Jason Deas - Benny James 03 - Brushed Away

by Jason Deas

  “I’m not here about anything like that. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

  “OK.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Not even a week, man.”

  “How many days?”

  “Five.”

  “Have you noticed anything strange or out of the ordinary?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “What?”

  “This guy came in this morning at 6:30 and bought coffee, Crisco, and a copy of Super Jugs,” he said pointing over his shoulder to the adult magazines behind him.

  “That is a little strange,” Benny agreed. Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” the clerk said stubbing out his cigarette and lighting another one. “A girl came in yesterday and bought a whole roll of lottery tickets and paid with all one dollar bills. She also bought a lollipop. Green.”

  Benny nodded his head. “Again, strange, but not exactly what I was looking for.”

  “I can go on for days and I have only worked here for six days.”

  “I thought you said five days before?”

  “Yeah. Five. They all run together, man.”

  “Is it OK if I look around now? You’re not in any trouble. I’m working on a case that has nothing to do with the day to day operations of this gas station. I just think the person I’m looking for might have come by here and left something.”

  “Why didn’t you just say that man?”

  “I don’t know,” Benny answered. “I don’t know.”

  Benny turned and walked toward the soda cooler to get Vernon’s Dr. Pepper before he forgot. As he neared the cooler, the room opened up and a soda display filled the open area. Twelve-packs of soda were stacked at least six feet high in a rainbow shape around the biggest cooler Benny had ever seen. Taped to the wall of twelve pack containers was a handwritten sign that read, “It’s the One.”

  Benny’s heart began racing. “What’s this?” he yelled to the front of the store. “Get back here!”

  The clerk hustled to the back with a cigarette flapping between his lips.

  “It’s a soda display, man.”

  “What’s with the slogan and the giant cooler?”

  “You drink it and it cools you down. That’s what the commercials say. Don’t you watch television man?”

  “Not much,” Benny admitted.

  “I guess there’s a contest to win the cooler or something. I don’t really know anything about that,” the clerk said.

  “Did you see the person who set this up?”

  “Yeah, man. Some fat guy. He had a real hard time. I thought he was going to pass out and die here on the floor. He was sweating like a whore in church.”

  “Nice,” Benny said. “Have you ever seen a cooler this big?”

  “No. Kind of ridiculous if you ask me.”

  “Mind if I look inside?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Benny held his breath and lifted the top of the cooler. As he suspected, inside was a body, minus a finger, curled in the fetal position. Ice covered the body and had melted to a thin layer revealing the contents underneath.

  “Jesus Christ!” the clerk screamed as he tripped backwards and fell on his back. “I… I…” He began shaking and pulled himself off the floor and sprinted to one of the coolers containing beer and cheap wine. He opened the cooler door and yanked out a bottle of Night Train, unscrewed the top, and drank the entire bottle in one tilt.

  Benny watched in amazement. “Feel better?” he asked when the clerk lowered the bottle.

  “I will in a minute. Maybe I’ll sip on one more while we wait for the cops.”

  “Good idea.” Benny pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called Vernon. Vernon answered on the first ring. “I’ve got your Dr. Pepper here and a dead body.”

  “My God. All right. The guys are almost finished taking pictures here and collecting. I’ll tell them to head on over when they’re finished here. I think they can wrap the rest up without me and I’ll be right over.”

  “I’ll put your soda back in so it’ll be cold for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Vernon breezed through the door less than ten minutes later and rushed to the back of the station. He stopped in front of the opened cooler and peered inside.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “It’s a game. Somebody’s messing with us.”

  “Why?”

  Benny shrugged his shoulders.

  “Is the guy sipping on the bottle of Night Train the clerk?”

  “Yeah.” Benny got Vernon up to speed on the situation.

  Vernon shook his head and called the clerk over. “I still have the picture of our first vic,” he said to Benny as he pulled the photo out of his breast pocket.

  The clerk put the finishing touches on the second bottle of Night Train and wiped his mouth. Vernon held the picture of victim number one in front of his face.

  “Ever seen this guy?”

  “That’s the guy who delivered all the twelve-packs and set up the display with the cooler.”

  “Thanks,” Vernon said putting the picture away. “Why don’t you take a couple more of those bottles home with you since you seem to like them so much and we’ll come see you tomorrow for a formal statement.”

  “Like free?”

  “Free. Just leave me your address and phone number.”

  “OK. But I don’t have a phone number.”

  “No problem. Just the address will be fine.”

  The clerked scuttled off.

  “So,” Vernon said turning his focus back on Benny, “the fat guy delivers a dead body in a cooler to the gas station and then gets offed. Who’s behind this?”

  “I would think somebody put him up to it.”

  “Do you think he knew what was in the cooler?”

  “I’m thinking he did.” Vernon looked at the cooler. “It doesn’t have a lock on it or anything to keep it sealed. Any normal person would look inside to see why it was so heavy. Natural instinct.”

  “Maybe the ice completely covered the body when it was delivered.”

  “Could be.”

  “Or, the fat guy killed the guy in the cooler and then somebody killed him.”

  “No, I don’t get that feeling. Do you? Back in the day, did you ever work off a feeling?”

