Chapter 5: Trader

...while Riley sits in lockup, Mara follows Susan reporting the story...


In the same building where Riley sat in jail, Mara watched Susan and a handful of other reporters point microphones at Chief Robert Kelly, adjusting positions every time he turned his head, like heliotropic plants tracking the sun.

Mara stood beyond the cluster, jotting key words onto a notepad. Her job was to back Susan up and offer ideas and leads to pursue.

She glanced at her mentor, jostling the competition for position like a basketball player going for the net. She had the advantage, being the tallest. Slim, as well, she squeezed into a small opening.

“Chief. Have you learned anything about a motive?”

The chief, middle-aged and redheaded, in dark blue jacket with four stars on his collar, seemed to smile at her voice. “The investigation is on-going. I can’t say more right now.”

The chief concluded his remarks and the group broke up. Susan chased him down.

“Chief, can I have a few words?”

He turned and greeted Susan, then frowned.

“Is that still working?” He pointed to the microphone. She passed it back to Mara.

“Did you know the backpack turned up?”

“Work, work, work. You’ll lose your looks only thinking about work.”

“Sorry, Bob. How are the kids?”

“Mary’s at U.C. and Joe’s a senior at high school.”

“That’s great.”

“Any prospects, Sue?”

“Always on the lookout.”

They laughed. Susan, attractive and smart in a black jacket and white silk blouse, looked like she was on her way to a trendy nightspot. She didn’t need to look for suitors. Mara frowned, suspicious.

“You’re not the only one.”

“Not you, Bob?” She pointed at the wedding band on his finger.

“I guess not,” he grinned. “You were saying?”

“The backpack Martin was carrying turned up.”

“How would you know?”

“I met the young man who found it. He turned it in today.”

“Let Henderson know if you have anything.” He flashed a smile as Susan’s waned. He waved, walking away.

“Let’s find Henderson.”

The women walked to the end of the hall and descended marble stairs to the ground floor. The sun was high in the sky and shot rays of light through the windows, boosting dim corridor lighting. They entered onto a bustle of activity, zigzagging past knots of cops, lawyers and worry-fretted people. Susan led the way, pushing through a large wooden door.

A dozen pairs of eyes, mostly male, tracked Susan’s march to the inspector’s glass enclosed office. Mara, her shorter legs working double time, lagged behind.

Henderson, in shirtsleeves, stood looking down at his desk. She stopped at the door, waiting to be acknowledged. He glanced up and grunted. She approached.

“Well, if it isn’t Nancy Drew.”

“I’m following up on the Martin murder—“

“In what capacity?”

“Look, Henderson—“

“No, you look.” He pointed a stubby finger, his face red. “You meddle where you don’t belong, I’ll make it so no one talks to you.”

She stepped back. “What’d I do?”

“Don’t play the innocent. That kid comes in, flashes your card and clams up.”

“But—“

“Are you representing him?”

“You know I’m not.”

“No, I don’t know.” He crossed his arms across his chest. “Suppose you tell me what you know, so I can know, too.”

He sat down and seemed to notice Mara for the first time. He nodded at her.

“My assistant, Mara Ware.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I think Martin's a drug courier.”

“Evidence?”

“The drug killings all over the city.”

Henderson’s tongue worked inside his mouth as if to dislodge something between his teeth. He gazed through the glass at the larger room.

“Martin was homeless and exploitable. He was probably a mule. Someone killed him for it.”

“Evidence?”

Susan shook her head.

“Then why are you talking to me? I have real work to do. Goodbye.” He snarled at a stack of paper.

Susan turned to go, when Mara shot past her.

“Riley didn’t do anything. Let him go.”

He opened his hand without looking up. “You got a card, too?”

“No, but—“

“Out!”

A dozen heads looked up, smirking. In the hallway, Mara tugged at Susan’s sleeve.

“Why didn’t you try to help Riley?”

“He’s going to do what he’s going to do.”

“But he’s locked up someplace terrible. I know it.”

Susan walked on. She tugged at her sleeve again. Susan shook her off. “Stop!”

“The drugs. If the police think he took them, someone else might, too. He could be in danger.”

“Probably not.”

“But the shot of him going to the police--”

“We’ll block his face.”

“But, the protest—“

Susan shrugged and walked away.

Mara was vexed. Susan liked being in the middle of things, trading with the powers that be. She vowed she’d do what she could to protect her friend. But how, she worried, could she do that with only scant knowledge of the threat?


