The Big Illness
(A Dragnet Fan Fiction Story)
By: Kristi N. Zanker
Disclaimer: All publicly recognized characters, settings, etc. are the property of Mark VII Limited and Universal. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I, in no way am associated with the owners, creators, or producers of Dragnet. No copyright infringement is intended.
WARNING: This story contains mild language, adult themes, and sexual content.
Chapter One
It had been one of those rare slow days—afternoon really. When Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon came back to Parker Center after lunch, the hours seemed to drag by. Their paperwork was caught up and the phone was remarkably quiet for Homicide Division around three on Thursday, April 27, 1967. They passed the time by cleaning out the top drawers of their desks and sharpened more than their fair share of pencils. When it came to straightening your work area and making sure that each pencil had nice, sharp lead point, Joe knew it was an unusually relaxed day. This was actually a good thing due to the fact that they had the day off tomorrow. Both made small talk as they attacked the contents in the drawers.
"Eileen bought new curtains for the kitchen window yesterday—a yellow rose pattern," said Bill, dividing every pencil, just newly sharpened and pen he had in the drawer into two tidy, yet separate rows on his desk.
"Oh?" replied Joe, who did the same, but with every trinket in his drawer, which included neatly sharpened pencils, ball-point pens with black, blue or red ink, a couple of new pads of paper, erasers, stray paperclips and thumbtacks-each assembled in an organized pile in front of him.
"The yellow is so bright; it's the first thing you see when you walk into the kitchen. I think the color's awful. It doesn't match anything," said Bill, as he opened the drawer to his desk, gathered up the pens and dropped them noisily inside.
"Did you tell her that?" Joe asked, when he placed the erasers in his drawer first,
then the paperclips, and thumbtacks all to one side.
"No, Joe," Bill replied, picking up the pencils and throwing them in right next to
the pens. "You don't tell your wife something like that!"
"Well, okay—" Joe began to say, before he was interrupted by Bill and the slamming of his desk drawer. While his partner chattered on, Joe lit a Chesterfield.
"Next thing I knew she was talking about getting new wallpaper in the kitchen
and dining room. All to match those awful curtains!"
"It's her kitchen, Bill. She's in there most of the time. You shouldn't have a
say in how she decorates it," replied Joe, with the cigarette in one hand, as he continued with the pads of paper by situating them with his free hand in the middle of the drawer for easy access. The drawer was not that big and the paper took up most of the room anyway.
"You just wait; just you wait until you get married. Then you'll see!" His partner opened the drawer to his desk once again, reached in and pulled out a mess of paperclips. He then asked Joe, "By the way, how's Gracie these days?"
"She's fine," he answered, making sure that the blue and black ink pens were divided from the red ink ones and in order.
"Does she have wallpaper or curtains in her apartment?" Bill pressed on.
"No wallpaper, Bill, and there's no window in the kitchen for curtains." The pencils went in right next to the pens. Joe closed his drawer and stubbed out the cigarette butt in the ashtray that sat at his right, toward the end of his desk.
"Well, wait until you get married and buy a house…." His partner's voice trailed
off.
Joe peered over at Bill, who now began to make a chain out of the paperclips that lay before him and hoped the captain wouldn't walk in at this particular moment.
"How many pencils did you sharpen?" asked Bill, as he added another paperclip to his succession.
"Seven," replied Joe. "How about you?"
"Ten pencils…that was all I had. I'm glad I found these to keep me occupied for the time being"
"I'm glad you didn't find any rubber bands in there," he chuckled..
The phone next to Joe jangled and he immediately picked it up. While listening to the call, he poked around his clean desk drawer and quickly found the pad of paper and a pencil. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bill had stopped his procession of paperclips and that they just went over the end of his desk. While Joe listened to the person on the other end, a sharp, staccato tink-tink-tink sound suddenly filled the nearly quiet room. For a split second, a smile crept across his face has he watched Bill gather up the fallen paperclips.
"Darn gravity!" he heard Bill hiss, as the now unlinked chain appeared in front of him a second time in the same half hour.
"Who was that?" Bill asked, trying to untangle the paperclips.
"Someone named Ida Goodwin. Her little girl Margaret stayed home from school today. Said she was sick and had a fever. She told me that Margaret was fine in the morning, but now when she went to check on her, Mrs. Goodwin thought the girl was dead."
This could be a mistake, thought Joe, as they drove to their objective. The little girl probably needs a doctor instead of us. If that was the case, then they would recommend that this Mrs. Goodwin to call their family doctor. It could be a wasted trip, but Joe knew that you had to check everything out.