  “Yeah, I worked off feelings and then I tried to back those feelings up with facts. If your facts don’t match your feelings—you know something is wrong. And yes, I get the feeling that we’re just going to be looking for one killer.”

  “What do you know about the fat guy? What would motivate him to do somebody’s dirty work like this. Money? A woman?”

  “I’m gonna have to go with a woman on this one. Dumping a body inside a gas station among a display of twelve-packs is crazy. Money can make people do some crazy things, but this is woman crazy thinking right here.”

  “I agree. The crew is here,” Vernon said glancing over his shoulder at the noise behind him.

  “Speaking of women, I’m going to head on over and talk to Nina Oglethorpe. I want to ask her permission to talk to Uncle Karl’s doctor. I still need to rule him out in case what we’re dealing with here is not caused by woman-crazy or money-crazy but just crazy-crazy.”

  Chapter 10

  Nina was sitting on her front porch. Benny was thankful he didn’t have to go back into her studio again. She recognized his Jeep coming down the drive and began combing her hair with her fingers. She quickly stood and glanced at her reflection in one of the windows and sat back down. Benny noticed and smiled.

  “Taking a break from your work?” Benny asked, climbing out of the car.

  “Yes. I was working on some new techniques and mixed a few things together that I shouldn’t have. I almost passed out in there.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first person to pass out in there.”

  Nina laughed.

  “I need to ask you a favor,” Benny said.

  “Sure.” />
  “We had another murder.” Benny watched Nina’s face. It didn’t change. “I was talking with Officer Kearns and we’re at a point where we need to narrow our suspects. Every suspect we can eliminate helps tremendously with the legwork. I need your permission to talk to Uncle Karl’s doctor.”

  “So, you’re saying he’s a suspect?” Nina seemed surprised.

  “Unfortunately he is.”

  “Why?”

  “Can I trust this information won’t leave the front porch?”

  “Of course. I don’t have many friends outside of my family, and I rarely leave the house.”

  “The second murder involved art just like the first. Uncle Karl is… well, that is part of the problem. I don’t completely understand what he is, but I do know a few things about him. He pretends to be an artist. He is wildly strange. He may do things he is not aware of, or maybe he has everybody snowed over and is willingly doing crazy things. That is my job—figuring this out. I would like to rule him out.”

  “So what does this favor involve?”

  “It’s simple. I have a piece of paper that I would like you to sign, which will give me permission to talk with his doctor. His doctor will hopefully be able to explain his condition to me a little better and I will mark him off of my list of suspects.”

  “Fine. I’ll sign it.”

  Benny pulled the form out and handed it to her with a pen.

  “I have another question,” Nina said. “I’m an artist. Am I a suspect?”

  Benny made a motion with his hand as if he was signing a document and he looked at the paper in her hand. Nina hesitated with the question still in her mind and Benny pointed to the place he needed her to sign. Nina signed and Benny pulled the paper away from her and put it away.

  Finally answering her question, Benny said, “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Dr. Walton’s office occupied the ground floor of an old two story Victorian located near Tilley’s town square. He lived on the second floor with his mother. It was his childhood home. He had the same bedroom and his mother still did his laundry and cooked for him. Benny caught him just as he was about to lock the front door.

  Dr. Walton pulled open the door and said, “I was just closing for the day.” His eyes studied Benny. “Hey, you’re the FBI guy.”

  “I used to be in the FBI. Now I’m helping out Officer Kearns with his investigations when he needs me.”

  Dr. Walton reminded Benny of an overgrown kid. He had a terrible bowl cut, inquisitive eyes, and his clothes were about two sizes too small. Benny decided he must have been at least six-feet-five at the shortest, but his silly grin made him look much smaller.

  “I’ve seen you on television.”

  Benny was never completely sure how to answer this statement.

  “I have been on TV a few times.” As usual, Benny felt stupid with his response.

  “You look bigger on television.”

  “They say the camera adds ten pounds,” Benny tried.

  “No. Not fatter. Taller.”

  “I’m over six feet tall.”

  “Hmmm…”

  Benny had serious doubts that the man before him was a competent doctor.

  “Do you like lamb?” Dr. Walton asked.

  “They’re cute. Sure. I love wool sweaters and…” Benny had no idea where this was going.

  “Do you like to eat them?”

  “Oh. Yes. I do like lamb chops.” Benny thought it was quite an odd question.

  “Mother made lamb sandwiches for dinner. Would you like to join me?”

  “Sure.” Benny looked at his watch and it read four o’clock. Just in case Dr. Walton misspoke, Benny asked, “Are you having a late lunch?”

  “Heavens no. We have lunch at ten forty-five.”

  “Oh,” Benny said, trying not to act too surprised.

  “Follow me upstairs.”

  Benny immediately noticed the smell of the house. It smelled old and sterile at the same time, somehow. Nearing the top of the stairs the smell changed and although Benny had not been hungry, the aroma woke his stomach and he was now ready to eat whatever he was smelling.

  “Mother,” Dr. Walton called. “Set another place at the dinner table. I have a guest.”

