New scene in updated "Existence"

This is one of the added scenes when I rewrote Book 1: Existence. The new version is a more complete story and has much more of Detective Joe Gordon and Mikey, Joe's informant who gets mixed up with Thea and "Scary Man"...

Joe closed the last of the files on the last six months of underage missing persons cases and sat back in his chair. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes with both hands as he let his head hang back over the top of the wooden support, cushioned by the leather collar of his trench coat. He had found it, the pattern he had been looking for. An increase in missing persons cases involving minors started about five months ago or so. Most of them foster kids, all of them with a history of trouble, either with the police or with school and all of them never heard from again, not even in mug shots. That little part of his brain was tugging at him again, indicating more sleepless nights until he looked into this further.

There was a brief knock on his door before it opened. Frank leaned into the small room looking like the bearer of bad news. “Hey Joe,” he said. “They found a body washed up by the docks downtown.”

Joe stood and grabbed his coat off of the back of his chair. “Okay Frank,” he said, “Let’s go.” He strode toward Frank, who did not move from blocking the doorway. Joe stopped and looked at the young officer, only newly granted the level of post-rookie, having two years on the job. “What is it Frank?”

“It’s just,” he hesitated. 

“It’s just what, Frank?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s one of your guys.” Frank shifted his weight nervously. “I think I’ve seen you talking to him and his buddy a number of times.”

Joe put on his coat and brushed past Frank without a word.

Pellman, like many of the towns on the bay side of Long Island, had a small docking area where fishing boats would come in and sell their finest catch to the local restaurants. It sounded nicer than it actually was. Joe exited his vehicle and wrinkled his nose at the foul smell of low tide in the afternoon. He looked out across the bay at the trawlers on the distant horizon and wondered how those men did it. He turned his gaze to the group of police officers barricading off the public. He was surprised the redhead from the local paper wasn’t there. He sighed heavily and walked over to the body lying face down in the sand, the small tide waves rolling in up to his knees. He put on gloves as he approached Frank. “Forensics take the pictures they need?”

“Yeah Frank, they’re ready.”

“Okay,” Joe said. “Turn him over.”

Three uniformed police officers turned the water-logged body over so that Joe could see his face. Or what was left of it. Joe squatted down next to his former informant and sighed, “Who did this to you, Stevie?” He looked up at Frank, who had the back of his wrist over his mouth, presumably to keep in whatever it was that was threatening to come up. The detective rolled his eyes angrily. “Are you all right Officer Vigli?”

Frank closed his eyes briefly to help regain control of his somewhat healthy gag reflex and took out his notepad and pen. “Yes sir,” he lied. “I’m good.”  Frank tried to not look at what lay at his feet, but instead paid close attention to anything that Joe was saying. Joe liked to talk to himself as he worked things out, and hated writing notes at a crime scene. Frank had started taking notes on scenes he happened to be on while Joe was there about nine months ago or so. He would hand over the papers to the detective afterwards. This had won him favor with the senior detective, who now specifically requested that Frank come along with him. 

“Looks like he’s been in the water maybe a day,” Joe began to speak out loud as photographs were taken of the current side of the victim by forensics. Flesh has been picked off… most likely by fish, maybe crabs…” He took a pair of tweezers out of his shirt pocket and moved Stevie’s long hair that had been wrapped around his neck like a scarf thrown across a shoulder in the cold. He moved the strands away to reveal a deep gash in his throat where his jugular vein should have been. “Jesus,” he gasped. 

“Oh my God!” Frank exclaimed as he turned away. 

The sound of pictures snapping from the forensic photographer, brought Joe back to himself. He continued, “It looks as if the victim had his jugular torn out… probably before he was dumped… could have been exacerbated by the flesh eating animals in the bay…” Joe stood up. “We’ll have to wait until the coroner’s report to know for sure.” 

Joe began to walk back toward his car. He could hear Frank’s hurried footsteps behind him. Joe opened his car door and turned to Frank, who was holding out a small pad to him. “Get in the car Frank,” he ordered.

“But sir, the scene…”

“I need to go talk to Mikey and I will need you to take notes for me. Now get in.”

Frank hesitated, looked back at the scene down the waterfront, and then, following orders, got into the passenger side of the detective’s car.  

The two men drove in silence. Joe could tell that Frank was uncomfortable with the awkward quiet, and broke it. “So what happened?” he wondered out loud. 

Frank slowly retrieved the small pad of paper from his chest pocket in his uniform, along with the pen he had placed next to it. He knew Detective Gordon didn’t really want him to respond verbally. This was him working things out for himself; Frank was just there to take notes.

“Did he rat on somebody who didn’t take kindly to it?” Joe asked himself. He sighed and shook his head. “No, there really wasn’t anything I’ve asked him for lately that would get him killed.” He turned the corner to the right and slowly passed the park where many of the kids hung out getting high. He looked, but didn’t see Mikey. This was harmless kid stuff. Mikey and Stevie were older, in their late twenties. This wasn’t their scene anymore. Joe headed back over the railroad tracks and turned left onto South Main Street. “Was he talking to another officer? Maybe someone else asked him the wrong question?” 

