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“I’m just great, Richard! Things are great. They have me over at Precinct 3 now. I come in and knock out all the paperwork that I can and then after roll call I spend a couple of hours out in a car. I missed it. Did you hear that my oldest is getting married?”
“Cassandra?”
“Yes. Her fiancé will be graduating state this year. He’s got a job lined up. She has one more year left and will finish. His company has branches in Denver, Chicago, Atlanta—” Rose continues on. Sweet gal. I tune her out and wait for
a momentary break in her rapid-fire blabs to get around to what I want. The reason I originally called Rose is because, up until her transfer to Precinct 3, she was the Records captain.
In the Saint Ansgar PD, the evidence locker falls under Records as well. If anyone can grease wheels for me into getting the DNA from Sheila Petticoat’s rape kit, it’s Rose. I fill her in on what I need and she says she can probably make it happen as early as Wednesday, but Friday at the latest. I’ll take it.
We say goodbye and I start making phone calls. Playing telephone, creating links in a chain from me to a guy who knows a guy who knows another guy who works in the same office as Hank Madison. I get his extension. Catch his voice mail. Hello. You’ve reached the desk of Sergeant Madison with the Saint Ansgar Police Department, Precinct 5. I’m unavailable to take your call but please leave your name, number and a detailed message after the tone. If this is urgent, please press the star key. You will be transferred to the Precinct switchboard and they can transfer you to my cell. Thank you.
Star key.
“Precinct 5 switchboard, how may I help you?” A pleasant female voice.
“I need to be transferred to Sgt. Madison’s cell phone please.”
“And your name, sir?”
“Richard Dean Buckner.”
“Ohhh.” Drawn out. Spit out. Like she bit into something sour. Seems the switchboard operator knows me. Bitch. “One second.”
Cut to God-awful hold music. New Age Jazz.
Thirty unbearable seconds later and I hear ringing. Thank the Lord.
“Sergeant Madison.”
“Hank. It’s Richard Dean Buckner. Long time.”
“Buckner. Holy shit. How are you?”
“As good as a burned cop can be. I was hoping I could sit down with you and talk.”
“Sure. When?”
“How about now?”
“Now I’m in a drive-thru, waiting to order.”
“Skip it. Lunch is on me. You name it.”
“Wow. You must want to talk. Sure, why not?”
Madison named the shittiest gyro stand in all of Saint Ansgar.
It’s a Greek taco truck. I’ve eaten at roach coaches before and never minded a bit of it. But this, much like Disney World, being on trial for brutality and asking a gal out on a date after I’ve arrested her for DUI, is an adventure I’ll only do once because of the poor experience.
We get our food. Lean on the bumper of my car. I don’t want the smell inside the vehicle, nor do I want something to slop of this pita and wind up in my lap or staining the interior. I have standards.
“So, I wanted to ask you about Clarence Petticoat.”
Madison takes a bite of his gyro and raises an eyebrow. “Really? You looking to buy a house from him also?”
“Did you buy a house from him?”
“Almost ten years ago. Is he your agent? I thought he was mostly doing commercial stuff now.”
