The Case Of The Death Book: A Zeblon Jack Mystery Book 1

by Michael Pickford

  “I didn’t ask for a lecture,” Zeblon said as he got on his hands and knees and pressed his face against the floor behind the professor’s desk.

  “And you expect to run into a lot of patients that speak ancient Hebrew?”

  I looked at him sideways, “Of course not.”

  “Then why study it?”

  “Because it’s interesting.”

  “You don’t plan to become a minister or a monk do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then what practical purpose will ancient Hebrew serve in your line of work?”

  “It’s practical because it stimulates the brain and expands one’s capacity for critical thinking.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “What?”

  “I said nonsense. I don’t believe all that mumbo jumbo about studying impractical subjects merely because it’s supposed to expand one’s capacity of critical thinking. I believe it’s a waste time and distracts a person from learning and retaining more useful and practical knowledge.

  "As a person ages, he acquires too much useless and trivial knowledge. That’s why elderly people have trouble recalling things. It’s not that their brain has lost any of its functioning abilities. It’s just that there’s so much information to sift through to get to the word or thought it’s after that it takes longer.”

  I pondered that last part for a minute and decided to ignore it. I said, “That’s a narrow-minded perspective.”

  “I’m a narrow-minded guy.”

  “I can hardly hear you. It sounds like you’re mumbling to somebody underneath the floor. What are you doing down there anyway?”

  “I’m trying to figure out what’s written in this book on the floor. The professor was obviously reading it when he was shot. It fell on the floor face down but not flat. I’m trying to make out what’s written on the pages.”

  “What difference does it make? It’s a book. Do you think somebody came in, got angry because the professor was reading that particular book, and shot him to death for it?”

  Zeblon looked up at me with a don’t-be-a-smart-aleck look on his face. He looked back down at the title of the book on the front cover. “I can’t make out what this says. It’s written in Swahili or something.”

  “You’re supposed to be so brilliant. It’s Hebrew. Let me see."

  I stooped down and angled my head to get a better view of the cover of the book. "I believe it says, THE DEATH BOOK.”

  “The death book? Are you sure?”

  “I’m pretty certain, yes. It’s Hebrew, and I’m studying Hebrew, remember? It looks like there was a practical purpose to my taking the course after all.”

  Zeblon’s eyes looked vacant as if he didn’t hear a word I said. A thought suddenly came to him, and he pressed his face against the floor again.

  “Do you have a flashlight on your phone?” he asked.

  “Yes, why? Why don't you just pick up the book and have a look at it?”

  “I can’t do that. It would disturb the evidence.”

  “If it was evidence, wouldn’t they have already bagged it and took it away?”

  “They probably didn’t find it of any particular interest initially,” Zeblon said. “They always look over the most important things thinking they mean nothing at all. They’ll probably do a final sweep and grab it later though.”

  “It probably doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “Why would it?”

  “Just turn on your flashlight and give it to me.”

  Without looking up, Zeblon extended his hand behind him into the air. I turned on my flashlight app and put the phone in his hand.

  “If you can’t read Hebrew, then why bother looking inside the book?”

  Zeblon peeked inside the book and then looked up at me, “Okay, I’m finished. Let’s get out of here.”

  “But you haven’t looked at everything in the room.” I couldn’t believe I said that. Getting out of there as fast as possible was precisely what I wanted to do.

  He flashed again what I soon learned was his trademark expression, that devilish smile. His lighter-colored eye twinkled, “I’ve seen everything I need to see, my friend.”

  Ten

  WE PULLED INTO THE driveway of the apartment at nine forty-seven p.m. I was pleased to see that the location of the actual address where we’d be living was much closer to campus than Professor Joelson’s house was. It wasn’t quite as close as the house where I’d been living with the pigsty guys, but it was workable.

  I hope you don’t mind me getting a bit tedious in my descriptions for a few paragraphs. Since that apartment served as the hub for most of these little stories I’ll be relating to you, I think it’s best I give a fairly detailed and accurate description of it for you. It will enable you to sufficiently form the setting of many of the scenes in your mind’s eye.

  Zeblon gave me directions as I drove us down a wooded street. It was one of those old roads nearer downtown that seemed timeless with historic houses on both sides. Large oak and hickory trees filled the yards. Their branches loomed over the tops of the houses providing shade for the summer and protection from the high winds during the stormy times of the year—not to mention perfect branches for building tree houses and hanging tire swings.

  Zeblon told me to make the next right. When I did, an enchanting scene unfolded in front of me.

  We turned onto a well-kept old-style cobblestone drive. Snow blanketed the ground on either side, but the road itself was clear. A warm, inviting light shimmered off the cobblestone and danced into my eyes providing a sense of both mystery and cozy comfort.

  An archway was directly ahead of us with a lantern-style wall light mounted on the wall to its right. I drove through the archway and immediately turned left into an almost hidden drive that led into a small parking area large enough to accommodate only four vehicles.

  We walked back toward the cobblestone drive and turned left. Just to our left was a fairly steep incline with a beautiful old-style lamp post at the bottom near the street.

