Breaking Point

by Jon Demartino

  Behind the wheelchair stood two other youngsters. The one nearest Charlie was small, at least his body was. Closely cropped hair covered a head that appeared much too large for the tiny shoulders and body that supported it. Short, thick fingers were visible over the back of the wheelchair, where he held on. His expression was one of strain, maybe, rather than joy. The third boy was almost as tall as the man in the suit. He had the look of baby fat around his face but the shoulders seemed too big for the rest of him, like he still had a bit of filling out to do. He stared out at the camera lens, his mouth a straight line across the wide face. He looked angry and definitely not interested in being on that makeshift stage for a photo-op. One of his hands, huge by comparison, lay beside that of the smaller boy on the back of the chair. To his right, at the left side of the picture stood the only female in the picture, a nun in traditional black habit who smiled placidly at the camera. What was with all the nuns, I wondered. Was there no end to them?

  Shoving the envelope under my jacket to protect it from the snow, I paid my bill and left. Iris had never answered my phone call yesterday, so I still didn't have the telephone number of the senior Wilsons. I'd tried directory assistance and the internet, but Charlie's parents apparently had an unlisted number. It might be simpler just to ask Iris if she could identify anybody in the picture and see what I had after that. Once in the car, I punched her number into my cellular phone, but she still wasn't home. I left another message for her to call me at my place. For now, that was the best I could do.

  Back at home, I put the photos and negatives in the small safe I'd brought from Pennsylvania. Woody and I had used it for the garage receipts and later, I'd kept it in my office for client information. I spun the combination dial to lock it and went to the kitchen for some lunch. I had a new jar of dried beef, the salty kind, and there was some cream cheese in the refrigerator, so I tossed those on the table and got a loaf of bread from the bread drawer. I should have bought a loaf of real bread while I was at the Bakery Cafe yesterday, but I'd been too busy feeling sorry for myself. Well, my punishment would be to eat a cream cheese, dried beef, and horseradish sandwich on soft, texture less white bread, instead of the chewy crusty stuff I loved. The punishment seemed a bit stiff, but I endured it. Two sandwiches later, I was feeling better.

  Since Bill had been on duty in the evening last week, I thought I might catch him in on the day shift this week. From the dresser top, I got the yellow plastic fragment I'd found in the woods near Keokuk and put it in my pants pocket. I retrieved the two rocks of meth from my sock drawer and slipped that plastic bag in the same pocket. I was ready to go. I'd held onto the rocks of meth long enough and didn't want to have to explain their presence in case somebody found them on me.

  The snow had stopped sometime while I'd been eating lunch. That was good news today, with a drive to the airport ahead of me in a couple of hours. Of course, it might still be snowing and blowing at the airport, thirty miles north. I realized that Woody might get hung up somewhere, maybe in Chicago if the visibility was bad, and made a mental note to call the airport before I left home.

  Bill was sitting with his feet on the desk, as usual, and seemed happy to see me again today. His partner, Sue Haggerty, was standing to one side, holding a Styrofoam cup in both hands and blowing on its contents.

  "Hot coffee for a cold day?" I said cheerfully as I blew in with the wind. I'd met Sue once before, briefly. She seemed to remember me, though.

  "Hey, detective guy. How's things?" She smiled at me over the cup.

  "Same old same old," I replied. "How's Mike and the boys?" Sue's husband was the attorney who'd drawn up the papers when I bought the post office. Mike Haggerty had shown foresight by buying a small brick building for his place of business, so the seven-year-old triplets were free to spend time there with him if necessary. There was even a fenced backyard complete with trees, swing sets and a skate board ramp. It was only a block behind the police station, so Sue could stop in if the kids were there and check up on them.

  She tossed the cup in the wastebasket and picked up her car keys. "Oh, they're all just as bad as ever. It's like I had quadruplets." I felt a blast of arctic air before the door closed behind her. Without being asked, I sat in the wooden chair nearest me and drew the plastic bag of meth rocks out of my pocket. I tossed it to Bill.

  "I thought I'd better turn this in before I get caught with it on me."

