“Ditches?”
“The irrigation ditches. The most probable place. To be frank with you, if I had to get rid of the dead body, I would do exactly this: stick it in a ditch.”
“Ah! So why did we start in the thicket?”
Another child of concrete jungles! But of course: he is from the Western slums, on the other side of the 'Fill. They have no agriculture in there, just recycling workshops.
“We started in the thicket, sir, because at eight in the morning only bona fide masochists can clean the ditches. We must wait for the sun to rise a bit higher.”
He should try it himself once – just for his education: stand waist-deep in cold water and shovel heavy silt. Through our school years, my little brother and I had plenty of such experience. We had to clean ditches and carry water for two or three hours every day after school, on Saturdays – all day long, and even a half-day on Sunday. Admittedly, before my eleventh birthday, I also was a child of concrete jungles, one hundred percent. A refined city dweller: from the upper middle class neighborhood, attending a posh British private school. A straight-A student, nicely packed in navy-blue jacket, shiny black shoes and with Eton straw hat! But then came the Meltdown. My father was shot dead by robbers. My mother had no choice but to grab my brother and me and run away from snow to the South. And here in Houston, the posh private school boys had to acquire some very different skills, shiny shoes off, head-first in the mud. In fact, on a hot summer day, the ditch-cleaning and water-fetching are not unpleasant at all. At least in comparison with all the other slum kids' chores. Weeding veggie beds is easy but damn boring. But what really sucks is cow-dunging. You don't know what the cow-dunging is? Collecting and drying the cow dung – for fuel!
“I've got to ask you, sir,” I begin extracting information from the Deputy Investigator, “Are we positive the dead body really exists?”
“The CSIs checked the blood from the screwdriver. It's human, A-plus type. If there is human blood, there must be a dead body.”
“And did they check the son's blood? I mean: Victor Chen's?”
“He's zero-plus.”
“This means… They're not father and son, are they?”
“This means absolutely nothing. Python said: it depends on what blood type Victor's Mom had. He started mumbling something about genetics and probabilities, I didn't understand much.”
“Still, it's possible to determine the father. By the DNA test, right?”
“Yeah! As if our Major is going to sign for a DNA kit! His favorite song: the budget is tight. Well, if we find the body he may allow the DNA check… On the second thought, if we find the body today there will be no DNA. We will use the face recognition software and the fingerprints. The fingerprints are cheap.”
“What did Victor Chen say?”
“Nothing, goddammit! He decided to use the Fifth Amendment,” Woxman spits in front of his shiny army boots.
“Did he ask for an attorney?”
“He wisely refused. Said: for a real lawyer I have no money, but I am ready to give a little to your free shit attorney, so he stays out of this business. As far as possible. To be honest, I would say the same. The free pettifoggers are no damn good.”
“So… There may be no dead body at all?”
“Shit if I know. What about the blood? Human blood? Tom phoned through the private practices and hospitals. Nobody came in with a screwdriver hole. As the matter of fact, nobody of the Chen's age came in with any knife hole or bullet hole yesterday.”
“Too bad.”
“Freaking bad.” He spits again. “If we don't find the body, we will have a dead case.”
“And if we find?”
“Also no good. A dead case too. The gut-driver has no fingerprints.”
“But Chen himself brought the gut-driver to the Beat!”
“So what? As I said yesterday. If only you and Kate took the written statement! But without it…”
“Kate can state under oath what Victor Chen told her at the Beat.”
“It will not work, Deputy. Shove up your ass the statements of your legless cripple.”
Our Deputy Investigator is very strange. As soon as you believe you can talk to him in civilized manner, he says something offensive or stupid.
“Hey-yo! Who do ya call a legless cripple? Wanna bloodied nose?”
“Oh, I am so sorry, Deputy,” Woxman backs up.
For a second or two I ponder if I should give him the bloodied nose irrespective of his apologies. About my ass I'd swallow it with no second thought: we're not at the White House diplomatic reception, and I am not the Ambassador General of the Politically Correct Republic. But why, for God sake, he's called my wife a cripple? Well, Kate has no legs, so what? The United States are at war with half of the world, so in every third family we have a disabled vet. And talking about my Kate, she is not that disabled. On her skateboard she can go faster than most people with two good legs. Fetching six gallons of water – on her skate, believe it or not. And all the rest: cleaning, dish-washing, cooking… Well, scratch the last one – the cooking is not her strong point. But her missing culinary skills have nothing to do with her missing legs. Besides, she is a fellow Police officer, Woxman should have some professional respect.
The last hurricane and the floods – Tan, Kate and I built an improvised raft, and went around the Slum saving kids. Kate got herself the Lifesaving Award instead of the Medal of Valor, but only because at that time she was very new to the Police, the second-week trainee, so what. Still, way better than our hero Deputy Woxman, who rescued printers and computers at the Station! And with all the above, my Kate has much better brains that our brand-new Deputy Investigator Woxman! Woxman is a damn cripple himself, no gray matter in the head.
“I can't say how sorry I am, sir,” Woxman mumbles after an uneasy pause. “I do apologize for my words. It's so stupid of me to call Kate… legless.”
“For the ‘legless’ you don't need to apologize at all. Kate doesn't mind. How else do you call a person with no legs? But never ever call her a cripple, OK? Just to be sure, could you be so kind to avoid any disability-related definitions in the future? Your apology is accepted.” My temper cools down. We can get by without giving this idiot a bloodied nose.
“I will avoid. No more disability-related definitions. To be honest, I was a bit upset you two did not take the written statement. Unfortunately, Missis Kate Bowen, with all due respect, could not be the prosecution witness. She could state in the court that Victor Chen appeared at such and such time in your Beat office with this particular bloodied rag and this particular gut-driver in his hand. And whatever Chen was saying to her at that time, any half-competent defense attorney would smash to smithereens.”
“But Victor Chen told me the same thing, on the way to his house.”
“The same problem. He told you, he didn't write it down. You know what is going to happen? At the trial, Chen will demand a Mandarin-to-English interpreter. And through the interpreter he will tell the jury: the Police officers at the Beat misunderstood me. Due to my poor English! Then the defense will call you and Kate. Do you speak Mandarin, Deputy Kim? Are you fluent in Mandarin, Missis Bowen? End of the story.”
“And what if Victor Chen did not kill his father? What if it was someone else?”
“Who cares? It's a dead case, anyhow.”
Naturally, who cares? Sending an innocent man to the gallows is no big deal. Woxman only cares about his first independent case. He must show results! There must be a court conviction, whoever the poor bastard is.
So bad there is no cell phone coverage. Would be real nice to call someone and ask for advice. At the Station they do have some experienced officers: the FBI Special Agent, the Chief Medical Examiner, our sergeants. Even Python Tom will do. Both Woxman and I have zero experience in the murder cases. It's not like through my five years with the Police I have not seen any murders, but beat deputies are not to investigate any serious crimes. Our specialty is armed robberies (strictly with no casualties), theft, con artists, domestic violence, unlicensed prostitution and drunk misdemeanor. And in the murder cases, our role is reduced to mere helpers: to guard the crime scene, to interview the neighbors, to search for the body – as we do today… Woxman, with his six years of night shifts at the Station, has even less experience than Tan and I. Presumably, they assigned him to this case because the case looked like a no-brainer. Two Chinamen had a family fight. The son stabbed his Dad with a screwdriver and ran to the Police with a confession. But the case turned out way more complicated…