Evil Wind

Evil Wind


By Jerry Powell

I

The Dragon rose at behest of the few
and with a flame and a roar a King he slew.
He climbed the Cliff in November's sun
where a young knight met the Dragon's gun.

The Dragon watched him twitch and die,
then flew to the shadows and a place to hide.
He roared as he fled, and he opened wide
then sucked in our air, fresh, pure and dry.

He blew it out, and this rancid breath;
with one great puff became a floating death.
The darkened gust then swirled away,
with intent to return across time one day.

Years ago my father, Deputy Chief of Police Benjamin Goldman, told me of his most terrible day: November 22, 1963. It was the day he lost a friend only minutes after President Kennedy’s murder. On that day, evil seemed to swirl in the air as he dealt with death and lynch mobs. When I chose to follow his path, they assigned me to the same area of Dallas, Texas: Oak Cliff. A terrible day came for me, as well; and it haunts me, for it was the genesis of many.

On a crisp afternoon in early spring of 1979, I found myself in a rush. Mark, who just turned four, read aloud to me, and I lost time listening to him. He loved to read. I’d like to think it was because I read to him almost from the day he was born. I did the same with his brother LJ, like my dad had done for me.

LJ, just old enough to walk and still in diapers, needed attention. I managed to buckle my belt, but remained in an undershirt. Debbie, a little late getting home, arrived tired, but calm, counterbalancing the mood she sensed in me. I held LJ’s full diaper in my hand. From within his crib he smiled; the one that said I was the greatest dad ever.

“Let me take that before you drop it on him,” Debbie flashed a quick cheerful look as she removed the diaper from my hand. “Get to work, Jack,” she continued. “You’ll be late.”

I threw on my uniform, and tucked my pistol temporarily in the small of my back. In the living room I interrupted Mark from quiet reading and stooped to give him a hug.

He said, “Bye Daddy,” and he returned the hug.

Both my boys had Debbie’s attractive complexion and white-blonde hair. They all tanned easily, and everyone noticed the contrast. Mark possessed his mom’s eyes and her smile. LJ’s eyes somehow managed to favor his mother, though with a rich brown instead of her shocking blue.

The afternoon showing of Sesame Street began. Mark closed his book and placed himself in front of the television. LJ followed Debbie and bounded in from the bedroom, released from his crib. He again wore a smile, broad and happy. This time, however, he ignored everything but Ernie and Bert who had launched into one of those upbeat songs of dreams and rainbows as they deftly danced on puppet legs. They probably lifted the hearts of all who heard, including my sons.

As I opened the door, Debbie asked, “Did you call Papa Ben yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, you’d better. I think he’s bored and lonely.”

“I know he told you to say that, but I’ll call.”

I started my Ford Maverick, and made my way through the city to the Southeast Station. I told myself to call my dad as soon as I got to work. Then the song about rainbows got stuck in my mind to last, probably, for several days.

It was Friday and chilly, so I didn’t anticipate a busy day. But as I entered the station house locker room, I felt a sense of foreboding.

It reminded me of a late September day over two years before in 1976.

II

During my first autumn with the Dallas Police Department, I was a rookie in training, young and in awe of my new job. I worried about intense scrutiny by hard-nosed supervisors. I noticed Alan Hunter, my fellow probationer and friend getting ready for work.

“Al, mind if I borrow your shoeshine kit? I ran out of the house without mine.”

Understanding the dilemma, he obliged, but said hurriedly, “Gotta go Jack. I got early detail. Just give it back to me in the morning.”

At that moment a strange sensation struck, almost vertigo. I struggled to hide its impact on me. It was the first time I had felt faint in my life. To my surprise, it left me with a feeling I could only describe as a sense of impending doom.

Later that morning on patrol in our squad car, my trainer, Stu Carter stopped in the middle of the street. He looked at me with an intense expression and said, “I’m shot. Where are we?”

It was a test. I’d better know our location in case something really did happen. Before I could answer, Alan Hunter’s voice came over the radio.

“331 assist officer! My partner’s been shot and I’m under fire!”

“Location 331?” asked the radio dispatcher.

Alan didn’t answer. We sped toward beat 331, several miles to the south.

Within two minutes a tactical squad officer yelled into his radio, “632 emergency! Two officers down at Central Expressway and the River Bridge on the Oak Cliff side! We need an ambulance now!”

“Ten-four 632, ambulance is in route. Can you give us a condition on the officers?”

His voice cracking, the officer who manned tactical element 632 responded, ”Jesus - God - we saw it all. We were eating next door. He shot Barry. Then the rookie returned fire and stood in front of his partner. He took one in the eye. He's…he’s not gonna make it. We need that ambulance!”

We arrived simultaneously with the ambulance. It was a grisly scene. Alan’s left eye was a charred hole and his body still twitched. He died before they reached Parkland Hospital.

Barry Wiseman, Alan’s trainer, survived. They had encountered a stolen Lincoln. In full view and to the horror of four officers drinking coffee at a popular diner next door, a man identified later as Cleveland Lewis opened fire, then sped away.

