The Witness Wore a Puppy Tail, chapter 9 (Patreon)

The morning was so early that when the cell phone rang, Ken’s bolted up in bed, panic forming in his chest before he realized he was in his bedroom. After taking a couple of breaths, he grabbed the phone. "Hoffman." Ken fumbled to hit the light on the alarm clock.  2 a.m. Fuck. Ken was starting to suspect that the sleep gods hated him.

"Detective?"

Ken pushed the sheets aside and swung his legs out of bed. Something in the caller’s tone told him he wasn’t going to get more sleep tonight. "Yeah. This is Detective Hoffman. Who is this?" Ken reached for a shirt as he tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear.

"This is Officer Washington. My partner and I have a situation with a victim down on East 71st."

Even though Ken hadn't seen Robert in nearly two weeks, his guts instantly tightened at the street name. Robert’s father had a fancy downtown apartment, but Robert lived in South Shore in a cheap little studio. 

"Robert Millan?" Ken asked as he pulled the shirt on. He grabbed a pair of jeans off the floor. They were a little musky, but considering that it was two o’clock in the morning, they'd do.

"Yeah. He won't go to the hospital, and he's driving my partner crazy. When we ran his name, you had flagged the file. And when we mentioned you, he got a little riled."

“Why did you run his name? And why did you want him to go to the hospital? Is he hurt?” Ken shoved his foot in a shoe only to discover he was trying to put a left foot into a right shoe. 

“We were called out to a push-in robbery at Mr. Millan’s apartment where he got a little roughed up. Originally, we treated him like the victim, but we started to think the attack could be drug related. Millan was saying some pretty strange stuff. Pretty paranoid stuff. ”

"I'm on my way," Ken said as he checked his weapon and slid it into the holster. Given Robert's luck, Ken wasn't betting on some harmless teenage prank. Damn it. Ken had assumed that Robert was clear of this, but if teenagers were pushing into his apartment, the man might still be poking hornet’s nests in his private time.

"My partner will appreciate the help," Officer Washington answered, but Ken disconnected without answering. In the last two weeks, they’d only had one attack—a trans activist walking the same neighborhood. Carol Livingston had been saved from serious injury by a couple making out in a back alley. As gross as it was to think about mixing bodily fluids and decomposing garbage, Ken was endlessly grateful that the two good Samaritans had come running at the first scream and scared the three teens away. The sketch Livingston had helped the artist make matched Steve Sulley’s, not that any of the pictures had done much to help them find suspects.

When Robert hadn’t magically reappeared during the Livingston investigation, disappointment and relief had both dogged Ken’s heels. At least the captain was off his back, and had managed to forget to file any formal complaint. Ken was a little less successful at getting some of Robert’s more critical comments out of his head.

And Ken still had no idea what to do about Sebastian Millan. The man had mailed him an annotated copy of Branzburg versus Hayes with cramped notes in the margins, like a law student might do. Hell, maybe it was from Millan, senior’s law school days. A sticky note on the first page said simply, “No charge.” Ken still didn’t know if that was him showing appreciation for Ken getting his son away from the case, a threat focused on Ken targeting his son, or both. Probably both. The man did have a talent at sadistic gifts that made a person worry. If he sent along any wooden horses, Ken would definitely look for trap doors and hidden Greeks.

Even at the ungodly hour, the traffic was heavy enough that it took a while for Ken to reach the scene. Normally a robbery in this neighborhood didn’t rate much attention, but three cars were parked in the dirt lot beside the squat apartment building. A chain link fence separated the apartment from the street and tracks that ran along 71st, but someone had cut down one side, and the ragged patch done in wire was loose. All along the fence, weeds with little white flowers bloomed, but a bare patch at the damaged spot showed where people had created a path.

Ken parked farther down where a patrol officer stood next to a gate right under the streetlight. A rusted van sat with one tire flat, leaning drunkenly, and even from the street, Ken could hear loud voices. Robert’s ranting was probably the most entertainment this place had seen in a while. Two women leaned on the second floor fire escape, and the glowing tip of a cigarette revealed a shadowed figure standing near a shed wall.

Ken showed his badge to the officer at the gate.

"What happened?" Ken asked.

"Home invasion. Did some graffiti. The victim took a couple of nasty hits." The officer shrugged, clearly unconcerned by the crime. Part of Ken breathed a prayer since the officer wouldn't be so uninterested if Robert were injured. Ken focused on his relief and not the sudden burst frustration for an officer who couldn't even pretend to care. Ken just nodded curtly and headed toward the shouting. Even though Ken couldn’t make out words, Robert’s voice was unmistakable. He had an almost lyrical quality to his voice. He varied his pitch and volume more than anyone Ken had ever heard outside a theatrical performance, so it gave him a distinct quality.

