Full Release

by Marshall Thornton

  Pulling away from the curb and into traffic, I wondered if that was why the phone had been taken. So that the police couldn’t look at the calls until they’d zeroed in on a suspect. Until they were only looking at calls from me. Whoever the killer was, he was organized and logical. Had he planned to frame me before he killed Eddie? Well, no, if Eddie’s death was sexual, he wouldn’t have known. So, it wasn’t planned. In fact, it was likely an accident. So, he’d improvised the whole thing after he strangled Eddie. He made it look like suicide and then at some point realized that wouldn’t work, so he switched directions and made it look like I’d done it.

  At what point? The police figured out it wasn’t suicide after the autopsy. Is that when the killer changed his plan? Did he have access to the autopsy somehow? Did he work at the morgue? Or the police station? Maybe he Googled what he’d done: strangulation. He might have run across the information that bruises formed even after death. Something that was news to me. But then I wasn’t the one trying to save my ass. Except now I was. Shit. I needed to get a lot better at this.

  By the time I got home, I had an idea, a way to make the whole thing go away. I ran into the house and packed up my gym bag. I grabbed a clean T-shirt out of the closet. I figured I should probably wear a different pair of shorts, just for the sake of variety.

  When I dropped my shorts to the floor, a clanging noise reminded me that Eddie’s keys had been in my pocket the whole time the police were searching my place. In all the excitement, I’d forgotten to give them to Tripp. I wondered whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. If I’d pulled the keys out of my pocket in the middle of all that it would have just made things worse. Tripp would have asked where I found them, and if I’d told the truth it would have fit right in with what he thought happened. Maybe forgetting had been a good thing. But why hadn’t Tripp asked about them? Or Hanson? That seemed odd.

  I took the keys out of my shorts and put them into the bowl by the door as I headed out to the gym. Driving to West Hollywood, it hit me that I hadn’t been arrested. That had to mean the police didn’t have enough evidence and that they’d be trying to find more. I didn’t think they’d find more, but then I’d have said that before they came up with the evidence they had. Somehow, I had to fight back. I had to find a way to convince them I was innocent.

  It was nearly six when I pulled into the gym’s parking garage. I was there to find Stripes so he could provide me with an alibi and the whole thing could be over. When I saw him at the gym, it was usually around the time I got out of work. Of course, it was Saturday, and a lot of people changed their workout times for the weekend. I did. Sometimes I skipped weekends all together. So, there wasn’t any guarantee I’d find Stripes. In fact, trying to find him was probably a long shot.

  Before I got out of the car, I remembered something. I’d spoken to Peter on my cell while I was at the gym. Which probably didn’t mean much, since my telling him I was at the gym didn’t prove anything, but what about the call? Could they trace the call somehow and prove I was there? Did it even matter, I wondered. I’d made the call either at six or shortly after. It wasn’t a long call. If it finished at 6:05 or 6:10, I’d still have had time to get home and kill Eddie, wouldn’t I? What I needed was someone who could place me at the gym between seven and seven-thirty. Which is why I needed to find Stripes.

  I grabbed my gym back and jumped out of the car. At the front desk sat the same girl with the tattoos and The Great Gatsby. Even though a couple days had gone by, she was at about the same spot in the novel. It wasn’t a very long book; she should have made more progress. I held out my card so she could swipe it. When she didn’t look up, I asked, “Is Myrtle dead yet?”

  “Myrtle dies?”

  “Could you swipe my card?” Diffidently, she took the card and swiped it. “Was the scanner working last Thursday?”

  She shrugged. “Got me.” Then she scowled at me. “You shouldn’t have told me Myrtle dies. I was hoping for a happy ending.”

  “You should have scanned my card the last time I was here.”

  Giving me an even dirtier look, she glanced at the computer screen and said, “Your membership expires in three weeks. Two hundred and sixty-eight dollars. Do you want to pay now or next time you come in?” About six responses popped into my head, all of them full of curse words. Deciding to go with classy, I turned and walked into the men’s locker room.

  Some days the gym swarms with hot guys; on other days the place could be an old age home. That day it was the latter. After I changed, I hurried up to the weight floor and walked the track that circled the floor. I made two circles before I saw Stripes. My heart leapt a little when I saw him doing pull downs in the center of the floor. I took a deep breath. Everything would be all right. Hopefully, someone would go to prison for killing Eddie, but it wasn’t going to be me. My alibi was pumping iron in front of me.

  I turned off the track and headed across the weight floor. When Stripes stood up, finished with the pull down machine, he turned and saw me coming. Instantly, he turned away and headed for the leg press. He climbed onto the machine and tried not to look at me, even when I stopped right next to him.

  “I’m gonna do three sets and then I’ll be done.” He still didn’t look at me.

  I gaped at him. He was pretending not to know me. “Um...I think you remember me,” I said.

  He turned and looked right at me. “No, I don’t think so.”

  I lowered my voice. “Last week. In the shower.”

  He climbed off the machine after having done only a half dozen reps. “Here you go. It’s all yours.”

