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

 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 strong language, adult themes, and violence.

Chapter Six

When the nurse left the room, Joe asked Gladys the name of her boyfriend. When she gave the inevitable answer, both detectives wondered if the druggist knew of her being at the hospital.

"No, I didn't have time to phone him," she replied.

"Do us a favor and don't tell him you were here or that you've spoken with us," said Ben.

"What? Why?"

"We have reason to believe he may have tried to poison someone else," explained Joe. "So, please, not a word to him."

"Well, okay. I can't believe he'd deliberately do something like that. I have my faults, but he's the nicest man…!" her voice trailed off.

"Maybe you could help us," said Joe.

"Me? Oh, I don't know," Gladys replied, looking surprised at the notion.

"When you have another dinner date with Mr. Flowers, make sure it's at his house. Have you met his daughter Evie?" asked Joe.

"Oh yes, she's a sweet girl. She lives near the college, but she'll come over for dinner sometimes on the weekends."

"Okay. When you feel better, try to make another dinner date with him. Once you have, call MIchigan-5211, extension 2521, and ask for Ben or me. Here's our card."

"All right," she said, taking the business card from Joe.

"Let us know when you plan on meeting with him again and we'll tell what you need to do," said Joe.

"What if he finds out?"

"He won't. Don't say anything about being here. Act like everything is normal," answered Ben.

Before they left, Joe repeated, "Remember, make sure it's for dinner at his house."

Gladys nodded.

Arriving back in Homicide Bureau, they briefed Captain Steve on their slow, but useful progress. They ran down an idea they discussed on the way back to City Hall involving Gladys and Evie getting a sample of the possible tainted food to them. He agreed with their proposal, but the wait would have to continue until they heard when the actual dinner date would be.

A hot-shot call came in at that moment and for the time being, the case of Bertram Flowers, was again put on hold. In the coming days, a series of cases needed immediate attention. A woman killed her husband for insurance, the dead body of a showgirl was found in a seedy hotel in the skid row district, a husband in a drunken fit of rage pushed his wife down a flight a stairs, thus killing her, a man, unaware he was dealing with an illegal gambling ring, was stabbed to death after winning a large sum of money in a poker game, and inside a small ranch home, the dead body of a young man was found that ended up being a suicide. A veteran officer around Ben's age quipped that the week had reminded him of a similar one in the spring of 1937 that had been appropriately, yet morbidly referred to as "Murder Week." Ben sardonically recalled it with fond memories.

There were times when they could only go home to shower and eat a quick meal. Joe was ever appreciative of Ma Friday's dinners. He wouldn't always have the time to heat them up, so he just ate everything cold right out of the dish—as he stared out the kitchen window where the grass beckoned to be mowed and his mother's flowers wilted with sorrow. Other nights, in a hurry, he'd open a can of soup and eat it right out of the can itself, and drink the milk straight from the bottle. This left less dishes in the sink that way.

When the working hours piled on, Joe and Ben were eventually given time to sleep even if it was only four or five hours after working twenty-four to thirty. He was equally fortunate that no nightmares invaded his much needed forty winks.

But on Monday, May 24th, as Joe stood at the entrance of the closet, frowning, he had to admit to himself that he was running out of clean clothes—at least for work. He didn't want to attempt to tangle with the monstrosity wringer washing machine. Besides, he could never seem to remember when his mother added the bluing to the water. She always sent out his suits to be dry-cleaned, but he couldn't recall which facility Ma Friday patronized each week. In the bathroom, he dumped the contents out of the hamper and set aside all of his sport jackets and trousers. He scooped up the three suits and put them by the door. Of course, he could also buy a couple of new white shirts. A button had popped off the one he just put on—his last clean one. It wouldn't have been so bad if it had been the one at the end of the shirt, but it had to be right in the middle for anyone to see, even with a jacket and tie on. Hoping that if he positioned the tie-clip just right, no one would notice.

The dress code, even for plainclothes detectives, was strict. It didn't matter if it was 95 degrees outside—a suit jacket and tie were required with the starched white long-sleeved button-down shirt, pressed slacks, shined shoes, and a matching fedora. His mother taught him how to sew, but he didn't have the patience. Maybe he could ask Dorothy for help. He hadn't even seen or spoken to her since their last time together a week ago.

Two days earlier, on Saturday morning, Joe almost knocked over the milk bottles as he rushed out the front door to his car, only losing a few more minutes by carefully putting them in the icebox, not wanting to repeat the disaster that had occurred in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago. He was thankful just two had been standing there. Ma Friday told Joe before going on her trip that she had left a note in one of the empty bottles, explaining for the milkman to leave only two bottles rather than the usual four during the time she was gone. He had forgotten it had been Saturday, which meant leaving the empty ones in the metal crate outside the house the night before. The crate still sat on the service porch. He'd remembered to do this Monday night for Tuesday's delivery, but it had slipped his mind this time. He'd do his best to remember to leave the empties in the crate and take it out tonight since the next day was Tuesday. Before heading to the office, he dropped off his clothing at a Chinese laundry nearest to the City Hall. He'd worry about his shirts and the rest of the laundry later. It was 8:06 when he opened the door to Room 42.

