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?”