The Hopkins Case – Chapter Two
"Make up your mind, will you? Yesterday before I left you said I should drop everything and find that, quote, boil-on-your-butt, jacked-up junkie, Donny Hopkins, unquote, so you could get that, quote, self-righteous, parrot-loving, idiot judge, unquote, off your back." Tim stood with his arms folded tightly, his mouth barely moving as he spoke, jaw clenched, his eyes boring into the shiny top of his boss's head. Some days he got a little frustrated being the junior Marshal, constantly pulled and pushed into any slot that needed a warm body. One size fits all. Sure, it was a rite of passage, and a right pain in the ass.
Art was searching under piles of papers on his desk for something, came up for air to reply, "Yeah, well, that was yesterday. I was annoyed. Now it's today, and today," he plucked a printout of an email from under the morning paper and handed it to Tim, "I'm saying that you are to drop everything because you are now the personal slave of Deputy van Hassel and his partner from the Vegas Bureau."
Tim eyed the paper Art was waving, finally reached out tentatively and took it. "And you're telling me he's a bigger hassle than the Judge?" he questioned, leaning now, back at the doorway for a quick escape. "What's he doing in Lexington?"
"He's been tracking a hard case wanted in more states than I've worked in. So, yes, he's a bigger hassle. Lousy pun, by the way."
"It's early. Haven't started my second pot of coffee yet." Tim read through the email. "So the guy they're after's got family in Kentucky. Sounds like a desperate quest to me. This van Hassel dude run out of leads?"
"Probably exactly how it is. There's been one," Art facetiously wiggled a pinky finger to illustrate, "highly questionable report. A sighting near London. I think someone's hoping for some reward money. Anyway, he just needs a tour guide."
"Why me?"
"You, my son," Art replied, "were requested."
Tim's eyebrows responded to the statement.
Art smiled in return. Tim's shoulders sagged.
"You want to hear what I'm not telling you?" Art asked.
"No," Tim moped. "Okay, sure, what?"
"Van Hassel was a captain in the Reserves before quitting to join the Marshals Service. Never in a war zone is what I've heard. I suspect he just loves the idea of having a former Army Sergeant to boss around." Art's face softened up a bit with some well-meant sympathy. "Sorry."
Tim shrugged. "Officers I can handle. I've had practice. Fortunately I won't have to say much, just 'yessir.'" The word came across more indolent than the lean.
Art pointed an authoritative finger. "You will not call him 'sir.' I forbid it."
"Yessir," Tim snapped still leaning.
"Smartass little shit." Art muttered then stretched leisurely. "They should show up around ten. Commandeer the board room so he can bring you up to date on the case."
"Yessir."
"And get the hell out of my office," Art said mildly.
"Yessir, right away, sir. Getting the hell outta your off…"
"TIM!"
Van Hassel was a cup of needed coffee that you take a sip of only to discover the cream's sour and then the taste stays with you for the rest of the day. He was that aggravating. And he winked a lot. It was creepy.
He was desperate to get Tim talking, desperate and persistent. He tried a different approach every fifteen minutes, attempting to find the door that opened into the storeroom of anecdotes about the war in Afghanistan that he was sure existed in Tim's head. He was equally sure that Tim had stacked those stories away neatly within reach and was just dying to pull them out and parade them for the next person who showed some interest. His efforts became more obvious as the morning wore on. It was almost comical, like sour cream in your coffee.
"The military is an interesting experience, isn't it? Not at all like real life," he said, a wink for conspiracy, mutual understanding.
Tim was happy to disappoint him and not talk about the war. He resisted stoically. "This is real life?" he countered, pointing at the table to the here and now. "Are you sure?"
Van Hassel winked again. "I get it. Good answer. Into the heart of man, into the heart of darkness. Which is more real, right? Civilization or the blood and guts of war?"
Tim stared at him, stared back at the report on the table that they were discussing, took a deep and calming breath. "So, what's your plan here in Kentucky? You really think you're going to find something on your guy?"
They discussed their options, identified the most promising first step in the hunt. Tim pulled up a map on a screen and pointed out the location of the supposed sighting then the location of the relatives. He suggested talking to the family first since the man who reported seeing their fugitive was known for being drunk most days of the week.
"I always enjoyed the orienteering exercises in the military," van Hassel interrupted. "Did you ever have to go into enemy territory, map and compass, rifle and water?"
"GPS is a wonderful thing," Tim replied curtly.
After this hundredth attempt at breaching the walls, van Hassel's partner intervened. "Leave the kid alone, Van. It's clear he doesn't want to talk about it."
Tim's feelings weren't in the least hurt when van Hassel decided the ex-Army Ranger wasn't as interesting as he'd hoped.
His partner suggested, and Tim suspected it was for his benefit, that they didn't need any help driving to London to interview the fugitive's family after lunch. Tim called ahead to get them an introduction to someone in the London Police Department and waved them out the door with a promise to compile a list of known heroin dealers in the area that might be a possible contact point for their man since sooner or later he would have to sell the drugs. Tim didn't tell them that he'd already done it before they arrived that morning.
