The Alaskan has Seven Days

By Steven F. Verzal

Sam, also known as The Alaskan, was a homicide detective way, way up north. Because it was a small department and there were very few homicides, he decided to retire after twenty years and moved to a bigger department, bigger city, with more homicides. He got the reputation of solving the "hard ones." Sam, with his quirky partner, Ed, have now been given a homicide case to investigate. Sam knows he will be retiring from his second law enforcement career in a week. The Alaskan has seven days to investigate the case and it's a tough one. Each day is full of adventure, folly and new discoveries. Can Sam and Ed solve this case in only seven days?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644625194

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The Alaskan has Seven Days

Steven F. Verzal

Copyright © 2019 Steven F. Verzal

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2019

ISBN 978-1-64462-518-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64462-519-4 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Dr. Donald Rogers, retired Medical Examiner, who without his assistance, I could not have had a true to life autopsy experience for this book. Doc Rogers performed the first autopsy I witnessed when I was in the Anchorage Alaska Police Academy. Doc Rogers grew up in Tacoma, Washington, attended the University of Puget Sound and the University of Washington Medical School, graduating in 1958. He interned at Minneapolis General Hospital. Doc Rogers was also a Naval Flight Surgeon. He became a pathologist in Anchorage, Alaska in 1967. He has performed over 6,500 autopsies in his lifetime. Doc Rogers resides in Anchorage, Alaska with his wife Georgia, whom he has been married to for 63 years.

Chapter One

Day One: The Scene

My name is Sam. People who know me call me by my nickname, The Alaskan. I am six feet eight inches, weigh 250 pounds, have brown hair and green eyes, and am married to my job. Some people tell me I look like a shaven brown bear. I think they exaggerate some.

Did I tell you I am married to my job? My job and I never argue. I guess that’s why we get along so well. I used to run a homicide division for a police department way, way up north. It was a good department, but it was small. I got bored, so after twenty years, I took a retirement.

I moved on to a bigger city, bigger department, more crimes, and more homicides. Some took a while to solve; some were easy. But I worked my butt off until I ran out of leads or got ’em.

I am presently single. I mean divorced. I mean divorced a few times, like four. I tried being married to a woman, Tami, a model, but it was no good. She was a fox. She was five feet seven, weighed 134 pounds, had a real nice rack, and had no implants. She modeled clothes. She traveled all over Europe: England, France, Italy, you name it. We got along great until we started to talk about my job. Then there was an argument, then another, then another. We were arguing more than talking. The sex was great when we had it. Sometimes, two, three, or four weeks would pass before we saw each other. Did I tell you the sex was great? She did not like being married to a cop. Hey, she knew what she was getting into when we got married. So one day, she called me, told me she wanted a divorce, and was seeing her photographer. It was a great three years. Oh well.

Then I met another woman, Mara, an exotic dancer. Nope, it did not work. She was a fox also. She was five feet four inches and weighed 110 pounds. She had a rack too, but they were bought. If I called her a stripper, she got mad: I am an exotic dancer, she’d say.

You know, it’s like a bartender wanting to be called a mixologist. I met her at a bar when I was out with the guys for a venting night. Our eyes met, and it was love at first sight. She was with a couple of other women who were also foxes. The other women were married. I invited myself over to their table, and the next thing we know, we were doing it like rabbits. We got married six months later and continued doing it like rabbits. Our work schedules clashed big time though. I got off at 5:00 p.m., and she went to work at 7:00 p.m. I got up for work at 7:00 a.m. and left at eight, just as she was coming home after getting off work at 6:00 a.m. We were like two ships always passing in the night. After two years, she told me she wanted a divorce. She was seeing another guy, the bouncer. That was the end of round two. The marriage made it two years and six months.

