A Detective's Odyssey

By Gilbert McLeod

A Detective's Odyssey is a story of Warren Carey, a police detective, that begins, from a simple police report, a search for a brother from whom he was separated and believed died in childhood may be alive. His search uncovers corruption, and a Dark Brotherhood with tentacles that reach around the world. He also finds love and a mystical elixir that bestows health and longevity but burdens him with a necessity to conceal it from all but a select few.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781643348889

Book preview

Chapter 1

How to Begin

It was the year 2000, and Detective Warren Carey sat alone in the back of Cristina’s Café. Occasionally he took a sip from an ice-cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer, carefully studying the condensate as it slid down the side of the bottle. Behind him, Warren could hear Cristina giving orders to the cook. She spoke in the long, singsong syllables of her Mexican homeland. She and her café were friends of the Newton-area cops.

If one of the older officers who hired on with the Los Angeles Police Department during the fifties and sixties was in trouble, he frequently sought out Cristina’s Café. It didn’t matter what the problem was—a bad shooting, a divorce, or family illness. These men were a small cadre of tough cops whose heyday existed in a past without computers, cordless phones, handheld radios, Tasers, or mace. Cristina always welcomed them with their favorite brand of beer and the best food in the house. No bill was ever presented, but the tips left behind always far exceeded Cristina’s costs. Cristina nudged her husband, Al, an Asian who spoke English with precise clarity and who always followed his wife’s directions exactly. She gestured toward Warren’s seated motionless form. Al nodded, walked over and sat down in the booth across from Warren and said, Haven’t seen you in months.

Warren looked up, forcing his thoughts back to the present as he replied, I need some time, Al. We’ll talk later. Al understood and quietly moved away. Watching from a distance, Cristina turned back to preparing the day’s menu. Where she had gained her empathy for the men in blue, no one knew, but the officers could feel it and knew it was real.

Three days before, Warren had learned his younger brother, whom he had been told had died many years ago, might be alive. Warren’s thoughts, flowing as easily as a fast-moving river rushing down a steep grade, carried him back in time thirty years.

His memories, untarnished by the passing years, saw him standing in a dark, dingy room staring down at his mother’s lifeless form. Torn, filthy curtains were blowing inward on a steady breeze as a large hypodermic with its dull, bent point rolled a quarter turn before stopping. Warren still could feel the anguished, immobile tension of his younger brother, Graham, who stood looking blankly at his mother’s sprawled form.

As if the images were in the living present, Detective III Warren Carey felt his little brother’s fingers tighten in his hand. Warren could still sense the desperation expressed in Graham’s wide blue eyes. In that moment of vivid memory, he felt, with an unshakable certainty, his brother was alive.

The ringing of the café entrance bell returned Warren to his original purpose. The off-duty patrol watch commander walked in with a young copper in tow. The young officer had been involved in a shooting. He had killed a man with one shot through the heart. Per department regulations, the officer had been placed on light duty pending an investigation of the incident. The officer had nothing to worry about. He had fired in self-defense.

That was yesterday. He had responded exactly as he was trained. Today, the enormity of his action weighed heavily on him. He had settled into a morose self-questioning remorse that no one could penetrate.

As the men walked by, the watch commander signaled Warren to follow. Warren nodded, gently eased himself out of his booth, and followed his two comrades into a small room that only a select few knew existed.

In the secluded room, an officer already waiting withdrew a fifth of J&B Scotch from a brown paper bag, a gift from Winnie’s at the liquor store near 8th and San Pedro. Half-dozen plastic cups followed the scotch out of the bag. Within minutes, four more veteran officers entered the room. They joined the others and sat down, quietly pouring three fingers of liquor into their cups. Collectively each man knew he was about to relive the most painful experience of his police career.

In the hours that followed, two bottles of scotch were consumed. As they were slowly emptied, one officer told of his sick child dying as he worked deep undercover beyond the reach of calls from home. Another spoke of a shooting where a bullet he had fired was deflected off a metal door. It struck a pregnant woman, killing her and her unborn child. The officer had watched her die, pleading for someone to save her baby. A third man openly wept as he relived speeding to a call, broadsiding a car and orphaning a recently born set of twins.

Hours later, the tired young officer stood up, his head bowed, and spoke only eight words. I thought I was alone. Thank you, all.

Warren had sat during the many hours listening but not spoken. He understood. The world of mankind was a complicated place. Life’s stories were interwoven with unknowable consequences and unseen and unpredictable connections to the future. The actions of his fellow officers were cast in an unchangeable record of past events.

