"Detective Degenerate" by Johnny Ostentatious

Only nine o’clock in the morning, and it was already ninety degrees. Looks like the heatwave isn’t going to break today, thought Roberta Parker. That made it—what?—day ten of this oppressive heat? Ugh, hope it doesn’t go over 100 degrees again.

Roberta, a Philadelphia Police officer, hopped out from behind the wheel of the unmarked. Her partner, Travis Swaggert, crawled out of the passenger seat. He slammed the Crown Vic door. It echoed in this dead-end alley.

"Hey, rookie!" Swaggert said.

Roberta turned around to find Swaggert’s left fist rocketing toward her jaw. Keeping her feet planted on the garbage-covered macadam, she leaned backward without losing balance (years of martial arts training will let you do that). His hairy knuckles grazed her cleft chin. He stumbled forward; she skated to the side, bumping into an overflowing Dumpster that reeked of tampons, raw chicken and dirty diapers.

"What—what is wrong with you?" she said.

"Like I told you back at the station, what I say goes."

Roberta replayed the incident from forty-five minutes ago, which had taken place in the precinct parking lot. She had taken the keys from Swaggert because he was obviously too hungover to drive: shaky hands, nonstop frowning and occasional bumping into immovable objects. He hadn’t protested to her plucking the keys from his unsteady palm, but he must have been fuming on the ride over here, which in turn cured his hangover.

Swaggert regained balance and now stood ramrod straight. His fists hovered in front of his face like Muhammad Ali warming up for a rumble in the jungle. Sweat slithered down his W. C. Fields-like mug. He began dancing around, change and keys jangling in his left-front pants pocket. His opened pack of Marlboros fell out of his right-front pants pocket. The pack’s last cigarette landed on one of his tennis sneaks but didn’t roll away because the footwear was held together by a strip of athletic tape that covered the vamp and sole.

Roberta stepped away from the Dumpster to avoid getting boxed in. Swaggert continued to dance around. With the unmarked parked behind him, the alley was nothing but a square, regulation-size wrestling ring. In the brick building behind Roberta, up on the fourth floor, a TV blared Judge Judy. Was it coming from the apartment where the suspect lived?

Not sure what to do, Roberta assumed a defensive tae kwon do pose. In any other situation, she would have gone on the offense and struck her opponent first, but now wasn’t the time.

Christ, it’s hot! Perspiration formed on the back of Roberta’s knees. She wished she had gone to the laundromat last night, then she wouldn’t have been forced to wear the only items left in her closet: black slacks and a white, long-sleeve blouse. The latter wasn’t too bad; it was the former that made her pray for a Popsicle.

"You’re my new punching bag," said Swaggert, who went through partners the way corporations disposed of CEOs. Swaggert’s left fist lowered, shading his South of the Border T-shirt. He spit chewing tobacco. It splattered on an empty egg carton, one inch from Roberta’s right Rockport shoe. He guffawed, then gulped. Swallowing the rest of the tobacco?

"So tell me, rookie," Swaggert said, "are you vegetarian?"

"Wha— Excuse me?"

"’Cause you look like a pansy-ass, and as everybody knows, only wimp-chickens are vegetarians."

Before Roberta could respond to that non sequitur, she and Swaggert—in unison—looked past the unmarked at the mouth of the alley. Standing on the sidewalk was a Philadelphia Parking Authority employee, ticket-dispensing tab in one hand, Starbucks Coffee cup in the other. He looked fifteen but was probably eighteen. First job out of high school.

Swaggert dropped his fists. "Philadelphia Police. Homicide. Scram!"

The skinny kid with blushing cheeks rushed away, tugging on his PPA cap.

Swaggert turned to Roberta. She tensed.

"Let’s go," he said.

Roberta’s jaw slackened. Swaggert strode by her, as if nothing had happened. He entered the building with the TV blasting. Judge Judy no longer lectured the defendant or interrupted the plaintiff. A commercial for Geico aired. Fifteen minutes could save you fifteen percent or more on car insurance.

"You comin’?" Swaggert said from inside the apartment building. Roberta only saw the silhouette of his rotund figure.

Roberta moved for the doorway, head down, hoping the potential perp they were about to question had air conditioning.

She stepped into the building. Behind her, a rat scurried past.

Roberta let Swaggert lead. He huffed up the dimly lit emergency stairwell, two steps at a time. She stayed half a flight behind him. Just in case.

Swaggert yanked open the door to the third floor. The hallway smelled of mothballs and the carpet was sticky, Roberta observed.

The suspect lived halfway down the hall in apartment 3P. Swaggert banged on the door with the heel of his hand. No answer.

The apartments on either side of 3P had trash bags leaning against the wall, like gifts from a filthy fairy (Oscar the Grouch’s second career?). One of the bags was untied. Another one leaked a light-green fluid. A black cat—in-between meows—sniffed and licked the liquid.

None of the hallway lights were on. Not that it mattered. The sun shining through the window at the end of the hall could have lit up a parking garage.

The door to 3P swung open. There stood their suspect. Brett Burnett, a forty-four-year-old white male. His scraggly beard was the color of brimstone, like his receding hairline. He wore red, nylon soccer shorts and a baggy, wrinkled, white T-shirt.

"Yo, what’s u—" Burnett’s eyes fell on Swaggert. "Oh, it’s you."

"Mind if we come in." Swaggert didn’t wait for a reply. He pushed past Burnett.

"Never stopped you before," Burnett muttered, stepping to the side, into the kitchen, which was only big enough for the opposing refrigerator and oven doors to swing open, though not at the same time.

Roberta closed the door behind her. She unsnapped the holster strap to her Glock. Better safe than dead.

