From the Eyes of a Juror

by Frank Terranova

  Chapter 37 – Brent Blain, Private Detective Extraordinaire

  Monday evening June 9, 2008 – 8:00 PM

  At around the same time that a lethargic Frank Newlan was about to succumb to the mesmerizing temptations of serendipitously eavesdropping in on the John Breslin murder trial via the internet, an ominous meeting was taking place some 20 miles away from his condo which indirectly involved him.

  Tom Willis (AKA Mr. Marianne Plante) and Brent Blain, Private Detective and owner of the Boston Intelligence Group, were finishing up their last rounds of target practice at the Andover Rifle and Pistol Club, and afterwards, the two men were planning to go out for a few beers and a bite to eat. But also on the agenda was an update regarding the status of Blain’s investigation into the whereabouts and activities of Willis’s wife, the aforementioned Marianne.

  Willis and Blain had first met nearly three years ago at this very same shooting range, and since then they had developed a fast friendship based on mutual interests such as sports, cars, guns, and, especially, chasing women. The fact that they were both married men didn’t seem to enter into the equation, and in some ways it made their conquests all the more challenging (and ten times as much fun).

  Although, between Willis’s money and Blain’s background as a private eye, the gullible women they hobnobbed around with didn’t really stand much of a chance at resisting their raunchy advances. First off, Willis wouldn’t think twice about throwing down a wad of cash to impress some floozy, and secondly Blain, being the con-man that he was, seemed to have figured out just how to fast-talk his extra-curricular playmates right into bed before they even knew what hit them.

  Of course, when it came to the inner-workings of the extramarital affair game, Blain’s career choice gave him a sizable advantage, seeing as how most of his cases involved snooping around on a spouse who was shacking up with an old flame, or a co-worker, or maybe even the mailman. And so he learned long ago how to spot the signs of a damsel in distressing need of some part-time loving.

  Yes, Brent Blain had seen it all in his career, and he loved to tell his war stories. And in Tom Willis he had a captivated audience. But besides their shared affinity for the finer things in life, Tom Willis also had his own selfish reasons for his burgeoning friendship with Brent Blain.

  You see, in the past few months Willis had begun to grow more and more concerned about his wife’s purported disinterest in him, and he wisely assumed that someday he might need Brent Blain’s services, and sure enough that someday had come.

  Willis was absolutely convinced that his wife was up to no good. And although he wasn’t sure exactly what she was up to, it was clear to him that she had been acting very suspiciously lately, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  And to muddle the waters even further, the strangest aspect of Willis’s obsessive behavior was the fact that he wasn’t even sure whether he loved his wife anymore. But that was beside the point, because, like a piece of old luggage, she belonged to him, regardless of the fact that things had reached the stage where they could hardly spend five minutes in the same room together before they were at each other’s throats. And yet he was still tormented by the fact that she wouldn’t wait on him, hand over foot, like she once did.

  From the very start of their relationship, Willis had been unfaithful. But now that Plante was finally catching on to his chicanery, he had somehow twisted the facts around so that, in his own mind, it was his bitchy wife who was at the root cause of his infidelities. And even though he wanted out of the marriage just as badly as she did, he would only consider a divorce as a last resort, on the basis that he refused to allow his kids to grow up in a broken home. And furthermore, he’d just assume kill them both before he would ever allow her to divorce him.

  So on this night, as Tom Willis hit bulls-eye after bulls-eye, his rapidly improving skill as a marksman took on an extra layer of added significance.

  Egged on by Brent Blain, Willis imagined that the bullet-riddled target was the bastard who was screwing his wife, and by the time the two men had finished discharging their last round of ammunition, Willis was practically shaking from a volcanic adrenaline rush that coursed through his veins like molten lava.

  The explosive sound of gunfire never failed to produce a surreal aftereffect in Willis that could only be described as sensory overload; and the smell of burnt gunpowder, when combined with the violent kickback produced by the discharging weapon, left him with a pleasant, tingling numbness that soothed his entire body like a potent opiate; just a few of the many unintended byproducts that manifest themselves in Willis when he decided to take on the challenge of mastering the use of a powerful deadly weapon; a weapon so forceful that it could blast through a metal door as if it were a piece of paper; a weapon so lethal that it could end a man’s life in heartbeat.

  After practice, as they locked and holstered their 9 millimeter semi-automatic pistols, even Brent Blain was impressed.

  “Tommy you keep this up and you’re gonna be a better shot than me pretty soon.”

  “You taught me well Brent, you taught me well,” replied Willis with a broad smile on his face as they drove down the road to their local hangout, the 88 Bar and Grill in Andover Massachusetts.

  During the short ride to the restaurant, Willis immediately went to work picking at Blain’s brain like a bird pecking away at an earthworm…and the interrogation continued right on through dinner.

