“Thanks for the story and the junk science lesson, young man. And this has what to do with me? I’ve just grown old. I haven’t traveled through time at all.” He laughed, sure that he had destroyed any time-busting theory I might be claiming.
“No sir, you didn’t travel through time but little Debbie did. She is the same girl you tried to kill after you murdered everyone on board.”
“Jesus. You’re nuts!” He glanced over at Edward. “And this old man believes you?”
“I only know what I see with my own eyes.” Edward stated calmly. “She’s my niece. She looks like her and she knows everything about her. I have no doubt she is my niece. I was fifty years younger last time I saw her, but she’s still the same age.”
“You two are both nuts.”
“Captain. I’ve also read an article that said you were found with several pieces of jewelry which you claimed to be your wife’s rings and necklaces. Now why would you be adrift at sea with your wife’s jewelry and not your wife? Seems odd. But, that’s not a crime. The criminal part is that the jewelry described in the article matched the jewelry that little Debbie said was her mother’s.”
“It was my wife’s. She had me hold it while she was trying to save herself. Jesus. You believe in aliens, too?”
It was my turn to laugh. “In fact, I spent two years chasing them so I do have some insight, but that’s not what this is all about. Another article I read a month or so later said that the Davenport’s very opulent house on the north shore of Long Island was burglarized. There were no signs of forced entry. Seems like someone may have had a key. Might you have taken their house key along with their jewelry when you killed them?” I paused for a moment – that’s what they do in the movies and it usually helps bleed a confession of out the bad guys. It didn’t work quite as well in real life as it does in the cinema.
“But the neighbors, a couple who lived next door and the only ones who actually had a key, were checked out by the police and they weren’t suspects. The only sketchy relative at the time, the black sheep of the family, is right here with me. And he was on the other side of the country when the crime occurred. The Davenports had many valuables. The father collected coins and stamps and had an extensive collection of each. The mother loved her jewelry and had tens of thousands worth hidden in the house. They also had several pieces of art worth big bucks. All stolen. Some of it was later recovered. Pawn shops, coin and stamp collectors, underworld art dealers – the stolen loot trickled in over the years. Not much stayed in the news and the case ran cold rather quickly, but the few people who spoke to the cops described a man about 6’3” with brown bushy hair. I’d say age and gravity has made you a bit less than 6’3” now and you still have a decent amount of your hair left, and though it’s no longer brown, it sure does look bushy.”
Krully grunted and then coughed up an ugly sounding wad of phlegm. “You’re reaching for shit.”
“I couldn’t figure out if you planned all this or it just happened until I found out about the $100,000 insurance policy you had taken out on your wife only three months prior. That took some researching, but not all fifty-year old secrets stay buried.”
Krully shouted out for his caregiver. “Esmeralda. Come here and help my friend get a cup of coffee or a beer or whatever it is he wants. He motioned towards Edward when Esmeralda entered the room. Edward looked at me and I shrugged. “Sure Edward. Let me speak with Krully for a few.” Once Esmeralda and Edward were out of the room, Krully leaned forward and asked me, “What’s your angle, Jason, is it?”
“My angle is to find justice for this little girl and her family.”
“You think justice is possible after fifty years. I’m ninety – what are you going to do with me?”
“They’re still capturing and convicting ninety-year old Nazis. A crime is a crime.”
“You think I did something?”
“I know you did something. I know you killed that family. And your wife. Can I prove it? To prove it I would have to accept and believe, and get others to accept and believe the impossible. But, I will not give up. I swear to God that I will never give up. I saw that sweet little girl. I don’t know how many years you have, old man, but I will make them a living hell for you.”
“What do you want? Take me away in handcuffs?”
“I’m not a cop. I don’t have handcuffs.”
“You really think this little girl traveled through time?”
“The evidence is adding up. I have no idea how the authorities will handle it and no idea which way public opinion will go, but it’s gonna make my boss happy as a clam in mud because the ratings are gonna blow off the roof.”
