Karma

by Grant McKenzie

  The rumble of the shower shut off just as an impatient fist crashed into the door. Hackett’s head snapped back under the impact.

  “OK, OK,” Hackett yelled. “I’ll play. Knock, knock, who’s there?”

  “It’s the police, Mr. Hackett. Open up.”

  Hackett sighed. “I’ll be right with you.”

  Turning to face the bedroom, he yelled: “Chandra, cops are here. Try not to give them a hard-on and come prancing out in the all together, OK?”

  Chandra stepped into the doorway, her wet hair tucked into a green towel that had been expertly knotted around her head in a giant turban. A second towel wrapped her body, its hemline just barely covering what it was supposed to. She stared at Hackett’s rear end, moon-white flesh peeking from the gaps in his makeshift wrap.

  She laughed. “I think they’d be happier seeing me than you.”

  Hackett’s face contorted into a retaliatory, morning-breathed raspberry, but the bedroom door slammed closed before he could unleash its spittled wrath.

  He attempted to rearrange the T-shirt so it covered more of him, but it was like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube without cheating. Giving up, he clutched the rumpled ball of fabric in front of him and opened the door.

  “Morning officers,” he said. “Thanks for the early wake-up call.”

  The two men brushed past, their identity badges a brief flash of plastic that could have just as easily been Netflix rental cards. They both stopped in the middle of the room and surveyed the murderous wreck of the couch.

  “Why don’t you come in,” Hackett said sarcastically as he closed the door. “Sorry about the mess. I haven’t had a chance to tidy up.”

  Hackett bent down to pick up a cushion, his T-shirt slipping even further to expose the full expanse of his bare ass to the two men.

  “Jesus,” one of them muttered. “Put some pants on will you.”

  “Oh, sure,” Hackett agreed. He headed to the bedroom. “Make yourself at home. Kettle’s by the sink if you want tea. There’s herbal or Tetley in the cupboard and Chai mix in the fridge. I prefer Tetley in the morning if you’re brewing up.”

  The officers looked at each other as though silently deciding whether they should call for backup or the van with the padded walls.

  In the bedroom, Hackett slipped into a pair of threadbare gray sweatpants and pulled the T-shirt over his head. It took him a little longer to find his hand-knitted slippers — an annual present from his Aunt Carol and one he actually looked forward to every Christmas.

  “What do the cops want?” Chandra asked.

  She was sitting at a candy-apple red dresser that Hackett had salvaged especially for her. It had an oval mirror and enough drawers to hold an emergency supply of makeup, hair and skin products for those times when she decided to stay over. The dresser had been his compromise in order to keep his prized 1970s poster of Farrah Fawcett on the bathroom door, but Chandra had nixed his idea of lining the mirror with a collection of Wonder Woman plastic figures that were gathering dust in one of the many boxes of old toys and comic books under his bed.

  Hackett shrugged. “I’m sure it’s about my uncle. I don’t think we broke too many laws last night.”

  “Not unless they were peeking through the curtains,” Chandra said with a wink.

  Hackett gasped. “You almost made me blush there.”

  He bounded out of the room, the grin on his face enough to make Alice’s Cheshire Cat jealous. His grin fell when he saw the two officers, their expressions grim, sitting on the remade couch.

  “You didn’t want tea?” Hackett walked to the sink and plugged in the kettle. “I’d offer you coffee, but with all the Starbucks around I heard the city was considering making it illegal to brew your own.”

  “We’re here on official business, Mr. Hackett. And we would appreciate it if you would sit down.”

  Gray suit pulled a rolled-up copy of the morning Times from his jacket pocket and laid it on Hackett’s homemade coffee table.

  Hackett had built the table from three plastic milk crates, a large piece of oddly shaped plywood, enough hot glue to patch the hole in the Titanic, and a stack of multi-colored, garage-sale vinyl records from when Donna Summers was queen. The centerpiece was an album cast in translucent white with fiery flecks of gold embedded within to spell out the word Disco.