When Ken got closer, he spotted graffiti outside a ground-floor apartment door. "Fag" in neon green paint. Ken carefully avoided touching anything in the area as he used an elbow to nudge the door open farther.

Inside, profanity covered the threadbare carpet in drippy, gloppy letters. This wasn’t the work of gangs or street kids who liked to mark their territory like dogs peeing on fire hydrants. Whoever had left these words didn’t know which end of a can the paint came out of. Ken over the word since the narrow hall didn’t allow him to go around. The sharp stench of paint made his nose itch.

As he passed a closet-sized kitchen off the short hall, Ken spotted Robert sitting on a sagging red couch. An officer stood nearby, and a second one walked the room, taking notes as he paced the small living space. Robert had a narrow bed pushed up against the far side of the room, blocking the sliding glass doors. Other than that, the only furniture was a bistro table and wrought-iron chairs that definitely didn’t fit in with the thrift store vibe most of the place had.

"Robert?" Ken said. The man looked up, his face swollen and his lip bright red with blood. The assailants had gotten in a few good hits, and from the wince when Robert turned, he’d taken some blows to the body as well. However, his tongue was as sharp as ever.

"Thank God someone with some common sense bothered to show up.”

Ken raised his eyebrows and glanced over at Washington before turning his attention back to Robert. “I thought you didn’t want me here.”

“Is that what they said?” Robert whirled around to glare at Washington. “Is that what you said? Seriously?”

“I said you got riled.” Washington’s voice was a study in clipped and controlled words.

“Yes, I got riled, because what you know about crime could fit on a postage stamp. Little old grandmothers know more from watching true crime shows. Kids writing fanfic on the internet write smarter cops. You are the pinnacle of stupidity and stubbornness, two faults which do not go well together.” Robert’s voice rose with each new insult. No wonder his neighbors were treating this like a floor show. 

“Whoa. Hey. Maybe we can put a pin in any accusations and come back to them later,” Ken suggested. At this point, Washington and his very young partner looked ready to take Robert out back and add a few new bruises. Robert did not know when to turn his mouth off.

Robert threw his hands into the air, exasperation twisting his face into an unpleasant mask. “Of course. Of course you’re going to take their side.”

Ken risked his own life by stepping close and catching Robert’s arm. He’d half expected an even bigger explosion, but instead Robert stilled, his gaze focusing on Ken. “Hey. I am not taking any sides.” Ken ignored the way Washington narrowed his eyes. The man had clearly expected Ken to take his side. "Are you okay?"

Robert took a long shuddering breath. The irregular breathing and pale color were unhealthy signs. "I'm fine," Robert answered. He wasn’t fine. Shock was setting in, which explained why Washington had tried to get him to go to the hospital. "I'm just frustrated. They are not listening to a word I say. Not a word." Robert turned around to glare at the two uniformed officers.

Washington did a masterful job of projecting a professional demeanor, even though his left eye kept twitching. "Detective Hoffman, thank you for coming." The thanks sounded entirely too enthusiastic for simple courtesy. Ken glanced over and wondered what Robert had said before Ken arrived. Washington continued. "It looks like this is a straight forward push-in. We get them in this neighborhood, but then the perps did the damage you see instead of looking for anything to steal," Washington said. He gestured toward a spray painted dick on one wall, blue come spurting out in alarming quantities.

And Robert was off again. He pulled his arm out of Ken’s grip and threw both hands in the air. "Because they were trying to intimidate me. I told you this is about the gay bashings up near Boystown. I told you that you need to get a crime scene unit down here." Robert was in danger of giving himself a heart attack.

"There's no evidence of any link to any other cases." Washington gave Robert an exasperated look.

"Except where I'm writing a series of articles on the attacks and talking to victims, and then three guys who just happen to match the descriptions of the three suspects push into my apartments."

"The description. Young. White. Medium builds with short hair.” Washington’s disdain was sharp enough to cut, and even Ken flinched. The forensic artist had been of limited help because the three suspects were generic enough that the picture could be any one of thousands of young men. If Ken were recruiting spies to infiltrate Boston, he would have picked these three because they were so nondescript as to be invisible. Washington finished with, “The three suspects didn't make any reference to the other attacks."

