Death Warrant
Wednesday June 6, 2012 - 13h36 - 6th Precinct
Detective Constable David Tarker had a reputation down at the 6th precinct, and he meant to keep it. He was a no nonsense investigator, a man possessed when he was on the trail of a malefactor, like a bloodhound on the heels of a fox.
Which was why when the Perkins file crossed his desk, a slight smile quirked the corner of his lips.
It didn't matter that he and Perkins shared a distant history. It didn't matter that Tarker's ex-wife had dated Perkins for a while in high school, or that Perkins had accidentally dented his car at the Bowl-o-rama 20 years ago, or that Perkins' dog had left a steaming pile of nastiness at his outdoor wedding reception. No, what mattered was that Perkins was accused of being a low-level drug dealer, and that Tarker always got his man.
He signed the warrant application with relish, and assembled his team.
Wednesday June 6, 2012 - 16h11 - 13 Meadowlark Crescent
The officers pulled up in front of the accused's residence in full force: three police vehicles and eight officers armed with all the tools necessary for disassembling a house and ferreting out hidden evidence. Crow bars, drill guns, even a reciprocating saw—Tarker was going to enjoy this.
He led his team up the walkway of the unassuming suburban residence and knocked firmly on the door. There were a few footsteps, and then the subject of the investigation answered.
"Humphrey Perkins—we have a warrant to search these premises. I am Detective Constable Tarker and I will be the supervisory officer for this search. You are to remain in my eyesight for the entire period of our search and you are to refrain from any communication, electronic or otherwise, with anyone outside of this home. Do you understand?"
"Davie, what on earth is this all about? You're going to frighten the cat with all your stomping about with heavy boots. I say, what are you intending to do with that crowbar?"
"Mr. Perkins, obstructing a police investigation is an offence under section 129 of the criminal code. You have the right to be present but not to interfere. Please sit down in the living room where I can see you."
Perkins made a face, but did as he was instructed. He poured himself a drink—scotch, by the look of it—and sat himself down on the sofa.
"Want one?" he asked grumpily, waving his drink in Tarker's direction.
"Officers on duty do not imbibe, Mr. Perkins. In fact, I recommend you don't either, given the circumstances."
"Recommendation received and ignored, Davie. Under the circumstances."
Constable Jeffers moved a coffee table away from the wall and took out his reciprocating saw.
"What are you going to do with that?!" Perkins asked, spilling a bit of scotch in his panic.
"We have reason to believe that a cache of drugs is hidden somewhere in this house," Tarker explained. "It's all in the warrant I handed you. Drug dealers will typically hide their horde in the walls or between the floor joists to evade the law, and thus we must open up the walls to investigate."
"Oh, Joyce won't be pleased with this ..." Perkins muttered.
"That's no concern of ours," Tarker said, trying to keep the glee from his voice. Perkins had been an annoyance in his life for many decades, like a mosquito in the night. At last Tarker was going to swat that pest. "Constable Jeffers—proceed."
Jeffers pulled the trigger of his saw and—nothing happened.
"Must be the battery." He shrugged and swapped it out. Then—nothing still.
Tarker's foot began tapping, despite himself. "Jeffers?"
"I don't understand it, Sir. I tested this equipment back at the station and it—aaarghhh!"
The battery pack of the reciprocating saw had somehow caught fire, burning Jeffers' hand. He dropped the tool on the floor, screamed like a madman, and then rushed to the kitchen to run his injury under cold water.
Tarker frowned at the offending tool that was still smoldering in the middle of the floor.
Perkins slouched deeper into the sofa, nursing his drink.
Then there was a curse from upstairs, followed by a scream. And then the sound of something large falling down the stairs.
"Won't you excuse me just one moment," Tarker said to his suspect.
"But I thought I wasn't to be left out of your sight for the duration of your search?"
Tarker frowned again.
Thursday June 7, 2012 - 08h19 - 6th Precinct
Captain John Runciman scowled over his reading glasses at Tarker. "And you expect me to believe this report?"
Tarker swallowed. "All of the attending officers can corroborate it."
"This was to be a simple execution of a search warrant in a low-risk premises," the Captain barked. "Instead, I have six officers off on injury, and yet nowhere does it say here that the suspect booby-trapped his house or made any move to resist the attending officers. How am I supposed to explain this to my superiors? Jeffers—third degree burns suffered to the hand and arm due to battery pack catching fire. Henderson—hernia trying to move a couch. DeWitt—internal burns due to ingestion of superheated coffee. Green—slipped on the stairs and broke three bones in his arm and shoulder. Chan—disfiguring scratch marks across the face caused by a spooked feline. Brodeur—broken nose and concussion due to crow bar slipping back into his own face. And then, on top of the cost of an ambulance attending the scene, the engine of your squad car overheated on the drive back to the station causing a complete write-off of the vehicle. And I'm to believe that, somehow, all of this was a coincidence?"
