The Big Witness (A Dragnet Fan Fiction Story) -- Chapter Five

 The Big Witness

(A Dragnet Fan Fiction Story)

By: Kristi N. Zanker

Disclaimer: All publicly recognized characters, settings, etc. are the property of Mark VII Limited and Universal. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I, in no way am associated with the owners, creators, or producers of Dragnet. No copyright infringement is intended.

Warning: This chapter contains some adult themes and sexual situations.

Chapter Five

The next morning Joe stood before the screen door, Fatima perched in his right hand between his index and middle fingers, watching as the ribbon of smoke wove upward vaporizing in the warm inviting May breeze. In his pajamas, bathrobe, and slippers, he scanned the front yard for the newspaper. Where did that paperboy throw it this time? Coffee permeated throughout the house, while the radio faintly played a morning music hour. He felt so serene and at the same time euphoric after last night. He couldn't recall the last time he had felt this good. On the plus side, he had had a dreamless sleep.

Evoking the previous night's events in his mind, he smiled to himself, even though it hadn't started out well. After the unpleasantness with the neighbor, his flare-up in the kitchen, composure seemed to be out of reach, much to Joe's dismay. Things did settle down eventually and without a word, he took Dorothy's hand and led the way to his bedroom.

While Joe was arguing with the enraged ten-thirty visitor, one of the things she'd done was turn down the bed and lay a yellow bath towel in the middle. She had also closed the draperies. The lamp on the nightstand, next to the radio playing, low was turned on with the lacy shade creating a faint glow throughout the room.

He wasn't sure if it was the impending eagerness of what was in store mixed with sheer nervousness, or the fact that he hadn't bedded a girl in six years. But whatever the reason, much to Joe's chagrin, he ended up climaxing too soon for his likening. Dorothy tried to console him, saying that she too hadn't been with anyone since her fiancé and not to feel so bad about it. Her words fell on deaf ears as he berated himself, that is, until she threatened to leave. His mood changed quickly with him apologizing profusely. Moments later they both lay cuddling one another until the urge struck again.

In their choices of profession, albeit tedious, routine, and wearisome at times, the audacity of viciousness, bloodthirstiness, despondency, and harrowing ways human beings can and will mutilate or slaughter one another was simply incomprehensible. While being a detective sergeant with the Homicide Bureau wasn't like the war with days, weeks, and even months of unremitting carnage, it could be sporadic one week and persistent the next with a killing spree somewhere in the city. The general public was, of course, unaware of the amount of murders handled on a regular basis. When you were unable to adhere to their incredulous timeframe, more outrage from both parties were thrown In your direction. And you couldn't rant and rave about it either.

With all the two of them endured while on the job, the awaiting need and want to be held and caressed was so strong that it nearly terrified Joe who fretted he was being too rough while caught in the moment. But there was no cry of distress from Dorothy, only delectation as he thrusted hard while teasing by not giving in; enjoying her beg and writhe beneath him until his body couldn't take it anymore. The only time she let out a wince of pain was when he entered her the first time—a reminder that it had been a long while. Now, he was able to control his actions and go slow until the time was right.

When the trembling subsided, Joe collapsed from sheer sensual exhaustion onto her as she ran her fingers through the dark tufts of his hair. For once, he had been shaking, breathing heavy, and sweating not due to nightmares of the war, but from a damned good lay. No, it wasn't only that, not this time. It was more meaningful. Joe couldn't recall, ever, when it had felt like the night before. In between sprinkled kisses and gentle hugs, words were spoken softly in that only lovers would understand.

It was midnight by then and that was when Joe got up to take a shower. He was pleasantly surprised to find Dorothy pulling the shower curtain and joining him where they soaped each other, finding delicate areas that made them squirm, and chuckle with delight, rinsed while kissing and licking, tasting the water as it streamed down, and finally drying off with a large blue bath towel. At this time, they both stood outside the bathtub as Joe encircled the towel around both himself and Dorothy as they carefully went back into the bedroom, almost engaging in round three of bliss, but tiredness won.

After the two of them were dressed each in a pair of his pajamas, the ever immaculate Joe began to pick up soiled clothing, both towels, and into the laundry hamper they went. He turned off the light and the radio that had continued to produce static since going off the air forty-five minutes earlier.

