Soft Case: (Book 1 in the John Keegan Mystery Series)

by John Misak

  “What do you want to know?” he asked.

  “Well, did you see Mr. Mullins leave yesterday?”

  “I did.” He kept a blank look on his face.

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “He had to meet someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know,” Steve said.

  “Of course you don’t.”

  He clearly didn’t like my line of questioning. “I don’t.”

  I kept at it. “What time did he leave?”

  “Around 3pm.”

  “Cameras pick him up as he was leaving?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Might we see those tapes?” I asked.

  “No,” Steve said quickly, then came back with, “I mean, I am not in charge of that.”

  “You are in charge of security, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “Yes, but it’s up to the Mullins’ as far as those tapes are concerned. They decide who gets to see what. That’s the way Mr. Mullins insisted it be. I have no control over it.” I wanted to mention that Mr. Mullins was dead, but perhaps old Stevie was hit hard by his boss’ death. Didn’t want to throw salt in that wound. Yet.

  “I guess we’ll need a warrant, then,” I said.

  “I guess so. Sorry.” He didn’t sound sincere. Something was up with the tapes, I thought. Either he didn’t have the tape, he never recorded it, or something was on it. All of those possibilities led to different scenarios. If he didn’t have it, then someone else did. If he didn’t record it, that was either a decision he or someone above him made, and I would have loved to know why. If there was something on the tape, something that hinted toward foul play, well, then, that’s self-explanatory. Or, perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps I got ahead of myself again.

  I didn’t think so either.

  “How long you been working here?” I asked.

  “Four years.”

  “As head of security?” I asked.

  “It’s not really called that.”

  “How many men they have working here?”

  “Two,” Steve said.

  “Where’s the other guy?”

  “Been sick for a week now.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “You think so.” He stated that. Yeah, he didn’t like me or my questions. I didn’t necessarily think he had any guilt in this case. He may just have been the type who didn’t like to

  “Yes, I do. Got his phone number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Convenient that he got sick, don’t you think? That might have something to do with the tapes, huh? Couldn’t record that day?” Yeah, I can be real annoying when I want.

  “I never said that. What the hell is your problem?”

  “No problem,” Rick said, interjecting. He saw what I was up to. I wouldn’t say that he disagreed with what I did, just how I went about it. I shouldn’t have brought so much attention to the tape. If gave him too much warning. I realized that right when I looked at Rick’s face. Dipshit I am. “Anything strange happen yesterday?”

  “Other than my boss killing himself?”

  “You know what I mean,” Rick said, holding back a bit of anger. I really wanted to see Rick go off. He needed it, and I knew it would be nothing short of hilarious. I needed a good laugh.

  “Nothing that I can think of.”

  “What was Mr. Mullins’ mood like?”

  “He seemed distracted,” Steve said. “Not like himself.”

  “Just distracted? Nothing else out of the ordinary?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He didn’t seem suicidal?”

  “What does suicidal seem like?”

  This guy was a real wiseass.

  “Did he seem different?”

  “He’d been different for weeks. Always bitching about one thing or another, if you want to know the truth. I think the stress got to him. He seemed like he cracked. I’ve seen guys in positions like his do that all the time. It’s a shame to see it, too.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Rick said.

  “He had a lot of pressure on him. He was getting out of the only business he knew, that was weighing heavily on his mind. He told me about it a few times, when I drove him places. On top of that, he had the Senate thing. He wanted to do that, but was unsure of his chances. I thought he would have been great at it. Not that I know much about politics. Hell, I don’t even vote.”

  Man, this guy got chatty fast. Very chatty. Was there something going on here. Should I have been worried? I kept thinking about it. I kept paying attention to everything he said. I watched every facial expression he made. Just in case. I preferred to watch Roseanna, or Sondra, but hey, not all of my job was glamorous.

  “Okay. So he spoke to you often.”

  “Not often. But he did speak to me.”

  “And you think he was suicidal. You think it was possible,” I said as a statement instead of a question.

  He thought about that. “Possible. I’m not sure about it, but definitely possible. Unbelievable.”

  “What?”

  “That a man who had all he did would kill himself. It really doesn’t make sense, when you think about it.”

  “Money isn’t everything,” I said.

  “Obviously not.”

  “Thank you for the help,” Rick said. “We’ll see you soon.” Nice one, Rick. Let him think about that one for a while. Actually, I didn’t know what to think of Steve. He might have been alright. Then again, he might not have been. Too soon to tell. I decided to go with my initial impression, one which I made of just about everyone I met. I didn’t like him.

  “Nice going,” Rick said, getting back into the car.

  “Relax. We’ll get the tape.” I hoped we would, because if we didn’t, I knew for damn sure that my pal Rick would throw me right under the bus with Geiger. No question about that. It felt nice to be able to trust a partner so superficially. Real nice.

  “You gave the whole thing away. If we do get a hold of the tape which I don’t think we will, they’ll have done something to it.”

