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

 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 violence.

Chapter Nine

When Joe strolled into Room 42, Homicide, in a cleaned and pressed gray tweed suit the next morning at 7:58, he heard Ben speaking with Captain Steve about their impending stakeout at the Flowers' residence that evening. Both detectives ran the idea by the Skipper one more time and proceeded to call all parties involved to double check that they were on the same page. By 8:30 everyone knew what they were supposed to do.

While catching up with paperwork from the last week's array of murders, Ben broke periods of silence with cogitations about his day off.

"Yesterday, Amy and I took the boy bowling. As usual, he wore his Hoppy outfit," Ben said with his pencil poised above the next blank space on the report that required an answer.

"Oh, you did?" Joe replied, not looking up at his partner as he finished scribbling in one of the blank spaces.

"A pin-boy tied a string of fishing wire to one of the pins."

"He did?"

"Yeah, you should've seen the kid, Joe. The first time he went up there, he threw the ball down the alley like it was a baseball."

"What?" Joe stopped writing and had to give his undivided attention now.

Setting his pencil down on the sheet of paper, he dug into the inside pocket of his top-coat and produced a Fatima along with a matchbook.

"You want a cigarette?" he asked, striking the match to light his own.

"Yeah," replied Ben, as Joe slid the pack toward him. Ben took one and Joe struck another match. After taking a drag, his partner continued, "He threw the bowling ball overhand. He's a strong boy—that ball had to be about eight pounds. It made such a loud noise; I thought the manager was going to ask us to leave."

"Did he?" questioned Joe, as he took a puff on his cigarette.

"Nope, people around us just laughed. It took a while for his ball to get to the pins. He's only a kid, you know."

"Yeah, six years old."

"When it finally made it to the pins, I saw the pin-boy jerk the fishing wire as some of them fell. He didn't get a strike, but it was close. It was like watching a bunch of dominoes fall. The next time he got up to bowl, I told him to throw the ball underhand with both hands. He did and it felt like an eternity before the ball would even reach the gutter, much less the pins. He knocked a few down and the pin-boy helped him out. Next time he went up, I showed him how the real bowlers throw the bowling ball."

"I somehow cannot imagine you bowling, Ben," chuckled Joe.

"I can say the same for you."

"Did the pin-boy tie that string for your son?"

"No, I found out, when I was tipping him, that he had tied it for a girl he had a crush on. She and her friends bowled on that lane before we showed up. The teen just left it there when he saw our son. The kid never found out though. I tipped that pin-boy well. What did you do yesterday, Joe?"

"I mowed the lawn and Dorothy knew how to use Ma's washing machine, so she did my laundry."

"Oh, you and Dorothy are so domestic! You're just missing that piece of paper," Ben grinned.

"Ben," warned Joe. "As you know, I had to get Ma some new refrigerator dishes, so I went to the May Company and then stopped on the way home for some groceries at Ralph's Market."

"You're lucky Dorothy was there, otherwise you wouldn't have had any clean clothes!"

The previous evening after Fibber McGee and Molly ended at 9 p.m. the loads of clothes, towels, and sheets had been hung on the line to dry at some point throughout the day, ironed before and after dinner, and finally put away. During Fibber and Molly's antics, missing buttons were sewn on thanks to Ma Friday's sewing basket and an assortment of buttons collected over the years, Dorothy was able to securely reattach them to his shirts.

While in the driveway of the boarding house, Joe gave her a lingering kiss, again thanking her for being there when he needed her the most. He said he'd call her when he was able to and perhaps she could spend at least one more night with him before Ma Friday returned from visiting her brother in Renton, Washington Saturday evening.

"It'll be a work day, Joe."

"We'll go to bed early," he said, winking and grinning at her.

After wishing him luck about tomorrow night, the two of them joked about how they could never be on a stakeout together again. But Joe always knew how to separate business from pleasure. Yet the odds of them being assigned to another stakeout were very slim.

"Still no regrets?" he murmured, giving her a deep kiss.

"Still no regrets," she replied, responding by giving him a hearty smooch and embrace before he went around to open her door, and walk her up to the front porch.

