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.