Current Issue

Home

The author is a member of MWA, SMFS and Mensa. He has been a Marine, an account executive, a chicken farmer, a home builder and an actor while trying to be a writer. He has published investigative feature articles in several regional magazines and newspapers and has self published three novels. "Blackberries Got No Thorns", "The Voodoo Vortex" and "Luci". He has published short stories in Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine, MystericalE, Long Story Short, Crime & Suspense, Apollo's Lyre, Chilling Mysteries, Sooner's Ezine and Hands On Electronics. He is currently working on more short stories and is peddling his sixth novel. He resides with his silver haired lady in Memphis, TN.

By One Of His Own by Rus Morgan

I miss him.

I mean Rufus.

All six-foot-four of him. Black as the Ace of Spades, long-legged, muscular as a whip, straight black hair and a thin nose that didn’t fit his face.

***

I was free-lancing an article on prostitution. I had sufficient credits behind my name that I could request, and get, a meeting with the Chief of Memphis Police Daniel Martin.

He was an affable little man who had more stature sitting than he did standing. He leaned back in his comfy chair. His attitude, while cordial, left me with the impression that I was an unwanted blip on his radar.

"My public relations people said you were free-lancing an article on prostitution."

"Yes."

He focused his best interrogator’s stare on me. "Is that all?"

His stare was effective. I felt guilty about something. I would bet his questions were usually answered. I cleared my throat. "If I should happen to run across something else I will include it, favorably to the police department, of course."

He smiled. "All right. I’m going to introduce you to the linchpin of that area of investigation, Major Rufus Washington. He’s in charge and can give you all the answers. He’s on his way up here now."

At that moment the doorway was filled by a large black man.

The chief waved at him. "Mr. Webster, meet Major Washington. Rufus, I told you about getting some positive exposure in the press, and Mr. Webster here is going to provide that."

Washington’s snapping black eyes encompassed me for a moment and I had the feeling that momentary glance discovered all my little secrets.

He shook my hand with fingers that wrapped around my wrist like steel springs. "My pleasure. Come with me, please," he said and went back out into the hall.

"Newspaper reporter?" he asked as I followed him along the hall. We entered the elevator and he punched the 10 button. His perfunctory manner placed me in the category of impediments to what he really should be doing.

"Free-lance."

The elevator hissed to a halt on the tenth floor. I followed him along the hall into a neat, professional office. We sat down and I pawed around in my briefcase. He said, "I’m in charge of Special Squads. Car theft, narcotics, prostitution and gang activity…."

I could imagine all these divisions under his hawk eye and the bad guys were in trouble….

"Whenever a raid goes down I have to coordinate the time and the manpower to make it a success." He leaned back in his chair. "I’ll open all the doors I can here in the department for you and you can see how we operate. Tomorrow night I’ll put you in a black-and-white and you can see my crew in action."

"Great." I located the small voice-operated recorder in my briefcase. "Mind if I tape for accuracy?"

He grunted, which I took to mean if I thought it was necessary. I sat it on the corner of his desk between us but off to one side. "How about filling me in on your history just for background material?"

"Your focus shouldn’t be on me, it should be on my men and what they do."

"It will be."

As we talked that first afternoon we discovered an unlikely union which turned out to be an act of divine intervention. He was out of the black ghetto and I was from the white suburbs.

The common chord we uncovered was a need to tell the truth.

He turned and looked out the windows behind him. From this elevation of the Federal Building there was nothing through the windows but a dispiriting view of surrounding rooftops teeming with pigeons.

He pointed to them. "You know, there is really no reason for a homeless person to go hungry in this city."

"I don’t follow you."

He chuckled. I eventually realized that occasional amusement from Rufus Washington was his own personal way of venting the steam generated by the constant pressure of his job.

"If I was homeless I’d sweep floors until I could buy a thick rubber band and a box of paperclips. Then I’d feast on pigeon every night."

"Is that quotable?"