Krully leaned back in his wheelchair and put his hand under his chin, posing like a guilty, disabled Thinker. “Again, I’ll ask, what do you want? It’s a shitpile of nothing you got.”
“Ok, Krully, perhaps justice is elusive in this case. I have another thought, but don’t make me beg because I’m a fighter and since I have no reputation in the industry, I don’t care if I get laughed at. I’ll shoot for justice even if everyone thinks I’m nuts. And your last years on earth won’t be so pleasant.”
Negotiating with Captain Tom Krully was surprisingly easy. I noticed a cross mixed in with the nautical items above his mantle. Perhaps he wanted redemption and a chance to reside eternally with his Lord and Savior before he exited this world. Perhaps he didn’t want to go through the court of public opinion, knowing he’d lose horribly to a cute little girl, even if it meant the public had to accept the fact that the cute little girl had traveled forward in time.
I guess when I told him I knew how he had purchased this beautiful bayfront home, he flinched. I suppose when I also mentioned the tidy sum he had in his Chase bank account, the 30-foot sailboat docked at the marina he no longer used, and the apartment he owned on the upper west side of Manhattan, he had second thoughts about fighting with this obsessed reporter. That apartment alone, according to the real estate website, Zillow, was worth over six million bucks.
He was renting that posh New York City apartment out for over $4,500 per month. By the size of his bank account and the fact that his waterside home in the Hamptons was mortgage free, I was certain he didn’t need that astronomical rental income to live on.
I had no idea how he accumulated all his money, but I assumed at least some of it came from the goods he stole from the Davenports. The spoils of murder and theft had given him a comfortable life. I told him I knew, and he blinked, so I guess that was an admission of guilt.
I don’t know how much longer Edward Wells has – he’s ninety, his hearing is getting worse, and he’s got arthritis in most of his joints, but his mind is sharp and all his vital numbers are better than most sixty-year olds. I do know he is now going to live the rest of his life in style. He packed up and moved all his belongings into a beautiful Upper West Side apartment, and he couldn’t be happier. A better deal in Manhattan real estate couldn’t have been found.
I don’t know what’s going to happen with Debbie Davenport, but she couldn’t be happier living on the Upper West Side with her Uncle Ed. She is still processing her amazing journey, but modern technology keeps her busy. The courts allowed her uncle to become her guardian, even though he is in the far homestretch of life. I’m in the process of filing a petition with the court to be a co-guardian so Debbie has someone if her uncle passes away. They have a caretaker and Debbie has a psychiatrist who is helping her adjust to her new life and time period. The renter wasn’t too happy at first that he had to move out, but he found a better deal a few blocks away and things worked out in the end. Her uncle hired a private tutor because we both thought it was best for her to be home schooled at first; after all, she had plenty of catching up to do.
Krully kept his house in the Hamptons, can still afford his caretaker, and has plenty of money in the bank. Since Krully never had children, he didn’t have any heirs to whom he could bequeath his fortune. I just casually suggested it would be
a kind gesture to set up a trust fund for Debbie, you know, since he killed her parents and tore her life from her fifty years ago. Oh, he threw in the boat for good measure. Since Debbie is too young to operate a boat in the state of New York, she gave me the title and the keys.
I stop by every few days and take her to Central Park, the library, or one of New York’s museums. She is fascinated by everything in the 21st century - if you’ve never seen a kid get their own smartphone for the first time, especially a kid from 1965, then you’ve never seen pure joy.
I guess it worked out. I suppose I could have exposed Krully for what he truly was – a thief and a murderer. But, would it have been worth it? Would the public have believed some hack reporter’s story about a murder in 1965 and the little girl lost at sea? Difficult to predict, but getting money out of that crusty old sea captain to provide for Debbie Davenport was a win if you ask me. Besides, I can’t go back in time and make Krully pay for his crime. Or, I don’t think I can.
If you’re ever out in the Hamptons and happen to be at the inlet in Hampton Bays, look for me hanging out on my boat. It’s called Debbie Lost at Sea, and I’ll have a cold beer waiting for you, and I’ll tell you more about a tale that couldn’t have happened but did. You know, one of those stories fishermen tell that may or may not be true.
