Tuesday, October 03, 2006

"Peter Flak: Big Time Detective -- Part II"

"This cop will not rest until we bring the perpetrator to justice!"

Flak paused, and flashed his $10,000 grin to the motley armament of microphones and video cameras that recorded his every utterance from the steps of the precinct house. Due to the tireless efforts of High Profile and Janey, his agent, the word was out that Peter Flak, Super Cop, was on the Lane Bannister case, and the city press ate it up. Finally, Flak sensed it was time to stop the questioning.

"I will be here tomorrow with an update. Until then, please, let me get to work. You'd think you've forgotten that the victim is one of your own!"

The reporters nodded and grimaced artfully, and Flak held, for just long enough, highly concerned grimace of his own, turned away from the microphones and smiled at his reflection in the dark glass precinct house door. He brushed a stray strand of hair back into place.

"FLAK!" Captain Johannson appeared, blotting out Flak's reflection. Disappointed, Flak turned to face his boss as he charged out the revolving door.

"Flak. What the hell are you doing here? They're waiting for you at the crime scene. Goddamn. Flak. If you screw this up I'll..."

"Really, sir. Forensics will prepare a very complete report. There's no need for me to actually be on the scene, is there?"

"How the hell did you make Detective? Don't answer that. Just get the hell over there before I punch you in the mouth."

Flak held his hand over his mouth, saluted and jogged for the garage.

* * *
"Ewww!"

Flak covered his mouth with both hands.

"You OK, Detective?" The photographer didn't look up to see Flak's response, a dry heave aimed at the windows that spanned Bannister's high-rise condo like a wide-screen TV. His camera clicked in sync with the snap of the wad of gum he kept at all times in his left cheek.

"Yeah. Pretty gruesome, eh?"

"Well, I've seen worse," said the photographer, a Californian-American of Korean ancestry who everyone called AK.

"You have?"

"Oh, yeah," AK said, snapping a close-up of Bannister's mutilated face. "This one vick down in Lowertown, she had her whole face bit off. Just a skull with hair. You remember that one?"

"Oh, yeah," Flak nodded knowingly, though he hadn't.

"Anything else you need?" AK said, packing up his equipment.

"No, you've done great, thanks."

"Catch ya later."

Something tapped Flak on the shoulder.

"Get away from me!" he shouted at the uniformed officer. He was a young cop, three years on the force, who was known for wearing a perpetual smirk.

"Sorry, sir," said the officer, who's name was Petitte.

"Well. You should be," Flak said, regaining his composure. "What do you want?"

Petitte continued to smirk. "Thought you'd want to hear a report from the officer first on the scene," he said.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do," Flak said. "Get him over here, Petitte."

"Um, yeah. Well, he's here," Petitte said. "He's me. Sir."

Flak didn't like that short pause before Petitte said "Sir." The uniformed cops never seemed to like him much, as hard as he tried to gain their favor. Perhaps he should try harder, he thought.
"Good man," Flak said and clapped Petitte on the shoulder. Petitte looked at Flak's hand and smirked. "Let's hear it," Flak said, resigned to the fact that he was going to have to hear the gory details.

"Alright," Petitte said and flipped open his notebook. "At 9:53 pm we responded to a 911 call from a Jennifer Simpson, intern producer at TV station NBC-7. Simpson said she was to get Bannister and bring him to the station for the 11:00 pm news."

"Hm. He doesn't need much prep time, does he?"

"Just a talking head, sir. But Simpson reports that he should have been at the station by then. She was to, quote, "snap him out of it," unquote, and get him to the station."

"Snap him out of what, Petitte?"

"She wouldn't say," Petitte said, his smirk nearly turning into a grin before getting control of itself. "She buzzed the buzzer and banged on the door, to no avail. Then she called security. Said Mr. Bannister might be asleep."

"Hm."

"Yeah. Anyway, the manager's a big fan of Mr. Bannister, so he let's Ms. Simpson in. At which time, they find Mr. Bannister in the position in which you see him now, sir."

"What's the, uh, cause of death?" Flak said, feeling the bile rising again into his throat.

"Let's see. A lot of stabbing. Couple gunshots. Slashes. You noted the eye gouge, I'm sure..."

"Yes," Flak said weakly.

"Yeah, well, that's not the most unusual thing." Petitte paused, waiting to see Flak's reaction. Flak stared back, silently gritting his teeth behind his thin, tightly pursed lips.

"No, for that you'd have to look at his midsection. He's almost completely emptied out. His guts were sealed neatly into plastic bags." Petitte held up a gallon-sized bag for Flak to see. Flak's eyes widened.

Flak said something incoherent.

"Yeah, pretty sick, huh? But you know, Wilson, the forensics guy? He was almost appreciative. It takes all kinds, doesn't it, sir? Sir?"

Flak had already passed the officer and was racing down the stairs, frantically trying to brush off the mess he'd made on his trench coat before he reached the bottom.

NEXT TIME:

Eww! Gross!

Will Flak be able to stand the sight of dead bodies long enough to solve this mystery? Find out, as the mystery deepens, and the glare of publicity closes in...

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