Their unit, 80-K, was parked half a block from the Flowers house. The druggist lived in a modest neighborhood, not unlike Collis Avenue. Cars dotted the driveways indicating that the head of the household was home from work. Kids scattered in the yards, with some playing the game Run Sheep Run or Annie Over while others pedaled bicycles up and down the sidewalk. In one driveway, two little girls were sharing a pair of metal roller skates—the kind where a key was needed for shoe size adjustments. In another, a small cluster of girls were chanting jump rope ditties as one individual rhythmically skipped rope.

Soon, mothers called to their young from screen doors imploring them to come to dinner this instant or else. Snippets of commercials, music or laughter from a comedy radio program could be heard nearby as several houses had the windows open to let in the refreshing and gentle May breeze—enlightening all that summer was just around the corner.

Joe couldn't help but think that the quaint, idyllic façade of this neighborhood would soon, in a matter of minutes, be impelled as a man prepared the final dinner for his sweetheart. No one in the surrounding homes were aware of murder on the mind of a beloved druggist in their midst except for the two that occupied the kitchen table with him. Perhaps, the murderer was harming the food right then or would be very shortly. He would most likely douse the meal with arsenic because he knew now of course that he hadn't succeeded the first time. If all went like clockwork, the only time people would realize something was amiss would be when they listened to the local news on the radio, picked up their evening paper or had a prescription delivered. They'd find out why the proprietor was stripped of his credentials, thus forced to abandon his once-thriving drugstore and trade in his white lab coat for prison garb and an awaiting dank, gray cell. Or, nothing could happen tonight, and they'd have to wait until the next dinner date.

Joe and Ben each saw Gladys Avery, then Evie arrive and enter through the front door. At a quarter till seven, he inconspicuously walked to the premises and made his way around to the backyard. He flattened himself against the stucco and could hear everything that was being said through the kitchen window nearest to the back door.

In a way, Ben was lucky right then. He could smoke when he wanted to, whereas Joe had to remain absolutely still and not draw attention to himself. At least this particular stakeout wasn't like when the two of them had to squeeze and fold themselves like parentheses in order to fit into a locker at a gas station. It was common sense not to smoke there either with the rancid paint fumes varied with gasoline and a selection of oil and grease.

Other times, they drew the proverbial short straw of waiting inside a suspect's apartment—often for over twelve hours until a relief team of detectives showed up and you could go home, gorge on food, shower, and get some much needed sleep. With this kind of duty, you couldn't make yourself at home, smoke a cigarette or get something to eat unlike those who flanked the entrances and exits of the dwelling or sat in the unmarked car down the street. Those positions were somewhat more lenient than what Joe and Ben usually ended up with when it came to stakeouts.

Somewhere in the distance a dog barked and Joe froze. He hoped a neighboring dog wouldn't lure his master out and find him standing there. From his vantage point, he didn't see any hounds or curious onlookers. Everyone was seated at their kitchen or dining room tables for dinner. Even the noisy kids had finally vanished into their houses. Joe could hear a radio faintly playing most likely in the living room. He tuned that out and focused on the voices before him.

"Here's the wine, Daddy," said Evie, as she plunked the bottle down on the table.

Joe realized there must've been a tablecloth, runner, or place-mat that had muffled the sound of the bottle's contact with the wooden table.

"What would you like to drink, Evie?" he heard Gladys ask, further away, probably standing at the refrigerator.

"I'll just have some milk," she replied, and Gladys said she'd have the same.

He heard the glass bottle slide against the wire rack before she closed the door. Liquid was now being poured into two glasses.

"I'll just have this wine," Mr. Flowers said, pouring himself a glass.

"You didn't have to serve our plates, Daddy," said Evie.

"You both are my guests tonight, so you'll get royal treatment," he answered. "Now dig in!"

The clinking of silverware hitting the dinner plates resonated through the window just then. A telephone pierced the air as a chair scraped on the floor with Mr. Flowers saying, "I'll be right back!"

"What do you need three sheets of waxed paper for?" asked Gladys in a hushed voice.

"I just decided to give them some from all of our plates," she replied, in the same manner while crumpling up the waxed paper.

"Homer's doing his part," said Evie. "I told him to keep Daddy on the phone for a bit."

"You better hurry though," said Gladys.

