The World's Finest Mystery...

by Ed Gorman

  She nodded.

  "Then I still don't get it."

  Suddenly she was a little girl. "I need you to tell me that there is no doubt— whatsoever— he was my father."

  Before I could ask any more questions, the police were knocking at my front door.

  Reaching in her pocket, Skye pulled out two hundred-dollar bills. "Here" —she thrust them at me— "for gas, your time, whatever. Please."

  I lied… so sue me. I managed to convince the police that Skye Cahill and I had been friends for years, explaining we were practically sisters. I handed over the gun, and they took her in for questioning. Then I promised to come down after I could arrange bail. Another lie? It all depended on what I found at the address she'd written on the tape.

  * * *

  Elkhorn is a small town about twenty minutes outside of Omaha. The only thing I had ever heard about the place concerned its strip clubs. Since time was definitely not on my side, I decided the quickest and straightest shot would be Maple Road, which I steered toward while listening to Skye's voice coming out of my cheap car speakers.

  My name is Skye Louise Cahill, I'm twenty-five years old. I'm a filmmaker and I live in Los Angeles— in the Valley. The only way I know how to do this effectively is to pretend this recorder is a camera. Maybe if I distance myself, you can understand better.

  Her voice took on a tone that was both detached and informative. I felt as though I was listening to a documentary.

  The trailer sits by itself in a vacant lot. There are no trees for shade, not one blade of grass for color. It's gray now, but she assumed it used to be silver.

  I was taken by surprise when she referred to herself in the third person but soon got used to it.…

  A small window on the side that faced her had a box pushed against it, blocking anyone from looking inside. The only thing adhering to the structure was dirt. No antennas, no paint, not even an address.

  She stood a few feet from the door, kicking a large dirt clump, watching it crumble into the air. Trying unsuccessfully to walk a few feet without stepping into a hole, she made her way to the side, to an entrance. It took her a few more minutes before she knocked.

  "Yeah? What do you want?" a man yelled.

  "I'm looking for Edward Blevins. Is this number three-twenty-nine?"

  She could feel him on the other side of the door, could hear him shift his weight. If he thought making her wait would discourage her, he was very wrong. She sat down on the wooden box which served as a stair.

  He couldn't leave without her seeing him. She'd circled the lot several times and knew for a fact there was only one door. He couldn't even move around inside without jostling the trailer. The late afternoon sun was at her back, and she could feel her blouse sticking to her damp neck.

  "Is this three-twenty-nine Oak or isn't it?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  The immediate response startled her enough to make her stand. Facing the door, she shouted, "I do!"

  Only silence filtered from inside the trailer. She hoped he was spying on her, searching to make sure she was alone, or harmless— worth the effort to answer. She had turned to sit down again when the door suddenly opened.

  "Get your ass off my property. I don't know who the hell you are, what you're selling, or what church you're collectin' for, and I don't give a damn—"

  "I'm not collecting or selling anything! I just came to talk to Edward Blevins. Is that you or not? Just tell me so we can both stop yelling!"

  The heavy-set man stepped out onto his wooden step and slammed the door behind him. Easing onto the ground, he forced her back a few steps. "So what if I am?"

  "I'd look you straight in the eye and tell you I'm your daughter."

  "Helena's kid?"

  "Yes."

  "How the hell is she?" he asked without smiling or softening his face in any way.

  "I wouldn't know. We've never met."

  "What the hell you talkin' about, girl?"

  "She put me up for adoption."

  "Then how do I know you're Helena's… and mine? What the shit you trying to pull here?"

  She shoved the birth certificate in his face. "Here. It says you're my father."

  "Look, it's too goddamn hot to stand around. I guess it would be all right if you came inside. Just till I get a good look at that."

  It was roomier than she expected. Dark, except for one lamp in the corner, by the kitchen area. A bit of sunlight managed to filter through the skylight between dirty streaks and bird shit.

  He pointed her toward a folding chair teetering against a wall while he threw himself onto a stained sofa. "Says here you was born in May of seventy-four."

  "In Ardmore, Oklahoma."

  "I can read," he snapped. "Suppose I am this Edward Blevins. What do you want? It sure don't look like you suffered none. I bet you had real nice folks an' a pretty little room all to yourself. Your mama done the right thing, givin' you away."

  "How long did you know her?"

  "A few months was all. But that don't mean shit. Lots of guys knew Helena." He laughed.

  "And you got her pregnant?"

  "Hell, sweetheart, I got six kids in town that I know of, if you get my meanin'?" He laughed again, and she thought she'd be sick. "Helena got herself knocked up if you so much as shook her hand. She already had four kids when I knew her. Workin' the hell outta welfare; she was really somethin'."

  They stared at each other for a while before she asked, "Haven't you ever wondered about me? Even for one minute?"

