or 
Doris.  “You pay attention to John, now.  He has a wealth of experience 
in the job.  Do what he says and I know you'll make a fine detective.”  
He turned back to Jablonski, forcing a smile.  “Doris here graduated 
top of her class.  Since then she's been working vice and has made a 
phenomenal number of arrests.  The Police Chief himself recommended 
plain clothes,” with emphasis on Chief. 

I'll bet she has and did, Jablonski thought.  She knows the streets
upside down, sideways, and from every angle. Mostly lying on her back, 
looking up. 

“Damn.”  He turned to go, raising his fist to slam open the door. 

“Don't you dare.”  The Lieutenant screamed, defending his door. 

*** 

The two didn't speak to each other as they left the cubicle, then the
outer office where detectives and suspects both also remained silent.  
A visitor in the foyer would have been astounded at the sudden silence 
as they left the precinct station, her following his lead.  Even the 
normally vocal desk sergeant, an oriental inexplicitly named Shamus 
MacEdwards, followed the two with his eyes widened as they left the 
building. 

It wasn't until Jablonski pulled into traffic that they both opened up
at the same time. 

“What the. . . .”  “I want to. . . .”  “Hell are. . . .” “Thank you for.
. . .” “Do you think. . . .” “Not telling on me.” “You're doing here.” 

“Shut the hell up.  Bitch.”  Jablonski screamed over the sounds of
traffic, causing bystanders to stare at the undercover vehicle.  “What 
the holy hell are you doing masquerading as a police officer?  Hookers 
don't become cops, it's just not fucking done.”  He had to jam on his 
brakes, the car squealing loudly as the tires locked , stopping within 
an inch of the car in front of them.  “You're under arrest, you . . . . 
Cunt.” 

“And what the hell for, asshole?  I am a cop.  I went through the
academy and spent a year on the streets.” 

“You spent one hell of a lot longer than that on the streets, selling
your funky ass.” 

“That's beside the point, you stupid bastard.”  She screamed back, “and
it'll be your turn on the streets if I tell my uncle on you.”  She 
thrust her head within an inch of his face, spraying saliva in her 
rage.  “He'll bounce you off the force so hard you'll . . . . You'll . 
. . .”  Doris gave him an evil grin and sat back in her seat.  “I don't 
want to be here with you either, but we're stuck with each other.  
Uncle George told me the only way I could be a detective was to work 
with you.  I guess all you male assholes stick together.” 

Silent again, Jablonski pulled over to the curb and pounded his head on
the steering wheel, fingers white from gripping the wheel.  He was 
screwed and he knew it.  It did explain why she had never been 
convicted in that politically run town.  Chief of Police George Travers 
had worked his way up to the post, exchanging favors with other 
politicians like him. A powerful man, Travers was said to be slated to 
run for mayor. 

“Wait here.  It you can do something so simple.”  He ordered.  Getting
out and going into a nearby alley, John looked around, seeing the dirty 
open space was empty except for a half dozen trash cans.  Growling 
loudly, he launched himself at them, throwing trash all over the alley 
while  screaming unprintable invectives in half a dozen languages.  
Jablonski threw and stomped the cans almost flat in his rage, finally 
calming down to a dull ache.  Leaning against the wall with eyes 
closed, he stood breathing heavily.  Eventually John calmed down and 
went back to the parked car, where his new partner sat looking like an 
innocent young schoolgirl. 

As he walked around the car to get in, she hurriedly swept the confetti
she had made out of a full box of tissues under the seat with her foot 
and one hand.  Doris had also calmed down, taking out her anger in a 
more ladylike manner, pretending the tissues were her new partner and 
choice portions thereof.  She had castrated him, symbolically, with 
every tissue. 

“We have to check out an apartment.  Some woman was assaulted early this
morning.  It's at the 80th but the captain said it was ours.  This guy 
has been silent for years now, but Captain Brown thinks he's started 
again.”  His voice sounded strained but calm. 

“Why ours, Johnny?” 

“Because of his trademark.  You'll see when we get there, and try to be
civil, will you?  You just about gave me a heart attack back there.”  
He chided her.  “If you're nice I'll even let you bag the evidence.”  
Jablonski gripped the wheel tightly.  “And don't call me fucking 
Johnny.  I ain't no kid no more.” 

*** 

The crime scene looked familiar, furniture twisted and out of place as
if to let the resident know someone had been there.  A television set 
turned to face the wall, kitchen utilities placed upside down.  And of 
course the telltale pile of shit on the kitchen table.  This time it 
was in an expensive looking serving bowl, parsley sprinkled around it 
and a stalk of celery sticking out of the top.  Sheesh, Jablonski 
thought, maybe the guy's been to art school since the last time. 