The ride was silent. The two men soon found themselves in an older section of the city. At one time, this neighborhood was most likely thriving with young couples and their children. Some houses still didn't have a garage, whereas others had a hastily made structure that resembled a garage with two barn-like doors to close and lock their car in. Bill slowed I-K-80 and stopped at the curb.
The small, tan, pre-war ranch home where Mrs. Goodwin lived had seen better days. Paint peeled on the siding and two weather-stained white shutters were halfway off their hinges. Shingles from the roof littered the front lawn, which needed a desperate mowing. Weeds and excess grass peeked out through the cement walkway to the front door. One of the things both men noticed was the doorbell. Like so many front doors some forty and fifty years ago, the handle sat in the middle of the door instead of off to the side. One had to give it a firm twist in order to allow the bell to jingle. Bill gave the small handle a turn and a sharp ring, ring sounded.
"That takes me back," Bill mentioned, as Joe nodded in agreement.
A lady answered the door and introduced herself as Mrs. Ida Goodwin. She must've been in her mid-sixties with the almost all gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, Joe guessed and because she wore a dress that was fashionable during the Depression. He knew this because his mother had a similar one, only this woman's had gingham red and gray squares, whereas his mother's had been a green and white checkered pattern.
Both Bill and Joe introduced themselves, showed their identification and badges. Once inside, Mrs. Goodwin led them straight to the girl's bedroom. As they walked across the living room and down the short hallway, Joe noticed that the only up-to-date item in the house was the television set. The rest, like the wallpaper, furniture, and even the light fixtures were very parallel to ones he and his mother grew up with in the shabby apartment all those years ago. He even took a quick gander at the kitchen and from what he could see; the appliances had to be thirty or forty years old.
It's almost like going back in time, Joe thought, as he remembered his mother as well as his Aunt Mary in a setting such as this one on Collis Avenue. He felt a dull pain in his chest, suddenly missing his mother, who had been laid to rest three weeks ago in New Jersey.
"I…I let Margaret stay home from school today," said Mrs. Goodwin. "She had a fever this morning. I called Dr. Kenyon, he's our family doctor, but he said to just have her rest and see how she feels tomorrow. When I went to check on her at lunchtime, she was awake, but she wouldn't eat anything. I figured she was just tired and let her sleep."
"How old is she?" asked Joe, glancing over at the dishwater blonde-haired girl motionless in her bed. A green blanket with tiny white flowers covered most of her body.
"Seven years old," answered Mrs. Goodwin. "She has a ten-year-old brother, Randy. He should be home from school soon."
"What school do they attend," asked Joe.
"They both go to Woodrow Wilson Elementary School. It's in the neighborhood here, just a few blocks from the house here."
"What grades are the children in?" asked Bill.
"Randy is in fourth grade and Margaret is in second," replied Mrs. Goodwin.
When Joe gently touched Margaret's neck to feel for her pulse, he immediately recognized the result.
"Would you excuse us for a moment, Mrs. Goodwin, while we use your phone?" said Joe.
"Oh, go right ahead. It's out in the hallway, on the stand. You'll see it."
"She's dead," said Joe in a low voice, as they went into the small hallway and stood by the telephone stand. "Call an ambulance and have them send her to the morgue."
As Bill dialed the number, Joe came back into the bedroom.
"I didn't know what to do," said Mrs. Goodwin. "So I…she's dead, isn't she."
"Yes," replied Joe. "Let's head back into the living room until the ambulance arrives. I need to ask you some questions."
As they filed out into the hallway, Bill fell in step behind them and sat on the sofa next to Joe, with his pencil and notepad poised.
In the next ten minutes, they learned that Margaret and Randy's parents, Dorothy and Walter Goodwin, were killed in an automobile accident five years ago. Mrs. Goodwin was given custody of her two grandchildren. She raised them alone in the years following their parent's unexpected death. Ida Goodwin's husband, Harold, had passed away from a stroke three years prior to her son's death. Walter had been her only child.
Joe pulled back the curtain slightly and peeked out the front window to see the ambulance rolling silently down the street toward the Goodwin house. Joe and Bill both let the attendants in and took them straight to Margaret's room. Mrs. Goodwin was behind them, watching their every move.
