The Second Booth at Horseshoe Diner

"Out, out, out," I said as I tried to block him with my foot, but he wiggled around and ran into my living room. "Come on, dude!"

The cat shook itself dry on my coffee table, then looked up at me. I took one step toward him, and he fled into my office.

"Get out," I said, following it. It had perched itself on the top of my bookcase in the corner of the room. "Out." When it was clear he was not going anywhere, anytime soon, I sighed and just let him be. I had a couple single serving bags of tuna I eat as a post workout snack, so put that into a bowl and left it for him. Later I went shopping again and bought a litterbox. I was hoping he was already house broken and would not turn my office into a shit box.

I open my eyes this morning, and he is sitting on my nightstand, staring at me as I slept. My alarm startles both of us seconds later, and he bolts to my door, but stops shy of leaving. He cautiously returns, jumping onto my bed to stare up at me from my feet.

"Creepy little bastard," I say, and he takes a seat. "Hungry?"

I move my sheet off my torso, and the cat jumps backwards off the bed. He stops at the door, then runs out when he sees I am still moving. The cat had jumped onto the cabinet by the time I arrive in the kitchen. This is the first time since his arrival he is not skittish. I use this opportunity to examine him more closely.

Short and wiry multicolored coat. Mostly white around the legs and belly, with a blend of browns, and metallic grays everywhere else. His most notable trait are his golden eyes. When I raise my hand he meows, and it is soft. No collar or tag, and he does appear skinny like he was hungry. I hold my hand out, and he flinches away from it, then gingerly leans toward it. His nose touches my finger, and he pulls back, then slowly touches again.

"I guess you need a name," I say, and he starts playfully nibbling my fingertip. I keep thinking the cat is male, so I lean over and confirm that. I remember the cat my mother used to own, who died when I was around ten years old. She named him after her favorite literary lawyer. "How do you feel about Atticus?"

I make sure he has food and water before I grab my keys and leave for work. I fight traffic a little but push through and park in the garage. I activate the elevator with my security badge and arrive at the seventh floor. My security badge gets me through the secure door, and I drop my bag next to my desk and boot up my computer as I sit.

My phone says I have one missed call, and because I recognize the number, I call it back immediately.

"Appletree, homicide," Midge says from the other end.

"You called?" I ask, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I take the first folder off the stack for 2011 case review. I am at homicide now, looking over a few of Leo's cases. I asked Lieutenant Eastland to take these because of a potential conflict of interest, but she said I was fine to do them.

"Hear about the plea?" she asks.

"I've kept my head in the sand on purpose. What happened?"

"Not guilty across the board."

"Shocker," I say, and hang up after we exchange minor pleasantries.

Time for 2011 homicide case review. First up is Jason Boatman, arrested in 2011 for the murder of Alexandra Sailor. Strangled her to death with dock line. His semen was found in her vagina, and his DNA was already on file from a different investigation. At this point, I am looking for something that could put this into question and open this case up to an appeal or a new trial. Boatman has submitted for an appeal several times, but the judge says there is no new evidence.

The DNA evidence provided from his DNA on the line was instrumental in the conviction, so that is what I will focus on. From Leo's notes, it looks like he interviewed - polite word for interrogate - him for three hours and did get a confession, but I see all the signs of a false confession. Leo downplayed the importance of getting a lawyer, built rapport then created justifications to coax it from him. Something about this bothers me. I will pressure you into a confession like any other cop, but I do not like to do this shady style of interview.

Some of these files were sent over to the DA when they picked up the case. I type the case number into my computer to pull it up. Mostly so I can see what we turned over, to who, when, and what was then turned over to the defense. The file on my desk is two hundred and seventeen pages. Leo sent over two hundred and one. Sixteen pages were not sent over. There is often a valid reason for this, like additional interviews with alibied suspects. What pages did not make the cut, and why?

The only good way to do this is to flip the pages on my desk and the screen in sequence, make sure they are the same pages, and flag the missing ones. They stop matching at one hundred and fifteen. This portion contains the information of the DNA collection from that prior investigation. There was a sexual assault case in 2007, of which Jason was a suspect. He provided a DNA sample that cleared him. A DNA sample, that should have been purged before 2011. There is no way this was an accident; Leo suppressed evidence.

