White Birch Graffiti

by Jeff Van Valer

  He paused for a second to think about what—or who, rather—made him change direction so long ago.

  Frank handed two things to Maddox. One was the garage door opener—the brains-free one he’d gotten from the prosecutor’s purse. The other was a walkie-talkie.

  “You wait here,” Frank said. He grabbed his rifle out of the truck bed and walked down the driveway. He stepped over the limp, yellow tape and ambled, rifle in hand, down Spruceberry Lane.

  “Hey, Frank,” squawked Maddox’s voice through the walkie-talkie.

  “Hey, what,” Frank said.

  “Walkie works.”

  “Good.” Into the cold night, Frank issued breaths in steamy, water-kettle puffs. It was time to lose some weight.

  “I talked to nurse Joni today,” Maddox said.

  “What was she wearing?”

  “Jeans and a… I think it was a Patagonia jacket and matching headband. Smart ensemble.”

  “What a shame. I was hoping for leather chaps and boots.”

  “Pervert.”

  “What’d she have to say?”

  “Girl loves him, Frank. She just about confessed to the entire affair.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “Only there was no affair.”

  “The hell you say.”

  Static came through the walkie as Maddox lingered on the TALK button. “She broke down crying. It was incredible. Bet I wasn’t with her ten minutes before I told her we should take a break and talk another time. She’s in the ER tonight and agreed to talk to me in the morning, after her shift. I tell you, Frank, the poor thing even apologized to me for crying.”

  “What was she crying for?”

  “I don’t know. Sad for Ted’s loss? Fear of being interrogated by a detective? Maybe it was just a little thing they call unrequited love.”

  “Unrequited?”

  “Yeah. It’s when somebody loves some—”

  “I know what it means, Todd. Jesus. I’m ugly, but I ain’t stupid. I thought you said those two were boffin’ like rabbits.”

  “I gotta say… now I’m not so sure.”

  “Wow. That’s almost disappointing. Tell me she’s not wasting that rapturous body.”

  “Oh, shoot, Frank. I’m sure she uses it in all kinds of ways.”

  “Dare to dream.” Frank reached the end of Spruceberry Lane. He threw one leg over the guardrail, grunting when he lifted the other. Slipping through the dead, ornate grass footing the berm, he said, “I’m almost in place here, so hold still. In a minute, I’m gonna point my rifle at your head.”

  “All-righty,” said Maddox. “Open the bolt and keep your finger off the trigger, if you please.”

  “So you think Joni’s telling the truth?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Why?”

  “I just believe her, is all.”

  “Are you getting soft on this girl?”

  “Sure I am.”

  Frank navigated the wet grass on the berm’s slope, holding his arms out to the sides for balance. It’d be just like him to slip and fall. The rifle hung from its strap on one shoulder. He listened to the walkie at an arm’s length.

  Maddox went on. “She’s pretty nice, you know… and in a world of pain for Ted. She’s been in love with him, knows it’s wrong, and I think she’s been staying on the high road.”

  Frank studied the spruce that hid the shooter. He faced Maddox’s truck, eighty yards away, his eyes level with the kill-shot’s trajectory. “Must be tough to stay on the high road when you’re so built to step off it.”

  “Frank. That’s enough of that.”

  “All right, I’ll behave. Now hold still.” He opened the bolt and kept his finger off the trigger. When he shouldered the rifle and viewed his partner’s head in the crosshairs, the fragility of human life seemed to grab him by the ears and drill a gaze into him.

  Maddox’s head made a high-contrast, blurry silhouette against the white of the garage wall and single door into the house. On the passenger side, the safe’s glossy black paint reflected the truck’s headlight in a white glare that made Frank squint.

  He spoke into the walkie. “Turn off your headlights, Todd.”

  The lights went off. So had the pale bulb of the garage door opener. Frank saw almost nothing through the scope. “Okay. Hit the garage door.”

  As the door whirred into its slow-motion roll, the pale bulb came on and cast the only light in view. Gooseflesh covered Frank’s jacketed arms. It was dark, the conditions the same as when the prosecutor was shot. Frank wondered if she had ever gotten around to turning on the headlights.

