COP CAFE

by Percy Spurlark Parker

Ma Jones' Eatery closes at 10 P.M., I made it with about forty-five minutes to spare. Being only a block away, the guys at the precinct have laid claimed to it. They were calling it the Cop Café long before I got here.

I took my usual stool at the end of the counter and Ma Jones slid a mug of black coffee in front of me. I'd been swimming in the stuff all day, but there was never any comparison between the swill we have at the precinct and the brew that's served here.

“Burger and fries,” I said, wanting something quick.

“You sure, sergeant?” she asked, brushing back a curl of gray hair from her mahogany forehead. She wasn't an especially big woman, 5'7 I'd say, and more stout than fat. “I've still got some stew left from the dinner menu.”

“Sold.” I didn't have to be coaxed. I've braved many of cold nights on duty with a belly full of Ma Jones' stew.

I'd first heard her husband had been a cop and had gone down in the line of duty. Then someone said it was her father and two brothers. She'd never been candid with any personal details herself, although every now a then I got a hint of a New York accent. She had the touch when it came to cooking though, there was no mistaking that, and she was a damn good sounding board when your case load was kicking your butt.

She sat bread and butter on the counter in front of me. “Another busy day?”

“And how. I drew the Dockley murder.”

“Lucky you.”

Carl Dockley, newly appointed news director for our local TV station, had been found shot to death in his home this morning. The prime suspects were the entire ten o'clock news team. Paul Stamples held down the news anchor spot, Sandra Carter did the weather, and Randy Raclyn handled sports. Dockley had fired all three right after they finished their broadcast last night. Without any prior warning.

“I'm guessing everyone wants this one cleared up right away,” Ma said, bringing me a steaming bowl of stew.

“From the mayor on down.” Dockley had gotten shot when he opened his front door last night. One bullet to the chest at close range. “I'm sure I could wrap it up, if I could figure out what Dockley was pointing at.”

Ma Jones' thin gray eyebrows rose slightly as I pulled out my camera phone and brought the pictures up on the small screen. I'd taken four pictures in all, at different angles. I flipped through them for her. The mailman had found him just inside his doorway. He was on his right side, his hands clasped together pointing at something. There was no mistaking it, he'd purposely used his left hand to brace his right index finger keeping it in a pointing position. It was the last thing he did before he died. He'd left a clue to the identity of his murderer that may have seemed logical to him, but was puzzling as hell to me.

“Just happen to have this with you?” she asked, taking the phone from me.

I shrugged and she just shook her head smiling.

She studied the images on the small screen, switching back and forth through the different angles herself. “What was in the direction where he was pointing?”

I had a mouthful of stew so I couldn't answer right away.

Ma Jones held up a hand. “Take your time, sergeant. Wouldn't do for you to choked to death in here.”

“Corner of his sitting room, two drape drawn windows and some kind of big leaf potted plant,“ I finally said, dipping into the stew again, every spoon was full of meat and vegetables and thick rich broth.

“No photos, wall plaques?”

“Nothing in the direction he was pointing.”

She nodded. “What did your suspects have to say for themselves?”

“I dug my mini digital recorder out of my pocket.

Ma Jones dark cheeks plumped as she smiled again. “I guess the next thing you'll do is bring the suspects in and we'll hash out everything over coffee in a back booth.”

“Now, Ma, I'll never impose on you like that.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, a chuckle in her voice. “Okay, lets hear what you've got.”

I smiled around the stew in my mouth. Once you get started on Ma Jones' cooking, it's hard to stop. “I interviewed Sandra Carter first, then Raclyn, then Stamples,” I said, pushing the play button on the recorder.

“Dockley had us meet him in his office one at a time,” Sandra Carter's southern twang ushered through the recorder's speaker.

She'd been a Miss Louisiana finalist a few years back, and in my estimation she could still give the current crop a run for their money. In the interrogation room she had been quite perky sitting across the table from me. There had been a buoyancy to her long blond locks as she spoke. And not once was there anything close to a frown to skew her dainty features.

“Paul was first to get fired, then Randy. By the time it was my turn to meet with Dockley, I pretty much knew I was going to get the axe also. He was direct, if nothing else. Said our rating stunk, which we all knew, and that he was going to be going with a professional meteorologist instead of a professional model.”

“How did you feel about that?” I'd asked.

“Well, I've never modeled professionally, but I've thought about it. I'm really want to be an actress. Getting fired might turn out to be a good thing. It's time I started broadening my career base, anyway. The people from Nude News have been after me for some time to do a couple of spots for them. Maybe I will.”

“Ms Carter, did you kill Carl Dockley?” I'd asked, not expecting a confession, but sometimes a direct question can shake things up a bit.

“Oh, heavens, no. For a country girl, I can't even stand to go fishing. Can't pick up the worms, let alone stick the hook in them.”

“Do you have any suspicion as to who it might've been?”

“Somebody who didn't like him, I guess. He wasn't a nice man. Heard he had a couple of ex-wives. Maybe he was late with an alimony payment. People do kill for that sort of thing, don't they?”

