Detective Arcole

by Rigel Blu

  “Do you know if Gabriel used any narcotics? Prescription or illicit?” Arcole asked.

  “Poor soul had no such habits,” Nancy said.

  “What about criminal involvement? Someone blackmailing him for something?”

  Nancy shook her head.

  “Mental health issues?”

  “He struggled with depression,” Nancy said. “It would flare up on and off. He was hooked to his digital partner.”

  “What do you mean?” Arcole asked.

  “It sounds ridiculous, but he trusted his digital partner over me,” Nancy said. “He accused me of ignoring him. He did have a high need for affirmation, though. If only I’d known he would take such an extreme step, I wouldn’t have spent so much time on the business.”

  “Your jewellery business?”

  “Yes. Our marriage was falling apart,” Nancy said.

  “Any romantic involvement?” Arcole asked.

  Nancy got up. “Maybe, I don’t know. If he was, I don’t blame him. I wasn’t there for him; I didn’t hear his cry for help.”

  Outside, it was a nice sunny day. Arcole and Natalie decided to walk and discuss.

  “It’s all a show. She’s a cold-hearted person," Natalie said. "Marriage was on the rocks, and she blames it on his digital partner. Look at her; she herself has a flirty digital partner.”

  “I don’t understand,” Arcole said. “What the hell is a digital partner?”

  “Ha-ha... You don’t know DP, digital partner?” Natalie started laughing, but when she saw the pained expression on Arcole’s face, she stopped.

  “You know digital assistants? They remember your passwords, schedule your appointments,” she said.

  Arcole nodded.

  “Well, digital assistants are morphing into digital partners. You communicate with them like you do with your intimate partner. You can call, text, email. They live in your phone, on the cloud—all around you. And a lot of people have started using them as an emotional crutch. They confide in them, seek advice, talk about their relationships. Digital partners are always there, always nice; they don’t scream or throw things at you. They are like a best friend you can talk to anytime.”

  “Do you have a digital partner?” Arcole asked.

  “Not a full-blown DP, but yes, I do have one,” Natalie said.

  She whipped out her phone and said, “Hey, Drooper. What’s going on at home?”

  “Hey, Nat. What’s up?” a voice from her phone said. “Fatso just finished two cans of tuna, and he is sprawled out on the couch.”

  “Two cans? Why did you dispense two cans?” Natalie demanded to know.

  “Oh, he just sat there, morose. I couldn’t see him go hungry.”

  “Drooper—he’s only going to become fatter. Next time, only dispense one can. Otherwise, I’ll change your discretion setting.”

  “You’re the boss, Nat. Whatever you say.”

  Natalie turned to Arcole and said, “That was Drooper. You can say he is my digital partner. He has a little attitude, but I like him that way. They’re useful; you should get one.”

  “I don’t see any need,” Arcole said. “And honestly, I don’t understand this world anymore. Have you seen a dinosaur? In a museum? Well, I feel like one.”

  FIVE

  THE living wall in Detective Arcole’s office had been converted into a giant video screen. The gravel border with a small screen in the middle was gone. Like a giant corkboard, the entire wall was filled with notes and pictures and files related to the suicide investigation.

  “You’ve been busy,” Arcole said as he scanned the living wall. It looked like overkill for a simple suicide investigation.

  “I just wanted to be thorough,” Natalie said.

  “Good work.”

  Arcole was slumped in his chair, and every once in a while, he rubbed his throbbing temples. He was going through a bad streak. The day before yesterday, his self-control had wavered, and he ended up binge drinking. The next day, a splitting headache left him in no condition to go to the office, and he took a sick day off. Natalie was a trooper, though; she had interviewed the remaining people on her own, and here they were, reviewing the result.

  “Our man had some strange beliefs,” Natalie said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I met his younger brother yesterday, and he told me some interesting stuff about him.”

  “Like?”

  “Like his belief in an afterlife.”

  “An afterlife?” Arcole suppressed a smile.

