Giovedì, 15 Aprile, 2004 | Posted by Detective Stevens at 22:21

It was one of those nights you should really stay indoors, beside a fire, slippers on your feet, a warm cup of cocoa beside you and a woman who's giving you bedroom eyes even before the evening news.

God, that sounds like Chandler, only worse.

Yes, I was a Detective Inspector, but unfortunately I didn't have a fire. The air smelt like a whore's breath in June.

It was cool and sticky and thick under your collar. The odour of too many cigarettes for dinner and sailors for dessert.

As if trying to clear the air, the sky started to rain. More to the point it started to pour.

And it poured on a dead man. The reason why we happen to be here.

His head smashed into the drain, the rest of his body sticking out, water circling around him, pushing its way through, trying to escape the scene of the crime by running away down the drain.

Had it been dry, he may have looked like a man who'd lost a tennis ball and inocently thought it may have disappeared down the drain.

As the rain pounds against your face you quickly ralise this is not the night to go looking for anything; not tennis balls, not friends, not love, not dancers.

I pulled out a cigarette. It was an automatic reaction of mine on such occasions. It was raining too hard to light. Thank goodness. It was my third week without one.

I had promised I would only smoke on rainy days or first thing in the morning - in the shower. I looked back at the drain man, and that's when I noticed it. I turned to my partner and said pointing over at drain man, "Look, dead men do wear plaid."

He didn't laugh. "That's bad" he said. I hoped he was referring to drain man. "Third bad one this month." I still hoped he was referring to drain man. "Another gangland hit." Phew, he was. "Well, it's either that or he heard one of your jokes."

I pretended I didn't hear. We both stood there. In the rain. I thought of having another cigarette when I saw it.

"Jesus" I said.

"Christ" he added.

"That's not the Jesus I am talking about."

Mercoledì, 28 Aprile, 2004 | Posted by Detective Stevens at 06:18

It seemed to be the arse end of April. Winds blew and rain fell on barren ground. The city smelt like a slow moving truck. And the music that played from its radio was dirge like. More Leonard Cohen, definately not Abba.

I have learnt over the years that as a detective, you often have to think like this, because life is going to treat you like the Coyote out of Loony Tunes rather than the Roadrunner whom he so desperately wants to catch.

I am a big fan of Wile E. Coyote. I actually don't like that arrogant, snivelling Roadrunner at all. The Roadrunner is not realy a character. He is a Fashion Magazine model. All glitz and perfection, but no substance.

On the other hand Wile E. Coyote is someone with depth. He and Foghorn Leghorn are the best drawn characters of of the series.

Wile E. is everyman. He tries hard.

He follows his instincts. He tries his hardest to make sure that everything is right. All the planning has been done.

But then everything always turns to shit. The universe and those confounded ACME products conspire to turn on him.

There you go. A bit of philosophy on this butt of a day where the sky is falling and it seems that allwe need is Chicken Lickin to come running through the Station shouting doom and destruction.

I pick up my ACME model gun, ACME pad and pen and place them in my ACME Police-Issue coat and wander off into the night to see what Rhumbaland holds in store for me. As I rummage amongst my desk a large drawing pin embeds itself into my finger.

I hold up a sign. It reads: "OUCH".

Sabato, 22 Maggio, 2004 | Posted by Detective Stevens at 13:21

I often look at a dead body and try to figure out the life that it lived. In my line of work, teh dead bodies I mainly look at have been murdered. I look at a body like that, one who has had life taken away, suddenly stopped and I wonder what could have been.

Does any one really care?

Will anyone care when they see me on the slab? I look at the Coroner's assistants delving into parts of the body, looking for reasons, looking for anomalies in a life that has led the body to this place. For anyone who has never stepped foot into a mortuary the first thing you notice is the cleanliness. The next thing is the smell which attacks your nostrils with a verve that demands attention.

