The Book of Extraordinary Amateur Sleuth and Private Eye Stories

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “It’s too late to be sorry.” She wasn’t mollified; indeed, she seemed angrier than ever. “You know the punishment for what you’ve done. You’re for the arena, and you’ll deserve it. And as for you, Aurelia Marcella,” she rounded furiously on me, “you’ll be punished too. You’ve employed a criminal…”

  “But I didn’t know!” I protested.

  “…and failed in your duty to guard Caesar’s property, and mine. You’ll be reported to the authorities, and very likely thrown out of the Oak Tree and replaced with someone more reliable.”

  Thrown out? I was as innocent as she in all this. She was being completely unfair. But she was powerful enough to carry out her threat, and we both knew it.

  She banged down her beaker. “I’m disappointed in you, Helvius. Truly disappointed.”

  Disappointed… as the word hung in the air, I saw what was really causing her fury. It wasn’t the theft, or even the chicanery of an old soldier. She was disappointed because she’d been hoping to see Fronto, maybe to rekindle some old memories. So she had indeed known him well, better than a general’s lady would normally know a legionary. And she’d presumably managed to keep it a secret from her husband. What would happen now if the affair reached his ears? Fronto was beyond his anger. But not Caelia.

  What I said next was reckless, a gamble. But if she was going to take away the Oak Tree, I had precious little to lose.

  “It was generous of your husband to grant Fronto a pension. I mean, in view of all the rumors. But of course the general would never get to hear those.”

  Caelia snapped, “Rumors? What rumors? What do you mean?”

  “About Fronto’s romantic escapades. There were all sorts of stories… Mind you, I don’t know how much of it was true. Do you, Helvius?”

  He was quick to see where I was driving. “Quite a lot of it, I can tell you. A lively lad was our Fronto. And it wasn’t just the common camp-women who fell for him. Some very grand ladies too. There’s a few husbands who’d be pretty annoyed if they heard what their wives got up to. But then again, what a man don’t know can’t hurt him.”

  There was a pause, then Caelia said softly, “Are you threatening me, Helvius Maximus?”

  He was a picture of wide-eyed innocence. “I’d never dare threaten someone like you, my lady. Wife to such a powerful man as the general.”

  “Good. Because I can do whatever I like with you, as well you know.”

  “Sure you can. And if it has to be, then I’m glad it’ll be Helvius Maximus in disgrace, not Fronto.”

  I was touched by his words, even while I knew that this was exactly what the rascal intended. I remembered all the things I liked about him, and how he’d helped save my horses, and the thought of him dying in some arena, nailed to a cross or torn apart by wild animals, was more than I could bear. “Lady Caelia…”

  “Well?”

  “He should be punished, certainly. But he behaved honorably last night. He risked his life. I don’t believe he deserves to die now. And he was Fronto’s friend. Isn’t there some other solution?”

  She was silent a long while, then she sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. Very well. Helvius, I’ll give you two choices. Death in the arena, or life in the army. If you reenlist as a legionary, I’ll consider you’ve paid your debts.”

  “Reenlist? Willingly, my lady. Now that Fronto’s gone, I’d like that. Thank you.”

  “And as for you, Aurelia Marcella: do you swear that you didn’t know this man was an impostor?”

  “I swear it, by all the gods. How could I know? I was never lucky enough to meet the real Fronto.”

  I’d struck the right note. She sniffed, and once again raised her hand to sweep a nonexistent strand of hair out of her eye. “Alright. I shan’t report you this time. But if I hear of any more trouble here, or if I discover that either of you have been spreading these ridiculous rumors you spoke of…”

  Helvius grinned. “What rumors?”

  I said, “The only rumors I’ll be spreading are about the heroic war record of Sergius Fronto, and how we were lucky enough to have him working here for a short while, just before his very sad death. I’m sure we‘re all familiar with those, aren’t we?”

  Caelia got up and said quite gently, “I must leave now. Helvius, you’ll accompany me to the garrison at Eburacum. You can reenlist there.”