"I'm almost ready," she said, crumpling up more waxed paper.

Joe whipped around when he heard the back screen door open and Evie proclaim loudly, "I think I hear something outside."

She pressed the first lump of waxed paper into his hands, whispering that it was Gladys' food then instructing to Joe that the remaining was on her plate and her father's.

"What now?" she whispered to Joe.

"We'll be in touch," he replied, as he broke into a sprint. Over his shoulder he heard as he passed the kitchen window.

"Bertram, who was that on the phone?" Gladys said just as Evie informed that it was a mistake in that there had been nothing out there.

Joe dashed to 80-K, hugging the warm, possibly tainted food to his chest with his left hand, trying not to let anything slip onto the ground. If that happened, everything would be ruined, Opening the door with his empty right hand, he sighed with relief as he got into the car and slammed the door shut.

"You got it?" asked Ben.

"Yeah, let's go."

No sarcastic or evasive remarks from Joe this time even though he knew Ben clearly saw he was holding the evidence in his hands while asking his question. He wanted a cigarette badly, but didn't dare let go of the truth that now lay in his lap.

At the crime lab on the third floor of the old Central Jail building across the street from City Hall, Ray Pinker performed the necessary tests to see if any arsenic was present in one or more of the food in the waxed paper. Nervously smoking a Fatima, Joe nor Ben couldn't wait to hear the results.

"Ben, what if he poisoned the milk? I didn't even think of that. I should've asked her to give us some of the milk!"

"Settle down, Joe. We'll have answers in a minute."

"What if the wine was poisoned?" he asked almost to himself and then immediately answered as he now paced back and forth. "No, he only drank that."

"Stop pacing, Joe! You're making me nervous."

"Sorry, Ben," he said, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray, only to light another one a moment later.

"Let's get something to eat, Joe. By the time we get back, he'll probably be done with the tests."

"Well, gentlemen," exclaimed Ray Pinker as he approached the two eager detectives. "The first batch had enough arsenic in it to kill several people."

"And the others?" asked Joe.

"Not a drop."

The necessary procedure in obtaining a warrant for an arrest was issued and by ten that night, they returned to the Flower's residence. After knocking on the door and not receiving any kind of response, they quickly left the premises and drove over to the drugstore.

The tiny bell above them tingled as they entered Flower's Pharmacy. It was eerily silent. No customers milled about, young Leroy wasn't pestering the soda jerk for a root beer float. In fact, Homer wasn't anywhere near the fountain. It was as if the place had closed and someone had forgotten to lock the door on the way out.

"Mr. Flowers?" Joe called.

"Homer Franklin? Are you here?" asked Ben.

Thinking that a possible 211 had just occurred, both drew their revolvers. They made their way toward the office where only two weeks before, they had sat sifting through the poison register. That was when they saw a thin trail of blood.

The druggist lay still on the floor, a pistol at his side. The red stain near his shoulder grew darker, seeping through the white shirt, turning the threads in its path a hefty crimson. Joe bent over Mr. Flowers to feel for a pulse. He turned and nodded to Ben, indicating that the man was still alive.

The reason for this silent exchange was interrupted by someone gagging and coughing behind a closed door. They heard a toilet flush and both moved quickly to the bathroom door, guns drawn. Water was running in the sink now. Joe threw open the door to find seventeen-year-old Homer Franklin, the soda jerk, bent over the sink, cupping his hands to drink the tap water as he rinsed out his mouth.

Upon the door opening, the boy whirled around with droplets of water trickling down his chin, facing them, eyes wide staring down the barrel of Joe's Smith & Wesson.

"I didn't do it!" he sobbed, paralyzed with fear. "I found him like that!"

"You better come along with us, son," said Joe, as he took Homer by the one arm as the young man used his sleeve to dry off the excess water still on his face.

While Ben called the Complaint Board requesting a black-and-white unit, ambulance, the crew of the crime lab, and another team of detectives, Joe held onto the soda jerk's arm as he guided him to the fountain. The teen sat on one of the stools while being questioned.

"Is he still alive?" asked Homer with his voice dripping of terror and sheer apprehension.

"Yes, he is," replied Joe. "What happened here?"

"I forgot my comic book."

