Memories of a Murder

by Sid Kar

  “Can we get the paper files?” Frank asked.

  “I will do that for you,” Darnell said and got up, “might take half an hour or a whole hour; it’s a jungle of paper in the archive room.”

  “I hope we aren’t taking your time,” Frank said.

  “Oh, no, I volunteer for Saturday duty because it’s peaceful and quiet, away from the noise of the home and usual bustle of this office. Even gangsters take weekends off,” Darnell said and laughed along with Joe.

  Darnell wrote down the two names and walked over to the archive.

  “C’mon, Joe, I got to do some research of my own,” Frank said.

  They walked over to a small computer lab in the corner. The labs allowed any detective or supervisor to log into their own accounts and use the computer as if it were their own desktop.

  Frank logged into the National Crime Information Center database and did a search on Scott Bartley. The search returned no records. Frank didn’t think so either because otherwise he would have been debarred; certainly at least the other lawyers would not have partnered up with him.

  Then he hesitated a moment. It was standard procedure to run the victim’s name through the database right away when it appeared to be a gang hit. Earlier he had not thought Adam would have had anything to do with the criminals, but now he was not sure. He typed Adam’s name, hit “Enter” and waited apprehensively.

  There was one record, and Frank clicked on the link to display the details. He read the contents of Adam’s file.

  One arrest and conviction for cigarette smuggling from Virginia to New Jersey in 1988. Did one year in a low security prison. Out in 1989.

  “Our boy was dirty,” Joe said looking over his shoulder.

  “Long time ago,” Frank said.

  “Mob whacked him Frank,” Joe said, “That money you found offshore, I bet that law firm is dirty too. Boy must have been selling ciggs on the side, skimming from the wise guys, a foolish thing to do; when he updated the will, that Bartley ratted him out, and the fellas sent some capo to cap his ass.”

  “Keep the theory between us,” Frank said.

  “I know, I know,” Joe whispered with a grin, “you don’t want Organized Crime detectives to try to grab our case.”

  There was some of that concern for Frank; although, he had solved enough cases that no other detective dared pray on his caseload, he didn’t want them meddling either.

  “Where you guys at?” Darnell asked loudly. He had returned to his desk.

  “Keep quiet about this,” Frank whispered, logged out and just flicked off the computer switch to shut it down instantly.

  “Just checking emails,” Frank replied as he came out of the computer lab.

  “I got two files for you,” Darnell said, “I hope I am wrong, but these two were marginal hanger ons.”

  “Tell me about Bartley first,” Frank said.

  “Was a defense attorney in trials of some crime figures back in 80s and 90s,” Darnell said, “clean himself. He has steered clear of underworld types for two decades now.”

  “What about Adam?” Frank asked.

  “Even less on him, really a couple paragraphs,” Darnell said. “Occasional cigarette smuggler. Did time ’88-‘89. Nothing major. Worked for some Atlantic City Bosses, but he was a mere associate, on the fringes. They loaded up his truck in Virginia and unloaded in AC. Paid him through their casinos. No unaccounted for money was found on him though, must have spent it all.”

  Frank said nothing about the Caymans account and looked at Joe intently to make sure he stayed quiet too.

  “Any idea when he quit?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah, there are notes from an informant. I will make you a copy,” Darnell said, “He quit smuggling sometime in ’91-’92. No reason given.”

  “Why didn’t they prosecute him for smuggling after ’89?” Frank asked.

  “He was caught red handed when stopped and searched by a state trooper in 1988,” Darnell said, “But info on him afterwards comes from a conversation recorded by our informant between some bosses. It’s hearsay, no good in court.”

  “Good work, Detective Darnell,” Frank said, “If you could send us the copies on Monday, I would appreciate.”

  “Like I said, anytime for Joe and you,” Darnell waved them away as they walked back out and down the stairs. They stayed quiet till they got in Frank’s car and were out and away on the road.

  “There goes your theory Joe,” Frank said.

  “What do you mean?” Joe asked.

