Bill Cameron Mysteries: Chasing Smoke

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NOTE: This is an early draft of the first chapter of Chasing Smoke. In this form — under the title Death With Dignity — it won an Honorable Mention in the 2006 Kay Snow Writing Contest. The finished version is significantly different from this version.

Original Title: "Death With Dignity"

Chapter One

On my list of suspicious circumstances to avoid, having a cop wake me up by tapping on my car window at five o'clock in the morning oughta be right up there. Not as high as letting a liquor store clerk catch a glimpse of my piece before he sees my badge maybe, but higher than being caught tearing coupons out of the newspaper on my neighbor's stoop.

Oughta be, but apparently wasn't. I peeled my eyelids open and peered at the cop from inside a bewildered daze. The headlights of the patrol car blazed in my rear view mirror and needled my crusted eyes. I coughed—a moist, phlegm-coated rattle that sounded like it came from the bottom of a barrel. My wheezy breath misted the glass, obscured my view out. Just as well. I wasn't quite ready to face a cop anyway. My chin was wet and my mouth tasted of stomach acid. Couldn't feel my arms or legs, but my gut was right where I left it, complete with clawing pain like a rat dragging itself through my intestines.

"Shit," I growled, and then coughed again for my trouble.

The cop tapped again with his Maglite, then flicked it on and shone it through the fogged glass. "Sir?" he said, his voice muted and far away. "Please roll down the window, sir."

I reached for the window handle with my left hand. The rat chose that moment to clamp down on a loop of my gut with black-hot teeth. I shuddered and clenched my jaw, biting back a whimper. I groaned and leaned against the door. Didn't have my pills with me. Fortunately, the rat eased off quickly, settling back down again to its typical sharp-clawed wriggle.

"Sir? Are you all right?" The cop stopped tapping and grabbed the door handle, but the door was locked. "Detective Kadash? Can you hear me?"

I nodded, mildly surprised. Knew who I was. Must've run my tags already. Maybe he'd go easy on another cop—not that I could tell you why he'd need to. Sleeping in your car might not be the smartest thing you can do, but most of the time it's not illegal. At least I wasn't napping on my airbag. I took a couple of deep breaths and looked around, tried to get a sense of where I was. It was dark, but the grey gleam from a lone street light gave me the rough outline of the area. Mostly old brick commercial, loading docks, a bridge overpass. Street split by an unused rail line. East side industrial from the looks of things. Down near the river, north of the Hawthorne Bridge. I couldn't tell you what the hell I was doing there to save my life, assuming anything could. But I'd worry about that later.

"Detective?"

I lifted my hand again, tried to wave him off. My arm started to tingle. I managed to get a grip on the window handle and cranked it a turn or two. Chill air and a splash of rain swept into the car. "Can you hear me, Detective?" His voice was now sharp through the open window.

"Jesus, yes. Take it easy." I lowered the window some more, then tried to shift in my seat. Goddamn ass felt like wood. My feet went hot as blood rushed into my stiff legs. I groaned again, but at least the rat kept quiet. I could cope with fiery sensation returning to my numb limbs so long as the rat kept its peace.

I felt the cop's sleeve brush my cheek as he reached through the open window and unlocked the door. "I'm all right," I said. "I can get the door." I heaved myself forward and popped the latch, but then sagged back into the seat. The cop pulled the door open. He put a hand under my arm, but he just held it there. Waiting for me. His face that odd mix of concern and suspicion that only young cops have—enough time on the job and the concern would burn out of him, leaving only the raw, grinding suspicion behind. I leaned forward and somehow managed to swing my feet out onto the pavement. Then, grunting, I grabbed the door frame with both hands and, none too sure my legs would hold me up, pulled myself out of the car.

It worked out as well as I could have hoped. I had to steady myself with one hand on the roof of the car, but otherwise it didn't seem like I was going to sprawl onto the pavement any time soon. I took a moment to catch my breath and look the cop over. Young fellow, shiny-cheeked and razor burned. Name tag in shadow. About my height, five-eight or so, and about as heavy. Unlike me, he carried his weight in his chest and shoulders rather than his belly. His face was thick, lips full, with a flat nose and dark hair and eyebrows. In the mixed gleam of the headlights and streetlights, I couldn't tell the color of his eyes, but they were too small and too narrowly spaced for the rest of his face. The overall effect was rather unfortunate, I hate to say, but then the overall effect of my face is even more unfortunate. If he could stand to look at me, I could stand to look at him.

The cop gave me at least as thorough a once-over as I gave him. He was young and concerned, but perhaps capable enough. Finally his jaw set and he said, "Have you been drinking, sir?"

Always the first question once the pleasantries are over. In my cruiser beat days, if I'd come across a guy passed out in the front seat of a car on some dark street I'd have asked the same. Didn't mean it didn't piss me off a little. I was born with the ruddy and swollen complexion of a hard drunk, and a lifetime of explaining it away left me a little tetchy on the matter. But I also knew he was just doing his job so I shook my head and tried to chuckle. Laugh it off. Found myself scratching my neck instead. That caused him to look away. It generally did. The other thing I was born with was a big patch of skin on the side of my neck the color and consistency of raw hamburger. These days, I suppose a child thus disfigured would be shuffled off to the plastic surgeon. Buff the bad patch off. All paid for by insurance. When I was a kid, there was no insurance. My mother could hardly afford a doctor for the inevitable broken bones and stitches. She sure as hell wasn't going to pay someone to pretty me up.

"What are you doing here?" the cop said, still looking away.