  “Yes. He said that lately Gabriel had developed a keen interest in his Eastern heritage and their traditional belief in an afterlife. He had even started saying that if he died, he’d still be around and would protect his brother as a guardian angel.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Arcole said. “He had issues. Remember what his mother said? He suffered from depression and had tried to kill himself as a teenager.”

  “By filling his grandfather’s vintage car with carbon monoxide,” Natalie added. “I’ve never been in a car with a gasoline engine. Did they really give off dangerous gases?”

  “Sure did,” Arcole said and nursed his head.

  “Why didn’t more people die from carbon monoxide? I mean the streets must have been full of cars belching these gases.”

  Arcole laughed. “The gases did cause health problems, but I guess they were not concentrated enough.”

  “A lot of people said they heard Nancy taunt him and tell him to go kill himself if life sucked so much. What do you make of that?” Natalie asked. “Could that be grounds for legal action?”

  “Not really. Since he suffered from depression and had already attempted suicide, the judge is not going to give a lot of significance to his wife’s words.”

  “Right. Almost everyone confirmed that he had talked about suicide,” Natalie said.

  “What about his past life? Did you find anything interesting there?” Arcole asked.

  “I vacuumed his entire social media history. Apparently he was quite a ladies’ man in his college days,” Natalie said.

  She brought up old pictures of Gabriel on the living wall. Him on a beach with a group of girls and guys; another picture of him holding a blond woman with a big forehead in tight embrace from behind and kissing her neck; him in the pool, water up to his navel, a flat white martini in his hand. A girl in a bikini sunbathed behind him on a float.

  “But it was different with Nancy,” Natalie continued. “After they started dating, he completely stopped his partying life. They got married a couple of years later.”

  Wedding pictures filled the screen. A giant multitiered wedding cake; them standing with a knife, smiling broadly. Another picture, bride and groom dancing in a large cavernous hall, a band playing in the background, people enjoying their meal.

  “I guess I’ve heard this story before. A happy man gets married then jumps from a bridge.” Arcole chuckled and pulled his body up to sit up straight. “This looks like a clear case of suicide. Let’s go over how to close a case. I’ve seen some good examples in the archives.”

  “There is more, Martin,” Natalie said.

  “What do you mean?” Arcole asked.

  “I found something.”

  “What?”

  “Nancy is going to collect a sizable life insurance payout,” Natalie said.

  “So?”

  “So the life insurance clause says that no benefit will be paid if the insured commits suicide within two years of taking out the policy. His insurance was two years and six months old, taken out before they got married. She is the sole beneficiary.”

  “Hmm... they were getting married. Nothing out of ordinary.” Arcole didn’t like where this was going. He didn’t want to chase any more leads; it was a clear case of suicide.

  “Nancy’s company is on a lifeline. She urgently needs money. This is all very convenient,” Natalie said.

  “Interesting,” Arcole said, warming up, “but it’s going to be a hard
case to build. Is there anything that shows she coaxed him into suicide?”

  “Not really.” Natalie let out a sigh. “It's probably hopeless to chase.”

  Arcole looked at Natalie and recalled his younger years. He used to be so full of enthusiasm. He devoted his entire life to his work, but for what? An unhappy marriage, a messy divorce, a child he was never around to see grow up. He felt the bile rise.

  Arcole’s hand jerked to go ahead and close the case, but another voice, one of fairness and justice instilled by his mother, stopped him. It always won out. It was the reason that made him dig deeper into cases, made him doggedly pursue the flimsiest of leads.

  The sincere face of the young detective precipitated a decision. She needed encouragement, Arcole decided. She needed to learn to follow her hunches. And it would be a disservice if he didn’t encourage her.

  “Let’s go and meet Nancy one more time,” Arcole said.

  “What are we doing?” Natalie asked.

  “Nothing in particular, but you never know,” Arcole said. “We might find something to feed our suspicion. You should always listen to your gut feeling.”

  SIX

  NANCY greeted them at the door in a smart striped suit and alligator-skin high heels.

