by Tom Swyers
McNeal put on his cap, walked over, and shook hands with David. “Good to see you, D,” he said, looking down at David. “What the heck happened?”
“The door’s open. Go check it out yourself, but you might want to hold your breath.”
Chief Pete McNeal strode inside Apartment 1B while David fought back tears. Shock was giving way to reality. But David wasn’t going to cry in front of Pete. Not if he could help it.
Pete shuffled out after about thirty seconds. He leaned against his car to steady himself. “He’s dead all right.” There was a pause as McNeal pushed up his hat’s visor and rubbed his forehead. “Never seen anything like that . . .”
“You mean a dead man standing, or a storage locker posing as an apartment?”
McNeal looked at David for a second. “Both.”
David nodded.
“Why don’t you tell me what you know, D.”
David wiped his nose. “Not sure where to begin. Yesterday morning, I stopped by the big baseball field and saw a bucket of baseballs near home plate.”
“Are you still running the baseball program for teens over there?”
“No, but I’m still on the board of directors.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I saw his name written on the bucket with a Sharpie. So I knew the stuff was his. It was an odd sight. There were a few baseballs spread over the field: one near home plate, one near the pitcher’s mound, one near shortstop, and one out in left field. So I picked them up. On the way back to home plate, I saw his equipment bags in one of the dugouts. He’s nowhere around. I didn’t see his car. So I figured he had held a practice and got distracted or something and left his stuff behind.”
“I thought the season was over.”
“There’s a fall baseball league still playing. The boys like to practice, and so he would organize a few to keep them fresh.”
“Okay, go on.”
“I asked Christy if he knew anything about a practice.” Christy was David’s sixteen-year-old son. “He said he and some friends were the last to leave practice three nights ago, and that Harold was cleaning up around the ball field when he left.”
“Did he have any kids himself?”
“No, he has no family that I know about. His wife died years ago. He didn’t remarry. He was an only child, and his parents are dead.”
“You guys must have been pretty good friends to know all that.”
“Yes. He was a little older than me, but we had a lot in common. He didn’t have any kids of his own; he just wanted to help out with the kids in town. He was my scorekeeper this past season, coached third base a lot, too. He asked me to draw up his will about four months ago. So I learned much about him from doing that work.”
“What did he do for a living?”
“He’s a retired petroleum-engineering professor. He worked as a consultant. He’s known all over the world for his research.”
“Did you know he was a hoarder?”
“No, he never invited me to his apartment. Now I know why.”
“How did you get in?”
“He gave me a copy of his key a month or so ago. He insisted on giving me one, just in case. I’ve been trying to reach him on the phone. When I didn’t hear back from him, I came here and rang the bell. He didn’t answer, and then I spotted his car in the lot. That’s when I decided to use the key.”
Pete thought for a second. “If you don’t mind my asking, who are the beneficiaries under his will?”
David looked at Pete, eyebrows raised, thinking it was an odd question. “I really can’t tell you that now. In my mind, attorney-client privilege rules until it’s filed for probate and becomes a public record.” David started to walk toward the apartment door. “Why do you ask?”
Pete sighed. “You can’t go in there.”
“Trust me, I don’t plan to. I’m just getting you the key from the lock.”
“Don’t touch it.”
David turned and looked at him. “What gives, Pete?”
“I’m treating this as a crime scene.”
“Really? What makes you think—”
“I guess you didn’t see the blood.”
“What—”
“Behind his head and behind him on the wall.”
“No, I didn’t see that. I figured he had a heart attack while he was standing, and all of his stuff was propping him up.” David went to lean against the car next to Pete. “What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know for sure, but it looks like someone pounded his head against the wallboard so hard that they busted through it and hit a wall stud. The impact may have fractured his skull.”
David shook his head. “Oh, my God.”
They looked at each other. It was like they were back on the offensive line during their football days in high school—David as guard and Pete as tackle. They would look at the defense, then at each other, exchanging their own signals to confirm their blocking assignments. The coach usually ran the ball in their direction because there was no place else to run. Their side of the line was the best the team could offer. They didn’t win a single game their senior year, and the highlight of the season was when the local newspaper called them the best winless team in the state. But there were no signals to exchange that evening; they were both clueless. Homicides didn’t happen but once a decade, maybe longer, in the town of Indigo Valley. There was no modern playbook readily available.
“What’s next?” David asked.
Pete put his hand on David’s shoulder. “You go home. I’ll take it from here. I’ll get back to you once I know more. I’ll probably have some more questions for you then.”
David looked at Pete. “I feel I should stay here for some reason. Harold didn’t have anyone else. I feel I should be here for him or something.”
Pete managed a smile. “You’re a good man, D. Trust me, you don’t want to be here when the news media gets here, not under these circumstances. Do you really want to talk to them?”
“No, I guess you’re right.”
“A tackle always knows best, right?”
David nodded. “You’ve been telling me that ever since we were kids.”
“Now, go home, and I’ll be in touch.”
“OK” David said patting Pete on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
Pete reached for his radio to call for a homicide team and the medical examiner.
David got into his 1974 pearl-white Mustang and started it up. The radio had been left on and was tuned to Bloomberg, the business-news station. The commentator was talking about the spot price of West Texas Intermediate Crude oil hitting a triple bottom at $79.70 per barrel from a peak of $107.68. David didn’t know if it was the power of suggestion, but all of a sudden he smelled oil. He put his hands to his face and inhaled. It was oil. He reached for a bottle of hand cleaner he kept in the door pocket and tried to cleanse himself of Harold’s death and the oil, too. David kept scrubbing his hands while listening before drying them with some tissues he kept in the glove compartment. All the oil pundits interviewed in the report said the price of oil was heading higher. He turned the radio off, pulled out of the apartment complex, and began to drive home. His hands were trembling and still smelled like oil.
The radio report stirred up a memory of Harold. He used to talk to David about trading stocks or commodities, like oil. He’d say, “There’s no such thing as a triple bottom.” He used to call them killdeer bottoms because they aimed to deceive, the way a killdeer protects its ground nest and eggs. The bird feigns a broken wing, drawing any predator farther and farther away from the nest by keeping a few steps ahead of it. Harold said when pundits were screeching for a “triple bottom,” their intent, like the killdeer, was to distract predators—the market participants—from its looming breakdown. The triple bottom looked like it should hold just like David’s key looked like it should work. In Harold’s eyes, three strikes and you were out; the third time was the charm; a third trip to the bottom of a trading ran
ge meant prices were going to break and go lower, substantially lower.
Harold told David his nickname once, and they laughed about it. On Wall Street, they had called him King Crude Salar, or King Crude for short. He had been a frequent guest on CNBC, the business television channel. Harold was their go-to guy when it came to oil. His reputation was stellar, but years ago, he’d faded from the limelight by his own choice. Then it was “out of sight, out of mind” for him. Harold’s claim to fame was that he was never wrong when it came to oil, especially the price of oil. And that’s a noteworthy accomplishment, because most everyone is wrong when it comes to calling the market price.
Now King Crude was dead. While wiping away tears from his cheeks with a tissue, David couldn’t help but think Harold’s life had somehow caught up with him.
What David didn’t realize was that Harold’s life was about to catch up with him, too. Though David was in the driver’s seat that evening, Harold Salar’s hands were firmly on the wheel.
~ End of Chapter 1 ~
Buckle up and get your copy of The Killdeer Connection (the first book in the series) by clicking this link HERE.
Have an awesome day!