"Hi, Joe," said Ben, pointing at him. "You have a button missing."

"My how observant you are," snapped Joe, heading over to sign himself in.

"Running out of clean clothes?"

He could hear the grin in his partner's voice as he leaned over the log-book and scrawled his name and the time he entered the office.

"What do you think?!" Joe retorted as he threw his fedora on the table in front of him and sat down across from Ben.

"I got some good news!" Ben continued. "Gladys called just before you walked in. I was down at the Record Bureau when the call came through. It's in the book."

His sour mood diminished as he dialed the lady's number. That was all he needed to hear. For the entire week, when he and Ben would return to the office to brief their superior or fill out mountains of paperwork, the first thing they'd do was check to see if Gladys had tried to reach them. They were beginning to wonder if she had forgotten or had even told Mr. Flowers anything. They were ready to give up until this morning. When she picked up on her end, Joe said they had received her message. She informed him that the dinner date was set for this Wednesday at seven in the evening at the Flowers' residence. He outlined the details of their objective in what she needed to do in order for Evie to bring the tainted food to them.

"Be on the lookout for what he does to each plate," said Joe. "Try to get him to leave the room for a bit while Evie brings the food to us."

"Where will you be?" asked Gladys.

"I'll be outside the house. Is there a back door?"

"Yes, it leads into the kitchen."

"I'll be waiting there then. When he's out of the room, she'll say she thought she had heard something outside, just in case he's listening. She'll go to the door and give me the food and then I'll get it to the lab."

"Oh, I just hope he won't suspect anything."

"He won't. Just act natural and everything should be fine."

"You'll let Evie know of all of this?"

Yes. I'll be calling her next."

Like Gladys Avery, Evie was understandably apprehensive about the move to incriminate her father, but she wanted to know the truth. Both Joe and Ben thought this would be enough for a confession if all went well, but if they had to exhume Mrs. Flowers—they would.

For the rest of the day, they caught up on paperwork mostly dealing with last week's cases. When five in the evening neared, Captain Steve summoned the two in his office. Thinking he had another assignment for them, they were pleasantly surprised when he gave them the next day off. Joe called Dorothy over at Georgia Street Juvenile and informed her about the next day. As it turned out, she too had it off. Joe said he would be there as soon as possible.

He exited the car as the door to the building shut behind Dorothy. Giving her a light peck on the cheek and taking her arm, Joe walked with her around the car and opened the passenger door for her. Once inside the vehicle himself and shifting gears before heading out into traffic, she wrapped her arms around him. After kissing him hello, she discovered the missing button on his shirt. Joe sheepishly asked if she could sew one on and in response gave him another kiss. By now, they sat at a traffic signal.

Stopping at the boarding house, Joe waited, leaning against his car smoking a cigarette while Dorothy packed an overnight bag. After flicking the cigarette butt onto the ground and stubbing it out with the toe of his shoe, he doffed his fedora and held it in his hands, running his fingers around the felt brim as if he'd never seen the hat before in his life.

When she emerged from the back door of the premises, she carried her makeup kit and suitcase; he put his hat on, grinned and saw she had changed from her policewoman's uniform into a pretty yellow dress with a white daisy print. He met Dorothy as she came down the wooden steps; Joe took the belongings and placed them in the backseat. Next, he opened the passenger side door for her and she slid in. He lit her cigarette before pulling out of the driveway. While it was polite to light anyone's cigarette, Joe always thought it was sensual upon lighting one for a woman.

On the way home, they chatted about their day and the past week since they'd seen one another. When Joe said he wasn't sure how to operate the washing machine, Dorothy said she always helped her mother on Mondays after school. In those days, Mondays were referred to as Wash Day. She went on to say that their washing machine hadn't been electric and was glad to know that Ma Friday's was.

"See? I told you someone needed to look after you. You're just falling apart," she said, as he turned into 4656 Collis Avenue.

"I'll park the car in the garage tonight," he said. "That way, I hope we won't be disturbed by any neighbors."

As he went to unlock the padlock that held both garage doors shut, she retrieved her luggage out of the car and set it on the back steps. Gently, he eased the Ford inside and exited the garage, then proceeded to shut and padlock the barn-like doors. He carried her suitcase while she held the makeup kit, only momentarily holding both while Joe unlocked the back door. He then took both pieces of luggage from her and entered the service porch. After turning the lock on the door, he showed her the washing machine and she said she'll handle it tomorrow. When they entered the kitchen, he set the suitcase on the floor, took the makeup kit from her and put it on the countertop. Just then, he turned to Dorothy, pulled her against him and eagerly kissed her.

