by Mike Befeler
“Not so good. There was blood found on Tiegan’s rug. The police are doing a DNA match to verify that it’s Tiegan’s.”
“No big deal. Someone obviously whacked Tiegan over the head in his apartment.”
“But blood was also found on one of the bottles in the bag you were throwing away.”
Now he had my attention. “So the police are checking to see if that matches Tiegan’s DNA as well,” I said.
“Exactly. A Heineken bottle in your trash may have been the murder weapon.”
“But I don’t even drink beer.”
“My source says there were Heineken bottles found in Tiegan’s refrigerator,” Meyer said.
“And fingerprints?”
“The police discovered no fingerprints on the suspected murder weapon. But in the same bag with the Heineken bottle, they found Pepsi cans with your fingerprints.”
I shrugged. “I drink Pepsi. Probably have some unopened cans in my refrigerator.”
“If the blood matches Tiegan’s, the evidence will point to you hitting him over the head in his apartment and then trying to dispose of both the body and the bottle.”
“So I’m a competent enough criminal to wipe the fingerprints off the bottle, but not competent enough to dispose of the murder weapon?”
“That’s it.”
“Shit. If I were that stupid, I’d deserve the electric chair.”
“The rack would be better,” Henry said.
“Thanks Henry. I love you, too.” I turned toward Meyer. “So how was I supposed to have disposed of Tiegan?”
“They think you dragged the body down the hallway and crammed it in the garbage chute.”
“So there must have been some blood found on the hallway carpet.”
“No. Strangely, they didn’t find any.”
I thought back to my journal. “The morning I found the body, there was a woman cleaning the corridor carpet.”
“That must be it,” Meyer said. “She wiped up any trace of blood.”
“I bet the blood on the bottle and on Tiegan’s rug match his,” I said. “The only problem is that I didn’t do it. Someone else bashed Tiegan, disposed of his body, wiped off the bottle, and somehow hid it in my apartment.”
“Seems more far-fetched than you having done it,” Henry said.
I ignored Henry and kept on with my train of thought. “Unless someone had a master key and could get into Tiegan’s apartment and mine. Like a night watchman.”
“That’s possible,” Meyer said. “The murderer could be an employee of Kina Nani or someone who stole the keys and copied them.”
“From reading my notes, there were two employees here the night of the murder—the desk clerk and the night watchman. There was a visitor with illegible handwriting that no one can remember. Ask any resident.”
“Like you,” Henry said.
“Henry, if they arrest me, you’ll have to get used to a new table mate,” I said.
“No great loss,” he said.
“You better be careful, Henry,” I said. “If I’m this vicious murderer, I might poison your food.”
He actually looked up at me, his eyes widening. He pulled his plate closer and guarded his food like a mother lion protecting her cubs.
“Now you’ve scared him,” Meyer said.
“Good.”
Chapter 11
“You need to get back with Marion,” Meyer said to me the next morning.
“Which one is Marion?” I asked, remembering squat about the last few days.
He pointed in her direction.
I squinted and looked across the room. Same woman as in the picture on my dresser. Not a bad-looking old broad, but I didn’t remember seeing her before.
“My journal indicates that she and I were . . . uh, intimate.”
“It seems to be the only thing that helps your memory,” Meyer said.
“Then I guess I’ll have to make a sacrifice for the cause.”
“That’s the spirit,” Meyer said and slapped me on the back.
Henry didn’t look up but said from his oatmeal, “Male whore.”
I didn’t know whether to hit Henry or laugh. I went with the latter.
After breakfast, as Meyer and I were leaving the dining room, a short, stocky man accosted me. “Mr. Jacobson,” he said, “we need to talk.”
“And who are you?”
He frowned. “I’m Detective Saito.”
“I’ve read about you. You’re investigating the murder and burglary. May I see your identification?”
He held out his badge. I saw cigarette stains on his fingers.
“I have to check these things since I don’t remember day-to-day.”
“That’s what you’ve told me. Now, I need to ask you to accompany me to police headquarters.”
I turned to Meyer. “What does my lawyer advise on this?”
“It’s up to you, Paul.”
I turned back to face Saito. “Since you’re such a nice guy, Detective, I guess I’ll join you. It means having to give up watching the mold grow in my bathroom, but why not?”
He led me to the curb and opened the back door of a white Ford with a blue stripe along the side. Once inside, I found myself locked in. At least he didn’t cuff me.
The car pulled into the police department parking lot on the corner of Waikalea and Kamehameha Highway, near the library. I looked across the street and saw a sign for the Reverend Benjamin Parker Elementary School. Nobody messed with those kids.
I was ushered into a white stucco institutional building with a brown roof. It was full of police and glum people sitting in chairs, not even a box of doughnuts in sight.
Detective Saito turned me over to a stern-looking woman who reminded me of the nurse from my elementary school days. Either that or Nurse Ratched. She nudged me into a small room with two chairs on each side of a scarred wooden table. I picked the chair facing a one-way mirror, waved, and sat down.
Five minutes later, Detective Saito appeared.
“Let’s start with the night of Marshall Tiegan’s murder. What do you remember?”