His own story was still unfolding. His understanding of past events had been challenged by the sudden appearance of a crime report bearing the same name as his brother. Warren wondered and hoped he had entered into an undefined region where his past might be rewritten. All at once, he became acutely aware that most of his life, he had been harboring a deep sense of guilt because he had been unable to protect his little brother. An unreasonable guilt because as a six-year-old, he could have done nothing to prevent his mother’s death, nor could he have taken care of his four-year-old brother. But now he knew he had to find out if his brother was still alive or if his newfound hopes were nothing more than wishful thinking.

As if on a cue, the door opened, and Cristina walked in carrying a large bowl of menudo. Behind her, Al carried bowls and a basket of steaming-hot corn tortillas. Setting down the menudo, she said, For the cruda. Gathering up the cups and empty bottles, they left quietly, closing the door behind them.

Finishing their meal, the wearied officers rose to their feet and walked single file from the room. Each one acknowledged Cristina’s gift of compassion with a slight nod of his head and walked out into the warm California sunshine. Their minds and bodies were exhausted from the emotions of introspection and confession. The lieutenant chose to walk back to the station. His men followed on foot. Each man knew that a crack in the wall that is the thin blue line had been mended.

Chapter 2

A Captain Seems to Understand

Early next morning, Warren sat quietly waiting in Captain Mueller’s office. Most of Mueller’s adult life had been spent in law enforcement. His pride in the Los Angeles Police Department had grown to the point of feeling responsible for future generations of officers.

Mueller was worried. The rank and file were in trouble. Young officers were not being trained by seasoned professionals. They were making every mistake imaginable. Detailed reports defining probable cause, the elements of a crime followed by critical scrutiny of dedicated supervisors, had given way to terse reports that left the defense with little to explore. It also left the officers exposed to lawsuits and memories jumbled with details of a hundred arrests.

Warren wanted to do his part in helping his department relearn its mission. But to fulfill that responsibility, he first needed to fill, or patch over his own emptiness, the loss of his brother had caused.

Captain Mueller entered his office, looked at Warren, and nodded his head almost imperceptibly. He was in his sixties, a Vietnam veteran. In his 38 years on the force, Mueller had watched a thousand young officers come and go. In spirit, he lived in the period that preceded crime labs and chemical tests. He understood the power of persuasion, the art of interrogation, and the nuances of the human condition.

Looking squarely at Warren, the captain asked, What can I do for you?

Warren hesitated before replying, Captain, I need a leave of absence.

That’s it, no explanation, nothing?

It’s not something I can easily explain, Warren said, looking away.

Try me, Mueller answered with a hint of irritation in his voice.

Captain, you know I was adopted, but there are things only I and one other person, if he’s alive, know. That person is my brother, Graham. And until just a few days ago, I believed he was dead. I have a crime report listing a Graham Mann as the victim. Mann was my birth name.

As he finished speaking, Warren noticed Captain Mueller had suddenly become mildly irritated. Warren attributed the Captain’s annoyance to impatience. Mueller eased back in his chair. The department was shorthanded, but the possibility that Warren could find the crime victim and verify his identity was remote. He had seen the report. The victim had failed to list a home address.

Trying to appear supportive, believing Warren would exhaust the few leads the report provided in a matter of days, Mueller gruffly offered, Take as long as you need, but not one day more! Do I have your word on it?

Yes, Captain, thank you, Warren answered. A faint feeling of excitement began to stir, but Warren quickly reprimanded himself for allowing his emotions to run rampant.

As Warren was about to get up from his chair, Mueller said, Wait, just one question. What caused you to think this Graham Mann might be your brother rather than a coincidental similarity?

Warren thought for a few seconds before speaking, When I first read that report, images from the past filled my mind, and I felt an intuitive connection to the victim that I am unable to shake.

The captain nodded. Then why not use accrued overtime or vacation time, that way you’ll have access to department files and computers?

Anxious to start, Warren exclaimed, Great idea, by the way. Thanks for understanding. Once outside Mueller’s office, a wave of exhilaration washed over Warren. He felt as if he was about to embark on a great adventure.

His thoughts unexpectedly turned to his ex-wife, Carol. The long hours of worrying and waiting for him during their marriage had been too much for her. She was a good person, and even though they had not kept in touch, in his own way, Warren still cared for her. Her liveliness and her desire to explore and experience the world firsthand had been the very things that had drawn him to her. But his devotion to the job made it difficult to satisfy her needs. Carol would have understood his hunger to find the younger brother whom Warren wrongly felt he had been unable to protect. The little brother whose frightened, pain-filled eyes staring into his own were imprinted in Warren’s memory for all time.

Chapter 3

The Investigation Begins

Two hours later in a small community near Highway 15, hoping to surprise his parents, Warren walked quietly into the home of his aging and somewhat-fragile adoptive parents. They were sitting at the kitchen table, as they often did. His father was reading as his mother rapidly penciled in the answers to a crossword puzzle.

As Warren moved forward, a board in the kitchen floor creaked. Helen and Carl turned toward the doorway. Their expressions revealed they were unsure what to expect. Once they saw it was Warren, the anxiety quickly turned to delight. Getting up from their chairs, they moved with an energy that belied their age and welcomed their only child.

Within minutes, his mother Helen was at the stove warming a slab of roast beef, whipping up a pot of mashed potatoes, and heating the tasty brown gravy. Nearby an old coffee pot began to percolate as the house filled with mouth-watering aromas only the best cooks can create.

Carl, Warren’s father, watched, reminding his wife not to forget the meringue for the homemade lemon pie she had not let him touch the night before. He wondered if his wife’s undeniable intuitive powers had foretold Warren’s surprising midweek arrival.

Two hours later sitting at the kitchen table with full bellies, Helen waited patiently as she studied her son’s face. She had hoped he had come to talk about a new girlfriend and the promise of grandchildren yet to be born. Hope quickly faded. Instead, she felt the tension secreted behind Warren’s smiling face. She did not question nor pry. She waited. When the fateful question was asked, she was not surprised.

Warren spoke slowly, What led you to believe my brother was dead?

His mother hesitated before answering him, "When you first came home with us, you were depressed. Every day you would ask, ‘Where is my little brother?’ Your father and I pressed the adoption agency for more information, but the officials claimed to have no record of a Graham Mann.

We went to Juvenile Court and were told the only child with the last name of Mann on their files had died. Your father and I struggled to find a way to tell you of your brother’s death, but there is no good way to soften the words that speak of a loved one’s passing. When you first learned of your brother’s death, you seemed to shrink into a silent world populated solely by yourself. In time you adjusted and became the wonderful man I see before me. Helen waited for a look of profound sadness to well up in Warren’s eyes. Instead, all she could detect was an intense expression of hope.

Warren pressed, Then you are not absolutely sure that the child referred to as Mann by the juvenile court was my brother?

There was only one boy in their files with your original last name, Carl replied. Why would we have thought otherwise? He marveled at Warren’s loyalty to his deceased brother, but he worried that Warren might be obsessing over an imagined failure.

Warren smiled, trying to put them at ease. A few days ago, I received a crime report where the victim’s name was Graham Mann. I’ve taken some time off from work. I’m going to find this guy. I need to know if I have a brother or if it is finally time to let his spirit rest. For years I haven’t given Graham much thought. When I read that report, every image of the few years we spent together flooded my mind. I must enter into this quest. I will not be able to truly rest or fulfill my potential until I know if my brother is really alive or exists only in my mind. Pausing, he looked straight at his parents and added, I want you to know that no matter what happens, I will always love both of you.

Before they could respond, he continued, "You know, Mom, I’ve seen your intuitive faculties prove true when reason saw only impossibilities. Maybe some of your psychic powers have rubbed off on me. A minute ago, I used the word quest rather than search. In some strange way, I feel like I am about to begin an unimaginable journey, while logic tells me my investigation will be relatively routine and uneventful."

Helen stared unblinking into Warren’s steady gaze. She saw the past and why Warren had seemed so special to her. Now she knew. They were kindred souls whose spiritual maturity had blessed each of them with the gift of psychic ability. She also knew her son’s life would soon change dramatically. She saw danger, love, and violence, but not victory.

The next morning, Warren was driving north on Highway 15. His destination was the Los Angeles County Hall of Records. He intended to search all the death certificates for the early 1970s.

The files were stored in boxes on a lower-level floor. Because Warren was a detective and known to the aged clerk from prior investigations, he was trusted to work without being scrutinized. He began with high hopes and a nagging sense of dread. He finished with hope fading.

He found a death certificate bearing the name Mann, but it was incomplete. Age was estimated at six years. The coroner’s report indicated cause of death as starvation. The remains had been found in a vacant building a demolition crew was preparing to raze. The first name of the deceased