Bottom of the Bottle

Guilt cascades through Detective Nguyen like hot embers down a meat chute as the tequila trickles down his throat. The sizzle of the booze is familiar. It's laced with equal parts relief and shame. He taps on the bottle. Several taupe-colored, worms squirm and wiggle inside. The detective, a stout man of Vietnamese and Irish descent, shakes his head and sighs.

This is gonna kill me.

He returns the bottle to the inside pocket of his over coat and wipes his mouth dry. The man drops a handful of Tic Tacs in his mouth and emerges from the stall. He stands at the mirror over the sink. The sight makes the detective swallow hard. His reflection is aging before its time. The fresh faced kid from just a few years ago is starting to become a bit unrecognizable, collateral damage from the fuel that's powering his quick ascent through the homicide department. He will have to choose between his “uncanny insights” and his sanity at some point soon, and he knows it.  

The man steps out of the third floor bathroom at Precinct 16. His department issued iPhone 13 buzzes in his pocket and the detective reads the text. As Nguyen reaches his desk, he gestures to his partner Rachel Williams, a tall African-American woman less than 10 years out of UVA. 

“You got something?” she says, rising from her desk.

“Yea. Rawlins from records just texted me. He sent over the phone logs for the Cowell case.”

“Nice,” she says. Her wavy dark hair, streaked with caramel highlights, is tucked behind her ears. Williams is what Nguyen’s old childhood friends would’ve called “intimidating hot.” A woman fit enough to collect a few of your limbs in a cage match, but sexy enough to treat you just right after the fisticuffs. Nguyen himself has always kept things professional with her.

She hovers over him as he opens the email. He runs a finger along the screen, skimming through the attached spreadsheet.

“That’s it,” Nguyen says.  

“That’s what?” 

“Four calls in forty-five minutes. That's what we need,” he says.  

“On who?”

“Dr. Ian Leonard. That’s our guy."

She furrows her brows.

Detective Nguyen shoots from his desk to Captain Padilla’s office.  

“Got a second, Cap?”

Captain Erica Padilla looks at him from over her glasses. Though in her mid-fifties, the burly Latina also looks like she could whoop just about anyone like a rented mule on the wrong day.

“Yea, what’s up,” she says.

“The phone logs for the Cowell case are in.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “And, I suppose you have a feeling in your toes, Nguyen?” 

“I do ma’am. Dr. Ian Leonard... Just a hunch.”

“Uh-huh. We’re gonna have to talk about that gut of yours at some point, Nguyen. It’s not normal.”  

“I know. It runs in the family,” he says. He wonders if she, or Williams, who’s now standing next to him in the doorway, could see him blushing. It’s a tell for a host of things, but right now it was a tell for the elephant-sized lie he just told. His choices are slim though: talking about his “hunches” could easily land him in a psych ward.

“Ok, go do what you gotta do,” she says. He nods, then motions to Williams.  

As they grab their jackets and head out, Detective Mike Spralls pops a squat at his desk across from Nguyen's. His bald white head gleams in the fluorescent lights.

“Got another voodoo hunch there, heretic?” he says, with a chuckle.

“On our way to close another case. You’ll find out what that feels like soon enough,” Nguyen says.

“I close my share of cases.”

“And initiate your share of lawsuits,” Williams says.

Spralls eyeballs her as his head glows a crimson hue. “Alright united colors of Benetton, you guys, go out there and do your thing.”

Nguyen's nostrils flare. A racist comment from Spralls is like the sun rising in the east, you can always count on it. But today Nguyen feels like setting him and a few of his crooked teeth straight. He steps to his fellow detective. Spralls’ eyes turn into tiny, black stones as he rises to his feet. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Williams says, sliding in between the two.  

“You guys still here?” Captain Padilla says, standing in her doorway.

“They were just leaving,” Spralls replies. Williams shoves detective Nguyen towards the elevators as she walks well within Spralls’ personal space, searing him with a glare. Spralls brushes it off with a smirk. 

