Time Clock Hero (3 page)

Carefully and deliberately, Phoenix pushed the door inward, one inch at a time, and then another inch, and then another, until the door gently stopped against something spongy, something that not only refused to budge, but seemed to push back as well.

“Mrs. Buckner,” Phoenix said, his mouth up close to the opening.  “This is Detective Malone, Nashville Police Department.  Will you let me in?”

No answer.

“Mrs. Buckner?”

He heard a soft, delicate moan.

Yep – that’s June
.

Detective Jenkins, without hint or warning, squeezed in beside Phoenix.  She held her thirty-eight in front of her, with the muzzle pointed at the floor, but with her finger off the trigger.  “Just in case,” she said.

“Now, darling, don’t shoot, whatever you do, okay?” Phoenix said as if to a child.

Phoenix didn’t waste any more time.  He turned towards his right and positioned his left shoulder near the edge of the door, listening for any sounds coming from the restroom.  Then he called out to Mrs. Buckner a third time, but louder than he had before, hoping she’d reply.  Suddenly, without any warning to the officers, he backed up and slammed his shoulder into the door.  He heard a heavy bump, loud and sharp, like the sound of somebody’s head hitting a hollow, sheetrock wall.  Then he heard the sound of a body hitting the floor.  He thrust himself past Detective Jenkins, brushing her aside with his right arm, and squeezed through the partially-opened bathroom door.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out an inhaler, and shot his lungs full with the Oblivium Chief Cobb had slipped him.

Phoenix looked down at the floor and felt the blood draining from his face, racing from his brain, down into the pit of his stomach.  Though utterly ruined for the moment by the shock of seeing June Buckner half dressed, in her lacy underwear, but also wearing his dark blue blazer, white shirt, and red tie, he steadied himself and stepped forward.  Her legs, once lightly tanned, now looked the palest of gray.  And her hair, never out of place, seemed nothing less than a tangled snake trap reminiscent of one of Medusa’s hairstyles.

“June?” Phoenix asked, running his left hand through his hair.

June Buckner, whose back was turned towards Phoenix, and whose head lay in the bottom of the urinal, picked herself up in short, jerky, twitchy movements.  She got up onto her knees and clawed at the bathroom stall partition like an animal.  Her teeth began making clicking and clacking noises, like someone playing with their new dentures.

“June?”

In one perilous second, Phoenix came up close behind her, dropped his nightstick with a clang on the floor, and reached for her shoulder. 

Alaia, suddenly seized with a sense of duty, came into the restroom behind him.

“June!” he yelled, and he spun her around.  And, in one fleeting moment, through the tangled mass of hair hanging from her head and the dried blood caked on her face, mouth, and nose, Phoenix Malone saw what he thought might have once been the body and face containing the soul and mind of June Buckner.

Radio stations and late night talk shows chattered about the June Buckner incident within hours of her being dragged from the theater under restraint.  By nine the next morning, the entire nation had tuned in; and by noon, though medical examiners had only started examining Mrs. Buckner, stumped early on by what they were finding, theories began to appear on online news outlets.  One article,
Wife of Famous Banker Suffers Mental Collapse
, held the nation’s attention, appearing first on the internet and then on local Nashville radio.  It went national within an hour of release.  There were other stories, too.  Stories about how June Buckner, under the influence of a hybrid drug, had bitten several people, two of which had become non-responsive in a local hospital.  Half-dressed women walking around the streets of Nashville, so one reporter remarked, was not news.  But a half-naked, crazed woman who bit people was better than anything the SyFy channel could come up with, even after ten-thirty at night.

By noon, at precisely twelve, two things happened.  First, a phone call came into NPD followed immediately by an email.  The email, which stated that Detective Phoenix Malone had been with June Buckner at the Big Coyote Club the night before, was sent directly to Detective Alaia Jenkins.  The source, wishing to remain anonymous, also included a download of the Big Coyote Club’s surveillance footage, footage the informant admitted to having obtained accidentally when hacking into the club’s security system, proving the two had been together.  Second, a Fed Ex courier arrived at the front desk at NPD with an envelope marked urgent and addressed to Detective Malone.  The courier requested to see Detective Malone and waited impatiently for him to arrive.  He got the signature he needed, handed Detective Malone the light-weight envelope, and left.

Five minutes later, after grabbing a cup of Seattle’s Best breakfast blend, Phoenix headed up to his office on the second floor.  He pulled the door behind him nearly to closed, sat down behind his desk, and opened the envelope.  He held it by the sides and shook it.  A newspaper article, folded up two times, slightly yellow on the edges, floated out and onto his desk noiselessly.  He took a sip of coffee and unfolded the clipping.

