Now, nearly face-to-face with his old nemesis, he could make out the words. “Play it loud and proud, Justin, you little shit. I’ll teach you to fuck around in my class.”
Again, Justin tried to run, but he couldn’t escape. He could almost feel the spit coming off Mr. Piper’s lips as he screamed at him. All the trouble Justin had caused in class was now coming back to haunt him. Mr. Piper, unable to punish him sufficiently all those years ago, was here to exact his revenge now. In school, Justin had been the rebel; reasonably articulate and somewhat talented, he could always talk his way out of serious trouble. To Mr. Piper, he was just a troublemaker. Always bucking the system. Constantly questioning authority. Typically, high on marijuana but clever enough to never get caught. Mr. Piper hated him and often let it show.
Justin always thought that someday, retribution would come down on him, but it didn’t make him feel any better now. His ears and head were pounding, ready to explode and bring his miserable little life to an end. And he did think it was miserable. Now, nearly nose-to-nose, Mr. Piper shrieked at him, “Payback’s a bitch; get ready for yours! I’ll teach you to fuck around in my class! Look at you! You didn’t amount to much and it’s all because you’re a little shit with no ambition! If you had listened to me all those years ago, you wouldn’t be where you are today!”
Justin tried to speak. Tried to reason with the band leader but this time, nothing intelligible came out of his mouth. He felt like someone had shoved a rag in it.
Now, as he watched in horror, his head pounding, he saw the drum morph into a pair of cymbals. Mr. Piper held them inches from Justin’s face, all the while maintaining his evil grin. Then, he brought them together with inhuman strength, over and over again, pausing briefly for greater effect. Justin was sure he was about to die, and he could feel his head disintegrating. Then, the evil face morphed into another face. Now, it was Tad Sheppard—the owner of the Tribune, his boss, and, sadly enough, his brother-in-law—staring down at him.
Mr. Piper was bad enough but now, Justin panicked and screamed. He threw his arms out to shove away Tad’s apparition. He swung wildly, trying to hurt Tad, but he kept missing.
This time, Justin’s scream wasn’t muffled. It came out loud and clear. Primordial in nature and deafening in volume, the scream shattered the dream and left him soaked in sweat and lying on the floor next to his bed. In the distance, he thought he heard the phone ringing but when he tried to stand, he was overcome with vertigo and fell back down. His head still pounding and the room spinning wildly, he crawled to the bathroom and took his place, worshipping the porcelain god and paying homage by depositing the remains of his last meal. He retched a few times and started to feel a little better. The room wasn’t spinning quite as quickly anymore, and he was able to stand, only to be confronted by a hideous creature in the mirror. Unfortunately, it was a face he had seen on numerous occasions. But at least the nightmare was over. Mr. Piper and Tad were still planted in his memory, but they weren’t tormenting him anymore.
Carefully walking to the kitchen, he picked up a dirty glass and filled it with water from the tap. With difficulty, he opened a bottle of Advil and Tylenol and took a pill from each, then swallowed them with the water. His head was still fuzzy from the nightmare, but he was able to piece together a few of the events from the previous evening. The girl had been either blonde or brunette; he had trouble picturing her—not that it mattered much. The important thing was that he’d had a good time, and it wasn’t by himself. His evidence was two empty bottles of cheap tequila, two shot glasses—one with red lipstick on the rim—and an ashtray with some unfinished joints in it. The bed was in disarray but there was no sign of the girl. He had mixed emotions about that.
The painkillers were kicking in slowly, and he realized he would live another day. When the phone resumed ringing, it wasn’t all that painful.
Reluctantly, he answered, “Hello.”
“What the hell are you doing?” the caller screamed. “Why aren’t you here?”
Justin tried to pull the phone away from his ear but the damage was already done. His eardrum was probably irreparably damaged. He wondered if he could sue for damages.
The caller screamed again, “Well? Where the hell are you?”
A number of clever answers crossed his mind, but he knew that none of them would have endeared him to the caller—who just happened to be his boss at the Tribune. Tad Sheppard was not only his boss and a total asshole, but was also his brother-in-law. Always yelling, always blaming someone for something. Probably to compensate for a small dick, thought Justin. He immediately tried to wipe that thought from his brain.
Justin never liked Tad from the day his sister, Jennine, started dating him. As far as he was concerned, Tad was an asshole and dating him—let alone marrying him—was a monumental mistake. Sure, he had money, but he never thought his sister would stoop so low as to marry for money. When Tad and his sister had their first child six months after tying the knot, he thought he understood at least part of the story. And the animosity between Tad and Justin was mutual. Tad knew Justin couldn’t stand him—mostly because Justin didn’t hide his feelings toward him.
Justin was struggling to be a writer and not doing well. He was a decent writer, looking to write the Great American Novel but with no clue how to do it. Justin’s parents pressured Jennine to pressure Tad into giving Justin a job at the Tribune. It would be a charity hire, and Tad was resistant but succumbed under the pressure. Turned out that Justin did have some skill as a reporter, even though he had a drinking problem and a sarcastic streak usually aimed toward Tad. Tad tolerated Justin but did everything he could to make Justin miserable, which only increased Justin’s indulgence in alcohol and drugs. Regardless of Justin’s disdain for Tad, he admitted he was an aspiring novelist surviving on odd jobs, and a steady paycheck sounded appealing. He took the job and swallowed his pride—usually with a couple shots of tequila and a hit or two of weed.
