PRL Serials

Hello everyone and welcome to the first PRL Special. We were working on the first serial under the PRL Mysteries Signature, mostly Maxwell but Wesley and I pitched in where we could, and it ran kind of long. So we decided to switch up the schedule a little bit so we could fit it all in. Today’s post is dedicated solely to the story of Detective Young, and will serve as the lead in to the Volume II debut of Old Man Young and Bronx Avenger. It was originally meant to be a one shot, but things just kept ballooning, so we’ll call this a Super-Sized One-Shot. Similar to Wendy’s Made in America One-Shot, part of the story will appear today and the rest of The Flashback – Issue 1 will appear on Wednesday, August 13, 2014 with the rest of Issue 7. This way, Issue 8 will have a brand new One-Shot featuring Old Man Young that will get you ready for Volume II. So enjoy Part 1 of the introduction to Old Man Young. All archives will update on Thursday and look for new PRL Signature descriptions on Wednesday (there’s been a bit of a shake up here at the PRL Offices). Here it is:

Old Man Young (Introduction to Old Man Young and the Bronx Avenger, Part I)

By PRL Mysteries

The Flashback – Issue 1

Detective Paul Young is not the athletic man that he once was. Now approaching fifty-five, he is in better shape than most, but he embarrassed himself at the annual softball game between the Knoxville Police and Fire Departments after he missed his first two pitches and threw his back out on the third, which caused him to lose his grip on the bat that went flying to injure a bystander. What he lacks in lower back integrity though, he makes up for with a keen sixth sense, a gut feeling that he has used for decades to divine the guilt or innocence of the perpetrators he has encountered over his long career. Even when he was a rookie traffic cop writing parking tickets, he had a knack for knowing when someone was more suspicious than they ought to be. Back then, he was still married to his first and only wife, Darlene, whom he had met when he’d first moved to Knoxville fresh out of the academy. Darlene poured coffee at a local diner and Young was polite enough for her to feel comfortable to engage him in conversation. He wooed her and they had four kids together, before he got lost in his job, before he became known as one of the best detectives in the state of TN. He loved his wife and his children, but he knew that other people loved their families too, so he worked hard to give others peace of mind when a family member turned up missing or dead. And sometimes he surprised himself with some of the cases that he was able to solve, how intricate plots could unravel by asking a simple question. Most of the murders that he worked were usually drug related, and crimes of passion — spouses killing one another over jealousy — but the case that really made his reputation involved an intricate web of deceit and exploitation and it was inconspicuously headquartered in a Knoxville suburb called Wendover. 

It was hot the day that Detective Young was called to the scene of a gruesome double murder. The crime scene was off a quiet road, in an overgrown lot, miles away from any home or business. When he’d arrived, there were officers roping off the area and someone was photographing the bodies of two young kids, no more than sixteen, a boy and a girl. Both had their hands tied behind their backs and they were naked down to their underwear. The girl, who lay on top of the boy with her back burned from the sun, had obvious bruising mostly on her arms and legs. From the position, Young couldn’t tell if the boy had bruises, but he assumed, and both had gags in their mouths and blindfolds. The morgue truck arrived and they began the delicate process of removing the bodies, careful to check for any evidence that might have been obscured or hidden by the bodies. Young watched silent, just at the line the police tape created between a couple of trees, and a post that officers had used to create a perimeter. The children looked Hispanic and he made a mental note, though that type of information would be noted by the morgue for the death certificates. But before there could be certificates, Young had to find out their names.

With no identification on the bodies, Young had officers check missing persons for any matches to his victims, with no success. The murdered boy and girl were obviously related, they shared many facial features and DNA testing confirmed. No one had reported a missing brother and sister in the state. Young was on the phone with the FBI coordinating a national search when officers who questioned the owners of homes and business in the general vicinity of the crime scene arrived back at the station.

“Not all that much to go on, honestly. No one said they was out that way to do, see, or hear nothing.” Young nodded at Officer Johnson who was a relative rookie, but had proven himself very enthusiastic for detective work. Young figured that he’d watched a lot of crime shows as a kid because he was always asking to do sweeps for minuscule evidence even though Young had made it clear that certain investigative breakthroughs were just too expensive for their department.

“But there was this one place, a bar out past the river. It wasn’t really nobody there but a couple of the employees. I don’t know, Detective, its like you say, sometimes your guts know things your brains don’t.”

Young almost drove right past the bar out near the river because of the condition. It had been painted white a one point, but it was chipping all over. Young noticed that one of pillars that held up the roof over the porch had long rotted through and had suffered quite a bit of damage. The far end of the roof that the pillar had supported at one time, sagged noticeably like a corner of paper with no support and Young wondered if the place should be condemned. But sure enough, there were two men carrying boxes into a back door.

