by Aric Davis
“Kitten, I know how much you’ve been looking forward to seeing the H.M.S Pinafore,” said Robert. He turned to Ken with his right index finger extended. “Can we get your word that you had nothing to do with this?”
It was all Ken could do not to grab the gun and just kill this stupid asshole. Robert was a twig, and even with the extra weight Ken was carrying around, Ken could have snapped him. The gun would make an already unfair fight even worse.
Ken pushed the urge away. There would be a time and place for this; the comeuppance of Mr. Everett would be enough for now. Next time I see you, you’re going to be begging for your life. Ken smiled and said, “Of course you can. I have no idea what Mr. Everett might have done, and I definitely didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Robert stuck his hand out, and for just too pregnant a pause, Ken was unsure what he was supposed to do. Finally he took Robert’s hand and they shook, the first time since Ken had first been released from jail that they had touched one another.
“I’m taking your word on this, Ken,” said Robert. “I hope you know how much that means to me.” I sure do, you family-stealing piece of shit. “I sure do, Robert. You guys have a fun trip. The kids and I are going to go for a little hike. We need to figure out dinner, since McDonald’s is out.”
“Great,” said Tim, in a voice that suggested that he thought the situation was anything but.
“Can’t wait,” echoed his younger sister.
“Fantastic,” said Robert. “Kids, give your mother a hug, and then we’re going to hit the road.” Ken watched them embrace her reluctantly, Lisa, then Tim. She might have poisoned them against him, but for the first time, Ken realized that she may just have poisoned them for herself too. Maybe she hadn’t turned them against her directly, or at least not intentionally, but the recent nuptials could have done the job on their own. It was one thing to have a deadbeat for a father, it was another to have a complete asshat for a stepfather.
Lisa and Tim slowly walked over to him, and the three of them watched the car pull away, their lives changing as the wheels turned. Ken gave a look to the restaurant, figured it might make sense to call before coming in to work the following day, and said, “Let’s go get some dinner, all right?”
“There’s nowhere good to eat around here,” said Tim. “McDonald’s sucks, and that was the best option. I think I’ll just fast the whole weekend.”
“Tim,” said Ken, “you need to shut the fuck up.” Ken watched as his children’s eyes widened. “Yes, I said that. Now, let’s get moving so we can get to the house and my car. We don’t need to settle for pizza if you guys don’t want to.”
“You said the car was broken,” whined Tim, and Ken hammered the nail flat.
“My lies to your mother have nothing to do with you. The car’s fine. I just wanted to fuck with her.”
Ken watched as Tim and Lisa, only a year apart, shared a private look. He knew exactly what they were thinking, and he couldn’t wait to show them what else had changed. Ken got moving. His whole life was ahead of him, and the kids were in tow.
The real call came an hour after dinner.Van Endel had finished the dishes and was readying himself to attempt to watch Dynasty with Lex. He would have happily stomached almost anything else on TV, but there was something about the revolving cast on Dynasty that made his head ache. Everyone treated each other like shit, and there never seemed to be any resolution. The phone ringing was almost a blessing. Van Endel was tired, but if work got him out of watching Joan Collins act like a bitch for an hour, he was fine with it.
Van Endel grabbed the handset and said, “Hello.”
The voice on the other end was Nelson. He said, “I’ll be there in ten minutes, but don’t get antsy. It’s not a shooting.”
Van Endel didn’t say anything, just listened for the click, and when it came he replaced the handset. Van Endel grabbed his jacket and holstered pistol from the back of a dining room chair, then walked into the living room, where Lex and the television were getting reacquainted.
“I knew it was too good to be true,” she said as he walked in. There was a pouty look on her face, but it could have been worse. Pouty beat bitchy every single time.
“I know,” said Van Endel, “it’s bad timing, but it came with a silver lining: no shooting. To be perfectly honest, I’m not even sure what they need me for. My understanding was that I was to be involved solely in the spree killings. Nelson said this was different.”
