Rainy Day, John J. Day [good books for 8th graders TXT] 📗

The threat of rain had hung in the air all day long. He dreaded going on duty on nights like this. Especially Friday nights.

The floor of the Detective Division was filled with Third Watch Dics, many of whom looked through the windows as they sat at their desks. The sky had taken an ominous turn. It had gone from dark, dark gray to some combination of gray and green. Off in the distance the rumbling of thunder could be heard above the tinny sound of music being pumped through cheap speakers from even cheaper boom boxes.

The voice of Elvis, unmistakable, was singing Kentucky Rain. Elvis never had to put up with Chicago rain the Detective thought. Not the rain, not the wind off the lake, not the flooded streets and not the flooded under passes of the railroad viaducts that somewhere crossed every major street in the city in every direction.

A white flash of lighting was followed by the banging noise of thunder.

“Good night for a murder !” someone shouted from the back of the floor. Another voice, deep and loud reverberated across the room. “It was a dark stormy night……” A reference to the classic Bullwer line. Chuckling sounds could be heard intermixed with the sounds of keyboards being pounded, telephone conversations and Elvis.

A few drops of rain occasionally hit the windows and ran slowly down the glass. One by one, one by two, the Detectives began receiving their assignments and left the building to investigate burglaries, robberies or major thefts. Some, to look at the dead. You could only hope that if your name came to the top of the Up List on a night like tonight, the murder would be inside and not out on the street.

His turn came as he knew it would. A street shooting. Fatal. Perhaps, the worst of the storm would hold back for a while.

He grabbed his coat, radio and folder with a note pad inside. Picking up car keys he began walking to the parking lot, hoping he could get to his unmarked car before a heavy rain began to fall. Leaving the building he found himself walking in a light drizzle through a sea of Department vehicles that all looked alike. After the usual ten minute search he found his assigned car.

Perhaps there was hope that the storm would pass before it had the chance to start coming down in torrents.

Hope.

Sliding into the unmarked vehicle he slammed the drivers door shut just as a gust of wind came up. The gust forced the light drizzle against the windshield making the rain sound more like grains of sand sliding across the glass. He looked up to the sky and saw clouds swirling and felt another gust of wind rock the car. His hope for escaping heavy rain began to fade.

The wipers, typical of any Department vehicle, made screeching, grinding noises against the windshield as they attempted to push the rain off of the glass. Music, he thought and leaned over to punch the power switch on the AM/FM radio in the dash board. “A radio in your car. One of the perks of being a Detective,” he said to himself. A second or two of static was replaced by Phil Collins singing I Wish It Would Rain Down.

With a sigh of disgust he punched the power button to turn off the radio.

The wind began to pick up and the rain started coming down harder.

As he drove to his assignment, in the back of his mind, he could hear the children’s song. “Rain, rain go away. Come again another day.”

This homicide would be tougher than others. Right around the corner from the house in which he had grown up. This is the neighborhood he had never left in spite of all his efforts. Once gone, he would come back. His first assignment as a patrolman, fresh from the Training Academy, was the station house just down the street from the small frame house he had grown up in.

The rain came down harder and the wind came out of the northeast with greater speed.

Much as he disliked the rain, he thought of how great a role it had played in his life. There were rain delays and rain outs so many times at Wrigley Field where he spent so much time as a boy. He never got the rain check for the sport coat that was on sale and out of stock in a nearby store when he was in high school. The time he and his friend Stan went camping, their World War II army pup tent leaked like a sieve during a rain storm. How many storms had he watched come rolling into Chicago across Lake Michigan ? “In each life a little rain must fall”

It had rained the day he buried his father.

Up and down now wet streets he drove and the late afternoon traffic moved even slower than usual. Turning onto the boulevard he reached over and punched the power button on the radio once again and heard a familiar tune. It took a second, but then he recognized it. The Carpenters. Rainy Days and Mondays!

Once again he sighed and turned the radio off. Rain or shine, all too many of his days lately felt like a Monday. Trapped in a never ending rain storm where every tomorrow would be a Monday. Every day, another day filed with darkness and the blues.

“What was the name of the Enya tune ? A Day Without Rain,” he said to himself ever so quietly.

The rain quickly tapered off to a drizzle. Something more like a mist. “Perhaps, there’s still hope of dodging this storm”, he mumbled.