“Spralls, in my office, now. Nguyen, I'll talk to you when you get back.” Nguyen salutes her and disappeares down the hallway.

“What an asshole,” Williams says at the elevator bank. “I wish he stayed in vice. I’d love to beat the brakes off that tool." Nguyen grins with the side of his mouth. "But I love my pension more.”

“Yea. Thanks for stepping in. I have to keep reminding myself that he’s just a miserable prick."

"Yup. That guy ain't worth it."

They head to the garage, hop into a department issued SUV and ride up through midtown. Nguyen is behind the wheel listening to NPR. Williams is lost in thought, peering out at the bumpers rushing by. Her mind drifts back to the day they found Arthur Cowell, the prominent civil right’s attorney sprawled across his living room floor soaked in his own blood. The whole image is stuck in her head. Mainly because Nguyen had looked at her so strangely that day. She's definitely team-Ngueyn but he was definitely on something. Standing over the body, he cupped his mouth and whispered “Ian Leonard” to her. The icing on the cake was the awkward wink afterwards. So weird.

The thing is, he’d never called out a suspect in any of his cases until after the proper steps of due diligence were taken, like, getting a warrant or discovering evidence. This time, he seemed to have a suspect in mind with absolutely nothing to go on. They were simply standing over a body. That was it. But he mentioned the eminent heart surgeon, Dr. Leonard, right then and there. Why? Yet, just as sure as a duck’s ass is wet, a few days later, Leonard’s name and number comes up in the murdered Cowell's phone log. It was ridiculous.

He is always right though. In the year or so they’ve worked together, he has closed every case, and typically within an inhuman time frame. It’s why he walks on water in the department. Everyone is in awe of his sleuthing prowess. Except, of course, Spralls, who’s had a bug up his ass for Nguyen since he moved from vice.  

And, despite liking the guy, Williams herself has some misgivings. Nguyen’s inscrutable "fly by the seat of your pants" style flies in the face of her predilection for method and convention. But it does work, she admits. So, she, as always, will go along for the ride.

Nguyen notices her silence. “You’re awfully quiet,” Nguyen says.

“Just a lot on my plate.”

“Wanna talk about it?” he says looking at her.

“Nah, I’ll be alright. Thanks though.”  

Nguyen nods and gives her a slight grin. He opens a Tic Tac dispenser and pours a few of the little, white candies into his mouth.  

She watches him. She considers not saying anything, then goes against the instinct. "If you ever need to talk about anything,” Williams says, “about things that may drive you to… I don’t know.” Nguyen looks at her quizzically. “Nguyen, I’ve seen a lot of people screw their careers ‘cause they can’t control certain aspects of their… personalities.” 

Nguyen's olive-toned skin turns a deep pink. This time, it’s because he’s thoroughly embarrassed. He feels like crawling into a dark hole at the bottom of the ocean. He's not sure how to explain his drinking, which had started as a way to get a leg up in the department, but has since become a full-blown vice. Her respect is the last thing that he wants to lose. 

He turns to her. “Look, it’s not what you think,” he says. He looks down at the steering wheel, then out at the road ahead. “At least it didn’t start that way.” He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “I don’t know… I just hope I have the courage to tell you everything someday.”  

His words are cryptic and they catch her off guard. A tightness grips her chest. She takes a deep breath to ease it. “We’re partners. You can tell me anything,” Williams says, putting her hand on his forearm. "If and when you're ready. I’m here if you need me.”  

He looks at her, her dark waves blowing in the wind coming in from her window. He smiles. “I appreciate that.”

