Secret Society

by Stuart R. West

  “Yes, but there’s one other thing I believe they have in common…”

  “What might that be?”

  “I believe you’re the common connection.”

  “Detective, what do you want me to say here? I don’t know two of these people. And the third one…that’s something I’ve explained. If you think I had something to do with their—whatever—maybe you should arrest me. Goddamn it! You already cleared me regarding Smeltzer. The bartender told you I wasn’t at the bar. And I can account for where I was last night as you well know.”

  “Calm down, Mr. Gribble.” Sidarski said this in a condescending voice—made worse by his patronizing air-pats—the sort that never worked to calm people down. “Better?” He didn’t wait for Leon’s response. “Good. I received a phone call shortly after the Sturgeon woman vanished from the Barton mall. The caller implied there was a body in your apartment. I’m sure you remember our first meeting. Now. Mr. Smeltzer’s wife received another phone call implicating you in the disappearance of her husband. As you stated, you couldn’t be placed at the bar, but I haven’t found anyone to corroborate your appearance at the Pointmark Theatre that night either.”

  Blindsided, Leon couldn’t concentrate—a very dangerous state-of-mind for a man in his line of work. He needed sleep, a temporary respite from his very real fears. “And now, Mr. Gribble, someone you definitely had a motive to make disappear, has disappeared. You are the connecting link between all three cases.”

  “I think I need a lawyer now,” Leon mumbled through numb lips.

  Sidarski held up a commanding hand and smiled. “Now, now. I told you I’d let you know when it’s time for a lawyer. Unfortunately…it’s not time yet. As much as I feel you’re involved—know you’re involved—I have nothing yet. Nothing concrete.” He stood up, stroking his hand over his tie. He crossed the room and sat on the table, one leg dangling idly over the edge. “You know what I think?”

  “Detective, I’m sure you’re going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not. I also know you’re obstructing me from my right to legal counsel.”

  Sidarski clapped a hand on Leon’s shoulder in a “good ol’ boy” gesture. “I’m doing no such thing. This is a friendly chat. You’re free to leave at any time.”

  “Fine.” Leon stood. “I’m ready to leave. You’re harassing me. You’re wrong about me, Detective.”

  “I sincerely hope I am, but here’s what I do know. It’s not coincidental your name keeps coming up all over this mess. I don’t believe in coincidences. Coincidences are fairy tales in police work, mollifying words lazy cops use when they can’t connect the dots even when they’re staring directly at them. I’m not a lazy cop. I know you’re not telling me everything. That’s what I know. Now, here’s what I think. I think if you’re not directly involved with these three cases, then you have an accomplice with whom you’re working.”

  “I’ve heard enough.” Leon met resistance when he pulled at the door. Still locked. “Let me out!”

  “Oh, sure. My bad.” Sidarski picked up the phone, his hand cupped over the receiver. Leon couldn’t make out Sidarski’s hushed words. Probably best that way; he couldn’t take much more. “They’ll buzz us out in a moment, Mr. Gribble. I gotta apologize for the ancient equipment around here. Everything takes longer than it should.” He walked toward Leon, frowning at the floor as if he’d spotted unwelcome dust. “Mr. Gribble, why is it I can’t find any information about you from the past? Anywhere?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Apparently you didn’t exist before you came to Barton. No job history, priors, financial reports. Zilch.”

  “Blame human resources!” Leon needed out of the room. His mind buzzed; his thoughts jumbled together. He tottered at the precipice of losing restraint, freeing his inner animal. “Okay, fine. If you’d like, I’ll get together a history of past employers.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  “It’ll take some time to get it together.” Of course, Leon had no intention of doing so. Right now, immediate survival trumped everything. He’d say or do anything to get out of the locked room.

  “Fine. I’m certain you’re not leaving town soon, anyway.”

  The door finally buzzed then popped open with the smallest of clicks.

  “Oh, let me get the door for you.” Sidarski held the door open, allowing Leon to walk past him.

  At the end of the dark hallway, two shadowy figures lurched toward Leon. He made out a uniformed policeman, cuffs jangling at his side. The other figure displayed a solid, vigorous swagger—one all too familiar.

