What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel

by David Housewright

  “In the meantime, could you take me up to McKenzie’s condominium?”

  “Come this way,” Jones said.

  Jones led Shipman to the elevator, to the seventh floor, and to my door. Along the way, she contacted the Forensics Services Unit, which had taken possession of my bloodstained clothes from Bobby. Most of its members were working either the Haven assault case or the shooting at the fast-food joint, however Brian, the tech who found the spent cartridge at RT’s Basement, the one who wanted love from Shipman, had been left behind to answer the phones.

  “Brian, I need you to do something for me,” Shipman said.

  “What do I get out of it?”

  “My undying gratitude.”

  “How ’bout lunch?”

  “How ’bout I don’t break your face the next time I see you?”

  “Goodness gracious, how long have you been this cranky?”

  “Since I was fourteen and discovered men. What I need is for you to pull McKenzie’s clothes and check his pockets for a note.”

  “We haven’t gone through his clothes yet. We didn’t think McKenzie’s shooting was a higher priority than what FSU already had on its plate.”

  “Tell me about it,” Shipman said.

  “We haven’t had a chance to look at the video on the flash drive or examine the cell phone, either.”

  “Don’t tell Commander Dunston that.”

  “Bobby doesn’t scare us none,” the tech said.

  “Then you’re a member of a very small minority. The note, Brian.”

  “All right, hang on.” Brian returned a few minutes later. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I have a receipt signed by Commander Dunston saying that McKenzie’s cell phone and wallet had been logged into evidence. All that’s left is some cash and keys.”

  “There’s no note in an envelope?”

  “No, there’s not.”

  “Huh.”

  * * *

  If it was possible to pace in a wheelchair, then Chopper was pacing. He had nearly a dozen computer stations in his office yet only four of them were occupied, each by an African-American geek. All of Chopper’s employees were African-American. He said he’d become an equal opportunity employer when the white business community became equal opportunity employers.

  Chopper wheeled himself from one geek to the next, glancing over their shoulders at the screens in front of them. Three were selling tickets and one was buying. He stopped behind the buyer, Chopper’s chief computer geek.

  That was Chopper’s term, not mine. I preferred computer nerd. The geek-in-chief was wearing a T-shirt with a pic of Commander Geordi La Forge, the character played by LeVar Burton in the Star Trek: The Next Generation TV series. The shirt looked like the geek had been wearing it since he was three years old.

  “Well?” Chopper asked.

  “It’s working,” he said.

  “It is?”

  “We’re able to bypass all the CAPTCHAs and the reCAPTCHAs pretty easily; I’m not having any problems buying bundles of seats.”

  Chopper’s eyes lit up. Like most ticket scalpers, he had been hampered by availability. He would have associates sitting at every terminal to grab concert and sports tickets when they became available online. Or he would hire guys to stand in line at the on-site ticket booths. Or he would tap insiders who had access to the events.

  But most ticket sellers had strict rules about how many seats a person could reserve at a time, usually four, and sophisticated security systems in place to prevent cheating. Not only that, it was illegal. While there was no federal law against ticket scalping, many states had their own restrictions. There was also the Better Online Ticket Sales Act of 2016 which made it unlawful nationwide to use bots to vacuum up tickets at a rapid rate. Which Chopper claimed was un-American because it prevented him from amassing enough product—that’s how he viewed tickets, as product—to make an honest living.

  Chopper’s new software, however, purchased just the day before by a white boy who seemed very nervous, as if this was the first time he had stepped out of line, was allowing his bots to circumvent the ticket sellers’ bots so he could now buy an unlimited number of the best seats in the house, wherever that house might be, which he could then resell for whatever his customers were willing to pay.

  “Fans dictate the market price,” Chopper once told me. “If people refuse to pay the prices I charge, I have to lower my prices, right? It’s called capitalism, the backbone of America.”

  “Software was worth the price then,” is what he told the geek.

  “For the time being,” the geek said. “It’s just another advance in artificial intelligence that someone will probably counter next week.”

  “Till then, buy my man, buy. Bieber, Bruno, Elton John, Lizzo, John Legend, Snoop Dogg, Taylor Swift, Monster Jam, vroom, vuhroom…”

  “We’ve got the list.”

  “Buy, baby, buy. Vroom.”

  While they were buying, Herzog walked into the office.

  “Yo, Herzy,” Chopper said. “Where you been, man?”

  Herzog gestured with his head for Chopper to join him next to Chopper’s desk where the geeks wouldn’t hear them talking.

  “Know a man named Jamal Brown?” Herzog asked.

  “No. Should I?”

  “Jamal used to run wit’ the Red Dragons.”

  “Fuckin’ dead and gone, them Dragons.”

  “Not all of ’em. Jamal, he’s been thrivin’ since the gang went under. Dealin’ opioids.”

  “I’m outta that life. You are too, ain’t ya?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Where Jamal’s been gettin’ his supply.”

  “Do we care?”

  “If you don’t wanna know.”

  Herzog turned and started walking away.

  “Wait,” Chopper said.

  Herzog turned back. He was grinning.

