A New OathA Chapter by Cherrie Palmer
Ten minutes had passed since Pete dropped off his uncle and T.J., he entered his place without turning on the light, on autopilot he tossed his keys in the ashtray, and poured two fingers of Bowmore, neat. He peeled off flashlight, hand-held, and side-arm, then folded into his slick, shiny red checkered kitchen chair. Stiffly he sat with palms on the table. A small stream of light from the street illuminated the amber liquid, he stared into its shimmer without seeing. Only tonight’s events looped in his mind. Silence engulfed the room, creating a steady hum that filled his senses. Pete sat there void of emotions and num. His handheld beeped breaking the silence as Corporal O’Keefe went 10-97 at his parents’ home up on the hill, "and so it begins," the weighted words hung in the air till he downed his Scotch.
Pete fixated on the radio conversation, wondering what his next move should be. He refilled the glass, lit a Chesterfield, and just waited.
Best case scenario would be his name not come up. Seeing how everyone thought he was on a call he might have a chance. Maybe no one will find out he entered the police academy using his mother’s maiden name. ‘Man, that’s a lot of maybes,’ Pete thought. Well at least he would not be the first person considered, and that will buy a little time.
He reached in the brown paper sack that leaned against his flashlight and removed the brownie. His first bite was a generous portion. "Man, that's good," his second bite finished it off. Then like a kid he ate the crumbs that remained in the wrapper, saving the pecan for last washing it down with his drink.
Central keyed up the radio, “sorry, Corporal, the park checked clear, no signs of trouble,” Central advised.
“No signs of trouble,” Pete muttered, as dispatch unkeyed the mic. Pete gestured with his glass toward the radio then drained it. Remorse blurred his vision, and burned in his belly. His lifelong dream of being a good cop just shattered. He stood and faced the mirror. The image of his badge pricked his heart. The numb feeling fell away, he decided to take a stand, and protect the girl. He would reason with Ed or else. Tony’s memory waited on Pete in the reflection, and he hurled the tumbler at the mirror.
What a disaster his little crush had become. The lively artist that lived by the park. It was on a Tuesday that he saw her for the first time. A black satin ponytail swayed as she walked. She had crossed the street a dream in motion; candy-apple-red turtleneck blended seamlessly over pink cropped pants. Her slender frame sported those cuffed pedal pushers. Even her slippers were adorable. A real-life doll that stepped straight from the cover of Vogue and landed on the cobbled street in front of him, his squad car provided a front row seat.
Her little apartment stood across the street from the school. It nestled over Mr. Jenkin’s barbershop. From that minute forward come 9PM he was on that corner for his evening fix.
Pete bumped into her on Thursday as she exited art class. A nervous smile fanned his face. All he could muster was an “excuse me miss.”
Her voice cooed, "that's alright. It was my fault anyway. I wasn't looking," then sashayed across the road. She filled every waking thought, and once asleep she filled each dream. Friday he would wait for her, this time he would ask her out to dinner. Pete had felt like a schoolboy as he admired his secret crush, with that cute little crooked smile. His squad car rested on the dark side of the street while he dreamed.
'Hello again,' had played in his thoughts. What would he say? As he practiced his opening line, his left hand began tracing her. He too was a bit of an artist. That’s how he came to be there. Once a week he took a day class. He had hoped to be a sketch artist for the department. His rough outline of Fern and her lumbering pup gazing up at her. This little obsession gave him a front-row seat. The girl, his uncle and the sideshow. A show that turned deadly. The oath of honor played in his mind, to protect and serve waned, as blood ties forged a new alliance, and his little crush became forever smashed.
Pete watched them chase after the girl. His girl. He raced over to investigate the scene closer. “Tony!” but Tony’s empty eyes drove his next move. He reached down to remove the evidence, aka Tony Salazar.
He slung Tony over his shoulder to a firemen’s carry. A deep huff escaped him as he gained his footing, then trotted to the squad car. The dead man flopped into the front seat banging his head on the dash. He fussed over him trying to get him situated just right. A flash of motion caught his eye, and Pete straightened.
“Too much hooch?” Blurted a voice from the shadows of the barbershop doorway. “Some guys just can’t hold their liquor.” The voice stepped clear of the shadows his laughed quickly turned into a dry cough. His face cloaked behind a beard, strong fingers clasped a plain wrapped brown bag. Clearly this man hadn't always been a bum. There he stood wearing a breezy jacket with sergeant stripes, that once stood for pride and courage.
“No, Benny the man’s just sick.” Quick thinking, Pete thought. Drunks ride in the back. “You better get to the church, there’s a storm headed this way, and it’s too late for the shelter.” Is what he said while internally he cursed up a hell-storm wondering where Benny had been huddled for this large cluster, and more importantly how much did he see.
Pete had almost chunked the body in the trunk. Logic told him anyone being stuffed in a trunk screams foul-play. While a policeman helping a sick man just looks routine. He drove to the pet crematorium with Tony riding shotgun.
“Tony you never could stay out of trouble. You poor SOB. I guess you know my father will be devastated when I show up with you in-tow,” but the dead man offered no comfort.
Pete made a sharp right, forcing the corpse to lean hard against the passenger door.
“What else could I do?” He asked the dead man that he played t-ball with a lifetime ago.
The whole ordeal had him jumping around, digging a deeper hole for himself with each passing minute. He had barely pulled out from his dad’s business when he heard the call go over the radio for a car at the O’Keefe’s. He was confident that meant his uncle was in more trouble. Instinct had him silently start that way.
Luck allowed him to be the first on scene, and not good luck either. The murder, the chase, dumping the body and now two in-custody at the house on the hill. What a night. Pete thought remembering dispatches remark, ‘yeah, no sign of trouble indeed.’
© 2020 Cherrie PalmerAuthor's Note
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6 Reviews Added on February 25, 2019 Last Updated on August 16, 2020 AuthorCherrie PalmerSpringfield , MOAboutI am a published poet and love poetry. After a lifetime of country living, I'm making a move back to town. I find my surroundings a great inspiration to me. I also have two books on Amazon Kindle: .. more..Writing
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