[Benny James 01.0] Birdsongs

by Jason Deas

  Genesis 1:1

  Former bureau investigator and homicide detective Benny James took an open-ended sabbatical from his government duties a few years ago (this is a polite way of saying what I will describe in further detail in a post to follow). Currently, he is unsuccessfully trying to regain anonymity working as a private investigator in the town of Tilley, Georgia. Unable to keep his nose out of police business, he recently resurfaced, as he is offering his expertise in a case that is gaining momentum and national attention.

  During elementary school, I read all of the Encyclopedia Brown books. He was my hero. Strange idol, I know, for a girl. In junior high, I decided that I wanted to be an FBI agent after I saw Benny James on television. I thought of him as a real life Encyclopedia Brown. From that day forward, I wanted to know everything I possibly could about him. Without his knowledge, he became my mentor. Everybody needs someone to put on a pedestal; Benny James sits on mine.

  Lonerville – Population: 1

  Before I go on and on about Benny, which I will, my interests include murder, smart cops, and writing. I live alone. I always will. You cannot write with other people around. People are fun, sure, but when the talking, loving or whatever is over—I will bid you a sweet adieu.

  I have a poodle named LP, or Lola’s Poodle. He is one lazy son of a bitch. He thinks I’m God. I guess I am the closest thing he has. We seem to manage.

  My sister is my best friend. She lives in Dallas. Without fail, we talk on the phone every day. She sells real estate, and a lot of it. Her purse overflows and she sends me an allowance. I live in the suburb of a Baltimore suburb. It’s not as small as it may sound. It takes about an hour to drive into the heart of the city. Other people say it takes about an hour and thirty minutes. I drive like a first class bank robber. If the writing career doesn’t pan out I might try out for NASCAR.

  I know, you don’t try out for NASCAR.

  As for my career, I am writing a book. It is about…

  My father used to say, “I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”

  Nobody has written a book about Benny James. At the height of his career he was the media’s darling. He always said the right things on camera; he was cool, calm, and yes, you guessed it, collected. Benny was devilishly handsome. At forty-eight years old, he still turns heads. Mine too. I bet you already guessed that.

  It all tumbled down during a case the country watched unfold. It was everybody’s favorite soap opera for a time. People were glued to their television sets like they were during the O.J. and Laci Peterson cases. A college dean was murdered in his office. A letter opener was stabbed into his heart. As usual, when everybody else was in panic mode, Benny was cucumber cool. During the investigation Benny led, he assigned himself to the dean’s daughter. He got to the bottom of her story all right—let me make one point very clear about Benny—he is not a womanizer. He is more like a magnet. Turns out, the daughter of the dean gave her father the letter opener for Father’s Day. Oops. Yeah—she did it.

  When you are in the crime business it looks bad to your boss when you have sex with the perpetrator.

  Fired, Benny disappeared for a while.

  Tomorrow’s Update: A Surprise Visit to Chief Charles Neighbors.

  “Did you read this shit?” Benny asked Ned, whom he once again startled.

  “No.”

  “Don’t.” Benny was angry. He took the records and headed for the door. He crushed the papers and tossed them into a trashcan sitting next to Ned’s desk on the way out.

  Benny could not decide whether or not to have Ned search the Byrds’s angle. He sat in the car for a moment, his head spinning too fast to think. He slowly pulled to the end of Ned’s driveway and stopped the car. He knew from experience, when he went too fast he more often than not ended up nowhere. He closed his eyes, relaxed his hands, and tried not to think but to listen and trust what he heard.

  After fifteen minutes devoid of controlled thought, letting the images and feelings come on their own, Benny knew he needed to go back to Ned’s. Frustrated, he put the Jeep in reverse, stomped on the gas and sent gravel flying as he spun the car around.

