Reboot

by Alan Mulak

  21

  Big Mike

  In New England, frozen precipitation comes in a variety of shapes and sizes. On this gray day, two weeks after Lieutenant Hurst and Amanda Wolfe had met in Carlisle, miniature popcorn was falling from the sky. Hurst peered from his Crown Vic - wipers pushing away the frozen balls which were bouncing off the windshield, a steady tick tick tick on the roof of the car – and crept along past what was left of the Santos’ house. Even though the case was officially closed and filed in the ‘accidental death’ drawer, it nagged at Hurst like an empty slot in a bookcase: what book used to reside there? Who did I loan it to? Hurst made it a point to drive by the house lot once a week, and like the slot in the bookcase yawning open; it kept reminding him that there was still some unfinished business here.

  Now, he was surprised to see an aging car with Pennsylvania plates parked at the curb, and a man and large dog standing inside the yellow caution tape on what used to be the front door stoop huddled under a large blue and white golf umbrella. Hurst pulled over, turned up the collar of his coat and strode across the snow-covered front lawn.

  Approaching, he called, “Hello.”

  The dog - about the size of a small horse, with a brown body, black head, huge pink tongue lolling from its mouth, came bounding over, its tail was wagging. It ran circles around Hurst, evidently very happy to see him.

  The man turned, removed the cigar from his mouth and said, “Heftig…come!” The dog immediately bounded back, plopped its bottom down, and leaned against the man. The man said, “Sorry about my dog. Other than licking your face off, he’s harmless.”

  Hurst studied the man. He was tall, gray mustache, sported a week-old gray beard, wore a weathered black cowboy hat, and a patched down parka peppered with burn holes from hot cigar ashes. His jeans were threadbare. But the most noteworthy characteristic of the stranger were his blue eyes: they were the eyes of a kind man with wrinkles spreading outward from the corners. And there was some red surrounding those eyes.

  Hurst stepped over the caution tape and walked to the man’s side. The dog licked his hand. Patting the dog’s head with his left hand, Hurst removed his badge with his right. “Lieutenant Hurst. Carlisle Police.”

  The man looked at the badge then removed the glove from his right hand and stuck it out. “Mike DuPont.”

  The men shook hands.

  Hurst pointed at the tape. “You shouldn’t cross this barrier. It’s not safe.”

  DuPont puffed on his cigar and looked at the tape as if seeing it for the first time. “Sorry. I, ah…didn’t notice.”

  Hurst shrugged. “What did you call the dog?”

  “Heftig. It means fierce in German.”

  Hurst looked down at the dog who was licking the wet snow from his coat. “He doesn’t look fierce.”

  DuPont scratched the dog’s ear, “Yeah, the only thing fierce about this guy is his farts after he eats fried food.” He held the umbrella out a bit. “There’s room under here if you want to get out of the weather.”

  Hurst took a Bruins cap from his pocket and put it on. “I’m okay. Thanks.” He paused. The two men and fierce dog stared at the wreckage of the house. Hurst cleared his throat. “I have to ask you…what are you doing here?”

  DuPont took a long pull on his cigar and slowly blew out the smoke. Without taking his eyes off the blackened timbers, said, "That's an excellent question, and honestly, I'm not sure why. I thought by coming here…” He shook his head.

  While the falling popcorn bounced off the umbrella and the visor of Hurst’s cap, Heftig cuddled hard against DuPont’s leg, trying to get as much of his enormous body out of the weather as possible.

  “Did you know the family?”

  DuPont snickered. “Family? If you want to call it that.” He shook his head again. “Me and Rob go way back. We’ve been fishin’ together since…shit, I don’t know… a long, long time. Not quite as much since he married the bitch, but we still get away for at least a week or two every year. As for the family, well, I suppose the best you could say is we’re acquainted.”

  Hurst nodded. "How about we get out of this weather, and I buy you a coffee so we can talk a bit? You can follow me. Okay?”

