by DL Cook
Libertad flashed her badge in case the uniform wasn't enough. They left the site for a quieter place to talk. They stopped near a dumpster, which Libertad thought was appropriate.
She pulled out the wrappers. “I was wondering, do you like SoyVeggie Fermented Tofu Jerky?”
Duey raised his eyebrows. “Yeah...”
“Did you visit your brother's diner last night?”
“No.” His eyes shifted to the side.
“Where do you get the Tofu Jerky?”
“Online. What's this have to do with anything? Listen, I have to get back to work.”
“Just a couple more questions and I'll let you go. Do you think anyone else in town eats Tofu Jerky?”
Duey snorted. “Doubt it. The people here, they're...”
“So if I found a wrapper somewhere, like this one at the police station, would you agree that it belongs to you?”
“I guess.”
“Do you know where I found this one?”
Duey shrugged.
“I found it near the diner's back entrance. But you say you weren't there last night.” Libby gulped. Why didn't she bring backup?
Duey, twice her size, seemed to come to the same conclusion. His face twitched and he lunged. Libby grabbed her handgun but it didn't fire. She closed her eyes before the impact. Wind hit her face. As she waited for the fist or elbow, she slid the safety off her gun.
Libby tired of waiting and opened her eyes. Duey was gone. She turned just in time to see him round the corner.
Libby made to give chase. She dropped her gun in the excitement. It fired. Libertad tripped over her untied shoe laces and fell on the concrete. Her eyes teared. She grabbed her radio. “Officer down! Officer down! Shots fired!”
Don arrived first on the scene. The ambulance got there soon thereafter, but it was unneeded. Libby's injuries consisted of a couple of scratches on her palms. She felt better after Don kissed them. “I guess I just had the case of the Klumps,” Libertad said.
They put an APB out on Duey McCaliker and drove to the courthouse.
“Not enough for a warrant,” Judge Hand scowled at them. Perhaps Libby was correct in suggesting that they not barge into his chambers without waiting to be let in. The judge gathered his various implements while a woman dressed in black latex watched.
“We know Duey was at the crime scene.”
“The wrapper doesn't place him there at the time of death. It's his brother's establishment. One would expect brothers to visit each other. That wrapper could've been there a while, and might not even be his,” the judge said.
“He ran when confronted about it. At the very least he's hiding something. Brenda Hollis, the deceased's girlfriend, spoke of the brothers fighting. Duey has a solid motive, he got the business when his brother died. They fought over it for many years. Joe McCaliker was going to marry Hollis. The wedding would take Duey out of the inheritance. Several neighbors have corroborated her statement. We need a warrant for his home before he gets rid of the murder weapon.”
“You said all that already. And I said no.” The judge replaced his spiked collar with the robe of his profession. After handing her a roll of money, Hand ushered his “friend” out. “This guy, he have an alibi?”
Don nodded. He couldn't get past that. Duey's alibi was airtight. He knew exactly what the show he claimed to watch was about. Don checked the episode synopsis.
“So you have him somewhere else at the time of the murder, if that's what it is. I have Marcy calling me saying it's a suicide. I can't give you a warrant because you have a hunch. Besides, didn't you just arrest another guy for the alleged crime? I had your father in here raising hell. Twice in one day with you Mettlers.”
“Please, sir.” Libby said.
“I'm sorry sweetheart. The law's the law. You don't get to invade a man's privacy without more.”
“But he ran, sir.”
The judge slumped into his chair and put his glasses on. “Any number of reasons for that. You said he ate some kind of weird food. Maybe he had stomach trouble. Is there anything else?”
Libby and Don sighed.
“Please close the door on your way out.”
Deputies Swinton and Hanson found Duey at home. Don ordered them to keep watch and apprise him of any changes. With dinner a short time away, Libby and Don went home. They were exhausted from all of the hard work they'd done.
They ate a microwaved pizza and watched cop shows on Netflix on their bed. During the third episode Tom's footfalls thundered in the hall outside. He barged in, remembered what had been discussed with him many times, and knocked.
On the most important matter he asked, “Is that pizza on the kitchen table for me?”
“Sure is, bro,” Libertad paused the video.
“Cool,” his double chin jiggled. “Hey Mettler, later on can you hook up my PSP to the WiFi? It says it's not recognized.”
Don grunted. Tom always interrupted the most interesting parts. Don thought the perp was the guy with the shifty eyes, but he wouldn't find out until Tom left.
“So how was your day,” Libby ignored Don's annoyed muttering.
“Not bad, not bad. Didn't get to hit the gym,” he rubbed his giant belly. “But I got some exercise though.”
“Arresting all those people?” Don said.