  “Not a good time. I have to leave for an important roadshow,” she said and opened the door to let them in.

  “Just a few questions to wrap up loose ends,” Arcole said and stepped inside. He wasn’t really sure what he was doing, but he felt like a fool for assuming her to be a grieving widow when he saw her the first time. Crocodile tears, he berated himself silently. He felt like lashing out.

  There was another woman in the living room. Dirty-blond hair, big forehead—she looked older than her age. She got up to greet the officers.

  “Lizbeth. She’s a close family friend,” Nancy introduced her.

  “I just arrived last night. I came as soon as I was able to free myself. You know how it is when you’re managing a large team. What a terrible tragedy,” Lizbeth said, sadness dripping from her face.

  Arcole and Natalie sat down across from Nancy and Lizbeth.

  “Where do you live?” Arcole asked.

  “Ashville. I’m a product manager for a software company,” Lizbeth said.

  “You guys have known each other for a long time?” Arcole asked.

  “Oh, forever.” Lizbeth looked at Nancy and gave her a quick hug.

  Arcole fiddled with a pen in his hand. When he saw that Lizbeth had no intentions of leaving the room, he turned to Nancy and asked, “Are we okay to chat with your friend around?”

  Lizbeth immediately got up. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ll be in the bedroom.”

  “No, stay.” Nancy grabbed her hand and pulled her back on the couch. “There are no secrets between us.”

  Arcole never really planned what he would talk about. He just had a vague idea to bring up the situation with the insurance policy and see where it went. But now, Nancy’s changed persona and her businesslike, cold attitude made him chafe inside. He felt stupid to have assumed her to be simple, innocent.

  “Gabriel tried to kill himself as a teenager,” he said.

  “Yes, unfortunately,” Nancy said.

  “You didn’t tell us that.” He sounded accusatory.

  “I didn’t think it was important. Let his soul rest in peace. There is no need to drag up the past.”

  “Did you taunt him that he should stop whining and do something with his life, or end it?” Arcole didn’t know where he was going.

  The silence hung heavy in the room.

  After what felt like an eternity, Nancy said in a level and measured tone, “That’s a terrible thought. You disgust me.”

  “I’m just trying to corroborate statements made by others.”

  “Why would I do something like that?” Her shrill voice boomed. It had acquired an icy tone.

  “Mrs. Rhee, I understand your company is on its deathbed and needs an immediate infusion of money,” Arcole said.

  Nancy gave him a cold stare.

  “And you’ll be collecting a substantial life insurance that you became eligible for claiming only six months ago,” Arcole added.

  “That’s enough.” Nancy abruptly got up. “Next time you want to speak, first talk to my lawyer.” She turned to Lizbeth and said, “Liz, please see these officers outside. I really have to go.”

  Nancy left the house.

  Arcole looked down, pressed his lips together, then slowly got up. He had no idea what he did. He was tired and felt the onset of a headache. He wished he was retired. He made his way toward the door; Natalie followed after him.

  “What you guys are thinking is utter nonsense,” Lizbeth said from the couch. “Don’t listen to his friends and family. What Nancy said was out of sheer desperation and helplessness. Imagine seeing your life partner go to pieces in front of you. In fact, it was she who insisted that he should see a psychiatrist.”

  Arcole stopped and looked back. “He was seeing a psychiatrist?”

  “Yes. He went a few times. Nancy didn’t mention?” She hesitated.

  “Which psychiatrist? When was this?” Arcole turned around and peppered her with questions.

  “Oh, I don’t know the details. You’ll have to ask Nancy,” Lizbeth said.

  “Never mind, we have access to his medical records,” Arcole said. “Thank you and have a good day.”

  SEVEN

  ARCOLE looked out of the car window at the leafy neighborhood they had entered. Spring was well on its way, and the trees had grown a new coat of leaves. The sun filtered through the young leaves to cast an eerie green sheen all around. The psychiatrist, Dr. Gordon McKeen, had his office deep in the neighborhood, on a winding, tree-covered street.

