by William Cook
“Oh, yeah. Happens all the time.” He returned to the task at hand. Ten minutes passed in agonizing slowness. “Are we done yet? This is like watching grass grow.”
“Find anything suspicious? I've already got a list of names an arm long, and it makes me tired to imagine how long it will take us to wade through them.” Whitehorse's tone spoke volumes about his own growing fatigue. “Guess she had a bunch of online friends.” He sighed. “Maybe tomorrow we should get into her Facebook account online, rather than looking at these printouts.” He looked at their girl Friday. “With all due apologies to our resident ecologist. We’ll check the names against her Facebook friend list and eliminate off the top any back in Rhode Island, where she came from. I think our perp has to be local.”
“Sounds good, Charley. I can help you cross-reference the Facebook names with her emails so we can cross out a bunch of them, too. What have you got, Tony?”
“Got a weird name on this phone number, but I guess it's just randomly generated letters. Must be another robo call.”
Chiara knit her brows. “Random letters?”
“Yeah.” He spelled it out. “M-x-y-z-t-p-l-k. December twenty-first. Man, those damn telemarketers!”
Chiara leaped from her desk. “Wait a minute, Tony! I think you've got it! I'll bet you...” She tried to come up with something to wager. “...a dozen doughnuts that's the name we're looking for!”
Both policemen were flabbergasted. “What makes you say that?” Charley's voice hinted that he was reluctant to allow his hopes to rise again.
“You guys just aren't...nerdy enough to understand. My fiancé is. Sammy collects old comic books. You should hear some of the lectures I have to sit through to keep the peace.”
Esperanza was on the edge of his seat. “All right, already. Tell us!”
“Those aren't random letters. They're the name of a villain, maybe Superman's most famous nemesis. An imp named Mr. Mxyztplk from the fifth dimension. Way more powerful than Superman. In fact, the only way Superman could defeat him was to get him to say or spell his name backwards. I think our perp thought he was being funny. I'm betting there's a closed Facebook account with that name on it.”
“Holy shit!” Esperanza was out of his chair.
Whitehorse was grinning. “That's sounds like a variation on the story of Rumpelstiltskin.”
“Rumpel...what?”
“Rumpelstiltskin. You're not...vintage enough to understand.” Esperanza gave Whitehorse a high-five.
“OK, guys.” She pouted briefly, but her smile won out. “Score one for the old men. What do we do next?”
“I'll hit up my friend Judge Harowitz tomorrow for a subpoena and then twist Facebook's arm again into releasing the account, if there is one. It may take a while.” Whitehorse extended his hand to her. “If you're right about this, I'll promote you to the rank of Honorary Detective.”
Chiara beamed at him. “I’d like that a lot. But before we get too happy at how smart we are, we need to remember one other thing. There’s a lot of nerds on social media. It’s more than likely that there are other people out there using Mxyztplk or some variation of it for a name. Like adding ‘Mister’ or its abbreviation to it. Putting some numbers at the end of it. We’ll still have some searching to do. The key will be to find a recently closed account with a variation of that name.”
“OK. We still have a lot more real police work to do.” He cast a sidelong glance at his partner.
Esperanza grimaced. “I'll never live down that remark about your writing a novel, will I?”
“Not if I can help it.”
8. Some Viewers May Find These Images Disturbing
Chiara looked up from her desk. “Have we done all we can for today? Like you said, getting into her Facebook account online to sort through her friend list is the next logical step, and we can do that tomorrow.” She looked at the clock as a broad smile creased her face. “Just in case my hunch about our Mr. Mxyztplk is wrong, which it isn’t.”
Whitehorse laughed. “Agreed. I’ll see my judge friend tomorrow. So, Tony, before we call it a day, what have you got?”
“You’re not gonna like it. Remember that kid you took down yesterday—Nathan Bowling? His mother is filing an official complaint. I think she wants you charged with assault.”
Chiara dropped the pen in her hand. Whitehorse looked as though Esperanza had just punched him.
