[center][img]http://imasportsphile.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/Baer-on-the-canvas.jpg[/img][/center] [b]06/22/46[/b] [b]Gotham Central[/b] [b]7:21 AM[/b] Charlie Fields said, "Scotty Lees. Damn. Over the years I probably lost five hundred bucks betting on and against that bum." Max sat at his desk in the Homicide pen. He eyeballed crime scene pix. Crime scene techs shot photos of Scotty Lee's body at various angles. They shot photos of the broken window and the motel room where he took the plunge. Max flipped through them. Something was off, he couldn’t place it. He tried for brain clicks. His brain clicked out. He tossed the photos on the desk. Pix mingled with framed photos. Photos of Mary, photos of Max with Alice in the years before it fell apart. One of stone-faced USMC Lt. Eckhardt. The photo took him back to Guadalcanal. The heat and bugs. Flamethrowers and charging bunkers. A Jap commander with a samurai sword. The smell of burning flesh and the sound of screaming Japs. Max blinked and looked over at Fields, "What was he like? Lees, I mean." Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Not a boxing guy?” Max shrugged. “More of a baseball man.” "Well, Scotty was a puncher. He never had a defense, always went for the big hits and didn't protect his face. The last fight of his I saw ended in a TKO. The little negro he was fighting kept working a cut on his eyebrow. Kept tagging it until the ref called the fight in the sixth round. If a fighter could go the distance with Scotty and avoid his punch they could turn him into hamburger meat." Max scratched his neck. "He's hamburger meat now." Max checked his watch. Another late night turned into a long morning. He was supposed to take Mary to school. He called Mrs. Roselli next door and told her the details. She agreed to get her up and ready and to school for a few bucks. Another night and day without seeing his daughter. He kept promising her he'd take time off. He had vacation time accrued. As soon as he went off nights he'd take a long vacation. Charlie walked off. Max went back to the case file. Something gnawed. He put his finger on it: Scotty Lees: punchdrunk and a half-wit for sure. Suicidal? It didn't jive with cooperating with the DA on a major investigation. A sign flashed in his head: YOU MISSED SOMETHING. The phone ringing snapped him out of his reverie. "This is Eckhardt." "My office." Max hung up and hit the lieutenant's office. Lieutenant Boyle sat behind his desk. Boyle was rail thin. He was trying some experimental treatment for the Big C. Cancer ate at his lungs going on five years now, since before Max left for the Pacific. Boyle’s clothing sagged off him. His hair fell out in clumps. He still smoked like a freight train. The fuck was too nasty let cancer do him in. Boyle with no preamble. "You caught the jumper from last night, yeah?" "Yes, sir." "It's a suicide, right?" Boylet lit a cigar. Max bristled. Boyle almost always gave them a long leash working murders. Now he was calling it a day. He was short shifting it. Something did not wash. Max futzed with his necktie and said, "I want to wait on the medical examiner's official report on cause of death before I rule anything out or come to any conclusions. I'd also like to conduct an interview with the two officers and the remaining witnesses and find out what they have to say." A voice behind him, deep and southern drawl. "Hell, I can get all that for you, Sergeant." Two-Gun Jack Grogan strolled in. Max knew him by reputation and rumor alone. He wore six-guns and spat tobacco. He killed six men in the line of duty. He ran bag for Mayor Hill and the DA. He did the dirty work for Congressman Thorne. He shook down the mob for campaign contributions. He once beat a drug dealer to death for spitting on his boots. He was beaucoup bad news. Grogan flopped in the chair beside Eckhardt. He stretched out and put a new plug of tobacco in his cheek. He looked at Eckhardt and winked. "I got a meeting with the DA in an hour. He is gonna tear me a new asshole and I'm gonna try and calm him down, but I can expect he'll be mighty pissed. This was supposed to be his stepping stone to the US Senate." Boyle blew cigar smoke and said, "His case was dependent on a Mexican obsessed with barely legal trim and a feeb with a battered brain. That was a pretty damn shaky stepping stone." Grogan slapped a knee. It meant son, you slay me. Two-Gun Jack said, "Sergeant, I will talk to my men about setting up an interview with you sometime