The Redemptive Power of Re-Life
There are quacks and then there are quacks. Marshall E. Breckenridge was one of those rare quacks who comes along once in a lifetime. A preacher who begs for money – certainly not unique in the annals of American history. But finding the scam proved a arduous task, and when I found it, it was unlike any scam I had ever seen, heard about, or imagined possible.
I’d worked on cases involving Ponzi schemes, boiler room stock brokers, snake oil health supplement salespeople, and grifters charming little old ladies out of their retirement funds, but never worked a televangelist case until the Marshall E. Breckenridge case showed up on my desk. It would be the last case of my career.
I had done a little research – late-night and Sunday morning television. I even called in and donated ten bucks, which I included on my weekly expense report. These televangelists possess a used car salesman’s personality and a seemingly empty soul. It’s sickening to anyone who doesn’t believe any of their bullshit, but to others who see them as a means to a very jubilant afterlife, they are living, breathing saviors.
So, there I was - sitting in the back pew of the New Dawn Church near the center of a sunny southern California city. A huge sign with a blinking neon arrow pointed potential believers to the corrugated metal house of salvation. The house of worship was a renovated warehouse packed with wooden pews, and those pews were packed with human asses, and I mean that as both a designation of the body part and a description of the people who listened to the preacher’s claptrap. It was challenging to rein in my annoyance and frustration, but I didn’t show up to judge the lemmings who followed this man of God; I was there to look for the scam, and arrest the scammers if I could find enough evidence of wrongdoing. Unfortunately, I found it.
Most preachers, legit or otherwise, and due to my lapsed Catholicism, I’m not always sure how to tell the difference, possess an unquestioned belief in what they say. They are men of God. They truly believe their con – yes sir, this aging rust bucket is road-ready and worth those collection plate dollars. Yes, this ten-dollar bill just might get you into heaven, but add another ten and your chances go up exponentially.
Who am I to judge them? If there is a God, I imagine I’m not on the best of terms with him or her any longer. Divorces, adultery, excessive drinking, taking God’s name in vain a few dozen times every day, and a general absence of faith will probably derail my chances of sneaking through the Pearly Gates.
The afterlife is your destination and you want to be prepared for it. God’s looking at his list, like Santa Claus, checking to see who’s been naughty or nice. But, unlike Santa Claus, who will skip your house if you’re on his naughty list, God will banish you to his basement, his cellar, his dungeon. And you won’t get a second chance. Santa Claus will come around next year if you mend your ways, but once you face death, you are out of chances with the Almighty!
Same old bull crap – that’s what I heard. Others may have heard differently. Others may have heard Jesus or the booming voice of the Almighty. Nothing magical or spiritual has ever happened in my life, and I turn cynical the moment I hear a preacher’s voice. I don’t worship bullshit idols. The worshipping of false idols is a sin, and there was a warehouse full of people, and a captivated television audience who worshipped Mr. Breckenridge.
What the hell was I doing there, wasting valuable law enforcement resources? Did the captain hate my guts? He knew I had joined the ranks of the unbelievers, and he was a pope-quoting Roman Catholic. One practicing man of faith giving a lapsed Catholic the shitty assignment of uncovering religious shenanigans. I wouldn’t be surprised. The whole case was all shady bullshit, but legal shady bullshit as far as I could tell. If only reason had taken hold of me and I had begged off the case and requested a transfer to drugs or prostitution, or something less sinister than nabbing an avaricious cleric. But I was a team player, and even though I knew the captain was getting a belly laugh at my expense, I took one for the team.
A shiny, gold donation plate beckoned in the foyer, smiling people came around with their hands out, and Breckenridge had a TV show through which he pestered and begged his sycophants to mail in their hard-earned cash. Unethical perhaps, but hardly illegal. What was I was supposed to be looking for? When the captain had first dropped this case in my lap, he only explained that something fishy was taking place – he wanted me to check it out before he gave me the whole story. Wanted me to see what I could determine without the facts of the case influencing me, I suppose. Probably just another jab at my lack of religious values.