“Nothing.”
“And why is that?”
“Because my short-term memory is as sharp as the knife on this table.”
“There’s no knife on this table,” Detective Saito said with a scowl.
“Exactly. No knife, no memory.”
“Enough of the games, Mr. Jacobson. This is serious. Tell me everything you can in connection with the night of Mr. Tiegan’s murder.”
“I’ll repeat for your friends behind the mirror. I . . . don’t . . . remember . . . anything. Now I’ll tell you what I’ve been told and what I’ve learned. Would you like to hear that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” I said. “My son moved me into the Kina Nani retirement home that day. I woke up the next morning confused, with no memory of the day before and not knowing where I was. What I’ve learned is that a guard named Moki claims he locked the garbage chute around ten forty-five P.M. and unlocked it at seven A.M. Apparently, between one and five, Tiegan was hit over the head and stuffed in the garbage chute. I assume you’ve spent a lot of time with Moki because he should be your prime suspect.”
Detective Saito glowered. “What happened the next morning?”
“Again, I don’t remember. But I’ll be happy to tell you what I’ve read in the journal I keep.”
“Go ahead.”
“What I’ve written indicates I was going to the garbage chute to dispose of a bag of trash when I discovered the body wedged inside. I called 9-1-1 to report it.”
“Why were you throwing away the trash?”
“I suppose to clean up my kitchenette,” I said.
“Or to get rid of evidence?”
“If you think I committed the murder, I’d be pretty incompetent to try and get rid of evidence the same way as the body.”
“I’ve checked with your doctor,” Saito said. “You do have a memory problem. I think you
forgot the evidence and discovered it the next day. Then you panicked and tried to throw it away.”
“Right. I must have been real panicked to leave the bag next to the trash chute for your cop buddies to find.”
“I think you were hoping that we’d overlook it.”
“In your scenario why’d I call 9-1-1 to report the body?”
“To try to draw suspicion away from yourself.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You think I committed a murder, left evidence the next day near the body, and then reported finding the body?”
“You ready to admit it?”
I laughed. “You must be crazier than you think I am.”
“Care to give me a statement, Mr. Jacobson?”
“Fine. Here’s your statement and listen carefully. I . . . didn’t . . . do . . . it.”
“We could hold you here, until you reconsider,” he said.
“Do whatever you need to do, but keep looking for Tiegan’s real murderer.”
Detective Saito grimaced, jumped up from his chair, and stomped out of the room, leaving me alone with the hidden eyes behind the one-way mirror. I waved to the mirror again and closed my eyes to rest. I just wasn’t going to fall asleep.
He must have let me stay like that for half an hour. Then he re-entered the room.
“Anything more to say, Mr. Jacobson?”
“Yes. I think you better find whoever stole Tiegan’s stamp collection.”
He smiled. “Like someone who has been visiting stamp and coin stores all over the island?”
Shit. He’d been following me. I should have paid better attention.
“Find the stamp collection and you’ve got your man,” I said.
“We will, Mr. Jacobson. We will.”
“Are you going to lock me up or send me back to my paradise home?”
He watched me for a moment. “I’m going to let you go, for now. But remember. I’ve got my eyes on you. We can pick you up any time.”
* * * * *
When I returned to the big house, lunch was under way. As I sat down, Meyer said, “I have some news.”
“I hope better than what I’ve been through this morning,” I said.
“It’s not good. According to my sources, the blood on Tiegan’s carpet and on the bottle both match Tiegan’s.”
“So that explains Detective Saito’s renewed interest in me. He’s convinced that I killed Tiegan. With the murder weapon in my bag of trash, it’s a natural conclusion.”
“How did the bottle get into your apartment?” Meyer asked.
“That’s the stay-out-of-jail question. The murderer had access to the trash chute and my apartment. The one person who had keys to both that night was Moki the night watchman. But I don’t think Saito is pursuing Moki, given his hard-on for me.”
“If he arrests you before the end of lunch, can I have your cookies?” Henry asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Remember, Henry. You could be next.”
He started chewing his carrots at double time.
“There’s a reward for anyone giving evidence leading to the arrest of the murderer,” Meyer said.
“There you go, Henry,” I said. “An incentive.”
“How much?” Henry asked.
“Five thousand dollars,” Meyer replied. “It’s being put up by Kina Nani. There’s a note in the elevator.”
“That would give you some coin money, Henry,” I said. “Find out who got into my apartment and you’ll get the reward.”
“Or prove you did it,” Henry said with a smile.
“Have at it,” I said. “You’re welcome to scour my apartment for evidence.”
“Might do that,” Henry said.
“Just you, me, a bottle of Heineken, and a trash chute,” I said, baring my teeth.
Now he looked worried and went back to eating his mystery meat.
“I have an idea to take your mind off of all this,” Meyer said to me. “There’s a water aerobics class this afternoon. I thought you might want to join it.”
“I hate swimming,” I said.
“This is easy. We float and stretch. Meet me at the pool at four o’clock.”
“Any skinny-dipping women in the class?”
“No, it’s all very proper,” Meyer said.
