by Darryl Hicks
non-stop screaming, still at full blast.
@#@#@#@#@#
Ben wasn’t alone. A pretty 30ish woman was sitting in Ben’s passenger seat. I slipped into the back.
“What’s that smell?” said the woman.
“Krispy Kremes,” I said.
The woman turned in her seat and said, “You brought donuts to our stakeout?”
“Yup,” I said.
“Ben said you were a former cop. Now, I believe it. Hi, I’m Vikki White.”
“Mike Ferris,” I said.
We shook hands awkwardly over the seat back.
“She’s a social worker,” said Ben.
Vikki said, “We need to interview the kid in front of his dad. Then, I’ll take the kid somewhere and you guys can interview the dad.”
@#@#@#@#@#
The killer struck again while we ate donuts in Ben’s car.
“Think of this as a metaphor for the mortgage business,” said the property owner.
“It’s not my fault your interest rate balloon inflated,” said the mortgage broker. “I begged you to take a conventional loan, but no, you had to save half a percent with a fucking ARM.”
She was referring to an adjustable rate mortgage.
“I was going to flip the condo before the 3 years elapsed,” said the property owner.
“Aha, you were an ARM flipper.”
“That was the old recipe for success. Buy a property, keep it a couple years, and sell it before the ARM balloon inflates. Then, use the appreciation profit to buy a better property. In 10 years, I went from a starter 2 bedroom house to a snazzy 4 bedroom condo with a great view of the mountains.”
“It would’ve been better if it was actually in the mountains, like at a ski resort. But no, you bought your condo in metro Denver, so I’m guessing your condo has lost value.”
“Yes, and now the ARM balloon has inflated, so the mortgage payments are insane.”
“Should’ve refinanced before you got so far under water,” she said.
“None of the banks were refinancing back then. But, enough of this. It’s time to play CIA again.”
“No, please, no more water boarding.”
“Party pooper.”
“Just fucking kill me, if you’ve got the guts.”
The property owner turned her upside down and dunked her in the bathtub.
@#@#@#@#@#
We were walking to the front door of the house owned by first vic’s ex-husband.
Vikki said, “Damn you, Ferris. Now I’ve got white shit all over my blouse.”
“You’ve got donut eater remorse,” I replied.
Vikki used her right hand to flick flecks of donut glaze off of the blouse fabric around her boobs.
“Let me do that,” said Ben.
“In your dreams,” said Vikki.
@#@#@#@#@#
The Bentley kid was male, age 11. We were sitting around the ex’s dining room table.
The social worker said, “I’m Vikki. What’s your name?”
“Andy.”
“We’re sorry about your mom.”
“Thanks.”
“Can I ask a few questions about today?” said Vikki.
“Will it help catch the person who did mom?”
“Yes.”
“Ok, ask your questions.”
“Thanks, but I’ll stop if I’m making you uncomfortable.”
Andy said, “I’m fine. Go ahead.”
“When was the last time you saw your mom?”
“When I left home to wait for the school bus.”
“What time was that?”
“Seven twenty.”
“Did you see anybody strange hanging around?”
“The old lady next door was walking her poodle. She’s pretty strange.”
We all laughed.
Vikki said, “We’re going to rule her out, for now. But, we’ll need to talk to her. Where does she live exactly?”
“Grey house next door,” said Andy.
Ben said, “The uniforms did a canvas of the neighbors. I’ll find out what dog lady had to say.”
Vikki said, “Anybody else strange, like from out of the neighborhood?”
“No,” said Andy.
“Ok, that’s it for the formal questions,” said Vikki.
@#@#@#@#@#
Vikki and Andy were in the living room, playing a video game. The ex shifted to a chair where he could watch them from the dining room.
Ben said, “I’m Detective Ben Vashley. This is Mike Ferris, my partner. What’s your name?”
“Julian Gillian,” said the ex.
“Cute,” I blurted out.
“Mike …” said Ben.
“Sorry,” I said.
“No worries,” said the ex. “Mr Ferris is right, my mom thought it was cute. Call me ‘Jules’. Most everybody calls me that.”
“Where were you at 9am this morning?” asked Ben.
“Work,” said Jules. “I’m a stockbroker. The market opens at 7:30am here in Denver. You can check, I was at work for sure at 9am.”
“Who pays the mortgage on the house where your ex-wife and son lived?” said Ben.
“Me and her,” said Jules. “We split the mortgage. I didn’t kill her to save half a mortgage, guys.”
“We’re thinking her death was related to her real estate work,” I said. “Is there anybody your ex worked with a lot?”
“Melanie Eatme,” said Jules.
“Say what?” I said.
“Her real last name is Eastman, I think, but her signature looks like Melanie Eatme, so that’s how I remember her.”
“What does Ms Eatme do?” I asked.
“She’s a mortgage broker.”
Ben worked his iPhone for a couple of minutes and came up with a DMV photo.
“Is that her?” asked Ben.
“Yup,” said Jules.
@#@#@#@#@#
We were leaving. Andy was still on the couch, playing a video game.
Vikki said, “You and Andy should take the rest of the week off from work & school. I’ll handle Andy’s school, get homework, arrange makeup tests, that sort of thing. Can somebody cover for you at work?”
Jules said, “My teammates will take care of my accounts. Anyway, the market’s been crashing since last Friday. Buying stocks now would be like catching a falling knife.”
