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10-52

Lawrence Basher

    “You have one new voice message received five minute ago. Press one to play the message. Press-“ I press one, the phone beeps.
    “Hey, dad. I’m just calling to wish you a merry Christmas. I know this year’s been hard for you after losing mom. It’s hasn’t been easy for me either. Dad, I just want you to know that I love you and I hope to see you again soon,” Julie says in the voicemail, a door opens in the background. “I gotta go now. I love you, Dad. Bye.”
    “End of voicemail. Press one-“ I press three, the phone beeps, “Saved,” I hang up the phone, a smile forms across my face. Snow falls from the night sky as I drive down the New York City streets. Happy Holiday signs and Christmas lights aluminate the sidewalks in a red and green glow.
    “All units be advised, we have a possible 10-52A at The Belnord Hotel,” the radio dispatcher says. I grab the mic from the cb radio.
    “Copy dispatch. This is Detective Parker, Badge number twenty-two eleven. Can you give me an address on that,” I ask.
    “Copy twenty-two eleven. It’s 209 West 87th Street.”
    “Copy. On my way.”
    “Copy twenty-two eleven. Stay safe out there.”
    “Will do. Twenty-two eleven out.”
    The red and blue lights of the squad car overtake the glow of the Christmas lights. The sound of the sirens and the roar of the engine break the silence of night as I race down the street.
    Entering the lobby, I feel the cold chill of the outside air leave my body. The warm lighting shimmers off the wood panels of the wall.
    “Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Belnord Hotel. How may I help you,” The young front desk attendant says as I walk into the hotel.
    “Hi. I’m Detective Harrison Parker. I’m here because someone reported a possible domestic dispute in one of your rooms,” I say.
    “Yes, a few of the guests filed noise complaints. I tried calling the room, but there was no answer,” the attendant says, her voice shaking.
    “Room number?”
    “Five-o-two.”
    “That’s the fifth floor,” I ask as I point up.
    “Yes, sir. On your right.”
    “Thank you,” I say walking towards the elevator.
    The elevator stops on the fifth floor and the doors open. I walk out and see room five-o-two. I knock on the door, nobody answers.
    “New York police. Open up,” I say, knocking again.
    Still nothing. Placing my ear to the door, I can hear crying.
    “Open the door or I’ll have to enter by force.”
    The door opens with the force of my kick and I draw the Glock 19 from my hip holster. I enter the room.
    “Hello,” I say.
    A man sits on the floor, his back against the wall. I kneel down in front of him.
    “Sir, are you okay,” I ask.
    “Yes, but I think my girlfriend’s hurt,” he says, pointing at the woman on the bed.
    Standing up, I walk over to the bed. A dead woman lays face down on the bed before me. Blood flows from the open wounds on her wrists, pooling on the bed. The white sheets now stained red. I place my fingers on her neck. Nothing.
    “This is Detective Parker, Badge number twenty-two eleven. Requesting an ambulance at The Belnord Hotel. Room five-o-two,” I say into my radio.
    “Copy twenty-two eleven. They’re on their way,”
    Holstering my gun, I pull back her blood soaked blonde hair to reveal her face. Her familiar brown eyes stare back at me. Julie.
    I turn to face the man. He’s on his feet charging at me. He tackles me to the ground, landing on top of me. He throws a punch. I throw my arm up blocking it. I counter with a punch of my own, it connects with his face knocking him off balance. Pushing off the ground with my foot, I roll him over on his back. Kneeling on top of him, I throw punch after punch. They all connect with his face until my hand is covered in his blood. Standing up, he tries to stand too.
    “Stay down. I might actually hurt you if you get up again.”
    “Okay,” the man says, blood running down his face.
    Deputy Jason Masters enters the room with two other officers. He looks at me and then looks at the man sitting bloody on the floor.
    “On your stomach, hands behind your back,” Jason says.
    The man complies. Jason holsters his gun and grabs the handcuffs from his belt. He cuffs the man.
    A few hours later I’m sitting at my desk at the precinct filing the report.
    “They found bags of cocaine hidden in the bathroom,” Jason says, walking over to my desk.
    I stay silent.
    “Everybody’s saying it was suicide and homicide is just wasting their time,” Jason says.
    “Did they get his name,” I ask.
    “Jordan Brown.”
    “I want to talk to him,” I say.
    “I’ll go with you.”
    Entering the interrogation room, the man looks up at me. His face swollen from our fight.
    “Hello, Jordan. How are you,” I ask, sitting down.
    “Fine.”
    “I’m well too, thanks for asking.”
    “I didn’t. “
    “My hand kinda hurts though. You think I should get it checked out,” I ask, holding my hand up. Jordan stays silent, “No? Yeah, I didn’t think so either.”
    “What do you want,” Jordan asks.
    “Why did you kill her, Jordan,” I ask.
    “She killed herself,” Jordan says, tears rolling down his cheeks.
    “Did she strangle herself,” I ask.
    “What? No, she cut her wrists. You saw her.”
    “Well, then can you tell me why her neck is all bruised in a pattern that suggests strangulation,” I ask.
    He’s silent.
    “Why don’t you tell me what really happened, Jordan.”
    “I’d left the room to get some ice. When I came back she was getting off the phone. I was scared that she’d called the police. She’d threatened to do it before if I didn’t stop selling the drugs.
    “The cocaine in the bathroom?”
    “Yes, I got so angry, I wasn’t thinking straight. I started screaming at her and she was screaming at me. That just made me angrier. I just wanted her to stop screaming.”
    “So, you strangled her to death and then cut her wrists to make it look like suicide,” I ask.
    “Yes.”
    “Are you confessing to the murder of Julie Parker,” I ask.
    “Yes. Yes, I am,” Jordan says, tears streaming down his face.
    “Book him, Jason,” I say, walking out of the room.
    “Yes sir.”
    The wind blows on another cold winter night. But this is the coldest one I’ve felt in a long while.
    “Hey, dad. I’m just calling to wish you a merry Christmas. I know this year’s been hard for you after losing mom. It’s hasn’t been easy for me either. Dad, I just want you to know that I love you and I hope to see you again soon. I gotta go now. I love you, Dad. Bye.”
    “End of voicemail. Press-” I end the call.
    “Merry Christmas, baby girl. I love you and I’ll see you again one day, I promise.”

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