Oops. I'd forgotten about that. Our schedule went something like this: seven days on, two off; seven on, two off; three on, two off; two on, three off. Yeah, I know. Took some deputies months to get used to that. But the "three off" was a Friday, Saturday, and a Sunday. The only Friday, Saturday, or Sunday we got in a month. Tomorrow was my day off. Sue wanted to go to Madison and a part of me did too. But I knew the other part wouldn't let me.
"Uh, yeah. I guess it is."
"Don't you think you better take it off, then?"
"Not now…"
"Okay," said Lamar. No reason for him to argue that. I'd just go on building up comp time for eternity.
"Maybe I could get next weekend?"
"If you can get somebody to switch," he said. "We're still shorthanded."
When I got home, I explained the situation to Sue. It was one of those times when she got really mad, but was totally reasonable.
"I expected that," she said. "I always expect that."
"Look, I'm really sorry. We can try for next weekend…"
"There's leftovers in the refrigerator," she said. "Scalloped potatoes and ham. I'm going to bed."
As she started up the stairs, I had two choices. One, I could say something apologetic, and she'd start to lose it, and we'd have a fight. Two, I could stay downstairs, and she'd lay awake for an hour, getting madder and madder.
I hate to say it, but I let her go up the stairs. I just didn't have the energy to argue.
I put the scalloped potatoes in the microwave, and heated them up. I took a plateful into the dining room, and ate in silence. I hated that schedule. I hated the size of the department that made you find your own replacement for an unscheduled day off.
The potatoes sat in my stomach like concrete. Most of the ham chunks were still cold. I didn't care enough to take them back to the microwave.
I took my plate out, scraped it off, and decided to go upstairs to bed. I'd just have to say something to Sue, the frustration was building to a point where I wouldn't be able to sleep, anyway.
I got into the bedroom, and Sue was asleep.
I remember counting, lying there, staring at the thin strip of street light coming through the curtain. I remember making a mental note to myself that I had reached 22,500.
18
I woke up, showered, shaved, and went downstairs for coffee. There was a note on the pot from Sue. She and a neighbor gal had gone to Cedar Rapids to shop. She had already taken the day off from school and chose to make the most of it without me. She planned on being back after supper.
There being no point in sitting around the house, I checked the Weather Channel on TV There was a great worm of a jet stream, moving up and down over the Midwest. Huge cold masses were sliding down from Canada into the dips in the stream. We, however, were just getting the benefit of a sort of peak. Warm Gulf air was just moving into the area. The forecaster said we should enjoy it. Shortly, the arctic air would be back as the hump of the jet stream moved east. It was warming up. and forecast to be above twenty degrees most of the day. A "January thaw," as they call it, was in the making. If it got over thirty-two degrees, it would really start to mess up the gravel roads, with standing water, and softened surfaces giving under the wheels of traffic, and making ruts. Then it would freeze hard, again, and those ruts would be like steel trenches. In the meantime, the water on top of a frozen roadbed made for some really greasy driving. They say wet ice on wet ice is the slipperiest surface known… much slipperier than Teflon.
I got to the office at 0842. Three plus hours early, since I was now going on to a noon-to-eight shift.
I found myself wandering about the jail kitchen, waiting for the fresh coffee to brew, when Sally came in at shift change. She came out to the kitchen to store her supper in the refrigerator, and stopped to chat for a few seconds.
"Hiding from work?" she asked.
"Kind of. Just waiting for a phone call…"
She opened the refrigerator door, and put her lunch bag inside. "You making fresh coffee?"
"Yep. Want some? Be glad to pour you a cup."
"Sure. You must want something special," she said, pulling a folding chair up to the long, institutional table.
I interrupted the pot, poured her a cup of coffee, and took it to the table. "Here. Well, yeah, I sort of do."
"Like, what?"
"Well, I'd like to know what impression you got from Inez Borglan, when you talked to her the other day."
"None," said Sally, and took a sip of the coffee. "Strong." She winced, and put the cup down. "To tell you the truth, I was busier than a cat burying shit. I didn't have any 'impressions' of anybody, that day."
"Oh." I went back to the pot, and poured myself three-quarters of a cup, and let the brewing continue.
"That hardly seems worth a cup," she said. "Anything else you need?"
I sat down opposite her. "What can you get me regarding Inez? Or Cletus, for that matter." I took a sip of my own coffee. "Just right. Anyway, I need anything you can dig up. Any criminal history at all, even misdemeanors. Any contacts out of the area, and why."
"It'd help if I had someplace to start. Misdemeanor stuff isn't likely to be in the CCH or NCIC." She was referring to the Computerized Criminal History and the National Crime Information Center. They were very useful as places to start a background check.
"Try the town in Florida where they have their cabin," I suggested.
"Okay…"
"Anything you can find. Anything."
"Do what I can… but I'll tell you right now, this coffee isn't all that good."
There was a knock on the open kitchen door. We looked up, and there stood Shamrock, all big eyes and smiles.
"Mr. Houseman? They said I'd find you back here…" She looked around the room, and her eyes settled on Sally. "Hello, ma'am," she said. "I'm a photographer. Just call me Shamrock."
Oops. Sally stood, drawing herself up to her full five feet. "Ma'am" was referred to as "the M word" around the department. Especially if delivered by a younger woman. "Glad to meet you. I'm a dispatcher. Sally will do. Coffee?"
"Oh, sure. You bet," said Shamrock, coming through the door. She grabbed a chair and pulled it around to the end of the table, then sat.
Sally glared, turned, got a cup from the cupboard, poured the coffee, and set it down in front of the pretty photographer. "Can I get you anything else?" It was a very pointed remark, I thought. I would have said no. I would have said, "No, thank you," in fact.
"Some sugar, maybe?"
I'd seen Sally use chemical Mace on a gal once. The slightly flushed face below her red hair looked very familiar. "Sure. Anything else while I'm at it?"
"No, that's fine," said Shamrock, brightly. Actually, she and Sally were very similar in appearance, except for the hair color. Even with Sally being a good ten years older. Something I made a mental note to never bring up.
Sally came over with a box of sugar cubes. It's really hard for someone of ninety pounds to stomp effectively, so she overcompensated and almost glided across the floor. Tense, kind of, but more like a coiled spring than a stiff board. No. No, more like a stalking cat.
"We went back and we talked to the old dude at the farm and he told us some stuff and I think it's pretty good," said Shamrock. About ready to burst. She was really getting into this.
There was another knock at the door, and Nancy stuck her head in. "Hi?"
Sally sort of knew Nancy. "Hi! Come on in!"
Nancy glanced at Shamrock. "I don't suppose that's decaf," she said.
"Nope, full strength," I said.
"Just what she needs, more zip," said Nancy, pulling up a chair. "Sugar, too, I see?"