Your Son Is Alive

by James Scott Bell

  “How about some fresh coffee?” Dylan said.

  “Sounds good,” Erin said. She followed him into the kitchen.

  “I can’t remember the last time I made coffee for two,” Dylan said as he positioned the coffee maker on the counter.

  “It’s like riding a bike.” Erin looked around, thinking it would be a nice space to cook something big. She hadn’t cooked for two in a long time, either.

  Dylan got a bag of coffee from the refrigerator, Seattle’s Best, and started to scoop.

  “Remember those Thin Man movies we used to watch?” Dylan said.

  “William Powell and Myrna Loy,” Erin said.

  “Let’s call ourselves Nick and Nora.”

  “Then we can’t drink coffee,” Erin said. “They had martinis in every scene.”

  “You’re right,” Dylan said. “I’m not about to test that theory.”

  When the coffee was ready Dylan poured two cups in black ceramic mugs and they went to his office and sat at the computer.

  “Let’s see what we can dig up about Frozo,” Dylan said, typing the word into Google.

  Erin read the top result, something about a character named Frozo the Renowned.

  “It looks like some gaming thing,” Dylan said.

  “That would make sense,” Erin said. “He told me he was very good at games.”

  “Looks like a game called World of Warcraft. Role playing. I have no idea what that world is like.”

  “So suppose he is a gamer,” Erin said. “That only makes him one of two hundred million, right?”

  “Wait a second,” Dylan said. “There’s an ice cream store called Frozo Mama in Canada.”

  “That’s got to be it,” Erin said.

  Dylan smiled. “Your delivery is still perfect.”

  “I wish we could laugh again, the old way.”

  “We will.”

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “Excuse me,” Dylan said, and got up to answer. She heard the door open and an old man’s voice said, “My boy, my boy. I know this is not true, what they are saying!”

  “Come in,” Dylan said. A moment later Dylan returned to the office with a rail-thin old man smelling of tobacco.

  Dylan said, “Erin, this is my neighbor Cesar Biggins.”

  “Hello,” Erin said, standing.

  “At your service,” Cesar said, bowing with a flourish, his arm extended to the side.

  “Cesar was a clown for Ringling Brothers,” Dylan said.

  “How cool,” Erin said.

  “Maybe he knows a clown named Frozo,” Dylan said.

  Cesar said, “How’s that?”

  “It’s a crazy name, isn’t it?” Dylan said.

  “Say it again.”

  “Frozo.”

  “There was such a clown,” Cesar said.

  “You’re kidding,” Dylan said. “I’ve heard of Bozo.”

  Cesar shook his head. “This was not a happy clown. It was from a very disturbing motion picture, made a long time ago. I hope you have never seen it.”

  “What movie?” Dylan said.

  “It is called Freaks. It is about sideshow unfortunates, and they were real, used in the movie. Had a clown in it. His name was spelled, I believe, P-H-R-O-S-O. Phroso.”

  “It’s easy enough to find out,” Dylan said. He came back to the computer. As Cesar and Erin looked over his shoulders, he Googled Freaks IMDB and got to the movie database.

  “Here it is,” he said. “Freaks. 1932. Directed by Tod Browning.”

  He scrolled down.

  “Yes! An actor named Wallace Ford played Phroso.”

  “It is a very sad picture,” Cesar said. “I saw it when we played San Francisco. One of the other clowns told me about it. I had nightmares.”

  “Do you think it means anything?” Erin said.

  “What are you two looking for?” Cesar said.

  Dylan said, “Remember I asked if you’d seen anyone suspicious around here? Well, a man using this name is suspicious. Why would he use this name?”

  Cesar shrugged.

  “What’s the synopsis of the movie?” Erin asked.

  Dylan read the screen. “A circus’ beautiful trapeze artist agrees to marry the leader of side-show performers, but his deformed friends discover she is only marrying him for his inheritance.”

  “It’s much sadder than that,” Cesar said. “I knew many of these types of performers over the years.”

  Erin said, “Maybe he thinks of us as freaks.”

  “That could be,” Dylan said. “I want to run this by a man named Gadge Garner.”

  “Who’s that?” Erin said.

  “Security guy,” Dylan said.

  “Life used to be so simple,” Cesar Biggins said. “I could solve most problems with seltzer and a large rubber mallet.”

  “Whatever works,” Dylan said.

  “Something has to,” Erin said.

  71

  On Wednesday Erin came early to the office. One way to fight back against uncertainty was to work. Be normal. Don’t give Phroso the satisfaction of interrupting her daily life. She would make herself work. Life was going to go on, dammit. Keep calm and carry on. That’s what her English-born grandmother used to say. And she had seen the lights of the Blitz.

  I can carry on.

  I will.

  She got a coffee from the Keurig in the kitchenette. That brought thoughts of yesterday, being with Dylan, how good it felt. For a moment she held that feeling with a kind of terrified longing.

  Then got to her workstation in a hurry.

  She was alone in the building as far as she knew. On her computer she called up the scheduling program and began to look at next semester’s assignment blocs. Things were falling into place since DeForest had replaced one of the more troublesome profs, one Moffat, with a fellow named Carr, a retired accountant who reminded Erin of the angel from It’s a Wonderful Life.