Cleveland Lewis robbed Alan Hunter’s two sons of a life of gentle guidance from a good and decent father. Lewis escaped somehow, and left us wondering how it was possible. I still had the shoeshine kit and used it often, because I knew I would think of Alan each time and take extra care for the sake of my own children.

As soon as I opened my locker and reached for the kit, I felt that same cold shudder - that strange vertigo - as when he'd first handed it to me. I wondered, was it a memory or a warning?

III

The wind had voices, did they sing?
Around about, a devil in dust
danced here and there,
and struck to force
the knights of day
to join its waltz,
to rock and sway.

The voices, if such they were,
lingered only long enough
to cast an eerie melody.

I went to a bathroom basin and splashed water on my face to rid the sweat on my brow. I decided to call Debbie at home.

“Hey,” she answered as LJ screamed in the background. She remained calm, I don’t know how; LJ could be ear-piercing.

“You okay?” she continued, “It’s almost six.”

“Yeah, just wanted to check on y’all. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

“Your daddy is weird,” she laughed, and I heard Mark laugh too. I loved their laughs.

Debbie reassured me, “we’re fine and we’ll stay fine. It’s you who needs to be careful. Now, get to work. I love you.”

I entered the detail room, grabbed a "hot-sheet" and transferred the list of cars stolen in the last twenty-four hours to a customized list I had that displayed the vehicles for an additional month. The writing took time, but it helped me place the listings in my visual memory. Though unable to recite any of it, I would easily recognize a car I had seen on the list. I had recovered so many, my peers and supervisors assumed I had thousands of license plates in my head. Sergeant John Hampton interrupted my concentration.

“Got a sec, Goldman?”

Hampton stood well under six-feet, but his intense dark eyes and heavy brow belied it. He didn’t wait for a reply.

“Billy-Mack doesn’t want to train rookies anymore,” he said.

I remained quiet. Bill McFarland had already told me this was coming.

“I’d like you to do it,” John said.

“What about Darrell?” I asked. My partner, Darrell Dempsey sat down beside me at one of the many long tables in the room. Darrell had been with me a little over three months. He was just off probation.

Sergeant Hampton looked at him with feigned severity, “It’s time we gave him his own beat and see what he’s made of.”

He turned to me, “Think about it and get back to me sometime this evening, Okay?”

“Sure,” I replied as John left and Darrell smirked. He slipped some paper to me.

“Guys wanted in our sector,” he said, apparently he thought I would memorize any associated vehicle listed with them.

Darrell wasn’t a quiet man, but did possess an economy of words. He was not aggressive; in fact, he was quite laid back. He had blonde hair, a chiseled jaw and looked sharp and he stood about the same height as me, just under six feet.

“Detail," our roll call and informational meeting started promptly at six. Bored sergeants read off routine reports to a small sea of bored faces in dark blue uniforms armed with coffee cups. Once dismissed, the room erupted into cheerful voices, full of colorful expletives, jokes, anecdotes and more plans for coffee.

Ten minutes later, saddled up in a new sparkling white cruiser, we received a call.

It was a “Meet Complainant”, a catchall, sometimes logged when the phone clerk is unsure of what is happening. The address suggested a home located in a lower middle class neighborhood. That usually meant a brick veneer, ranch style dwelling, three bedrooms, one bath and a single car garage; the kind lived in by hard-working people.

Even with the temperature in the low fifties we kept the car windows down as we left the station. We needed to hear and smell as well as see everything around us. As we drove through the Bonton housing project adjacent to the station, the streets appeared filthy and un-maintained, no different than any other day.

Exiting Bonton, we accessed the nightmarish Central Expressway to cross the dirty Trinity River into Oak Cliff, a huge area, larger than a borough and once a city on its own. It suffered from a fifteen-year recession that began in early 1964, shortly after Kennedy’s assassination.

“Damn, it stinks,” said Darrell. “It's every day now. They need to dry this river up.”

“It’s not the river,” I said. “It’s the City.”

“You mean, like, City Hall? The City of Dallas?” Darrell asked with a look down toward the river.

“Yep; I hired on with the City when I was eighteen. I spent a year and a half with Flood Control before I became a cop. Sometimes after a heavy rain they dump raw sewage right in the river. I’ve seen it.”

“Crap,” said Darrell.

"Yeah."

We entered Oak Cliff as the freeway bridge emptied onto another run-down and filthy roadway. To our right we passed the service station where Alan died. Just north of it sat the diner frequented by most of the cops in our sector, but I never went there. I couldn’t.

Darrell spoke, “I heard some guys talking in the locker room today about the cop that got killed there at the station. Isn’t he the guy you mentioned when we first started riding together, the one that gave you the kit?”

“Yeah, Alan Hunter.”

“That’s him, I was trying to remember. Ever think about him?”

“Every day we come by,” I replied looking away, focusing on a lonely, distant dog.

“Still got the kit?” Darrell asked.

“Yeah, I do. I ought to give it to his wife, I guess. Something keeps me from it, " I said.

