The Case of the Runaway Overtime

The following is a short story I wrote as an exercise in writing a 'mystery that is not exactly a murder.' I didn't succeed. Like all of my short stories, it features strong hints of irony. I find myself wanting to bring the reader into the fun and action of the story and get them thinking. I hope you enjoy, "The Case of the Runaway Overtime," By Daniel Roberts.

Chicago Police Chief of Detectives Dick Borneman sat behind his desk. On the computer screen was a report on detective overtime usage organized by area and subdivided by precinct. Next to that window was a live stream of the John Deere Classic, run out of Silvis, Illinois. The greens looked pristine. Then again, what else would one expect from a tournament sponsored by a lawnmower manufacturer. Dick took a moment to rest his weary eyes by admiring his Fraternal Order of Police Golf Trophies. Six months, baby, he thought to himself. Then, his office phone beeped. Dick picked it up and pressed it to his ear.

<Chief, I got a detective here from area three. His name is Robert Miles. He says he needs your help with a case.>

“Tell him I am not here.” Dick joked but didn’t.

<Funny chief. He says its about the girl they found the morning of the fifth.>

“They found a lot of girls that day. Was she alive or dead?” He could hear his secretary ask Detective Miles the same question over the receiver.

<He says dead. It’s the one they found in the lake.>

Dick grimaced. Area three meant northside on the water. Rich people hated when dead girls washed up and ruined their morning run along the lake. He looked over at the overtime report on the screen. Overtime up eight percent. No surprise there with dead girls washing up after national holidays.

“Okay. send in Detective Miles,” Dick groaned. At least he could stem this one. Whoever took over for him wouldn’t appreciate it, but the unwitting taxpayer might.

Detective Miles was tall and fit. He clearly spent his off hours in the gym. But he did not bother to shave that morning. Dick knew if he asked Miles if he owned a razor, the answer would be ‘Why?’ Then the conversation was likely to spiral into a discussion of the perplexities of tracking down information on bloated corpses found in Lake Michigan. Dick had this conversation several hundred times in his career. So, he figured he’d skip all that.

“Detective Miles, how can I help you?” The two shook hands. Miles had the ‘first time in the big guy’s office grip,’ firm, but uncertain where the fingers fit.

“Well chief, I’ve been on this case for a couple days and I’m stumped. Chief Samuels said you got a real knack for these things. He told me to come down and run it by you.” Miles said it with a humble inflection that told Dick the kid was more about greasing a wheel than grinding gears.

“Okay, Detective. Give me what you got?” Dick had a soft spot for wounded animals.

“Beautiful girl. She was an Instagram model. Brunette, white, five-foot-eight, found by fisherman on the morning of July fifth. Head wound followed by drowning. Cocaine and alcohol in her system. Last seen leaving her apartment around two in the afternoon. Gives a window of seventeen hours. Coroner says body was in the water at least seven.”

Miles handed Dick his phone. There were pictures of the girl, alive and dead. Alive, she was a stunner, except this weird pouty thing with her lips. Dead, less pouty, sadder, and blueish grey in hue.

“Lot of pictures of her on boats. Party girl, Fourth of July. You call the Marinas?” Dick asked.

“Yeah,” Miles nodded. “They know of her, but no one noticed her that day. Things being as busy as they get on the fourth.”

Dick looked through the photos again. “Lot of pictures of her on this one boat. White one, with the blue top. You talked to the owner?” Dick asked.

“Yeah, that’s her boyfriend’s boat.” Miles reported.

“She had a boyfriend with a boat?” Dick asked like he shouldn’t have had too.

“Guy named Donny Lorretta.” Miles nodded.

“And?” Dick lifted an eyebrow. “Did you ask Donny if he killed her?”

“Absolutely sir.” Miles looked offended. “I spoke to him in person, but he has an alibi.”

“Who?” This would be rich, Dick thought.

“His mother. She lives in Milwaukee.”

“She says he was with her?”

“All weekend.”

Dick shook his head. The corner of his right eye caught the report on overtime. He put two and two together and came up with a working theory.

“Miles, how long did it take you to get over here?”

“What?” The kid asked.

“To my office. How long did it take you to get down here from nineteen to Police Headquarters?”

“Hour, maybe an hour and a half.”

“You didn’t run the lights and the sirens?”

“No, why would I do that?” He looked offended.

Dick grimaced. “You look young. You got a masters in criminal justice?”

“Sociology from Northwestern.”

“That explains it.” Dick nodded. “You take a lot of classes on criminology at Northwestern?”

“A couple, but my focus was on culture and social movements.” Miles seemed proud of this.

