by Jack Parker
My mother consulted her shopping list as she spoke. "You never know. You remember Grandpa Eddie? He got remarried at fifty–five."
"…to a hooker who divorced him in half a year," I finished – because she wouldn't. My father's father had never been very intelligent man, as evidenced by his expansive collection of bottle caps. He'd also been a diehard Cubs fan. "Do you really want me to end up like him?"
My mother smiled almost sadly as we turned the cart down the produce section, still arm–in–arm. "Okay, bad example. But still, you never know. God has a plan and a purpose, so we can only hope. You have a chance, Chance."
For a moment, I thought about breaking the news to her that I was sick of that god–awful name, but decided against it. We made our way towards the cashier together, arguing instead about splitting the grocery bill and dreading the cold that awaited us outdoors.
Chapter Fourteen
Tuesday, December 7th
"What a dump."
I found that I had to agree with Kevin Slyder's pronouncement, even if it was rude and blunt.
The ramshackle cottage was built on a gentle incline, a narrow plot of land wedged between split–level ranchers on the left and right. Finigan Thawyer's residence was even smaller than the shack I called home and looked to be at least thirty years older to boot. The roof was missing more shingles than still clung to it, and the wooden siding on all four walls was rotting – in some places falling off. The once–white window shutters had faded to gray and the paint had all but peeled off; when contrasted to the snow covering everything, they were almost black.
It was 1:30 in the afternoon, December the seventh. Slyder and I had driven in the Chief's squad car to 183 Stanton Drive in Fairfax, Delaware, not far from route 95. The day was sunny and bright, and the snow covering everything was slowly melting in the sweltering 38Ú temperature. It was the perfect day for staying inside and watching a good movie, perhaps sleeping in, or maybe even cracking open that novel that's just begging to be read.
I glanced at Slyder as we mounted the three front steps to the Thawyer residence. "Seems like the kind of place a criminal would live, huh?"
He grinned at me in return. "I wouldn't know – I don't stereotype 'em like you do."
It was somewhat contradictory to his previous statement, but I decided not to give him a hard time about it. We had a long ride home, after all.
A woman answered the doorbell.
Shorter than me by a good six inches, Finigan Thawyer's wife Patricia immediately struck me as someone upon whom time had not doted. Sure, she might have been pretty long ago, but now her face was prematurely lined and she appeared haggard. As a matter of fact, her entire countenance was… wasted. The skin hung loosely on her body and the flesh had a sallow tint to it. At first glance, I suspected she had Hep, or maybe even AIDS, although that information hadn't been in any records. Of course, she could have only become symptomatic recently, and both of those diseases tended to work abruptly. However, the firm tone with which she spoke immediately chased any notion of illness from my mind.
"Can I help you?" she asked grimly, taking in our cop apparel for what it was worth.
"Afternoon, ma'am," Slyder said, trying on a smile for size. "I'm Kevin Slyder, Chief of Swedesboro Police in Jersey." He turned to indicate me. "This is Detective Stikup. We have a few questions to ask you, if you don't mind?"
Her countenance fell as she beheld us – not that it had terribly far to fall. "Fuck, what's Fin done now?"
The question might have been rhetorical. Even if it was, the words hung awkwardly in the air for long a moment before Mrs. Thawyer opened the door wide and allowed us to step inside.
The place stank of cigarettes. The curtains were not drawn over the big bay window across from the sofa, but the panes of glass were so grimy that the room was still cast into dark shadow. The brown carpets appeared to be coated in layers of dog hair, as were the coffee table and two chairs that stood in corners.
Thawyer's wife crossed her thin arms and waited, watching mutely as we surveyed the small room.
Slyder began without deliberation, hooking his thumbs in his belt. "Ma'am, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your husband was arrested five days ago – charged with rape and murder, not to mention breaking and entering. We're here to continue our investigation."
I watched for a visible reaction from Patricia Thawyer, but got none. Her dark eyes flashed for a moment, but she merely blinked and continued listening.
Slyder produced the search warrant. "We're just going to look around the place," he grunted. "You know – check things out and whatnot. We just need to see if we can trace anything back to your husband's employer. I'm sorry. I know you probably don't like the idea of us searching through your house to find evidence against your husband, but –"
"No, he deserves it." Mrs. Thawyer sank slowly into an armchair, sighing heavily. "God, I've been telling him for three years that he needs to quit working on the wrong side of the law. Now look where it's landed him."
I cleared my throat pointedly. "Um, there is the chance that your husband might be freed – not for a long, long time, that is. After all, he's being charged with manslaughter. That's usually punishable by a life sentence. Or worse. Unless he gets off, that is."
Pat Thawyer nodded. The muscles in her jaw were working, but her tone remained even. "I know. It will be tough working things out."
Slyder cocked his head to one side and I winced at the next words that came out of his mouth. "Pardon my bluntness, Ma'am, but you don't seem very upset or surprised by this news."
