The Irishman at the End of the Bar

The cleaning crew called the police at eight in the morning and had not been to the roof since eight in the morning on the previous Friday. There was minimal decomposition, and no one reported any gunshots. Traffic below combined with elevation and the soundproof windows of the building could explain this, but I am still surprised not even a report was filed. The use of a silencer is not an explanation, because silencers are not silent. They only lower the decibel of the shot to below what causes hearing damage. All in all, a gun with a silencer still sounds like a gun. They are more accurately called suppressors.

This will be a difficult timeline to build. I start with what I can confirm; Friday to Friday. Big timeline, but we will get there.

I task the officers with cross referencing the list of tenants with firearm registrations. Other officers I assign to sit with the video footage from the last week to let me know who was coming and going, and more importantly, if they can identify Willow as one of them. My job for now will be to learn something about Screwball. To conduct that I must utilize our local and state gang database.

There are five known gangs in the city, and three of them are street gangs. We are host to a chapter of the Latin Kings, another rival Latino gang with Venezuelan roots called the Caracas Conquistadors, and a biker gang called the Fat Bastards. They are literally a bunch of fat guys riding motorcycles, though they are more of a nuisance than a threat. They are only on our radar because one of them was rolled up for dealing marijuana, but that was more likely a private entrepreneurial effort. The other two groups are not classified as street gangs because we do not know enough about them, and they do not make any overt claims over what their territory or turf is. These two behave more like the gangs of old and have links with more organized criminal enterprises like the traditional mafia or mob. The group with Greek roots called the Argonauts, and The Irish group simply known as The Bar.

I spell Screwball with and without a space, and come up with a partial match for Screwy, Screw You -- personally I think this was a cop being a dick and just writing the response to the question 'do you have a street name?' -, Screw Top, and my personal favorite Screwg McFuck. No Screwball however.

Just because he is not gang related, does not mean he is not drug related. Time to talk to Narcotics on the sixth floor.

I stand up and look around to see what everyone was working on. The Kaiser is digging through Willow's credit history, or lack thereof, and trying to make sense of her accounts. Sergeant Leonard Sweeney is the acting Lieutenant for Homicide Department seeing how Lieutenant Queen is now Captain Queen and running the entire Division of Investigations. Leo is doing whatever it is Lieutenants do, maybe I will figure that out one day. I have one officer watching video and another going through delivery logs of the condo. Everyone is busy and I should be too.

"Will," I say to The Kaiser, who turns to me from her finances, "I'm going up to Narcotics, see if the name Screwball is on their radar."

"Okay, but we need to talk about her finances when you get back," he replies.

"Why, what's up?"

"I crunched some numbers and a mortgage for one of those condos, is about eleven hundred a month give or take a few hundred. Her finances had to have been very liquid or someone else was keeping the lights on. That's a big cost for a college student."

I lean down and watch him point several things out to me. Firstly, her current account that we know about has never had more than five thousand in it and is only a year old. There is no history to suggest a mortgage sized monthly bill. Her last activity on it was a month ago.

"We need to find out who was paying her bills, because she sure as hell wasn't," I say, and The Kaiser nods to agree. "And to do that we need to know which condo she lived in. Anything on that?"

"The uniforms are still interviewing people, but they should be done in about an hour. Go talk to Narcotics we'll compare notes when you get back," he replies.

I walk out of the homicide department office and step into the elevator just before it closes. I press my keycard to the sensor and press six. The doors open on the sixth floor a brief time later, and I step off to see a directory immediately on the wall across the hall from the elevators. Narcotics and Violent crime were on this floor. Violent crime investigates all other violent crimes that are not homicides like rape and gun related offenses. Narcotics was to the left, so I pivoted and started down the hall.

Narcotics office is nicer than homicide and had three doors to choose from. The department in general, and a private office for both the Lieutenant and the Sergeant. I would not mind my own office. This is not really a question to bug the leadership with, so I take the door for the department and enter the main office for Narcotics.

Narcotics department has a massive whiteboard at the end of the room that nearly takes up the entire wall, nestled between two windows. I love whiteboards. Four desks are in the space, each with a laptop and monitor, and all were immaculate. I feel like if I used a measuring tape, their distance from each other and the walls would be perfectly uniform. Three are for the detectives and another is for the officers.