  “What?” Chopper asked.

  “RT’s Basement.”

  “The fuck you say.”

  “Word is Jamal’s been getting’ his opioids outta the back room.”

  “I didn’t know the place had a back room.”

  “Lotta shit RT didn’t tell us. We asked so politely, too.”

  “We should ask again, maybe not so polite this time.”

  “What I was thinking,” Herzog said. “See if he’s gotta camera pointin’ at the back room.”

  “Be fucking dumb if he did, recordin’ the commission of a crime.”

  “Anything ’bout RT tells you he ain’t dumb?”

  “First thing, though, I think we should talk t’ Jamal. Can you arrange that?”

  “Hard or soft.”

  “Soft,” Chopper said. “I don’ care what Jamal does for a livin’.”

  “’Kay.”

  “RT dealin’ outta the back door of his place, think the po-lice know about that?”

  “Some might be takin’ the price to look another way. Bet I know one cop who ain’t, though.”

  “We’ll have a conversation with Commander Dunston once we know what we’re gonna say. You surprise me, though, Herzy. Steppin’ up to find out ’bout McKenzie after actin’ like you didn’t care.”

  “I know how much you like the man.”

  SIX

  Shipman had been inside my condominium twice before. The first time was to interrogate me about a truck belonging to a friend of mine that exploded, sending a sliver of shrapnel through my shoulder. The second time was after a man was shot to death in St. Paul. Since he had lived in my building, she naturally assumed I was somehow involved. ’Course, at the time, so did I. In neither case did she have the opportunity to get a good look at the place. Now she had all the time in the world.

  After hanging her coat and bag on the rack near the door, Shipman went to the refrigerator, surveyed its contents, and retrieved a bottle of Summit EPA—who does that? After opening it, she started exploring
. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she sat on all of our chairs and sofas one at a time to see if any of them were just right. I did learn that she stopped at the north wall and gazed through the tinted glass at the mighty Mississippi. That’s because she asked me later how much the view cost. I told her about a half million bucks when we bought the place; much more now. She said it was nice, but not that nice.

  Next, she sat at Nina’s Steinway and played a few tunes—seriously, who does that?! She told me she figured the baby grand must have retailed for $60,000. Around there, I said. She said she had an old Yamaha upright that she bought used for six-fifty that sounded just as good. I was detecting a trend.

  Eventually, Shipman perused our library. She said she was impressed by both the variety and number of titles we owned. She asked if we had read them all. Between Nina and me we had read about eighty-five percent, I told her. She said she didn’t know I could read. I said I didn’t actually read the books, just looked at the pictures. She said she was a big reader, too, but that she got most of her books from the public library. Well, okay then.

  Shipman was half a beer down by the time she arrived at my desk. The first thing she did was riffle through the stack of papers, mostly bills, on the top of the desk and then searched the drawers. She was looking for the note in the envelope I had been given and didn’t find it. Next she checked the wastebasket at the desk. When that proved fruitless, she examined the contents of the wastebaskets in the kitchen, the master bedroom, and the bathrooms. Still nothing. She wondered if I might have left it in the Jeep Cherokee and made a note to herself to check.

  Afterward, Shipman sat behind my desk again and fired up the computer, using my code to gain access—KILLEBREW3. While Bobby wore the number four when he played sports, I had always worn three because that was the number worn by Hall of Fame slugger Harmon Killebrew, whom I met at TwinsFest when I was just a kid. I remember him as being very cool and very kind.

  It didn’t take Shipman long to find what she was searching for. I had a folder labeled FAVORS on the desktop. She clicked on it and found a bunch more folders. She clicked on the one tagged DEESE. There was only one document in the folder, also tagged DEESE. She opened it and found my notes.

  I kept notes on all my “cases” pretty much the same way I had when I was with the SPPD, utilizing the “Just the facts, ma’am” approach that I had been taught when I studied criminology at the U way back when, although I sometimes recorded my impressions about the people I met and the places I visited as well. What you need to remember, I didn’t write my notes with the idea that Shipman or someone else might read them. I kept them only for myself; I knew what it meant when I wrote “CakeWalk late afternoon,” even if no one else did. From my notes, Shipman was able to more or less figure out what I had been up to; who I spoke to and why. Only it required a certain amount of translation and interpretation. (And some say she’s a substandard investigator.) I won’t ask you to work that hard. Instead, I’ll just tell you.

  This is what happened.

  MONDAY, MAY 18

  Northfield, Minnesota, was a college town. It was home to both Carleton College, founded in 1866 by descendants from the English Puritans, and St. Olaf College, which was started by a group of Norwegian-American immigrants in 1874. It was best known, though, for being the home of Malt-O-Meal and the place where the Jesse James–Cole Younger outlaw gang was decimated during an attempted bank robbery in 1876, an event reenacted every September during the Defeat of Jesse James Days. In fact, if you visit the Northfield Historical Society on Division Street, you’ll come away believing those were the only two things of any significance that ever occurred in Northfield.

  The Historical Society was housed in the actual building where the First National Bank had been located, the target of the James–Younger gang. I visited it while I killed time waiting for my meeting with Dave Deese’s second cousin on his father’s side.

