I saw plenty of cops come and go, but none more interesting and
engaging than Dexter Hanley. The grizzly veteran was the oldest guy on the
force by a good decade and most of the surface dwellers in the precinct didn’t
bother digging any further than a first impression. Based on first encounters
Dexter was an odd bird, but I’ve always believed there is a certain percentage
of genius even in those labeled bat-shit crazy. More than anything I suppose a bad
left eye and a few ticks spooked most people off, but if you weren’t afraid to
ask a few questions and took time to listen to the answers you’d discover a loving
and dedicated husband, grandfather, and exemplary officer. I’m not saying Dexter
couldn’t have done more to bolster his image among his peers, but he didn’t seem
to care much about what others thought and said of him. Like water off a duck’s
back most days with the exception of one occasion that’s as fresh in my mind as
yesterday.
Dexter arrived back at headquarters and as he strolled past
the break-room caught a glimpse of the new rookie doing a bad impression of
him. The kid was pretty buff, but definitely full of himself; the kind that
poses in front of a mirror and honestly believes he’s doing the mirror a favor.
The boy’s whole demeanor changed the moment Dexter hoisted him up like an empty
milk jug, pinning him against the wall, leaving his feet to dangle like a
paper-doll on a windy day.
While I can only assume Dexter’s insides were on the brink
of boiling in their own juices he never lost his composure; his voice as smooth
and rich as any high-paid news anchor that ever lived.
“There’s a difference between gym-tough and street-tough.” Dexter
began. “I’ve yet to have a criminal challenge me to a curlin’ or bench-press contest,
so probably best if you save that shit for your puffy-chested cronies at the
gym—you know, the one’s starin’ at your ass in the mirror when you ain’t
lookin’!”
The room erupted into a chorus of laughter and jeers as
Dexter dropped the boy like a hot-rock. The punk folded into a pile at the
baseboard like a dirty pair of socks and boxers at a bachelor pad, and was still
quiverin’ like a bowl of half-set Jello as Dexter leaned down to offer some
parting advice.
“Two rounds from a .45 in a dark alley will change your life—one
in the back and one in the skull, so all things considered I’m mighty blessed
to walk away with just a lazy eye. Son, I was walkin’ a beat in the nastiest
part of Philly when you was still nuzzlin’ your momma’s teet and fillin’ yer
diapers with green puddin’. That don’t make me better than you…just smarter,
more experience of knowin’ when to keep my yap shut!”
Dexter’s outburst put an end to the jokes around the station
and as I look back marked the beginning of our friendship. Neither of us were
the type to make friends easily but I suppose we each saw something in the
other we identified with. On the surface we were night and day. Dexter was
African-American, thirty years my senior, and grew up in the projects of a
large city. I couldn’t imagine quitting school in the fourth grade and going to
work to help your mother support your seven brothers and sisters. Despite
experiencing the harsh reality of a cold and cruel world at such a young age
Dexter navigated the choppy waters and not only emerged on the other side, but arrived
there a much tougher and smarter breed than most. Quite admirably he appeared
to harbor no animosity towards anyone. On the flip-side I came from an
upper-middle-class exclusively white neighborhood and breezed through private
school on my parent’s dime. They wanted me to pursue a psychology degree, but
all the money in the world can’t make a square peg fit a round hole and that’s
how it had been for me socially since grade school. Out of respect I began working towards a psychology
degree but silently resigned myself to a life of misery. Midway through my
sophomore year I was walking home drunk from a party and had the fortunate
experience of getting mugged and severely beaten; fortunate because I used the recovery
time to formulate a plan for escape. Eventually I convinced my parent’s the
world would not suddenly quit spinning if one kid changed his degree to criminal
justice.
I likened Dexter and his beautiful brain to a tightly wound
ball of yarn. Locating the loose end proved difficult, but once identified, tugging
on the fray unraveled an avalanche of knowledge that often flooded my brain to
the point of overload. I can honestly say I continued to absorb information right
up until the night he was killed in the line of duty.