So then I retired from my first job and moved to the big city to be with a larger department. I stayed very busy—a lot of homicides. So after a few years of getting acclimated to my new job, I took up bowling. Now, between bowling and golf, I’m not sure which is the dumbest sport. Golf, I think, is number one, but the golf cart girls are fantastic. I tried playing on three different courses, and I think between all the golf cart girls that were selling drinks, mostly beer, I don’t think one of them owned a bra. But then again, they were selling alcohol and working for tips. In the end, I decided that chasing a ball around with a stick was not for me.

So then, I tried bowling. Bowling is a very interesting sport. You try to keep the ball out of the gutter, knock down the pins, and get a high score. After working on it for a while, I figured it was time to join a league. I signed up, and on my team was a married couple and a single woman. The woman, Carol, was not bad looking. She stood about five feet six inches and weighed in at about 140 pounds. She had a master’s degree in psychology and was a marriage counselor. She was a very nice lady. We hit it off from the very beginning. She told me she was divorced once and had no children. After about two months of weekly bowling, I asked her out for a drink. She said yes, and we became a couple. Things were going really well, and at the end of the bowling season, I asked her to marry me. She said yes.

Things were going really well for about two years, and then it changed. She wanted me to change jobs. She complained about the pressures of being married to a cop. I told her there were no pressures as long as we could talk about my job. She said she spent all day listening to people’s problems and did not want to come home and listen to mine. I thought that was a bunch of crap. So I tried to get her involved with other police couples. She did not like them because they were all divorced numerous times. Then I tried to get involved in her sphere of people. And I swear it was like going to a Mensa convention. I have an associate degree in criminology, but these people were like way over my head. So after a year and a half of trying, we called it quits. Did I tell you I was married to my job?

So for about five years, I just had some brief encounters. There were no problems and no commitments, just all-out great and sometimes not-so-great sex. Then one morning, I stopped by a convenience gas station to get a paper, and I saw this gal trying to put gas in her car. She was cussing and hitting at the nozzle door at the rear of her vehicle.

I walked up to her and asked, Lady in distress?

She said yes. She said she just bought the car yesterday and was reading the owner’s manual but left it at home. She forgot to look up the section on opening the secret door to put in gas. She told me if I could get her gas door opened, I would be her knight in shining armor. Well, how can a guy turn that down? I first tried putting pressure on the door, and that did not work. So I walked to the driver’s door, opened it, and looked down by the seat. I saw this lever that had a gas tank on it, so I pulled it and heard the gas door open. It was a nice car, a newer foreign model.

I turned and looked at her and said, My lady, the damsel has been rescued.

I put out my hand and said, I’m Sam, and you are?

Tracy, she said.

We talked for a minute while I was checking her out. I thought she was doing the same to me. She asked me what I did for a living, and I told her I was a cop. She replied she was a reporter for the local paper. I thought to myself, I wonder if she wrote any articles about me and some of my homicide cases.

She stated that my wife must really be happy that I could fix things. I told her I was divorced. She said she was never married. I was thinking, five feet ten inches, 150 pounds, never been married. Wow, she must have a screw loose.

She went to her car, got her purse, reached into it, pulled out a business card, and said, Call me sometime.

I said sure.

She pumped her gas, closed the little door, said, thank you and drove off.

I was driving to work, thinking, Never been married. Yeah, okay, sure, I’ll call her.

I gave it a day and called her at work. She answered and then asked me if I would like to go out for a drink. I said sure. We met at a local pub and had some small talk. She thanked me again for her rescue. I said no problem.

She said she had to go, reached into her purse, grabbed another business card, jotted something on the back, handed it to me, and said, When is the last time you had a good home-cooked meal?

I looked at her, smiled, and said, Years.

How does 7:00 p.m. tomorrow sound?

I said, Great.

She smiled, I smiled, and she left. I left right behind her. She went to the left, and I went to the right.

Yeah, right, I thought, dinner.

The next day was pretty slow. After work, I went home, showered, and watched the clock, waiting to leave. By the address, the drive looked to be about fifteen minutes away. I got to her house, a nice little condo with a security door. I saw her name and buzzed, and the security door opened. Her place was on the second floor. When I got to her condo, the door was ajar. I knocked.