  Benny followed in awe of the situation. Dr. Walton had not asked why he was visiting and didn’t seem to care. Benny wondered how he always seemed to get himself into the strangest of situations.

  They entered the kitchen. The table was already set for three and Benny paused. Dr. Walton’s mother had her back to the two men as she was tending to something sizzling on the stove.

  “Sit down, Mr. James,” she said, without turning around.

  He did as instructed and sat at the round wooden table. Dr. Walton’s mother turned with a black skillet in hand and shoveled a hand-pressed sandwich onto Benny’s plate. It looked delectable.

  Benny looked up from his plate to her eyes and she gave him a wink accompanied with a warm smile. She turned back to the stove, deposited the black skillet, and picked up another. This one contained fried potatoes and she dumped a healthy portion on his plate.

  “Were you expecting someone else?” Benny asked. He knew there was no way possible she could have set another place in between the time Dr. Walton called out and the time they walked into the room.

  “No,” Dr. Walton’s mother said. “Sweet tea or water?” she asked brushing aside his curiosity.

  “Ice tea, please.” Benny studied her as she turned to the fridge and estimated she was late sixties or early seventies. Her skin rippled with wrinkles galore swaying Benny’s guess in favor of older. Stark white hair sprung from her head and she stooped when she walked in the same manner as her son. As she placed the glass of ice tea in front of him, Benny looked into her eyes to find a youthful gleam.

  “I’m Benny by the way.”

  “I’ve seen you on television.”

  There that statement was again and Benny had an idea of how to respond this time.

  “Do I look shorter, taller, fatter, or skinnier to you in person than I do on television?”

  “You look much bigger. On television, you’re only about this big,” she said spreading her thumb and index finger.

  Benny realized she was making a joke and chuckled politely. “I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Hazel. Are you one of my son’s patients?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t know the two of you were friends.”

  “We’ve actually never met.”

  “Well then, is something wrong?” Hazel asked, suddenly alarmed.

  Dr. Walton looked up from his sandwich. “I was so hungry, I didn’t get around to asking Mr. James why he was here, Mother. I thought I would ask him over supper. There isn’t a problem is there?”

  “No. I just need to speak to you about one of your patients.”

  “I’m afraid that may be tricky.”

  “I have a consent form,” Benny said, pulling the paper out.

  Benny handed the paper to Dr. Walton and he set his sandwich down just long enough to study it. Nodding his head, he handed it back to Benny and filled his mouth with a load of fried potatoes.

  “Karl Oglethorpe,” Benny said.

  Hazel dropped her fork and it struck her plate with a clang and bounced onto the table splattering the ketchup from her potatoes onto the white table cloth.

  “My goodness,” she said. “Excuse me.”

  “Was it something I said?” Benny joked.

  Hazel’s eyes looked frightened for a split second before she recovered and said, “Heavens no. I just bit my tongue.”

  “I hate it when that happens,” Dr. Walton said through a mouthful. “What would you like to know about Mr. Oglethorpe?”

  “Is it OK if we speak about this in front of your mother? No offense, Hazel.”

  “None taken. I do all the filing down there so I pretty much know everything anyway.”

  “Go ahead, Mr. James. I discuss my patients freely wi
th her. She won’t hear anything she probably doesn’t already know.”

  “Very well. I’m trying to understand his condition. I want to know what you think he’s capable of and I want to know how he changes when he’s on or off his medications.”

  “Slow down, Mr. James.” Dr. Walton pushed his plate away from him. Finally satiated and with a full belly he seemed like a different man. “I don’t believe any of Mr. Oglethorpe’s problems are medical in nature. I believe they are purely psychological.”

  “Then why is he not seeing a psychologist?”

  “Nina believes differently and she is his legal guardian and calls the shots. So, I do what I can. Can you imagine him having a therapy session?”

  “No. So, give me your theory of why he is the way he is.”

  “Shame. Do you know the history of the Oglethorpe place?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then you know it was once a thriving, marvelous, awe-inspiring place. It is now in shambles, barely standing and in utter disrepair. Equal rights aside for a moment, Karl is the last surviving male, not married, and with the traditional mindset, he should carry the responsibility of maintaining the family home and bringing in money. He didn’t. He couldn’t handle the responsibility and checked out.”

  “What about the mimicking? What about the fantasies of being an artist?”

  “The artist fantasy lets him forgive himself for not being a good businessman. He tells himself he is the antithesis of the businessman—the free spirit artist. It’s his favorite fantasy.”

  “I was there yesterday and he was sunburned from using an arc welder. Supposedly it wasn’t the first time he did it. And, he has a studio.”

  “Yes, he has all the tools to be an artist—but it doesn’t mean he is. I was called out to the Oglethorpe home last Thanksgiving because he had sunburned his backside severely.”

  “That’s the story I heard.”

  “He had welded two pieces of metal together, but I certainly wouldn’t call it art.”

  Hazel stood and collected the dishes from the table.

  “Would either of you like some pie?”

  “No, thank you,” Benny answered.

  “Maybe later, Mother.”

  Hazel put the dishes in the sink. “I’ll clean these up later so you two boys can talk. I’ll be in my room reading if you need me.”