  As she began typing Carr’s name into a cell she got an IM alert at the top of the screen. She didn’t have it set up to see the message. That way she could decide if she wanted to keep working or not.

  But since things looked smooth she went ahead and popped over to see who had contacted her.

  It was anonymous.

  The message was: I’m jealous.

  Erin jumped from her chair, knocking her desk and spilling coffee all over the neatly stacked papers and folders.

  With a yelp she ran back to the kitchenette, feeling an invisible hand around her throat. She grabbed the whole paper towel roll off the holder, ran back to her desk and did as much cleanup as she could.

  Another IM: You still there?

  She was almost outside her body, watching herself. But she had the presence of mind to capture a screen shot. Then she typed:

  I’m still here, Phroso.

  No instant reply. She could almost sense his disquiet. The longer the pause, the better. It was only a little something, but worth it.

  A full minute went by. It felt oh so good.

  Then the next message: This will cost you.

  She took another screen shot.

  And that was the last she heard from him.

  Just before nine, Yumiko filled in the middle of Erin’s cubicle entrance, preventing any escape.

  “So?” Yumiko said.

  “So?” Erin said.

  “Yesterday!”

  “What about it?”

  “Were you with him?”

  “Who?”

  Hands on hips, Yumiko said, “You know!”

  “Are you talking about Andy?”

  “Who else?”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “I wasn’t with Andy. And I’m not going to be.”

  Yumiko overplayed a chin-drop. “You broke up?”

  “We were never together.”

  “You better have a good reason for letting that one go.”

  “Yumiko, you better get to the front desk.”

  �
��I’ve got thirty seconds. Talk fast.”

  “Can this wait till later, please?”

  “Until ten-thirty,” Yumiko said. “Then I want to hear about this sad ending.”

  Poor choice of words, Erin thought.

  She dove back into the morning’s current project, preparing an email blast to former students. There was a certain gratification in being assigned that task, as opposed to one of the millennials in the office. The one who’d handled it before her, a nice enough young woman fresh out of community college, had trouble with spelling and basic grammar. She’d sent out one big mailing about the new real estate class with the subject line: LOCATON LOCATON LOCATOIN.

  It was a wonder to everyone how the young woman could have two consecutive typos of the same vintage, then a third word with the right letters in the wrong places.

  The young woman was let go, but for several weeks the staff at DeForest had spoken to each other in a slow incantation: “Locaton. Locaton. Locatoin!” As if it would raise the dead or turn a politician into a newt.

  Erin loved the creative part of it, the copywriting. Getting into a flow state was easy here as she tested phrases and possible headers.

  In fact, she was so into it that she almost shrieked at the sight of Yumiko, ashen-faced, staring at her.

  72

  “We’ll hear what you have to say,” Sam Wyant said. “But I’m ready to advise my client not to answer any questions if I deem them inappropriate.”

  “I would expect no less, counselor,” Detective Warren Smith said.

  The three were sitting in the conference room of Sam Wyant’s law office in the 400 South Hope building. Sunlight streamed through the massive windows and reflected off the polished maple conference table that took up most of the room.

  Smith had called Wyant to set up this meeting because of what he’d cryptically called “new information.”

  “Now,” Wyant said, “tell us why we are here.”

  “I want to know exactly what your relationship with Tabitha Mullaney was, especially as it concerns your lost son.”

  “Don’t answer that,” Wyant said. “You said you have new information.”

  “Fair enough,” Smith said. “Your client says that the victim claimed to have his son.”

  “And that I could see him,” Dylan said.

  Smith said, “We searched her residence. We did not find any evidence relating to your lost child.”

  “What about this guy she was working with?” Dylan said.

  “The one you say sent you notes?” Detective Smith said.

  “He did send me notes.”

  “We did not find anything linking her with anyone, but we also did not find a phone.”

  “There you go!” Dylan said. “Whoever killed her took her phone.”

  Detective Smith said nothing.

  “You don’t think I have it, do you?” Dylan said. “You searched my house.”

  “Do you have her phone?”

  “No.”

  “But you did get a voice message from her, correct?” Smith said.

  “That’s enough,” Sam Wyant said.

  “Let’s listen,” Smith said, and pulled a small recorder from his pocket. He placed it on the table and pushed a button.

  Tabitha’s voice came through:

  Dearest, I need you to know that I forgive you. I’m not hurt, except for a bruise on my arm. You don’t know your own strength, maybe. I know you’ve got some demons in your past and that maybe they come out like this. I don’t want this to break us up. One of the things people do when they love each other is work through things, you know? I’m willing, if you are. I’m willing …

  Smith stopped the message. “Heard enough?”

  “What is this?” Sam Wyant said.

  “It was a voice message from the victim to Mr. Reeve,” Detective Smith said. “We’d like an explanation.”

  “Say nothing,” Wyant said. “And this time listen to me.”

  Dylan kept his mouth shut.

  “You’re never going to get that into evidence,” Wyant said.

  “We searched your client’s phone incident to lawful arrest,” Smith said.