Once recognized as one of a series, it had gotten the full lab
treatment, the guys from forensics having gone over it with their 
vacuum cleaners and plastic bags. Obviously they had taken a shit 
sample too, since a teaspoon size hole was obvious in the side of the 
pile. 

“First things first, uh . . . Doris.  Get out one of your larger
evidence bags and take a good sized sample of the crap on the table.  
Half pound or so will do.   We'll compare it with the last few jobs.”  
He told his partner, “I gotta go talk to the victim.”  He didn't really 
need a sample, but why tell her that. 

“What'll I do with it?   Like where do I put it?” 

“Damned if I know.  In your purse or pocket I guess.  Just make sure you
label it correctly, time and place.  And use “suspected human feces,” 
none of your gutter talk.  This is official evidence.  Maybe later 
you'll get to scrub a sterile stick up his ass to compare.”   He 
couldn't help grinning to himself as he turned away.  He went in to 
talk to the victim, a young woman of course.  All the victims were. 

“See, I'm a light sleeper,” the victim looked around, a little confused,
“I already told this twice, do I have to go over it again?”  She had 
bruises on her throat.  Her hair was still mussed and Jablonski could 
see a black eye taking shape.  Otherwise she didn't seem hurt much. 

“I think it's better if I hear it myself, Ms. Jamison. We're from
different precincts, I'm all the way over in the sixtieth myself.” 

“How are you supposed to help me here, when you work clear across town?”


“See, I got all these cases, and know more about the perpetrator than
the other officers,” he told her, “and I live about six blocks away, 
only work across town.” 

“Ha, efficiency uh?  I gotta do the same thing.  There's a Discount Mart
two blocks away and I gotta run all the way to the East Side to go to 
work.  An extra hour and a half every work day.” 

“You work at Discount Mart?  I shop there all the time,” Doris piped up
from the doorway, “how good are those Imperial Toasters you got on 
sale, sort of off brand aren't they.”  The victim sat up straight. 

“Yeah, some of us girls tried them when they arrived.  Some of the boxes
were unsealed, you know the drill?”  The victim beamed at a chance to 
confide in another woman.  She had enough of those big strong men 
lately, especially this rough looking one, “we had to try four of them 
to find one that worked, and that one smoked for ten minutes.  Got hot 
all right but. . . .” 

“Ms. Jamison, Ms. Jamison,” Jablonski interrupted, causing both women to
glare at him, “we're taking about the intruder here.  Can you please 
tell me about how he hurt you?” 

“Well, I never.”  The victim replied, glaring as his partner laughed. 
“Nothing much to tell, Detective.  I woke up to a noise in the kitchen. 
 I got my gun, the one I keep in that drawer over there,” nodding at a 
bedside table, “and went to investigate. There was this figure crouched 
on the table.  She saw me and jumped down, looking comical with her 
pants down to her ankles.  Anyway, I told her to put her hands up, but 
she just ignored me.  Like I wasn't even there.”  Ms. Jamison shook her 
head in wonder.  “Then, after putting her pants back up, she just 
jumped right at me.  It surprised the hell out of me.  On television 
they always do what you say when you hold a gun.” 

“Yeah, on televison.”  Jablonski grinned. “In real life they don't. 
It's how a lot of people get killed.  One thing though, I like to see 
all those actors shooting powerful pistols by holding them over their 
heads and sideways.  Just try to hit something like that?”  They all 
laughed. 

“Wait a minute, you did say woman?  Are you sure about that?”  Jablonski
asked, the fact had finally entered his mind. 

“Of course I'm sure.  You don't think I know the difference with her
pants down?” 

He asked a few more questions, mostly for his report, but had already
found out the most important fact, a woman.  Christ, but that made a 
difference. 

“Thanks for talking to us, Ms. Jamison.  We'll be in touch later.  Right
now we have to see if anybody noticed her coming in or out of the 
area,” Jablonski told the victim.  “The sooner, the better.” 

The two split up to canvas both sides of the residential street,
spending the rest of the morning and all afternoon in questioning 
everyone they could buttonhole or whom would open their doors. They 
then drove back to the precinct to make out reports. 

“Don't I get a desk?”  Doris asked. 

“There's a cot in the next room.  You can work from there.”  Jablonski
offered. 

