Images et Échos D’autres Réves

When I look up to the skies
I see your eyes a funny kind of yellow
I rush home to bed I soak my head
I see your face underneath my pillow
I wake next morning tired still yawning
See your face come peaking through my window
Pictures of matchstick men and you
Mirages of matchstick men and you
All I ever see is them and you

Pictures of Matchstick Men Status Quo (1968)

I

He was, along with every other Traffic Division officer, on duty that night.

New Years Eve.

DUI checkpoints on all the major 'party-harty' roadways, every available patrol car working radar, working the highways -- but it was 28 degrees out -- and a light drizzle was falling. Bare tree limbs turning white as ice coated them, streets and sidewalks glazing over rapidly, and by 2200 hours the streets were, he thought, good for only one thing: ice skating.

Everyone was inside drinking, getting ready for Dick Clark to make his annual Times Square Countdown, and he know by the time people got out to their cars they'd find themselves smack-dab in the middle of an upside down winter wonderland. Hopefully before they did something really stupid, like start their cars and try to drive home.

Still, he was hopeful. The roads were, so far, remarkably empty, very few people were out and about -- yet -- and he was in one of the departments new Suburbans. The normal tires had been swapped for winter tires, and he'd just stopped by the garage and had them put on chains. He was good, but how many people in Baja Oklahoma were? On a night like this, Trouble was out and about, ready to make mischief on his appointed rounds.

He rotated his left shoulder, felt bone fragment tearing into muscle and winced, let his arm down slowly and realized he'd been holding his breath. He sighed, took a deep breath and tried not to think about it.

"2141."

And he knew what the call was even before he picked up the mic.

"41, go."

"2141, 36B, Greenville and Caruth Haven, officer on the scene advises code 3 not necessary."

"41, code 5."

"2141 at 2230 hours."

He left downtown and got on Central, drove north as quickly as the chains allowed and exited at Caruth Haven, turned right and there it was. Patrol car already had the intersection blocked off, the scene secure, so he was just here for the report. Weird, he thought, because they only called him for the bad ones, and this didn't look all that bad -- then he saw one of the cars.

"Oh, god no..." he groaned, then shook his head -- wished he could be anywhere else than here right now.

He gathered his notepad and opened the door, stepped out on the ice and nearly fell before he was halfway out the door. He steadied his fall with outstretched arms and winced, very nearly cried out when his left shoulder took too much weight.

But he managed to walk over to the wrecked gray Maxima and look inside.

The L-T was sitting there. His friend. The watch commander at the Biltmore bust. His sense of religion shattered in the aftermath, then his marriage shattered too. Divorce, almost bankrupt, the L-T had come to him, asked for help. Financial help, anything at all. Help to try and pull his life back together. He'd lent him money, co-signed a couple of loans with him and the L-T had been getting there, slowly, but at least he had some kind of life now, something worth living for.

Then he saw the girl in the passenger's seat. Young girl, maybe in her twenties -- he hoped.

"Hey, L-T...what happened?" But he knew. He could smell the booze on his friend's breath, on his clothes, in the air, and when his friend looked up at him it was all there, plain to see. Eyes red and glassy, and he'd been crying. The girl was looking away, clearly trying to act bored -- which meant she was hiding something. "Okay, hang tight, let me see what's going on out here."

He walked over to the officer who'd responded first. "What do you have so far?" he asked them.

"The lieutenant ran the red light," the officer said.

"Oh, did you observe that?"

"No, I didn't."

"Then someone alleges the L-T ran the red light. Is that a more accurate statement?"

"Yes, it is."

"Any other witnesses?"

"No sir, not yet. I've been securing the road."

"Uh-huh." He walked over to the other car, an old black Firebird, a real scrote-mobile, and he looked at the two guys in the front seat. Total hooks; scraggly blond hair, house tattoos on the knuckles and forearms -- and they were nervous now, watching his every move with angry eyes as he walked up to the driver's window.

"Howdy," he said genially. "Reckon either of you can tell me what happened?"

"Yeah, that bastard ran the red light..." the driver said.

"And which bastard would that be, sir?"

"Fuckin' whack-job in the Maxima."

"Okay. Can you tell me what happened?"

"We come out of that gas station..."

"Which one?" he asked, starting to sketch the scene.