“Maybe it’s Alan,” he suggested. I thought a moment on his meaning. Darrell could be wise at times.

“I’m too young to do it,” I said to change the subject.

“To do what?”

“Train rookies, I’m twenty-three.”

Darrell looked at me, clearly surprised. We had learned a lot about each other in our three months together, but now, I could see him calculating.

“I was barely nineteen when Mark was born,” I said.

“That means Debbie was…”

“Yeah, that’s why I went to work for the City. We married way young. She was sixteen. I went to college at night to get the hours required to be a cop. I’ve been one almost four years. I guess it’s a lot of experience for someone in Oak Cliff, but I still think I’m too young to be a Field Training Officer. I worry I’m even too young to be a dad.”

“I ain’t a dad yet, so I don’t know. You seem older. I mean, like in a good way.” Darrell said. He looked out the window a moment as if he spotted something, but then relaxed and said, “I thought you had a degree.”

“I do. Got it last year. I’ve even got some graduate work in now," I said.

“Must’ve been tough.”

“It was, but Debbie picked up the slack at home. As soon as I got off probation, they put me on the late evening shift and it got easier. I was able to go full-time during the day on one of those law enforcement grants.”

“Criminal justice?” Darrell asked.

“Physics with a taste of forensics," I answered.

“Wow, I guess that comes in handy at crime scenes. And I thought I knew all about you.”

A car in front of us slowed to the speed limit because the driver noticed we were behind him. Darrell braked, but then eased the cruiser on around and said, “I don’t know, I think you’d make a good trainer. If you’re right about being too young, then I say we’re all too young to be doing any of this work, especially in Oak Cliff. They shouldn’t even put us out here until we’re twenty-five.”

I laughed and said, “I guess that’s one way to avoid Oak Cliff. Why don’t you put that in the suggestion box?”

“Because the last time they opened it, your dad was a rookie. And even if they did, they’d think of a way to give you what you ask for that screws you over; like raising the minimum hiring age to twenty-five.”

Then he added, “How old was Alan?”

“Twenty-five.”

As we sped along the expressway, I noticed dusk upon us, the light of day suddenly lost most of its brightness. The sun seemed to lurch downward as it fell to the horizon; wan overtones edged across the flat and unclean landscapes of Oak Cliff.

We turned onto the street of our call, eased to the curb in front of the house and made sure of the address. Darrell went to the door while I remained to inform the dispatcher of our arrival. The evening radio traffic, already heavy, made it difficult to get a word in. I saw a young black man dressed in suit pants, shirt and dangling tie open the door of the home. Darrell and the man spoke. He went inside and I winced. I didn’t want him to enter alone.

IV

He descended from the bus at the intersection of Marsalis and Tenth and lingered as if expecting someone to pick him up. They didn't.

He spoke, apparently to no one but himself, "They promised. They promised they would be waiting."

He looked about and around quickly, eyes wide open.

Almost yelling, he said, " They have betrayed me! Did I not slay the King as they instructed? Or did I? No! Perhaps it was they. But where are they? Are they not real?"

Then he walked to and fro, this way and that way as he spoke, "The police, the police will come for me. I can wait no longer."

He headed west, hunched forward as one arm cradled the other. The day, bright and blue, held an innocent freshness, the air clean and crisp. He looked about as he walked, concern or even dread easily revealed on his face. An occasional housewife gazed with wary eyes in his direction, only to glance away as he passed quaint bungalows, freshly painted in powder blues, soft pinks and noontime yellows; surrounded by majestic oaks which seemed almost to lean on the covered and shaded porches.

From a distant place to his right it came and he spoke again to no one save only himself, "It is a black, red-eyed demon! I am trapped. All is lost!"

He shook his head as if to regain focus and glanced at a uniformed man sitting in a black police car that flashed reddish-orange lights from small, circular lenses atop the roof. The man in uniform spoke into a microphone.

“Sir, please stop and stay where you are.”

The strange man halted, but continued to twist his head first to the right, then to the left. The squawking sound of the P.A. system appeared to startle him. He squeezed his already crossed arms more tightly together in a posture suggestive of defense.

The officer withdrew from the vehicle. He was tall and young, dressed in dark blue, and his medals reflected the shining sun.

The strange-acting man watched as the uniformed man exited the vehicle.

He whispered to himself, "He is sent by the King. A policeman. He comes to slay me!" He fingered his revolver, hidden by crossed arms, moist in his sweaty hand.

The officer smiled as he crossed in front of the police cruiser. Suddenly, a quick breeze burst into grass clippings that leaned against the curb, freshly cut. They swirled upward and the officer turned his head to avoid being struck. Seizing the moment, the strange-acting man shot him in the head.

Fascinated by a twitching hand feebly grabbing at the curb, the man watched the young policeman die in the street as legs involuntarily drew close to the torso, into a fetal position. Apparently, it was absorbing to view death so closely. He hadn’t the luxury with the earlier murder. He focused on the sight until a woman screamed from her porch. He fled west to darkened shadowy alley-ways and as he ran, he opened wide his mouth as if he tasted the air, the fresh, pure air. Then, like a dragon, he blew it out in a single fetid breath. The wind swirled away from him in a powerful push, as if it had purpose.