  Dunkin Donuts was too crowded to have any kind of meaningful conversation indoors, so they took their orders to go and climbed into DuPont's rusting Isuzu Trooper. Heftig took his place on the bean-bag style dog bed in the back. Once they settled in, DuPont gave Heftig a Boston Crème Filled Donut. The dog, carefully pinned-down the donut between its paws, painstakingly licked every molecule of chocolate off the treat, and then in two quick bites, ate the rest. After a few licks of stray crumbs, there was no sign the donut ever existed. Heftig then rested his massive head on his paws, watching both men with his doleful, tennis ball sized, pleading brown eyes.

  Hurst said, “Maybe I should go in and get him another one?”

  DuPont shook his head no. “One’s the limit. Too much grease will bring on some rather eye-watering results.”

  “Okay, got it.” Hurst opened his coffee. “Back to why you are here. You've got Pennsylvania plates and sticker. Clearly, you're not from around here."

  “We live in Scranton. I drove up two days ago.” DuPont sipped his coffee. “Incidentally, what do I call you? Are you Lieutenant, or Hurst, or what?”

  Hurst mused for a beat. “I’m Brian. This isn’t official police business.”

  “Fair enough. I’m Mike.”

  “Well then, Mike, what brings you to beautiful downtown Carlisle, Massachusetts?”

  DuPont stared out the window. “Last month, I tried to contact Rob. This is the time of year we plan our fishing trips for the year, so I gave him a call. No dice. So I called Nicole's phone, and she hung up on me. Typical. So then I called his work number, and they told me the news. It was like getting kicked in the nuts, except the pain didn’t let up.” He shook his head and looked at Hurst, “I can’t wrap my arms around the news. So I figured, maybe if I ride up and take a look around…who knows?”

  Hurst nodded but said nothing. Is this guy for real? Maybe.

  DuPont asked, “What the hell happened?”

  “Well, since this isn’t an official investigation and since we’re just talking… That is what we’re doing, right?

  “Yep.”

  “The official report…” Hurst recounted a short version of the official findings.

  “What did you find of Rob?”

  “An arm. Foot. Some blood.”

  “Any fingerprints?”

  Hurst froze. God dammit, I was hoping this question wouldn’t come up. Even though the arm was severely charred, those nitwits at the ME office were supposed to lift whatever prints were available, but as usual, it was put off for one day then another. Then it was misplaced. Finally, by accident, they tossed it in the hazardous waste incinerator. Bozos. “No. There wasn’t much left of it.”

  DuPont sipped his coffee. “So, it may have been someone else’s arm.”

  “The wedding ring was on the ring finger.”

  “Easy enough to do.”

  Hurst nodded. "I see where you're going, but the circumstantial evidence supports the findings."

  DuPont said nothing. The frozen popcorn was still coming down, gathering on the windshield.

  Hurst continued. “Phone company records indicate a call was made at 9 am. His staff was all on the line at the time of the explosion. Rob had said he smelled gas.”

  No comment.

  Hurst tried another approach. “Tell me about the wife.”

  DuPont snorted. “Bitch.”

  “So you said.”

  “Rich. Spoiled. Entitled. Hell, she blamed me for all Rob’s shortcomings. In fact, right after they got married, she forbade him to associate with me. Can you believe that shit?”

  Hurst smiled. “Because?”

  “I wasn’t good enough for her Robby.” DuPont rubbed his eyes. “In retrospect, maybe she had a point.”

  “Oh?”

>   “Well, first I flunked out of Harvard – that’s where Rob and I met - then I got kicked out of Penn. After that, there were two marriages that went south, and then for a long time, I couldn't hold a job. Let’s see, it was about then that I was drunk all the time. But other than those minor character flaws, I’m actually a decent chap. Yeah, it’s true, I’m not the academic type, and work and me didn’t get along, and maybe I drank too much, and I most certainly enjoy the way women feel, but other than that…”

  Both men laughed. Silence.

  Hurst asked. “DuPont. That’s a name I’ve heard before. Are you related to the DuPont’s who are rich and famous?”

  “Sadly, yes. Being a DuPont is a curse.”

  “How so?”

