by Jimmy Pudge
“ME results came back, the girl was killed somewhere else and moved. The timeline is about right, but there is no mistaking that the girl was killed and brought here.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, I mean I was there and I would have noticed if she left and got attacked. I would have seen or heard—“
Stegman clasped a meaty paw on my shoulder. “You were ruffied my friend.”
“Ruffied?” Did he mean the date rape drug?
Fairfax must have read my mind. “Rohypnol, that and some GHB mixed in for good measure. We found residue on one of the cups, we assume it was the one you had drank from since the other cup had lipstick. It has been well over 48 hours so we can’t even test you, but that’s what we figured.”
Stegman led me toward to outside doors, so we would have some privacy. We got out there and Stegman laid his mitt on me again.
“Someone had laced a cup, probably thinking she would be alone, when you got knocked out she must have went for help, and then was attacked. We can’t seem to find the murder site, it wasn’t on the grounds, that’s as far as we know. We are going to work it for a few more days then if we can’t find this Mal guy, it may go cold.”
I shrugged his hand off. I preferred him smacking me around, at least I knew he had some fire in him. He wanted to give up. Give up on Claire. Fuck that.
“You guys can’t be serious. This is bullshit!”
Fairfax tried to calm me down. I pulled away. “Damn, when you carted me in for questioning I didn’t care, because I thought it would help, but this is fucking bullshit, man. You are just going to give up on her?”
“Look, Handy, calm down, man, I mean all you have to go on is this Mal character. If you had a whole name or something like that maybe we would have more leads. As it stands it’s a dead end.”
“What about her sister? She said she has a sister nearby.”
Fairfax smiled. “Great that’s the kind of lead we need,” he took out a pad and pen. “What’s her name?”
“Brenda…Brenda…” I tried to recall the passport I’d given to Groefield. What the fuck was her last name?
“Tell us the name,” Stegman said, grit in his voice.
I felt like Stegman had punched me in the gut. I had no idea what Brenda’s last name was.
“I don’t know,” I muttered. I considered telling them about the passport, but our peace at the moment was as fragile as glass. I didn’t want to shatter the peace and have suspicion dropped upon me again. The last thing I needed was for these two to wonder why I had failed to mention something like a passport to them.
“Where does she live?” Stegman asked from behind me.
I didn’t know. I didn’t know a goddamned thing that would help. I shook my head. Fairfax closed his book. He put his hand on my shoulder. “I know you cared about this girl. Look, well try to get a line on her sister. We’ll start with the same last name, same town of birth, and all the basics. I will look into it. But we can’t promise anything.”
Stegman moved to the front of me, blocking out the sun. “We just wanted to come to you and tell you what we found and that it seemed that you were a victim as well. We aren’t in the business of victimizing the victims, though sometimes that’s just what we seem to do.”
With that, they turned and walked toward their unmarked car, got in and drove away. I stood there and held back the tears. Though I didn’t do a very good job of it.
Chapter 9
Stood outside Groefield’s office for a solid three minutes, listening to the creaking floorboards as he shuffled around doing fuck knows what.
Finally he opened the door and stuck his fat head out, the comb over not combed very well. His eyes danced around the hallway as if he was searching for a phantom.
“Come in,” he said. “Were you followed?”
“Followed?” I said. Groefield’s eyes were wild, and he reeked of liquor. I noticed he was wearing a nice white dress shirt but no pants.
“Were you followed?” he said.
“Fuck no I wasn’t followed. Who would follow me?”
“I dunno. The FBI, CIA, mafia, who knows?”
“You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
Groefield through his head back and laughed, motioning me to the table chair in front of his card table/desk.
He took a heavy seat in his chair, and I noticed the bottle of Wild Turkey beside his laptop was only a quarter full.
“I’m a little under the weather,” he said, the alcohol heavy in the air. He smelled like a goddamn brewery.
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Handy, did you bring the money, Handy? I need to cover my expenses.”
