Dead Boyfriends

by David Housewright

  I couldn’t read her expression; probably I had insulted her. She turned, moved toward the upstairs staircase, and paused.

  “This is the second time tonight that you’ve impressed me,” she said before floating silently up the carpeted steps.

  Yeah, my inner voice told me. You’re a helluva guy.

  “Rushmore McKenzie, this assassin in blue, this killer of children,” the minister chants from behind his podium.

  Benjamin Simbi turns to face me. I brace the stock of the shotgun against my shoulder and sight down the barrel. “Police. Drop the gun. Put your hands in the air.”

  “This is just another example of the racism that is rampant in the St. Paul Police Department,” the minister says.

  There’s a Smith & Wesson .38 in Simbi’s hand. I beg him to drop it. Instead, he raises his hands slowly—slowly—slowly—slowly. The gun is nearly level with his chest when I squeeze the trigger.

  “Proof—as if we need any further proof—that it is impossible for the black man to get justice in a white man’s court.”

  The impact from the blast lifts Simbi off his feet and hurls him against the convenience store.

  The woman screams.

  The man shouts an obscenity.

  “There is no hope in the system for people of color,” the minister says.

  9

  I tried to wake up, but I was having a hard time managing it. I was flotsam—or is it jetsam—bobbing along on the lake Up North where I built my cabin. Each time I drifted close to shore, a wave would pull me away again. Finally, G. K. rested a gentle hand on my shoulder. I opened my eyes and they focused on her face, and for a moment I thought she was an angel.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  An ice pack, the contents melted long ago, slid to the hardwood floor as I pushed myself into a sitting position on G. K.’s sofa. I stretched, slowly, purposefully. Every muscle felt like a rubber band that was extended to the breaking point—a little more pressure and snap! There was a dull throbbing behind my eyes, and my stomach bobbed and pitched like a small boat on a large, unruly ocean. Yet as stiff and achy as I felt, I knew it would be much worse later. It’s been my experience that the body doesn’t hurt nearly as much the day after as it will the day after the day after.

  “Are you all right?” G. K. said.

  “You keep asking that question. Don’t I look all right?”

  “Not really.”

  “Swell.”

  “You were talking in your sleep.”

  “Did I say anything interesting?”

  “You said, ‘It’s not my fault.’ ”

  “Then it probably isn’t.”

  “What were you dreaming of?”

  “I don’t remember. Maybe I was running for public office.”

  G. K. helped me to my feet. I was hoping for the white lace nightgown, but instead she was wearing a turquoise skirt suit and black pumps. Her hair was arranged in a pile on top of her head. She offered to feed me breakfast, but I declined and told her I should go home and get cleaned up. She said it was just as well, she needed to get to her office. I told her that there were a few things I would look into later that morning and that I’d call her. She said that would be fine. She did not repeat her offer from the previous evening.

  Oh, well.

  Ice for the first twenty-four hours, then heat—if you’ve been beaten up as much as I have, you learn things. One of the things you learn is that sitting around and nursing your wounds won’t make them hurt less or go away sooner. Best thing to do is to be up and about. Stretch those muscles; ignore that pain. That’s what I kept telling myself while I showered, shaved, dressed, ate my last bagel, and popped enough ibuprofen to boost the stock price for at least three pharmaceutical companies. Despite the heat, I wore a lightweight sports jacket—the better to conceal the nine-millimeter Beretta that I fetched from the safe built into my basement floor. True, carrying the gun probably wouldn’t have helped much the day before, but it made me feel better. I also parked the Audi in the garage and switched to my Jeep Cherokee. It bothered me that my friend was able to find me at the Regis Art Center, and I decided the Audi must have had something to do with it.

  I checked my voice mail. A message from Nina Truhler made my heart race, even though it wasn’t much of a message. She didn’t say why she called, or if she would call again, or if I should call her back. Nor did she attempt to reach me on my cell phone. Still, I took it as a good omen and tried all four of her phone numbers. Either she wasn’t around or she wasn’t picking up.

  “You snooze, you lose, Nina,” I said aloud.

  Only I didn’t mean it.

  Thirty minutes later I was standing on the “police side” of the City of Anoka Public Safety Center. A plaque on the wall outside the administrative offices proclaimed that the Anoka Police Department had been accredited by the Commission on Accreditation for Law Enforcement Agencies. That meant it was rated among the top 3 percent of all police departments throughout the United States and Canada.

  I shook my head at the wonder of it. Apparently, the CALEA didn’t know these guys like I did.

  I found the Records Unit. The female police technician who waited on me was six feet tall and blond, with pale skin, severe blue eyes, and a no-nonsense face—a Norse warrior in a pencil-thin skirt that reached to her ankles. The narrow plastic tag above her left breast read BARBARA ANDERSON.

  I asked if it was possible to buy a copy of the police report on a death that occurred twelve years ago.

  “Those records aren’t on the computer,” she told me.

  “Can I get a copy just the same?”

  “As long as the file you request doesn’t begin with the letter C, you can.”

