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Besides the jokes, if you come to check theditches and rice paddies, why do you wear pants and boots? Mygrossly reduced uniform, for example, is way more practical. Theshorts have dried up in minutes, not a bit worse than in themorning. With my Police baseball cap on, and with my badge clearlyvisible in the water-tight box, I look like some real Policeofficer, and not like some… poor lost kitten. I've learned a thingor two during my barefoot childhood, unlike some Station buffoons,no finger-pointing intended.
“Do we have a plan, Deputy Investigator?” Iask. I know that Woxman has no further plan whatsoever, but it'snice to be polite.
“I propose we go to the Station, what else?Try Victor Chen again. Maybe, he decides to give a statement, afterall.”
“Riding bikes in this heat? I have a betteridea. What if I talk to the locals and borrow you some suitablerag? We can wash your pants and hang them to dry. I suppose youboots also need some cleaning and drying, are they not? And whilethe things are getting dry, we can inspect the potential crimescene once again.”
“Great idea, Deputy Kim,” naturally, hedoesn't want to waltz into the Station looking like some poorkitten.
Have you seen theHighlander Scots' outfit? Our Deputy Investigator now resembles oneof those fine human specimens. Above the waistline – the Policeuniform jacket and the Police cap. In the middle – a belt with hisgun, baton, handcuffs and all. And below – watch this! A kilt!Well, not exactly a kilt, just some old oilcloth, but with the realtartan pattern. The attire is completed with hairy bare legs. TheHighlanders have no use for socks and shoes! The only thing: theHighlanders have no use for underpants either, but Woxman hasrefused to remove his underwear. So much for all my efforts, we'vefailed to produce a proper McWoxman.
The cross-dressing complete, DeputyInvestigator gets out of the shack, and all the Patch kids burstout laughing. The adults smile too. Even that legless beggar at thecorner tries to laugh, but only manages a hoarse cough. Terriblesight: a man in a wheelchair, his hands and face all wrapped insoiled bandages, eyes covered with cracked sunglasses. Behind thechair, there is a girl, about eight, barefoot, dirty rags insteadof clothes. The poor bastard's daughter, or some other relative? AsI pass by, I pull a couple of dollars out of my box and drop intothe beggar's tin. The Slum Rules are for everybody. The girlmumbles: “Thank you, sir”. Freaking wars! What do the US want inall these endless mexicos, ukraines, and saudi arabias?
We proceed to the Mr. Chen's shack, duckingunder the police tape. The key clicks in the lock, the rusty hingestry to voice objection. The stagnant midday air inside smells ofdust and mice. No blood smell whatsoever. But, I am not abloodhound.
‘McWoxman’ stops on his tracks, obviouslypuzzled. He observes the room from the doorway and finallywhispers: “Shit. It looks different.”
“Different?”
“Yes! The books. All the books were on theshelves. Only one was on the table. That one, see? With the greensuper. I remember it.”
I stick my head into theroom. It's seven by nine feet, pretty spacey for our Slum. Twostools, one bed, one table. Besides the green book, on the table:two dirty plates, one pair of chopsticks, and a tea-pot. Exactly asI remember it yesterday. But all the other books are now scatteredall over the room.
“It must bePython Tom,” I say.Strange. I am no expert in the CSI magic, but as far as I know, theCSIs just don't throw things like this. Even if it's a full-blownsearch warrant, and not just a crime scene check. I have executedfew search warrants, not as an investigator, but in my usual localcop capacity: standing at the door and intimidating the civiliansthrough my dark sunglasses. No way our Python creates such a mess! I'veseen how he goes through each piece at the scene: make a photo,pick up, look, put back, adjust to the exact position. And so on.Professional work, like a human robot.
“No!” Woxman replies, “I was with Tom whenhe locked the goddamn door… Everything was on the shelves! Why nowthe books are on the floor? I don't get it,” he carefully stepsinside, scrutinizing the mess.
“Interesting. Why do theyneed so many books?” I pick one from the floor. It's a heavy volumeentitled Alloy Crystal Structures andMechanical Properties. The paper isexpensive, dense, white, clearly pre-Meltdown. The year on the front pageconfirms it: ‘2005’. Formulas, graphs, and lots of black and whitephotos, something like distant planet landscapes from Sci-Fimovies. This is way above my level, although I am a high-schoolgrad, and with respectable marks.
“Bloody Chinese! Let's put everything backon the shelves, or the brass will rip our sore asses.”
“No, sir, we shouldn't.They may rip our asses all they want, but I don't want to ruin theinvestigation. We have almost no evidence, remember? To me it lookslike someone has been to the shack after you andPython – to make asearch of his own. And this someone may leave us some fingerprints,right? We ought to lock the door and give our CSIs a friendlycall.” And why, for God sake, I picked the damn Alloy book? Admittedly, I am as muchan investigator as… Woxman!
“Yes, you are right,” Woxman agrees. He isclearly not too happy with the developments. We have more and morequestions, but still no answers.
“Change for vets? Change for vets?” Ahigh-pitched voice comes in. The same girl with her bandaged beggarfather, she parked the wheelchair right under the police tape.
“Hey, you!” Woxman turns to the open door.“You two have no business in here. Bugger off!”
“The Deputy Investigator is right, younglady,” I try to soften the rude response, “Don't you see the policetape? Your Daddy should do his ‘Change for Vets’ at some otherplace.”
But her Daddy does not want to leave.“Kha-kha-ah” he says and lifts the begging tin with his bandagedhands. The vet knows his rights.
“Everybody must give once a day. It's theFirst Rule!” The girl says.
“OK, fine,” I reach for my water-tightbox.
“Not you, sir! Twice a day – no such Rule!Him!” the girl sticks her dirty finger towards the DeputyInvestigator.
“Sorry, I have no small money,” Woxmanblushes, “the smallest I have is five bucks.”
What a Scrooge! Is he going to ask thebeggar to give three dollars of change?
“Kha-kha-ah!” The legless wheezes and raiseshis tin a notch higher.
With a sigh, Woxman pulls out a bundle ofwet crumpled bills. The generous five-dollar donation leaves thesafety of the bundle's rubber band for the cruel world of thebegging tin.
“Happy now? Get lost!”
“Kha-kha! Kha-ha-ah!” the vet says. Heeither says thanks or sends Woxman to some distant place nevervisited by the Ambassadors of the Politically Correct Republic.
“Thank you so big, Uncle Cop!” The girlflashes a foxy smile, backing the wheelchair away from the policetape. Despite the layer of grime on her face, she is cute. Have Iseen her recently? Perhaps, but for sure not with this beggar vet.Can't remember…
***
Once again, I am going tobe home after seven. My poor little wife has to cope with all thechores. I am riding my bike in twilight and recollect the dayevents.
Woxman stood guard at theshack while I went down to Patch-3 to phone Python about the scattered books.Tom was astonished and decided to come at once. About one hourlater we met the sweating CSI at the scene. Naturally, this time hecould not use the horse and had to push pedals all the way from theStation.
Tom glanced into the hut and whistled. “Itell you that much, gents. Someone was looking for something here.Real hard.”
“I also thought so,” I said, “Can youestablish that were they looking for?”
“God knows. Offhand, it must be somethingsmall and flat. Something that can be hidden in a book: between thepages or in the spine. Although… It could be pretty much anythingyou can imagine. Maybe they were just looking for a specific book.Did you touch anything in here?”