by Wayne Purdy
Me: Did you get anything from Cutler?”
Zaki: Not much. His office emailed me the file. Its heavily redacted. He said that much of the investigation was classified. I asked him for other people of interest in Telford’s murder. He said there was just one. Frank Bello.
Me: Is that normal?
Zaki: No. I was expecting more. Says its classified. National security.
Me: Did he know about the other murder?
Zaki: He did. Said they must be unrelated.
Me: Okay. I’ll keep poring over my notes. Maybe something will come to me.
Zaki: Thanks. Keep me posted.
Now that was interesting. I was the lead investigator on the Telford murder. I didn’t like Bello for it, but I didn’t have any other suspects either. And classified? What the hell did that mean? No one told me it was classified, and I ought to have known. I was ordered to drop it and close the file. And it was Cutler that gave me the order. When I disobeyed, he washed me out for insubordination. There must have been something else going on. Something that I wasn’t aware of. But what?
That night, I had a hard time concentrating. I couldn’t get Gracie out of my head. This is how it felt ten years ago, when she was killed. It didn’t add up then, and the math still sucked now. “Can I get you something, Heck?” Alice asked. She smiled but it did little to mask her concern. “Are you alright? You look a million miles away.”
“I’m fine. Just a little distracted.”
“I can tell,” she said and gestured her head towards the VIP lounge, “or he’d never have gotten in.” I followed her gaze and saw Eff Bomb sitting in a darkened corner near the curtained off entrance. He was nursing a beer and trying his best to be inconspicuous. I groaned.
“What’s he doing here?” I headed straight for him, resisting the urge to grab him by the scuzzy collar and toss him out on his ass. He spotted me coming and his eyes bugged out.
“Heck! Fuck. Come on, man. I’ll be fucking good. Scout’s honour.” He held up one hand in a mock salute.
“We talked about this, Eff. You’re in a time-out.”
“I know. I know. Can’t you give me a second chance?”
“You’ve had dozens of second chances,” I said.
“I fucking know. I’m just having some problems with my ol’ lady.”
“So, you figured you’d solve them at a titty bar?” I asked.
“When you say it like that, it sounds fucking ridiculous,” Eff Bomb said. “She’ll be fine. She just needs time to cool off.” A hand gently alighted on my bicep. I could tell by the floral scent of accompanying perfume that it was Hazel.
“Hey Heck. Is this guy giving you trouble?” She narrowed her eyes at Eff Bomb in a faux death stare, it was a masterful bit of overacting, like Shatner playing Dirty Harry. I was even willing to overlook the fact that she butchered the line. “You feeling lucky, punk?”
Eff Bomb’s face brightened. “Mariposa! Tell Heck to let me stay. I won’t be no trouble.”
Hazel bent over him, giving him a close-up view of her breasts spilling out of her pink bikini top. She grabbed the lapels of his shirt. “I think you want a lap dance. And don’t forget a tip. A big one.”
“I won’t,” he said.
Hazel raised her eyes, meeting mine. “You’re not going to take food out of my kid’s mouth, are you Heck?” She asked in a sweet, sing-song voice.
“Never.” She sauntered away, her hips swaying pendulously.
Eff Bomb watched her go. “Damn. What I wouldn’t give…” he let the thought burn off like fog on a sunrise.
I looked at him. “You are lucky, punk. No trouble from you tonight.”
“Fuck no,” he said. He followed Hazel into the VIP lounge.
After the last patron had been funnelled through the door, I helped Alice with the clean up. Slowly the girls changed into their civvies and went home, Lexus and Cinnamon were among the last. They were laughing about something.
“Need a lift, Lexi?” Cinnamon asked her with the barest hint of a Russian accent.
Lexus flashed a smile. “Hold on a sec, hon. She turned her attention towards me. She was young, but I hadn’t realised just how young she looked. Her face still stubbornly held on to baby fat, the vestigial remains of her childhood. She was a girl in a woman’s body. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Soon as I leave here, I’m going to hit the hay,” I said.
Her face flushed crimson. “You want some company?” she asked in a shy whisper.