“Uncle, uncle.  Don't start that shit again,” was her answer.  Yeah,
that damn Uncle George, Jablonski thought, getting down to business.    
It took a couple of hours to type all the reports and get them filed.  
All in duplicate, one for the Lieutenant and one for their own files.  
All had to be perfect for any subsequent trial.  By the time they were 
done Jablonski was happy to smell a definite odor coming from Doris.  
He was surprised she didn't smell it herself.  Maybe she was used to 
the stink and didn't notice it.  It was nine pm before they finished. 

“Now what, or can we finally go home?”  Doris asked, sprawled
seductively in her padded chair in front of his desk.  “And what about 
this evidence bag, the sample you make me take?  Where can I put it?” 

“The Evidence Room is closed for the night.  Guess you'll have to take
it home with you.  And don't let it out of your sight.  If you do, 
you'll break the Evidence Chain.  You have to keep it on you, or at 
least in sight at all times, until signed over to someone else.” 

“Why don't you be nice for a change and take it off me?  I want to go
somewhere tonight.” 

“Uh, uh.  I don't want your shit.  It's yours, you keep it.”  He
smirked.  “I don't think your customer will mind.” 

“Up yours, asshole.  You want me to have a nice talk with you-know-who?”


*** 

Jablonski didn't sleep much that night.  In between short naps he paced
the floor.  A woman?  Who would have thought.  It changed a lot of 
things, almost eliminating the possibility of  rape.  Why a woman?  It 
just wasn't their style.  Break-ing in and trashing other women's 
homes.  Such crimes were usually for profit or sexual thrills.   And 
there didn't seem to be any common denominator in the crimes.  But that 
was from a man's perspective.  Neither he, nor the others had tried it 
from a woman's point of view. 

All they knew were the aftereffects, not the causes, nor the motive. 
There had to be a motive.  It couldn't be profit, there wasn't much 
money involved.  Sex was still possible, though very unlikely with 
another woman.  They all had to have a common point where all the 
subjects came together, both in cause and motive.  Also a common 
starting point.  It was possible they were all at random, but odds were 
great that there was some commonality. 

How did the perp know they would be home, for instance.  There was never
a break-in of an empty house or apartment.  The victims were always 
asleep at the time, never sitting watching television or anything of 
the sort.  It happened all over town, except for the rare occasion of 
Ms. Jamison, in another precinct.  He had to think.  Someplace where 
all the victims met, or some way they would know each other. 

Most had been questioned on whether they knew certain other recent
victims but, as far as he knew none had been shown a complete list.  
Maybe a place where they knew others by sight only, maybe a few 
nicknames or first names? 

Despite his reservations, he knew the revelation meant he had to confide
in his new partner and ask her opinion.  John had hoped to be able to 
handle the detecting himself and leave her in the far background, doing 
manual labor.  Now he needed a woman's point of view.  Damn. 

*** 

“All right, Doris,” he told her his thoughts from the night before,
“what do you think?  You're a woman, no doubt on that.  You're more 
likely to understand them than me.  How would we go about it?  To begin 
with, there has to be something they all have in common.  It's 
obviously not a matter of following the victims home.  Someone knows 
when they work, when they sleep, something about their habits.” 

“Maybe, you know, like ask this Jamison woman again.”  Doris seemed off
balance by the change in his attitude, actually asking her opinion.  
“Like has she done anything different lately, out of her area of town 
and in ours.  The perpetrator probably stays, works, or lives in this 
area.  And, like you said, we should maybe show pictures of the victims 
as well as a list of their full names.” 

*** 

“The names mean nothing to me, officers,” Ms. Jamison told them, “and
let me think, I haven't been in that area of town much for the last 
year or so.  I go through part of it to get to work and back, but don't 
stop for anything.  Not often anyway.  Don't have any friends there and 
nowhere I visit regularly.” 

“When was the last time you stopped there for anything.”  Doris asked
her.   John was about ready to leave when he remembered the pictures in 
his pocket,   They didn't have many pictures of victims, but he and 
Doris had hurried around town that morning with a Polaroid Camera to 
get a few from the victims that were still home.  Ms. Jamison shook her 
head, trying to think. 

“Not since I got my hair done, I don't think.”  She answered. 

“Here, see if you've seen any of these women?”  Jablonski asked, handing
over the grainy photos. 

“Are these suspects, or victims?”  Ms. Jamison asked, taking the photos.


“Afraid I can't tell you that.  Just look close and see if any are
familiar.”  Not really expecting much, he was surprised when she looked 
at the pictures, flipping most in one pile, but three in another 
separate one. 

