The Perp Who Gave a Crap. A detective and an ex-hooker work together. Adult. (standard:mystery, 7725 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 22 2020	Views/Reads: 1212/885	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Detective Jablonski investigates a series of burglaries in which the perp always takes a crap on a kitchen table. He’s forced to partner with a woman he’s arrested several times for hooking. She always beat the charge, then joined the police force.

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He went to a glass-enclosed cubicle in the corner of the room and 
knocked on its plywood door. 

Jablonski knew that makeshift door made the lieutenant angry every time
he tried to look out to check on his detectives. It left a huge blind 
spot in the otherwise transparent cubicle. Louie was particularly angry 
at Jablonski for breaking the original glass panel. 

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

"You wanted to see me, Louie?" Jablonski stood at ease in front of the
desk. He wanted to lean against the 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 new ones 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 being a somewhat happy one, 
to be congratulated in solving a double-murder and sixty-year-old bank 
robbery. "Somewhat" in that he had also lost a partner during a 
shootout at the end. ( Note: See my story, "About Dead Doris." ) 

"Don't let nothing interfere. Anything you can't handle, give to
Peterson," Louie finished. 

"Okay, 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 a single case, it being more relaxed than a hectic 
shuffling of many. Also 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 and date an item 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 --
in a neat pile -- on a corner of the desktop. That way he might not 
forget to use them when he left -- maybe. He got all the portfolios 
together and began laying things out, somewhat like dealing cards, 
before picking up the first file to study. He fully expected to spend 
at least the rest of the morning at his desk. 

Half of the cases were still waiting for forensics, even more for FBI
replies on things like fingerprints. It was the year 1965, before PCs 
or even DNA testing, so he had to do everything by hand. Since the 
fingerprints and forensic evidence he already had was almost useless, 
the omissions weren't much of a deterrent. They knew it was the same 
guy, or guys, from the composition of the shit. 

He could imagine a white-coated geek taking samples of crap to study
under a microscope, maybe tasting it to make certain it was real and 
human. There was no real reason to think the missing reports would show 
anything new. You never could tell though, so he spent a half-hour 
checking with the eggheads by telephone. 

As expected, the FeeBIes gave him a run around, excuses from a
half-dozen referred sources. According to priorities, their work came 
first, then other National interests, finally trickling down to local 
police departments. The forensics were much easier for Jablonski. He 
happened to have a good rapport with the assistant coroner, a nice 
looking honey-blond woman who used to be an exotic dancer. Her name was 
even Trixie, for God's sake, and she looked like a delicious "Trixie" 
to him. 

"Hi, Trix, John. Can you tell me if you found anything important on
these shitty break-ins?" Pause. "Yeah, off the cuff's all right. I 
can't wait. Got two more this morning. You'll, excuse the pun, get the 
shit later." Jablonski listened to her sexy voice for a while, taking 
notes. "Yeah ... thanks, Trix. Hey, see you later, okay?" I wish, he 
thought, as he hung up the phone. Na, according to her, nothing new. 

He shuffled paper for as long as he could, 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 was loaned a few 
uniformed patrolmen ripe from the police academy to help and they 
started for the neighborhood of the first of the new robberies. 

It was a hot June day and they spent it going from door to door, also
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, since 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 him 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 had 
to use telephones to call in at intervals. Also, now that the case was 
officially his own, he would have to examine each new site in person. 
At first, any detective on duty would have had 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, spinning his wheels while trying to look busy. 
Slowly, the rest of the test results came back and were filed. He 
killed time with second and third 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 cadge 
free donuts on patrol routes. Eventually, and inevitably, he was forced 
to go back to his full caseload, putting the crappy cases on a back 
burner, so to speak. 

*** 

John was surprised when he reported to work one Wednesday morning
two-years later. He'd hardly walked into the room before low whistles 
greeted him. Looking around he saw smiling faces among the room's other 
occupants. 

