I have been a detective first-grade for twenty of my thirty-four years as a police officer. Sure, after that many years, I am tired and numbed by all the crime I see, read, and hear about.
My name is Harry Elmore. I will retire in a few weeks. I know I need the rest, need to get away from the job; put the badge and gun away; go to pasture like an old horse. This job rides you hard and fast, but do not look back or you will see too much manure in the road. Cops are not all angels. Most are good, but too many creeps get to be cops. And a few police officers in this job, for this long, think seriously about eating their gun, especially if the job has ruined their family life.
My boss is Captain Joe Barnes. We have been friends for many years. As a favor to me, he is keeping me on a 9:00 to 5:00 p.m. desk job. I am sincerely grateful. I do not want to leave the job making a big mistake due to my stress, nerves, and weariness. Commanding a pencil and pen is good. This way I get to go out gradually.
But you know as well as I do that shit-happens. It happened today. My boss, Joe, informed me that the Commissioner wanted me in his office ASAP. He reluctantly wanted to say good-bye and congratulations on my retirement, as well as to compliment me on my “solved cases” record. But what I was now thinking was, just send me a card, damn-it. We weren’t friends; I’m too outspoken.
I have a gift for reading people. Nothing to do with high intelligence, only common sense, and the ability to notice things that others don’t seem to see. Guilty people also have mannerisms, tics, habits, and things called “tells,” that I recognize easily. Thinking outside the box is a useful weapon, also. A weapon that’s not used enough. After thirty-four years, I’ve left using speculation to the rookies. Having a good ability for hearing bullshit is of skillful use, too. There are too many brown stains on the floors of many police departments, though mostly unseen.
When I arrive at the Commissioner’s office, he offers no kind words. Rather, he orders me to take a case that another team can’t solve, several deaths apparently via poisoning. Hell, that didn’t sound too bad. Cops know, as a rule, that a vast majority of deaths by poisoning, not accidental ones, are committed by women. Perhaps this won’t be too bad of a case after all. I told the Commissioner I’d get right on it, but I knew I wouldn’t get to it until tomorrow.
I wouldn’t start the case until tomorrow because I had to leave the job early today for a doctor appointment: migraine headaches, and rheumatoid arthritis were the chief culprits against the good functioning of my old body.
Then, further into the afternoon, I had to see the department psychologist. He’s a nutcase himself and should be seeing a psychiatrist. Anyway, he’ll ask questions like, Do I feel guilty? Hell, no. Do I feel remorse? Hell, no. How do I feel about killing a priest? I killed a pedophile who attacked me with a knife and put a good-sized slice into the lapel of my sport coat. I gave him two new, shiny red bellybuttons. Now God can deal with him, as well as all the other pedophile priests that have been abusing children for over two thousand years. “Imagine that, I said to the psychologist? God knew about it, in every disgusting detail and let it go on.”
He asked how I slept at night. Like a patient in a peaceful coma, I replied. Then, Can I continue to perform my job adequately? Of course, I can, and I am presently doing just that. After the shooting, I followed procedure. I’ve turned in my gun and badge and I’m assigned to a desk job until the Review Board investigates and concludes that my shooting was justified. Plus, I’m here with you for counseling. I’m following procedure by doing all those things adequately, so I’d say that I can perform my job adequately and professionally and will continue to do so in the future.
He knew what I thought of his inane questions, so it was a short meeting. I’m always glad when each of these meetings is over. Tomorrow I’ll get busy with the new case with a few victims.
Since women were my focus, maybe I’d meet some sexy widows who looked hungrily at my spare tire and dismiss my jowls.
My trip to the morgue came up empty. The coroner, Allan Gray, was my fishing friend. We had some great days, a boat, a case of beer, fishing tackle and an entire day on the water. What could be better? Sexy widows.
Allan pointed to the cold storage room. We entered it and he pulled out three drawers showing three corpses. “Cause of death? Unknown,” he stated.
“OK. Now take a guess?” I asked him.
“Quite sure it’s poison, Harry, but can’t prove it. No evidence of poison in the stomach, no injection needle marks, and none were illegal drug users according to their blood analysis. No unusual markings that I can see on the man or the two women; the elderly often have deep age wrinkles and flabby skin that could hide evidence. Don’t worry, I’m not done with examining them in detail.”