The case was interesting though, and Tim read through the files as he tidied up the conference room. Simon Tislow, van Hassel's fugitive, was part of a counterfeit ring, lately of Las Vegas. Bored with the fake money racket, he took some of his funny twenties and bought himself a suitcase full of heroin. The twenties were from a rejected lot and one of the drug dealers was nabbed trying to spend some. The rest of the gang came after Tislow, guns blazing, bodies bleeding on the street, and the counterfeiter-turned-drug-dealer did a disappearing act, on the run somewhere in the fifty states, or forty-eight anyway. Tislow definitely trumped Hopkins.
Tim unpinned the last of the items from the board, tossed everything into a box and carried it out to his desk.
Art was standing in his doorway surveying his domain, watched Tim walk past and couldn't resist a comment. "Got rid of him in a hurry. Maybe you could work your magic on Judge Taylor for me next time he comes in."
Tim looked over. "Jesus Christ, Art, if you want me back on the Hopkins case just say so. I'll drop everything I'm doing and get right on it." With that he dropped the box with a thud onto the floor behind his desk, actions to the words.
"Bit grumpy, are we?" Art strolled over, arms crossed.
"I've been dodging questions all morning about Afghanistan. Yeah, I'm grumpy."
Tim didn't think it prudent to mention Raylan's contribution to his bad mood – that Raylan had interrupted his quality time with van Hassel, waving him out in the middle of the meeting to cajole and wheedle until Tim caved and made a second phone call to his FBI friend, this time for the exact whereabouts of Sammy Tonin. Give the kid a box of matches and let him go play. Tim wanted to cuff himself to Raylan and guard that precious bit of trust that he'd handed over. Instead he was chained to the office, repeating more Hail Marys. He felt like he was left holding a butterfly mine which sometime in the next 24 hours was going to detonate and do some damage. He was grumpy and edgy and worried about his friend's ass and worried about Raylan and what Raylan was probably doing that he shouldn't be doing.
Art at least got the broad picture, held out a hand, placating. "Why don't you hand over that Hopkins folder? I'll pass it along. You've done your bit."
"You know," Tim hesitated, "I think I could use a mindless distraction about now. Why don't I run with it – for the day anyway. I'll see what I can find."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, it'll be relaxing. And it'll get me away from van Hassel," and Raylan, he thought but didn't say, still clutching that butterfly mine.
"Alright." Art turned to head back to his office.
"And you said I could shoot him if I find him," Tim added, fake enthusiasm.
"I was kidding and you know it."
"Do I?"
"Tim."
Tim grinned in response to the single-syllable threat and did a search for the name Dempsey in the vicinity of Irvine, a list of cold calls for Donny Hopkins' girlfriend. After some filtering, he narrowed it down to four possible addresses, a start, scribbled them on a piece of paper, slipped it into the case folder and stood up to let Art know he was heading out. He was stopped cold by Raylan's appearance at the door, his face a comical mix of annoyed and sheepish, escorted into the office between two FBI agents.
Art hurried out, shields up. "Can I help you gentlemen?"
"Which one of your men is Deputy Gutterson?" asked the lead agent, flashing his badge importantly. "I have some questions for him."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Tim muttered when Art looked his way. He dropped the Hopkins file back on his desk.
The butterfly mine had detonated.
"Well, next time you need a favor, the answer's no," Tim grumbled at Raylan then sank angrily into his chair, flexing his hand, happy to find he hadn't lost any digits when this shit with Sammy Tonin blew up. Agent Barkley was gone but the threat to Tim's friend lingered like gun residue. He prayed she would dodge the bullet coming her way.
Tim watched Raylan saunter out, sat staring through the doors at the empty hall long minutes after Raylan had disappeared. He spun abruptly around in his chair to face the window, held his phone gingerly, finally dialed. He tried to think of an appropriate apology while it rang, some way to make it up to his friend. It went to voice mail and he stumbled through a message then tossed the phone back on his desk, fuming.
"Coffee," he stated aloud.
Rachel looked over, "Pardon?"
"I'm going for coffee, you want anything?"
"I'm fine."
Tim stood up and jammed an arm in his jacket sleeve then another, swiped his phone and wallet off of his desk.
"Where're you going?" Art called out.
"I'm going for coffee," Tim repeated more loudly this time.
Art pointed at the kitchenette with the pen he was holding. "We got coffee. Fresh pot."
Tim eyed the coffee machine like it was threatening him. His hand twitched and he appeared to be contemplating pulling his sidearm and shooting it. "Who made it?" he demanded.
Rachel pointed at Nelson and Nelson raised a tentative hand, taking ownership of the brew.
"I'm going out for coffee," Tim repeated once more and strode angrily toward the door.
Art had gotten up from behind his desk, ambled out. He addressed Tim's retreating back, a piercing bit of wisdom. "Lord, protect me from my friends; my enemies I can handle."
Tim stopped, turned around, false smile. "You want something?"
"Sure – large, please."
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