Hiatus...

As most of you probably know, I am a law student.  And since law school has started up again, I am really busy with classes, worrying and reading.  Which means, I don't have time to continue writing this blog right now.
However.  I will be coming back.  Hopefully before the year is out, more likely next summer.
Take care and hopefully I'll see you back around here soon.

Epilogue to Case 1: Objects in the Rearview Mirror...

It had been a week since Andrew Grassley had been apprehended in a cemetery on the outskirts of Des Moines, Iowa. I had gone back to the boring insurance claims work that I'd been working on before an actor named James Troop walked into my office pretending to be someone named Simon Fletterling, and basically careened my life way off its normal, boring course.
I hadn't seen Troop since that night. I also hadn't seen Detective Edna Muldoon, who was my former partner and the investigator who officially arrested Andrew Grassley for the murders of Jane Hernandez, Selma Fletterling and Chance Greer. He'd killed them, apparently, because years ago another killer, Aaron Masters, had taken a woman named Edna Portis away from him. Portis wanted to be Grassley's mother and was in the process of adopting him when she was killed. From what I could gather, Grassley blames the loss of his would-be mother on me, because I didn't catch Masters before he could kill her. It's convoluted logic, I tell myself as I sip from my bottle of Millstream Iowa Ale. But I know Grassley has a point. I was supposed to stop Masters and I didn't. Instead I ran away to Chicago and joined a cult. It doesn't speak well for my mental toughness or my professionalism, not to mention the fact that people died while I was trying to get my head together.
A couple times during the past week, I thought about calling Edna or James, but I hadn't really any idea why. I guess I could consider Edna a friend, even with all that had passed between us. It would be awkward to interact with her outside of a case now, but it could happen. James, though. I'd known him for only a couple days. And during those days, we were either fighting for our lives or ducking for cover. It can be a bonding experience, for sure, but part of me felt like it would be odd to try and turn that into a friendship. I tell myself, Grassley would want me to feel guilty. That I should feel good, or at least okay, just to spite him, but it falls on deaf ears.
And that's why I sit alone in the dark drinking the good beer I save for celebrations.
*********************
Something tears my dream from in front of me and replaces it with reality. I blink trying to figure it out for a second, before the phone rings again. I put my hand to my head and try to remember if my phone has always been this shrill or if I have a hangover. The empty six beer bottles sitting at my feet give me all the evidence I need. I used to be able to put away a six pack without much trouble, but now...
I run my hand through my graying beard and try not to think about the rest of that sentence. But the damned phone shrieks at me again. I get up from my arm chair and make my way over to it and rip it from its cradle. "What?"
"[Gumshoe]?" It's Edna.
"Yes." I say, ever so cleverly.
"Can you come down here? We're running into a problem with Grassley."
After I throw-up, shower and dress, I'm in the car and at the station. It all takes half an hour, which I find sort of impressive. It's not that rallying from a hangover should be an Olympic sport or anything, but if it were, I'd be world class. Well there's something to be proud of, I suppose.
"You look like shit." Edna says to me as I make my way to her desk.
"Genetics," I say quietly. I took some aspirin, but I still feel the dull ache of my head begging for me not to drink like that again.
"So," Edna starts. Before she can continue, though, she's interrupted by a man walking from the interview room. I've never set eyes on him before, but something about him--maybe it's the glasses, or the soft, brown sweater he's wearing, the notepad, perhaps--tells me he's a psychologist. The door next to the one he's just exited opens and the psychologist is joined by another man. This man's holding a briefcase, has an expensive haircut and a suit I would describe as slick. "District Attorney." Edna tells me quietly.
"Insanity?"
"That's the rumor." I watch these two men talking. Right now they're deciding whether to try Grassley in a criminal court or whether to try and have him committed. The cop in me feels a little insulted. I was the one who followed this guy. I punched him in the crotch. I tackled his ass and brought him down. I take one look at Edna and I know she's thinking the same thing. And that's why she brought me here. We both know the District Attorney likes to have the cops on his side, so sometimes you can pressure him or her by standing there and looking angry. I'm guessing that this case, partially because of Chance's involvement, is something the DMPD brass does not want to have a public trial about. And they've probably already tried the 'look angry' trick.
"So, you have a plan?"
She stands from her desk and we both walk toward the two men. "Excuse me?" Both men look up at her. "What'd you find?"
The psychologist looks at the district attorney, as if to say it's his call. "Detectives," the DA says to both of us, and I feel a twinge of pride in my stomach at being addressed as a cop again. It goes away quickly, as I remember all of the things that brought me here now. "It's not like he's going to go free. He'll be committed to an institute that's not quite as bad as prison, but it's not the Hilton."
"So, you've decided to forgo a trial?" Edna says calmly.
"There will still be a hearing, but this willl save the tax payers a great deal of time and money. It’s for the best." He starts to walk away, trying to signal he doesn't want to talk about this anymore.
"What if he's not crazy?" I say, thinking I see Edna's play. It's been a long time since we were partners, but there's still a residual rapport. And if nothing else, I'm stringing this conversation out a little more.
The psychologist steps forward, "I assure you. He's quite crazy. He seems unable to communicate outside of song lyrics." That catches us off guard and the psychologist continues. "It takes quite an effort to be able to sustain that kind of neurosis if one were to fake it."
"Look, I'm sorry, but you can understand why it's better for this case to just go away." The DA looks at us sympathetically. "But like I said, he's not going somewhere nice. He'll probably still get raped, if that comforts you." Edna and I exchange glances. I guess we were supposed to laugh. After a moment of silence, he spoke again, “It’s not like we need your blessing, though.”
The two men stand for a second waiting for our blessing, but when neither Edna or I say anything they start to move away. "At the graveyard he wasn't doing that." I say as they're about ten feet away. They turn and look at me. The DA opens his file and starts calmly looking through it.
"He didn't give a statement," he says closing the file. "Look, I would hate to think you guys are so invested in this that you might be tempted to change stories now, but let me assure you--this is a done deal."
I look into his eyes, feeling a burning in my head that I'm sure is no longer hangover related. "Before that. You know while he still had a gun and was just like any other criminal. I was yelling at him. I said something like he'd wasted a lot of bullets on me. And was it worth it. He said, 'it only takes one.'"
The DA opens his file again and looks through it, stops and looks at me again and then turns toward the psychologist as if to ask for help. The man adjusts his sweater and starts, "Yes, well. It's quite possible--"
"He's faking it." Edna finishes it for him. "He's faking it and I think if [Gumshoe] goes in there, he can shake it out of him." So, that's the plan. I look at her and I can't tell if this was her plan since she called me or if she just thought it up. I take a step back. I don't know if I really want to look at this guy again. I'd been tempted to visit Aaron Masters through the years, but I could never bring myself to do it. He'd killed someone I'd cared about and I had wanted to look in his eyes and get a sense for what kind of man could be so dark, so cruel. But I was afraid that what I saw there might be more familiar than I was comfortable with.
"I don't think that would be good for the patient." The psychologist says quietly. I looked at him, suddenly filled with anger. The patient. Wouldn't be good for the patient. The words echoed in my head as no one said anything. This is a done deal. Isn't that what the attorney had said? Eventually the two men turned and began to walk away from Edna and I.
"Ten minutes," I say heading toward the door to the interview room. "You guys watch and record the whole thing."
"Detective, please," the psychologist says, sounding suddenly weary.
I turn. "What's the worst that can happen? I make him more crazy?" When no one says anything, I grab the door knob.
"[Gumshoe], give me a couple minutes to get the video recording." I see a twinkle in Edna’s eye. She really thinks I can do this. I'm not so sure. I'm also not so sure that Grassley isn't crazy.
"Detective. This is by the book, you understand? You don't touch him. You don't do anything that could even possibly be construed as a violation of his rights."
I smile and nod as they all head in. I slowly turn the knob, taking a deep breath as I do. "Sure would hate to violate his rights," I mutter as I let the air out of my lungs and enter the room. And there he sits. Andrew Grassley. He looks up as I enter the room and I see his something in his eyes flinch. I give him a big smile.
"Andy," I say as if he were a cousin I hadn't seen in a long time. "How are you?"
He's says nothing. He just folds his arms and looks away from me.
"What? Couldn't think of Lionel Ritchie? 'Hello, is it me you're looking for?'" I say with a chuckle. He stays quiet, but I can see he's annoyed--Lionel Ritchie isn't for everyone, I guess. "Isn't that what you're doing? Quoting song lyrics?" I give him a minute, but he knows I'm baiting him. But this is the guy who turned my life upside-down. Who knows how long he planned it? Who knows how long he nursed his grudge? He wants to play with me. He wants to beat me. "Did you use up all your good songs already? It's okay, I listen to Nickelback, so I can slum a little." I take a seat across from him. "Don't want to talk?"
"Baby, we could talk all night, but that ain't getting us nowhere." And there it is. Of course it's Meatloaf. He couldn't give me some Heart? Just a little switch.
"Oooh," I say leaning in really closely and giving him a look of disbelief. "Are you trying to tell me Meatloaf did it?" He’s silent, but I watch his jaw set. “I know you’re loony tunes right now—pun intended, Andy—so I can’t tell if you’re telling me that Meatloaf was involved with this.”
His eyes narrow and I can almost feel how much he wants to hit me. "I mean, I know Mr. Loaf had his troubles, but you can't really expect me to buy that he's into something like this. Still. I can have some guys look into this if that's your story."
After a minute of solid silence, I start again. "Jesus, man. At least tell us why you did it." His face spasms just for a second as he doesn't know what to believe. "What was it? Someone broke your iPod? Hey, that might make some of these killings justifiable. Help us help you, here." For a second, I think I've got him.  I see his eyes go soft, for less than a second, but I wonder if he's thinking about Edna Portis, his would-be mother, and that lovely house she had on the outskirts of Des Moines.  I wonder if he's thinking about how much better his life would be if Aaron Masters didn't take all that away from him.  And then I remember that he blames me for not having my act together enough to do my job well enough to catch Masters before he could take all of that away.  And I can't really blame him.
As his eyes come back into a hard focus on my face, I can tell he knows that I'm aware of why he was killing all these people and framing me.  He could see it in my face, so it won't work to keep pushing that, but it was a nice try. And, who knows, he may be a bit off balanced now. We sit there in silence as he looks at me and I smile back at him. Finally, I put my feet up on the table by his hands. "Seriously Andy. Dazzle me. Give me some Talking Heads or something." I reach into my pocket and pull out a quarter. Holding it out to him, I say, "I'll give you this quarter if you sing a little bit of Psycho Killer."
He balls his fist up and looks away. He’s biting his lower lip. I flip the quarter and it lands on the desk in front of him. He stares down at it as if he could drill a hole through it. "Huh. It's like you don't know that many lyrics." I look at the window. "Almost like someone really wants this case to go away to save someone some face. I don't know Andy. That what you're thinking now?"
More silence.
"That's okay Andy, I don't expect you to have an opinion on office politics. In fact, it was rude of me to bring you into that." I pull me feet down and lean over the desk, putting my hand on his and looking him in the eye. "I'm sorry for that," my voice is full of sympathy and understanding.
He sits there for a second trying to make sense of what's going on, but quickly pulls his hand back. "Oh baby, I'm a hunter in the dark of the forest. I've been stalking you and tracking you down." He spits the lyrics at me from behind eyes filled with flames. More Meatloaf. 
I smile.  Sometimes you have to fight Meatloaf with Meatloaf.
"And objects in the rearview mirror may appear closer than they are."  I look at him and can see something in his eye.  I think he took it as a challenge.
"I remember everything.  I remember every little thing, as if it happened yesterday.  I was barely 17."  He paused and smiled.  "And I once killed a boy with a Fender guitar.  I don't remember if it was a telecaster of a stradacaster.  But I do remember that it had a heart of chrome and a voice like a horny angel."  Clearly this guy knew more Meatloaf than I.  I pictured him, sitting in his room in the foster home after Edna Portis, listening to Meatloaf over and over again.  I can see him as a little kid, excited that he's finally out of the foster system.  Would you raise me up?  Would you help me down?  Would you get me right out of this godforsaken town?  And then a maniac took it away.  And instead of a home, he was left with an unhappy song that he fused with all of the anger and resentment he felt.  That's the thing about music.  It's our greatest invention as a race, because it allows us to express the full range of emotions and to actually feel them like they're new, even if we thought we thought we'd buried them or forgot we were still carrying them.  Music has to potential to heal or tear apart, more than we probably realize.  And for Grassley, music had fueled his anger, and had helped him down a path that involved killing people to get even with me.
"I would do anything for love, but I won't do that." I said quietly.
"Listen, I was born on the other side," his voice was loud.  The veins on his neck stood thick against his neck, and I could feel the seething anger from his eyes.  "Just always looking to you.  I made it over the great divide, now I'm coming for you."
"Meatloaf did a version of that?"  I asked, but he just continued, his voice now at a full yell.
"And I'm easy and I'm serious.  They try and tear me down.  You want me baby, I dare you--try and tear me down!"  And I knew I had him.
"And I've been dancing on the ceiling, Andy." I give a pause. "Oh, what a feeling."
He lurches over the desk at me, his hands poised for my neck. "I'm gonna fucking kill you, you mother fucker."
I'm caught off-guard for a second, but I regroup.  I grab him by the collar of his shirt and slam him on the table and then pick him up and slam him against the wall. He stops resisting and it takes me a second to realize, I have him lifted off the ground. I set him down and let out a deep breath I didn't realize I'd been holding in. "Huh. That could've been Motorhead, I guess," I say with a smirk. The door opens and Edna looks in at us. Behind her the attorney and psychologist are looking more than a little disturbed.
"Lionel Ritchie," I say barely able to hold in my amusement. "It's always Lionel Ritchie that sends 'em over the edge."
*******************
I stand before the door waiting for my courage. Finally, I suck it up and knock. It takes a couple moments, but soon enough, James Troop has answered the door. He stares at me for a second.
"Hey." It's a pretty reasonable starter.
"Hey," I say, because it's a pretty reasonable response. Another second passes and as I tell myself to just start. "So. I just wanted to talk to you, if I could."
"Uh. Yeah." He says, but doesn't offer to invite me in. Okay, I tell myself.
"So. Yeah. You fight pretty well. Tai Kwon Do?"
"No. Stage fighting."
"Stage fighting? You kicked my ass with fake fighting?"
"Yeah," he says with a chuckle. "I guess I did." He pauses. "Look, I don't know if you came for this, but I'm sorry I..."
"No. That's not...It's...." I run my hand through my hair. "I just was thinking. You seem to have good instincts. And you can handle yourself all right. You wouldn't want to get into Private Investigating would you?"
"I'm an actor." He says giving me a look of confusion.
"No. I know. You were in Rent. I know. I just thought if you had extra time, or could use extra cash." God, I feel like a fucking idiot. "I could use the...you know...help."
"Yeah. Well. Let me think about it."
"Cool." It's the only thing I could think to say. I nod and turn to walk away.
"Hey," and I turn to face him. "You want to come in for a beer? I was gonna watch some crappy 80's movie. Footloose or--" I cut him off.
"There's nothing crappy about Footloose," I say walking to the door.
"Well, it's a little dated."
"Oh, yeah. But not crappy. If anything, that story speaks more to modern America than it did when it was made. Small town fanaticism against urban sensibilities being fought out through music.  No, this is a great movie.  Important even."
"You feel passionately about this, don't you?"
"I do. I really do." I say as the door shuts.