She gave us a wan smile that held no humor or warmth to make it credible. "I've always known that this would happen. Lord knows I've sometimes hoped it would – so he'd come to his senses. 'Sides, I knew something was up since he hasn't called for almost two fuckin' weeks."
On paper, the words might have sounded insensitive, yet in person, her harsh tone was revealing. There was very real pain behind the words, but whether it was for her husband or herself wasn't immediately clear. The fact that she could put health and happiness on the line for a weasel like Fin spoke of her commitment as a wife, although I wouldn't have gone so far as to say she loved him.
Slyder offered a weak chuckle to break the silence. "She'd make a good sleuth, eh, Stikup?"
I tried to force a grin but got a grimace instead. I nodded at Thawyer, attempting to apologize non–verbally for Slyder's god–awful levity. "Mrs. Thawyer, if you wouldn't mind? We don't want to waste anymore of your time."
Patricia lit a cigarette and stuck it between her teeth. She blew the smoke out of her nose and nodded. "Go ahead," she said with her eyes closed. "Take as long as you need."
I nodded my thanks and gestured for Slyder to go first.
The house was bigger on the inside than it had appeared from the exterior, although only slightly, and my first impression of its filthiness held true. The kitchen seemed to be the largest square room in the house, although with the odd assortments of junk everywhere, covering everything, it still managed to feel cramped. Slyder and I made quick work of that area, and then he checked the tiny bathroom and the back porch while I poked around in the sitting room. It was awkward working beneath Patricia Thawyer's scrutiny, although the distant look in her eyes told me that – for all intents and purposes – she didn't even see me there.
The Chief and I rendezvoused several minutes later, both empty–handed. I could at least offer a detailed description of the old records I'd found stacked beside the dusty turntable in the sitting room; the only thing he'd found was a bike rusting in the snow.
We headed for the master bedroom.
The narrow hallway walls were covered with newspaper clippings and photographs, all stuck on with thumbtacks and masking tape. A grimy window on the opposite wall admitted a minimum of light for viewing these. I pointed out a few of the clippings to Slyder. All of them seemed to touch the topic of criminal activity, involving either Finigan Thawyer himself or
another man named Bradley Thawyer. From the looks of this man – pictured in several grainy snapshots as tall and gaunt with shaggy hair – I figured that he could only be Finigan's father. The younger Thawyer, like his companion, Harris, seemed proud of the heritage his family had passed on.
I suppose he just gets off on the romance of thievery, although there's a hell of a difference between today's crooks and Robin Hood.
"Nobility is dead," I muttered. With a shake of my head, I brushed past Slyder and into the antechamber.
The master bedroom – if it could be called that – was in a state of disarray. The bed had been stripped of sheets – these were wound into a tight ball atop of the stained and torn mattress – and the carpets were worn through. Heavy curtains had been drawn over each of the two windows on either side of the bed, casting the room into perpetual shadow. The big mirror that hung on the back of the door was cracked and spotted to such an extent so that all I could see of myself was an indistinguishable blob.
Slyder hit the lightswitch, and the single bulb in the overhead fan flickered on. The light cast was insufficient to illuminate the room, so I crossed the room – tripping over clothes and piles of papers – and raised the curtains to cast some light on the situation.
"Well, let's get to work," Slyder said wearily. He grimaced as he surveyed the piles of clothes, stacks of books, and randomly assorted papers. "I suppose we could get CSI over here if we can't find anything. I'd just prefer not to make this an ordeal."
It sounded like he was shifting responsibility to avoid a headache, but Slyder was right, and he knew his job. After all, the Thawyer homestead wasn't a crime scene per se, and we didn't need a team to do something the two of us could do just as well ourselves.
"Righto, Chief." I rubbed my hands together eagerly for Slyder's benefit, then immediately pulled on a pair of gloves. While the Chief stood in the middle of the room, deciding where to begin, I started pulling the drawers out of the big bureau.
Dust and significant spider webs suggested that no one had opened the drawers for a long time. Boxers, t–shirts, and other assorted garments were the only things in the top drawer, the same with the second, save for the addition of several articles of women's underwear. The bottom drawer, however, was where things got interesting. I found several half–empty packs of cigarettes, a few crumpled 100–dollar bills, and a baggie of green… stuff buried beneath a mound of torn and sweat–stained t–shirts.
I straightened and said aloud: "Marijuana."
Slyder looked up from his current search through a stack of books and I tossed the Ziploc to him. He caught it deftly and held it up to the miserable excuse for a light bulb for observation.
I crossed arms over my chest watching his reaction. "So, now defense will argue drug influence in order to get Thawyer a lighter sentence. And Harris too, probably."
Slyder sent me a disgusted look, which told me he was thinking along the same lines. "It'll most definitely be mentioned, although this isn't really a strong enough drug to really push that bill. If we find harder stuff, then definitely. Possession is enough to land them a prison term anyway, so I'm not sure how much leeway it'll give them."
