Always a Cop

By Paul H Wagner

When one old man reaches out to another old man for help locating a missing child, it leads to the assemblage of three senior citizens who have almost nothing in common except the badges they carried long ago as Sacramento police detectives. Their leader is Beau Wolfer, an impoverished, over-sexed fitness freak battling chronic depression. He recruits his long-time partner Finn Fincannon, who is confined to an assisted living sanitarium with Alzheimers, and Matsuo Shimada, an inveterate golfer -- listless, bored, and forgetful. Its an unlikely team to solve a crime in todays world. Of course, a missing person case does not necessarily involve a crime. But when Beau discovers the savagely mutilated corpse of a young female, her murder is unquestionably a crime and police consider him a suspect. Worse: it puts him on the hit list of the real killer ... who might be a cop!

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 28, 2009
• ISBN: 9781450201384

Paul H Wagner

A retired corporate vice president, Paul Wagner writes of mystery and detectives from his home near Sacramento.

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Copyright © 2009 by Paul H Wagner

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4502-0137-7 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-0138-4 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 12117109

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

(

dedication)

In memory of Colonel Willard M. Bennett.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use.

-Tennyson

(

acknowledgments)

First, I must belatedly thank Chief Oglesby for pushing me down the author’s path. That qualifies as ancient history. More recently, during the creation of the story in hand, Dale Wolfer, Sayzo, and Shannon provided specific inspiration. Unflagging encouragement came from Jim Elliot, Will Bennett, Starley Black, Randy, Judy, Andrew, Jason, Tod, Anne, Adam, Sara, Audrey, J.D., Dave, and Sharon. Input from Tom and Starley Richwine was vital. Early readers Nicolas and Nita gave needed support and suggestions. Bobs Brockish and Lawson, Lee Walters, Buzz Murray, Don Gillin, and Rick Johnson contributed from their research. I thank all humbly and sincerely.

CHAPTER 1

A WIRY MAN OF ADVANCED YEARS swerved his bicycle around the corner onto 41st street. He was outfitted in cycling garb of the type worn by bicycle racers on TV—skin-tight, knee-length lycra shorts and a short sleeved pullover shirt. His deeply tanned, hard-muscled legs pumped like the drive rod of a steam engine. Beneath the fiberglass helmet on his head, dark glasses shielded his eyes from the morning sun. In spite of his age, he could still see with clarity and sharp definition a thousand yards up the street. Three blocks ahead, traffic grew more active, but not frenetic. This residential section, called the ‘Fabulous Forties’ by locals, features handsome brick and stone houses with well-groomed yards. Tall sycamores form a leafy canopy high over the street, exemplifying Sacramento’s boast as ‘the city of trees’ and already providing shade on this sunny, fall morning.

A few cars moved through and, as he drew closer, the cyclist noticed ten or twelve pedestrians scattered along the sidewalks ahead, including a pair walking a dog—a mother in a stylish aqua blue sweat suit and her little boy in matching sweats. The boy appeared to be about 4 or 5 years old and struggled to hold onto the leash attached to their feisty little terrier. A dark maroon BMW sedan stopped in the street and the driver—a woman in her mid-thirties—engaged the mother on the sidewalk in conversation. The terrier took advantage of the pause to pull free of the boy’s grasp and dash onto the lawn next to them, playfully assailing a chew toy that lay in the grass about half way to the 2-story house. It was a gray brick house with a roofed porch across the front and a low brick wall at the forward edge of the porch. The little boy started to follow the terrier, but hesitated and tugged on his mother’s pant’s leg. She ignored him and continued to chat with the driver of the BMW.

In a sudden flash of brown and gold, a large pit bull raced off the porch and attacked the small terrier. Pandemonium! The terrier yowled. The boy burst into tears and his mother shrieked, Topsy! A dark pre-teen girl on the sidewalk shouted repeatedly, Bruno, stop! Passers-by paused and gaped.