  His eyes widened as his feet hit the floor. "Holy heck! Where did you get this stuff? Do you know what this is?"

  "Yeah. I found it a few days ago. I think I know where the meth is coming from and as soon as I'm sure, I'll let you know."

  He got serious. "Rudy, I have to know where this came from. And if you're planning to stroll into a meth lab, you're going to get yourself killed. Tell me what's going on."

  I sighed and brought the yellow plastic fragment out and laid it on the desk. "What do you think that's from?"

  He picked it up and turned it over in his fingers. "Looks like a turn signal cover from a motorcycle." He looked at me suspiciously. "Did you find this near the meth lab?"

  "Maybe. Would that be likely?"

  "Very. And if there are bikers involved in this, you are definitely treading on very dangerous ground. A lot of the meth we find is being made, used, and sold by bikers."

  Wanting to get his attention off me and what I knew, I asked about the production of methamphetamine and why it was such a problem here. There weren't many drug related crimes reported in the local papers, but the few that were seemed to involve meth. I didn't know why. The opportunity to explain it to me was more than he could resist. Maybe Bill was a frustrated school teacher.

  "Out here," he began, "with all the farms, they have easy access to huge tanks of anhydrous ammonia. The farmers use it in fertilizing and the storage tanks are either out in the field or maybe under a shed. These guys adapt some kind of a small tank, like the propane ones you use for a gas grill, and go out at night and fill them with the ammonia. It's very dangerous stuff, freezing cold, and will burn the skin right off your body. Some of them have gotten badly burned and even lost limbs doing it. But they need it for the process, so they keep stealing it."

  "The labs blow up a lot, too," he went on. "They use ether in the process, and sometimes try to hurry the chemistry by boiling a batch on the stove to evaporate it down quicker. The ether is volatile and catches fire and between that and the ammonia that's sitting around, the whole place goes up in a minute."

  "All in all, a very dangerous proposition," I said.

  "Exactly. So tell me where you got this and where you think the lab is and we'll go in there and clean it up."

  I'd like to have told him, at least some of it. But if I mentioned finding the crystal in Charlie Wilson's shoe, he might get in the way of my finding out what was really going on and whether Frank Goodwin was involved in Charlie's death. Eventually he'd remember that I was asking about Wilson a few days ago, so he might start there anyway. But I wasn't going to help him make the connection. If I told him where Frank's cabin was and it turned out there was no meth set up there after all, I was going to look like a dunce on my first case since arriving in Iowa. He'd just have to wait, I decided.

  "It's like this, Bill." I pointed to the bag on the desk. "There's the meth. I may know about a lab and then again, I may be wrong. I promise I won't go in and try to capture the guys or anything. I'll just look around and if it is a lab, I'll turn it over to you. That's the best I can do."

  Bill shook his head. "Call me as soon as you have anything. I'm on until three o'clock the rest of the week. Here's my cellular number, too. I'll leave it turned on in case you need me." He scribbled on the back of an envelope, tore the scrap off, and handed it to me. I looked at his name and phone number before I slipped the paper in my wallet, behind my driver’s license. "And Rudy, be really careful." He shook his head again and watched me walk out.

  Chapter 17

  When I passed through my off
ice, I checked the answering machine. The red light was flashing, as seemed the usual case lately. It amazed me that I could be home all day and get no phone calls. If I left for thirty seconds to take out the garbage, the damned light would be blinking when I returned. I don't know how people ever kept in touch without these things. I pressed the button and listened.

  "Rudy, it's Iris Wilson. Sorry I forgot to call you back. I've been really busy. Gary's coming by in a little while and we're leaving for Sioux City to spend Thanksgiving with his folks, so I thought I'd better call. I've been thinking and maybe we should just let Charlie rest in peace. I mean, Gary and I are happy and it was probably just an accident and I think we should let it go. I'll call you when I get back and arrange to pay what I owe you. Thanks for everything and have a nice Thanksgiving."

  Great. I finally had the photo I'd been waiting for and now Iris was out of town and I had no way to find the senior Wilsons. And to top it off, Iris wanted to drop the case. Shit. I quickly dialed her number but once again, the machine picked up. They'd already left. Damn. I dropped into my desk chair and swiveled from side to side like a little kid on a slow amusement park ride. I had to think of a way to get that California phone number.