  Benny pulled down Ned’s long driveway again hoping he would find something to spark the investigation. Ten days, he thought was not a lot of time to solve a murder case, especially when the killer was careful enough to cover all of his tracks. He called Ned so he wouldn’t frighten him and told him about Red’s theory with the Byrds and asked him to start looking. Ned replied that unbeknownst to Benny, he saw one of the records he previously brought over and tried to hide from view. Ned said he was already deep into his new search.

  Knowing he would come back soon, not thinking it would be this soon, Ned left the front door propped open. Benny entered silently but Ned, without looking away from his computer sensed him in the room and solemnly said, “I think you better sit down.”

  “Find something?”

  “I’m double checking all my facts now. If they are what I think they are, I didn’t just find something—I found a goldmine thanks to Red.”

  There were two chairs across from Ned’s desk. There was also one next to him. Benny knew it made him nervous when he watched him work so he sat across the table. Ned’s eyes were buggier than ever as he double-checked his research.

  “This is wild-ass shit.” It was the first time Benny had heard Ned curse. “Wild-ass shit,” he repeated.

  “What?”

  “Two seconds,” Ned asked with a statement. “All right,” he finally said.

  “Do you want to see the crime scene photos?” Benny asked.

  “I don’t need to,” Ned answered confidently. “I searched the computer for past murders dealing with song titles and related themes along that line—I found nothing that was pertinent to your case with that approach. Next, I searched birds—nothing again. As luck would have it, I was double-checking my search for Byrd’s songs and accidentally typed birdsongs. I spelled it B-I-R-D. I hit the enter key and a case popped up from 1976. A gal named Myra Robinson was murdered in her home. On the wall the killer wrote the word Birdsongs. A note was also found at the murder scene, which contained the word. A month ago the guy convicted for the murder made parole and he’s out. His name is Ray Clint Boyd.”

  “Oh, my God. Did you find him? Do you think it’s him?”

  “That’s all I’m finding. Do you think he’s in town?”

  “I know he’s not at the Lakeside Motor Inn. I’ve been meaning to check the Tuck ‘Em Inn. God, I hope he’s there.” Benny rushed out the door for the second time within the hour.

  Chapter 67

  Rachael parked her car in front of Michelle’s house. The yellow crime scene tape flapped in the breeze. There was a car in the driveway that belonged to Vernon. Rachael recognized it and proceeded. Rachael ducked under the yellow tape and rang the bell. Vernon answered the door.

  “Hey, Rachael. Big city reporters like you should know you’re not supposed to cross that yellow line out there.”

  “Jerry Lee got to cross it once—it’s my turn.” She walked past Vernon through the foyer and into Michelle’s living room. It was clean. She saw candles, draperies, doilies, and magazines. The lines from the vacuum cleaner were still visible on the carpet.

  “It’s too clean,” Rachael commented to Vernon.

  “Thank you. That’s just what I was thinking. The only thing out of place is the piece of torn spiral notebook paper on the coffee table.”

  “Does it have writing on it?”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “Did you read it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Read it yourself.”

  Rachael walked over, picked it up and read, “A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song—Chinese Proverb.”

  “What’s with all this bird stuff?” Rachael asked.

  “You got me. Benny called me a few minutes ago and said Red figured something
out about the bird angle.”

  “Excuse me, what? Red figured something out?”

  “Yeah, I’m as interested as you. Benny said he had to tell me in person though. I’m meeting him on his boat at six-thirty. You want to come?”

  “Yeah. I can’t wait to hear this.” Rachael did not tell Vernon that Benny had already asked her to meet him on the boat.

  “Hey,” Vernon cautioned. “That note,” he said, pointing to the piece of notebook paper Rachael had placed back on the coffee table, “that’s off the record. I could get in a lot of trouble for letting you in here.”

  “No problem.”

  “Since you’re already breaking the law with me do you want to come over to the Hair Palace?”

  “Yeah,” she laughed. “I love small towns.”