“Maybe someone lost his dog,” offered Lex, and Van Endel said, “Or cat — no reason that it couldn’t be a cat. I should go get my fishing net just in case.” Van Endel slipped into the shoulder holster; he was already getting used to having a firearm there instead of at his waist. He’d practiced drawing from it a few times and felt comfortable with it, but some range time would help. Not that it’s going to matter for much longer. The shine is going to wear off of that picture in the newspaper soon.
“Are you even listening?” Lex asked. She was staring at him and irritated. “I said, ‘Whatever it is, please be safe.’ You’re standing there like you’re drunk.”
“I’m sorry,” said Van Endel. “Just putting my game face on. And of course I’ll be careful. I always am.” Lex crossed her arms and turned away. “Please be quiet when you come in,” she said. “I finally slept a little last night, and I could really use a repeat performance.”
“Will do,” said Van Endel as he put on his jacket. “If being quiet means you sleep, I won’t wake a mouse.” He walked to the door, put his hand on the dead bolt, and stopped. “Lex, I love you. This will all calm down soon, and we’ll get some quality time, I promise.”
“All right, Dick,” said Lex, detached now as if he were already gone. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” The opening bars of the theme for Dynasty started up, and Van Endel opened the door as Lex returned to the imaginary world of the Carringtons. He locked the door behind him and walked to the car. Nelson sat inside smoking, and Van Endel opened the door and got in.
“What’s going on?” Van Endel asked, as Nelson backed out of the driveway and got moving.
“Drug bust,” said Nelson. “A big one, from what I understand. Some kid got busted and rolled over on his dealer. I’m still not sure why that means we got a call, but hey, if it keeps us looking busy, I’m all for it.” Van Endel nodded; he could certainly appreciate that. Nelson could get yelled at, but he wouldn’t lose his job over their guy going to ground. I’ll be back in blue if we don’t stay busy.
Neither man spoke as Nelson piloted them to the station. They walked in together and met two men wearing suits by the rooms used to talk to suspects. Van Endel recognized them immediately: vice detectives Frank Cousins and Paul Harris. Nelson shook their hands, and Van Endel followed suit.
“Still got you in a suit,” said Cousins to Van Endel. “Good for you.”
“Why am I here?” Nelson asked, and the two vice cops shook their heads and looked at the ground. “You’re here because we’re trying to help you out, ya fucking meatball,” said Harris. “Jesus, Nelson, it’s not even late yet.”
“How are you going to help?” Nelson asked. “What do you have for me?” The two vice cops exchanged a glance, and then Cousins spilled. “Your first shooting was at a McDonald’s, right? Well, I’ve got a guy in there who managed a McDonald’s, and he just so happened to have a pound of weed stashed in there, and another ten pounds at home. It’s all good stuff too. The guy was having a couple of knuckleheads broker deals for him with their friends, and one of them got popped with an ounce after he was pulled over for doing twenty-five miles an hour on the highway.” Cousins shrugged. “Like I said, it’s good stuff, probably Mexican.”
“You think he could be connected to our murders?”
“Maybe,” said Cousins. “I have no clue, to be honest. That said, this is a man with a serious sports-gambling problem that may have needed money to make this drug deal come together. If that were the case, well, you know how desperation work
s.”
“What room is he in?” Nelson asked, and Harris pointed at Room 1. “He’s in there with a lawyer and won’t say much about the drugs, but I bet he’ll either freak out or start coming real clean if you accuse him of murder. Either way, you’ll know if he’s worth a longer look.”
“All right,” said Nelson. “Let’s go.” Nelson tapped on the door twice and then opened it. He walked in, and Van Endel followed. Seated at a metal table were a lawyer and the suspect; the clothing made it easy to tell who was who.
The lawyer stood and said, “Troy Burris.” He extended a hand. “I’m taking care of Mr. Everett while we get this sorted out.”
The detectives shook hands with Burris, told him their names, and then sat. Everett remained seated, eyes planted on the table. “We talked to you a couple of days ago. You have all the dope in there, then?”
The man said nothing. Neither did the lawyer.
