Murder, Mayhem & a Fine Man

by Claudia Mair Burney

  “She wrote your name. Sounds like progress to me.”

  Then he attacked me. “You’re just mad because I took you away from your boyfriend.”

  I’d had enough. This whole boyfriend thing was beginning to wear on me. Rocky had finally pushed me to histrionics. “Hey,” I yelled, pointing at him, “Jazz is not my boyfriend. You are not my boyfriend. I am boyfriendless. Sans boyfriend. Nada, cheri amour, or whatever ‘no boyfriend’ is in French, Spanish, or both. Do you understand that?”

  Whether or not he understood, I did; it depressed me.

  “No,” Rocky said. “What I understand is that you’re in love and very sensitive, not to mention defensive. You should try being catatonic sometime. It’s very relaxing.”

  That statement drained me of the wee bit of energy I had left. I’d almost gone catatonic from sheer exhaustion when I decided to walk into the house to find Susan myself. At first Rocky trailed behind me, but then he detoured into his office. I continued toward the counseling office.

  I found Susan in the corner, perched on one of the mahogany chairs from the dining room.

  I sat in a wooden folding chair at the conference table. I hoped that I’d put enough distance between us for her to feel safe.

  I waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Once enough time had passed and I thought she might need a break, I spoke up. “You can go to the bathroom or get up and stretch your legs if you want. You’re safe here, Susan. I’m willing to sit with you, to give you the opportunity to share your story, but I’m not here to force you to speak. I don’t think you’re catatonic. I think you’ve suffered a terrible tragedy and are afraid.”

  She didn’t move or look at me.

  I slouched in my seat and stretched my arms. I’d hoped that briefly opening my arms would act as a physical symbol of my openness to her. “Do you know why people have defense mechanisms, Susan?”

  I didn’t expect an answer, and she didn’t give one.

  “It’s so they can protect themselves. If you strip someone of their defenses, you strip them of their hard shell. The soft, vulnerable part of them gets exposed. You don’t have to talk to me if that’s how you choose to take care of yourself. But please, be comfortable. I understand that you’re in pain. It’s okay to go to the bathroom. I won’t negate your feelings because of a little ol’ bodily function.”

  She didn’t speak, but lowered her head. Her shift in posture signaled that she trusted me enough to change her stance. I sat with her another half hour, then I said, “Let’s take a bathroom break. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  I didn’t bother to look at her. I walked out of the room.

  She came into the bathroom five minutes later.

  I returned from the bathroom first and waited. She came back. A good sign. “Is there anything you want to talk about today?”

  She didn’t speak or move.

  We sat together for another half hour. She still refused to talk, no matter what kinds of prompts I tried. I didn’t want to press her, especially since I seemed to be breaking through. I thanked her for her time and said good-bye. I didn’t see Rocky or Toni as I left. I went out to the parking lot, glad to finally end my day and drag my weary bones home to the safety of my little apartment.

  Only, it didn’t feel right when I walked in. I had that creepy sense that someone was in my place. I picked up the first thing I could get my hands on—a giant, decorative bean pod that I had seen in the home-design section of Essence magazine. I had been under the misguided impression it would make my place feel earthy.

  I crept toward my bedroom. From within my room the television blared a football game.

  The TV was off when I left home.

  My heart slammed in my chest.

  A burglar, homicidal maniac, or weird apparition is in my room watching…sports?

  With my spidey senses on full alert, I peeked my head through the open door.

  The burglar, homicidal maniac, or weird apparition looked good. Too good to be on my bed. “Jazz,” I screamed, “what are you doing here?”

  He looked awfully comfortable with his shoes off and his suit jacket sprawled across the quilt. The Wolverines were giving a smackdown to some poor Big Ten losers. “It’s the only place you have a television. What is that in your hand?”

  I took a deep, calming breath. “It’s a decorative bean pod.”

  “And you were planning on doing what with it?”