"Goddammit Leo," I mutter to myself. Doll told me to flag the cases and that she will do a supplemental review so we can run it like a conveyor belt. I write a note on the folder, so she knows what the issue with it is.

I start to open the next folder, but the last one has bothered me so much I close it. Goddammit Leo.

Leo was my first partner when I became a detective. He was my Sergeant, my Lieutenant, my mentor, and is my friend. I have been in a fire fight with him. I know him intimately, and love him like he is my brother, even though he is nearly old enough to be my father. He was never a lifer who reaches his twenty and retires. He has already been in twenty-five years. Leo could file a retirement packet tomorrow.

Leo is a good cop. I know he is, so what the hell is he doing suppressing evidence? Fifteen years ago, maybe he was not, but this is not the kind of thing you stop doing once you start. I must look for a pattern of misconduct and pray this was a one off.

I work through lunch, Doll asking me if I want anything from the food trucks. I decline, but she still brings me back a salad. After I have dug through all the Leo cases from 2011, I want to the throw the files against the wall and scream. Four other cases with highly questionable handling. I take a moment to breathe and use the salad as the excuse to let myself think without looking at it.

"You look about ready to kill something," Doll says from my door. "You good?"

"I don't know," I say, and she gestures for me to continue. "I found five."

"Geez, just today?"

"Just one person," I say, and she points to the stack I made, and I nod.

Doll reads the top of the stack. "Leo?" I nod. "What's the trend?"

"Mostly withholding evidence, ignoring it, failure to hand off interview notes," I say, then flip to another case examined. "Example, Jason Boatman. Convicted for the rape and murder of Alexandra Sailor. Strong alibi, not even in the city when she was killed. His semen was found in her vagina, though the ME report stated no trauma. The DA got some expert witness to extend the time of death half a day because of the rate of food digestion in her stomach, which is bullshit. Jason Boatman was on file, but that DNA sample should have been purged years before."

"What did Leo not hand off to the defense?" Doll asks.

"The necessity to purge, and portions of his interview notes were redacted. He interviewed him for hours because he already had the DNA hit, and the fact they had a circumstantial meeting on Tinder of all places a few months before. He swiped right, she swiped left. What he didn't share in the interview notes was them discussing his corroborated alibi at length. He only sent over and I quote. 'Yeah, she looks kinda familiar.' End quote"

"Not that big of a deal. I've seen plenty of cases where the prosecution can pick and choose what from the interview is let in and the defense can't object or bring in the rest to apply context," Doll explains.

"True. But he didn't hand it off, at all. He didn't take a chance," I say.

"Was this a Leo decision, or was this somewhat more executive?" she asks, and I think. Leo's name is on everything, but it does not mean he was the one who made these evidentiary disclosure decisions. That could have been the Sergeant or his Lieutenant.

"Who was the homicide lieutenant in twenty-eleven?" I ask.

"How old do you think I am?" she asks with a laugh. "I was a traffic cop."

"I'll find out, I'm sure the name is here somewhere," I say, gesturing to the pile of cases.

"Do you want me to talk to Leo about this?" Doll asks. She has only known him from being in the same building. I worked for and with him for two years.

"It should be me," I say, looking at the Boatman file still spread out on my desk. "I'm going to do a little more research, go in fully armed and see how he reacts."

"You sure? He can't pull rank on me."

"I'll be fine."

-

I spent the rest of the workday going over the cases, but I spent most of the time on the Boatman case. It was the most egregious. By the end of my research, it was potentially criminal.

I knock on Leo's door with the folder under my arm. He looks up from his computer, and smiles, waving me in a moment later. I close the door after I enter. Leo finishes typing something, then turns to me as I take a seat.

"Door closed? What's up?" Leo asks, and I place the folder on my lap. "You're doing case review right now, aren't you?"

"Afraid so," I say, and he groans, but nods in understanding.

"Where was my discrepancy?" he asks. I open the Jason Boatman file and extend it across his desk. "This fucker, I remember this one. Raped and strangled her to death. Open shut, found his semen inside of her, case closed."

"How did you rectify the fact there was no evidence of rape?" I ask, and he looks up at me, confused.

"No, he raped her."

