by DL Cook
That's when Travis saw the bracelet on the old man's wrist. He turned on the overhead light to examine it. “Chester Marlow, 327 Maple Drive,” he read the inscription.
“That sounds familiar,” said the man.
“It's you.”
“That's nice,” he smiled, casually swerving off the dark road and colliding with a tree.
Travis slammed into the dashboard. His gun tumbled out of his hand. As he searched for it he expected the man to get out of the car and run. But Chester didn't move. Maybe he died in the crash.
Chester announced that he forgot how to drive.
Travis sat back in his seat and rubbed his head. So the old man wasn't dead. He should have killed him at the start, but here was as good a place as any. “We're gonna go for a little walk in the woods,” Travis told him. He put his gun into an oversized pocket. It had no ammo anyway and Chester wasn't especially frightened of it.
“Sounds good,” Chester replied. His dentures rattled in his mouth when he smiled.
A spotlight shone at them as they got out. A squad car pulled up behind them.
“You folks alright?” the cop asked. He pointed his flashlight at the front of their car. “Oh man, that's nasty. Not gonna start that anytime soon.”
Travis observed for the first time the smoke billowing from the hood.
“What happened? A deer get in your way?”
“Yeah,” Travis maneuvered to get behind the cop. He dropped his arm into his pocket. Brain the pig with the gun, get his gun, take his car.
Through some sixth sense or luck, the cop turned around. Travis relaxed his hand and pulled it out of the pocket. The officer shone the light at their faces. “They like to play chicken, those deers,” the cop said. “Say, you guys haven't seen a crazy naked guy running around with a gun, have you? He's about your height, sir.”
Travis shook his head no.
Chester said, “I seen him get out of a coffin from a cop car. Then he took me for a drive. My boy Bob here saw the whole thing.”
The cop pointed his flashlight at Travis. He shrugged and smiled sheepishly, pointing at Chester's wrist. “Sorry, Officer...?”
“Hanson.”
“Sorry, Officer Hanson. My pop's not been well for a while.”
Chester accommodated him by announcing that he might have had an accident in his pants.
“Oh, I understand. I was going to offer you folks a ride, but now I'm thinking I might call you a tow truck instead.”
“No. All good. False alarm,” Chester announced with a smile.
“In that case, get in. I'll drop you off at the strip mall,” Hanson said.
“Thanks, that's nice of you,” Travis and Chester got in the back.
“Yeah, no problem. It's my job.” The cop u-turned on the narrow road. His high beams made the woods on both sides look like a fence. “Where were you two going?”
“The store,” Travis said.
The folds on the back of Hanson's head jiggled with his nodding. “That's nice of you, taking your pop out like that. The moment I saw you I figured you were father and son. You look just like him.”
Travis smiled and nodded into the rear view mirror, where the cop occasionally made eye contact with him.
“I'd drive you folks home, but I'm actually on a manhunt right now.” He tapped Travis' mugshot on the screen between the front seats. “Probably shouldn't even have picked you up, in all honesty. But I thought, 'it's dangerous out there so I might as well help these nice folks.' It's like my wife says...”
Travis stopped listening, but he continued to smile and nod. Chester snored beside him, his slack mouth pointing straight up.
A while later Hanson pulled into a parking lot and let them out. “Well, here you go, folks. I hope this is alright for you. You can call a cab from here. You got change? Great. You should have a slice while you wait. The pizza's good here.” He paused to look at the coffin on top of a patrol car several spaces down. “Have a good night now and be careful,” he yawned and drove off.
Tuesday
They stopped at the new bakery. Tom gave Chalmers a couple of crumpled bills with fuzz on them and said, “Tiramisu please.”
Chalmers paused at the passenger window. “You're not going in?”
“No thank you.”
“But I don't even want anything from there.”
“Thanks for getting it for me.”
“But why don't you want to go in?”
