Phones work best when they’re turned on – or answered. Frank D’Elia knew this, but his recent suspension from active duty at Metro Division’s Detective Bureau was his way of dealing with life’s unexpected urgencies – and this ranked up among one of them. Since Monday evening, numerous unanswered calls to his home- and cell phone had since prompted a welfare check from Louisville Police’s patrol division. Upon arriving, officers were greeted by a very intoxicated and bitter man claiming police harassment. After ID’ing the man, they were thoughtlessly invited in for the grand tour. They declined and radioed to Metro’s Command Center of successful contact with a very much ‘alive, adult male with a driver’s license listing him as a ‘one Benjamin Franklin D’Elia,’ secure at his residence, intoxicated.
This update was passed on to Metro Homicide’s Captain Locke, who then proceeded to his own version of a welfare check. He arrived at Frank’s home shortly after 1:00 a.m. Knowing to use the less obvious point of entry, Locke made his way to the back of the house, where he and Frank met; there, they made small talk.
“Well, hey there, Captain,” Frank slurred.
“Damn, you ARE pretty messed up,” Locke quipped.
“Yeah, what do you care?”
“Believe me, I do.”
“So! Why did you let ’em do it?”
“I didn’t have a choice. Ya’ know, I don’t think I ever asked you – why did your folks name you Ben Franklin, anyway?”
“My old man won a bet on me on when I’d be born. Guess what the – guess how much the bet was,” Frank drawled.
Locke chuckled. “Yeah, I pictured you just kept jamming your toy keys in the electrical outlets.”
‘Hey, he wasn’t sure until my mom actually went to the hospital, so he started with a few smaller bets – I could’ve been Andrew Jackson.”
“Frank works good for me. Fuck Frank, why ain’t ya’ answering the phone?” Locke asked his own southern drawl, pronounced.
“My what – what phone?” Frank queried.
“Yours. Both of them. I’ve been calling you here at the house, just letting it ring, ring, ring and your fuckin’ cell just goes into your voicemail.”
Frank shot back, his words muttered, “You told me I’m outta business, so I decided to throw a retirement party.”
Locke fired back. “Gosh damn you, Frank. Well, now, I just went to bat for you. I told ’em you’d be the only one that could head this task force. Now, seriously, I’m not fuckin’ around anymore, got it?” A nervous laugh followed his rant.
‘Wait, what, whoa, what task force?”
“You know, someone’s been calling about, well fuck, you know,” Locke answered.
His words hit Frank like an IV, the effects of a liquor-fueled bender all but gone. “Yeah, I do know, but about what? When? And what about the ice maiden?”
“Frank, there’s been a pretty big shitstorm this last week. Deb took some heat and so she basically, just resigned – she quit and walked out. So, now I’m in charge.”
Turning, reaching for the flimsy, screen door, Frank walked in. “Forget it.”
Captain Locke followed, stole past him, turned, squared off, and came face-to-face. “You’re absolutely right, we ARE gonna forget it, forget about everything that’s happened up to this point, wipe it clean and fucking forget it.”
The look on Frank’s face revealed surprise.
Locke continued. “Don’t look so friggin shocked. That’s right, this ain’t about you anymore and it never was about the rest of them fuckers. It’s about getting your priorities straight, figuring out this job and your duty to do what’s right so you and I and John Q Public can get on with the rest of our lives and so help me god, this bullshit stops tonight, right fuckin’ here.
“I don’t care if you wanna flip off the mayor or moon the fuckin’ press, just as long as it’s right after you put this shit behind us and convince a jury to put whoever this asshole is in a hole. Now, all I can say is this: there’s nothing else to fuckin’ say except, ‘Yes sir, I will do my fuckin’ job and knock this chip off my shoulder and attempt to work as a team.”
The captain breathed heavier now as his speech went on without a single break. As an added emphasis, he situated his left hand on Frank’s shoulder, the other outstretched as if to say, still friends?
Frank only stood, listening, absorbing the impact of the harsh words that lingered on the reprimand. Silently, deep down, he agreed with the captain’s initial assessment and objective but disagreed, all but, waving off the other remaining verbal accusations and insults. Stunned by the actions of a superior and once upon a friend, he started to pronounce the words of rebuttal, his defense, only to find a disabled skill of communication in its place. Recovering quickly, emotion and sympathy gone, he grasped at Captain Locke’s hand.
Responding to the scolding and apparent soul-searching for some appropriate apology, he simply said, “Okay, okay, now what?”
Locke answered. “Starting tomorrow, you’ll lead the task force through a full-scale investigation of our two victims and begin coordinating all our efforts into figuring out our two big questions: how and why.”
“You’re reinstating me?”
“Effective immediately. Is there a problem?”
“No. But, I guess I’m done with my pity-party.”
“Just answer your damn phone, Benjamin,” the captain ordered, his hand leaning on the door latch. He made his way out of the kitchen at the rear of the house.
“Hey, what about the calls?” Frank reminded.
“Call me when you’re sober,” Locke yelled, already past the gate that led to the driveway.
Frank ran out. “What about Don Juan?”
“He’s out, Michaels is your man.”
Frank protested. “Oh, ok, well, we’ve tried that before – shit, ok, no, sorry, never mind. He still hit the bottle?”
The last words he heard came from the friend who had just handed him his ass. “You should talk, Franklin.”
Frank lingered long enough to see the standard issue sedan make a U-turn out of the culdesac. “Fuck, you said it.”