“I saw these three before.  At the hair dresser's.  You think they did
it?” 

“How long have you been going there for your hair?”  Doris asked. 

“Only a month or two.  A friendly place, even if Ethel the beautician
talks so darn much.” 

The two detectives looked at each other.  Even Jablonski had to smile. 
They had a common factor.  It only took a few more visits to victims to 
verify.  All of them identified some of the pictures.  Having also gone 
over the case file interviews, the two tried to find common habits.  Of 
course one was that they all lived alone. 

Also, Doris noticed that most of the victims had an aloof attitude.  Not
necessarily unfriendly, but not outgoing laughing types.  Most didn't 
have consistent male companions.  The last no doubt to preclude some 
man interrupting their bowel movements, Jablonski thought.  Whomever 
the perp was, she must figure she's adequate to handle another woman, 
but didn't want to screw around with any boyfriends.  Of course it 
could be, as Doris noted, she wanted to make sure the victim was 
sleeping, not making love. 

“Making love?  What the hell do you know about making love.  You, a
master at fucking?” 

“Uncle, uncle, uncle.” 

*** 

“Glad to have you, Doris honey.”  Ethel, was washing Doris's hair in the
sink of her little hairdressing shop, “I got me plenty of business, but 
every little bit helps.  What did you say you did for a living, honey?” 


“I don't think I know you that well.  Are you sure this soap is fresh? 
It don't feel like fresh soap.” 

Doris tried to keep a standoffish attitude with Ehel.  She could see the
woman was slightly annoyed at her attitude.  Doris made up for it 
though, giving the equally talkative woman seated next to her all sorts 
of personal information, including Jablonski's own apartment address, 
and that she didn't have any boy friends. 

“After that bastard, the last thing I want around the house is a man.  I
work days in that factory on Jefferson St., the one that makes the 
lousy seat covers.  All I do after that is go home, watch televison for 
a while and sack out.  Don't need a man for that, thank you.”  She 
laughs, noticing Ethel turned away and scribbling on a note pad.  Ethel 
did the same right after Doris gave Jablonski's address to a woman she 
ordered a dog collar off of, through the mail.   The woman had a 
sideline selling pet supplies and was always on the lookout for new 
customers. 

“See you next week, Doris honey.”  Ethel called out as Doris left. 
Doris said nothing, nose in the air, as she went haughtily through the 
door.  Jablonski waited around the corner. 

They staked out his apartment.  Of course they had to work days at the
Job, going home together at night.  Checking out the hairdresser, they 
found Ethel did have a criminal record.  Her father had run a lock 
shop, letting people in their cars when they locked themselves out, 
repairing and changing locks in homes and businesses.  She might well 
be a proficient locksmith. 

Her criminal record was in something else, simple assaults.  Ethel
enjoyed fighting.  She would frequent bars and pick fights with 
customers, one time too often.  The other woman had her arrested and, 
with her prior misdemeanor record, Ethel found herself sentenced to two 
years in the pen.  A likely candidate for the break-ins. 

“Are you sure you can stay here?”  John asked, “it might, you know,
interfere with your work, part-time job I mean?” 

“Oh, I can manage, Johnny.   I have a huge bank account you know, I'm
set for life with my assets.” 

“Sure, but your assets might wear out.  They don't last forever.  And
cut out that fucking Johnny.” 

“I don't worry.  So far my ass sets, pretty good.”  She wiggled around
sensually on John's couch, showing quite a bit of her assets. 

“Cut that out.  I got my own favorite hooker.” 

“Uncle, uncle, uncle.”  Which normally changed the conversation.  She
did learn quite a bit about the detective profession from Jablonski.  
At least one of them had to be awake at all times.  He spent a lot of 
time telling war stories about police work, and had a large collection 
of books on the subject. 

It was only eight night later, three am to be precise, and during a
drinking contest, that a red light started flashing.  John Jablonski 
had rigged two lamps up, one with a red bulb and wired to the back 
door, the other with a green bulb wired to the front one. 

Both of them rather drunk, Doris tripped while turning the floorlamp
off, getting tangled in the long cord.  Jablonski giggled as he helped 
untangle her, falling on top of the woman with a whoosh of breathe as 
he landed.  That and one of them giving out a loud fart, causing even 
more giggling. 

“At mus' be her, ya' think?”  He asked as they lay together in a tangle.


“Shussh, mus' be.  Not Shanta Cluss, don' thin' anyhow.” 