"Oh, why did you do that for?" he said, almost whining, when she pulled away briefly. "I've missed you so much. I haven't seen you."

"We'll have time for that later. Right now, I want you to go take a nap. You look so tired," she sternly replied. Joe sighed, feeling dejected as he picked up the suitcase and makeup kit and headed down the hall with her right behind him.

"Join me," he murmured, as they went into his bedroom.

"Not now. I'll heat us up some dinner. Get a little rest. I'll let you know when it's ready."

"Oh, all right," he said, setting her things in the chair next to his dresser.

Joe went to the hall closet by the front door and put up his pistol, holster, and handcuffs. On the way back to his room, he loosened and removed his tie, shoes, overcoat, then pulled back the inviting sheets and crawled into bed. She was right. He was overtired and he damn well knew it. Sleep enveloped him before his head reached the pillow. But this time, images of sand, blood, hedgerows, corpses, and scattered carnage occupied his short rest. He was on the ground, digging into the sand and dirt, looking for something. The children's pail appeared right beside him again and he began to put things into it, only he still couldn't see what they were. Standing up, he went over to another soldier. Joe couldn't hear what he was saying, or rather yelling. He tried to speak, but no words came out. So he held up the pail, pointing to it, indicating that it was something important. The other wouldn't have anything to do with it. He ended up wrenching the pail from Joe's hand hurling it into the air. All Joe wanted to do then was cry. He tried his best to find all he could—but wasn't sure if he could ever find anything again.

"Joe? Joe! Wake up! Joe!"

Someone was calling him. It wasn't a gruff voice, nor was it even male. It wasn't his mother. She knew better than to shake him awake, as this person was doing. It was—Oh, God! No! His mind screamed. He was still in a fog as Dorothy's tremored voice became louder and closer.

"What is it, Joe? Come on... Please, wake up!"

He whirled around from being on his right side, almost blindly pushing her.

"Stop that!" he bellowed.

Joe knew she could see the tears running down his face. He rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face into his pillow. When she tried to comfort him by rubbing his back, he jolted up and hollered, "What the hell are you doing here? Get out!"

"But Joe—I just—" she stammered. "It's okay, Joe. You're not dreaming anymore."

"What do you know?!"

With that he flew out of bed, brushed past her, barreling into the hallway and flung the bathroom door shut. He was sure he felt the house quake a little. Joe kicked the pile of dirty laundry he had left earlier that morning until it strewn into a larger heap against the wall.

He turned on the taps in the sink as well as the shower, even flushed the toilet for good measure to drown out his sobbing. Now, he stood with his back to the door, sliding down to the tile and hugging his knees, praying she wouldn't knock. He hoped she wouldn't peek through the keyhole. She was there on the other side—waiting, wondering, taunting perhaps. After a few minutes, as the bathroom filled with steam, he heard her footsteps diminish down the hall toward the kitchen.

What had gone wrong? It had been over a week since the outburst with Ben. He couldn't understand what had happened after things had gone so well with he and Dorothy the last time. Maybe he should've just given into his impulses earlier when they arrived and he would've napped afterward. It couldn't have been the inconsistent hours last week—he'd had those before so many times. Why now? Why in front of Dot? He was sure he ruined everything they had and felt about one another.

When Joe came out of the bathroom in his robe after showering, he crossed the hall to his room where he put on a blue pair of pajamas and slippers. After that, he began to violently pull at the sheets, yanking them as hard as he could off the bed, throwing them on the floor. At his closet now, he grabbed the whiskey bottle off the shelf and took a giant swig. He didn't give a damn if Dorothy or even his mother walked in at that very moment and saw him. Joe felt like hurling the bottle against the wall. That might help a little, but his conscience got the better of him. After returning it to the shelf, he gathered up the bed sheets from the floor and chucked them into the hamper. Heading to the linen closet in the hallway next to Ma Friday's room, Joe snatched a set of clean sheets and slammed the door shut. Wordlessly, he unfolded the bottom sheet, shook it vigorously until most of it covered the mattress. Dorothy appeared on the other side, almost startling him because he hadn't expected her to still be in the house, let alone his bedroom. Together they tucked in the sheet until it was so smooth you could bounce a quarter on it. Still not saying a word, they finished putting the bed together.

"Your dinner's on the table," she said softly, smoothing out a stray wrinkle in the blue-and-white checkered quilt.

"Thank you. Honey, I'm sorry you—" he began to say, but he was too choked up.

"It's all right, Joe. You're okay now."