Tom turned forward and looked down at his phone. Out of the corner of his eye he watched his partner enter the store and start talking to the lady. She was weird. She kept following him around for no reason and tried to touch him all the time. She didn't want him to pay for anything because he had “saved her from the purse snatcher.” That was great. Tom loved a discount. But the weird lady made him uncomfortable. It was best to avoid her. But he couldn't resist her sweets. Chalmers was a lifesaver.
Speaking of discounts, Tom emailed his sister one that he found for a potentially interesting video game he might want for Christmas.
“4 my xmas present pls,” he tapped into the message field. He hoped Libby would get the hint. Normally, he bought his own gifts and asked for money in return, but this year he was low on funds. His tax refund was less than usual and the price of pizza had gone up. Tom forwarded Mettler an article about taxes and then searched for something on commodity prices. Scanning the article quickly, he shared it with Don.
His stomach rumbled. Chalmers was taking much longer than he should have. His partner pointed at him through the window. Tom pretended not to notice by placing his hand over his face and peeking out through his fingers.
They were going to get dogs soon. Tom tried to find a good deal on Dog Whisperer DVDs. They were somewhat expensive, but he sent Libby the link anyway. Tom sent Mettler a fourth article on the funny congressman from NY (who had to resign because he was a pervert) when his partner opened the driver side door.
Lucus suppressed his smile as best as he could when he got back behind the wheel. He removed his key lime pie and tossed the bag to Tom, along with his fuzzy money.
“What's that?” Tom asked when Lucus popped open the deli container lid.
“Some kind of lime pie.”
“Can I have it?”
“I guess,” Lucus managed before Tom grabbed it. “Hey man, remember to chew.”
Tom nodded, his cheeks puffed and his eyes bulging. He ate like a snake. A second later he was done. “Thanks that was delicious,” he gave a green and white thumbs up and plunged into the bag to find his other treats.
Lucus started the car and pulled out into the street. “So what are your plans for Saturday night?” he asked.
“I'm going to catch up on the Walking Dead, play Dota 2 or Awesomenaughts and listen to Alex Jones,” Tom said through a full mouth.
“Nothing important then,” Lucus said. “That's not what you're going to do.”
“It's not?”
“No. You're going on a date with Rose Marie.”
“Who's that?”
“The woman whose tiramisu you're eating.”
“I see.”
“She likes y—”
“So anyway,” Tom interrupted, “Douglas Hadiger. We're going to the county clerk?”
“Yeah,” Lucus said. “Rose Marie said y—”
“So anyway, Douglas Hadiger.”
Lucus chuckled at Tom's discomfort. “I told her you like pizza. Sh—”
“So anyw—”
“She said she'll bake you one. You're meeting her on Saturday at eight.”
Tom looked down at his phone, no doubt firing off another slew of emails to Don. Lucus sighed. “You'll have a great time, dude. You'll thank me for it someday.”
“Douglas Hadiger,” Tom replied.
They arrived at the clerk's office and were shown the way to the records department. It was an old wooden building. Its mustiness reminded Lucus of church. The old man behind the counter smiled at them, den
tures askew.
“Tom my boy!”
“Hi Mr. Marlow.”
Lucus gave Tom a look. Tom didn't seem to understand, so Lucus whispered, “how do you know him?”
“Chester likes pizza,” Tom explained.
“Pizza?” the records clerk leaned forward over the counter. “I don't see any.” The sheet of paper he held crumpled as he righted himself.
The guy was a bit loopy. Judging from the bracelet on his wrist he should've been in a retirement home instead of work. “Sir,” Lucus began, “we're here to find some records. If you don't mind I can find them myself. You can chat with Tom here in the meantime.”
Someone out of view cleared his throat. “In your hand.”
That reminded Chester. He read from the paper, “'no one is to go behind the counter unless authorized by me, Chester Marlow.' Hey, that's me,” he said happily. “There's more here. 'What records do you want? I will give them to you.'”
“Douglas Hadiger,” Tom said.
“No, I'm Chester Marlow,” the old man smiled.
Lucus headed for the gate. Tom stopped him as he opened it. “Chester didn't authorize you,” Tom said.