  “You heard him. Bartley went clean a long time ago. Bartley is no fool; he jumped off the mafia bandwagon when he saw the writing on the wall. He isn’t going back to them for some chump change and risk getting caught up in a homicide rap,” Frank said, “Told me himself he had many multimillionaire clients.”

  “Are we going home now Frank?” Joe asked.

  “Party at parents,” Frank said morosely, “Dad got me to come. Don’t ask how.”

  “You not happy Frank?” Joe asked.

  “A party of lawyers,” Frank snickered.

  “There will be cookies and cakes,” Joe grinned.

  After leaving the police headquarters, they spent a couple of hours dozing in Frank’s cruiser while sitting in a park and sipping on large ice coffees. The afternoon sun of midwinter made a low cut across the horizon when Frank and Joe made their way to his parents’ house.

  The Kirks lived in a large six-bedroom mansion in one of the expensive and quiet Princeton suburbs. The roads were wide, and the parked cars were German with sprinkling of sporty Italian. The Kirks house had a neatly manicured green lawn with a brick driveway leading to a large oak door. Red and purple lilies were planted under the windows and stones and pebbles delineated their boundary. The house was two stories, and the garage and the basement were elevated.

  An assemblage of cars was parked in front of it and in front of the houses on the either side and across the road. Frank parked his cruiser all the way at the back. All the guests were already here. Better that way, he thought, lunch would be served soon, and earlier they ate, earlier they could scoot.

  Frank had a key and walked in with Joe and saw a crowd of young and middle-aged men dressed in suits in shades of black, gray or navy blue with their wives in bright dresses and gowns downing cocktails while talking in low voices and laughing in whispers.

  “May I have your attention please,” Frank announced, “there are many cars parked illegally on the street outside. I will be calling license plates, and my partner will be handing out the parking tickets.” Frank had pulled down his uniform hat all the way to the top of his eyebrow and was unrecognizable.

  “The police can’t just barge in the house…” a young lawyer muttered.

  “The nerve…” someone from the back of the crowd said.

  “Son, this is an assembly of attorneys,” Clement Walsh, the elderly senior partner of the firm spoke, “You do not want to go to court against this law firm.”

  “Frank…” Dennis Kirk walked in the living room from the winery and raised both of his hands on either side holding a Champagne bottle in each.

  “He is our son, Frank,” his mother Emily Kirk said as she appeared carrying a tray of baked cookies.

  Frank and Joe guffawed and the crowd joined in initially with a nervous laughter and then with an uproar. Only his dad, Dennis, seemed not to be amused.

  Clement Walsh approached them and shook Frank and Joe’s hands. His father and mother joined him.

  “Dennis told me you had joined the Army. I see you still have a fancy for uniforms,” Walsh said.

  “The war is over,” Frank said.

  “And I am glad for it,” Emily Kirk added then turned to Joe, “How are you, Joe?”

  “Just fine, Mrs. Kirk,” Joe replied.

  Emily saw Joe staring at the plate of cookies in her hand and offered it to him. He took a couple of chocolate chip cookies and thanked her.

  “Don’t be shy, Joe. When you and F
rank were in high school, this would be finished between the two of you,” she smiled.

  “Frank, when are you planning to enter politics?” Walsh asked.

  “Politics!” Frank’s eyes popped and his mouth gaped open as if someone had asked when he planned to take up Quilting.

  “We would be happy if he planned to enter Grad school,” Dennis said.

  Oh god… Frank became angry. Grad school…the bloody grad school…he wanted to utter, but out of politeness to the guests he stayed quiet.

  “I would forget the Grad school,” Walsh said making Frank happy momentarily, “run for House. With your service record, you stand a good chance, and a few years down the road you can run for Senate.”

  And you would be happy to have someone to push your line on the patent law…Frank wanted to say but the man was his father’s partner after all. “Mr. Walsh, I didn’t join the Army to advance my political career. Politics doesn’t interest me. I joined for the adventure. And I intend to be a police detective till I retire.”

