Jump City: Apprentice

by MK Alexander

  “Is this the guy who can get me into the Broadsheet records?” Franny glanced at me.

  “What?” I turned to Fynn.

  “A small favor, Patrick. I was certain you’d be happy to oblige.”

  “Oh… sure.”

  The story went on to describe how a five-year-old boy trapped in the backseat of a car was rescued from plunging through the ice by a stranger who had happened along at just the right moment… Rescue workers described the scene as precarious… How the vehicle ended up on the middle of Barker Reservoir was still a matter for investigation, though one police source speculated that the driver had mistakenly turned off East Avenue onto the ice, due to a heavy snowfall the preceding afternoon.

  In all though, it was a shoddy bit of reporting, vague on specifics, particularly names. “When is this from?” I asked.

  “Nineteen seventy-three,” Fynn said. “The exact date on the odometer for Mrs Corolla: the fourteenth of February.”

  “Wow. And it’s from the Broadsheet?”

  “Apparently.”

  “How does this help solve the case?”

  “Do you not see, Patrick? Is it not the same crime that has been re-created over and over, yes?”

  “Right…” I muttered, but it didn’t seem so clear. “Are you sure about this?”

  “We need only identify the people involved and all will be clear to us. I venture to say the woman driver was Mrs Lambert.”

  “What?”

  “I believe her to be victim number four, Mrs Corolla.”

  “And Mr Lambert, the dad?”

  “Ah yes… Mr El Dorado. He is either victim number one, or perhaps the killer.”

  “Why?”

  “He has neither been found nor identified.”

  “And Desmond Lambert?”

  “The small child in the car, probably their son. He is exactly the correct age.”

  “Who is the killer then?”

  “This man in the picture, this mystery hero.”

  “You think that might be Mr El Dorado?”

  “No,” Fynn said.

  “Who then?”

  “I do not know yet.”

  “And his motive?”

  “This is difficult to discern at present. I am only speculating, but an avenging angel of a sort.”

  “That’s kind of a stretch.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Sounds pretty crazy to me, Inspector,” Franny commented.

  “It’s this man, I am sure of it.” Fynn pointed to the blurry figure wrapped in blankets. “The so called hero.”

  “Okay, well, I have an idea.”

  “What’s that, Patrick?”

  “The Police Blotter.”

  “What does this mean?”

  “There are no names in this story… but there might be in the Broadsheet’s Police Blotter… or a follow-up.”

  “So… to the morgue then?” Franny asked with a smile.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good,” Fynn said. “Please let me know what you find.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us?”

  “No, you must go without me… I have to… I have to call it an early night, I think.”

  ***

  Franny and I raced back to Boulder along Route 119. She barely said a word the whole ride though, with a pizza box in her lap, relentlessly continuing through dinner. The Broadsheet office was dark when we pulled up on Fowler Avenue. My keys unlocked the back door and I typed in the alarm code. Franny followed me in.

  “There’s a microwave if you want…”

  “What, for the pizza? No… it’s better cold.”

  “Should I make coffee or anything?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Might be a diet soda in the break room.”

  “Ooh, that would be great.”

  We made our way down to the basement, a vast basement— this was a proper morgue. Even with all the lights on it was still pretty dark. Some of the records were a mess; the recent flood had taken its toll here as well. Boxes had been moved away from the walls and stacked in the far corner to avoid what must have been shallow puddles. The computer terminal was fine it seemed, and Franny found a working microfiche projector.

  “Need help with that?” I asked.

  “No offense, Patrick, but there’s nobody faster on this machine than me.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll see if I can find any original photos.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Franny said but had already set to work.

  “That first story was written on deadline, probably Thursday… if there was a follow-up, it would be in the next week’s issue.”

  Franny was way ahead of me. “Got it,” she said, “the police blotter…”

  I was crouched over a box from 1973. Franny read aloud: “Mother Faces DUI Charges and Reckless Endangerment… Nederland PD responded to a vehicle in distress along the north shore of Barker Meadow Reservoir, Wednesday, February 14. Officers at the scene found a Nederland woman huddled at the end of East Avenue while her five-year old child remained trapped in the backseat of a Toyota Corolla, stranded on the ice covered reservoir. The child was rescued minutes before the vehicle plunged through the ice. Both mother and son were taken to Boulder Community Hospital and treated for hypothermia. (Names withheld pending investigation). Rescue workers also reported hearing a song blaring through the speakers until the car sank beneath the surface.

  “She must have been pretty drunk, East Avenue is a dirt road,” Franny commented.

  “No names?” I asked.

  “Nada.”

  “That’s a huge red flag,” I commented and lifted out a folder for the week of February 15, 1973. Inside, I came across several original photographs which had not been published. None of them showed the mysterious hero, but one had captured the Toyota just before it slipped nose first into the reservoir. I walked back over to Franny and stuck the photo in the scanner.

  “What did you find?” she asked.

  “Maybe the license plate… I want to blow it up in photoshop.”