"What the hell's going on?" he asked. "Did I finally make lieutenant?
And I didn't even bring any cigars." 

"You'll find out, lucky guy." And, "Whhhoooo, why not me? I should be so
lucky." Along with a whispered. "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 long dark-reddish 
hair over the partition. 

"You got yourself a celebrity, John old boy," Sergeant Peterson, another
detective, whispered to Jablonski. "The 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 at the Job, but John had finally reached a status where he 
was allowed to work alone -- most of the time, that is. That and an 
uneven number of detectives, making it impossible to pair them all. 

"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 damned yellow Stickit note on his 
desk. 

Oh, no! Jablonski thought. It WAS Dawn Delight. He realized it must have
really been her in that long-ago police science classroom. 

"Sergeant John Jablonski," the lieutenant introduced them, "this is your
new partner, Patrol-person 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 load isn't all that bad right now, you know? What about Peterson? 
That asshole 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." 

Jablonski noticed the emphasis on "Chief." 

I'll bet she has and did, Jablonski thought. She knows the streets
upside down, sideways, and from every angle. Mostly from 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 what remained of
his door. 

The two didn't speak to each other as they left the cubicle, then the
outer office where detectives and suspects both 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's -- an oriental inexplicably named Shamus 
MacEdwards -- normally slanted eyes widened as they followed the two 
out of the building. 

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

"What the hell--" 

"I want to--" 

"Do you think--" 

"Thank you for--" 

"You're doing here?" 

"Not telling on me." 

"Shut the hell up. bitch," Jablonski screamed over the sounds of
traffic, "while I'm talking," 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 jammed on his brakes, the car squealing loudly as the tires locked, 
stopping within an inch of a vehicle 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 my time on the street." 

"You spent one hell of a lot longer than that on the street, selling
your funky ass." 

"That's beside the point, you stupid chauvinist bastard," she screamed
back. "And if I tell my uncle on you it'll be your turn on the 
streets." 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, 
softening her voice, "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 to pound his head on the
steering wheel, fingers white from gripping the device. 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 himself. 
A powerful man, Travers was said to be slated to run for mayor. 

"Wait here. If you can do something so simple," he ordered. Getting out
and going into a nearby alley, John looked around, seeing the filthy 
dark open space was empty except for a half-dozen trash cans. Growling 
loudly, he launched himself at them, throwing rubbish around 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 a wall, with eyes closed, 
he stood still, 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 vehicle to get in, she hurriedly swept confetti
she'd 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 by pretending the tissues were her new partner and 
choice portions thereof. She had castrated him, symbolically, with 
every hankie. 

Getting back in, he sighed. "We have to check out an apartment. A 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 up again," his voice sounded strained but calm. 

"Why ours, Johnny?" 

"Because of his trademark. You'll see when we get there. 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 
sat turned to face the wall. Kitchen utensils were placed upside down. 
And, of course, the telltale pile of human feces on the kitchen table. 
This time it resided in an expensive 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. 

Recognized as one of a series, in a few minutes it would get the full
lab treatment, the guys from forensics had already gone over the place 
with their vacuum cleaners and plastic bags. Obviously, they had taken 
a feces sample already, since a teaspoon-sized hole was obvious in the 
side of the pile, a dirty spoon lying alongside the bowl. Either that 
or one of the technicians had very strange eating habits. 

"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. A 
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,' 
not any of your gutter talk. This is official evidence. Maybe later 
you'll get to shove a sterile stick up the perp's ass to compare." He 
couldn't help grinning to himself as he turned away to find and talk to 
the victim, a young woman of course. All the victims were. 

"See, I'm a light sleeper." the victim looked around, still a little
discombobulated, "I already told this twice. Do I really have to go 
over it again?" She displayed reddish 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. Jackson. We're from
different precincts, I'm all the way over in the 60th 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 this particular
perpetrator than the other officers," he told her. "And I live about 
six blocks away from here, 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 work in 
another one. An extra hour every damned workday." 