later today. Joe Porter's wrath is looming close at hand, so I'll worry about that at the moment." Boyle pointed at Max. He said, "I want your preliminary report written up by noon today. If Captain Grogan can't get his men to talk to you, I still want a final summation no later than the day after tomorrow. Understood, Sergeant?" Max looked at Grogan. The captain grinned, flashing brown spit covered teeth. He spat tobacco juice in a paper cup and winked again. Max nodded slowly and said, "Understood." [center]*****​[/center] [b]District Attorney's Office[/b] [b]8:30 AM[/b] "Do you know what you've fucking cost me?" District Attorney Joe Porter fumed at Slam. He sat at a desk fuck orgy-sized big. The entire wall behind him was glass. It looked out over the city. Three ADAs flanked his desk. They stonewalled Slam. They played indifferent. They gave him stink-eyes across the board. Grogan sat beside Slam. He held his hand up and called for peace. Two-Gun Jack said, "Now, Joe, it ain't Samuel's fault he fell asleep. If you're looking for a scapegoat, blame me. I had him and Burke working a double shift before they relieved Harris and Simpson last night." Porter pointed at Grogan. "Oh, I do blame you, Jack. I blame you and I blame him and if not for your fucking clout with the mayor, I would have you both charged with dereliction of duty and have you run out the PD!" Grogan sniffed and lowered his eyelids. He went from agreeable to bored like that. When he spoke, the southern drawl was a little diminished and the charm was all the way gone. "If. If I weren't so tight with the mayor. If I didn't help get contributions to his slush fund. If I didn't help contributions to [i]your[/i]slush fund. If I didn't help your daughter get out of that jam with those nigger hopheads. If I didn't know all your dirty little secrets. If you didn't need me, and if I didn't need Samuel. That's a lot of goddamn ifs, Joe." Porter's face went coronary red. He threatened to burst a blood vessel. An eyelid twitched. Grogan barely kept it together. Slam wanted to laugh out loud. Porter said softly, "Go. Both of you get out of my sight. I'll be talking with Commissioner Akins soon." They breezed out. They hit Gorgan's car and hit the parkway. Two-Gun Jack drove. They both laughed out loud and made fun of Porter. Their laughter subsided. Conversation hit a lull. Grogan said, "Did you talk to the homicide man who showed up at the scene this morning?" "Yeah. Eckhardt was his name." Grogan spat tobacco juice and said, "What do you know of him?" "Nothing other than he smelled like booze." Grogan chuckled an expounded. "He wants to interview you, Burke, and Garcia about the events this morning. I said I would allow it. You caught a whiff of hooch? That’s with good reason. Max Eckhardt is a primo lush. They call him Whiskey Max. He has a stick up his ass and grand illusions about his career. He wants to make rank, but he can't stay sober long enough to make a decent case. He used to be ruthless and ambitious, but he's been worn down by this city, the war, and the bottle. Those things can do that to weaker men, Samuel. Men like us are resilient. Despite his boozing, Whiskey Max is still highly dangerous. If you made any mistakes with Scotty, he’ll come for you." Slam popped his knuckles. "He can fucking try." [center]*****​[/center] [b]GCPD Western District Station[/b] [b]11:40 AM[/b] Max stretched. He fought back cramps. He sat in his car and took pulls off a flask of gin. Max knew he should be home sleeping. Night work fucked with his sleep cycle. He worked when the sun was down and slept when it was up. Insomnia seeped into the sleep and blew it up all to hell. The booze helped him stay asleep, but it did not bring sleep on. The case also contributed to no sleep. He banged out a quick first summation report to Boyle. It said Scotty Lees was a[i] probable[/i] jumper. A caveat at the end: He would not confirm that fact until the morgue cut loose its findings later tonight. Doubt ate at him. YOU MISSED SOMETHING flashed big time. YOU MISSED SOMETHING meant he got no sleep. THIS helped to bring forth sleep. It calmed his nerves. It was a weekly routine. He was parked down the road from the Western station house. Prowl cars cruised by. Max sat low in his seat. They came and went. THERE: radio car 223. HIS car. It swooped into the parking lot. HE got out. Marcus Driver in uniform. His golden blonde hair hidden under his cap. Sergeant stripes on his sleeves. Max's pulse raced. Driver talked to a fellow