  Chapter 68

  Vernon told Rachael where she could park and how to sneak over to the Hair Palace without notice. Not caring to wait for a locksmith and forgetting to get Michelle’s keys from the evidence locker, Vernon smashed out one of the square pieces of glass on the back door. Reaching his arm in and around carefully through the zigzags of broken glass still clinging to the window casing, he unlocked the door.

  The air was warm, stale, and smelled of chemicals and cigarette smoke. Without talking, Vernon and Rachael took a casual look around before opening any drawers, cabinets, or touching anything. It was a small place containing only two barber type chairs, a sink just large enough to wash one head of hair, a bathroom, a couch that served as the waiting area, and a small closet.

  The only thing out of place was a stubbed out cigarette on the floor next to one of the barber chairs. There was a revealing tape in the cassette deck of a stereo that both Rachael and Vernon overlooked.

  “Did you know that Michelle and Benny slept together?” Rachael asked Vernon.

  “Yeah,” Vernon said and sighed. “I assure you it was an aberration of character.” Vernon sat in one of the barber chairs. Before he sat down he pushed off with one foot and spun around a time and a half. He gestured for Rachael to join him in the other chair. She spun around two times.

  “He screwed up. He’s done it a lot lately—not sleep around, screw up—in his mind anyway. When he slept with Michelle, I think he was going through a period where he was once again realizing he was human like the rest of us. You’re a journalist, a young one, but you’ve got to remember or have at least heard tales of his heyday. He was superman. Imagine what it would feel like to be fired from the FBI. Top that off with a quick first marriage and a divorce that wasn’t his fault. Don’t judge him with that piece of information. Please.”

  “I won’t,” Rachael said. “Do you not see what I don’t see?” she asked.

  “You mean scissors?” Vernon asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “This isn’t good. What’s he going to do with a bunch of scissors?”

  “I don’t want to know,” Rachael replied.

  Chapter 69

  As a member of the late night TV business, Rachael was accustomed to taking an afternoon nap. She found it difficult to be a peppy, hounding on-air news journalist at nine o’clock at night without her afternoon slumber. Rachael was a fastidious and energetic worker until lunch and after dusk. Her downtime in the afternoon hours and her daily nap reset her brain, giving her bravado to battle opponents appearing on her show. The brief escape from reality provided her the means to wring every last drop from her intellectual nectar.

  She parked the car directly in front of her room. There was a girl standing close to her door smoking a cigarette. The fuming female was looking directly at her. Rachael did not divert her gaze from the stranger; the intensity she shot back doubled the incoming waves. It was Lola.

  As Rachael exited her vehicle, Lola deposited her cigarette in the soda can she held. She set it on a concrete wall’s ledge next to her room’s door. She smiled.

  “I hope that cigarette smoke doesn’t bother you Ms. Martin. I apologize.”

  “No problem,” Rachael said, surprised by her faithful smile.

  “I know you must be real busy but can I ask you two and only two questions, I promise, about the case? I’m staying in the room next to yours,” Lola said pointing at her room’s door. “But I promise this will be the only time I will bother you.”

  “Sure,” Rachael answered. “Come on in and let me get out of these heels.”

  They walked into the room and Rachael removed her on-air stilettos. She utilized the kick-style shoe removal method, flipping the footwear with a triple-lindy into the wall. Lola was surprised, expecting a high-maintenance bitch.

  “Have a seat,” Rachael offered. “What’s question number one,” Rachael said cutting to the chase, thinking about her nap.

  “OK. I’ll preface the question by telling you that I am in town to study Benny, not particularly the murder case. I’m writing a book about him. The way he interacts with the murder investigation is what I’m interested in. So, my question to you,” Lola paused. She wanted to be tactful. “I’ve been kind of Benny’s invisible paparazzi lately, so I have witnessed you working with him a great deal in the past few days. I know in the spotlight he’s James Dean, cool as ice. But deep down and behind closed doors, what is he like?”