"You work at Discount Mart? Like 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 and smiled. 

"Yeah. Some of us girls tried them when they arrived. A couple of the
boxes were already 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 the damned things to find one that worked, and that one smoked 
for ten minutes. Got hot all right but...." 

"Ms. Jackson. Ms. Jackson," 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 out, the one I keep in that drawer over there," she said, 
nodding at a bedside table seen through a doorway, "and went to 
investigate. There was this figure crouched on the table. She saw me 
and jumped down, looking comical as hell with her pants down to her 
ankles. 

"Anyway, I told her to put her hands up, but she ignored me. Like I
wasn't even there." Ms. Jamison shook her head in wonder. "Then, after 
pulling her pants back up, she 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 television," Doris said, with a grin, "but in real life they
don't.” 

"Wait a minute, you did say woman? Are you certain about that?"
Jablonski broke in again to ask, the fact finally entering his mind. 

"Of course I'm sure. You don't think I know the difference with her
pants down? She wore a wig and glasses but ... they didn't hide 
everything." 

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 
hell of a difference. 

"Thanks for talking to us, Ms. Jackson. 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. "And the sooner, the better." 

After talking to Ms. Jackson, 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 who 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. Like don't start that shit again." 

Yeah, that damned Uncle George, Jablonski thought, getting down to
business. It took a couple of hours to type the reports and get them 
filed. All of them had to be 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 the feces sample in Doris's purse. He was 
surprised she didn't smell it herself. Maybe she was used to the stink 
from cheap hotel rooms and didn't notice it? he thought. It was nine pm 
before they finished. 

"Now what, or can we finally go home?" Doris asked while sprawled
seductively in a padded chair in front of his desk. "And what about 
this evidence bag, the sample you made 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." They didn't 
really need that sample, but why tell her? 

"Why don't you be nice for a change and take it off me? Like 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 customers tonight will mind." 

"Up yours, asshole. You want me to like 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, 
eliminating the possibility of rape. Why a woman? It just wasn't their 
style. Breaking in and trashing other womens' 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 examining the 
case 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. There had 
to be a point where all the answers came together in cause, effect, and 
motive. There also had to be a starting point. It was possible they 
were all at random, but the odds were that there was some commonality. 

How did the perp know the victims would be home, for instance? There was
never a reported 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 usually happened in the one area, except for 
the rare occasion of Ms. Jackson -- her living in another precinct. He 
had to think. There was someplace where all the victims met, or some 
other way they would know each other. 

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

Despite his reservations, he knew the last 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 realized he needed a woman's 
point of view, even a whore's. 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 you 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 Jackson 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 part of town 
and in ours. The perpetrator probably stays, works, or lives in this 
section of town. And, like you said, we should maybe show photos of the 
victims as well as a list of their full names." 

*** 

“The names mean nothing to me, officers,” Ms. Jackson told them, “and
let me think. I haven't been in that section 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. I 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 hadn't had many photos of victims, but he and Doris had 
hurried around town that morning with a Polaroid Camera to get a few 
from the ones that were still home. Ms. Jackson shook her head, trying 
to think. 

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

“Here, see if you know any of these women?” Jablonski asked, handing
over the sometimes 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 into one pile, but three into another separate 
one. 

“I saw these three before. At the hairdresser's. At least one, but maybe
the others. After all, I was only in there for an hour or so. You think 
they did it?” 

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

“Only a couple of times. 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. One that only took a few more visits to other 
victims to verify. Most of them identified at least one of the photos, 
and all had visited that establishment. Having also gone over the case 
file interviews, the two tried to find other habits in common. Of 
course, one was that they all lived alone. 

Also, Doris noticed that most of the victims exhibited an aloof attitude
during their interviews. Not necessarily unfriendly, but not outgoing 
laughing-types, either. Most didn't have consistent male companions. 
The last no doubt to preclude some man interrupting the thief's bowel 
movements, Jablonski thought. Whoever the perp was, she must figure 
she's able to handle another woman but maybe doesn't want to screw 
around with any boyfriends at the same time. 

