Night Shift

by Bill Bernico

Jerry Patterson was a good kid. He was in his senior year of high school and working two part time jobs. One job involved tutoring other students who needed additional help with their studies. Jerry liked that job. He liked the feeling of helping someone else get ahead. His college prep courses in high school were preparing him for the ideal job he wanted when he graduated from college. Jerry wanted to be a teacher. It gave him great satisfaction knowing that his influence on other people would halp make a difference in the world.

Jerry's other job was late at night as a filling station attendant. He worked the graveyard shift on weekends. He came in at ten o'clock and worked through until two the next morning. It was a slow shift and it gave Jerry the time he needed to study and do his weekend homework. Jerry figured that by the end of the summer, he'd have enough saved to help him through his first year of college.

Jerry knew a little about auto mechanics, as well. Some nights when it was really slow, Jerry would let other kids bring their cars into the garage and put them on the hoist so they could do the work that they normally couldn't do otherwise. He was no full-fledged mechanic and didn't offer that kind of work for the station owner, but he did know enough to help other kids do their own brake jobs or lub jobs or just to help them change their oil.

It was the last week of August and Jerry had already given his two week notice two weeks earlier to his employer, Ron Quinn. Ron stopped in at ten just as Jerry was coming on that night. He thanked Jerry for helping out that summer and wished him luck with the coming college semester. It was the last time Ron would see Jerry alive.

The next morning when Ron opened the station at six o'clock, he found the cash register drawer open and empty. The drawers under the counter had been ransacked as well. Ron rushed into the garage and found Jerry lying in a pool of dark red blood. He was unconscious and his breathing was shallow. He'd been shot once in the back of the head, gangland style.

Jerry was rushed to the hospital and laid there for several days in a nearly vegetative state. We were never able to question him and he never regained consciousness. Four days later we got a call at the department that Jerry had died.

It was up to me to tell Ron Quinn. I dreaded the drive back to the filling station that afternoon but I knew it had to be done. It took me fifteen minuted to make it back to Ron's station. Ron was inside, behind the counter when my car ran over the hose in the driveway. Ron looked up and saw me coming. I guess he could tell from the look on my face that I was not bringing good news. His face fell apart as I approached.

“I'm sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, Mr. Quinn,” I said, “but Jerry passed away about an hour ago.”

Ron's lower lip quivered as he turned away from me. I could hear the low sobs from his throat and a lump formed in my own. I swallowed hard and tried to continue.

“We're doing everything we can to track his killer and if there's anything you can tell us that may shed some light on this case, it would help a lot.”

My questions were cut short by the voice on the radio in my car. I excused myself and hurried back to the radio. Ron returned to the chair behind his desk as I finished on the car radio. I rushed back into the station and looked at Ron.

“I'm not sure how or why or anything else,” I said, “but Jerry is still alive. I just got the call from the station. Seems there was some sort of mixup at the hospital. I have to go, Mr. Quinn, but I'll let you know how this all develops. Don't give up hope yet. Jerry's still in there fighting.”

I drove back to the hospiptal and found the doctor in charge of Jerry's case. He was very apologetic and explained that hey had determined him to be dead and that there were no signs of life, so they put him on a gurney and took him down to the morgue. A morgue attendant happened to come in later and heard a gasping noise and went over and examined him and found he was still alive.

Jerry lingered for another day or two before he died. Once again I had the unpleasant duty to tell Ron Quinn that Jerry had passed away. This time there was no reprieve from the hospital.

Our investigation into the case revealed that there was one suspect, Todd Morgan, who looked like a strong possibility as the murderer. He was a fellow who used to come in and hang around the station. Jerry allowed him to use the garage to put his car on the hoist and work on it. Jerry had even help Todd with some exhaust work.

Todd was brought in as the main suspect and interrogated extensively, and at one point, he almost broke down. He said, “I can't remember whether I was there or not.”