V

One is in the hearts of men,
another floats in spirit.
A virus lives upon the air.
It can sneak inside,
and if dormant long,
it becomes too late
to bridge life's gap.

Does malevolence
lie in wait as well,
in the soil, or the water,
or the firmament?

The wind had voices. I listened; was there singing? From around the house came a dust devil and it danced here and there. A gum wrapper trapped in its whirl, bolted away like a rocket to land on the windshield. The twisting wind formed a face as it approached. It struck the car, forcing it to join its waltz, to rock and sway. The voices, if such they were, subsided there, but lingered long enough to toss an eerie, tinkling melody through the roof. I heard it as the wind stopped and it continued in its sound for another moment. The eddy had dropped its dust upon the cruiser; it left a strange coat of brown film across the doors, roof and hood.

While I was lost in the moment, Darrell appeared at the door. He seemed a ghost, a ghost in royal blue with shiny buttons. He may have tried, but he could not disguise the horror that emanated from his face.

“Jack, they’re all dead,” he said and gasped gutturally, from his throat. “Jesus, they’re dead. Call the M.E., and Crime Scene Search.”

As I called, he leaned against the hood of the cruiser. He lifted his hand and looked at it, puzzled at all the dust.

He told me the man was now sitting on the couch, unable to move. I decided to go in alone to let him catch his breath. I took note of everything as I approached the door; a tricycle tumbled over, newspaper against a corner of the foundation, a single rose on its thin bush. I went inside to speak to the man. He stared at the floor.

“I raised the windows,” he said

I looked at him. He must not have realized I was someone else.

“It was too late,” he said.

“Touch anything besides the windows?”

He shook his head slowly.

He continued to stare at the floor while his body sagged upon the sofa. His life energy seemed to exit his whole countenance like air from a sliced tire. I eyeballed him a moment for injuries, but he was in shock from the discovery, not physically harmed. I detected a faint odor normally associated with natural gas. I said nothing and began to investigate on my own.

“Oh, Lord, no,” I said to myself.

Before me lay a family not unlike my own and I could not avoid the empathy. It penetrated and depleted me; I wanted to sag on the couch with the father. Despite the trepidation, I went from room to room, from horror to horror.

She was lying in the hall, curled from a last convulsion, one desperate hand outstretched. It rested only inches from the furnace, as if she had fallen just short in an attempt to save herself and her children. Now, only a sobbing husband remained, a grieving father home from work, head in hands, not comprehending, sitting on the couch.

The three year old just seemed to be asleep, curled on her bed and cuddled to a teddy bear. Soft-pink walls and little girl dolls surrounded her. Only the foam near her face gave it away. The baby boy in the blue nursery never knew. Lying in his crib, his bottle rested softly in his tiny hand. There appeared no sign of stress, no convulsions. Apparently he passed quietly from this life. I prayed fervently this was so.

I forced myself to ask the questions required. “Sir, I have to ask you a few things. I’m sorry for your loss.”

He said nothing and did nothing so I spoke on.

“You were at work?”

He nodded slowly.

“Where do you work?”

He waited a few moments, then began to talk, and he told me the name of a law firm downtown, then his. Stephen Brown.

“Are you an attorney?”

“Not yet. I graduated last year. I interned with them for a couple of years, so they recruited me and I’m doing paralegal work right now.”

“While you’re studying for the bar?”

He nodded, but offered nothing more.

“I’ll be happy to call your family for you if you’d like,” I said.

“My dad’s on his way,” he said.

“Has the furnace ever gone out like that before?”

He shook his head, but made no reply.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Not long,” he replied. He was silent for a moment, and then said, “about two months.”

I asked only a few more questions, just the basics. They were alive when he left, dead when he returned. I decided to leave him alone. It seemed to be a horrible accident and detectives would talk to him later that night. I let him remain inside, but kept an eye on him as I edged to the door and prepared to wait. An elderly couple arrived, followed within a moment by another woman.

As more family appeared, I became drawn into their cacophony of woe. It surrounded and exhausted me.

Guarding the scene seemed to matter less than usual. The deaths would be ruled accidental and he was the father, the husband. With his parents by his side, I knew they would want to touch, to caress their loved ones once more. They wouldn’t understand about crime scenes and I didn’t try to make them, but I drew a careful line.

“I know you need to hold them, but you can’t,” I said. “We want to figure out exactly what happened.” They agreed to remain in the living area and go no farther.

The ambulance I called arrived. The paramedics were of no use, and merely looked and whispered. They left with sad expressions.

Soon came more support, sisters and aunts. They seemed to buttress the grieving father’s spirit, to keep his soul from sinking.

The face of an aunt floated by and she peered deep into the fortress inside my eyes. She wasn’t fooled. “I know it’s hard for you too, young man. I know it’s hard."

My portable radio squawked at my side, “334 call the Physical Evidence Section at extension 718.”