Joe looked over at Bill to see if he noticed the same thing as he had. Before the other ambulance attendant lifted the girl, the one closest to Margaret, gently pulled back the covers, revealing her strawberry-laden nightgown. He took hold her hands that had been straight at her sides, and slowly moved one on top of the other. Next, he placed her clasped hands in the middle of her stomach. It almost looked as if the little girl was praying. That was when Joe noticed some marks on her wrists, as if she kept a rubber band on her wrist too long and the circulation got cut off. Still, they didn't want to assume anything until proper procedures were taken care of. Both kept their mouths shut as the two attendants lifted Margaret and laid her tenderly on the waiting stretcher.
A white sheet now covered her entire body. The two attendants grabbed the ropes at each end of the gurney and wheeled her outside. Margaret was lifted in the back of the ambulance. It would be her last ride.
Not long after that, Joe explained that they were taking her to the hospital to do some tests to see what could've caused her premature death. Once they heard anything, they'd give Mrs. Goodwin a call.
"What do you think about this one?" asked Bill, as they rode back to the office to fill out the DB report.
"I don't know, but I do know that seven-year-old girls just don't die like that," replied Joe, lighting up anothercigarette. "We'll wait and see what the autopsy tells us."
By five o'clock the DB report on Margaret Goodwin was finished. For now, their work week was over and Joe was looking forward to the weekend.
As soon as he eased his skylight blue 1964 Ford Fairlane out of the space at Parker Center, Joe switched on the radio. The vocals of Kay Starr filled the silence of the car as she sang, "So Tired." He sure felt that, in more ways than one.
It had been a hectic week, until this afternoon. He was even worn out from the alluring, yet overwhelming four solid days with Gracie before returning to work a week and a half ago. Every morning since his vacation, his body did not want to obey when the alarm clock rang, and yet at the same time relentlessly ached to be touched. He dreadfully missed Gracie, but both knew they had to get adequate sleep in order to function well at work.
Tonight, however, the two of them could pick up where they left off if they so desired. Last night, the phone rang after he was in bed. At first, he thought it was the office because criminals can and will break the law whether it was night or day. His heart lifted when he discovered it was Gracie at the other end, inviting him over for dinner the next night.
Apartment 227 was waiting patiently as he unlocked the door. After putting away his pistol, handcuffs, among other work-related items, Joe went to his closet and pulled off a charcoal gray pair of slacks from the hanger. He then found a white button-down shirt and a medium blue cardigan sweater. He was hoping to wear his favorite red sweater, but that was tossed in the hamper days ago and he hadn't had a moment to head down to the laundry room. Before proceeding to the first floor where Gracie lived, he wanted to freshen up a bit. He laid the clothes neatly on the bed and began to undress.
The water from the shower nozzle streamed down all over him as he briskly washed and shampooed his hair. His gold St. Christopher medal he always wore around his neck glistened at the right angle from the light above him. Beads of water dripped from it and the rest of him as he turned off the shower. After drying himself off, Joe draped the towel around himself and stood facing the mirror, reaching for the razor in the drawer on his right side, then picking up the Noxema Medicated shaving cream that stood in the nearly empty medicine chest. After the five o'clock shadow vanished, he padded back into the bedroom. Several minutes later, he saw the reflection of the St. Christopher's medal in the dresser mirror slowly disappear underneath his shirt as he fastened each button.
His mother had presented the medal to Joe ages ago after he was confirmed. Then, for his eighteenth birthday, she had purchased a sterling silver I.D. bracelet with his name on it. For some reason, as the years went by, he couldn't bear to take off the necklace or bracelet. Luckily, both pieces could withstand the harshness of soap and water. Once in awhile, he'd set them in jewelry cleaner to shine and polish them up. But nobody, except the doctor and Gracie knew he wore the necklace. People used to comment and point at his I.D. bracelet, thinking he had gotten it from a girlfriend. Time and again co-workers teased him and said, "Which girl gave you that I.D. bracelet?" "Is she your steady?" "She must really love you to give you something like that!" And the inevitable question, "When are you two getting married?"
That was when he first joined the LAPD. The ribbing continued but mention of the bracelet tapered off. By then, the 1950s had begun and it was virtually forgotten. It became a permanent fixture, along with the necklace for Joe Friday. However, early last year, the clasp broke that held the bracelet together. It currently sat in Joe's nightstand drawer for he hadn't any time to get it fixed.
When Joe finished buttoning up the sweater, he grabbed the small bottle of cologne on his dresser and sprayed a little on him. "Only spray twice now," the store clerk had told him two years ago when he purchased the new brand of men's cologne called Aramis. "One too many and you'll be sorry!" From then on, Joe made sure he only squirted the bottle twice.