I stood across the interrogation table from Todd, leaning on the table with my hands. “We know you were there, Todd,” I said. “Your old muffler was still lying on a pile in the corner along with some rusty pipes and clamps. The muffler has your prints all over it. Now do you remember being there?”

Todd squinted his eyes and shook his head, trying to recall the incident. Suddenly, as if a light had gone on inside his head, he remembered. “Oh yeah,” he said, “but that was more than a week before all this happened. I ain't been in there since.”

The interrogation lasted just forty-five minutes before we determined that we didn't have enough evidence to hold him on. We reluctantly released him but kept a close watch on his movements for the next few weeks.

More than a month had passed since Jerry Patterson had died and we still were no closer to solving his murder. We had no choice but to drop the surveillence on Todd Morgan and he must have know it, because shortly afterwards we was back to his larcenous ways.

We can only theorize what happened next but this is the way it appears to have happened. We got the call from Ron Quinn on a Saturday morning. I got to his station around six-thirty and found Ron waiting outside, in front of the office. I rolled my window down aa Ron approached.

“Dispatch tell me you have something for me regarding Todd Morgan,” I said. “They said you wouldn't give them any further information but that you'd fill me in when I got here.”

Ron crooked a finger at me. “Follow me.”

I followed Ron toward the office. He filled me in as we walked.

“You know Judge Holcomb?” Ron said. “The circuit court judge for this district?”

I nodded. “Yes, I know him very well. I've testified in his court on several occasions.”

“You know what the judge drives?”

The puzzled look on my face served as my answer.

“He drives a Cadillac Seville,” Ron said. “That's a heavy car, you know. Well, he had it in my shop yesterday for a lube job. When I got it up on the hoist, I noticed some perforation in his exhaust and called him to ask if he wanted me to take care of that as long as I had it up in the air. He told me to go ahead and fix it and I reminded him that the car wouold have to stay here overnight while I picked up the replacement pipes.”

“What has all this got to do with Todd Morgan?” I said.

“I'm getting to that,” Ron said. “Anyway, the Caddy was still up on the hoist when I closed up last night and the keys were in the ignition.”

“And?”

“And, when I opened up this morning, I caught Todd Morgan in my garage, probably trying to steal the car.”

“What do you mean, probably?” I said.

Ron smiled. “Well, I couldn't really ask him, see?” He led me into the garage and pointed to the Cadillac, which was now at floor level.

Protruding out from under the car I could see one dirty white sneaker. Ron led me around to the other side of the hoist and pointed down at the floor.

“Anybody you know?” Ron said.

I looked down at the face of Todd Morgan sticking out from under the car. His forehead sported a dark bruise. “Morgan?”

Ron nodded. “Looks like he was getting ready to take off with Judge Holcomb's car. I'd say he released the hydraulic lever and then tripped, falling under the car and hitting his head on the hoist arm. When the Caddy came down, it was too late to get out from under. And that's the way I found him when I opened up this morning.”

“That's too bad,” I said. “We hadn't given up on his case and we were getting closer to bringing him in for the murder of Jerry Patterson. Looks like he saved the taxpayers a few bucks.”

“Not much of a consolation for losing a good kid like Jerry,” Ron said, “but you have to admit, there's a certain amount of satisfaction in the justice administered here, even if it was late in coming.”

After the medical examiner's office finished with the scene and took Todd Morgan to the morgue, I drove back to the station feeling both relief and regret. Regret that Jerry had been killed but relief that his killer eventually paid for his crime.

Three weeks after we closed the case, word on the street was that Todd Morgan didn't die the way Ron said he did. The way I heard it, Todd broke in to the station and found Ron still there. There was a struggle and Ron belted Todd in the head with a tire iron and Todd fell beneath the hoist. Supposedly Ron took that opportunity to set the wheels of justince into motion and simply lowered the car on top of Todd.

When you're a cop you can't believe every story you hear on the streets. Besides, I didn't want to believe it.