Phoenix looked at the headline.  When he saw it, he wind-piped a mouthful of hot joe.  He shot up from his chair, coughing and gagging, and he turned towards the wastepaper can on the floor.  He’d have yelled for help if he could’ve, but he lacked the voice, let alone the wind to push it.  All he could do was struggle for air, taking long, slow breaths that didn’t quite seem to do the job, and he thought he would pass out.  He recovered a minute later, but barely, with coffee now soaking the front of his new, white dress shirt. 

He sat back down and picked up the news article. 
Robin Hood Mystery Remains Unsolved
was how the papers carried the story four years earlier.  Today, the case still remained unsolved.

Evidence in the Robin Hood case, a single hard drive, small, sleek, and black, had never been recovered – Phoenix had spirited it away from under the nose of the evidence room clerk nearly four years earlier.  Nobody had seen him take it.  In fact, nobody had seen him enter the room – not even the security cameras – thanks to the man who had called him, who had proved to him beyond the shadow of a doubt that the security system would be down for no less than sixty seconds, and who had dangled ten thousand dollars in front of his nose via a hot, steaming bag of Krystal’s burgers and pups.

Phoenix had taken the offer.  Others in the department had done worse for less.  Officers he’d known had gotten away with things he’d never consider doing, things he could not, because of his conscience, imagine doing in his wildest dreams.  But everybody had to make a living.  His crime was a small one.

So what.  He let the Robin Hood cyberterrorist get away.  A white collar guy who’d hacked into a high-profile First Bank of Nashville savings account and redistributed a hundred million dollars to a hundred thousand households living in the pale squalor of dying East Nashville and other similar areas around the country.

The poor got justice.

Phoenix got the cash.

Robin Hood went free.

And suddenly, all of that history was being replayed to him by whoever had sent him the news article.  Someone was watching, Phoenix thought.  Somebody must have wanted something; and this idea dropped into his cerebral cortex so quickly, with such certainty and assurance, that he knew beyond question that he was being blackmailed or propositioned or both.

Phoenix folded up the newspaper article and set it neatly in the front drawer of his desk and locked it away.  He slumped back into his black office chair.  On any other day, he would’ve panicked – and maybe that’s what he’d do tomorrow.  But not today, thanks to another round of Oblivium.  He slid his chair backwards, gliding effortlessly across the brown, mottled carpet, and turned around to the left like a child spinning on a barstool in an ice cream shop.  He opened the middle drawer of a tall, gray file cabinet, removed three large file folders, and returned to his desk without dropping them.

The missing persons’ case, or was it plural – cases?  And was it one case involving two hundred people, all of them snatched by one perp?  Or was it two hundred separate cases, involving two hundred different perps?  Simple.  Over two hundred people, all older, all wealthy, all from Middle Tennessee had, over the last six months, simply disappeared.  One perp.

Detective Jenkins had been watching him.  She pushed the door open as soon as Phoenix opened the first folder, and she stepped into his office.  She pushed the door behind her and stepped up to the front of the desk.

“Nice office, Phoenix,” she said, looking around, acting unusually perky.

Phoenix watched her face, thought he saw the desire – no – knew he saw it, knew that she’d like nothing better than to take, not only this office space, but his job as well.  She strutted it; and she’d been doing it since she’d arrived at NPD. Though he could always count on DeAnte’s lifelong friendship, he also knew that a better relationship, the kind that could play to her advantage, could always be forged in the room of some cheap motel. 

He knew why Alaia was here.  He knew the lab would ID him from DNA samples taken from June’s body cavities – that’s why she was here.  Probably.  Better to head her off at the pass – tell her what he knew.  He leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and said, “Any chance I’ll be getting my shirt and jacket back?  On second thought, maybe I’ll just toss them.”

Alaia, like a good detective, put her attention on Phoenix, looking straight into his eyes.  She was watching him, looking for motion, in his eyes and behind them.  Looking for lies.

“I was just heading down to Chief Cobb’s office,” Phoenix said, “then to see how much Psyke June Buckner poured into me before she raped me up one side and down the other.  Maybe we’ll find some recipe markers in it, want to join me?”

“No,” she said, her face looking slightly contorted, now that Phoenix had blown her out of the water.  She turned to leave, stopped, and swung back around, as angry as a red ant.  “And just how would you know, Phoenix Malone, what Psyke feels like?”

Phoenix raised his eyebrows.  “I wouldn’t know.  That’s the beauty of it – heck, for all I know you’ve already used it on me.” Phoenix laughed and watched Alaia’s eyes bore into him; and it thrilled him all the way down to his toes.  “On second thought, I can’t remember you ever looking satisfied, so nix that.”