Tarker swallowed harder. "It does seem suspicious. But I can't otherwise explain the events that occurred in my report."
The captain glared at his subordinate. "It's not your job to explain these things—it's HIS. Get this Perkins fellow in here for an interrogation."
Tarker's mood brightened considerably. "Yes, sir!"
Thursday June 7, 2012 - 11h03 - 6th Precinct
"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Perkins," Tarker said, showing his old acquaintance into the interrogation room.
"You'd just have arrested me and dragged me down here anyway—you said as much! Davie, I know we've had a rough history, but we've actually got a lot in common, if you think about it. She left me before she left you, after all. The thing is—"
"Please sit down, Mr. Perkins. Before we get into it, please state your name for the record."
"Er, Humphrey Perkins, accountant. I say that last bit because I think one of my clients might be trying to wriggle out of the bill by throwing me under the bus. I do tend to get distracted, and I'm a bit of a klutz as you well know, but I'm not an idiot."
"We can discuss your theory in a moment, Mr. Perkins, but first I want to know what happened yesterday at your house. Why have I been filling out insurance forms all night?"
Humphrey cast his eyes heavenward. "I told you, Joyce wasn't going to like you trashing the house."
"So your wife is a witch?"
"My wife left me three years ago—I told you we had a lot in common. No, Joyce is ... she's an old tenant of the house, see? Long before we moved in there was an accident and ... she's haunted the house ever since."
Tarker blinked in disbelief.
"I know it's not what you want to hear, and I did try to warn you, but ... there you have it, all my cards on the table."
"Mr. Perkins, I won't pretend to know what is going on, but I know it's not a ghost haunting your 1980s bungalow. You're going to sit here, in this room, while I execute another warrant, and when I come back I want you to have come up with a better story. Understood?"
"I don't think that's a good idea," Perkins said, rubbing his eye as if tired. "Joyce gets ... worked up when there are strangers in the house, especially when the regular occupants of the home are not around. Our old cleaning lady ... we still didn't really understand back then ... She was a beautiful black girl, twenty-six—Rebecca was her name, very helpful. We came home one day after she had been cleaning alone and ... she was scared senseless, hair turned white as snow—skin as well. I've heard she still doesn't speak more than one word at a time.
"Now, how 'bout this? You and me get a drink down the local pub and I'll tell you everything you want to know, about Joyce, about the Gomez account, even about Tilda, that manipulative woman we both so love to hate. But please, I'm asking you not to send more people over to the house."
Tarker thought a bit, then rose. "Painfully transparent, Mr. Perkins. You're not going to frighten a police officer with a ghost story, and you're not going to win my confidence by feeding me empty leads and pretending to understand my personal life. I have a job to do, and I pride myself in the fact that I do it well. Enjoy your day in the interrogation cell, Mr. Perkins."
Friday June 8, 2012 - 09h17 - 6th Precinct
Captain Runciman stared over those same reading glasses again, expression aghast. "He must have had a partner? Or laced the air with hallucinogenics? I just can't believe what I'm reading!"
Tarker shook his head in agreement. "It's baffling, Sir."
"Jenkins barely survived his lungs being filled with water, while his partner McDonnell lost his leg 'as if by sharkbite' in a room that was later established to be dry as a bone. Dick Carpenter—who I've worked with for twenty years—had his gun go off in his holster, shooting himself through the foot, while the bullet continued through the floor and struck the hand of Sergeant Dingman, causing the saw he was operating to go out of control and gravely injure Officer Singh. Lieutenant Patryski went blind while exploring a broom closet, and the hospital still hasn't managed to dig his fingernails out of his own palms! Detective, this is a catastrophe. Half of the officers stationed at this precinct are off on disability claims now—it's costing us a fortune! The union, the insurance adjuster, and the brass are all breathing down my neck, and for what? No evidence in a low-priority case. On top of that, your suspect lawyered up and we're on the hook for a habeas corpus writ—we have to let him go."
Tarker gritted his teeth, his dreams of petty vengeance evaporating like thin rain on hot pavement. Then he had an idea.
"What about those jerks from Drug Enforcement downtown?"
Captain Runciman shrugged. "Those trigger happy cowboys? What about them?"
