by Dan Ames
The barrel of the gun was pressed to the dying man's head. He closed his eyes.
The gunshot echoed in the darkness.
2
Two
I watched the bartender pour me another beer. It was one of my favorite beers in the whole world, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember its name at that moment. How many had I had?
Well, there’s strength in numbers, I thought. Who said that? Patton?
“What, for me?” I said as she slid the glass of pure deliciousness in front of me. Her name was Kimmie. The bartender. Not the beer. The beer’s name was something that ended with the word Pilsner.
“Thirsty today, Burr?” she said to me. Kimmie smiled and I thought she was awfully cute. Which was strange, because I seemed to recall only yesterday that she sort of looked like a cross between Fidel Castro and an alpaca.
“I’m getting over a cold, need plenty of liquids,” I said.
Kimmie nodded and moved off to take the orders of a couple of newly arrived customers.
I checked my watch.
It was almost ten o’clock. I tried to remember if I had any appointments the next morning. No, I did not. And then I tried to remember if I had any appointments at all the next day. Maybe.
I looked at my glass. How could it be half gone already? Damn beer thieves, they were the worst. Probably used a long straw when I wasn’t watching.
I quickly drank the rest before the thieves returned and ordered another. This would be my last.
“Close out my tab, too, please,” I said to Kimmie.
As I was signing the bill and appreciating the beauty of the new beer, so much sexier than the old beer, my cell phone buzzed.
"This is Burr." My name is Michael Ashland, but “Burr” was my nickname from high school, given to me by my football coach. I had been a defensive back and my coach had liked the way I attached myself to the opponent's wide receivers.
Quite literally, the name stuck.
"Burr." The nervous voice on the other end of the line belonged to Fred Pip, a low-budget local commercial director, and a friend from way back.
"I'm worried," he said.
"Of course you are Fred." I said. "That's what you do for a living. If you didn't have something to worry about, you couldn't survive. It'd be like Mother Theresa suddenly deciding she needed to pamper herself for a change."
"Burr, I'm serious. And worried." Fred did in fact sound very serious and quite worried.
Fred was a sweet guy; there was no getting around it. I read once that altruism is the highest form of human development. Whether or not it's true, I don't know. But there were two things I could say about Fred Pip with the utmost certainty. He was gay. And a better man than I would ever be.
"So what are your worried about, Fred? Studios in Hollywood tracked you down?" Fred had the biggest movie collection I'd ever seen in my life. He’d gone from illegally taping them to illegally downloading them. He was always shoving DVDs and hard drives full of movies at me. And then, at his insistence, I would have to call him the minute I finished watching one so we could 'discuss.'
"Have you heard from Tim?" he asked.
"'About a week ago." I said.
"Well..."
"What?" I asked.
"Uh, we were supposed to have lunch yesterday...he should have called me." Fred sounded hurt and worried. Like the parent of a wayward child.
"Well let's get his face on a milk carton right away, Fred," I said.
"I've been trying to track him down," Fred said. "He's nowhere to be found." His voice was rising, heading for the Panic Zone.
"I'm really worried, Burr," he said.
"He's probably at the library, trapped in a study cubicle," I said. I giggled a little, then let a beer belch slide out through my nose.
"And he sent me something weird, like, two days ago," Fred said. He'd lowered his voice. "It makes no sense because he was going to see me yesterday," Fred said.
"What is it?” I asked. "Some type of masturbatory accessory? "
"It looks like film...I haven't watched it yet."
"Okay," I said. "Did you try Emily?" Emily Lyons was Tim's ex-wife.
"No."
I sighed. I had just finished up a divorce case. Photos of the client’s wife with the reserve center for the Milwaukee Bucks had sealed the deal.
“Okay, I’ll stop by tomorrow,” I said. “Put some beer in the fridge.”
3
Three
It had been a rough night. I silently cursed Kimmie the bartender. Why had she kept shoving those beers at me? What kind of masochist was she?
From the bed, I could see snowflakes falling on the Dutch Elm tree outside my window. Big splotchy flakes that fell with nearly audible plops.
I swung my feet off the bed and sat upright. The pounding in my head was persistent but had no rhythm. Like a country band on its first rehearsal.
The clock read just past nine.
I went into the kitchen, started the coffee, then started the shower.
The doorbell rang while I was shampooing my hair. I got out of the shower, toweled off, threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and answered the door.
Oh no.
The woman facing me was Detective Gabby Engle. She was a homicide cop with the Milwaukee Police Department. We had crossed paths several times on other cases, and the experience had always been pretty unpleasant. Don’t get me wrong, she was wonderful to look at. She was into marathons and triathlons and all that crap, a total hardbody. And her face had the kind of chiseled beauty that wouldn’t fade, but I wasn’t exactly a charter member of the Gabby fan club. Because she was a hardass, both literally and figuratively.
“Hello Mr. Ashland,” she said.
