A dilapidated jailbar

A call from the courthouse usually means more work for me. Often it means there’s a problem with one of my arrests that requires urgent paperwork. This time I was asked to come down because someone was at the Clerk of the Court and they wanted to see me. My shoes on the courthouse marble floors echoed and the man at the counter turned around. I found myself standing face to face with Tim Henderson. It had been 14 years since I’d seen him last, and although he had aged, I recognized him immediately. We had met twice before, the first was 2002, I was two years on the force, he was 18 year’s old and had just crashed a stolen car when I gave him a very short chase and crash tackled him. We wrestled for a bit as I tried to cuff him until I felt a sharp pain in my chest, I started to find it hard to breath and realized that he had stabbed me. I spent three weeks in hospital recovering from a collapsed lung.

The second time I ever saw him was at his sentencing hearing, he pleaded guilty, got it over and done with. I heard the usual sob stories, about how he had grown up in a broken home, had fallen in with the wrong crowd, started using drugs and was highly remorseful. These were excuses I would hear countless criminals recite over many years. I had no reason to believe that his story would be anything different. Physically I had healed, although the PTSD would pop its head up every now and then. The Parole Board notified me when he was getting out three years ago and I figured it would only be a matter of time before I saw him again, but certainly not in this capacity.

Henderson stretched out his hand, he was holding a small piece of paper and said, “this is for you”. I hesitated for a second and then took it. A bank check made out to me for the sum of $20,000. My confusion must have appeared evident, so Henderson added “it’s your compensation”. I then remembered an ambitious young prosecutor had tried seeking criminal compensation from violent offenders to be paid to their victims. The initiative lasted about two years until all the compensation went unpaid and it caused more work than ever for the police and courts chasing up unpaid debts. I mean if you’re getting sent to jail, you’re probably not going to be making money to pay a large compensation bill.

“My Dad taught me to always pay my debts”, Henderson said “That’s about the only thing of any use he taught me before he pissed off and left”. He went on to tell me about his time inside, and that he didn’t want to be another statistic of a broken justice system. In a world of irony, because he had shown interest in cars, they put him through a mechanics apprenticeship. He’d been working at a garage since he got out and had saved his money so he could pay his dues. “I did something wrong, when I was young and very stupid, I don’t want that to be my legacy.” After years of reading criminals, I could tell his remorse was genuine. He didn’t wait for me to accept his apology or to say anything, he didn’t need my forgiveness. As he turned to walk away, I said, “Look after yourself Tim”. He looked back over his shoulder, gave a smile, and walked out.

I toyed with ideas on how to spend my windfall over the next few days. I only seriously entertained the idea of flying to Vegas and putting it all on number three for about two minutes, maybe three. I could have paid down some debt but that seemed way too sensible. Plenty of people had suggestions on how to spend it as well, but I’m not the kind of guy to donate it all to charity. By Saturday that week I knew what I wanted to do.

Dave Walker was a legend, a Detective who had worked on some of the higher profile cases. He got results because he worked hard, he could get the most hardened criminals to talk to him, and he looked after his team. He had joined the force about five years before me and had mentored me when I got my first plain clothes assignment. He taught me that if criminals liked you, they would give you a lot more information that you could use. He also taught me that even if I didn’t smoke to always have a pack handy, because with most crims it was a great conversation starter. Dave had been promoted to a position at the academy, so I hadn’t seen him in months.

When he came to the door it took him about a second to say, “Is this where you ask me to look after your 20 grand?” To which I replied “Are you still starting every story to those recruits with …This one time I arrested Pamela Anderson…” We both chuckled and as he signaled for me to come in, I said, “I’m here to buy the Jailbar.” I had been in loved with his 1942 Ford pickup for years, they earned the nickname Jailbars because of their grill with fifteen very distinctive vertical bars. Dave used to drive his truck to the precinct daily, and you couldn’t miss the sound of that flathead engine coming down the street. But then the water pump went, he hadn’t fixed it, and it just sat under a tarpaulin for the last 10 years. I took out my wallet and said, “Five grand, cash, today!” Dave said “Geez, I’m thinking about doing it up and getting it back on the… “ but before he could finish I heard his wife Karen from the kitchen yelling “If you don’t sell that truck to him for $5000 today, I’ll sell it to him for $2000 tomorrow”. Dave and Karen had been together for as long as I had known him, one of the few lasting police marriages. Dave looked at me and said, “I guess the deal’s done then”.

