The Single Twin

by Sean Little

  Duff slammed the footrest down and stood, the Brewers blanket falling to his ankles leaving him standing in nothing but a pair of black Fruit-of-the-Loom boxer-briefs. He scratched at his hairy belly lazily. “Really? I always thought I’d be the first one of us to snap.”

  “I’m a better shot.” Abe knelt at Duff’s closet and dug out the gun safe they kept there buried under a pile of Duff’s clothes. “They need my gun.”

  “When was the last time you fired that thing?”

  Abe thought about it. “Maybe a year ago? Eighteen months? When did we last go to the range?”

  Duff thought for a second. “Sixteen months ago. Mid-April. We went out to qualify for our license renewals. We both passed, barely. It rained that day. You slipped in the mud at the outdoor range and got both your knees dirty. You weren’t doing well because Katherine had just figured out she liked Slot B more than Tab A.”

  “That was the last time I fired it, then.”

  “Bag it so you don’t get leftover residue on your hands. Bag mine, too. They’ll probably want to see it, as well.”

  “Will do,” said Abe. He got two one-gallon Ziploc bags from a drawer in the kitchenette. Both guns were stored unloaded with trigger-locks on them, but he checked the cylinder on his gun and the stock on Duff’s gun anyhow just to be extra safe before he dropped them into the bags and sealed them.

  “Do we have time to stop for breakfast?”

  “No. Eat a Pop-Tart on the way.”

  BETTS WAS WAITING for them when Abe and Duff arrived at the district. He saw them walk in and went right to the door to wave them past the officers working the lobby counter. Betts took the Ziploc bags from Abe and walked them to Interrogation Room #2. Like all interrogation rooms, it was a small, gray cell with a table and four chairs and a camera in the corner of the room recording all interactions within. It was completely lacking in charm or hospitality. Betts told the detectives to have a seat. He’d get them some coffee.

  “I don’t drink coffee,” said Duff. “I’ll take a diet Coke, though.”

  “That’s right, you’re the puss who doesn’t like the taste of coffee,” said Betts.

  “Your mom said it makes my semen taste funny.”

  Betts rolled his eyes knowing he’d been bested. “Fuck you, Duffer. I’ll get your damned soda.”

  “I’ll be sure to give this place a five-star review on Yelp.”

  Diana Gates walked into the interrogation room with a swab kit. She swabbed Abe’s hands and Duff’s hands and then took kit to the lab. She didn’t speak a word to either of them.

  “I remember when people who were new on the job were nice to people they didn’t know well,” said Duff after she left.

  “I think you offended her yesterday.”

  Duff shrugged. “It has been said I’m an acquired taste.” After a moment he added, “Why did she swab me? I wasn’t a suspect.”

  Betts came in with a paper cup of steaming black coffee and a can of diet Coke. He had a manila file folder tucked under his arm. He set the coffee down in front of Abe and the Coke in front of Duff.

  Duff felt the can. “It’s warm.”

  “I know. I could have gotten you a cold one, but then I figured, I didn’t care to.”

  “You’re all heart, Betts.”

  “Your guns are being tested right now. I didn’t smell fresh gunpowder on them, so I figure you’re in the clear.”

  “We haven’t even taken those things out of our gun safe in sixteen months,” said Abe.

  “When we fight crime, we do it with our bare hands, like real men.” Duff flexed his arms like a weightlifter. “Old school, baby.”

  “Put those things away before you tear a muscle in your back, you assclown.” Betts pulled the folder from under his arm and tossed it on the table. “These are the photos from the crime scene last night. Tell me what you think.”

  Abe opened the folder. The top photo was a shot of a young, African American male flat on the ground on his back, a dark stain of blood blooming in the center of his chest. His arms were out to his sides and his legs were crossed. His eyes were closed, his mouth open in what looked like an expression of surprise. “That’s the guy who hit me in the apartment.”

  “We’re still waiting on a positive I.D. for him. Did he say anything to you?” Betts took a seat at the head of the table and pulled out a Parker Jotter ballpoint from his shirt pocket and his leather-covered notebook from this jacket.

  “Nope. Just hit me and ran. By the time I got to my feet, he was gone. Like a ghost.”