“The guy's got Alzheimers or something. We have to get the records ourselves,” Lucus replied.
“You were not authorized,” Tom said, his hand firm on Lucus' shoulder.
“Alright, you win,” Lucus said. Tom let him go.
Lucus was about to make a run for it when the clerk said, “here you go.” The old man placed a folder on the counter. Lucus caught a glimpse of someone in an oversized and yet somehow undersized suit disappearing behind the shelves. That explained it. Chester had an assistant who did his work for him. Probably a shy guy like Tom who didn't want to talk to people.
“Is this a copy for us to keep or do we have to return it to you?”
“Yes,” Chester replied to Lucus.
“Which one is it?”
“Yes.”
“Alright. When we're done we'll bring it back to you.”
“Have a nice day,” the old man said as they left.
Wednesday
“What did Lucus find in the records?” Don asked.
Peggy scanned the report. “Lots of property dealings. Hadiger participated in at least two dozen in the last year of his life.”
“Okay, so he dabbled in real estate...” Don said.
“It's the way he did it,” Peggy went on. “Lucus suspects Hadiger used his power on the budget committee to influence the zoning committee to mess with property values. They made certain things impermissible, making the land useless. Unable to pay their mortgages, the owners sold for cheap. The land was rezoned, making the use permissible again, and then sold for much more.”
“Why didn't any of these people sue the town under the takings clause of the Constitution?” Don remembered something he learned in law school.
“The previous owners haven't been asked because they haven't been tracked down yet.” For the time being, she decided not to mention one person that could be asked.
“So who was making a profit here? Hadiger?”
“Yep.”
“Alright, so Hadiger was fleecing these people. One of them got pissed and poisoned him,” Don mused. “Same poison as Charlene Atkinson used on Swinton?”
“Yep.”
“So it could've been her. Did she own any of the properties?”
“No.”
Don stroked his chin. “A hired assassin then? If it was her.”
“Possibly,” Peggy said.
“Whoever told her to kill Swinton, if they had her kill Hadiger, could've been angry about getting their land taken away.”
“That's a possibility,” Peggy said.
“This poison, is it hard to get?”
“Oh yeah.”
“So what are the chances that these poisonings are not related?”
“Slim,” Peggy had approximated the odds but she didn't think Don would care about such information or how she derived it. “Very slim. If I were a betting woman, my money would be on Charlene. On the topic of money, Lucus also got a hold of Hadiger's bank records.”
“Rich bastard?”
“That's just it. He was broke. He had a negative balance.”
“That why he was buried naked?”
Peggy shrugged. That was as good an explanation as any.
“If Duey were still in prison we could've asked him. Did you know the guard he beat up and impersonated in his escape—it was that guy's first day.” Don shook his head. “The world we live in. Alright, good work. Let me have that report. I'll read it over on my own. Anything else interesting in there?”
“The records clerk is senile,” Peggy said.
“What is it with the people around here? I hope it's not something in the water.” Don took the documents from her and proclaimed the meeting adjourned.
Peggy waited for the room to clear, gave Don a nod, and wheeled herself to the forensics office. One thing wasn't explicitly in the report, as Lucus hadn't made the conclusion. Peggy kept it to herself, not wanting to stress Don out any more than he already was. (The budget situation was probably worse than he let on. Why else would Libby embark on a new business venture, what Don called “Ace Ventura-ing”?) But maybe she should have brought it up. She'd have to wait until Don read the report. If he came to the same suspicion, he'd let her know.
Mortimer Freeman lost money on three of the properties Hadiger was involved with. Moreover, he was certainly capable of synthesizing the poison and setting up the freezer machines in the warehouse. And now he was in charge of analyzing the bodies.
If he were responsible for the bodies, they had the perp conducting the investigation. Bad. But if Mort had nothing to do with it, and she told Don she suspected the coroner, they'd have to sideline the best man for the job. They might never find out what happened. She should've mentioned it to Don. No. Let him figure it out.