Young pulled around to the back. “How y’all doing today?” He asked as he stepped out of the car. Young dressed like a very neat cowboy back then, no hat, but snake skin boots and usually blue jeans that he tucked a button-down shirt into. On that day, he wore short sleeves because of the heat and he looked like a man deserving respect, even without his badge prominently displayed on his shirt; he always hooked it at his waist.

The men stopped to greet Young. They were both white guys and younger than him, but probably in their thirties; they looked dirty, as though they had been working in dirt all day but Young knew that it was just as probable that they always looked mangy.

“Hot as shit,” one said and Young noticed that his teeth were rotten. “You need something.”

Young acknowledged his badge and asked about the bar, the kind of people that usually showed up.

“Bikers and locals mostly.” The man with rotten teeth said.

Young asked to look around and the men let him inside. The interior of the bar was in much better repair than the outside and Young asked about some of the pictures and things that were on the wall. Most were locals who had made a name for themselves for the amount of beer they could drink in one sitting.

The majority of the bar was one big room with tables and a long bar along the back wall. “Y’all heard about them kids we found, probably like 20 minutes from here in a field?”

“There was a cop out here earlier asking about it.” The other man talked for the first time and the man with rotten teeth hit him quickly, hoping that Young wouldn’t notice. But of course he had.

“I know, that cop came and told me about this place. Said it might be worth taking another look.” Young walked around the empty bar that was dark except for the light from the sun through the windows. There were a lot of pictures taped to the walls, most were white faces, but every now and then he noticed a black or brown face. There was also a banner from a local high school. “Y’all went to Wendover?” Young asked, with a chuckle.

“Hell yeah,” the man with rotten teeth replied. He looked a little nervous but he wanted to be relaxed because Young wasn’t acting the way he was used to a police officer acting when he suspected something. “This is a Wendover bar. Me and Randy here was on the baseball team that went to state. Ain’t that right, Randy?” Randy nodded, he did not share the attitude of the man with the rotten teeth. He was obviously angry about something.

“Yea, we played Wendover, but that was well before your day.” Young made his way to the bar and sat looking at himself in the big mirror that covered the wall behind it. He could see all of the years of his life on his face that was like a big mound of pasty clay with all the nooks and crannies. He was a handsome man, just not as spry, skin not as tight as it once was. “So which one of y’all gon’ offer me a drink?”

The two men looked at one another and the man with the rotten teeth elbowed Randy towards the bar.

“What can I getcha?” Randy asked, never making eye contact.

“Aww, just a beer son, it’s still fairly early.” Young smiled wide and he could see that it bothered Randy.

“So, why you think my officer said it was worth coming back out here? You think he wrong about that?” Young took the beer and took a long drink.

“Cause y’all think y’all better than us? You think just cause we live out here the way we do, you can treat us any kind of way.” Randy scowled at Young and the man with the rotten teeth decided to intervene.

“Officer,” he said smiling his black smile, “we got a lot of work to do. We been cooperative right? Is there anything specific you need? Otherwise, we should get back them boxes out there.”

Young eyed Randy. It could have been intense, but Young refused to let Randy’s anger become infectious. “Tell me this, Randy, tell me this and I’ll be on my way. You don’t know nothing about the kids we found. You got no idea why two teenage kids, probably Hispanic, probably brother and sister, ended up dead the way they did out there? Cause it seem like you got something to say about it.”

Young smiled again and finished his beer in a long gulp. “Gimme one more before you answer that, Randy, I ain’t in no rush. And you boys look like you was handling them boxes out there. It won’t take you no time to finish up. So why don’t you have a seat,” he said politely to the man with rotten teeth, and as he took his second beer from Randy he said, “and you, you wanna have a drink with me? We ain’t gotta be tense. I just need some answers. We best friends, now, you buying me drinks and everything.”

Randy was grinding his teeth so hard that he jaw moved noticeably. “Fuck you, man,” Randy said under his breath.

“I ain’t your enemy, you know that don’t you?” He was looking at the man with rotten teeth, then back at Randy. “I just need to know what I need to know so I don’t have to bring nobody else out here later on tonight when all the festivities start. You wouldn’t want that, would you Randy.” Young smiled again.

Randy said, “I don’t know shit, like I told the other officer, ain’t nobody seen nothing, don’t nobody know nothing.”

