The Subtle Art of Brutality

“You’ll love this. Flemming’s the new captain.”

“When?” Sour. Sour memories.

“Maybe two months ago, now. It’s still fresh.”

“How does an incompetent shitbird like her get commander? Seriously?”

“I know. We all asked that. She’ll be chief one day. You wait and see.” Clevenger leafs through the notebook some more, and then, “It was her that crucified Burns, Smole and Philips, right? When she was IA?”

I nod, blow smoke through my nose. “Indeed, friend. Indeed. She spent the majority of her formidable years hunting cops. Burns, Smole and Philips weren’t the only ones she strung up. You know that.”

“I do.”

I have to force the next words out of my mouth. “Captain Flemming. Unbelievable.” It leaves a bitter taste with me. Flemming and I butted heads enough to leave scars. I owe her something fierce.

“And the word really is that she might be Chief of Police later in life,” Clevenger says. “Travesty, I tell you. A blood sucker like that calling the shots.”

“If she becomes chief I hope Sheriff McDonald is still around. That guy is too old school to put up with her shit. Who’d she blow to earn those stripes anyways?”

“Always the sweet gentleman, you are.” Clevenger keeps reading the ledger, flipping back and forth as if Nicky’s chicken-scratched ignorant script will vanish like the details of nightmares upon waking.

“I gave Flemming her fair chance and she showed her true colors.”

“That’s true, Buckner. Despite your abrasiveness—which Molly and I both love—you do give fair chances. And if they don’t impress you, well, you shoot them.”

“But seriously, how did Flemming get commander?”

“The major passed it around through his drinking buddies that the chief thought she did a bang-up job during all those years in IA. Asked her what she wanted.”

“What she wanted? Is she a detective?”

“No. Administrator. You don’t need the qualification to get the desk in the detective’s shop anymore.”

“Incredible. I wish things happened like that before they tossed me,” I say.

“Yeah. But ten years ago it was a different PD.”

“True. Ten years ago you looked up to me,” I say.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” he says, shutting the notebook. “But ten years ago I was green, you had a real job and Molly was dating a loser. Two out of three of those things improved.”

“I have to run to Three Mile High for a day or two. How’d it go digging for what I was asking?” I say, suddenly feeling the weight of the day.

“No problems.” I love Clevenger. No hesitation, no excuses. He’s the guy you want in a foxhole when a grenade comes flying in. Both of you will jump on it to save the other, but he’ll instigate a fistfight to get you off. “Here you go.”

He hands me a sheaf of papers. I leaf through them. Reports about the Bellview house and Boothe’s disappearance. There’s some arrest reports about Benny.

“So, again, where’d you get this notebook?” Clevenger asks.

“That Benny guy told me a line of complete bullshit but he laid the tracks back to this dealer named Nicky.”

“And I’ve got Nicky’s ledger in my hands?”

“That you do.”

“Sweet. Thank you by the way.”

“I roughed up Benny and followed him to Nicky. You’ll find them in the manager’s office.”