I paused for a beat, taken aback by her brazen proposition. “Sophie,” I said, lowering my voice and using her real name, “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“No problem-o, Momma Bear. I was just looking for a party, thought you might be too. No biggie.” She turned to Cinnamon who stood by the door, waiting to see how the drama played out. “I’ll take that ride, Cin, if that’s okay.”
Lexus gave her young friend a sad smile. “Of course,” she said, holding the door for her. Lexus gave me a little wave as she left. I was relieved as the door closed.
“You let her down easy, I hope,” a voice said. It was Hazel. She changed into her customary track pants and tee, her going home clothes.
“You want me to call you an Uber?”
“Please,” she said. I took out my smartphone and ordered the ride.
“It’ll be a few minutes,” I said.
She nodded her head in acknowledgement. “So? You didn’t answer my question.”
“What?”
“Did you let her down easy?”
“Oh. Yeah, I think so. I’m not sure she was serious. It seemed like it could be a joke.”
“I don’t think so. Heck.”
I shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe. Maybe not.”
Hazel laughed. “I’d say she was serious. She’s been crushing on you for awhile. She must like them tall, dark, and handsome.” Hazel seemed relieved. Did I misread that?
“Anyway, I’m too old for her.”
“Right? You could be her father-”
“Father’s younger friend,” I interrupted. We laughed.
“Hope I didn’t undermine you too much back there. You know, with Eff Bomb?”
“It’s fine, Hazel. He’s mostly harmless. A total screw-up, but harmless.”
“Don’t I know it. I’ll probably end up dating him. That seems to be my type.” A horn sounded, signalling the arrival of her car. “Night, Heck,” she said. She left and I never got the chance to ask if she was joking about Eff Bomb.
7
Hector
I stopped at a drive-thru for a bacon and egg sandwich and another cup of java on the to Irene Telford’s home. In the seat beside me, I placed the little package, the medal and the photo. I felt bad about misleading her, but this little subterfuge was needed to get me in the door, to get her to trust me. I noted the irony, lying in order to gain trust, but pushed back against the rising guilt. I had to do it. The drive itself was uneventful. The city dissolved from skyscrapers and into shopping centres and wooded fields and back to skyscrapers as I travelled north on highway 400 into Barrie.
When I pulled into Irene’s driveway, it became obvious that she had very little money. The house may once have been a fine family home. It was a modest, 1940s bungalow on a little postage stamp lot. The house was white stucco that was falling off in sections, exposing the plywood underneath. It was supposed to be white, I suppose, but it was gray and gloomy. The colour palette leached beyond the building itself and into the atmosphere around it. It felt as morose as it looked. The front window was missing, and a thick plastic barrier had been stapled into the frame. Judging from the mildew, it had been in place for quite some time. The roof was no better. The shingles were blistered and peeling up. I wouldn’t be surprised if it leaked in a rainstorm. The lawn, such as it was, was dried mud and burnt yellow tufts of grass. I had to doublecheck the address. Surely, she didn’t live here. This place had to be condemned. It wasn’t fit for human habitatio
n.
The front door opened, and a man walked out. He was pear-shaped and wearing a black shirt smartly tucked into a pair of black pants. He wore a white clerical collar. He had a shiny bald pate with a fringe of white hair. He saw me in the car and gave me a wave. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I said, returning the wave.
“You must be Mr. Collins. His eyes twinkled from beneath his gold frame eyeglasses.
I climbed out of Macy. “That’s right.”
“I’m The Reverend Geordie Reading. Irene is a member of my parish. I come out here on Sundays before church to pray with her. She can’t get to church anymore. The cancer has eaten her right up.”
“That’s kind of you I’m sure it must be comforting.”
“Are you religious?”
I didn’t answer, thinking about the best way to respond. I was raised protestant but hadn’t been to church in many years. I wasn’t even sure I believed in god anymore. The Reverend noticed my discomfiture.
“That’s alright, Mr. Collins. I didn’t mean to pry. A man’s faith is his own business. I was just going to ask that you keep her in your prayers. She’s going to need all the help she can get.”
“Is it that bad?”