  “Thank you, my lady. And Aurelia, thank you too. I won’t let you down. No more single-handed soldiering for me.”

  “Then good luck go with you, Helvius.”

  They rode away, and I decided we would begin our Saturnalia celebrations a day early. I needed a jug or two to get over the fright Caelia had given me. And I wanted everyone to drink a toast to the Single-Handed Soldier.

  Intake

  Nick Mamatas

  “What kind of therapist would you say you are?” Lani asked. There wasn’t much to see in the office. No bookcases, no leather couch, no board games or Jenga on the low table. Not even a Newton’s cradle on the desk, or diplomas hanging on the walls. The plant, an aspidistra, was plastic, and that was unusual. A card table and two chairs. The therapist didn’t have a clipboard or a folder–she was thumbing through her phone. Also unusual.

  “Remember, no questions,” the therapist said lightly, the hint of up-talk in her voice. “We’re trying to help you work through the trauma you’ve experienced; there’s no need to focus on me. I’m on your side. I want to help you heal yourself.”

  “What I mean to ask,” Lani said, “is are you the type of therapist who ended up in this position because you were too dumb for medical school, or are you the type that wasn’t articulate enough for the law?”

  The therapist didn’t even pause for a smile. “At the end of our session, you can tell me what kind of therapist I am, if you like.” Lani wasn’t going to get a rise out of her easily. She could keep pushing—Well, you’re fairly articulate, so it must be the former, Dr. B+—but Lani was tired. Tired of all of it. The subtle details, the catch in the voice of the “worried” husband, the email headers that never quite matched up…

  “Three murder cases,” the therapist said. “And you solved them all.” That was weird. The therapist wasn’t easing into this session at all. “First it was your roommate from college.”

  “The police assumed I did it,” Lani said. “I had to clear my name.”

  “Then a boyfriend with a history of abuse,” the therapist said. “He abused you.”

  “Yeah,” Lani said. She was sick to her stomach now. It was hard, thinking of the past, of Jeremy, or his fist overhead, blocking out the light from the chandelier in their shared living room like the moon eclipsing the sun.

  “His mother killed him. It was too bad,” she said. “I liked her. She liked me too. Even after I finally worked up the courage to leave Jeremy, she’d call and check on me. That’s why she…” Therapy wasn’t immediately helpful when it came to dealing with these feelings. Lani had known that walking in, but still, this was rough. Like physical therapy, except instead of cracking joints and stretching tendons, it was her memories getting worked.

  “How did you feel about the trio of exes originally believed to have been the killers?” the therapist asked.

  “I admire them,” Lani said. “They’re strong women. Jeremy was a monster. They reached out to one another, found solidarity and sisterhood.”

  “But they didn’t reach out to you.”

  “They were planning to murder him. They thought…they knew…”

  “That you have an unerring moral compass and would turn them in for conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “I’d already been in the papers,” Lani said. “Because of Maureen, and the Williamsport College serial killer.”

  “And the third case.” That merest hint of a question again. Just enough to invite a response. The therapist ran her thumb across the scre
en of her phone again. Was she reading the news reports?

  “Officer Scsavnicki,” Lani said. “Daniel. You know about this. This is a state-mandated therapy session. Do we have to rehash everything? It’s…” Lani paused. “Triggering.”

  Lani noticed the therapist raising an eyebrow. It could mean anything, but did it? Triggering was a word used by people mostly younger than Lani, and more casually. And Lani didn’t just solve the mystery of who had killed Daniel Scsavnicki; she used the officer’s own gun to defend herself against the murderer.

  Who had also been a cop.

  It’s hard to shoot a police officer and get away with it. Even a crooked one who was himself a cop-killer. Even in self-defense.

  Her first, and only, time using a gun. Triggering.

  “I’m not exactly Jessica Fletcher here,” Lani said to fill the void of silence.