  Now I felt annoyed. “I was going to hit you.”

  “You were going to hit me with a bean pod?”

  I tried to distract him, because I already knew having a giant decorative bean pod was ridiculous. “It was the first thing I grabbed. How did you get in?”

  He ran his hand across his chin. “In all my years doing police work, I’ve never known anyone to use a bean pod as a weapon.”

  “What are you doing in my apartment?”

  “Why do you even have a three-foot-long bean pod?”

  “It goes with the furniture. How did you get in?”

  “I picked your lock. With ease, might I add, and in the middle of the afternoon. I’ve called a locksmith. You should have a couple of good dead bolts before the night is over.”

  “Why are you ordering me locks?”

  “The ones you have are a psycho’s dream, and your next-door neighbor is a registered sex offender.”

  “Henry? Is that why you told me to stay away from him?” I said, appalled. I sat on the bed beside him. He moved over to accommodate me, taking the bean pod from my hands and shaking his head at it.

  “Yeah. Hank’s a freak. I’m not too worried about him with you, though. He likes kids.”

  “Henry’s a pedophile?” I had to lie down and fan myself with my hand.

  “That’s what his record says. The bigger problem would be the two rapists that live within five blocks of here. Didn’t you check out the neighborhood before you moved in?”

  “No. This is Ann Arbor. It’s supposed to be one of the safest cities in the United States.” I started moaning in disbelief. “Henry is a pedophile.”

  “I printed out mug shots of the rapists. They’re on your dresser.”

  “There are rapists on my dresser?” I said slowly.

  “There are mug shots on your dresser. That’s different, and might I add, better.”

  I sat there bewildered. Henry.

  “You know what’s really scary?” Jazz said.

  “What?”

  “We’re in bed together.”

  I jumped up from the bed as if his voice had scalded me. “That leads me back to my question from before your shocking revelations. Why are you in my bedroom?”

  “I’m watching the game. It’s not my fault you don’t have another TV.”

  “Why are you in my apartment?”

  “I told you. I knew you had a few freaks in the neighborhood and thought I’d check out your security system. It ain’t adequate, baby.”

  “Don’t you call me ‘baby,’ especially while you’re lounging on my bed. Get your behind up and into the living room. Pronto.”

  “I like it when you take charge.” He stood, gathered his jacket and shoes, and followed me out of the bedroom. “I’m just protecting and serving,” he mumbled. “Be good or I’ll make you pay for the locks.”

  I sighed and plopped down onto my cushiony sofa. Honestly, men are draining. I’m giving them up in favor of a life of deep contemplation and an exhaustive practice of the spiritual disciplines.

  Jazz sat beside me. “So how did it go?”

  “How did what go?”

  “With Susan?”

  “It went confidentially.”

  “She’s not talking, huh?”

  “Will you please go home, Jazz?”

  “I don’t want to go home. I like it here. You have yellow walls. My mom would love it.”

  “That’s ochre. It’s supposed to be peaceful.”

  “It is peaceful. I
slept like a log.” He yawned. “So when do you think she’ll talk?”

  “Maybe after a few more sessions. You slept in my bed?”

  “Did you know your sheets smell just like the vanilla and sweet amber you wear? I have one of your scarves in my pocket.”

  “You stole my scarf?”

  “Now that you know, let’s just say you gave it to me.”

  “I did not give you anything.”

  “What were you saying about Susan?” he asked, deftly trying to distract me. It worked.

  “I was saying I’m not a detective. I’m a psychologist. As much as I’d like to assist you in solving crimes, what I really do is help people who are experiencing mental health crises. That delicate young woman is my priority.”

  “And you don’t think finding the person who killed her friends is a meaningful endeavor?”

  “Jazz, I don’t want to argue.”

  “I don’t want to argue, either. I want to do my job.”

  I sank deeper into the sofa, kicked off my sensible heels, and rubbed my feet. “You know, things are getting more and more like you said—complicated. I don’t know if I’m the person who can help you.”

