Coyotes In Winter: Part 1 of 6
A nurse and a cop investigating a series of thefts get a break in the case.
This is part one of a six-part serialized mystery story. If you like this or the introductory chapters of my other stories, please upgrade to a paid subscription to access the full version of each story, to participate in comments, and feel good vibes from supporting a struggling writer!
I was working as a charge nurse at a free clinic in Upstate New York when I noticed an odd pattern of shortages of medical supplies. We weren’t short of opioids, which we expected people to steal, and which we’d stopped stocking years ago. Instead, we lost antibiotics, antivirals, bandages, stuff like that. Stuff that had little value on the black market and shouldn’t be worth the risk. The thefts happened in small amounts every few weeks. I suspected theft because the amount of stolen goods was a bit more than what we typically lost to inventory mixups, and it occurred on a regular basis.
The thefts didn’t bother me. The idea behind the thefts did: the idea that somewhere in the county was a group of people who needed medical care and didn’t feel safe visiting our free clinic.
I filed a report with the state police. They had bigger concerns. The sheriff was helping the state cops interrupt the traffic of illegal opioids that passed from downstate, through us, and on to Buffalo and into Canada.
I reached out to an old friend and sheriff’s deputy, Riley Lopez. We started investigating in October. By January, we’d made no progress. Whomever was stealing the supplies anticipated our moves. When we got a lead, the contact would never arrive, or the meeting place would be deserted.
All we knew was that a diner in a small town at the eastern edge of the county seemed to be important.
Lopez and I went inside the diner for coffee and to rethink our approach. In the past three months of surveillance, we’d never stepped inside. We took in the sun-bleached soft drink ads on the walls. Lopez peered into the jukebox at actual vinyl records. The waitress gave us warped menus with yellowed lamination. We stuck to coffee and muffins.
We were so preoccupied talking over the last few weeks of our work together, all the days off spent chasing leads, that we didn’t notice the oddly-dressed young woman until she stopped at our booth.
“Frank?” the woman said, rolling the R.
She had a broad face, strong nose, light brown skin, and puffy dark eyes under untrimmed eyebrows. She wore a mismatched collection of clothing, like she’d rummaged through a bin and took anything that seemed warm: a dark gray coat which hung past her knees, black work pants, pink rubber boots, and a blue knit cap with white snowflakes topped off by a pompom sprinkled with silver glitter.
My name is Ben Rossi. At that moment, I wondered if I should pretend to be Frank. It was past breakfast and the diner offered no other candidates for the role. I have a generic face and am often mistaken for other vaguely European-looking men in their thirties.
I shot a question to Lopez with a glance.
She responded with a barely perceptible head tilt.
“Who’s asking?” I said.
The woman dropped herself beside Lopez and said, “I have the money.”
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