“We just want to understand,” I told her. I would have been perfectly happy to leave at that moment just to avoid the sight of the smoothie Dorothy was about to concoct. “That wasn’t Richard’s die?”
“Of course Richard died! Now take that thing and go!”
“No,” Ms. Washburn said, “that’s not what—”
But it was too late. Dorothy turned and violently pressed a button on the blender. My eyes couldn’t avoid the hideous vision of the fruit and yogurt merging into something that was not smooth and not really a drink, so it was misnamed and deceiving in its function. I felt my neck start to tremble.
“Let’s go,” I said to Ms. Washburn.
“But—”
“It’s fine.” I put a hand up to my right eye and turned to the left, where the front door was located. “Thank you, Ms. Brewer!”
“Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said, but I was already halfway to the door.
It did no good. I couldn’t erase the image of that smoothie and it kept me awake far past my normal bedtime for the next three nights.
“Could the Tenduline be Tyler’s?” Ms. Washburn asked.
We had spent the ride back to Questions Answered debating my somewhat hasty exit from Dorothy Brewer’s home, but I believed that Dorothy had been clear the die was not Richard Handy’s, as she had played Swords and Sorcerers with him regularly and had never seen the item before. Ms. Washburn was careful to call Dorothy when we returned to the office, but the young woman did not answer her call, intentionally or not.
“At this moment, all we suspect is that it was not Richard Handy’s,” I said, finishing an exercise session and sitting at my desk. I had a bottle of spring water from the vending machine, but Ms. Washburn had said she did not want a diet soda. “It is possible that it belongs to Tyler, and it is possible it belongs to the person who killed Richard. It is equally possible, as when Richard answered my question about being Tyler’s friend, that Dorothy was simply mistaken.”
“Richard Handy was mistaken about whether or not he was Tyler’s friend?” Ms. Washburn asked.
I suspect Mother would say I was “pouting.” “You know what I meant.”
“How do you know for sure that Tyler didn’t shoot Richard?” Ms. Washburn asked. “Tyler insists he did.”
“Tyler continued to repeat his assertion that he had shot Richard no matter what was being said in the room. But when I asked him specific questions about the crime, he stopped saying he had shot Richard and simply stared. He didn’t know the answers.”
“That’s not much,” Ms. Washburn suggested.
“Perhaps not, but it convinces me. Besides, I do not believe Tyler, in a fit of rage over our answer to his question, immediately created a plan to blind the security cameras in the Quik N EZ and stole Mason’s gun to shoot his supposed friend,” I answered. I began a search on my computer for recent reports of large contraband recovery operations in the Somerset County area. There were no promising results immediately. It did not help that I wasn’t sure exactly what I was searching for. “You’ll recall that when Tyler left our office, he was adamant in his insistence that Richard was indeed his friend, and that he would prove it to us. What would have changed his view on that subject?”
A Somerset County investigator had taken credit for the recovery of three kilos of cocaine two months earlier, but had then been charged with possession and intent to distribute, indicating he had pretended to find his own supply when it was obvious the authorities were closing in. That was not the contraband I needed.
“It makes sense, but it’s all circumstantial,” Ms. Washburn pointed out. “It won’t stand up in a court of law.”
I shrugged, a gesture I had been taught by a classmate in ninth grade. “That is not our problem. We are attempting to answer Mason’s question, not to provide a definitive defense for Tyler.”
Ms. Washburn snapped her fingers. “That reminds me,” she said, and reached for the office phone on her desk. She dialed a number (although the word dialed has not really been apropos for decades) and waited a moment. “Mason? This is Janet Washburn from Questions Answered. No, we just wanted to meet with one of Richard Handy’s friends. What did Mr. Swain—oh? Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Yes. I’m glad to hear it.”
I searched for contraband grocery items. An initial trial turned up nothing of note. There were some bananas missing in Princeton.
“One question, if it’s okay,” Ms. Washburn said into the phone. “Tyler’s S and S group. Do you have any contact? You were going to bring the laptop computer and then … Yes. Okay, good.” She immediately grabbed a pencil off her desk and jotted something down on the blotter I’d insisted she use if she was intent on placing cold cans of diet soda on the desk surface. Ms. Washburn takes notes on the blotter and changes it whenever the blotter is filled. “Great. Yes, thank you.” She said good-bye to Mason Clayton—whom I assumed was the person she had called—and replaced the receiver on the phone cradle.
I was scanning my search engine on the seventh page of hits regarding stolen grocery shipments and finding nothing yet that met my criteria. “What did Mason say?” I asked Ms. Washburn.
“Mr. Swain managed to get Tyler out of jail for the time being. He arranged with a bail bondsman for Mason and Sandy, and he argued in a hearing that Tyler’s confession, because he wasn’t saying anything else, was a symptom of his ASD and therefore was not to be taken as a reliable statement.” Ms. Washburn absently chewed on the eraser of the pencil, and I averted my gaze. It’s not as bad as watching someone make a smoothie, but it isn’t my favorite sight, either.
“I would advise Mason to check and make sure there isn’t some prearrangement between Swain and the bondsman,” I said. “The interest rates charged, even when the client is not a flight risk, as Tyler is not, can be exorbitant. I hope the Claytons got at least two bids on the bail.”