The assistants go about their work like butchers. To them the body is nothing more than a piece of meat held together by a structure of bones. Life has long left the scene by the time they start their work. A life has disappeared. In my case, I often look on a life that will be remembered by very few.

There will be some tears shed, but they will soon dry up and memories will soon fade.

The ones that frighten me are the ones that often leave scars behind. They still exist in that shadowy time between sleep and wakefulness. They inhabit our memories with a frightening reality that resonates day after day after day. I often see it in the eyes of the ones left behind. You can feel it in their hands as they shake yours. If I have the chance to see them years later, I can still see that scar. It's now ingrained. It has developed into a physical representation. You see it in a twitch or a mannerism. It just never leaves you.

I see it now.

Sabato, 05 Giugno, 2004 | Posted by Detective Stevens at 13:12

Over the last few days we've had a young buck tagging along with us. Name is Vernon. Early 20's. Thought he'd just tag along almost as work experience. Head office thought they'd throw him our way for a week or so.

It's wonderful in this business to see enthusiasm on the face, to see the look in the eyes when you apprehend someone for a crime, and you never forget the heave of the lunch when you see your first dead body.

After a couple of years you become hardened to it all. The lunch stays down and looking over a murder scene has proven to be quite thirsty work. Well any way, it's one way of forgetting what you have just seen and getting the smell out of your nostrils.

This one we looked at today, was particularly bad. The deceased was a male in his late 30's. First shot in the head, then run over by what looked like a large heavy vehicle. His guts had burst through his stomach, his head had been crushed. The smell was awful. He'd obviously been there a couple of days and it seemed that the local stray dogs and cats had feasted on his leftovers.

Vernon had come along. We're not allowed to bring people like Vernon, but he had insisted and it was a long way back to the station, so I gave in. I saw the look on his face. Everyone has seen thousands of deaths on television. Every cop show has at least one, but nothing prepares you for it. The scariest reality show on earth. You could see the blood draining from Vernon's face. I walked over to hold him up and take him back to the car.

As I approached the stench hit me. I was prepared for it, unfortunately Vernon wasn't. Up it came, a Big Mac, large fries and a large Coke. Thankfully he hadn't take the upsize offer, or it would have continued for some time longer. It lay all before him. If you reached down, you could have pieced the whole thing together and saved it for dinner.

I didn't mentioned that to Vernon. Didn't think it was appropriate at the time.

At teh end of his week I sat down with him. I thought it had been a good week. He seemed to like it. I had enjoyed the mentoring experience and thought I had done everything to show him the good side of the job. I thought I had been a good role model. I had hoped that something had been learnt by the young fellow that would hold him in good stead no matter what career path he was to take with the force.

So I asked him the question, "Well, Vernon, what do you want to do as a career?" I had hoped it would be Detective, or Senior Sargent, or something where he could put what I had taught him into practice.

He looked at me and said, "I want to be a DJ." I must have looked stunned, because he felt he had to elaborate just in case I didn't know what he meant. "A DJ, a Disk Jockey, music, dance, you know?"

Domenica, 13 Giugno, 2004 | Posted by Detective Stevens at 13:54

I am an early morning riser. It's hard in winter. Not only is everyone still asleep, but so is the day. It's still dark. And it's always cold. My normal routine is to get up, go down to the local 7Eleven, buy the paper, read it over coffee, then shower and head off to work.

I remember this particular morning. A new Korean family had just taken over the 7Eleven. I said hello as I entered the brightly lit premises. I picked up the paper and looked through the magazines. I particularly like PC Mags, and quickly ferret through the stand to see if any of my favorites have a new issue. I rarely buy one as it's hard to read at this time of the morning and I didn't have my glasses. It's actually a lot easier to see the scantily clad females that adorn the "girlie" magazines right next to the PC Mags.

I heard the little Korean lady laugh loudly following a comment from her husband. I happened to be the only person in the store. In these cases I always assume the person is laughing at me. She was probably laughing at the overweight, balding man in a badly fitting track suit walking up and down the aisles.