  “What were you doing in the apartment, then?”

  “Working a case.”

  “You know how to work cases, don’t you, Betts?” Duff lived to prod the cop. “That’s how real detectives catch the bad guys when they don’t have actual, intelligent private detectives to call to do their work for them.”

  “Hey, asshole, I’ll cut you off here and now and won’t lose sleep over it.” Betts jabbed a finger in Duff’s face. “How well you think you and your buddy here will stay afloat if the C.P.D. suddenly decides it doesn’t need your consulting fees on their expense accounts anymore?”

  “We might not be able to afford a second vacation home.” Duff clasped his hands to his mouth in mock-horror. “I shan’t be able to survive if we can’t summer in Bimini. Muffy and Greyson are counting us to join them in the Hamptons for apple-picking as well!”

  Abe spoke up hoping to stop his partner’s needling. “We got a case from a young woman who thought she was in trouble. She went into hiding because she thinks her life might be in danger. We were given access to her place to look for clues and leads. That’s all.”

  “And you felt the need to look through her apartment at eleven at night?”

  “More like ten-thirty, but yes.”

  “So, it was just coincidence her place was getting hit by our vic.”

  “Purely. Maybe he has something to do with our case, maybe not. I bet he does, though.” Abe shuffled through the other pictures of the crime scene. It was just more shots of the body at different angles. “Your vic was surprised by the gunshot. There was no defense. He took the bullet square in the heart and fell backward from a combination of trying to leap out of the way and the force of the shot.”

  Duff leaned over the table and looked at the pictures. “You can tell he was surprised by the legs being crossed like that. Happens when a body falls backward without prep. I don’t know why. It’s one of the weird things our bodies do, I guess. Sort of like a fencing response to a concussion. I think maybe it’s due to a dude’s preternatural instinct to protect his nuts.”

  “The patrol guys who found him in the alley figured it was either gang-related or a mugging gone wrong. Vic had no wallet, no cash, no nothing. All pockets empty. Given he was wearing the sweatshirt, gloves, and long pants in the middle of a hot summer night, they were going off the notion he might have been the aggressor. Some six-cylinder Samaritan pulled his own piece and ended this guy when he demanded cash.”

  “I don’t think he had a gun or knife. I surprised him, and he crashed me into a wall and bolted. Guy with a gun or knife would be inclined to use them, although, this guy looks muscular enough that a weapon would be an unfair advantage to him.” Abe picked up a photo and squinted at it.

  “He looks young, too,” said Duff. “Early twenties, maybe. He might be mob-connected and was expendable, especially if he left the apartment without whatever his overlords sent him into the place to get.”

  “Or, maybe he was just a chucklehead who grabbed the door to the apartment complex as it was closing and was trying doors to see if he could find an unoccupied place with easy access?” Abe shrugged. “Maybe this is entirely unrelated to our case.”

  “I doubt that,” said Duff. “It feels too coincidental to be unrelated. Plus, he wasn’t taking things of value. He had stripped the couch and was searching the foam. He was looking for something in particular.”

  Betts pointed at the vic in
the photo. “Look at his arms and chest. I’m willing to guess he was either into football or bodybuilding. Maybe both.”

  “He definitely had speed,” said Abe. “He covered twenty feet of distance before I could think.”

  The door to the interrogation room opened and Gates entered. “They’re clean. Swabs came back negative for powder. They didn’t shoot anybody.”

  “I figured as much,” said Betts. “Thanks, D.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” said Abe. “I mean, I knew I didn’t kill anyone last night, but it’s always good to be sure.”

  “You could have been sleep-walking and killed someone,” said Duff.

  “If that was the case, I probably would have killed you.”

  “Ooh, good point. I think you murdering me would be the end of our friendship.”

  “Well, now I know how to get out of it should the time come.”

  Gates snorted. “Do you two mugs ever shut up?”

  “No, they don’t,” said Betts.

  “Did you really just call us ‘mugs’?” Duff started laughing. “That might be the first time I’ve actually heard someone say that outside of a black-and-white gangster movie.”

  “My grandma used to say it,” said Gates indignantly. “Now hush.”

