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.
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