Signatures
This story is purely fictional, but the idea is very loosely based on a real event which happened in Switzerland in 2014. The story was written as a present for Stella KiMara – thank you very much for letting me publish it!
Ironside's POV
"And what are you not telling me, Commissioner?!"
It was obvious that he didn't just want me to investigate a simple burglary. There had to be a fly in the ointment.
He sighed the way he always sighed when he had to deal with me and didn't know how.
"I'm telling you everything, Bob. Just give me a minute."
Aha, now it was only a matter of time, not of trying to bamboozle me. Actually he knew – had to know, since he'd learned it by bitter experience – that he could not bamboozle me. "What was stolen?"
"That's the problem. Some sheets of paper were stolen. On them, a certain Alexander Peterson had collected over a thousand signatures."
"Signatures? For or against what?"
"Will you let me start at the beginning?"
"I would appreciate it!"
"The Mexicans living in San Francisco have organized themselves. Their club is called 'MISF', Mexicans in San Francisco."
I had heard about that. They organized folkloric events, music, dances and art exhibitions. They also asked for better schooling for their kids, and they helped kids defend themselves against racist bullies.
"Not a bad thing, the way I see it," I answered.
"Maybe not. But they have made enemies. Those complained about some of the fiestas being too loud and local residents feeling disturbed..."
More likely they were afraid of a formerly manipulable group of underdogs for now growing competence and power. Somehow these fears were understandable: fears of losing the privileges of the white race. The actual equality of all humans was long overdue, but not everybody was fond of that idea...
"...Therefore this Peterson has started to collect signatures against the MISF. He got over a thousand people to sign a complaint. Today he wanted to present them to the City Council. And last night, the signatures were stolen."
Now I perfectly understood the problem. "And he says that a member or a friend of the MISF has stolen the signatures?"
"Who else should steal them? Of course the MISF has to be afraid of the City Council's reaction to the signatures."
They had indeed. Still it would have been a silly action. The MISF would lose many of its Caucasian sympathizers because of such a theft.
"The City Mayor has requested that you take care of the case."
It was a little tricky of course.
Ed Brown nodded thoughtfully. "He is worried about public safety. The political situation is tense."
Fran Belding added, "You mean - the people who have signed the complaint – and potentially every militant member of the Caucasian population of San Francisco – might turn violent if they felt neglected by the police?"
She was a sharp girl, our little Fran who had joined our team just recently. "That's definitely a possibility," I confirmed.
"On the other hand many police officers might be too rough on Mexican suspects and cause a riot among them!" Fran was half Mexican herself* and her heart beat for the oppressed minorities, a feeling which shone through her voice.
"That's exactly why the Mayor wants the most capable people on this," finalized Randall before leaving, stiff like a poker, as always.
I understood the Mayor's concerns. They were as justified as the entire case was silly.
Sgt. Brown was the right person for the job. I had trained him long and hard enough. He would stay calm in a delicate or dangerous situation.
Fran, with her Mexican mother... maybe not. She was a fine young woman, smart and spirited, but maybe a little too spirited. Her over-pronounced sense of justice might let her act imprudently. And she was very, very young and inexperienced.
But who else should I send out? Mark Sanger had missed a lot of lessons at law school. He absolutely needed to study for his exams. Eve Whitfield Dwyer had left the team for good after her marriage. I had to send Fran with Ed to look for evidence, hoping that they would work better together than last time.**
I wanted to go out there myself so badly! But I had learned the hard way that my body wasn't up to such strain. I would risk quadriplegia or worse. For at least another week I had to sit still.
"Ed, you know what you have to do. If there is any hint to the burglar, I trust you will find it!"
"I'll do my best, Chief."
I knew. He always did.
Ed reached for the phone and called a forensics team. Then he stood up with the usual determined expression on his face. "Let's go, Fran."
Fran's POV
Together we drove to Nob Hill, where Peterson lived.
With the help of the forensics team we searched the house.
We – that is: Ed Brown!
I knew that for the time being the Chief wanted me to observe how he did it rather than search myself. He wanted me to learn how he wanted things done.
And I learned a lot. It was the most thorough house search I had ever witnessed... definitely Ironside style. The colleagues of the forensics team couldn't see the urgency of the case and tried to get it over with as soon as possible, but the Sergeant wouldn't let them. Whenever someone tried to get away with superficiality, he noticed it. The Chief had trained him personally for years, after all.
Peterson, the owner of the house and victim of the burglary, was more than helpful. Nevertheless the effect was minimal. Peterson admitted that a window had been open the night of the burglary. As we could not find any signs of forced entry it was logical to assume that the burglar had penetrated by that window.
Ed found a plastic wristband in a bush below it. He examined it carefully. It was green-white-red colored - the kind of wristband members of the MISF wore occasionally. I didn't like this finding at all but didn't comment. It was too short to fit over Ed's hand. The burglar had to be a rather small or thin person. The Sergeant put it into an evidence bag and handed it over to the colleagues.
By the time Ed finally allowed the forensics team to leave my stomach had started to growl fiercely, but my colleague seemed to have forgotten that it was time for lunch. Like Ironside himself he turned into a bloodhound when working on a case. Maybe it was contagious.
"Let's question the neighbors!" he ordered.
We split up. The timing wasn't quite ideal. Many housekeepers seemed to be out during the day.
An old woman told Ed that a youngster had been around on his bike last night, but she could not remember much about him.
I was more successful: A neighbor further down the road had seen a car parking kitty-corner to Patterson's house. It could not be visitors, for the inhabitants of that house were on their wedding trip in Australia! The neighbor had noted the plate number, but then he had refrained from reporting it to the police, since it didn't look as if the house had been broken into.
I was happy to have an alternative to the clue of the wristband, one which didn't point to Mexicans as burglars.
Author's notes:
* I borrowed this idea from Stella KiMara – with her friendly permission
** S5 The Gambling Game