Dexter failed to respond to a radio call and the search
began. We found his squad car in an empty parking lot, driver’s side door
riddled with bullet holes, and the front seat drenched in blood. The only thing
missing was Dexter, no body and not a trace of it being removed from the
vehicle. I knew he had been working an angle on something, but despite my
inquiries he remained tight-lipped about the details. Like an older brother to
me, I took the loss personal and worked on the mystery for more than a month. With
little evidence and no leads, the higher-ups ‘encouraged’ me to quit chasing ghosts
and let the past pass. Threatened with the loss of my job the case went cold,
but I could never quite shake the feeling I’d let my friend down. More than
anything I hated it for his family. Navigating the grief process is nearly
impossible when you can’t even lay your hands on a body to bury.
Nothing about Dexter could be remotely classified as conventional.
Some of his techniques fell a good distance outside the lines, but the damndest
thing was they always worked. I remember laughing out loud when he suggested I
could essentially train myself to have a photographic memory, turn it on and
off like a light switch. At the time I wasn’t even sure such things existed,
but certainly if they did I figured you were wired that way or you weren’t. Turns
out the old man couldn’t have been more spot on.
Despite the distraction of a world moving at full speed, I
took a deep breath and forced my mind into a state where everything crept like
cold molasses over a frozen rock. I focused hard on the cigarette, able to make
out the Phillip Morris label during each revolution until it covered the length
of the interrogation room table. I followed it up with a lighter skidding along
the same path until it dropped into the suspect’s hands.
“You got the smoke you asked for, let’s get down to business.”
“Knock yourself out—it’s your story, you tell it.”
Right out of the gate I didn’t like the guy’s attitude, but I
supposed he had his agenda and I had mine, so I forged forward with my
rendition of what I believed took place that night.
“I’m guessing it was around midnight when a pretty, little,
brunette rounded the corner and started up the alley. You were probably pretty stoked
to see a working girl that either wasn’t afraid to take the shortcut, or maybe she
was too high to care. Don’t suppose it mattered to you either way as long as
she moved away from the streetlights and into the shadows. That’s kinda where
guys like you do their best work, isn’t it Rodney, under the cover of dark?”
I didn’t expect an answer, but paused on the off chance he
might tip his hand. Instead, Rodney leaned back in the chair, sparked the
lighter, and took a long drag. Veiled by a cloud of smoke I could still see that
smug expression. If this punk wanted to play games I was definitely willing to
turn up the heat.
“Some women run around in primer, best suited for tooling
around town and running errands. Not this shiny vixen; she was built for speed
and lived for the thrill of the open road. It was those stiletto heels that set
everything in perfect motion; banana curls dancing against the apples of her
cheeks, tender breasts licking against the delicate lace of a thin teddy. Each
step sent them heaving against their restraint, flirting with the brink of
spilling over. All that visual temptation put to the sweet music produced by the
rhythmic swishing of a leather skirt rustling against her thighs. Suddenly it didn’t
matter that she wouldn’t give you the time of day because with each delicious
step she unknowingly moved closer to the lion’s den. Then she’d have no say in
anything. You’d bring her down, satisfy your own desires, and take what you
wanted. Isn’t that what you were thinkin’, Rodney!”
The boy didn’t have to say a word; his pasty white
complexion and the line of sweat-beads across his brow told me my rendition hit
dangerously close to home. Just when I was set to take another bite out of this
punk the Lieutenant nearly busted the door off the hinges.
“You damn renegade! Just what the hell do you think you’re
doin’?”
After leveling the accusation of wrong-doing in my
direction, the Lieutenant addressed my suspect.
“Rodney, gather your things and get back out on your beat,
your partner’s waiting on ya!”
