The Patrolman - 23

 

 

23.

 

 

 

Taxi drivers who ‘do nights’ don’t need things spelled out to them. This one picked her up from Madre Jalisco's and dropped her outside a mom-and-pop deli. June Hartsfield climbed out and paid the man. If looks could kill. The driver looked her up and down. She was still in last night’s dress, fur coat, open-toe wedges, and carrying a $50 designer handbag. She could see what he was thinking. She asked if he could hang around for thirty minutes, but he returned her change and hit the gas. The yellow cab made a right on Wilshire Boulevard and she got her answer.

She found Witmer Street deserted, surprising. When she entered Good Samaritan Hospital she was even more surprised to see the lobby empty. It hadn’t turned nine, and the last visitors had already left for the night. Visiting hours finished in ten minutes. She didn't bother registering at the information desk and took the self-service elevator. Yellow light basked the fourth floor. It smelled of coffee and lye. No night staff, no visitors. Silent. Hartsfield was tense and alert now. She checked inside the rooms on the way to the nurses' station. The beds were empty. No mothers bouncing toddlers, no grandmas reading, no kids hop-scotching. There was one Sister in the nurses' station. Hartsfield continued to her husband's room. The door was open. She went in. Colm was there – but where had the other guy gone? She could make out Colm’s face in the dull light. She stayed there for a few moments to make sure he was all right.

She knocked at the nurse's station. ‘My husband's in Room D. What happened to the other fella with him?'

The Sister was an old crone with a great deal of confidence in her position. A cigar smoldered in the ashtray under her wrist. She continued reading her book until she found a place to stop. Her voice was dry as paper. 'Which patient?'

'The one involved in a hit and run.'

‘Oh, Mr. Bishop,’ she said. ‘He passed away this afternoon.'

'I'm sorry to hear that. Can you tell me where all the other patients have gone?'

According to the Sister, there was a suspected power outage on the fourth floor. It affected most of the rooms. Her husband's room seemed to run on a separate circuit. The other patients got moved to the lower floors for closer supervision. ‘It was the Staff Doctor’s idea,’ she said. ‘We think a small tremor caused it.’

Hartsfield was already out the door, trying the light switches in the other rooms. She worked both sides to the end of the hall. There was nothing wrong with them. The Sister smiled at her. ‘I expected the power to come back. Dr. Torrance gets in at six. I'll leave a note for him to return the patients to their rooms.’

‘May I use your phone?’

'I'm meant to keep the line open for emergencies,' she said shortly.

'It won’t take a minute.’

The look on the Sister’s face told her: 'It better not.' But she said nothing and stalked out.

Hartsfield got the hospital operator to call the club. No answer. She got through to the office on her second attempt. ‘Brenda, it’s June.’

‘How are you holding up, my sweet?’

‘I’m down at Good Samaritan – there’s nobody here.’

‘How is he?'

‘Sleeping. Everything Jake at the club?’

‘Fine,’ she said.

Something in her tone. What's with her? ‘Are you okay?’

There was a long pause. ‘I’m so sorry. Elmer called me from Wilshire. He sounded real paranoid. Some new broom told Elmer he had enough to put him away for assault. He asked where you were and I told him you'd left to visit your husband. I haven't heard from him since this afternoon. I'm so sorry.'

‘Elmer’s coming here? He's coming after Colm?'

'I don't know.'

For the first time since it all happened, a furious anger started inside June Hartsfield. Lady Luck had turned her back on her ever since she’d laid eyes on that money. It had ruined her marriage and broken up her fragile little family. Whatever she thought about Colm, she was still his wife. She wouldn't let Elmer-fucking-Jackson silence him. A thought occurred to her. No, she couldn't. There had to be someone else who could help. She thought about it long and hard. No, there wasn't. She hung up on Brenda Allen and picked the cradle back up. She got the hospital operator to give her Hollywood Police Station.

The cop who answered didn’t get a word in edgeways.

‘My name’s June Hartsfield and this message is for Lacey and Carruthers. Tell them I’m at Good Samaritan Hospital and a man's coming here to kill me and my husband.'

She hung up before the cop could press her and ran back to the room. No time. She hit the lights. A clipboard with Colm’s name scrawled on it hung at the foot of the bed. Synapses popped and fizzled in her brain. Time was of the essence. She took a roll of bandages from the nurses’ station and wrapped Colm’s face in them. He stirred. When she finished, she stepped back to admire her handiwork. It was shoddy, but it might pass with the lights out. She’d seen it done in the movies. She rubbed out the name on the clipboard and scrawled "BISHOP". She spread her coat out on the floor under the lightbulb. Then she smashed it with her bag and emptied the broken glass into a trashcan. Jackson might fall for it. He had to.

A voice called out, weak, trembling. ‘Is that you?’

It was Colm.

She told him to go back to sleep.

 

 

The Sister didn’t return to her station. Hartsfield elevatored down and left through the lobby. No parking lot at Good Samaritan. Ambulances used a side street behind the hospital, coming out on 6^th. She could see two of them there – a Ford and a Buick. There’d be a rear entrance for patient drop-off. But Elmer would enter through the front, the same as she had.

She stood outside the hospital and waited. She reached inside her bag for her cigarettes and felt cold metal. She remembered it. She hadn't been home. She still hadn't changed out of last night's clothes. She still had the gun.

Hartsfield put it out of her mind for the time being. She took out her father's gunmetal cigarette case and lit a Du Maurier. It wasn't hot out, but the air was dead still. Like time had stopped. No noise, no breeze, nothing. Might as well have been on one of those alien planets her son read about. She took a drag, smoked it down to the filter, when a low-slung Oldsmobile bumped over the curb.

