Miller’s View

. Detective Jonathan Miller has just pulled a double shift. He is awakened at some ungodly hour by a call from a dispatch operator. A motorist has spotted a man’s body in the wooded area off of Route 55. Jonathan Miller stretches and tries to undo some of the knots that the last 24 hours has tied in his muscles. The tips of his fingers are just a whisper away from the ceiling. He dresses in khakis, a navy blue polo shirt slightly stained from last night’s dinner and his comfortable Frye slip-ons. He scratches his fingers through his thick, curly hair and is on the scene within twenty minutes. He steps out of the car and looks towards the spot where the body is found. His green eyes narrow to a slit as they follow the bright yellow crime scene tape down an embankment and about 50 yards into the thick brush. No Id, no wallet, nothing in his pockets, he is informed by the officer on scene.

Detective Miller is now thankful for Hammond’s recent dry spell in weather. The field he is trudging through is typically four to six inches deep in water and mud. He holds his flashlight at eye level as he searches the area near the body. There’s no blood or anything else to tell him what happened to this man. There is nothing on this road for miles, so where did he come from and where was he going? One set of tire tracks are discovered leaving near the area so Miller takes pictures of the marks for comparison, but there isn’t a car in sight. “Just dumped here, I guess, this is not our crime scene,” utters Miller, letting his thoughts escape his lips, “but where was he killed?” The young detective looks around for clues and realizes he can’t see his car from where he is standing. He can’t see any of the cars. If it weren’t for the flashing red and blues he would not be able to locate them. The bushes are so thick and the sun is just now peeking over the horizon. At the time of the call it would have still been very dark; how could someone driving by, doing a minimum 45 miles per hour and no one does 45 on this road, see a body from the road?

As the emergency responders lift and load the body into the ambulance, Detective Miller heads to his office. The forty minute ride to his office is filled with questions. This is going to be a long day. Miller plops his fatigued body into a worn but comfortable leather swivel. He needs to find a name for the victim discarded on the side of the road. The Parrish of Tangipahoa only has a population of about 17,700 people; and more than half of them are women. It shouldn’t take long to ID this guy. Miller fingers his well-used roller deck and calls on longtime friend Jason Harper, his contact at the local television station, who is all too willing to help him. Deciding it would be in poor taste to show the photo of the dead man on the news, Miller has a sketch artist draw a likeness of his victim. He then faxes the face to Jason who puts it into the hands of the broadcaster on the set. It is just in time to make the morning news.

“Breaking News, Hammond local police need your help in identifying this person. Black male, 25 to 35 years old, brown hair and hazel eyes about 6’ 1” and 170 pounds. If you have any information regarding this man, please contact Detective Jonathan Miller at Police Headquarters.”

It doesn’t take long before the calls come in. People have seen this guy all around town. He’s been in the local diners, antique and hardware shops asking questions about a girl, but the call that Miller is hoping for comes days later.

“Police Headquarters, Detective Miller speaking.”

“I know that guy you’re looking for,” the croaky voice says

“How do you know him,” asks Miller.

“He rents an apartment from me.”

“Where is this apartment?”

The voice on the other end gives Miller the address. The loud CLICK comes before he can get a name.

“Great, now I have a face and an address. Officer Branson, you’re with me on this,” Detective Miller says as he grabs his sport coat and heads for the Treasure Cove Apartments. Ted Branson is even newer to the Department than the fast rising Detective Miller. Police Officer Jonathan Miller hit the fast track to detective right out of the academy. Being fourth-generation on the force only added to his gilded position. His quick assessment of crime scenes is unmatched in the Department. The young officer Branson checks to make sure he has all of his gear and then double-times it to catch up to Miller.

A long two-story building holding no more than twelve small apartments stands before them. The vines cover most of the upper level balcony and the bushes out front are unkempt and under watered. A few worn, wicker chairs wait to be used on the long verandah. A middle-aged man, barely chest-high to Jonathan, steps out of the side door and meets them as they approach. His thick legs and pot belly are not complemented by his partially balding head and thick glasses. But when he spoke, Detective Miller knew it was the same voice from the phone call.

“You the landlord of this building?” asks Miller

“Yeah,” croaked the man, obviously a habitual smoker. Miller caught the tell-tale signs in his voice, on his fingers, etc. “Follow me,” he says.

The landlord led Detective Miller and the young officer to the apartment where Miller discovers very little, much to his dismay. A few pieces of furniture, remnants of a flea market, scattered the one bedroom unit. The red plaid sofa and orange chair screamed “teenage girl” against the lime-green, shag rug on the floor. The dark brown curtains hung on just enough hooks to keep them up. Nothing matched; just a random assortment of patterns, colors and prints. No, this man would have made Martha Stewart cry. Officer Branson calls out.