Objects in the Rearview Mirror Part XV

Edna Portis was the one piece of information we had been missing. The one key piece that made all the others fall into line. It didn't take long to put an address to Edna Portis and the family that survived her brutal murder. It took a little longer to see how she connected to Andrew Grassley, though. We were driving to the address we were given on the outskirts of Des Moines before we found out how the two knew each other. According to one of the detectives Edna had at her disposal, Andrew Grassley was living with Ms. Portis at the time of her death. Apparently, he was a foster child who had just been placed with Portis and her two kids. Portis was a teacher in her late thirties who had not married, so that when she died, the child placed with her was sent back into the system, and it had not been kind to young Mr. Grassley. Portis's sister moved in and took care of Portis’ biological children. The family still lived there. So us and a patrol car were on the way there to secure the house and question the family. Because this night had not been all the fun I had wanted.
"That's all well and good," Edna said after she shut her cell phone. "We know how he's connected to the original killings. If he's not at that house, then none of this shit matters."
"If he's not there, then he has been. There's no way he goes through all this and doesn't visit the house or talk to someone there." I said quietly. "This is a lead. A solid lead."
We'd taken the county road back toward the city and just before we hit Southridge Mall and it's ever-dimming lights, we swung right onto Indianola Ave. Out here there's a lot of space between houses, which makes for a lot of privacy. Which can be really bad in situations like this, so we took it slow. It felt like it took twenty minutes for us to get to the house and it was only a block and a couple houses in.
Pulling up to the house, everything looked normal. It was a nice home. One of those white two-story numbers you picture when you think of living in the country. Nice sized porch and big windows in the front to let in all the light that isn't being blocked out by the mammoth apartment buildings that aren't just across the street. Big yard with the kind of grass you can picture kids running and falling and rolling around in, even if it was underneath a light coat of snow right now. This place even had a big shade tree with a tire swing, I kid you not. How could anything bad ever happen here? I could feel this place lulling me into a pleasant sleepy haze. Which is why people move out here, I suppose.
We were just getting out of the car when we saw the patrol car pull in behind us and I prayed it was no one who'd seen me spouting off earlier that night. And then I took a deep breath--that was just hours ago. Before the officers even got out of their car, Edna started giving orders. "Troop, you stay with him," she said pointing to the one of the officers. "You," pointing at the other, "you're with us." She quickly turned back toward the house and it was all business.
"You want me to watch the back?" the young officer asked.
"No. We stick together. [Gumshoe], I do the talking, okay?"
I gave her a nod. She found the doorbell with her finger and gave it a polite, but urgent ring. And we sat. "No one's home?" The young officer said after a couple minutes.
"It's late. They might be heavy sleepers." I said as I pushed the button for a good minute. Maybe a minute and a half. It was late, I hadn’t been sleeping all that much of late, and I was really starting to feel cranky.
"Alright, already," Edna said slapping my finger off the button. "We want them happy and talkative."
Looking at my watch, I yawned and turned away from the door. "No one's happy and talkative this late at night." I looked out at the country night. We weren't so far from the city, hell there's a gas station at the end of the block, but it felt like night was heavier out here. Thicker somehow. Denser, maybe. Like it would take a stronger light to shine on the activities out here. Or maybe I was just tired.
It was then I noticed James and the other officer. James was pointing at something across the street. I followed his finger into the Elm Grove Cemetery. I walked off the porch and over to them. "What's up?"
James spoke up. "I saw someone run into the grave yard."
"Was it him?" I said feeling the adrenaline hit me again.
"I--" He wasn't sure. I could see it in the contortions of his face. He wanted to be sure, but he wasn't.
"Could it have been him?" I said not waiting for him to get his answer together.
"I think so."
By this time Edna and the other cop was there with us. "What?" Edna said with that edge in her voice.
"James saw someone run into the graveyard. Could've been Grassley." I said.
"Of course. He would run into a fucking graveyard." She pulled her gun and her flashlight. "You two stay here and call it in. You two," meaning myself and the officer who had been on the porch, "we're going to have a peak."
As we crossed over Indianola Ave. and into the graveyard, I felt some relief to see that this was a small cemetery and with the fresh snow on the ground, we could see the tracks of anyone who came in. It only took a second for us to see that someone had jumped the low fence and had made their way up the hill. I pulled my gun and lit my flashlight as I felt the dim streetlights already fading as I pulled myself over the fence.
We followed the tracks slowly and spread out. There was no way to see what was coming as we made our way around the tombstones and up the incline. We were crouched and ready, fully understanding that Grassley could be waiting there for us at any moment. I took a deep breath trying to keep myself calm and collected.
I saw the movement ahead before I saw the gun blast. A great flash of light lit up the night for a second before the deafening eruption. I told myself to dive, but not quickly enough. Luckily the shot hit the tombstone in front of me. Unluckily, it sprayed rock up at me, cutting my cheek and neck as I finally dove. I could feel the blood beginning to seep from my wounds. I pulled a dirty tissue from my pocket and pressed it over what felt like the biggest wound. I sat there for what may have been an eternity before I realized I was not dying right then.
"Not dead." I whispered to myself trying to get myself to focus. The shot had come from ahead on the right. The officer and Edna had been closer to him. So either he didn't see them, or he really wanted me dead. Which didn't make me feel really good, but that's how it looked.
I took a deep breath, not sure what I was doing this for, but I yelled, "You missed me Andrew." He was quiet. I took another breath hoping he wasn't too patient. "What's that? 8 bullets you've missed me with tonight?"
I could hear footsteps moving through the snow, but I couldn't make out exactly where they were coming from. I pressed my back against the tombstone and made sure the safety was off on my gun. "Bullets are expensive, Andrew? You sure I'm worth it?"
"It only takes one." It came out as a hiss, but it was enough. He'd circled counter clockwise heading away from the others and toward me. Couldn't be more than a row ahead. I pushed my feet underneath me and turned, charging to my left. Into my third step, I saw him stand and raise his gun at me. The dramatic thing would've been to jump in the air. Hurtle my body at him, maybe yelling, 'nooo', like you see in all those movies. Of course he probably would have shot the holy living shit out of me.
So, as I saw his gun raise toward my head, something from little league flicked on and I was suddenly sliding. His first shot went over my head and as he was adjusting to me, I kicked my right leg and popped up just enough to punch him right in the crotch. Hard. Yes, it’s a faux-pas to punch a guy in the crotch, but I was hoping no one would tell Ms. Manners.
He doubled over and sucked in the cold night air and dropped his gun. I scrambled to my feet and grabbed him by the arm, bending it behind him and using my other arm to hold him to me in a half-nelson. He wriggled and kicked and grunted, but I had him.
The others were to us in a less than a second and in another second, Andrew Grassley was in handcuffs. It was over and I caught the guy. Wow. Didn't I feel so much better?
***********
In the downtown station, I sat with Edna as she was typing up her report. I'd finished giving my statement. It had taken a long time to recount the whole night again. She stopped and looked up at me.
"Yes?" I said hoarsely.
"So?" She said. I shrugged at her. "You punched him in the crotch."
I smiled a big smile. First smile I'd had in a long time. "I did."
"That's not really sporting is it?"
"I'm all for a fair fight, but....you know..." God, I wish I could be glib.
She smiled and chuckled. "Still quick on your feet, I see."
"I got it where it counts," I said.
"You need a ride home?"
"Nah. I called Clarence a while ago. He's sending someone." There was a silence. "Do you think we ever stop paying?"
"For then?"
I nodded with a weariness that came from more than the night's troubles and the all of the things I'd seen on this case. I felt the weariness of years suddenly sitting on my shoulders.
"No." She said quietly. "Not when there's someone who is still hurt."
I nodded at her and we sat quietly. It was a comforting quiet. The kind that exists like a third person in the room. Calming and easy. I took a deep breath and let it out, enjoying the fact that someone wanted me dead, but I still drew breath.
"Where did you go anyway?"
"Then?"
"Yeah. When you left the force back then?" Her voice was quiet, but firm. It was full of curiosity and concern, I think.
"Chicago."
"What's in Chicago?"
"Not much when I went." I sat up in my chair, suddenly realizing I should tell this right. "It was just gonna be a weekend, I think. I was gonna clear my head and come back. But there I was in Chicago and I didn’t have much reason to stay, but I realized I had nothing to go back to Des Moines for."
"Me?" She paused. "Not like that, but partners. You know, that meant a lot to me."
"Yeah. But I'd shot that to shit. I should've done it all differently."
"Yeah." We sat for a while longer.
"So, why'd you stay in Chicago?"
Well, that's another story...