  “Just a detective, not advance higher?” Walsh asked.

  “I wouldn’t mind becoming Commander of the Investigation Division down the road, but I would hate to be in a position to do administration work, deal with politicians, media, all that,” Frank said.

  The conversation tapered off from there. His mother had already strolled away to talk with the other ladies, and Clement and Dennis soon joined up with their partners and junior attorneys. Joe too went to take a tour of the kitchen. Frank was left there standing awkwardly by himself holding his cocktail glass which he had finished in a couple of gulps.

  Then he spotted a man with a thick moustache and messy hair standing alone in the far corner near the book rack faced away from the room. He was the only one with a brown sports coat, and he didn’t seem to care for the conversations happening behind him.

  Frank walked over and realized he had never seen this stranger before. The guest was nonchalantly flipping through a book when he realized Frank was standing near him.

  “Polizei…policeman,” he was startled.

  “Your resemblance to the author is striking,” Frank said pointing to the portrait of Friedrich Nietzsche on the front cover of Thus Spake Zarathustra.

  “Naturally, that of one Prussian professor to another,” he replied in a German accent, “but I was a professor of neuroscience, now I am a researcher.”

  “Have you read this book?” Frank asked.

  “In German, yes, but I was curious to see what the English translation says,” he replied, “I am Friedrich Brandt. I do research in Alzheimer’s for the same Pharmaceutical company these…” he searched for a word, “…lawyers go to court for.”

  “I am Frank Kirk,” Frank said, “One of those lawyers is my father, hence my misfortune to be invited to this party. But I am glad there is a neurologist to talk to for a change.”

  “Neuroscientist, similar but different,” Friedrich grinned, “but my apologies Frank, it is me who is firstly responsible for this party. Another company copied a medical drug I created and your Papa’s company sued them and won a lot of dollars.”

  “That’s nice,” Frank thought. Too bad he was too old to ask his father for a gift, he chuckled. It would be a windfall this year for the law firm with the partners making out like kings.

  “What does your medicine do?” Frank asked.

  “It restores some memories of the patients with this Alzheimer’s problem,” Friedrich said, “I specialize in how human brain stores memory, how it goes away, and how to bring it back.”

  “Too bad one cannot bring back memories from a dead brain,” Frank chuckled but was surprised to see Friedrich look at him with a raised eyebrow. “I am sorry Herr Friedrich, I didn’t mean to make light of your important research.”

  “No…no…Frank, I want to know why you interested in a dead brain’s memories?” Friedrich asked.

  “I investigate murder. I was just joking around that if we could get memories from a murdered body’s brain, we would know who the killer…” Frank let his words trail off hoping his humor was not lost in translation.

  “Do you possess such a brain from man or woman killed?” Friedrich asked.

  “Why do you ask? What good would it do, a medicine is not going to work on a dead man,” Frank said and thought he should not have made that joke. Friedrich might get offended, but instead he leaned into Frank, looked to see no one was listening then whispered, “You see I do research on patients, clinical trials you call them in America, but I do not ever do research on a dead brain. The medical ethics forbid it, the law forbids it in my country, don’t know about America, but our company forbids it too. But I make machines that can try. If I have a brain to try.”

  Frank could not believe what he was hearing. He looked at Friedrich dead straight in the eye, “Herr, now you must tell me this is not some strange German humor.”

  “No humor, Frank, just a proposal,” Friedrich whispered, “you are a Polizei. I could do it under your authority. The brain will not be damaged, and I will return after our experiment.”

  Frank was left speechless for a few seconds till he heard Joe’s laughter, “Frank I grabbed a whole plate of them cookies all for you and me,” he said.

  “Joe, can you get me a beer from the fridge?” Frank asked, “and one for Herr Friedrich?”

  “Kind of you, Frank,” Friedrich replied. He waited for Joe to turn around and walk back to the kitchen and then asked, “What you say, Frank?”

  “I will get the dead brain,” Frank replied.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sunday, Day 4

  “Frank, are we really going through with this plan?” Joe asked.