I could see something in her face. And suddenly, I knew she was here about Tim.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Tim Bantien’s been murdered," she said.
"How?" I managed to ask. I felt dizzy, like I’d entered some kind of alternate reality.
She flipped open her notebook. "Well, it appears that he was beaten first, then thrown out of a three-story window," she said. "It's hard to tell, though, because he’d been worked over pretty thoroughly. Plus, the glass cut him up real bad.”
It was hard to imagine. I felt dizzy, the struggle to picture one of my best friends dead.
"And then it looked like he was shot," Gabby continued. "Although, the coroner says so many of his bones were broken that there was a chance he was already dead.” She flipped her notebook closed. Watched me.
"You were listed at the university as the person to contact in case of an emergency,” she said, her voice sounding even, but somehow accusing.
“Suspects?” I said, forcing myself to stay calm.
Gabby shook her head. “Do you have any idea why someone would've wanted to kill him?"
“Are you fucking kidding me? Tim is-“ my voice caught - " an overgrown Boy Scout. He doesn't have a mean bone in his body."
"You have no idea what your friend would have been doing around midnight in an abandoned building near the Third Ward?" Her voice sounded almost skeptical.
“No.”
"Relax, Mr. Ashland,” she said. “I’m not here for you. I’m just trying to find out what happened to your friend. I'm not even going to ask you where you were the night Bantien was murdered."
She looked at me. I didn't respond.
"Was anything going on in his personal life that you knew about?” Gabby said. “Major upheavals?"
"Tim got divorced a year and a half ago,” I said.
"Anyone new in his life?"
"Not that I know of."
"Was he under any kind of financial strain?'
"I don’t think so."
She put her notebook away.
"Then I guess that's it for now, Mr. Ashland,” she said. “I may have some more questions for you later. Are you planning on leaving town during the holidays?"
"No."
"You
know, my chief is a stickler for details. I probably should ask you where you were last night. Sometime between eleven and one in the morning."
"I was here. At home."
"Any witnesses who can verify that?"
"No."
She waited.
"People," she said finally. "They're never around when you need 'em."
4
Four
Hoopin' Productions, Fred's company, was in an 1850 Italianate on Jefferson, across from the foul Ed Debevic's that filled the air with the smell of overpriced and undercooked hamburger.
There was a law firm on the first floor, and a special effects company on the second floor. I took the elevator up to the third floor.
The doors opened onto Fred's lobby, which stood in stark contrast to the one downstairs. Modern sculptures on white pedestals held prominent positions throughout the lobby. The sculptures were busts. Distorted faces with bright colors and warped images.
It being Saturday, the place was empty. I turned to the left, went through a doorway, then down another long hallway to the kitchen.
A second hallway branched off from the kitchen to the main editing suite. All of the offices were empty and dark.
My footsteps echoed in the empty space. I got to the last door in the hallway. Through the smoked glass door, I could see that a light was on inside, so I opened the door and stepped in.
The room was large. A bank of monitors and editing equipment took up one wall. Facing it was a long, irregularly shaped desk. Panels overlapped at strange angles. A Cubist desk.
A single chair sat empty in front of the main controls. A four-foot section of desk jutted out from the main console, where two chairs were placed side-by-side, for Fred's clients. On the desk was a pad of paper and a pen, as well as a telephone.
The light in the tape room was on. It was a small room just off the editing suite.
I could hear someone moving around, flipping switches and closing plastic cases.
A moment later, Fred emerged from the room and closed the door behind him. He had on blue jeans, snowmobile boots and a thick, gray sweater. His skin was pale, his face pinched and drawn. His light brown hair was pressed down as always, and his eyes peeked out from behind his big, thick black glasses.
Today there were dark circles under his eyes. The same kind that were under mine. We had already talked and I’d told him about my visit from the Gabby Engel.
"This is awful, Burr," he said.
I sat down in a chair across from his editing console. "The only way it can get worse," I said, "is if we can't nail the bastard who did this." I was thirsting not for vengeance, but simply to figure out what had happened. Once I had a name, the vengeance part might come into play, but I needed to focus on first things first.
"The cops..." Fred said.
"...are going to get some help," I said. " Whether or not Gabby likes it, she’s got two new partners. Three heads are better than one.”
“But-“ Fred started.
“The fact that she was asking me questions, asking me where I was when Tim was murdered? That tells me she doesn’t have a fucking clue who did this. Now, she’s not the kind of cop who’s going to ask for help. So I’m going to take the initiative and provide it to her, free of charge.”
Fred faced the equipment that represented at least a quarter of a million dollars worth of film editing technology. I could see him hesitate. Noticed the slump in his shoulders like he was already defeated. I thought of pushing him, of lighting a fire under him, but I knew he had to do it himself. Finally, he let out a long sigh, sat up to the console, punched a few buttons and several of the monitors blinked.
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea,” Fred said. His voice was soft, but almost paternal. I realized he needed to say it to satisfy his conscience, that he’d gotten it on the record. It would make him feel better, and that was the important thing.