  Duff adapted an Edward G. Robinson sneer. “Yeah, see, you mugs betta shaddup if you don’t want what’s comin’, see?”

  Gates pulled open her jacket to show Duff the heel of her service piece hanging under her arm. “I ain’t afraid of prison, fat boy.”

  That only made Duff laugh harder. Abe flinched a bit and said, “Body shaming isn’t cool, Detective.”

  “That’s not body shaming.” Duff patted his tummy bulge. “She was just calling a fat guy a fat guy. Can’t get mad about it. If you get mad about truth, then you better look at yourself.” Duff tipped his Brewers cap at Gates. “I like you, Gates. I hope you don’t let ol’ Pornstache here run you out before your probation period is over.”

  “It’s not a pornstache.” Betts swiped at his mustache, smoothing the ends. “It’s a dignified look, a classic look.”

  “Yeah, for gay porno actors in the ‘70s.”

  “Fuck you, Duff.”

  “I love you, Betts.” Duff gave the detective two big thumbs-up held along the side of his face like a kid in a 1950s ad.

  “You love doughnuts.”

  “True.” Duff thumped his belly again.

  “Are we done here?” said Abe. “Duff and I are chasing a lead on our case and we have to go to Schaumburg.”

  “Yeah, I guess we’re done,” said Betts. “Is it worth checking out the apartment you caught him in?”

  “We got out anything of worth to our case before he hit the place. He didn’t take anything of value.”

  “We’re going to work this hit from last night. You work your case. We already know they’re probably connected. Just keep us in the loop if you land anything pertinent to this guy’s murder.” Betts stood up and gathered the photos, shuffling them back into the envelope.

  “We can do that,” said Abe.

  “Have fun in Schaumburg,” said Gates. “If you hit up Medieval Times, let me know.”

  “Fuckin’ Red Knight,” Duff grumbled. “He always lets me down.”

  -8-

  THE SUBURBS OF Chicago always felt strange after being in the city for so long. The city was vertical and loud. Tall buildings stood sentinel over every shoulder with the occasional glimpse of the flat expanse of Lake Michigan. The ‘burbs were horizontal, spread out on flat plains and populated with one-and-two story buildings. The roads were longer and straighter, but there was more traffic and faster traffic. Duff hated it. Duff believed in a strict three-division separation of humanity: City, Small town, Countryside. The ‘burbs were a horrible abomination that fit into none of these. Too much grass to be city, but not enough to be country. Too spread out to be small town, but not compact enough to be city.

  Abe was a little more accustomed to the ‘burbs. He had lived in one for years, after all. It was not pure outer ‘burbs like Schaumburg, but it was ‘burby enough for government work.

  Schaumburg was thirty miles from their office, give or take. It took over an hour to get there, though. Traffic, stoplights, lack of flow. It all conspired to make what should have been a twenty-minute drive turn into an arduous journey three times longer. This also annoyed Duff to no end and poured more fuel on the fire that was his hatred for the suburbs.

  Abe drove The Fucking Embarrassment through the endless lines of slow-moving stop-and-go traffic toward Schaumburg. He tried to listen to the pundits on the talk radio station lecture about the upcoming congressional election, but it was constantly punctuated with Duff’s colorful epithets of the drivers all around them, random passers-by on the streets, and anyone silly enough to drive around with a bumper-sticker which offended him personally.

  The pundits were talking about the race between Robert “Even” Stevens, the incumbent, and the two major challengers: the Libertarian candidate, Annie Sachs, and the Republican, Joseph Edgar Post—or as the press has already glossed him, “Joe Po’.”

  Duff was screeching about a woman who had the audacity to drive with her curious Pomeranian on her lap rather than in the back seat or secured in a carrier.

  “Stevens currently sits on a comfortable, but not insurmountable lead,” the smooth-voiced radio guy was saying.

  “This dog is staring at me, man!”

  “What do Sachs and Joe Po’ need to do to catch him by November?”

  “Seriously! She just lets it stand up on her arm and look at people! What if she has to make an emergency maneuver? Either she’s gonna clothesline that dog or she’s going to kill someone. Speed up, Abe. Get away from her. She’s crazy.”