Objects in the Rearview Mirror Part XIV

It's not that long of a drive to the Indianola water tower. From downtown Des Moines, it's maybe 45 minutes with traffic. Maybe. But time can stretch when you're sitting in the back seat of a cop car. This was an unmarked car without the cage, yes, but the principle still applies. Detective Edna Muldoon was driving and she asked for James Troop to sit in the front seat next to her. I assume this is so I am not allowed to mess with the radio, but I'm making this assumption based in part on past history and largely due to the fact that I don't want to consider what else this might signal. The fact that everyone in the car was dead silent didn't help this car ride seem short either. The only sound was the occasional chatter from the police radio. No one said a word from the time we got in the car until we reached the outskirts of Des Moines' south side. I watched through the flurries out the back window as South Ridge Mall disappeared from view taking the bright city lights with it. As we entered the unincorporated countryside where the space between streetlights stretched wide in a dark abyss, I finally said, "This is a bad idea."
Edna shot me a look in the rearview mirror. "You don't want to go to the water tower now?"
"No, that's probably not gonna lead to much, but it's worth checking out." I took a deep breath. "Not listening to the radio is a mistake."
Edna chuckled, though I could tell she didn't want to turn on the music. "Don't change much do you, [gumshoe]?"
I took another deep breath and let the car fall back into silence figuring silence was better than saying what I really wanted to say. It was a harmless comment, I knew, but something about it rankled me. Anything I said back would be insulting, I knew. So instead, I looked out the window as the snow started coming down in earnest on the dark, rolling hills of Iowa. There was enough light to see the road, but beyond them, on the land, where the fields stood waiting to be used next spring there was only darkness. The streets stood lined with the light of the living, I thought, but who knew what was beyond them? The unknown always conjures up the worst in people's imaginations. Few of us think of the unlimited possibility and see the possibility for good things to be out there. The next job. The next love. The next amazing moment. Instead we think only of the evil that must be lurking in the darkness. Beyond the reach of the light. And as much as I knew logically that Andrew Grassely would not, could not be at the water tower, I still had this sickness in my stomach that told me he would be there.
Edna pulled off the highway and shut off the car. We were maybe 200 yards from the water tower and it was dark. Edna reached into her glove box and pulled out a flashlight and handed it over the seat to me. She pulled another out for herself. "You picked up your gun, I assume?"
"Check." I said quietly. I had the gun laying on the seat next to me and I picked it up and showed it to her as I looked to make sure the safety was off.
"All right. We do this my way, everyone understand?" She waited for head nods before continuing. "All right. Troop, you're a civilian, so you stay here. [Gumshoe]--"
"No." Troop said quietly but firmly. "I'm not staying here. I've been shot at tonight and if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to be around someone who can shoot back if something happens again."
"I can't take you out there if there's a possibility of--"
"Kid's got a point, Edna. And Grassley's not likely to be here anyway." I said feeling my voice quiver. "But if he is, and he gets dead while we're looking at a water tower, that's not good."
"Okay James, but you're sticking with me, okay? You're right behind me. You don't get more than 2 feet away from me and you don't ever get ahead of me. You got it?"
"Thank you." James said, now realizing that going with Edna wasn't a cake walk either.
"And you," she said turning her attention to me. "You stay right fucking next to me. You see something, you tell me. You don't shoot unless you're shot at or I tell you to shoot. You don't run in ahead and get yourself shot. Got it?"
"I do." I said as I reached for the door.
"I'm serious [Gumshoe]. No cowboy shit."
"Don't worry, I'm all out of cowboy tonight." I looked at her and I could see from her reaction she was a little surprised. She expected some sort of verbal joust from me, but I didn't have it in me. Not with the growing feeling I was getting. He was here. This man who wanted to kill me was waiting just beyond my view in the cold, blackened embrace of the night.
Everyone got out of the car, James quickly making his way behind Edna. We advanced on the water tower slowly. It didn't take too long until our eyes adjusted to the darkness. The water tower stands on the edge of Indianola, a small town not far from Des Moines whose main attractions were Simpson College, the National Hot Air Ballooning Hall of Fame and a killer A&W restaurant. Indianola officials used to light the water tower, but that apparently had stopped at some point. My best guess was because of cost. As I stood there in the darkness, my gun raised, I looked around the tower for any sign of life, or movement, or trouble. I would've paid quite a bit of money to have the tower lit up. And even though our flashlights cut through the heavy darkness well enough, I got the feeling Edna and James would've pitched in some scratch too.
The only sound in the darkness was the sound of our breathing, heavy not from the roughness of the terrain, but the stress of the situation. We were about 25 yards from the tower when we heard it.
A car behind us and just over a hill from where we'd parked, peeled out and headed back in the direction of Des Moines. I felt the adrenaline hit me again, awaking all my senses. James hit the ground, covering his head. Edna spun and started running toward the car. "Come on!" I turned to take a quick look at the tower and let out the breath of air I didn't realize I'd been holding.
As I reached to James to give him a hand up, I yelled, "It's not him Edna."
She stopped and looked back at me quizzically. I showed my flashlight on the ground next to the tower. I saw her eyes follow the beam and she started laughing as she reached the end. James's looked over quickly and exhaled loudly taking my hand and pulling himself up.
"Two half drank beers and a box of condoms. Ahh teenage romance." I said.
"It's too cold for that shit," James said with a chuckle.
I knelt by the area to take a closer look. "They had a blanket. Maybe a sleeping bag. A couple condoms missing, so--"
"Maybe you should turn your detective skills to the relevant questions, like was Grassley here? Is there some clue as to where he might be? You know, things like this." But I didn't move. I'd come all this way in the night irrationally sure I'd find the killer, a man named Andrew Grassley, sitting here. Waiting. I was sure tonight held another shoot-out for me. I never thought I'd find this. Another love interrupted.
I stood there for a second. "Seriously, [gumshoe], you're not even looking. This was your fucking--"
"What do people do when love ends?" I said. As soon as I heard it I knew I sounded like a fucking idiot.
"The fuck?" was all Edna could muster in response.
"I mean. That's it. That's how Chance met this guy. I'd bet hard money on it." I could feel myself getting excited.
"What are you talking about?"
"A support group. For people who lost someone. It's all fitting into place. Grassley lost someone. Probably Geoffrey Franks, which is why he keeps playing that murder out again and again." Geoffrey Franks was a man who had been murdered years ago when a murderer had kidnapped and tortured him. If I hadn’t been such a fuck-up, I may have caught the killer before he had a chance to take Franks.
"I've had people looking at Franks and Grassley for a while. We can't find any connection to Franks. But hey, once we find this guy, why don't you ask him." The frustration in her voice was palpable. "That's right. We can't find him. And you're not fucking helping." She went back to looking around.
I took a deep breath, feeling the excitement letting go of me. She was right. But I was right too, I could feel it. But it didn't help us. "Fine. There's no connection to Franks," I said calmly. "So, if you're reliving or redoing the last murder over and over...and you're hunting down one of the investigating cops...one who wasn't even around for that one. Or the case before…”
"It's a mystery." Edna said.
"Who was the case before?" James said quietly.
Edna stammered. "What does it matter?"
"Edna Portis." I said quietly. "Why?"
"So you weren't on that case either?"
"No. I wasn't." Something was glimmering.
"Maybe--"
"He's connected to her." We finished the sentence together.
And there it was. Finally.