  He took my feet in his hands and started massaging them far better than I could. “Like it or not,” he said, kneading my tootsies into a blessed state of relaxation, “you are at the center of this investigation.”

  “You’re touching me,” I said, halfheartedly.

  “For medicinal purposes.”

  “What a rule breaker you are.”

  “Will you shut up and stop acting like a girl?”

  I didn’t know what he meant or whether or not I should be offended. Plus, he really did have magic hands.

  “Bell, I don’t know how to make a catatonic potential witness talk. She may be the only way we find that nutjob, Gabriel, and finding him would tell us a lot.”

  “Finding him would close the case. He did it.”

  “We don’t know that, but we’d be closer to the truth.”

  I used remarkable willpower to pull my feet away from his skilled hands. “Will you please go home now, Jazz?”

  “I’ll leave after we have dinner. I ordered Chinese.”

  “I don’t want Chinese with you.”

  “C’mon, Bell. I didn’t get to see you seduce any wontons.”

  I got off the couch and dragged myself to the dinette table. Jazz followed and seated me, ever the gentleman. My feet still tingled from his touch. I sat, willing my hormones into submission. I thought listing his transgressions would help my cause. “First you break in, you sleep like Goldilocks in my bed, then you order Chinese food and dead bolts, and you steal my scarf.”

  He sat opposite me at the table, giving me a full, frontal view of his gorgeous face. I noticed he had a touch of gray hair at his temples.

  “Actually, I ordered the dead bolts first, and I only took a brief power nap. You don’t have to thank me for the locks, but a foot massage would be nice.” He held up a socked size eleven to what I’m sure he hoped were my eager hands.

  He was mistaken. “Put that thing away. I follow the rules, Lieutenant. No touching.”

  “You didn’t seem to mind acting like you were my girlfriend at my folks’ house. Now when we’re alone you get coy?”

  “I’m not coy. I’m unavailable.”

  He flashed me a wicked grin. “I’m going to make you pay for that.” He put his elbows on the table and beamed me an endearing look.

  Why did my furniture seem so very small?

  Jazz said, “I realize you find me so attractive that you can hardly stand it, but can you be about business for a minute, Dr. Brown?”

  Honestly, the man is exasperating. “I’m not the one stalking. Breaking and entering.”

  “I was merely taking the first steps in securing your home. Now, back to the case. We’ve got two prime suspects: Michael, possibly slash Gabriel, and Vogel Senior.”

  For a moment, he looked serious. I got up from the chair, and he jumped to his feet to pull my chair out. “Will you stop?” I said.

  “I can’t. I was raised right.”

  I walked back to the sofa, trying to look demure, and sat, knowing he was watching me.

  Jazz sat right beside me. The man couldn’t take a hint.

  “Mr. Vogel,” I pointed out, “is battling a raging disease. He probably doesn’t have the energy to plot his son’s murder.”

  “Having a disease doesn’t mean he can’t kill somebody,” Jazz said. “It wasn’t a big, violent, bloody scene. The killer used poison.”

  “Why would he kill his own son?”

  “Maybe to put him out of his misery. Haven’t you read any Toni Morrison novels?”

  “This is not about literature,” I said, though the fact that he’d read Toni Morrison impressed me.

  “In the real world, people kill their kids, too. I’ve seen it. So have you. Maybe Vogel thought the poison was humane.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He had a half-million-dollar life insurance policy on the kid.”

  “He doesn’t look like he’s hurting for money.” I could feel a headache throbbing at my temples. I laid my head back against the couch cushions.

  Jazz wanted to keep arguing. “Who’s not hurting for money?”

  “Wealthy people. Like Jonathan Vogel Senior.”

  “We’re looking into his finances, and they’re not so stellar. Think about it. The kid gets involved with a cult. He dies at home after having some weird communion. Sounds like a perfect setup. Plus, Vogel wears gloves when it’s ninety degrees outside.”

