Objects in the Rearview Mirror Part VI

The Big Man.
As I sat there looking at the walls of the same interview room I’d been in only the night before, he was all I could think about. He’s been given that name not because of his height or weight, but because he was a heavyweight in the local legal community. Normally, I wouldn’t be able to afford someone of his caliber, but I’d known him since he was just Clarence Knox of Studebaker Elementary. Nothing big about him—just another kid trying to make it through the day with his lunch money and his dignity. And in one of the few lucky decisions of my life, I had made a friend of him by stopping some of the other kids from picking on him.
And we were virtually inseparable since then. We were on the same little league teams. We went to middle school and high school together, played on the same varsity teams (though I got a lot more playing time). We took the same classes (though he did a lot better in them). We drank Icehouse or Hawkeye Vodka or Tortilla Tequila together as we went to the same parties. He went to college while I started at the academy, but we still stayed in touch. I visited him a couple times. He graduated his college class as valedictorian and went on to law school, as I was pounding my beat. And even as he’s become one of the more respected legal minds in the state and earned the nickname “Big Man” with high-profile wins and a boat load of the state’s biggest names as clients, we still have a weekly drink--unless either of us have a huge case that absolutely won’t allow it. He’s drinking good whiskey, and I’m drinking good beer, but other than that, things are pretty much the same as they were when we were sitting at the ugly orange tables in the cafeteria of Studebaker.
And now he represents me when I run into the occassional scrape. Won’t charge me either. That thought had me smiling widely even before I heard him walk into the police station and yell at either Edna or Chance, or both.
“He has the right to an attorney whether he’s charged or not, and you both know it. If either of you want to continue working in this department doing more than handing out jaywalking tickets, you’ll point me in the right direction and give me five minutes with him.” It’s hard to believe anyone ever tried to pick on Clarence. Sometimes I think part of the reason he’s such a passionate advocate is because he remembers having his face pushed in the grass and knowing there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
After a moment of silence, the door to the interview room swung open and Clarence walked through. His hand grabbed the edge of the door and he slammed the door behind him as Chance stood there looking in at the back of the Big Man’s head.
“I swear, if it weren’t for thug cops I wouldn’t even want to be a lawyer.” He said as the redness drained from his face and a smile snuck up the left side of his face.
“You always make an impression CK.” I’ve always called him CK. I guess I could call him Big Man, but it doesn’t really seem to encapsulate the man like the dumb nickname he’s had since he was 8.
“That I do.” He took a deep breath and let it out as he sat at the table across from me. “So. What’s this all about?”
I ran down the whole story for him, from the mysterious client to the check at the first crime scene and the arrival at the second crime scene. He took some quick notes and when I was finished he looked at me. “So,” he said quizzically, “they have nothing concrete on you, but they’ve dragged you down here twice to talk about it?”
“Basically.”
“Well. You should’ve called me last time, because then there wouldn’t be a this time.”
“Gotta be friendly with some cops in my business CK.”
“If you say so. Well, when they come back in, I want you to say nothing. If you say anything we’ll be here for another half hour. You stay quiet, we’re out of here in five minutes.”
“Got it.” We sat quietly for a second while we waited. “So how’s Brenda?”
“She’s good. You know, keeping busy.” Brenda was his wife. They’d met in college when they were working in the library together. First time I met her, she hated me. Couldn’t really blame her, because the first impression she got of me was when I called her husband to bail me out after my incident with Mindy James. But, I’d managed to win her over after years of trying. “She isn’t happy unless she’s working.”
The door swung open and Edna stepped through. “You two ready to chat?”
Chance walked in behind her slowly and closed the door quietly behind him. Clarence moved around to the seat beside me and sat smiling up at her. “As much as we’d like to cooperate with your investigation, we don’t think we can be of anymore help. So, we’ll be going.”
She smiled back at him. “I think you’re both gonna want to stick around.”
Chance sat down, quietly, intently staring at the Big Man. I’m guessing Chance hadn’t been talked to like that in a long while.
“Any particular reason for that?”
“We found his fingerprints at the site of the most recent murder.” The breath jumped out of my mouth as if I’d been punched in the chest, but Clarence didn’t bat an eyelash.
“That could mean just about anything.” It probably did mean I was staying around here a little longer, I thought to myself.
“Well. Finding his fingerprints at one murder. Finding him at the other. Yeah, that could mean something.” She said as she pulled her chair out slowly and sat down. “What it means now is that your client is sticking around for a while.”
She set a file down on the table and my eyes went to it. Plain brown paper file. No writing on it. I could tell there was something in it, but I couldn’t tell what. Which is just what she wanted. For all I know she’s got her grocery list and a phone bill in there.
“So, why would we find your fingerprints at the scene of a murder [gumshoe]?” Her face hadn’t stopped smiling since she walked in. Chance, on the other hand, hadn’t stopped looking at Clarence.
A good lawyer doesn’t let you answer a question unless he knows the answer or he knows you won’t hurt yourself. Clarence gave me a nod, knowing I wouldn’t be dumb enough to incriminate myself on this question.
“If I knew where we were talking about, I might be able to help you guys out.” I remained polite, as if what this was turning out to be wasn’t a worry to me.
“We’ll get to that.” Chance spoke so quietly I wasn’t sure he’d spoken for a minute.
“Yes,” Edna continued. “Let’s start with telling you some facts.” This was a game Edna liked to play with suspects. She’d lay out some of the facts, keep tight control over the information, and lay it out in a way that made the suspect look completely guilty. “First we’ve got evidence of you being at both crime scenes. Then we’ve got the similarities of this case to the one you were a suspect in not all that long ago. Then we’ve got your lame alibi, which doesn’t stand up and which no jury would believe. That’s almost enough to get you convicted right there.”
She paused. Clarence and I sat there quietly.
“Of course, then you visit the first crime scene. That doesn’t help you look innocent.”
“I’m sure I could make the case that it makes your partner look suspicious too. Or incompetent.” Clarence continued to speak even as Chance glared at him with an anger I was starting to find amusing. “And nothing else is anything more than circumstantial evidence that doesn’t add up to anything. Please, get somewhere or we’re leaving.”
“So, you don’t recognize the apartment complex?” Chance spoke, but still didn’t take his eyes off of Clarence.
Clarence shook his head and I stopped before I even realized I was about to answer. “Don’t answer that.”
“It’s always the innocent guys who hide behind their lawyer.” It was the first moment that Clarence actually took notice of Chance’s continued glare. For a second I thought they were gonna start punching each other, but then Clarence shrugged it off and turned back to Edna.
“Detective Muldoon, we’ve run into each other more than once and I’ve never jerked you around. And I’ve liked that you’ve never jerked me around. So please, let’s dispense with all this. You’re not going to get a confession from [gumshoe]. So, if you want to ask some questions, just give me a reason to stay.”
She sized him up. “We just found the body of Jane Hernandez.”
His voice trembled only a little bit, but it was enough for me to know the Big Man was worried. “I’m gonna need a moment alone with my client before we can answer your questions.”