  “Nice… I bet Jamal will like that.”

  “There’s got to be a follow up somewhere, Franny. Keep searching…”

  “Oh, I found that too…” She read aloud again: “Police searching for Barker Reservoir hero. A mysterious stranger who rescued a five-year-old boy from drowning last Wednesday night remains at large. The John Doe savior was treated but released and has not been seen since… Police are interested in…” Franny went silent for a moment. “Still no names here… Wow, that sucks. I really want to find this guy.”

  “You’re not alone, Franny.”

  “No, but it’s really bugging me. I have to track him down somehow.” She made a face of utter frustration. “Hey… Do you smell something?” Franny asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Smoke…”

  “Smoke, like fire?”

  “More like a cigar.”

  As soon as she said this we heard the floor creaking above us, then distinct footsteps. A light went on at the top of the stairs. I walked over and looked up. Kaiser was there backlit on the top of the staircase, absurdly wearing his sunglasses.

  “I don’t know who’s down there,” he called out. “But I’ve got a loaded shotgun with me and I’ve just called the police.”

  I stepped to the landing and into the light. “It’s me, Patrick.”

  “What the hell? What are you doing?”

  “Searching the morgue.”

  “You have no right to be down there,” Kaiser said with mounting anger.

  “I work here.”

  That gave him pause at least. “Who’s that with you?”

  “Franny.”

  “Franny?” Kaiser asked, lowering the shot gun. “Oh, yeah, I remember her. Did some research for us, didn’t she?”

  “That’s right…” Franny said and also stepped forward.

  “Well, it’s Sunday night. You shouldn’t be here, either of you,” Kaiser said using his gr
avel voice.

  “We found something... something important.”

  “What’s that?” He asked and bounded down the stairs, reeking of cigars. I showed Kaiser the stories we’d dug up. He read them carefully. “I was kind of hoping no one would ever find these.”

  “Why’s that?

  “So tragic, so long ago…”

  “It seems to have a bearing on Murder Lake.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Ice.”

  “Ice?”

  “That’s how the cars got there.”

  “The police said it was a raft or something.”

  “Pretty sure it was ice now… But Morris insisted not to release that information yet.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “I did mention it to Andy… off the record. Didn’t he tell you any of this?”

  “No… never said a word to me.” Kaiser hesitated. “So why do you think this has anything to do with it all? Wouldn’t be the first time somebody accidentally drowned in the reservoir… a hiker or someone…”

  “They weren’t accidents.”

  “I take your point.”

  “Can you tell us anything about the story?” I asked. “I couldn’t help but notice, no one was identified.”

  “I was new to the job back then. I didn’t want to name names, ruin somebody’s life, a young mother and her kid… They were locals… Can you imagine going to school the next day with that on your plate?”

  “It’s sort of your obligation as a reporter.”

  “I know, I know… and I regret it now… still…”

  “Do you remember any names?”

  “Hmm… a local woman, Mama Cass, I think.

  “Mama Cass?”

  “That was her nickname back in the day… Cassandra Nelson, maybe?”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Hmm, I think she was arrested for welfare fraud in the mid-eighties.” Kaiser paused. “Don’t remember the kid though.”

  “Desmond Lambert?”

  “I don’t think that’s it…”

  “What about this hero guy?”

  “Never did get his name… just a John Doe… disappeared a couple of days later.”

  “What about Drummond? Was he around back then?”

  “Douglas? No, I don’t think so… Why do you ask?”

  “I just thought he might remember something.”

  * * *

  chapter twelve

  nice pick

  Late on Tuesday morning Fynn and I sat in the rustic dining room of the Best Western Lodge overlooking Barker Reservoir. It was snowing lightly and threatened to do so all day. We were eating breakfast, deciding not to wait on Jamal or Franny, who both seemed to be running late.

  “We must begin by eliminating those who have not committed this crime.”

  “Out of the people we know about, you’re saying.”

  “Exactly this.”

  “Okay… Mr Quicklube?”

  “Though the correct age, not guilty.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Other than running a garage and an interest in fishing, he seems to have no motive.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Jamal has thoroughly vetted this Mr Parker.”

  “And Wheeler?”

  “While he is connected of course… his brother, and the vehicles which bear his imprint… I do not count him as a suspect. I cannot fathom why he would kill his brother at such an age. And it’s only natural that the vehicles are tied to him, as his family is in this business for many years.”

  “Not a revenge thing, you’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s left? Lambert?”

  “Which Mr Lambert? The father or his son?”

  “Are you saying the father might be alive?”

  “We cannot be sure either way.”

  “What about the son then?” I asked. “Wait, could he be a jumper?”

  “A traveler, yes. Such is possible, I suppose, though… I have a strong feeling that something else is going on here.”

  “Time travel would explain everything.”

  “Not to Detective Morris.” Fynn smiled. “Let’s leave Lambert aside until Frances and Jamal arrive. I’m quite sure they will bring news.”