Tarker chose his words carefully. "They've elbowed their way in on some of our biggest cases, and blown more than just a few with their heroics. Squandered thousands of man-hours in investigations, just to prove they're the alpha dogs on the force. Maybe we should call them in on this one. If they find the drugs, great, at least we get our perp off the streets. If the house really does take bites out of people ..."
The captain waved his finger at Tarker. "That's despicable. Make the call."
"Yes, Sir."
Friday June 8, 2012 - 11h44 - 13 Meadowlark Crescent
"Couldn't hack a simple search and seizure, eh Tarper?" Lieutenant Montoya sneered, cleaning his gun in the back of the police van.
"That's Tarker," Tarker clarified. "And no—that house must be cursed. It's the strangest thing, but accidents keep—"
"Hey, if I wanted your life story I'd have asked your mom to bust out the photo album after all of our wild sex last night. Samson, Price, Yomaha—you're on point. The rest of you are with me."
"Sir, yes sir!"
"Tarper, I don't want you touching a thing in this crime scene. Your sole purpose is to babysit the suspect, and then help yourself to a popsicle if you can get him to bed on time. Understood?"
Tarker let out a long exhale and nodded.
"OK, this is it, go go go!"
The Drug Enforcement team charged up the driveway and smashed their way through the front door. Tarker followed at a leisurely pace, not wanting to interfere with their methods. He found Perkins just inside the front door.
"Tarker, are you insane?!" the accountant cried. "This is not good. This is not good at all. I need a drink."
"So do I," Tarker agreed. "Hey, you want to go check out that pub you were talking about? We've got a bit of catching up to do and ... well, these boys might be a while."
As they walked down the sidewalk Tarker thought he heard a muffled scream, but it could just as easily have been someone's tv turned up too loud.
Spoiler
Wednesday June 6, 2012 - 13h36 - 6th Precinct
Detective Constable David Tarker had a reputation down at the 6th precinct, and he meant to keep it. He was a no nonsense investigator, a man possessed when he was on the trail of a malefactor, like a bloodhound on the heels of a fox.
Which was why when the Perkins file crossed his desk, a slight smile quirked the corner of his lips.
It didn't matter that he and Perkins shared a distant history. It didn't matter that Tarker's ex-wife had dated Perkins for a while in high school, or that Perkins had accidentally dented his car at the Bowl-o-rama 20 years ago, or that Perkins' dog had left a steaming pile of nastiness at his outdoor wedding reception. No, what mattered was that Perkins was accused of being a low-level drug dealer, and that Tarker always got his man.
He signed the warrant application with relish, and assembled his team.
Wednesday June 6, 2012 - 16h11 - 13 Meadowlark Crescent
The officers pulled up in front of the accused's residence in full force: three police vehicles and eight officers armed with all the tools necessary for disassembling a house and ferreting out hidden evidence. Crow bars, drill guns, even a reciprocating saw—Tarker was going to enjoy this.
He led his team up the walkway of the unassuming suburban residence and knocked firmly on the door. There were a few footsteps, and then the subject of the investigation answered.
"Humphrey Perkins—we have a warrant to search these premises. I am Detective Constable Tarker and I will be the supervisory officer for this search. You are to remain in my eyesight for the entire period of our search and you are to refrain from any communication, electronic or otherwise, with anyone outside of this home. Do you understand?"
"Davie, what on earth is this all about? You're going to frighten the cat with all your stomping about with heavy boots. I say, what are you intending to do with that crowbar?"
"Mr. Perkins, obstructing a police investigation is an offence under section 129 of the criminal code. You have the right to be present but not to interfere. Please sit down in the living room where I can see you."
Perkins made a face, but did as he was instructed. He poured himself a drink—scotch, by the look of it—and sat himself down on the sofa.
"Want one?" he asked grumpily, waving his drink in Tarker's direction.
"Officers on duty do not imbibe, Mr. Perkins. In fact, I recommend you don't either, given the circumstances."
"Recommendation received and ignored, Davie. Under the circumstances."
Constable Jeffers moved a coffee table away from the wall and took out his reciprocating saw.
"What are you going to do with that?!" Perkins asked, spilling a bit of scotch in his panic.
"We have reason to believe that a cache of drugs is hidden somewhere in this house," Tarker explained. "It's all in the warrant I handed you. Drug dealers will typically hide their horde in the walls or between the floor joists to evade the law, and thus we must open up the walls to investigate."
"Oh, Joyce won't be pleased with this ..." Perkins muttered.