“Yeah. And I helped Duey bury a gun or something in the woods. Well, thanks for the pizza.”
Tom was still squeezing through the door when Don hit the resume button and mysterious music filled the bedroom.
Libby snored peacefully next to him, but Don's brain refused to shut off. Something about Tom nagged at him. It wasn't that he'd have to do extra work tomorrow so Tom could play video games. Nor was it Tom's eating the pizza Don had mentally claimed for himself. That happened all the time and never really bothered him before. Less than he complained about it, anyway. And the night ended on a good note. Much to Libby's surprise, Don predicted the outcome of the episode. The shifty eyed guy did it.
Around four in the morning Don bolted upright. Libertad muttered “sleep,” and turned over, taking the blankets with her. He shivered for a while, his mind turning. His hand stopped stroking his imaginary beard when he realized it.
Don leaped out of bed. He cursed after stubbing his toe, but eventually got his shoes on. He hurried out of the house in his pajamas, pausing only to grab the car keys. He knew where Duey lived. More precisely, the GPS knew. Good thing Don didn't pay particular attention to it. He narrowly avoided driving into a ditch on its instructions.
He parked behind the squad car keeping tabs on Duey. Deputies Swinton and Hanson, were asleep. Don shuffled past them and hammered on the trailer's door. “Open up McCaliker! I know you did it. I have the murder weapon!”
He tried the door, pulling and pushing. The weak lock snapped. Don heaved himself up and through the threshold. “I know you're in here,” he said. “My deputies have been keeping tabs on you,” Don bluffed. “Come on out into the light. Back up's right at the door.” His hand found the light switch. He moved deeper into the trailer. It was roomier than it appeared from outside.
Don moved toward Duey, who held his breath against the wall with a knife ready over his head. “Make it easier for everyone. I hear the prison lunchroom serves vegetarian loaf.”
Don stopped beside Duey. He scratched his butt. He'd have to have a talk with Libby about the new fabric softener. Don thought he might be allergic to it. "I have a logical mind and a keen sense of observation," Don's suspicion that he spoke to an empty room grew with every second. He began to feel foolish.
Duey pounced as Don turned. Don hit his ankle on a coffee table. “Son of a,” he hopped around on one foot, Duey's knife swooshing by his nose. Duey came at him again, but Don lost his balance. He teetered this way and that as the knife went that way and this. Don planted both feet on the floor, but that didn't help. Nor did swinging his arms like a large flightless bird. Don crashed to the floor, taking Duey with him.
&nb
sp; The deputies, awakened by the commotion, swooped in.
“Freeze!” one of them said.
“Chief?” said the other.
“Yeah, it's me,” Don got up, his face red. “Everything's under control.”
“Drop the knife, scumbag!” Swinton advanced with his gun drawn.
“Good work, Chief,” said Hanson. He holstered his revolver and kicked the knife out of unconscious Duey's hand. It took a few tries.
“Well yes, um, thank you,” Don managed. He rubbed his ankle.
“You okay Chief?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“But how did you know I threw the rifle in Miller's Pond?” Duey asked in the interrogation room.
“I um, er. Good police work,” Don said. He was sure the gun was buried in the woods. Before he could correct Duey, however, Libertad burst in.
“Oh honey! Are you okay? I was so worried.”
“I'm fine,” Don hugged his wife. “Duey here is just about finished writing his confession.”
“So why'd you kill your brother?” Libby asked the shifty eyed perp.
Duey explained that Joe stole the diner from him. Their aunt left it for the both of them. Because of their many disagreements about the menu and use of the space (Duey wanted to serve vegetarian food and have the diner be a venue for hardcore concerts) they hired a lawyer to mediate, Jim Flannagan. Flannagan struck a secret deal with Joe and they swindled Duey out of his share. Duey killed Flannagan and Joe, not only to have the diner back, but also “for the principle of the thing, you know?”
Don nodded.
Upon further questioning, Duey stated that he had debts to settle with someone called the Ice Queen. He needed collateral as fast as he could get it.
Don put that distraction aside. “And the gun you used to kill Flannagan is buried in the woods?”
“How did you know?”
“Little gets by me,” Don said.
Peggy matched the rifle in the pond to Joe McCaliker's murder. Flannagan's body was found in his apartment. With Tom's help the gun that killed the lawyer was recovered from the woods.
They would have gone to the diner to celebrate, but it was closed. Libby made tika paneer with basmati rice. Everyone at the station checked their armpits.
“I still think it was suicide,” Marcy commented after asking for seconds.
Episode Two
“The Painting”
Don rolled his eyes. Libby tugged on and squeezed his hand to prevent a groan. If Marcy noticed, it didn't stop her lecture about the painting in front of them. They moved on, finally, to the next one. Don sighed. He had a hunch Marcy planned to go through the entire museum.
