A.G.E's Joint

“So, lift me up , Walt.” The skinny black detective with the graying hair shouted as he approached the body, ever present Starbucks cup in his hand.  Murray winced. With his extended jaw line, Willie Jackson always reminded him of a jackass, his braying voice always saying something inappropriate. At lunch he would chomp on corn on the cob with his flat teeth.   Chomp. Chomp.   He thought about giving him a feedbag for Christmas on year, but chickened out the last minute. He brushed the memory aside and looked down at his notebook. “Not much here that will do that, as usual.” Scratching an itch with his pen, he continued. “We have a well-ventilated ‘banger about 20 with no I.D. There isn’t a lot of blood, so he was probably dumped and probably not that long ago. The little Vietnamese guy in Diaz’s car found him coming home from work. Interesting thing, he might be connected to the hooker we pulled out of here.” Jackson’s eyebrows raised with the cup. “How

Sweat poured down Jeremy’s face as he waited for the light. That was too close. This was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance trip to make sure the complex would work. Not in his wildest dreams did he think he was going to run into that bastard. And damned if it wasn’t the exact scenario he was thinking of, a body next to a car with the Fuzz all around. The only thing missing was the bomb.    The light changed and he gingerly made the left hand turn, looking in the rear view to see if any cops had followed him out of the complex.   Satisfied they hadn’t, he picked up speed down the entrance ramp. A tractor trailer truck blew at him for drifting into his lane.    He picked up an old tissue of the console and wiped his receding hairline. It really was to close. Murray really hadn’t changed much, a little heavier and more lines on his snout. But the beady little eyes were still there, the ones that locked into him for that brief second.   Did he recognize him? He couldn’t

Clouds were beginning to gather as he pulled the Crown Vic into the complex entrance. The crime scene was immediately visible. Dodging an elderly lady walking with a large laundry basket, he made his way toward the yellow taped area. At first all he could see was the car, an older Buick sedan with a large amount of dust on the windshield. It had been there for days. He pulled in behind one of the patrol cars and got out into the humid air  A uniform guarded at the entrance point. He was a very obnoxious rookie he had dealt with before.   But this time, the idiot recognized him and passed him through.   Murray spent a moment taking it all in. He noticed Sgt Arturo Diaz by the car, making notes.  Afternoon, Diaz.” Murray offered his hand. “Hey, Lieutenant.” Shaking the hand vigorously. “Long time no see. Like maybe yesterday?”  They both had a laugh at that. Murder every day and it was like a play, with the two of them playing the same roles.   The difference last ni

The tears of a clown Are all that is left Of a gift given Only to be left fallow. Were you afraid? Did the lust of a fling Make you feel so damaged You couldn't return? Fifty years Since you took up brush and oil. Or the chisel Or even the crochet needle. Years spent chasing money And false affection. Men who cheated you And those you cheated. Now it is over Found alone in a high rise. With your hoarded belongings Your only friends.   Photo (c) Christopher H.Mitchell 2014 Painting (c) Marilyn E Mitchell 1964

Murray slouched to the black Crown Vic and got in. Let me guess. It’s here in Norcross. He thought about going home and changing into more professional clothes, but that would take too long. Baseball shirt and shorts will have to do. Wincing as he slid on the hot vinyl, he dialed back to headquarters to get the location.    “Gwinnet Homicide.   Jackson.” Even after all these years that donkey voice still grated at his nerves. “Hey, Murray here.   What’s up?” “Sorry to bust up the ballgame Lieutenant, but we just got a call out of the Graves. I knew you were in the neighborhood and I figured you could field this.” Murray heard a suppressed bray from his partner.  “I love you, too, Jackson. But, the game is over. What do we know about it so far?” “Not much. Male. Latin. No age or I.D. yet, but pretty young. Found by one of the residents at the bottom of the hill a little while ago. Patrol apparently has the scene secure, so you should be ready to roll when you g