  Hackett enjoyed creating objects that would make any respectable Baby Boomer want to vomit. It was his little, one-finger salute to the massive debt, homelessness and pointless, low-paying jobs left in the wake of their economic and political tidal wave.

  The newspaper made his grin return. There, above the fold and taking up three and a half columns, was the picture he had sold. The crop was a little tighter to eliminate more of the excess blood, but the shocked look on his uncle’s face gave him goosebumps — especially now that he knew whose dead eyes Frank had been looking into.

  The main headline screamed: Cop’s brother murdered. A smaller subhead below added: Father of two found in pool of blood inside park washroom.

  Hackett whistled. “Hell of a shot, even if I do say so myself.”

  Then Hackett studied it closer, his eyes moving away from the face of his uncle to the profiles of the two detectives who were holding him up — and the color of their suits.

  His face paled.

  Brown suit said, “We’re sorry about your uncle, but we need to know how you took the photo.”

  Hackett lifted his gaze from the paper. “You haven’t been back to the scene?”

  “No,” Gray suit snarled. “We were trying to catch up on a little sleep after busting our balls all night. Then this,” he stabbed a thick finger at the paper, “hit the streets and our boss choked on his fucking cornflakes. So we figured we’d visit you first.”

  Hackett nodded sheepishly and decided there was no advantage in lying.

  “There’s a peephole around back.”

  “A peephole?” Brown suit asked.

  “Yeah, so people can watch.”

  “Watch what?”

  “What do you think?” Gray suit butted in impatiently.

  “Christ, I don’t know,” Brown suit protested. “People taking a dump?”

  “Men fucking,” Gray suit enlightened. His eyes locked on Hackett’s for confirmation. “Right?”

  Hackett nodded.

  “My partner is new in town.” Gray suit’s tone suggested this explanation was more to annoy the other detective than to enlighten Hackett. “Was your uncle a homo?”

  “I don’t know.” Hackett curled his lip. “He never mentioned it at family reunions.”

  “He’s got two kids, right?” Brown suit asked.

  “My cousins. Twin girls.”

  “Are you a homo?” Gray suit interjected.

  “Can’t afford the clothes,” Hackett quipped. “Or the shoes.”

  Brown suit snorted.

  “How did you know about the peephole then?” Gray suit asked just as the kettle began to whistle.

  Hackett stood and went to the corner of the room he had been assured by the landlord was actually a kitchen.

  “I asked around in the crowd,” he answered over his shoulder. “A group of young guys told me about it. It’s a removable brick marked with a heart. Sure you don’t want tea?”

  Gray suit flared his nostrils.

  “Why didn’t you tell any of the officers on the scene about it?” Brown suit asked.

  “It didn’t cross my mind.” Hackett poured boiling water over a tea bag. “I was there to take a picture. That’s how I pay the bills. Is it important?”

  Gray suit stood, his hands bunched into knuckled fists, his cheeks flushed and eyes narrowed.

  “It might be fucking important if someone witnessed the fucking murder.” A hiss escaped through tight lips, showing that his sleep-deprived patience had finally eroded. “Not to mention what kind of fucking evidence you trampled on back there.”

  “Oh.” Hackett pressed his back tighter against the
sink. “I guess that’s why I didn’t follow in my father’s footsteps and become a cop.”

  His attempt at levity fell flat.

  Gray suit’s face turned a deeper shade of crimson and he moved threateningly forward. He was stopped in mid-stride when the bedroom door opened and Chandra moved between them, her face lit up in a freshly painted smile.

  She was dressed in a smart yellow jacket, white blouse and a yellow miniskirt that was short enough to make a man’s head spin. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, making her appear like Ms. magazine’s businesswoman of the year, but with better legs.

  Gray suit glared at his partner, sending another, unreadable, silent message. If Hackett had to guess what it was, he would have said a Homer Simpson inspired, “DOH!”

  “Morning all,” Chandra chirped.

  She skipped over to Hackett, planted a kiss on his cheek and stole his mug of tea.