Okay, it was laughable. Why is it that the most unfit and overweight people across the entire world are the ones wearing track suits? As if the very act of wearing them will make them fit and trim. We're a sorry lot.

I went up to pay for my paper. The Korean lady smiled broadly. There wasn't a mean streak in her body.

But again I heard her laugh stab me from behind as I walked toward the door to exit the premises. There was one of those circular mirrors that distorts everything but provides a 180 degree view.

I had thought I was alone, but wasn't. In the reflection I saw a male, approximately 185 cm tall, black hair tied into a pony tail at the back. I could not see his face. As he walked down the aisle, I caught the glint of metal that peeked out from the leg bottom of his pants and strapped to his ankle.

I stepped outside. I waited patiently. There was no movement. There were no shadows that rushed across walls or towered over cowered bodies. Today's over lit environments prevent all the drama of a hollywood film noir.

After a few minutes, I decided to go back and see if everything was okay. I could see no one at the counter, but at this time of the morning I assumed that they were stacking shelves and talking about the fat, bald guy in the track suit. I looked around, but couldn't see anyone stacking anything.

I walked in carefully. I approached the counter area. A bank of security cameras that I could see in the adjoining room showed no movement. The only thing I could see was an open cash register and a trail of blood that was slowing making its way across the floor. It was taking its time. No hurry. There was no rush.

Life however, wasn't so accommodating. From where it once existed only a few minutes before, it had now disappeared. Made a convenient departure. Escaped, if you like. Disappeared like the person who had also been here.

That had been my first encounter with Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez. That was a few years ago now, but I have recalled it recently when a new Korean family took over the 7Eleven. I heard the wife laugh. She was petite and with a warm face. It must have been that goddam track suit.

Lunedì, 28 Giugno, 2004 | Posted by Detective Stevens at 07:19

Don't get me wrong, I'm sure there are a lot of people who believe that the Recoder is a fine instrument. One deserving of great praise.

Even the great George Frederic Handle wrote a Concerto for Recorder. I suppose that back in the 18 century there wasn't much else to do on a Saturday night.

Well, call me old fashioned but the recorder has been known to bring tears to my eyes. It has also known to turn my stomach and completely give me the shits. Go to any end of term school concert and there you'll hear it.

"Mums and dads, and carers", I was there to see my niece, so I suppose I fell into the latter category of the School Principal's introduction. "The opening number is that well known recent hit called sdiooppoiu."

"What, what did he say?" I had missed the name of the well known recent hit and I knew this was dangerous. I know a lot of well known recent hits. I just have no idea why you would want to play them on the Recorder.

"Greensleeves" is about it. Even then at a push. But throw a Brittany Spears or a Madonna at the instrument and you have an instrument of death. It becomes a WMD (Weapon of Mass Destruction). Even a Barry Manilow number would sound worse than it already does.

Hey, just suck it in and get on with it. I was there to see Jemma. She was great. Maybe one day I could be bold enough to find someone who could help me raise a child as vibrant and vivacious as my niece.

I was also there to keep a close eye on Jesus who was there with Silvia to see Marie's school concert.

His gold tooth shone and sent reflections across the walls of the old church where the Concert was being held. When he smiled it lit up the room with its deadly glow. It also shone on Silvia, sitting next to him quietly, observing her daughter, proud of her use of the Recoder, playing that song that I hand't heard the name of and no one could tell me what it sounded like.

Silvia had the presence that you just couldn't hide. She would walk into the room and the lights shone that bit brighter. Your eyes met and it felt as if she knew you, as if she was communicating with you from across the room. As if she was looking into your soul. You had to look away for fear of what she might see.

The parents applauded furiously at the end of the song. So did I. It seemed that everyone was really pleased that the well know recent hit had finished and they were showing their appreciation.

