High Road

Chapter 4
Failure Testing

Chapter Description: Inspector LaCrone watches a movie. On a side note, he also almost gets killed, investigates three suspects, wastes some time, and drinks coffee.

Clearly something was wrong with Peter’s watch. Time after time, out of habit, he examined his band, growled, and consulted a new clock. After twenty five years, his faithful watch, given to him by his now dead father, was finally broken. “Well, not quite broken”, LaCrone considered, “but certainly dysfunctional.” It seemed that his watch now ticked at a slightly slower rate than normal, and despite being taken apart and reassembled three times, and resynchronized almost constantly, it continued to fall behind. He found that each ten minutes the watch fell behind one additional second. While not terrible, he realized that after one day, his watch would be behind by one hundred and forty four seconds, almost two and a half minutes. Suffice to say, he was most displeased by the break in tradition as well as the distraction: he had never worn another watch. Despite this, he persevered, and resolved to continue to wear the watch until it could be examined by a professional.

Much like his watch, Peter’s lead had burned out as well, which infuriated him even further. York Hill did not even have a falsified copy of the birth certificate, meaning the certificate was a plain forgery without even the hospital to back it up. Realizing that wild coincidences are no pretense for a case, LaCrone decided to give up on that lead. The most suspicious lead was where he’d start, and after two days of returning to the gym and firing range, he felt revitalized. Why had he ever given up on good exercise?

His first target was a man named Cole Malone, who was a person of interest in four different disappearances and dealt in shady business down at the docks in Boston Harbor. Mr. Malone had wracked up a few various offenses to color himself distinctly. A drunk and disorderly charge, as well as assault and battery plagued his records. He’d picked up some information on where to find Malone from Captain Detective George Caliph, a jovial man of Euro-Arabic descent. Caliph was a nice man, but clearly didn’t like digging up information if he didn’t know what it was for, so it didn’t take LaCrone long to pick up on this and make sure he had lost the two squad cars that shadowed him out of central Boston. Eight days prior, the movie The Alphabet Killer had been released in the United States, so in an attempt to make his trip alone, LaCrone killed one and two thirds hours in the movie before heading down to the docks. He glanced down at his watch, cursed, glanced at his car’s clock, and climbed out of his vehicle upon arrival.

Leaves were strewn about the Boston Harbor docks, and they danced playfully around his fitful overcoat, wind drawing the garment in and out with the tide’s breeze. A discerning eye scanned the crates that lined his course. As with life, there was nowhere to go but forward...

Two minutes into his walk, Peter found himself at the edge of the water. The path opened to his left, and he found himself making a U-turn, doubling back on his path in a different sea-corroded corridor. The pungent odor of rust, salt, and metal mixed and filled the air, leaving no respite for the wayward nostrils to seek. Peter found himself left on edge. Iodine may be to the fancy of others, but it stimulated him, and he found the acidic smells more reason to focus on the task at hand. Directly ahead of him was an old warehouse, and based on its upkeep, it could easily be abandoned. Of course, LaCrone knew that ?abandoned’ was synonymous with ?filled with squatters’ in the Boston Harbor. He arrived at the door at the end of his path. One way in: not the typical style of your average criminal. One way in meant one way out, and it made it easier for police officers to surround and infiltrate. Peter reached inside his coat and flicked the safety off his gun and cocked it for good measure. The only reason someone would deal in such a place is if they were certain they could hold it in a pinch. Bracing his shoulder against the door, LaCrone shook the rust from the structure as he forced the entryway open.

Inside, a musky smell of wet boards and dust filled the air. Cole Malone... He’d find him and make him talk. After wandering along the boxes for a few minutes, on edge, Peter resigned himself to the fact that the warehouse was empty. He investigated for other exits in or out, but he couldn’t find any. He made his way back to the front door when he froze in his tracks. While he was gone, a steel padlock had appeared on the door. Someone was inside.