Joe tapped Frank with the back of his hand, never taking his eyes off of his surroundings. Searching. “Write that down, Frank,” he said. Of course Frank had already written down that question, though he doubted anyone else was using Joe’s CIs, it was just a no-no when it came to good policework. 

Joe pulled over into a dirt parking section of a two-story, century old home that had been turned into four apartments. Gutters hung down off of the side and the rusted staircase that led to the two windows of the second floor barely hung on to the house. Suddenly Joe slammed the steering wheel and yelled, “DAMN! DAMNDAMNDAMN!” Three more slams to the steering wheel. 

Frank didn’t quite know what to do. He looked out the window while he heard Joe taking some breaths to calm himself down. He spotted the staggering figure coming their way from the corner. “Hey Joe,” he said. “Isn’t that your guy?”

Joe looked up and squinted briefly before getting out of the car. He heard Frank get out and follow behind him. He wondered if Mikey knew that his friend was dead. Once he caught up to him he knew the truth; judging by the state he was in, Mikey knew, but Joe needed to find out just how much he knew. “Hey Mikey,” he began.

Mike staggered to a stop in front of the detective and just looked blankly at him. “Detective G,” he slurred. He huffed a quick smile that looked more sad than anything else. “You’re here now, ain’tcha?” He lifted the paper bag he had been holding up to his lips and swallowed. Then he shoved it into the detective’s chest. “Drink, … to Stevie!”

Joe took the bagged bottle but did not drink from it. 

“You drink to Stevie!” Mike shouted. “For all we did for you… and where were you when it was our turn…? To need your help?” Mike pointed a shaking finger into the policeman’s chest for emphasis. “Huh? Where were you? You were… nowhere. Now you’re a … day late and five dollars short. So you drink to Stevie.” Tears were starting to well up in the addict’s eyes.

Joe felt an overwhelming sense of guilt and sadness for the man in front of him. He lifted the bottle to his nose and sniffed the cheap whiskey. He couldn’t help the face he made at the odor of it.

Mike grabbed the bag back angrily. “Aah! Forget you!” He continued on his wavering way to his apartment. 

Joe and Frank exchanged looks and Joe sighed, “Come on, Frank. Help me get him inside and upstairs.”

The three men walked in silence to the apartment house. Mikey drank the last of the liquor he was carrying and threw the bottle onto the ground next to the decrepit cement porch. He let the detective and his friend help him up the porch steps and he opened the door. 

“You don’t keep it locked?” Frank asked, almost to himself.

Mikey looked at him incredulously. “Who the hell would break in here, man?”

Frank opened his mouth as if to respond but decided against it. 

They were able to make it up the stairs without anyone falling. The stench of vomit and urine lingered in the stairwell, along with other odors that Joe rather not think about. He waited until they were inside Mikey’s sad excuse for a dwelling before he started asking him questions. “Do you know what happened to Stevie?”

Mike laughed, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you anyway, Detective G.” He stumbled to the bed, the only real piece of furniture in the place, and collapsed onto it.

“Try me, Mikey,” Joe said.

Mike laughed again, “There’s a new sheriff in town, G.” He fell back onto the unkempt mattress. “We touched his girl… we just wanted the car though… just the car. J.J. wanted the car.”

Joe took a step closer, not wanting to actually touch anything in the filthy studio. “J.J.? Did J.J. kill Stevie?” He motioned to Frank, who was already busy writing.

Mike sat back up quickly and pointed at Joe. “I told ‘im… I said, J.J., don’t nobody touch that girl, man… not her car, not her, not nothin’. I told ‘im, Detective G.! I did, I said, that guy got Stevie, an’ he’ll get you too.” Mike lay back down and his voice trailed off, “New sheriff in town, G. An’ he ain’t you.”

Joe looked at Frank who shrugged his shoulders. “Mikey? Mikey! Who killed Stevie? Tell me so I can go pick him up.”

“Scary Man…” Mike said as he drifted off into an intoxicated slumber. “Scary Man with the red eyes. He got Stevie. He got ‘im, G., an’ there’s nothin’ you can do about it.”

Joe paced the dusty floors, frustrated that his only witness was passed out. “Damn it!” he hissed. Then at Frank, “He knows.” He pointed to the man on the bed. “He knows what happened, but he’s too damned drunk, or high, or whatever, to help us.”

“You want me to bring him in?”

Joe shook his head. “Not now. Let him sleep it off.” He ran his fingers through his head. “Let’s wait for the coroner’s report and come back first thing tomorrow morning to take a coherent statement.” He walked out the door, not waiting to see if Frank was behind him or not.

Frank turned the lock in the doorknob and closed it behind him as he left.