Objects in the Rearview Mirror Part V

Getting Chance to tag along with me was a risky proposition.  On the one hand, if trouble or questions arose, having a cop with me was a good thing—he could call someone for help or answers.  And I might be able to pick his brain and find out some things that I probably shouldn’t know.  On the other, if I needed to do something, well let’s say “untoward,” Chance might not be all right with my way of doing things.  Plus there was the fact that I had not been officially cleared of the murder.  For now, the benefits outweighed the risks. 

As we drove to the address Bruce had given us, I took note of my surroundings.  Chance’s car was clean and neat.  Not quite meticulous, but not far from there.  There was a box of tissues sitting in between the seats and a trash can sitting just behind the center console.  Most unmarked police cars were at least somewhat clean, because the cops didn’t get the same car everyday and so it was considered bad form to keep a car messy, or to personalize it too much.  But this car had nothing from which I could really get a feel for Chance.  No picture tucked under the visor.  No magazine or book in case his stake-out, which would’ve been me, was in for a boring night.  There wasn’t even a CD player or iPod or anything to listen to music.  And to say that Chance was not a talker would be an understatement.  We both sat quietly as we rode to our unknown destination.

When we finally arrived, I was more than a little surprised to find it was a mid-rise apartment building. I say mid-rise, for those of you not from Des Moines.  For this city, it was about as high as they go. Not a fancy building, a little rough around the edges, but not too far from the new coffee shops and where the bohemian fair of downtown used to be. I’m betting this place housed mostly kids fresh out of college or young professionals who called the area “edgy”, even though the biggest crime around here was from the residents of the new lofts not picking up after their dogs. To say it was a nice juxtaposition to the places this case had taken me thus far, though, would be an understatement. Of course, what to do with this wasn’t obvious. We couldn’t just run in and ask everyone in the building random questions about murders and Meatloaf. So, we’d probably have to get a list of tenants and run down their rap sheets.
I looked at the building and something crawled in the back of my head. This building looked familiar, but not quite. Maybe from a different angle.
“So, what’re we gonna do?” Chance broke the silence that had blossomed into awkwardness.
“That I haven’t figured out.”
When was the last time I was in this area?
“So,” I said before things got too quiet again, “you gonna spill about this case?”
“About this case?”
“Yup.”
“To you? A,” he cleared his throat, “‘person of interest’?”

