Detectives of Innocence
Summary: Like a phoenix arising from its own ashes, a cavalry arises from unexpected sources to help a fugitive. This very short story, a continuation of "Surprising Hope", offers a different spin on "Fatal Edition."
Disclaimer: Early Edition characters belong to whoever created them. No copyright infringement intended. No profit is being made.
Author: Tracy Diane Miller
E-mail address: tdmiller82@hotmail.com
Detectives of Innocence
When he was a cop, a cup of fresh "mud" was often what jolted his system into action. "Mud" was the name that his colleagues had dubbed black coffee. He wasn't exactly sure where the name had originated, perhaps those long ago soldiers fighting in the jungles of Nam where the smell of strong coffee was preferably to the smell of blood and decaying carcasses had coined that term. Perhaps "mud" was the much needed drug for their weary bodies and spirits. Perhaps they prayed then that the "mud" that they drank in their tents would sanitize their psyches, numb them to the sounds of heavy artillery swirling around them and the deaths that surrounded them.
Of course, it didn't.
But as he sat there in a booth in a diner on Lake Shore Drive, he appreciated the strength of the hot liquid that he gratefully poured into his body. He even appreciated the soggy tuna on rye sandwich that was masquerading as his lunch. He had been teased over the years by his fellow cops that his substantial girth could use some trimming. They argued that he could afford to skip a meal or two. It was spirited ribbing to detract from the high pressure of a stressful and sometimes thankless job. Okay, so what if there was some truth in their jest? He didn't care. His gruff exterior, bellowing out orders to subordinates, and a well-endowed physique, were additional assets that he stored in his reservoir of police training, experience, and gut instinct. Being a cop wasn't just a job for him, it was a part of him. He had retired from the Chicago Police Department a decorated detective. His "official" duties had ended several years ago. His interest in this case wasn't professional. It was personal.
Crumb glanced at his watch. She was late. Investigative reporters. When he was a cop, he couldn't decide whether reporters were friends or foes. How many times had he recalled a sensitive investigation being hindered by a reporter's desire to report the news? He had nothing against the public's right to know, but he did believe that information should be tempered when it jeopardized the crime-solving mission. But he wasn't working on this case as a cop and she hadn't called him as a reporter seeking a story.
It was to be a symbiotic relationship of sorts between the reporter and former cop. They needed each other for the mutual goal of putting right a miscarriage of justice and clearing the name of a wrongly accused man.
Gary Hobson.
Crumb was enjoying a vacation in an undisclosed location when he received her call. He wasn't sure how she had found him (trade secret is all that she would say), but she quickly explained the purpose of her call and solicited his help. She told him about Frank Scanlon's murder and Hobson's arrest for the crime. She highlighted the police's case against Hobson, most notably how Hobson had been found hovering over the corpus delicti with the "smoking gun" cooling not far from the corpse; how Hobson had failed a lie detector test; and how the police had in its possession an incriminating audio tape of Hobson calling Scanlon's cell phone a mere hours before the reporter's murder. She seemed to be privy to information that had been neither provided to the media nor released to the public. When Crumb questioned her on that, she would only say that she had her "sources". Hobson's latest flight from justice seemed like further indicia of his guilt.
And she had done her homework. She knew about his relationship with Hobson from the first moment he had joined in the investigation of an attempted bank robbery in which Hobson had been involved in. She knew about the demented "teddy bear" bomber that he had sought who plagued Chicago one Christmas and how it was Hobson who had provided crucial information that helped break the case. She knew about how Hobson had been suspected in the murder of Harry Hawks and the attempted assassination of the President and how he had saved Hobson's life from a killer. And she knew that Crumb had taken a personal interest (by participating in the delicate hostage negotiations) when Hobson and a state's attorney had been held hostage by a crazed parolee.
"I know you care about what happens to Gary." She said before she ended the call. Crumb wasn't one for "touchy feeling" displays of affection nor was he about to admit his feelings about Hobson to this stranger. The only reply that he had offered was that there was no way that Hobson was a killer and he was determined to help her prove that.
Why hadn't Hobson called him when he got into trouble? He would have helped the kid. Crumb prayed that they would be able to solve this murder before Hobson found himself on the wrong side of a cop's bullet.
"Zeke Crumb?" A female voice standing over him inquired.
Crumb looked up at the attractive brunette with dark curly hair. "Yeah?"
"Meredith Carson." She introduced herself before taking a seat inside of the booth. "I've just come into some information that will help us in the Hobson investigation." She revealed.