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 busily washing Doris's hair
in the sink of her little beauty shop, run out of her house. “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?
Like it don't feel like fresh soap.” 

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

“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. Like all I do after that is go home, watch 
television for a while and sack out. Don't need a man for that, thank 
you.” She laughed, noticing Ethel turned away and scribbling on a note 
pad. 

Ethel did look over at her notepad right after Doris gave Jablonski's
address to a woman she ordered a dog-collar from through the mail. The 
woman had a sideline selling pet supplies and was always on the lookout 
for new customers. 

“See you next week, honey,” Ethel called out as Doris left. The
detective said nothing, nose in the air as she passed 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 lockshop, 
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. When
younger, Ethel had belonged to a local teenage gang and enjoyed 
fighting. She would frequent bars and pick fights with customers -- one 
time too often. The other woman had her arrested and, with a prior 
misdemeanor record, Ethel found herself sentenced to two years in the 
pen. Ethel only served four months, but it did make her a likely 
candidate for the break-ins. 

*** 

“Are you sure you can stay here?” John asked on their first night
together. “It might, you know, interfere with your work ... part-time 
job, I mean?” 

“Oh, I can manage, Johnny. Like I have a huge bank account, you know?
With my ass-ets, I'm set for life.” 

“Sure, but your ass-ets might wear out with overuse. They don't last
forever at that rate. And cut out that fucking Johnny.” 

“I don't worry. So far my ass sets pretty well.” She wiggled around
sensually on John's couch. 

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

“Uncle. Uncle. Uncle,” she said, which normally changed the
conversation. 

As the days -- and nights -- passed by, she did learn quite a bit about
the detective profession from Jablonski. At least one of them had to be 
awake at all times, waiting for Ethel. 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 four nights later, while sitting in the darkness of his
living room -- three am to be precise and during a drinking contest 
between the partners that a red light started flashing. John Jablonski 
had rigged two extra table-lamps, one with a small 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 lights off,
legs snarled in a long cord. Jablonski giggled as he helped untangle 
her, falling on top of the woman with a whoosh of breath as he landed. 
That and one of them giving out a loud fart caused even more giggling. 

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

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

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

“Les's us, les's us like 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' get from'a sick cust'mer.” 

“Unc....” 

“Shush up.” 

“Ucnle.” 

The two drunken detectives crawled across the floor toward the kitchen,
easier than walking, anyway. John had his camera out, complete with 
built-in flash. Noses to the side of the doorway, they waited until the 
proper moment. 

John pressed the button on his camera, the flash further illuminating
large white nether cheeks. A good shot. The second was of the ceiling 
as John tried to rise, jerking the camera upwards. 

Doris bumped him hard on the shoulder while getting her pistol 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 inadvertently kicked into a corner by Doris. 

“Like yr' unna'a ar‘rest,” Doris called out, crouched with gun waving
gently from clasped hands, “hans' on head,” she ordered. 

Laughing loudly at the sight, John looked around for his camera, not
finding it. 

“You heard ‘er,” he growled menacingly. 

Ethel clasped both hands over her head, obviously in shock. The wobbly
table shook, causing the woman to slip and land half on and half off 
its surface. One foot on the floor, her torso fell into the pile of 
crap she had just produced. She rolled off onto the floor where she 
lay, panting, as John cuffed her. 

“Pull my pants back up,” Ethel pleaded. 

“No, uh, uh, sistar' ‘ats evidd, evild, evidence. You stay rit' dere'.
Hear. Red'er rights, honey,” Doris called to Jablonski, who was again 
looking for his camera. 

Come on, come on, he thought while searching under a cabinet, it could
be the best police photos of the decade and he lost his fuckin' camera. 


“I can't. Need the cammea'. You seeit any'were?” 