"That's no concern of ours," Tarker said, trying to keep the glee from his voice. Perkins had been an annoyance in his life for many decades, like a mosquito in the night. At last Tarker was going to swat that pest. "Constable Jeffers—proceed."
Jeffers pulled the trigger of his saw and—nothing happened.
"Must be the battery." He shrugged and swapped it out. Then—nothing still.
Tarker's foot began tapping, despite himself. "Jeffers?"
"I don't understand it, Sir. I tested this equipment back at the station and it—aaarghhh!"
The battery pack of the reciprocating saw had somehow caught fire, burning Jeffers' hand. He dropped the tool on the floor, screamed like a madman, and then rushed to the kitchen to run his injury under cold water.
Tarker frowned at the offending tool that was still smoldering in the middle of the floor.
Perkins slouched deeper into the sofa, nursing his drink.
Then there was a curse from upstairs, followed by a scream. And then the sound of something large falling down the stairs.
"Won't you excuse me just one moment," Tarker said to his suspect.
"But I thought I wasn't to be left out of your sight for the duration of your search?"
Tarker frowned again.
Thursday June 7, 2012 - 08h19 - 6th Precinct
Captain John Runciman scowled over his reading glasses at Tarker. "And you expect me to believe this report?"
Tarker swallowed. "All of the attending officers can corroborate it."
"This was to be a simple execution of a search warrant in a low-risk premises," the Captain barked. "Instead, I have six officers off on injury, and yet nowhere does it say here that the suspect booby-trapped his house or made any move to resist the attending officers. How am I supposed to explain this to my superiors? Jeffers—third degree burns suffered to the hand and arm due to battery pack catching fire. Henderson—hernia trying to move a couch. DeWitt—internal burns due to ingestion of superheated coffee. Green—slipped on the stairs and broke three bones in his arm and shoulder. Chan—disfiguring scratch marks across the face caused by a spooked feline. Brodeur—broken nose and concussion due to crow bar slipping back into his own face. And then, on top of the cost of an ambulance attending the scene, the engine of your squad car overheated on the drive back to the station causing a complete write-off of the vehicle. And I'm to believe that, somehow, all of this was a coincidence?"
Tarker swallowed harder. "It does seem suspicious. But I can't otherwise explain the events that occurred in my report."
The captain glared at his subordinate. "It's not your job to explain these things—it's HIS. Get this Perkins fellow in here for an interrogation."
Tarker's mood brightened considerably. "Yes, sir!"
Thursday June 7, 2012 - 11h03 - 6th Precinct
"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Perkins," Tarker said, showing his old acquaintance into the interrogation room.
"You'd just have arrested me and dragged me down here anyway—you said as much! Davie, I know we've had a rough history, but we've actually got a lot in common, if you think about it. She left me before she left you, after all. The thing is—"
"Please sit down, Mr. Perkins. Before we get into it, please state your name for the record."
"Er, Humphrey Perkins, accountant. I say that last bit because I think one of my clients might be trying to wriggle out of the bill by throwing me under the bus. I do tend to get distracted, and I'm a bit of a klutz as you well know, but I'm not an idiot."
"We can discuss your theory in a moment, Mr. Perkins, but first I want to know what happened yesterday at your house. Why have I been filling out insurance forms all night?"
Humphrey cast his eyes heavenward. "I told you, Joyce wasn't going to like you trashing the house."
"So your wife is a witch?"
"My wife left me three years ago—I told you we had a lot in common. No, Joyce is ... she's an old tenant of the house, see? Long before we moved in there was an accident and ... she's haunted the house ever since."
Tarker blinked in disbelief.
"I know it's not what you want to hear, and I did try to warn you, but ... there you have it, all my cards on the table."
"Mr. Perkins, I won't pretend to know what is going on, but I know it's not a ghost haunting your 1980s bungalow. You're going to sit here, in this room, while I execute another warrant, and when I come back I want you to have come up with a better story. Understood?"
"I don't think that's a good idea," Perkins said, rubbing his eye as if tired. "Joyce gets ... worked up when there are strangers in the house, especially when the regular occupants of the home are not around. Our old cleaning lady ... we still didn't really understand back then ... She was a beautiful black girl, twenty-six—Rebecca was her name, very helpful. We came home one day after she had been cleaning alone and ... she was scared senseless, hair turned white as snow—skin as well. I've heard she still doesn't speak more than one word at a time.
"Now, how 'bout this? You and me get a drink down the local pub and I'll tell you everything you want to know, about Joyce, about the Gomez account, even about Tilda, that manipulative woman we both so love to hate. But please, I'm asking you not to send more people over to the house."
