Nocturnal

Pookie Phones a Friend

Sweat started to pool in Pookie’s armpits. Carrying a grown man up four flights of stairs was a surprising and unwelcome workout. His stupid partner needed to find an apartment with an elevator that worked.

“Bri-Bri, if you puke on me, I’m going to punch you in the taint.”

Bryan mumbled something unintelligible. He didn’t weigh all that much, maybe one-seventy, but the guy could barely walk. Bryan was sweating, too, but from a fever as opposed to exhaustion.

Pookie was making bad choices and he knew it. Helping Bryan up to his apartment? This guy could be a killer. Not a sniper from fifty yards kind of killer, but rather the type that tears a kid’s arm off and paints pretty pictures with it.

They reached the fourth floor. Legs exhausted, undershirt sticking to his sweaty skin, Pookie half helped, half dragged Bryan to the door.

“Come on, Bryan, try to walk.”

“Sorry,” Bryan said. “Man, I hurt all over.”

“You sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”

Bryan shook his head. “Just sick is all.” He dug into his pocket for his keys, tried to unlock the door with a shaking hand. Pookie had to take the keys and do it for him.

“Just sick,” Bryan repeated as they stepped inside. “Feel like the inside of a donkey’s butthole.”

“Live donkey or dead donkey?”

“Dead.”

“Ah yes,” Pookie said. “I hate that feeling.”

“Tell me about it. Lemme go. Going to bed.”

Pookie slowly released his hold on Bryan. Bryan made it three steps before he stumbled over one of the dozens of unpacked boxes cluttering the small hallway. Pookie stepped in quick and slid under Bryan’s shoulder, stabilizing him.

“Wow, Bryan, unpack much?”

“I’m getting to it.”

Pookie helped Bryan around the boxes and into the small bedroom. It had to be a little bit of a shock to move from Robin’s spacious two-bedroom apartment to this tiny one-bedroom affair, but six months on and he still hadn’t fully settled in? Bryan had set up the TV and the couch, hung up his all-black wardrobe, and that was apparently all the guy needed.

Pookie gently hip-tossed Bryan into the bed.

Bryan opened one puffy, bloodshot eye. “You gonna undress me, Daddy?”

“Don’t think so, fag.”

“Homophobe.”

“And proud of it,” Pookie said. “Bible’s pretty clear on that one, big guy. I’m whipped, brother, so either you get nekkid on your own or you sleep in your clothes.”

Bryan didn’t answer. Just like that, he’d already fallen asleep.

Pookie felt sweat cooling on his forehead. He wiped the sweat away with his hand, then wiped his hand on Bryan’s pant leg. Whatever bug Bryan had, Pookie now surely had it as well.

Pookie stared down at his partner. He wasn’t going to leave Bryan alone tonight, that was for sure. Besides, if someone was — somehow — putting thoughts into Bryan’s head, they sure weren’t beaming them in with a magic wand. Had to be something in the apartment. While Bryan slept, Pookie would tear the place apart.

Bryan’s Sig Sauer was still in its shoulder holster. Pookie gently pulled the firearm free. Then, he took the Seecamp wallet from Bryan’s back pocket. Best not to leave him with knives, either — Pookie pulled the combat knife from the forearm sheath, and finally, gently removed the Twitch knife from Bryan’s belt. Who wore a knife right next to their Jimmy Beans?

Psycho killers, that’s who.

Pookie looked at the pile of weapons in his hands and couldn’t help wondering if one of those knives might have cut open Oscar Woody’s belly.

Two things sat on the nightstand next to Bryan’s bed — a small, framed picture showing Bryan, Robin and her dog, Emma, and a cheap, spiral-bound notebook. The notebook was open to a drawing.

A drawing of a triangle and a circle, with a smaller circle in the middle, a slashed curve beneath.

Pookie walked into the kitchenette and set the arsenal on the small table.

Bryan just couldn’t have done that horrible thing.

Couldn’t have.

Pookie was playing games with people’s lives. Bryan Clauser was a goddamn suspect, yet Pookie was acting like his nursemaid. If only he could look deeper into Bryan’s soul.

Maybe there was one person who could do just that.

Bryan’s fridge held some leftover pizza, some leftover Chinese, half a leftover burrito and one Sapporo. Pookie opened the beer, then leaned against the kitchen counter. He pulled out his phone and dialed.

A sleepy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Robin-Robin Bo-Bobbin. How’re they hanging?”

A sigh, the rustle of covers, the soft clink of a metal tag on a dog’s collar.

“Pookie, they don’t hang. In fact, I don’t even have they. It’s late, and I’m exhausted. Are you okay?”

“Right as rain,” he said. “I hear you’re running the show at the ME office while Metz is out. Congrats, girl.”

“Doesn’t mean anything yet,” she said. “Just more work. But thanks. In the past forty-eight hours, I’ve talked to the mayor and Chief Zou. She called to tell me Verde had the Oscar Woody case.”

“He does,” Pookie said. “Bless Verde’s black, black heart.”

A pause. “Why does he get it and not you guys?”

Pookie took a sip of beer. “To be honest, Bo-Bobbin, I’m not really sure. It’s kind of … well, it’s kind of weird.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Kind of weird on my end, too.”

“How so?”

“It’s Verde. I’ve worked with him before. He’s usually okay.”

“He’s an ass-hat.”

“Yes, but as far as ass-hats go, he’s an okay ass-hat. You know what I mean. Anyway, he’s not my favorite guy or anything, but he’s fine to work with. Except for this case. He seems super … intense. And it feels like he’s rushing things.”

Rushing things. Pookie hadn’t realized it until now, but that’s exactly how he felt about Chief Zou’s actions. She was trying to hurry the case along as fast as possible.

“Bo-Bobbin, truth be told I wasn’t calling about Oscar Woody.”

“Then get to the point so I can get some sleep.”

Pookie hesitated. If Bryan found out about this call, he’d feel betrayed. Bros before hoes, even though Robin Hudson was about as far from a ho as one could get.

“Robin, do you think Bryan could ever hurt someone? Like, really bad, and not just in self-defense or doing his job?”

Now she paused. “He never laid a hand on me.”

“Of course not,” Pookie said quickly, apologetically. “That’s not what I mean. I’ll just say that he’s going through a tough time, and I really need the take of someone who’s close to him.”

“Was close.”

Pookie used a quick sip to hold back his laugh.

“That’s a good one,” he said. “If I say I believe that, will you also try to sell me a bridge? Come on, you guys are kidding yourselves.”

“Pookie, I don’t need a lecture on—”

“Sorry,” he said. “Not trying to play matchmaker. Just please, for me, answer the question. Do you think Bryan is capable of a revenge attack? Or maybe even something unprovoked?”

He waited. The beer didn’t taste like anything.

“Yeah,” she said in a whisper. “Yeah, I do.”

He’d known what her answer would be, because he’d already come to the same conclusion. But believing Bryan was capable of it didn’t mean that Bryan had done it.

Pookie would not turn his back on his friend.

“Thanks, Bo-Bobbin.”

“You’re welcome. Take care of him, Pookie.”

“I’m trying, darlin’, I’m trying. Night.”

He hung up.

Please, God, don’t let me be wrong about him.