"That one, there," he said, pointing across the intersection.

"If you don't mind, could you sketch where you were, which pump you were at, and what happened next?"

He watched as the driver took the pad, his hands shaking, then he took the pad back. "So, those pumps over on the far side?"

"Yessir."

"I'll need both your licenses, as well as your registration and proof of insurance," he added, and when the driver handed over the papers he looked them over, saw the insurance was expired and for another car, while the passenger said he didn't have a license. "Nothing? No ID at all?"

"What do you need that for?" the passenger said. "I didn't do nothin'."

"Just for the reports, sir. I'll need some kind of ID."

The man got his wallet out, handed over his state issued ID card and he took it, thanked them and said he'd be back in a while. He walked over to the first officer on the scene and looked him over. Young, arrogant, lazy. "Did you bother to ID those guys, run their car?"

"No, sir," the officer said. "Thought I'd leave that to you."

"Oh? Well, thanks. Here are the IDs, and here's the tag number. Run them, now, and get CCHs on both those jokers. And keep your radio volume down."

He walked over to the gas station and found the attendant inside. "Did you see what happened out there," he asked.

"Yup. Sure did."

"What pump did those guys use?"

The attendant pointed at pumps on the other side of the station. Not the ones the driver had indicated.

"How did the car exit the station, sir. Could you sketch there path on this diagram?

The man sketched an altogether different route than the driver had, one that put them exiting the station and driving about a hundred yards on the wrong side of the divided roadway before turning south on Greenville. "Do you have a readout you could print up showing me which pump these guys used?"

"Sure," the man said, and he printed up the receipt, handed it over.

"I'll just need your name and a phone number sir."

"The station number okay?"

"Both would be best, sir."

"Yeah. Sure."

He walked back out onto the ice, walked gingerly back to the first officer, looking at the contrite little turd as he walked up.

"Driver has warrants, both have CCH for signals 1, 3 and 5."

"The car?"

"Plates come back on a 77 Mustang..."

"And that car is?"

"Not a Mustang, sir."

"So, let me get this straight. You've got a stolen car over there, driven by a dude with a criminal history including murder, burglary and armed robbery, and with warrants out for his arrest, and you've been letting him sit there, watching you, not knowing whether he's armed or not, for about a half hour. Is that about right?"

"Well, I uh..."

He picked up his radio and called dispatch: "2141, I need the district WC and about three units for back up this location."

"2141 at 2241 hours."

He turned to the officer. "Get your 870 and get behind that fuckin' car, right now," he growled.

"2141, we have returns on the second ID now."

"41, go."

"Suspect Leftwich has an active BOLO and warrant out of Beaumont for Signal 1, signal 3."

"41, confirm warrant, expedite backup to Code 3." He looked at the officer and shook his head, knew the kid had no business being out here and wondered what his story was. "I guess you didn't hear me? 870, cover the rear of the car? Like...now?"

Ten minutes later the bad boys were on their way downtown and he walked over, talked to the district watch commander about the officers performance and the old man shook his head.

"Navy SEAL, thinks he knows it all."

"He's a menace, L-T."

"You're the third person to tell me that in the last two weeks. Write him up and I'll send it to personnel."

"Who was his FTO?"

"Another SEAL."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh. Now, what about Truman?"

"Drunk, but the accident wasn't his fault."

"Damn."

"Yessir." A DUI for a cop meant immediate termination and loss of certification. Period. State law and no exceptions allowed for any reason, personal or otherwise.

"You know him?" the L-T asked.

"Yessir. We're friends."

"Goddamn. You want me to assign this to someone else?"

"No, I got it. I'll put all my notes with the supplemental, and you should have Nelson assign someone to double check my report, but it's cut and dried. A rookie patrolman could've worked this one. Just not that asswipe," he said, nodding at the other officer.

He walked to the Suburban a few minutes later, and the SEAL was waiting for him by the front door. He turned on his Olympus Pearlcorder in his shirt pocket as he walked over, smiling as he approached.

"What did you tell the L-T?" the SEAL asked.

"What happened out here."

"Such as?"

"Dereliction of duty, incompetence, and that you're a menace to your fellow officers."

The SEAL grinned. "Oh, is that right?"

