Page 8 of Shadows of Justice

My sanity—and my job—might depend on it.

Chapter Three - Grasping at Straws

Friday, July 10th

Igrimace as the cold coffee goes down my throat, coating my mouth yet again in the flavors of burnt Nespresso and artificial sweetener.

My hands are shaking, probably because I’ve just polished off the third carafe of the day and haven’t eaten anything except Funyons and Fruit Snacks from the vending machine in the lobby. My exhausted eyes continue to dart over the same information that I’ve already gone over at least twice now.

But, I can’t stop. I have to keep trying.

The Pasadena PD’s files on Leo don’t go back very far. The man is a phantom. The most we really have on him is word-of-mouth accounts from druggies and vagrants. No addresses or registered vehicles. There were a few sightings of him in the area during big drug busts and one possible sale witnessed during a tail, but it was never confirmed. Not exactly anything solid to go on.

There was a case opened by a Detective Hodge of LAPD two years ago, but it was eventually closed after finding no leads. Hodge also kept terrible notes and didn’t seem as thorough as he could have been.

It’s been over a week since I let Leo go, and I’m no closer now than I was when I started.

I sigh, putting my head in my hands. I smell like shit. I haven’t been home in days. After my three day shift ended two days ago, I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts of these files and something that I could have missed were haunting me, keeping me up at night. After tossing and turning my first night off, I came to the precinct and caught a few restless hours on one of the on-call bunks to save myself the drive. Been here ever since.

I groan, smacking my hand down on the desk and files in frustration, accidentally crushing the bag of Funyons. The crumbs go everywhere and I put my head back and breathe sharply through my nose.

This day sucks.

I crinkle up the bag and toss it, and then sweep up the crumbs strewn about the file into my hand. As I’m cleaning the paper something nags in my mind, my eyes rereading the same sentence underneath the crumbs that I’ve already read a ridiculous amount of times.

The page is open to an interrogation report of a small-time heroin dealer named Spencer “Spider” Torres. He was picked up for lifting enough cough suppressant from a Walgreens to keep an elephant down for a month. Hodge interrogated Spider about his dealers, but Spider didn’t know much. He said that he got his smack from a chick street-named “Gato,” but she never said where she got hers from. He was fishing for Barone’s name, but Spider didn’t provide any indication that he knew who that was until asked about where he used to meet up with Gato.

The interrogation dictation reads:

Spider: I used to meet her at Hooligan’s. She wanted me to come alone, and during happy hour when it was super busy. It’s a shitty spot down on Washington, on the south side.

Hodge: What happened the last time you met up with her? Describe it.

Spider: I don’t know man . . . what always happens. I walk in, slip her the money, and she tells me where she’s stashed the H so I can go pick it up. It’s in a different place every time.

Hodge: Anything different about the last encounter? Was she drinking when you got there? Maybe socializing?

Spider: Yeah, actually. Now that you mention it. She was with a latino guy, real big, a baseball cap on. They were talking real close, but he left once I sat down. I remember because it wasn’t an LA team on his hat, it was the Yankees, and that kind of pissed me off. I’m a Dodger fan ’til I die, you feel me? Got a lot of balls wearing another team’s hat in Hooligan’s. Those cats would stab you for less.

Hodge: The spaniard guy, you get a name? Tattoos? Anything?

Spider: Latino, homie. Like South America. Not a spaniard. There’s a fucking difference, ignorant pig.

There isn’t much after that, except an argument over the semantics of the words spaniard and latino. Hodge seems like a real piece of work. Even worse are his follow up skills. I turn the page and back again, double-checking, but there’s no report that Hodge even went to Hooligan’s after Spider’s interrogation. Sure, it was a stretch, and the tip might not have even been Barone, but this is kind of what detective work is bud.

My heart starts to race, excitement building that maybe I found a shred of a fucking clue. The information is two years old, so I know that I’m grasping at straws, but it’s all I have. I have to try.

As I stand to head out to my car, a cadet approaches me. Haroldson—I think?

“Officer Schaeffer, captain wants to see you in his office.”

That’s odd. I have a good rapport with Captain Jennings, but it’s difficult not to get that getting-called-to-the-principle’s-office feeling whenever he requests your time out of nowhere.

I head down the hallway and make a left at the break room. I duck into the bathroom to quickly splash some water on my face and check my appearance. It isn’t great. Dark circles rim my eyes, the once vibrant hue of my irises not blending well with the bloodshot look. My blonde hair is oily and stringy. I throw it up in a ponytail to try and look somewhat put together and wash my hands, getting the feeling I’m just polishing a turd at this point.

Here goes nothing.

I head back into the hallway and pass a few patrol officers changing shifts. We nod professionally in greeting, but I can’t mistake the prickling at my back as they turn to either check me out or talk shit about what a dumpster fire I look like today.

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