  “He said he wears driving gloves. I thought you said one of your guys did the same thing.”

  “I only said that to put him at ease.”

  “Is there nothing you won’t do to get what you want?”

  “Sometimes, a man can’t have what he wants. No matter how much he wants her.”

  That got my attention. “You slipped,” I said.

  “What slip?”

  “You said, ‘No matter how much he wants her.’ You want me, you really want me.”

  “Ignore it, Sally Field, okay? Better yet, let me ignore it.”

  I nodded, still smirking in triumph.

  After an uncomfortable pause, I decided to continue our “debriefing.” “So why would Vogel Senior kill Damon Crawford?”

  “Collateral damage.”

  I didn’t think so, and I wanted to get him off the idea that Vogel Senior was his perp. “Can we talk about the other suspect—the real killer?”

  “This may not be the slam-dunk case you think it is. Just because Michael or Gabriel, or whatever he wants to call himself, is a freak, it doesn’t mean he’s a murderer. And don’t forget, we still don’t know if they’re two different people or not.”

  “If Michael slash Gabriel, as you say, is a narcissist, I believe there’s little he wouldn’t do for his own interests—including kill.”

  “Tell me the impression you had of Michael Wright when you met him.”

  I tried to picture the man. Holy Spirit help me to remember. Two things came to mind. “First of all, I noticed he was short.”

  “How short?”

  “Maybe five feet.”

  “He’s like a G.I. Joe.”

  “Exactly, only with glasses, but I think he’d like Barbie’s clothes better.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I mean he dressed like a Prince wannabe, from the Purple Rain years. I don’t know about his sexual orientation. He seemed to favor women, and they favored him.”

  “How so?”

  “They were fiercely protective of him. It’s like he used the women to both gratify and mother him.”

  I got another raised eyebrow from Jazz. “And you noticed this in one visit?”

  “I went three times, but it didn’t take three visits to notice that. He wasn’t very discreet.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He’s probably a violent pathologic
al liar.”

  Jazz seemed to contemplate that for a few moments. He settled a little more into the sofa and loosened his tie.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, alarmed.

  “I’m just relaxing. Don’t worry.”

  He looked at me with a smirk on his face that turned into a wide grin. “You’re really pretty, especially when you’re worried about bodice ripping.”

  “I am not worried about anything. You know, you have some narcissistic tendencies yourself, Lieutenant.”

  “Tell me more about it, so I can recognize it when I see it in myself.”

  “Very clever,” I said. “Do you remember the Greek myth about Narcissus?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “He was very handsome.”

  “Like you think I am.” He moved closer to me on my tiny couch.

  “Scoot.” I waved him away.

  “I’m not touching.” He smiled like a little cherub.

  I moved over, away from him. “Anyway, there was this woman who was desperately in love with him—Echo.”

  “Echo?”

  “Echo.”

  “Is there an echo in here?” He laughed at his sad attempt at humor.

  “There is no one in here who is desperately in love with you, if that’s what you’re implying, except maybe you.”

  “I’m not convinced, but finish the story.”

  “Anyway, he wasn’t interested in Echo. He treated her with indifference. She was so brokenhearted she ended up wasting away.”

  “That would never happen to you.”

  “You are correct. You may go to the final round, Jazzy.”

  “So, what happens next, pretty little Bella?” He put his arm across the back of the sofa.

  “Why are you calling me that?”

  “You asked me not to call you Bell. You didn’t say I couldn’t call you Bella. It means beautiful.”

  “You looked it up?”

  “I did. On the Net. Back to the story.”

  I sighed. Honestly. “Nemesis was the goddess of retributive justice. She didn’t appreciate how it all went down.”

  “‘How it all went down’? Are you using the black vernacular while you’re working to compensate for your fair skin?” Jazz asked.

  “I am not that fair-skinned.”

  “You’re the color of peanut butter. I bet you have to prove yourself.”