Wrenched

Miguel
Friday, June 5, 9:50am

Donna and I didn’t normally sit around the station with nothing to do. But for some reason, this morning had been pleasantly free of murder or other violent crimes. That made the coffee taste just a little better.
Then Sergeant Brandt barked from his office doorway: “Nuñez, Frazier, my office, now.”
Donna rose and looked back. “Come on, Smiley. Don’t want to keep the Grinch waiting.”
“Shit,” I said, tossing down the last of my coffee and pushing back from my desk.
Brandt was fiddling with his keyboard when we entered and didn’t look up. “Close the door and sit.”
He was never one to mince words.
As we sat, the recording of a phone call crackled through his speakers. A mechanical voice said, “Emergency operator call, Tuesday, June 5, 8:33 a.m.”
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” a female voice asked.
A deep baritone trembled with each word. “My wife didn’t come home last night or this morning. She hasn’t called either.”
“Your wife is missing?”
“Yes. That’s what I just said,” the man snapped.
“Please stay calm, sir. When did you see her last?”
There was a brief pause. “Ten—no, eleven o’clock yesterday morning.”
“Sir, we generally don’t record a person as missing before twenty-four hours have passed unless they are a minor, there is a break-in, or some other sign of foul play. Do you have any reason to believe your wife was the victim of a crime?”
Another pause. “No. But she’s never disappeared like this without calling. This isn’t like her.”
“I understand your concern, but why don’t we wait a few more hours and see if she turns up. That’s what happens ninety-nine percent of the time.”
“And what about the other one percent? What if the hours we wait put her life at risk?” His voice was rising. “I don’t want to wait.”
“Sir, I’ve made notes of your call, but until we’ve passed the twenty-four hours, or until you can provide some evidence of foul play, there’s nothing our investigators can do.” When the man didn’t respond, the operator said, “I get that you’re scared. Try to stay calm. Call her friends, anyone she might’ve stayed with last night. You can start asking around before we get involved.”
“So, you want me to do your job? Is that it?” The man’s voice was white-hot now. “Fuckin’ waste of time.”
Click.
“That was three days ago, which means she’s been missing four. Husband went to Channel 4, so there’s heat on this now. The mayor’s pissed we didn’t jump on it sooner and tore the chief a new one early this morning. Never mind how many crank calls we get like this every day. You’re as downhill as the shit can roll, so congrats for catching it.” Brandt pushed his keyboard away, then shoved a thin file toward us.
“House search?” Donna asked.
“Husband consented over the phone. Ball’s in your court, just get the paperwork signed and coordinate with CSI.”
“CSI?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. “You already think this is more than—”
Brandt raised his palm. “I’m not saying anything, just that you need to get everybody in the boat, alright?”
I sat back as an uneasy itch crawled up my neck.
“I’ve already looped in the deputy chief in case we need detectives assigned. The morning brief put the wife’s face in front of every cop in the city. That should help. Come back to me with what you need, but find this one fast, alright?”
“Yes, Sarge,” we said in unison.
Brandt turned away from us and began pecking at his keyboard with the only two fingers he knew how to use. I resisted the easy joke, though it took an effort. Donna snatched the file and we strode back to our desks.
“He’s all warm and fuzzy this morning,” I quipped.
Donna sat at her desk and opened the file without looking up or responding.
“No one’s been to visit the husband yet.” She read a moment. “Huh. He hasn’t been here either. That’s odd.”
I raised a brow. “Odd? A man whose wife is missing and probably feels like the police aren’t doing shit doesn’t want to visit the station? Sounds about right to me.”
“Yeah, all that.” She shrugged. “Still seems a little weird. I’d yell at anyone who’d listen if my husband went missing.”
“He yelled into the cameras, probably just to get us to listen—and it worked.”
“True.” She nodded then closed the file. “There’s nothing in here. Husband’s a writer and works out of his house. Let’s go see him.”