“I’m really a person of interest? C’mon?”
“Maybe I’m just yanking your chain. It’s turning out to be a little more fun than I thought it would be.”
“Hey, that’s great for you, really.” He smirked.
“So, what’d you find out about the apartment where they found her?”
“It was rented out to a man three months ago. Paid for six months in cash.”
“Cash, huh? The landlord give you any description?”
“Nothing great. Medium height, medium build. Was wearing a black hat and sun glasses and they only met the once. Could be our guy or, you know just about anybody.”
I looked in the mirror, saw the Cardinal hat sitting on my head, the prescirption glasses sitting on my nose and my somewhat more than medium build and said, “Well, just about.”
“Yeah. I was thinking it didn’t sound like you.”
“Edna still wants me followed, though?”
“Yeah. I think she figures that if she believes your story, then this is about you. And if she doesn’t it is you.”
“Yeah. It’s the right call. That woman hates my guts, but she’s always dead-on.”
“She is the best,” he said with a sigh. Not the loving kind, mind you. It was the kind of sigh that revealed a grudging respect. The kind that you give to someone who is the best at something and won’t let you forget it. It was the same kind of respect I’d given her back when I was still on the force and struggling to keep up with her.
“Hates you, huh?”
“No offense, but they should have someone a little lower on the totem watching you. Even if you did it. I should be doing real detective work instead of baby-sitting some suspect who was smart enough to know he’d be followed.”
“Yup. Let me guess. You’ve been working with her for six months.”
“Just two.”
“Well, well. My friend, she adores you. I was still getting her coffee at 2 months and she hadn’t been in the department much longer than I had.”
“I find that less comforting than you probably intended.”
“I get that all the time.” An amicable pause hung in the air before I broke it. “So, you from around here?”
“Indianola,” he said quietly. “I’ve never even left the state.”
“Ah, you’re not missing much.” I said, my mind wandering for a moment to the few times I’ve been out of the state.
“So, what wasn’t in the file folders?” He said, his voice louder for some reason. “From the old case. What is it that’s really wrenching Edna?”
“Probably a lot of things.” I said, my mind drifting. “The first cases weren’t ours. They happened in Warren County.   We didn’t know about them until after the next two. The first one we got was Mindy James. She was a high school sweetheart of mine, except we stayed together after high school and it quickly became less than sweet. She’d stabbed me once and I’d smacked her during a fight. They didn’t find out about that until after victim four, and I was quickly booted off the case. But not before I’d already looked over the crime scenes. Victims I hadn’t known or been in contact with, but I’d been acting weird. Everyone noticed and after they found out about Mindy, I was a suspect. I’d done more to make myself a suspect, broken the evidence chain of custody, smacked around a witness who didn’t want to be witnesses, mouthed off to superiors, veered the investigation away from where it should be going.”  My voice trailed and there was a couple moments of awkward silence.
“How did the police not know about your history with her?” His voice was not that of the guy I’d been palling around with all day. This was definitely his cop voice, hard and full of danger.  I looked over at Chance and could see something in his eyes.  It was something I’d seen before, but I couldn’t remember where.
“I pulled the report of the domestic disturbance. Hid it. I didn’t want anyone to find it. I wanted to be the guy who brought this case in. Didn’t help when Edna found it in my car.” I’m not sure why I’d decided to answer him so honestly, but the silence that settled in let me know I might’ve made a serious mistake. It’s one thing to tell someone you’re a fuck-up in general terms, but to give them the specifics (and I had been pretty specific now that I thought about it) is to give them every excuse to call you a scumbag. And when you tell a cop that you were a bad cop for a bad reason, they tend to not like that.
That’s when he got the call.
“Where’s here?” I heard him say. He paused. “I’m not far from there now.” He shut his phone and looked at me. “What’re the fucking odds?” He said it with the kind of incredulity that made me wonder if he was more than reconsidering his opinion of me. And that’s when I recognized that look in his eye.  It was determination.  Determination to find and hunt and get his man.  I’d seen it before when I was a cop. 
And seeing that look on his face now told me there was a good chance that saying pretty much anything was going to make me sound guilty. I wasn’t sure what I was up against, and if I said the wrong thing it could be very bad. Or if I said the “right” thing, that would be wrong because maybe I had thought ahead enough to have a something to say.  Or maybe I was a good enough actor to sound stymied or confused. Of course, I realized in the deafening awkwardness that settled over the car, saying nothing didn’t really proclaim me as innocent in all this.
“Guess where we found our next victim?” He studied me with the look of disgust. “Edna’s parked in the back of the building.” He was waiting for me to say something. “Something’s definitely wrong here.”
“It can’t be a mistake, Chance. But, I’d have to be a complete idiot to hand you an address that I knew a dead body to be at?”
“Guess you would.” He turned back toward the building, but he kept me in his peripheral. The quick transformation he’d made from buddy to cop was enough to tell me he’d been much more prepared and informed on my history than he let on.
I took a deep breath and let it out. It sucks when your biggest mistakes are brought back up for you to live again.
“Stay in the car.” He said as he got out of the car and headed to the crime scene. I knew what this meant. Translated from cop it meant, “We don’t have enough to arrest you, which would make us remind you of your rights, so we’re hoping you will not realize you have the right to leave. Then, we’re hoping you will incriminate yourself by saying or doing something stupid. Then we’ll arrest you and let you know you had the right to be quiet and get a lawyer, who is probably a lot better at dealing with this situation than you are, because you’re freaking out.”
I watched him walk up to the building and went over the choice in my head. First, I could run. I could get out of the car and run. Track down every lead I could and see if I could get whoever was killing these people and making me look like an asshole before the cops drug me in and gave me the grilling. It wouldn’t be illegal. It wouldn’t make me friends on the force, either. And when they did drag me in, they would make sure I knew I should’ve stayed when they were polite.
The problem was, I didn’t have any leads really. I could maybe pull something off this place, but it would take me more time. Costly time.
Which brought me to my second choice. I could stay in the car and wait. I’m assuming I’ll get questioned and they may let me know what I’m looking at. If I’m really lucky maybe that person was alive and could identify someone else. Or at least not me. Or maybe the person could have become a body while I was with Chance, giving me at least a good alibi. Worst case scenario, I get thrown in jail. And after the last grilling I got, I’m not relishing the opportunity to climb back in the ring and get yelled at.
My quick rule of thumb, when confronted with two choices, neither of which I really like, is to take a third choice. I pulled out my cell phone.
"CK, I've gotten into a bit of trouble. You wanna meet me at the police station on Locust?" I listened for a second. "Well, I'm not sure yet. But you'll definitely be on the news."

Objects in the Rearview Mirror Part IV

You have to be a good judge of character in this job. Take, for instance, my situation with the good detective. I would be a fool to let him handcuff me if I thought he was involved in this or if he gave me some form of the heebie geebies. For some reason, I liked this guy. Trusted him. Don’t know how to explain it really, but I think it came from watching him try to grill me the night before. There was something very earnest about his anger. He still cared about the victims—still felt like he owed them a duty to solve their crimes. He was young.

