Fiction: Dispatcher

By M.E. Proctor

 

Ellie caught me with a wad of cash in my hand, and I felt relieved. This bookmaking line of work made me nervous. I had been insanely lucky so far but I could feel the rope holding that boulder over my head fraying, à la Wile E. Coyote. People wanted to place bets on college basketball games and PGA golf tournaments, or Mahomes throwing two TD passes in the third quarter. How could I guess that? The man himself didn’t know what he was going to do. I liked bets on events I could control, like my own golf game or my mastery of the pool table at Deke’s Tavern. I had that entire bookmaking thing wrong and it was going to bite me in the ass. Ellie walked in on me at the right time.

“I have to arrest you for illegal gambling, Sam,” she said.

“Sure,” I said.

She pointed at the roll of bills. “There won’t be much money left after you pay the fine.” She tilted her head. “Even if you decide to do the jail time, I can’t let you keep the money.”

What kind of choice was that? She made it easy. “It’s okay, Ellie. I’m through with that crap anyway. I’m a wreck each time I switch on ESPN and try to do the math.”

She chuckled. “You’re a terrible bookie, Sam. What about a job? I’m hiring.”

“At the Sheriff’s?” I was stunned. What a notion, I was a crook, not a very successful one, but still. “You can’t hire me if I have a record.”

“You don’t have one yet as far as I know.”

She was willing to let this slide. There had to be a catch. “What would you hire me for?” If she wanted me to squeal on my buddies, petty criminals all, I would have to decline.

“Luciane is about to have her baby. I need a dispatcher. You have a good radio voice, I remember from high school.”

She remembered that? It was flattering. “Don’t you have to use all these codes and shit?”

She shrugged away my objection. “You’ll get the hang of it in no time. Sit next to Luciane until she’s ready to pop and you’ll learn everything you need to know. What do you say?”

I was so astounded I didn’t even ask how much she paid.

Ellie was in a hurry—Luciane might go into labor any time—and asked me to swing by the office after lunch. There was paperwork to fill in.

#

The job was fun. I liked it right away. Luciane loved mentoring me and she was a hoot. She treated the deputies on patrol as if they were a gaggle of ducklings constantly trying to escape their mother’s supervision. She was also a fine observer of character. After a couple of days, I had cheat sheets on every officer detailing their quirks, strengths and weaknesses. I knew you never gave a domestic to Timmons because he couldn’t handle crying women, they broke his heart. On the other hand, he was great at robberies, a real sleuth. Stansfield got a kick at catching speeders. Garvey was cool-headed and the best shot, even if she’d never had to use her gun in the line of duty.

“It isn’t the Wild West, gun-wise,” Luciane said. “It’s mostly drunks and brawlers. Car accidents and the like. We have missing persons occasionally. They wander back or we find them. Breaking and entering is a thing. Lots of vacation homes on the lake that stay empty for months at a time. In the five years I’ve worked here, we’ve had one nasty murder and a couple of suicides. Meth stuff too and overdoses. It helps if you know the EMTs and the fire department folk. I’ll take you round.”

She watched me, one arm supporting her big belly, as I took calls and contacted the patrol cars. The deputies had a bit of fun with me in the beginning. One of these clever bastards gave me a pat on the back saying that was good, they’d have no trouble finding me next time somebody broke a window, they could just look at the duty roster.

By the time Luciane’s contractions started four days later, I was comfortable at the desk. Ellie drove the future mom to the hospital and I called the husband to give him the news. I felt more in charge of my life than ever before. Even getting to the office early didn’t bother me, and when Ellie asked me to relieve Gus on the night shift three times a week I didn’t complain. I started looking into the training requirements to become a deputy. The late shift gave me a lot of time to read.

I liked to watch Ellie in the office. She was in charge and always the smartest person in the room. Timmons and Stansfield could be blowhards but they kept the attitude down when Ellie was near. I wanted to ask her where she got her edge but I didn’t dare ask. I was a pseudo-felon, impersonating a regular law-abiding joe in a den of cops. It gave me a little shiver that was not entirely unpleasant.

I was alone in the office on Saturday night when the phone rang. I knew the voice on the other end. Kenny Skilling. He knew my voice too, right away.

“Hey, I want to put money on the Longhorns Sunday,” he said.

“Kenny, you called the Sheriff’s Office, not Ladbrokes.”

“What? Ain’t that you, Sam?”

Kenny could be confused, especially after a quart of bourbon. “You didn’t misdial, buddy. Ain’t my private number, and I’m out of bookmaking anyway. Whaddya call the cops for?”