Objects in the Rearview Mirror Parts XII & XIII

James Troop sat with his back to the car, still breathing heavily from the little tussle we'd had.
"I need the name of whoever sent you to my office, because odds are good that whoever that fucker is, he's the guy who killed three people." I repeated myself in case he was getting second thoughts about telling me what I needed to know.
"His name is Andrew Grassley." He said hoarsely. "He works at my agency. Secretary, I think." He was taking his time as if trying to piece it all together.
"What do you know about," was all the investigating I got to do before I heard gunshots. Pop. Pop. I heard the bullets land in the car above me and I felt the adrenaline surge into my system. I took a deep breath trying to keep my head. Another Pop. Pop. I pushed Troop around the front of the car so we could use it as a barrier. If the bullets were hitting the car above me that meant the shooter was shooting from either inside the Ingersol or on top of it. As soon as I had us both around the camino, I gave a quick survey of the theater. I couldn't see anything, which was not a comforting feeling.
"You hit?" I said without looking at him.
"No." He said with what little breath he could summon. "I don't think so."
“If you were hit, you’d know for sure.”
The night was already being torn open by the loud sirens of the Des Moines Police Department, who were no doubt on their way here. I pressed my back against the car debating about going for my gun in the car and just waiting for the police. I hadn't made up my mind when I saw the first police cruiser turn carefully into the alley. It pulled forward quietly as one of the officers used the spotlight to split the dark alley in front of them. A moment later, I saw another cruiser in the parking lot of the bank next door. This parking lot was raised above the alley and sealed off by a chain-link fence that couldn’t hold back the illuminated eye of the second unit. Their light swayed around the dark alley, paying particular attention to the theater, but it would only be a couple of minutes before it moved to my camino and then to James and I.
"What do we do?" James said looking at me with desperation.
"Well, I'm pretty sure whoever was shooting at us is gone. But I'm gonna give it another minute before I stand up really, really slowly and make sure that I am not surprising any of these officers."
"Good plan." He said, taking a deep breath, trying to mirror the façade of calm I had managed to erect.
I felt myself slump against the car. It didn't make me happy to feel how relieved I was to see the police here. Originally, they had suspected me of being the murderer and even now, I wasn't really sure how innocent they thought I was. Especially since I keep showing up at the scenes of mayhem like this. But I had to admit, I was feeling very happy to not have to get in a shoot-out with anyone. I'm not a big fan of guns. In my line of work they come in handy, but I'd rather punch someone in the face than shoot them. It's way more satisfying for one. And there's a lot less of a to-do made about it for two.
I could hear the police moving around, their leather shoes kicking through the gravel on the ground.
"All right." I said to James as I started to raise my hands above my head. "Officers!" I yelled. "Officers, my friend and I were --"
"Hands up." I heard a voice on the other side of the car.
"There are two of us officer. We are unarmed." The trick here is to be calm. These officers are trained to be calm, but it's human nature to not be calm. If they see you following their instructions and doing so calmly, it puts them at ease. At least that's how I remember it. Hopefully things hadn't changed that much since I left the force.
"Stand up. Slowly. Really slowly." We started to stand. "Slowly. That's good. Keep those hands where I can see them." When we got to our feet he told us to turn around and I could see there were indeed four young cops around. The two officers from the second unit must have run around the fence, I thought, but damn, they were quick. These were the two who stood behind us. There was one who was talking to us from beyond the car and another who was looking around to make sure there was no one else in the alley with us.
"You boys just out for a stroll?" This came from the officer to my right. I could feel his sarcasm, but I knew better than to rise to the bait.
"No officer. My name is [gumshoe], I'm a private investigator. This man is James Troop and I was interviewing Mr. Troop regarding a case I am working on when we were fired upon. I believe those shots came from either inside the theater or possibly on top of the roof." Either I figured just giving a statement at this point was going to make things go easier, or I was just so relieved they were here I was gonna spill. Sometimes I can't tell if I'm putting thought into these things or not.
The police stepped slowly closer to us. "Are either of you armed?"
"No." James said quickly. Maybe too quickly. He was nervous. Understandably, but still. With the cops, it's always better to show them you have nothing to be nervous about.
"I have a gun in the glove compartment of the car." I said, quickly adding, "and the registration for that gun is in my wallet, along with my Private Investigator's License."
"Pat him." The officer across the car said, and I felt hands groping my body. Arms, armpits, back, crotch, legs. Pretty thorough. I could see from the side of my eye that James was getting the same treatment. I felt the hand remove my wallet from my back pocket.
"He checks," I heard the voice say from behind me.
"This one too." The voice behind James said and the guns got holstered.
"Wait in the car," we were instructed.
"Officer," I said quietly. "I believe Detective Edna Muldoon will want to be informed of this incident as the case I'm working on has a lot to do with a case she is working."
James and I sat in the back of the police car, with the door left open—you know, so they can say we aren’t under arrest and there was no need for those pesky Miranda warnings. The red and blue lights cast the look of tragedy and excitement all over the alley and I could see people crowding around the yellow tape the police had put up. After the violence, there's only the show left.
Edna made her way through the crowd, stopped to talk to the officers who responded to the scene and then headed directly toward us. I could tell she was less than thrilled to see me.
"You are going to end up dead soon, aren't you?" She said running a hand through her hair.
"If there's an office pool, I might get a date before Christmas," I said with a smile. "Sorry to interrupt your night."
"What are you doing here, [gumshoe]?"
"Interviewing a witness who--"
"And this is about the murders?" Her voice was angry.
"Of course." I said with a shrug. "Someone targets me, I don't wait for them to come get me."
"No, you run right at them with your arms flailing, yelling, 'shoot me.'" I smiled and shrugged. She let out a sigh and leaned against the car. "Are you getting anywhere?"
"Maybe. I'm not sure what I've got." I said. "I guess I was followed here and the killer saw a chance to take a shot at me."
"That's your statement?" She said.
"In addition to what I told the officers, yes. Should I give Clarence a call, or?"
"That won't be necessary," she said. "I won't get anything better from you. You just be fucking careful." She let out a long breath and walked away. "You're free to go, for now."
"You really think the shooter followed you here?" I had almost forgotten Troop was here before he said that.
"Oh." I said. "No. He followed you. Where can I find this Andrew Grassley?"

****

James Troop was an actor I had lured to the Ingersol Dinner Theater with a story about him being perfect for a production that would revive the now-defunct theater. He was also the man who had walked into my office not that long ago and convinced me to take a case that turned out to be bullshit. Bullshit that gets me pulled into a murder investigation and gets me shot at. Throw in my lousy luck with women, not to mention their lousy luck with me and, yeah, this has been a pretty average couple weeks for me. Or so I was telling myself.
For James though, this had not been an average couple of weeks. As we sat in the police car, having just been told by my former partner, Edna Muldoon, that we were free to go, I could see tonight's events were taking their toll on him.
"You think the man who shot at us followed me here?" His eyes were wide and while he'd broken a sweat fighting me, now it seemed like he couldn't stop perspiring, despite the fact that we were sitting still. In fact, he was probably sitting too still. It was almost like he thought that if he moved another gun would go off. I needed to get him out of here if I was going to get anything more about Andrew Grassley and the why's and wherefore's of this case.
"I do." I said rising from the car. "Why don't we get out of here." I pulled him up and we began to walk toward my newly aerated car and the cops who were lingering around it. Pulling the keys from my pocket, I said, "Are you guys just about done here? My friend and I were really hoping to catch the last showing of the new Twilight movie tonight."
Edna looked up from the conversation she was having. "I can't let you drive this car out of here. We're impounding it."
"Impounding it? You said I could go."
"Well, the car is evidence. But you're free to leave." She spoke with a grin, but her voice was firm. She'd thought about this and she was a step ahead of me.
"Take pictures of the car and that can be evidence. I need to get going."
"No can do. This is physical evidence and as such will need to be studied by analysts. Unfortunately," she said looking at her watch, "they're working on another case and should be here in a bit. If you need to be somewhere, I'd be happy to have an escort take you home. As you may know, the Des Moines Police Department values your safety and wishes greatly to solve this crime..."
I stopped listening. I should have seen this coming. Edna knew I had information and that my investigation wasn't aiding hers. It was probably making hers a lot more messy. So, while she couldn't force me to stop investigating, without incurring the wrath of my lawyers, she could take my car. And that would slow me down either by having to take cabs or busses, which in Des Moines aren't all that plentiful or helpful, or by having someone looking over my shoulder, no doubt reporting back to her. On the one hand I was a little pissed. I liked having a free hand to work. I'm a professional. On the other, it had been a really long time since I had been shot at and while I was putting up a good front about it, the thought of having someone who had been to a shooting range in the last five years and who, you know, wouldn't leave their gun in the car like a doofus, didn't sound all that bad to me.
"Fine." I said, cutting Edna off in the middle of her still-ongoing lecture about the greatness of the Des Moines Police Department.
"Fine what?" She said, I could tell I'd caught her off-guard, which made my decision a little more worth it.
"I will take an escort. But the last cop I hung around with ended up being dirty, so, I'm gonna be a bit choosy this time." Saying a cop is dirty--even a dead cop--even a dead cop who was in fact dirty, really and truly dirty--around a group of cops is a bad idea. I could feel the tension hit the air as soon as I said it. The uniforms were now openly staring at me and I think they were looking for a reason to give me a punch. I couldn't blame them. They're cops and they have to have pride in what they're doing and why they're doing it. Otherwise, we'd end up with a force of lazy incompetents, most of whom would be dirty. Still. It was a fact. "What?" I said seeing a cop take a step toward me. "It's a fact. I am sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. Take it up with someone who gives a shit."
"You don't make personnel decisions," Edna said. I could tell from the way she was looking over the cops assembled here that she could see how my comments had affected everyone. I also got the sense that she knew I was probably going to continue to spout off if I didn't get what I wanted. "If you're waiting for an escort, you wait. Now get the fuck back to the car before I let one of these officers show you to the car."
“I’ll give you five minutes, then I’m getting in my car and driving out of here. And any officer who stands between me and my property will have to talk it over with my attorney.” I said making a point of looking in the eyes of every officer. And with that James and I walked slowly back to the car.
"Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"What?" I said not looking at James.
"Hey, I was nearly killed tonight too, but I'm not trying to take on the whole DMPD for some bullshit."
"Yeah. Well. I was nearly killed by a dirty cop and your man, Andy. So, I'm a little sensitive. Also, if this is going the way I think it is, I need a good cop watching my back. I can't just take whomever they give me."
"So, that was thought-out back there?" He said in a voice of disbelief.
"More or less." I said quickly as I saw Edna making her way over to us. The way she was walking made me pretty sure she was going to punch me in the face when she got to us.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Edna said in a whisper that told me that whether or not she was going to punch me in the face was still up for debate in her mind.
"Been getting that a lot tonight Edna." I said.
"Keep up with that and you'll get some sort of permanent condition that will make people feel uncomfortable asking you that question."
"Always a snappy comeback, Edna." I was secretly jealous of her ability to always have one ready to go.
"[Gumshoe], just tell me what you want."
"You should escort us."
She laughed. "No fucking way."
"Then I need my car."
"Also, no fucking way."
"Gotta be one or the other."
"Or what? You'll keep spouting shit until these guys batter your pretty little face in? That's fine with me." She began to walk away.
"Or," I called after her, "I could give you all the information I have. Including the name of the man who sent someone into my office claiming to be Simon Flettering."
She turned and stepped toward us. "Arnold Grassley?" Clearly, she was a step ahead of me too. "Didn't you think it was odd I didn't interview your friend here when I arrived at the scene?" Now that she mentioned it... "I got that name a couple days ago. And I have his last known address, which we checked yesterday. Nothing. You got anything else you think I don't know?"
Turning to James, I said, "You know, if you talked to the cops before about this, you may have wanted to let me know about it, instead of letting me look stupid."
"He didn't talk to us. We were actually watching him to see if Grassley would make contact with him again. But it's good you blew that lead for us."
"Blew it? I think he made contact tonight. Or he would've if his aim were better."
"Yeah. Very helpful." She said walking away.
"Edna. Have you checked the water tower yet?"
She stopped and I swear I saw a shiver crawl up her back. The water tower in Indianola was where the last pychopath with a penchant for scrawling music lyrics on the wall had been captured. It was a bit of a Hail Mary of me to bring this up now, but I didn't really have too much left in my arsenal. "He's probably not there, but I'll bet he visited. And I’ll bet there’s a clue there."
Half an hour later, as Edna, James and I were heading to the Indianola water tower, I sighed. I had a feeling that one way or the other, this was going to be over before too long.

