McCoy turned to enter his cruiser, then turned back. “Oh Mica? You might want to get that into maintenance for a new bar. They can replace it in minutes. I know, I’ve had two replaced in my year on the force.”
“Damn, boy, you’re hell on those things, aren’t you? I’ll get right over there. Thanks and have a safe day,” he said, starting the engine.
He remembered taking McCoy under his wing right after he joined the force. Fresh from Middle East deployment, he left the army in hopes of a safer, calmer life. On occasion his PTSD would strike, sucking him back into the hellish images of his nightmares. He was always there for him when that happened; like a father-son bond, there were no words spoken, but McCoy knew.
Chuckling, McCoy answered, “Just the luck of the Irish, I guess,” and entered his cruiser. With a quick wink, he was gone.
He thought on McCoy’s last comment, scratched his head, and slowly wound through the parked cruisers into the maintenance garage.
“Hey Magic Mica! Que pasa?” Greeting him, Juan Moreno, a burly middle-aged mechanic dressed in blue denim overalls, left his rack and walked up to his window. Moreno glanced up at the light bar and mocked, “Awww… what happened? Did your ride get a boo-boo?”
“Not funny, Moreno. Can you fix it? I’m on my way out.”
“Sure, Mica. No problemo. Ten minutes max. Why don’t you go into our waiting lounge and pour a cup. Today, we’ve got donuts, too. Only one per customer.”
He smiled. He loved his job, and instances like this made him feel special. “I only wish I could get this kind of service in the outside world, Juan. You guys are always great.”
“Muchas gracias, señor. We try harder because you troopers need us to keep your cruisers troopin’. Without us you’d all be joggin’ behind speeders, cursin’ and yelling, ‘Come back here.’” He accented his wit with a chortle.
Laughing, he exited his cruiser, and headed toward the lounge. “Come get me when you’re done. I’ll be by the donuts. Thanks, Juan.”
Twelve minutes and two donuts later, Moreno entered the room. He was still chewing the last bite of donut. Damn, he caught me, he thought. Sheepishly smiling, he muffled, “Sowwy. I couldn’t stop at one.”
“Well señor, you can shine on, now.”
He swallowed quickly. “Thank you, Juan. You light up my life.”
Moreno snickered and walked to the door behind him.
Approaching his cruiser, he peered inside and with a grin said, “Hey thanks Juan for cleaning out my trash mess. I never find time to dump my cups and they just accumulate.”
“De nada, Officer Mica. Yours was cleaner than most.”
He entered the cruiser, started the engine, and began to drive away. As he rolled up his window, he heard Juan calling his name. He stopped, looked back in the mirror, and saw Juan running after him.
Shortly, Moreno appeared at his window and with an urgent tone said, “Mica, I forgot. I found this wedged between your passenger seat and the door.” Huffing and puffing he held out a white envelope.
After retrieving a clear plastic evidence bag from his glove compartment, he opened it and offered the opening to Moreno. “Put it in there, Juan. I don’t know what it is but we don’t want more than one set of prints on it.”
“Okay. Okay, I’ll do that.” With a shaking hand, he carefully dropped the envelope into the bag. Suddenly Moreno felt he was involved in some sinister master plan to end the world. Little did he know he was almost right.
“It’s not yours?” Moreno questioned.
“No, Juan. I’ve never seen it before. Is this another one of your jokes? I’ve heard about your pranks with our patrol cars. Some of them were not so nice.”
“Oh Dios mio no, Officer Mica. I found it there just now.” He pointed through the open window to the passenger seat-door gap and continued, “It looked like it had blown in there. It was standing on a corner ready to fall out the door as I opened it. I caught it before it fell.”
He studied Moreno’s face, seeking truth, then directed his attention to the bag. Flipping the envelope over several times, he stopped at the front cover and spoke its message, “News flash! WMDs. A tale of Adam.” He looked up to Moreno and asked, “Does that mean anything to you, Juan?”
Moreno thought on it briefly, then nodded and answered, “Long ago, I remember the junior George Bush searching for WMDs, whatever they were, but he never found any. Of course, I know Adam was the first human. In my religion, we believe that he and Eve ate the fruit of the forbidden tree in the Garden of Eden. It taught them the difference between good and evil. Then they were cast out by God for committing the original sin. The devil made them do it.”
He mulled Moreno’s answer over in his mind. It agreed with his knowledge. “Hmm,” he said, “I’ll have to get this to our chief. It could be something or it could be nothing. I just can’t imagine how it got into my cruiser.”
Moreno shook his head. “Me neither. I certainly didn’t put it there.” He paused, then asked, “Do you ever leave your windows down?”
Squinting in thought, he remembered, “I have left them cracked a few times on really hot days to vent the heat out… but the doors are always locked.” He frowned and continued, “I suppose anyone could have dropped it in on one of those days. I just don’t know.”
Moreno raised an eyebrow. “That’s what it looked like to me. Just like someone thought it was a mail drop.”
“Well, okay Juan, I gotta go. Time to save the world from themselves again. Thanks for your help… and the new light bar.” He winked, rolled up the window, and drove off to his daily route.
THE O.C.
Nearing six p.m. Briscoe turned off the I-5 onto Camino Capistrano and pulled into the yard, parked his car and entered his home CHP office in San Juan Capistrano, or SJC as the locals called it. Resolutely, he strode through the empty hallways with the envelope in his hand, eager to hand it over to his chief.
His sigh of disappointment echoed down the hall as he stood, staring into the darkened empty office. He checked the nameplate by the door, wondering of he remembered correctly, and saw it there: Chief Humberto Azul, CHIEF: Capistrano Area, Border division.
He looked at his watch, knowing the offices closed at five p.m. but hoping some late worker might still be around. “Hey, is anybody still here?” he called out, expecting an answer. He knew someone must be there; the back door was unlocked.
A tiny female voice echoed down the hallway, “Just little ole me.”
“Where are you?” he asked, trying to locate the sound source.
“Room 156.”
Following the sound, he roamed the hall checking room numbers as he went. The increasing trend meant he was on the right track. Then he saw the illumination from the room spilling into the hallway. A few steps later, he stood in the doorway, the envelope still in his hand.
Seated at her busy desk, a slight white-haired Aunt Bee looked up at him over her bifocals and asked, “And what can I do for you on this beautiful evening, officer?”
With no other option than to smile at her radiant charm, Briscoe held out the bagged envelope and said, “I’m sorry to bother you ma’am but a maintenance worker found this in my cruiser this morning. I’m trying to get it to the chief.”
She glanced at the envelope. “Oh. Then it must be important. Is it addressed to him?”