  The cruiser dropped Arcole and Natalie at the curb in front of the doctor’s office and drove off to find itself a parking spot. Arcole looked at the white two-story stucco building and stretched his arms. It was a long drive. A stone path cut across a manicured lawn and led to the main entrance. Ornate white pillars flanked a rich mahogany door, and windowpanes sported old-style horizontal wooden slats.

  A smartly dressed young man responded to the doorbell and escorted them to a tastefully decorated waiting area. The walls were covered with pictures of the doctor, a heavyset man with big jowls and folds of flesh, standing with various celebrities.

  Shortly, the man himself showed up. At six and a half feet, he towered over the diminutive Natalie. He led them upstairs to his office, which was more a living-room affair than a traditional office. They passed a fireplace in the center of the room with a smattering of cushioned chairs around it and went to a large mahogany desk near the French windows. Dr. McKeen pointed at the visitor chairs and took his seat behind the desk.

  “What are we dealing with here? Father-daughter bonding issues?” Dr. McKeen asked.

  “We are not patients, Doctor,” Arcole said in a cold, professional voice.

  “I know,” Dr. McKeen said with a broad smile on his face. “But you two look so much like a father and daughter that I couldn’t help taking a dig. You don’t mind, do you?” Dr. McKeen leaned forward on his desk.

  “We are investigating a case that involves one of your patients, Doctor. His name is Gabriel Rhee,” Arcole said.

  “Gabriel Rhee? Hmm... don’t remember him,” Dr. McKeen said. He swiveled in his leather chair to face a large display and called out to his digital assistant. “Mary, did I see a patient by the name of Gabriel Rhee.”

  “Yes, you did, Dr. McKeen,” Mary said.

  “Can you bring up his charts?”

  He sat up straight and peered at the screen. He mumbled and moved his head from left to right as he read Gabriel’s chart. Then he leaned back and said, “Yes, I remember him now. Gabriel Rhee—suicidal, recurring bouts of clinical depression. He only came for a couple of sessions, though.”

  “Can you tell us more about him?” Arcole asked the doctor.

  “Like what?�
� Dr. McKeen asked.

  “He committed suicide.”

  Dr. McKeen adjusted in his seat, and the jocularity disappeared from his face. “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a troubled man, but more than that, he kept the wrong company.”

  “What do you mean, Doctor?”

  “Look, I’m a professional, and in my job it’s frowned upon to cook up theories without anything to substantiate it.”

  “I’m at a loss, Doc,” Arcole said.

  “But I’m also an individual with personal opinions. Do you want my personal opinion?” Dr. McKeen asked.

  Arcole looked at the doctor. He was trying to protect his ass from possible lawsuits. “Sure, we want your opinion as a private citizen,” Arcole said.

  “I think someone was goading him, pushing him to commit suicide. He head was filled with nonsense about an afterlife, about how he would turn into a guardian angel and would be able to protect his loved ones from harm. I tried to probe, to find out who that person was, but he simply disappeared.”

  “Could it be his wife?” Natalie asked, breaking her silence.

  Dr. McKeen shrugged and turned up his palms. “I’ve no idea. I don’t want to guess.”

  The conversation didn’t reveal anything else. They thanked the doctor for his help and left the office. Standing at the curb, Arcole summoned the cruiser from his phone.

  “Father and daughter,” Natalie remarked.

  Arcole was preoccupied with the phone. There was a message from the cruiser.

  “What?” he said absentmindedly. “The car says it’s going to take ten minutes to get here.”

  “Probably couldn’t find a parking spot around here,” Natalie said. “What do you think? Now we know for sure there was someone encouraging him to commit suicide.”

  “I think your suspicion is right. His wife probably fed him the mumbo-jumbo about an afterlife, and once the two-year waiting period was over, she pushed him hard. I don’t understand how grown-up men could believe such nonsense.”

  “So what do we do?” Natalie asked.

  “Without evidence, it’s going to be tricky. It’ll be difficult to build a case.”