Rusted Chrome by Karlos Allen	Table of Contents Day One, part 1   part 2   part 3   part 4 Day Two, part 1   part 2 Day Three, part 1   part 2   part 3   part 4 Day Four, part 1   part 2   part 3 Day Five Day Six Day Seven, part 1   part 2   part 3   part 4   part 5   part 6
Day Three part 1 of 4

The next morning, the office was almost full again. Most of the officers were back into their normal routine, though O’Leary noticed that quite a few of them had dragged out their old laptop terminals instead of using their caps. He wondered how long that would last. While he was watching, one of them suddenly swore in frustration and put his cap on. Well, I guess that answers that question.

He put his cap on and called Margie. A minute later she poked her head into his office. “Yes, Mr. O’Leary?”

“How did the errands go yesterday, Margie?”

“Errands?” she looked a little puzzled. “Oh yes! They went fine. I think I have a new neighbor, too. I can hear her through the wall.”

“Really? I didn’t know you lived in an apartment. Have you met her yet?”

“No, I don’t think our schedules match very well. It would be interesting to meet her, though.”

“I’m sure it would.” I can’t BELIEVE I’m having this conversation with a computer program! Sometimes I think realism can be taken just a little too far.

“Yes,” Margie chattered on, unaware of the effect she was having. “You know, sometimes it gets a little old just being the secretary for a PI.”

“I suppose it would. Well, Margie, I wish you luck. Who knows? Maybe she has a brother.”

Margie looked a little shocked. “Mr. O’Leary!”

“Sorry. Is there anything in the mail for me today?”

“Yes. There’s one from an ‘I.T. Tech’, to the effect of ‘Dude, I’m sorry but that doc is not on the Web.’ Whatever that means. Also a message from Mrs. Okawa saying that they are moving Bill into long-term care today and that his condition is unchanged. That’s all.”

“Thanks, Margie. Oh, by the way, I was over in the Pearl District yesterday and noticed a number of people with the letters CB tattooed on their foreheads. Could you look into that for me? Also get me all the information you have on a thing called the Bio-Server Project, OK?”

“Of course, Mr.. O’Leary, I’ll get right on that.” She disappeared into her office.

O’Leary leaned back in his chair. Another dead end! What kind of person would use a local printer? Can you even buy a printer anymore? He shook his head. I guess its time to swallow my pride and go see the Old Man.

Margie’s voice could still be heard through the wall; apparently the search was going to take a while. He jotted a quick note asking her to just put the results in a folder on his desk and went offline.

Heating up his coffee, he headed out to see his old mentor.

Hank Logan had been on the force since before O’Leary had been born. He was the crustiest, most irascible old man O’Leary had ever met, and Logan considered it a point of pride that he was well past retirement age and still going strong. He could also think rings around the rest of the force combined.

One of the first things Chief Duyck had done when taking over had been to forcibly retire him. O’Leary remembered that he had been careful to make sure he was between Logan and his gun when he broke the news to him. O’Leary doubted that the Chief had ever been cussed out the way he was that day.

He’d tried to keep track of the old man since then, but Logan had moved around a lot during the next couple of years. And then O’Leary had had his divorce and really lost track of things. Recently the Old Man — that’s what everybody called him — had moved back into the area and set up shop as a consultant.

* * *

O’Leary wove his way down a narrow paved road leading to the gated community Logan lived in. The redwood grove that lead up to the gate had been planted by the family that first settled here, when the land was all farm country. Now the redwoods gave character to a suburban street.

He showed his badge at the gate and watched it slide silently open. Inside he saw elderly men and women sitting on their postage-stamp lawns or walking their tiny dogs. He couldn’t believe the Old Man would settle down here.

Logan’s house, though, showed his character. A high fence surrounded it with ‘Private Property’ and ‘No Trespassing’ signs tacked every five feet. The drive was fronted by another gate, one that didn’t open to his badge. When he flashed it, a recorded voice quoted the section of the Bill of Rights about illegal search and seizure and ended by asking if he had a warrant.

“Hey, Old Man!” he yelled at the pick up. “Put your teeth in and come open this gate!” That would bring him.

It did. About thirty seconds later, Hank appeared in the driveway. He was wearing ragged jeans and an old shirt that looked as if it had been tie-dyed back in the Sixties. Of course, it could also be that it hadn’t been washed since the Sixties. The smell, when he got closer, left both options wide open.

“What do you want? I’m not buying anything, I’m not selling anything, and I’m not signing any petitions!”

“You got any coffee on?”

Hank leaned forward and peered through the windshield, “That you, Bud? Yeah, I guess it is. Come on in and sit down. I’ll see what I can find.”

O’Leary followed him into the house. It was dark and crowded. He saw old awards along one wall, mostly for unarmed combat and marksmanship; one was a citation for bravery. He leaned forward to catch the date: 1985.

And then in the kitchen he saw the Old Man’s pride and joy. It was a large picture frame with over a hundred thumbnail photos of men and women. People he’d put away over the years got their pictures in his frame.

“I see you still have your trophy case, Old Man.” He jerked his thumb toward the frame. “I never knew you spent time on the bomb squad though.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know, Bud. Just because I taught you everything you know doesn’t mean I taught you everything I know. Don’t you forget that either.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard that one a few times. What are you doing these days anyway? I heard when you came back to the Northwest you went into the PI business.” He took a drink of coffee and gagged. “What’re you trying to do, poison me?” He looked accusingly at him, “This is instant, isn’t it?”

