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CHAPTER 7
January 8, 1979
The alarm woke Dean at 6:47 a.m. Darkness still clung to Zion, and the way the wind scratched at the windows and the cold made everything seem more fragile than it really was told him it would be yet another bitter cold day. He rolled onto his back, felt a small tinge of guilt about the twenty he pocketed, and chased it away lighting a cigarette.
After he stubbed half of it out, he unrolled the heavy quilt over him and got up. He took a long, extra hot shower before wandering from the master bedroom down the hall past Jenny’s room and a spare bedroom. The kitchen was small, but he did not need a big one for what little he did in it. He made a pot of coffee, grabbed the Zion Beacon from the front porch, and dusted off the ice crystals. He lit a cigarette and poured himself a mug of coffee, splashing in a finger of Wild Turkey.
The Beacon was informed of Nimitz’s death too late to get it into this edition, but he expected it would have something the next day. Instead, the front feature story was about the fall of the Pol Pot regime in Cambodia and the victory of the insurgents and their ally the Vietnamese army, which had invaded just this past Christmas. The Khmer Rouge defeated. No surprise. He drifted back to his time in Vietnam, marching through the jungle and avoiding being killed. He poured another coffee. The local news focused on how the money for snow removal was disappearing faster than planned. The colder, snowier than expected winter was wreaking havoc with the city budget.
He threw the Beacon into the trash beneath the sink and tossed the dregs of his coffee into the sink. He set the mug in the base of the sink and filled it half with water. After he grabbed his coat and donned the campaign hat, he walked into the garage.
He lifted the garage door, pulling with extra effort to free up the edge that had frozen to the concrete overnight. He started the cruiser, pulled the car back, stepped out of the car, closed the garage door, and jumped back into the front seat. He waited a few minutes and then cranked the heat to high as he made his way into town, which was quiet. The few commuters drove their cars with months of winter plastered along the sides and snow gripping the back bumpers.
The Town Council house, which hosted the mayor’s office as well, was two blocks off the main square, which functioned as a large traffic circle. From Dean’s home, he entered and passed the first two turnoffs for the third. The square was dominated by the courthouse. The building, constructed between 1887 and 1890, was a two-story, red brick building dotted with cream brick embellishments. Four entrances, one on each side of the square, were covered by arches. A center clock tower, rising an additional two stories above the main building was added in 1902, though the bricks were not exactly the same, those of the tower a less vibrant red. A wrought-iron fence came out to the edge of the square’s interior sidewalk. Dean passed the four-pounder Revolutionary War cannon that local history insisted turned a British platoon of grenadiers invading from Canada early in the war—an event celebrated with undue bombast and pride every June.
Outside the courthouse, the square consisted of two-story buildings with a variety of facades featuring a number of businesses, including restaurants, law firms, a dress and suit shop, the cinema playing Superman, and Gable’s Hardware and Seed.
He parked the car at the station and walked to the Square Meal. The front door was frosted over, obscuring the Open sign he knew was there. The warm air hit him and he saw those sitting at the tables nearest the door shiver. Dean closed the door behind him and walked up to the counter. Mayor Conner Phelps and a few of the ward members, including Joe Banks and Eric Wallace, sat at their normal table toward the back. If you were lucky enough to get elected as a alderman in the town, it did not mean anything unless you were invited to the mayor’s breakfast table. Rumor had it that Phelps purposively kept some on the outs just to demonstrate his power, which he had lorded over the city since the early Sixties, taking over after his father.
Debbie Josephs, chewing gum even at that hour of the day, sat a mug of coffee on the counter. Dean looked up and smiled. “Thanks.”
She winked and carried the hot pot of coffee back to the machine. Dean lit a cigarette. He looked over at the mayor’s table. He shook his head and turned away. A big fish in a very tiny pond was the mayor. He would be squashed by any Brooklyn or Bronx councilman’s clerk. He picked up the copy of the Beacon sitting on the counter just so he would have something to read.
After finishing three cups of coffee and his normal breakfast of two scrambled eggs, bacon, and wheat toast, he walked back to the station, leaving the mayor and his cabal ruling over the city.
