A police detective, an hispanic immigrant worker, a street intersection in a large city

A Story by J. C. Hopkins

Another little excercise using only a police detective, an hispanic immigrant worker, and a street intersection in a large city. A story about the frustrations of life.

Jose Rodriguez was just leaving the house he had been working at for the past week. The owner paid well, no doubt guilty for choosing to use him instead of more legitimate means. Still, Jose considered himself a professional taking pride in every chrysanthemum he'd planted that day, and tried to convince himself as he drove home in his broken down pick up that it was his landscaping prowess that attributed to his extra income. He always did his best work, when he was lucky enough to find any and always tried to remain optimistic when he finished a job. He did his best, but he was getting old and the ever changing work was taking its toll on him. He sometimes wished he could work at a convenience store or even a fast food joint. Sure it was virtually impossible for him without any papers, but the air conditioning and steady work was enough to turn his dark skin green with envy, and he had very dark, sun-weathered skin. He had put in honest work this week, even if his avenue of employment wasn't considered honest in this country. Jose was merely trying to make a living, to blend in with the rest of the people like him in Nevada, while staying as far away from the INS as he could. So far, no one had taken any particular interest in him. He got the occasional xenophobic comment, but he could live with that.

Growing up in Las Vegas exposes someone to the most bizarre forms of sin and weirdoms you can imagine. Working as a detective in Sin City exposes you to the ones you can't. Working homicides, I typically see the gang violence and bingers that get out of control. So, when my phone rang at four this morning, I figured it was just another case of the devil calling upon another soul for payment. I reached over to the bed side table, the room spinning from the inebriation induced from what was supposed to be all my night off consisted of, I answered my phone.

"Anton," my boss Mark Cormack started. Since cops movies and TV shows began, every cop in every city in America seemed to think they had to call every other cop only by his last name. My boss, lieutenant detective Cormack typically followed by this unwritten rule as well, except for with me. Ever since he'd found out I was gay, and once I'd confirmed it in a very awkward meeting to discuss the matter, for some reason the last name rule ceased to apply to me. Some would consider it discrimination in the workplace, but when you place it in comparison with being on-call round the clock to poke and prod at dead bodies for a living, it just doesn't seem important enough to worry about the HR paperwork. Besides, my being 6-foot-5 with a naturally muscular frame and long, but still well groomed biker goatee is more than sufficient to keep the discrimination going too far. "I need you just off the strip right away. Koval and Sands Avenue. We've got a body here."

No details usually means bad news. Not that finding a carcass is ever good news, but its really bad when that's all you've been told before you get there. Anywhere even close to the strip at this time was going to be a mad house, but I escorted tonight's blonde pretty-boy fling out grumbling and already pissed from the phone call. I then headed to the intersection Cormack had given.

When I got there I was welcomed by him and a couple low-level border enforcers. I flashed my badge as I looked up at the reason we were called here. An older, Hispanic looking man was lying on his back in the middle of the intersection. He was dressed in a glowing, flamboyant, sequined Elvis costume that was too gay and "Vegas" for even the ultra-gay joints I sometimes found myself in after way too much alcohol. As I continued my initial scan of the body, I saw that both feet had been cut off. The vest on the costume was open and his bare chest was exposed that revealed a carved giant "SPIC" outlined in glitter. His forehead had the same treatment, and after I had gather enough pictures and clues, we flipped him over. The back of the vest was seeped in blood around the middle of his back, that revealed "WET" once the vest was removed. I began my picking over the body like a Tick Bird on the back of a rhino, looking for any lose fiber, hair, or other clue. So far, all we had was a body that had been mutilated in what looked like some form of hate crime.

After I was through with my initial examinations of the body, and growing more frustrated with the resounding doubts of ever actually solving this case, I began scouring the area for witnesses. After my fourth or fifth "I didn't see anything" I finally caught a break. A man severely drunk, a little overly curious, and definitely feeling important about being asked questions by me, in a suit that had begun to see the typical wears of a long night of partying in Vegas, came through and recited his recollection of the events he'd seen.

"All I saw was a couple guys maybe two or three pick something real shiny up out of the bed of a pick up, and put it on the ground. They did it real casual like," he told me.

"Did you see the make of the vehicle sir?"

"I can't be sure, it was black, I'm sure of that. Maybe an F-150. Oh and it had a bed cover too. What was it, a body? Did they dump a body there?" It was annoying how every witness account seemed to remember every truck being an F-150. That didn't matter too much though, hopefully the remnants of the tire tracks would tell us for sure.

"Yes we've had a murder here sir, now is there any thing else you can tell us about what you saw?"

"Not really, I didn't see any of the guys faces or anything, but it didn't look like they were wearing masks. Like I said man, real casual for as busy a place as this is."

"Were you able to spot any distinguishing characteristic in the vehicle or the suspects. Damage to the vehicle, license plate, anything like that," I chanted robotically.

"Nah man, they blended real well, except for the body being all shiny. S**t, even that blends in here."

"Ok, well thank you for your time."

"Victim's name was Jose Rodriguez. He got picked up a couple years back by INS and was deported back to Mexico. Guess he found a way back into the country. Other than that we got nothing on him," Cormack told me two days after the body was discovered. "It was a son-of-a-b***h to even find that much on him. The Illegals are damn near impossible to track down once they're in the country. Might as well be from outer space," Cormack continued with the slightest hint of relief at the virtual impossibility of solving this case and inevitability of having to close it all too soon.

I knew it was going to be too. I gave it the end of the week until it would eventually close, and another perhaps innocent man would be left without justice. They never received any justice in Mexico, and now, the land of opportunity couldn't give it to them either. The impartial tire tracks came to a dead end, and any fibers we pulled off didn't give us enough to work with either. Jose Rodriguez would come to forever be known as just another unsolvable case next to the last one. These always put a pit in my stomach, and I wanted so badly to get the people who'd done this. Good people don't stand out in this world. They blend and any impact of their good deeds nearly always go unnoticed. Even in death a good man like Jose Rodriguez was dressed in glitter so he wouldn't stand out.

© 2011 J. C. Hopkins

Author's Note

ignore typos, but def give feedback about flow and glaring grammar problems. Any and all criticism/rating/feedback is more than appreciated, and welcomed even if its harsh. Im new to this site, so some feedback would be awesome so I can get a good feel of it.