The Old Man chuckled. “Got you, didn’t I, Bud. You still drinking that stuff like you’ve got iron kidneys?”

O’Leary shrugged, “Hey, it’s better than booze.”

“You’re probably still living in that shoe box, too, aren’t you? What do they call it, a Bilbo-tat?”

O’Leary pushed the cup away from him. “It’s a Hobbit-tat. Why not? Who needs more than a hundred square feet of space anyway? I’ll bet you have rooms here you don’t even use.”

“Maybe, but at least I’ve got rooms. All you’ve got is a closet with a door at one end, a pot at the other, and a bed in between. Met any good women lately?”

“Haven’t been looking. They’d just want me to quit drinking coffee and move to a bigger house, kinda like you.”

“Too bad, I was hoping they’d have an older sister.”

O’Leary grinned, “You mean a grandmother, Old Man.”

“Watch your mouth boy, or I won’t help you.”

“Who says I need help?”

“You’re here. Why else would you come visiting a broken-down old ex-cop?”

“Old times’ sake?”

“Right, sure. Besides, you’re carrying an evidence bag with you. Chief Duyck know about this?”

“No, Chief Duyck knows about golf and precious little else. You’re right though: I did want to show you something.” He handed the note in its bag over to the Old Man. Logan lifted it up and scanned the words. Then he got up and carried it over to the window and held it up horizontally while looking along the surface.

“What wrong with it?”

“We’re trying to trace it. There are no fingerprints, of course, but what’s really puzzling is that the document doesn’t seem to be in any print servers. I don’t place the font either.”

“That’s because it never was on a printer, Bud.”

“Come on, you can’t tell me it was hand-written.”

“No, it was typed. Somebody typed this out on a typewriter.”

“A what?”

“Typewriter. No, don’t google it. Think of a keyboard attached to a printer where every time you tap a key it prints the letter on the paper immediately.”

“Why would anybody want to do that? You’d never be able to correct any mistakes. How would you do spellcheck? Or cut and paste?”

“You don’t. If you make a mistake you throw out the paper and start over. And where do you think the term “cut and paste” came from? That’s what you really had to do. This was before computers, Bud. I quit using them about the time I got out of college.”

“Where would somebody get something like that now?”

“Museums, on-line auctions, attics.” He sat back down at the table and handed the paper back. “I’m not going to help you on this one, Bud. I happen to agree with the fella that wrote it.”

“This ‘fella’ bombed a server farm.”

“Good. We have too many of them as it is.”

“He killed somebody doing it and put a lot of people in the hospital. You remember Officer Okawa?”

“Yeah, eager kid. Smart, too.”

“He’s my partner now. He’s in the hospital; in fact they’re putting him in long-term care. He suffered some real mental damage. He’s got a nice wife and some good kids. They don’t deserve this.”

“I’m sorry about him, Bud. But you don’t want my help anyway. Your Chief made that plenty clear a few years ago.”

“I didn’t agree with that move, Old Man. Neither did anybody else.”

“Yeah, but nobody did anything, either. No, you’re on your own with this one. I wish you luck, and if you’re ever in the neighborhood drop by for coffee.” He grinned. “I’ve got more where that came from.”

O’Leary shook his head, “Look, I agree with you about Duyck. But you were the one who taught me about what happens to people who take the law into their own hands. We can’t let this one get away.”

“Bud, the world has changed. My methods don’t work like they used to. I’ve seen that. Maybe some of the other things I said aren’t valid either. I’ll see you around.” He got up and opened the door. O’Leary took the hint and left.

* * *

O’Leary barely slowed down in time to let the gate open as he left the neighborhood. The redwoods were a blur on each side as he easily tripled the residential speed limit. Tires screeching, he raced through the stop sign. He felt the tires start to slide as he made the corner.

Every alarm on the car was going off and then a synthesized voice broke in: “You are about to lose control of your vehicle, this car is going to call 911 in five... four... three...”

O’Leary took his foot off the accelerator and slowed down. The countdown stopped and he pulled over. Staring at the dashboard, he tried to get his head together. The Old Man was bitter! He’d expected some of this, but to walk away from a case... to take the other side...

He shook his head and leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes. He started breathing slowly, trying to calm down. The Old Man had always been two things: a curmudgeon and a consummate professional. It looked like the professional had retired. Shaking his head he carefully eased the car back onto the street and, ignoring the stares of the residents, continued west at a more civilized pace.

A few minutes later he worked his way across the sixth lane of the Nehalem Highway, headed north to route 26. As he got in the auto-drive lane he punched the pilot button and leaned back. He needed coffee badly. Behind it an older, almost gone, desire for something a lot stronger began to stir. That was his warning signal.

Carefully, his hands shaking, he opened a bottle of pills he hadn’t had to take in months. Pouring two into his hand, he popped them into his mouth and swallowed them dry. Opening the compartment between the seats he poured a packet of grounds into the espresso machine. Checking the water level, he punched for two shots, no extra water, and waited.

Already he could feel his emotions deadening as the relaxant began damping down the urge to do or have much of anything. The doctor said they weren’t addictive, but he wasn’t so sure. The option to back away from a strong feeling when it became too much to handle was certainly seductive. The smell of the coffee worked its way through the haze and he gratefully took the cup in his hands and savored it.

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2010 by Karlos Allen