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

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

Objects in the Rearview Mirror Part XV

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

Objects in the Rearview Mirror Part XIV

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

Objects in the Rearview Mirror Parts XII & XIII

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

****

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