White Death by Philip C. Baridon Read Free Book Online Page B

observations. Our real job is to watch.”
    A large rat scurried past us as we entered. The paint on the walls appeared to be old, and the dirty institutional green clashed with the bright, stainless-steel tables. Four detectives sat at a cheap table surrounded by folding chairs, with case folders strewn in front of them. Numerous file cabinets sat with open drawers. There was no sense of organization, but I suppose the dead don’t complain.
    Unknown to me, a veteran Homicide detective had stripped and climbed into an empty chamber before the newbie arrived. As the ME droned on for a while about the process, including a catalogue to track which corpses he placed in the long, refrigerated chambers, he mentioned that a new John Doe had arrived. So new, in fact, that the ME was waiting for the rigor to pass to do the autopsy. He told the rookie detective, however, that this was a formality since the decedent had been shot in the forehead at point-blank range, leaving gun-shot residue clearly visible around the small-caliber entry wound.
    Make-up, of course, had been applied carefully to the detective beforehand, to simulate both the entry wound and the GSR. Becoming more enthusiastic, the ME declared this a teaching moment and directed the new detective to bend over thecorpse to look for the GSR. At that moment, the corpse became alive and, with a feral scream, reached up with both arms to pull the detective’s head down to him.
    At first I gasped, then joined the others howling with laughter. The detective almost fainted and ran toward the door, cursing everybody.
    The next day PT was off, and I had pulled his usual 1 and 2 beats at the lower end of Georgia Avenue, stone ghetto. Black officers generally got the beats and cruisers there because they could “relate well with the community.” The truth was that, not only did we see each other as blue; so did the community. In fact, some citizens viewed black officers as traitors in the racially charged atmosphere after James Ray assassinated Martin Luther King in 1968.
    A foot beat can provide a break from the constant demands of the radio. It’s not possible to notice and appreciate small details such as interesting shops from a car. The Kennedy Street beat, for example, featured an African restaurant serving unusual and authentic foods; some were quite good. The owner liked to complain about kids running in to demand a “monkey sandwich.”
    But it was 1:30 a.m., and nothing much was open except a few bars slowly beginning to empty before closing at 2:00 a.m. The beat covered sixteen blocks, and I had decided to complete two four-hour circuits. After pulling the bottom box, I turned to walk north, suffused by an intangible unease. Pilots who don’t trust their instincts don’t live as long as those who do. I stopped and looked around slowly.
    Leaning against a street lamp with three of his groupie admirers was Big Red. I suppressed a momentary flash of panic. He was giant, ugly, and menacing. A shock of dirty, dull red hair was parted on one side by a scar left from a grazing bullet. The right side of his neck bore multiple scars from an earlier fight tothe death with beer bottles. Now, he was on parole for robbery and almost killing a cop with his own stick.
    “You lost down here, Honky?”
    “This is my beat tonight,” I replied in a measured voice.
    “That means you got to take care of trouble when you find it – don’t it?”
    “That’s what I’m paid to do.”
    “Well, Honky,” as a single nod to his friends closed off the sidewalk. “Looks like you can’t even finish walkin’ your beat without me sayin’ it’s okay.”
    Smiles and glances among the groupies confirmed the smell of fresh blood. The game continued.
    “That’s fine,” I responded evenly. “You say it’s okay, and I’m sure your friends will step aside.”
    “It ain’t okay, you pig motherfucker!” screamed Big Red. “Take off your badge and gun and fight me like a