We believe in the power of redemption, the power of forgiveness, and the dynamic potential of a new life. We believe that our God has given us an opportunity for afterlife, but that he has also given us a second chance at a new life, a Re-life, if you will. Yes, a Re-life. A chance to go back and change the course of your life; to take a different fork in the road, to make different decisions. What would it be like to experience a Re-life? What would you do with a second chance – a do over, perhaps?
That was a new one: Re-life. I wish he had said more, but he quickly changed course and went into some diatribe about our tainted celebrity culture and how the Kardashians were rotting the brains of our youth – none of which I could disagree with. But, Re-life – that was a new one. I know the Bible is filled with forgiveness, but I’m not sure it says anything about getting a mulligan in life and going back to some arbitrary starting point for a redo. Kind of like restoring your computer to a time before it was infected with a nasty virus after you looked at the newest hacked pictures of some nude celebrity. Returning your life to its original factory settings.
The Monday after my Sunday visit to the church, my boss had finally briefed me on why I was investigating the New Dawn Church.
“So, I don’t suppose you found much evidence of wrongdoing. Just another man of the cloth asking for handouts.”
“That’s pretty much it, sir. I’m not sure why-“
“There are a few missing people, a few empty seats in the congregation that are unexplained. Inquiring minds want to know, and those inquiring minds asked us to check it out.”
“Who asked? Breckenridge?”
“Hardly. Let’s just say it was a concerned congregant of the New Dawn Church. Someone who knows someone with a bit of clout in city politics.”
“And you didn’t want to tell me this at the beginning?”
“Wanted to test your superior detective skills.”
I smiled on the outside and gave him the finger on the inside. “Any missing person’s reports filled out?”
“You’re the detective, Billy.” I gave him a second invisible middle finger.
&nb
sp; My captain, as good a guy as he could be, was often vague and obtuse. And an asshole. A fair, honest, mostly ethical, and vehemently loyal asshole.
I spent the week after my church visit interviewing former followers and family members of the few lost souls who had gone missing. It seemed that a few followers just up and disappeared. Gone without a trace. Did these people fly the coop? Or had our used Jesus salesman been involved in disappearing some of his subjects? I guess that’s when the case got interesting. It’s also when it got dangerous – though I didn’t know it at the time.
I spent days combing through old information on Mr. Breckenridge and nights spying on him from the safety of my government-issued sedan. I snuck around the church, staying in the shadows and evading the light. Missing people made this case much more than a greedy-preacher investigation. Kidnapping and murder from the pulpit – a plot for made for film and one which could have made me a star.
Five people from the congregation disappeared in the past year. Jeb- a divorced, alcoholic, and basic sad sack loner with a sorry-ass life, and five born-under-a-bad-sign children. Torrance, a small-time petty thief and drug abuser who had been in and out of jail for most of his life. Stacy, a single mom, and a prostitute twice convicted. Dorian, once named Douglas, who had recently completed hormone therapy and was on his/her way to womanhood. And then there was Ella. No one had anything bad to say about Ella. She was a wife of ten years, a mother of two toddlers, a member of the local PTA, and an all-around great gal with an enticing, yet innocent smile, and a helping hand for everyone.
Nothing that could be called evidence, or even suspicious behavior was discovered until two weeks ago, on my second full night stakeout.
I knew that Breckenridge was the only one inside when I saw a man - average height, average build, shaved head, and glasses - enter the building way past normal church hours. I waited until morning, blurry-eyed, but still awake, when the good pastor himself exited the building, locked the door behind him, and drove off in his shiny blue Jaguar. Had I missed something? Had the man snuck out in the early morning while I tried to keep from nodding off? I figured I had been derelict in my duties and gotten in a little sleepy time when I should have been injecting caffeine and staying alert on my watch.
Altering the Apocalypse: and Other Short Stories About Humans and Time Travel Page 4