The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

The next chapter will be posted April 4.

Chapter 4: Justice

...Riley at the Hall of Justice...

Riley sat waiting for more than half an hour, irritation adding to anxiety. He wanted to help and to put the whole thing behind him. Why keep him waiting? He played solitaire on his cell phone to hide his distress.

The door opened and Inspector Henderson stood in it. His nose twitched above a gray moustache as if to sniff the air. Satisfied, he entered the room and faced Riley from the other side of the table. Riley rose and extended his hand. The inspector paused a heartbeat then took it. His grip was as passionate as a grappling hook.

He sat down, wordlessly. Nearly a minute passed. Then the sergeant placed the backpack on the table. Riley flinched.

“You are Riley Turner?”

He nodded.

“Tell me how you acquired the backpack.”

Riley told him.

“What did you do with the contents?”

He protested it was empty when he found it.

“What's your relationship with the deceased, Robert Martin?”

He denied knowing the dead man.

The inspector signaled to the sergeant who opened a laptop on the table. He pressed a button and turned the screen so they could see it. There, again, was the footage showing the man now known as Robert Martin pushing at Riley’s back.

“Is that you, Mr. Turner?”

“Yes.”

“Why was Martin trying to give you the backpack?”

Riley’s mouth opened as if to answer but the direction of the question stymied him. “You’ve got it wrong.”

“Answer the question.”

“He wasn’t giving me the backpack.”

“You ended up with it.”

“I told you how I found it.”

“Mr. Turner.” He held up the backpack. “The film shows Martin pushing it to you. You end up with it. Mission accomplished.”

“I brought it here when I realized its significance.”

“And what is that, Mr. Turner?”

Recoiling, Riley sat silent, shaking his head.

“Bring the drug sensor, sergeant.”

The sergeant approached holding a black plastic device that looked like a TV remote control. He held it between them like a salesman demonstrating the latest technology. He pressed a button and a red light flashed at the top. He pressed another and a steady beep sounded, regular like a heartbeat. He looked to the inspector.

“Mr. Turner. You know that drugs leave a residue?”

Riley did not respond.

“You’ve seen CSI?”

Riley nodded.

“This sensor detects the traces of illicit drugs. Do you have anything to tell me?”

His anger rising, he shook his head.

The sergeant moved the sensor over the backpack. The beeps accelerated. He opened the bag’s main compartment and they intensified, loud and angry like a swarm of bees. Riley’s pulse quickened.

“The sensor’s picked up traces of drugs, inspector.”

“Mr. Turner, what did you do with them?”

Beads of sweat dotted his hairline. One overflowed to streak down his face. He brushed at it with his hand. Another overflowed and he brushed at that, then another, looking like he was chasing away a swarm.

“Mr. Turner. You’re a college student. I know it’s expensive because I’m sending a kid through. I can see how someone might go down the wrong road, selling drugs to get by.”

Riley, exhausted with explanations shattered against a wall, only shook his head.

“Mr. Turner. I will keep you here until you give me some answers.” Inspector Henderson left the room, the sergeant trailing behind.

Riley, legs extended and arms hanging limp at his side, contemplated his situation. Coming forward in good faith, he met skepticism and disbelief. Henderson’s insinuations weighed on him.

He thought of Susan’s mocking look. Innocent. The word seemed naïve. He came off like someone who didn’t know the ways of the world. Henderson sensed that, too. He was trying to squeeze him into the role of drug-dealing murderer. He thought him a chump.

He grabbed the backpack and flung it against the wall.

A minute passed. The door opened. The sergeant peered in. “Do you have anything to say?”

“Yeah. To Henderson.”

Again the inspector paused at the door before entering, his nose twitching.

“Well?”

Riley reached into his pocket and handed him Susan’s card. Henderson read it.

“You talking to the press?”

“She’s a friend, inspector. I told you everything I know. I’m going now.” He turned to the door.

A lewd smile grew on Henderson’s face. “Your ‘friend’ could tell you I can hold you for 72 hours”.

Henderson stuffed the card in Riley’s shirt pocket. “In case you need it again. Sergeant, take him to lock-up.”

Riley was stunned. The sergeant led him through the door.

“Don’t leave town without letting me know. Ha, ha.”

His laughter stung, chasing Riley down the hall.

“Ha, ha, HA!”



The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

The next chapter will be posted March 21.