  Immediately after that, we turned left again and walked up some steps inlaid with flat creek rock with a high light-colored brick wall on the right and a decorative iron rail on the left.

  When we reached the top of the steps, the door to our apartment was immediately on the right. I later learned this was a duplex of sorts but not like any duplex I had ever encountered. Its design and charm far surpassed anything I could describe with my insufficient wordsmith abilities.

  I asked Zeblon where the landlord was. He flashed his trademark devilish grin, pulled some keys out of his pocket, and said, “At your service.”

  Before I could respond, Zeblon opened the door, waved his arm toward the inside, and said, “Welcome to our humble abode.”

  I walked in feeling somewhat perturbed, “At least you used a key this time.”

  For the sake of time, I’ll wait until another story to give you a full description of the entire apartment. For now, I’ll just mention a little about the front part of the dwelling.

  The front door entered into a small foyer which opened up to the right into a large living room. It was warmly and comfortably decorated. A console table made of dark rich wood sat to the right just in front of the long front window. Three Chinese-style vases rested on top of the console table. They looked too authentic to be of real value—though I later learned I was mistaken.

  A normal-sized couch covered with dark brown suede sat opposite the console table. A matching suede chair sat in the room on the side nearest the foyer, and opposite it was a beautiful fireplace with immaculate stonework.

  The mantle over the fireplace was sturdy and made of the same type wood as the console table. Leaf-patterned carvings in the mantle made it blend perfectly with the rest of the room.

  The floors were a dark hardwood, and a Persian rug with dark fall colors of rust, burgundy, and green covered the entire area.

  “It’s already furnished,” I said as I sat down on the couch.


  “Yes, it was furnished today. I made the call just after I heard you were coming to meet with me.”

  “You’re pretty confident aren’t you,” I said before thinking how that fit in perfectly with his character.

  “Where have you been living?”

  “In one of the old buildings attached to the clock shop,” Zeblon said.

  Zeblon gave me a quick tour of the rest of the dwelling, and as we entered the kitchen, he said, “How about it, Samuel? Does the place suit you? How quick can you move your things?”

  “Wait a minute. I need to know how much my half of the rent will be. I live with three other guys, and my portion of the rent is very small. That’s the way it has to be. I don’t hav—”

  Zeblon threw his hand in front of him as if trying to stop a bus, “Say no more, my friend. I don’t expect you to pay a single penny for rent.”

  “I’m willing to pay something. It wouldn’t be right for me to get a free ride. It would go against my upbringing.”

  “Free? I never said anything about free. You won’t be giving me any money, but the help you’ll give me will be invaluable. There’ll be no more discussion. I’ll help you move your things this weekend.”

  With that, Zeblon went to the living room and sat down in the chair.

  I took my place on the couch again. It felt good. It had been a long day, and I was exhausted.

  Zeblon cranked up the gas-powered logs in the fireplace shortly after we arrived. The cozy room was warm and acted like a silent lullaby to my heavy eyelids. It was getting about the time of night when I usually settled into my studies. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be getting any studying done that night.

  We sat for about five minutes without either of us uttering a word. I finally broke the silence because I was curious about something.

  “I was wondering, Zeblon, about my windshield. That was another part of my morning you explained exactly right. How did you know Mr. Walker had cleared the ice from my windshield?”

  Zeblon said somewhat drowsily, “That was my third clue—the soda. I know Mr. Walker lives next door to you, and I know soda can clear the ice away. I was the one who taught Mr. Walker that trick. When we walked by your car this morning, in addition to your belt hanging out the bottom of your car door, I also noticed soda-colored snow and ice on the bottom side of your windshield.”

  “Oh,” I said. It was all I think of.

  Zeblon was right. It was ridiculous how simple it all seemed when he laid it out like that. I was beginning to wonder if he’d missed his calling in wanting to be a lawyer…well, in being a lawyer. He would make a fantastic detective.

  In fact, while I had decided I would like to room with him, the way he could read people’s daily actions without even being present was a bit unnerving. I wasn’t sure I wanted a roommate who possessed the ability to dictate the daily details of my life without having been there to witness them.

  We sat silently for about five more minutes. The next thing I knew, my nostrils were being filled with the unmistakable scintillating aroma of bacon.

  Eleven

  I WOKE UP FEELING refreshed despite the fact I’d slept all night in a strange position on Zeblon’s couch. I was a bit disoriented no doubt because I fell asleep unintentionally in a place I'd never been before.

  The sun was peeking through the front window. I sprang from the couch, “What time is it?”

  “It’s eight forty-five. You’re quite a prize sleeper,” Zeblon said from the kitchen area.

  “You’re kidding. It’s Friday morning, and I’ve got a class at nine o’clock. I’ve got to go to the house, clean up, and get my books. I’ll never make it.”

  “Fear not, my friend. I’ve got it covered.”

  “You’ve got it covered? Don’t tell me your amazing tricks include the ability to clone me and send him to my classes,” I said rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

  I took a seat at the dining room table where Zeblon had a cup of coffee waiting for me. He'd fixed it just the way I liked it—sweet and creamy.