He rummaged through the top drawer of his dresser and found a clean handkerchief. He glanced at himself in the mirror once more, glad that he didn't need to wear a tie. First, it wouldn't look right with his outfit and second, he wouldn't have a helluva time getting it off. He grinned remembering that only a little over a week ago, his tie almost didn't behave when he was with Gracie, who sat on the countertop. He kept smiling to himself at the memory of what transpired afterward. He folded, then shoved the handkerchief into his pants pocket, slid into his loafers that sat by the door, and out he went.
"Hi, Joe!" said Gracie, after she opened the door for him.
"Hi, honey," he said, giving her a kiss hello and then whispered in her ear, "I've missed you all week."
"Likewise," she replied, kissing him back. "Dinner's ready."
"I'm ready for dinner," he said, as he followed her into the kitchen. "Do you need help with anything?"
"Oh no, it's all finished, you just sit down and relax," she said turning to the stovetop to give the potatoes one last mashing.
Joe saw that her dark blonde hair was pulled back with a gold barrette. She wore a beige secretary dress with a light blue floral pattern, and a pleated front. The buttons in the front ran up the dress to the ascot bow that tied around her neck. For a split second, he thought about untying that bow and unbuttoning those buttons to see what was hidden underneath.
"Did you have a good day?" she asked, as she reached into a cupboard for a medium-sized bowl.
"Hmmm? Oh, yes. You know the entire week was busy," he replied, watching as she scraped the last of the mashed potatoes into the bowl. "You don't have to do that."
"Do what?" she asked, setting the bowl on the table in front of Joe, only to turn and grab a smaller bowl from the cupboard and dump the pot of canned corn into that one.
"Put everything into bowls like that. It just makes more dishes. Hell, you could just leave the food in the pots on the stove and I can get it myself. You don't have to go all out like this for me."
"I don't mind Joe, really," she said, retrieving the platter of steak from the counter and aligned it with the other bowls on the table. "I need to get one more thing out of the oven," and turned to open the steaming oven door to haul out a cookie sheet of dinner rolls.
Joe's mouth began to water, at the rolls, and Gracie's stance when she opened the oven door. He turned away and stared at the food in front of him, lifting up the serving spoon to put some mashed potatoes on his plate. He could hear her open the refrigerator door and take something out. He knew immediately what it had been when she plunked down the butter dish. She then got out a bottle of merlot wine; two stemmed glasses and poured each one. Joe kept himself busy by slicing and buttering a roll. Lastly, he grabbed a hunk of steak. He was ready to eat, and watched as she slid into the chair across from him and filled up her own plate.
"I know it creates more dishes, but we have much fun doing that, don't we? I think I might actually like doing dishes now if you're around!" Gracie grinned as she plopped some mashed potatoes next to the pile of corn. She found a slim cut of steak and then buttered herself a roll.
"You said you had a busy week?" she said beginning again.
"Oh yes…yes, we did," said Joe, after swallowing some meat. "This is wonderful."
"Thank you. I got home early from work today and thought I'd make a nice dinner."
Joe smiled and nodded.
"Wait til you see what I have for dessert," she said, with a clever beam creeping through.
He chuckled, "I can't wait."
"So you had a busy week?" she began for the third time..
"Yes….sorry. Yeah, but this afternoon seemed to drag by, so Bill and I cleaned out our desk drawers. We then got a call around three, but came back in time to check out at five. As you know, that doesn't always happen. At least, they know where they can reach me besides at my own place."
Gracie smiled and nodded, knowing that he had given his superior and Bill her number earlier that week, if he wasn't at home. The room fell silent, except for the clinking of silverware on the plates as the dinner continued. Joe explained to Gracie awhile back that open police cases could not be discussed and she never pressed him to tell her anything, knowing he had seen his fair share of atrocities. But neither of them could understand what would possess a person to kill or harm someone else or even themselves. Joe would say to Gracie that as long as there were people in this world, unfortunately some believe in violent ways and this act would never stop until time actually came to a catastrophic end. However bad things may be, he loved his job and tried to help others live in a safe society. But these days, it was getting more and more difficult.
Joe took a sip of wine and waited to take another bite until the drink produced a warm, fuzzy feeling in his stomach. It was then he began to feel completely relaxed.
Copyright © 2011 by Kristi N. Zanker