The End.
Summary: Like a phoenix arising from its own ashes, a cavalry arises from unexpected sources to help a fugitive. This very short story, a continuation of "Surprising Hope", offers a different spin on "Fatal Edition."
Disclaimer: Early Edition characters belong to whoever created them. No copyright infringement intended. No profit is being made.
Author: Tracy Diane Miller
E-mail address: tdmiller82@hotmail.com
Detectives of Innocence
When he was a cop, a cup of fresh "mud" was often what jolted his system into action. "Mud" was the name that his colleagues had dubbed black coffee. He wasn't exactly sure where the name had originated, perhaps those long ago soldiers fighting in the jungles of Nam where the smell of strong coffee was preferably to the smell of blood and decaying carcasses had coined that term. Perhaps "mud" was the much needed drug for their weary bodies and spirits. Perhaps they prayed then that the "mud" that they drank in their tents would sanitize their psyches, numb them to the sounds of heavy artillery swirling around them and the deaths that surrounded them.
Of course, it didn't.
But as he sat there in a booth in a diner on Lake Shore Drive, he appreciated the strength of the hot liquid that he gratefully poured into his body. He even appreciated the soggy tuna on rye sandwich that was masquerading as his lunch. He had been teased over the years by his fellow cops that his substantial girth could use some trimming. They argued that he could afford to skip a meal or two. It was spirited ribbing to detract from the high pressure of a stressful and sometimes thankless job. Okay, so what if there was some truth in their jest? He didn't care. His gruff exterior, bellowing out orders to subordinates, and a well-endowed physique, were additional assets that he stored in his reservoir of police training, experience, and gut instinct. Being a cop wasn't just a job for him, it was a part of him. He had retired from the Chicago Police Department a decorated detective. His "official" duties had ended several years ago. His interest in this case wasn't professional. It was personal.
Crumb glanced at his watch. She was late. Investigative reporters. When he was a cop, he couldn't decide whether reporters were friends or foes. How many times had he recalled a sensitive investigation being hindered by a reporter's desire to report the news? He had nothing against the public's right to know, but he did believe that information should be tempered when it jeopardized the crime-solving mission. But he wasn't working on this case as a cop and she hadn't called him as a reporter seeking a story.
It was to be a symbiotic relationship of sorts between the reporter and former cop. They needed each other for the mutual goal of putting right a miscarriage of justice and clearing the name of a wrongly accused man.
Gary Hobson.
Crumb was enjoying a vacation in an undisclosed location when he received her call. He wasn't sure how she had found him (trade secret is all that she would say), but she quickly explained the purpose of her call and solicited his help. She told him about Frank Scanlon's murder and Hobson's arrest for the crime. She highlighted the police's case against Hobson, most notably how Hobson had been found hovering over the corpus delicti with the "smoking gun" cooling not far from the corpse; how Hobson had failed a lie detector test; and how the police had in its possession an incriminating audio tape of Hobson calling Scanlon's cell phone a mere hours before the reporter's murder. She seemed to be privy to information that had been neither provided to the media nor released to the public. When Crumb questioned her on that, she would only say that she had her "sources". Hobson's latest flight from justice seemed like further indicia of his guilt.
And she had done her homework. She knew about his relationship with Hobson from the first moment he had joined in the investigation of an attempted bank robbery in which Hobson had been involved in. She knew about the demented "teddy bear" bomber that he had sought who plagued Chicago one Christmas and how it was Hobson who had provided crucial information that helped break the case. She knew about how Hobson had been suspected in the murder of Harry Hawks and the attempted assassination of the President and how he had saved Hobson's life from a killer. And she knew that Crumb had taken a personal interest (by participating in the delicate hostage negotiations) when Hobson and a state's attorney had been held hostage by a crazed parolee.
"I know you care about what happens to Gary." She said before she ended the call. Crumb wasn't one for "touchy feeling" displays of affection nor was he about to admit his feelings about Hobson to this stranger. The only reply that he had offered was that there was no way that Hobson was a killer and he was determined to help her prove that.
Why hadn't Hobson called him when he got into trouble? He would have helped the kid. Crumb prayed that they would be able to solve this murder before Hobson found himself on the wrong side of a cop's bullet.
"Zeke Crumb?" A female voice standing over him inquired.
Crumb looked up at the attractive brunette with dark curly hair. "Yeah?"
"Meredith Carson." She introduced herself before taking a seat inside of the booth. "I've just come into some information that will help us in the Hobson investigation." She revealed.
The End.