The room was also empty. What the hell?

"Can I help you?" a voice says, and I turn to see a woman behind me. I see her detective shield on a lanyard, and that she is the department Sergeant. The woman is half a head shorter than me with short curly hair that moved like brown springs experiencing gravity. Low cheek bones that seemingly push her mouth out, giving her a semi-permanent pucker and making her lips appear bigger than they really are.

Business casual was the look she is going with. Her makeup routine is a little foundation and some eyeshadow. White pearl earrings with a matching pearl necklace that hangs above her breasts. Her jacket is a black and white, ashy colored herringbone knit. I am normally good with brands, but I am also admittedly better with mens clothing. Under the jacket is a white Kobi Halperin top with no collar or buttons. Capri styled black pants from Express. Her shoes are the most economical piece of her wardrobe; a pair of London Rebel black block high heels.

"I am hoping to talk to someone in Narcotics," I start, and remember her shield says Sergeant. "Sergeant."

"Cut that Sergeant shit out," she says, holding her hands in front of her and shaking them a little. "Helga's fine. Detective Texada is the fanciest I go."

"Detective Kramner. Or Chase," I reply, and we shake hands. A good solid grip, but it does not feel exaggerated.

"You're the one who got stabbed a while ago, right?" she asks.

"Unfortunately, yes," I reply. That really sucked.

"The rest of my guys are at the range, but come on in," Helga says, leading me to her office across the hall and keeping the door open. Her office is just as clean as the other one. Neat file organization, no clutter, in and out box is under control, a lovely pot with four sunflowers is on the corner of the desk, and the room has the welcoming scent of vanilla from something I cannot immediately see.

"How can Narcotics help you?" Helga asks, putting her jacket on a coat rack in the front corner of her office near the door before sitting on her chair. I remain standing and lean against the chair in front of her desk. I can now smell a mixture of sulfur and gun oil immolating from her jacket, overtaking the vanilla. She did just come from the range.

"I need help in identifying a potential suspect, and all I have is a street name. Screwball," I say, and she laughs a little.

"Description?"

"Caucasian, over six feet, punk rock looking with piercing and tats..." I begin.

"...Garfield Booth," she interrupts. Damn, that was easier than I thought.

"Wait, really?"

"Garfield Booth, street name Screwball. He's a known dealer with a revolving door of arrests. I've booked him twice myself," Helga explains.

"How does he keep getting out?"

"He's not stupid. He always gets a lawyer and there is always a discrepancy somewhere. We didn't read him Miranda Warning, warrantless search, you name it. If you got time, I know a few of his deal spots," Helga offers, and I nod.

"He's my suspect, anything to find him," I say, Helga rising from her chair and grabs her coat from the rack. "Can I borrow your desk phone real quick?"

Helga says I can, so I dial in The Kaiser's desk and wait for him on the other end. "Homicide, Detective Kaiser."

"Hey it's me. If you get the call from the officers at the condo before I'm back, just go without me. I got a lead on Screwball that I'll be investigating with Sergeant Texada from narcotics," I summarize so I can get moving.

"Okay, I'll let Leo know," he says, and we both hang up.

"Let's do it," I say, and Helga leads the way.

--

Screwball's first two deals spots are a bust. The first just around the corner from a half-way house on the westside, and the second was a dilapidated church a few blocks from there. Our third stop is where a majority of the homeless in the city stay in the southside. A few fires in steel drums were lit with several people gathered around each. The area is the square between three abandoned buildings, roughly half the size of a football field. There is what was likely a basketball court, but even the polls had been taken and the fence encasing it was largely destroyed.

We exit the vehicle and stroll to the square, several homeless leaving as we approached. Some just evaded our eyes and others did not even seem to notice us. I am scanning around the area for my suspect, and it turns out he is here today. Screwball is finishing a transaction, his customer pocketing what I will assume are drugs. I cannot see his arms sleeves because of his jacket in the cold, but I can see them on his neck and his piercings are notable.