  “Why can’t I get a C?”

  “We lost them.”

  “Lost them?”

  “The C files. We had an accident when we were switching to the computerized system and lost them all.”

  “All the C’s.”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “Does the name on the file you want begin with a C?”

  “No.”

  “Then it doesn’t really matter what happened, does it?”

  She had me there.

  “The name is Becker, first name Brian,” I said.

  Anderson wrote it on the top sheet of a notepad, then tore it off. “This will take some time,” she said. “All of our paper files are stored in boxes down in the dungeon.”

  “The dungeon?”

  “We have a couple of rooms set aside in the parking garage downstairs. We call it the dungeon.”

  “Colorful.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she promised.

  “I’ll wait,” I said, and watched as she disappeared into the labyrinth of halls and offices beyond. I wrote her name in my notebook for no other reason than I liked her.

  She returned nearly a half hour later. There was a smudge of dust above her right eyebrow that I would have brushed away if I could have reached her over the counter.

  “Ten dollars,” she said.

  I slid a Hamilton across the counter, and she slid back a stack of photocopies.

  “Another file, if possible,” I said. “This one I’m sure is on your computer. Nye, first name Richard. He’s doing time for drugs.”

  Anderson worked a computer terminal while I watched.

  “Nye, Richard Scott,” she said.

  “That’s probably it.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Hmmm, what?”

  “The files are in the custody of the county attorney’s office. They’re not available for review.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means if you want to see Richard Nye’s records you need to get permission from Mr. Tuseman.”

  “Hmmm,” I said.

  I sat behind the wheel of the Cherokee with the big door open, my legs hanging over the rocker panels. The county coroner’s Final Summary was attached
to the police report.

  DECEDENT: Brian James Becker

  AGE: 27

  SEX: Male

  RESIDENCE: 1117 Deion Avenue, Anoka, MN

  PLACE OF DEATH: Residence

  DATE AND TIME OF DEATH: June 24 (Found) 0900 Hours

  CLASSIFICATION OF DEATH: Homicide-Accident-Undetermined

  PRIMARY CAUSE OF DEATH: Respiratory failure

  DUE TO: Carbon monoxide poisoning

  OTHER SIGNIFICANT CONDITIONS: Acute alcohol intoxication

  With no indication of foul play, the authorities reached the same conclusion as Vonnie Lou Lowman—Becker died because he was too damn stupid to live—although they couched their verdict in much more diplomatic terms. The only one who seemed to disagree was Detective Walter Sochacki. His Supplementary Investigation Report ran twenty-seven pages, single spaced.

  I returned to the Public Safety Center and located Barbara Anderson.

  “Something more?” she asked.

  “I’d like to speak with Detective Sochacki. Do you know if he’s on duty?”

  “Walter? No. He retired a couple of years ago. Back when we were still located down on the river.”

  “Do you know how I can find him?”

  “Have you tried the phone book?”

  The white pages told me that there was a Sochacki, Walter T., living on Grant Street. I found the address near Sunny Acres Pond. A woman pushing sixty answered the door as if it were a great imposition.

  “You here for the car?” she asked.

  “Car?”

  “The car in the paper.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m here to speak with Walter Sochacki, if I can.”

  She pointed with her thumb more or less toward the back of the house.

  “He’s in the garage,” she said. “You look like a pleasant, upstanding young man. Maybe he’ll sell it to you.”

  “Sell what to me?”

  “The car. He’s seen at least a dozen potential buyers, but none of them has been worthy.”

  “Worthy of what?”

  The way she shrugged her shoulders I guessed she didn’t have a clue.

  A few moments later I was standing in the open doorway of Sochacki’s garage.

  “Oh, my God,” I said. “A 1965 Ford Mustang. And it’s the same color.”

  The light blue sports car stood between Sochacki and me. I ran my fingers over the hood. He rounded the car and came toward me.

  “Are you here about the ad?” he asked.

  “May I?” I said, and popped the hood before he could refuse. “It is. It’s the same car. One-seventy cubic inch straight-six engine, 101 horsepower, three-speed transmission on the floor—I know this car. My father taught me how to drive a stick in this car. I knocked out three transmissions before I caught on. Power steering, power brakes, bucket seats—it has a push-button AM radio, not even FM, am I right?”

  Sochacki nodded. “I restored it with as many original parts as I could find.”

  “I even remember the tire pressure,” I said. “Twenty-four psi front and back. You’re selling this?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “The ad said eight thousand . . .”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Just like that?”

  “It’s a work of art. It should be in the Louvre.”

  “Actually, I think it’s in the Smithsonian,” Sochacki said. “I don’t know. You said you owned a Mustang just like this one.”

  “Exactly like this one.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “I spun it out on Mississippi Boulevard near the Lake Street Bridge and busted the A-frame.”

  Sochacki winced as I said it. His forehead furrowed and his eyes grew narrow. Suddenly I knew what his wife meant when she said none of the previous potential buyers were “worthy.”

  “I was a dumb kid,” I said. “I’ve become much more responsible since then.”

