Cuffing the Chicken

"A murder investigation?" Captain Aldo Stiles asked. "Here in Bakersfield? We don't have murders in Bakersfield!" He paced around his small office, the blinds half-drawn to let in just enough light, but not too much, and so it would be just dark enough, but not too dark. Life was a constant compromise at the Bakersfield PD.

"With all due respect, Captain," Sergeant Phil Hampton said, "they have murders everywhere." Sergeant Hampton was an older man, graying and thinning on top, while his middle spread and thickened under his blue uniform. He may have been known as the captain's right hand man, but really, he was also the brains behind the operation.

"They have murders. We don't."

"Tell that to the dead guy in the morgue."

"We have a morgue?" Captain Stiles nearly hyperventilated. He loosened the maroon tie his wife had picked out for him that morning.

"And all of this during the police convention up in Modesto."

"Police convention? Why wasn't I invited?"

Hampton patted Stiles reassuringly on the shoulder. "No idea, sir."

"Can you help me?"

"Who are you?" Detective Wade Preston asked, looking up at the man who'd just walked into the squad with a German Shepherd. "Do I know you?" Wade stood up and walked around his desk, straightening his flannel shirt over his t-shirt of Saturday Night Fever.

"My name's Jim Dunbar. I'm a detective with the NYPD. We were on our way to the police convention over in Modesto when my wife witnessed a murder." Dunbar was wearing a suit and tie. Another detective? No detective in Bakersfield would ever dress like that, not all stuffy and color-coordinated like that.

Wade was quiet a second, looking over the big city cop with his blond hair and blue eyes. Finally he said, "You look really familiar."

The other detective sighed and shifted uncomfortably. "Are you done questioning my wife yet?""

"I don't know. Do I know you?"

Detective Dunbar leaned over Wade's desk, one hand landing on the rubber ducky, which let out a pained squeak. Wade snatched the duck back as the German Shepherd looked up hungrily and licked his lips. The dog panted, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. Wade cradled the duck as Dunbar said, "Who would know?" and pretended he hadn't almost sent a duck to the great toy box in the sky.

Wade screwed up his lips and looked at the other man distastefully. Not even an apology… "I don't know who else would know if I know you," he said, hurt.

Dunbar's eyes closed a second. "Who would know if you're done questioning my wife?"

"Oh." Wade glanced across the department at the interview room and saw the head of a woman sitting in there alone. "I don't think we started yet. It's been a busy day."

"Jim!"

Jim looked up, relieved to hear a familiar voice. He'd been wandering around the Bakersfield Police Department for three hours asking questions and getting no answers. He was beginning to think that if he could find his wife, he could solve the case in an hour and be on his way.

"Tom!" Jim flung his arms out, as if he were going to sweep Tom Selway into an embrace.

Tom chuckled. "You're never this happy to see me. What's going on?"

"I can't get any answers."

"Maybe I can help," the young man from earlier said, the one who'd informed Jim they hadn't even started questioning his wife yet. He sounded eager now. "My name's Wade Preston. Detective Wade Preston. And I just got the case file for the investigation involving your lovely wife. Did you know she witnessed a murder? Here in Bakersfield?"

Jim sighed. "Don't tell me you're a homicide detective."

There was a pause. "No… Just a detective. We don't have a lot of murders here in Bakersfield, so a homicide detective would just be bored, sitting around all day… I bet I'd have to go out and kill someone just so I could have one murder to solve."

Jim couldn't believe his ears. "You're joking, right?"

"I did have a murder case last year, my first one," the kids said proudly.

"You solve it?"

"It's still open… I mean, what sort of a person has two right arms? When I figure that out, I'll know who died."

Jim groaned. He turned to Tom. "This kid's yanking my chain, right?" he asked quietly.

"Looks serious enough to me," Tom whispered.

"Detective Preston, this is Detective Selway, also of the NYPD," Jim said, turning back to the kid. If he could get all buddy-buddy with Preston, maybe he and Tom could get a look at that case folder and drop a few hints. In a town as small as Bakersfield, how could it be that difficult to find the murderer?

"I've always wondered," Preston said, "just what does NYPD stand for?"

Jim nearly fell over backwards. This time his mouth did drop open.

"Just kidding!" Preston clapped a hand on his arm and leaned in closer. Jim leaned back. "Is he your partner?" Preston whispered.

"No. Just in the same squad."

"Wow. You have more than two detectives?" He sounded really excited. "Did you know that Detective Selway is a black man?" Preston asked conspiratorially.

