by Nolon King
Kirby had recently managed to bag a Hill of Beans spot at the top of his second hour. To some listeners, that was proof of the podcast’s quality, but to Frank, it was proof that the jerk’s audience was growing enough to make the numbers work. Hill of Beans knew it would gain more customers through Kirby’s listeners than it lost to being associated with a scumbag.
An odd sort of proof of a lot of what Kirby maintained in many of his rants. Americans were worth only as much as the cash they could hand over to the corporations, and the data they could give to the government.
Information was now worth more than oil.
But none of that bothered Frank. He only had to look at the pictures of his daughter’s crime scene to understand the world’s cruelty.
Frank was angry that Kirby no longer saw him as worthy content. Framing him as the rapist and murderer of his own daughter just wasn’t worth the clicks anymore. And the speed at which Frank and Stan had gone from monsters to old news was staggering.
It did mean they were under less public scrutiny. But it also meant the police — at least the ones implicated in the activity at Pedophile Junction — were looking even harder.
So far, Frank had continued to escape their notice. But that was soon coming to an end.
He pulled the van into a spot that always seemed empty. Right next to the chain link corral that hid the dumpsters. Trash that barely smelled worse than the aroma floating over from Sloppy’s. A swirl of flies. Bees looking for the sugar in the melting snow cones and milkshakes.
He kept the passenger side close to the fence. Just an inch or two from the mirror’s edge. Lowered the volume before rolling the window down.
Killed the engine and leaned the seat back to a more comfortable angle.
As Kirby signed off for a mid-show break, Frank pulled the small cooler up from behind him. Cracked it open to get at the egg salad sandwiches. Half a bag of teriyaki beef jerky. Two pomegranate vodka seltzers. Gallon of water.
Settled back to wait. Watched the yellow stucco building across the street through the driver’s side mirror.
A LiveLyfe ad played. Frank never understood a platform advertising for the platform he was listening on, but maybe pirated content was a bigger problem than he thought. He chalked up his five-dollar-a-month subscription fee to research, but if the podcast was going to be stolen, they might as well let the thieves know where it came from.
Two minutes into the quarter-hour break, Kirby was outside, the cigarette hanging from his lips likely lit before he opened the door. A trail of smoke swirled behind him like the wake of a tugboat.
Kirby walked to the cover of the fluttering red umbrella at the edge of the concrete pad he used as a break area. One hand holding the cigarette. The other with a phone held to the side of his head.
Frank wasn’t interested in the conversation. Only in what he hoped was to follow.
At that thought, he heard a car door. The sound of feet crunching across scattered sand. A figure appeared in the mirror. A man’s back. Casual slacks. Sport coat pulling back as he checked a pistol holstered in the small of his back.
The cop walked straight to Kirby.
Frank sat forward to watch. Chewed as quietly as he could, even though there was no way he could hear what was being said.
Kirby glanced up and saw the cop’s approach. Signed off of the call and plastered on a greasy grin. Held the cigarette away from his face as he stepped forward with his hand extended.
The cop shook it, then followed Kirby to a picnic table where he put one foot up on the far bench. Frank could finally see the man’s face. Didn’t bother taking a picture. He was good at remembering faces. When he found out what the cop’s name was, then he’d write it down.
He only knew it was a different face. Not from any he recognized from the lists he and Stan had amassed while hiding in the dark of Heirloom Antiques. Like many of the faces Frank had seen hanging around, the cop looked like some new blood installed after an official culling. Out with the old, and all that.
The only problem was the new team was as bad as the old one. He couldn’t even trust the deputies in the sheriff’s office where he used to work. And those at the top were still there. The powerful never let go of their power without a fight. Frank knew he had no chance at getting justice up the ladder. He’d have to stick with the scumbags down at his level.
Kirby looked down at his watch. Lit another cigarette with the butt of the last one. Dropped it on the ground and mashed it with a boot heel. Thick soles to make him look taller.