There was a pause and I used it to check the roster. Ellie and Stansfield were home. Timmons and Garvey were on patrol. My fingers hovered over the console.

“Oh, yeah, thanks for reminding me,” Kenny said. “There’s a ruckus at the Potters, damn loud, been going on for hours. Keeps me up. Can you take my bet, Sam?”

Talk about a one-track mind. “No, I can’t. What’s it about the Potters? Gunshots, what?”

“That’s a pity, you’re a damn good bookie. Friendly and such.”

“Kenny, for fuck sake, focus, the Potters.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Screams. Now, Rita Potter’s got a voice on her. Ever heard her?”

I had. I banged her in the back of my brother’s Chevy and I thought the entire neighborhood would come running with pitchforks. That was before she married Rand Potter, that musclebound loser.

“Is it still going on?” I said.

Another pause. “Can’t hear a thing now. It must have just stopped. Damn, you’ll think I’ve been dreaming it. You won’t take my bet? I can make it worth your while.”

“Go to bed, Kenny. I’ll send a car, just in case.”

It must be a marital tiff, so Timmons was out. I buzzed Garvey, gave her the address and the appropriate codes. “Potter’s a beast, Garv,” I added, straying from protocol. “Watch your backside.”

Her snicker came through loud and clear. “Ain’t the first time we’ve paid them a visit, Sam. Every other month, looks like. He should be locked up, but we can’t get Rita to press charges, even when she’s all black and blue.”

“Get back to me,” I said, for no good reason except I felt queasy thinking about Rita Potter and her husband’s heavy fists.

“10-4 Mother Hen,” Garvey giggled.

I emptied the coffee urn and made a new batch. Garvey and Timmons would swing back to the office at the end of their shift and they would appreciate a fresh brew. I picked up a forensics manual but I couldn’t focus. My attention was pulled to the scratches of static from the radio. I pictured Kenny Skilling’s clapboard house, the wisteria that made his fence crumble, the Potter house on the other side. Garvey should be there by now. I wished she would report back. No reason why she would if the night was calm again.

I was filling a coffee mug when the radio squawked.

“Sam.” It was Garvey. She sounded far away and it wasn’t an effect of the creaky transmission. Her voice had a tone I associated with people pulled out of a deep sleep. “Call Ellie. Please.”

“What’s going on? You need me there?”

“Don’t be silly. You have to hold the fort. Get Ellie.” She clicked off. I swear the sound reverberated. It gave me a chill.

Ellie didn’t ask questions. She must be used to this kind of call in the middle of the night.

I waited. I heard the rapid exchanges between the cop cars and the EMTs. Then Ellie’s call to the coroner. I felt lousy, left out, solitary on the sidelines, benched. The coffee tasted like septic tank sludge.

#

“He killed her, and hanged himself,” Ellie said.

I’d gathered that much from listening to the chatter on the radio. And I couldn’t help wondering how long it took Kenny Skilling to call the office. He was so used to hear screaming coming from that house. If he’d come to the point faster instead of bugging me about betting, would it have changed anything? Would Rita still be alive, or would Deputy Garvey have been just in time to cut Potter’s rope?

“I wanted to be out there with Garvey, Ellie,” I said. “When I didn’t hear back from her, I was worried sick.”

“Now you know how I feel when I send deputies out there. It isn’t easy to stay behind waiting for the homing pigeons to come back to the coop. If you want to become a deputy, I will support it, Sam, but you’re valuable here. Garvey said she liked to have you on the call. It’s that voice of yours. It’s soothing.”

“Luciane will come back from maternity leave.”

She slapped both hands on her knees and hauled herself up. The tension of the day was pouring out of her. “Not for a while, and when she does, I won’t put her on nights, not with a baby at home. The team trusts you, Sam. This is your home.”

I made a face. “Garvey called me Mother Hen.”

“Perfect call sign for a dispatcher.” She adjusted her heavy belt. “I’m going home. You’ll be okay for a couple more hours? I can ask Gus to come in early.”

I shook my head and leaned back in the chair. 

Mother Hen. I liked it. Time to make another pot of coffee. The place ran on it.

M.E. Proctor was born in Brussels and lives in Texas. The first book in her Declan Shaw PI series, Love You Till Tuesday, came out from Shotgun Honey with a follow up scheduled for 2025. She’s the author of a short story collection, Family and Other Ailments. Her fiction has appeared in various crime anthologies and magazines like Vautrin, Bristol Noir, Mystery Tribune, Shotgun Honey, Reckon Review, and Black Cat Weekly.