I asked someone if I could use the phone. They pointed to an elderly man with kind eyes, who indicated the receiver.

“Crime Scene Search,” said a hurried voice.

“It’s Goldman, beat 334,” I said and a supervisor named Mulligan came on the line. The voice seemed familiar, like one from long ago.

“What happened, officer?”

“Three dead, looks like a gas furnace accident,” I answered. He hung up without a word. Then, a homicide sergeant radioed the same question. I stepped outside and asked him to switch to channel ten, a private channel used for conversation. I told him the same thing I'd shared with the crime scene supervisor. I also asked for a time frame and he cut me short.

“I’ll get back to you,” he said, “we’ve got something going up north on Preston Road, so it might be a while. Just send the poor guy home with a relative, tape off the house, lock it and leave. Get an address from the relative and leave it with the dispatcher. We’ll get to it when we can.”

I placed my handheld back in its holster and went back inside. About a minute later, Darrell, no longer pale, stepped in and said, “The Medical Examiner’s wagon is here.”

I looked upon the six people who milled around, and expectantly awaited my words.

I spoke as softly as I could, “They have to take the bodies, but they’ll be released back to you soon. Here’s the number to call.” I gave them all the number and escorted them outside.

I pulled the man with the kind eyes aside. He was the children’s grandfather. His name was Harvey Brown. I paraphrased a traditional offering my father had taught me when I was a boy, “May the Lord comfort you among all the other mourners.”

Then, I shook his hand and said, “Take your son home and watch over him.” His eyes moistened as he nodded in silent thanks and turned away so I wouldn’t see him break.

A gas company truck appeared and a small, uniformed man with a ponytail approached. The M.E. techs, ever bored while waiting on the crime scene officers, watched as we talked.

“You wanted me to check for leaks?” he asked.

I was glad he came after the family left.

“Can you do it without touching too many smooth surfaces?” I asked him.

He stared at me like a curious dog, then nodded and said, “I’ll try.”
I stayed with him while he worked.

“Nothing anywhere,” he said after about twenty minutes. “It happened right at the delivery point.”

“Is there any way you can tell how?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. It happens more than you think. Bad equipment, a drafty house. Were they poisoned or did they suffocate?”

The question surprised me, but I replied,” We’re not sure yet.”

He studied the furnace again. “Well, since I found no leaks, I would bet it was poisoning. These old units can suddenly foul up with dust or other kinds of gunk and that causes a yellow burn and all kinds of problems.”

I remembered some of my science then. When Methane gas burns pure it produces a blue flame. It’s completely safe, but when that mixture is disturbed, the flame burns yellow and emits Carbon Monoxide, which is odorless and deadly. That could explain why the mother was in the hall. Already sickened by fumes her body could not detect, she might not have been able to make it.

He continued, “It could have been the mixture went bad by maybe a draft created when the guy left for work this morning as he opened the door. Then it never corrected itself. If I were forced to a guess, that would be mine. This is a north-facing house and it’s been pretty breezy, but like I said, I don’t know. Somebody’ll have to check for defects, I guess.”

“I doubt they’ll bother,” I said as I remembered the homicide sergeant.

He shook his head as he looked at the furnace, “Want me to turn it off from the outside source in case we’ve missed something?”

“No, you’d better not. Our Physical Evidence Section may want to inspect it some more.”

He left, and though I didn’t close the windows, I locked the house and prepared to wait. I had no intention of leaving until the crime scene experts arrived.

Within five minutes, a city-issued Plymouth parked in front of our cruiser. Two men in J.C. Penney leisure suits and clip-on ties began pulling equipment from the trunk.

“You Goldman?” asked a rail thin fifty-year-old with black slicked-back hair. I knew then why his voice seemed familiar over the phone. He was Frank Mulligan, a friend of my father.

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“You ain’t Ben Goldman’s son are you?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied again and smiled.

“Well, I’ll be. It is you and you’re all growed up. Remember when me and your daddy used to take you fishing?”

I had known Sergeant Mulligan as “Uncle Frank”, the man who fifteen years ago tussled my hair and called me “young Jack Goldman”. He had aged and thinned dramatically over the years.

I smiled more widely before I brought it under control and said, “I do remember that.”

Mulligan continued, “Well, what the hell is Ben up to these days?”

“His usual. Fishing in the Ozarks.”

“Damn good idea. I’ll probably join him in a couple of years when I hit fifty-five. House unlocked?”

“Got the key right here.” I passed it to him.

“Anything else?” he asked as his eyes darted around the yard.

I told him of the gas company man’s theory and in one brisk motion, he pulled a tiny notepad from his pocket and made fast scribbles with a pencil.

Still writing, he said, “No need for you to stay, we’ll handle it from here.” Then he looked up. “But hey young Jack Goldman, tell your dad I said 'hello'.”

The dust was gone from the car. In the dark, a cool clean wind brushed it away as sure as its whirling cousin had dropped it there. The gum wrapper, however, remained, clinging to a wiper blade. It was actually the inner foil wrapper and bore what appeared to be a small slash, like someone had started to write on the foil and thought better of it. I removed it and placed it in my wallet. Though not a part of the scene, I kept the wrapper as another reminder, like the shoeshine kit.