They finally thread through traffic and pull up to Dr. Leonard’s office. It sits in a glass sky rise on 57th Street. They enter the building and the questioning of the good doctor unfolds the way so many do for Detective Dan Nguyen. First, there’s the flashing of badges and the worried look on the receptionist’s face. Then there’s the receptionist’s reticence to let them see the suspect out of an overinflated sense of protection. Next comes convincing the suspect to talk in private before revealing the damning details. This is followed by the shock and disbelief at being the suspect. That’s when Nguyen weaves his particular brand of abracadabra and gets them to stumble, which leaves the suspect no choice but to go with the two down to the precinct. There, Nguyen continues stirring his mystic brew like a shaman over a boiling cauldron, forcing the suspect to show their hand. Then the poor bastards fold like a bad poker draw.  

In this case, Dr. Leonard confesses to the grisly murder of his lover, Arthur Cowell. His motive? To keep the affair from his wife. And as Nguyen susses out: also to keep the stain of the affair away from his thriving business. But his guilt is his achilles’ heel. He’s so desperate to purge himself of it, the poor bastard doesn't even ask for a lawyer.

Nguyen and Williams emerge from the interrogation room and stand on the other side of the two-way mirror, where Captain Padilla has been watching the entire procedure.

Nguyen looks worn out, like he’s been wrestling a snake all night without the aid of caffeine or a serpent-charming clarinet.

“You alright,” Williams says.

“Yea. Just a little toastie.”

“Me too,” she says.

“I could use a drink.” He realizes what he says and looks over at Williams. She’s breathing deeply, avoiding eye contact, trying not to wade into any uncharted waters with him in front of the Captain.

“It never ceases to amaze me what people will do to keep their secrets,” Padilla says.

Nguyen freezes for a moment. As his limbs go heavy, he peers at her and notices that she's staring out of the two-way mirror at the perp. The detective composes himself. “Yea, it's crazy... You sound green thought, Cap. How long have you been in the game?” he asks with a side-of-the-mouth smirk.

“Too long, Nguyen. Too freakin’ long,” she replies. She eyes him. “Why this guy, Nguyen, of the dozens of people on Cowell's phone log, why him?”

"If I told you, I’d have to kill you, Cap."

"You threatening a superior, Nguyen?" Padilla says.

"Never," he says, smiling.

"Uh-huh. How, Nguyen?"

“I’ve said it before: you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” the captain says, extending her arm to lean against the wall. Williams folds her arms in front of her and looks at him, head tilted. 

Nguyen smiles. “Ever hear of the Oracle at Delphi, Cap?” 

“Ay Dios, what, you speak to spirits, Nguyen?” the captain says. Williams blows air between her lips and rolls her eyes.

“Yea, I do, actually,” he says, laughing. "That's it on the nose!"

“You jackass,” Williams says. She drops her hands, opens the door and walks out.

“What? See, I told you you wouldn’t believe me, Cap”.

“You’re a goddamn piece of work, Nguyen. You know that?” she says.

“If only you knew, Cap.”

“Yea, no thanks,” she says as she walks out of the observation room and back to her office. Nguyen strides out behind her.

“File that report,” she says to him, “then get some therapy.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He sits down at his desk as the captain disappears into her office.  

Williams is already busy clacking on her keyboard, still visibly miffed by Nguyen’s shenanigans.

He chuckles to himself, then looks around. He notices that the office is oddly quiet.

“Hey, Cap, no Spralls?” he says.

Padilla gets up and stands in her doorway leaning on the frame. “I sent him home before I met you in the observation room. Can’t have you two disrupting my department with a schoolyard fight. You've had a long day, but tomorrow we’ll have a thorough one-on-one about what happened between the two of you today. For now, know that I will not abide by you two turning my office into a college bar. You're professionals, not a pair of flexing baboons. Keep that shit out of my unit, or I will start to regulate things myself. Understood?

“One-hundred percent, Cap. I apologize. Won’t happen again.”  

“K. Wrap that up then go home.” 

“Will do," he says, then side-eyes Williams with a sly smirk. Without meeting his eyes, she shakes her head.