“Duly noted,” I said.
Some fuzzy gray footage popped onto the main monitor and Fred froze it, then swiveled in his chair to face me.
"This is the film Tim sent to me. Do you have any idea how old it is?" Fred asked.
"None."
"It was probably from one of the first cameras of its kind. Probably around the very early 1900s."
"Do you have any idea where it might have come from?"
Fred shook his head. "I didn't see any labels or anything. Just a plain metal canister and the film inside."
“No note from Tim?” I asked.
Fred shook his head.
“Have you watched it?” I asked.
“I got a sneak preview. I wish I hadn’t.”
"Let's see what we've got," I said. I could feel the adrenaline, after a night of tossing and turning, of feeling nothing but sadness and fatigue, it felt great to be able to do something. To be able to start somewhere.
Fred turned, hit a button, and an image popped onto the screen.
5
Five
It was in grainy black-and-white, of course, being close to a hundred years old, but I was surprised at the quality of the resolution. It looked a little bit worse than the average old home movies, before videocameras.
There was a big bed with elegantly patterned sheets. An elaborate brass headboard and footboard. A nest of large pillows with elegant lace pillowcases was piled at the head. Crisp white sheets and a lightly patterned blanket covered the bed's length. There was a window that was mostly out of frame, but looked to be extremely tall, with molding that was carved and highly elaborate.
The image was jumpy and sporadic, the film's light inconsistent.
A young woman, very young to my eye, appeared from offscreen. She walked slowly, automatically. As if she were nervous about an upcoming audition.
She sat on the bed. She was completely naked and very thin. Her pelvic bones jutted from pale skin. The harsh light seemed to make her glow like an apparition. Her ribs showed even though she was sitting down. Her long legs extended all the way to the floor, and her elegant hands were clasped oddly in her lap.
She looked at the screen, as if she was listening. Her eyes slid over, to the left of the camera. Listening. Taking direction.
The camera moved slightly. Bumped. And then a man appeared. My first reaction was that he looked like an ape. Short, thick and wide. A human roadblock. He moved slowly, with purpose.
Thick, dark hair covered his broad back, wide shoulders, powerful arms and legs. There was even hair on his ass.
He walked to the bed, stood next to it, stared at the girl. He held out his hand. She took it. He pulled her to her feet.
The man ran a hairy hand down the young girl's hair. He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, trailed it down to her breasts where he cupped each one gently. He continued downward, ran a hand over her flat stomach.
He turned her slightly and slapped her buttock.
"Inspection completed," I said. "It's like he's judging livestock." Fred was slouched in his chair, his hands covering his face. I couldn't tell if he was watching or if he was shielding his vision.
The man on the screen then turned to the camera, displaying a large erection that bobbed gently to the left and to the right, with his movement.
"Dear God," Fred said. I guessed he was watching after all.
The man's face was round, probably florid although on the black-and-white film it was hard to tell. He had a pug nose, heavy jowls and thick eyebrows. His profile did nothing to dissuade me from the ape comparison.
He climbed onto the bed.
The man on the screen said something to the girl who eased back onto the bed. The man climbed on top of her, gave her an obligatory kiss, a quick squeeze of her breasts, then spread her legs. He grabbed each of her legs just beneath the knee. Lifted them up onto his shoulders.
With his right hand, the man guided himself inside the young girl, then leaned over her and started thrusting. His hairy ass moved with a slow, emotionless precision.
The gi
rl looked over at the camera. Her eyes revealed nothing as the back of her head was repeatedly pushed into the pillow. Her feet waved uncontrolled with each of the man's thrust.
"This is disgusting," Fred said, shaking his head.
I tried to get a closer look at the girl.
"How old do you think she is?" I asked.
"Too young for this, that's for sure," Fred said. He pondered for a moment, then said, "My guess would be sixteen. Somewhere around there."
That would have been my guess, too.
"What the fuck was Tim doing with this?" I wondered.
"Do you think..." Fred's question trailed off.
"That Tim was into this kind of stuff? " I finished the thought for him. "Not unless he had multiple personalities."
On screen, the man's thrusting increased speed.
"Where did he get this?" Fred asked.
"That's a good question," I answered. "He was hell on wheels when it came to research. Remember the way you could ask him about a book and he'd give you a call number off the top of his head? Half the time, the librarians asked Tim for help."
Fred nodded and I asked, "Did he say where the film came from?"
Fred shook his head. "No, he mailed them to me. The only message was that I should hold onto it."
We both focused again on the screen where the man was jackhammering, a highly lubricated piston, firing over and over again. His body was shiny beneath the hair as he worked up a sweat.
A few minutes later, he began to climax, and the girl's entire body was like a trampoline, bouncing with every thrust, her feet flopping, her head pinned against the headboard.
At last, the man finished and he lay on top of her. Her hands dropped to the side of the bed.
And then the screen went black.
