“How have you been, Tim?” Mike asked, remembering how frustrated the cop had been after he and Cathy had called him ‘Officer White’ or ‘Sir’ for the hundredth time. “You look good.”
Tim smiled genuinely at Mike, who was an extraordinary young man in his eyes. “Looks can be deceiving,” he chuckled. “You should know that. I’ve been better, though. The precinct saddled me with this damned case a week before I was scheduled to leave.” He turned to Mike, looking at him as an equal. “Do you have any idea how fun a rape case is?”
“None at all?” Mike hazarded.
“None at all,” Tim repeated, nodding.
“Then why are you talking to me, Tim? Am I a suspect?”
Tim chuckled. “No. I’m talking to you cause you’re like me.”
Mike looked puzzled, leaning his head to one side.
Tim leaned forward, stroked his goatee, then lay his hands out before him as if laying out his points. “I’m sitting here complaining about being stuck with this case, when they didn’t force me. Couldn’t. I out-rank them all now. I took it willingly, because I just can’t seem to keep my nose out of this stuff.” He gestured towards Mike. “Like you.”
“Again, why am I here?” Mike asked, throwing a suspicious eye toward the cop.
“Because you know things I don’t. You can get into places and have access to information that I never could, simply because of your age, not to mention other factors. We’ve both seen you play street hockey.”
Mike smirked.
“So I’m coming to you for information. What do you know?”
Mike swallowed. “Have you been talking to Julie?”
“Right before you came in, why?”
“What did she tell you?”
Tim coughed, lowering his voice considerably to tell Mike exactly how much trouble he could get into for repeating something of this nature. “Nothing she didn’t tell her doctor. Rape, three guys, and not so much as a physical description. And now she refuses to accept that this second rape is probably her fault for not being more helpful.”
Mike let that information stew in his head for a moment. “Two of the men you’re looking for are Allan Bishop and Bram Raine, they used to go - ”
“I know those two,” Tim nodded, suddenly looking very tired and rubbing his eyes. “They’re bad news.”
“I know,” Mike sighed, “You think after you bust them, you can get the third...”
“I can’t arrest anyone yet, Harris,” Tim sighed.
“What? But we know it’s them!” Mike shouted, jumping out of his chair and glaring down at Tim.
“No, we don’t. Not legally, anyway. You have a third hand high-school rumor that could have originated anywhere,” Tim explained, trying to keep his tone even.
“So, what?” Mike yelled, “You don’t trust me now?”
“No, I believe you,” Tim nodded, waving for Mike to sit back down, which he did. “But that information isn’t applicable in court unless it’s from a first-hand witness. In other words: unless Julie says it herself, or another victim.”
“The only other victim is in a coma, according to you.”
“And there is the second point. It is illegal for me to have given you any information in this setting whatsoever,” he said, his voice becoming grave. “We go back to HQ now, and we’re both screwed. Not only that, the sons of bitches themselves ‘ll get off because we’re guilty of obstruction, see? Then, we’d also never get hold of the third party and this whole mess would start again... only now we’d be able to do shit all. See?” He slapped the table to bring Mike back to reality. “That’s how it works in the real world, kid. Unless we can bring those yahoos in on a lesser charge, the girls in this town are gonna have to start wearing padlocks on their panties.”
Mike shook his head, scratching the back of it. He scooped up his book bag and started for the door. As he left, he bumped into Tim’s next appointment: Derek Smith. Mike squinted at Derek, the wheels within his own head beginning to grind.
By the time Bram Raine got home, it was long past dinner. That was all right, though. There was always plenty of food in the fridge in the form of leftovers and sandwich meats. He walked over to a small cooler that rested comfortably by the kitchen table and flipped open the lid, grabbing a beer out of the half-melted ice it floated in. Cracking it open and letting a certain amount of the head flow out onto his hand, he sighed and strolled over to his reclining easy chair, kicked up his feet and closed his eyes.
The living room was small and oddly shaped, with seven different ‘corners’ at odd places along the wall. A rustic stone fireplace took up most of the eastern wall, but could never be lit because the sparks always managed to catch something else ablaze in the cramped space. Most of the furniture had been found at flea markets or liberated from the side of the road when neighbors moved out of the area. The coffee table was actually a windshield from an old Chevy that he had fitted with legs.
As small as