Moving down the boulevard, faster now, he sped by stately, old, turn of the century graystone and brownstone mansions. Trees on the parkway standing like sentinels, protecting secrets of the past, went by in a blur. The broad expanse of the boulevard, with it’s two wide parkways and service drives on each side looked barely damp. He wondered if young boys still play touch football on the boulevard parkway.

Feeling better, he began to hum a tune. “What is that song ?” he asked himself. He groaned as the title came to mind. Rainy Day Woman by Bob Dylan.

Making a slow turn off of the boulevard and on to the side street he saw the church. A huge, granite and concrete building that looked more like a Greek temple than a church. The tall columns at the front entrance loomed over the stairs that led to oak and brass doors that stood nine foot tall. Lying on the wide stairway was a cardboard box that even the light rain had soaked. “A Box Of Rain, by the Grateful Dead” was his thought. “One afternoon long ago” was a line from that song.

He brought the car to a stop at the curb and exited the vehicle. Standing on the street he was overcome with a flood of memories as he stared at the church and surveyed the boulevard. Games of fast pitch off the side wall of the church. Sitting on it’s front steps at night with the rest of the guys from the neighborhood. It was on this corner that he had first kissed a girl. It was holding that girls hand one night, walking down the boulevard in an autumn storm that she told him, “When you’re young and in love you don’t mind walking in the rain.”

Every time he heard that old Doo-Wop song, Rhythm Of The Rain he thought of her. For years, even now, when he heard the Temptations doing I Wish It Would Rain the image of her face glowed in his mind.

Glancing to his right the Detective saw the body lying on the street alongside the curb. No crime
Scene tape had been put up. There were no Policemen standing over the body. A blue and white squad car had been left standing in the middle of the street. Four young Patrolmen stood at the mouth of the alley talking and laughing. Across the street from the body stood the pot-bellied Lieutenant Fred Connor, chatting merrily with a female Sergeant . Sharing harrowing war stories no doubt.

Walking towards the group he could hear Connor say, “Oh, the Detective is here. I’ll probably have to hold this loser by the hand from here on.”

As a Detective he had learned to control his temper. All of his emotions, actually. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw red. But tonight, as he looked at Connor and focused on the few, light raindrops that separated them he saw Purple Rain.

As Connor walked towards him, waddled would be a more appropriate word, the Lieutenant pointed a finger in his direction and said, “ Okay, kid. This is my scene. I’m in charge here and you’re takin’ your orders from me.”

Smiling, the Detective said, “Sure thing boss.” He took an unfiltered camel from his cigarette pack, lit it and leaned against the blue and white squad, saying nothing to the Lieutenant. He opened his folder, took a pen from his shirt pocket and began making scribbling furiously, much to the dismay of Lt. Connor who had a bewildered look on his face.

“What are you doin’ ?” the Lt. asked.

“Making notes for my report, Lieutenant.” said the Detective. “You know. The report that has to be on the Superintendents desk first thing in the morning. The report that nobody but the Superintendent sees or knows about until he calls your Commander and wants to know what the hell was going on here ! The report that your Commander is gonna shove………”

“Hey ! Take it easy, huh !” The look of bewilderment in the Lieutenants face had suddenly changed to panic.

“It’s an awful busy night out here. I think you’re gonna have to handle this thing on your own here.”

As Connor waddled off as quickly as he could, he shouted to the uniform Officers on the scene, “I gotta be goin’. I’m leavin’. This Detective in charge. Do whatever he tells ya.”

As the Lieutenants car sped away, one of the Officers, out of sight of the Sergeant, gave the Detective a thumbs up. The Detective suppressed the urge to laugh out loud and thought, “Why does everyone call Lt Connor the Rain Man ?”

Now, walking over to the body he saw that this murder was to be like so many others. He looked at the young African American boy who was lying in a puddle of blood. Lying on his chest, but the face turned just to the right and looking upward. How old was he ? Eighteen or nineteen the Detective thought. The kids eyes were wide open, offering up only the blank stare of death.

A vision of his boyhood home came to mind. “Just down this alley, around the corner and into the backyard” he thought to himself. He wondered if the basement of the old house still flooded during bad storms and he heard the rumbling of thunder. He and his friends