uniformed officer. He rubbed his chin as he laughed. He smiled. Max swooned. He went gaga. Four years since 04/17/42 and he still peeped him from afar. His house, his job, anywhere Max knew he'd be. The radio squaked, dispatch asking for a follow-up. He keyed the mic and talked. Said summons turned out to be bullshit. Alice’s lawyer asking for a callback or else. He pulled out on to the street and found the closest payphone and fed it quarters. He got an operator to direct the call to Merv Hamilish’s office . The shyster was cheerful: “Sergeant Eckhardt. Good morning. Maybe I should say good afternoon by now. It’s almost noon, sergeant. Hopefully you’re not too inebriated.” Max played it nonchalant. “Say what you have to say so I can get back to work.” “[i]Work[/i], right… well, I’d like you to know that we’re suing for custody of little Mary. You’ll be served papers in the coming days, sergeant.” Max gripped the phone so hard his knuckles turned white. He felt sweat drip. His legs went rubbery. His world started to spin. Max got tight. He practically mumbled. “You can’t do this. The lawyer chuckled. “There’s an old adage, sergeant: to the child the mother belongs.” His eyelid twitched. “Alice gave up her rights to my daughter the minute she walked out on us. How is that going to look to a judge? You forget who I am, Hamlish? What I did?” “I know very well who you are, sergeant. And I know your daughter sees babysitters and neighbors more than she sees you. As for what you did, sergeant? I know what you did… quite well..” Max felt his stomach drop. Implications, but the threat was clear: Alice told the fucker about 04/17/42. The day before he shipped out for the Pacific. Alice threw him a going away party. Neighbors and PD friends mingled with spiked punch and finger foods. Max caught Driver’s eye. They meet in the bathroom for a quickie. A farewell fuck. They’re mid-coupling when Alice walked in. Alice dropped a plate of cold cuts when she saw Max had Driver in his mouth. Their marriage went up in flames. She kept up a facade to the neighbors while he was gone. She never wrote him a letter for the two years he was gone. Two days after he’s back, she packed a bag and left for parts unknown. Hamlish came off smug. He said, “We can do this two ways, sergeant. You can forfeit your rights to sole custody of Mary without a fuss. Or we can go in front of a judge and make this real nasty.” Max said, “Fuck you,” and pulled the phone’s handset until the cord snapped. He let it clatter to the ground and ran back to his car. He drove with shaking hands back to the Western station house. Driver was long gone. He skedaddled during Max’s phone call. Max sighed. His longing for Driver simmered with his dread. He put his head on the steering wheel. He banged his forehead against the wheel again and again and-- THERE. He sat upright. Leg cramps and back cramps cramped him cripple. Brainwaves blew [i]strooong[/i]. THAT'S IT flashed in his head. He dug through the backseat. Case files piled up. He found the Lees file. He flipped through it. He found IT. The excitement burned through the booze. He felt a hangover come on strong. A headache pounded. He felt jacked. To hell with sleep. He started his car and blew code 3 across town. The Gotham Arms. Crime scene rope still on the sixth floor. Crime scene pix in his arms. Max walked the room in grids. He rehashed original crime scene walkthrough. The THERE right in front of his face. An indent in the wall beside the window Scotty Lees fell out of. Max looked at the picture, compared it with the real McCoy. Something made that dent. Something smashed against the wall. That something was Scotty Lees' head. Max worked angles and heights. Scotty topped out at 6'2. The angle skewed tall. Someone grabbed Scotty's forehead and smashed it into the wall. Max went back to last night Feature: Slam Bradley. Swanky Slam came in at 6'4” easy. Angles, brain clicks, thesis, and theory made a theorem. Theorem: Slam Bradley smashed Scotty Lees' head into the wall. He made Scotty woozy and pushed him out the window. Bradley made it look like a suicide. Bradley worked for Two-Gun Grogan. Grogan pulled strings. Grogan ran rackets. Grogan and Bradley wanted the job shit canned. They were politically connected. The boxing probe was all political pandering. Powerful people wanted it to perish. Summation: Bradley killed a state witness in cold blood to derail Porter’s investigation. Max pulled out his flask and slugged booze while he figured out his next move.