Still, he was doing me a big favor by letting me into the crime scene. But I was in handcuffs, which is obviously risky. Especially since I’d only known this guy for a few hours. This was either one of the fastest jump to handcuffs two men have consensually made or it was a huge mistake. Still, I like to know the odds are in my favor.
We made our way up the stairs. What this place lacked in charm on the outside, it made no attempt to make up for on the inside. The railing was rickety and falling. The lights flickered and there was a thin layer of what I have to call “goo” covering the floor. The second floor door had a welcome matt in front of the door, which almost distracted from the police tape across the doorway.
“So, I don’t think I caught your name the other night.” I said, trying to break the odd silence of walking upstairs while I was wearing handcuffs.
“I guess you wouldn’t have.” He said quietly. “Chance Clemens.”
“Good to meet you.” I said, trying to offer him my right hand to shake, but giving him both instead. “I’m [Gumshoe].” We made a nice shake of it anyway.
He pulled a flashlight from inside his coat. “No lights in there. So you stay 2 feet from me at all times.”
As he opened the door and flicked on the light, I could tell I was going to regret this. “So, you think I’m innocent.” I said taking a step through the door as he opened it. The room (and that was all it was, one large room, a toilet behind a door and a furnace standing near the far corner) was what you’d call an “open floor plan”, but I can’t imagine that’s a concern of anyone who rents here. There was a little light coming in through the windows, which probably lit the room about as much as anyone would want. In the harsh light of the flashlight, a lot of ugly stains showed up. I don’t think they necessarily had anything to do with the crime, but it certainly didn’t help.
I slipped the handcuffs and pulled them off. Ahh, yes, putting the odds in my favor.
“Why would I think you’re innocent?” He said.
“No way I can talk you into this if you’re not having your doubts.”
“She. Edna. She’s got something against you. I haven’t figured out what it is, but she doesn’t like you and I think that’s clouding her on this.” He shined the light on the ceiling and I saw the chains hanging down, catching the light with an almost playful glint. “This is where she was found. Hanging from these chains.”
“So, she was far enough that no one could see in from the street.” I looked at the chains. They were thick. I know a lot about chains as you can see. “Yeah. There was a thing when I left the force.” He moved his light down the chains as if he expected the chains to tell us something they hadn’t before.
“Yeah. No one tipped us as to what was inside. The apartments across the street aren’t inhabited by what you would call upstanding citizens. What sort of thing?” He shined a light on the floor.
“I got caught up in a murder investigation. I was the prime suspect for awhile and I took off. Pissed Edna off. Eventually, the evidence turned a different way and I was off the hook. Still, I left the force before they could kick me off—you know for running out on an investigation—and set up as a PI. Edna didn’t appreciate me running off without a fight.” I took a breath. “No blood on the floor.”
I was looking over the scene, when I heard the rustling in the corner behind the furnace. Chance kept his flashlight steady on the area below the chains. Maybe he didn’t hear it.
“A lot of rats in here,” I said hoarsely.
“Yeah. Saw a bunch in here the other night.” He slowly shined his light back up the chains. “We thought whoever it was moved the body here after she died. Can’t figure out a reason, yet.” He paused. “You got a way of screaming innocence.”
“Last time it was suffocations. Rope, I think.” And then he shined a light on the wall, and I could see the writing. “Well. That right there is why I’m a prime suspect, Chance.”
“So, you do recognize it?”
I wasn’t a big Meatloaf fan. Don’t get me wrong, he had some great stuff going on in the 70’s and his voice was that of an unchained god—powerful, raw, and dangerous. And I even want to like some of his newer stuff. But after what happened last time, it was hard not to feel the lyrics, the music itself, maybe, were tainted. Even so, I can recognize most of the unobscure Meatloaf lyrics. Call it a gift if you must. “Yeah. I recognize it.”
In large painted letters on the wall was, “WILL YOU HOSE ME DOWN WITH HOLYWATER IF I GET TOO HOT? HOT!”
“Meatloaf?” He said.
“Yeah.” I turned to look at him. “That’d be why she asked about my record collection.”
“That’d be it. Didn’t find any Meatloaf though.”
“No. But you did find some REO Speedwagon, which probably means something, since she was probably dressed after she was killed.”
“That how it was last time?” He kept his eyes on me, but didn’t give anything away.
“Yeah.” I closed my eyes and I could still see Mindy James. I’d known her in highschool. Went to junior prom with her, but it had been a while and a lot of arguments before she was found her chained to the wall, same way Ms. Flettering had been, more or less. Strangled, dressed later and chained up. We think she stayed that way for a couple days until a mailman walking by the house smelled something and peaked in a window.
“Still a lot of people like REO Speedwagon, so it’s not like there’s a lot on you. Yet. You done?”
“Yeah.” I spoke quietly. I didn’t say much as we walked down the stairs and out the front door. I waited until we got to the car. “You read the file on that case?”
“Just this morning.” I threw the cuffs at him. “So, you’re a magician too?”
“I’m full of surprises.” I rubbed my wrists and let out a sigh. Knowing that a murder spree that claimed 6 people, ruined the lives of friends and family, and punched my career in the kidneys, had been thrown in my face again wasn’t sitting well with me.
“So. What’d you find out about that client of yours?”
“You didn’t seem to be buying that last night.””Ahh that,” he said with a waive of his hand, “you know how it is. You keep shaking someone till something falls out of ‘em. You were holding something back.”
“Yeah. So was your partner.” His mouth climbed up the side of his face, but he stayed quiet. “I got a guy calling me about my client. Hopefully any minute.” I checked my watch, 2:30.
“You know I’m gonna have to follow you wherever you head next.”
“Guess so.” I said, ducking into the Camino.
“We found that Nickelback album. For some reason it was stuck in a drawer way far away from all of the rest of the CDs.”
“Son of a bitch.” I pulled my head out of the car, rethinking my strategy. “We could carpool.”
Before Chance could say anything, my cell phone rang. I walked away from Detective Clemens for a minute to take the call. I turned my back to him and the apartment. Bruce came through. Of course.
“So,” I said after I hung up the phone. “The car is registered to Aaron Masters. Here’s the address we’re given. Let’s take your car.”
“Aaron Masters. Name rings a bell.”
“That’d be because it’s the name of the man who is sitting in jail right now. For the murders of six people. Liked to strangle them and dress them up in t-shirts of classic rock bands.” I let it sit there in a minute. “Way I figure it, we’re either dealing with a copycat who is trying to pay homage to the original.”
“Or?” Chance spoke quickly.
“Or we get lucky and it’s just a guy with a somewhat common name and we put him down quick for this.”
“No way we’re that lucky.” Chance said pushing the car into gear and heading out toward the address. “So, you didn’t get a chance to interview him?”
“Wasn’t even a suspect when I was around, so I never had the pleasure. I’m thinking I’m not gonna get a chance to interview him now either.”
“What do you think? Another pizza parlor?”
“We're probably not that lucky either.”