They hid behind the couch trying to stay quiet.  John had small mirrors
spotted around the house, all aimed at their vantage point.  Simply by 
moving their heads, sometimes bumping them together, they could follow 
her around the rooms. It was usually just a flash, but some mirrors 
were larger and showed body sections, as the intruder made her way from 
room to room.  It was easier once the kitchen light snapped on. The 
intruder, maybe getting bolder, didn't bother to close the kitchen 
door. 

“Les's us, les's us wait till she claps, uh?”  Doris whispered in his
ear.  Nice clean breath for a whore, John thought. 

“Ya' mean crap, claps like wat' you' got.” 

“Unc . . . , shut up, ‘ucnle.” 

They crawled across the floor toward the light, easier than walking
anyway.  John had his camera out, complete with built in flash.  Noses 
to the side of the door, they waited until the proper moment.  John 
pressed the button on his camera, the flash further illuminated a large 
white ass.  A good shot.  The second shot was of the ceiling as John 
tried to rise, jerking the camera upwards.  Doris bumped him hard on 
the shoulder while getting her gun out, thus ruining the third.  The 
fourth was the best.  As good as the first but with both a brown 
extension in the white field and an astonished face looking at them 
from on top.  That was the last shot as the camera fell and was kicked 
into the corner by Doris. 

“Yr' unna' ‘rest.”  Doris called out, crouched with gun waving gently
from clasped hands, “hans' un ‘ed,” she ordered.  Laughing loudly at 
the sight, John looked around for his camera, not finding it. 

“You ‘eard ‘er.”  John shouted menacingly.  Ethel clasped her hands over
her head, still in shock.  The wobbly table shook, causing Ethel to 
slip and land half on and half off.  One foot on the floor, ass and 
side in the pile she had just made.  She rolled off onto the floor 
where she lay panting as John cuffed her. 

“Pull my pants back up.”  Ethel pleaded. 

“No, uh, uh, sisar' ‘ats evidd, evild, evidence.  You stay rit' dere'.  
Hear.  Red'er rights, honey.”  She called to Jablonski, whom was still 
looking for his camera.  Come on, come on, he thought, it could be the 
best pictures of the decade, and he lost his fuckin' camera. 

“I can't, baby, need the cammea'.  You se'it anywere?” 

In the end, they managed to dial “911" to get a patrolman over to take
Ethel in and book her.  It could be embarrassing in the morning, but 
not as much as if they had gone in to do it themselves. 

By the time it was over each had a quart of instant coffee in them, and
were a little soberer. 

“You did good, girl.  I didn't like your grip on that pistol though. 
Not too steady.” 

“It was fun, you gotta find that damn camera.  Bet you got some good
pictures.” 

“You gonna stay over tonight, we can go in late tomorrow ya know.   I'll
just put down we got off duty late.  Since we caught her, Louie won't 
say nothing.” 

“Na, I better get home.  My goldfish haven't been fed for four days
now.” 

“I'll drive you.” 

“I can call a cab.”  It wasn't until she had left that he realized they
hadn't been sparring at the end, and he hadn't even heard the dreaded 
word, Uncle.  Somehow, he was sorry to see her go. 

“Fuck it,” he told himself, reaching for the whiskey bottle. 

*** 

Jablonski was hungover in the morning.  That damn woman, he thought,
once a whore, always a whore.  How the holy hell did she do it?  
Reluctantly, he got up and dressed for work. 

He was again greeted by a happy crowd of his peers.  Doris was already
sitting at his desk, surrounded by leering and smiling fellow 
detectives.  The Lieutenant's office was filled with a mass of flesh, 
most adorned by gold braid.  Something was going on? 

“Didn't you see the news last night, John.”  Peterson asked him,
beaming, as he stood in the doorway.  “Your partner's famous.” 

“Yeah, I know, her Uncle George.  I'm sick of hearing about Uncle
George.” 

“No, not her uncle.  You didn't hear?  Really?” 

“Shut the hell up and tell me then.  No, I didn't hear nothing.” 

“It seems Uncle George and her were involved with an FBI sting.  She
posed as a hooker for a whole damn year.  They brought down a Mafia 
Chief.  It's a long story, but she managed to crawl way down in the 
Mafia hole, deep enough to root out the big one.  Proof implicating him 
and others in a lot of killing, even judges and congressmen heads will 
roll on this.” 

“You mean she wasn't really a hooker?”  John was astounded. 