I had to turn the volume done on the recorder so Randy Raclyn's deep baritone could be better understood. He hadn't appeared to've been talking that loud in the interrogation room. He was the jock, the man's man, turtleneck sweater and crew cut. He and his TV persona were one and the same. “Dockley said I was the worst sportscaster he'd ever seen. That really pissed me off. I mean, it's not my fault all these players keep switching from one team to another. I started to take a swing at him.”

“What stopped you?” I'd asked.

“Well, uh…” He'd toyed with the collar of his turtleneck. “I thought about law suits. And ah… I heard he had a black belt in karate. Although, I think he put that rumor out himself,” he'd quickly added.

I'd been able to hold off smiling back in the interrogation room, but Ma Jones and I shared one now.

“So, what's next for you?” I'd asked him.

“Hell, I've been fired before, always landed on my feet. Maybe I'll go back to radio. Never liked putting on all that make-up for the TV cameras anyway.”

“Sounds like you've gotten over your initial anger.”

“Well, we are getting paid for the remainder of out contracts. I've got six months coming. Sandra almost a year. I'm not sure about Paul. So, I guess I got no real beef. It was the personal attack that got me angry, not getting fired. Dockley was a hatchet man. Our ratings were in the toilet. Changes were going to be made. It's just that this was kind of sudden.”

There was a moment's pause as the interview ended and the next one began.

“I was absolutely mortified.” Paul Stamples voice held an air of seasoned dignity even through the small recorder. He'd seemed that way in the interrogation room also. He sat ruler straight, his tailored suit not showing the slightest wrinkle, not one errant hair sprouted from his snow white mane. “After being the face of local news for twenty-three years to be dismissed in such a brash manner was disgraceful. I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to live it down.”

“Any idea the firings were coming?”

“None. Oh, we had ratings issues, but nothing we couldn't work our way out of. I'd even presented some ideas to him earlier in the week. He seemed amiable, but I guess he was just stringing me along until he got his new crew lined up. Actually had the audacity to say I was outdated”

“Is that's why you killed him.”

“I beg your pardon, I did no such thing. I disliked the man, sure. And admittedly, when he fired me, the dislike changed to hate. But even so, I would never attempt to harm him.”

“Never?”

His chuckle was barely audible through the recorder. “I suppose I did think of it for a fleeting moment. Don't we all think of doing harm to someone who has done harm to us? Just for a taste of satisfaction, don't we conger up some horrid revenge to befall upon those whom have done us wrong.?”

“If not you, than who?”

“No one here,” Stamples had said assuredly. “Someone from his past. The very nature of his job bred enemies.”

“Mr. Raclyn said you would be paid the remainder of your contracts.”

“Yes. That softens the blow somewhat, I have almost two years left. But I'm the senior of the group, in effect, this ends my career. I'm being put out to pasture.”

I turned the recorder off. Ma Jones still held my camera phone. She hadn't made any comments or any overt moves, but I knew she'd heard every word of the interviews.

“Are those three the only ones you're looking at for the murder?”

“For now,” I said. They're the ones with the motive. The gut says it got to be one of them, but...”

“Which one?”

“Exactly.”

“Alibis?”

“Kind of. The three of them got together at a bar down the street from the station to console each other. They each had a couple of drinks, cursed Dockley royally and left.”

“Time?”

“Little before twelve.”

“What time does the M.E. put the death?”

“Factoring in the time it would've taken Dockley to get home, put a late snack out on the table, around one, half hour either way.”

Ma Jones nodded. “I take it when they left the bar, everyone went their separate ways?”

“You got it.”

“So, all three had motive, and an equal opportunity to commit the murder.”

“That's what I've been up against.” I said, washing the last of the stew down with a swallow of coffee. “I'd probably be better off if he wasn't pointing at anything.”

Ma Jones had gotten the coffee pot and was refilling my mug when she stopped, sat the pot down. “Maybe you're right. Sergeant.” She frowned. “But if he wasn't pointing, than what was he doing? What was he trying to say?”

I couldn't come up with an answer.

She paced back and forth once, twice, stopped then paced some more. When she stopped again, she stood in front of me, her hands on the counter mimicking Dockley's pose. “What was he doing, sergeant? What am I doing now?”

I looked at her hands, she had them resting on the counter, her left bracing her right index finger keeping it straight.

It took me a while but finally clicked in. It had been so easy to presume he was pointing, that's what it had looked like. Where he was pointing became the big question and everything else had gotten sidetracked. But he hadn't been pointing all.

“He was making the number one,” I said.

“Precisely,” Ma Jones beamed, as she unfolded her hands. “The only clue he had a chance to leave before he died. Who did you say was the first to be fired last night?”

“Stamples.”

“Then that's your killer, sergeant. He's getting the biggest severance, but he's still losing the most. It should be easy to prove, I don't see any real planning here. More like heat of the moment, pride and ego fueled with a few drinks. I'd say when you find the weapon, it's either going to be registered to him, or one he had easy access to. You're a good cop, sergeant. You've got the scent, you won't let him get away.”

I stood, gathering up my camera phone and recorder.

“Once again, Ma…”

“I'm just an old woman who has a couple of good ideas from time to time,” she said, as she started taking away my dishes.

I dropped a ten on the counter to cover my dinner. “Well, thanks anyway.”

She nodded. “Sure, sure. Oh and, sergeant. Pass the word along to the gang at the precinct, I'm doing lamb chops tomorrow.”