I dropped my voice as I spoke next. "Do you think Mrs. Thawyer has been taking some of this? I mean, that was Marlboro she was smoking now, but…" But she hadn't looked good, and habitual druggies are easily noticed by their failing health.
Or, like Jimi – God rest his soul – they're found dead in their apartments.
Slyder shrugged but seemed curious. "I suppose it's possible she's pushing heroin between her toes… Shit, anything's possible. To be frank, though, I'd much rather we find something to pin on Finigan than her, but I guess we'll take what we can get."
It would be a shame to put Patricia away too, but possession of anydrug – even one as "harmless" as Mary Jane – is serious business. I nodded grimly, then directed my attention back to the search.
The drawers yielded nothing else out of the ordinary. More clothes, some spare change, more cigarettes, bits of jewelry, and odd assortments of junk. I'd struck gold early; but maybe it had been too easy.
I turned my attentions to the rest of the room.
The television sitting on the bookshelf was coated with dust and one of the two rabbit ears was bent nearly in half. As for the bookcase itself, books and magazines had been wedged onto it in all varieties of angles so the maximum amount of space was utilized.
I got down on my knees and began pulling these off, but found out the hard way that if the wrong book was removed, the entire stack would come tumbling down.
Jenga, anyone?
Slyder's ears perked up at the sound of tumbling debris. "Everything okay over there, Stikup?"
"Situation under control." I stuffed the books haphazardly back onto the shelf, then stood and instead headed for the closet.
The musty smell that wafted from the cramped confines of the wardrobe was almost enough to drive me away. Cobwebs barred my entrance to the tomb–like edifice, wispy strands clinging to every available surface. I sliced through the silk curtain with my left hand and began pulling out cardboard boxes: these were stacked from floor to ceiling. I set the box on the floor, swiped away a rather large and hairy spider, and pulled open the flaps. The contents were old photographs and more newspaper clippings.
I sighed as I shoved that box aside. The dearth of any potential evidence had me frustrated, but I forced myself to keep searching. While Slyder began pulling shoes out from beneath the queen–sized bed, I emptied the closet of boxes. My search culminated in my finding nothing more interesting than a potentially valuable stamp attached to a yellowed envelope.
Nothing there. Nothing useful, at any rate.
If I were a thief, where would I hide the important stuff?Aside from on my person or in a graveyard.
I stacked the boxes back in the closet, then forced the door closed again before everything could come crashing down on my the meantime, Slyder had begun an investigation of one of the two bedside tables. He had taken the top drawer out and set it down on his lap. So far, all he had was a set of screwdrivers, a pair of eyeglasses, and a comb – all of which were spread out on the bed for him to see.
I seated myself on the opposite side of the bed and pulled the answering–machine toward me. I hit the playback button and listened to a few random messages – one from someone who sounded distinctly like Red Harris about what time they were going to meet – but found no useful information aside from what time Thawyer's wife had wanted him to pick her up from the grocery store. The date of Harris' call was November 26th – two days before Mendoza's car had been stolen.
I narrowed my eyes, thinking back to the notes I'd kept. Things must have already been in motion at that point, although Fin and Red insist they had nothing to do with the car theft. Of course, I didn't place much stock in the convict's testimony, even if it had been off the record. But I was still mulling over the possibility in my mind because even though I didn't have a reason to believe Thawyer, I didn't have a reason not to either.
I replaced the answering machine and instead began pulling apart the nightstand. I went through several old letters, found another pack of cigarettes, several slivers of broken glass, a couple double–A batteries, and a notebook full of addresses and phone numbers. All junk, of course – another man's treasures.
I was almost amused to find myself growing increasingly more disappointed. Contrary to what I'd expected, it seemed that the Thawyers lived fairly normal lives. There wasn't even a journal with incriminating entries like "I Robbed the Bank Today", or "I Killed Some Lady on the Street Just for the Hell of it". Their family was dysfunctional, but hell – whose family wasn't in the 1990's? Thawyer might have been scum, but it was apparent that he'd at least made an attempt at a normal life for his wife (who might well have been named Penelope) and child.
"Stikup. Come look at this."
I dropped the notebook I'd been perusing and crawled across the bed to Slyder's sid
e. He handed me a piece of lined paper that had been crumpled and shoved into the back of the drawer. I took it from him and laid it on the bed, carefully smoothing out the creases with my gloved hands.
* * *
This will help you get around. Don't worry about beating it up.
* * *
Without waiting for me to say anything, the SPD chief reached out and turned the note over for me. I was left looking down at the blank side of the lined paper, which would have been inconsequential if it hadn't been for the flakes of rusty paint clinging there.
I quickly dug in my pocket for a pair of forceps, then used them to carefully pick up a scrap of paint and turn it over. Slyder leaned in closer to see, still holding the note steady for me to probe. The backside of the paint flake was a dark blue–gray, possibly indicative of an older weather–resistant paint primarily found on vehicles made in the 70's and 80's.