Frank felt the wisps of his own hair itching the side of his face and had to admit, Kirby’s transplants looked good.
Kirby and the cop chatted like old friends, Kirby clearly acting like a subordinate, eager to impress his superior. It was also obvious that Kirby couldn’t tell that the cop seemed to genuinely like him. Which explained why Kirby kept trying so hard.
Frank snorted in disgust. Drained his first seltzer. Chased it down with a third of his water.
Wiped his eyes while catching his breath. Unwrapped a fresh sandwich as Kirby and the cop shook hands again, then parted ways.
Kirby puffed on his cigarette all the way back to the door. Made a token attempt to blow the smoke over his shoulder before rushing inside.
The cop went back to his car, and when he pulled out, Frank made note of the make and model. A Gray Ford Escape. A little SUV that looked like a cinder block with rounded corners.
Kirby opened the last hour of his podcast with a live read for Justice VPN, and Frank clicked off the radio to eat the rest of his lunch in silence.
He brushed his hands off. Rolled his window back up. Locked the van behind him. After a visit to the blue portable toilet in the brown field behind Kirby’s studio, he walked back to pause at the picnic table Kirby and the cop had taken their break at.
Frank had learned about Rosa Alta from Kirby’s own podcast intro. “Coming to you live from the Watchtower in sunny Rosa Alta, it’s the Tip of the Iceberg podcast, with your leader of the modern rational revolution, Ty Kirby.” Frank still cringed when he heard it.
He had made notes of any official information but had really only come up with a P.O. box address always mentioned at the bottom of the first hour. He could only imagine the kind of things Ty Kirby’s listeners were sending him.
The website for the podcast was no help. Generic pictures of the town, but none of the building the studio was in. Frank had begun to wonder if it was even a real place, or if he would find Ty Kirby in a basement somewhere. Shouting up through the ceiling for his mom to bring him more soup.
The post office had been easy to find, though. Like the rest of the town, the official buildings seemed in desperate need of an update. Stuck in the 70s, but with modern signage. Antennas and satellite dishes. The crowd of newer buildings all around. There was something unsettling about it to Frank. Like an old woman trying to look young again in spite of her obvious decline. He was pretty sure Jimmy Buffett had a song about somebody like that.
When he had gone inside, Frank was pleased to see a bored twenty-something behind the counter instead of a seen-it-all veteran looking at another five years before retirement. A young man clearly watching the clock barely looked up when the bell over the door clanged. Echoed through a dark lobby full of ornate cubbies locked up with corroded brass hardware.
Frank gave a smile that wasn’t returned. On top of a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill, he placed the note on which he had written Kirby’s P.O. box number. Slid it slowly across while watching the kid’s expression go from boredom to interest the closer the money got to the other side of the counter. “I’d like the info on this boxholder, please.”
The kid’s gaze flickered up to meet his. Back down to the money. As soon as Frank removed his finger the kid shrugged. Snatched the bribe from the counter. “One moment, sir.”
It sounded like the first time he had ever said “sir.”
Frank was envious of the kid’s speed on the key
board. Then the kid leaned over a small notepad. Scrawled in lazy script. Passed his note along with Frank’s — minus the hundo — and leaned back with a genuine smile that transformed his face. He was suddenly too handsome for the post office. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
Frank smiled in return. “I’m good.” When he looked back through the glass of the front door as he left, the kid was still smiling.
It had taken a small effort to decipher the kid’s handwriting, but it had led him to Alta Drive. To a two-story building that looked like a Saltines box standing on its end. Flaking gray stucco. A dirty rectangle over the entry door where the old business sign used to be. It was attached to an entire block of two-story shops built to look like a strip of Mexican pueblos. Watchtower was a bit of a stretch, but it was certainly better than any description of the actual building.