I shrugged. "Sleeping, what it looks like."

"It's not safe to sleep in your car. Are you sure you haven't been drinking?"

"Pretty goddamn sure!" I snapped. I lowered my hand from my neck and stared at him. He wouldn't meet my eyes at first, but finally he turned back and faced me. "Son," I said, "I haven't had a drink since I can't remember when. You want to go get your blow stick, that's fine. But it's not gonna pick up anything but hell's own morning breath."

I guessed he could take or leave the Breathalyzer. Probably be content to just run me in and let me stew in a holding cell for a while. I tend to have that effect on folks. But something else was on his mind.

I sighed. No telling how long I'd been asleep in my car, but it wasn't long enough. It was never long enough any more. "Okay, son, you ran my plates, got my name, and asked some questions back to dispatch when you saw I was a cop." The rat gave a little squirm in my belly and I winced. "Whatever you're chewing on, why don't you just spill it? That, or leave me the hell alone."

I figured one of two things would come of that. Either he'd give me the go home if you need to sleep lecture, or he'd pull out the cuffs. Frankly, I didn't give a shit which so long as he got on with it. He surprised me and chose door number three.

"Detective Mulvaney asked me to bring you to a scene. It's not far from here, down at the end of the Esplanade."

I opened my mouth, but it took me a moment to come up with something to say. Another spit of cold rain swept pass. Finally, all wit fled, I settled on, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Detective Mulvaney is at a scene. When she heard that I had come across you, she asked me to bring you down. Are you able to drive, or do you want to ride with me?"

"I'm not going to any scene. Jesus. I'm on leave, or didn't she tell you that?"

He clenched his jaw and turned. Pulled his phone from his belt and speed-dialed. "Hello, Detective?...Officer Barnes...Yes, ma'am, he's here...He doesn't want to come."

He listened for a moment. I could just make out the tinny sound of Mulvaney's voice from the earpiece, the individual words indistinct. "Yes, ma'am," he said, and then turned and held out the phone.

I raised both hands and backed away a step. Found myself pressed up against the door frame. "No...Goddamn it, no!" The rat squirmed and nibbled and I winced again.

Young, earnest, concerned Officer Barnes lowered his head and said, "Detective, she asked to speak to you." Maybe not so concerned anymore.

"I feel like shit." I rubbed my hand against my belly, tried to massage the rat into complaisance. "I don't need this."

He waited, suddenly a hard case. Somehow in the few moments since he'd woken me up, the sky and gone from black to deep grey. I felt cold, and I just wanted to get back in my car and go home. Take a pain pill and wait it out until my appointment with the goddamn doctor later that morning. Wasn't that what leave was supposed to mean? Not having to go to fucking work? Barnes held the phone out, his arm steady, and I knew that he could wait me out. Bastard was probably a pretty good cop.

I took the phone, thrust it against my ear. "What? Jesus."

"Skin, you haven't returned my calls. I've left messages on your cell phone. I've been worried."

"Damn it, Susan, I'm on leave. My cell phone is off."

I could hear her breathing magnified through the phone. "I tried your house too. You never answer."

"The ringer's off." I didn't add that I expected folks to take the hint. She had intentionally disregarded it. That was why I was faced off with beady-eyed, stone-faced Officer Barnes.

"Skin, I'm at a scene here. Something I'd like you to see. I thought you could help."

I shook my head, not caring that she couldn't see me. "Susan, I don't want to look at a deader right now. Frankly, I'm about at the point where the only stiff I can face from here on out is the one I see in the mirror..." I trailed off, already regretting my flapping gums.

"You don't mean that," she said. Her voice didn't change, but I knew Susan Mulvaney. With one unfinished thought I'd managed to turn on the mother hen in her. She wasn't going to let go now, and I had no one to blame but myself. Shit.

"Listen," I said. "I don't want you to think...I mean, damn it, Susan. I'm on leave. Medical leave."

"I know. I know. This situation, it's complicated. Just come down here and talk to me. I'll lay it out and you can see what you think."

"No."

There was a pause. She didn't say anything. Waiting me out like Barnes, only she was even better at it. Of course, she'd had quite a few more years to perfect the technique. Barnes looked at me indifferently. The sky continued to brighten. Clouds overhead, more thin rain. I had a vague recollection that it had been hot the day before. A hundred degrees and twig-snap dry. That was why I was in my car, I remembered. No air conditioning in the house, and the heat riling the fucking rat. I had gone driving to relax in the car's A.C., to give myself a little scenery to look at, to focus on. I just needed to distract myself a little.

"God damn you, Susan. Give me the summary, and I'll think about it. But no promises. I'm not going to fall for any reason-to-live bullshit."

She drew a noisy breath and said, "It's like this, Skin. I have four dead men. All apparent suicides, but there is some question. I am at the scene of the fourth one right now."

"Okay. Fine. Four deaders. Why bother me with it?"

Pause. "They're all cancer patients, Skin. They all share the same oncologist."

I was old and tired and half-dead. But I still had half an ounce of brain power. "Doctor Tobias Hern," I said.

"Yes," she said. "Doctor Hern."

In that instant, the rat lay quiet, allowing me a moment to savor the thought. "My oncologist," I said. "Nice. Thanks for calling, Susan." I pressed the disconnect button and handed the phone back to earnest young Barnes. Turned and leaned against the roof of the car. Wished I could just fucking die right there.

Chasing Smoke was written using StoryMill, writing software for Macintosh. Thanks to Todd Ransom, developer of StoryMill (and its previous incarnation, Avenir), for a great product and wonderful support.