by Todd Borg
“The policeman who took the note made me a copy.” She stood up and walked through a door into the kitchen, then returned with a piece of paper. She handed it to me.
The copy was clear, the writing distinct. The murdered son’s handwriting was small and dark and carefully formed.
“Dear Mom,
I’m very sorry to do this to you and Shelcie and Phillip. I know it is the worst thing a person can do to those they love. But because of me, three people are dead. If I’d gone to the police immediately, they would still be alive. But I used very bad judgment. I didn’t intend for my actions to cause their deaths, but as you always said, intentions don’t count, actions and results do. You also taught me about honor and character. Dad did, too, although you may not believe that. Now, because of what I’ve done, I have no honor and my character is worthless. This leaves me no choice. You will say that I must not be thinking clearly. But if I don’t do this, the killer will kill me anyway. Worse, if he thinks I told you who he is, he will kill you. Even Phillip. I can’t go to the police now, because they will charge me in at least one of the deaths. I will do anything to avoid prison. I’m doing this in a way that should stop the killings. I’m sorry. I love you.
Thos”
“How did you receive the note?”
“Thos left it in my baking cupboard. He knew that Phillip never opened that cupboard.”
“Do you know who these people are that Thos refers to? The ones that died?”
“No. I have no idea.”
I set the copy of the note on the couch’s end table. “Janeen, it is unlikely that I could add anything helpful to what the police will learn in their investigation.”
“But you could concentrate on it in a way the police could not. They have so many distractions. Even if you discovered nothing, at least I would know I had tried. I’ve heard about you. You saved that woman from the maniac who lit the forest fires.” She was referring to Street and obviously didn’t know of my relationship with her.
Janeen looked at me, her dark eyes enormously sad. “I’ve saved a decent amount of money over the years. I’m sure I can pay whatever your rate is.”
After a moment I said, “Before I take this on I need to explain something. I’ve learned that when I work for the family of a murder victim, things can get awkward. The family often ends up resenting my investigation. They are sometimes outraged at me for bringing to light certain facts that explain why someone was murdered.” I paused and looked at her to see how she was taking it. She seemed level and steady.
I continued, “If I look into your son’s death, I’ll have to ask many questions. Some of them will be uncomfortable. It is likely you will regret learning what may come out.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Janeen said. “If Thos had been a victim of a random murder, like a holdup in a parking lot, then it would be cleaner in some ways. But it seems likely that the things he refers to in his note are very distasteful. I am prepared.”
“It sounds like you are,” I said. “This note,” I said, holding it up, “Can you tell if it is in your son’s handwriting?”
“Yes. Thos always wrote in that meticulous style. Everything he did was like that, careful and perfect. Even so...” she trailed off.
“You think it is not truthful?” I asked.
She clenched her teeth. “I think Thos was telling the truth as he knew it. But I don’t think he knew the truth. I don’t think he caused anyone to die, directly or indirectly.”
“Is this a hunch, or do you have some specific information about what he is referring to?”
“I know nothing of what he is referring to. But I know he wouldn’t kill anyone.”
I’d heard such statements from mothers before. They usually thought, Not my son. My son was a sweet boy. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Janeen looked at me, her eyes anxious. It was clear that her son’s murder was chewing away at her.
I leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Janeen, you question the truth of your son’s note as regards whether or not he caused the death of three people. What about the truth of the note regarding killing himself? He doesn’t actually state it. He only implies it. Do you think your son actually meant to commit suicide?”
Janeen thought a moment. “Yes.”
“But he was murdered before he could kill himself,” I said. “Can you think of why anyone would want to murder him?”
“The only thing that makes sense is that it must have something to do with the people he refers to in the note. Someone blames Thos for their deaths and shot him in revenge.”
“What about him being in the lake when he was shot?” I asked. “Can you think of a reason for that?”
“I suppose the killer forced him to strip and swim out into the lake. Maybe he thought that Thos’s body would never be found.”
I nodded. It was one possibility. “Janeen, I’m sorry to ask difficult questions, but please bear with me. Had Thos not been murdered, do you think he would have actually followed through on killing himself?”
She seemed to withdraw inward, her eyes losing their focus. She cleared her throat. “Mr. McKenna, do you have children?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you’ll find it hard to think in these terms. But the only thing a parent can imagine that is worse than the death of a child is the death of a child by his own hand. So it is nearly impossible for me to contemplate Thos committing suicide.” She pointed toward the note. “But there is the suicide note in his own handwriting. “I’ve thought about the phrasing,” she continued, “and wondered if he could have been forced to write it. But if the note had been dictated to him it wouldn’t have sounded like Thos. This note does.
“Or maybe the killer made Thos put it in his own words. But Thos was a smart boy. If he’d been told to write it in his own words, he would have used different phrasing as a tip-off.”
I picked the note up and read it again.
Janeen said. “So, in answer to your question, hard as it is to contemplate, yes, I think Thos did intend to kill himself.” She stared down at her cup, conjuring up images no parent should ever have to face.