The mother stood immobilized when, to her horror, the sobbing little boy ran onto the lawn to help the squealing terrier. He picked up the chew toy and threw it at the pit bull. The large dog left the bloody, twitching carcass of the terrier and sprang on the boy, knocking him down and tearing at his arm. The mother screamed and started onto the lawn. The woman in the BMW punched 911 into a cellular phone.

At that instant, the man on the bicycle streaked past the mother into the middle of the fray. He smacked full speed into the pit bull and jumped off the bike in a single motion. Keeping the bike between the dog and himself, he shielded the fallen boy as the raging, roaring pit bull lunged repeatedly at him and his bicycle.

The anguished mother picked up her son, rushed the bleeding boy to the street, and got into the BMW. The car sped away toward the nearby emergency room at Mercy General.

Out of the house came a short, thin man in a burgundy-striped dress shirt, navy blue trousers, dark tie and matching suspenders. He yelled: Leave my dog alone!… immediately aggressive, judgmental, indignant.

Call him off. Call him off! the biker yelled back.

The man strolled unhurriedly off the porch and took hold of the pit bull by the collar as a black and white police car arrived, then a second one. A uniformed Latino officer got out of the first car and approached the cyclist and pit bull owner. An older cop got out of the second patrol and began to talk with onlookers.

The Latino cop’s snappy brown eyes watched the dog warily as he listened a few moments to the biker and the man holding the pit bull. Your dog will have to be quarantined, the officer said, his gaze shifting briefly to the owner, then back to the dog.

I am an attorney, the man responded condescendingly. My name is Garrison Raman. There is no need to quarantine my dog. He’s had all the required inoculations and his license is valid. It is obvious he was provoked.

The quarantine is standard procedure, Mr. Raman, the policeman said in a placative tone.

The second cop joined them. He was at least ten years older than the Latino officer and displayed the self-confidence and assurance of experience. I’ve put a call in to the animal control center, he said. Someone will be here shortly. He nodded at the cyclist as he spoke.

Raman became livid and threatened to sue the police department. The bicyclist shook his head sympathetically at the cops, walked his bike out to the street and rode away.

There will be a ‘vicious dog hearing,’ the younger cop said. Since your pit bull is not tied… loose in an unfenced yard. The likely outcome will be you will have to have the dog put down.

The dog owner, Raman, threw his arm out from his side and exclaimed sarcastically, As usual the police don’t show up in time to do anything but cause added trouble.

The older cop said: "You couldn’t be more wrong in this case, sir. That man on the bicycle who showed up in time—probably in time to save that little boy’s life—is a cop. A retired cop named Beau Wolfer. You should thank your lucky stars he still acts like one. If he hadn’t jumped in, you could be facing a much more serious situation."

Out on the street, the girl who yelled, Bruno, stop during the uproar climbed into a deep purple Sports Utility Vehicle. The man driving had leaned across and spoken to her through the open window on the passenger side. She was buckling her seat belt as he accelerated down the street.

CHAPTER 2

SIX DAYS LATER

BEAU SPOKE TO THE PARROT in his normal voice. No baby talk soprano, cooing, clucking, or other vocal artifices. He had tried them all in the past… without success. I miss her, too, you know. He continued doing sit-ups as he talked. on the floor, his feet hooked under the bed frame. Hasn’t that ever occurred to you? That I miss her as much as you do—MORE than you? More than you possibly could. But I haven’t clammed up like the great sphinx of Egypt, have I?

The bird’s not quite round eyes followed his motion as if counting each sit-up to be sure he didn’t cheat.

You supposedly know more than a thousand words. Let’s hear a few.

The bird continued to stare silently back at him.

He grunted slightly with the final sit-up. Looked up at the bird. You know, I never thought you were as intelligent as she did. Now I’m beginning to believe you’re dumber than tapioca. You haven’t said one damn word since she died. He lay back on the thin carpet and thought a moment. How about those impressions you used to do? You did a pretty good Jack Nicholson. Not as good as mine, but pretty good. Beau rehearsed mentally, then said in his own uncanny imitation of the actor: "So, what does Jack say, chowder head.?

The bird moved… barely.

"Cat got your tongue?"

No response.