  Through the scope field, Maddox’s head drew a silhouette on the white garage wall. The blackness of the safe blotted out the entire passenger side.

  He lowered his rifle and thought for a second. When he arrived on the scene, Ted was on the ground. His truck’s engine was running. “Interesting,” Frank said to himself. Were the headlights on or off? “Hey, Todd,” he said into the walkie. “You need to come down here and see this.”

  They met on Spruceberry Lane and Frank handed over the rifle. Maddox took the berm, and Frank walked to the truck with the garage door opener.

  As he did, he studied the wheel marks in the Gables’ front yard. The truck had been diagonal to the street when Frank arrived, and Ted was on the ground between the open passenger door and the driveway. Frank remembered when he stepped around the front of the truck to find Ted. He tripped on the broken mailbox.

  If the headlights had been on, he would’ve easily seen it.

  “Interesting,” he said again.

  CHAPTER 19

  Frank kept the truck lights off, the walkie in hand, and hit the garage door button to open it. After about twenty seconds, the pale bulb switched off. Maddox told Frank nothing was visible through the scope. With the door open and all the lights off, Frank scooted over to the passenger side without telling Maddox he’d done so.

  “Okay, Frank. Hit the button.”

  Frank hit the button and the light switched on.

  “Frank.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have to be in the truck for this, don’t you?”

  When the garage door was down at the bumper level, Frank reached to turn on the truck’s lights, then leaned back quickly to the passenger side. The headlights lit the garage door brightly.

  “Whoa,” Maddox said through the walkie. “I see you now.”

  “You couldn’t see me in the passenger seat, could you?”

  “Damn,” said Maddox.

  “Okay. Come on back.” He got out of the truck and met Todd at the car.

  “If Ted did this…” Frank said, not finishing his thought.

  “Where do you hire out a hit man these days?” Maddox asked.

  “I dunno. I s’pose he’d want a professional and not some Jennings County deadbeat. Indy? Chicago? Cincy?”

  “Don’t forget Louisville,” Maddox said, handing the rifle back.

  “Louisville.” Frank zipped his rifle back into its case, and dropped it into his car’s back seat. “Probably plenty of good hit men down there, too. I should apologize for the slight.”

  The two men strolled to the foot of the driveway.

  “Speaking of hit men,” Frank said, “you know what they’re calling Ted down at Jarvis Penn’s?”

  “You might be spending too much time down there.”

  “Not possible. Jarvis and I go way back. I was down there that night.”

  “What for? Fishing stuff? This time of year? Or did you rent something like Caddyshack again?”

  “Bought this Carhartt jacket that evening,” Frank said, flashing open his coat. “Right when the shooting occurred, as a matter of fact.”

  “Is that how you got here so quick?”

  Penn’s General Store, a quick go-to for locals and boaters, was just down the highway from the Gables’ neighborhood.

  “That’s right,” Frank said.

  “All right, what’r
e they calling Ted down at Jarvis’s?”

  “Jackie.”

  “Jackie. How come?”

  “Like Jackie Kennedy.”

  “Don’t s’pose you’re gonna spare me the explanation?”

  “Not at all.” Frank opened the garage door from the street. “Take the Kennedy assassination. You know how nobody ever really solved that crime? Conspiracies all over the place?” Maddox faked a big yawn, and Frank ignored it. “You know how many theories there are out there about who did it? The Russians, Fidel Castro’s people…”

  “FBI, CIA.”

  “The mafia, Todd. It had to be the maf—”

  “I heard it was Frank Sinatra.”

  Frank looked at Maddox thoughtfully. “Coulda been. So anyway. You ever hear of anybody blaming Jackie?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me neither. You know why they never blamed her?”

  “S’pose you just tell me.”

  “Because she wore his brains on her outfit.”

  “Nice.”

  “That’s what people are saying down at Jarvis’s. They say Ted had the prosecutor killed, and in a way that people would never accuse him.”

