The Photograph 7.2: Cover Story  

7.2

Frank didn’t much care for the phone call, partners for fifteen years or not. I waited while he collected his bearings and shook off the cobwebs of sleep.

“What’s up?”

“You talk to Bob Quillan lately?”

A groan, a stifled yawn and then the sucking of air over teeth to clear out what I always called the mouth crud, “Not this weekend, why?”

“If you talk to him,” I said. “You weren’t anywhere near Piedmont Park on Friday.”

“Hey,” Frank said, suddenly awake. “I was the one who came and got you. We’re partners. Bob Quillan knows better than that. Where you go, I go. It’s always been that way.”

“Not this time,” I said.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” I heard the rustle of thrown-back bed covering as Frank slid out of bed. “Why the sudden need to be a hero and save my sorry a$$?”

“Because Bob Quillan came by my house this morning and showed me a cell phone that he found next to the body of Darius Murphy out in Piedmont Park. Mine.”

“Sh*t,” Frank hissed between clenched teeth. “Not good. We left a crime scene.”

“I left a crime scene. You were never there.”

“Bullsh*t. I take whatever heat you have to take.”

“No,” I said, navigating my way through the downtown Atlanta surface streets, which thankfully, at this hour of the morning, were nearly deserted. “You can’t be involved in this.”

“John, I’m your f*cking partner. If this is department related, we handle it as a team. Darius Murphy was department related.”

“What I told Bob Quillan though, is not department related.”

“Jesus, what did you tell him?”

“I told him everything,” I said, as I pulled into the precinct’s parking garage.

“Well Christ, John I don’t even know what everything is, how can I –“

The signal dropped and the call failed once I cleared the garage entrance. Too much concrete and steel I thought as I wound up the corkscrew entrance ramp until I reached the homicide division’s sixth floor level.

I swiped my access badge, waited for the heavy click of the disengaging lock and pushed open the parking garage door. I did the same thing to the interior stairwell door and was soon walking down the long, white-tiled corridor to the homicide division wardroom.

Civic buildings don’t have a lot of room in their budget for aesthetic accessories like wall art, potted plants and other amenities that would make coming here more pleasing to the eye.

Even the paint, that bile-colored, institutional shade of beige, the dull white tile that hadn’t seen a good scrubbing in years, and that heavy prevalent odor of antiseptic cleaner, institutional brand as well, that hung as a nauseating perfume, a wet, stale overcoat hanging on the shoulders of the conditioned air inside.

A strong hint of old coffee melded with a faint hint of old cigarette smoke, even though city, state, and federal statutes have prohibited smoking inside all government facilities for years.

The desks were plain and metal, dating back to the civil rights era. The chairs, no frills vinyl on wheels with worn armrests and equally worn cushion springs from a$$es gone fat from too many doughnuts, greasy fried foods and cheap takeout – everything that comprises the stereotypical cop’s diet.

The wardroom at this hour on Sunday morning was thankfully quiet and nearly deserted. I got the surprised nods of hello from those scattered around the room unfortunate enough to draw the Sunday morning straw on the week’s work schedule.

I sat down at my desk, regarded the empty chair at the desk opposite mine and felt a small pang of guilt that I’d shut Frank out on this one.

I had my reasons.

First and foremost of those reasons were the words of Darius Murphy, still echoing in harmony with the heavy wet splat of his exploding head inside mine.

Trust no one.

Not even your partner.

“Okay Darius,” I said to the blue computer screen as I waited on it to boot up. “Let’s see what you know that had you so spooked.”

What got you killed?

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