"You what?!"

"I forgot my comic book. I went back to get it and that's when I heard the gunshot."

"Where were you when you heard the gunshot?"

"I had just opened the door, the bell jingled and the gun went off."

Sirens blared as a crowd of gawkers and passersby began to congregate outside the drugstore. The throng of people parted like the Red Sea as each emergency vehicle parked out front and its occupants swiftly made their way inside. The black-and-white patrol car arrived first, then the other team of detectives in their unmarked vehicle, Captain Blaine Steve, along with Lee Jones and Ray Pinker from the crime lab with two ambulance attendants in tow. Even the press tried to break through but Ben sternly told them and the rest to stay outside. He locked the door.

Joe and Ben briefed the Skipper on their findings. In turn, their superior informed them that he had just come from Beverly Boulevard where a gas station had been held up and an attempted murder occurred. Homicide detectives "Slats" Henry and Bob Floyd were still at that scene as Captain Steve got the call about the drugstore, rushing over with yet another team of detectives in a Felony car.

A chorus of introductions as well as badges and I.D.'s were flashed. Pausing the interview with Homer, Lee Jones administered a test that resulted in the soda jerk being eliminated as a suspect. There was no gun powder residue on his hands or shirt, so he was free to leave.

A radio unit stood by while the crime lab finished up and Joe and Ben followed the ambulance in 80-K to Georgia Street Receiving Hospital. Before they left, Captain Steve told them to tie this up as fast as they could and headed back to the gas station.

At the hospital, in a phone booth after dropping a nickel into the slot, Joe dialed Evie at her boarding house and explained what had happened. The girl was frantic and rightfully so upon hearing of her father's attempted suicide. She said she would be right over.

When she appeared in the waiting room, Joe and Ben went over to Evie and told her to wait with them while the doctor worked on her father. Wearing a burgundy dress with a white collar, she sat in one of the chairs and said, "He must've done it then. Killed my mother. Why else would he try to take his own life?" The two remained silent as she stared straight ahead, waiting.

Two hours later, the doctor approached the three of them and said the police could now talk to the druggist. The man's shoulder was bandaged up and he was sitting against several pillows in a hospital bed.

"We're police officers, Mr. Flowers," said Joe, showing his badge and I.D. as Ben did.

"I know who you are," said the druggist. "You were the ones who came to the drugstore about two weeks ago."

"Then you know why we're here," said Ben.

"Is my daughter out there?"

"She is," replied Ben. "But we need to ask you a few questions right now. Did you poison your wife?"

"My wife? What? No, she died of cancer! And that was so long ago. Why are you harping about that now? This is preposterous! You come in here and accuse me of poisoning my wife!"

"Your actions with the attempted suicide tonight tell otherwise," said Joe. "You did poison your wife, along with almost doing so to Gladys Avery at dinner a few hours ago. You want to tell us about it?"

"You've been talking to Evie, haven't you?"

"The poison register really told the truth," said Ben. "There's no one by the name of Rae Waterford. You used your daughter's middle name and your wife's maiden name to cover your tracks when filling out your purchase of arsenic."

"All right," Mr. Flowers said. "Yes, I killed my wife. But you have to understand that she was in so much pain and was dying of cancer anyway."

"What gives you the right to play God," said Joe.

"Dr. Baird prescribed pain medication and I would have Evie give it to her when I wasn't there. I had her deliver all of the medication because I was so afraid that someone might find out that I had added arsenic to the pain medication. She wouldn't know the difference."

"So you used your own daughter to murder your wife?" asked Ben.

"Yes…I guess so."

"What about tonight at dinner?" probed Joe.

"I wanted to see if I could get away with it. I laced Gladys' meal with arsenic, but I was shocked when she called me up the other day."

"We met her at the hospital," said Ben. "Evie was the one who provided the tainted food for us."

"So that's why that dumb kid called me when he did. But I don't understand."

"Understand what, Mr. Flowers," said Joe.

"Why did Homer come back into the drugstore? I would've succeeded if that boy hadn't opened the door causing the bell to ring and called to me. That's what startled me. Why did he have to come back?"

"He forgot his comic book," replied Joe.

Copyright © 2017 by Kristi N. Zanker