  “I haven’t heard anything like that.”

  “That’s because you have a family to spend your time with. I get to hear plenty of gossip around town.”

  “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “No. People say Ted’ll get away with it because he got her brains splattered all over him.”

  “Yichth.”

  “Yep,” Frank said. “Right here in Blue River, they’re talking like that.”

  “There has to be what? Ten threats on the prosecutor in the last year alone. Don’t these people know the prosecutor’s job is to piss off criminals?”

  “Yeah. It could be any one of them, but not a one of those leads is as sexy as this one. People want the most sensational thing. It’s at least five times as interesting as what’s going on with the president right now. And Ted has motive to boot.”

  “Life-insurance… cute nurse.”

  “Yeah. The people want it to be Jackie.” That includes half the police department, Frank thought.

  ~~~

  Ted reached behind him and put his hand on the casket. The shiny wood finish was cold, and he thought of her sweater again. It was time to leave his post, five to nine. He went up front, put on his coat, and caught the scrutinizing gaze of one of the butler-types. It was as though Ted were a street-urchin who’d sneaked into some yacht club. The butler looked at his watch, then back at Ted.

  John Radiford sympathizer. Either that, or the butler overheard the conversation with Walrus Face. A surge of emotion rushed in Ted, that male response in which anger bursts into the room yelling, to slap away the openhanded plea of sadness. Ted yanked at his overcoat’s lapels, flipping up the collar. Without a word, he walked through the funeral home’s front door.

  He stood on the stoop and beheld downtown Broadbent. In almost any other setting, it wouldn’t be a half-bad place. It had a charming, small-town feel, a little like Blue River. He played the day’s events in his mind. Leave it to Frank Bruska to make it even worse. Having sent the in-laws to the hospital may have been the day’s only highlight. Ripping off John Radiford’s head in front of a bunch of Broadbent cops and lawyers fell a little south of crowning-achievement status. It was the most recent line item on Ted’s growing scroll of regrettable moments.

  His rental car was only one of two in the lot. The other was a gray minivan. He dropped a foot off the curb. Something interesting caught his eye. A neon sign, hanging in a window down the block said

  the saloon

  Its message was simple. He knew tonight was a night to reflect on his big lie, and he figured he’d just as soon torture himself over a beer. He pivoted on the ball of his foot, toward The Saloon. His mind played him a slideshow. Kathryn’s open skull. Red rivulets on tanned leather. Her sweater in the closet. His dad’s palpable ribs. Neil. Murdered on his daughter’s birthday. Soon came images of Zeke and Karen, Buck and Hoss rinsing blood out of their hair in Loon Lake (under Ted’s direction, of course), and the fire. And Lloyd, sizzling in it.

  “I do need a beer,” he whispered to himself. His pace quickened, and he just kind of wanted to punch something. The freezing, dry air jabbed into his nostrils like icicles. As he crossed the street, a police cruiser appeared, going a little too fast. Ted had to break into a jog to get out of its way. He waved, and the policeman waved back. How nice.

  Shoulda jumped under his wheels.

  ~~~

  “Aw, now where the hell’s he going?” Lewis asked as the doctor changed his direction and headed for the street. They were so close to leaving the sixth and final body and getting out of their latest, rinky-dink town.

  “That bar down there is my guess,” Mr. Gray said.

  Lewis opened the minivan’s door.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Mr. Gray said. “Where you goin’?”

  “Hell’s it look like?”

  “No. You need to stay here. We can wait. His car’s right here, man.”

  “I am not losing him again.”

  “He’s gonna come back. What the f—”

  “This is bullshit. I’ll be done with him in thirty seconds.”

  “No,” Mr. Gray said. “It’s too risky.”

  “You stay here.” Lewis shut the door and walked toward the doctor. Damn, was it cold. The doctor was about a hundred yards ahead, and if Lewis jogged—or sprinted—he could catch up in no time. The streets were quiet, and every business was closed, except one.