Tarker thought a bit, then rose. "Painfully transparent, Mr. Perkins. You're not going to frighten a police officer with a ghost story, and you're not going to win my confidence by feeding me empty leads and pretending to understand my personal life. I have a job to do, and I pride myself in the fact that I do it well. Enjoy your day in the interrogation cell, Mr. Perkins."
Friday June 8, 2012 - 09h17 - 6th Precinct
Captain Runciman stared over those same reading glasses again, expression aghast. "He must have had a partner? Or laced the air with hallucinogenics? I just can't believe what I'm reading!"
Tarker shook his head in agreement. "It's baffling, Sir."
"Jenkins barely survived his lungs being filled with water, while his partner McDonnell lost his leg 'as if by sharkbite' in a room that was later established to be dry as a bone. Dick Carpenter—who I've worked with for twenty years—had his gun go off in his holster, shooting himself through the foot, while the bullet continued through the floor and struck the hand of Sergeant Dingman, causing the saw he was operating to go out of control and gravely injure Officer Singh. Lieutenant Patryski went blind while exploring a broom closet, and the hospital still hasn't managed to dig his fingernails out of his own palms! Detective, this is a catastrophe. Half of the officers stationed at this precinct are off on disability claims now—it's costing us a fortune! The union, the insurance adjuster, and the brass are all breathing down my neck, and for what? No evidence in a low-priority case. On top of that, your suspect lawyered up and we're on the hook for a habeas corpus writ—we have to let him go."
Tarker gritted his teeth, his dreams of petty vengeance evaporating like thin rain on hot pavement. Then he had an idea.
"What about those jerks from Drug Enforcement downtown?"
Captain Runciman shrugged. "Those trigger happy cowboys? What about them?"
Tarker chose his words carefully. "They've elbowed their way in on some of our biggest cases, and blown more than just a few with their heroics. Squandered thousands of man-hours in investigations, just to prove they're the alpha dogs on the force. Maybe we should call them in on this one. If they find the drugs, great, at least we get our perp off the streets. If the house really does take bites out of people ..."
The captain waved his finger at Tarker. "That's despicable. Make the call."
"Yes, Sir."
Friday June 8, 2012 - 11h44 - 13 Meadowlark Crescent
"Couldn't hack a simple search and seizure, eh Tarper?" Lieutenant Montoya sneered, cleaning his gun in the back of the police van.
"That's Tarker," Tarker clarified. "And no—that house must be cursed. It's the strangest thing, but accidents keep—"
"Hey, if I wanted your life story I'd have asked your mom to bust out the photo album after all of our wild sex last night. Samson, Price, Yomaha—you're on point. The rest of you are with me."
"Sir, yes sir!"
"Tarper, I don't want you touching a thing in this crime scene. Your sole purpose is to babysit the suspect, and then help yourself to a popsicle if you can get him to bed on time. Understood?"
Tarker let out a long exhale and nodded.
"OK, this is it, go go go!"
The Drug Enforcement team charged up the driveway and smashed their way through the front door. Tarker followed at a leisurely pace, not wanting to interfere with their methods. He found Perkins just inside the front door.
"Tarker, are you insane?!" the accountant cried. "This is not good. This is not good at all. I need a drink."
"So do I," Tarker agreed. "Hey, you want to go check out that pub you were talking about? We've got a bit of catching up to do and ... well, these boys might be a while."
As they walked down the sidewalk Tarker thought he heard a muffled scream, but it could just as easily have been someone's tv turned up too loud.
[close]
The doubling of the "stupid things" with the second task fits the theme, but the repetitive nature of the punishments made it hard for the story to gain traction in my imagination. "High Coup" was slightly better, having started with a punny title. The juxtaposition of an ancient leader condemning slavery and a modern one encouraging it was thought provoking, although highly selective (the majority of ancient leaders had no issue with slavery and the majority of modern elected presidents strongly oppose it). I liked how it seemed like the slaves would carry the day, although I struggle to see what is doubled. 
). I could make out that after the excitement of the find there was scratching on the guardrail and the sound of scruffy feet walking on the deck, and that Kerry can "understand their language" when she touches the figurine, and that "they" want to make her their queen. I don't think it's much of a stretch from there to deduct the existence of organized sub-aquatic monarchy, although the species involved is unknown. Since this is a love letter from Kerry to Jojo, I assume she abandoned him for this new opportunity. His subsequent disappearance with Beth makes me think Queen Kerry of the Underwaves might have become jealous at how quickly she was replaced in Jojo's affections, but this might be the result of an overactive imagination.
