description had purchased a semi-automatic there the day before the murders. Unbelievable as it seemed, Frank figured that Douglas' execution had been planned, that the guy had intended to go into seclusion, henceforth needing every penny he could get his hands on. The very next day, Douglas tried to return the gun to the pawn shop and get his two-hundred back. Just as Frank had guessed.
Instinct he bragged. Not psychic. They needled him anyway.
A visit to any precinct in the 'Big Apple' would unquestionably find a flurry of caged decadence within its walls: restless teenagers sporting handcuffs, fidgeting in their seats as desk officers questioned their immoral activities; prostitutes with prune-sized bruises on their faces claiming they were just 'hanging around'; scofflaws screaming at the tops of their lungs, emphatically insisting their innocence. Today was no different at the 13th. They were all there, a movie rerun for the thousandth time, a front row seat for Frank. If he had gone to work today at the 12th, he'd find much of the same.
All of a sudden, the doors to the precinct slammed open behind him. A shirtless vagrant appeared, scraggly beard crawling halfway down the front of his chest. Two cops had him by the arms, wrists cuffed behind himâFrank's sharp memory recognized one of the officers from the crime scene early this morning. The vagrant was screaming in a raspy voice about aliens from outer space who were trying to steal his empty deposit cans. Frank shifted aside, watching curiously as the cops shoved the bum forward, forcefully leading him through the office to the 'backroom'. Every precinct had a backroom, a row of cells where criminals were detained for a short period until they were either sent off to prison or released on their own recognizance. Lovely place. Always lots to see. Â Â
A half-dozen metal folding chairs ran along the perimeter of a small waiting area. A frail looking elderly man with an unkempt beard and one clouded eye occupied one. He utilized his good eye to gaze up at Frank. Ahead, behind a sign-in desk, a middle-aged desk sergeant sat thumbing through a stack of paper.
"Help you?" he asked, eyes glued to his paperwork.
Frank stuck his detective's badge under the cop's nose. "Frank Ballaro for Captain Rodriguez."
The cop looked up. A show of regard livened the features on his face. "Ah, Detective. Captain Rodriguez told me to expect you. I'll tell him you're here."
"Thanks." Frank glanced around. A few cops were laughing out loud, making cracks about the crazy man; his pleading cries about aliens were still audible even from behind the closed doors of the back room.
"He's right, you know..."
Frank twisted his neck towards the voice. The man with the clouded eye still gazed at him, straggles of hair escaping the worn Yankees cap he wore. "Pardon?"
"The aliens. They are here." His voice sounded like a distorted stereo speaker, and as he spoke drool dribbled from his toothless grin. "And they're covering it up," he whispered, pointing to the offices where the police were working.
Frank raised an eyebrow. "I'll have to keep an eye out, then."
"You do that." The man smiled, wet lips flattened against each other like two slimy worms.
"Shut up!" The cop behind the desk. "Sorry 'bout that."
Frank placed a hand on the desk. "He's harmless."
"He's nuts. Like the rest of them. Been here three times this month." He leaned forward, smiling. "Said the aliens are here."
"Must be catching."
"Huh?"
"The guy they just brought in."
The desk sergeant laughed. "Yeah, they're a dime a dozen. By the way, nice job."
"Sorry?"
"On the Lindsay case."
Frank smiled halfheartedly, nodded. "Thanks." Damn , he thought. Bobby Lindsay, out on bail. It had escaped him for a moment. Being reminded of it now suddenly triggered the vexatious, irrational side of his personality, the same one that had creeped up on him early this morning, tempting him to splatter the rat in the gutter.
Instinct he bragged. Not psychic. They needled him anyway.
A visit to any precinct in the 'Big Apple' would unquestionably find a flurry of caged decadence within its walls: restless teenagers sporting handcuffs, fidgeting in their seats as desk officers questioned their immoral activities; prostitutes with prune-sized bruises on their faces claiming they were just 'hanging around'; scofflaws screaming at the tops of their lungs, emphatically insisting their innocence. Today was no different at the 13th. They were all there, a movie rerun for the thousandth time, a front row seat for Frank. If he had gone to work today at the 12th, he'd find much of the same.
All of a sudden, the doors to the precinct slammed open behind him. A shirtless vagrant appeared, scraggly beard crawling halfway down the front of his chest. Two cops had him by the arms, wrists cuffed behind himâFrank's sharp memory recognized one of the officers from the crime scene early this morning. The vagrant was screaming in a raspy voice about aliens from outer space who were trying to steal his empty deposit cans. Frank shifted aside, watching curiously as the cops shoved the bum forward, forcefully leading him through the office to the 'backroom'. Every precinct had a backroom, a row of cells where criminals were detained for a short period until they were either sent off to prison or released on their own recognizance. Lovely place. Always lots to see. Â Â
A half-dozen metal folding chairs ran along the perimeter of a small waiting area. A frail looking elderly man with an unkempt beard and one clouded eye occupied one. He utilized his good eye to gaze up at Frank. Ahead, behind a sign-in desk, a middle-aged desk sergeant sat thumbing through a stack of paper.
"Help you?" he asked, eyes glued to his paperwork.
Frank stuck his detective's badge under the cop's nose. "Frank Ballaro for Captain Rodriguez."
The cop looked up. A show of regard livened the features on his face. "Ah, Detective. Captain Rodriguez told me to expect you. I'll tell him you're here."
"Thanks." Frank glanced around. A few cops were laughing out loud, making cracks about the crazy man; his pleading cries about aliens were still audible even from behind the closed doors of the back room.
"He's right, you know..."
Frank twisted his neck towards the voice. The man with the clouded eye still gazed at him, straggles of hair escaping the worn Yankees cap he wore. "Pardon?"
"The aliens. They are here." His voice sounded like a distorted stereo speaker, and as he spoke drool dribbled from his toothless grin. "And they're covering it up," he whispered, pointing to the offices where the police were working.
Frank raised an eyebrow. "I'll have to keep an eye out, then."
"You do that." The man smiled, wet lips flattened against each other like two slimy worms.
"Shut up!" The cop behind the desk. "Sorry 'bout that."
Frank placed a hand on the desk. "He's harmless."
"He's nuts. Like the rest of them. Been here three times this month." He leaned forward, smiling. "Said the aliens are here."
"Must be catching."
"Huh?"
"The guy they just brought in."
The desk sergeant laughed. "Yeah, they're a dime a dozen. By the way, nice job."
"Sorry?"
"On the Lindsay case."
Frank smiled halfheartedly, nodded. "Thanks." Damn , he thought. Bobby Lindsay, out on bail. It had escaped him for a moment. Being reminded of it now suddenly triggered the vexatious, irrational side of his personality, the same one that had creeped up on him early this morning, tempting him to splatter the rat in the gutter.
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