  Zeblon chuckled, “No, they don’t. But they do include the ability to use my phone to check if classes were canceled today. They were.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked concerned.

  “Am I ever unsure?”

  I rolled my eyes, “Not from what I’ve seen so far.”

  I took my first sip of coffee and it immediately whelmed me with the indescribable feeling the first sip of coffee in the morning can give one. My eyes immediately opened a full half-inch more. I felt like I could go out and climb Mount Rushmore and perch on the tip-top of George Washington’s wig.

  Zeblon could make a mean cup of coffee. I had to give him that.

  “It’s supposed to warm up today,” Zeblon said as he brought in two plates full of bacon, scrambled eggs, biscuits, and gravy. The blended aroma of these Tennessee breakfast staples hung thick in the air and made my mouth water.

  “Good,” I said eyeing the food with maybe a little too much zeal. “Maybe it’ll melt all this snow away.”

  Zeblon woofed down a big forkful of eggs, “I figure we can go ahead and get your things moved over here since you’re out of school today.”

  “I’ve got to make some arrangements,” I said.

  “What arrangements?”

  “Well, I don’t know. For one, I need to tell my roommates I’ll be moving. They’ll certainly need to know.”

  “Do you think there will be a problem with that?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “They’ve wanted to get rid of me anyway. One of their buddies has wanted to move into the house for a long time now. He’s practically been living there anyway. He’ll fit right in with their party-animal lifestyle.”

  Zeblon shot out of nowhere, “There’s a witness.”

  “A witness?” I asked somewhat confused.

  “Yes,” Zeblon said, “someone claims they saw Clay shoot the professor.”

  “They saw him? Who said that?”

  “Conner Stephenson. He’s a student at the college. Do you know him?”

  “I know of him, but I wouldn’t say I know him.”

  “Is he popular?” Zeblon asked.

  I pondered the question for a moment, “I’d say he’s popular in an unpopular way.”

  Zeblon studied me with those mismatched eyes of his, “You’re saying he’s well known around campus but not well liked.”

  “Exactly. I wouldn’t think he’d commit murder though.”

  “Why not? You just said you don’t really know him.”

  I shrugged my shoulders, “I don’t know. I guess normal people don’t go around sizing up all the intolerable people in the world as murderers.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s not the murderer. He’s the witness, remember?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, I haven’t finished my coffee yet.”

  Zeblon asked, “Does Conner have any classes with Professor Joelson?”

  “No one has any classes with Professor Joelson. He’s dead, remember?”

  “You know what I mean,” Zeblon barked a little too loudly, I thought.

  Over the course of time, I learned that while Zeblon didn’t have a bad temper, he did possess an inordinate amount of impatience.

  “How would I know if he had any classes with Professor Joelson? I just told you. I don’t know him. I know he’s on the football team. He’s also a very talented running back. But as for his academics, I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had any classes with him.”

  “Does he have a best friend?”

  “I don’t suppose I would know that either. If he did have one, it would probably be Clifford Keith. They always seem to be together around campus.”

  “What do you know about Clifford Keith?” Zeblon asked.

  “About the same as I know about Conner Stephenson—practically nothing. Except that he’s an all-star receiver on the football team. How did you find out there was a witness?”

  “A buddy of min
e on the force told me yesterday when I went in to talk to Clay.”

  “You’ve already gone to see Clay?”

  “Of course, I have. What kind of lawyer do you think I am?”

  I tossed the last bite of bacon in my mouth and wiped my face. I carefully considered what Zeblon had just said. It was a good question. A better question would be what kind of lawyer is he?

  I still wondered just how effective an eighteen-year-old boy could be in a court of law regardless of how skilled he was in observing mundane things and conjuring up from them the details of people’s daily activities.

  For Clay’s sake, I hoped Zeblon was a good lawyer. Otherwise, Clay would spend the rest of his life behind bars. His extraordinary athletic abilities would go to waste.

  Boy was I in for a shock.

  Twelve

  ZEBLON AND I SPENT the morning tending to my affairs and moving my things over to his place. Make that our place. It didn’t take too long to accomplish because I didn’t have much to move. Zeblon had my room in the apartment fully furnished. I didn’t need the old mattress I’d been sleeping on in the house I shared with the pigsty guys. I just left it for my replacement to use.

  We stopped off at a local market to buy some groceries. Zeblon was trying to decide whether to buy red apples or green ones. I was having a hard time thinking about groceries because I was still a bit concerned about Zeblon's worth as an actual defense attorney.

  I said, “I know you told me you did well when you represented Mr. Walker during his divorce proceedings. What about murder cases? How have you done in that department?”

  Zeblon shrugged, “I’ve never lost a case.”

  His answer lifted a weight off my shoulders. A weight I’d been carrying around ever since I got him onto Clay’s case. Clay ended up with Zeblon as his lawyer because of me. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if Clay ended up spending the rest of his life behind bars. I would've felt personally responsible.

  I wished I’d kept my big mouth shut, but I had to go on and ask, “How many murder cases have you worked?”