I stayed for a while and caught up on what had been going on of late. Dave was enjoying his time at the academy and was able to spend a lot more time with Karen and their teenage daughter. Of course, he made a point of telling me he now only worked weekdays and didn’t ever have to worry about getting too much paperwork. He was going to miss his truck but knew that he’d certainly be able to spend $5,000. I couldn’t wait to get the truck home, so I went and organized a car trailer, and picked it up the next day. Dave had the truck’s title ready for me when I showed up, he helped me load it up and before too long I was heading back with my new old truck.

Rolling the truck off the trailer on my own was a challenge, not the least because my garage is not in a convenient spot. Managing to avoid crashing it into the wall was a significant achievement for me. As I stood there admiring this rusty piece of Detroit history, I noticed the ever-growing tide of fluid flowing towards me. I bent down to smell some of the fluid on my fingers and was struck by the unmistakable smell of stale petrol. I went to the driver’s side door and opened it to be almost overwhelmed by the petrol smell. For some reason, the engineers at Ford though that a great place to put the fuel tank was in the cabin. In this case it was located underneath the seat, so I guess I had my first task ahead of me.

I found the bolts for the seat and undid them, I started to remove it from where it had been for the last 70-odd years a small black notebook fell to the ground. Although it was dirty with a bit of discoloration from the fuel it was still in good shape. It looked as though it had been in there wedged between the seat frame and the fuel tank for years. I opened the front cover and there was a name written. It was a name I had heard a few thousand times; I think every cop in the state knew the name; Michelle Atkinson. Michelle was a 16-year-old girl who had left school one afternoon in 1998 and never came home. Her body had never been found and no-one was ever charged for her abduction and murder.

Every couple of years there would be a renewed call for information on the case, the State had put up a $1 million reward, but that just meant that crackpots and psychics would flood the call center, then everything would go quiet. One thing I remembered as part of the appeal was that Michelle carried a black Moleskin notebook with her everywhere. It had been a present from an Aunt who had bought it in Milan during a European vacation. Michelle had always been an avid writer and her Aunt thought that one of these new trendy notebooks might encourage her to capture more of her writings. The question is, why was a key piece of evidence in this investigation wedged under the seat of a truck owned by a detective?

Struggling to comprehend what I was holding, I started to turn the pages. The journal started off with some insight into the life of a teenager, teachers that she hated, TV idols and music. She also wrote about her home life, her father a drunk who dished out equal shares of physical and mental abuse on her and her mother. When a teacher got concerned about bruises on her arm, they involved the Police. He was arrested and because of a significant criminal history was sent to prison. Although the violence was gone it was replaced with uncertainty of her future, as her mother struggled to make ends meet. Then she started to write about him, she described how he made her feel special, how he made her forget about everything else, and most of all how he made her feel safe. But then again, a police officer should make her feel safe.

As I read on, I saw a young girl who believed she was in love, but it was a lie. It was really someone in a position of power who was taking advantage of a vulnerable person. She was longing for the attention of a man that wouldn’t beat her, but she didn’t realize he was using her. The sex made her feel like a woman, even though she was a virgin when they met and he was much more experienced, but she wanted to make him happy. She was sure that their future was together, but then she was so conflicted when she thought she was pregnant and was worried that he would be mad with her. Would he leave his wife for her? That’s where the story in this little black book ended.

Karen Walker opened the front door and gave me a smile “He’s out the back” she said signaling for me to go through the house. When I walked out the back-door Dave looked up from the lawn mower. “No warranty on that truck, sorry!” he said with a smirk. Then I held up the black notebook. It was as if he had seen Michelle standing in front of him, his face went ashen and he sat on his hands, his face dropped to his chest. “I worked every day to try to make up for this”. As the sound of sirens converging on the house intensified, I said, “There is nothing you could ever do that would make up for this”.