Authors: Jean Lorrah
The anger had gone out of the old man, leaving him in the bleak mood in which Brandy had last seen him. It seemed the only thing that could get him moving anymore was his hatred for Judge L. J. Callahan.
Reynolds was carefully bagging the crowbar. That gave Brandy an idea. “Bring the computer, too. It's evidence. We'll get an expert to examine it. Turn it off, then unplug it and bring it over to the station."
Doc Sanford's bloodshot eyes fixed on Brandy, and for one moment she recognized the man she used to know. “You believe me,” he said incredulously.
“I just believe in thorough police work,” she told him, the two observing rookies very much on her mind.
As they escorted Doc Sanford back to the station, bells began to chime, firecrackers went off, and shouts of “Happy New Year!” filled the air. It wasn't as big a celebration as the one that had heralded in the year 2000, but in the squad room they were met with hugs and kisses.
As they hadn't cuffed Doc Sanford, Coreen didn't realize he was a suspect—so after thoroughly kissing her husband she turned to the old man and gave him a hug, saying, “I'm glad you came to our little party, Doc. Maybe this year will be better than last."
“It couldn't be worse,” Sanford replied.
Dan, still holding Brandy after their New Year's kiss, gave her arm a reassuring squeeze when she stiffened in reaction to Doc Sanford's remark. “Does anybody know where Judge Callahan might be?” she asked.
“Probly at either a New Year's party or midnight church service,” said Phillips. “Why?"
Brandy and Church explained what they had found at the courthouse. “We have to charge Doc,” Church finished, just as Reynolds and Menafee arrived with the computer.
“That bastard Callahan'll press charges,” said Sanford. “He'll do anything to get me."
“Doc,” Brandy said gently, “you broke the law. And you know the problem with the jail. We're trying to avoid transporting you to another jail because tomorrow—uh, today—is a legal holiday.” If they could stall, on a regular workday he could be arraigned and released.
But Doc Sanford was following his own train of thought. “You get your computer expert onto that machine afore Callahan finds out we got it! Callahan's schemes are all in there, under secret codes!"
Dan Martin spoke up. “Doc, if Judge Callahan were doing something illegal, he'd never use this computer."
Brandy asked, “This isn't the one you installed for him?"
“This is an old 486, probably belongs to the county. The judge would use his system at home for personal files."
The news seemed to take away all Sanford's strength. He slumped into a chair and repeated, “At home?"
Dan asked, “Can we plug this in here, or do you have to dust it for fingerprints or something? I can check to see if it was damaged."
“We caught Doc in the act,” said Church. “Go ahead and check it out."
It took Dan only minutes to verify, “No harm done."
“Good,” said Brandy. “Doc, if you offer to pay for the doors you broke, we may be able to keep this down—"
“Callahan's gonna throw the book at me!” said Doc Sanford. “God damn it, why didn't I break into his house?"
“Doc,” said Dan, “what do you know about computers?"
“I used ’em at the hospital and the morgue. You think an old man can't learn modern technology?"
Brandy was glad Dan didn't remind him that he hadn't recognized the age of the computer. Neither had she. Except for those colorful Apple things, they all looked alike, beige box, keyboard, screen.
Dan explained to Sanford, “You know what you need for your work—but you're no hacker. If you broke into Judge Callahan's house, you couldn't access anything he wanted kept secret. I couldn't, and I set up his system."
“Then why couldn't you?” Sanford asked belligerently.
“Because after I set it up the judge chose his own passwords."
“No,” said Sanford.
“Dan knows computers,” Brandy assured him. “There's no use trying to get at Callahan's home computer,” she warned.
“No!” the old man shouted, lunging to unsteady feet. “He killed Cindy Lou! He killed Rory! I'm gonna prove it!"
“Doc,” Church said, trying to get the old man to sit down again. “Doc, there's nothing you can do tonight."
“Dr. Sanford,” said Dan, “it's late, you're tired—"
“No!” Sanford flung Church's arm off and tried to head for the door. “I'm gonna wring that bastard's neck!"
But the old man ran straight into Reynolds’ arms. The young cop easily restrained him.
“Don't hurt him!” said Brandy as the doctor went limp.