She refocused on me and spoke. “Thos was a strong-willed child. He always did anything he set his mind to. When he took up surfing as a boy he announced that one day he would be the world champion. To his father and me it didn’t sound unreasonable. We knew his determination, so we just figured that if he decided to be the champion, he would probably succeed. We never signed Thos up for any lessons. The boy taught himself. Sure enough, he won three international competitions by the age of twenty-two.
“I never knew anyone with more courage,” she continued, “so if he said he would kill himself, then I suppose...” she broke off, her lower lip shaking.
“I’m sorry, Janeen.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “Go on.”
“If, in fact, he was going to kill himself, do you think he intended to do it by swimming into the ice-cold water? Would that be like him?”
“You mean, to die of hypothermia? I don’t know. Maybe. It would be a non-violent death. Thos was never violent.”
“Then he wouldn’t hire someone to shoot him?”
Janeen’s eyes seemed to flash at me. She looked horrified. “No! I can’t imagine him doing such a thing.”
Just then came the sound of a door opening into the kitchen. It shut with a loud bang. A blast of cool air blew into the small living room followed by a small boy, maybe 10 years old. His arms were up, a baseball cap in his hand, as he pulled an anorak over his head. Bits of snow flew and struck the wood stove, sizzling into steam. He stuck the baseball cap on backward and spoke in an excited voice.
“Nana, I found the place where...” he stopped as he saw her distress. He turned and saw me sitting to his side. His face went from joy to fear in an instant. He ran to Janeen’s side and sat next to her.
“Hello, sweetie,” she said and put an arm around the boy’s shoulders.
The bo
y whispered in her ear. He looked at me with more suspicion than Jerry Roth had back at the entrance to their driveway.
“This man is Owen McKenna,” Janeen said. “He’s a detective. He’s going to help us find out what happened to Thos. Owen, please meet Phillip. Phillip is Thos’s nephew.”
I smiled. “Hi, Phillip.” I raised my arm in a greeting and started to rise out of the couch but stopped when I saw that my movement made the boy shrink back and clutch at Janeen.
The boy whispered again into Janeen’s ear. His agitation at my presence was so pronounced that I thought I should leave.
“Maybe we should do this another time,” I said.
“No, please stay,” Janeen said.
I gave them a weak smile. “I don’t want to...”
“It’s okay,” Janeen said. “Phillip just doesn’t want me to be upset, that is all.” She turned to the boy. “I’m okay, Phillip. I’m just sad about Thos. Mr. McKenna and I were talking about Thos when you came in. I’m better now. Honest.” She touched his cheek. “Phillip, why don’t you go play and let me talk to Mr. McKenna.”
He resisted and wouldn’t let go of her dress. She asked him again and he slowly released her, stood up and, keeping the maximum distance between himself and me, went through a door and down a hall where the bedrooms must have been.
As he walked away from me I saw two things I hadn’t noticed before. One was that his right hand was malformed, with a strangely-shaped thumb and only two fingers opposing it. The other was in his back pocket.
Stuffed into his jeans the way other kids might carry a pocket video game was a narrow object, about two inches wide and six inches long. The part that projected out revealed rows of little wheels.
After Phillip had gone into a bedroom and shut the door, Janeen spoke in a soft voice that Phillip wouldn’t hear. “I see you noticed his abacus.”
“Yes. I couldn’t remember what it was called. It’s an ancient calculating device, isn’t it?”
Janeen nodded. “Phillip says some Chinese still use them.”
“Interesting to see one in an age of electronic calculators.”
Janeen lowered her voice even further. “I think he likes it because of his hand. You know how children can be cruel. Well, Phillip uses his funny hand – his words, not mine – to manipulate the abacus. He can do it so fast that he can come up with answers in math class even quicker than the kids with electronic calculators. It’s his way of showing everyone that he isn’t really handicapped.”
“Smart kid,” I said.
“Very. What else do you need for your investigation, Owen?”
“I’ll need you to give me a complete background on Thos. It will take some time.” I glanced toward the hall where Phillip had disappeared. “It’s getting late. Why don’t I come back tomorrow?
“Okay,” Janeen said. She looked at her watch. “I volunteer at the hospital in the morning while Phillip is at school. Would two o’clock be okay?”
“Certainly.”
FIVE
I got Street on my cell phone as I drove back around the lake. “I know you’re flying solo tonight, but my understanding of the rules still allows for dinner together. Am I wrong?”
“Not if you like barbecued shish-kebabs.”
“I’ll be there in a flash.”
“Can you stop for more charcoal? I’m out. Or should we go up the mountain to your cabin? You have the better view, anyway.”
“I’m already past the store, so I’ll pick you up and we’ll go for the view.”
Spot and I knocked at the door to Street’s condo a few minutes later.
Street came to the door wearing a Pink Panther apron over black jeans and a white cotton shirt. She looked glamorous and sleek in spite of the goofy apron. Maybe it was her perfect bare feet. Or the tiny, black obsidian earrings set in gold that I’d given her after her kidnapping last fall. She reached up on tiptoes and gave me a kiss. “I’m almost done skewering. Let me throw some foil around them. Do you have some rice?”
“Yes, I think.”
“Great.”