Objects in the Rearview Mirror Part III

It was a long night. First they drove me down to the station. Then I waited. Then I was grilled. First by Detective Muldoon (clearly we weren’t on a first name basis anymore), then by her new partner—a younger guy who, if I’m allowed to guess, was really trying to impress his more experienced partner by out-toughing her (which he wasn’t pulling off, but you have to love his eagerness). Then they both grilled me. And then I waited some more. I was actually starting to wonder if they could have something on me and if it would be worth it to call my lawyer when they kicked me out. It was 3:45am and they’d spent all night getting nothing out of me.
This city is not kind at 3:45am. Especially not to someone who’d spent most of the night before singing old Phil Collins songs and trying to forget someone who had left just a bit before. The cops begrudgingly drove me to the Camino, which was just junky enough to fit in with the rest of the neighborhood. The nice officer opened the door and let me out of the back of the car.
“Now, don’t you get mugged” he said as he ducked back into his car and his partner floored it, kicking up some dust at me. Can’t you remember a time when a gentleman would wait till you got in your car before he shoved off? Me neither.
By 5:10, I was home and by 5:11, I was out.
My alarm went off at 7:28 and I drug myself out of bed. My head tilted to the side as I carried it to the bathroom for my shower. The water steamed against my back and I think it got some of the wrinkles out of my cloudy head. I started to piece together everything that had been yelled at me last night. That is the nice thing about police interrogations. They tell you a lot of information to try and coax you to give them information—hopefully information that will prove you are guilty of something. Now, a lot of the time you can’t trust what they’re telling you, but I had a feeling most of what they were telling me was true.
When the police went in the building, they found no one in the first floor apartment. The tenants (a man and a woman, unmarried) showed up twenty-five minutes after I was sent to the station. They had been out at the movies, and were not surprised to find police swarming in the neighborhood. They were surprised to find the problem was with their building.
The second floor apartment was the problem. After busting open the door, they found a woman, completely clothed—in jeans and an old REO Speedwagon T-shirt—chained standing up. Her arms were above her head and she slunk down like a rag doll. Her right shoulder had been dislocated and her left was twisting awkwardly. But that isn’t what killed her. Apparently it was one of the five bullet wounds on her chest. They didn’t have pictures of the crime scene yet, so I just had to imagine it as they told me in that accusing way you learn after being on the job for a while. At first I think they were trying to guilt me into confessing, but then I think the guy (whose name turned out to be Detective Clemens) just got so worked up he just had to yell and pound the table. Then Detective Muldoon got him reigned in and they went back to the guilt. If I’d have done it, I might’ve confessed.
The woman was Selma Flettering, and she’d never been married. Which meant that my client was likely either a stalker or a murderer—maybe both. It also meant the cops weren’t buying my “I have a client” story. It was too hackneyed even if it was true. Oh, and it also meant I was probably going to be followed for a while.
After the shower, I took about 15 minutes to start putting my apartment back together after the cops had executed their search warrant. I tried not to be put out. I was at the scene. I had no alibi. I had a flimsy story about having a client. That’s plenty reason for the cops to mess up my stuff. The rumors about why I left the force probably didn’t help me much either, but I tried not to think about any of it.
The first thing I had to do was find out who the man who walked into my office was. Then I could ram his head into something hard. Problem was, I had taken the check to the bank and deposited it, so I couldn’t look at the information on it right away. I called the bank as they were opening to see if they’d let me look at it, but they said it was in process. Even when I told them I was 100% sure the check would bounce. The teller told me I could look at it once they’d processed the transaction in 3-5 days. Great. So, the best way to get the information I needed was to get to him. For a normal detective this would be a problem. Lucky for me, I’m not a normal detective. I have Bruce.
Sitting on the couch, I took a small sip of the Old Crow Bruce gave me when I first got there. Bruce was a nice old man who lived across the street from my offices. He had one daughter and two grandkids who never came to see him. They didn’t come for the same reason I did stop by. Bruce was a paranoid man. You name a conspiracy and he’d buy it. Aliens in the White House. Governments fixing elections. Lincoln Assassination. Kennedy Assassination (both). He probably started some of the ‘theories’.
As I was waiting for Bruce to bring me footage from one of the four security cameras he has covering the street between his house and my office, I tried to think about last night. What was it I missed? A man I didn’t know had come to my office, given me a sad story about his wife leaving him and then had sent me to the house where that woman had been brutally murdered. How did he know I wouldn’t go to either of the other places? Was the woman already murdered and someone was waiting there to frame me? That didn’t seem to make sense. I’d missed something. “Yup.” Bruce’s voice startled me, but that’s sort of the effect he has on people. Bruce is about 50 years old, and though you hear conspiracy theorist and you get a picture in your mind, Bruce is none of that. He’s lithe and lean and doesn’t own a computer--not because he’s worried about anyone hacking him (because he could find a way to make it impenetrable no doubt), but because he doesn’t want all the useless information that people who don’t know what they’re talking about. His words, not mine bloggers. He’s not a technophobe though. That much was clear when he started playing his survellience on the big flatscreen television. “Two cars pull by that late. One goes straight by, I think it’s Mrs. Sabatini’s lover. The other goes around the block twice and parks. I’m betting that’s your guy.”