Instead of the arm flapping rage, Robert had settled into something colder, something that sent warning flares across Ken’s threat assessment instincts. "Because they were too busy trashing my place and trying to kill me," he said quietly.

"If there were any evidence—"

"Oh, and you should hear what that one said," Robert interrupted as he gestured toward the second officer. The danger passed like a storm cloud and Robert was back to his melodramatic, flappy best, although this time he had more than ample reason to get upset. "He'd just as soon arrest me. Me. Apparently he doesn’t like me pointing out their stupidity.”

The younger officer had been busily staring at the wall, but now he whirled around and stared at Robert with big eyes. In the officer’s defense, Ken had found most people didn’t like being called stupid, especially when the accusation was true. “What happened to victim's rights? And you'd better believe that I am filing a formal complaint."

"Officer?" Ken asked, his voice neutral.

"I didn't mean anything… I mean, I didn't even mean for him to hear." The kid couldn't be more than twenty, probably fresh out of the academy, and Millan could push the buttons of the most seasoned cop. Hell, Millan pushed Ken's buttons, and Ken had years on the force and in the military. “I just commented that his behavior was a little erratic, and I asked if we should consider an emergency admission.”

“You asked in front of him?” Ken asked. He looked at Washington because asking if someone should be put in a psychiatric facility in front of the person was a fairly significant violation of protocol, and a good way to escalate a situation. If Robert had been truly mentally ill as opposed to furious, that could have triggered an attack. Washington had the grace to flinch, so he knew his trainee had fucked that one up.

"So, if I don't hear you saying shit like that, it doesn't count? Your logic is seriously flawed. Seriously."

Washington turned the subject back to the attack. "One suspect sprayed the room while the other two held Mr. Millan. When suspect number one spray painted Mr. Millan's clothes, which we have bagged, the second suspect let go of him, and Mr. Millan disabled the third suspect so he could get to the phone."

"Kicked him in his balls hard enough to turn them back into internal organs," Robert said. "But you need to get someone down here to check for fingerprints or fibers, which I’ve said two or three hundred times now."

"I thought they had on gloves," Washington said as he faced Millan, his frustration showing through his cracking veneer of civility.

"Enough," Ken said to both. "Robert, get a change of clothes and your toothbrush," Ken ordered. Robert opened his mouth, but Ken didn't even wait for the protest to start before he turned to Washington. "Call the desk captain and ask for a crime scene unit. They should attach this report to my case. I’ll get you the case number. They'll need lights to work in here, so warn them."

"Detective?" Washington asked, shocked.

"I am so too big as a person to say I told you so," Robert loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Clothes. Toothbrush. Phone charger.” With each word, Ken poked a finger toward Robert. Right now the man teetered on the edge of shock, and he needed to focus on something concrete. Because if he got any paler, Ken was dragging him to the hospital kicking and screaming, and if that failed, Ken would violate the shit out of Robert’s privacy and call his damn father.

"Keep an eye on Mr. Millan, make sure that you clear anything he picks up to take with him. This one is by the book,” Ken told the young officer. “Officer Washington, can I have a word with you outside?”

Washington didn’t look pleased, but then his trainee was already on thin ice with Robert. He was probably afraid Robert would eat the man’s liver with fava beans, but Ken figured Robert was running out of steam now. No one could remain that angry for long. Not without needing a nap.

"Yeah, sure." Washington followed Ken out into the night. The two women on the fire escape had vanished. Ken supposed the scene was less amusing without Robert screaming. However, he could still see the faint outline of a man crouching in the shadow at the far edge of the yard. Part of Ken wanted to dismiss everything that came before his arrival and focus on the case. What had he told Robert? Cops didn’t like turning on each other because they all relied on each other in the field. 

But Ken also knew from his military days that evaluating each other honestly was important if the unit was going to improve. The two sets of rules didn’t fit well in his head, and usually Ken solved the dilemma by not thinking about it. However, he just knew Robert was doing to demand to know what Ken had done about what was clearly a fuck up, and Ken didn’t want to look the man in the eye and say, “nothing.” He cleared his throat, but before he could say anything, Washington jumped in.

“Understand that he really was acting irrational. Bruges’s question might have been poorly timed, but I was also wondering about whether we needed to do a hold. I was just quieter in my suspicions. Before you got here, his mouth was out of control.”

“I know. He’s a handful,” Ken said.

Washington gave him an incredulous look. Even in the sallow light of the porch, Ken couldn’t miss it.