Now, Joe could hear Dorothy separate eggs into a glass bowl and whisk together ingredients what he guessed was scrambled eggs. If he could sing, and everyone knew he couldn't, he'd burst into song. Instead, he whistled the refrain to 'Oh, What A Beautiful Mornin'' from the musical Oklahoma! as he meandered into the kitchen to find Dorothy at the stove, who looked up with a grin and then went back to what she had been doing. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the counter where a piping hot cup of coffee stood next to it. He took a few sips and then set the mug down before moving toward the stove.

Giving her a hug from behind, he pushed back some of her hair and kissed her cheek, trailing to her neck, and whispered into her ear, "Thank you for last night, Dot."

She had to stop whisking and set the bowl on the countertop because of Joe's distractive hands where one playfully kneaded a breast, while the other floated past her waist, over the curve of her hip, brushed her thigh, and in between her legs. That was when she gasped and pushed his hand away, turning to face him.

"How am I supposed to make you breakfast?" she said, circling her arms around his neck and giving him a hearty good morning kiss.

"Your curves all disappeared," he said, into her hair while tugging on the sleeve, indicating to how his pajamas hung flaccidly on her, hiding everything.

"I don't plan on being in these too much longer," she purred. "But first, we have to eat." He reluctantly let go of her to start the toast.

Joe did something he had never done before in his life. This time he wasn't sick and home from school. He spent most of the day in bed, only halting their exploration, playfulness, and passion for the actual meals of lunch and dinner and to shower once more with Dorothy. The next day was a regular work day and they each needed to get ready for it. He knew he was supposed to mow the lawn, but that could wait another day until he returned home—if at a decent hour. Ma Friday's flowers had to be watered again, but one more day wouldn't hurt, would it? After all, it wasn't August, it was still May.

They ate dinner with the game show Take It or Leave It on in the background. Dorothy had heated up another one of Ma Friday's cuisines in the refrigerator dishes. This time it was spaghetti and meatballs. There was plenty left for another meal, along with the beef stew they had yesterday. They washed and put away the day's dishes. Both snuggled on the couch and by the time The Jack Benny Program went off at 9:30, it was time to take Dorothy back to the boarding house.

When he parked the car in the driveway, he asked silently, "No regrets?"

"No regrets."

"I'll call you later in the week."

"I'll be waiting and thinking about you."

"I'll miss you."

They patiently kissed goodbye before Joe walked her to the front door. After giving her a light kiss goodnight, he watched as she went inside, her silhouette casting a shadow on the other side of the curtain. He stood there until he couldn't see it anymore.

Another Monday, another endless pile of paperwork awaited Joe and Ben when they arrived in Room 42. But before that, Joe took care of the speeding ticket he received last Friday morning by dropping it into the mailbox nearest to his house.

"You look rested," remarked Ben, as he logged both of them in.

"I am," Joe replied. Oh man, am I ever rested!

Once they made a dent into the paperwork, Joe thought they should talk with Evie Flowers again to see if she knew who Rae Waterford was and if she had a copy of her mother's obituary. Ben agreed and Joe dialed the boarding house where the girl lived. Evie said they could come by anytime until two in the afternoon. She had a three o'clock class.

The boarding house where Evie Flowers lived was, at one time, a large, looming Victorian home occupied by a wealthy family who had numerous live-in servants. The family was long gone from the premises and during the war the entire place was converted into a boarding house. This process continued afterward in an attempt to ease the ever-growing housing shortage problem. Large homes that had been built around the turn of the century were remodeled like this or converted into apartments. When an abundance of college students emerged, thanks to the G.I. Bill, the landlady who now owned the place changed the newspaper advertisement to pertain only to college students, including co-eds. Those who came a ways from their hometown needed a place to live. The rent was cheaper than most in that the tenants chipped in with the upkeep and housework on a regular basis. Rumors floated around the campus about dormitories being built in the future, but for now, a room at a boarding house was considered home for the time being to a girl like Evie.