“Sorry, Jack,” said Darrell.

“No need to be,” I said to reassure him.

“Yeah, but…”

“Darrell, there were little kids in there. It’s your first time seeing something like that. Don’t be ashamed for being decent or you might wind up like half the deadwood on day shift.”

I normally refused to reflect on tragedy for fear of going soft, but I chose to do it then. I wondered truly if it was an accident. I was not presuming murder, but somehow felt it was no random event. I worried wickedness existed not just in the hearts of men, but floated about in spirit. Perhaps it somehow caught the wind or other elements. A virus sometimes lives in the air and once inside the body can remain dormant for decades with the first sign of its presence a sad indication it is already too late. Can malevolence lie in wait as well, in the soil or the water or the firmament? Can the gust of an evil wind remove a flame inside a loving home? I feared it happened far more than anyone knew.

VI

The initial blindness faded only a few moments after Sergeant Ben Goldman slid into the “cry room” at the back of the auditorium. Several officers entered with him. Others ensured the exits on each side of the screen were covered. The call came from the ticket-taker after a witness followed a strange acting man into the theater. When dispatched on the radio, every squad responded. Everyone knew it was the suspected killer of two men: one in downtown Dallas and the other, a fellow officer, just a few blocks away.

Ben nodded to his men and all of them eased out of the soundproofed room into the aisles of the darkened theater where a war movie was playing. Gunshots battered Ben’s ears, but they came from the speakers. Lights overhead glowed suddenly and a witness appeared with men in blue on the stage. He pointed to a man in the last row. The murderer. He appeared afraid and slender and small. According to another witness, this man hovered over the fallen officer and watched him die. The slain policeman was Ben’s good friend.

Ben raised his revolver and pointed it. Someone yelled, “Freeze, you bastard!”

He mumbled something as he reached for a gun and first one, then the other officers grabbed at the suspect’s arms. The gun snapped in misfire as the man went down. Fists struck until Benjamin Goldman leaned in with gentle strength and pulled away angry young men. A powerful hand gripped the murderer by the elbow and lifted him from the floor. Ben passed him to Buzzard Spence, a two-year officer fresh off rookie probation who cuffed the man’s wrists. Buzzard, with other officers, escorted the man out as Ben walked back up the aisle toward the clean crisp November day, toward a bright afternoon sun floating far above the Texas Theater of Oak Cliff, the largest section of Dallas, Texas.

VII

We drove away more to seek refuge than to complete the report. We used the fire station on Bonnieview Road, not far from the scene. I wrote for a while, then grabbed a phone and called the Crimes Against Persons office. I discovered the Homicide sergeant was in, but had to wait.

“Detective Stone,” a gravelly voice said too many minutes later.

“I’m holding for Sergeant Persons,” I said, annoyed.

“He ain’t available.”

“Well, I’m trying to get a time frame on…”

“Hold on.”

“Who’re you holding for?” inquired a female with an unfriendly tone after another wait.

“I can’t remember.” I hung up in disgust.

I told myself we would get quicker action if the deaths occurred in an upscale North Dallas neighborhood. It brought to mind the number one concern of the citizens of Oak Cliff when it came to law enforcement.

I heard on the streets more than once, “Why would I want to tell you anything, white boy? Y’all already make it hard for us out here, just because we’re black. Something happens to me, you ain’t gonna do shit. Why would I want to help you?”

We left the fire station tired too soon; we already wished for the long day’s end.

“Let’s eat,” Darrell said and reached for the radio.

“Don’t do it,” I told him, “they’ll just give us another call. If we’re going to eat, let’s ride this until we’re done.”

“Good idea.” He put the mike back on its cradle.

We joined McFarland and his rookie at the Burger King on Ledbetter Drive. McFarland, a tall and imposing man in his thirties, was brisk in his motion and always to the point in his speech.

“Jack, you been in Oak Cliff how long now?” he asked.

“Almost three years,” I said.

“Well then, it ain’t normal,” he said as he dabbed a napkin to the side of his mouth, an almost punctilious act.

“What?” I asked.

“You don’t cuss. I’ve never heard you. I know one guy lasted about a year before he started doing it, but he resigned a month or two later. You been here three years. It ain’t normal.”

Darrell jumped to defend me. “He cusses. I heard him just the other day. Told that burglar we caught inside the elementary school to ‘freeze asshole’, or he’d blow his brains out.”

“I cuss,” I said to explain, “but only to get the attention of thieves or gang members or people like that.”

“See, that’s just what I mean. You use it like a tool, like a damned wrench.” He looked over at his rookie who kept his face bland and non-committal. I figured that by now, he knew that chain jerking came naturally to cops after a few years and he chose to stay out of it.

“Good point. I guess that’s the way I look at it,” I said and smiled. “I’ve never seen a mechanic wear a wrench, just use it. And he damn sure doesn’t wear it at home.”

