Just Another John Doe
A Nick Crowell Story

By: Frank Zubek
September 24, 2008

My name is Detective Nick Crowell and I work in Brooklyn, Ohio. Second shift. It was Halloween and the lobby of the police station was appropriately decorated for the occasion. I was running late as I checked in with the desk sergeant, who was busy with two patrolmen who were reporting in at the front desk.

“We brought in a stiff for you, Sarge,” patrolman Bill Nichols said. “The coroner is parking the ice cream truck out back.” His partner, Tony Dobson, chuckled as he set his equipment on the desk.

“What happened?” Sergeant Patterson asked, peering over his glasses. A twenty-year veteran, Sam is the station’s human camera. He may look like he’s working hard, typing reports and answering phones, but almost nothing goes in or out without him seeing it.

“Got a call about a homeless person. Shot in the head,” Nichols explained. “Happened near that soup kitchen on Kramer. No identification on him. Just another John Doe.”

“Maybe someone is starting to take out homeless people,” Dobson suggested.

“Well, it’s good to have a hobby,” Patterson said as he continued typing up his report, catching my eye as I passed. He nodded a greeting and I nodded back. Despite the seriousness of the crime, I have to admit that I found myself smiling at Patterson’s sarcasm. You see, cops have a unique sense of humor. We see more tragedy in a week than the average citizen does in a year. So, as a defense mechanism, our humor tends to lean to the somewhat morbid side.

Before heading upstairs, I passed by the lunchroom and grabbed a plate of goodies that some of the cops and their wives had made. Every year, during most holidays, there’s usually plenty of candy and cookies and cake to be had, but they really go all out for Halloween. They don’t scrimp on decorations either and plenty of brown, black, and orange colored crepe paper hung from the walls, as well as multiple ghosts, skeletons, and monsters of all kinds, made of cardboard and plastic, sat on every available free surface.

As I headed upstairs where I work, I shook my head. I had the usual backlog ahead of me. There were four old cases of robberies, a flasher harassing people at several local libraries in town, vandalism at City Hall, among other typical problems. It’s mostly phone calls and paperwork and I can handle it, that’s my job. The problem is the inevitable barrage of crank phone calls that would be coming in tonight, given that it was Halloween.

I got to my desk and saw that there was a small package wrapped in black paper with red ribbon tied around it. Putting the thoughts of work out of my mind for a minute, I pulled the little card out of the envelope and opened it.

The card said: Sweets for my sweetie. It was from my lady friend, Lucy D’Agastino.

I tore the wrapping off and found five boxes of Whoppers. They’re a little vice I allow myself. Little chocolate balls with a crunchy hollowed out center. Not the best thing to munch on at work, but my dentist wasn’t complaining.

Detective Fisher, who sits near my desk, was curious and watched with fascination as I opened the box. He knew that Lucy dropped off food of some sort at least once a week, and like any self-respecting mooch, he was eager to grab any leftovers. I didn’t mind because he does a multitude of favors for me almost daily and all he ever asks in return is food. I grabbed a box and tossed it to him. He gratefully opened it immediately and crunched away. I put the other four boxes in my desk drawer.

Over the next few hours, I made a dozen calls trying to get some leads, or follow up on calls I hadn’t had time to do yesterday. I checked my watch and saw that there was still a while to go before dinner, which, being on second shift, was usually around seven. I sighed as I flipped over a page from my notepad, and was about to pick up the receiver to place another call, when the phone rang. The Caller I.D. said it was from down in the basement. The morgue, to be specific. Now why would Coroner Mike Thompson be calling me?

“Crowell.”

“Yeah. It’s Thompson. Can you come down here?”

“The morgue?”

“I’ve got a body missing. And I know you’re the guy to call for this kind of thing.”