  “Maybe you haven’t heard of a little case called Riley v. California.” Wyant snapped off the name of the case like it was firecracker in his mouth. “Unanimous decision of the United States Supreme Court. Year of our Lord 2014. No searching of cell phones incident to arrest.”

  Detective Smith gave a half smile. “Not going to introduce it, counselor. Just wanted you to hear it, and have your client tell us why he hurt her.”

  “She’s lying,” Dylan said.

  “She’s dead,” Detective Smith said.

  “So is your case,” Wyant said. “We’re done here, detective. Thanks for stopping by.”

  73

  In the DeForest kitchenette, Yumiko sat with Erin at one of the two small eating tables, holding her hand. The warmth of it helped stave off the numbness overtaking Erin’s body.

  Anderson Bolt, dead.

  Murdered.

  An LAPD detective named Steve Hogan had called the school, talked to Yumiko. He gave few details, but did say it happened in Andy’s apartment last night and that the cause of death was a “sharp force injury” to the neck. And that he’d want to ask some questions of people who knew him. He left his name and number.

  “Why don’t you go home now?” Yumiko said. “I can cover.”

  Erin shook her head. “I’m going to stay. I’m going to work. I’m not going to let him stop me. In fact, let me call that detective right now.”

  Yumiko retrieved the Sticky Note with the number and brought it back to Erin.

  “You sure you want to do this now?” Yumiko asked.

  “I’m sure. Go on up front. I’m fine.”

  After a reassuring pat, Yumiko left the kitchenette.

  Erin input the number.

  “This is Hogan.”

  “This is Erin Reeve.”

  “Ah, thanks for calling. Have you got time to talk?”

  “A little. I’m at work.”

  “I understand. Quickly, then. Were you in a relationship with Mr. Bolt?”

  “No. Well …”

  “Yes?”

  “He wanted to. We went out once. He wanted it more than I did.”

  “Was he at your home a week ago?”

  She felt suddenly like a child at the cookie jar busted by her mother. “How do you know this?”

  “It was on his calendar, so I—”

  “He came over with a bottle of champagne. I wasn’t expecting him.”

  “Even though he had it marked as an appointment?”

  “He planned it. I didn’t.”

  “Would you know of anyone, maybe there at the school, who might want to do him harm?”

  “Not at the school, no.”

  “Or anyone else?”

  “Do you know about the messages I’ve been getting?” Erin said.

  “No,” Detective Hogan said.

  “Or about the man who was shot when I was standing next to him at a pay phone?”

  Pause, then the detective said, “I think we need to schedule a time to talk more fully. What would be a good time?”

  Erin wanted to say, There will never be a good time, ever again.

  Instead, she said, “Would after work be okay?”

  74

  In Sam Wyant’s conference room, Dylan sipped a cappuccino made to order by legal assistant and screenwriting wannabe Pete Parris. If the kid didn’t sell his script he could always get a gig at Starbucks.

  Wyant, coatless now that the detective was gone, nevertheless looked like he was wearing uniform. Dylan could not spot a single wrinkle on his powder-blue shirt, or one out-of-place dimple on his maroon tie. When he sipped from an Evian bottle, the water seemed respectful and compliant.

  “We need to discuss a few matters,” Wyant said.

  “Only a few?” Dylan said.

  “The ones that count. How ar
e you getting along?”

  “I haven’t freaked out for twelve or so hours.”

  Wyant smiled, nodded. “Let’s keep that record going. You’ve seen the news?”

  Dylan shook his head.

  “You’re a big local story,” Sam Wyant said.

  “Just like O.J.,” Dylan said.

  “Not that big. And thank God for that. I’m preparing a press statement. Want to have a look at it?”

  “Why don’t you paraphrase it for me.”

  “Basically going to say we are prepared to defend your innocence to the full extent, and all that. That you are a member of the community in high standing, the case against you is weak—”

  “Is it weak?”

  “It all comes down to this Carbona guy.”

  “You mean the bald-faced liar?”

  “He claims he was working for Ms. Mullaney.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Protecting her.”

  “From what?”

  “From you.”

  “Right,” Dylan said. “The freaking serial killer.”

  Sam put his elbows on the conference table and laced his fingers together. “I’m going to tell you something. I don’t want you to get upset, because I don’t believe it for a second.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Carbona is prepared to state that the victim told him you threatened her, that when she refused to have sex with you, you told her she’d be sorry.”

  Dylan almost ripped the arms off Sam Wyant’s fancy conference-room chair. He shot to his feet and circled around the back of the chair. And then cursed like he never had in his life.

  “I understand,” Sam Wyant said.

  “Isn’t that hearsay or something, what she said?”

  “There’s an exception to the hearsay rule,” Wyant said, “when a witness is unavailable. In this case, because she’s dead. The prosecution will argue that it is relevant to her state of mind when she hired the guy.”

  “So what are you going to do to discredit him?”

  “Sit down, Dylan.”

  “I asked you a question!”

  “I think you’d better sit down and calm yourself.”

  “You’re talking like a doctor telling me I’ve got six months to live.”

  “Have a seat.”