“Mrs. Sabatini’s got a lover?”
“Oh, yeah. A couple months now, or at least that’s how long I’ve noticed. I think he works for the government or something, so I’ve gotta keep an eye on him. Mr. Sabatini still doesn’t know.”
“Too bad. They seemed like such a strong couple.”
He shook his head, before popping up, “Well, that’s how it works. So. I zoomed in on the license plate and made a call down to a friend at DMV. It’ll take him a bit to go through the information, but he’ll get it to me soon. When he does, I’ll get it to you. So, what’s this about?”
“New case. Looks like my client sent me to the middle of a clusterfuck.”
“That murder they caught you at?”
Of course Bruce is gonna know about that. “Yeah. You hear anything else about it?”
“Not yet, but I’ve been keeping an eye on that area for a while. Been a lot of crime there lately.”
“Yeah, it’s a real shithole down there.”
“And the government.” He spoke looking directly at me, earnestly, but without any sort of crazed. “They’ve been conducting experiments down there. I’ve got a source who has some inside knowledge, let’s say. Nothing as bad as they were doing in Des Moines back in the day, but you’ve gotta be careful.”
“Thanks, Bruce.” I said getting up. “You give me a call on my cell when you get something?”
“If you trust those things.”
“I don’t think the government is really all that interested in me.”
“Well, I was more worried about the ear cancer.” He said with a grin. “But, trust me, you’re exactly the kind of guy they’re interested in.”
With that, I headed out. I decided to check out the other two addresses “Simon” had given me. The first was a pizza place (and not a very good one by the looks of things) and the second was a public library. So, that’s how he knew I’d be headed to the right place. Well, at least he’s not a genius. But, I’m making a note never to check whatever’s at the top of a list first ever again.
It was around 2 pm when I got back to the two-story that had started my story. I wish the place looked different in the day, but it didn’t, really. To be fair to that beaten down shithole, it was a drab day with clouds hiding all but the faintest idea that the sun was even in the sky. As I stopped the car and turned off the engine, I looked in my rear view.
He’d been on me since the morning. It didn’t matter much when I was cruising past a shitty pizza place or the quiet little library, but this was the scene of a crime. A crime the person following me believed I had committed. So, this was gonna be tricky. I sat for a second weighing my options, before getting out of the car.
“Hey,” I said as I walked toward his car. Yeah, this was the best plan I could come up with.
At first, he tried to act like I hadn’t called him out, but as I kept coming, he opened the car door, stepped out and looked at me unhappily. It was the same detective who’d grilled me last night and he looked like he’d slept just about as long as I had.
“So, I need to see the crime scene.” I said trying not to sound like a nutbag.
“Yeah?” He said cocking his head a little.
“I know a lot of killers like to return to the scene, or insert themselves into the investigation. I’ve read the books too, but this isn’t like that.”
“Really?” He’d obviously learned a lot about communication during his time with Detective Muldoon.
“Yeah. Look, I could’ve shaken you, but I didn’t want to be that way.” In fact, I probably couldn’t have shaken him. First, I’m not a great driver. No accidents, but no guts either. Second, it’s hard to lose someone in a car as loud and noticeably ugly as mine, but hey, maybe he didn’t know that.
His mouth curled into a sideways grin. “In that shitbox? I don’t know that you could shake loose the maggots that probably live in that thing.”
“If that’s what you think, that’s fine.” I’m not a macho guy, but for some reason I didn’t want to give ground on this. “But I didn’t even try. That’s a sign of good faith.”
“Sign of something, I suppose. Could be a sign that you didn’t notice me until I stopped here. I came around the corner and you were stopped already—“
“No way. I noticed you back at Bruce’s. And so did Bruce by the way.”
“Sure. Sure.”
“Well, we could sit here all night and argue like two kids over the prom queen or we could go in there.”
“Nah. I’m still hung up on the prom queen. I was prom king, you know.” I could believe it. He had one of those faces that everyone considers handsome. In that conventional way, which is fine. If you’re into that sort of thing.
“Listen. By now, they’ve done all the finger-printing and forensic stuff, so I’m not mucking that up. And you’ll be there to watch me, so there’s nothing funny gonna happen. I just need to get a feel for the scene, see what sort of trouble I’ve been thrown into.”
He was mulling it over. “Yeah, sure. Why don’t we jeopardize my career so you can jump up there and give you a peak at where you shot a defenseless human being. This sounds okay to me.”
“What if you cuff me?”
“Hey, I don’t know what you’ve heard around the way, but that's not my game.”
“That’s cute. But, look, you feel I’m out of the way, I’m already cuffed, you take me back in and you’ve got a chance to look at me, observe me while I’m there. You can testify that you caught me there doing who knows what to myself and I’m as good as gone.”
“Uh huh.” He pulled out the cuffs.
“Be gentle.” I said. This was either really desperate, or a stroke of genius.

