Warpath

“No. No house. He’s my client. He said he knew you. He said you were an old friend.”

Madison wipes his face and smiles like he was just fed a line of shit. “He was our realtor. And he was a cheese dick at that. As a guy, I mean. He was a shark in the real estate game. But, I first met him when we walked into his office. Almost ten years ago. I guess that qualifies as ‘old,’ but it was business. I think ‘friend’ is stretching it.”

Hank smirks, looks me in the eye. “All that fucking guy did was ogle my wife. The only thing I liked about him was how he got us into our place. Other than that, he can fuck off.”

“You’re not friends?” I set my food down. “I want to be clear on this.”

“No. We didn’t hang out together, go for beers, play on the same softball team. We never had him over for dinner. You and I are closer friends than he and I were, and I haven’t spoken to you in how many years? Why? What did he say?”

“So you didn’t recommend me to him within the last week or two? To hunt down the man who raped his wife?”

“No, Richard.” Very pointed. “I don’t know anything about a rape. I didn’t know he was married. Hell, whenever my wife was in the room, he’d be checking her out and whenever my wife would leave the room he’d brag about all the tail he was pulling. Why? What did Petticoat say?”

Another buddy of mine sent me to you. Hank Madison. He said you were the kind of guy who could walk into maximum security in the prison and those felons would step back. Hank said you’ve earned that reputation.

I light a smoke. “In early ’92 his home was burglarized and during the course of events his wife was assaulted. She was raped. Eventually she killed herself over it. The case went cold. You remember Trevor Gillispie?”

“Yeah,” Madison says. “Suicide. Divorced over his gayness. And why did they send a burglary dick to work a rape?”

“Right. Gillispie investigated. Went cold. That much is true. So now, all these years later Petticoat says he’s getting major surgery next week and his odds are so-so at best. He wants that rapist dug up and in jail. He’s shelling out big bucks for fast results. He said you’re an old buddy who said if anybody can get it done, it’s me. Which, of course, is true.”

“He said that, huh?”

“Yes, he did. He said you told him I was the kind of guy who could walk into maximum security and those felons would step back. That’s my reputation. Again, true.”

“I haven’t spoken to him since we bought the house. I sure as hell didn’t talk to him about you in the last week or so.”

“Interesting. Any idea why he’d lie about it?”

“He knew I was a cop. That’s about it. I know you, but it’s not like I talk about you to folks I meet in the course of my day. Although, everybody—including me—still tells the story about when you served the warrant on that child molester and the guy ran away. Right out the window.”

“Davis something. That was fun,” I say. It was.

Once, back in the day I did some extra credit work on a warrant task force. We served a child molester living in Saint Ansgar that some Three Mile High detectives had connected to a series of new sex crimes. Davis’s apartment was on the fourth floor. I knocked on the door, he opened it a crack and I kicked it in. The freak took one look at me, said, “Oh my God, not you. Anybody but you. I know what you do to guys like me,” and took off running. Well, it was actually a half-prance but it was the best he could do. He also screamed about four times, each one sounding like Michael Jackson getting fisted. I had three cops behind me who heard the whole thing.

I went after him. Davis took one look over his shoulder, saw me and changed course. I think he was running towards the fire escape until he saw how close I was. Instead, he ran right to a plate glass picture window that overlooked the street below. He went crashing right through it. No hesitation. One long King-of-Pop-getting-fisted scream followed him all the way down. The pavement beneath greeted him with firm, open arms. Case closed. Morbid, but hilarious. I’m glad that story still gets told.

I guess I do have that reputation.

“I don’t know, Richard,” Hank says, using thumb and forefinger to pull slices of lamb-flavored particle board from his gyro. “Petticoat is having surgery next week and he’ll die? Why not just wait until after? If he survives, he’s got his whole life to find out. If he dies, he can just ask God who did it.”

“The more I learn about this guy, the more it seems like he’s not going to get a lot of face-time with God before he’s sent on his way,” I say. That also gives me an idea about the surgery.

“For that matter, why not start this sooner?”

“Petticoat said he got a tip from a friend last month. Gave the case some momentum.”

“So he skipped the police? Went right to you?”

“Yeah. Dedicated personal service, mostly.”

“I guess I can see that,” Madison says. “Although, the whole maximum security analogy makes sense to me.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” I’m not hungry anymore, and not just because of the food either.

“He was a prison guard.”

I look at Madison like there is some big joke he’s in on and I am the butt of. “What?”