Laura, her shoulder-length brown hair at least a decade out of style, greeted him as he entered. He passed Etheridge Stone, the sergeant and supervisor of the patrol officers, at his desk. Stone, the only black man serving in Zion’s government, had none of the bearings of a sergeant. Wiry and with an Afro cut just under the maximum length allowed by the chief, he was six years older than Dean. He had known drill instructors and Marines tougher than anyone else but none as skinny and seemingly benign as Etheridge. The sergeant was putting on his coat to head out to patrol. Dean stopped by his desk.
“Hey,” said Etheridge.
“Morning, sergeant.” Dean called him sergeant despite Etheridge’s protests. “Did you hear about the body we found?”
“I did. I did. Kid named Billy Nimitz, right?”
“That’s the one.”
“Sad thing.”
“It is. So we’re not sure yet if it was suicide or homicide. The way the body was, where the gun was at, I don’t think it was suicide. But we got to wait on Doc Cotton. Anyways, if you hear anyone talking about it or anything like that, take it down. Bring it back to me. Okay?”
“Sure thing. No one’s been murdered in this town since sixty-eight.”
“Yeah, Freddie. And keep an eye out for William’s car. A seventy-three Dodge Challenger. It’s canary yellow and has a black hood stripe.”
Etheridge nodded and put his cap on.
Dean retreated to his desk, grabbing a cup of coffee along the way. At his desk, he looked around, and then poured a finger of whiskey from his flask into the cup. He took off his coat and took a drink before walking back and turning right near Laura’s desk and into the records room. A wall of gray and tan filing cabinets stood before him. They were ordered by types of crime or reported crime. Moving violations dominated along with other misdemeanors. He found the cabinets for miscellaneous felonies—filed there because of how few a year occurred. The armed robberies, murders, stolen vehicles, and so on entered this corner of the records. Dean assumed that William Nimitz’s disappearance would appear here.
He opened the cabinet and searched in the late December time frame, but did not find the file. He closed the drawer and walked back out and to Laura.
“Morning.”
She smiled. “What can I do for you?”
“Two things. Can you put out an APB for William Nimitz’s seventy-three Dodge Challenger. You’ll need to call to get the plate number. Once you have that, make sure the sergeant gets it, too.” Dean watched her write the information down and look back up at him. “Also, I’m looking for the Nimitz missing person file. Did Guthrie file it in something other than miscellaneous?”
“No, I don’t know where he put it.”
He looked down the room at Guthrie’s empty desk. “Is he out someplace?”
“Yes. Some burglary out on Somers Avenue.”
Dean nodded and walked back to his desk to await Guthrie’s return. He took a small stack of paperwork that had been sitting on his desk’s inbox. The top memo provided a few updates on legal changes. The next described a shift in policy for using the assigned police vehicle for personal use. The final was a thank-you letter from Gary Bent for assistance when his house was broken into while on vacation. He read through them all, killing time.
Dean’s dad walked in around ten in the morning, handing his hat and overcoat in well-practiced form to Laura. He paused at the edge of her desk and looked down at Dean and nodded before disappearing into his office.
At eleven-thirty, Dean walked back to Laura’s desk and asked her to get Guthrie on the radio. She turned around in her chair and grabbed the handset, turned up the volume, and said, “Unit 142?”
They waited a half minute or so. Laura looked at Dean and he nodded. “Unit 142?”
“142.”
Dean waved for the handset. “142 this is 141.”
“Go 141.”
“Status?”
“Leaving scene now.”
“Destination?”
“Follow up on potential suspect.”
“Lunch?”
“What’s that 141?”
“Lunch?”
“Copy that. I’ll swing back to HQ.”
“I’ll be here 142. 141 out.”
“142 out.” Dean handed the handset back to Laura. “Thanks.”
She took it from him and smiled.
As Dean turned to walk away, he heard from his dad’s office, “Goddamnit, this is not a county case. The Pratt farm—and you damn well know it—is in city property.” Dean shook his head and walked back to his desk. If the sheriff or state police were calling about jurisdiction, the other could not be far behind.
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