Between posts from my on line column, The Culture Clash, I will post sections of my upcoming Mystery/Thriller series "The Radio Murders." This book will be available this Fall as well as coming in podcast very soon.
Here is the first installment.
Prologue
Rachelle Brennan held the palm-sized star in both hands and remembered the day. The raised letters and shiny surface were smooth to her touch. She brought the leather clipped case to her face and breathed deeply; once her sensitive nose cancelled the hand worn cowhide, she smelled three different colognes and inexpensive wool. Shelly, as her uncle called her, had upwardly arched eyebrows and oval blue eyes that made her youthful face appear stuck in infinite doubt.
The moment-past was as vivid in her memory as the cup of tea that steamed in front of her and the inherited Chicago Police sergeant’s star in her hands. It happened in one of the many small restaurants that she and her uncle would visit for no particular reason. It was difficult to remember if she ever told him how much she enjoyed the spontaneous meals – she never really said it in exact terms - when she would talk freely and openly to the only man she knew as father. The conversation came to life.
“So, you want in law enforcement, huh Shelly? You know, most of us are not the brightest bulbs on the marquee.” In her memory Mick Molnar sipped his coffee through his rust brown moustache.
“I know Mickey, but it looks like so much fun, and my professors say I have what it takes to go into pathology. So why not start in the forensics lab while I’m taking more classes? Mom can’t afford to send me full time anyway… and I can work with you.”
“You’ll be working with the DOA’s, the crime scenes and about million pieces of nothin’ that we call evidence. You won’t be working with me. You’ll tell me what your findings are and that’s the last we’ll see of each other until someone else turns up dead. And get that fun shit out of your head right now. I mean, it’s a great job, an interesting job, but fun it ain’t.”
Rachel only half listened to her uncle. She remembered nearly always only half listening since she was a little girl. There was a time when everything Mick said was treated as gospel until she realized he was making up much of what he told her. For a time, she would not believe him if he told her Springfield was the capital of Illinois, she had to see for herself. Somewhere along the road to adulthood she struck a balance and learned to listen to him again. “You ever think about how dangerous your job is, Mickey?”
“Can’t. Or you can’t do it.”
“Never?”
“Listen, sweetie, you and your mom are all the family I have.”
“And Sig! Don’t forget him.”
“Little shitbag crapped in the garage again this morning.”
“He wouldn’t if you’d drag your lazy butt up and walked him on time.”
“Yeah. But you’re right. He’s family, too. You guys matter to me more than anything. I know something happening to me would break your hearts and I don’t want that. I’m careful, I have good people around me and I keep my eyes opened. That’s all I can do.” Mick paused to stress what followed. “But I have to tell you, Shell, if it comes down to my life or the life of some kid whose only crime was being a kid, or being in the wrong place… I don’t know. I don’t know what I’d do. I guess none of us do. You just have to wait until it happens, then see what you’re made of.”
The memory faded and Rachelle Brennan sniffed and smiled. It was as though her uncle had put the conversation in her head to remind her that a day like that Friday morning, August 13th - a day a peace officer would perform his final duty – could happen anytime.
She remembered what Stemp and Freddy, her uncle’s partners, said about the actions taken by Sergeant Molnar. He had only a split second. There was nothing anyone could do except be with the kids as they faced certain death. And if by some miracle the SUV did not clear the edge of the Turnpike bridge and tumble more than two hundred feet to the rock floor of the quarry, he was going to be there to help the two children inside. It could have been just an attempt to save one of the kids, to pull the seventeen year old from the driver seat, which is exactly what he did. But something told him to take her place in the seat and take the ride with her younger sister and brother, the thirteen year old and the little boy who might otherwise not see his sixth birthday.
No one knew for certain what Mick Molnar was thinking. But Rachel had a pretty good idea. She had seen her uncle make decisions based on facts not in evidence, as he liked to put it. There was something he trusted that made him do some of the things he did in a long and often contentious career. He called them angel’s notes and he told her once, when he had been drinking, that the notes came to him in a flash, without warning. He said they told him who was the bad guy and who was the victim. He relied on this inner voice to get him through some tough cases and he learned to trust it. Rachelle doubted he ever told anyone else about this display of faith, cornball and mild psychosis.
As for the morning of August 13th, she was pretty sure the actions were the product of his experience and talent as a policeman. He had no way of knowing that the SUV was secured, at least for a time, by the cable winched to Greg Flowers’ Jeep; that without that, it was the end for him and the children. Yet he knew there was a chance, a slim chance to save them. And he took that chance, saving the children, if not himself.
“You just have to wait until it happens, then see what you’re made of.” The thought came back to her. She knew what her uncle, the decorated detective-sergeant was made of, and it made her very proud.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment