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Brother's Keeper |
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Sergeant Randy Speaks sat at the 12th precinct duty desk, laboriously filling out a report on the station's antiquated Underwood, typing each letter with his right index finger. The sergeant was an ardent adherent to the biblical school of typing -�- "seek and ye shall find." Despite 15 years of filling out the same reports on the same typewriter, Speaks had memorized only the position of the space bar. He was searching for the "o" key when the two monks walked into the station. Speaks' keen police instincts immediately told him they were from a religious group because of brown robes, rope sandals and tonsures. Of course, Speaks didn't know a tonsure from a toenail, but he knew some people, especially Catholic religious orders, had funny haircuts. Though dressed and tressed the same, the monks were as alike as beer and buttermilk. The younger one was in his mid-to-late thirties, tall and gaunt with a thick band of dark hair surrounding his shaved pate. The other was on the back side of forty, five feet tall, bearing striking resemblance to a blonde fire plug. "Can I help you, Fathers?" Speaks asked pleasantly. "Brothers," said the taller monk. "I beg your pardon?" "Brothers," said the tall monk again. "We're Franciscan monks, so we're brothers. And we'd like to report a robbery." "That's funny," said Speaks affably. "You don't look like brothers. Did you have the same father?" The monk stared at Speaks, shook his head, and tried again. "No, not real brothers. We're monks." "That's what I thought, Father," Speaks said obligingly. "Are you taking medication, officer?" "I don't think so, Father." "Then please pay careful attention to what I am saying." The man spoke very slowly and precisely. "We are Franciscan monks, a religious order, and people call us brothers." "I think I see," Speaks said. "Good," said the monk. "Then can we move on to the robbery?" "Certainly," Speaks said pleasantly, pulling a yellow legal pad towards himself. "Now, what was stolen, Father?" "Brother!" thundered the monk, rising on his toes, his face slightly purple. The windows behind Speaks rattled. Captain Ronald Wilson charged out of his office, bleary-eyed and dazed. Wilson was normally a conscientious, dedicated leader of men. Today, however, this leader of men, having over-indulged in Mamma Spedone's superb fettucini Alfredo, had decided to take a nap at his desk. "Speaks, what in the hell , er, hello Fathers." The taller of the robed figures shuddered. "We're monks," he said in a tone nearing utter resignation. "Oh, sorry," Wilson said. "What can I do for you brothers?" "I'm Brother Peter," the monk said, relief oozing from every syllable. "This is Brother Paul." Speaks' eyes lit up and he opened his mouth. A sharp elbow in the ribs from Wilson turned whatever comment he was going to make into a vague "Oomph!" "We need to report a robbery," Brother Peter continued. Wilson snatched the tablet from Speaks and, after fishing through a coffee cup full of broken pencils and leaky pens, found a usable pencil. "What was stolen, Brother Peter?" "Our laundry. Several robes, actually, and some, ah, other, ah garments." "Garments?" Wilson said with a frown. "Several pair of underwear," Brother Peter said in an uncomfortable tone. "They were hanging on a line to dry." "Someone stole your undies?" Speaks inhaled sharply, rubbed his ribs, and glared at the captain. "I see," Wilson said. "Do you have any idea why anyone would want to steal your laundry?" "At first we thought it was a prank, maybe some of the neighborhood youths -- there's a few hooligans who hang out on the streets near us. But Brother Paul said the men he saw were considerably older." "Wilson looked at the shorter monk. "You actually witnessed the theft?" Brother Paul nodded. "Can you tell me what they looked like? How much older were they?" Brother Paul's hands moved rapidly and his fingers fluttered in an obvious attempt to communicate. Wilson turned a raised eyebrow to Brother Peter. "Brother Paul, I'm afraid, can't talk. He's taken a vow." "I've taken lots of vows and it never stopped me from talking," Speaks put in brightly. "How unfortunate," Brother Peter said, ice dripping from his voice. "Sergeant, don't you have some paperwork to do or something?" "Nothing that won't wait, Sir. This is fascinating." "I wonder how fascinating you would find a beat on the riverfront?" Sergeant Speaks was slow; he wasn't a complete idiot. Sulking, he went back to his pursuit of the elusive "o" key. "As I was saying," the taller monk continued, "Brother Paul has take a vow of silence, so he can't talk. He communicates through sign language." Wilson reached for the phone. "Our dispatcher knows some American Sign Language," he said. Brother Peter shook his head. "I'm afraid the system he uses is one of his own design -- no one outside the monastery could understand it. I've come as his interpreter." Wilson sighed and dropped the receiver. He motioned the two men to an empty desk. "I guess we'll do it the hard way. I'll ask the questions, you give me his responses. Now, what time did the robbery occur?" The interrogation took about twenty minutes, and Wilson had no more answers than when they started. Brother Paul was returning with a load of wet laundry when he spotted a man, late thirties or early forties, dark complexioned and dark haired, taking the clothing from the line. The thief ran out the gate and jumped into a dark car, possibly American made, maybe European. The driver, also dark complexioned and dark hair, took off before the monk could get a good look at the men or the car. The missing items included seven robes and four pairs of underwear. Wilson had both men fill out and sign the appropriate forms, and assured them he would send someone to investigate. "Do you think there is any possibility the items will be recovered, Captain?" "We'll do our best, Brother, but crimes of this nature are rarely solved." "Crimes of this nature? Do you often have monks' robes stolen?" "Robes, no. But just about everything else. If it's not nailed down or locked up, someone eventually steals it. Sometimes even then." "We didn't put a lot of hope in it, Captain, and we realized the robes don�t seem particularly valuable to you, but with our limited resources, replacing them can be troublesome." "We'll give it our best shot, Brother, but don't expect a lot." "All we can ask is that you try." Wilson solemnly shook hands with both monks and they left. "That's something you don't see every day," a new voice commented. Wilson barely concealed a groan as he turned. Standing near the blotter -- the daily report of incidents -- was a man in his thirties, balding, wiry, and about two inches too tall to be a midget. He grinned up at Wilson like an old friend. "What's with the costume act that just split, Captain?" "I didn't hear you slither in, Snyder." Philip Snyder's thin face took on a hurt look. "Is that any way to talk to the man who saved your career? Have you forgotten who wrote that piece last week that exonerated you from the bribery charges?" "No. But I also remember who the idiot was who wrote the piece accusing me of taking the bribe in the first place." Snyder shrugged and grinned again. "An honest mistake. Now what's the story with the monks?" "No story, Snyder, unless you want to change from writing sleaze to doing human interest. Somebody stole their laundry. No big deal and no big story." Suddenly Wilson found a tape recorder in his face. "No story? This is great! What are you and the glorious boys in blue going to do to help these poor unfortunates? Or are you going to do anything?" The captain batted the recorder away. "Don't try to lay it on my men, Snyder. We'll do all we can to recover the clothing. But if you want my honest opinion, we might as well stamp closed' on this file now and save everybody a lot of work." "So you're saying you're not going to do anything." The recorder was back in Wilson's face. Again, he slapped it aside. "That's not what I'm saying and you know it, Snyder. That monastery is in one of the worst neighborhoods in town. Anybody who saw anything was probably in on it, and if they weren't, they're going to be deaf, dumb and blind. The gangs rule the streets and nobody'll talk to us. Most of these punks have learned they can do anything they want, as long as they don't do it in front of a cop. Nobody's going to report them." "Can I quote you on that, Captain?" "No. Now will you crawl back under your rock?" "Nope. I wanted to do a follow-up with Murphy on last week's robbery at the supermarket." "Try not to make a hero out of him again. He's already got a swelled head." Snyder smirked. "Goes great with the rest of his body. Where is he, by the way?" "Out. Internal Affairs gave him two weeks' suspension for last week's little stunt." "For stopping a robbery?" "For unnecessary use of force and reckless endangerment of bystanders, was what they said, which you would know if you read our weekly reports. But I guess that's not your style. Why bother reading when you can make up the facts as you go?" Snyder pasted on an injured look. "Why, Captain, you wound me deeply." "It'll be a real wound if you don't slither out of my station." The reporter stuffed his recorder in a pocket on his rumpled suit. "Far be it from me to stay where I'm not wanted. I'll just slither over to Murphy's apartment. At least I know he won't insult me." Wilson's tense features relaxed somewhat as he watched Snyder leave. He started toward his office, then a thought made him pause. He walked over to the desk where Speaks was still paying hide and seek with typewriter keys. Many people made the mistake of thinking of Sergeant Speaks as stupid. Dense would have been a better adjective -- plodding, stubborn and obstinate would also be appropriate -- but he was not stupid. Things percolated rather slowly through Speaks' skull, but given time, they would eventually arrive at a part of his brain that processed data differently than his fellow officers. The up side of Speaks' mental processes was that it gave him the tenacity of a bulldog, which had enabled him to rise to his present rank. He had an uncanny knack for sniffing out minute details that didn't quite fit -- details his faster-thinking associates often missed -- and would chew on it like a dog worrying a favorite loafer. Many times he didn't know why a particular facet of a crime -- an eyewitness account, for example -- didn't fit; he only knew it was wrong. And in his plodding, obstinate way, he would mull it over until he did know why it didn't fit. Superiors like Captain Wilson called it dogged determination. Less kind individuals muttered that he was too dumb to know when to quit. Some nagging little gray cell in the back of Wilson's brain told him now would be a good time to tap into the Sergeant's sixth sense. "What do you think of our visitors, Randy?" Speaks looked up from the typewriter, deep furrows crossing his forehead. "I don't know, Captain. Something ain't right." "You don't think they're on the level?" "No. I mean, yes. Dammit, Sir, I don't know what I mean. The whole thing's screwy as hell, but I know they're both decent, honest people." "Okay. So what about the people who stole their clothes, then? Any of your hunches?" Speaks pondered a few moments. "Maybe they needed them for a costume party?" "Right. Let's find out who's having a masquerade ball and arrest anyone dressed as a monk." "You want me to make some calls and find out who's having a party, Sir?" Wilson shoulders slumped. Sarcasm was wasted on Speaks. "Just a joke, Sergeant. No, we'll do it the hard way. Send a couple of uniforms over to the monastery and see if they can luck onto anything." "Right, Sir," Speaks said, laboriously scribbling notes. When he had finished, he looked at the captain. "What's this town coming to, sir, when people start stealing from a bunch of poor priests?" "Brothers," Wilson said absently, heading for his office. "Yeah, that too. Did you notice that they didn't look anything alike?"
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