With the arrival of unexpected company the pressure in the
room skyrocketed. I felt like I was trapped in a sauna with a broken thermostat
running wide open. Calculated risk was a part of the gig but I had determined
getting to know Rodney outweighed the potential repercussions of getting caught
doing it. Now that my plan had fallen apart I hoped a cool down period would
benefit my cause. I attempted to sneak out of the room on Rodney’s heels when
the Lieutenant caught me by the collar.
“You crazy, unethical, son-of-a-bitch, that’s a fellow
officer you’re interrogating like he’s Charlie Manson’s brother. You do understand
if he has an ounce of sense he’ll make a phone call and in a flash the D.A. will
be so far up my ass I’ll have trouble breathin’. Thank you for brining a fresh
pile of shit to my doorstep, Officer Tanner. It’s like a bad infomercial…but
wait there’s more. As if this steamy pile wasn’t enough, you placed a bright,
shiny turd on top. Not only is Rodney a fellow officer, but more importantly my
wife’s nephew! Hand me your weapon and badge. You earned yourself a month off
without pay, starting now!”
After a few moments of silence the idea of being suspended
unjustly boiled in my gut until it spilled over into angry words.
“You’re making a big mistake, Lieutenant. I understand you’re
worried about the bad press associated with exposing a rotten apple from within.
But for my own curiosity—is there a particular number of mutilated, young girls
before you start losing sleep? Obviously three isn’t enough. And just how
brutal do you think the press is going to be when they suspect more blood was
spilled by your attempt to protect your reputation and family instead of doing
your job?”
I thought my bosses head was going to spin off before he sputtered
his next words.
“That’s an extra week of suspension for gross disrespect!”
I moved into his personal space until I was certain I could
feel the pulsing of the bulging vein in his forehead.
“That’s a physical impossibility, Lieutenant. By its very
nature disrespect would indicate a prior level of respect, and the only thing
gross in this whole situation is your level of negligence!”
Perhaps the most important single lesson Dexter taught me was
that the loneliness associated with operating and thinking outside the lines is
not a bad thing. We were working together one night, sitting at a stop light
when it turned green. As I pulled through the intersection Dexter said he was
going to ask me a couple questions. He stated there may or may not be correct
answers, but the most important thing was to refrain from analyzing my replies
and just respond instinctively. I suspected it was another of his tests so I laughed
and agreed.
“What was the model and make of the car following us that
turned North on Culvert Ave?”
“Rust colored 69 Impala, black hardtop, looked to have a
good sized dent in the driver’s front quarter.”
“Damn, I missed the dent completely.” He exclaimed. “You’re
warmed up now, boy. Let’s go for broke.”
“How many steps across
the cross-walk, one curb to the other?”
“Size ten and a half, six foot male, normal stride, sixteen
steps”
Dexter giggled like a school girl at her first dance, completely
unable to suppress the excitement in his voice.
“Ok…OK, how many LED’s were in that green stop lamp?
“283”
The old man slapped the dash, “Nice try, but I
gotcha—there’s 285.” He exclaimed proudly.
I turned at the next block and we circled back the original
intersection.
“Check it out, Dexter, third ring from the center on the
left side two are burned out, so makes 283.”
“Damn, boy, you’re unbelievable! But that’s what I’m talking
about—most people don’t see things in that kind of detail, and even if they did
their minds don’t process quickly enough to make it useful. You and I, we got a
special gift and an obligation.”
The tone of his voice changed decidedly, “Son, you gotta
promise me you’ll never move to the dark side.”
It was those words that haunted me ever so slightly, but I
hoped Dexter could see in this case there was a thick, murky band of gray
rather than a distinct fine line separating the two. Dexter was right about the
keen insight we shared. While the majority of the officers appreciated Rodney’s
sense of humor, I’d always had the ability to read people and was certain a
rotten core lurked beneath the goofy exterior of Rodney Allen Kelly, and I
aimed to prove it, with or without the backing of a badge and a legal weapon.