Bracing himself, Ken waded into more dangerous waters. “I’m more concerned about the handling of the case itself and the evidence in the apartment.”

"You can’t be taking him seriously. I get it. His father is a high muckity muck lawyer and all that. Telling him he’s being an asshole is politically dangerous, but push-in robberies are a dime a dozen down here," Washington said. “The gay shit ups the ante to a hate crime, but to connect this to those attacks all the way up north. I don’t see it.”

"What else did you not see evidence of?" Ken asked. "I'm not seeing evidence of any attempt to remove valuables, which is the standard motivation for a push in. Most of the stuff in there is shit, but did you see the laptop? The Apple phone? Those are worth some money. And there were three sets of expensive sneakers sitting next to a couch that escaped from the seventies. Those are all easily removable and valuable goods. Robbers would have been in and out inside ten minutes.”

“I didn’t say they were smart robbers. And robbery is not the only reason for push-ins.”

“There was no sexual assault, no kidnapping."

"They clearly don't like Millan. Maybe this was personal.”

"Then they would paint his car. The level of aggression in the initial attack does not match the profile of someone who just wanted to spray paint some obscenity. That level of aggression indicates a much more serious assault would have taken place here if Millan hadn't disabled one of the attackers." Ken watched Washington stiffen. Ken felt his reputation grow more brittle because Washington was definitely going to complain about this in the locker rooms. 

"I don't plan to make a report," Ken said, “and I totally understand that Mr. Millan is a neurotic bundle of offense ready to go off at any excuse. The first time I had to deal with him on scene, I was looking for a foxhole. I think I’m numb now because he has been using his credentials as a reporter to stick his nose into my case right and left.” That seemed to make Washington calm some. There was nothing like a common enemy to make officers pull together. But as much as Ken would like to leave it here, that would be the coward’s way out.

“However, when this many clues at the scene don’t add up, you need to call someone in. You had to recognize that this is not a standard push-in, and maybe you hesitated because Millan started shouting so loud you didn’t listen to your own instincts. However, you can’t ignore trouble, even if someone as obnoxious as Millan is screaming at you and you want to do the exact opposite.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Washington said, but it gave Ken some hope that he didn’t sound entirely sure of himself on that point.

Ken turned away, and Robert stood in the apartment door, a backpack hugged in his arms and a fresh line of blood on his lip. He’d washed the crust and broken the skin open again.

"And I'm putting in a call for an ambulance," Ken warned him. "When the EMT's get here, you will let them take a look at that and take pictures for the file," Ken said as he considered the damage. Robert froze for a second and then blinked into movement, slinging his backpack over one shoulder as he stepped closer.

"I'm fine,” he lied. “I’m more pissed about the graffiti. I'm never getting my security deposit back if that shit doesn't come up."

"Your landlord has probably seen worse.” In his neighborhood, that wasn’t an exaggeration. “You will let the EMTs look at your face or I will drag you down to the hospital handcuffed. Which is it going to be?" Ken asked as he faced off against Robert. He expected mouth. He expected threats. He wouldn't have even been surprised if Robert cursed him out. Instead, Robert sighed heavily.

"Fine." Robert sounded anything but fine, but at least he'd agreed. "They can look at it, but only after I see someone actually trying to collect evidence," he added, negotiating to the end.

"Deal," Ken quickly agreed. He would take any victories he could get with Robert. "You can wait in my car."

Robert looked over his shoulder at the splintered door jamb and the spray painted carpet. "Yeah. I don't think I can look at this place right now.” Ken rested his hand on Robert's back, urging him away from the crime scene. He didn't like seeing Robert next to those hateful, yellow words, and he really didn't like thinking what might have happened if Robert hadn't fought back.

Ken felt the familiar sting of failure again. One more victim, and Ken still wasn't any closer to catching these three. He'd be damned if they were getting another shot at Robert, though. No fucking way was Ken going to let that happen, not even if he had to go against the captain’s order to keep Millan as far from the station and the investigation as possible.

Chapter 10: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-10-18290483 

Chapter 11: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-11-18463879 

Chapter 12: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-12-18561312 

Chapter 13: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-13-18583563 

Chapter 14: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-14-18835280 

Chapter 15: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-15-19009742 

Chapter 16: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-16-19049610 

Chapter 17: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-17-19064720 

Chapter 18: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-18-19083274 

Chapter 19: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-19-19142224 

Chapter 20: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-20-19153311 

Chapter 21, 22, 23: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-21-21192263 

Chapter 24: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-24-21260957