I stared blankly at him. Thought long and hard about finding another private investigator to look in on this mystery. Unfortunately, Groefield was the only thing I could afford. I could just drop it; take it as Fairfax and Stegman had, a done deal. No more leads, no more case. But I felt I owed Claire something. Her murderer needed to be brought to justice.
I slid the $550 I’d promised him in small bills across the desk and watched his sausage fingers dart out for them like a cat striking a cockroach.
He picked the money up, his eyes narrowing as he counted the bills.
“It’s all there,” I said.
He kept counting.
“Okay, looks good.” He opened a desk drawer, slipped the bundle of cash inside. “I already started looking into your case, Handy.”
“Oh yeah? Did you find anything?”
“I got dick on the case.”
“Give me my money back.”
Groefield smiled. “No refunds, boyo.” He lifted the bottle of Wild Turkey, poured a shot into a glass. “I did strike gold with that passport you gave me.”
“Did you?”
He swallowed his drink, sighed heavily, and slammed the glass on the surface of the desk. “That name on the passport you gave me, did you know Claire had a sister?”
“She mentioned it,” I said.
“Well, that’s her sister’s name on that passport. Brenda MacKay. What a beautiful name. Also ran a background check on your Claire, the sister, and their parents.”
I grinned, despite the grim news of Claire’s past, impressed with the drunken slob. Looking around the room at all the clutter, I felt amazed that sometimes the sloppiest bastards were the ones who had their shit together the most. Groefield seemed to be running circles around the investigators. But were the investigators not telling me all they knew? I imagined they wouldn’t tell me a damn thing unless it was pertinent for their investigation. Groefield, on the other hand, would hold nothing back. He wanted a steady paycheck from me as long as he could get it. Holding back would get him fired. Too bad I didn’t have any more money to give.
“Tell me what you found out,” I said.
“Claire, she’s led a rough life. Her father was arrested for molesting her. The other sister, there are no records of sexual abuse there. Seems he only got his jollies off with the older daughter. What a great guy, right?”
Groefield grimaced, poured another drink. Handy had no idea what was going on inside the big man’s head, but he imagined being around the darker side of human nature, pulling up facts about abuse and other horrible things…this could make a man want to drink.
“Claire’s also been married before. She was divorced. Reason was irreconcilable differences. She has no children and currently lives in Forsyth, Georgia. Ready to hear the most interesting part?”
“What’s that?”
“She and a fellow named Jerome Williams, a.k.a. Black Elvis, they’re co-owners of a porn and pawn shop in Forsyth. Called Sell Your Booty Pawn & Loan.”
I swallowed hard. “What now?”
“That’s about all I have for now.”
I leaned back in the chair, thoroughly impressed with the old bastard. “You didn’t happen to run across anything on that guy, Mal, did you?”
“Look, Handy,” Groefield said, “I got nothing on Mal. I�
�m also going to need more money. I think I can find out about him, but it’ll cost me. I’ve got some old informants living in the Forsyth area. They’re not cheap. That’s how we find out about Mal.”
I scratched my head, the smile falling from my face as I thought about the dwindling pile of money sitting in the shit at home. “How much more?”
“Lots,” Groefield said. “Information from the inside doesn’t come cheap. $500— minimum.”
“I don’t have that kind of dough. Can’t we do something else? A trade? Maybe I can paint your house. I paint for the Dollar Inn. I’m really good at it.”
Groefield shook his head. “Sorry, fella. I need cash. These guys aren’t going to give us info out of the goodness of their own hearts, and I can’t bankroll this investigation. Believe it or not, this shirt comes from Wal-Mart. I can’t even afford Sears.”
“Shit,” I said. “I guess we’ll have to part ways here.”
Groefield nodded his head, poured himself another drink. “Want one?” he asked.
“No thanks. I need to get back to the motel.”
“Good luck, kid,” Groefield said. “I hope you can clear your name.”
