This story is difficult to believe in its entirety, but I assure you every word is true and right on the mark, at least to the best of my recollection. I have noticed there are some gaps in my memory bank that seem to be getting a little wider and a little deeper recently. I feel pretty certain it is not that same sickness of the brain that visited my ma in her declining years because I am sort of a youngish fellow with lots of energy and stamina. My suspicion is that parts of my brain is trying to close the door on other parts of my brain that had memories I guess my conscious stream of thought doesn’t want floating around for me to dwell on for too long. I know that sounds a little simplistic, but I know that most of what I am forgetting is best left gone and buried and that’s a fact.

It was a slow Friday night down at the station house with only an odd drunk here or there, but there was a certain spark in the air like we were all waiting around for something to go wrong and for all hell to break loose and rain fire and brimstone right down on top of our heads. The last time I felt like that was just before the ammo dump exploded in Danang, Vietnam on a quiet Sunday morning when only the boom-boom girls were stirring.

My favorite team of detectives, Mutt and Jeff, all fired up with plenty of Irish whiskey in their early night shift coffee, came busting in the doors of the homicide squad like they were ready to take over the section and put us all on report for writing dull and uninteresting reports about routine busts that fell far short of an actual homicide with a dead body and all, right there on the first page for everyone to see.

Our only female squad member, Trisha Goodyear was perched on the edge of my desk with her juicy cheeks only inches from my incorrigible hands that itched to get a nice feel of her pretty bottom. I was smart enough to not make that mistake because she would probably break one of my fingers before bringing me up on charges of sexual harassment on my way out the door making a fast exit from the field of law enforcement. In all honesty, I have to confess right up front that the petite redhead was in my field of admirers when we first met, but in my infinite wisdom, I managed to screw that up by getting caught by her screwing a “C.I.” (Confidential Informant) right there out in the open standing in the lady’s room obviously on the verge of blowing my wad and unable to stop even if my life depended on it. The

Mutt, the big guy, who was better known as “Mad-dog” Malone and that little prick Jeff whose real name was Jefferson Davis Jr. made up the kick-ass team known more affectionately as “Mutt and Jeff”. They were not the brightest pennies in the squad room, but they did know the procedures pretty well and you could count on them making a bust more often than not. In this instance, they were dragging a definitely reluctant presumed perp between them and slammed her down into the hard wooden chair before snapping the handcuffs onto the nearby pipe to make certain she didn’t make any sudden moves. The perp certainly didn’t look like one but that was not unusual these days what with college graduate serial killers and sweet young things that liked to use a straight razor to make their point. I, for one, appreciated their caution because there is nothing as disconcerting as being shot in the back by a person or persons unknown right in one’s own squad room.

I had learned from bitter experience to mind my own business in the “bull-pen” because a lot of times what you saw was not the full story and justice and good behavior were just words in the vocabulary when people losing their lives was the price to pay for being nice. This innocent-looking suspect was pathetic enough on the surface but God only knew what sins lurked inside that pretty shell of juicy female attractiveness. Trisha seemed a bit inclined to interfere with Mutt and Jeff’s game in a gender-supporting role, but I knew she would follow her gut and not her head because cops don’t fuck around with other cop’s business without knowing all the facts.

It was difficult, but I managed to suppress my pussy-hunting inclinations and buried my head in my bull-shit report using the spell-check to double check my content before posting it on the “case closed” board with “report submitted” underlined in red.

The redhead was sobbing uncontrollably now and she looked more vulnerable than a teenaged runaway seeing real life up close and personal right after falling out of the nest of suburban fantasy. You couldn’t see her private parts that had probably been used extensively by various saviors with only one thing on their mind. The story was an old one with the young girls being victims of the junkyard dogs feeding on their defenseless victimhood like beasts in a dark forest with no 911 to come to their assistance like knights of old times.

No, she got Mutt and Jeff to scoop up her ass at the “scene of the crime” with some already forgotten pimp bleeding out on the vinyl floor in dire need of a good wash. The floor and not the vic. She was looking around the squad room now taking in the witnesses of her downfall and not liking what she saw. I had an urge to get her a cup of coffee, but I knew with certainty, both Mutt and Jeff would resent my action and probably misinterpret it as frowning on their treatment of little Miss “Save-me” as being over the top. In a way, I felt like that inside but was willing to give the boys their slack because they generally got it right even though they took a little longer to get there than most of the other teams with better training.

I didn’t have a partner any longer because my last one was a picture on the wall. She was well-liked by one and all including me but I always had this gut feeling she was too soft-hearted for our line of work and it would eventually catch up to her when she least expected it on a night when her partner was busy feeling sorry for himself at losing the beautiful Trisha’s compliant female parts.

The junkie was one of those ones that couldn’t be trusted because the lure of a fix was the only thing on her mind. Since Barbara was the only obstacle between her and her “ice cream” she did the only thing that made sense to her screwed up mind. She sliced poor Barbara’s neck so fast that I almost didn’t see it until my partner was well on her way to the floor with blood spurting out to decorate the doorway with Christmas red in the middle of July. Now, everyone looked at the picture of Barbara on the wall and then threw a glare at me because I was the screw-up partner that was looking the other way when she bit the dust. What really made matters worse was the fact that I had already lost a partner over in Vice Squad and now had a reputation that precluded any “partner” applicants from the thought of sitting on the other side of my desk. At least Marty was not a female and not that likable a person all things considered. He enjoyed dressing up as a schoolgirl truant and rounding up the perverts that preyed on them with the intent to introduce them to the world of sodomy and degradation. His last target was one of those gender confused perps that took great umbrage at Marty’s less than stellar performance and shot him with both rounds of his double-barreled derringer right in the solar plexus with no chance of medical intervention to save his risk-taking life. The fact that I had cautioned Marty several times to call for back-up when things got hot and heavy didn’t matter when my partner body-count was on the rise.

I sensed that the perp was telling the truth when he defended his action by stating unequivocally that he had no idea old Marty was a cop and was in fear of his life because he thought he was the serial killer trying to rid the streets of perverts and gang members. Of course, I kept my mouth shut and they threw the book at the creep with little chance of him ever getting out of his incarcerated status for the remainder of his misbegotten and pathetic life.

The only reason why I finally stepped in and released the tear-streaked redhead from the pipe was because her plea of needing to use the bathroom was too realistic to be an act. They just stared at me with their customary blank looks and I smiled just to throw them off the scent that I felt they were “over the line” in suspect handling right in our own squad room.