Swaggert sauntered into the efficiency apartment. Thumbs hooked through the belt loops near his NASCAR buckle, he said over his shoulder to Roberta, "Keep an eye on him." Swaggert disappeared from the combination living room/bedroom. A door slam. Probably the bathroom. The detective returned to the living/sleeping area. His back to Roberta, he glanced down at Torresdale Avenue through the apartment’s two windows. He made sure the windows were locked, then he whipped around.

"Deadbolt that door."

"Are you sure?" Roberta regretted the question the moment it left her lips.

Swaggert gave Roberta a baleful look by dropping his chin and furrowing his brows, which darkened his eye sockets. She latched the chain door lock and turned the deadbolt.

"Sit," Swaggert said.

Burnett moved for the pullout couch.

"No," Swaggert said. "There." He pointed at the scuffed-up wooden floor.

Burnett plopped in the middle of the microscopic living/sleeping area. He sat Indian-style near the pullout couch.

For the next five minutes, no one said anything. Roberta stood stock-still but prepared if anything went awry. The oscillating fan next to the TV didn’t seem to cool off the apartment.

Swaggert sighed. "Why’d you kill the PPA employee?"

"Huh?" Burnett said.

"Don’t play coy with me, Burnett. We know you murdered that meter maid. Your prints and DNA are all over the scene."

Burnett smirked. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Swaggert shook his head and said to Roberta, "Read him his rights."

Roberta stepped towards Burnett. She removed the handcuffs from her belt.

An hour later, Swaggert strutted into the station. Behind him, Roberta held onto Burnett.

Quicker than you could say 87th Precinct, the three were in one of the windowless interrogation rooms, the hanging, overhead fluorescent light flickering. Burnett was handcuffed to the metal table, while Roberta and Swaggert stood behind him, each of them leaning against a corner of the room. The detective moved away from his corner, but the rookie didn’t. She was enjoying too much the overhead air-conditioning vent blowing an arctic blast on her sweaty scalp.

Swaggert stood to the side of Burnett. He leaned down, wrapped an arm around the back of the chair and faced the perp’s left ear. Burnett looked straight ahead.

"How’d you kill the meter maid?" Swaggert said.

Burnett shrugged.

Swaggert slammed a palm on the table. Burnett flinched slightly.

"Looks like we’re going to have to do this the old fashioned way," Swaggert said. "Rookie, gimme the key to the handcuffs."

Roberta hesitated, though not enough to be noticeable. She handed the key to Swaggert.

As soon as Swaggert uncuffed Burnett, he dropped the key and whacked the perp upside the head with an open palm. Burnett flew out of the chair, crashing into the corner with the TV screwed into the ceiling. The perp got to his feet and raised his fists.

"Just me and you this time," Swaggert said, "just me and you. . . . Rookie! Make sure that door’s locked."

Roberta did as requested.

Swaggert threw a punch. Burnett tried to duck, but the fist landed on the right side of his neck. He shuffled backward.

"So how’d you kill the meter maid?" Swaggert said.

Fists still raised, Burnett rolled his head to the left and right, like Mike Tyson. "He was coming off his shift, going to his car. I slipped out of the alley and stabbed him in the jugular with the Swiss army knife I had."

"You sick sonofabitch." Swaggert sprang forward. He acted as if he were going to hit Burnett in the head, but at the last moment, he aimed lower and jabbed the perp’s stomach. Burnett had left his midsection wide open, so the detective got a good six jabs in. The perp staggered back, his buttocks bumping into the doorknob.

Roberta stepped to the side, not because she was in the way. No, Swaggert’s garlic-and-onion breath was potent enough to bring John D. MacDonald back to life.

"Real smart, Burnett," Swaggert said. "Get written up for a parking ticket, then a week later you off the meter maid that wrote up the ticket. At least last time you were smart enough to cover your tracks."

Roberta knew what Swaggert was referring to. Three years ago, he arrested Burnett for the rape and murder of two-year-old twins. The case went to court, but Burnett was found not guilty after his lawyer argued successfully that the evidence was too circumstantial.

Swaggert leapt forward. He poked Burnett in the eye. Before the perp could stumble back or counter-poke, the detective put him in a headlock that would have made The Rock proud.

"Anything you’d like to add?" Swaggert snickered. "For the record."

"Yeah," Burnett said, the poked eye shut. Due to the headlock, he sounded like he had a cold. "The real reason I killed that Parking Authority rim job is because you pinned the twin murders on me. My lawyer may have been able to get me off, but you and that bastard D.A. did such a good job of slandering me, I lost everything. I got fired from my job, my fiancée dumped me, and my family and friends cut me off."

Swaggert released Burnett. The perp stood up, breathing heavily, eyes watery.

"So," Burnett said, "I figure if society’s gonna ostracize me for a crime I didn’t commit, might as well do the real thing and off a meter maid, since they’re all a bunch of wastes of space anyway."

Swaggert’s face flushed purple.

Roberta asked the detective, "Is that true? Did you frame him?"

"So what if I did?" Swaggert huffed. He snapped his fingers and pointed. "You’re still a naïve numbskull, rookie. You don’t know how the world works."

"Actually," Roberta said, "I do." She unlocked the door and pulled out an Internal Affairs badge. "You’re under arrest."

Two uniforms stood in the doorway.

Swaggert went nose to nose with Roberta, his body odor forcing her to hold her breath. "You got nothing on me," he whispered, his back to the uniforms.

Roberta motioned toward the TV. "Video camera."

Swaggert grimaced.

"Get them out of here," Roberta said.

The one uniform yanked Burnett out of the room, and the other handcuffed Swaggert.

"Oh, by the way," Roberta asked, "are you a vegetarian?"

"Vegetarian?" Swaggert said.

"Yes, because where you’re going, there’s a lot of tossing the salad."

[[END]]