  “Still don’t know what I’m doing here, yo!”

  Leon stumbled then froze. His heart throttled out a quick succession of beats. Sidarski stood behind him, his breath hot on Leon’s neck. Doing so intentionally, no doubt. This is no accident. Sidarski knows exactly what he’s doing.

  Leon found himself praying—something he never did—Cody would keep his mouth shut. Please, God, just this once!

  Cody’s constant chatter stopped. Sidarski pulled Leon against the wall, waiting for Cody and the officer to pass. Cody’s eyebrows raised slightly, recognition evident in his eyes. Leon kept his gaze locked on Cody, hoping to impart the direness of their situation.

  As Cody passed, he thrust a shoulder into Leon. “Excuse me, yo.” They entered the interrogation room.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Gribble?” Sidarski placed a hand on Leon’s shoulder. He bent down, pushing his grinning face into Leon’s. “You don’t look so good.”

  “Detective, I’ve just been grilled…interrogated for things I don’t know anything about,” he said hoarsely. “How in the hell do you think I’m supposed to feel?”

  Sidarski said nothing. Just continued smiling.

  With a shrug, Leon tossed Sidarski’s hand off his shoulder. “I can find my own way out.”

  As Leon pushed through the door, fighting every urge to run through the station to the relative safety of his car, he heard Sidarski call out. “Maybe we can catch a movie some time, Mr. Gribble. In Cold Blood is playing at the Fine Arts.”

  * * *

  Nobody kept his cool better than Cody under pressure. The cops couldn’t put one over on the “King of Cool.” Their lame attempt at springing Garber on him just seemed pathetic, lazy. Yeah, right. Like he’d bend over there in the Podunk, Kansas police station and confess like a little bitch. Try again, Five-O.

  For a moment, though, he did almost freak. He thought Garber gave him up. Which didn’t make sense, though. If Garber ratted on Cody, he’d take himself down, too. Besides, Garber might be a bastard, but Cody didn’t figure him for a rat. No, the cops probably found Travis’s body and took Garber into custody. The thought put a rare smile on Cody’s lips. The spoils of victory and all that crap.

  So Cody played it cool. Smart and cool, the way he always played it.

  And now this damn detective was all up in his ass. Cody interlaced his fingers behind his neck, flexing his biceps for show.

  Smart and cool. “What am I doing here again?”

  “What we’re trying to determine, Mr. Grainger.”

  Cody snickered as the overhead bulb lit up Sidarski’s bald head. Dude really needed to get some plugs.

  “Tell me. Where were you last night?”

  Cody’s attention strayed to the large mirror. “Wait, that’s one of those two-way mirrors!”

  “Answer the question, Mr. Grainger.”

  “Why? I mean, am I under arrest for something? Or what?”

  “Where were you last night?”

  When the detective pressed his lips together, the color drained out of them. The resultant blue tint reminded Cody of dead people’s lips. Freaky, to be sure.

  “Whatever. I was down at the Power and Light District getting my party on. You ever been down there, brah? I mean, not for crime or nothin’, but fun? Looks like you could use it. You look pretty uptight.”

  “I’m famili
ar with the Power and Light District. Can anyone corroborate your story? Did you go there with anyone?”

  “No, man, my chances with the ladies are always better when I wing it solo.”

  “Do you have any names of these ‘ladies’?”

  “Struck out! Doesn’t happen to me a lot, you know. Just wasn’t happenin’ last night. I’m sure if you ask around, though, some of the ladies will remember me. Kinda’ hard to miss.”Another muscle flex, this one for the ladies.

  “I see. Mr. Grainger, did you happen to be out south last night?”

  Cody crumpled his brow, pretending to recall the night before. “Out south? No. I told you where I was.”

  “Yes, I heard what you said.” The cop slapped a photograph down in front of him. “Do you know who this is?”

  Cody picked up the photo, looked at it, and immediately discarded it back onto the table. Of course he knew him, the dude he killed last night. “Never seen him before. Who is it?”

  “His name is Travis Bergenstein. He’s missing.”

  “Yeah? Sucks to be him.”