“It’s already been cleared,” I said. “Two detectives came to see me today. Said Claire’s corpse had been moved to the bed from elsewhere. Said she was killed, but it wasn’t in that room with me. They also found traces of a roofy. They think I was drugged. A witness who knows me well also heard voices coming from my room. One was male, and it wasn’t my voice.”
“Glad to hear it,” Groefield said. “I guess you no longer need any help.”
“Oh, I’m going to find out what happened to Claire,” I said, “and I’ll do it myself.”
Groefield took a shot of Wild Turkey. “Be careful, Handy. Sticking your head into places it doesn’t belong, that is a good way to get yourself killed.”
#
Back at the Dollar Inn, Marcia was eyeing me suspiciously as I reviewed the footage from the video cameras on the desktop in the backroom.
“What you doing, Handy?” she asked, popping a gum bubble. “You erasing evidence?”
“No,” I said. “I’m trying to find a nice picture of Mal.”
“Who?”
“The guy who knocked me out the other day.”
Marcia laughed. “That was funny. Want to buy some weed?”
“No,” I muttered, turning my attention to the camera footage. I forced myself to keep watching the lobby footage. Goddamn Rudy, I thought to myself. If only the owner wasn’t so cheap. Only the lobby cameras worked. If the cameras down the hallways worked, then this case would already be solved. I was completely sure Mal had been the man’s voice Marcia had heard in my room that night. But I needed to prove it for Claire. I owed her that much.
I found a fuzzy picture of Mal and printed it. The ancient printer revved up like an ancient engine, the paper coming out slowly. It sounded like a cat dying.
I went to the copier once I had Mal and scanned a copy of Brenda MacKay’s passport. I blew up the image and a damn good photo of Claire was produced. If anyone knew her, they’d recognize her in a heartbeat.
The question now was: Where to start?
I had a cousin living in Forsyth named Ronald, and we used to be close, but I’d distanced myself from him over the past couple years. Ron had started dealing cocaine for the Columbians. Normally, I wouldn’t turn to a drug-dealing cousin, but Groefield had said the only way to get information on Mal was to turn to the streets. If anyone could get the dirty on a shady fucker like Mal, Ronald could.
I opened my cell phone, called information and asked for Ronald Hunter’s number in Forsyth. A cold, mechanical voice gave me the number and asked if I’d like for her to dial it for an extra charge.
I shut the phone, opened it back up and punched in the number.
Ronald’s gritty voice answered on the third ring.
“Cuz!” he said. “It’s been awhile.”
I felt guilty then. Here I was calling information for Ron’s number. He must have still had mine programmed in his cell phone. He knew it was me.
“Ron,” I said. “It’s been too long. Trying to make my way down here at the Dollar Inn.”
“Still legit, huh?” Ron said. “That’s good, man. That’s real good. You don’t need to get involved in the type of shit I’m in. There ain’t a day goes by I don’t think about those innocent times, drinking with you at the bar, picking up women. Man, those were good days. Money, you know, it means the world to a poor man, but it doesn’t mean shit to someone who has it. Especially if that someone runs around with psychopaths who chop heads off for the fun of it.”
“Yeah,” I said. Ronald sounded high. “Look, Ron, I’ve got a situation down here.”
“What’s that?” The humor in Ron’s voice was gone. He sounded cold. “You working with the cops?”
“Hell no,” I said. “Nothing like that.”
“You wouldn’t try to rat on me, would you? We go way back, you and me.”
“No, Ron, I’m not doing anything with the cops. It’s about my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” Ron said. “That’s a strange word to hear coming from your mouth. What’s the problem? Is she married and the husband found out, now he wants to kick your ass?”
“No. She was murdered. I know she lived in Forsyth. I hate to ask you this, but I got no money or anything else. Could I stay with you for a week or two, try to find out more about her and this guy who used to date her?”
“What’s family for?” Ron asked. “Sure. Come and stay with me. It’ll be nice seeing you again.”