Sabato, 17 Luglio, 2004 | Posted by Detective Stevens at 13:46

I first heard about the incident while lying in bed. I often have the police radio just going. It doesn't help me sleep, I don't sleep too well. It's cold in bed, even with the electric blanket. It's been cold ever since she left me.

She was a dancer. Amazing. You would watch her dance and you could see the music. There was the blare of the trumpet as she stamped her feet. She'd swoon across your chest and it felt like the cool caress of a Wynton Marsalis's trumpet. Her lips were soft like the a Miles Davis Collection. And whenever, we were together, my heart just beat like a drum.

Hey, well that was then. I don't talk about it anymore. Can't even mention her name. But I still see her music. I often see her in the dark. I saw her that evening as I was listening to the police radio. I saw her shadow slowly slide across the wall. I wanted to welcome her, to talk with her.

But I was distracted by a name on the radio. A name that had stolen her and taken her away. I never knew who she was looking for. In the end I just knew it wasn't me.

The name I heard mention was Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez.

I don't normally go out on nights like this as if it were sport. I just knew that something had happened that I had to go see. It was like I could see a car crash up ahead and I had to veer closer to take a look, to see if there were any survivors.

Mercoledì, 21 Luglio, 2004 | Posted by Detective Stevens at 22:57

The first thing I remember about that incident is turning up in a daze. I knew immediately I was too late. I also knew this was Silvia's house. As I approached, I heard the most unexpected thing. It is music coming out from the house.

I enter to see Silvia dead on the floor. The place is a mess. Blood is splattered around the floor and sprayed across the walls of the room. The leg of a chair has embedded itself into Silvia's neck. I still recognise the woman that comes visit me on some lonely nights when I dare to dream.

The music that was playing reminded me so much of her. Her optimism and spirit. She was indestructible.

Her destroyer was lying next to her. The shocked look on his face was almost comical. He had never believed that it would end like this. Shot with his own gun. if only I could have seen it.

And the music played on. The sun was just starting to come up. It was bright and the rain over night was now glistening in the warm light. Lionel's nose was being attended to. I saw Marie. She was totally confused. Poor Kid. She didn't recognise me. Seeing your mother in that way. It has to do it to you.

Take it from me, in Rhumbaland things rarely have a fairy tale ending. They rarely resemble anything that you may have once heard of in a lullaby. I stepped outside and listened to the music. I just let the morning sun warm me.

Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high,
there's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby.
Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue,
and the dreams that you dare to dream, really do come true.

Mercoledì, 28 Luglio, 2004 | Posted by Detective Stevens at 18:56

The case was all over before it even started. Well, there was never really any case to answer. Jesus's record spoke for itself. His history of violence, the fact that he had murdered Silvia, the fact that he had assaulted his own daughter and Lionel. There was never going to be any jury that was going to feel any remorse for the guy.

And neither should there be.

Who could blame Lionel for shooting the guy. Purely self-defence said the Judge and the jury agreed.

The only thing I couldn't understand was why there were two shots. Why did he fire two shots? The first one had obviously killed Jesus. So, there he is. Jesus is lying on the floor. Not moving. Blood spilling out. Lionel gets up, takes three minutes to get close and then fires again.

Lionel said it was fear. He had been so scared that he just fired again.

Knowing Jesus, I think I would have fired twice as well, maybe even unloaded the entire gun into the prick.

But I wouldn't have waited some three minutes. Why the wait? I don't know. I can't figure it out and I don't think I or anyone else was very keen to find out. Let it go. It's all over.

I remember looking out over the garden on the morning it happened. As I have already mentioned, it was a gorgeous morning. Fresh, sun shining. Just beautiful. I stood below the tree and heard the birds chirping away as if everything was fine in the world. There they were just flying about without a care. They were in search of the tastiest worms for breakfast.

And then I saw it. It was a rainbow. It arched its way across the sky in a sign of wonder. I saluted it and set off for home and breakfast.

Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly.
Birds fly over the rainbow, why then, oh, why can't I?
If all those little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow,
why, oh why, can't I?