Street came out of her kitchen a couple minutes later carrying a foil package, an open bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and slipped her feet into some running shoes without bending over. “Would you grab my jacket, please?”
I picked the black ski jacket off the rack and shut the door behind us.
Once we were in the Jeep, Spot leaned over the seat, his huge head filling the space between me and Street. He knew better than to stick his nose down by Street’s beer and shish-kebabs, so he just sniffed the air from a foot away. He quivered with self-restraint. His nostrils flexed and twitched and the whites of his eyes glimmered in the dark as he strained to look down at our dinner.
I reached up and coaxed him back into the rear seat by tapping on his nose with the back of my hand. “Remember, your largeness, resisting temptation is easier in proportion to the distance the temptation is from you.” I wondered if that applied to me and Street.
Judging by his sigh as he lay down on the seat, Spot thought I was clueless.
We climbed up the two-mile drive and were in my little cabin a few minutes later.
“What can I do to help?” I said after Street took her food into the kitchen nook.
Because only one person at a time can fit into my kitchen, she reached into my icebox, pulled out a beer and handed it to me. “You can get the charcoal going and put on some music. Maybe light a fire, too, if you want.”
“I want.”
I found a Bonnie Raitt CD and put it on, then went out on the deck to pile up the charcoal. While the lighter fluid was still burning I came back in and lit a fire in the woodstove. It was roaring by the time Street came out of the kitchen.
“A little cold to go barefoot, isn’t it?” I said when I noticed that she’d kicked her shoes off by the front door.
“That’s why I asked for the flames.” She dialed down my dimmer switch to very low, sat down in my big leather chair and propped her feet up in front of the fire. I pulled the rocker up next to her, sat down and gulped half of my beer. She picked hers up, tipped it back and drained it.
“Finishing a beer? I’m impressed.”
Street glanced at her watch. “I thought what with sleeping alone again I should get started early on some chemical sleep enhancement.” She set the bottle down. “Only took me two hours to get all the way through it. At that rate, I’ll blow away my two-beer record before bedtime.”
Street was a woman who needed to stay disciplined and productive, the result of a childhood without discipline or productivity. She would no sooner get intoxicated than she would watch sitcoms on TV. Although she enjoyed alcohol, she used it judiciously and infrequently. Fortunately for me, she didn’t mind that my approach to beer and wine was more like they were one of the basic food groups, part of a balanced diet.
“How did your appointment go? I forget her name, the murder victim’s mother?”
“Janeen Kahale. We only started to get acquainted.”
“Any reason at all for the man’s murder?”
“No. Unless his method of suicide was hiring someone to shoot him. But to the extent his mother can even think about it, she says he would not commit suicide in a violent way. He was a non-violent person. I see her again tomorrow. Maybe I’ll learn something revealing then.” I glanced out the slider toward the charcoal. A quarter moon floated high in the western sky. Although I’d just shoveled the deck in the morning, some of the day’s clouds had dropped an inch of snow. The white deck glowed in the moonlight.
I stood up. “Time to spread the coals.” I stepped out through the slider into the crisp, cold air of a January night. The snow on the mountains made them look like white fangs above the black water.
I arranged the charcoal, then took another look at the scenery, a view I never tire of. I was turning to go back inside when something stopped me.
It was not a clear thought or sound or movement that caught my attention.
More like a nagging sense that something was not right.
I turned back toward the charcoal as if tending to the grill. My senses were suddenly hyper alert, my muscles ready to spring, but I gave no outward indication. I fussed with the grill, casually shifting my stance just like any other barbecue chef.
Thirty seconds passed before my senses picked anything up. Movement in my peripheral vision, in the distance off to the north.
The slider opened. “How’s it coming, hon?” Street asked, leaning her head out of the opening.
“Great,” I said, struggling to sound normal. I turned and gave her a smile. “We’ll be ready to put them on in twenty minutes.”
“Okay.” Street pulled her head back inside and shut the door.
I maneuvered around to the side of the grill and dropped my charcoal mitt. I bent down to pick it up. My head was behind the charcoal cook pot. I leaned a couple inches to the side to peek out toward the north.
At first, I saw nothing. Then a faint movement a long distance away. I couldn’t tell what I was looking at. Another movement. It was a person. He was in a clearing, out on a rise to the north of my cabin. 200 yards distant. Impossible to see at night but for the moon.
I’d been squatting too long. I stood up, picked up the lid to the grill and made like I was wiping out the inside. My hand movements were circular, nowhere near convincing up close, but it would look like I had purpose from a distance.
I used the lid to shield my face from the glow of the charcoal. I kept my head bent and looked up and out at the spot where I’d seen the person.
I saw nothing. No movement. No human shape. I kept up the scrubbing movements with my hand.
Normally, a person out on the snow in the mountains at night, especially at some distance, was no cause for alarm. Tahoe is a recreation paradise and people come from all over the world to play in the snow. But this was different.
The clearing where I’d seen him was a deserted area of deep snow. It was not near any trail that I knew of. The closest house was my cabin. The closest road was the drive I share with my neighbors, and the closest point the drive came to the clearing would be a hundred yards away and a couple hundred feet below. It would be a hard climb to get there from the drive.