“Assault? Are you kidding me? I came this close...” He made a motion with the fingers of his right hand. “...to arresting him. I didn’t because he calmed down once I got him outside to the patrol car. I know Nathan from a previous call. Acting out in the classroom. He has a hard time, what with his autism and all.”
“Autism?”
“What they used to call Asperger’s, actually. They tell me it’s like a mild form of autism. Relationships, understanding other people’s emotions—they’re all real hard for him. If he gets frustrated, he can really lose it. Tantrums like a four-year-old. I’ve tried to cut him some slack, but he sometimes drives his teachers crazy.”
“Well, his mother isn’t cutting you any slack. We’ll have to see how far she goes.”
“Great. Just what I need.” He closed the file on his desk and returned it to the cabinet behind him. Then he locked his desk. “I say we’ve done enough damage for one day.”
“Aye, Cap’n.” Esperanza mimicked a salute. “See you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow morning. And, hopefully, I don’t get any emergency calls on my watch tonight.”
“Was it still raining when you walked in, Tony?” Chiara was zipping up her coat.
“A drizzle, but it was winding down.”
“OK, guys. So long.” Chiara took a deep breath of the sea-sweetened air once she got outside. It was her favorite part of living close to the ocean—the air always smelled better here than anywhere else. A mist like smoke settled on every surface, making cars and sidewalks shine in the streetlights. She unlocked the red Corolla and slid in. When she started it, she was greeted with a blast of rap music just below the threshold of pain. “It relaxes me,” she told her bosses whenever they commented about being able to hear her coming from two blocks away. Before she left the curb, she drew her phone from her purse and called her fiancé.
“Hey, Sammy. Do we need anything at the store on my way home? No? Got something ready? Super! See you soon.”
As she pulled out into the light traffic, her mouth began to water. Sammy had made a crab chowder, and she could almost taste it already. “I guess I’m just gonna have to marry that guy,” she said aloud over the beat of the music. She smiled as she recalled the events of the day. It had been such a kick helping Charley search for clues. Honorary Detective? She liked the sound of that, even if it was just for fun. And it called to mind a question that had been bouncing around in her hip-hop brain over the last several months. Should I apply to the Police Academy—become a real detective?
Before she realized it, she was pulling into the driveway of the rented duplex she called home. It was a modest affair, lime-green from a paint job the previous summer. As she opened the front door, the fragrances of homemade soup and fresh-baked bread banished all other thought. “That smells amazing!” she cried, as she hung her coat on a hook by the door. “What a homecoming!” She hurried into the kitchen to hug her man.
“Welcome home,” Sammy said. His dark brown hair had grown long over the winter, and he had tied it in a ponytail while he cooked. His hazel eyes were framed by wire-rimmed glasses that reminded Chiara of a picture of John Lennon her father had showed her when she was ten years old and had asked him who The Beatles were. A black apron protected his shirt front from unwanted splashes of chowder as he stirred the pot. He put down the wooden spoon, placed his hands on either side of her face, and kissed her on the mouth. “I’m good at other things besides cooking, you know.” As if to emphasize his point, he encircled her body with his arms and thrust his hips forward.
“You are the king of the k
itchen and the bedroom,” she cooed in his ear. “But let’s eat first. I’m starving!” She withdrew from his embrace and reached for soup bowls in the cupboard over the counter.
“So how was your day at the office?”
“That sounds so formal—at the office.” She grabbed napkins and silverware from the drawer next to the stove and placed them on the small table in the den. Then she went back to retrieve the butter from the refrigerator. “It was a fun day. I helped them investigate stuff, especially stuff they’re too old to understand. They don’t really get social media and computers, so they appreciate me.” She smiled again. “And they’re kinda cute in their own way.” She checked to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything and turned on the TV. “You want some wine?”
“Working on a beer, thanks. You slice the bread and I’ll fill our bowls.”
In moments, they were sitting at the table. At her first spoonful of chowder, her eyes went wide with pleasure. “You outdid yourself, babe. So how was your day?”