Objects in the Rearview Mirror Part XI

James Troop had maintained his residence in Des Moines, despite being on tour with a traveling production of Rent for the past couple months. Didn't take long to track him down and it turns out I didn't even need to run it through Bruce, thanks to the internet. This guy has a website and contact info for an agency, in case anyone wanted to book him. I didn't want to book him so much, but I put in a call anyway.
"I'm interested in auditioning James Troop for a local production." I said to the young woman who had answered the phone.
"Hold." She said abruptly and suddenly Prince's voice came on. Thrills and pills and daffodils will kill ya. Hang tough children. Say what you want about Prince, but that man gets it. And he gets it in a way I was way too young to fathom when his music first came to my attention. First time I heard it, I didn't even think about the possibility that Prince was talking about making the choice to be a good person. To do better. I just liked the idea of going crazy. I liked the intro, but I had no idea what he was talking about when he said, and if the de-elevator tries to bring you down. Go crazy--punch a higher floor. I didn't for one moment think Prince was trying to tell us to take more positive approach to our world. To try and choose the high-road when life is gouging your eyes. Take a look around you, at least you got friends.
As I sat thinking about the profound meaning of Let's Go Crazy, it faded away and was replaced by some Johnny Cash. As I walked out on the streets of Laredo, as I walked out on Laredo one day...
Another great song. Odd that they would be paired together, I thought. But still you can't argue with good music. Get 6 jolly cowboys to carry my coffin. 6 dancehall maidens to bear up my pall. Throw bunches of roses all over my coffin. Roses to deaden the clods as they fall.
Then beat the drum slowly. Play the fife lowly. Play the dead march as you carry me along. Take me to the green valley lay the sod o'er me. I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong. Listening to this song always makes me think about my father's funeral. We didn't get along, my dad and I. The short story is he had a temper and didn't treat my mother very well. And I despised him for the last couple years of his life. Not a roaring-fire of rage, but a covered boil that you couldn't feel unless you removed the lid. And neither of us removed the lid. We just avoided talking about things and pretended that everything was fine. And it was this act that made me hate him more. He'd call me and we'd talk about the Cardinals, or his garden or some other innocuous thing and I would hang up the phone and be so angry that I would want to punch him. Not because he thought Pujols should bat fourth (which is ridiculous, but whatever) or that he was putting wagon wheels in his garden (which again is ridiculous), but because we both knew the things we needed to talk about. But we didn't. I told myself that I couldn't bring the problems up because he wouldn't talk about it--not in any satisfying way. Or that he'd just get mad. I needed that relationship with my father, even if it was imperfect. It made me feel so weak. And angry.
"Yes." I'd almost forgotten I was on the phone.
"I have a local production that I'm casting," I said after taking a second to get myself together, "and I'm interested in casting James Troop. I believe your agency represents him?"
"Indeed.” This was the voice of someone who had smoked for years. I could recognize the rockiness it gave to his voice, though it was not enough to overtake the silky, musical quality of his voice. "We do represent Mr. Troop. And as you may know, he is in high demand. High demand right now. His performance in Rent has earned rave reviews. Just rave reviews."
"Yes, it was these reviews that got my attention. Especially the one in the Kansas City paper that said, 'The understudy for the role of Benny was solid.'" I said with a smile. I love it when my research comes in handy.
"Well, they couldn't say he was the next Taye Diggs, for obvious reasons," the voice glossed, "but to be mentioned like that. Very impressive. Impressive indeed."
"Oh certainly," I said trying to sound impressed. "But, here's my problem. We are getting together a production of A Man of No Importance, but we've lost our Alfie. He got picked up for the new production of Les Mis in Chicago." Did I mention I did a lot of research?
"A Man of No Importance? That's pretty modern. And Alfie’s a challenging part. The kind I am sure Mr. Troop would love to sink his teeth into." I can hear the interest in his voice. I almost have him.
"It is, but if you're gonna bring back the Ingersol Theater, you've got to do something big."
"Bring back the--"
"Don't say dinner theater. Please." I say as dramatically as I can muster. "We're going to bring it back as a theater. No dinner. Just pretzels and cookies served at the bar with wine and high-end beer. And we're trying to do this big time."
"When does the production start?"
"Another problem. We figure the construction will be done in two months, meaning I need to get a new Alfie soon or there's no way we can get this done. I want to see your man tonight if possible."
"What about the understudy?" Fuck. This is what happens when you think of all the goddamned details and forget the rest of the situation. Nice job [gumshoe]. I am a fucking idiot.
"Well." I stammer. "He's a fine kid, but we're looking for a star. We want someone that we can point to later and say, 'that guy played here.' And be proud of it." Look at that recovery. I may be a fucking genius.
"Sure. I think I can talk to him about this. I am sure he will be interested." Yep. Genius.
"Cool. Can he meet me at the Ingersol? Around 9?"
"The construction isn't a problem?"
"Nope, they're working on the entryway. Finished the stage last week. I will need him to come in through the alley in the back though. I'm sure your man will do aces tonight and then we can talk about the money tomorrow."
"Right. I've got this down. My boy will be there."
As we hung up the phone, I felt a smile cross my face. I was gonna see “Simon Flettering” in person once again. The thought of punching him almost made me giddy enough to forget about calling Bruce about the information he was getting me on Chase's connections.
I dialed Bruce's number, let it ring twice and hung up. Then I dialed again and waited for Bruce to pick up, which he did after the customary five rings. Bruce didn't say, 'hi' though. No, he waits there silently for you to say something. And if it's not the right thing, he hangs up. This is why I started our conversation by saying, "Pickles are not on the grocery list. Do you want me to add them?"
Silence.
"I said. Pickles are not on the grocery list. Do you want me to add them?"
"That is the old passphrase [gumshoe]," Bruce answered after another moment of silence.
"Well, you never told me the new one." I love Bruce. Great guy. But his paranoia is too time-consuming for me to appreciate it.
"I did. I told you at lunch yesterday, but you probably weren't listening. You were staring at some schmuck at the counter behind me."
"That was a big break in my case, Bruce."
"I thought it was a big break in your heterosexuality the way you were staring at that guy."
"Don't get jealous, Bruce. You know you're the only man who could tempt me." I said with a smile.
"Keep that dream alive." He said with a chuckle. "So, if you didn't get that nice man's number, what did you get from all the staring?"
"I got an idea. See, the back of the newspaper had an advertisement for the touring group of Avenue Q."
"Your big break was a musical with puppets?"
"Yes. It was. See, it got me to thinking. What if the guy who was in my office claiming to be Simon Flettering was not the guy who had done the killings. What if he was just an actor."
"Sounds thin." Bruce, always a skeptic.
"Oh, it was thin all right. Thinner than, you know, a thin supermodel who...is bulimic." I said. There is not much to this job. You follow your gut and you make good banter, preferably with clever metaphors and sometimes even similes. I was good at the first part, really good. The second part, however, had always eluded me. It's a work in progress. I just wish I were good enough at the first part that I didn't get bothered about sucking at the second part.
"Still got it, [gumshoe]." Bruce said trying to suppress his laughter.
"Yeah. Well. It was thin. But. And this is the important part. It paid off. I searched through some material at the Des Moines Playhouse--"
"Oh, they're playing Hairspray right now."
"Yeah. Good show. The lady playing Tracy made some really interesting choices. But, I found some old playbills and it turns out our man was there. Played in Godspell amoung others. So, yeah. It turned out this thin model was a porker."
"That doesn't make up for the earlier comment. But I'm glad that paid off, because the shit you gave me leads nowhere. None of these guys looks good for this. No unusual activity. No weird bank accounts. Not so much as a bad parking ticket on any of these guys. Doesn't mean one of them isn't your guy, but."
"Yeah. With this guy, there'd be something," I say, though I’m not sure why I believe this exactly. "How is Chase connected to this guy?"
"Don't know, [gumshoe]."
"All right Bruce. I gotta meet my guy and make sure he gives me something I can use." As I hung up the phone I wasn't feeling quite as good as I had before. I had thought of this detour into the underbelly of the Des Moines theater crowd as a nice little bit of revenge for myself. Sure, there was the possibility that I might learn something, but I was not counting on it. Now, if this didn't pay off, I was back at square one.
I looked at my watch. 8:25. Time to head over to the Ingersol. I got in the Camino, which started up with a rumble that let me know it probably was not going to make it through the coming winter. Not without daily jumps and a lot of work.
I was able to maneuver through traffic and got there at 8:55. As I pulled into the alley behind the theater, I saw a car had already arrived. I pulled up alongside it to see the driver was still inside. And it was James Troop. He looked at me a little embarrassed and started getting out of his car. I put the camino in park, put the rumbling beast to sleep and started to get out of my car. I hadn't put my second foot to the ground when he was around the camino and saying, "I'm sorry. So sorry. I was just getting warmed up in my car. I wanted to be ready. I mean, you are the casting agent, right?"
I stood out of the car, resisted the urge to grab him by the neck and offered my hand for a shake instead. "I am. And you're James Troop. My goodness, it's so good to see you."
He took my hand and shook it firmly. He's bigger than I remember. Taller and more muscular. Not at all the timid man I remembered meeting that day in my office. Maybe this kid could act. Of course as I was thinking this, he recognized me. "Hey. You're that guy. From the office. How are you--"
Using the hand I was still shaking, I whipped him into the camino and pulled him into a nice hammer-lock. I know violence is not a solution to all the world's ills, but sometimes it just feels a little too good to do something like this. "I am indeed the guy from the office."
"Oww. Man, I didn't mean to piss you off, why don't you let me go?" He said.
"I need you to answer some questions," I said pushing his arm up higher. As I did this, he suddenly ducked and twisted, freeing his arm from me. Suddenly, he was standing next to me and as soon as I realized this, he buried his fist in my ear. I recoiled from his punch and turned toward him, quickly getting myself ready for the fight that had started about 10 seconds ago. He threw another punch, which I ducked, instead hitting him in the gut. Troop took this pretty well and caught me with an uppercut on my chin, knocking me to the ground.
This kid was light on his feet. He'd studied something. Judo or kung-fu, or something. And judging from the way he was handling himself, I knew I needed a new strategy. I ran headlong into him, tackling him to the ground. I caught a knee in my groin for my trouble, but I still managed to get my hands on his arms and wrestle him to a subdued position.
"Listen to me James," I said, a little hoarsely thanks to the way he'd pelted my nuts a moment ago. "I don't think you meant to get me caught up in this. I don't think you knew. But now people are dead. And I need you to tell me what you know."
"What?" He said. I could feel the fight leaving him.
"Look. I am going to let you go now. And we can talk about this like fucking adults. That's all I wanted from the beginning." I let go of him and cautiously got off him. Last thing I needed was another kick in the nuts. Of course, I've said that a lot of times in my life and so far it has not warded off any of the future nut attacks.
James rolled over and sat against the car. He appeared calm, but confused. I sat down next to him and let a moment pass. I was about to start questioning him when he said, "What people are dead?"
"Selma Flettering, the woman you said was your wife was the first. Which makes you look kind of bad," I say as a way of making sure he knows he should feel guilty. "Then there was Jane Hernandez, my ex-girlfriend, who, as far as I know did nothing wrong, but date me. Well, she also wouldn't replace the toilet paper on the roll, but I can't imagine anyone getting upset enough about it to chain her up and rip her insides out." Reminding him of the guilt. I'm kind of a one-trick pony when it comes to interrogations. "Then there's Chance Greer, the cop slash co-conspirator of these murders. Those are the ones we know about anyway."
"Fuck." He was clearly confused and dismayed. No way he was that good an actor. "So what do you need to know?"
"The million dollar question is who the fuck sent you to my fucking office. And I'm gonna follow that question up with, why the fuck did they send you to my fucking office."