"Got a minute Garfield?" Helga asks, and he looks up to see the two of us approaching him. He pauses for a moment, and then bolts.

"God dammit," I mutter and chase after him. Screwball cuts into the alley and dumps trashcans in my path as he runs. I jump over them rather easily and start to gain on him before he exits the alley and starts cutting through traffic.

A car slams on the brakes to avoid hitting him, and I dart around the back end to cut him off. He sees me doing it, so turns and runs the opposite way, so I pivot and pursue. Screwball looks over his shoulder as he runs to see me and does not see Helga pull the car in front of him. Before Screwball can react, the hood takes his legs out and he slides across and crashes to the pavement on the opposite side.

Helga steps out of the vehicle and squats next to Screwball, tilting her head to look at him directly. "Was that really necessary?"

"I didn't do nothing," Screwball says, before I cuff him on the ground and shove him to the side of the car. I search his pockets and find several individual bags for methamphetamine and more for cocaine.

"Possession with intent to sell is nothing?" Helga asks, and he sighs and bangs his head against the hood of the car. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. You can decide at any time to exercise these rights. Do you understand your rights as they have been described to you?"

"Yes, and fuck you."

"I knew you would. Surprised you haven't gotten them tattooed on your face," Helga replies, before throwing him into the back of the car.

--

Screwball asks for his lawyer immediately, so now we must wait for the public defender to show up. A woman finally arrives, briefcase in hand and walks into the interrogation room I unlock for her. By law the cameras and microphones are turned off, so I have no idea what they are talking about.

"You weren't kidding, he lawyered up fast," I say to Helga as we wait for the lawyer to be ready for questions.

"Like I said, he's not stupid," Helga says.

Five minutes later they are ready for questions. I enter the room, undoing the button of my jacket before I sit, while Helga crosses her arms and leans against the door. Is she really trying to play bad cop?

"I have been made aware my client was needlessly harmed in his apprehension," the public defender begins.

"Fleeing police is a crime, and he ran into my car. Want the dashcam footage?" Helga asks. Her car does not have a dashcam, but I understand the bluff.

"I would love it," the public defender replies. This might be bad, a public defender who will fight a little. Normally they just start cutting deals the moment they arrive.

"My client was minding his business when he was approached by police who failed to identify themselves as police. In that neighborhood you could never be too careful."

"Garfield, did you really not know who I was?" Helga asks, getting frustrated and moving to take the seat next to me.

"He is under the advisement of his lawyer to not answer that question."

"Hey, lawyer. He's got a rap sheet the length of my arm and I am the arresting officer for four of them. I think he'd remember the cop who arrested him four times."

"He is under the advisement of his lawyer to not answer that question."

"Front flipping fuck, are you capable of saying something else?" Helga asks.

"Yes," the lawyer replies, very matter of fact. She is good. That is a perfect answer. We are not dealing with a just graduated lawyer. She is experienced, and she knows what she is doing.

"Like what? What can you say?"

"Frankly detective, I am not the one you're interviewing. I will not answer questions directed at me and I will advise my client to answer, or not answer, as the questions come."

This lawyer is playing Helga like a fiddle. Before she says anything more, I touch her arm. She turns to me, and I let her know she should tag me in.

"Let's be real for a moment. There is no dashcam," I say, and Helga looks like she wants to punch me. Her body language does at least, her expression does not change. "But you fled two detectives, one of whom there is evidence it is more than reasonable you knew her as being a police officer. Good luck claiming excessive force with no wounds, and really good luck claiming warrantless search to make the quarter pound of meth and cocaine inadmissible."

"Are you going to ask a question?" The lawyer asks.

"No. I am just telling you, innocent is not your ideal plea. Especially when you're likely to draw Judge Gilreath. He's very by the book and lost a son to drug gang violence," I say, and watch the lawyer. Now she is the one who is nervous. She was hoping to make us drop the charges by ramming through a few complaints and minor technicalities.

"If you tell me what you know about Willow Goldberg, we'll drop most of the charges, but you plead guilty to possession for personal use of cocaine."

"What about the meth?" Screwball asks, and I swear I saw his lawyer's eye twitch holding back a scream. Thank you for admitting to possession of meth dipshit. That is why the fifth amendment is your best friend.

