“Well, this is a mess,” muttered Jenkis as he stepped carefully over broken tables and limp bodies.
A jittered rookie slunk around him, jotting down notes and checking faces with IDs.
“You think this is our guy, Detective?” he asked through a thick Brooklyn accent, complete with shrugs and hand gestures. It was only the second week on beat with this kid and already Jenkis was developing heartburn when he saw him coming. If it wasn't the mannerisms, it was the attitude.
“Nobody calls me Detective, asshole.”
“What's that?”
“No, I don't think this is our guy. Not directly, anyway.”
Jenkis turned a chair upright and sat down in the center of the room, surrounded by blood and beer. His rookie shadow kept moving, moseying around the room, poking at bodies and smelling puddles of alcohol. Every once in a while, he would whistle with curiosity or shake his head. It was almost amusing to Jenkis to watch the new guy attempt brilliance and wing the ancient art form of forensics.
Finally, he had to give the kid a break. Especially when the paramedics arrived.
“You do realize that most of these folks aren't dead, right? This was a bar fight, not a mass genocide.”
The young buck's eyes squinted with confusion, and a hint of disgust. After all, they were homicide detectives! Why were they mingling with the menial lowlifes in ER?
“Then why the frick are we here?”
“Because,” Jenkis sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring at the giant hole above them. “It all started up there, and that... as you say... is our guy.”
As the two climbed the splintering stairs to the attic room, Jenkis went on to explain the situation. His sidekick scribbled in shorthand all the information as it came, occasionally tripping on a step. The room was in shambles and they edged their way around the hole in the floor. Jenkis flopped down on the couch and quietly took in the scene. The rookie was not so quiet, but propped his foot on the couch's armrest and began reviewing his notes allowed.
“So this joker, Loaded Tony, gives these guys all their 'stuff', you said. Like what – guns, drugs, girls?”
“All of the above.”
“Anything else?”
Jenkis lifted the cushions and pulled out a 10" buoy knife. He laughed slightly and studied the blade, noting his own reflection.
“Plenty more. But that's all you need to know. Otherwise, you'd go downstairs and beat the tar out of whatever's left of this joker.”
The rookie lowered his foot and folded his arms.
“What's that supposed to mean, Detective?”
“Well, rookie,” Jenkis retorted cooly. “It means that you are new to the gig and you're still a loose canon of emotions. Don't worry about it; everyone is at first, until you've seen everything on the job and it wears you down. Then it becomes common to you, and you have the reserve necessary to accept the bitter truth as data and use it constructively to do your job. Barbiturates, weapons, prostitution... these are nothing compared to where this cat makes his real money. But if I disclose that information to you now, you'd snap and he'd be leaving here in a body bag. You don't want that the second week on the job, do you?”
He twirled the knife in his hand, testing its balance, while his associate posed the age-old question.
“So, if our guy is taking out garbage like this, why are we trying to stop him?”
“Sometimes I wonder if we really are,” responded Jenkis solemnly. “Or are we just recording his steps and praying to God that we learn something about virtue from this ronin of Fishward City?”
He handed the knife to the speechless rookie and walked down to the bar for a drink. Of course, they didn't have his preferred tonic, so he took a cheap scotch instead.
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