LaCrone weighed his options. On one hand, he could shoot the padlock off, and reveal that he carried a weapon, or on the other hand, he could turn around and investigate why someone didn’t want him to leave. His hairs stood on end and a chill climbed his spine. He drew his overcoat together silently, took a breath again, and turned. Behind him, roughly ten feet away, was Cole Malone, gun pointed at Peter’s head.

“Can I help you?” Peter inquired politely.

“I reckon you can. Tell me why you’re here,” Malone returned. His voice carried a heavy southern drawl, and it was clear that he carried the same traditional hot-blooded temperament made famous by southern landowners back in the day.

Peter’s mind raced for another lie, granting him, “I’m sorry, I was wandering the docks, I just needed some fresh air...”

The man chuckled: “Yuh need some fresh air, so yuh tell me tha’cha go into an ol’ warehouse to find it? Why you really here, boy?”

LaCrone sighed. He did not think that the truth would do him any good, but he couldn’t think of any lies. It was so much easier to resign himself to the truth, probably a death sentence, but it was so easy... he was so tired of chasing criminals, even if his body felt wonderfully refreshed. Mentally, Peter felt exhausted.

“I’m a new dock worker okay? The management told me to check out this place for squatters, so I did. I figured you’d shoot me if I told you that.”

Malone nodded. It was a reasonable story, and the overcoat that LaCrone wore was not uncommon with the waves and the mists about.

“Wish I could le’che go, boy. Honest, I do, but I cain’t have no one findin’ out where I’m at. Comer.” He waved his gun to order the good Inspector down a path of crafts to the left. LaCrone complied, realizing that he may have to whip out his gun at any second, but walked slowly to prevent the concealed weapon from becoming known. Though he followed at a good ten feet, Peter could hear and smell the thick, alcohol-laden, grizzled breath of his captor.

“Alright then, don’ worry about it from here, eh?” Cole asked Peter. A bullet hole appeared in a keg to Peter’s right, elevated about ten feet above Peter in the warehouse stack. He wasn’t able to get a clear look at the keg, but he rolled to his left, pulling his gun out mid roll.

“Come on now, don’t be like that.” Malone sighed before loosing a few shots. LaCrone just smiled, he felt better than ever, and the bullets didn’t seem to scare him anymore. He turned about and leapt to his left, letting the deluge of murky liquid that had now formed provide partial cover. He loosed two shots, one hitting Malone in the shoulder, one in the forearm, and he dropped his firearm in agony. Peter stopped for a moment to examine the crate, but he was interrupted by the sound of yelling voices and frantic running.

“Looks like you had backup...” Peter muttered to himself before grabbing Mr. Malone’s gun and squeezing in to a gap between crates off to the right hand side of the path. From his position, back and all sides pressed against the wood of crates, he could only see the now atrophied stream of liquid falling to the ground. It must have been one Hell of a mixer, because the very Earth appeared to atrophy and fade before him. "I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that it’s not just too much of a good thing..." Peter thought nervously.

The voices and foot steps were getting closer now, it was only a matter of seconds when the warehouse shook, the door having been knocked down by a squad car that had worked its way through the cargo maze. A hail of gunfire erupted from what Peter approximated to be the front entrance, and soon all attention was turned to the officers who had broken in. Peter knew he wouldn’t have a second chance to glean clues, so he flipped open his phone and started to take pictures. The liquid, the keg, Cole Malone, the gun... He didn’t have a recorder to corroborate his story this time, but he did have some good evidence. He took a picture of the dust disruption patterns on the floor just in case, and flipped his phone closed once more. He walked up to a groaning Malone and asked, “What was that liquid?” But he just grinned at me and said, “Not without a lawyer, my friend.” LaCrone’s thoughts raced, but he knew he had to get out. He handcuffed Malone to a bar adjacent to his location and walked to the front.

George Caliph was sitting behind an overturned squad car with six other officers, who had used the barricade to take down four suspects, but the last one was still taking pot shots at the car. LaCrone expertly took aim at the man and shot him in the leg, resulting in his gun being dropped. It didn’t take long to round up guns and stories.

“Where are you going LaCrone? This is your raid, I just followed you, since I expected you’d need a little cover fire.”