"Go to the ME report," I say, and wait for him to flip to it. "No evidence of vaginal trauma, or recent sexual encounter. There was evidence of insertion of a near perfectly cylindrical object, like a dildo, or something else phallic. Not a penis." He does not say anything as he reads it.

"What about his alibi?" I ask.

"Bachelor party with his friends?" Leo asks, and I nod. "Fell apart."

"Really?" I ask incredulously. "Receipts from the hotel. Pictures of him at the event. Corroborating statements from five of his friends, two strippers, and the bartender?"

"A doctor came in and explained how the food digesting in her stomach made our initial time of death inaccurate."

"Oh, come the fuck on with that junk science bullshit," I say.

"Watch it Sergeant," he says. Leo is cool up until the point he does not like what you are telling him. Disrespect or question him, and he will hide behind rank. "He confessed."

"And immediately retracted it and pled innocent."

"It wasn't a false confession." Leo is crossing his arms and leaning into his seat now. He is on the defensive now. "Get out of my office."

"You do not have authority over me. My duty as a Special Investigator supersedes yours, and you know it," I say, standing up and leaning over his desk.

"Stop sucking your own dick," Leo says.

"How did the semen get there?" I ask, and he scoffs.

"Because he raped her."

"Does that explain why the semen had traces of glycerol and sucrose mixed?" I ask, and he tilts his head.

"And?" Leo asks.

"Those are used in cryoprotectants for freezing sperm. Jason Boatman donated his sperm for a few bucks in twenty-ten. What will I find out when I call the bank and ask for the status of that sample Leo?"

Leo is pale white and takes a shallow breath.

"Did you submit the evidence to the lawyers?" I ask, and he slowly shakes his head. "Who?"

"My old Lieutenant. Hank," he says, and leans forward with his hands in his face. "Henry Silverlake. Should I get a lawyer?"

One look at Leo and I can tell, this is not corruption. It was incompetence. He received a few convenient answers and ran with it. This is a failure of due diligence.

"I'd recommend it," I say, and he nods. "I have to call IA."

"I know. Thanks for not a being a bitch and coming to me first," he says.

We have nothing left to say, and I leave his office, and call Lieutenant Jennifer Ito in Internal Affairs in the stairwell.

-

Wednesday - July 29, 2026

-Summer Pillsbury-

I enter the Horseshoe, an old diner with a customer base of burnouts and old school journalists who are meeting their sources. If cholesterol has a scent, it smells like this place. The constant sound of clattering silverware and the sizzle of the grills and fryers. Mopped floors with streaks. Tables moist from the wet rag likely more germ covered than the table it was cleaning.

Exactly the kind of place you will find Joshua Winters. In the second booth from the door.

Joshua is the kind of reporter who would have wiped his ass with a Pulitzer. To him it became too politicized to hold any real meaning. Too many journalists in his view want to be on television. They want to be the story, instead of reporting on it. If you need a teleprompter to report the news, you are not a journalist. Joshua calls broadcasts anchors mouthpieces.

Joshua is like a crazy uncle. He is harmless, but your parents would still dismiss everything he says as 'that's your crazy uncle for you'. Only Joshua is usually correct. It takes some time to prove he is, but that proof does eventually arrive. It does not help that he has Einstein hair and a hippy heard. Do not call him a hippy though, he will throw the nearest thing he can reach at you and shout, "I wasn't a fucking pussy! I volunteered for the jungle! Unlike those peace-loving activists who loved to firebomb shit!"

During Vietnam, he was a combat correspondent. Just like Joker in the film Full Metal Jacket. That was fifty years ago. Now Joshua is a retired journalist who no one will publish. At least knowingly. He does have a popular website, but it is written off as conspiratorial. Regardless of how often he is proven right in the end.

When Joshua was still relevant, he was my editor at the Tribune. He was ultimately let go because he did not approve of the editorialization of our stories. He refused to approve click-bait articles and refused to go to print with conjecture. The justification for his firing was him throwing a stack of papers at the face of a fresh journalism graduate who had embellished one too many stories. I remember it like it was yesterday.

"How about you print out the fucking transcript and highlight where the fuck he actually said that!" Joshua said to the crying reporter.

"It's assumed..." she started to stammer.