Ms. Washburn sounded slightly irritated. “I didn’t ask about that and you know it,” she said. “Do you want to hear what was said?”
“You sound like an old married couple.” I looked up at the voice and saw Mother walking in from the parking lot. “I was in the neighborhood.” That is what Mother says whenever she decides to visit my office, although I have told her to feel free to drop in whenever she wants.
Ms. Washburn greeted Mother—they have become friendly—and guided her to her reclining chair. Mother’s knees have good days and bad ones, and the way she was walking today indicated this was not one of the good ones. She sat heavily on the recliner and let out what I’m sure she thought was a contented sigh. But I worried that it indicated a level of pain that was increasing lately.
“It sounded like you were talking about Tyler Clayton,” she said when she had sat and extended the footrest on the chair. She waved her right hand. “Don’t let me stop you. You’re working.”
I informed Mother of our progress, or at least our activity, since lunch when she had seen me last. She listened attentively. “So Tyler’s out on bail for now,” she said. “Maybe that will help him get back to speaking.”
“He is already speaking,” I pointed out. “He is restricting himself to saying only one thing.”
Ms. Washburn apparently decided not to argue that point—perhaps Mother’s comment about us sounding like a married couple had worried her, although it had simply puzzled me (how can a person sound married?)—and pressed on with her recounting of the call with Mason Clayton.
“Yes. Tyler is home now at Mason’s house. And according to Mr. Swain, the trial probably won’t happen for at least six months, if it happens at all.”
“If it happens at all?” Mother sounded concerned, leading me to wonder if I had missed some nuance in the news from Swain. “Does he not expect there to be a trial?”
Ms. Washburn hesitated before answering. “I didn’t get much about that, but Mason says so far Mr. Swain is recommending
that Tyler let him negotiate a plea bargain.”
That would not be an unexpected turn. One of the ways an attorney like Swain retains a reputation for keeping his clients from being convicted is to rarely allow them to stand trial. Swain was simply protecting himself instead of his client. It was clear to me that Tyler had not shot Richard Handy, and I reiterated that stance to Ms. Washburn and Mother.
“You’re certain, Samuel, but the court is going to need proof.” Mother leaned back in the recliner, which made her appear to be preparing to sleep, although I knew it was a tactic designed to keep her knees elevated over her heart. Mother’s orthopedist had recommended she stay that way for three hours every day. She normally does so for an hour in the morning and another when she is preparing for bed. This would be the third. “Even if that’s not part of answering the question you got from Mason, if you want to keep that boy out of jail, you need to concern yourself with proof.”
“You make a good point, Mother. Ms. Washburn, what else did Mason tell you?”
Ms. Washburn sat and looked at me for a moment. “Didn’t I just say that? Didn’t I just tell you that proof was important, and didn’t you tell me it had nothing to do with answering Mason’s question, which was our only concern? How come it convinces you when your mother tells you but not when I say it?”
The words were coming at me too quickly. “Which question would you prefer I answer first, Ms. Washburn?” I asked.
Mother chuckled. “Just like an old married couple,” she said.
Ms. Washburn shook her head. “Forget it. The only other thing that happened on the phone was that Mason gave me two e-mail addresses, which he said Tyler gave him when he got home. Apparently Tyler is communicating better through the keyboard than through speaking.”
That was not unusual for people diagnosed with autism spectrum disorders. For some, the idea of writing or typing out a message is much less stressful than speaking. It is not common among those who until recently would have been diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome. We are known as “little professors” among those who have a taste for demeaning nicknames, because we tend to impart great amounts of information on specific topics.
“Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said, focusing my attention on her once again, “did you hear me?”
“I’m afraid not. Could you repeat what you said, please?”
She did not roll her eyes in exasperation, which is one of the qualities I most appreciate in Ms. Washburn. “I said that Mason gave me contact information for two people in Tyler’s S and S group, Adam Pasternak and Margie Cavanagh. He said he wouldn’t call them Tyler’s friends, but they were people who knew him. Tyler won’t say anything more about them. He’s not communicating much, especially about Richard’s death, Mason said.”
“Have you attempted to contact the two players yet?” I asked.
Mother gave me a disapproving look I did not understand.
“You saw me get off the phone with Mason,” Ms. Washburn said. “When did you think I had time to get in touch with Adam and Margie?”
“That is a fair point.” Sometimes when my mind wanders the passage of time is a less definite thing for me. “Would you do that, please?”
“What should I ask?” Ms. Washburn wanted to know.
“Ask when we can meet with them, and if they would mind coming here.”
Ms. Washburn nodded, but looked up. “Why here?” she asked.
“Because our travel time might be limited,” I said. “We have a great many people to see.”
Ms. Washburn moaned a bit. “You can say that again.” Then she looked up at me. “But don’t.”
Mother chuckled. “An old married couple,” she said.
Seventeen
Adam Pasternak was a young man of twenty, he told us, who had taken up Swords and Sorcerers because he thought it would be a good way to meet people online. That had turned out to be only partially true, he said.