“She should be in hospice. She’s too stubborn to let anyone look after her, and well, she’s in a bad way. She hasn’t much time left. I hope you aren’t going to upset her.” He grinned, but the comment felt vaguely threatening. Chalk that up as a first, I’d never been threatened by a man of the cloth before.
“That’s not my intent. I hope I bring her some closure.”
Reading bobbed his head, the neck waddles jiggled in unison. “She could use some of that. God be with you.” He walked across the street and got into his car. I watched him go then reached into Macy and grabbed the medal and photo before climbing the steps up the front stoop. I knocked on the front door. The screen was torn and hanging in ribbons, like Spanish moss.
“Come in,” a hoarse voice croaked.
I let myself in. The door led directly into a shoddy kitchen. A skeletal woman sat at the table. A cup of tea sat in front of her, and she had a cigarette between two yellowy, bony fingers. She was surrounded by a blue haze of smoke. There was an ashtray overflowing with bent, used-up cigarettes. The walls were nicotine stained. The room smelled of, not like death exactly, but of stale life. Everything in here was stagnant. “Mrs. Telford?”
She made as if to stand up but didn’t have the strength for it. “That’s me,” she said in barely more than a whisper. Irene was sicker than I had thought. She had an oxygen tank on a little trolley beside her with a hose running up her frail body and attached to her nostrils with surgical tape. There was another stand beside her with a bag of clear fluid. I followed the drip line and saw that it seemed to connect to a port on her stomach. She followed my gaze. “Be a dear and get me a glass of water, would ya?”
I turned to the sink and picked up a glass resting on the counter. I turned on the water, letting it cool before filling it nearly to the brim. It was milky, but quickly dissolved to clear. I placed it beside her tea. Then I took a seat across from her. It was obvious to me that formalities were out the window in Irene’s home.
“The cancer started in my lungs. They cut most of it away, as well as my lungs. Can’t hardly breathe no more. So, got this contraption,” she patted the little oxygen tank on wheels sitting at her side like an obedient dog. “Then it spread to my salivary glands, and the docs took them out too. Now I can’t make my own spit. I’m forever drinking water. Hurts like a bitch to eat when you can’t make spit, did you know that?”
The thought never occurred to me.
“The docs put a port into my stomach,” she lifted her shirt, showing me a plastic valve connected directly onto her skin. The IV hose was attached to it. “That’s how I eat now. Get all my nutrition pumped into me. What kind of life is that? No Christmas dinners. No chocolate. No nothing. Next to go is my voice box, if I live that long. I hope I don’t.”
“I can’t blame you for that,” She was right. She may be alive, but she sure as hell wasn’t living.
“It was Hector?” She asked, tapping a bony finger against the tabletop.
“Hector Collins, yes.”
“Hector. A name like that, I was expecting a spic.” I got this a lot. Hector isn’t a common name for a white Anglo man. I liked my name, but it was an inside joke that only my family understood. “And you were a friend of my…of Gracie’s?” She took a long pull from the glass, water dribbled down her chin.
“Not exactly. I’m sorry. I mislead you. I was with the military police. I was investigating her death.”
Her suspicious eyes turned scrutinous. “I don’t remember you. You weren’t in the reports that they sent me.”
“I never finished my investigations. I was injured.”
“Is that what happened to your eye?”
“Yes,” I said, not elaborating further.
“You said you had some of his stuff?”
“Yes ma’am,” I passed her the box with my medal in it and the crumpled photo.
She looked at the photo, “already got this one. Took it right b’fore he shipped out.” She coughed. Her body wracked with a seismic shudder and her guts rattled. She took a paper towel to her mouth and dabbed it. It came away with a brilliant red blossom of blood. She smiled ruefully. “Not s’posed to smoke no more, but the cancer is gonna get me anyway. I figure I may as well get some enjoyment with what time I got left.”
“I’m sorry,” There was no question that she was suffering.
“I’ve lived a hard life, but it was mostly my choosin’. Started smokin’ when I was just a kid. Twelve years old, can you b’lieve that? Graduated to beer, then pot. Dabbled with some of the harder stuff but couldn’t really ‘ford it. What’s that?” She asked, looking at the box in my hands.