  “You really need to work on your Conspiracy Theory problems. First off, we’re still working on a suicide case, if you look at the evidence. We have two people who were close to the victim who say he was capable of suicide. I just think I ruffled that guy’s feathers a little bit. And you should be happy I did, because if I didn’t, we might not have gotten anything that made us suspicious of him. I helped him point his own finger at himself. At least it gives us something to work on.”

  “Okay, you’re right. But you could have been a little slicker when it came to the tape. All I have heard is how good you are when it comes to questioning, and so far I have seen nothing.”

  “Maybe you just aren’t looking in the right places.”

  “I’d have to be looking at a woman’s ass to see what you are seeing.”

  “Again with that. Maybe you should get a good look at an ass or two. Might make you feel like a man again.”

  Rick’s face turned red. Target hit.

  He opened the passenger door, and sat in the seat. Unusual tactic, to not respond at all. Maybe I destroyed the target. I never could tell. I got into the car myself, started the engine, and looked at Rick, who seethed.

  “You really have a one track mind.”

  “No, my mind has several tracks. They all do lead to the same destination, however.”

  This produced a chuckle.

  “Piece of work, you are.”

  “So I have been told,” I said. I have. Many times.

  “How many of your partners have you sent to the department psychiatrist?”

  “You partnered with me a few times. Haven’t seen you in his office.”

  “Doesn’t mean I didn’t go.”

  I was hungry. Being that the Mullins’ lived only a few blocks away from All American Burger, I figured it was a perfect late afternoon destination. Not the ideal place for a guy like Rick to eat, but I was sure he had a protein bar o
n him somewhere.

  I pulled into the parking lot, which for 3pm was pretty busy. “What are you doing?” Rick asked.

  “Eating, what does it look like?”

  “Here?”

  “Yes.” I turned off the engine. “What do you want? They have hot dogs, and the best double cheeseburgers you’ll ever eat in your life.”

  “They have anything that won’t clog your arteries? You know, something that doesn’t have more fat than an entire cow?”

  “I believe the old-fashioned cardboard containers are low in fat, and high in fiber. On top of that, I think they finally succumbed to the pressures of the 20th Century, and got diet soda.” Rick made a face.

  “You don’t want anything?” I asked.

  “Do I have to get a double?”

  There was hope. “No, they have singles, too.”

  “Get me one. Without cheese.”

  What a tightass. But he was learning. I walked inside the building, which looked a lot like a Carvel, if you are familiar with that structure. If not, picture a building about half the size of a McDonald’s. The counter and the kitchen were the same size, but eliminate the seating area. All of it. There were tables and chairs outside. As soon as I entered the place, my nose was bombarded by one of the best smells known to man, grilled onions. All good burger joints did something special with the onions. All American was no exception. Their onions were comparable to White Castle’s in flavor, but they were not diced, which adds more flavor. You certainly didn’t order All American before a big date, but I mentally checked my calendar and saw that I was free for the indefinite future, plenty of time to clean the smell from my breath.

  A middle-aged man wearing a stained apron stood behind the counter. Despite the cars in the lot, I was the only one in the place.

  “What do ya need?” he asked. He looked like a burger cooker. He had meaty arms, and thick gray hair, and eyes that looked like they could cook the burgers themselves.

  “Let me get two doubles, fries, and a single with no cheese.”

  He raised his eyebrows to that one. “Drinks?”

  “Large Diet Coke, and a ...” I didn’t know what to order nature boy. Water or diet soda? I remembered something I had read on the Internet about how NutraSweet might be bad for you, and figured I’d play it safe. “And a water, please.”

  Another raise of the eyebrows. Rick had a way of making you stand out. The term “high maintenance,” made popular by the movie When Harry Met Sally, intended to be applied to woman, certainly applied to Rick. He most definitely ordered a salad with dressing on the side. I wondered if he fantasized about putting on pumps and wearing mini-skirts. I decided, right there, that I didn’t want to know.

  The man behind the counter, whose name was Joe (I noticed that he had a name tag when he turned back around) placed my food on the counter.

  “$6.25,” he said. That was the thing about All American. It was cheap. So, you had to consider risking the big date. Hell, you had to consider taking the big date with you. Talk about saving cash. Remember, I didn’t date too often.

  I handed him a twenty, and he gave me the change.

  “Thank you, Joe,” I said.

  “Take care.”

  I brought the bag into the car. Man it smelled good.

  “That stuff smells,” Rick said.

  “That means it’s good for you,” I said.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Just eat it, and stop bitching. Please.”

  I doled out the food, and we ate it the way fast food should be eaten, in your car. Sure, it leaves a foul stench that gets worse over the course of a few days, but that was just part of the experience.

  Rick took a careful first bite, like he was eating something for the first time. This was, of course, impossible. No one of God’s earth, or at least no one in the US part of God’s earth, made it into their 30's without having a burger. Unless they had whacko, hippie, plant eating parents. Eureka. I discovered Rick’s problem. Well, maybe I did.

  “Any good?” I asked.

  “Not bad. I’ve had better, but it’s been a long time.”

  There went that theory. Boom.

  “Don’t eat meat?”

  “Red meat. I eat it sometimes, but not more than twice a month.”