Objects in the Rearview Mirror Parts IX and X

"So, you're stopping?" Bruce was pretty upset. As we sat in Smitty’s on Army Post Rd--the only place he eats other than his home--I could see the anger on his face as he set down his tenderloin and stared at me. We'd barely ordered when he started asking about the case. I hadn't really felt like talking about it. In the two days since I woken up next to Chance's body--complete with a new body piercing in his chest--I had been pretty busy, but a lot of that busy was trying to not attract attention.
"I'm not stopping." I tried to calm him. Bruce calls himself a "libertarian", but his interpretation of that way of thinking is--let's say--a lot more paranoid than others who might self-apply that label. One of the side effects of Bruce's brand of "libertarianism" is that he thinks people are always out to get him. People with power. People with nothing better to do. People who don't rest. And if these people were out to get him, it only stood to reason that they were out to get everyone else as well. So, I wasn’t surprised when his retort was to smash his fist down on the table.
"It's been two days," I said quietly as the woman behind the counter looked disapprovingly at Bruce’s antics. Bruce was a regular here, so they knew to expect the occasional outburst, but that didn’t mean it was tolerated.
"Two days. Might as well be two months," he said forcing a wad of french fries down his throat. "There's a killer out there who’s messing with your life."
"Yeah," I said with a shrug.
"So? What are you doing?"
"I'm keeping in contact with Edna and the cops. I was just down there today, but--"
"Yeah. The cops will surely get to this. It's not like they've been trying to pin all this on you."
"I think being found tied up in the room with the corpse of someone who was at-least an accomplice has cleared my name."
"That was the corpse of a cop. And they'll find a way to close that case one way or the other. If that means you go down..."
Bruce had a point. I was probably still the best suspect the police had. With the desperation to solve a case that comes in the killing of a cop--even one who was dirty--I couldn't count out the concoction of some ridiculous theory where I killed Chance and tied myself up. Or that I had a partner tie me up. Or that I was double-jointed and had three hands. Des Moines doesn't get as harsh a look as other cities when it comes to the honesty of our police force. And mostly that is for good reason. But there are secrets in this city that are hidden from the glare of the street lights.
"Bruce," I said interrupting him, "what do you remember about that mess with that Princess from South of Grand back about 10 years ago?" South of Grand Avenue, for those not familiar with Des Moines, is a small area that’s, well south of Grand Ave., west of Fleur Drive and north of the river. It’s a little slice of land that is inhabited by some of the big old money families of Des Moines. Gorgeous houses, great green lawns and glittery cars. It’s the kind of place that has a façade that seems untouched by the vulgar concerns of murder and tragedy. Some of the residents there would have you believe they are above all that.
He shrugged. "This is what you want to talk about? Ancient history?"
"Mary Claire Parsons-Kitt. Iowa royalty, or as close as we come to it. Until she was murdered by her husband." I said quietly. "Didn't she have a kid. A boy?"
"Yeah. Maybe she did." He said with growing confusion.
I reached into the bag sitting beside me and pulled out a police personnel file. "Yes. She did. His name was Chadwick G. Parsons. Seems as though he was a model kid. Did well in high school and was prom king. Was halfway through Simpson College in Indianola, doing very well, when the whole mess with her murder went down. Seemed to throw his life off track until young Chadwick enrolled himself into the police academy and seemingly devoted himself to truth, justice and tracking down bad-guys. Of course, he'd changed his name to Chance Greer, probably to avoid the publicity of all that stuff."
Bruce smiled at me. "How do you know that?"
"When I was down at the police station today answering more questions, I thought I might use that opportunity to do a little research." I said smirking at him. "I appreciate the pep-talk, but I called you here more to see if you could run some names for me."
"What names?" He said, taking a thick sip from his strawberry shake.
"Well, I did a little digging. According to the gossip columns of the time, he didn't get along with his step-siblings, so he took his share of the estate and stayed in Indianola. So, I'm thinking, what does Indianola have to do with anything?"
"And?"
"And the key to this whole thing is the last victim. Whoever this guy is, he keeps referencing the last murder in Aaron Master's career. The Meatloaf. The style of the killing. It's all about that last guy. Geoffrey Franks. A single father from Indianola."
"So you want me to?" As I looked at Bruce, I saw something out of the corner of my eye.
"Run down these names. Friends, family and business associates who might all be more than a little miffed at a cop who quit a case just before Mr. Franks was taken." There was a man sitting at the counter reading a newspaper. At first I didn't know what it was that caught my eye. The man was no one I recognized. Just another guy living on the South Side of Des Moines, coming in here to get a good bit of unhealthy food before he went out to his day.
"So, you think that's the motive?"
"That's my guess for now." The newspaper crinkled in his hand as he turned to the next section and that's when I saw something that made me smile.
"You got any front-runners?"
"No. I was thinking it would be Frank's kid, so I checked on that, but she's been in New York for the past 15 years living with an aunt. So. It's up in the air."
"Okay, then why the big smile?" Bruce said. "You aren't having a stroke are you?"
"No. I think I just found an old friend. An old friend who I'm going to go punch in the face." I dropped twenty bucks on the table to cover lunch and said good-bye to Bruce.
****
After leaving Bruce, I headed downtown. I had a hunch. I decided to take SW 9th instead of Fleur. Sure, Fleur would be quicker to where I am going, but I hate the reconstruction they've done to Fleur. Sure it's probably easier to get downtown, but it was just unnecessary change in the name of efficiency. Or I’m turning into an old curmudgeon who can’t deal with the city changing around me.
Bruce and I ate a late lunch--Bruce had been trying to track down an Elvis sighting in Norwalk, which, sadly, turned up nothing--so it was about time for school to get out. This school was Abraham Lincoln High School, home of the Railsplitters and my alma mater—the place where I achieved what might be the only recognition and glory of my life. I have always loved driving past the school when it's getting out. I don't know why, it's a cluster of teenage hormones and poor driving decisions. But, I find comfort in that somehow. I like being reminded of life when it was easy. When it seemed like the worst thing that could happen was a dent or not having nothing to do on a Friday night. That's how it seemed anyway. Things change so quickly, I say thinking about that night not that long after high school when I made the stupid decisions that have came back to haunt me time and again. I passed the school and the park where I used to go with girlfriends to park.
I slowed for the curve where they put the new bus garage and started up the bridge. This is my favorite view of Des Moines. Looking up at the buildings that have been there since I was a kid. Solid. Unchanging. My Des Moines. So much work has been done to this city in the last couple years. New bridges downtown. The Fleur project. The new Grays Lake. So many buildings being built and being changed. Even though I’ve lived here most of my life, it makes me wonder if there is a place for me here. Just like there was no place for the Ingersoll Dinner Theater.
The Ingersoll Dinner Theater was a nice little Des Moines tradition. It probably wasn't in any of the tourist literature, but maybe it should have been. In some ways, it was what is great about this city. It was small and somewhat unknown, but it was entertaining. Sure, the actors were probably not going to make it to Broadway, but they did a fine job and it was fun. And, of course, like so many nice things, it had to go out of business. Now there's some talk about turning the building into a Cuban restaurant or something. Which is good for the city, I guess. See, I'm not against change. I just miss things after they are gone. I miss doing the things I take for granted. And I have taken so much for granted, which is fine when it’s going to a nice place for some good theater and fun.
It’s another when you’re in my line of work and you take something for granted. I took for granted that I knew the lie the man who claimed to be Simon Flettering was telling me. And after I found out Simon Flettering wasn't a real person, I took for granted that anyone who would play the part of Simon would only do so if they were the person who planned this whole mess. I didn't think for once they'd be doing it because they were acting.
I got out of the camino I walk to the door. Papered up, so I can't see inside. Around back, there's another door with a window. I sit there for a second and weigh my options. It's the middle of the day, so I can't just break the window. “And yet,” I say quietly as I smash the window. I reach through the new ventilation, unlock and open the door. I'm in the kitchen and it's quiet. It's been cleared and clean. Looks to me like they are going to go forward with the restaurant soon and the odds of me finding what I need are not going to be good. I take a quick look around and find that I’m right—there’s nothing here that’s going to help me.
"Bad break," I say and climb into the camino. Luckily, the Des Moines playhouse is not that far away. This is my fault. I tried to take the easy look before going to the more likely. I thought Ingersoll would have a smaller data bank. Luckily, this playhouse is still functioning and opening up for tonight's show now. Also, luckily for me, I haven't seen a good production of Hairspray in a while and it looks like I'll have plenty of time before curtain to find what I have been looking for. It only takes me five minutes to get there and park. Another five to wait in line and buy a ticket. Another five to slip past everyone and into an office with a collection of the past play bills. And it only takes me ten minutes of looking to get my first actual break in the case. Hey, it hasn’t been a full week since this started, so that’s not my worst showing.
James Troop is the name of the man who came into my office and pretended to be Simon Flettering. Now, I just have to feed that name to Bruce, get his address and find out why. I'm looking forward to seeing what his answer may be.