“It’s a medal. Gracie earned it in Afghanistan. For her service.”
“She did?” Her eyes were red, but she didn’t have the moisture in her for tears. They looked like dry, angry red sores on her pallid face.
“Yes ma’am.”.
She opened it and sobbed. “Its beautiful.” She said. She struggled to her feet and carried the medal to a small table in the corner of the kitchen, her oxygen tank and IV drip rolled dutifully behind her. There was a framed copy of the photo that I’d given her as well as a baby picture and a picture of Gracie dressed as a woman. She placed the medal in front of the photos, the lid of the box opened, and the medal displayed on the soft black velvet. As far as memorial shrines go, it was underwhelming, but it was saccharine in its simplicity.
“Why are you here?” she said, struggling back to her seat. I stood up to help her, but she waved me off. “I can do it.” Ain’t dead yet.”
I waited until she was seated. She took another swig of water. “Things didn’t sit right. Gracie’s murder didn’t make sense.”
“This is tied into the murder of the girl down in the city, init?” Irene Telford’s body may have been shutting down, but her mind was still sharp.
“Yes ma’am. There are a lot of similarities. It’s got me to thinking.”
“You think it was the same person that did them both in?”
“I think so. Yes.”
She cleared her throat with a rumble and dabbed at her mouth again. The paper towel grew redder. “I met my husband when I was still a girl. I was only sixteen. Hadn’t even graduated high school yet. Never did. Grant was older. Much older. He was twenny nine. Divorced. Had himself a couple kids already. There were so many red flags, but I was blind. I was just happy to be a grown up. In a grown-up relationship. At the time, I didn’t see how bad that was. He’d buy me beer, an’ we had sex. That’s what I was to him. I know that now. Jus’ a fresh piece of ass. I was no virgin, but I was always with boys. Now I was with a man. The expectations were different. It was like runnin’ before you could walk. Anyways, I wasn’t careful. What teen girl is? So o’course I go
t knocked up.”
“Where were your parents?”
“They was busy drinking. I come from alcoholics. Maybe I never had a chance. Maybe Mark didn’t neither. I was a minor and he was a grown man. He could have gone to jail, so he did the honourable thing, an’ we got married. It was probably the last time he did anything that could be called honourable. The beatings started soon after. We could never pay rent. We’d have to sneak out of apartments in the dead of night. He couldn’t hold down a job, and now he had two of us to support. He took out his frustrations on me. I can hardly remember not having a black eye or a swollen lip. The last time he beat me, he busted my arm in three places. I left then. Checked outta the hospital and ran away here, to live with my sister.”
Irene had been struggling to keep her composure but broke down now. Her sobs were raspy, empty sounds, as though she’d long ago purged herself of raw emotion and these sad noises were the equivalent of dry heaves. She wanted to let more out but didn’t have anything left.
“And Mark?” I asked, moving the story along.
“I left him.”
“You left him with that man?”
“I left him with his father. Don’t look at me like that. He never hit the boy. Not once. All his frustrations, and anger, and failures, he took that out on me.”
“And after you left?” Who did he smack around then?”
“I was selfish,” she said, wearing the words like a shield. “I was young, I was taken advantage of, and I just knew that this was going to be my whole life. Beatings and shame. I run off, yeah, and I regret it now. I regret it everyday. I should have brought my son with me, but I didn’t.” Her voice was defiant.
“I’m not judging you. I just want to understand.”
“Grant was a man’s man. He didn’t like sissies and faggots. Abominations, he called them. I think he always knew that Mark was different. Mark would write me letters sometimes. I thought the boy would hate me. He should have, but he didn’t. After everything I done, he still loved me. Ain’t that something. Anyway, the beatings happened for Mark too. Of course, they did. Grant had to take it out on someone, and Mark was just a wisp of a boy. He never stood a chance. When he turned eighteen, he joined the army. He said that he saw it as his way out. They’d give him skills, an’ he could start fresh anywhere in the country. He ran away too, I guess.”