He turned to me and his face broke into a wide grin. "No, and off the record. Out of necessity, I tried that once in my younger days before joining the police department. They don’t taste bad and they are nutritious."

"That’s a tough way to make a living."

"You do what you need to do to survive and every man approaches it differently. Take you, for instance.…"

I stiffened in my chair. I couldn’t help it.

"Last week when the chief told me about your phone call I put him off for twenty-four hours and did some research. The library keeps complete visual files and I pulled up three of your investigative feature articles over the last two years. Not the usual hack job. You call ‘em as you seem them."

He leaned forward. "I also learned that in Korea you made the walk up to the Reservoir and back again. While you were walking back you picked up a Purple Heart. That took some guts."

I am always reticent when someone brings up that part of my history. I looked past him out the window and motioned at the pigeons. "As you say, you do what you need to do to survive."

Our conversation went from home to job and back to home again. "I’m married to a lovely lady who has given me three energetic sons," he said. "I love what I’m doing but I hate the time it takes away from my family. Why my wife puts up with it I don’t know. Twenty-two years ago I started out pounding my boots on the pavement over in the River Mound District. Over the years I’ve fought crooks, tolerated politicians, endured prejudice and finally made it to where I am now."

***

Cops' lives are not their own. The higher up the ladder the more the job eats into their personal lives. They cherish the tender moments and snatch them when they can. Rufus was snatching a quiet dinner at his favorite steakhouse with his wife.

He smiled at the familiar waitress. "Hey, Dolly, how are you?"

"I'm good."

He proudly indicated the lovely lady who sat opposite him. "This is Jill."

Dolly extended a well-worn hand. "Nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Washington. Rufus is always talking about you!"

Jill blushed. "I guess I picked him for a reason."

"You're a very lucky woman." Dolly set menus on the table in front of the couple.

Rufus moved the ever-present police radio to the side and scanned the menu. "I think I'll have the T-bone––rare."

Dolly smiled. "What could be better than a giant steak from the best steakhouse in town?"

Rufus opened his mouth to speak, but scratching from the police radio interrupted him.

"Bravo 112 to Headquarters, shots fired! Shots fired! Bravo 176 is down. I repeat, 176 is down! Suspect fled with a hostage. He's armed with a black semi-automatic pistol."

"Headquarters to 112, give me your location."

"Maple Grove Subdivision, second cross-street. Get an ambulance, quick!"

"10-4, an ambulance is en route. What direction––"

"Oh, God! He's not breathing."

Rufus snatched up his radio and lunged from the table. He turned to Jill. "Sorry baby, that’s a drug bust gone bad. I’ve got to go. Eat and take a cab home."

He hurried from the restaurant into a night damp with clinging fog. He sprinted to his car, his ear straining to hear every word from the police radio.

***

He pulled up on the outskirts of the fray. He left his headlights on to highlight the darkness ahead of him. He drew his weapon and moved warily through the headlights of his car from the darkness of the street. He crossed the lawn, through the swirling mist, approaching the house where the killer was supposed to be.

A rookie, arriving in a police car, saw the huge black man moving surreptitiously across the lawn. He shouted an order––"Freeze!"

Rufus went into a crouch and spun around with his handgun at ready, trying to find out where the kidnapper was running.

A shot rang from the police car in the darkness. Rufus jerked and went down on one knee. He swung his gun hand in a wide arc trying to find the source of the bullet.

The second shot took him in the side of his chest.

It knocked him flat but he struggled up with his gun held at ready.

A third shot hit him just above his heart and he crumbled back to the ground. His blood began to seep into the grass around his shoulders.

Several uniforms converged on Rufus and then there were screams of Officer Down.

When the first medic reached him Rufus motioned for him to lean down.

Bloody froth bubbled from his lips and he coughed. "I didn’t identify myself," he whispered, and died.

Those four words took away a good friend, a husband, a father and the best cop I’ve ever known.

Rufus’s last words exonerated the rookie of any blame but he committed suicide six months later.

THE END