  I had met Deese in his office Monday morning. He told me about his DNA discovery and that he wanted me to find out who his father was. I offered an argument about why this wasn’t necessarily a good idea only he wasn’t having any of it.

  “I need to know,” is what he told me.

  I explained that there were things that you can’t unlearn.

  “I get it,” Deese said. “Believe me, I get it. The DNA people, they tell you right off the top that by surrendering a bit of saliva, you’ll also be surrendering a bit of privacy, yours or someone else’s. They tell you that you might learn something that could make you uncomfortable, only I didn’t pay any attention. It never occurred to me that I wasn’t…” Deese paused long enough to shake his head. “Now that I know the truth I want to know all of the truth. Here’s the thing, though—that doesn’t mean anyone else needs to know the truth. I have a sister, kids, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins—they don’t need to know the truth. I mean, this affects all of them, doesn’t it? In one way or another? Do they really need to know that they have no biological connection to people they believe are blood relatives?”

  “I can see how that might make for an awkward Thanksgiving dinner conversation,” I said.

  “How would you feel if you found out that your father wasn’t really your father?”

  “It would shake me to my core.”

  “Then you’d know how I feel.”

  “On the other hand, there wasn’t a day in my life when he didn’t make me feel loved.”

  “My father was the same way. My father … jeezuz, McKenzie.”

  “Tell me what you know about your mother.”

  “She was an angel come to earth.”

  Not always, my inner voice said.

  “What was her name?” I asked aloud.

  “Anna.”

  “Maiden name?”

  “Chastain. It means chestnut trees, something like that.”

  “Middle name?”

  “Theresa.”

  “Did she meet your father right out of school?”

  “No, she was what? Twenty-five when she met”—Deese hesitated before finishing—“Dad.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She was a secretary.”

  “For who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your aunts and uncles—you could reach out to them.”

  “And ask them what?”

  “About your mother when you were born. Where was she working? Was she a member of a club? What did she do? Where did she go? Did she have a special friend?”

  “What reason would I give for asking those questions?”

  “What about your sister? Maybe she has some insights.”

  “What part of keeping this private don’t you get?”

  “I don’t know if you can keep it private, Dave, I’m just saying.”

  “I can try.”

  “All right, all right. What exactly do you want me to do?”

  “Never mind Mom. Reach out to these people, my second family.”

  “Why can’t you do that?”

  “Because I don’t want them reaching out to me.”

  “You don’t want one family intruding on the other.”

  “I don’t want strangers with DNA evidence stating that we’re related wanting to become part of my family because it isn’t just my family, you know? I can’t make a decision that affects everybody without asking permission.”

  “You’re not going to ask permission, are you?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Okay.”

  “What I’m asking—it’s a big favor.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m asking that you contact these people pretending to be me. Not me, but…”

  “Dee Dee.”

  “Yes. I want you to tell them that you’re Dee Dee.”

  At the time I thought, What could it hurt?

  * * *

  Deese had given me his member ID and password so I was able to access his account from my own computer. Most of Deese’s eleven hu
ndred and sixty-four long-lost relatives included their full name, sex, birth year, and city, state, and country in their profiles. Some even uploaded their photographs. His half sibling did not, listing only his name and location—Charles K., Orono, MN. It made me go “Hmm.” Still, how hard could this be, I thought. Given the prevalence of social and business media sites like Facebook and LinkedIn it shouldn’t be too difficult to locate a Charles K. in Orono, should it? Yeah, maybe I didn’t believe it, either.

  The DNA site also reported that Deese had a first cousin who shared 13.1 percent of his DNA who listed himself as Marshall from Minneapolis. I didn’t know if that was a first name or a last name, yet it didn’t matter, I told myself. The fact that he existed indicated that Charles K.’s father must have had a sibling, who helped produce a cousin for Charles to play with.

  Finally, there was a second cousin with 6.11 percent of Deese’s DNA named Elliot, who revealed nothing in his profile including his location. Again, it could have been a first name or a last. Either way, I figured Elliot was the child of Marshall or of God knows how many other King relatives who were not listed on the DNA site.

  Before attempting a computer search, however, I messaged each of Dee Dee’s relatives:

  My name is McKenzie. I live in Minneapolis. I apologize for imposing on you, but apparently we are related. I would like to learn how. I promise that I am asking for nothing from you except enlightenment. We can communicate on this website or in any other way that you are comfortable with. Thank you for your courtesy.

  I made a sandwich. Elliot had sent a reply by the time I returned to the computer.

  Oh. My. God. You popped up on my feed a week ago but I was afraid of contacting you. I mean, you’re obviously related to me but you’re not, you know? Is McKenzie your first or last name?

  It occurred to me then that if Elliot or any of the other relatives were smart, they could easily research me the way I intended to research them. That was part of the favor, though, wasn’t it?

  McKenzie is my last name, what everyone calls me including my wife. What about Elliot?

  My first name. Everyone I’ve seen out here is related to me. I mean I know who they are. You’re a secret.