“Thanks. Wait one second.” Dick put his finger up. Then he picked up his phone. “Yeah, Judy, you get me Chief Samuels over at area three on the phone. Thank you.”

Dick tapped on his desk. Miles looked at him nervously. The phone rang. Dick pressed the speaker phone button.

<Chief, what do I owe the pleasure?> Samuels’s drawl came through loud and clear.

“Chief, how many fresh detectives you got out at area three decorate their desk with a Northwestern diploma?” Dick asked.

<Jesus Dick! Looking out the window, at least three. How the hell did you know that?>

“All of them in the past two years?” Dick asked.

<Yeah, young bucks. They are all smart kids. Energetic.>

Dick could see Miles’s mouth, ‘What the hell is this about?’ He responded to Miles with another solitary finger and mouthed ‘Wait,’ back at him.

“Samuels, you part of that new local college recruiting initiative?” Dick asked the black phone on his desk.

<Yeah! Been a godsend with all the turnover. Makes it easy to fill billets. Kids got loans and they like working.>

“I’ll bet. Who’s the rep at H.R. handing that program?” Dick asked.

<Caldwell.>

“Great. Samuels, when was the last time you gave the boys the old ‘Dick Borneman Special?’”

<Jesus, is that the ‘its always the boyfriend talk,’ or ‘the vomit doesn’t mean poison talk?’>

“The boyfriend one.” Dick said.

<Couple years.>

“Okay! Dougy! I want you to bust that old chestnut out at the next morning briefing. I got to save some money for the next guy.” Dick smirked.

<You’re a real civic treasure, Dick.>

“Dougy, they won’t know what to do without me.” Dick clicked the phone and hung up.

“Sir,” Miles looked lost. “What was that about?”

“Son, I am not going to blame you. This is a managerial oversite. But, since you’re here, I’m going to let you in on a secret. It’s always the boyfriend.” Dick gave Miles a sympathetic nod.

“Excuse me sir?” Miles looked offended.

“The boyfriend did it.” Dick picked up the cell phone with the pictures and showed it to Miles. “The guy who owns the boat. If there’s a boyfriend, it is always the boyfriend.”

“Sir, I questioned the boyfriend. He has an alibi. Plus, it can’t always be the boyfriend. Other people do commit murders.” Miles resisted.

If Dick had more than six months left, he would have thrown the kid out. Instead, he decided to leave Chicago a parting gift.

“Miles, son, how many Italian mothers you know?” Miles looked at him blankly. “I’m guessing none. There isn’t a mother in America who won’t lie to a cop about her son’s whereabouts.” Kids, Dick thought.

“I don’t think that is right, sir.” Miles’ shook his head.

“Well, how about this? How many guys you know who own a boat a date a girl who looks like that spend Fourth of July in Milwaukee with their mother? Son, no one loves their mother that much.” Dick winked.

“Sir—” Miles looked disoriented.

“You wanted my help. Here’s what you do. Make a big stink down the Marina where this guy keeps his boat. Demand the tapes. Put a couple of uniformed officers on the dock with some lawn chairs. When Donny calls you, tell him you won’t pursue charges against Mama Loretta if he comes in quietly. You’re not even going to need a warrant or a forensic team. He’ll plead to third degree homicide, serve an easy twenty.” Dick figured that would satisfy blind justice.

“Sir—” Miles wanted to speak, but Dick stopped him.

“Son, get out of my office.” Dick gave Miles a fixed stare. Miles stood up and retreated slowly from the room. His eyes remained fixed on Dick like the old cop was a bear in the wood. After the door opened and shut, Dick chuckled to himself. ‘It can’t always be the boyfriend,’ He held in an uproarious laugh. It almost caused him to burp. Kid sits in traffic for three hours on a week day and doesn’t think to run siren. Jesus! What is the world coming to?

Dick picked up the phone, “Judy, you get me Tracy Caldwell over at HR? You know, the one who runs area college recruitment.”

<Certainly sir.>

He hung up and returned to tapping on his desk. The phone beeped, Dick picked it up and pressed it to his ear.

“Tracy, this is Chief Borneman at headquarters.” He put on the charm.

<Chief, what can I do for you?> Tracy sounded kind.

“Yeah, Tracy. I want you to stop recruiting detectives out of soft sciences at Northwestern. I need you to find a school with poor kids. Maybe University of Illinois, Chicago. I need kids who like to run the siren and don’t sit in traffic for three hours for no reason. Make sure they know their mother love’em. Extra points if they resent guys with boats and hot girlfriends. The city of Chicago Taxpayers will thank you.” Dick smiled. Case solved. Maybe he might miss this part of the job, or maybe he won’t.