  Iris was out of town for several days and if I drove over, she wouldn't be home to let me in. On the other hand, no one was there to see me if I found my own way in. I weighed the options as I saw them: The discomfort of a night or two in jail versus the pain of my own curiosity remaining unsatisfied. As a plan began to form in my swiveling brain, I spun the chair three hundred sixty degrees and lifted my feet off the floor to enjoy the ride. I'd have to wait until dark, of course, and that meant Woody would be here. If I knew my old buddy, he wouldn't mind a little adventure at all.

  While I was near the phone, I remembered to call the airlines and see if Woodrow's plane would be on time. I got through right away, which isn't difficult to do. All I got was a recorded menu. After punching in an assortment of numbers to communicate my wishes, I finally arrived at the flight information menu. I plugged in the flight number and was told, electronically of course, that the flight was on time and would land at 7:05PM, central time. I checked my watch. It was almost four. I had plenty of time for a walk at the center and maybe even a nap, before Melanie arrived at six.

  I was asleep on the couch with the TV tuned to ESPN when she knocked on the front door. I really needed to get a doorbell out there. That's one thing the post office had never had a use for. I'd purposely left the television's volume turned down low so I'd hear her and it worked fine. She and her friend said they'd knocked only once before they'd heard me call out that I was on my way. I invited them in to have a seat.

  "How was the road on the way up?" I asked. "Any snow on it?"

  Amy, a petite blonde with reddish highlights, answered. "Not much. It was clear after we got on the highways." She looked around the room. "Was this really a post office?"

  I assured her that it had been a working post office until just a few years ago and told them to feel free to look around while I got ready to go. I could hear their exclamations as they wound around through the rooms. By the time I'd gotten into my coat, they were finished with their tour and met me at the front door. We waved to Amy as she pulled out, then got into the Grand Am. Melanie seemed quieter than usual.

  "I almost forgot," she said. "Here's your knife." She handed it to me in the dark interior and I shifted my weight to push it into the side pocket of my jeans. I thanked her and mentioned her mood.

  "You seem a little bit down tonight. Everything OK?"

  "I guess so. My stupid car is still messed up and the garage wants to keep it until they can make it repeat this goofy stalling thing it's been doing. They think it's the fuel pump, but they have to see it fail to be sure. It's some kind of warranty thing. The only place I could find a decent priced rental was at the airport. And to make my life a little more miserable, my uncle has been like a bear all week. He left this morning for hunting camp and was hardly talking to me before he went. At first I thought maybe he knew I'd been up there with you, but I don't see how he could and he should know I wouldn't take anybody all the way up to his property anyway. He was, what's the word, surly, maybe? Like he's just pissed off at the world. I hate it when men think women are too stupid to understand what's going on. They won't talk about it and they act like they're so damned superior." Her voice dropped half an octave and she spat out the word, "assholes!" Suddenly Melanie laughed. "Oh well," she said cheerfully, "maybe it's genetic. My dad's the same way sometimes. I don't know why I let them bother me."

  "Maybe your uncle is just under some pressure at the store," I offered. "He'll probably feel a lot better after his time away. Is he planning to stay up there over Thanksgiving, to give himself a long break?"

  "Probably. Who knows?"

  It seemed like a good time to keep her talking about Frank. I asked if he was married and she told me he never had been. He was her father's youngest brother and was a little older than me, in his mid-forties. I realized that I hadn't ever seen the man and wouldn't know him if I did see him.

  "Do you look like him?" I queried

  She laughed again, and it was pleasant to hear after the sullen start to our drive. "I wouldn't know. He has one of those huge beards and longer hair that makes him look like a bear. I might have his nose, but his eyes are blue. That's about all that's visible on his face. Besides, he's prematurely gray. His hair was dark, though, like mine, when he was younger. I guess there's a family resemblance."