Desperately, he wanted to believe her, but he wasn't so sure. She now faced him, held out her hand and he took it, following her into the kitchen, where they ate meat loaf, with sweet-sour carrots and peas croquette. In the time it took for the food to heat up, Dorothy had made mashed potatoes and Jell-O chocolate pudding for dessert.

"Do you feel better now?" she asked, once they finished the pudding.

"Yes. I guess I was hungry."

"What did you dream about?"

"Nothing."

"It wasn't nothing, Joe."

"Please, Dot, I don't want to talk about that right now," Joe said, with irritation in his voice.

He constantly wondered why Dorothy was still here with him after witnessing the aftermath of one of his nightmares about the war. Inside, his nerves twitched and he kept thinking she would tell everyone what had happened when she went back to work on Wednesday. Humiliation and disgrace was all he could feel right then, combined with sorrow and anger. She'd definitely turn me in for sure. She'll call me crazy or worse. She'd tell Ben and they'd conspire together about what they'd seen.

To avoid any more conversation, he quickly got up and went to the icebox. He reached for the last bottle of beer and jerked it out when all of a sudden one of the Anchor Hocking "FireKing" dishes began to move. He didn't recall brushing his arm against it when getting the beer, but maybe he had. Before Joe could stop it, the rectangular piece of glass came toward him and crashed to the floor. The noise, the breaking of glass, the murkiness of the beef stew spilling onto the floor made something inside of him snap. He had reached a boiling point and the turn of a knob on the stovetop wasn't going to help it simmer.

In an instant, Joe was enraged. He threw the bottle across the room where it shattered against the kitchen cabinets. He thought he heard Dorothy shouting his name, but he wasn't sure. Not caring who was in the room with him or that he was already standing in the mess from the first tumble, but one by one, as if in slow motion, gravity took over. Mixed in with beef stew was milk, the spaghetti and meatballs, pot roast, another meat loaf, tuna casserole. He dropped to his knees and began to shove the contents out of his way, not realizing he was cutting his hands while doing so. As if his blood were a roadmap, the thin lines seeped from the open cuts on his hands, winding toward the floor where it seemed to disappear into the haziness of the food.

It was as if he'd never woken up from his nap. He was maneuvering on the ground again, searching for things to put in the children's pail. But where was it? It was there a minute ago, right beside him, wasn't it? What happened to it? He picked up pieces of what he saw as bone fragments mixed with his own blood and held them in his other hand until he could find that pail. He kept swirling everything around trying to find any other piece of his buddy.

Where was that goddamned pail! Joe's mind lamented as he pushed more rubble out of his way, and threw a debris pile of wood off to the side. There it was! The pail! It had been behind a pile of wood! But something was awry. The pail that held remains of his buddy was much smaller than the one he now held in his hands. It was a dismal gray and had a dome lid. The children's pail he found in the sand on the beach was dark blue and much smaller. This was larger, similar to one that would have been taken to work or school. Right then, it didn't matter to Joe where he'd found it or what it looked like. He had finally located a makeshift coffin and continued depositing portions and fragments of food and glass into it, carefully arranging them inside, all the while thinking he was going to try this time to finally bury his buddy, Zan.

There was that other soldier again. He was shouting at Joe, just like before, telling him he couldn't bury his buddy because he had to keep fighting. A battle was still going on. The soldier's hands, besides his own, gripped the pail like a vice, attempting to extract it from Joe, who fought mercilessly to hang onto what was left of Zan and give him somewhat of a decent burial.

"Why can't I just bury him? This was all I could find," he cried trying to elucidate this to the unsympathetic soldier.

"Bury who?" the soldier asked, as his hands remained on the sides of the pail.

That was odd, Joe thought. The soldier had had never asked that before. Didn't he see the pail in my hands and wasn't he holding onto it as well? Instantly, Joe recalled what happened next in the dream, yet for a moment ignored the object in his hands. In a blind rage, Joe heaved the pail across the room and lunged at the soldier, punching as hard as he could and shouting at him.

But this person was a lot stronger than he. This person held onto him tight and kept repeating, "Don't fight me, Joe. Don't fight me. You won't like what I'll have to do if you keep fighting me like this."

"Why won't you let me bury him?"

"Bury who, Joe?"

This time, the voice wasn't so harsh, it was calmer, more soothing—and had a Texas drawl.

"I found what I could of Zan and they just threw him away!"

"It's okay, Joe. You'll be all right. That was a long time ago. You're not there any more."

The voice went on. When Joe would thrash, the other person would solace him as if he were a father talking to his young son. "You think you can fight me, but you're so tired. Look at you! Come on, now. That's enough!"

Oh, it was so reassuring. Joe's cloud of fury began to subside along with the tenseness he'd felt. He was conscious enough now to realize that Ben was there. Ben! How did he get here?

"The worst is over now, Joe."

Copyright © 2017 by Kristi N. Zanker