  “Heck, you’re not even a novelist or an otherwise idle playboy. They make it look easy on TV and in novels,” the therapist said. “But it’s not easy, is it? Solving three murders. Ending one life. Finding yourself in danger.”

  “Putting myself in danger,” said Lani. “More than just finding myself in danger. I’d never done anything like it before Maureen was killed.”

  “Yes, and you did it with no training. No support. You’re neither a police officer nor a PI. How does it feel now? Do you feel as though you’re putting yourself in danger?”

  Another scan of the room. Lani hoped she wasn’t making it too obvious. The therapist’s shoes (sensible). Her nails (unpainted, well-clipped). The ventilation (seemingly idle). That aspidistra (still plastic, still weird).

  “I mean to say,” the therapist said, “are you experiencing the same feelings now that you did when you first realized you were in danger? Say, back at your alma mater, or when confronting your ex’s mom…”

  Lani inhaled. No unusual smells, just her own sudden burst of sweat. She tried to recall if anything had seemed out of place that morning; did any car hang in her rearview mirror for longer than necessary? Did the insurance form she’d filled out in the equally nondescript waiting room leave her vulnerable to doxing, SWATting, or even just coming home to a man with a gun waiting, naked, in her living room, her carpets already coated in plastic tarps?

  “Lani. Lani Weiland,” the therapist said. Lani felt her face burn. She had drifted again. But when she had drifted in the past, it had always been for a reason, because something was out of place, something she couldn’t let go of until she figured out what was going on.

  “Why do you have a plastic aspidistra?” Lani demanded.

  “Are you into horticulture?” the therapist asked.

  “I have many eccentric hobbies.”

  “Just like so many amateur sleuths…”

  “But why would you have a plastic aspidistra?” Lani asked again. “They’re too hardy to die—they thrived in stuffy Victorian homes; they can withstand massive neglect, care little for temperature extremes, and barely need watering.”

  “Doesn’t mean I want to have a real one in this office, though,” the therapist said. “I have a black thumb.”

  Lani clutched the sides of her chair’s seat to keep from rising to her feet. “I was…imprecise.” If it came to it, Lani could jump up, spin on her heel, and fling the chair right at the therapist. That calmed her. “I mean, why would anyone have a plastic aspidistra? Why would such an item be manufactured? They’re not a popular houseplant in the US, or even in this century, anywhere. You can’t find a real one at most nurseries anymore, so why would there be a plastic one anywhere, much less here?”

  “Why do you think there might be one?” the therapist asked. “Why do you think this is more important than the symptoms you’ve been experiencing?”

  “This is one of my symptoms,” Lani snapped. “I see anomalies everywhere. And connections too. Connections between anomalies; anomalous connections. Orwell wrote a novel called Keep the Aspidistra Flying, about middle-class respectability and advertising. Then he wrote Nineteen Eighty-Four, about an omnipresent surveillance state—”

  “I’m familiar with George Orwell,” the therapist said. She put her phone down, finally.

  “The point is the connection. How do we keep to middle-class respectability without going overboard with either greed or oppression? The world is limned with crime and deviance.”

  “Limned,” said the therapist, a bit hesitant now.

  “Too inarticulate for law,” Lani decided. “To be limned with something is to be suffused with it. Usually it means with a bright color, like a golden thread stitched into some garment, but…”

  “Crime is dark, not light,” the therapist said, brightly. Perhaps, Lani thought, the therapist was pleased to believe that Lani thought her intelligent enough for medical school, even if she had ended up a mere psychologist.

  “It’s light to me. It’s like finding an abandoned flashlight under a bush, still on and sending a beam through the leaves and branches,” Lani said. The therapist made to open her mouth, but Lani snapped. “Yes, like with Maureen, my college roommate. Or like your phone buzzing to life with a notification from an app you’ve forgotten you even had. Yes, like with Jeremy…or like a gun going off in the dark and for one terrible moment the whole room is lit, like with—”

  “I understand,” the therapist said. She was very much keeping her gaze on Lani, and trying not to look at the aspidistra.