It was him. Elmer.

She squinted, trying to make out the figure driving. All she could see was the silhouette of a hat. A dark, wide-brimmed shadow against the delicatessen's light. The hat tilted down, low enough to hide the face under it. Exhaust smoke billowed from the back. Her heart beat in her throat. The seconds stretched, thick and slow. Then the figure leaned forward enough to catch the light. An eye stared back at her, it didn't blink. Watching her. The car didn't move and neither did she. The street was silent except for the Oldsmobile's brass rumble.

Her right hand moved to her bag. She drew the revolver. At that moment, the car door opened. She fired. The bullet hit the window. Like she'd thrown a brick at it. The window exploded. Jackson slammed the door and fishtailed out. She fired again and the bullet dinged off the roof. The Oldsmobile disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind the scent of exhaust fumes. Her hands were steady. That shocked her.

Hartsfield ditched the .38 in a flowerbed and stayed outside smoking. No more than ten minutes had passed before a police siren split the night air. A wailing patrol car skidded in front of the hospital. Two more squad cars followed right behind it. Uniformed police and detectives filled the hospital entrance. She couldn't see Lacey and Carruthers, but she moved forward to meet the other officers.

A stocky-looking fella she didn't like the look of came up to her. 'Search her,' he said.

'What?'

Two men grabbed her arms. An officer rifled through her bag: 'No gun in here, lieutenant.'

'Check it again,' the stocky one said. 'And her pockets. The wit saw an armed woman wearing a fur coat.'

She looked at him. He was in his mid-forties, fat, and around 6’4”. Irish. A large oval face with round cheeks met his protruding chin. He had the wrinkled skin that's common in chain smokers. The eyes were too small for his face and were all pupil. They looked like the eyes of a shark. 'What station are you from?'

'Wilshire,' he said. 'Not that it’s your concern.'

'Your witness wouldn't happen to be Sergeant Elmer V. Jackson would it?'

The lieutenant snarled at her.

June Hartsfield hocked and spat in his face. The lieutenant wiped it away and told his men to stand her up. They pinned her arms back looking a little hesitant. 'That wasn't very ladylike,' he said. The skin of his hand flashed as it connected with the side of her cheek. A backhander. Her head snapped back and veered to the left. If it hadn't been for the two men holding her up, she'd have hit the deck.

Another car drew up in the haze. A red car. Two men got out of it, running toward the commotion. One grabbed the lieutenant's arm and bent it up behind him. The guy whispered in his ear. It was Detective Carruthers.

'Get your hands off me, Georgie. You're causing a scene.'

'She's my informant. I need her to make the missing girl case.'

Lieutenant Moreau tried to wriggle out of his hold. He was going to break his arm. The cops holding her didn't know what to do. His arm was going to snap like a twig.

'Georgie.'

Lacey ran up the stairs with two other offices and patted him on the back. He told him it was okay. Carruthers let go of his arm.

Moreau spun around and jabbed a fat finger in his chest. 'You've got what you wanted, Georgie. Book her for possessing an offensive weapon and get the fuck out of my sight.'

They let June Hartsfield go. She threw them disgusted looks. 'They came here to kill my husband.'

Carruthers looked at her, then at Moreau. He turned to the other officers who followed Lacey. She figured they were his eyes. 'You boys stay here and guard Mr. Hartsfield. Don't let anyone in his room, and I mean anyone. No cops. Disobey my order and you'll have me to contend with. Is that understood?'

The two officers nodded.

Carruthers whispered in her ear and she told him what room Colm was in. He spoke to each of the officers and sent them inside. He came back over to her and apologized. He handcuffed her and pointed toward his car. He said something to Moreau that she didn't make out.

'You're walking on thin ice, my impressionable friend.'

The men split. Moreau and his boys got in their cars. Lacey and Carruthers helped her into the back of theirs. They waited for the other vehicles to leave before turning around.

'Your husband's safe,' Carruthers said.

'I'll believe it when I see it,' she said.

'Your call. You're lucky we took it after earlier.'

'What do you mean?'

'Barclay's not the killer.'

'I saw him with those girls.'

'You might've. But someone else put the screws to him. We found Barclay in his house with two bullets in the back of his head.'

She didn't know what to say, so she said nothing.

'June,' Lacey said. 'We're not angry, you had your reasons. Barclay died last night and the girl we found got dumped this morning. Was anyone hanging around Barclay, anyone you saw talking to him?'

She shook her head. 'Nobody other than his chauffeur, but he waited in the car. I only ever saw him talking with those girls, my girls, or my staff. I'm sorry, I can't help you.'

Carruthers lit two cigarettes and passed her one. 'Tell us what happened here, tonight. From start to finish.'

Hartsfield could smell the booze on him. She asked to borrow his flask and took two slugs. The whiskey burned and energized her. She told them the whole thing. She didn't name Brenda outright. She had to keep something back. If they kept her and Colm safe, she'd give them evidence. DNA evidence. Enough to put Elmer V. Jackson away for a long time. They asked questions. They worked as one. They shared the same thoughts. Hartsfield gave them as much as she could afford to and no more. They agreed and told her they had to hold her in custody for her protection. They were going to drive her east to Lincoln Heights Jail - the nearest lady jail. They'd book her in overnight for public indecency until they figured out where to put her. Hartsfield promised to spill the beans.

Carruthers started the car.

But Lacey asked: 'Can you drop me at Bronson Canyon first?'

'Why?'

'I've got a hunch,' he said.

 

© J. A. Stapleton 2025 - Image Source: Wikimedia Commons