“Put him in the interrogation room,” said Church. “Reynolds, you keep an eye on him."
“He's passed out,” said the young cop.
“He's old and frail,” said Brandy. “Look in on him during the night. We'll charge him in the morning."
“Okay, okay,” the young cop grumbled.
The party mood was effectively damped. Dan, Coreen, and the other non-police personnel soon left. Some hours later, in the early morning darkness, Brandy went home to find Dan already—still?—up.
It was still. “Brandy,” he told her as he made a pot of tea, “I found someone else I can't influence tonight."
“Doc Sanford,” she realized.
“Yes. I've tried influencing a couple of dozen people since that kid in Florida. It worked on everyone until tonight. From that small sample, it appears about one in twenty-five is immune."
“Maybe Doc was too drunk to concentrate."
“Did you test his blood alcohol? He didn't act really sloshed—more like he'd had just enough to get up his courage. Anyway, when school starts next week I'll have plenty of opportunity to try influencing students."
“You do that,” said Brandy, too weary to think. “I'm going to bed,” she said through a yawn. “Happy New Year."
* * * *
Because the Callahan County court system was backlogged with cases, Dr. Sanford made a plea bargain that never would have been permitted in less busy times. The community was awash in car thefts, breaking and entering, and malicious damage. Callahan County citizens eagerly pressed charges.
Even malicious mischief, though, rated a jail term, fines, or both. The sentencing hearing would give Judge Callahan his chance to “throw the book” at his old enemy.
On January 5th, Brandy took a call. “Streetwalkers!” the outraged caller exclaimed. “Soliciting in the parking lot at the shopping center! Murphy has never had such a thing,” she huffed.
She was right; except for that prostitution ring at the university a few years ago, Murphy's few ladies of the evening had always remained discreet. “I'll look into it, Ma'am,” said Brandy. When she hung up, she turned to Church. “You're not gonna believe this one.” But before they could get their coats on there were two more calls, from the managers at Video-Mart and Grand's Hardware.
At first everything at the shopping center looked normal, the lot half full, cars jockeying for parking slots near store entrances.
A woman got out of the passenger side of a pickup truck while a man exited from the driver's side. The man headed for Video-Mart while the woman, wearing a heavy jacket but with legs protected from the cold only by flesh-colored stockings, looked dazedly around the lot. She was young, Brandy saw, pale, and heavily made up compared to the Avon-perfect look of most Murphy women.
“I'll tail that one,” said Brandy, slipping out of the car. “You see if there are any more.” She walked toward the entrance to Video-Mart until she was out of the young woman's range of vision, then turned to tail her.
A late-model Buick slid into a parking space near Brandy's target. The girl hurried toward the driver. “Lookin’ for a date, Sir?"
With the hooker's attention diverted, Brandy moved close enough to see the man's bewilderment turn to shock as he realized what she was offering. His face turned red and he exclaimed, “Get away from me!"
As he tried to avoid her, she demanded, “Then give me some money, Man. I ain't had nothin’ t'eat all day."
“Go away before I call the police!” the man threatened angrily, and the girl stepped back and let him leave, after he carefully made sure his car was locked.
Brandy watched, needing more to make an arrest stick. The hooker next approached a man walking up the aisle between rows of cars. He ignored her. “Blow job, Mister? Only ten dollars,” the girl offered in desperation.
“Go away!” the man growled.
Brandy flashed her badge as she came up behind the girl. “Excuse me, Sir—I'm arresting this woman for soliciting. You witnessed what she said."
An uptight righteous sort, the man said, “Good work, Officer! I'm glad to see the police so prompt. We've never had this sort of thing in Murphy."
“Hey, I didn't do anything!” the girl protested. She was familiar somehow, but Brandy couldn't place her. Her accent was pure West Kentucky, a weird combination of bad grammar with hyper enunciation that caused her to turn “didn't” into two clear syllables.
“You offered sex for money,” Brandy told her. “You have the right to remain silent—"
Church was out of the car now, quietly stalking another target. In moments he had made an arrest, too.
“I think I saw a third one actually pick up someone,” he said, pointing to a beat-up Chevy. Brandy could see a man in the driver's seat, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
“I don't think he'll agree to be a witness,” said Brandy. The third hooker exited the car. She stopped a moment at the car's side mirror, running a comb through her bleached flyaway hair and replacing smeared lipstick.