  So what if some goofball saw Lewis. He’d be out of the state in an hour, and out of the country in twenty-four.

  The doctor stepped down to cross the street. Lewis reached into his coat and skipped into a nice, long-stride run.

  Then the cop rolled down the street. Lewis left the .45 in its holster, slowed to a walk, and cursed.

  CHAPTER 20

  On his way to The Saloon, Ted wondered if the big lie had had any long-lasting effects on his psyche. He actually completed the question in his mind before he knew the answer. He guffawed into the night, crossed an alleyway and headed for the bar’s door.

  He wondered what the big lie did to Zeke and Neil—they never talked about it, never in thirty years of visits. Did it ever bother Buck the knife-wielder or Hoss the manipulator? What about them? After all, they did it. Had anything bad ever happened in their lives? Or were they able to let the whole thing wash off their backs like the blood they rinsed into the lake?

  Hoss. Kid had no conscience. All he did was screw with people. And sing. An old flower of memory bloomed for the first time in thirty years. Hoss always whistled a certain tune. What was that song? “Floatin’ Down the Mississippi?” Was that it? It was one of those sweet-as-bubblegum songs from the fifties, back when hand-holding was considered risqué for rock lyrics.

  Ted could hear the banjo.

  “Floatin’ down the Mississippi

  With m’ Poly ANNNN…”

  is how Hoss sang it in 1970, of course replacing the church-grade lyrics with vulgarities. But really, why did it even matter? What mattered any more? You’re born one day, and you die another. Some people live to be a hundred. Some smoke and get lung cancer. Others get shot in the head. Why did people even bother? Going on vacations? Running triathlons? Writing stupid songs like “Floatin’ Down the Mississippi?”

  Life. What a scam.

  Ted yanked open the door to The Saloon and went inside.

  ~~~

  Mr. Gray watched Lewis cross the street as the doctor went into the bar. Lewis reached into his pocket, and Mr. Gray grabbed his cell phone. He stared at Lewis until the phone rang.

  Mr. Gray flipped open his phone halfway through the first ring. “Do not go into that bar.” He decided he’d pull the van out to the street to be a little closer.

  Lewis stopped at the alley’s opening and said, “I am not lettin’ this fucker get away.”
<
br />   “You’re bein’ stupid, man. What if he sees you?” Mr. Gray started the engine as Lewis turned around, down the street, to face him.

  “What if he climbs out the bathroom window? What if it’s just him and the bartender in there? I’ll pop ’em both. What if this, and what if that?” With a big sweep of his free arm, Lewis said, “What if I freeze my nuts off out here?”

  “Then come back and get in the van. Look. You remember saying these jobs are all just the same?”

  “Kiss my ass.”

  “Dammit, man, you need to—”

  “I’m keeping both eyes on this asshole,” Lewis said, slapping his phone shut. He stood for a moment and stared at his partner, arms akimbo.

  “That piece o’ shit hung up on me,” Mr. Gray said, idling down the street. He stopped the van half a block away and called Lewis again. Lewis opened the phone and immediately slapped it shut, cutting the line. He pulled off his right glove and extended his middle finger. Mr. Gray returned the gesture. Lewis entered the bar.

  “Son of a bitch is havin’ a tantrum,” Mr. Gray muttered. He pocketed his cell and pulled out the sat phone.

  He hit the green CALL button.

  ~~~

  Frank and Todd Maddox started up the driveway, stepping over the police tape.

  Frank pulled out his phone.

  “Who you calling?”

  “Ted,” Frank said. “You talked to Pete Stevens about the prosecutor’s car, didn’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What time did she call him, or what time did he come tow her car?”

  “Five fift—”

  “Yes,” Frank said into the phone. “Detective Frank Bruska. Blue River Police Department. I need a listing for the Brodmann McArdle Funeral Home please. Broadbent, Ohio…Sorry, Todd. Go ahead.”

  “Five-fifteen p.m. and five-thirty.”

  “And Ted found out she was without a car when she got home at what? Around ten to six?” The operator offered to dial the number, and Frank said yes.