After nestling into his spot next to the garbage, Frank had begun to learn Kirby’s habits. There almost every day, but he only recorded on Fridays. He had many visitors throughout the week, but the same few came during his smoke breaks during show days. He was up to almost a pack a day — no wonder his voice sounded so rough — and he had lost a terrible amount of weight. Frank hadn’t bothered trying to find out why. There was something else much more interesting.
Many nights through the week, Kirby would stay in the Watchtower well into the night, but no lights shone from any of his windows. Instead, lights on the second floor of the shops next door came on. Just bleeding around the edges of the drapes. He was very curious about what was going on up there.
Frank glanced over at the door Kirby used to get out to the patio. Noted the security camera by the door pointed toward the front sidewalk. Reached into his pocket as he ducked under the flapping edge of the picnic table umbrella. Pulled out the small recorder. Dropped into a squat that drove stretching pain into his thighs. It took only moments to drive the two tiny screws that held the small device in place, but it felt like an hour. Even sitting in a breeze under the shade of the table, Frank felt the sweat pouring down his sides.
He’d give it a week before coming back to get it. Hopefully, there would be something on there he could use.
He almost brained himself on the edge of the table when he jumped up to brush his hands off. Looked back at the door before heading back to the van. He worried that Kirby might come out. Or that the cop would return. But even if either of them did, thanks to Owens, Frank was certain they wouldn’t recognize him.
His newfound anonymity came with the development of a snoring problem, but he lived alone in a barn. Nobody but himself to disturb, and he could drink himself to sleep most nights.
Though, come to think of it, that might be why he snored so bad.
Frank chuckled to himself as he opened the rear doors of the van. Grabbed his towel and wide-brimmed straw hat. He had driven all this way. Might as well enjoy the beach since he was here. Sometimes it was difficult in his isolation. In spite of how much he wanted to be alone, he yearned for better company. Just hearing the sounds of other people around him was often enough.
On his way out to find a spot on the sand, he looked back over his shoulder. A string of small shops to Kirby’s studio. Souvenirs, frozen yogurt, and a used bookstore.
The second floor above the row of shops, running the span of the entire block. Remembering the lights coming on upstairs, and thinking of the number of cops that seemed to come around all the time, made Frank wonder if this was the tentative location for the next Pedophile Junction franchise.
Owens seemed to be laying low for now, and the cops he’d pressured to quit with his framing of Malick Briar for Rory Day’s murder were getting bolder. Perhaps ready for version 2.0.
If he succeeded, a fresh batch of victims were already being lined up somewhere else. Frank understood how little impact he was having on the larger problem of statewide corruption leading to an entire trade of underage sex trafficking. Still, he was going to have that impact.
Or die trying. Maybe and die trying.
An important conjunction choice, this near the end.
Chapter Five
The long weekend helped Frank forget about GG’s haunting request. Listening to hours of Kirby’s podcast. Swimming and lying out in the sun.
Cuban food and icy cold beer.
Nobody seemed to mind his van parked by the dumpsters all day, but he hadn’t felt comfortable stretching his luck at night. Every town had a Walmart, though. Twenty-four-hour parking and plenty of lights to discourage looky-loos.
A few Saturday hours had been spent at the Rose County Clerk’s office. He was looking for publicly available information, but the minute he got to the old building, he knew he was in for a struggle. There were three ways it could have gone. Modern and shiny where everything had been digitized and stored on some cloud system that Frank would have had no chance navigating, old and dusty rows of moldy boxes, or a smooth and pleasant experience with a helpful and polite staff.
He landed right on the middle option.
The interior smelled like stale pipe smoke and sausage that was on the verge of turning. Ornate carpets worn to a homogenous color the exact shade of the inside of a colon. Dark paneling and old incandescent lighting. It was like he had stepped onto the set of The Rockford Files. He expected to look behind him to see a gold Pontiac Firebird in the parking lot.