“All right,” said Nelson. “You don’t want to talk about that, fine by me. It couldn’t matter less to me that you got hemmed up on some dope. I want to know how you got the money to buy it.”
“My client has been advised to utilize his Miranda rights,” said Burris, “and I don’t see either of our opinions changing as far as his rights are concerned.”
“Do you know why we’re here instead of those vice cops who checked out your house?” Van Endel asked, knowing as he spoke that this was the big leagues, this was where he wanted to be. This was what he lived for. “I mean, to be perfectly honest, we’ve got a lot on our plate right now, but they called us in because there is a possibility that you found yourself in a bit of a tight spot when it comes to money. I’m not going to argue with you about that, or about drugs, or really anything else. Detective Nelson and I are here for one reason only. We want to know if you own a .38 Special, and we want to know your blood type.” Everett didn’t move, but Burris did.
“Blood type?” Burris asked, leaning forward in his seat. “What does blood type or a firearm have to do with anything?”
“We’re looking at your client as a suspect in the murders you keep hearing about on the news,” said Van Endel. “If he owns a handgun chambered in .38 Special or has a blood type of A-positive, then we really need to talk. As it is, I’m going to need to talk to the rest of his employees to get him cleared, or just to charge him. After all, there’s no rush, right, Phil?”
“No rush at all, Mr. Everett,” said Nelson, “though it says here that you’re actually named James. I think I prefer James, to be honest. I’ll stick with that. Anyways, what my partner was getting to is that with your other charges, we don’t need to rush to pin this one to your shirt. The fact of the matter is, you’ve got a long uphill legal battle ahead of you. I’m sure Mr. Burris here has assured you of that. What that means for us is that we can go to the ends of the earth looking for evidence on this, or you can be cooperative, and I can tell the DA about what a good boy you are. After all, this has nothing to do with drugs. Your proving that you didn’t kill a bunch of people because you’re a sick fuck who needed money could actually help you later on down the line.”
“I need to talk to my client privately,” said Burris. Everett looked shocked at hearing the words. “It shouldn’t take us more than five minutes or so. I just want to make sure he understands everything that’s happening here.”
“Understood,” said Nelson, and the detectives left the room. When they were outside it, Nelson lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke. “It’s not him,” said Nelson, “but even if he does talk turkey, we’re going to waste tomorrow dealing with this, guaranteed.” He puffed smoke. “Maybe even Sunday.”
Van Endel nodded, and the door opened behind them. Nelson stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray by the door, and they went back into the room. The detectives sat where they had been before, and Burris said, “Thank you. As long as we are speaking off the record, Mr. Everett will be fine answering questions that will not lead to evidence against him in his marijuana case.”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” said Everett. He was sweating, and a bead of it trickled down his nose. “I’m not that kind of person. I had money trouble, but who doesn’t? I know what you’re thinking — I’m obviously going to lie — but I didn’t do this. I couldn’t, there’s no way, I—”
“What blood type are you, James?” Van Endel asked, cutting the man off.
“A-positive,” said Everett, his voice a whisper. “That doesn’t mean anything, though. I didn’t do it.”
“Can you prove your whereabouts over the last four days?” Nelson asked. “I mean in detail too, especially at the times of the killings.”
“All of the time I was at the restaurant, absolutely, but when I wasn’t — ” Everett cut himself off and leaned toward his lawyer. They whispered back and forth.
Burris, looking upset as well now, said, “Mr. Everett is not going to be able to provide a full alibi for himself over the last few days, in particular at the time of two of the crimes he is alleged to have committed. We can do our best to work around the inconsistencies in his schedule, but there is going to be no way to completely verify his whereabouts.”
“You do realize,” said Nelson, “that he is very likely going to be charged with murder? I need conclusive proof that it was impossible for him to be at those crime scenes. We’ve got his prints, and that can be a partial eliminator, but none of the other evidence we have is going to be able to rule him out.”
“What size shoe do you wear?” Van Endel asked Everett.
Everett replied, “Ten and a half.”