Nguyen turns to his keyboard and wraps on it into the evening. When he finally hits submit, the detective looks around to see an the empty office. Williams already said good night, and the Captain called it a day and went home to her husband and two dogs. The detective collects his overcoat, heads down the elevator and exits the precinct down 12th. He steps east towards the subway. 

On his way to the L, Nguyen makes a game-time decision to hit the Tiny Tumbler, a cop bar on Smith Street. He's had a long day. Just one here, then home for several, he figures. As he gets within ear-shot of "Sweet Caroline" coming from the bar's jukebox, Spralls stumbles through its doors like a tranq’d rhino. The cop's eyes widen at the sight of Nguyen.  

“If it isn’t the teacher’s pet?” he says, chuckling.  

“Go sleep it off, Spralls. You’re drunk.”

“Then that makes two of us, doesn’t it?” Spralls says, wobbling on his feet a with sloppy grin on his face.

Nguyen’s fists ball up instinctively and he steps to Spralls when Dave Rawlins from records teeters through the Tiny Tumbler doors on beer skates.

“Hey, kids! What’s going on here – oh, hey, hey, hey, let’s all be cool now,” he says with a slur. His balancing prowess is akin to a toddler’s who’s gotten into the cough syrup but he’s able to totter his way between the two flexing cops. After a few moments, his congenial presence and slurred, yet sensible words, are enough to cool Nguyen’s heated jets. 

“You know, Spralls, I wanna be there when someone washes your mouth out with a brick.”

“Screw you, Nguyen.”

Nguyen pauses for a moment. “As a matter of fact, I have something for you,” he says, pointing to the weaving cop. “I got something real nice for you.”

“Is that a threat?!” Spralls barks. Nguyen has already turned and is stepping down the street.

“Hey, McNguyen, is that a threat?!!”

******

Nguyen opens the door to his tiny condo. He slips off his overcoat and tosses a stack of mail on the hallway table. The detective sighs of exhaustion and rolls his head on his shoulders. He walks to the kitchen on the other end of the hallway and pulls a fifth of Añejo Especiale from atop the fridge. He retrieves the small bottle from his coat pocket and pours its contents into the bigger bottle. He swills it around a bit.  

For almost two years, he’s been going down to Jalisco, Mexico to scoop a bottle of the hooch – or, more accurately, to scoop the worms that swim in the biting spirit. 

Nguyen's belly twists into a knot as he looks at the bottle. Every night is a battle of his will. He taps on it and watches the grubs squirm.

“You got anything for me tonight, fellas?"

He takes a swig, a slow one, and a voice crackles in his head like an old AM radio. “Shane Cook.” It whispers. He removes the bottle from his mouth, looks at it, and shakes his head. He takes another slow swig. “Shane Cook," the voice hisses again. "Strangled. Stucco Bar. Basement." It fades out for a moment, then crackles back in: “Will find in… Blake River.” He removes the bottle from his lips and shakes his head vigorously.

“The perp?” he says. Then places the bottle to his lips, availing himself to the spirit('s) voices again.

“Anton… Mikhailov.”  

He finishes up and slams the fifth on the kitchen table, then throws the bottle cap across the room. “Arrrrggghhh!!”

Nguyen flops into a kitchen seat, his hands gripping his hair. The detective’s legs tremble as his heart thumps like a thoroughbred in his chest.  

This is madness. Pure madness.

But for the better part of two years it's been infallible. His 100% collar rate attests to it.

Detective Nguyen continues drinking to suffocate the inner-tumult. After a few minutes, he's numb to everything but the booze basting his brain. As he sits and consciously lets the lunacy of it all fizzle away, a thought creeps in. A memory actually. Of something he’d promised an insufferable, racist prick.  

He taps on the bottom of the bottle. The worms wiggle again.

“Hey, you guys. You got anything on a Mike Spralls?” he says, his straight black hair falling into his eyes. “Anything at all will do.”

He puts the bottle to his lips, and takes a slow, tasty swig.