"...you don't make assumptions! You report the news. Fucking period! This isn't a fucking tabloid! You want to write like this, go work for Huffpo!" Joshua shouted. When she started to make excuses, he threw her article into her face and told her to get out of the office he was packing the next day. Six years later he still apologizes for nothing.

That fresh journalism graduate was me. I have been learning what it means to be a real journalist ever since.

"What are you ordering?" Joshua says as he pulls out his glasses to read the menu he has memorized.

"I already ate," I say, and he chuckles. He always asks, and I always say I already ate. He knows I will never eat here. "You mentioned you had a story?"

Joshua sent me a text at three in the morning. Horseshoe was the only word in the message. That is how he lets me know he has something too important to be buried because it is coming from him.

"Jason Boatman," he says, and I put a digital recorder between us, and ask him to start over. "Jason Boatman."

"Who is that and why do I care?" I ask.

"He was convicted of rape and murder in twenty-eleven. Lot of shady police and prosecution behavior. I followed his case closely as it was ongoing. While the Nancy Graces of the world were ignoring everything wrong with the case, I was reporting on it. Boatman had an airtight alibi corroborated by nearly a dozen unimpeachable witnesses. Expert witness, and I use that term loosely, helped the prosecution move the goalpost on time of death. He failed a second appeal two years ago."

"Why should he be in the news again?" I ask.

"Some of those misdeeds are now coming to light. I asked my contact in the police. They tell me, this case was just internally reviewed by the police Special Investigations office. This case should have been reviewed ten years ago."

"Police investigate police and clear police?" I ask.

"Usually the case, but not with this detective. He's a legit reformer, and some cops hate him for it. He's the one who likely reviewed it and reported the numerous inconsistencies."

"Name?" I ask.

"Chase Kramner. Sergeant type."

"Kramner? Why does that sound familiar?" I ask.

"He's the one who arrested that dirty narcotics cop late last year. Texada," Joshua explains, and I remember now. "He's Chief Whitaker's attack dog. If there is a case he doesn't trust just anyone to do, he'll give it him. No matter how uncomfortable it makes people."

"What did he find on Boatman's case?" I ask.

"Enough to warrant his lawyer filing a motion to vacate the judgement," Joshua says. He must have found something significant.

"You talk to him?" I ask.

"Chase?" he asks, and I nod. "I've tried, but he doesn't do press. He's damn near antagonistic toward us. I did look at his background. Georgetown Prep, elite family, rich kid, but decided to do something different. Likely has a trust fund, but as far as I can see, doesn't touch it. Can't be bought."

"Who's the story? Boatman or Kramner?" I ask.

"Don't ask me how to write your story, just write it," he says, and I roll my eyes. "If you could get a comment from him, you'd officially gotten further with him than I have."

"Who is your contact in the police?" I ask, and he laughs at me. I knew he would, but I still needed to ask. "You said some in the police don't like him. Let me find out if your source is one of them."

"How about, I ask her if she's okay with meeting you?" he asks. Does he realize he just slipped? "If we fuck this up, good luck ever getting a source in the police."

"How long has she been your source?" I ask.

"I didn't say it was a she...fuck," he says, and I laugh. "That's your freebee."

"Jason Boatman murder conviction could be vacated. I'll look into it," I say and stop the recorder. "You ever going to apologize?"

"For what?" he asks, and I shoot him a smirk, because he knows damn well.

-

Saturday - August 1, 2026

-Chase Kramner-

Atticus is curled up on the couch next to me as I read my book. In a few short days, I have accepted the fact I now own a cat. He has a relaxed temperament and is content to just lounge on my lap when I am home. I researched his breed and found out he is likely an American Wirehair. Apparently, his breed is a big deal. I scheduled vet appointments to get him checked out, but for now, we are just chilling.

My phone rings on the coffee table. I place the open book on my knee, and see it is Jennifer Ito calling.

"Lieutenant?" I ask.

"Sorry to bother you on the weekend. Just wanted to let you know, we cleared Leo on the charge," she says, and I sigh in relief. I figured he did not do it, but there is always that chance.

"That's good to hear," I say, petting Atticus who softly meows and stretches awake. "Sorry buddy."

"What?"

"Nothing, my cat just woke up," I say, and she laughs.