The burly gentleman sitting behind a tall counter on the left side of the lobby looked like Wilford Brimley’s much bigger brother. He was staring at a small CRT television through thick glasses. An open bag of Oreos to his right. A sixty-four-ounce cup from Circle K on his left. The name plate at the edge of the counter was stained melamine. Monty Henderson.
Frank was positive that Mr. Henderson checked his sugar, and he checked it often. Had oatmeal in the morning because it was the right thing to do, and the right way to do it. Frank got to the desk before he could think of any more of Wilford’s catchphrases. He grinned and waved. “Good morning, sir.”
Monty looked up from his TV. Wiped crumbs from his drooping mustache. “Yup.”
Frank nodded. Kept his grin nice and wide. Held by the man’s stare, he became aware of just how much he had come to resemble a drug-fueled vagrant. “I wonder if you can help me?”
“You’re in the wrong place,” Monty said. “Didn’t you read the sign on the door?”
Frank flushed as he admitted that he hadn’t. “I’m not really familiar with this town. Just in for some research and swimming.”
“Yup.”
Frank waited for more, but Monty seemed to be done for the moment. Frank lifted a finger to point at the ceiling. “This is the Rose County Clerk of Courts building, right?”
“Yup.”
“And I assume you are the clerk, or are employed by said entity?”
The right corner of Monty’s lips trembled in a smile, making the mustache flutter. “Yup.”
Frank nodded like he had learned an amazing fact about the history of the building. Like a tour guide had told him the foundation was made out of petrified bathing suits dug out of the landfill. “So then, there are records kept here?”
“Yup.”
“And a search of these records can be performed after paying a fee?”
Monty leaned back and crossed his arms, and his smile widened to make his mustache flare out like butterfly wings. “That’s right.”
The new response made Frank feel like he was making progress. “Well, since I need to do a search, and it is something this building provides, I fail to see how I am in the wrong place.”
Monty’s smile became a grin that showed his bottom row of brown teeth. He pointed past Frank’s shoulder. “Maybe you should have read the sign.”
Frank glanced back at the front door. Back to Monty. “You’re going to make me go out there and read it, aren’t you?”
“Yup.”
Frank maintained his smile until he turned around. Then it became clenched teeth anger. At the door, he smoothed his face, tu
rned to give Monty a big Forest Gump wave, leaned out to read the many bits of paper taped to the inside of the glass. Found the one in question.
This facility is moving to the new government complex in Enola. Closed for official inquiries only. Please go to RoseCoClCo.gov to schedule a records search, or use the online search feature. (search results subject to the completion of Rose County’s record digitization efforts)
The “r” and “t” in efforts had been transposed, scribbled out with a black marker, and corrected with a red marker.
Frank spread his hands and nodded sheepishly as he turned back to look at Monty. Still sitting with his arms crossed and eyes twinkling. When Frank got back to the counter, Monty watched him with raised eyebrows. Frank knew he would have to be careful.
Or increase the amount he was willing to offer as a bribe.
“How long you been here, Mr. Henderson?”
“Call me Monty,” he said. Then he looked at his watch. “Since six this morning.”
Frank suppressed a growl of frustration. “Thank you, Monty. But I expect you know what I’m asking.”
Monty grinned. “Yup.”
Frank thought he was going to make him ask again. Then Monty dug into the crinkling bag for a fresh cookie. “Forty years.”
Frank whistled in appreciation. “If you don’t mind me asking, why haven’t you retired? It’s been pretty good for me so far.” The lie almost stuck in Frank’s throat.
Monty crunched on the Oreo, sending black powder to cascade down into his dirty white beard. He shrugged with a sigh. “It’s just me at home now. I can spend my day here alone just as easy as anywhere else.
Frank sensed an opening. “I know how you feel. After my wife died, I just couldn’t be in that house anymore.” He hoped he had guessed correctly, and the thousand dollars he had ready in his pocket could stay there. “It just felt …” He paused as if he was searching for words.