No butter: GRILLED

 ‘Number four.’ The old lady squints, rubs her eyes, looks again down the line of perps and adds, ‘Maybe number seven.’ Pat and I throw up our hands in disappointment, thank Mrs. Bradley and she is a memory.

We had been so sure Randy Andy is the slicer, the raper who carefully
leaves no prints, no DNA, no ejaculate, no bloody shoe prints. He waves to the mirror, walks out of the room without a word. Nothing is on his face but calm, serene calm.

Detective 1st Class, Larry, is waiting in his unmarked patrol car. Officer Jackson is parked across the street in case Randy turns left instead of right. I watch from the window, see Andy glance around and turn left. My call goes right out to Jackson. ‘Eyes open. He’s heading your way. In ten minutes both cars are back. They have lost Andy.

The night squad has no business except from a screaming woman that her husband had just stabbed her in the arm. ‘He’s going to kill me next time, Officer. Come get him. I’m pressing charges!’ She gives us her address and the line goes dead. We don’t need it anyhow. Mrs. Rodgriguez is a steady caller. He has punched her in her pregnant belly, hit her with the kitchen stool, poured hot tea water on her hand and still she hasn’t entered a charge against him. I personally decide to see Mrs. Rodgriguez, try to talk sense into her head, scare her. Her front door is open. I knock anyhow and walk in. She is sitting at the kitchen table, a bloody towel around her arm. Several empty beer bottles stand like soldiers between them. ‘May I speak to you privately for a few minutes, Ma am?’ I ask. Her reply is quick. “Not necessary, Captain. My husband swears to god he will never hurt me again and I believe him. Good night.’

On Sunday, my day off, the sharp ring of the phone wakes me at nine. ‘Get over here now,’ Larry orders me and I seethe. I am his boss. He feels his mistake and calls me ‘Captain. We have another murder near Druid Lake and a possible eye witness. From what we know, it looks like Randy Andy’s work. Sir, we have a great sketch ready and it sure looks like our perp. Forensics thinks we have a small droplet for DNA and have already wired the info to the FBI. I’ve also ordered an ‘all points out’ for Andy.’

I forgive Larry and am excited, hoping for success but don’t rush to get to the precinct. Gloria brought two cleaned uniforms back from the cleaners for me yesterday. I put on my white Captain’s hat, straighten it, kiss Gloria good-bye and get to work. The squad room feels like any day other than Sunday. This one is going to be special. I feel it in my bones.

The witness is a male, about forty, dressed in neat jeans and a white wordless tee shirt. Officer Jackson brings me the artist’s sketch and by god, it sure looks like Randy, right down to the small jagged scar he has above his left eyebrow. Everything seems to be in order except we don’t have Randy yet. I picture his smart aleck face when we grill him. It will take a lot of evidence to prove our case and we’re on our way to get it.

Having skipped breakfast after Larry called, I’m running on empty. There is a drying up donut still left in the box. I dunk it in the weak instant coffee.  It is not satisfying. Officer Jackson is sitting at his desk and I advise him I will be going to Charlie’s around the corner for breakfast. The after church crowd is coming in. Tables are filled but there are a few places open at the counter. I take one of them, order a bowl of oatmeal with cinnamon, a toasted bialy with blackberry jam and wait. No newspaper with me, I read and re- read the menu. Three guys next to me finish their breakfast and leave. A new customer sits down at the farthest place from me. My mind and taste buds are on my oatmeal until I hear him order, ‘I’ll have a grilled cheese sandwich, nice and crispy and a cup of strong black coffee.’ It can’t be but is. I recognize the gritty voice of Randy Andy, leave my breakfast,  lay down five bucks, and as casually as I can, walk behind Randy and say simply, ‘Don’t move, Randy, until I tell you to.’ He starts to move anyhow and I pull my gun out and stick it in his back. The news carries fast. Diners start to leave. ‘Wait, Captain, let me take my grilled sandwich with me. I’m hungry.’

‘Shuffle those feet, Mister. You’ll be the only grilled thing in the detention area.  My crew is the best of the best when it comes to grilling and you are our Sunday meat.’