She answered, I’m in the kitchen. Come on in.

I entered, looked around, and thought, Fairly nice place.

She was in the kitchen making a pasta dish that I couldn’t recognize.

Pour us some wine, she said.

I grabbed two glasses and filled them, and she said, Dinner is ready.

We sat, ate, and talked some, and she said, Want some dessert?

I said, Sure. What are we having?

She said, Me.

She got up and put out her hand. I got up, took her hand, and followed her to the bedroom.

The sex was great. I left at about midnight. She was asleep, so I quietly left her condo. I locked her door, drove home, and thought, Something ain’t right here.

When I got home, I went straight to sleep. The next day, I got to work and called her. She said she had a great time. I said I did also. We continued seeing each other for a couple of years; everything was going great. She came to my place, and we had some great sex. One night, while lying there, she said, Want to get married?

I took about ten seconds and said, Sure.

We took some time off, flew to Vegas for a few days, and then came back to reality. Wow, I finally found the one. She was going to sell her condo and move in with me. I said, Great. She said it would take a week or two. I said no problem. She was going to pack things up and move in with me. I told her to take her time. She was going to stay at her place until it was sold and would continue to pack. She said she would be busy so wouldn’t be able to talk for a few days. I did not hear from her after the third day, so I called her at work.

A guy picked up the phone and said, Tracy no longer works here. She quit her job.

He told me she took another job across the country with another paper. I asked which one, and he told me. I called the paper and asked for her, and she answered.

I said, Hi, what is going on?

She said, I want a divorce, and hung up.

So back to the present, I have no wife and here I am, seven days until mandatory age retirement. I am going over paperwork, making sure all the t’s are crossed and i’s are dotted. Wow, seven days, what am I going to do for fun after that? I guess I could always try marriage again. Some people say police have one of the highest divorce rates. I think they are wrong. I think police have the highest divorce rate.

Throughout the day, people have been coming in, saying their goodbyes, and talking about old cases we worked on together—you know, the poop of the past. I wish they would leave me alone. It’s going to be hard enough leaving this place, but oh well, retirement is yet another fact of life.

So here I am, talking to my partner, Ed. He has a desk next to mine. It is almost noon, so I ask Ed where he wants to go to lunch. He says the corner café is good; he has a craving for a BLT. I say that sounded pretty good. Then all of a sudden, in walks the captain, probably going to say goodbye. I just wish people would leave me alone. Let me get this stuff done, and then I can get out of Dodge. What am I going to do? Maybe I will be a private investigator. I really enjoy the job. I don’t know, but I still have seven days to make up my mind. I could travel the country or maybe even the world. I don’t know, but I still have seven days.

The captain hands me a piece of paper with an address on it. I ask what it was for.

Can’t you read? he says.

Yeah, I can read.

He says, Take Ed with you.

I get up, grab my gun from my top desk drawer, and look at Ed who is doing the same. We walk to the door, and just as I get ready to turn right toward the door to the parking lot, the captain yells, Alaskan, you got seven days!

I turn to him and nod yes, and Ed and I walk out to the car.

Ed and I get in the car. I hand him the piece of paper with the address on it.

He looks at it and says, Great neighborhood.

The drive is about ten minutes, and the location is in an area of abandon warehouses and old apartment buildings. It’s a neighborhood where no one lives, and the city should just knock everything down and make it into an airport.

We find the location, an abandoned warehouse, and pull into the side parking lot next to a squad car. We get out of the car and look at the warehouse. It’s a two story building with one thousand windows, 990 of which are cracked or broken. Next to the parking lot is an old funeral home. It looks like it was closed about one hundred years ago.

As Ed and I walk in the side door we nod to a patrol officer and look around. I think to myself, I am sure glad I am not allergic to dust.

We walk around. I holler, Police. Anyone here?

I hear, Yeah, over here.

Ed and I walk to the right, and there is this guy