  This was how any lengthy trip with Duff went. He was usually good for thirty or forty minutes of silence, but after he got bored, the ride became a constant edition of Who Can Duff Insult?

  A female voice came over the radio. “Annie Sachs, at this point, is so far behind she really has no chance. However, she’s doing well enough in the polls that what she’s really going to do is harm any chance of Post catching and being a serious threat to Stevens, which is exactly how Stevens wants it. The Democrats know they’ve run successful campaigns on this split in the past, and they’re going to use it to help Stevens this fall.”

  “The Democrats are playing the race card early,” said a third pundit, this one male with a slightly squeaky voice. He had a touch of conspiracy theorist to his tone. “Given the overt whiteness of Joe Po’ and Sachs and Stevens’ obvious African American heritage, the Dems are letting everyone know early on a vote for anyone other than Stevens will be seen as an attack on minorities and a vote for white supremacy. This is the story they’ve been feeding America since before Obama was elected. You have to start questioning their motives here.”

  “Who the hell drives a Humvee anymore?” Duff leaned out the window so he could yell at the guy driving the full-sized Hummer next to them. “Hey, asshole! Sorry about the size of your dick!”

  The Humvee’s windows were up so the driver didn’t hear him. Abe accelerated away from the Humvee. It was not worth getting into any sort of conflict so early in the day.

  They got to Schaumburg a little over an hour after they left the district. It took another ten minutes to wind through the streets until they found Sherry Franklin’s house. It was a typical two-story, older, brick house in a neighborhood lined on both sides of the street with more houses that looked exactly the same as hers, just with varying porches and different-colored bricks. A silver Buick SUV sat in her driveway. A sticker in the back window proclaimed the SUV to have a Cubs Fan on Board. The postage-stamp yard was manicured carefully. A selection of potted plants adorned the steps leading to the covered three-season porch. Along the side of the house, a central A/C unit was buzzing loud enough to drown out the ever-present locusts of August.

  Abe pulled to an empty spot on the street and killed
the Volvo’s engine. “We’re here. Thoughts?”

  “I think if I had to live in this neighborhood, I’d eat a bullet.” Duff gestured at the similar houses. “Look at this place. It’s completely devoid of personality. How would you even tell someone how to find your house? Oh, it’s the really boring one.” He got out of The Fucking Embarrassment and slammed the door behind him. “What’s the play, Shakespeare?”

  Abe got out of the car and walked around the front of it. “I figure we could do the usual routine: chubby, angry cop and wishy-washy cop who tries to play nice.”

  “That has worked well for us in the past, I agree.”

  Abe readied one of their business cards, a simple, cream-colored card with plain, typewriter-style lettering reading Allard & Duffy, Private Investigators, and listed their contact info below it. Abe’s name was in one corner, Duff’s in the other.

  Duff knocked on the front door to the porch. He also reached over and pushed the doorbell. A simple ding-dong rang through the house. It was loud enough they could hear it through the two doors and the porch space. Through the frosted glass pane at the top of the interior door, shadows shifted indicating someone was approaching.

  The door to the little house opened and a woman in jeans shorts and a Cubs t-shirt stepped through to the porch. She was in her sixties but looked like she was maybe early forties. She was athletic and lean. Her thick, wavy hair was dyed brown, but enough gray was showing at the roots to give away her true age. She was not very tall, but she looked like she didn’t take bullshit from anyone. She gave the boys a quick once-over. “Can I help you fellas?” She did not open the screen door to the porch, just spoke through the screen. Her accent had a strong East Coast base, but there was enough Midwest in it to tone it down.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Franklin. My name is Abe Allard. This is my associate, C.S. Duffy. We’re private investigators.” Abe held the card up to the screen so she could see it. “We’re looking into a case and believe you might have pertinent information to it. If it’s no trouble, we’d like to speak to you for a few moments. It should not take long.” Abe tried to smile, but he was never good at putting on that particular mask. All his smiles came out wrong, at best, and at worst, they made him look like an anxious serial killer. To his right, Duff stood silently, also trying to smile. They weren’t exactly the best pair to make a decent first impression on a single, older woman who had every right to be wary about a couple of strange men on her front stoop. Abe and Duff were the quintessential strange men.