When they knocked on the front door, Evie answered, clad in rolled-up dungarees and a man's button-down white shirt, untucked. She wore a red bandana over her head. They were surprised at her unkempt appearance, but realized the reason why once they stepped into the foyer. Along the wall lay a rolled up Oriental rug. They both removed their hats.

"I'm helping out with the spring-cleaning," she said, leading them into the living room where it appeared she had been dusting the furniture. "Do you mind if I continue as we talk? I want to get as much done as possible before I have to get ready for my class this afternoon."

"Yes, that's okay," said Joe. "We just have a couple more questions to ask you."

"All right," replied Evie as she grabbed the glass bottle of Johnson's Cream Wax off of the end table and poured a little into the rag she now held in her other hand.

"We were wondering if you had a copy of your mother's obituary," said Ben.

"Yes, I have."

"Do you mind if we take a look at it?" asked Joe.

"Sure. Let me go get it," she answered, setting down the rag and bottle on the coffee table and ran up the stairs.

"Did you see how she was dressed?" asked Ben.

"Yeah."

"Kids these days. When I was growing up, my sisters wore dresses while cleaning the house."

"Other college kids were dressed like her. I saw them as we drove through the neighborhood."

"I hope it doesn't catch on."

"Dorothy said the high school crowds dress like that too after school."

They heard footsteps descending the stairs and Evie appeared into the room, holding a rectangular piece of newspaper.

"Here it is," she said, handing it to Joe.

"Thanks," he said, taking it from her, and glancing at it. Two things stuck out as he skimmed the page. Evie's middle name was Rae and Waterford was her mother's maiden name. Well, they had figured out who Rae Waterford, or rather, who she wasn't. "This'll help us out a lot."

"I'm glad."

"Do you mind if we hang on to this? We'll return it to you when we're through with the investigation," said Joe.

"That's fine."

"If we have any further questions, we'll give you a call," explained Ben.

"Here's another one of our cards in case you think of anything else." said Joe, reaching into his front jacket pocket and retrieving a business card.

"Okay," she said, taking the card from Joe and putting it into the front pocket of her dungarees. "Before you leave, could you help me with something?"

"What's that?" asked Joe, putting on his fedora. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ben do the same.

"Would you help me move the Oriental rug in the hallway out to the backyard? One of my chores today is to beat the rug."

"Sure, we'll help you with that. Just lead the way," said Ben.

Back in the foyer, Joe took one end of the Oriental rug while Ben lifted the other and followed Evie down the hallway, through the kitchen, passed a back winding staircase to the second floor that was once used only by servants, and out to the sprawling backyard where an empty closeline hung. They draped it over the line.

"Thank you. That's a big help. Some boys were supposed to be over later on, but…"

"It's no trouble, Miss," said Joe. "I helped my mother with her spring-cleaning two weeks ago. I carried out the rugs."

As they walked back to 80-K, which had been parked on the street, they could hear Evie whacking the carpet with the wire metal tool.

"A baseball bat works well, too," said Ben, opening the door to the driver's side. "That's what Amy uses."

"We now know who Rae Waterford is," said Joe, after Ben started the engine.

"Who's she?" he asked, before leaving.

"She isn't anybody. See for yourself," replied Joe, handing him the obituary.

"Well, that druggist was pretty clever," he replied, after reading it.

"Yeah, it brings us closer. But not close enough," said Joe, carefully folding up the obituary again and putting it into the inside pocket.

Mr. Flowers had been telling the truth about following the orders in regards to the poison register. He had to write someone down when dealing with the arsenic. He only thought he was clever by creating an alias. Since it was him who filled out the registry in the first place, there was no need to visit Don Meyer for a handwriting analysis. They knew it was the druggist. But they needed more evidence.

"Let's see what Dr. Baird has to say," said Ben as he careened into traffic.

When the two of them arrived at Dr. Baird's office; after introducing themselves, the secretary informed them that he was on a house call and would be back shortly. They took a seat in the waiting area as far away as they could get from the sneezing man with the hacking cough.

"Look at these magazines, Joe," said Ben, holding up an April 22, 1940 issue of Time, opened to a page that featured an article about Fibber McGee and Molly. "Doctors never seem to update their subscriptions."