"Yeah…" Jim felt the sudden desire to run and escape any more inane questions. He was blind, not dumb. Of course he knew Tom was black.

"My partner's black, too! How cool is that?" Preston made a move and Jim suspected, but hoped he was wrong, that Tom was getting hugged. A second later Jim's fears were confirmed as he was pulled into a group hug.

Jim was standing at ease in front of a room full of cops in blue. Tom glanced over at him, wondering how he could appear so confident. Tom himself was shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

Tom looked around. A bunch of officers were goofing around in the briefing room. The detective who had hugged Tom earlier kept poking his own black partner, who he'd introduced as Paul Gigante from Washington DC, and pointing excitedly at Tom. Tom still hadn't figured out what was so enthralling, but thought maybe he looked like a celebrity or something. That thought made him feel a little better.

Then again, the department's own captain was hiding in the corner and the sergeant was about to start the meeting. That wasn't proper protocol.

"Men," Sergeant Hampton said, "as you can see, we have two of New York's finest standing before you—"

"And their guide dog," one of the tall traffic cops said.

The sergeant ignored the comment. Tom glanced over at Jim, who looked only vaguely more tense, but Tom guessed Jim was used to that sort of thing. He tried to adopt the same nonchalant look, but he knew he was failing miserably.

"And they have agreed to help us solve Bakersfield's latest murder."

There was a smattering of applause.

"I wish them luck finding the body!" the captain yelled, then walked out amidst a sudden silence.

Wade sat on the corner of the table in the interview room, swinging his legs. A beautiful dark-haired woman sat demurely at the table, her legs crossed, her panty hose not run, her lipstick not smeared, her hair and clothes both designer. She wasn't like any woman Wade had ever seen in Bakersfield. He'd have bet his badge she'd never even milked a cow before. And that fascinated him.

Detectives Dunbar and Selway were both standing around at the end of the table. Wade glanced up at Dunbar, wondering how the blind guy had managed to find such a beautiful wife. Wade had laughed at the guide dog comment Denny had thrown out, until he remembered Denny Boyer wasn't one to joke around. Wade wasn't sure how'd he'd managed to overlook the dog's function earlier—maybe because he still had this feeling that James Dunbar looked uncannily familiar.

Paul Gigante was sitting comfortably at the table as if he'd seen women like Christie Dunbar every day. Wade still couldn't understand it—her marrying a guy like Dunbar when she could have had a guy like Wade. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her, suspicions flooding his head: maybe she ran some sort of illegal operation out of her home and married the blind guy so he would look the other way. And the fact that he was a cop was a good cover, too; who would ever suspect a cop's wife of doing something bad?

"Mrs. Dunbar," Paul was asking, "can you tell us anything about the perp?"

"Paul!" Wade reprimanded, "you can't ask that!"

"Why not?" Paul said.

"How's she even supposed to know what a perp is?"

"I know what a perp is," Mrs. Dunbar said.

"You do?" Wade leaned over. "I've always wondered, what is a perp?"

She blinked up at him, her green eyes disbelieving.

"Just kidding." He leaned closer to her. "But, Mrs. Dunbar, just how do you know what a perp is? Do you have some first-hand knowledge of criminal activity?"

She blinked again. "My husband happens to be a cop. I know the Miranda Rights by heart, too." She pressed her lips together snootily.

"Wade, can we just get this over with?" Paul asked.

Wade didn't move his eyes from Mrs. Dunbar's. She could very easily have first-hand knowledge of the Miranda Rights, too. If she was knee-deep in criminal activities, how on earth would her blind husband know that? It would be up to Wade to sift her out. But he'd have to be careful; he couldn't let her suspect a thing.

He straightened up and walked away. "Lighten up, Paul. Seeing these guys," he gestured at the NYPD crowd, "it's a wonder you all lived as long as you have. Why are you so serious all the time?" Wade looked at Dunbar and Selway, both standing there with their arms crossed. "It's a city cop thing, isn't it? All of you from the big city and you think you're so great. Well, I can be serious, too." Wade crossed his own arms and frowned like the other three.

"Honey," Dunbar said.

"Don't call me honey," Wade said plaintively.

"I was talking to my wife."

"Oh."

"Tell us what you saw, what'd the perp look like?"

Mrs. Dunbar shifted uncomfortably and looked up at each of the detectives in turn. Wade kept his serious look in place until she looked up at him. Then he couldn't help but smile. He didn't want her to be scared.

She looked away. "It was a person in a chicken suit."