McFarland laughed and looked me in the eye. “Good point,” he said.

The night became a menagerie of ups and downs, of talks and crying citizens, of flashing lights and piercing sounds, of madness and of hope. We comforted a beaten wife and encouraged her startled children.

“Mr. Police, my daddy still drunk,” said a daughter with a weary expression. “Will you make him stay somewheres else? Don’t hurt him though, okay?” She was only seven.

A storm, strong and cold, passed harshly as we sat parked under a bridge and talked of new houses and plans for our families. At no time did we speak of the family lost.

“Call Sergeant Hampton,” said Darrell suddenly, and I gave a puzzled look.

“You need more time,” he added and I understood.

Darrell was a good partner. It would be a difficult change; he had become a good friend. I did need more time to decide. Training rookies in Oak Cliff was serious business.

“334 to 330,” I said into the radio microphone.

“Go ahead,” John Hampton answered into his.

“I’d like another day to think about your offer. Just need to sleep on it.”

He hesitated before he answered, but then, apparently, realization came. “Sure, why don’t you take the weekend? You can let me know Monday.”

A couple of hours before the end of our shift, we stopped for a quick coffee break at the same fire station we had visited earlier in the day. The firemen never let an officer who successfully completes probation off the hook right away and still enjoyed heaping pranks on Darrell. I think it helped Darrell forget the horrors of the day.

Amidst the laughter, I went to a quiet booth and placed a call.

"Hey Dad, I know it's late, but do you have a few minutes? Good, I sure need to talk."

VIII

It was on the news that evening: the story of the murders, the arrest, the crowd outside the theater and their chants for death. There seemed to be a poison in the air. The crowd had gathered quickly, an unusual event; as if something had come over them.

Two days later, during a prisoner transfer from the city lockup to the county jail, a bar owner wormed his way into the crowded city hall basement and proceeded to shoot and kill a man on national television. A black eye seemed to draw focus on the dying man’s expression of surprise. He may or may not have killed America’s President from a corner building on a downtown Dallas street before escaping to Oak Cliff, but ballistics tests confirmed to Ben and others he was the man that shot his friend and fellow officer and watched him die.

Thanks to television, Ben Goldman saw the murderer suffer a similar fate. He looked at his son with an uneasy expression. Then, he watched it all unfold.

He told his wife later that day, "I know it's important coverage, but Jack saw the whole thing. It just jumped right out at us, right there on television. Where is all this new, fast-paced stuff leading us? What bothers me even more is that I wanted it to happen. I've got no remorse inside, no sadness at all for that man. Sitting right there with my eight-year old son, I wanted Lee Oswald dead."

IX

The son of a knight well known
now a knight on his own
kept The Dragon at bay,
but his escape one day
gave Time the time to take a dragon's turn
to smoke, then singe, then burn and burn.

Eventually, I was streaking home, lights rushing by, tires whispering to quiet streets. The trip seemed longer than before. As soon as I saw the pleasant opening to our apartment, I rushed to enter, to feel safe, to see those I loved once more. I moved quietly, to not disturb their sleep, but chose immediately to ensure they still breathed.

I looked upon my sons, surrounded by soft white colors in the carpet, drapes and bedding. I saw Big Bird, Kermit and Cookie Monster; good friends all and I thought to hear that song of rainbows yet again. Debbie was snoring softly, still a little girl. She was only twenty, pure and innocent as her babies, wrapped as them, in soft white. These were moments that pushed away the dark. They pushed away the fear of an evil wind. They comforted and cleansed, just as that second wind blew the dust away from the car.

I heard a soft and whispered giggle.

LJ stood and smiled in his crib. I usually changed him upon my arrival from work, mostly to make him comfortable, but also to just be with him. If he were wide-awake, I would read Dr. Suess. Sometimes it brought memories of my own father and with that, ease to a troubled heart. This time, after I freshened him, I took him in my arms to the rocking chair. I soothed him in the dark.

Slowly, his little hands relaxed on my shoulders. With his head against my undershirt, I felt him drift. I rocked him, feeling soft. Then, the phone rang.

It was the homicide sergeant who had refused to speak to me earlier. Something had him working very late. It was 3:00 a.m.

“Goldman, this is Sergeant Persons. I need to ask you a couple of questions. Something’s come up.” He hesitated as if expecting me to acknowledge the remarks. I didn’t. His tone was too haughty.

“What kind of shape was the father in when he left? How was he mentally?”

“Mentally, he could function,” I replied and felt a sudden constriction. “He was emotionally destroyed. Who wouldn’t be? I made sure it was his parents who took him and told them to watch him closely. Why?”

He didn’t answer the question, but said, “ A couple of my guys sweated him a little over at his dad’s house. That damn thing is a palace. I didn’t know they even had houses like that in Oak Cliff. We were gonna take him downtown to squeeze him a little more but a lawyer showed up while we were there. It’s the quickest I’ve ever seen that happen. Anyway, I guess it’s because his dad is some kind of big-shot in the black community and now a real shit-storm’s gotten started.”