“Aha,” I said.
“What?” replied Jules.
“Is that a common expression?” I asked.
Jules shrugged. “It’s a cliché, actually.”
“Would it apply to the real estate market too?”
“Well perhaps in like 2009, if you bought real estate then, yes, it would’ve been like catching a falling knife.”
@#@#@#@#@#
It was late afternoon. Vikki went to deal with Andy’s school.
Ben and I went to Melanie Eatme’s house. We both drove.
Melanie’s car was in the driveway, in front of the garage. We rang the doorbell and knocked. No answer.
We circled the house in opposite directions, looking in windows. We came together in the back, by a small window set high in the wall.
Ben said, “Is that a pair of upside down female feet?”
“With red toenails,” I said.
Ben kicked the backdoor near the lock. We went in and found the bathroom.
Melanie would request oral consumption no more. She was upside down and her head was under water in a bathtub. Her dead body was tied to an ironing board. Three long balloons were tied around Melanie’s right arm.
“Another weird crime scene,” I said.
“More real estate symbolism,” said Ben.
“The vic was upside down and under water.”
“Yup.”
“What’s the 3 balloons mean?”
“Don’t know, but it probably pertains to his real estate mortgage.”
“Can I split before you call this in? You don’t need me to hang here for crime scene processing.”
“Ok, take off.”
@#@#@#@#@#
The business card said, “Compassion Wellness Center.”
The address was strategically located to be as far away from all schools as possible.
The sign said to show my license to the camera and ring the bell. I held up my license. The door buzzed open before I could ring the bell.
A sleazy dude materialized from out of nowhere and followed me in. He pushed me to the floor and drew a gun. He advanced on the clerk.
I carry a little 22 automatic in an ankle holster. I drew my gun and fired once. I missed the robber, but scored a bulls eye on a glass humidor containing “medicine”. Three ounces of weed spilled on the counter and floor.
The robber turned towards me. The clerk grabbed a long glass bong pipe and swung it like a baseball bat. The bong connected with the robber’s right temple. The pipe stem shattered into long shards, falling on the counter, amid the mound of weed and glass from the destroyed humidor.
The robber was dazed, but still standing. I swept a leg around and kicked out the robber’s feet. He fell hard into the weed and glass on the counter.
A shard of broken glass jammed into the robber’s neck, severing an artery. He flopped to the floor and rolled around, meanwhile spraying blood from the neck wound.
The clerk grabbed my armpits, lifted my shoulders off of the floor, and dragged me out of the blood spatter pattern. She propped me against the front window, then sagged down to the floor next to me. For the first time, I got a good look at her. She was the woman from outside the licensing office.
“Thanks for dragging me away,” I said.
“He might have AIDS,” she replied.
“Nasty shard of glass in his neck there.”
“If we pulled out the glass and applied pressure to the wound, would he still die?”
“Probably,” I said, “unless we had like a surgical forceps, to clamp the bleeder artery.”
“Ironically, I have a couple forceps. They make great roach clips.”
The blood spray arcs were noticeably shorter now.
“Too late,” I said. “He’s almost done bleeding out.”
“I’ve never watched anybody die before,” she replied.
There was only a trickle of blood now.
I said, “This dirtbag made his choice when he decided to rob you.”
She snuffled a runny nose. “It’s a shame he’s dying, but I don’t feel bad about that, because I know it was an accident. The thing is, now it’s making me think of Batman and Columbine again and that’s making me feel sad.”
“My heart goes out to the Batman and Columbine victims,” I replied.
@#@#@#@#@#
The clerk helped me up.
“You certainly know how to make an entrance,” she said.
“I’m better known for my exits,” I replied.
“I’m Lela Jennings,” she said.
“Mike Ferris.”
“You have a gun. Are you a cop?”
“Former cop.”
“I should call 911 now. Please don’t leave. I need you here to tell your part of the story.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll stick around and help you out.”
“Just the facts, man. Don’t make up any lies.”
@#@#@#@#@#
Paramedics and a two man police unit responded to the 911 call. I knew the Sergeant, he married one of my ex-girlfriends.
Sarge said, “Ferris …”
“Hey Truscott,” I said.
“Why are you here?”
“I was here when it went down.”
“Did you kill him?”
I shrugged. “Sort of.”
“How did you ‘sort of’ kill him?”
“I tripped him and his neck got cut when he fell on some broken glass.”
Sergeant Truscott sighed, then said, “Okay Ferris, give it to me again, from the top this time, maybe with some believable detail, if you have any.”
@#@#@#@#@#
The paramedics pronounced the robber dead. Meanwhile, Truscott’s partner returned from interviewing Lela separately. Truscott and his partner compared notes.
Truscott said, “Your stories match. The perp follows you in, there’s a scuffle, the perp accidently dies. I’ll write it up like that. But, you know the drill. The paramedics already reported the perp dead. It’s a crime scene now. The ME’s office will roll on this.”
@#@#@#@#@#
Ben and Molly walked in.
Ben said, “The Eatme crime scene wasn’t good enough? You had to go create one of your own?”
Molly crouched near the body and said, “Massive hemorrhage through the neck.”
“Glass shard hit an artery,” I said.
Molly stood up and looked at blood spatter.
“No doubt he bled out quickly,” she