  “So tell me again what the fuckin’ bitch was doing the other night?” ordered Willis as he tore into his juicy steak.

  “I told you already Tommy…she crept out the front door, probably so she wouldn’t wake you up. Then she stumbled down to the mailbox, crying her eyes out…and she drops a letter in the slot. Then she sneaks back into the house…that’s it,” explained Blain.

  Willis, however, was positive that there had to be some sort of ulterior motive behind his wife’s actions, and so he impatiently spit out a slew of follow-up questions.

  “Yeah, but what about all these dickheads she’s been fooling around with?”

  Blain didn’t really have much to go on, but that didn’t stop him from flipping through his notepad and listing off a litany of exaggerated charges.

  “Well if you must know, she’s been really strutting her stuff with every guy she sees, the auto mechanic, the salesman at the eyeglass shop, your daughter’s teacher, your daughter’s soccer coach, and that’s just to name a few.”

  “So what do you think…who’s the asshole that’s doin’ her?” demanded Willis.

  “Look Tommy, it don’t work that way…it takes time to track down these fuckin’ home-wreckers. I’ve had cases where it took me six months…but I guarantee you, if she’s sleeping around with someone, then I’ll eventually find the shit-head for you,” reassured Blain.

  By now, Willis’s shooting range rush had completely dissipated, and he was sulking in his beer at the very thought of his wife with another man. Maybe Willis was feeling guilty about his own indiscretions, or maybe the ever-present anger that was boiling inside of him was begin to steam up like a teapot set on high, but whatever the reason, his manic-depressive personality was definitely going into depression mode.

  “So Tommy, just for giggles…tell me what happens if we find out some stud’s been tapping her?” wondered Blain. And in response to the private eye’s blasphemous question, Willis banged his fist on the table, spilling half a glass of beer in the process. He then looked Blain squarely in the eye and calmly replied, “I’ll kill the bastard.”

  “Come on Tommy, think about what you’re saying…you’ll end up in prison…then what happens?” asked Blain who went on to answer his own question. “Then the kids have no father, that’s what fuckin’ happens.”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” screamed Willis as he pointed a finger in Blain’s face for emphasis. “Whether he knows it or not, that fuckin’ prick’s already a dead man.”

  �
��Tommy, we don’t even know if this guy exists. For all we know your wife’s been faithful to you. Like I said, so far I haven’t caught her doing anything yet, other than some innocent flirting,” reasoned Blain.

  “Look Tommy if we do find out that she’s been humping some jerk…I’ll give you the name of a contact that’ll take care of it for you. It’ll cost you big bucks, but the cops will never trace it back to you. You understand what I’m saying Tommy…or do I gotta spell it out for you?” asked Blain as he stared deeply into Willis’s eyes, probing for a reaction.

  Willis stared back in kind, and after a few seconds he broke into a contorted, knowing smile as he replied, “Yeah, I think I do Brent…I think I do.”

  “Good, then it’s settled. I don’t usually get involved like this for just anyone, but you’re a friend Tommy. Trust me, this is the way to go, and besides you don’t want to end up like that guy we were talking about the other night. What’s his name…Breslin? That’s the way NOT to go about plotting your revenge. What an idiot,” opined Blain.

  “Yeah, I was reading about that trial in the paper yesterday. Oh and by the fuckin’ way, how do you know he did it?” prodded Willis.

  “Come on Tommy…don’t be so fuckin’ gullible. Who the hell else had a reason to kill the boyfriend? It’s always the husband….and that’s why, if push comes to shove, your alibi has to be bulletproof,” insisted Blain as he chuckled at his own choice of words. And then he slowly proceeded to pronounce every syllable; “bul-let-prooo-ffff…no pun intended.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” cheered Willis as he raised his tankard of brew.

  Blain and Willis clinked mugs, and as they chugged down their suds, Willis tacked on an addendum to his already dire prognosis.

  “But I’d still rather kill the bastard myself. That way I’d get to look into his eyes and tell the motherfucker a thing or two before I pull the trigger. Hey, you know what they say, if you want something done right then you’re better off doing it yourself.”

  “Yeah, I guess I can appreciate that. There is something to be said for doing your own dirty work,” nodded Blain with a sinister look that implied he might know a thing or two more about the subject of killing than he let on.

  Now that the two men had come to a clear understanding, the suddenly revitalized Willis shot up off his stool and announced, “come on…let’s go chase some pussy.”

  And with that enticing mandate, the fast friends went careening out into the night like a spray of bullets ricocheting off the side of a barn.

  Whether the two womanizing companions ever stopped to think about the hypocrisy of what they were saying, we cannot know. But one fact is clear; if a bolt of lightning were to strike them down dead, not many people outside their immediate families…would shed a single tear.