  “Yes, I suppose it does. Mr. Grainger, last night, a young man brought a dog into an animal hospital.” Sidarski consulted a notebook, flipping through it briskly. “The Hawthorne Med-Vet.”

  A sudden shortness of breath caught in Cody’s chest. He released his hands behind his neck, drumming them across the tarnished tabletop. “’Kay. What’s a vet got to do with me?”

  “Here’s the funny thing. The vet ran down some info on the chip in the dog.”

  “Chip?”

  “Sometimes chips are implanted into dog’s necks in case they run away. The vet tracked down the manufacturer to find out the owner’s name. The owner’s Travis Bergenstein. It’s a strange world we live in, Mr. Grainger. Sometimes I think things are interconnected for a reason. Anyway, just so happens, this morning the vet saw a news item about Travis Bergenstein going missing. We got a call from the vet. He described the young man to me. I just happened to have a copy of your driver’s license with me, and for fun, I showed it to him. He said it could be you. Unfortunately the young man wore a hoodie over his head. So the vet couldn’t be absolutely certain, but…the young man fits your description.”

  “It wasn’t me! I don’t know what you think, but…yo, there has to be more guys out there who look like me. I mean, whatever. Told you where I was.” Cody wished the goddamn cop would say something—anything—and quit staring at him. “I mean, I wish it was me. Sounds like the dude did a good thing.”

  “Oh? What do you mean?”

  “What?”

  “Why do you say it was a ‘good thing’?”

  “You know. Taking a beat up dog to a vet. Sounds like a good thing.”

  “I never said anything about the dog being mistreated.”

  “I just, you know…just thought if some guy took a dog into a vet it was wounded or mistreated…or something.”

  When Sidarski kicked his legs to the side, his ankles snapped like popcorn. “Mr. Grainger, do you know Owen Gribble?”

  “Never heard of him. Why?”

  “Just curious. You’re certain you’ve never met the man?” The cop’s self-satisfied smirk bugged Cody. At least if a cop’s pissed at him, Cody knew where he stood.

  “As I said, never even heard of him. What’s this about anyway? I mean, I know you were down at Royale Paint the other day because of some head found in one of the paint cans or whatever, but I don’t see what it’s got to do with me. Brah, I came down here as a favor to you. You said I could help you out. I’m always willing to help the cops out, my civic duty, yo. But I ain’t done nothin’!”

  “I’m sure you’re willing to help the police out.” Sidarski hefted an eyebrow skyward. The weight of his eyebrow pulled Cody down into a spiral of panic.

  “So, whaddaya’ want?”

  The overhead lights crackled. Tiny gray hairs pulled up into Sidarski’s nostrils when he inhaled then dropped down like webs. A waiting game. “Mr. Grainger,” Sidarski finally said, “you told me you’re originally from Denver?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Would you be able to supply me with some work history? Family? Father? Mother?”

  “I don’t have any family!” Cody curled his hands into fists at the mention of his mother. He dug his fingernails into his palms, staving off bitter memories.

  “Everyone has a family.”

  “Yeah? Well, not me. I never knew my dad! And my mother…” He spat the last word out with venom. “I was taken away from that bitch! Got tossed around from one foster home to the next. I grew up on my own, yo. Everything I learned was on my own.”

  “Hey, you seem to be getting upset. Mind telling me why?”

  “How’d you like to grow up in foster homes? You’d hate it, straight up!” Cody fell back against the chair, embracing the cold metal against his shoulders. “You wouldn’t like it,” he said, his voice dropped to a whisper.

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t.” The two men sat in silence, glaring at one another. So far, Cody’d maintained his cool. Until the inquiries about his mother started. Bastard. Who the hell’s he to judge me? Finally, Sidarski slapped his knees, and said, “Okay, Mr. Grainger. If you could supply me with some background—some names, work history, maybe, even a foster home—from Denver, I’d appreciate it.”

  “It’s not like I kept records or nothing.”

  With a lop-sided grin, Sidarski said, “Just see what you can do for me, okay? Help the police out like you say you do.” Sidarski stood, picked up the phone, and issued a directive to open the door.