  I stood there fuming, then followed him. He was out on the track jogging. Falling in behind him, I trailed him by about fifteen feet. Most of the outer walls were covered with mirrors, and as we turned a corner, I caught his eye in the mirror. His face reddened with anger.

  As we came around again, he veered off the track and made a beeline for the stairs. Slowing to a walk, I stayed right behind him. He hurried down the stairs to the locker room. When he got to his locker, he turned and saw that I’d followed him.

  Quickly, he spun his lock and put in his combination. Opening his locker, he grabbed his gym bag and shoved his street clothes into it. I couldn’t believe it. That was how much the guy wanted to get away from me. He wasn’t even going to take a shower, though he obviously needed one. I opened my locker and, like Stripes, shoved my clothes into my gym bag. I was after him moments later.

  Catching him in the parking structure, I called out, “Excuse me? Why are you being like this?”

  He spun around, angry. “Look. That’s it. That’s all I do, okay? I’m not gay. I just do a friendly little jack off now and then. We’re not gonna go on a date. We’re not gonna hook up some place else. And we’re not gonna end up in some fag marriage. Okay? You got it?”

  “I’m not trying to have sex with you,” I explained.

  “Great. Have a nice day.” He turned and tried to storm off again. I stayed with him.

  “Let me explain. That day, while we were doing what we did, a friend of mine killed himself in my house, except he didn’t kill himself, it just looked like he did. The police think he was murdered and they think I had something to do with it. I need you to tell them you saw me here.”

  “I have a wife. I have kids. Sorry.” He took out a set of keys and opened the door to a minivan.

  “You don’t have to tell them what we did. You can tell them something else. Tell them we talked in the hot tub, tell them we worked out together, I don’t care as long as you tell them I was here.”

  “I don’t even remember what day that was. Sorry.”

  He slammed the door of the minivan shut and started it up. As he pulled out, it occurred to me to try and memorize his license plate. But what would be the point? If I told the police this guy had seen me at the gym, he’d tell them he hadn’t. He’d made that clear
. That would only make me look worse.

  It was dark by the time I drove home from the gym. I couldn’t believe Stripes had turned me down. What kind of person did that? He knew I was at the gym that night. I didn’t believe for a minute he didn’t remember. But he wouldn’t tell the truth, wouldn’t even tell a convenient lie. I couldn’t believe it. Then I start laughing. This was a guy, a married guy, a “straight” guy who liked to jack off in the shower at the gym, and I’m wondering why he doesn’t have what...integrity? What kind of an idiot am I?

  That was it, though. My one big idea for solving the whole mess. I had no idea what to do next. I was about to get out of the car when my new phone rang. Unfamiliar with the new phone’s ring, I jumped. Then I snatched it off the console and answered.

  “For Heaven’s sake, what happened now?” Peter practically screamed into the phone, as though I was doing this all on purpose just to annoy him.

  “The police think Eddie was murdered.”

  “Murdered? You said he hung himself in the garage.”

  “Actually, he was strangled in my bed then hung in the garage,” I explained.

  “Clearly, he was killed by an over-achiever,” Peter said.

  “I’ll make that suggestion to the police.”

  “You have my keys don’t you? Go stay at my apartment.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t want to leave my house.” Not to mention Peter lived in a squalid, tiny apartment filled with nothing but a mattress, a television, a DVD player, and his wardrobe. It was a little too much like prison for my current situation.

  “Someone was killed at your house, though. I wouldn’t be able to sleep. God, who do they think did it?”

  “Me.”

  “Are they stupid!?”

  “Thank you for saying that, Peter.”

  “Oh, well it’s not just loyalty. I mean, you’re an accountant. Accountants don’t kill people. Don’t they know that?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Walking into my house, I decided I needed to do one of two things. I either needed to figure out who killed Eddie or prove it wasn’t me. There were just too many possibilities for who might have killed him. A client. There could be hundreds. Someone he was seeing. I had no idea how many guys he’d dated the way he dated me. He could have an old boyfriend. He could have a dozen old boyfriends.

  It would be easier to prove it wasn’t me. Somehow, I needed to find an alibi. Other than Stripes. As near as I could tell, since I didn’t have access to the autopsy, Eddie was killed some time between two in the afternoon when he called me and eight when I got home. But wait, if he was killed between two and five thirty, when I could prove I was at work, then the police would be leaving me alone. He must have been killed between six and eight. The phone call I’d made at the gym cut down the time I had to fill from seven to eight. I either needed to prove that I was somewhere else or that I couldn’t have been at the house.

  During that time period, most of my neighbors would be arriving home from work, getting their dinners, checking their computers, watching the news. I tried to think who was most likely to see something. I got out of the car, and instead of walking up to my house, I crossed the street and knocked on Mrs. Enders’ front door.

  Moments later she was there, drink practically slipping out of her hand, a sloshed smile on her face. I wondered if I should have come in the morning. “Hello!” she practically screamed. “How are you?!”

  “Hi, Mrs. Enders. I’m hoping I can ask you a couple of questions.” I gave her a smile that I hoped was ingratiating.

  “Of course, of course, come on in.” She swung the screen door open, nearly knocking me over, and I eased my way into her house.