  The road was dry all the way to the airport turnoff and we relaxed and listened to some country music for the rest of the ride. The first time I'd driven to the airport, I'd been a little confused. One highway marker would indicate the number of miles to the Cedar Rapids Airport and a little farther on there would be another sign for the Eastern Iowa Airport. I thought there were two of them. There's only one, though, and it's now called the Eastern Iowa Airport. Apparently when they changed the name, some of the highway markers were overlooked and never replaced. Everyone I'd heard refer to it still called it the Cedar Rapids Airport, so go figure.

  The exit off Route Nine-Sixty-Five is several miles south of Cedar Rapids. From there I made the turn west onto the aptly named, Wright Brother's Boulevard. The airport entrance is a mile or so from the exit and I soon saw the lights of the parking lot ahead of me. Taking a ticket at the gate, I found a place in the short term lot and pulled in. I loved this place. Compared to the sprawling airport in Pittsburgh, packed with scurrying hordes of humanity, the Eastern Iowa facility was a peaceful, orderly place. I felt like it almost wasn't real and kept expecting to see little cylindrical Fisher Price pilots and passengers. On the way across the snow-packed lot, Melanie lost her footing and started to fall, catching herself on my arm at the last second.

  "Whoa, there," I'd laughed, as I lifted my shoulder to keep her from going down. When she'd regained control, she continued to hang onto my arm.

  "Sorry, Rudy," she said. "I'm usually more graceful than that. These are my favorite western boots and I keep forgetting I shouldn't wear cleats in the snow."

  "Would you change them if you realized it in time?"

  "Probably not," she giggled. "I like them too much. I'll just have to make sure I have a strong arm to hang onto at all times." I chuckled politely, but didn't reply.

  Once inside, we passed the ticketing counters, where several passengers were buying tickets and checking their bags. Next were two or three small coffee and magazine shops, followed by the security area. A pair of walk-through scanners and x-ray conveyor belts was situated at the bottom of the escalators that led up to the gates. One of the two security lanes was usually closed unless it was the busy time, between noon and three PM.

  It was still a few minutes until Woody's flight arrived, so I walked Melanie over to the car rental area at the far end of the lobby. She'd arranged to pick up a vehicle from Budget Rent a Car, from whom she had some sort of coupon. There was a guy ahe
ad of her in line and just one clerk on duty. When it was Melanie's turn, there was a bunch of paperwork to take care of, so I told her I'd go meet Woody and then stop back to make certain she had a car to drive home.

  He was one of the first people off the plane and certainly one of the most visible. At six feet even, his height didn't attract attention, but his width surely did. His shoulders probably took up two seats in the plane. It suddenly occurred to me that that was probably why he was one of the first to debark. He'd flown first class, where the seats were bigger and would better accommodate his bulk. I wondered if my sister had bought him the ticket or if he'd upgraded the one she'd sent him. It didn't matter. He was here for Thanksgiving, and for my little burglary expedition and that was all that mattered.

  We whooped it up a little, with some backslapping and handshaking. Then I steered him over to the Budget counter and introduced him to Melanie, who was in the final stages of her transaction. Feeling magnanimous, I offered to stroll over to the luggage area and retrieve his bags, which he'd described as "Early Steelers." I thought I'd recognize them. Leaving him in Melanie's company, I headed for the baggage claim, which, in the small airport, wasn't very far away.

  The area was starting to clear out, as most of the passengers had come straight over and gotten their bags as soon as they'd come off the plane. There were several still on the conveyor, including two black soft-sided suitcases with a faded gold Steelers emblem on each side. I was almost fooled by a yellow and black Iowa Hawkeyes duffle bag before I spotted Woody's well-worn Steelers' set. I plucked the suitcases up and went back to Budget.

  Even from the baggage area, I could see that Woodrow was not suffering at all in Melanie's company. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought he was flexing. Maybe he was. He was straightened to his full six feet and Melanie's face was only a few inches below his. I had to admit they made a handsome pair. As I approached, she tilted her head back and laughed. Her voice was the sort of low, alto type that I'd always found attractive, although none of the women I'd been serious about ever seemed to emit that particular tone. I wondered what that meant. I called out to them as I got nearer.