  “Doesn’t hurt to try,” Frank replied.

  Frank and Joe were parked in a small shopping center’s parking lot on the early Sunday morning. Joe had not been very happy when informed they were working Sunday too; but when Frank had debriefed him on his conversation with Friedrich and his plan, Joe had been left fumbling over the words.

  “Frank, have you considered this could be your dad’s plan?” Joe said.

  “How so?”

  “You always complain that he pesters you to quit the state police and go to law school or get into some other big shot office profession,” Joe said, “Him and Friedrich could have conspired to embarrass you. If it gets out, everyone will laugh at us Frank. They will say we are suckers who fell for a setup, and fools who couldn’t see a prank coming. They will laugh us out of the police.”

  “Dad wouldn’t go that far,” Frank replied but his mind now wondered, “it would cause irreparable harm to our relationship,” he added.

  “They will leak it somehow, without it getting back to them,” Joe said, “we won’t even know how everyone found out.”

  “He is not a schemer,” Frank shook his head, but Joe had put a doubt in his mind and now it nagged at him.

  “What the hell, let’s do it,” Joe said.

  “Alright, Joe, go get the donut box,” Frank handed Joe a fifty dollar note and Joe walked out to the donut shop. He returned five minutes later with a large box of donuts and once in the car started to take out half of them and set them aside on the passenger side dashboard. Frank reached over to the back seat, grabbed a small portable freezer and put it inside the donut box.

  “Throw them away,” Frank pointed to the dashboard.

  “Nah, I am eating them,” Joe grinned.

  “Not that many!” Frank said, “and I don’t want that cream to stick up all over my dashboard.”

  They reached a compromise where Joe agreed to throw them away, but he would get to have those in the box after they were done.

  Frank pulled their car on to the main road and they were off to the police headquarters.

  “Guess who will be on duty today,” Joe grinned.

  “Don’t talk to him,” Frank said.

  Frank and Joe walked into the headquarters building and on to the floor of the Homicide Unit. The floor was
almost empty except for two other homicide detectives on duty. They were seated in large cubicles located in the central area with waist high partitions. They were surprised to hear footsteps and turned to look at the entrance door. Frank and Joe walked in with Frank carrying a large ice coffee in his hand and Joe holding the large box of donuts.

  “Look who is working overtime, Coffee and Donut,” a curly haired, round faced homicide detective said. His partner stood beside him with a smile but said nothing.

  “Curly, shut up,” Frank said to the curly haired detective as they walked down the open corridor towards the two detectives.

  “Coffee…Frank, I don’t doubt you will be working hard, but this lard ass,” he said pointing to Joe with his chin, “is here to sit back, kick up his feet, eat his donuts and collect OT for nothing. I resent that because me and James are working here.”

  “Curly, I will work you out if you have the guts to step in the ring with me,” Joe said stopping in front of detective Mason Curly and his partner James Owen.

  “You couldn’t beat a squirrel, Joe,” Curly replied.

  “Mophead, I won the states for wrestling,” Joe threw back.

  “Yeah you won by default in the 600 pound category because they found no one in that weight class to go against you,” Curly frowned his nose.

  “And your sorry ass lost every match in girls wrestling,” Joe barfed.

  “James,” Frank said to Mason’s partner. James put a hand on Mason’s shoulder and gently pulled him back while Frank led Joe over to their office.

  “You got to ignore him,” Frank said after closing his door.

  “I know Frank, I know, but…whatever,” Joe said.

  Frank logged on his computer and identified the storage location where Adam’s body was being kept.

  “Let’s go get Adam’s brain,” Frank said.

  Frank and Joe walked the stairs to the Medical Examiner’s office. No one was here on this floor today except for a couple of maintenance personnel. They walked over to Dr. Evan’s office with the donut box in Joe’s hand. Frank looked down the hallway both ways then took out a lockpick from his pocket and inserted it in the keyhole. Joe stood close to him to block the view from the other side.