  Hackett rolled his eyes in mock annoyance as he dug out a second mug and tea bag. Secretly, he was glad for the distraction. The gray cop was starting to freak him out and he had been on enough logging protests to know Sgt. Vinnie on the Beat could turn nightstick ugly when pushed.

  “Are you here about Hackett’s poor uncle?” Chandra settled on the couch next to Brown suit.

  The man’s face softened at Chandra’s presence and he nodded in response to her question.

  Gray suit grumpily returned to his chair where he folded thick arms across the straining buttons of his chest and fixed a cold glare on Hackett.

  “I never really knew him,” Chandra continued without prompting, “but he seemed harmless enough.”

  “Look at the paper,” Hackett called. He poured a small dollop of cream into his cup and made his way back to his seat. “Can I shoot or what?”

  Chandra picked up the paper and her eyes widened. “Wow!” she gasped. “Poor Frank, what a shock. How did you get the shot?”

  “Peephole in the back. That’s why these two are here. They didn’t know about it.”

  Gray suit leaned toward Hackett. “The men who told you about the peephole. Did you know any of them?”

  “Just the one. A skinny, pock-faced guy by the name of Stephen. He works for Spy Gear downtown.”

  “And he told you how to find it?”

  Hackett nodded and took a long sip of tea. Gray suit wrote the information down in a small notebook.

  “Aaah,” Hackett sighed. “There’s nothing quite like that first sip in the morning is there?”

  Chandra beamed at him with mischievous eyes. “I can think of a few things that might compete.”

  Hackett laughed aloud.

  “Any idea who would want to harm your uncle?” asked Brown suit.

  “I’ve always been closer to my Uncle Frank,” Hackett said. “I don’t really know Bob’s business. We didn’t talk so much.”

  “Did you want to harm him?” Gray suit asked.

  Hackett choked on his tea. “No,” he blurted between coughs. “I didn’t even know he was dead until my mom called last night. All I did was take the picture, sell it and come home.”

  Gray suit stared at him until Hackett felt his flesh burn.

  “What?” Hackett asked finally. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Chandra agreed.

  “I’m sure you have a good alibi for the hours between two and four p.m. yesterday,” Gray suit said.

  “I was here. Catching up on the headlines and chatting online with Fats, SXYLADY and someone named Moefly. Preacher and RotNHell popped in, too, but they’re pretty unreliable.”

  “Online?” Brown suit asked.

  “Yeah. I was mucking about in a chatroom with some pals. Usual stuff.”

  “So these pals can confirm you were online with them at the time of the murder?” Gray suit asked.

  “Yeah, sure, well . . .”

  “Well what?” Gray suit asked.

  “Well,” Hackett hesitated. “They can confirm my handle was online. They can’t really confirm that I was physically where I say I was. Anyone can create a handle, plus you can log in from a Cyber Café, library, a PDA, anywhere really.”

  Gray suit sighed. “What else were you doing?”

  “Listening to the police radio, watching TV, waiting for something to break.”

  “Like a homicide in Volunteer Park?”

  “Ummm, well, yeah.” Hackett hid behind his teacup again.

  “So is that all you do?” Gray suit’s voice was filled with derision. “Sit around, playing with invisible friends, and waiting for some tragedy to happen?”

  “No,” Hackett said defensively even though the detective had pretty much summed up his recent activities. “I do freelance work for AP and some local agencies. Shoot some covers for The Stranger and cruise for feature stuff. I’m working on my own digital photo zine. I also do a little corporate work, golf tournaments, that kind of thing, although the money needs to be good because it bores me stupid.”

  Gray suit held up his hands. “OK, fine. I hope you realize that out of respect for your father and Frank, we’re not hauling your ass to the station. But we’re not convinced you’re telling us the whole truth here.”

  “Hey!”

  Hackett was cut off by a sudden flash of warning from Chandra who lifted her hand to her mouth and closed her fingers — American Sign Language for ‘Shut up’.

  “Do you have a business card?” Brown suit asked.

  Hackett stared at him, the question catching him off guard. “Ummm, yeah, in my camera bag.”

  “Could I see one?”

  “Sure.”