Back in his normal voice: Hmmph. You did him all the time when she was alive. And once in a while you spoke my name. Remember? He mimicked in a falsetto: Hello, Beau. He waited, then did it again, Hello, Beau. The parrot only gazed at him. disdainfully, he thought.

He got up from the floor and toweled off. So I didn’t talk with you back then. But I could use a little conversation now. How about it?

The African Grey Parrot shifted its feet slightly on the perch. The alert eyes stared back. Its beak opened, but no sound emerged. A yawn, perhaps.

You really know how to punish a guy, Beau said wistfully as he pulled on a black jersey with day-glo chartreuse stripes on the back. I did all I could. spent all I could scrape up. hardly left her side that final year. I would’ve gladly gone in her place if I could have. You must know that. He leaned his face close to the cage. So, talk to me. Like you used to talk to her. It’s just you and me now. We’re getting old, and all we have is each other.

The bird did an about face on the perch, its tail to Beau, but one pale yellow eye never left his.

The elderly parrot was the only thing Beauregard Wolfer retained of the possessions he had shared with his wife of 48 years. She had cared so much for the creature in her final years, his guilt wouldn’t permit him to sell it or give it away. There were no photographs in the boarding house garret he now called home. Permeated with the odor of dust and stale sweat, it contained a sagging bed covered with a patchwork quilt, a dilapidated chest of drawers, a small TV, a green, molded plastic chair, and the birdcage atop a 5-foot metal stand. No memorabilia.

Everything had been sold in her final months: their home. furniture. appliances. clothing. Everything but the bird. The money went to specialists, pharmacists, nurses, and finally. her funeral.

Nothing more could have been done for her. Everyone told him that. Yet the guilt had persisted and pulled him down into the depths of chronic incapacitating depression—a condition that still hovered at the edges of his mind. Its effects could be seen on his face. The sharp, angular, chiseled features, which had turned female heads for over 70 years, had changed. Less sharp now, less angular, an intimate knowledge of deep pain haunting the gray eyes.

But still turning female heads.

Okay, bird, he said. Don’t speak right now. But, think about it. Give it some thought. He picked up his bicycle helmet, water bottle, and fanny pack from atop the cheap pinewood chest of drawers. I’ll be gone all day. When I get back, maybe we can talk.

He stepped over and opened the door to his room, hesitated, turned back, and growled: "Now hear this, you feathered phony. Either you start talking again or I’ll have you stuffed. Think about that while I’m gone."

As he pulled the door closed, he could’ve sworn he heard Jack Nicholson go: Heh, heh, heh.

CHAPTER 3

THE HALL OUTSIDE HIS ROOM smelled of toasted bread. He assumed the aroma was coming from the kitchen two floors below until he saw his landlady climbing the stairs toward him with a glowering expression.

You been cooking in your room? she barked.

No, I haven’t, Mrs. Cassidy.

She stopped without climbing the final few steps, coughed a short cough, and patted the grayish bun on the topknot of her head. She was wearing an off-white sailcloth apron over wrinkled chambray shirt and jeans. Lettering on the apron bib said: My Giveadamner is broken? If I find out you’re cooking in your room, she said sternly, you are out of here like stink out of cabbage. You and that filthy bird.

I wouldn’t break the rules, Mrs. Cassidy. And I clean that bird cage every day.

You’d better. She turned and began to descend. And no cooking!

As he watched her disappear back down the stairs he heard the door across from his open.

Did I hear Mrs. Cassidy, Beau? a throaty female voice asked softly through the barely cracked door.

She’s gone back down, Rose, Beau said. Have you been making toast?

Yes. The door opened wide and a small, bright-eyed, elderly woman with pink, permed hair smiled conspiratorially up at him. She wore a shabby quilted housecoat and had orange scuffs on her feet. Would you like some? I have grape jelly, too.

No. But thanks, Rose. I have to be going. You need to be more careful with your cooking. Mrs. Cassidy has a smeller like a bloodhound, and you never know when she might be snooping around. Wait ‘til she goes to the market, why don’t you?