"Uh huh," said Joe, thumbing through a March 22, 1947 copy of Collier's, briefly pausing at the article about Relief checks. "At least this one's only a little over a year old." He closed the magazine, set it aside, and picked up another, mindlessly paging through it. Inside, he shuddered at the memories of his childhood in the '20s living in the Bunker Hill section of the city over two decades ago. That had been when he and his mother were on Relief. He was always thankful for how things turned out for them upon moving in and living with Aunt Mary when she still owned the house on Collis Avenue.

Just then, the receptionist told them that they could meet with Dr. Baird. They followed her into the office where a middle-aged man sat behind the desk. Badges and I.D.'s were produced and Joe explained that they were on a routine check of the poison registers in the neighborhood and his name had been brought up at Flower's Pharmacy.

"Are you insinuating that Mrs. Flowers was poisoned?" asked Dr. Baird, flabbergasted.

"We're not insinuating anything, but when we hear something like this, it's our job to check it out," said Joe, as annoyance crept up tangled with nervousness in hopes that they could receive valuable information.

"How did Mrs. Flowers pass away?" asked Ben, sounding more sympathetic and polite to ease the tension.

"She had cancer," the doctor sighed, leaned back into his chair, lit a Pall Mall, and took a drag. "I'd go over to the house once a week—several if I was needed. I prescribed medication to ease the pain because the cancer had begun to affect her spine."

"Who gave her the medication?" asked Ben.

"I would when I'd be there," Dr. Baird answered. "Otherwise, Evie, Bertram's daughter, would give it to her. I put her on a bland diet. Evie would feed her. Obviously, she couldn't leave her room."

"Did Mr. Flowers ever give her the medication?" asked Joe.

"Yes, at night, if he was home. Otherwise, Evie gave it to her then as well," replied Dr. Baird.

"How long did this go on for?" asked Ben.

"For several months until she died."

"Was an autopsy performed after her death?" inquired Joe.

"No, why would there've been? That poor woman suffered tremendously. If you ask me, it was a blessing when she passed away. She was in so much pain. And no, I do not believe she was poisoned. The very idea…ludicrous!"

It was the same thing that Homer Franklin, the soda jerk, had overheard five years earlier. Both men were a little disappointed when leaving, but satisfied with the doctor's responses, even though they already knew most of them. Leads could be that way sometimes.

When they returned to the City Hall, after having a quick lunch at the Federal Café, Captain Steve informed them of a call he had received from Dr. Sebastian at Central Receiving Hospital. A woman had been brought in complaining of severe abdominal pain. Tests had been run and according to the results the woman had been poisoned with arsenic. Luckily, it hadn't been a lethal dose. He said this one could be tied with their case somehow.

In the patient's room, the woman introduced herself as Gladys Avery, a matronly stocky woman in her late 40s. Right away, they learned she loved to talk.

"Sergeant Friday, Sergeant Romero, I was sitting here thinking about how often this has happened," she said. "I'm a widow, you see. My husband passed away ten years ago. He was a construction worker. Had an accident. Well, anyway, I've been seeing this man for several years now—about four. He's a widow too. Lately, within the past few months, I've been having these awful stomach cramps and getting sick. Then, I realized, I only had them after a dinner date with him."

"Did you go out to eat?" asked Ben.

"Oh, sometimes. I thought it might've been ptomaine poisoning, but I wasn't sure. I have a stomach made of iron, I've been told. After last night, I'm inclined to believe them. I'm still here! But you know what people say about restaurants."

"Yes, ma'am," said Joe, cringing at Ma Friday's recent scolding about them. "Where was this last date at?"

"His house," she replied. "He's an excellent cook. He had to learn after his wife passed away. I don't know. When the doctor told me there had been arsenic in my system, I just couldn't believe it!"

At that moment, a nurse in an impeccable starch white uniform came in to check Gladys' vitals. Finally, they had a chance to browse through her chart that Dr. Sebastian had handed to Joe before leaving the room.

"Ben," he said, pointing at an all-too familiar name on the page. "Do you see that?"

"Yeah, it's our druggist, Bertram Flowers."

"Let's see if he's her boyfriend."

Copyright © 2017 by Kristi N. Zanker