  “Whatever. You know, you still haven’t told me what this is about.”

  “That’s because I don’t know what this is about. Not yet.”

  And you never will, either, thought Cody as he stormed out of the police station.

  * * *

  The pathetic dry erase board in Sidarski’s office barely stood on its own. He cursed city hall for not distributing taxes where they were needed most. Permanent black marker stained the board’s face, rendering it next to impossible to read. Garish light gleamed brightly off the white surface. He yanked his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. Time to give his “murder board” a proper burial.

  Three photos tacked to the top of the board displayed corporate head shots of his dead woman and two missing men. Funny, he thought, “head shots.” Ashamed of himself for making Sherman-styled, juvenile cracks, he tackled the Aspirin bottle, knocking out four. He swallowed them dry.

  The hanging enlargements of Owen Gribble’s and Toby Grainger’s driver’s licenses interested him more than his missing people. He put on his glasses, tilted his head back, and peered out the bottom of them as he scrawled items underneath their names.

  Without a doubt, they had something in common.

  His “meetings” with Gribble and Grainger had been pretty much what he expected. Denials, overly emotional outbursts of anger, allegations of innocence—the usual response of the guilty. Of course, the truly innocent fall back on these defense mechanisms as well. It’s all about the body language—the facial tics, the nervous tells. The secret to uncovering a guilty party. He saw a lot of telling body language over the last hour and a half.

  He knew Toby Grainger’s type well—the sort Sidarski generally found himself face-to-face with in the box. Usually guilty of small, petty crimes, these young men showed up full of bravado, only to be reduced to crying confessions once they felt a little pressure. Grainger was different, though. Sure, he was full of uncontrollable testosterone, full of a sense of invulnerability—full of shit, basically. But beneath his blustery veneer, Grainger possessed strong survival skills—killer’s skills. Definitely raw, yet they were there. Sidarski had seen them before. Too many times.

  Grainger’s response to his mother opened a whole new can of worms. Kid definitely had some “mommy issues” meriting further investigation. Maybe “doggy issues” as well. If Grainger was somehow complicit in Bergenstein’s disappearance,
why would he put himself at risk to save a dog? Sidarski wrote animal lover? underneath Grainger’s photo, underlining it twice.

  Owen Gribble presented a different case entirely. He displayed signs of nervousness, although that held true for anyone who entered the box, innocent or guilty. And Gribble seemed genuinely baffled by Travis Bergenstein’s disappearance. No matter how good an actor, surprise couldn’t be faked—not to Sidarski’s trained eye. Still, too many signs pointed toward Gribble.

  Even though Gribble grew hostile several times, his otherwise all-too-human responses filled Sidarski with a—minor, though it was—sense of relief he didn’t have a completely amoral sociopath on his hands. They were the scariest and worst perps out there.

  The impromptu meeting in the hallway Sidarski orchestrated seemed disappointing, yet quite interesting at the same time. Nothing concrete happened, but they definitely knew one another, obviously so. You’d have to be blind to overlook how Grainger intentionally bumped into Gribble. Were they enemies, not allies, as he initially suspected?

  Sidarski studied the headache-inducing mess of a board. What do these seemingly two disparate men share in common? They were both loners—although Gribble started an ill-advised relationship with Bergenstein’s ex-girlfriend. They were both new to Barton. Did they know each other before? Hard to say. Both arrived with clean slates like newborn babies. Coincidence? Not in Sidarski’s line of work.

  So what were they to one another? Relatives? Maybe. Didn’t explain the phone calls that started everything, though. A person doesn’t welcome his cousin to Kansas by calling the police, implicating he has a corpse in his apartment. Not even in backwoods, Kansas would this behavior be considered “kin-like.” But Sidarski knew the phone calls came from Grainger.

  Lovers? Doubtful. Gribble’s heterosexual; Grainger, proudly, arrogantly so. Bi-sexually curious? Sidarski chuckled and shook his head, trying to erase the sudden, disturbing images filling his mind’s eye. Lovers really doesn’t fit and enough thoughts about “fitting” parts. His inner Sherman really needed a quick burial.