Authors: Jean Lorrah
“What can we do?” asked Dr. Swenson.
“Talk to your kids. Snoop. They'll forgive you when they understand that you care. I grew up in Cleveland,” she suddenly found herself saying, “where there was a drug problem long before it reached places like Murphy. When I was eleven, I wanted a ten-speed bicycle. My parents said it was too expensive, so I saved my allowance, lunch money, birthday money, anything I could get for odd jobs. I had $73.00 in a shoe box in my closet when my mom found it."
Even as she spoke, Brandy was astonished at her new perspective on the incident. “Mom panicked—just as you ought to if you find one of your kids with a large sum of cash. I thought she was afraid I'd stolen it. I was furious with my mom for snooping. Now I know she was terrified that I was either buying or selling drugs."
“So what happened?” asked Dr. Anthony.
“When I told her how I'd saved the money and what it was for, we ended up really communicating. Mom admitted that she and Dad could afford the bike. They didn't want me to have it because Cleveland's streets weren't safe, and the kind of bike I wanted was a red flag to thieves—the way city mothers have to explain today that their kids can't have athletic shoes or fancy jackets that gangs might kill them for. I left that talk feeling grown up.” She smiled. “And when we moved here to Murphy, I got the bike."
“You're telling us to invade our children's privacy,” said Dr. Swenson.
“I'm telling you to talk to them!” said Brandy. “They've got problems you can't imagine! Even a fight can lead to communication.” She shook her head. “I don't want to arrest your kids. I don't want to see them dead of an overdose. I don't want some drug-head shooting or knifing or running over your child. I've seen all those things as a cop in Murphy.” She paused for effect, and added, “I've seen all those things just this fall."
There was dead silence, and Brandy was suddenly embarrassed. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's a party. I shouldn't have gone into police mode."
“No,” said Dr. Anthony, “You've given all of us something very important to think about."
Dr. Swenson added, “We think we're apart from all that. We give our children travel, music lessons, computers and library cards—but we send them off to school alone. I am going to talk to my children. Thank you, Brandy."
Nevertheless, Brandy worried she had overstepped her bounds, and when Dan took her home and again said goodnight with only a kiss, she feared that he had decided she didn't fit into his life or relate to his colleagues.
And yet the next week he took her to dinner and a play at the campus theater. Brandy wished she could invite him to spend some time alone with her, like their day at the lake, but she was still making up for lost work time.
November brought cold rain. There were no more smiling corpses, but unsmiling ones aplenty as the party season progressed. It began with Halloween, continued through Thanksgiving, and climaxed with the madhouse of the Holidays. Most of the deaths were vehicular, often manslaughter or DUI, too many for the traffic division to handle alone. The victims were crushed, beheaded, burned, or twisted in the wreckage. Two of the accidents Brandy investigated had victims who lived, maimed for life.
And once again, as she wrote up report after report, she saw the toll on her community's future—every victim was younger than she was.
It was hard for police, firemen, and medical personnel to get into the holiday spirit, but they tried valiantly. As party plans proceeded, Brandy realized that for the first time in her life she would not be at her mother's table for Thanksgiving dinner.
She did, however, get Christmas off, and was able to claim enough vacation days before and after to drive to Florida. She looked forward to the trip, but it made her question her relationship with Dan Martin.
The holiday season always brought chaos to Brandy's love life. If she was dating someone, the increased social whirl caused him to demand more of her time just when she had less to give. The single women's wisdom that any more-or-less steady relationship broke up just before Christmas went double for female cops.
Brandy and Dan were invited to Church's house for Thanksgiving. Brandy hadn't told Dan yet that she would be away over Christmas. Her mother said Dan would be welcome, but inviting him to spend Christmas with family implied a seriousness to their relationship that Dan did not seem to feel. He fit himself into her free time, but never complained when she had to cancel, sometimes at a moment's notice. So as Thanksgiving approached, Brandy turned over in her mind whether to invite Dan for Christmas.
There was another crack overdose in the middle school, but the boy lived to identify the two kids who were selling. They, however, either would not or could not identify their suppliers, who abandoned the twelve-year-olds to the system. They would disappear into juvenile detention homes for the next six years, emerging with a confirmed hatred for the system, uneducated except for a crash course in crime.