“Why grill him? It seemed to be an accident and he wasn’t even there. He came home and found them like that.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d say that. That explains why you let half the neighborhood in the living room. But if it was an accident, why’d he take a twenty-two and put one in his temple after we left?”

My mouth became parched. I tried to make my reply and it remained in my throat. I realized then he wasn’t even on the line. I put the phone back on the cradle, deep in disappointment over that poor man’s final act and the callousness of Persons’ call. LJ stirred a little, so I tried to comfort him. The phone rang again.

“Jack, it’s John Hampton. You okay? I tried to call you before Persons did, but the damn phone was already busy. He called giving me shit. Said he was going to give you some too. You talked to him?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “what’s it all about?”

“He’s looking for somebody to blame, trying to cover his ass,” said Hampton. “The Chief’s all over him. First they act like they don’t give a crap, then when they do finally show, they treat the poor guy like he’s a dirt-bag. Chief Spence jumped my ass too. Wanted to know why you didn’t stay at the scene. I told him both Mulligan and Persons ordered you off it. The man’s father is a physician and real popular. Of course, he’s gotten everyone outraged. They’re saying it’s blatant racism and that they just jumped on the guy because he was black. They claim he was already on the edge of suicide because of his grief and the cops just pushed him over.”

“Persons gave me the impression they do that with everyone.”

“Yeah, but there are ways of leaning on a guy like that without leaning, you know what I mean? The big question is: would they have done it that way if he was white? And what makes this look so bad is Physical Evidence bought off on the theory of the gas guy you mentioned in your report. I talked to Mulligan. He’s a freaking grouch, but knows his stuff. They did a test with that door. It was still windy as hell and the wind just gusted right on in to the hall. It almost blew out the flame the first time they tried it. It turned yellow and stayed that way. Mulligan said his CO detector indicated it could fill that little house with poison in less than half an hour. They were all sound asleep, so they had no chance. But then, when Mulligan turned it off and re-lit it, it burned blue again. Some expert is gonna look at it next week.”

“But, it smelled like a leak…”

“I was getting to that. Mulligan also said that when the unit’s thermostat shut down the furnace, the pilot went out every time and that accounts for the smell. Either way it all points to a defect and an accident. Since they hadn’t lived there long, they probably never knew there was a problem.

“I guess Persons ignored it or didn’t even bother to ask Mulligan about it. Either way, he’s screwed.”

I heard him sigh and then he said, “Like I mentioned, I talked to Chief Spence. Actually, he did the talking. He said Brown told him you were very professional and compassionate and that may well be the only reason he doesn’t sue the city.”

“I doubt that’ll last,” I said.

“I doubt it too. I’d sure sue. The City’ll settle on this one fast. Damn Persons. He’ll be walking a beat in the river bottoms by tomorrow. The Chief still thinks you mishandled the crime scene, but its Homicide’s job to tell you what’s necessary by phone or radio in a situation like that and they didn’t. Besides, it looked like an accident and it was an accident, so it’s a wash. He said you tipped the scales with the way you treated the family. So overall, you did good. I agree. I still need an answer on the training officer thing by Monday, so get some rest and think on it.”

The praise did nothing. I felt hurt and beaten. I felt for Stephen Brown.

Still, I saw no more need to reflect on Sergeant Hampton's offer. I made the decision. I would train recruits.

We all start out as rookies: the officers, the sergeants, even the chiefs. The trainers influence their careers early on more than anyone else.

I sat for a while, holding LJ. As I felt his innocence, that sweetness that comes from nighttime comfort, a cutting wind hit the window and diminished into a soft wail amid distant laughter. Years seemed to pass me, like lines of a poem. I thought I hallucinated, because I also sensed the approach of something dark and shapeless. I wasn’t sure if it was in the corner of my eye or the corner of my mind.

I imagined my father before me - a memory of long ago - standing stern in badge and blue, yet soft, always soft to me. His words came barely above a whisper, “It’s not a job for the weak. Too many things happen too many times for it to be normal. And there’ll always be that one thing, that one event, that one evil that wants to haunt you in the night.”

“An evil thing? How’ll I make it go away?” I had asked. I was eight years old.

“Wake up and turn on the light.” He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“That’s all?” I still remember the relief in my voice.

“It’s not as easy as you think,” he said.

In the darkness, I rocked my sleeping son, searching for the light.

“It’s not as easy as you think,” I heard my father say again.

Innocents are The Heart of the World,
and The Heart must stay unbroken,
it's ways untouched by Time.
We must find a way
to face the ways,
the ways of


The Dragon called Time.


Without this way,
The Dragon wins,
without The Heart, our world is gone,
without this world,
those realms unseen,
alas won't last, not there, not here, not one.


End

The sequel to Evil Wind can be found here:

ID: 899648   (Rated: 18+) The Dragon Rises  The opening novella in the Jack Goldman series and the sequel to Evil Wind. by Jack Goldman

Acknowledgement: Part of the lines of poetry were written for me by another writer here on Writing.com, L. A. Powell