“Morning, Tad, and how are we this fine morning?” he answered weakly but with obvious derision.
“Don’t act sick with me, you little shit. I know you aren’t, and if you are, I don’t fucking care! You were supposed to be here an hour ago. I’m not paying you to lie around the house.”
“Sorry. I’m not quite well this morning. I think I picked up something last night.”
“Let me make myself quite clear: I don’t fucking care how you feel.” No surprise there, thought Justin. “Quit the act. Take some aspirin and get your ass down here.”
Justin shrugged and rolled his eyes.
“Comprende, asshole?”
Do I? Good question, he thought. He knew that Tad thought he owned him. And maybe he did. Justin usually talked back to Tad but never pushed too far. If it wasn’t for the rent payment coming due, he might have quit right then—that and he had no other prospects for work, and his great novel was nowhere near completion.
“Isn’t it Saturday?” he finally asked.
“And is that supposed to mean anything to me? I don’t fucking care if it is Easter Sunday. Get your ass down here. That is, if you still like working here.”
No, I don’t like working here, he responded silently. I’d rather place a hot poker up my ass—scratch that; I’d rather shove a hot poker up your ass.
“Of course, I like working there,” he lied. “Hang on a second,” he said, vomit rising into his throat. He held the phone away from his mouth as he heaved into the kitchen sink.
“Geez, Justin. What were you doing last night?” He almost sounded compassionate.
“Don’t worry about me,” he managed to say. “I’ll be okay. What’s so urgent?” He wiped his mouth with the kitchen towel.
“Listen to me and listen good, you idiot.”
Justin braced himself for the lecture he had heard Tad give dozens of times over the years. It was Tad’s newspaper, and he paid Justin’s salary. As such, that gave him the right to give orders and Justin the obligation of taking those ord
ers. Every time he cashed his check, he tacitly agreed to those rules. If he didn’t like it, he could go elsewhere for employment. And oh, by the way—if it wasn’t for his sister, he would be on the street begging. He knew the lecture word-for-word but let Tad run on.
When Tad finished ranting, Justin replied, “I’m better now. Thank you.”
Tad paused, wondering if Justin was being sarcastic.
“There was a murder last night!”
If only it could have been you, thought Justin. Jennine should have sliced your throat years ago. But that wouldn’t happen. Over the years of marriage to that idiot, she had become more and more like him. And she liked the good life.
“Oh. That’s a bummer,” replied Justin. “You want me to cover it?”
“That’s why I’m calling you. What a fucking dumb question.”
“Anybody I know?”
“You might not, but I do. I want everything coming through me on this. You got it?”
“Sure.”
“Now, get your ass down here. There’s a file on your desk, and a photographer waiting for you.” The line went dead.
Tad Sheppard, a native of Denver, knew everyone important, including city council members, the chief of police, major financial players, and high-priced hookers. He was also a big investor with Lane Stevens and had been bragging about his major market gains to all his friends. A few had followed his advice and invested with Lane as well, generating some side payments to Tad. Tad didn’t share any of that information with Justin. He was just concerned with making sure that any information generated which might be embarrassing went through him before getting published.
Justin dropped the phone on the kitchen table and went looking for something to ease the pain in his head. The painkillers were starting to work, but what he thought he really needed was a shot or two of tequila. A quick search of the apartment proved futile. There were two empty tequila bottles that, together, didn’t have enough drops for a spoonful. He settled for a rinse with some mouthwash and another Advil. He looked at the roach in the ashtray but, it was covered with cigarette ashes. The thought of putting that into his mouth was too much. He dressed quickly and went downstairs to catch a cab.
Trying to recreate the events from the evening before was proving difficult. He did remember starting off the night with a couple of shots of tequila at the bar and then going outside with a lady to smoke a joint. After that, it was all a blur. He wondered if he might have a drinking problem.
The cab dropped him off at the Tribune and he ducked in through a side door, hoping to avoid as many people as possible—especially Tad. One encounter a day under the best of conditions was difficult to manage. Two, and he might require adult beverages.
On his desk, as promised, was a manila folder with very little information: One large photo of Lane Stevens shaking hands with the Mayor, followed by one sheet of paper, handwritten, with Lane’s address, age, local relatives, and a brief bio.
On a separate piece of paper were some instructions from Tad: Get to the crime scene; find out what the police know; talk to the brother and mother; try to find out who wanted him dead; see if you can find out about the investment portfolio he managed; track the money down. And, lastly: Run any copy by Tad before going to press.
“Hola, mi amigo.”
A tall, redheaded woman with cameras hanging from her neck appeared in front of Justin’s desk.
He nodded at her. “Were we drinking together last night?”
She laughed. “We were for a while, ‘til you found someone more interesting than me.” She feigned indignation.
“Not possible, Jane. No one is more interesting than you.”
