Captain Art “Tank” Wheeler barreled out of his corner office and approached the desk of Detective Victor Davalos. He slammed a sheet of paper down on the cluttered oak. There happened to be an 8 X 11 amount of space available.
“What the hell is this?”
Davalos leaned over his rolodex and scanned the sheet through black-framed glasses upside down.
“It’s the report on the Ferragamo murder. It’s solved. The murderer confessed. The case is closed,” Victor said.
“It is closed. But the report you wrote is flat, unobtrusive and boring!”
“I beg your pardon, Cap?”
“I found myself dozing off as I read this. I labored through it and it’s only one page! I mean look at this here…’victim was struck over the head with a blunt instrument.’”
“Well, she was,” Victor said.
“I know, but couldn’t you add a little…I don’t know…oomph to it?”
“I’m not sure I’m following, Cap.”
“Why not change a few of the phrases? Like how about this…’fiery redhead had been bludgeoned by a carpenter’s hammer.’ How does that sound?”
Victor folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, lost, confused and quietly monitoring any hint of his boss’ insanity or work fatigue.
“What difference does it make how she was killed?” Victor said trying to sound polite.
“It makes a load of difference when you read it. Now look at this…”
Captain Wheeler grabbed the sheet and eyed a specific passage.
“…ah, here we go. ‘Perpetrator had no accomplice.’ Why not try ‘the killer acted alone, isolated by the rage of years transported from one foster home to another. Angry, resentful of the world he felt didn’t want him.’ Eh? What do you think of that?”
Victor’s mind examined the words methodically. He retained the phrasing and images came to life. He was now interested in what the next passages were.
“You know what, Cap? That does sound much better. But the part about the foster home and resentment may or may not be true.”
“Who cares,” Wheeler said. “It’s more interesting to read. Besides, all the facts are still there. Victim died from a blow to the head, suspect confessed to the crime, case solved. But my way adds color to a sketch.”
Victor picked up the slip of paper and thought for a moment.
“But I ain’t a writer like you, boss.”
“You think I was slapped by the literary hooker, kid? Hell no. The wife suggested I take some adult education courses. Said I wasn’t pleasin’ her on an intellectual level. All the sports and movie classes were taken, so I took a writing class. Let me tell you it opened my eyes. Now I keep a journal of my most intimate thoughts. I also get a great pleasure for the literary arts. Just something to think about, kid.”
Wheeler patted Victor on the shoulder and strolled back to his office. Victor slipped both hands behind his head and reviewed his 34 years on this planet. His life had hit a snag. It stalled like a skateboard through molassess. He had no wife, no kids, a small apartment with high rent and a view of an empty lot. What did he have to lose? He leaned forward, took out a pad of paper and a pen from a cup on his desk. He jotted down the molasses metaphor and folded the paper into his pants pocket. He turned to his computer and googled “adult schools AND Los Angeles AND 90036.”
Yellow police tape blocked the entrance to hotel room #2. Victor lifted and entered. He noted the smell of perfume in the air. He quickly took out his notepad and scribbled “heavy lilac scented-air." Detective Al “Tennessee” Barr leaned against the dresser drawer with his arms folded. He stared down at a Chihuahua of a man seated on the couch. His eyes bulged and his timid bones shook.
“Hey Vic. This is Al Green, the manager. Heard the whole thing.”
Victor bent down and sat at the foot of the bed. His right toe nearly stepped on the chalk outline of a figure lying in a fetal position.
“Mr. Green, what can you tell me about the events this evening.”
“Well, as far as I can tell, the woman…”
Al leaned in to Victor.
“The murderer. She confessed and we found the murder weapon on her.”
“Go on, Mister Green,” Victor said.
“As I was saying, I don’t think she was the wife or girlfriend. The gentleman was actin’ kinda nervous.”
Victor held up his hand and he jotted down the testimony.
“Would you say the victim was jello in a pair of hush puppies?”
“I beg your pardon?” Al Green said.
“He acted nervous, like jello in a pair of hush puppies?”
“Uh, well, I suppose so.”
“Hey, Vic, maybe he could have been nervous like a puppy having his first bath, since you’re using the hush puppies thing,” Al “Tennessee” Barr said.
“Perhaps, but the point is to show how nervous the victim was and using puppies twice is redundant. Okay, please continue Mister Green.”
“As I was sayin’, the gentleman was kinda nervous. He gets a room while the lady was in the car."
“How would you describe the lady?”
Al Green pondered for a moment.
“She was a blonde, with a nice figure. She wore sunglasses all the time, until she came in to her room."
“Would you say she was a walking hour glass on two killer yams?”
“I really can’t say, detective."
“What color were her eyes?”
“Like I said, she had sunglasses so I don’t know.”
Victor thought for a moment and then began to write.
“She had glistening blue eyes reminiscent of a pool on a hot, summer day. The kind you would drench your sexual thirst with.”
Al Green looked up at Detective Barr as Victor, deep in the “zone,” pressed on with the description.
“Okay, Mister Green, what happened?”
“At around eleven pm I heard arguin’. So I leave my post and head to their room. I plant my good ear to the door and listen. As far as I can tell, he wouldn’t leave his wife and she got really upset.”
“Crime of passion much like Romeo and Juliet, Vic.”
“Not quite, Al.”
"So anyway, I heard five shots. That's when I called the cops. I have them on speed dial on my cell phone. She stayed in the room, crying until the cops arrived."
Detective Barr produced a small caliber handgun in a plastic bag.
“The fella just fell over like a mighty oak tree,” Al Green said.
“Please, Mister Green, just the facts. I’ll handle the metaphors and similies.”
“Sorry.”
“So she got hosed and then plugged him with five shells from a Saturday night special, making this Saturday night not so special for him.”
“Well put, Vic.”
“And the case is solved,”Victor said.
“May I read your report, detective? I couldn’t help but be entertained by your choice of phrasing.”
“Sorry, Mister Green. I’m a detective, not a writer.”
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