“Same ol’, same ol’. Studied all day until it was time to make supper. Tomorrow’s my big class day.”
“Still liking it?”
“Pacific Crest? Yeah, it’s a good school. I got good teachers. Still planning on going for my Masters in Social Work at Portland State afterwards.” The butter had melted into his bread, and he dunked the crust into his soup. “Pretty good, if I do say so myself.” As he finished his mouthful, he added, “They still talk about that fire last year.”
“Club Chaos?”
“Yeah. Five of our students died. It used to be a big hangout. Chancellor Brady had their pictures hung in the Admin wing.”
“The owner was a crook, you know.”
“You told me.”
Chiara caught the word “Driftwood” on the local news program and turned her attention toward the TV.
“This just in. There are reports of an altercation between a police officer and a fifteen-year-old boy at Driftwood High School yesterday. The boy’s mother is claiming the policeman assaulted her son. Another student took a video of the incident on his phone and posted it to the Internet, where it has gone viral. We warn you, some viewers may find these images disturbing.”
“Holy shit!” Chiara leaped from her chair and ran to the TV. “That’s Charley! Oh, this is not good.”
In the video, the policeman, whose back is toward the camera, has pinned the boy to the floor, face down. The boy continues to thrash as the policeman straddles him. Voices of other students can be heard in the background. The audio portion becomes more garbled.
“Get off! You’re fu… hurt... me! Get off! Let me… !”
“Stop, N.... I’m going to have to cu...you.”
Other voices. “Officer Whitehorse, let him go!”
The policeman gets handcuffs on the boy, who finally lies still. Then he gets off him and helps him to his feet. “We’re going outside.” More unintelligible words. “...you...mother...”
The video ended. The newswoman returned. “We’ve contacted the boy’s mother, Neveah Bowling, who was willing to speak to us on camera. We’ve had to edit some of her language for this broadcast.”
A black woman with hair braided in tight cornrows appeared on the screen. She grimaced at the camera. “That cop called me right away to cover his tracks. That sonofa… He called my boy a n...er and threatened to cut him. You heard that for yourself. Then he dragged Nathan outside and called him a motherf...er. That cop, Whitehorse, is a menace.” She raised a fist to the camera. “My boy’s life matters!”
“In other news tonight...”
Chiara was shaking her head back and forth. “Oh, my God. No, no, no.”
9. The Wolf at Home
In a large house high in the West Hills of Portland, where the study windows gave a panoramic view of the city skyline and the Willamette River, Vasily Volkov had been watching the local news from the comfort of a soft recliner. A big smile spread across his face as he reached for the bottle of single malt Scotch on the marble end table. Though small in stature, he projected an aura of authority, from the square set of his jaw to his piercing dark eyes—eyes that his enemies likened to those of a great white shark. They were eyes that brooked no appeal, offered no forgiveness, tolerated no disobedience. His friends compared his eyes to those of his namesake, the wolf—alert and calculating, inured to violence. Nature had blessed him with a full head of black hair, even now at sixty. He wore only bespoke suits from Savile Row and shoes of the finest Italian leather. He had learned to appreciate the good things in life, weaned as he had been on his grandfather’s grim stories of life in the gulag and his father’s misadventures as a petty criminal on the mean streets of Moscow.
His grandfather sipped his Vodka and stared at the flames playing along the log in the fireplace. Old Dedushka was remembering. The darkened room had grown quiet after their spartan supper. His mother was cleaning dishes at the sink in the kitchen. His father was out stealing food and any small trinket he might sell. The old man turned to the young boy sitting cross-legged next to him, hanging on his every word.
“The labor camps were hard, little Vas. There was too much work and too little food. The winters were the worst. Many thousands died of starvation. I saw my friend Grigory fall from exhaustion one day, so I gave him a sip of my water and a crust of my bread to revive him. The next day, the guards cut my rations—said I must be getting too much if I was giving some away.”