“Well, we're not really clear on that part.  How could she get that high
up by faking it, you know?  I think she must have slept with someone, 
but they say not.” Peterson told him, “it was then that she decided to 
join the Force.” 

“Yeah.  Look, I'll be back later, don't tell anyone I was here, Pete.” 
Jablonski hurried back out and into a stall in the shithouse to think. 

*** 

“Jablonski, you in here?”  It was detective Johnson.  John could see his
cowboy boots outside the stall.  “I know you're in there John.  The 
Captain wants to see you.  Him and the Chief are waiting.” 

“Damn it, Johnson.  Tell them you can't find me.” 

“No can do, it's my ass too.  He saw you come in.” 

“Christ.  I'll be there in a minute.”  Jablonski left the booth and
washed his hands.  He left the restroom and started for the stairs. 

“Na, the Lieutenant's office, they're in there.” 

“Ain't you got no work to do, Johnson?  I don't need no fuckin'
nursemaid.” 

John turned and headed for the Detective Squad room.  As he expected,
the Chief and that damn woman were in the lieutenant's office, along 
with Louie, waiting for him.  Why can't things go back to normal, 
Jablonski moaned to himself.  Now the Chief's gonna bust my ass for 
insulting his little girl. 

Not really giving a damn, Jablonski jerked too hard on the door to the
Lieutenant's cubicle, tearing it off it's fragile hinges.  He stood 
there, a stupid look on his face, door hanging down at his side like a 
large thin suitcase. 

“Good work, Jablonski.  That's only the third time you did that.”  Louie
glared.  “This time you're going to pay for it.” 

“Yeah?  Says you Lieutenant.  Not according to the Policeman's Union. 
Our contract says you, the owner of the room pays.  You're responsible 
for your own office.”  Jablonski had found that out the first time 
around. 

“Just what I said Jablonski.  It's your room now.  It's beyond my
understanding, but the Chief here just gave you my old job.  Even made 
me a captain.” 

“Say what?”  John turned to the Chief, a puzzled look on his face.  He
was sure that damn woman had badmouthed him, and her the pet of the day 
because of her Mafia bust.  Hell, she could name her own price.  “You 
did that, Chief?  But why?” 

“Officer, excuse me,” he smiled at a smirking Doris, “Sergeant McKey
here, told me about you saving her life last night, catching that 
woman.  How the woman had a gun on Doris and you saved her life by your 
quick thinking and throwing a camera at the woman.” 

Jablonski was so surprised that all he could do was open and close his
mouth, no sound coming out.  His brain so jumbled he was hearing 
Elvis's rendition of Hound dog in the window.  In a daze, he had a 
vague sensation of the Chief shaking his hand.  When he came to his 
senses the Chief was gone and he was in the small cubicle with Louie 
and Doris.  Doris was sitting at the Lieutenant's desk calmly filling 
out a form. 

“Uh, You say I'm the Lieutenant, and this is my office, sir.”  He asked
the smiling man wearing Lieutenant's bars. 

“For all practical purposes.  You can start the job right now,” Louie
told him, “I'm going home.  The promotions won't be cut for a couple of 
days and I'm taking a vacation.” 

“Is that so?”  John thought a minute, why the hell not?  The only chance
he'd get. 

“Then get your fancy fucking ass out of my office lieutenant before I
kick your funky ass through this glass wall.  You don't outrank me 
today and I'd love to show you what I think of your fucking ass.”  He 
took a step forward and laughed as the man ran from the room and out 
into the hall.  He might have to pay for it in the future, but what 
could they do to him today?  Needless to say, John's reputation went 
sky high after that. Of course it was referred to as the only time a 
lieutenant ever threatened a captain and chased him out of the room.  
That sounded better than sergeant and lieutenant, take your pick. 

John turned back to a laughing Doris, fishing in her purse. 

“What's that paper for, you resigning now. . . Doris?”  Jablonski
softened his voice, “Look, I guess I have to apologize, Doris.  I had 
you figured wrong.” 

“That's all right, Johnny.  I couldn't very well tell you until Public
Relations and the FBI released the story.  I forgive you.”  She stood 
up, walked over and kissed him on the cheek.  “Oh, almost forgot.  The 
paper.  I was just signing evidence over to you, Lieutenant Jablonski.” 


Before he could catch her, she took out the evidence bag full of two
week old shit, unzipped it, and poured it over his desk. 

“Bye.  Asshole.  You ain't a lieutenant yet. See you in the morning,”
she yelled as she ran out the door.  Damn, he thought, there went his 
new reputation. 

Charlie


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