As her “client” recovered enough to remember what he had come to the shopping center for, Church called for more police. “We'll bring in the two we caught, but there's at least one more here, and we're still down at Video-Mart! Better send a car up by Grand's, too."
“Shouldn't we pick up the johns?” Brandy asked. “They're breaking the law too."
“I know,” Church agreed, backing out of their parking space, “it's not a fair world, Brandy. We'll talk to the chief, but I don't think he'll agree. These women don't seem to be getting that much business.” He nodded at the hooker they had left for their colleagues, who was cringing as a white-haired man threatened her with his cane.
The two they had arrested had had little success. One had $35.00, the other $20.00. Under the harsh interrogation lights they were not the hardened floozies of film noir, but burnt-out shells of young women.
Melissa Alice Trenton was twenty. Wan and listless, she answered their questions as if she didn't care. She was hooking, she explained, for living expenses. She was adamant that she and the other girls were just friends, not part of a prostitution ring. They had no pimp, no madam.
They got the same story from the girl who had jogged Brandy's memory, Paula Denise Pringle, age eighteen—one of the Pringle twins who had tried to frame Ricky Chu. The reason Brandy hadn't placed her, besides the grotesque makeup, was that she was even paler than Trenton, with deep circles under her eyes. Her hands shook as she chain-smoked, and when she took a deep drag her hollowed cheeks turned her face into a skull. After a cup of coffee, she finally took off her coat. Brandy frowned at her thin, malnourished frame. Anorexia crossed her mind—but only because her police experience had taken place in Murphy.
Church, who had moved there from Chicago, immediately recognized the far more probable cause: “Oh, God,” he said. “We've got crack cocaine in Murphy."
Suddenly there was an explanation for the rash of crazy crimes. Crack was addictive, cheap, and mind-ruining. The four young women selling themselves at ten dollars a “date” couldn't think clearly anymore. Needing rent and crack money, they had all gone in one car to the same shopping center where they had “hung out” in more carefree days.
They priced themselves cheap to attract as many johns as possible, not reasoning that they could get the same amount from fewer customers at higher prices. They chose the shopping center because it seemed a good place to find lots of clients, never giving a thought to being caught.
Both male and female crack addicts stole for dope money, but their crimes were often senseless. They broke into homes and took whatever cash they found, a television set or a VCR, but also a set of barbells, a Star Trek collector's plate, a broken alarm clock, a set of used playing cards, a cookie jar. Whatever took their fancy they stole—"The only kind of thief who forgets in mid-crime what he's stealing!” Church reminded those in the department who had rarely dealt with crack before.
The Pringles were sad but not surprised at Paula's arrest. She and her brother had always been smartass kids, but before Christmas Paula had become impossible. Her grades plummeted. She dropped out of school a semester short of graduation. When they caught her stealing and tried to get her into counseling, she left home.
Paula and the other girls had once been on the pep squad together. Then they had all been introduced to crack, at some party they could no longer remember. One by one they had left home rather than give up their addiction, and now shared an apartment in a complex inhabited by cokeheads, crackheads, winos, cockroaches, and rats.
Their lawyers pled them into rehab programs, so there was a chance they might turn their lives around. They gave up their direct supplier, but he was just another high school kid, this one too smart to take drugs himself, but also too scared to give up the names of anyone higher up. Meanwhile, the search began for the crack house in Murphy.
“If we don't find it,” said Church, “we'll know where it was when it blows up.” But the traffic led to them to it quickly enough—they just didn't yet have the evidence to get a warrant.
In her concern about the deadly drug in her hometown, Brandy couldn't take Dan's problems very seriously. However, as police work frustrated her, she found puzzling over the “real” rules for vampires a welcome relief.
At the end of his first week of classes, Dan reported that he could influence everyone on the JPSU campus that he tried his power on. At this time of year, with the sun setting early, he had hundreds of guinea pigs in evening classes and computer labs. “With a larger sampling, it appears that less than one percent of the population is immune,” he told Brandy over dinner. “It's not so strange, then, that I never happened on anyone before."