by Aric Davis
“What kind of moving business pays you like that?” Tim asked, real suspicion in his eyes now, instead of just casual interest in Ken’s scam. “Seriously, if they’re paying you that well, why are you still working fast food?”
“Well, like I said, it’s a temporary thing,” Ken offered, wishing the line of questioning would go away, and knowing from the looks on his children’s faces that it wasn’t going to. They could tell he was uncomfortable and lying, and they wanted to know the truth. They wouldn’t really want to, though. The thought was horrible. Thinking about ridding the world of his offspring was an easy, almost pleasant thought, but now, with them in front of him, it seemed like the cruelest thing in the world. It would be a tragedy I could live with.
“If I could get more hours with those guys, I would,” sputtered Ken, “but they’re not busy enough to keep me on full-time. I just fill in when my schedule allows me to.”
“Right,” said Tim. “When you’re not working at McDonald’s, you’re working this other job, keeping the house clean, and you’re out buying TVs and stuff. What other stuff have you bought? Do you have an Atari?”
“I haven’t bought anything else,” said Ken, “especially not an Atari. I wouldn’t know the first thing about playing video games, and you’re right, I’m busy. Even if I wanted to waste my time with that stuff, I couldn’t.” Ken flung his arms up, though he felt ridiculous doing it. You can kill people, but you can’t control your kids. They’d always held this power over him, ever since they were old enough to resent him.
“You’re lying,” said Lisa, and Tim nodded his head in agreement. “Why are you lying to us? The last time we came over, your apartment was a mess just like always, we ate TV dinners from the oven and had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and all we had to drink was water. This time you volunteered to take us out to eat and let us pick what we wanted.”
“You let us get two kinds of pop too,” added Tim. “Even Mom doesn’t do that. Even Robert doesn’t do that, and he’s got a ton of money.” Tim pointed a finger at Ken’s chest. “You don’t have a lot of money, or at least you’re not supposed to. What’s really going on? We know it’s not just some job you got a couple of hours on, there’s no way you’d clean up because of that, and don’t say that happened because we were coming over. That never mattered before. You have a secret.”
“Yeah,” said Lisa. “You do have a secret. You should tell us.”
“No,” said Tim. “You have to tell us.” He smiled, as if an idea were just occurring to him. “If you don’t, then we’ll tell Mom about the TV.”
“And the soda,” said Lisa.
“And about everything else,” said Tim. “It doesn’t even all need to be true; we can say that you got rid of a bunch of stuff that was here when we came over. You know everyone will believe us. You’ve been to prison — nobody believes an ex-con. Plus, there’s beer in your fridge, and you know what a shit fit Mom would throw over that. Imagine how she’d react, Ken. It wouldn’t be good. Who do you think she’d call first, your parole officer or that lady from the court?”
“I think she’d call his parole officer,” said Lisa.
“I sort of do too,” said Tim, “but it’s going to be fun to find out which way she goes.” Tim tapped the side of his head with his index finger, only fifteen years old and already an irredeemable asshole. “You know, Ken, it might just be easier if you just told us what in the fuck is going on. Just an idea, though; it’s really up to you. What do you think — want to clue us in, or should we start making up a list of all the stuff you have here now?”
“Neither of you two little fucks is going to say anything,” said Ken, all restraint gone from his voice. “I have the right to have a few secrets, just like anyone. Just like you or your mother. I’m a private person, and that is my right.”
“It’s not your right, though, Ken,” said Tim. “You owe us money, and whatever little deal you’ve got worked out is supposed to have a chunk cut out of it for us. Tell us where you’re getting the money, or we tell Mom.”
“Yeah,” said Lisa, “it’s not like you’re going to tell us and then we’re going to rat you out. We just want to know, and then we’ll leave you alone about it. We’re just curious; it’s not like it’s a big deal.”