Young finished his second beer. He pulled out his phone and called the station. “I’m going to need back up at the bar out past Timber and Pine, just next to the river.” He covered his phone and looked to Randy, “what’s the name of this place, Randy?” Randy answered reluctantly and Young gave the name to the person he was talking to. “I think we’re going to need to be around later tonight when they start serving. They got an awful lot of pictures of minors on the wall and I just got the feeling that people under 21 might be out here drinking. And if we find something else, that’s just icing on the cake.” Young covered the mouth of his phone again and said to Randy, “what y’all got here, crystal meth probably, right?”  Young smiled and Randy looked upset. The man with the rotten teeth was shaking his head.

“Its probably crystal meth…” Young continued and then Randy said,

“Ok, man. I don’t know nothing about them bodies, I ain’t know nothing til that officer came out here earlier, but if some Mexicans turn up dead, and they kids, then you might wanna talk to Jesus over there in Wetsville.” Young wasn’t familiar with Wetsville. “That ain’t the real name, damn. Its cause all them wet backs live out there.”

“Jesus got a last name?” Young asked looking at the man with rotten teeth.

“I don’t know no Jesus,” he said with his eyes wide, clearly clueless what Randy was talking about.

“I don’t know, they call him JJ sometimes. He talk like he wanna be a nigger or something. I don’t deal with him, but I heard things. He used to be something in whatever country he came from. Said he liked killing people and shit. He crazy enough to kill some kids.”

Young drank one more beer before he left. He asked for a fourth, but he poured it out on the floor of the bar, then dropped it, letting the glass smash out, throwing shards all over. “Oops,” he said smiling. “My ex-wife always said I was a clumsy sunnuva gun. But you know how them nigra women like to talk.” Young wasn’t smiling when he left the bar and he got back into his car and radioed for bi-lingual back up.

Young met Officer Gonzalez at a nearby gas station. Gonzalez was happy to assist Young, he was aware of Young’s reputation and he thought of it as a sort of promotion to be allowed to ride with him, even if only for an afternoon. Wetsville was on the outskirts of Wendover, and just as Randy had said, all of the inhabitants of the small, one story homes and trailers were inhabited by people from Mexico. They could have been from other Central American countries, but Young would have to ask them individually to find out that information.

The neighborhood was almost a trailer park, if not for the few homes mixed here and there, and the main road that ran through them were bright orange dirt that stirred as he and Gonzalez drove through.

“I used to have family that lived out here,” Gonzalez said looking out the window. “In some of those houses, people are packed in like sardines. But it doesn’t really ever last that long. Everybody in there work hard and save as much money as they can. Then they buy houses in the white people neighborhoods and piss everybody off.” They both laughed.

There were children running through the street and Young stopped to ask if any of them knew Jesus, or JJ. The ones that knew English looked at one another nervously, as though they knew the name but were too afraid to say so. Gonzalez got out and walked to Young’s side of the car. He knelt and talked to them in Spanish and before long, one of the young girls pointed to a trailer at the end of the road.

“Ask them if they recognize the faces of those kids.” Young asked, but none seemed to, though their dead faces may not have looked the same as they had when they were walking and talking.

When Gonzalez was back in the car, he said, “He lives down there. Thier parents tell them to stay away ‘cause he’s a drug dealer or something. Most of them are scared of him, said he shot one of their dogs a couple weeks ago.”

Just as Young was starting the car, a woman came running out of nowhere. She looked angry, and slapped the roof of the car, yelling in Spanish. Gonzalez got out and tried to subdue her. Gonzalez threatened to arrest her and she gathered many of the children and corralled them toward her trailer that was a ways off in a shadow created by a few trees. “She thought we were trying to steal them or something. She’s fine though.” Young watched her walk behind the group of the kids. She turned back and Young saw a meanness in her eyes that protective mothers adopt with ease when their children are threatened.

The two continued to the trailer that belonged to Jesus. It was rusty and yellow and looked to be heavier on one side that the other, like it was sinking into the ground like the Titanic. There were old cars with no wheels in the small front yard and there were bullet holes in some. When Young noticed them, he got Gonzalez’s attention and signaled that he should be on alert. Both men drew their guns, holding them inconspicuously at their sides as they approached the home.

Gonzalez knocked loudly and steadily, screaming, “¡Abre! ¡Policia!” When there was no answer, Gonzalez knocked again, this time louder, and the door that was made of flimsy wood composite material smashed under the force. Gonzalez looked panicked at Young, “Aye, so sorry Detective.” Young called the station to report the accident and as he talked, Gonzalez peeked into the fist sized hole he had left in the door. And when his nose was right before the hole, he smelled the stench of death, that he was not accustomed to, and he vomited all over Youngs favorite boots.

“There’s a dead body in there,” Gonzalez said, wiping chunks of his lunch from his beard.