Archive for fiction

All of Them Have Hair of Gold – A Bobby Brady Mystery

Posted in droopymcjackass with tags , , on 08/10/2009 by droopymcjackass


Ten Seventy-Eights were becoming more and more common to Bobby as he moved up the food chain; a kind of slang he and the rest of the shift used to refer to “blow-job in progress.”  Luckily, the girl (and, man, was she a girl) was a willing consort and didn’t need to be paid.  Less luckily was the fact that she got a touch clingy in the scant one hour they had known each other and curbside drop-off to her place was needed in order to get her out of his car and out of his short, well-coifed hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he thought to himself as he allowed the brief pleasure of watching her ass sidle out of his Cutlass.  “A dorm?!  Bobby, you either still got it, or you’re definitely losing something else that most people really want to keep track of.”  But, as any observer with his keen eye for detail would note, while he may be checking out the legs for sale under ever skirt, the ladies seem to just be gunning for him.  Mid-forties, a build seemingly made out of pots of coffee and untapped aggression.  Well, judging by the amount of paperwork he was filling out for sidearm discharges, maybe not so untapped. She closed the car door and leaned on the window, probably an overture; the lean in for the good-night kiss in some circles, but to a detective and former Vice Police, that’s more of a aperitif than an after dinner drink.  That reminds him, he thinks as he drives away almost callously, time to get a new bottle of Jameson to stow in the dash; the two pussy-hairs past jailbait drank all of it.  They really are training them to be whores nowadays, just like Alice always said.  Graciously, she left a couple drops; and he’d need it.  Murder.  Uptown, too.  A real citizen.  And being the only one close enough to respond, that means it’s his case.  Bobby’s Luck dictates that its gonna be red-balled.  The rule of Bobby’s Luck cannot be denied.

Some creative U-ies, brought more by the drops of whiskey (and the swigs and gulps that came before it) more than actual enthusiasm gets him to the scene pretty fast, before the M.E. even.  “Shit, probably coulda finished.  Seems like the type to follow through.  Why else give me her underwear?”

Flash the badge, through the tape; it all really becomes rote from here.  Though, he notes, he’s not even wearing a tie (she pocketed it, or its under the seat, when he got the thong), so that adds at least the idea that this one will be slightly different to him in his memories.  Maybe for his memoirs.  He snorts at that one, loudly too.  The uniform shockingly looks at him as if this were his normal reaction to the vic.  It might as well have been.

Nude.  Splayed out.  Bite marks on the nipples.  Even without the M.E. there he sees the lacerations inside the vagina and inner thighs.  Rape turned murder.  Not exactly open-and-shut dunkery, but simple enough.  No I.D.’s, but that’s easy.  A pretty girl like her has to have some dental work on file.  Some, he thinks with another percussive, derisive snort, this girl has been in and out of orthodontists all her life.  Maybe we are all the children of architects.

“You get pictures.  Total coverage?”  He asks to the alley wall just above the vic’s head (never look at the uniform, it keeps the chain of command).  Dutifully (its in the job description, right?), the uniform says, “Yeah, sure!  It’s all documented.”  Then he pauses.  Bobby can hear the pause.  It’s what called a “pregnant pause” by the people that think up that sort of thing; knowing that after the person is done talking, he will, invariably, start up again.  And soon.

“Are you really Robert Brady?  The Serial Catcher?”

He hates that name.  He’s already decided that long ago, but each time he hears it, he hates it anew.  It isn’t like an old wound opening; that denotes time.  This is like amnesia, he thinks.  This must be like how the people he puts away feel about how they’re called in the press, they don’t even get to name themselves.

“It’s Bobby.  Call me Bobby.”

That little moment is all it takes him to get out of the zone.  Of finding points of entry.  Movement.  You can even see motive this early in the game, and it is most definitely a game.  “See what I can do,” they say.  “Let’s play.  Tag, this is it.  Your turn.”  But that’s just exactly what he needed, at least for this one.  His mind has been wandering, not looking at what was in front of him.  He was thinking about how police photographers might be able to make a nice living, with a side job, blowing up crime scene photos to just see the ephemera around the body.

Around the body.  Garbage cans.  Rain puddles.  Dumpsters.  Detritus there for ages that have nothing to do with case.  He sees the case now.

“Where the fuck is that medical examiner?”  He shouts, “Because unless I’m mistaken some of these hematusions were inflicted after the heart stopped pumping, which means she was raped before and after mortis.  I want that canvas tight, look for lead pipes and bottles.  Anything suitable for insertions, anything rape-able, don’t use your best judgment… take it all.  And I want that fucking M.E. here NOW!”

Very commanding.  They all run scurrying to the sides and out of his vision.  Makes sense to him why he got there so fast, before everyone else.  Never leave Burbank, not even for vacation.  Dad designed half of this town.

And he’s struck by that colloquialism.  Usually it’s “Mike” in his mind, but he’s gripped by a wave of nostalgia, and the undertow is definitely a bitch.  He bends down to look this poor girl in the eyes.  Or just in one eye; old salesman trick.  Pretty blue, with strands of red.  Another dead girl.

Surprisingly, to him at least, he speaks.  “Those tresses of yours.” He says as he lays a freckled hand over each eyelid, one at a time, closing them forever.  “The same as my sisters’.  The same as my mom.  (Shit, he thinks, did I just call her “mom”?)  The same of the girl, and she was a girl, who was sucking me off earlier when I got your call.  All of them have hair of gold.  Why didn’t I notice that before?”