  “The same. He has a gentle tamed ferocity about him. He is one of those people who enters a room and you know they are there. You feel him. A definite presence. He’s a nice guy with an edge. What’s question number two?” Rachael asked kindly. “Dream world calls.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “I think I might.”

  Chapter 70

  Lola was peering out the window from the bed, the same way she was the first time Benny visited her. Benny recognized Rachael’s rental car in front of her room next door and surmised she was taking her daily nap. He wished he could climb in next to her for some needed sleep followed by a rousing awakening. He decided there was too much to do for midday shenanigans. Added to that fact there was no way Benny could slip in the bed beside her without knocking on the door and waking her first. Lola met him at her door.

  “Are you here to see your lady?” she teased.

  “No Sherlock Holmes, I’m here to see you. I read a few pages of your blog.”

  “Oh?” she asked. “I can see you are in a serious mood.”

  “You can say that. First of all, let me say that I hate your blog.”

  “Thanks,” Lola laughed. “I didn’t expect you to ever read it, for one. I also knew that if you ever did, you would feel just the way you so eloquently expressed.”

  “Why do you think that?” Benny walked into the room, taking a seat in the same chair where he sat on his last visit.

  “Well, for one, and tell me if I’m wrong—you don’t have a computer.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I have tried for years to find an email address for you. I’m pretty computer savvy and I would have found one if one existed. So, I have just assumed that a man without an email address doesn’t have a computer. Fits your bill. You’re more of a newspaper, pen and paper kind of guy. I knew you wouldn’t like it because of the fact you never liked publicity, even when all was well and you were at the top of the world. Yeah, you did the interviews and stuff, but you never craved the camera and the spotlight. You were just doing your job. Am I right?”

  “Pretty dead on, although I do own a typewriter. I’m not all pen and paper.”

  “How many inches of dust does it have on it?”

  “One,” Benny joked. He visualized the typewriter in his mind and the last time he saw it, it was covered with a heavy layer of dust.

  “I’m here for two reasons,” Benny said, returning to serious. “I’ve seen you around in the shadows. Do you think you’ve seen, heard, or uncovered anything that I may have overlooked?”

  “I don’t think so. As I told you before, I’m not here to solve a crime. I’m here to write a story about the man solving the crime. I have had the pleasure of interviewing a lot of
people who know you. They all say good things. I have yet to find someone who trashes you.”

  “Who have you talked to?”

  “Vernon, Andy Mandolino, Donny, Jerry Lee, and Rachael next door. And I’m going over to see Chief Neighbors later today.”

  “Well, you’ll definitely hear some trash talking there. We aren’t the best of friends.”

  “So I hear. People say he respects you, though.”

  “Maybe. Who knows with that man? That leads me to the second reason for my visit. I had a feeling you might try to interview him. Have you heard that he’s a dog?”

  “Yeah—woof.”

  “I’m not kidding with you Lola. Chief Asshole as I call him has had just about every woman in this town in his bed, across his desk, in the back of his squad car, use your imagination and fill in the rest of the blanks. He’s going to use what you want to know to get what he wants. Trust me. I don’t want to read an X-rated update on the blog. Not that I would read it again but I just thought you should be aware.”

  “Thanks,” Lola said, with a wink that Benny was not quite sure how to interpret. “I think I heard your lady stirring next door. You better go make sure she’s waking up on the right side of the bed. Woof.”

  “You’re not right,” Benny laughed and headed for the door.

  “Woof-woof.”

  Chapter 71

  Before Benny mailed the paternity test back to Peter Banks, he made a record of the address. Benny decided it would be a good idea to pay him a visit. Thanks to some information Rachael’s team had uncovered, he had a pocket full of aces.

  Peter lived in a duplex surrounded by a sea of other units. Benny parked his Jeep behind a car matching the description Red offered. Benny laughed as he purposely slammed the car door shut. He was going to play games with Peter while not playing games.