Objects in the Rearview Mirror Part II

It’s easy to know when your client is lying. You know the signs, even if you haven’t been in the business for a couple years (which I have). There’s the fidgeting, the sweating, the looking away. The classics. You see very few people come to a private investigator and are completely truthful. When most people come to PI’s, they either come because they expect us to be completely without ethics or completely stupid. So they tell you lies and expect you to buy them or not to care. And letting them think one or the other is good business.
So, when Mr. Flettering told me his story, I assumed he was lying. Asking questions afterwards is only so I can figure out which lie he’s telling and if it’s gonna get me in trouble. With Flettering, I figured his lie was either his wife was divorcing him and he wanted information on who she’d left him for (though, given what he’d told me about their relationship this wasn’t likely), or she wasn’t his wife at all and she had dumped him and he wanted to get her back. So, maybe he was a stalker. Which wasn’t good. Either way, this seemed like a find and photograph sort of a thing—the kind of thing that makes PI’s everywhere seem like slimeballs. Slimeballs with bills to pay, sure, but still slimeballs.
So, as I sat in the Camino, I thought about what the best way to do this was. Finding her wouldn’t be hard. Flettering had given me three places to check and if his story was as dubious as I thought it was, then he knew she was at one of them. So, all I had to do was figure out if this could wait another night or if I should start tonight. Seemed to me if she was gone, she’d be gone tomorrow too. Of course, as I turned the key and heard my old shitbox spring loudly and suddenly awake, groaning and rasping with strength and weakness all in the same huge rumbles, I changed my mind and slipped the car into gear heading for the first address he’d given me. It wasn’t the first time this car had cost me, but I was gonna have to be lucky to be around for it to cost me again.
But that’s getting ahead of myself.
I arrived at the address around 9:30 pm, after stopping at the bank and depositing his nice $1,000 check. 9:30 in Des Moines, for those of you not in the know, is prime time for the sort of salacious goings-on that I suspected to be the real problem here. Sitting in the Camino, I looked at the dingy building. A two-story place that was divided into flats. A broken-up sidewalk and the burned-out streetlights. It was easy to see that this was a part of town the city didn’t pay much attention to. Of course the chewed-up yard and smashed-out glass of the basement windows made it easy to see the owner didn’t care that much either.
And this is where Flettering’s wife was hanging out? Something was definitely wrong. And, being that I’m not a bright enough person to walk away from a situation when it feels this wrong, I decided to get out of my car and investigate. Sometimes I just know I’m doing something stupid, but I can’t help myself. It’s either one of my more endearing or stupid qualities—I’m not sure which.
As soon as I stepped out of the car and slammed the heavy car door behind me I noticed it. The quiet. The stillness that emanates from the scene of something wrong. It’s like the crickets won’t sing around it and the wind knows better than to blow through it, and on some primal level the people nearby know better than to disturb the sour eeriness of something as awful as what must be happening somewhere nearby. Or I’m just a little melodramatic. That’s what I told myself as I walked up the sidewalk and the stoop and tried to peak in the first story windows. Nothing but darkness looked back at me. I was looking at the name on the buzzers, taking note of them, when I heard the sirens. They bled into the silence slowly and I could tell they weren’t far away. And they were coming closer.
I sat down on the stoop, pulled out a stick of Big Red and started chewing. Didn’t take them long, maybe two minutes (Big Red still had its flavor), but when they got here I could tell they meant business.
Swarms of uniforms jumped out of siren-swinging cars dappling the neighborhood in what had to be a familiar red and blue. The officers had guns drawn and ran straight for the building, screaming. “Hands up.” “Stay where you are.”
I raised my hands coolly, knowing better than to do anything except what they wanted. I learned a long time ago that when the foot soldiers are this wound up, it was better to go along with them and wait for a better moment to make sense of things. They escorted me to the back of one of the cruisers and told me to wait. Which I did. For about 30 minutes or so. But when she got there I wished I’d waited longer.
“[Gumshoe], what are you doing here?” Her voice betrayed a certain lack of surprise, which I didn’t know whether to ascribe to her low opinion of me, or to the fact that someone told her I was here. Could’ve been either one.
“Client stuff. I’d share if I could, but, “I shrugged, “you know.”
“Uh-huh.” It was the same noise I’d heard her make to hundreds of criminals. It was her way. She’d stare at you, give you the ‘Uh-huh’ and give you as much rope as it took to wrap around your neck and then she’d pull tight. She was the best and I knew she was the best because I used to be in the box with her working off her bad cop. I was, if you can believe it, the good cop. Which either says something about her or me. Either way, that was a long time ago, and the only thing this meant to me now was that I was smart enough to know this was a moment that required quiet. She stared at me for a couple minutes before, “Tell me what you feel comfortable with and then I’ll decide if I’m running you down town or just having you beaten on the sidewalk here.”
“Edna, I’ve always admired your colorful way of doing things.”
“Uh-huh. Talk.”
“Not much to say. I was talking to a client earlier tonight. Wanted me to find his wife. She’d runoff without leaving a note. You know the story. He gave me this address and I came to check it out. I peaked in the first floor window, but couldn’t see anything. Was looking at the buzzers when I heard the sirens and decided to take a seat and see if you all were going my way.”
“So, you were skulking around looking for a way in?”
“Edna—“
“Detective Muldoon, [gumshoe].”
“First time you’ve pulled that since I was a rookie.” She was quiet. That’s the thing about being someone’s old partner, you know how to quiet them. “Well, Detective Muldoon, I’m astonished by your accusations. Skulking? I’m hardly the type. I may have been sauntering. Or meandering. I’ve been told I prance, but I don’t really believe that.”
“That cute smart-mouth act of your may still charm those ‘ladies’ you hang out with—“
“It doesn’t.”
“Why am I not surprised? Look, [gumshoe], you know I’ll give you a straight shot if you’re straight with me. And you also know I’ll rip your tits off and shove them down your throat if I think you’re lying to me about anything. So, let’s do this the easy way, huh?”
“Edna—Detective Muldoon, I’m honestly telling you everything except my client’s name and most of the rest of the lie he told me.”
“Uh-huh. Tell me about what you heard and saw when you got here.”
“I didn’t see anything odd. It felt odd though. It was one of those too quiet moments your read about, but never really think you’ll happen across.”
“You’ve happened across those in the past, if I remember.” That’s the thing about someone being your old partner, they know how to quiet you. “So, it was quiet? Anything else?”
“Nothing.”
“You still listening to that crappy soft-rock bullshit?”
“What?” The police-non-sequitor. They get you off-balance, looking at the right hand and then the crush your skull with what’s in the left.
“Phill Collins? Meatloaf? That kind of shit?”
“What? No. I’m all about the new soft-rock bullshit. Coldplay. Nickleback. That kind of shitty bullshit.”
“Uh-huh. And if I get a warrant, check out your apartment and your CD collection?”
“Well, you won’t find any fucking Nickleback, that’s for sure.”
“Uh-huh. So to recap, you just happened to be here skulking around as the police responded to an anonymous call about some screaming and gunshots in this building, but you heard nothing, saw nothing, and didn’t do anything but look in the window?”
“I heard no screaming.” I was hearing it in my mind right now though. Something wasn’t right about all of this. “And certainly no gunshots.”