Van Endel and Nelson exchanged a glance; that was right around what Van Endel had guessed at and Tracy had confirmed. The shoe size their perp was wearing was between a 9 and an 11, most likely around a 10.
“All right,” said Nelson, “this is your last chance to argue this with me, or explain yourself before Monday morning when you get arraigned. You’re not going to incriminate yourself, fine. We’re going to look into you tomorrow, first thing. If you get lucky, we’ll find something that clears you. If not? Murder one, multiple counts, seems most likely. I’d make sure in the next day or two that Mr. Burris really thinks damning yourself on this marijuana arrest isn’t worth getting your head clear of the noose the DA is going to be getting ready for you.”
Nelson stood, and Van Endel followed. They left the room one after the other, and behind them, Burris and Everett were silent.
Ken drove Tim and Lisa to get sandwiches from a sub shop a few streets over. They delivered, but he figured it was worth avoiding the apartment for as long as possible. They were always crammed in there like sardines when the kids came by, and none of them seemed to like it too much. Ken ordered a hot turkey-and-bacon sub, extra mayo, hold the veg, while Lisa got a pizza sub and Tim a meatball one. Ken picked up a pair of two-liter bottles of soda, and they were out the door and in the car about fifteen minutes later.
“That old guy working in the back stunk like shit,” said Tim. “I could smell him over the food, for real. Do you think he made our subs? I seriously hope not.”
“You know,” said Ken, “it is pretty normal to sweat at work. I know when I’m working hard—”
“What was up with your boss?” Lisa asked. “Is he some psycho or something? Mom says there are a ton of weirdos out there if you look. She says you don’t even have to look hard, that they’re everywhere.”
“Yeah, Ken,” said Tim. “Seriously, like half of the people in that McDonald’s where they arrested that guy were borderline freak show. Like that movie The Hills Have Eyes, only instead of them being inbred from living in the middle of nowhere, they’re just super trashy. It’s really messed up that we have to be around them, when you think about it.”
Ken reached the blessing of the apartment building’s parking lot a few moments later. He parked the Omni and grabbed the sack with the subs, and the kids hauled a two-liter bottle each. He unlocked the door to let them in and was shocked when Lisa said, “Wow, you finally cleaned
up the place.”
“Thanks for noticing,” said Ken, his nerves already frayed from the car ride. He wished he had the magic bullet, but he’d left it in his room. There was just something about the kids that was so poisonous that he could barely wrap his head around it. Things would almost be better if he just shot them and then killed himself. His relationship with Paula had never been perfect, but they acted as if they were infected with something. The thought came to him like lightning: What if the kids were the same way he was? What if they had their own magic bullets yet to be found? What if they were bound for the same destiny? He wasn’t sure if the idea made him sick or if the kids just made him nauseous.
The three of them sat at the table, sandwiches laid before them and soda in plastic cups. They ate without talking, and when they were finished, Ken gathered what was left of the food, wrapped it up, and stuck it in the refrigerator. Tim and Lisa were watching television in the other room — Ken hadn’t heard them ask, and figured that was because they hadn’t. He put the open two-liters in the fridge, making sure the caps were on tight, and then walked into the small living room. Tim and Lisa each occupied a side of the couch, and Ken stood behind them.
“When did you get a TV?” Lisa asked, and Tim turned to hear the answer as well. Wheel of Fortune wasn’t as entertaining as it looked, apparently.
“Just the other day,” said Ken. “I thought it would be nice to have for the weekend. Especially when I work tomorrow; this way you guys won’t get as bored.”
“What’s Mom going to say about that?” Tim asked. “You’re supposed to be giving her part of your checks, and if you got a raise, then she’s supposed to know about it. There’s no way you could just afford a TV. That one’s not big, but it is brand new. So is the antenna. There’s no way you just bought that for yourself. Did you get a second job?”
“No,” said Ken, “not really. I helped out some guys who run a moving business for a couple of weekends when I didn’t have you and your sister.” Ken could feel rage building inside him. He’d never hit his children, but they’d never spoken to him quite like this either.