  Sochacki nodded, but I don’t think he believed me.

  “What happened to your face?” he asked.

  I almost told him I had been in a car accident, but caught myself in time. “I ran into a door,” I said.

  “Sure you did.”

  “Will it help that I was once a cop?”

  “Was?” Sochacki said. “Why aren’t you still a cop?”

  “That’s kind of a long story.”

  Sochacki nodded again.

  I was losing ground fast.

  “I promise to treat the Mustang with all the love and respect that she richly deserves,” I said.

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Then you don’t know much about love and respect, do you?”

  I couldn’t win with this guy.

  “Only what my parents taught me,” I said.

  Sochacki gently closed the hood of the Mustang and gave it a loving pat. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Actually, I didn’t come about the Mustang,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “I wanted to ask about a case you worked a dozen years ago.”

  “What case?”

  “Brian Becker.”

  “Brian Becker . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut as if he could conjure an image of the man from behind the eyelids.

  “Carbon monoxide poisoning,” I said.

  “Sure. Killed himself in his garage. It was eventually ruled an accident.”

  “Only you didn’t believe it.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I read your supplemental. You did everything to prove Becker was murdered but conduct a seance.”

  “If I had thought it would work, I would have tried it,” Sochacki said.

  “Why didn’t you believe it was an accident?”

  “You read the entire file?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you tell me.”

  “Two domestic assaults in nine days prior to Becker’s death.”

  “Yeah. Plus the eleven contacts we’d had with him before that.”

  “Still. . .”

  “I admit it, I couldn’t prove anything,” Sochacki said. “There was no insurance claim. No property changed hands. There was no money in joint accounts. Except for getting the asshole out of her life for good, Merodie Davies didn’t profit at all from Becker’s death. Neither did anyone else that I could find. There was no evidence of foul play—no bruises, no contusions on the body, no signs of a struggle; he wasn’t anchored to anything. There was nothing there. Nothing. My partner knew it. The boss knew it. The county attorney knew it. I suppose I knew it, too. It just—it just didn’t feel right. You said you were on the job.”

  “Eleven and a half years in St. Paul.”

  “Then you know what I mean.”

  “I know.”

  “At first I thought it was the woman in the bar. Maybe she slipped him something. ‘Cept the ME said no way. There was nothing in Becker’s blood but booze.”

  “Tell me about the woman in the bar.”

  “From what witnesses told me, she was drinking alone until Becker arrived. Then they drank alone together. After an hour or so they left. I never could get an ID on her. Witnesses said she had long auburn hair. Said she was a beauty. Said they never saw her before or since. I had hoped she paid for her drinks with a credit card or personal check, but she was all cash.”

  “Was she waiting for him?”

  “Witnesses said she was waiting for someone. Whether it was for Becker specifically or anyone who walked through the door, I can’t say.”

  “Could it have been Merodie Davies?”

  “That was my first guess, but no. Not a chance. Merodie had played softball that evening. Afterward she and her teammates closed down Dimmer’s, then went to the house of one of them named”—Sochacki shut his eyes again—“Vonnie Lou Jefferson. Merodie stayed the night. Left at nine the next morning. By then Becker had been dead for at least six hours.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “Wh
at girl?”

  “Merodie’s daughter?”

  From the expression on his face, I gathered that Sochacki had no idea what I was talking about.

  “Merodie Davies had a daughter living with her at the time Becker was killed,” I said. “She must have been about four years old.”

  Sochacki shook his head. “There was no daughter. Merodie and Becker lived alone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I was a very good investigator, Mr. McKenzie. I would have noticed a four-year-old girl.”

  Twenty minutes later I was standing in front of the counter at the Anoka County Correctional Facility. The woman on the other side of the inch-thick bulletproof glass partition was soft and doughy; she looked like someone Barbara Anderson might beat up for exercise.

  “Merodie Davies,” I said, repeating the name for the fifth time.

  “Are you her lawyer?”

  “I work for her lawyer.” To prove it, I slipped the letter G. K. had given me from my pocket. The attendant couldn’t even be bothered to read it.

  “You aren’t her lawyer, you don’t get to see her.”

  “Why not? It’s visiting hours.”

  “She’s in isolation.”

  “For what?”

  “Are you her lawyer?”

  “No, but. . .”

  The attendant turned her back to the glass partition. Suddenly, I wasn’t there anymore.

  I called G. K. on my cell, but she wasn’t available. I left her a message: “Better check on Merodie.”

  Sitting idle in Priscilla St. Ana’s concrete driveway was her elegant black four-door Saab. In the driveway across the street were a silver BMW convertible and a Lexus. Compared to them, my world-weary Jeep Cherokee looked like refuse someone had abandoned at the curb. No doubt the recyclables people would be around at any moment to cart it away. I longed for my Audi even as I admonished myself for the thought. Damn, McKenzie. When did you become so shallow? ‘Course, if I could talk Sochacki into selling me the Mustang, I wouldn’t care what anyone thought.