Gumshoe Part I. Case 1: Objects in the Rearview Mirror

The Phil Collins was bouncing off the hard wood floors as I sat and thought about her. Her name wasn't Sussudio, but I just wanted to say the word. It had been a week since she left me sitting in my El Camino with nothing left to hold onto except my own fading sense of self-worth. But Phil was there for me again. Just like he had been there for me in sixth grade, when Courtney wouldn't dance with me at the fall formal. And in eleventh grade when Kerry abandoned me for the Eagles Reunion tour. And after prom, when Jane dumped me on the dance floor, I found Phil Collins and we wished for the rain together. That's just the kind of guy Phil Collins is—he’s there for you on the days when you feel like you cannot stop the tears. I know guys in my line of work are supposed to be tough, and I am when I have to be, but sometimes just hearing "In the Air Tonight" will make me cry like a little child.
But that's a digression. She left. And there I was throwing myself recklessly into my work. They say any distraction is a good one when you're trying to forget someone, but I gotta tell you, scanning over life insurance documents to try and figure out some bullshit about what I can't even remember is no way to feel better. I thought I took this kind of work because it was interesting. Still, doing work is better than a lot of other options I have tried in the past.
The lamp on my desk flickered and the streetlight, bright and constant outside my second-floor window, was the only source of light in my office for a minute. The lamp kicked back up and that's the night my new client walked into the boring, semi-depressed party that I thought I only invited Phil Collins to. He seemed a slight man, my new client. Everything about him said small, and it only said that because saying timid might be overstepping the bounds. He was wearing a pair of glasses that were barely bigger than his tiny green eyes. His suit was well-worn and he had already loosened his tie after a day that, if I had to guess, was another in a long line of mental and psychological beatings. His eyes were small, as I said, but they were sharp. There was still a flicker of something in there. It was too soon to know whether it was hope, or brains, or just a couple pints.
"You're [the gumshoe]?" he asked as if the name on the door wasn't assurance enough.
"Yeah." And then a silence settled in for a second. He was either having second thoughts or he didn't know how to start. "Why don't you sit down and tell me your name and your problem and I'll suggest ways I can help."
"Yes." He sat quickly, setting a briefcase neatly beside the chair and folding his arms into his lap as I reached for the stereo and turned the Phil Collins down. "My name is Simon Flettering and. Well. It's my wife, Selma. I think she's left me."
"You're not sure?" I've been dumped many, many times, and I've always been sure that I was dumped. But then, maybe I just dated women who were extremely communicative that way. Maybe.
"I came home from work yesterday and she was gone. Her closets were cleared out and the suitcases were gone. There wasn't a note, but...she wasn't there." His eyes shifted nervously as he spoke. It's never easy to tell another guy you've been dumped. No matter how many times it happens, you just hate to have to tell other guys. It's not so much the judgment or the possibility of getting emotional, it's the weird vulnerability. It's that moment of telling your buddies that there's a way to get to you, right to your core.
"Have you been having trouble lately?"
"A little." Another quiet stretch as he considered what to tell me and I thought about what the best way to ask my questions was without chasing him, and his wallet, out of the room.
"Can you tell me about it? The more you tell me the better I can tell you whether it's best to search for her or wait for her to return. Or let her go." The last sentence caught him in the gut, I could see it in his eyes. But he got it together quickly.
"Well. We'd been having a lot of arguments lately. She'd gotten herself a new boyfriend and I he was treating her--" He'd said it so casually.
"Excuse me, did you say 'new boyfriend'? As in she's had others?"
"Sure. We're. Well, she has boyfriends and it's okay with me. As long as they treat her nice, which this last guy didn't."
"You're not the jealous type, Simon?"
"No, not really. We're a different type of marriage, [gumshoe]. She has boyfriends and it's okay." His face turned red and his eyes stared out the window behind me at the streetlight that dropped into view from seemingly nowhere. And I thought it was hard to tell another guy you've been dumped.
"Sure. I've read about those in Penthouse."
"Well. Regardless." He swallowed. "This new guy was taking up a lot of her time. And I asked her about it. And there was yelling."
"Uh-huh. How did you ask her about it?"
"After dinner. She'd made steak and was just about to go see him again, and I asked her about it."
"I see, but what did you say?"
"I just asked why she was seeing so much of him?"
"Sure. Well, why don't you tell me his name?"
"She didn't tell me his name. She just told me he had a huge, um."
"I see. Well, it’s good to have an identifying characteristic, but that’s not really the kind of searching I like to do."
"But you're gonna look for this guy?"
"Seems like. I get $200 a day plus expenses. Why don't we start out with a week and we'll meet again next week."
"That's fine." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a checkbook. It's a beautiful sight to watch someone write you a check. This insurance stuff I'd been working on paid most the bills, but it wasn't gonna get me to retirement. Or the new car I needed. Still, the way he agreed to my price so quickly made me wonder if I sized him up wrong. The briefcase said he had money, but the worn-out suit said not much. But here he was writing me a check for $1,000, like it was nothing. I quietly kicked myself for not asking for $250 a day. But I waited until he handed over the check before I asked if he'd involved the cops yet.
"No. I don’t think they’d…well, my story is a little unorthodox."
"It is.” I said and let a moment of silence shroud the room. “Okay. Well. I'll get back to you if I find anything. If not, we'll meet a week from now."
And that's how this shitstorm started.