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.
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