Objects in the Rearview Mirror Part VIII

It was 10 o’clock. I sat in the car outside the Holiday Inn, loving the feeling of having slept for a good long while. My plan was to sit in the El Camino, to which Ms. Fortune had been gracious enough to drive me, and watch the hotel for a while. I had to see if Chance would be there, who his friend “Jim” was and if any of that led me anywhere. If I didn’t see them by 11.30 or so, then I’d head in and try to see them from across the room. There would be a big risk of being seen, because the bar was pretty small, but I couldn’t risk missing them altogether. It wasn’t much of a plan, but this whole case was making me feel like I wasn’t much of a detective.
I had parked the car out of the range of the streetlights, their warm, safe glow about a yard from my front and rear my bumpers, piercing the cold fall evening. It wasn’t cold enough to freeze, but it would probably get pretty close tonight.
As I settled in, I turned on the radio to my favorite classic rock station. Not to my surprise, it had commercials running, but I remained hopeful. “Tonight is the breakthrough,” I said to myself, though not entirely believing it.
There are two things I love about a stake-out. The first is being able to just sit in your car and listen to the radio. When I was young, before I staked out anything, I’d lie on my bed and listen to music for days at a time. This was before iPods, when radio ruled your life like a god. If you were poor or had spent your allowance money on baseball cards (which was often the case for me) or you didn’t have allowance or an album wasn’t being sold at the crappy mall near your house, and you wanted to hear a certain song, you just had to wait for the radio to play it. If you were lucky, you could call up the DJ and request something, but this was not a call my parents were ever keen on me making. So, I’d lay on my broken-down bed, my hands behind my head waiting for the moment the new Prince or the old BTO came one. I’d wade through the tides of good songs that would ebb and flow in and out of the seemingly endless pool of songs I didn’t want to hear or was completely tired of hearing. Sometimes there’d be hours of good songs, and you’d feel so good. So alive and happy. But all too often there’d be a lot of okay songs and some really shitty ones, but that’s how it was. It sounds strange to say now, but there really wasn’t anything you could do about it. But, it taught you patience. It taught you a little something about living in a world with other people and their tastes. And, if I haven’t overstated it too much already, it taught you something about life.
And when your song came on, or when they piled those great songs back to back to back, there was no better feeling. The radio waves opened up and smiled on you. Or when you were just driving home after a fight or make-up sex and that perfect song, usually a song by Phil Collins, came on, it was magnificent. When it looked like I wasn’t going to graduate high school and Springsteen was there to pick me up, and when I made a big play and the football team won a game (which wasn’t often on the south side of Des Moines, believe me) and Guns N Roses was there, perfect in that moment, it’s a feeling you can’t get by dialing an iPod to the song you think you want. The problem with iPods is they cater to your every whim, playing whatever song you think you want to listen to. But sometimes you’re the last person in the world who knows exactly what it is you need. And sometimes the act of giving it to yourself takes away what’s special about the surprise of it just happening.
Did I mention the other thing I love about stakeouts is the propensity to get lost in tangents?
I looked up at the Holiday Inn. It’s a high rise hotel that rams into the sky out of nowhere. It’s called the downtown Holiday Inn, but it’s technically not in downtown. It’s kind of close, which is good enough for most everybody, I guess.
I was staking out the main entrance figuring that was the best chance to catch one of the two going in. Chance probably had no idea that I was onto him, so it was probably safe to be here and not in a more discreet position. Probably is a word that gets me into trouble a lot, I thought as I turned and looked at the neighborhood. It’s an odd place to meet. Like I said, it’s not really downtown. It’s not too far out of the way, but still it’s not a typical meeting place. Not with actual downtown not so far away and full of places both more chill and more hip. And it’s not exactly convenient to the get here from the airport. But, I’m not the Chamber of Commerce, so if this is where they want to meet, so be it. The top floor of the building rotates, which may be a draw for Chance or his friend from “San Francisco”. It’s the only place in our little city that does that.
It started to rain outside. First, it started in a light mist that reminded me of the spring that brought the bright vibrant greens that now died in the cold of an autumn night. Quickly, though, the rain picked up speed and intensity and the wind joined in. I had to crack my window a little so my windows wouldn’t fog over. I squinted through the plops of water on my windshield as I stared at the entrance of the building.
I chuckled to myself when I remembered. This is where they held prom. The thought crossed my mind so casually, but the pangs of the memories made everything come back fresh.
Mindy James. She looked so gorgeous that night. Her dirty-blonde hair tied in a ribbon, curls busting loose over her ears and one down her forehead, bobbing close to her right eye. The green dress she wore was modest compared to many of the others I saw that night, but she looked fantastic. We’d been dating for a long time before this, so I think I’d forgotten how beautiful she was in that casual way that you can forget after you’ve been in love for a long time. But I remembered that night. Sitting in my car, as Purple Rain started pouring from the speakers and the cold autumn rain pattered around me, I remembered again how beautiful she looked on that warm spring night. And I remembered how much I’d loved her.
There’s something different about your life the first time you tell someone you love them and mean it. Something inside of you breaks, never to be made whole again.
I never meant to cause you any sorrow.
I never meant to cause you any pain.
The music started slowly, quietly. And it brought me to the time before the break-ups and the reconciliations. Before the big fight, where I got arrested before she dropped the charges. Before we split up for good. And long before she was dressed up in a BTO T-shirt to cover the torture that had been inflicted on my sweet Mindy.
It’s such a shame our friendship had to end.
I sat still and rigid on my seat in the front seat with my eyes closed and I could smell her perfume. I could see the curls of her hair as I brushed them over her ear and told her for the first time that I loved her. I felt her body go rigid against mine for a second before she kissed my neck and said she loved me. If I hadn’t known how it would turn out for her, I would’ve said this was the best moment of my pathetic life. I had meant it so much. And I could have actually been good for her. It didn’t have turn out the way it did. I could’ve been less controlling. Less angry and protective. We could’ve made it work on my police salary. Or I could’ve at least caught the monster who skewered her. I could’ve been strong enough for that. And I didn’t have to run to Chicago after my career as a police officer imploded. And that cult, that was a mistake. So many mistakes and all of them still weighed on me, pulling me away from the heights I dreamed of when I was young. I could’ve been better. Stronger, smarter, I don’t know. I could have been something, anything. I should’ve been. But I ended up as this.
I know times are changing.
It’s time we all reach out for something new.
And that means you too.
You say you want a leader,
But you can’t seem to make up your mind.
I think you better close it.
And let me guide you to the Purple Rain.
I felt the tears coming out of my eyes as the song retreated and Blue Oyster Cult replaced it, probably the song that would cause someone else to break down like a sentimental idiot.
I heard a quick pop that sounded like distant thunder, but I suddenly felt the clouds surround my brain and I was out.
**********
I heard something slam and I opened my eyes. I was tied to a chair in a dark room. I struggled just long enough to realize I was tied with rope and that whoever had done this really knew what they were doing—probably a boy scout who earned his knot tying badge a long time ago. I looked around, trying to get my bearings. There was a little light coming in through the sheer curtains that hung over the windows. I couldn’t say for sure how long I’d been out, but I was betting it wasn’t too long. Judging by the view through the sheers, I was in the downtown Hilton.
I noticed a bulky presence sitting on the couch in front of me.
“Chance,” I managed to spit out despite my swollen tongue. There was no response. “Look, I’m pretty sure it’s you Chance, so let’s dispense with the melodrama.”
The lump stayed silent. I took a breath and let it out loudly. I was considering how to get more light in here when I heard a smash and a doorway appeared to my right. Light streamed in from the hallway lights for a second until an imposing figure stepped in and yelled “Police. No one moves.”
A figure behind the first flipped on the lights and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Detective Muldoon,” I said with a crack in my voice. “I am happy to see you.”
Her eyes stared straight past me. I turned my head back to where the lump had been. It was Chance. He’d been stabbed in the chest and on the wall above him someone had written in blood, “I only wanted 2 be some kind of friend”.