  “You keep track of those things?” I asked.

  “Yes. You should always monitor what is going into your body. You are what you eat.”

  Which made me a cow wrapped in a flour tortilla. Could be worse. And Rick was a chicken-flavored protein bar, with Brussels sprouts on the side. Or something like that.

  “I’m not so concerned about such things,” I said.

  “You? I would have never known.”

  Wiseass.

  “You spend all of that time worrying about what you eat, checking your shit for fiber, and you get hit by a bus at the age of 35. What difference does it make?” I asked.

  “That’s possible, but look at it this way. I make it to 75, and have a colon that still works, while other people are sucking down Metamucil like it’s going out of style, and have to worry about colon cancer and colostomy bags. It might be a good idea to plan for the remote possibility you’ll make it past fifty.”

  Bastard had a point, but I wasn’t going to let that ruin my enjoyment of one of life’s simple pleasures. Unfortunately, he already had, a little.

  “I don’t count on such slim possibilities.”

  “Well, you should.”

  “Right now, I am going to enjoy this burger. I suggest you do the same. If I am not mistaken, one of the worst things for your health is worry, so I would like to remove that killer from myself right now.”

  “Do what you want. I was just trying to help,” Rick said.

  “You failed.”

  “You know I am right.”

  “I said shut up.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  I knew he tried to be helpful, but he was also trying to be a bit of a pain in the ass. It was in his nature. He was a nag. Man, the more I thought about him, the bigger the list of bad qualities he had.

  After a few moments, he asked, “What did you get me to drink?”

  I reached into the bag and pulled out what looked like an 8-ounce cup. “Water, I played it safe.”

  “I do drink soda, on occasion.”

  “Then, on this occasion, you can get up and get it yourself. I had your health in mind,” I said.

  He looked at the cup, a frown on his face. “I can’t eat a burger without a soda. The two go hand in hand.”

  “Then don’t eat the burger. Give it to the starving seagulls out there. I’m sure they wouldn’t need a soda to wash it down.”

  Rick sighed. “I’ll just drink the water.”

  Damn right you will, I thought. I had myself set up. Napkin on the lap, container opened in the right position to catch any falling residue. I wasn’t going to upset that by getting out of the car to get the pain in the ass a soda. No freakin’ way. If he wanted a soda, he should have asked for one. It wasn’t like predicting what the hell he would eat or drink was an easy process. Again, I felt bad for his wife. Very bad

  Seven

  The rest of the day consisted of making out the report of what we had so far, which turned out to be a lot of nothing, and making a few calls to the guys who were looking over the car, and the Medical Examiner, Coltrain, who had absolutely nothing new to tell us. Mullins was in perfect health when he died. Exactly what I expected.

  Rick drove me home, and I ordered a pizza, which gave me the urge I needed to throw out the other box. I ate my healthy meal, one Rick would have been so proud of, and flipped on the television for a moment. It didn’t take me long to get bored. With nothing else to do, I flipped on my Playstation, and fired up a boxing game. I know, people are surprised to hear that cops do the same things that civilians do in their free time. It’s like seeing your teacher at the supermarket when you are in the sixth grade. People like that aren’t supposed to lead normal lives, m
ainly because you don’t see them as anything else but teachers, or cops. Well, we do a lot of things that normal people do.

  Firing up the boxing game proved to be a bad idea. The problem is, it is a time killer. You start off ranked at like 20. The game I had all real boxers, old and new, and you scan the list to see who is above you. I had Rocky Marciano and Ken Norton to beat to crack the top five. No problem. Actually, big problem. Sure, I could beat them. But, I started the game at 10, and by the time I was ranked eleventh, it was 12:30. My fighter’s stats were increasing, mainly in punching power, because that’s all I put my bonus points on. By 2AM, I had Marciano on the ropes, and headed toward the fifth position. Norton went the distance with me, the bastard, and so did Riddick Bowe, who was insanely ranked at number four. By the time I took a beating from the number three guy, Evander Holyfield, it was 3:30. I never liked Holyfield. I wanted to bite his ear off, but there was no button for that.

  I reached the number one position at 4:40, and my thumb felt like it had a marble at the end of it. It was too late to call it quits, so I stuck it out and gave George Foreman, the champion, a run for his money. It went the distance. It was 5:15 when the asshole judges gave the decision to Foreman. I clearly won the brawl. Foreman couldn’t land anything solid on me. But, when you are fighting the guy who got paid to have his name in the title of the game, you have to expect unfair treatment from the judges. Besides, you really have to knock out the champion to take his belt. Instead of fighting again, I wanted to go one on one with the Playstation, give it a piece of my mind. When I realized what time it was, I figured all I could do was go one more fight.

  I knocked Foreman out with a solid left hook at 5:58. Did it in the ninth round, after beating up on him all the way through. He fell twice in the third, and once again in the fifth. Tough bastard. I shut the system off, and glanced out the window, catching the beginning of sunrise. Rick would be there at 8 to pick me up, so I figured sleeping wasn’t an option. I didn’t feel tired anyway. I was still riding high on my winning the belt. Pathetic, I know.