That’s a very good idea, Beau. The toast is already made. Sure you wouldn’t like to come in. for a piece? She slid both hands up her robe to lift her sagging breasts under the housecoat and bobbed them up and down with twinkling eyes.

Ah. can’t this time. I’m going out to see my old partner.

Before such a long ride, you should eat something, she contended with a lascivious leer.

Beau suppressed a smile. I really have to go. He blew her a kiss and hurried to the door at the end of the short hall.

He thought about Rose as he moved down the outside stairs of the boarding house and on to the screened-in back porch where he kept his bike. If everything she had told him was true, her life story should be made into a movie. She’d had more careers than Hillary Clinton. She said she’d been a professional roller skater. played several years with the Kansas City team. went into mud wrestling when TV dropped the Roller Derby, then spent years as a bodyguard/hairstylist for female country-western singers. No husbands in all those years, yet she claimed she had never slept one night alone until she was hospitalized with a broken hip at the age of 61. She was really a piece of work. tough as dog meat, a little wacky, and the randiest female he had ever met.

He was about to roll his bike out of the porch when the kitchen door opened behind him and landlady Cassidy stuck her head out. She might have been an attractive woman when she was young, he thought. Nice bone structure to her oval face. Healthy auburn hair still visible among the silver strands that led to the bun. Gorgeous jade green eyes sprinkled with tiny golden flecks. But a permanent frown that fairly screamed: Don’t mess with me!

You want the carpet in your room shampooed? she said.

Scuse me? Beau reacted.

She expelled a short smoker’s cough. I’ve got an outfit coming to shampoo carpets today. They’ll do an extra room for ten dollars. Clean up any mess that bird has made.

Beau shook his head. Ah, no—

I can probably get ‘em to do it for five.

I guess not, Mrs. Cassidy.

She watched him move the bike on outside. You gonna be gone all day?

Beau looked back. Most likely. He smiled. Have a nice day.

Her face went cold. Rent’s due tomorrow. She closed the door with a bang.

CHAPTER 4

THE JEDEDIAH SMITH MEMORIAL BIKE TRAIL extends more than 30 miles from Discovery Park at the confluence of the Sacramento and American Rivers east to Beal’s Point beyond Folsom Dam. The bike path is a prime feature of the American River Parkway, the longest linear, uninterrupted park in the country, and it was as familiar to Beau as the worn, cross-trainer sneakers on his sock-less feet. When he reached the paved trail he knew his journey would ordinarily take about two hours—even if he maintained the official speed limit of 15 miles per hour—but he wanted to take a side trip to Burr’s Old Fashion Soda Parlor on Folsom Boulevard and pick up a treat for his partner, so he had started earlier than usual.

It was a fine day. The sky was clear except for a narrow strip of thin white clouds shrouding the Sierra Mountains on the eastern horizon. Cycling traffic was moderate on the trail. Mostly younger men going the opposite direction—commuting to work downtown he judged, although you couldn’t tell by the clothing they wore. Nearly all riders were outfitted like himself: tight-fitting shorts and pullover shirts, with clam shell-shaped helmets on their heads.

The side trip to Burr’s took 20 minutes by the time the soda jerk prepared the drink and packed it in ice in a plastic bag. Back on the bike trail, Beau pushed the speed limit for the 12 miles to Hazel Avenue and the final stretch up Hazel to his destination. He was panting and damp with sweat when he climbed off the bike outside the main entrance to the Gold Hills Assisted Living Campus.

The facility consisted of three 2-story adobe brick buildings around an artfully arranged garden court. Beau made his way through the main entry and down the adjoining hall to the rear of the unit on the left. He strode past doors both closed and open. As he came to the last one he met Anya coming out. The big Russian caregiver was frowning sourly until she saw him, then she quickly smiled. The gaps between the stubby teeth in her round flat face reminded him of a Halloween pumpkin. We are not having a good day, she said, tipping her head back at the door behind her. He wouldn’t even let me button his shirt.

Beau nodded that he understood and stepped to the side to let her pass. She hesitated a moment. You be staying for lunch like always?

We’ll see, he replied.

She dawdled nervously as if