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Authors: Timothy C. Phillips
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so I think that I am supposed to teach the lad everything a lifetime of experience has taught me. Christ, I was on the U.S.S Saratoga, halfway through my third cruise of the Mediterranean, when young Detective Simpson was born.”
“I remember Simpson from his patrol days. I’m sure he’ll do great, with you guiding the way. He couldn’t ask for a better teacher.”
This drew another grunt from Tiller. He was a genius, albeit a rather grumpy one, who had long ago decided the rest of the world needed to get its act together. He was also more than a little bit of a curmudgeon at times. It worried me some times that I agreed with him so much. It made me think that maybe I was becoming something of an old curmudgeon, too.
Tiller popped his knuckles and laced his fingers behind his head, and said, “So, tell me about this cold case of yours.”
“It all happened about ten years ago, Tiller. There was a businessman named Carlton Silvers. He was killed in what appeared to be a car accident. The detective who worked it is retired now, but he seemed to recall that the wife’s name was Mary. I was hoping to get a look at her photo, but the file had been sent down here. I think she might be the same person as someone I’m currently trying to locate.”
“Of course it happened years ago. That’s why they call them cold cases. Just out of curiosity, though, is this ‘Mary’ that you’re trying to find now married to another rich businessman?”
“Well, I know how it looks. I don’t know about rich, but he’s got the trappings: nice cars, nice house, and he’s an accountant. Let’s say ‘well-to-do’ at the very least.”
Tiller harrumphed and rose from the table where he’d been sitting when I’d come in.
“Anything to take a break from this one I’m currently working on. I’m going over some old GTA reports, using my considerable deductive powers in an attempt to divine the locations of local chop shops.”
“Sounds interesting.”
Tiller laughed aloud. “It’s not. Reminds me of the Navy. You see, when they wanted to punish you, they made you inventory stuff. Like a warehouse full of shoes and underwear, for example. Now that was interesting. You’d rather pull shore patrol, I assure you. You have a case number, I hope?”
I pulled out the printout that the desk sergeant at Central HQ had given me and Tiller squinted at it through his bifocals. “Hmm. Carlton Silvers . . . now, that sounds vaguely familiar. I’ll just go have a look.”
Tiller wandered off into the darkness of the dungeon, and after several minutes returned with a thick manila folder, which he theatrically blew the dust from, and heaved onto the table as if it weighed a hundred pounds. It made quite a thud. It was pretty heavy, at that.
“Looks like this case got a lot of attention from someone.”
“Yeah. This was no routine crack-up, or at least the cop who worked it up thought so. He had his reasons, Roland, we can be sure. Someone went to a lot of trouble over this case to generate that much paperwork. That’s a heavy file for one traffic crack-up.”
Tiller opened the file and, after a momentary perusal, slid the cover sheet across to me. It was the original I and O report, filled out by a patrol cop who had answered the call about a car down a ravine.
“This is it. A copy of this cover sheet was all they had at HQ.”
Tiller nodded. “This was the old days, everything was on a paper original. Most police organizations didn’t trust computers just yet. Now, another consideration is in play. Storage space is at a premium everywhere. Crimes keep piling up, after all, and every one of them generates the usual reams of paperwork . . . someone has to key it all into a database, and paper gets shredded. A few years more, even that original report would have been on microfilm. Or nowadays, I suppose, reduced to ones and zeroes on some data storage gadget or another. No tree would have to die.”
Tiller stretched
“I remember Simpson from his patrol days. I’m sure he’ll do great, with you guiding the way. He couldn’t ask for a better teacher.”
This drew another grunt from Tiller. He was a genius, albeit a rather grumpy one, who had long ago decided the rest of the world needed to get its act together. He was also more than a little bit of a curmudgeon at times. It worried me some times that I agreed with him so much. It made me think that maybe I was becoming something of an old curmudgeon, too.
Tiller popped his knuckles and laced his fingers behind his head, and said, “So, tell me about this cold case of yours.”
“It all happened about ten years ago, Tiller. There was a businessman named Carlton Silvers. He was killed in what appeared to be a car accident. The detective who worked it is retired now, but he seemed to recall that the wife’s name was Mary. I was hoping to get a look at her photo, but the file had been sent down here. I think she might be the same person as someone I’m currently trying to locate.”
“Of course it happened years ago. That’s why they call them cold cases. Just out of curiosity, though, is this ‘Mary’ that you’re trying to find now married to another rich businessman?”
“Well, I know how it looks. I don’t know about rich, but he’s got the trappings: nice cars, nice house, and he’s an accountant. Let’s say ‘well-to-do’ at the very least.”
Tiller harrumphed and rose from the table where he’d been sitting when I’d come in.
“Anything to take a break from this one I’m currently working on. I’m going over some old GTA reports, using my considerable deductive powers in an attempt to divine the locations of local chop shops.”
“Sounds interesting.”
Tiller laughed aloud. “It’s not. Reminds me of the Navy. You see, when they wanted to punish you, they made you inventory stuff. Like a warehouse full of shoes and underwear, for example. Now that was interesting. You’d rather pull shore patrol, I assure you. You have a case number, I hope?”
I pulled out the printout that the desk sergeant at Central HQ had given me and Tiller squinted at it through his bifocals. “Hmm. Carlton Silvers . . . now, that sounds vaguely familiar. I’ll just go have a look.”
Tiller wandered off into the darkness of the dungeon, and after several minutes returned with a thick manila folder, which he theatrically blew the dust from, and heaved onto the table as if it weighed a hundred pounds. It made quite a thud. It was pretty heavy, at that.
“Looks like this case got a lot of attention from someone.”
“Yeah. This was no routine crack-up, or at least the cop who worked it up thought so. He had his reasons, Roland, we can be sure. Someone went to a lot of trouble over this case to generate that much paperwork. That’s a heavy file for one traffic crack-up.”
Tiller opened the file and, after a momentary perusal, slid the cover sheet across to me. It was the original I and O report, filled out by a patrol cop who had answered the call about a car down a ravine.
“This is it. A copy of this cover sheet was all they had at HQ.”
Tiller nodded. “This was the old days, everything was on a paper original. Most police organizations didn’t trust computers just yet. Now, another consideration is in play. Storage space is at a premium everywhere. Crimes keep piling up, after all, and every one of them generates the usual reams of paperwork . . . someone has to key it all into a database, and paper gets shredded. A few years more, even that original report would have been on microfilm. Or nowadays, I suppose, reduced to ones and zeroes on some data storage gadget or another. No tree would have to die.”
Tiller stretched
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