Long Arm of the Law 4

Brown glanced quickly at the walkie-talkie pinned to his uniform chest. The little LED was lit and the volume was at a seven. Behind him, he heard a quick burst of static as the rookie did a quick radio test.

"What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Alma?" There was no reason to admit there was never a call to them. Brown noted the fur's lump over his left eye, the four not very shallow lacerations on his right cheek, and a tear on the right shoulder of the somewhat faded print dashiki. Briefly, he wondered if Mrs. Alma's demeanor was being affected by her illness.

"My son, Luka," the cat snapped at them, stepping back, allowing them in. Brown's heart sank into his chest a little bit. There was really no reason for him to be surprised. The mess inside the apartment, surprised him. The place had been tossed as effectively as anything he'd seen in the movies. A few cushions had even been ripped open. Inanely, Brown wondered Luka had gotten the microfiche or whatever McGuffin he'd gone looking for.

In short order, the cat explained how Luka and some scumbag gutter-monkey, had simply unlocked the door and walked in. Mr. Alma had been in the bathroom, injecting himself with insulin. He was phobic about needles and the process sometimes left him shaky. He hadn't heard Luka enter the apartment. And when he did hear something being moved in the livingroom, he panicked. He dialed 911 from his cell phone. If his wife wasn't sleeping in their unlocked bedroom, he would not have called them, but... still, when he heard Luka's voice, he told the dispatcher to forgive him, it was just his son. He went out to confront his son and the ape punched him down.

They two young men were obviously going through withdrawal of some sort. Luka slapped his father around demanding money that he "knew" was hidden somewhere in the apartment. Eventually, they left, taking maybe 20 dollars from Fred Alma's wallet and his remaining needles he used for his insulin. He hit redial and told the dispatchers to send someone right away.

That two stoners got only 20 bucks, threw up a big red flag for Brown. $20 was not enough to score. They'd be looking for their next mark, and from the description of the depths of withdrawal systems, and the violence they displayed, Brown knew they had no time to waste. He stepped to the side and called it in, giving as detailed description as he could of Luka and the ape.

Hewitt stepped in with the interview, asking Mr. Alma to describe the clothes the two were wearing and the height of the ape. Brown called this information over to dispatch as fast as the cat gave it.

"What are you doing here?" a voice screeched, "I told you not to come here!"

Brown turned to face Mrs Alma standing in her door frame, anger and rage animating her, even in her illness. Her plain and stained house dress was matted with dirty fur and clumps of stains Brown's throwback senses identified as coffee and body fluids. She'd worn this rag all week, he could tell. He might have shot her as a zombie; if he hadn't known she was a chronic sufferer of some weird feline only disease. It left her with red crusty eyes and other disgusting symptoms which produce more fluids from her body than Brown generated in a year.

"Lucille," Alma ordered as he went to her. He stopped short from actually grabbing her, as if her pale, dirty coat bothered him, too. "Go back to bad, please. You need to rest."

She pushed past her husband, scary eyes riveted on Brown. That unreasoning hate he saw hiding in her eyes from time to time now burned with a fever across her entire face.

"I called and canceled you people! I told them not to send anyone! Why are you here?!"

The husband tried to turn her around, but her fur was up and she wasn't having any of it. "Lucy, why would you do that? The boy's gone crazy. He hurt me, he will hurt someone else, if the police do not stop him."

She hissed at him, with a slight turn of her head. "He is Our Son. He is Our Responsibility."

"If he is, then it is a responsibility that we have failed!" He tugged on her arms, and to Brown's surprise, she seemed to wilt, turning around to her husband. "He is old enough to be responsible for himself, now." The cat half carried her back to the bedroom.

Brown had never seen her weaken before like that. It made him sad.

"We can get him help," Hewitt called out, helpfully, softly.

Mrs. Alma burst into shuddering tears, and her husband turned to glare at them with an exhausted look.

They'd both had heard this lie before.

The bedroom door closed behind them.