  “I’m quite sure that’s an understatement.”

  “There are also the people who work at your paper.”

  “What?”

  “Mr Wayne, Mr Drummond, Mr Williams… and perhaps these Texas Twins?”

  “Andy and the twins are way too young to have committed all these crimes.”

  “I can only agree… as is Desmond Lambert.”

  “But you are not discounting them… why?”

  “It is possible this is a family crime, as we discussed. Sins of the father…”

  “Like accomplices?”

  “If they were working together, it would explain how they left the scene so easily.”

  “The twins… one of them, or both,” I said without thinking.

  “What makes you suspect them?”

  “Well, not evidence… just a gut feeling.”

  “However correct your instincts, it won’t be enough for Jamal.”

  “No...”

  “And not your colleague, Mr Williams?” Fynn asked.

  “Never. He’s not a killer.”

  Franny returned with her freckles, though this time her hair was tied back in two pony tails. She wore dark purple lipstick and heavy mascara, and was dressed in a black-and-white striped lycra top, tight, but under a bulky vest. The stripes seemed to stop at her jean skirt and then reemerged to continue down the rest of her legs to heavy black boots.

  “Sorry I’m so late, I was waiting on FedEx. Oh, and thanks for giving me all day yesterday. It was a real help…” Franny said breathlessly as she pulled out a wrought iron chair and sat down. “Hey Patrick, what are you doing here? I thought Jamal was coming.”

  “Was it worth it?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Waiting for FedEx?”

  “Absolutely,” Franny said with some excitement. “Wait till you see what I’ve got.”

  “Would you care for breakfast, Frances?”

  “Me? Nah… well, maybe a hot cocoa and a side of bacon…” She pulled her chair closer with a loud squeak. “I’ve got a lot for you today, Inspector Fynn.”

  “I would expect no less,” he replied with a big smile.

  “Okay, where do I start?”

  “Wherever you like.”

  “How about young Desmond Lambert?” Franny fished through her backpack and pulled out a folder. “Voila, his high school yearbook…” She handed Fynn the photo and he turned it over to me. This Lambert looked very much like either of the Texas Twins, though with a different haircut.

  “Holy crap.”

  “What?” Franny asked.

  “Oh… well, he sort of looks like someone I know.”

  “Who?”

  “Somebody I work with,” I tried to reply as vaguely as possible and shot a quick glance at Fynn.

  “Best we don’t show this to Jamal for now,” he said softly.

  “For now?” Franny asked.

  “Until we know more…”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “A family crime, I fear,” Fynn said and gave off a pained expression. “You’ve done very well, Frances.”

  She laughed. “I’m just getting started.” Franny rummaged through her pack again; this time she pulled out a tattered composition notebook, the kind a school child might use.

  Fynn raised an eyebrow. “What have we here?”

  “Desmond Lambert’s diary from the fifth grade,” Franny explained with a beaming smile. “Just one of many.”

  “How on earth did you find it?”

  “From Laura Groom.”

  “Who is this Laura?”

  “Kimberly Groom’s daughter, or nee, Kimberly Nelson, Desmond Lambert’s sister, well, fos
ter sister.”

  “I will admit to being a bit confused.”

  “Oh right… family history: Cassandra Lambert, aka Cassandra Nelson— that’s her maiden name. Married to Clyde Lambert. I found a copy of their marriage license. She was foster mom to Desmond and Kimberly… among others.”

  “Wait a second, their mom is Mrs Corolla?” I asked.

  “Foster mom… and she reported her husband’s stolen vehicle, Mr El Dorado, better known as Clyde Lambert.”

  “You mean to say she never reported her husband missing?” Fynn asked.

  “It would seem so. But the insurance was in her name, so she did file a claim.”

  “And what of her husband, Clyde?”

  “Not much on him. Kind of a transient… He did show up on the welfare rolls up until nineteen eighty-three.”

  “So he was alive,” I blurted.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He can’t be victim number one, Mr El Dorado.”

  “It would seem so,” Fynn agreed, “and yet doubts remain for me.”

  “How did you find all this out?” I asked Franny.

  “It was easy once I had a maiden name. Found her in the welfare records… Then, I just called up Laura Groom in Tucson, who is sort of the granddaughter.”

  “Ms Groom was very cooperative,” Fynn observed.

  “She is desperate to hear anything about her mom, Kimberly, who disappeared in two thousand and two, so she volunteered a ton of information. It’s the first break in her case for like a decade.”

  “I see… and what of the child’s diary?”

  “Is he your killer— this Lambert?” Franny asked.

  “No, I believe he is too young, though certainly everything centers around him.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but you should probably read this anyway.”

  “Frances, you have out done yourself,” Fynn said and took the diaries to hand. “What can you tell us about the sister, Kimberly Nelson?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. She moved out of state when she was twenty something, got married and settled down in Tucson. According to her daughter, she got along fine with Desmond, the would-be uncle.”

  “Does she have an address for him?”