Alaia Jenkins gave herself a second, biting her lower lip and nodding.  “You know what, Phoenix Malone? You’re the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me.  You’re dirty – and I know it.  You’re going to last about a month after I get done with you.”

“Let me guess – you’re saving up for a month’s worth of Psyke, right?” Phoenix said, laughing.  “Just make sure you can afford the Viagra, too.” He leaned forward with his eyes as wide as saucers.  “You’ll need that!”

Alaia gave him the middle finger and turned, almost as if she expected to see Chief Cobb coming through the door, ready to take her side on whatever issue she’d ask him to take.  And there he was.  He’d probably been following her around, sniffing the air after she passed, trying to see where her estrogen might lead him.  She waved him in, or maybe her chemistry drew him.

Chief Cobb came strolling in, his face hard, and his jaws set like iron.  He stopped near the wall of the closet and propped himself up, crossing his arms across his huge chest.  His massive biceps looked too large for his shirt sleeves, and his collar so restricting it made Phoenix want to reach up and touch his own neck.  Cobb was clearly about to take Alaia’s side.  Heck, Phoenix would if he was in his shoes.

But just seeing Cobb like that, with his head in mid-shake and his lips pursed, moved Phoenix to anger.  And he knew Cobb didn’t miss seeing his subtle reaction.  He picked up a couple of papers sitting on the left side of his desk, held them up in the air, and waved them like a gambler with a pair of winning tickets at the horse races.

Phoenix’s voice was tense and, had he listened to himself, loud.  “I was with June Buckner the night before she disa … reappeared.  No.  Scratch that.  June Buckner … no, June Buckner was alone with herself when I was with her on the night of March tenth, or some crap like that – but you get the picture.”

The two men just stood there, looking at each other.

“Phoenix,” Chief Cobb said.

“Yes, DeAndre’?”

But Phoenix caught it – saw that Chief Cobb was swerving away from a confrontation he’d come down one floor to initiate.  He rubbed his hand down the length of his wide face like he always did when there was trouble.  “Just give me a copy … and give Detective Jenkins one while you’re at it.”

“Already did that.”

“Detective Jenkins,” Chief Cobb said, ending on a low, serious note.  “Please give me and Detective Malone a few minutes.  Just wait in your office and I’ll be by.”

“Yes, sir,” Alaia said, then she looked at Phoenix.  “Just give the chief my copy.”  She turned on a dime, smartly and crisply, and left.

“I told you to keep her off me,” Phoenix complained, barely above a whisper.

Cobb walked over to the desk.  He scrubbed his hand over his face again, and his voice seemed to lose some its power: “You know I got your back, right?”

Phoenix looked at Cobb disinterestedly, shooting him a “oh-don’t-you-now?” look. 

“No, I want to hear you say that you know I have your back.”

Chief Cobb – DeAnte’ when they were off duty – had said that to Phoenix a million times back when they both lived in the same tenement in East Nashville.  He’d saved Phoenix from the black kids more times than he could count.

“I know you do,” Phoenix said.  “I wouldn’t be here if---”

“But here’s the rub.  We found a syringe in the top pocket of your coat, the one June was wearing, and your fingerprints are all over it.  Now, I know you’re clean on this one.  But you’re suspect number one, whether I like it or not.”

“The Psyke went into
my
arm, DeAnte’.”  He rolled up his sleeve and held it out.  A fool couldn’t miss the needle marks where June, who must have been drunk, had played a hand of darts with his arm.  “Dr. Demachi looked at it when I was in the lab.  I didn’t hide anything.”

“And the lab results on you and what was in the syringe will be ready any minute,” Cobb said, almost apologetically.  “But the lab knows for sure that there’s no Psyke in June Buckner’s blood – or if it is Psyke, which it may be, it’s something new, something hybrid.”

Phoenix grimaced and, once again, reacted peremptorily.  “Which verifies my story – I got shot up, DeAnte’.  Now, you’re going to hold those results, aren’t you?  You’ve got to give me time to work on this.”

“This little thing is getting a lot of press,” Cobb said.  “They’re waiting downstairs as we speak.    When the lab results hit the streets, you may have to turn in your badge.”

“DeAndre’,” Phoenix said, looking down at his desk and then back up again.  “I was not with June – I mean, yes, I was, in a body kind of way – but I wasn’t conscious until morning.  It’s a set up.”

“Possibly – and yes, I’ll hold he results as long as I can.  I’ll say we’re securing the evidence for the time being.  But do what you gotta do.”

Phoenix reached into his desk and pulled out a piece of gum, but he didn’t unwrap it.  He just stood there holding it, looking hard at Chief Cobb.  “I’m being set up.”

“The missing persons’ case?”

Phoenix, without the least hesitation, looked at him and said, “What else could it be?”