  "It might surprise you, girlie, sittin' there with your pink frills an' shiny shoes, but I got a lot more important things on my mind. Things ain't been all that easy for me."

  She pulled her chair closer to him.

  "What now?" he complained. "Lookin' for your roots ain't gonna make things easier for any of us. You came to see me— you seen me. Guess we're finished."

  "Do you ever think about my mother?"

  "Jesus H. Christ, give me a fuckin' break here." His voice rose as his face grew red. He lifted himself off the couch and took a few steps toward the small refrigerator. Pulling it open with the toe of his shoe, he groaned as he reached down for a beer. Returning to his seat, he twisted off the cap, tossed it onto the floor and took a swig.

  She watched him.

  "Is that all you think I got to do with my time? Sit and wonder about some whore I slept with once or twice? Shit, I got better things to do. Not like you."

  "You can't begin to understand me."

  He grunted. "Look, I'm just tryin' to survive out here. Takin' any job I can to keep the electricity on. Sure, I had some good times with your old lady. So what? I earned 'em. An' I had me a good job down at the lumber yard. Even a car. Then that load of two-by-fours fell on top of me. Now it's beggin' each month for comp checks those lousy bastards owe me. In case you ain't heard, baby, life ain't stinkin' fair."

  She watched him drink half his beer down in one long gulp and was glad he hadn't offered her one. Any act of kindness would have thrown her concentration off.

  While I marveled at the dramatic flair Skye had for telling a story, the tape stopped. I waited for the cassette player to click to the other side. A semi came speeding past the passenger's side, splashing my car. That's when I realized what didn't feel right about the recording. Right before it started up again.

  "I've had my problems, too."

  He threw the bottle, and the remaining beer spattered across the wall behind her as well as on her clothes. But she never took her eyes off him. She could tell her defiance startled him.

  "Now, just what kind of troubles do you have, Skye Blue? Just what the hell is it you have to worry about?"

  Her eyes fogged over with rage, and she could hear it pulsing in her ears. "Why, just last year I was worrying about where I could go to get an abortion. I think it was just after my husband skipped town. And before that I was a little concerned about a vacation I was planning. Just a few weeks to myself to get away from t
he beatings, some time to let the bruises heal. I worry about a lot of things, Mr. Blevins. I try to imagine what kind of a tramp my mother was and could my father possibly be the asshole I imagine? I can feel you inside me, and I wonder if I just sit here quietly and listen to you, will this anger go away? Ever?"

  He sneered. "Well, lookin's free. But I ain't never said if I is or I ain't your daddy. Even though I do see my likeness a little around your mouth. Whooo boy, what your mama could do with her mouth."

  "I've wondered about you on Father's Day, birthdays and at Christmas. Especially while I was cleaning up the broken glass from all those happy family gatherings. And while I was pushing slop down the disposal, I wondered what kind of scum could spawn a piece of garbage like me. Because, dear father, I enjoyed it. I actually enjoyed pushing everyone around me. It didn't matter how much they said they loved me or how kind they were. I pushed until they had no choice but to fight."

  "Good God, I do believe you are my daughter." He smiled. "Now get outta here." He worked his way up to a standing position.

  She slid the small revolver out of the pocket of her jacket and into his gut. "For years and years, more years than I can remember, I've thought about this. I've thought that if you were dead, maybe…"

  He grabbed her hand, squeezed it inside his large meaty paw and pushed the gun deeper into his belly. "Do it, then."

  There wasn't a struggle, it was more of a standoff. He glaring down at her, she glaring back.

  "Are you deaf and stupid? I said do it!"

  There was a slight hesitation. Then her voice changed.

  I pulled the trigger. His stomach exploded. The small room echoed, God, it was loud. Then I pulled the trigger over and over. It felt wonderful.

  "I guess that's all of it, Miss Stanton. There's no question I killed someone. I just need to know if he was really my father. I'd hate to have gone through all this for the wrong person. I'm sure you know how I feel, after what you did to your own father— framing him for a murder you arranged, setting him up like that. But somehow I don't think it was a fair trade-off considering you got put away and he just had to suffer a little bad press. They never get what they deserve, do they?"

  I waited for more, but the rest of the tape was blank.

  * * *

  I knew Elkhorn wasn't large enough for me to get lost too badly. But just to save time, I pulled into a gas station. I was directed toward West Papillion Creek where it intersected with the Old Lincoln Highway. After that it was just a few turns before I found myself on Oak.

  I checked the address again. Three-twenty-nine was a blue split-level colonial house on a freshly mowed lot. It sat on the edge of a cul-de-sac, and as I stood there rechecking my directions and the address on the tape, I can't really say I was surprised. Puzzled would have been a more accurate way to describe my feelings.

  "Beep! Comin' through!" a little boy warned as he peddled close to my toes on his Big Wheel.