“She was rather good-looking.”
“I’m sure she was not as ravishing as you.”
“I wouldn’t think you would dump me for a dog,” she teased.
Jane Sanders was not only good-natured but good-looking as well. Her red hair, green eyes, and slim, five-foot-ten-inch frame set her apart from the average girl. She and Justin had hit it off from Day One, dating off and on, and even rolled in the sack together on more than one occasion. It could never be called a romance but when the infatuation wore off, they still managed to remain best friends. Jane could hold her own, and each of them took turns drinking the other under the table. Her skills as a photographer were more than adequate, but she resisted Justin’s insistence that she become an artist and leave the Tribune. Her talent was unquestionable.
Justin reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of aspirin. There were only two left. He swallowed them quickly with a warm, unfinished Mountain Dew he had sitting on his desk from yesterday. Jane watched with amusement.
“Do you ever know when to stop?” She laughed.
“Yeah. Usually, with my head in the toilet.”
“I hear we have an assignment to photograph a stiff.”
He nodded. Jane was always a little crude, but Justin loved her for it and preferred her over any of the other staff photographers at the Tribune. “Can I get you to drive?”
They made their way down to the parking garage and requisitioned a company car. Jane drove, while Justin tried to grab a few winks of sleep. It was a short drive but by the time they arrived at the crime scene, Justin was feeling much better.
The area in front of the house had been cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, keeping the crowd of onlookers at a distance. Other news outlets were already there, shooting pictures and interviewing anyone who would talk to them. They weren’t having much luck getting anything of substance from anyone, and the cops were keeping quiet as well. The crime scene investigators and homicide detectives were still in the house, so Justin was confident that arriving late didn’t do any harm. Jane and Justin milled about with the other reporters, until they realized there was nothing to gain. Justin spotted a uniformed cop he knew and was friendly with and made a beeline toward him with Jane following close behind. The officer was behind the tape but when he spotted Justin, he came over to talk to him.
“Hey, Don,” Justin called out as they approached each other. “How you doing?”
“Good, man. What about you?” Officer Don Sanchez and Justin had shared more than a drink or two on the paper’s tab, going back a few years. They still got together on occasion.
“What’s the story here?” asked Justin as he took out his pad.
“Oh, just another dead guy,” joked Don.
“Yeah? I wouldn’t have guessed it in a million years. Thought it might be a bake sale to raise money for cops with dementia or something,” Justin responded sarcastically. “How did he die?”
“Stopped breathing.”
Jane sighed. “Are you two for real?”
Don and Justin laughed.
“So, seriously, Don. Help me out. I need to get a story out by this afternoon.”
“You know, you look like shit, Justin.”
Justin rolled his eyes. “I know. But if you think I look bad now, you should have seen me an hour ago.”
“Too much of good thing last night?” Don knew Justin all too well.
“It would seem so,” agreed Justin.
“Who were you with?”
“Your mother. I had no idea she could party like that. Man, we had a good time. Didn’t she tell you?”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Jane exclaimed. “You two are pathetic.”
“No need to be rude. Besides, my mother has better taste than that.”
“Yeah, no doubt about that,” he agreed. “So, really, what’s up here?”
Don motioned for McGraw to follow him to a quiet area away from the crowd. “Here’s what I know. The deceased is an investment broker of some kind. From what I’ve overheard the detectives saying, he was pretty well-known in town. Well-connected in town, if you know what I mean. Cab driver was scheduled to pick him up this morning and take him to the airport. When no one came to the door, the cabbie went around back and looked in the window by the back porch. He could see t
he victim duct-taped to a chair. He called us.”
“Anything else?”
“Stevens had money stuffed down his throat.”
“Money?”
“Yeah. Dollar bills. Like he was being forced to eat them. His hands were tied behind his back with duct tape, and his head was taped to the chair as well. He even had bills shoved up his nose.”
“You’re not shitting me, are you?” Justin asked.
“Not a chance. The guy ended up drowning in puke.”
Justin swallowed hard, reminded of his own episode with vomit just a short time ago.
“You know anything about the guy?”
“I heard a couple people say he was a scumbag. Maybe involved in some investment scams. Never been charged with anything, but rumor has it, the DA was about to investigate. The neighbors either had no interaction with him, or if they did, they said they couldn’t stand him.”
“Thanks, Don. Anything else?”
“You didn’t get it from me but there were drugs involved. Probably two people did him in. One was a woman—or a man who wore lipstick,” he joked. “There was a note taped to his forehead, but I didn’t see it, so I don’t know what it said exactly, but I heard the guys talking, and it sounded like a warning.”
“To whom?”
“Other sleazy business guys, I think. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Thanks, Don. I owe you.”
“You always owe me. I better get back before the suits see me talking to you.”
Justin scribbled a few notes on a pad and spotted Detective Jake Stein leaving the house followed by a younger man. As they approached the perimeter of the cordoned area, Justin ran over to speak to them. Justin had interacted with Detective Stein on a number of cases in the past. They had a cordial and professional relationship. Justin had learned early on that Stein was all business; Justin had learned to keep his sarcasm to a minimum.
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