"What meth? You found it in a bush and I believe you. Like I said, cocaine, and Willow Goldberg."

"Why do you want to know about Willow?" Screwball asks. His lawyer not sure yet if he should or should not answer. By that I mean, not sure if he should even confirm he knew her at all.

"Because she was shot in the back of the head," I reply, and his eyes widen in shock. He did not know a thing. His lawyer snaps.

"I need a minute with my client."

"Of course. That offer is on the table from now and until I come back," I say, and leave with Helga, closing the door behind us. Helga paces for a moment, trying to form words, her mouth opening twice and closing, before she finally says something.

"Are you a fucking lawyer or something?" Helga asks.

"Almost. I was even accepted to Yale Law," I reply.

"Bullshit," she says, and I smile. "You're for real. Damn. Garfield wins the public defender lottery and I get an almost lawyer. I think he might take the deal. You'd be the first cop to ever get him on anything."

"I just want information on my murder victim," I clarify.

"You get me a conviction on Garfield, and you can have whatever you want," Helga says, not trying to hide her enthusiasm of finally nailing this guy. Lock that enthusiasm down, act like a detective please.

"Detectives," the lawyer says from the door, and then we all enter the room and sit down again.

"My client agrees to the plea deal. He is aware the quantity of the illicit substance found on his person is a third-degree felony and carries a maximum sentence of eighteen months. However, he will say nothing else until someone from the District Attorney's office meets to make this deal in writing," the lawyer says.

"Understood. Is your client aware failure to uphold his agreement of providing information to aid in a murder investigation will terminate the agreement and leave him at the mercy of the courts with full charges?" I ask. I want him to be painfully aware of what giving me bullshit will do.

Screwball looks at his lawyer and nods, and she turns back to me. "He is aware."

"I'll get a DA representative here as soon as possible. Can I get either of you a beverage?" I ask.

Garfield leans over to his lawyer and whispers into her ear. "Coffee..." he leans back and whispers more. "...cream, no sugar."

"We'll be back," I say and stand to leave. Helga joins me, and we leave Garfield alone with his lawyer again. "Technically he's a Narcotics arrest, you want to call the DA?"

"I got it, you get the coffee," Helga says, and she pulls out her phone to call the DA and I head to the nearest breakroom to get coffee for this asshole.

Within the next hour, one of the assistant DAs is hammering out the details of his agreement, which includes a reduced sentence with no prison time. Twenty-four months of probation with monthly drug tests. If he violates his probation, he will be in prison for no fewer than two years. Helga could not even be in the room because she is so giddy, maintaining a professional demeanor was impossible. After he signs the deal, he is ready to talk about Willow.

"When did you meet Willow Goldberg?" I ask, Screwball waving off his lawyer and then looking at me.

"About two years ago, but I haven't seen her for months," Screwball replies.

"Give me your best dates," I ask. His eyes roll to the side and look at the ceiling. Looking up is recalling information, so he is trying to remember.

"August of twenty-three is roughly when we met, and I haven't seen her since February of this year."

"Where did you meet?" I ask.

"Theatre school. We were both students at Heminges Academy," Garfield says, and I find that interesting. Garfield Booth was a thespian?

"I wouldn't peg you as someone there for a love of theatre," I say as an indirect question.

"I actually did like some of it, but I was mostly there for all of the impressionable barely legal pussy, and there was plenty of that."

"She was the new, vulnerable freshman to take advantage of?" I ask.

"Vulnerable is not a word I would use to describe her. It was her 'I have nothing to learn' attitude that made the school so difficult for her. Thought she already knew everything there was to know. Vocally she was unmatched, but when she was given a side role, and then put on reserve to supervise production, she had a fit and was kicked out. That was when I offered my services. I had never seen someone take to powder with such gusto."

Willow had something of an attitude problem if he was to be believed, and I think he is to be believed. She was the kind of person that could piss someone off. Could she really piss someone off so much they take her to the roof of her condo and put a bullet in the back of her head? It could be drug related, but debts would not typically be handled this way because how would you get paid?