The Patrolman - 11

11.

In Inglewood, Jake Lacey hunched over his kitchen sink. Smoking, thinking. The water had turned cold some time ago. He killed his cigarette, took the dishes out of the drying rack, and decided to wash them again. He ran the faucet, listening to the running water hit the stagnant pool below. The sound filled the house. He closed his eyes.

June Hartsfield had got under his skin. Like a splinter in his thumb that he couldn’t dig out. Her face, her voice, the way she moved. He couldn't shake her. Not now. Not then.

He drifted back - two years ago, to the bank manager's office, to the morning of Pearl Harbor. Sirens blared. Her face white with fear, a gun pointed at the both of them. Their lives about to change forever. No, that wasn't it. He squeezed out more dish soap, watching the flat bubbles turn to foam.

What was that look she'd given him?

He'd been sitting in the back of an ambulance, wrapped in a greatcoat, shivering. His body purging the adrenaline. He had watched them load the bodies into the coroner's van. Veronica Welles had taken his picture. The others had left him alone with his thoughts.

A brown K-Car sat parked across the street. June Hartsfield, the part-time filing clerk, stepped onto the sidewalk. Al Goosen smoked in the passenger's seat. She was about to climb in when Sergeant Hubja came out of the bank, her handbag in his outstretched hand.

She already had one in her arms - larger, fuller.

It wasn't a long pause, but it was still a pause.

Hubja popped the trunk, took the larger bag from her, and set it inside. They spoke - Lacey couldn't hear what they were saying, but it looked pleasant enough. Then Hubja slammed the trunk shut, said something else, and June Hartsfield laughed. A little too loud. Forced. They talked some more, and this time Hubja laughed. She followed him around to the driver's side and got in behind him.

As the car pulled away, she saw Lacey. Their eyes locked.

It was the same look she had given him that afternoon. Like a rabbit caught in headlights.

He needed to talk to her.

Lacey looked down - his hands red from the soapy water. The dishes were clean. Again. He dried them off, moving to the living room. His fingers fumbled through the telephone directory. She had lived in Echo Park. There were only two listings under Hartsfield.

He dialed the first number - Echo Park 2-2931 - and waited. Two rings.

‘Yeah?’

‘Does June Hartsfield live at this address?’

‘Who wants to know?’

Lacey hesitated, he’d stepped into something. ‘Have I got the right number?'

'Yes and no.'

A long silence.

‘Can you tell me where she is?’ the man asked.

‘I better go.’

‘Please,' he said. Pleading. 'I’m her husband.’

Had he opened a can of worms? ‘Madre Jalisco,’ he said, slamming the receiver down before he could get pressed for more. Had he given her up? Either way, it didn't sit right. Would this come back on him?

The phone shrieked through the empty house.

He snatched it up before it could wake his aunt in the next room. 'Hullo?'

‘It’s Carruthers - Flowers called. They claimed the body.’

‘The girl's family?’

‘Right, but that's not all. Her father's on the Police Commission. Flowers wants us to report to him at 0800 hours. Don’t be late.’

Lacey told him he wouldn't and hung up. A pit formed in his stomach. He set the receiver down. Tomorrow, they'd have to face the music. 

© J. A. Stapleton 2025 - Image Source: Wikimedia Commons