  Hackett walked over to his camera bag, dug out a thin wad of white business cards from a side pocket and handed one to the cop. Brown suit studied it for a moment before slipping it into his pocket.

  “Does the word karma mean anything to you?” Brown suit asked.

  “Sure, it’s Buddhist. Means destiny, right?”

  “It’s Hindu as well,” Chandra added. “Karma is the sum of your actions — good or bad. It decides your fate.”

  “Why do you ask?” Hackett asked.

  Brown suit locked eyes and held Hackett’s gaze — the effect was like a drill burrowing deep within his skin, searching for something intangible. After a few seconds, he broke off and rose to his feet.

  “I think that’s all we need,” he said.

  “For now,” Gray suit added.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Hackett chimed in, only to be greeted by stony silence.

  The officers walked to the door and Gray suit exited. Brown suit, however, stopped in the doorway, lifted his head and sniffed the air. He turned to glance in the direction of the porcelain Buddha before locking his stare back on Hackett.

  “A little piece of advice.” A thin, undecipherable smile played on his lips. “Next time the police come to your door, choose a different shirt.”

  Hackett looked down at his T-shirt and groaned. The slogan on the front read: Vote NO on Legalizing Cannabis. I already pay too much tax.

  Chapter 15

  Hackett sat in silence, his feet curled underneath him on an overstuffed chair that he had rescued from a dumpster behind the apartment building on the day he moved in.

  “Latté for your thoughts.” Chandra settled on the arm of the chair and ran her fingers through Hackett’s bed-rumpled hair.

  Hackett looked up. “Latté? You’ve been hanging with the Boomers too long.”

  “Can’t help it.” Chandra’s eyes widened in mock terror. “They’re everywhere.”

  “Wow!” Hackett’s mouth formed into a half-cocked grin. “You should really be on radio.”

  Chandra punched him on the arm. “Are you making fun of my witty retorts?”

  Hackett laughed. “No, I’m saying look at the time. You should really be on radio.”

  Chandra glanced at her watch. “Shit, I’m running late. If it wasn’t for this bloody pager, I could tell them I’m stuck in traffic.”

  �
�Pager?” Hackett asked.

  Chandra sighed. “The company bought these pager modules that allow them to track us via GPS.”

  “Get out of here.”

  Chandra laughed. “No, I’m serious. They told us it was to help locate our co-workers when we’re on assignment and to, quote: ‘better utilize and co-ordinate resources’, but I think it’s so they can monitor our bathroom breaks.”

  “All corporations are evil, haven’t I told you that?”

  Chandra bent to kiss him. “Now, that’s why I love you. You look at the world through such innocent, uncynical eyes.”

  Sliding off the chair, Chandra swooped up her pack and dashed for the door.

  “I’ll see you later, OK?” Hackett called.

  The only response was a quick wave of fingers as the door swung closed.

  With the apartment returned to silence, Hackett plugged in the kettle again. His tea was cold and his caffeine level wasn’t high enough to make him drag his ass into the shower and get prepared for another day.

  Actually, the more he thought about it, the more a return to the warm comfort of bed began to appeal. But as he turned toward the bedroom, a shapely blonde in a trench coat walked across his computer screen and flashed him.

  What the hell, he figured as he settled down in front of the computer, maybe Life magazine wants to offer me a centerspread for the toilet shot.

  With a click of the mouse, Hackett opened the email.

  It was blank.

  Irritated, Hackett looked at the message’s subject heading. It read: You Lied to the Police.

  Frowning, Hackett clicked on the return address and discovered it was also blank.

  “Oh, no,” he muttered under his breath. “You don’t get away from me that easy.”

  With a few more clicks, Hackett began to trace the letter’s path through cyberspace. It had bounced around the country before hitting a server in Switzerland and vanishing behind a maze of anonymous remailers.

  After twenty minutes, Hackett discovered the sender could elude him after all.

  “You tricky bastard.”

  A second email arrived as Hackett was preparing to forward the first one to Fats for a more thorough investigation. It was also blank and without a return address.