Midnight Priorities
by Gary Clifton
“Homicide H-thirty-six-Delta.” An hour past quitting time on a Saturday night, a light drizzle falling had made every uniform on the grid three-deep in fender-benders or worse. Like a rookie, Wafer had radioed “cleared for home” instead of just disappearing in the rain. The alarm office had pounced on the lapse in sanity.
“Shoulda left that damned radio alone,” he muttered as he growled into his microphone, “H-thirty six delta, go ahead.”
“Homicide, H-thirty-six-delta, a ten-thirty-three at Fingers on Cedar Lawn. Unknown caller reports one vic seriously injured with a barstool. Respond code two.”
Ten-thirty-three meant the call was priority because of an injured party. Code two directed him to hurry but no lights or siren. The old Chevrolet “plain car” assigned to Homicide as a take-home unit for the on-call dick was lucky to have headlights. Sirens, indeed.
It was a patrol assignment, or should have been, but no uniform was available. He’d just spent half a shift wrestling a pound of paperwork jailing a pimp with three trips inside who had firebombed a rival pimp’s Eldorado down on Industrial Boulevard. Bars didn’t close for another thirty minutes; time for a quick cold one on the way home. But that wasn’t going to happen.
“Show me responding.” It sounded like no more than a couple more hours without pay if he was lucky. But a thirty-year man like Wafer had learned not to be optimistic when spilled blood was an issue.
Fingers? He knew the place. A transgender bar operated by Glen something or other, who lived in the back. Wafer had responded to a murder there a year or so earlier. The normally quiet bar was housed in an old storefront in a neighborhood with several other similar businesses that catered to the same clientele.
It wasn’t uncommon for some dickhead homophobe macho jackass to wander in a place like that and get physical. Wafer knew that the perps were invariably insecure, self-hating men uncertain of their own sexuality. The murder had been a trick box situation. A patron had brained the bad boy with a full pitcher of cold beer. The pitcher wielder had walked away, and Wafer hadn’t invested a hell of a lot of time looking for him.
He figured this deal was similar, but circumstances might dictate otherwise. The perp would run his mouth, and word would get around. He’d clue in the night shift sergeants, and they’d have him in a week. The place was closed, lights off, the crowd cleared out. Wafer’s flashlight found Glen sitting on a chair just inside the front door. His massive wound and gushing blood blared, “Get help quick.”
“Glen, open the damned door or I’ll have to kick it.”
Glen staggered over and turned the lock. The assailant had nearly severed his left ear which dangled by luck and a strip of skin grotesquely down his neck. “I didn’t call no cops.”
“Ambulance,” Wafer said.
“Wafer, call EMT’s and I ain’t goin’.”
Wafer found a towel to use as a sop. Glen locked up and Wafer drove him to County General, where Saturday night was a clone of Mardi Gras, only everybody was pissed at somebody. Wafer badged him to the front of the line, the idea of a cold beer evaporating in noise and mayhem.
“Forty-eight stitches, Wafer, but no concussion,” the young doc beamed at his diagnosis.
Wafer swung through a greaseburger drive-in and grabbed a pair of coffees. “Glen, dammit, if patrol had handled this like shoulda been, you’d be riding a third-floor cot at County and charged with something like public bleeding. Now gimme some stuff for the report. You know, at least a description.”
He loaded up with four sugars. “Wafer, I didn’t know the guy. Never really got a good look. You know, man, prolly a straight asshole cruising for a chance to start some shit.”
“Okay, dude, I’ll write it up that way.”
The rain had stopped, and Glen stepped out in front of Fingers. “Thanks for the help and the coffee, Wafer.”
The guy in the bushes did his damnedest to get smaller, but the dim streetlights spoiled the plan. As he fled into the darkened alley, the piece that Wafer saw in his hand was big and ugly. He caught the runner in twenty yards. They went down, wallowing in the mud.
The fugitive was big, fit, and years younger. Wafer felt his strength going south. The man struggled to reach beneath him. Wafer got out his Glock and stuck it in the man’s ear. “Come up with that pistol and it’s teeth, hair, and eyes all over the alley, tough guy.”
“Ain’t got no damned pistol, you stupid ape.”
Wafer smacked him a couple good ones, and the perp went fetal.
Glen stumbled up. “In the name of God, no!” He clutched the assailant, falling across him as a shield. Wafer stood and stepped back as they embraced for several seconds.
“God, I’m so sorry.” The bushes guy smothered Glen with hugs, then a lingering kiss.
Wafer found his flashlight and spotted the object in the mud which he’d just missed killing a man over: a tall single, long-stemmed rose in a slender vase shattered in half, for God’s sake. The assailant wasn’t a patron, he lived there!
Wafer weighed suggesting that next time the combatants might consider less lethal weapons, but he thought better of it.
A family spat, even a forty-eight stitch one, was definitely a low priority in the crime and violence business. A little forgiveness would help the medicine go down.
Wafer was all wet and muddy when he walked back to his car. He’d stop by on Monday and get Glen to sign the declination of prosecution form, then file it in the back of a lower drawer. Records wouldn’t give a damn if a Homicide cop reported the call as unfounded. They had plenty of action to chew on.
Copyright © 2023 by Gary Clifton