Objects in the Rearview Mirror Part VII

“Well, what do you know about this?” Clarence said once Chance and Edna had left the room. The color had left his face and I could see this shook him up. Clarence stood by me during the havoc my life became after Mindy James died and after I turned my life upside down. But. Even after you’ve been proven innocent beyond any doubt, being suspected of something like that still rests in everyone’s mind. They associate you with murder, even long after it’s been settled that you aren’t just ‘not guilty,’ but you’re in fact ‘innocent.’ There’s a huge difference between the two statements, but even being innocent doesn’t stop the thoughts that go through people’s minds. They think, “He could have done it,” or, “If it weren’t for someone else actually having done it, it could have been him.” It’s not logical, but when you’re dealing with the ending of a human life, very few things are logical.
“Search me.” I said. Jane Hernandez had been my last girlfriend. The one whose leaving depressed me enough to listen to turn once again to Phil Collins. During which ‘Simon Flettering’ came into my life.
“Are you still…were you still dating?”
“We’d broken up. It had been very amicable. She wanted to go, I’d wanted her to stay, but she left anyway. There wasn’t anything more to it than that. I didn’t harbor any ill will. I was hurt and I miss her, but not in an angry way.” My voice was shaky and I found it hard to look into Clarence’s eyes. It’s never easy for me to open up to someone about my feelings. Even though I’ve known Clarence for pretty much all my life, we’ve never talked too much about how we feel about things. The closest we got was when he told me he was thinking about marrying Brenda. I remember him clearly saying she was “a treasure”, before clamming up, probably afraid I was gonna give him some shit about it. I stayed quiet though. Mostly because I was embarrassed that he’d been so busy with his life but still managed to find his perfect woman and I’d been knocking around being stupid and refusing to grow up.
“Okay.” He said, his composure seeming to come back to him with every breath he took. “Okay. So.” We went over everything quickly. The last time I saw her. Everything we said during the break-up. My version of events. Where I had been and who I had been with for the last week. Everything. And when we were ready, he went to the door and knocked.
After a minute or two, Edna opened the door and she and Chance walked through and sat at the table. Edna was carrying a pad of paper. They let the room settle for a second and Clarence spoke first.
“My client broke up with Ms. Hernandez a couple days ago. It was an amicable break-up. She initiated the break-up, and [gumshoe] tried to talk her out of it, but she insisted. She walked away without any incident. He’s had no contact with her since then. If you narrow down the time of…well, we are willing to provide you with his whereabouts since the break-up.”
For the quickest second, I thought I saw a grin cross Chance’s face. I suppose seeing the tone of one of the biggest attorneys in the state turn so quickly will do that to someone who was so recently on the bad end of it.
“That’d be great,” Edna said as she pulled a pen from inside her coat pocket and clicked it quickly. Clarence and I rolled through everything with her. Apparently, Jane had been murdered three nights ago, two days after our break-up. Which was good for me, because I had an alibi. But it was bad for me, because Clarence was my alibi. Which meant, I’m out of a lawyer, because he’s now a witness in this investigation. And just as I was thinking that, I got another sinking feeling.
“I’ll just let you know now,” Clarence said, his bluster back up, “just in case it comes up. Anything we said in here, is still covered by attorney-client privilege and I can find dozens of cases that say that as long as we both believe we’re protected by the privilege we are.”
“Unless you’re aiding and abetting a crime.” Chance looked at me for the first time since the interrogation started. He gave me a smile that let me know that he’d played one of the oldest cop tricks in the book. He’d been my friend. “But how about we let the attorney’s sort that out.”
Clarence had his phone out and was dialing. “Exactly.”
It took twenty minutes for three lawyers from Clarence’s firm to arrive. Twenty minutes of Clarence telling me not to say anything and Chance asking questions anyway. Edna, for her part, sat quietly watching everyone, the look of a curious cat fixed to her face.
Attorneys come running when one of their own is in trouble. And they bring out the big artillery. They’re like cops that way. When Chance and Edna heard the attorneys were here, they left Clarence and I in the interview room where we sat quietly listening to the argument grow and fall outside.
It took Clarence’s friends about an hour of yelling at Chance and Edna. Having them call their higher-ups, who called their attorneys, who got together and debated, called the higher-ups back who then called Chance and Edna. Finally, the attorneys came into us. Leading the way was a young attorney wearing a smart blue suit. Her eyes sat behind thick black glasses and her hair was pulled away from her face. She carried a dark leather messenger bag, its strap hanging underneath. Altogether, if I had to pick someone out of a crowd to be my attorney, I’d pick her. The two who followed could’ve been clones. Black suits, black sculpted hair and the boyish good looks of kids just out of law school. Still, though, they had the confident look of people who know they’re going to walk into a shitty situation and come away with a win. I was suddenly feeling a lot better about this situation, and isn’t that what you want from your attorney? Well, that an actually solving your problem.
They were followed in by Chance and Edna—both of whom looked like they’d just been smacked around for a couple weeks.
“Fortune,” Clarence said in a greeting that was more an order.
“Mr. Knox. The police have been kind enough to release you and Mr. [Gumshoe]. You’re free to go.” She turned to me, “[Gumshoe], you’re not allowed to leave the state.”
She paused, so I said, “Sure.”
“Great. Any further contact they want with you is to come through my office.” She extended her hand to me. “I’m your new lawyer. Stella Fortune. It’s nice to meet you.”
We exchanged a good firm hand shake. “Good to meet you.”
“Thank you Ms. Fortune.” Clarence said. “[Gumshoe], we still on for drinks this week?”
“Far as I know,” I said with a shrug.
“Okay. I’ll leave you alone with your attorney.” He said as he moved toward the door, the two clones falling in line behind him. As he was about to touch the door, he looked directly at Chance. “You’ll want to leave him alone with his attorney as well?”
Chance leveled his face at the Big Man, a look of sheer anger on his face. Whatever had started between these two tonight was something big. The whole room was silent as the two men stood looking at each other, waiting for the other to back away.
Chance’s upper lip curled as the door to the room opened. A young uniformed cop stuck his head in with a chipper edge that said he’d probably just come on duty and had no idea how tense this situation was. “Mr. Clemens? Jim from San Francisco, well, he said he was from San Francisco the first time then he said Santa Fe. Anyway, he called the front desk looking for you. He said to tell you he’ll meet you at the Holiday Inn hotel bar at 11 tonight.” He started to close the door, but stuck it back in quickly. “Downtown,” he said before he turned and left.
Chance blinked and took a second. “Thanks.”
Clarence and clones walked quickly through the door following the uniform. Chance gave them a ten second head start before heading out. And Edna stayed long enough to give me a stern look of disapproval before I was alone with Ms. Fortune.
The door had barely shut behind Edna when my attorney asked, “So, did you do it?”
I smiled at her, “Not even a little bit.” Clarence had once told me he never asked his clients if they did it. He said it made him a better attorney to believe they didn’t, even when the facts overwhelmingly pointed out that they did do it. But, from my point of view—you know, as someone who’s being investigated for murder—there’s something nice about telling your attorney you aren’t guilty. It also helps that it’s true.
“That always helps. Why don’t we go somewhere that’ll be a bit more comfortable and we can go over everything I’m assuming you told Mr. Knox.”
It felt good to get out of the interview room. Just the space of the room outside felt so liberating and I stretched my arms above my head and yawned. It had been a long day.
When I was outside the station, I was surprised to see the streetlights had retreated into the grayness of another cloudy day. Another day started by leaving a police station. Great. This was a habit that needed breaking.
We ended up heading to a cute, little diner not far away. Stools and a counter sat in front of the grill and the booths lay by the windows. The waitress was about 55, maybe less—I have a hard time estimating what aging the chronic smoking had done to her. She had wrinkles around everything and her gray hair had been died a beautiful shade of orange. She took our orders, calling me ‘honey’ and Ms. Fortune ‘dearie’ and coughing into her notepad every four seconds. I ordered coffee and a donut. Stella eggs with a side of hash browns and toast. An old jukebox sat in the far corner next to the unisex bathroom and a door that had a sign taped to it which read, “Employee’s Onley”. All in all, this was the perfect place to be right now.
After we went over everything I’d told Clarence and she asked pretty much the same questions, she flipped her notepad to the first clear page and asked me, “So, what the hell is going on here?” I rubbed my suddenly droopy eyes. “I haven’t the foggiest. But it seems like I’m right in the middle of all this.”
“Someone’s framing you?”
“Maybe.” The jukebox in the corner kicked on. A little Blue Oyster Cult. I was liking this place even more.
“You don’t think you’re being framed?” She said as she started to doodle on her notepad.
“I did. But now I’m wondering. If you wanted to frame me, you’d have to get something better on me than being near the first place and having my fingerprints of the second. It doesn’t look good, but I can explain both. You’d need hard evidence.”
“Jane was the first victim, so your fingerprints were at the first. And that’s pretty hard evidence, especially since she was your girlfriend.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “That doesn’t look good. But, there’s still a lot that doesn’t make sense.”
“Like why is this killer killing people the same way as Aaron Masters did back in the day?” So, she knew about my history. Great. I mean, it’s good, because she’s my attorney, but sometimes I wished the past would just stay in the past. I sighed and looked at her pad of paper. She was drawing a picture of a stick figure chained up.
“I hate to sound narcissistic, but that’s gotta be to get at me.”
“Well, hold on. Maybe this killer is related to him. A son or something, you know, carrying on the family business.” She looked up from her drawing.
“Yeah, but then everything else is a coincidence?” I said.
“No. Maybe. Well, they could be after you because you put their father—or maybe it’s just someone they look up to and you put them away.”
“But, I didn’t. I was gone by then.”
Her face dropped and I wasn’t sure if the disappointment was from not being right or because I had to remind her that I ran away before Aaron Masters was caught. Someday, I’m hoping I’ll have to remind people of my mistakes less often. “That’s true.”
A still moment settled over the diner as Blue Oyster Cult left and the jukebox was still for a second. “Hey,” she looked up at me again, “what is up with writing lyrics on the walls of the crime scenes?”
“After they caught him, Masters said he liked to whistle while he worked, and he wanted everyone to know what song he was killing the person to.” I said.
“Gorgeous.” She said as she went back to her doodling.
“Yeah. We spent hours trying to think about how the lyrics would help us find him or assess his state of mind or figure out where he was meeting these people, but we came up with nothing. Even after talking to him, state doctors think it was completely random. I mean one lyric was Van Morrison, another was something the Andrews Sisters sang. The last one was Meatloaf. It just never came together to mean anything.”
She let that hang in the air for a second before saying, “So, you’ve been following this case, well, Masters really, but you’ve been following it for a long time.”
I glared at the jukebox as I heard the opening of “I Would Do Anything for Love” come on. Just my damned luck.
“I’m sorry,” she said after I’d stared at the jukebox for an uncomfortable amount of time. “I was just—“
“No. It’s not you,” I said hoarsely. Something in my head moved. “The last victim had a Meatloaf lyric. These two victims have Meatloaf lyrics. Why?”
“That’s a good question.” She said and looked at me.
“I was out on the prowl down by the edge of the track --And like a son of a jackal I’m a leader of the pack.” I spoke the lyrics quietly as she looked at me quizzically. “It’s from All Revved up with No Place to Go by Meatloaf. It’s what they found on the wall the first time around.” After her eyes shifted, I said, “It’s off Bat Out of Hell.”
“Okay.” She thought for a moment. “There’s something about that last kill then. Something that this guy is fixated on.”
“Yeah.” I said. The tired was starting to crash on me. We sat there for a while quietly finishing up our breakfasts. Well, I’d finished my donut and had started begging off the coffee, hoping I’d get some sleep in later, but she was still working on her hash browns. It took an hour or so, but Meatloaf stopped and some Electric Light Orchestra came on making me smile. A good, honest smile. I hadn’t smiled in a long while.
After she’d scooped up the last of her food, she said, “Flettering. That’s such an odd name. You think that’s Dutch?” She started scribbling his name with a big S and F.
SF. I was feeling that thing in my head move again.
San Francisco. Or Santa Fe.
“Why does a man who’s never been out of the state have a friend from San Francisco or Santa Fe staying at the downtown Holiday Inn?” I said as something started to click together in my head.
“What?” She said.
“That cop came in and said Chance had a friend from San Francisco or Santa Fe staying in the Holiday Inn. What kind of person doesn’t know what city they’re from?”
“That cop was so young, he was probably just confused. Or stupid. There’s probably a reason he’s on desk duty.”
“Still,” I said after a pause, “seems a bit odd. And it might be just a coincidence that San Francisco, Santa Fe and Simon Flettering have the same initials.”
“It’s probably a coincidence. It’s probably a friend who has been out of the state.” I knew she was being very logical, but it had already rooted in my mind.
“But, it was so odd. Jim from San Francisco. If it’s his friend, then why not just say ‘Jim called’?” It was all starting to click in my mind. “And he’s from Indianola.”
“Indianola?”
I put down some money on the table and stood up. “Sorry, I’ve got a hunch I’ve gotta play.”
“Where are you headed?”
“First I’m going home to get a nap. Then, I’m gonna stake out the Holiday Inn.”
“As your attorney, I would have to advise you to keep away from anything having to do with this case.”
“As your client,” I said smirking at her as I backed toward the door, “I would have to advise you to be ready for a call in the next couple of days. Cause I’ve either figured this out or I’m getting into a lot of trouble.”
I started toward the door, but turned back to her quickly. “Oh, can I get a ride back to my car?”