  Mrs. Enders had spent most of her life as a costumer’s assistant. She’d worked a few television shows in the seventies, but mostly she worked at one of the costume houses. Jeremy liked to spend afternoons with her, listening to her gossipy stories of naughty celebrities, most of whom were now dead or close to it. At one point there had been a Mr. Enders, but we were never able to figure out when that had been. He might have been her first husband, or her third. Either way, it was quite some time ago.

  Every surface in her living room was covered with framed photos of Mrs. Enders with celebrities both dead and forgotten. “Do you want a drink?” she asked me.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Are you sure? You must be nervous as a cat.” She lowered her voice. “I saw the police at your place this morning. Terrible. Just terrible. Have a drink, Goddammit!”

  “I really don’t want one.”

  “Oh, well fine. Sit down then. Sit!”

  I pushed aside a stack of newspapers and sat. She plunked herself down across from me in a red velveteen chair and adjusted her pink Lycra top. “What can I do you for?” she said, as though it was a joke. “My father used to say that. Funniest man who ever lived. What can I do you for?” She chuckled. “What can I do you for!?”

  “On Thursday, the night my friend--”

  “What can I do you for!” I was close enough that I could smell the alcohol wafting off her like fog.

  “The night my friend died. Did you see me come home?”

  “Well, you were just there when the police arrived. So you must have come home sometime, right?”

  “Yes, you didn’t see when, did you?”

  “You think I’m a nosey old goat, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think that at all,” I said, trying to keep my voice calmer than I actually was. “It’s important. Did you happen to look out the window between six and eight?”

  She frowned and told a lie I think even she had a hard time believing. “I barely look out my windows at all. I have better things to do.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply anything. But if you did notice that I wasn’t home during that time it would help me.”

  “But I wouldn’t have. That’s when my shows are on. I have the dish, so I watch the east coast channels. I like to watch my shows early.” So you can pass out by ten, I thought meanly.

  “I see.” Giving up an establishing an alibi, I asked, “I guess you didn’t see anyone hanging around? Anyone suspicious? Or anything unusual for that matter?”

  “No, not a thing.”

  This was not helping.

  “The police were asking the same thing. I don’t know why. Your friend killed himself, didn’t he? So what does it matter...” Like a ball dropping from a great height, she suddenly got it. “Oh, shit. Shit. They don’t think your friend killed himself, do they?”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “They think he was murdered. A murder on Mariposa Drive!” She gave me a look that suggested she expected there to be more murders momentarily.

  “Yes, that’s what they think.”

  “Well, it did seem odd. Suicide, I mean...if I were to kill myself, I’d do it at home. I wouldn’t do it at a friend’s house. I mean, that’s awful impolite, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, it’s impolite,” I mumbled. I couldn’t let her go on for too long. I had to find a way to move on, otherwise she’d talk to me all night, and I wouldn’t find out anything at all.

  “Of course, being murdered at a friend’s house isn’t much more polite, is it?” She let out a guffaw. “I bet no one ever asked Emily Post about that!”

  I smiled, but wasn’t able to join in her laughter. I was wasting my time.

  When she calmed down, Mrs. Enders gave me a look the seemed like pity. “I was so afraid it was Jeremy. I’m so glad it wasn’t. He’s always been such a dear. How did you let a catch like him get away?”

  “I don’t know. I just managed somehow.”

  I stood up, getting ready to make an excuse and leave. Then she said, “I wonder if he noticed anything unusual?”

  “Jeremy? Why would--Jeremy was here that night?”

  “Y
es. He and that friend of his, the one that had the show on cable about the hair salon, you know who I’m talking about. Has a stupid name.”

  “Skye.”

  “That’s it. Ha! When I was young people were named Cy. Now they’re named Skye. How things change.”

  Obviously, the problem was in my question. I shouldn’t have asked her if she saw anything unusual that afternoon. I should just have let her talk. “What did Jeremy and Skye do?”

  “Sat in Jeremy’s car. It’s a lovely car, though I don’t know why people can’t buy American. It’s just logical buying American would make things better. Don’t you think it would make things better? Anyway, they were sitting in Jeremy’s car, and I went down to chat with them. His friend isn’t very nice. You don’t think he’s nice, do you?”

  “Not particularly, no,” I said honestly. “Did they say why they were here?”

  “Jeremy wanted to show Skye the house.”

  “They went inside?”

  “No, no, no. Not that I saw. But would that matter? It’s Jeremy’s house, too.”

  I couldn’t help but say, “Why don’t you tell him that? He hasn’t given me any money for the mortgage in almost a year.”

  “Oh well, I wouldn’t know about that.” She stood and asked me, “Do you want another drink?”

  “No, I didn’t, I don’t--”

  “You don’t have a drink,” she said, looking at my empty hands. “Did I not offer you a drink?”

  “You did. I didn’t want one.”

  “Don’t be silly. Have a drink!” She walked over to a little brass and glass bar cart. “What can I do you for?” She nearly knocked herself over laughing at her own joke.

  “Mrs. Enders, if you saw Jeremy earlier, why were you afraid it might have been Jeremy who hung himself in the garage?”