  “All us male descendants of the famous or infamous – take your pick - Pierre Samuel DuPont, who made millions selling gunpowder in colonial times, get a huge chunk of money upon birth. It took me just shy of forty years to blow it all. Yep, every cent. Now, I sharpen skates and drive a Zamboni at the school rink, coach freshman hockey, and tend bar in the evening. So in lovely Nicole’s eyes, I’m a bum. But Rob didn’t think so. Never has. Even during my dark times, he stuck by me.”

  Another pause.

  Hurst drained his coffee. “Let me ask you a cop question…off the record of course, and since we’re just talkin’. Does she have what it takes…I mean to say, could she have murdered her husband?”

  DuPont sat back, eyes wide, and stared at Hurst. “Wow! That’s rather straight to the point.”

  Hurst waited.

  “You bet your ass, and you know, she wouldn’t blink an eye. So my answer is yes. That’s a big friggin’ yes, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t think she did.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve got this gut feeling he’s still alive. I know what you said about all the evidence, but just the same, every atom in my body says he’s still out there somewhere.”

  The corn kept falling with a steady tick tick tick.

  Hurst hunched his shoulders against the chill. “I can understand how you’d want to believe that. It sounds like you guys were good friends.”

  “Maybe we still are.”

  “Okay, point taken.” Hurst was silent for a long moment. “Here’s an idea. I work with a woman that deals in gut feelings, and she knows something about this case. Would you be willing to talk to her?"

  “A shrink?”

  “Not exactly…”

  22

  Wo ai ni

  The next morning dawned sunny and pleasant, mild for February, and yesterday's snow was melting. Mike DuPont made his way along a slushy street in Lowell. It was an old brick mill city, which made him think of Scranton for some reason. He looked again at the address that Detective Hurst had given him. The place should be along here somewhere. And there it was: a weathered brick apartment building. Seated on the sunny doorstep in front was a woman with wild brown and white hair. She looked about mid-forties, uniquely attractive, wrapped in some sort of multicolored shawl. She had her eyes closed; face turned up towards the weak winter sun. He was about to ask if might step by her when, without opening her eyes, she said, "I sense the approach of Mike DuPont and faithful companion Heftig."

  DuPont stopped. “How the hell…”

  The woman opened her eyes – very green eyes –and said, “Psychic.”

  He blinked, speechless.

  Then she smiled. It was a kind, disarming smile. “I’m kidding. Hurst called and told me a large handsome man with a massive dog, driving a rusty red Isuzu Trooper would be stopping by. You are large, your dog is massive, you are handsome, and there’s your Trooper, so you must be Mike DuPont, and this beautiful dog - ” she wrapped her arms around the dog’s neck and gave him a hug - Heftig’ s tail kicking into high gear - “must be Heftig. And naming this wonderful beast Heftig - which I believe is Fierce in German - is a travesty. From henceforth, I dub him WoAiNi."

  DuPont blinked a few more times, mouth open, unable to speak.

  “It means love, or giver of love, in Chinese.” She stood and extended her hand. “Amanda Wolfe, resident psychic, part-time chief cook and dishwasher at the local woman’s shelter.”

  They shook hands, and both took a seat, side-by-side on the stoop, Heftig wedging his way in between them.

  DuPont said, “Thanks for taking the time to see me…”

  “And WoAiNi,” she said.

  “And whatever you call him,” DuPont said, with a wave of his hand. “I’m curious, did Hurst describe me as handsome?”

  “Nope. I did. But the all the rest are his words.”

  DuPont smiled slightly. “It’s been a while since someone called me handsome.”

  Amada shrugged dismissively.

  DuPont asked, “Hurst said you might be able to shed some light on the feelings I have.”

  Amanda looked up at the sun, eyes closed. “Yes, he would say that. Feelings are not his strong suit. Don’t get me wrong, Brian Hurst is a good man and a great cop, but sensing and intuition are incomprehensible to him. I think that’s why we work so well together…we are the yin and yang of unsolved mysteries.” She stopped sunning and turned to face DuPont. "And he also said you are heartbroken over the death of your friend Rob Santos, so much so that you cannot accept his death and think he is still alive, which is why you drove some three hundred miles in nasty winter weather to come to visit with us today. That’s a long way to drive to check out a gut feeling.”