She rolled into her office just in time for the phone to ring. She had to look for it under piles of documents and assorted newspaper clippings. No one ever called the land line anymore. Peggy had forgotten that her office even had one.
“Hello?”
“Hi Peggy.”
She recognized the childlike voice right away. “Hi Libby. What are you doing calling this number?”
“It's me, Libby,” Libby said.
“Yeah, I know, honey. What's wrong?”
“Um, um, um, um, um. What was I going to say to you?”
“I don't know, dear. You called me.” Poor Libby suffered many head injuries throughout her life.
“Oh yeah. I lost my phone. Can you please use that tracking thing the way you used it for my dad's phone to find mine? Don's gonna be so mad if he finds out I lost it.”
“Sure thing,” Peggy cradled her phone in the crook of her neck and shoulder. “Let me fire up the laptop.”
“Oh never mind,” Libby said, suddenly happy. “It was in my hand the whole time. Sorry about that.”
Peggy snorted. “No problem, child. We're all under a lot of stress.” A document stack caught her eye. Peggy ended the call with some more friendly words, but she hardly paid Libby any attention. She dropped the receiver and rolled to the stack. Duncan had delivered it that morning. Duey's cell phone metadata. Dates, times, numbers, and GPS coordinates. Libby's call reminded her of how useful these could be.
According to Don, Duey said that the “Ice Queen's” man ordered him to the warehouse before Duey got arrested. She calculated the time that would be and scanned through the phone records. She highlighted the number. A reverse look-up on the computer told her it was a prepaid, throwaway phone. Peggy started the tracking software. As it loaded she filled out a warrant form.
Monday
His mom was not happy. “Well you can't come here,” she barked into the phone.
“Why not?” Travis said.
“Because they're looking for you. They even came by here. Sometimes I wonder whether you've been
switched at the hospital and my real boy is out there somewhere making something of himself.”
“Oh come on, mom. Can I at least have some money?”
Ingrid hung up in reply. She was just mad because Duey survived and escaped from prison. The evening paper didn't have much detail on the escape. He would've gotten it done if they sent him. But whatever.
Chester emerged from the bathroom, his haphazardly tucked in shirt sticking out of his open fly. “I got lost in there,” he said. “What's wrong with him?” he pointed at the motel clerk slumped over the counter.
“He suffered a head injury while dialing the cops,” Travis explained. So much for staying at this motel tonight.
“I want to go home,” Chester said.
“That's a great idea,” Travis replied and dropped the newspaper where he found it. “Show me your bracelet.”
They drove the motel manager's car about halfway and then used his money to take a cab the rest of way. Mrs. Marlow greeted them with relief.
“Oh thank God,” she said. “Where did you find him?”
“He hit a tree on road 2. The police left him in my care.” Travis smiled and played up his charm.
“Thank you so much. Please, stay for dinner, Mister...”
“McCaliker. You can call me Duey. I'd love to,” Travis said.
“Are you a social worker, Mr. McCaliker?” Mrs. Marlow asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“You're dressed like one.”
“Yes, indeed I am. You are correct on both counts.”
“Are you assigned to my husband's case?”
Travis raised an eyebrow. “Husband? I thought you were Chester's daughter.”
“Oh, Mr. McCaliker, flattery will get you everywhere. Come in, come in.”
“Bob, my dear boy, who is that?”
Travis pushed him inside. “Your wife.” He acknowledged that he was Chester's new caseworker and that he would observe his charge overnight, if that was okay with her.
“Please. I insist on it.”
“You're not my wife. Where's my wife?”
Travis hoped the glands he ate would prevent him from getting dementia.
The food was awful. The woman didn't seem to know where anything was. She confused sugar with salt, or something else that was super bitter. Travis forked his food onto Chester's plate when she wasn't looking.
“Delicious, Mrs. Marlow. Aren't you going to have any?”
She smiled at Travis. “Oh no, dear. I've already eaten.”
Chester shoveled the food like it was his first meal in years. Hardly any of it went into his mouth, however, dribbling down his chin and shoulder.