“What did you do, Grandpa?” The boy looked as if he might start to cry at any moment.
“I grew hard. As they say, iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.”
“I do not understand.”
“Never show weakness, my grandson. If an enemy cuts you, cut him twice. If he kills a friend of yours, kill two of his.”
Volkov poured himself another three fingers of whiskey and picked up his phone. After three rings, a familiar voice greeted him.
“Good evening, Mr. Volkov.” The attorney’s voice was calm and deferential.
“Hello, William. We have not talked in months. Forgive my oversight. You must come and dine with Anastasiya and me soon. Our chef has found the most divine recipe for veal.”
“It would be my honor, Mr. Volkov. And how is your wife? And those fine grown children of yours?”
“Anastasiya is lovely as ever. Fancies herself a writer now. Mystery stories. I have told her if I read about myself in one of her stories, I will serve her with divorce papers.” He laughed and took another drink. “Aleksei’s surgery practice has grown. People keep getting sick. What can I say? Zima’s company has made it to the Fortune 500. I think she has set her sights on political office now.”
“My sincerest congratulations, Mr. Volkov. Is retirement in your future?”
“No, William. Old dogs like me just work till we die.”
“Well, I hope that day is a long way off. In the meantime, is there anything I can help you with this evening?”
“Yes, I think there is.” His voice became more sober. “I am afraid I have a thorn in my side. A policeman by the name of Charles Whitehorse. Do you know him?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. What’s he done?”
“I am sure he was involved somehow in the destruction of my Club Chaos in Driftwood and the death of my business partner Abram Sokolov. Before he died, Abram spoke to me about him. Said the policeman was making trouble for us.” He took another sip of his drink.
“That was a terrible fire. I’m sorry for your loss—your club and your partner.”
“I appreciate your kind words, William. Now I need to honor Abram’s death. I have waited for months, and at last I feel it is time to act.”
“What would you like me to do? How can I help?”
“Whitehorse was involved yesterday in a fight with a black high school student in Driftwood. A video shows him taking the boy down. The child’s mother, Neveah Bowling, is upset.” He put his glass down on the table. “Volunteer your legal services to her. Tell her a
n anonymous benefactor is willing to pay all her fees to bring that policeman to justice. Make a big deal of it. Threaten to take the case to the Grand Jury. File a civil suit.” He clenched his teeth. “Smear that man’s reputation. Make him hated in his community. Can you do that for me?”
“Consider it done.”
“Thank you, dear friend. One of my people will be contacting you about dinner arrangements. Keep me apprised of your progress. Good night.”
Volkov terminated the call and sank back in his chair, closing his eyes, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction. “Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad,” he whispered aloud.
A woman dressed in a long, white gown that accentuated her generous curves knocked on the open study door. Her blonde hair cascaded like a perfumed waterfall over her bare shoulders. The diamonds at her throat were a necklace of stars. Her bright red lips were drawn into a sensuous pout. “Come to dinner with me. It is getting late.”
“Ah, Anastasiya. Of course, radnaya, but first congratulate me for putting my plans in motion.”
She bowed to her husband with a flourish of her arm. “Congratulations, Vas, but your plans are always in motion.”
“So they are.” He nodded and smiled. “Thank you for noticing, my dear. And what has Andrei prepared for us this evening?”
“Something rare and wonderful.”
10. The Elephant in the Room
The week had limped along to Friday by way of a hundred little tedious tasks. Even Chiara, spark of optimism that she was, felt the drudgery of computer investigation. For the benefit of her bosses, she would occasionally say, “We’re getting closer—I can feel it.” And five minutes later, she’d sink back into the stupor of staring at her screen, crossing out names and addresses, waiting for Facebook to surrender Mxyztplk, waiting for one irrefutable clue to emerge. Whitehorse was out responding to a traffic accident, while Esperanza kept vigil with her at the department, counting the minutes until he could sign out for the day. The mood was grim. No one wanted to talk about the incident at Driftwood High School.