He continued, “The most common denominator between them is that they are elderly, meaning they probably are prescribed several drugs by their doctors, but the most interesting fact is that they are all from the same apartment complex, the new one on Elm Street. It’s a 55-and-older apartment complex.” He searched my eyes, expecting a quick response.
That surprised me. “What? That’s where I’m retiring. Just leased one of the apartments. Will move in permanently in a week or so. I’m getting out of the sack I’ve been renting since my divorce, and that was years ago.”
Allan laughed, “Wow, Harry, you got a possible serial murderer for a neighbor? Careful of the widows and the poison food. Lucky you.” More laughter.
“Allan, do you think the medications might be masking the poison? Maybe that’s why the blood tests don’t show any abnormality.”
“Don’t think so,” Harry. “Their medications don’t appear to have anything to do with their deaths. The unsure, preliminary report said that relatives and friends indicted that prior to their sudden deaths, the victims seemed in good health, for old people. The deaths were sudden, but there are some indications of violent stomach pain, diarrhea, vomiting, etc.”
I thought, damn! Not much information and no solid evidence. I guess the case will be more complex that I’d hoped.
It seemed only natural that the next step would be to visit the almost new apartment complex, especially since I had a vested interest in what happened where my future apartment would be. This is the place that is supposed to be my retirement paradise. I was going to be a man of leisure, even when I’m fishing. Don’t shit where you eat, was my crass thought.
I could feel a headache coming and my knees were killing me. Sitting in the car and driving to my old apartment would be a relief for my knee pain. I’d have to attack the headache with Advil and Benadryl, maybe some food in my stomach would help, too.
The next day I was informed by Joe that a husband and wife were brought to the morgue during the early hours of the morning. The husband, Mr. Baxter, managed to pick up the phone quickly and dial 9-1-1 before he collapsed without saying anything understandable. After listening to the tape recording from the 9-1-1 call, the operator and I heard two similar things that he grunted before collapsing.
The 9-1-1 operator thought he said what sounded like, “Ko-mouw.”
I thought is sounded like he said, “Ca-mouf.”
Either way, the guy was dying and speaking with his last breath. So, sounding as if he were talking and choking on his own saliva was not his fault.
I drove back to the morgue after a week, talked to Allan, but he had nothing new, even with the two new corpses. Five people in the morgue and I knew next to nothing. Looked like poisoning. That clue was getting me nowhere.
The next day an elderly mother and her elderly and handicapped son were brought to the morgue. Same thing. I was alone in my car, so I screamed, “WTF is going on?” I meant to slam the steering wheel but hit the horn instead.
I visited the manager of the apartment complex, a new guy named Don. He was cooperative but not helpful. He said the tenants were in a near panic. The only other thing abnormal was the number of tenants complaining about overcharging on their water bill. He said they claimed that they didn’t use that much water, so the meters must be wrong.
On a hunch, I asked him to check the names of all the dead victims. After he did that, he looked up at me, startled. “They are all residents of your particular apartment building, but there’s three floors and twenty apartments per floor. It’s a big, new complex that was built.
“We charge them according to the meter readings. I had the meters evaluated and they are accurate. Brand-new, actually.”
“Do you mind if I look at my water meter reading and the bill?” I asked.
“Sure. No problem. Let me check the computer data for the latest readings.”
He printed the results and gave the copy to me.
I studied the copy and thought the water usage was suspicious; too much water usage was charged to my apartment. “I think the tenants might have a point,” I stated.
Don looked at the information on his computer. “It looks about average compared to the other complainants,” he responded with a questioning grin.
“That may be true; however, I’m not permanently moved into my apartment yet. So far, I only come on weekends, during the daytime only. At night I return to my old apartment. I’m moving into my new apartment slowly. I bring a few boxes at a time and a piece or two of furniture. I’m not at my apartment five out seven days. So, the water meter usage for my apartment should read almost zero, and yet your meter reading indicates that I’m using as much water as the permanent tenants use. I’d say something is quite wrong. And if the meters are all accurate for my building, then there’s a leak somewhere, or the water is being diverted by someone or some place, and the usage is being attributed to the tenants in my building.”
“Oh, Jesus! You got me there. How could that be? The tenants are correct, then, with their complaints. I’ll get the building contractors back out here ASAP and have them check the water system, the pipes. Whatever it takes.”