  "Do you know who lives in this house?" I asked before realizing he shouldn't be talking to a stranger.

  "My girlfriend, Tiffany Thompson." And he was off, beeping a man mowing his lawn.

  I started back to my car but hesitated. How many times had I stopped for directions only to find out the thing I was seeking had been right in front of me? I turned back toward the blue house and walked up the flagstone path to the front door.

  A teenage boy answered the bell. "Yeah?"

  I flashed my suspended license. "My name is Roberta Stanton, I'm a private investigator."

  "Look, the cops already been here. My dad told them all he knows. Which ain't much."

  "Can I speak to your father, then?"

  "He's watching a game now, and if I interrupt him, he'll get pissed. Why don't you just go ask the cops about that crazy lady?"

  The word "crazy" flew out of his mouth and slapped me in my ego. For two years I had been trying to get on with my life, all the while being labeled crazy by the press. And at that moment I knew why I was standing in front of that door in a small town asking a snotty kid for help. Skye Cahill and I had this very tiny character flaw in common. Maybe I had felt sympathy for her from the start. But I knew one thing for sure. I wasn't crazy. Now I had to find out about her.

  "Is Tiffany your little sister?" I tried a different angle.

  He rolled his eyes. "No. She's my mother."

  "Can I talk to her?" I tried returning his sarcastic tone. "Or is she watching a game, too?"

  "Wait here," he said, and slammed the door.

  Not even a full minute passed before Tiffany Thompson came to the door. She was petite and very pretty with auburn hair pinned up on her head. She waved her hands, trying to dry her long purple nails. "Yes? My son said you wanted to ask me some questions."

  I opened my mouth to start, but she talked right over me.

  "My husband told the police everything he knows. I don't appreciate you coming here and bothering us. We've lived in this house for almost five years now. I remember the day we first saw it. We were out driving around, and I told my husband— well, he wasn't my husband then— I said Jack, this is my dream house. This is the place—"

  "Mrs. Thompson, I'm not with the police. I'm a private investigator." She stopped waving her nails, and I knew now that I had her attention, I had to keep talking and not come up for air until I was finished.

  * * *

  After my brief chat with Mrs. Thompson, I realized there was nothing for me to uncover at 329 Oak. And when Mr. Thompson came to the door looking for his wife, I was more convinced than ever.

  Jack Thompson must have stood all of five feet five inches tall and weighed in at considerably less than I did. No way could he have been the Edward Blevins Skye had described.

  Driving back toward Omaha, I caught sight of the gas station I had stopped at on my way through. Suddenly craving a candy bar, I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to call the police.

  While I waited for the phone to be answered, I peeled back the silver paper covering the Hershey bar. Its dark brown texture brightened my spirits. The detective who had given me his card after he'd cuffed Skye picked up on the fifth ring. After inquiring about the case, I was told she had been released.

  "What about the blood in her hair?" I asked.

  "There was a deep gash right at the hairline, over her left eye."

  "And the gun?"

  "It was registered in her name— she had all the papers with her. There was no sign of it having been fired," he added.

  "You checked out the address she gave you?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

  "Yes." A heavy sigh. "Yes, Miss Stanton, we checked it all out."

  "So where is Ms. Cahill now?"

  "She was escorted to Douglas County to have her wound stitched up, and then she'll be evaluated."

  I knew he couldn't tell me how long any of it would take. "Thanks."

  He hung up.

  A breeze came up; I felt a chill on the back of my neck and along my arms. Wishing I'd thrown on a jacket, I was again struck with another inconsistency in Skye's tape. She'd said how dry and hot it had been outside the trailer. Even inside. I remembered thinking how it sounded like she was somewhere in the desert. Maybe she had become disoriented and was talking about an Oak Street in California; that's where she'd said she was from. And the sun shining so brightly had rung a false note. The closer I'd gotten to Elkhorn, the wetter the ground had appeared. It had obviously rained earlier that day.

  I tossed the candy bar wrapper into a trash can, licked my fingers clean and brushed a few stray slivers from the front of my khakis. Before getting back into my car, I scanned the directory chained to the phone for the name Blevins. There was no listing.

  As I shifted into third gear, I slid the tape into the player to listen to Skye Cahill's story another time.

  * * *

  When I was first released from the state psychiatric facility, I lived in a hotel. Being surrounded by generic paintings, lamps and furniture, I could logic
ally assess my situation while not being influenced by anything familiar. My sister had put my things in storage, and I didn't even know if I wanted to remain in Omaha after the tabloids got through with me.

  But the public does indeed have a short memory, and I managed to lay low, finally settling into a small apartment on Q Street. I found comfort in once again having my own things in my own place.

  I made a cup of tea and was wondering what to do next, or even if I should do something, when the phone rang.