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, after 
the other officer had spread the story, 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, but you gotta find that darned 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 and I'm sure Ethel won't mind any. 
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.” 

“In your condition? 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”, once. 
Somehow, he was sorry to see her go. 

“Fuck it,” he told himself, reaching for a nearly empty whiskey bottle. 

*** 

Jablonski was hungover in the morning. That damned woman, he thought.
Once a whore, always a whore. How the holy hell did she do it, go from 
hooker to detective? Reluctantly and pissed off, he got up and dressed 
for work. 

At the station, 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-braided hats and shoulders. 
Something was going on? 

“Didn't you see the news this morning, 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 fucking 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 over three damned years, as a civilian but on his 
request, so he says. They brought down a mafia chief. It's a long 
story, but she managed to crawl way down into the mafia shithole, deep 
enough to root out at least one big one. She found proof implicating 
him and others in several killings. Even judges and congressmen will 
lose their heads over 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 for real.” 

“Yeah?” He felt a cold chill rising up his body. “Look, I'll be back
later. Don't tell anyone I was here, Pete.” Jablonski hurried back out 
to the hallway. He then staggered into a stall in the nearest restroom 
to lay his head on cold porcelain, throw up, and 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 in the squad room.” 

“Christ. I'll be there in a minute.” Jablonski exited the booth, wiped a
feverish brow and washed his hands. He left the restroom and started 
for the stairs to the captain's office. 

“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 damned 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. 

In his hungover condition, not really giving a damn, Jablonski jerked
too hard on the door to the lieutenant's cubicle, tearing it off its 
fragile hinges. After the clattering result, he stood with a stupid 
look on his face, door hanging down at his side like a large thin 
briefcase. 

“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, as the owner of the room, pay. 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?” A puzzled look on his face, John turned to the chief of
police. He was sure that damned woman had badmouthed him, and her being 
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,” the chief said, smiling at a smirking Doris.
“Sergeant McKey here, told me about you saving her life last night 
while apprehending that woman. How she had a knife at my niece's throat 
and you saved her life by your quick thinking in throwing a camera at 
the perp.” 

Jablonski was so surprised that all he could do was open and close his
mouth, no sound coming out. Still in an alcohol daze, he had a vague 
sensation of the chief shaking his hand. When he came to his senses, 
the chief of police was gone and he was in the glass and aluminum 
cubicle with only Louie and Doris. Doris was sitting at the desk, 
calmly filling out a form. 

“Uh, You say I'm a lieutenant, and this is my office, sir?” John asked
the smiling man, who was still wearing lieutenant bars. 

“For all practical purposes. You can take over right now,” Louie told
him. “I'm going home. My promotion won't be cut for a couple of days 
and I'm taking a vacation.” 

“Is that so?” John thought a minute. Both of them the same rank. Why the
hell not? The only chance he'd ever get. 

“Then get your fancy ass out of my office, you insufferable bastard,
before I kick you through this glass wall.” John screamed in the guy's 
face. “You don't outrank me right now and I'd love to show you what I 
think of your fucking ass.” He took a step forward and laughed as the 
man, staring and red-faced, ran from the room and out into the squad 
room, rushing for the corridor through loud laughter from detectives 
there. 

John knew he might have to pay for it in the future, but what could they
do to him today, with them both officially the same rank? Needless to 
say, John's reputation rose 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 two lieutenants -- 
take your pick. 

John turned back to the new sergeant, who was fishing in her purse. 

“What's that paper for ... Doris?” Jablonski softened his voice, “Look,
I guess I have to apologize. 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, 
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 stop her, Doris took out the evidence bag full of
two-week-old shit, unzipped it, and poured it over his desk. 

“Bye. Asshole. I'm keeping my evidence bag, but it's your shit. See you
tomorrow,” she yelled as she hurried out the door. 

Damn, he thought over the roaring in the squad room. There went his new
reputation. She'd upstaged him. 

The End.


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