"No, it's not right. Everything about your performance out here tonight was anything but right."

"Here's a piece of advice for you, hotshot," the SEAL said. "Maybe you need to be careful what you say from now on. And who you say it to."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said -- but the SEAL was walking away now so he got in the Suburban, pulled out the little Olympus and spoke into it for a few minutes, describing who said what, and why.

"2141, are you clear for a call?"

"2141, 10/4."

"2141, DPS advises they have multiple cars in the water on Highway 67, the west span over Lake Ray Hubbard. Two are submerged, no survivors."

"41, code 5."

"2141, clear and code 5 at 0014 hours."

He sighed, made his way south to Highway 80, then turned northeast, heading for 67, mindful of the ice now. It was almost an inch thick and snow had started falling; there were cars off the road everywhere he looked and whole neighborhoods were dark from power outages. He heard Lieutenant Nelson call dispatch, report that all accident investigators were now working calls and to call out the reserves, get back up on the street now. Then Nelson called him.

"205 to 2141."

"41, go."

"Don't let DPS rope you into doing their report. Get back here as fast as you can."

"10/4."

"And 41, go to inter-city now, keep me posted."

"Got it." He switched over to channel three and called in. "41 to 5, go ahead."

"Check 6."

"4."

He pulled over at the scene on 67, walked over to the DPS trooper and got the low-down, then walked back to to Nelsons car, took out his Olympus and played the recording.

"Well fuck," Nelson said. "Nasty little fucker, ain't he, threatening a brother officer and all." Nelson grinned, then looked at the scene. "You better get suited up. Need a hand with that shoulder?"

"Yeah, see if the fire department has any tanks handy. I've only got one 60 with me."

"Okay. Oh, I heard Truman was in that wreck on Greenville."

"Yessir."

"Fuck."

"Yessir." He walked to the back of the Suburban and got his dry-suit on, and he was about to hook his 60 pound tank to his vest when a fireman arrived with an 80. "Whew," he said, "thanks."

"Hey, better you than me...that water's freezing now. Literally, I mean icing up."

"Swell." He pulled his hood on and sealed it, then walked down the highway to where two cars had left the road. Two set of tracks, both yawing left as they tried to steer back onto the highway, and one of them appeared to have begun to flip on it's top as it entered the water. Someone helped him into his BC and he snapped the vest tight and pulled his mask down, walked into the water, felt pressure as the water pushed in against his skin, but no leaks...

He turned, held out his hand and a fireman threw a safety line out and he caught it, clipped it onto his vest. "Get another ready," he called out, then he sat down in the water and slipped his fins on, cleared the vest and took a deep breath, put his mouthpiece in and cleared it. He crab-walked over the slimy boulders under him until he was under water, and he turned on his flashlight, started walking along the bottom until, about fifty feet out, he saw the first car. He swam over to it, shined his light inside and saw two kids, maybe five years old, in the back of the station wagon -- and both were still alive, breathing in an air pocket at the bag of the wagon.

They couldn't have much oxygen left, he thought, not enough to mount a rescue operation, and he shone his light in again, looked at one of the kids fingernails. Blue nail-beds, hypoxic already.

He tapped on the glass and one of the kids put his head under the water and saw him. He smiled, pointed at the left side passenger door and made a fist, then swam to the door and saw the door was locked -- and he reached for the rescue hammer strapped to his leg. It took two swings but the glass broke and the pressure inside the wagon broke too, flooding the back.

He had the door open within seconds and swam in, grabbed both kids and pulled them free of the car, then yanked on the safety line, felt sure hands pulling him in. He broke surface and the kids started coughing and gasping, and a dozen firemen and police officers were in the water within seconds, helping him to shore. Both were in deep hypothermia but both were alive, and he asked for slack and submerged again, swimming down to look for the second car.

It was a little orange Honda Civic, resting on it's top about fifteen feet beyond the station wagon and he swam down, looked in the window, saw all he needed to see for now and swam back to the wagon, looked for the driver and saw an old man face down on the seat -- lifeless. He reached around, unlocked the door and on the off chance felt for a carotid pulse, but no. Nothing. He hauled the man out and pulled gently on the safety line, felt pressure as he was pulled through the water again. When he was almost to the shore he held up two fingers: "Two more," he said as he handed over the man's body -- before he disappeared under the waves again. He swam back to the Honda and easily opened the door, saw several empty bottles of beer rolling around on the ceiling and shook his head, pulled a young man out, felt for a carotid pulse then pulled on the safety line, and a few minutes later went back down again, for the young girl he'd seen crammed in the back.