“Damn.”
* * * * *
After lunch I asked where I could find the retirement home doctor and was directed to Dr. Fry’s office on the third floor.
“I have an emergency,” I said to the receptionist. “Is the doctor in?”
“What’s the nature of your problem?”
“It’s a personal matter.”
She cleared a strand of hair from her forehead and wrinkled her nose. “He should be able to see you in fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll wait.”
After reading an article about shark attacks on the east coast in a year-old Newsweek, I heard my name called and the receptionist pointed toward an empty examination room.
Shortly, a doctor-looking kid in white lab coat joined me. Dr. Fry was in his thirties. I didn’t know why he was practicing with old people, since he probably had no clue about the problems of aging.
“I understand you have a personal problem,” he said.
“Doc, I’m in a pinch. I need some Viagra.”
He clicked his tongue, took out a pad, and scribbled a prescription.
* * * * *
Later, I found my old baggy swim trunks, changed, and then sauntered down to the pool, leaving my robe and slippers on a deck chair. A light breeze rippled through the trees as I approached the pool. A young woman with a blond ponytail stood by the edge. She encouraged Meyer and his harem of four old ladies to tread water.
I stuck my toe in the water. Pretty warm.
“You need to put a belt on,” the drill sergeant shouted.
“Yes, sir . . . ma’am,” I replied.
I noticed Meyer and his women were all floating high in the water. I grabbed one of the blue foam belts lying by the side of the pool and wrapped it around my middle.
I ventured into the lukewarm water up to my waist. The aroma of chlorine caused my nostrils to twitch.
“Come out here!” Meyer shouted.
“I don’t float so well,” I said. “I’m kind of like a rock.”
“The flotation belt will take care of that.”
I looked at him halfway across the Pacific. I hated this. Why did I decide to get in the pool? The thought of being in over my head gave me the heebie-jeebies.
“Are you joining us or not?” Meyer shouted again.
“Hold your water,” I said. “I’m getting there.”
I kicked off, ready to do my usual ballast trick, but to my surprise, the belt held me up. Then I floated out into the deep end toward the rest of the shark meat.
“Hey, I’m not sinking,” I said. I pushed the water with my hands and flopped forward like a lame seagull.
“Everybody, this is Paul,” Meyer said.
I waved but got water in my mouth and started coughing.
The drill sergeant adjusted her dark glasses and began shouting, “Okay let’s get going. Kick, one, two, three . . . put your arms above your heads. Move them in a circular motion . . . keep kicking . . . stretch those arms . . . now drop them into the water.”
I followed her directions, always three seconds behind the rest of the group. Oh, well. I was a little water-challenged.
After I had been fully water-aerobicized, I floated into the shallow end of the pool and was prepared to mount the stairs to escape to dry land when Meyer caught me by the shoulder.
“Paul, there’s one other thing you should try.”
“You mean drying off?”
“No,” he said. “As long as you’ve gotten this far, let me show you something that’s a really good workout for your old body.”
“My old body is water-logged and ready to get back to the safety of solid ground. Look at my hands. They’re blanched prunes.”
Meyer laughed. “Here. Grab one of these kick boards.”
He handed me a hunk of blue foam from a stack on the side of the pool. “Between the flotation belt around your waist and holding onto this board, you can kick and do laps in the pool.”
“If I were nuts enough to want to do laps.”
“Come on, Paul. Don’t be so negative. I’ll show you how easy it is.”
He kicked down the pool and back while I watched.
After he stood up, he gave me a push and I floundered out into the deep end. At first it felt uncomfortable holding onto the board and kicking, but once I discovered I wasn’t going to drown, I moved my legs in synch and was surprised to discover that I was traveling along at a steady clip. When I approached the deep end of the pool, I made a slow lazy turn and headed back toward Meyer.
After several laps, I almost forgot I was in the water. The old legs kept flapping and I didn’t sink. I must have completed a dozen laps before I cruised into the shallow end and tossed the board up on the side of the pool.
Meyer clapped me on the back. “See? You’ll turn into a regular fish if you keep it up.”
I detached the flotation belt and dropped it onto the cement. “It’s this thing around my waist. Otherwise, I’d be like a boat anchor.”
I sat on the edge of the pool and watched Meyer swim several laps unassisted by any belt or board.
“Show-off,” I said when he climbed out of the pool.
“It just takes practice,” he said.
We sat in chairs in the sun to dry off.
“So you actually enjoy floating around with the other inmates?” I asked.
“It’s a good way to stretch the old muscles and to meet chicks.”
“Not exactly swimsuit models any of them.” I looked over at two old biddies sitting on the other side of the pool.
“After all your complaining about getting in the water you did fine.”
“Better than a poke in the eye,” I said.
“Why are you so negative about swimming?”
“I’ve always hated going in pools. I sink. I start paddling and it’s like weights are attached to my legs. Rather than staying on the surface, my feet dive like a submarine.”
“Nothing that can’t be overcome by a little practice.”
I shook my head. “I took swimming lessons as a kid. All the other kids in the class turned into fish. I turned into a clam and settled to the bottom of the pool.”