Detective Peter Flak didn't flinch. He smiled, because he'd been practicing not flinching at Captain Johannson's roars, and it filled him with pride to know that he'd succeeded.
He stood slowly, careful not to hurry. Flak smiled and nodded at the Captain, who stared smoking holes in his skull as he strode, slowly, to the coffee pot. His ceramic mug was a favorite. On it was printed an old-fashioned camera with a bursting flash. The tagline was "Smile! You're on Candid Camera!" He calmly, slowly, filled it with steaming coffee, then carefully tore open a packet of sugar and poured the sugar into the coffee in a circular pattern around the edge of the mug. Then he reached for the tiny cups of creamer and, turning the opening flap away from him to avoid splashing half-n'-half on his suit, he very deliberately peeled back the cover and poured it into the coffee, again in a circular pattern. Then, Flak reached for a stir-stick, dipped it into the coffee, stirring around and around, and then in a figure-eight pattern to ensure that the coffee was properly...
"FLAK!"
Flak flinched this time, but didn't look up. He could feel Johannson's hot breath on his cheek, and the pungent odor of salami, brown mustard and provolone that his obviously long-suffering wife must have packed him for lunch that morning.
"Coming right over, sir!" Flak said brightly.
Captain Carl Johannson and Peter Flak were a study in contrasts. Where Flak was tall, thin and wiry, Johannson was built like a block of concrete. Where Flak took great care of his full head of thick dark hair, Johannson's morning routine included just enough time to comb the remaining wisps of long steely gray hair over his bald, oily scalp. Where Flak's face seemed sparkling and smooth even at midnight (due to his frequent trips to restroom with the electric razor he kept in his coat pocket), Johannson's five-o'clock shadow sprouted by noon and by 8:00 pm when he threw on his tan trench coat and time-worn fedora, you could have forgiven the cops at the front desk for sometimes assuming they were letting a homeless man out on his own recognizance.
It was five-o'clock, Flak noted. Johannson looked like he had gray nails sprouting from his jowls.
"How's your day going, Captain?" Flak said, trying to lighten the mood.
"Flak." Whenever the Captain said his name it was always began and ended the sentence. "Shut up. You've already taken up more time than I have for you."
"Sorry, Capt..."
"I said shut up. Flack. You have an assignment."
"That's great! I..."
The Captain cut off Flak with a a low growl. "Take a look," he said, and slapped a folder down on his cluttered desk. Flak grabbed the folder, sat up a little straighter. Paper clipped to the inside cover was color glossy of a well-coiffed man -- blond hair, blue eyes, strong trustworthy chin, thick healthy hair -- and Flak recognized him immediately -- it was Lane Bannister, the new anchor for the NBC-7 11:00 pm news.
"That Bannister...he's a good looking guy, sir," Flak said. "For a guy, sir."
"Not any more he's not. Look at the next photo."
Flak lifted the photo to find another color photo. Past the deep bloody gashes and cris-crossed knife cuts, the chunks of bare scalp and the garish hole where the left eye used to be, Flak recognized the same strong, trustworthy chin that made Bannister the hottest newscaster in the state.
"What a shame, sir," Flak said, choking back the bile that suddenly lodged in his throat.
"Yeah? How so?"
"He won't be much good on TV now, sir," Flak said, swallowing. He flipped the pages of what was obviously a rather extensively detailed forensic report.
"Damn right, you jackass. He's dead!" Johannson exploded. "And those sons-of-bitches down at the station have specifically requested the 'Super Cop' they profiled last month to lead the investigation."
"Well! I'm quite flattered, sir!"
"Listen. Flak. You know and I know that the Super Cop profile was a snow job put together by the Mayor's PR department. You know and I know that there is no way I'd let you anywhere near this case," Johannson snorted, and cleared his throat, which sounded something like a vacuum cleaner trying to suck up a sock. "But, the conglomerate that owns the TV station informed the mayor's office, who informed the police chief , who informed me that they expect nothing less than our own Super Cop on this case, on penalty of budget cuts." Johannson spat into his ash tray. "So the Super Cop they will get."
Flak smiled, his full set of teeth gleaming.
"Don't worry, sir," Flak said, still smiling. "The station, the mayor and the public can rest assured that I will not rest until we find the vicious animal who did this to one of our most beloved citizens."
"Flak."
"Yes, sir?"
"Just don't screw this up. And stay away from the cameras."
Flak smiled more broadly.
"I'll do my best sir. But it always seems to be the cameras that find me!" he said.
Flak left Johannson's office practically bouncing. He walked quickly past his desk, dashed down the stairs and out the front door. From the sidewalk, he pressed a speed-dial code on his cell phone.
"High Profile! Janey speaking!"
"Janey. Pete."
"Pete! Super Cop! How's the screenplay coming?"
"Janey, listen. This is it! A heinous crime against a high-profile media celebrity...and it's mine!"
"No, kidding? Bannister, right?"
"How did you know?"
"Are you kidding? Everybody knows! Poor Lane..."
"Yeah. Listen, your my agent. Make the most of this, right?"
"You know we will! Keep your hair in place, Petey. You got your soundbites?"
"Of course."
"Let's hear it, Peter..."
"'This cop will not rest until we bring the perpetrator to justice!'"
"Gold! I'll meet you tonight at Marty's. 10:30?"
"See you there!"
Peter put away his cell, looked up at the sky and took a deep breath of city air -- the mixture of exhaust fumes and tobacco smoke delivering a unique sort of buzz. This was it. Even more than with the Super Cop story, this was going to make him a star. And from there? Technical advisor in the movies? Maybe even some on screen roles.
Damn! he thought. I've gotta go home and shower!
# # #
NEXT TIME:
Will Flak resist the siren call publicity in the case of a celebrity murder?
Can he keep his teeth clean and hair in place?
and...
Who killed Lane Bannister?
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