“Take the credit. Malone is down the left pile of boxes. Don’t get that weird liquid on you, and will you get a sample of it to the lab?”

“Sure, but why...“

“Because, George, this place has nothing to do with my lead. Plus, you did all the hard work tracking him down, how do you expect me to take credit for that?” He looked down at his watch again, “What time is it?”

“Half past five. And I’m not the crazy bastard who walked into this place alone. Without the distraction...“

“Forget about it Caliph, this is your case, this is your glory, I need that test.” Peter filtered out, eyes piercing him.

“Damn young officers always think they know what’s best.”

---

On his way back into Boston, LaCrone flipped on his car’s CD player. He sat back and thought about the scene.

So much I...

Wish I could...

Why had he left? It was obvious to him, if no one else. He was worried about the fact that bullets didn’t worry him. He’d always been worried by bullets, ever since he was shot. It should be magnified after being stabbed, right? Either way, that warehouse was not the place he wanted to stick around. He got an odd feeling around George Caliph. Though the man was one year his junior, he felt like he was speaking with someone several years older than he.

Please don’t turn away again...

Please don’t turn me in to them...

LaCrone sighed, and flipped off the Red Hot Chili Peppers before coming to a stop in a parking spot. He clambered out and into the Boston coffee shop. He rifled about for his cell phone, was rewarded, and put out a call to Jeremy White.

“White, how’s the lab doing?”

“Ambiguous. How about you? You sound refreshed, not tired. You sure you’ve been working?”

“Enough to almost get me killed this morning, again. What do you mean by ambiguous though?”

“Well, we ran every test on the damned trace evidence that we could find, but all we got was that it’s some kind of hormone. All we’ve got now is just enough to do comparisons, no tests. We found a bottle on the counter next to the ham that was getting cut up with that butcher’s knife: turns out that it spilled and dissipated. I guess the stuff doesn’t like air. Anyway, we ran trace analysis tests on the kid’s blood and the bottle, and both match the blade. We were worried at first that she might have poisoned you, but the kid seems to be in perfect health other than being a little short for his age, but I’m not particularly afraid of you becoming a midget, eh?”

LaCrone considered this. “Heh, I guess you’re right. Spooky, to say the least, but I’ll keep you posted if I start needing to find six other dwarves to parade around Snow White with.”

“LaCrone with a sense of humor? Maybe this stuff is just medication for good taste.”

Peter chuckled. “Hardly likely. Can I get you to transfer data from Boston PD when they run a chemical analysis from the Cole Malone case earlier today?”

“So that’s how you’ve been off getting yourself almost killed. It all makes sense now.”

LaCrone sighed. “Look, get the test for me, I’ll check in later.”

With a reluctant smile, Peter stood up and worked his way to the counter: if he was going to keep this up, he’d need a drink.

---

Something out there

We are the ones that will make you feel better...

He turned the key and pulled it back out of the ignition, silencing the band. Two more failures. His two other investigations that day were largely uneventful. The first case resulted in no evidence at all, and he had to give up, whereas the other confessed after Peter had lied about evidence. All in all, it had been a decent day for the law, but not for the case. None of his three suspects today had had any correlation at all. The liquid falling from the keg was hydrochloric acid, which had had a tank reinforced with powerful alloys on the inside of the wooden keg. Malone had most likely intended to dissolve his body to remove evidence, but that didn’t help LaCrone at all either way.

Peter was back in Charleston, waiting for Jeremy White to show. He had felt somewhat awkward when the barista, a woman of about forty, had referred to him as a young man. He conceded that he looked young for his age, but was it really proper for others to address him in such a way? He considered the lack of respect, but then decided to let it go.

LaCrone was just about to drift off into his thoughts about whether or not wearing an overcoat to every scene of a crime made him a clich? detective when Jeremy White walked in. Peter turned around and grinned at his companion.

“Peter, you can’t expect to solve all cases so soon. Honestly, if weren’t an old friend I wouldn’t spare the time to...,” Inspector White started. He never finished. “Peter, are you feeling alright?”