“You’re a good manager, Don,” I said. He certainly was more cooperative than I had expected for a new manager, especially for one who did not live in the new apartment complex, one who is stereotyped as argumentative, arrogant, rude and hates to be bothered because he’s reading or playing a smart phone game, or checking email, etc.
“Crap! I am embarrassed now. I just figured that complaining was part of the elderly tenants’ routine.”
I let the minor bias go unanswered. I will be one of the elderly tenants, soon, and Don seemed like he could be a friend.
At the end of three weeks there were eleven tenants dead. All suspected poisonings. The Commissioner and even by boss were getting frustrated, and edgy. More police officers were assigned – since I was unable to solve the crime, I suppose.
The contractor had people looking into a leak or busted pipe while my colleagues went from door to door asking questions.
This, of course, was a total embarrassment for me. People were dying and the great mystery solver, Harry Elmore, was stumped. I concentrated on totally moving into my new residence that weekend. I worked intensely to keep my embarrassment and sorrow submerged beneath a glacier of guilt.
The weekend passed agonizingly slowly. It was Sunday night and the thought of tomorrow afternoon’s retirement party and farewell dinner repulsed me. How was I going to face my peers after I have appeared so incompetent? No law enforcement officer wants to retire with his last case unsolved. It often triggers a gun-in-the-mouth suicide. That’s not for me, but the tears of frustration created salty rivulets down my cheeks. Nothing to do but endure the pain that was supposed to be all pleasure.
“I’d give anything to solve this case; anything at all.” I was desperate for a miracle. I didn’t want to give the case to someone else. Damn it! I should have solved it. It was my case. My duty, but turned out to be my failure, a failure that I had to live with for the rest of my life.
I started preparing for bed. I washed my hands before I brushed my teeth. When done, I had to urinate prior to my shower. Men usually pee standing up, but my enlarged prostate slowed down my urine flow, sometimes to a trickle. I’d forgotten to take my Flomax pill that morning, so I sat down to pee. Might as well be comfortable as I waited for my bladder to empty.
As I sat there, an important thought occurred to me. Allan, the coroner, said that all the victims had either an empty bladder, or an empty colon, or both. Does that mean that prior to their deaths they had been to the bathroom? I mulled that over, thinking it might be an important clue, especially if a main water pipe broke close to the surface where a snake could enter it.
I was almost finished urinating when I felt a sharp painful sting in my genital area. It made me jump off the toilet seat. I turned quickly and looked into the toilet bowl where I saw a poisonous Cotton Mouth snake retracting itself into the toilet bowl drain. I could still see a fraction of its head, like a piece of dirt that had now flushed away, settling to the bottom instead.
A mild panic came over me. I tried to clear my head of the shocking sight. I already felt the tingling sensation that leads to numbness. It felt like I was bitten at the base of my scrotum.
Suddenly the solution to my case came to me in a deadly thought. That’s how all the victims died. A toilet viper bite where it would be extremely hard to find within the genital area. No wonder the fang marks were not found. Of course, anywhere in the perineum area, between the anus and the genitals would be extremely difficult to find, even for an experienced coroner.
My crotch area was starting to become painful. I staggered against the sink. It was too far away from the house phone, as well as my cell phone, which was in my bedroom, to call 9-1-1. I looked into the mirror. My vision began to blur. I grabbed the toothpaste tube, squirted some on my fingertips, then wrote COTTON MOUTH TOILET on the mirror.
I felt myself collapse to the floor, so weak that I could not move my affected muscles. Oddly enough the thought that drifted through my brain was “I solved the case! Yes, I solved the case!” I knew that, once Allan found out what my message said, he’d check the genitals area of each victim and find the fang marks.
Then I remembered what I had said a little while ago. I had said, “I’d give anything to solve this case.” It was my life that I’d have to give, but I smiled as I looked up at the new apartment’s ceiling. The light seemed too bright, at first, then got more and more dim as it traveled away from me.
I was looking at the white ceiling. It looked like the huge, giant mouth. I tried to say cotton mouth, but the sound came out as “ca-mouf.”
Then, a soft, warm, peaceful darkness accepted me into its arms and carried me on an infinite tour of the universe.
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