All Ken could think of was the gun. It felt perfect in his hands when he was loading or shooting it. In his pocket, it was a perfect lump of danger that no one knew about it until he made his intentions crystal clear. You’re going to let two kids bully you around? You kill people. It was a sobering thought in a moment that felt full of madness.
Ken spun, walked to the fridge, and grabbed a beer. He pulled the tab, finished it in one long chug, then belched loudly and grabbed another one.
“That’s got to be a record,” said Tim, “but you’re still not supposed to be drinking.”
“I’ll do what I want,” said Ken. “If you two are so hell-bent on knowing what I’ve been up to, and on being treated like adults, I can show you first thing in the morning. Just give me a little time. I’ll need to get a phone call first, and then I’ll know where to go.”
“You better not be lying,” said Tim.
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Ken. “I’m telling you the truth. I can’t have you two messing up my setup. Just give me a little bit of time and this will all make sense, all right?”
“You know, at some point we’re going to need to go to the store and buy you a suit,” said Nelson. “That thing looked tired when you first put it on; now it looks like an old dog that wants to die.”
“Maybe we should,” said Van Endel. “It’s not like we have time to do it otherwise. We could go get me a suit, then take this one to the dry cleaners.”
“No, buddy,” said Nelson. “The first part, but not the second. When you peel that off of your body, we are building a large fire and getting a Bible, and we are going to make sure that whatever demon is holding that thing together stays dead.” Van Endel shook his head, and Nelson chuckled. They were driving to the McDonald’s where James Everett had been arrested on suspicion of selling marijuana. They needed to talk to employees and go over time sheets, and both men knew it was going to be tedious.
It was no mystery that Everett and his young accomplice had been involved in the drug sales, but anyone else working there who had known about it or even helped out was going to be on edge. That was fine for the two vice detectives working the drug angle, but it wouldn’t be doing Van Endel and Nelson any favors. The drugs were immaterial to them; they needed to either clear Everett of committing the spree killings or gather evidence against him so the state could formally charge him. Van Endel had a hard time seeing Everett as the type of man who would do it. He seemed more like the kind of man who would slip a date a mickey or sell you out to a coworker behind your back, not the type of man for the kind of killings they were looking at.
The perp Van Endel envisioned was the kind of man who would be quick to anger and hard to calm down. To a person like that, once the decision to kill was made, it was a guaranteed event. There was no talking down for the type of spree killer Van Endel envisioned; one negotiated with bullets or anything else that could be used as a weapon. Van Endel suspected a loner, maybe a man who hated women, maybe not. He also thought it likely that the shooter had owned the gun used in the killings for some time but hadn’t known exactly why. His earlier theory about the man’s having an agenda besides money was still in place as well. Money was being taken, but, just like the failed rape, it wasn’t being done right. Thieves were like rats, they found every crumb they could, and this guy was just plain bad at that part of the job.
Van Endel knew that Nelson disagreed, that his partner saw the killer as a robber first, and a too-quick-to-pull-the-trigger killer second. Van Endel could see the logic in that, he just didn’t agree with it. Nelson thought Van Endel was trying to put too much thought into the process, and that the perp’s being a broken individual and not just a desperate one was a reach.
As Nelson pulled the car into the McDonald’s parking lot, empty except for the employees’ cars, Van Endel could feel an electric pulse running through his body. It was the same way he’d felt when he’d walked into the room to interrogate Everett. Nelson parked the car, and the detectives left it to walk inside.
The regional manager was a woman named Charlotte Rivera. She had coal-black skin and was oddly stunning for a woman wearing a button-up shirt embroidered with the Golden Arches. If anything, her beauty was such that it made the dour surroundings and ugly shirt into just accents for her smile, hair, and body.
“Detectives, it’s so nice to meet you in person,” said Charlotte. Nelson and Van Endel took turns shaking her hand, and Van Endel gave what he hoped was a nonchalant look to the staff. Everett was missing, obviously, and so was the young stoner that had cooked them those sandwiches a few days before. The big guy they’d talked to in the office was there, and so were a bevy of other people whom Van Endel didn’t recognize.