He pulled the girl's leg and her body slipped towards the door and he stopped, looked at the knife wounds, the slit throat, Defensive wounds on her arms and hands -- and why was she naked, in this weather? He closed the door, pulled sharply on the safety line, felt himself jetting through the water, breaking the surface a few feet from the rocky shoreline. He pushed his mask up on his forehead, treading water.

"Is this DPS's call?"

A trooper on the rocks called back: "It's mine. What do you have?"

"Homicide is my guess. Naked, slit throat, defensive wounds on her hands and arms. Probably better to tow the car up intact, preserve what evidence might be left?"

"Like what?"

"Semen would be my guess. Pulling her body through the water might wash away anything like that."

"Fuck."

"Anyway, you think about it while we get the first car hooked up." He swam up to shore and took a metal tow line from the wrecker driver, then swam down to the wagon, secured it to the rear tow hook and swam around the car one more time, saw a kid's teddy bear resting on the muddy bottom and picked it up. He surfaced and gave a thumb's up to the wrecker driver and swam clear of the towline, then watched the wagon slide clear of the water, then up onto the roadway.

"Just leave the body in the car," the trooper called out and he swam over and took the towline down again, swam around to the front and hooked it up. He looked the scene over, then surfaced again. "Car on the roof. One more line, please," he called out and he took the second line down and hooked it to the rear axle. Back on the surface he called out "Take in line one!" and he watched the Honda spin on it's roof. "Okay, take in two," and he watched as the Honda flipped over on it's tires. "Okay, hold on while I let the second line go."

He swam down, released the second tow line and pulled it clear, surfaced and called out: "Okay, she should come in easy now." He walked up the rocky bank as the Honda rolled up the incline, but he stood there a moment, then turned and dove back into the water, swam down to the bottom. He could see where both cars had been and he swam around, poking in the mud as he moved along inches above the bottom.

His eyes caught something, a flash, an impression, and he swam over to a large rock, swept the his beam of light around the area. A knife. Serrated edge, eight inch blade. He picked it up, put it in his vest pocket and swam back up to the rocks and climbed out. When he saw the trooper waiting for him he walked over to him.

"Got an evidence bag handy?" he said, opening his pocket.

The trooper took the knife, shaking his head -- and he walked back to the Suburban, found Nelson still there, waiting for him. He looked around, saw the ambulances were gone and turned to his L-T.

"How're the kids?" he asked.

"Girl was shocky, they did CPR once, got a rhythm and took off for Parkand. The boy's fine."

"Hot damn! We got lucky tonight."

"Yes, they did."

"What time is it?" he asked, unzipping his dry-suit and climbing out of it.

"Not quite three."

"Shit, how long was I in the water?"

"'Bout two hours, I'd say. You cold?"

"No, not with this fleece. I was sweating in there. Feels good out here."

Nelson shook his head. "Better you than me, Ace."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?"

II

Cleared after the Biltmore shoot, he and Desjardins saddled up for their last week riding together, and if he signed-off on her she'd go to deep nights for six weeks, then to days for six weeks. After that she'd go to traffic, probably with someone other than him for a week, then to CID for a week. She'd be assigned a district and a shift after that, but ride two-up for another year, and if she passed all that she'd be cut loose -- to a car of her own, a beat of her own.

"You feel like driving tonight?" she asked as they walked out of the station.

"You don't, I take it?"

"No, not really."

"Yeah, okay," he said as he put his dive gear in the truck. She did the walk-around, checked flare and cones and the 870, then got in the right door and buckled up. He got in and looked at the expression on her face, shook his head and checked into service, then took off down Illinois, heading for 67. "What's the problem?" he said a moment later.

She sighed, looked out the window at traffic, then turned to him. "It's your father."

"Oh?" he said, slowing for a stop light.

"I think I'm in love with him."

He turned to her, grinning. "About goddamn time, Deb."

"What?"

"Why do you think I invited you over there? I was hoping something like this might happen..."