  DuPont shook his head yes.

  “You were - and still are - searching for closure, but found something else instead.”

  “You mean this gut feeling I’ve got?”

  “Exactly. So, not knowing what to do with you, he sent you to see me so that I can do my hocus-pocus and perhaps help you acknowledge your loss, stamp out your gut feeling, come to closure, and face the truth about your friend.”

  “Well, I never said…”

  Amanda's hand came out from her wrap and touched DuPont's arm. "Please, I have no intention of anything so insensitive. I'm just telling you the way Hurst thinks. And just for the record, Hurst often gathers crime scene data in a similar fashion. He kicks his bloodhound brain into overdrive, sniffs out every possible detail and clue, and then charges off in the wrong direction. But we love him anyway." She smiled, her fingers lingering for an extra beat or two.

  DuPont chuckled.

  She continued. “Hurst thought you would want me to take a walk around the shattered house again and told me I should tell you right up front that my fee is $500 and you probably couldn’t afford it as you sharpen skates and drive a Zamboni for a living.”

  DuPont opened his mouth then shut it. Then he said, “What else did he tell you?”

  “Like I said, the man has a brain that records every little detail. But not to worry, I have no intention of charging you anything. Well, maybe lunch, but we’ll see. However, I am interested in hearing about your feelings.”

  DuPont turned both his hands up. “What can I say? I’m normally not a touchy-feely sort of guy but this time…I have this feeling that Rob Santos is not dead.”

  “I see…I see. So then, if it was not your friend Rob, who was the man that died in the explosion?”

  “No idea.”

  “But someone did. Hurst said they have hard evidence.”

  DuPont removed his hat and scratched his mop of disheveled gray hair. “At least we are supposed to believe someone did. What if this whole thing is a clever ruse, to make everyone think Rob is dead?”

  Amanda pursed her lips. “Why would he do that?”

  “Have you ever met his wife and kids?”

  “That bad?”

  “That bad.”

  “Let’s take a ride.”

  They took the Trooper to the site of the explosion, pulled to the curb, and got out. Amanda turned to DuPont and said, “Give me a minute to walk around in silence. Stay here with WoAiNi. "

  She walked slowly aroun
d the remains of the structure as she had the other day with Hurst, lingering here and there, and made her way back to where DuPont and Heftig waited. She leaned against the car and patted the dog’s head. “Let me tell you what I don’t sense. In situations like this one, knowing what didn’t happen is almost as important as knowing what did happen. First, there wasn’t a murder committed here. Murder leaves a high energy trail that hovers and pulses. There are no signs of that. But there also wasn’t some kind of accidental death. Like murder, accidental death can leave echoes of the final desperate cry. Again, it’s not there. It just doesn’t feel right. Instead, there’s an air of purpose and determination out there, like a tightly-woven cloak of secrecy hovering above the wreckage, obscuring what really happened. I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

  DuPont looked at her, and she looked back. They stood in silence, sunshine melting the snow and slush.

  Amanda walked around to the passenger side of the car. “Come on. Let’s go have lunch.”

  End of Part One

  Part II

  1

  Philosophical Trash Pickers

  The Waste Management trash truck stopped at the corner of Riverside Drive and Bridge Street in Dolores, Colorado. The Mahoney brothers, Jerry and Eddie, jumped down off the back. This was Eddie’s first day on the job, and his training had been assigned to Jerry, his older brother.

  Eddie dragged and positioned the trash can for the third man of the crew, Jose, the lift operator, to push a few levers and elevate and dump the contents into the back of the truck.

  It was a beautiful mid-summer day, with the sky a Colorado deep blue. Jerry read from the list on his clipboard. "This customer is Miss Rose Pizzotti. She's a school teacher here in town." He looked up to make sure Rose was not within earshot. "Her trash is boring, mostly cat food containers and occasionally, a bag of litter. Don't drop the bag, it'll break open, and it stinks like shit."