The Photograph 8.2: Downward Spiral

8.2:

My first instinct was to run.

Why would I think that?

Cops don’t run.

Innocent cops anyway.

I’ve done nothing wrong.

Regardless what Monica and this Quinn Russell and Action News have to say, I’ve done nothing wrong.

I did not kill Darius Murphy.

I may have abandoned the crime scene and violated a handful of pretty serious procedural protocols but I did not kill Darius Murphy.

The big wheel of justice though, had slowly been set into motion to make it look like I had.

The sudden appearance of an eyewitness for one where none existed previously, and their damning account of what they saw happen in Piedmont Park on Friday.

I called out, “Hold on, I’m coming,” and made my way down the front hall. I stopped a second in the mirror and tried to paste down the massive cowlick sprouting like weeds from my thinning crown.

No such luck.

Given the hellish appearance of my face, unshaven, bloodshot eyes framed by deep bags, no one’s going to notice bad hair.

I was not putting my best foot forward at the moment.

I pulled the door open.

Detectives Pitts and Curtis.

That’s whom I’d have sent if I were Bob Quillan.

We’re on equal grades, no superior or subordinate bullsh*t to muddy up the water.

One back, one white, just like Frank and I, keep the racial diversity flowing in the City of Racial Diversity.

Neutralize any potential crises before they arise.

Just a couple colleagues from work sitting down to have a nice chat, talk a little shop to kill time, standing out here in the rain.

No accompanying press though, thankfully. Bob Quillan still wants to keep what he refers to as “this unfortunate incident” within the family for now. When he decides it’s time to cut bait, that’s when I’ll get thrown under the bus.

There will be no surprises if or when that happens.

I’ll see it coming.

Charlie Pitts and LeRon Curtis.

Charlie Pitts was their version of Frank Hobbs, short and stocky where Frank was taller and more on the lean side. He stood with a constant tilt to the left as if standing on a hill, suit falling off his frame in one big wrinkle, his face looking like a clump of misshapen Play-Dough. Even his expression hung to the left, one eye locked in a near-constant squint, a mouth that curled in an unhappy sneer and Mr. Potato Head ears that were too big for his head.

LeRon Curtis, LEE Ron around the wardroom was my counterpart. Only white guy I’ve ever known with a name like LeRon.

“That’s Luh-RON, soft on the luh, heavy on the Ron.”

LeRon’s ruddy complexion betrayed the numerous fights he had to endure throughout his scholastic career growing up because of his first name. He stood with black hair swept straight back off his forehead looking dour and “in a bad mood,” standing there next to his partner in matching black trench coat, with hands stuffed in his pockets, one of which probably curled around the handle grip of his service revolver hoping I’d make a break for it.

LeRon Curtis wanted to shoot somebody, good guy, bad guy, didn’t matter to him. He was standing out in the rain and not liking it at all.

LeRon’s a mountain boy, out of the Blairsville hills and Union County up at the very top of the state. He said LeRon was a family name from his mother’s side. She came from a family of fighters, he said once.

Can’t imagine why.

“Evening John,” Charlie said, and quickly dispensed with the pleasantries. “Lieutenant’s a little concerned that you haven’t returned any of his calls.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You look like sh*t,” LeRon added with a smirk.

“Under the weather,” I replied with a humorless smile.

“We can do this the nice way or we can get all pissy, your call,” Charlie said, his hands stuffed in his pockets as well. “Lieutenant wants you to come downtown and talk.”

“You got a warrant?”

Charlie shrugged indifferently, “No, but I can get one if you want one. Lieutenant wants to keep this informal for now. Call it a professional courtesy.”

I liked Pitts and Curtis okay enough. We grabbed a few beers together on occasion and caught a Falcons game or two on the tube on Sundays.

We worked together.

We were acquaintances.

That about sums it up.

Right now though, along with everyone else in my squad, they were doing the math, that quick calculation determining how far I have to distance myself from this guy so none of his sh*t splattered on my shoes.

The calculation is then followed by the, how closely did I work with this guy sphincter squeeze.

Pitts and Curtis were close enough not to misuse the professional courtesy extended by Bob Quillan and far enough away not to have compromised any integrity by delivering the message.

“Let me get my coat,” I said and started to close the door.

“Your gun and your badge.”

Ahh, there’s the message.

“Lieutenant wants them both.”

I’ve been suspended.

Looking into Charlie Pitts' lopsided eyes, I thought I saw the glint of a smile squeeze across the folds of his Play-Dough face.