Cocaine, crack, pills, and marijuana were all in the horde the young pushers had for sale. The first three could have come from anywhere, but most of the pot sold in Murphy was grown locally. Analysis showed that it was a West Kentucky product. Brandy questioned the Mortrees again.
“Yer barkin’ up the wrong tree,” Jerrod Mortree told her. “We got no fuckin’ supply! Anyway, we don't sell to no school kids."
“Right!” said his brother. “Hell, it's the teachers come lookin’ for the stuff, not the kids."
“Yeah,” said Mortree. “You know who come out t'the farm lookin’ fer some green? The Sanford kid, Doc's grandson! Ain't that a parole violation?"
“Did you sell him any?” she asked.
“Tol’ ya. We got none to sell."
Back at the station, Brandy asked Church, “Should I check out Rory Sanford?"
“On their word? Leave it to his parole officer. And his grandfather. You really think Doc wouldn't know if Rory was smoking pot?” the other detective replied.
So they turned their attention to other local growers, hoping to put more of them out of business.
Brandy was sent, along with Dr. Sanford, to present another program to the Forbes Middle School students. Rory Sanford volunteered to join them. “I taught at that school,” he said, “and I never knew what was happening. Seeing the bodies of those poor kids, I realize how bad it is. I'm a good teacher. Maybe I can get through to them."
It was the most enthusiasm Brandy had seen Rory exhibit since he had been on parole, and he looked very professional in his business suit instead of the scrubs he wore at the morgue. She hoped for Doc's sake as much as Rory's that the young man was finding himself.
At the assembly there were grins and waves from the students, and shouts of “Mr. Sanford! You comin’ back?” But Brandy had the feeling that they were wasting their time, preaching to the choir for those kids too smart ever to touch drugs. The rest—they'd be lucky if they could get them to see a difference between the marijuana grown and used so freely in their home state and the cocaine and crack that promised an end to all their troubles.
Murphy was no different from any other American community; despite the increasing use of hard drugs, the chemicals favored by teenagers were still alcohol and nicotine. Kentucky was a tobacco state, so those whose livelihood depended on it ignored or refused to believe in the dangers of their crop. The tobacco industry put up billboards citing how many college tuitions were paid for by tobacco. Even in this audience where the oldest child might be fifteen, kids who thought alcohol or marijuana the path to hell already smoked or chewed tobacco.
But Brandy was here to do a job. There was some interest from the students in the police techniques used to trace drug dealers. She refused to acknowledge the cynical thought that they wanted to learn how to avoid being caught.
When the assembly was over, the students departed for their classes. Rory Sanford said, “You guys go on without me. I'm going to talk to the principal."
“Rory—” his grandfather said in concern.
“Yeah, I know, don't get my hopes up. But if Fred Trenton will support me to the school board there's a chance of getting reinstated."
When the younger man had gone, Dr. Sanford shook his head sadly. “He's settin’ himself up. There's no hope in hell that he'll teach in Callahan County again. I wish I could find him some other job, but no one will hire him."
“Why?” asked Brandy.
“You know why. He's a convicted felon. Even if someone would give him a chance, they're too afraid of Judge Callahan."
“But why are you trying to find him some other job? He seems efficient enough in the morgue."
“The kids in this school could lay out instruments and clean up after an autopsy—but none of them would want to do it! Rory hates the morgue, and I don't blame him. I get the interesting part. He has nothin’ but the dirty work."
Brandy liked Doc Sanford, and knew how he loved his grandson. She also knew he was convinced that Rory had been framed. There was no use talking about it; what was done was done, and Rory was being a man about it. She had seen him working several times since Carrie Wyman's autopsy, and he had obviously gotten used to it, never again reacting to even the most gruesome of wounds.
What Brandy didn't want to say to Doc Sanford was that Rory's best chance once his parole was up was to leave Callahan County and preferably the state of Kentucky. He might make a fresh start someplace far away from Murphy—but that also meant away from his grandfather.