  “Do you? You’re a suspect now. Do you understand that? You’re up to something.”

  “I understand that one aspect of post-trauma is hypervigilance…” the therapist began.

  “I’m not paranoid,” Lani said. “I’m observant.”

  “It’s just a fake plastic fern.”

  “Aspidistra,” Lani said. “Did you have it made? I am sure there are no mass-produced plants. Did someone give it to you?”

  “You said I was a suspect—you’ve adopted some cop lingo, Ms. Weiland,” said the therapist. “What do you suspect me of? Close ties to the bespoke plastics industry?”

  “I suspect that you’re testing me, to see how good I am,” Lani said. “How good at detection I am. Whether I’m all I’m cracked up be” Lani’s lips twitched. “There are a couple little Freudian bits in there, eh? How good I am; I’m cracked up.”

  “It’s not unusual for a client to read up on psychology, to ‘psych out’ the therapist. You’re intellectualizing.”

  “I think you’re a bit too straightforward to be a therapist,” Lani said. “You work for the government, sure, but there’s something else going on here.”

  “I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist,” said the therapist. “I can’t diagnose you.”

  “But if you could…paranoia? Maybe even paranoid schizophrenia?” Lani said. “Histrionic personality disorder? Generalized anxiety disorder?”

  “If the state wanted a diagnosis—”

  “Ah.”

  Lani thought. The state. That was a little different from a serial killer, or an angry mother, or a crooked cop. The state was inexplicable. It was different from the sum of its parts, different from the personal feelings of its representatives. It cared nothing for love, or vengeance, or psychological compulsions. The state made a show of caring for justice, for middle-class values even, but for the most part, the state seemed to care for its own existence and expansion. The state was interested in maintaining its own monopoly on violence. The state, yeah…

  “If the state wanted a diagnosis, it would find a way to get one, and lock me up. I could lawyer up, appeal to the media.”

  The therapist said nothing.

  “The aspidistra is a test,” Lani said. “Not your test, the state’s test. Would I notice it? Would I say something? Would I just wig out? Am I just someone with trauma and a hypervigilant streak, or can I really…detect?”

  The therapist peered at Lani,
moved her lips without speaking. Then it all came out. “No questions, remember? And that seems like a roundabout way to recruit detectives, don’t you think? You’re…” she glanced at her phone, tapped the screen, and read from it. “Forty-three years old now. No athletic background. You don’t even have a driver’s license. You wouldn’t last a day in the academy.”

  Lani nodded. “Exactly! This isn’t some test for policing. Not mainstream policing, anyway.”

  “Mainstream policing,” the therapist repeated. Not a trace of a question in that, but perhaps a hint of cynicism.

  “You’ve been nudging me, here and there, to reach some specific conclusion.”

  “Is that your job?”

  “No, I’m an amateur,” Lani said, her tongue acid. “I get what you’re hinting at. You’re not a therapist, or not much of one. Maybe a lawyer after all, probably a cop, or at least an employee of the police department and not the courts.”

  The therapist said nothing.

  “Confess,” Lani said.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “What do you want to hear, Ms. Weiland? That you’re so special, so observant, that the police department is testing you? To make sure your crime-solving wasn’t just some fluke? To see if you could be an off-the-record secret detective for the department? Someone we call in when there’s a case we can’t untangle, or one that’s too politically sensitive or tied up in legal red tape to deal with?” the therapist said. “Maybe we’re not even the police. We’re the FBI. The NSA. Some organization you’ve never even heard of, with agents embedded in every level of law enforcement, observing and recruiting savants such as yourself.” She exhaled pointedly.

  Lani waited for a moment. The trick was box-breathing, something Daniel Scsavnicki had taught her about interrogating hostile but non-violent suspects. Just to retain the initiative when challenged. Inhale slowly, mentally counting to four. Hold the breath for four. Exhale for four. Then speak.

  “You said we,” Lani said.