“It’s nice to meet you as well, Charlotte,” said Nelson. “Did you talk to your staff about what we discussed on the phone last night?”
“We sure did,” said Charlotte. “We had a nice long conversation about everything that you said I should mention, so we should all be on the same page. I think these guys feel the same way I do: the sooner this is over and we can reopen, the better.”
“Great,” said Nelson, turning from Charlotte to the bored-looking workers. “My partner and I are here to try and rule out a few things about your boss, Mr. James Everett. Right now there is some pretty damning evidence against him, all pertaining to a different situation than what we are here to discuss today.” Nelson paused, took his jacket off, and laid it over the back of a chair. “As I was saying, my partner and I are not vice cops; we don’t try and bust drug dealers and users. We do try and arrest violent criminals, and we’re both pretty damn good at it. That’s what we’re looking for today, just information on Mr. Everett. I know you probably won’t believe me when I say this, but I mean it. If you implicate yourself in anything but a very grievous crime, yet get us information that could lead to a conviction for Mr. Everett, you will not be charged. In fact, the discussion will never leave the office here. Do any of you have questions?”
“I do,” said a tired-looking girl sitting near the back of the restaurant. “You saying that if we did some bad stuff and told you about it, that it wouldn’t matter as long as you got to send Mr. Everett to jail?”
“Yes,” said Nelson, “that’s exactly what I’m saying. This is not a ‘get out of jail free’ card, this is a ‘you did something you wouldn’t normally tell a cop, but you can help my investigation out, so it’s OK’ card. Again, I am not here to arrest you, and neither is my partner. Trust me, we have much bigger fish to fry.” Nelson clapped his hands together. “All right, my partner and I are going to go over the schedule and see if we can’t get this rolling, and then we’re going to call you into the office one after the other so we can talk privately.”
Nelson turned to Van Endel and Charlotte, and the regional manager led them back through the kitchen with a sashay that would have seemed more at home on a runway than on a tile floor. Grease from the cold fryers hung in the air worse than it had a few days prior, and Van Endel remembered Nelson’s telling him that they’d shut down the mid dinner rush the day before.
Charlotte opened the door to the office and ushered them inside. “All of our time slips are on the desk right here,” she said. “I haven’t been through them personally, but I think the three of us can all agree that if James had wanted to alter the slips to suit his needs, it would have been fairly easy for him to do so. Because of that, I assume you plan to go through these quickly and then talk to my people, correct?”
“Yeah,” said Nelson, “this is just a formality. We’re going to need to talk either way. If you want to have a seat, you can help us make sure we’re reading these correctly. It’s been a long time since I had to use one of these, and I can’t say I’ve ever inspected them.”
“Same here,” said Van Endel. “We really appreciate your time, Charlotte.”
“Just so we’re clear, guys,” said Charlotte, “I’m here as a staff member first, as a friend to these people second, and as a cooperative citizen third. You both seem nice enough, and I’m trying to be as open as possible, but if you abuse my people, I will be very upset. To that end, I want to be in this room for the interviews.”
“That could be a problem,” said Nelson. “If these folks think you’ll fire them for something they did, they might not be as forthcoming as we need to them to be. I think it would be best if you sat outside for these talks. I respect your opinion, but—”
“We’re fine with your request,” said Van Endel, squelching the fire that was growing in the room thanks to Nelson, “and we appreciate your help. Now, let’s get to these records. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”
It didn’t take long to find Everett’s time sheets. They were ordered alphabetically, and he was logging far more hours than anyone else at the store. Van Endel found that odd, but Charlotte’s lack of a reaction let him know that it wasn’t much of a sign of anything, other than that fast-food managers kept hours similar to those of a detective. “So he lived here,” said Nelson. “Jesus.”
“It’s not uncommon for our head managers to work a lot of shifts,” said Charlotte. “They’re typically salaried but still try to fill in as many hours as possible.”