“I guess when I said I wanted to meet people, I meant I wanted to meet girls,” Adam told us. He had been happy to answer Ms. Washburn’s e-mail query and had driven to the Questions Answered office immediately upon responding. It seemed that Adam did not have a great deal he needed to do. “As it turned out, the only girl I met was Margie, and she wasn’t interested in me. I mean, I’ve never really met her, you know. We just play S and S online. But anytime I tried to e-mail her or anything, she didn’t answer.”
I looked at Ms. Washburn, behind her desk and taking notes but doing her best to maintain eye contact with Adam. She did not look in my direction, which gave me no particular insight into the nuance of Adam and Margie’s relationship. It was too late to ask Mother, who had taken the opportunity to say her farewells and drive home. So I said, “Were you interested romantically in Margie Cavanagh?” It didn’t seem to have any relevance to Richard Handy’s shooting, but we did not have enough facts to rule out any possibility yet.
Adam looked uncomfortable; even I could see that. He rotated his neck a bit and pulled at the open collar of his t-shirt, which bore an image from a science fiction film franchise. “I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, she’s a girl and she likes RPGs, so it seemed possible, but Margie never gave me a chance to find out.”
I looked at Ms. Washburn again. She said quietly, “Role-playing games.”
“What about Tyler Clayton?” I asked. “How did he fit in with the group?”
Adam shrugged. “Okay. I never really talked to him except in the game. It’s not like we were that social a group. We got together online, went on the mission of the day, and that was pretty much it until the next Wednesday.”
“What did you think when you heard Tyler was arrested for murder?” I asked.
“He was?” Adam said. He broke into a grin. “That’s so cool!”
Margie Cavanagh had not responded to Ms. Washburn’s e-mail yet and it was almost time for us to close the office. We decided to regroup and begin organizing interviews for the next day. Ms. Washburn left, I did some more contraband research, found one interesting possibility I could not confirm, and called Mike for a ride home.
He arrived promptly as always but his demeanor was less gregarious than usual. I felt it was not my place to ask why, but Mike immediately volunteered. “Broke up with my girlfriend,” he said. “Found out she was seeing another guy on the side. Made her choose, and she chose the other guy.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said, because that is what I have been told is the appropriate response to such news. I don’t really understand the concept of “breaking up,” since people who are not married have no legal or verifiable commitment. Either one can terminate the relationship whenever the mood strikes, but there must be more to it than that because intelligent people like Mike attach a great deal of significance to the end of such a relationship. I might not be able to empathize, but I can respect him enough to recognize that it must be emotionally troubling.
“It’s okay, Samuel. I knew it wasn’t gonna last from the beginning. It just hurts more when there’s somebody else. Makes you feel like you weren’t good enough or something.”
And that brought my mind back to Billy Martinez. I don’t think I heard anything else Mike said on the ride home, but he thanked me for being a good listener when I exited the cab and said he might call me for a ride the next day if he needed to talk some more. I told him I would always be happy to ride in his taxicab and went into the house.
After dinner, since there was no baseball game that night, I told Mother I was going to do some work upstairs and went to my apartment in the attic. There isn’t much there, at least less than the space would hold, although the pitched roof somewhat limits the height of furniture I could decide to install if that were my priority.
It was summer, so I turned the air conditioning unit on in my bedroom’s lone window. This area of the house was not built with someone occupying the attic in mind.
I am not fond of headphones, as they put undue pressure on either side of my head. Ear buds are dangerous to one’s hearing, so I avoid them whenever possible. In the attic, where I know the walls are thick and well-insulated, I play music on a stereo system that was my mother’s in the 1980s and 1990s.
It includes a compact disc player, into which I inserted the Beatles album Abbey Road. That is among the most complex collections the band created, but so familiar I could listen to it, appreciate the artistry, and think separate thoughts at the same time. That might not be the case with Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band or Let It Be. The history of the recording sessions would intrude on my thoughts if those albums were playing.
I do not like to talk to people on the telephone, which is one of the reasons Ms. Washburn so often handles that part of the Questions Answered business. I believe, also, that she prefers to make and receive all the business phone calls because she seems somehow insulted or surprised when I decide to take one myself. So I decided tonight not to call Billy Martinez or Margie Cavanagh.
The only contact information I had for Detective Hessler was his business card, which included only his phone number at the police station. I thought it unlikely he would still be there this late in the evening, and even less likely he would want to share information with a civilian. Perhaps an in-person meeting tomorrow, sometime before three p.m., would be more effective.
Instead, my best course of action for the evening was to revert to my habits before the founding of Questions Answered, only with a more specific focus. Part of the reason Mother suggested I start the business—in addition to her desire to see me leave the house on occasion—was that she knew I would often spend my time doing research on three screens with Retina display connected to an iMac on my desk.
She felt that practice could be successfully monetized, or at least that it would help me focus my skills toward helping others and not simply satisfying my own curiosities. I resisted at first, but as usual, Mother had prevailed. And as was equally typical, she had been proven correct. I not only made some income through Questions Answered, I enjoyed the challenge that answering unexpected questions could bring.
The Question of the Felonious Friend Page 15