A few days later, Dr. Darla Swenson, whom Brandy had met at the Homecoming party, called her. It was early Wednesday morning. “I had that talk with my children,” she said. “Now—they need to tell you what they told me."
“I'll come over."
The Swensons lived in Oxford Estates, in an elegant home with a good acre of lawn. Inside the house the tension level threatened to explode. The two frightened children were Charlene, age thirteen, and Brian, age eleven.
“We're not supposed to tell,” Brian explained. “I mean, lots of kids smoke pot—it's not like crack or something!"
“It's still illegal,” said their mother.
Brandy said, “I won't ask about your friends who smoke pot, Brian. Really, I'm not here to get them into trouble."
The boy nodded, blue eyes wide.
His sister, more sophisticated, said, “They want to catch the pushers, stupid."
“Charlene, don't make things more difficult for Brian,” said Dr. Swenson. “Why don't you tell what you know first?"
“You know that program you did the other day?"
“Yes,” said Brandy.
“Well, the next day there was pot all over school, and the kids were laughing about how dumb the police are."
“So the dealers increased their efforts the day after the assembly. That sounds as if they were scared that the assembly had worked, doesn't it?"
“No!” Brian squeaked. “They were laughing cause—” He stopped, fear again taking over.
Brandy squatted down in front of the boy. “Brian, I'm not going to hurt you or any of your friends, even if they bought some pot. I only want to know who sold it."
“That's why the kids said you were stupid,” put in Charlene. “You brought the pusher with you!"
Brandy frowned. “What do you mean?"
“Mr. Sanford!” said Brian. “I saw him. I did—I saw him in the boy's bathroom, giving it to Billy H—to a couple of the boys. That's why they had plenty to sell."
Brandy felt as if a knife had been stuck in her gut. Poor Doc. This couldn't be true—it couldn't! But even if his grandson proved innocent, it would put the old man through hell all over again.
Brandy was careful and thorough, reassuring Brian, but still questioning him one way, then another, as to time, what he was doing there, how good a view he had had, etc. No matter which angle she took, the boy's story held. He even produced the hall pass, with the time and the teacher's initials on it, that had allowed him to go to the bathroom.
And of course Rory Sanford had been in the school at the time—ostensibly talking to the principal.
What if, for once in their lives, the Mortree brothers had told the truth?
“Charlene,” Brandy asked at last, “can you verify what your brother says?"
“Of course not. What would I be doing in the boy's bathroom?"
“Then what do you know?"
“I told you. It was all over school that the police brought in the dealer."
“Do you know Mr. Sanford?” asked Brandy.
“Sure,” said Charlene. “He was my teacher before he went to jail."
“Did you like him?” asked Church.
“I did then,” the girl replied. “I didn't believe he stole that money. Now I do."
Brandy was writing up her report when Church arrived back at his desk. She told him what she had found out and asked, “Now what do I do?"
“Get a search warrant for Sanford's apartment."
“Church, you don't think—"
“You can't afford to think on this one, Kid. Just do it by the book. I'll back you up—it could be dangerous."
Judge Callahan was in his office, as if waiting just for them. Within half an hour the two detectives were on their way, warrant in hand.
Rory Sanford lived in a shabby but clean apartment complex near the center of town, within walking distance of his job. Brandy remembered Doc Sanford's pride in his grandson's choice of the independence of his own apartment over car payments and his grandfather's charity.
Sanford opened the door. “What's wrong?” he asked. “Granddad woulda called if there was an emergency."
Church held up the warrant. “We have a warrant to search these premises."
Total confusion. “Why?"
“Suspicion of possession of a controlled substance,” recited Brandy. Then she couldn't help adding, “Just let us look, Rory. We'll be through in no time."
The apartment was tiny, one room with two doors on the opposite wall, one to the bathroom, one to a closet. The kitchen was one of those all-in-one units in an alcove, and the table doubled for dining and deskwork.
It was easy to search, for Sanford, only out of prison for a month, had few possessions. Neither officer wanted to find anything, but they followed routine. Search dresser drawers, turn over to find anything taped to the bottoms. Check inside and back of the dresser. Nothing.