“Is it a bonus thing?” Van Endel asked, and Charlotte nodded, then said, “Exactly, it’s all a margin thing. A manager who is able to run one of our restaurants well, and do so at as profitable a margin as possible, is rewarded well for that behavior. That said, someone like James was clearly riding the razor’s edge when it came to scheduling. He was good at it, but he was coming close to slipping. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by what happened. I’m used to having indiscretions at one of my restaurants, usually a spring-autumn romance. I’m not used to a store being used as a drug front.”
“It is a unique situation,” said Nelson. “Now we just need to figure out if his money troubles made him really desperate.”
Van Endel shuffled time cards, took his Moleskine from his pocket, and verified days. He set a time card down on the desk, then another, and then a third. “According to these, he was here at the time of the first killing,” said Van Endel, “but he wasn’t for the other two.”
“Like I mentioned earlier,” said Charlotte, “it would have been easy for James to alter these. Why would he change the first of them and not the other two?”
Nelson and Van Endel exchanged a look. It was hard not to agree with her. “Let’s get some people in here and nail this shut,” said Nelson.
Ken was the third person called into the office. He knew that he was going to be asked to speak to the cops, so when Hero walked out of the kitchen and said, “Ken Richmond, please,” it felt more like something inevitable than like bad luck.
Ken followed the detective back to Mr. Everett’s office. He had tucked the magic bullet into his back pocket next to his wallet, and the feeling of it on his body was helping him to stay calm. Ken walked into the office as though he didn’t have a care in the world, and he was tired enough from the late night that he felt like he looked relaxed; at least that was how he’d looked before he left the house.
Ken sat in a chair in front of the desk, the same one from the first time they had spoken. Hero sat next to him, and Nelson and Charlotte sat across from him on the other side of the desk.
Nelson leaned over the desk, as if to share a secret with Ken and Hero, and said, “Ken Richmond, long time, no see.” Nelson was grinning like an idiot, and Ken wondered what exactly they were going to ask him. They were here, after all, on behalf of Everett, not because of anything Ken had done. “Not too long, though, Detective,” said Ken, trying to make sure that he channeled the dumb-guy routine he wore like a mask at work. Ken knew he wasn’t the bright
est crayon in the box, but he always made sure to operate a little more slowly here — it made things easier.
“No, not too long at all,” said Nelson. “Look, we’re going to keep this quick, OK?” Nelson paused, grabbed what had to be a pager from his belt, and then laid it on the desk. “You can wait,” he said to the pager, and then he cleared his throat and turned back to Ken. “Sorry about that. Like I said, this is going to be quick, Ken.” The pager buzzed again, dancing on the desk like a novelty pack of rattlesnake eggs. Nelson shook his head and chuckled, checked the number again, then replaced it on the table. “Anyways, here’s what we need you to verify.”
Nelson pointed at a pair of time cards, and Ken felt his pulse quicken. The time cards were from the day of the first killing, when he’d shot up the McDonald’s. Oh, fuck. Nelson drew an imaginary line on the desk between the two cards, connecting with his finger when Ken had come in to work and when Everett had clocked in. Ken looked back and forth between the cards, then at Charlotte. He said, “I don’t understand.”
“It’s OK, Ken,” said Charlotte. “Can you clarify what you want Mr. Richmond to tell you?”
“I can,” said Hero. He was staring at Ken as he pointed to the cards. “What we want to know is if Mr. Everett was here when you clocked in, and what he was like when you showed up. It looks here like you might have been a few minutes late. Or who knows? Maybe you were just really early. Help me out here, Ken.”
“I was a few minutes late that day,” said Ken. “Mr. Everett was unhappy about it, but he wasn’t too mad, he didn’t yell at me. I just had a little bit of car trouble, that’s all.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” said Charlotte. “Anyone can be late, so long as it’s not habitual.”
“That’s true,” said Nelson. “I myself have been guilty of it many times. Did Mr. Everett seem himself? Was he stressed out more than normal that day?”