“Alright, thanks, man.”
“Not a problem.”
I closed the phone, put it in my pocket, and told Marcia goodnight.
“What’s that I heard about you staying in Forsyth for a week or two?” Marcia said. “You know Rudy’s going to fire your ass for this.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I can make minimum wage at McDonald’s. It’s not like Rudy’s giving me insurance benefits or anything like that.”
“Don’t do it,” Marcia said. “I can’t work overtime until Rudy replaces you.”
“Just smoke more weed,” I said.
“Smart ass.”
“I need you to do me a favor.”
“Fuck you,” Marcia said.
“Tell Rudy I’m leaving for a couple weeks.”
“Tell him yourself.”
“I can’t do that. I’m leaving tonight.”
Chapter 10
As soon as I got back to my trailer I threw some clothes into a duffle bag. It was plenty big; I’d won it from Marlboro points when I used to smoke regularly. I packed my drawers and socks and shirts and my other two pair of work pants and jeans. I made sure to grab my thumb drives so I could write when I had the chance. I looked around the place and decided that was all I really needed, then went to the bathroom and grabbed my toothbrush and a fresh bar of soap.
There was no telling what was crawling around Ronald's place. With that I locked up the trailer and even closed the hasp and locked it with this combination lock box that held the key to the lock and trailer inside. I mean, if someone wanted to get in badly enough, it wouldn't really help, but it would deter the curious.
I threw my bag through the window on the pickup and walked down to the sump pump area where I kept my stash. The money was all but gone, just about two hundred remained, but so did the one thing I came back here for besides clothes. I pulled out a plastic bag and unwrapped the army green and gunmetal gray .45 semi automatic that lay inside. I chambered it and the round popped into place. I would clean it though once I was down in Forsyth so it would be ready for action. I released the clip and counted the rounds, it was missing only two. Two rounds were all that was used the last time I fired the gun, and I hoped it was the last time I would ever have had to use it, but that is a story for another time.
#
Ronald lived near the Ingles off of Tift College Drive i
n Forsyth. It was a semi classy complex, despite him always being stoned, a dealer and a pimp. I thought about stopping at Ingles and stocking up on some food, but I new my boy would tear through everything in no time so I had to ration shit if I wanted to eat myself. And my funds weren’t where I wanted them to be for now. I drove past the turn off and to where he ran his shit. It was a motel about a quarter a mile away that had cheap rooms like forty bucks, he’d rent out blocks of rooms for a week at a time and his hoes would bring their tricks their, a lot of times by appointment. When the motel started getting wind of something he’d use another one, he ran his hoes out of this one for near a year. I thought I saw his main woman, Silky Smooth, sitting out by the pool, but it wasn’t the time for pleasure, and business, well, I would ask his girls some questions later. I drove on to the Hardees drive through and got my grub on. I went to put my big ass soda down and noticed there were no cup holders in this POS and had to hold it between my legs as I ate and drove. It was messy as hell and I hit a bump and tensed my legs up and squashed the cup and had a crotch full of sweet tea.
#
"Sup you ugly mother fucker?"
"Don't be so hard on yourself, can’t help it yo mama fucked a catfish!"
We hugged; it was actually good to see him. As usual he had one of his special hand rolled cigarettes in his mouth. It was some good shit, sensimilia, but I detected a hint of chocolate. He hand a penchant for flavored cigar wrappers that he would use for his bluntage. When he closed the door, I suddenly remembered why I kept away from the crazy bastard. He started rubbing his hands up and down my chest and moved them around to my back.
"Ronny man, d'fuck you doing?"
"Haven’t seen you in a while, can’t a playa get some love?"
"Get your hands off me unless you’re buying me a drink."
He stood up and looked at me and mouthed something. I couldn't tell him, fuck, I couldn’t read lips, I wasn't Helen Fucking Keller—wait, she was blind too wasn't she? That's fucked up. But I said, "What the fuck are you trying to say?"