This next one didn't even have a frame. Don stared at the blank rectangle a couple of shades lighter than the surrounding wall.
“Modern Life by Gerald Oakley.” Marcy squinted at the title and description of the work. “A portrait of a man...” she trailed off. “This is brilliant. Look how the color depicts a blankness. In the context of the being-question, which I discussed with the last three works, these words 'modern life' do not name a human comportment but a manner of the essential swaying of being. The canvas is gone, replaced by wall. What does that say about 'modern life?' Hmm? Ted?”
Her husband started. Don envied his ability to sleep on his feet. “Absolutely, dear. I'll get right on it,” Ted said.
“Is there even a painting there?” Don whispered in Libby's ear. In his view the painting had been taken down and Marcy was lecturing about the wall.
“What's that Don? Do you have something to share with us about this painting?”
Don was cranky enough to stand up to his mother in law. “I don't think there's a painting there at all.”
“Exactly! I couldn't have put it better myself,” Marcy admired the mounting hooks. “Modern life is vacant. Empty. Technology has taken the heart and soul. It has taken what it means for us to be human. Look at these right angles. This is what modern life is. Rigidity. Blank rigidity.”
Don muttered an excuse in his wife's ear and went in search of the bar. He needed a drink first to endure the art lesson and second to prepare for his court appearance later that morning. The case against murderer Duey McCaliker rested on his testimony. Judge Hand, who Don thought was biased against him because of an earlier incident, threw out the two murder charges. Although Duey confessed to killing his brother and a local lawyer, the confession was invalidated because Don and his officers didn't Mirandize their suspect. Duey remained on trial for attempted murder of an officer (Don) and resisting arrest.
Don asked one of the guards the way to the bar, his customary question at museums (usually followed half an hour later by an inquiry about the bathroom's location). Don and Libertad had visited a museum once in the big city. There the guards scoffed at him. A museum wasn't complete without a bar, but the big city was a peculiar place.
Don ordered a scotch. The bartender blew dust off a bottle. The fifty-ish bald man a few stools down nodded at him. Don nodded back.
“You're the police commissioner aren't you?”
Don paused with his glass at his lips. “I'm off duty,” he scowled.
“Oh. I didn't mean anything by it. Just wanted to say hi. I'm the curator here.”
Don nodded. “What's that, like the guy who makes beef jerky?” He wouldn't mind a snack, but he saw no menu.
The man laughed. “Oh no,” he downed his drink. Don swore to himself that he'd arrest the guy if he mentioned tofu. “I buy the art, choose what to display, that sort of thing.”
Don slumped back in his seat. “So there's no beef jerky then?”
“Afraid not. Name's Godfrey, by the way.”
“Don.”
They nodded at each other again. Don got the bartender's attention and pointed at his empty glass.
Several glasses and as many minutes later Don said, “Lemme ask you something. There's a thing over there,” he waved behind him, “called 'Modern Life' or something like that. It's like an outline of a picture on the wall. I'm not into modern art. I don't understand it. Art died in the eighteen hundreds. But if you don't mind me asking, how much did something like that cost you?”
“I recall the title, but the description...You mind showing me? I'll be happy to answer any of your questions.”
Don sighed. He didn't want to get into a whole big thing about it, but he didn't want to appear rude. “Yeah, why not?” Don's stool nearly tipped over as he led the way.
Marcy still had her family admiring the artwork in question. “It has no truck with bisexuality, preoedipal symbiosis, unalienated labor, or other seductions to organic wholeness through a final appropriation of all the powers of the parts into a higher unity,” she pointed at the wall.
“Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt,” Godfrey said.
Marcy went on with her lecture, oblivious.
“He's the curator,” Don said.
That got her attention. “This is a stupendous find! An excellent buy!” Marcy congratulated the man. “Thank you for the invitation to your fine museum.”
“Oh my,” the curator said. “The painting's gone!”
“Gone?” hiccuped Don. Libby kept him steady.
“It's supposed to be hanging here. Oh dear. There's nothing in the back at the moment. It was stolen, it seems.”
“Stolen you say?” Don suspected a crime was afoot.
Libby was way ahead of him. Her notepad was out. “Sir, when did you last see the painting?”
“Hmm, um, well. I'll check the logs. But this wing hasn't been changed for a year, probably more. I can't believe no one has noticed.”
Don snorted. Libertad's elbow turned it into a cough. Marcy stopped listening to the curator and resumed her lecture. Ted snored.
Don and Libby accompanied the curator to his office, where he checked the maintenance logs. Don examined the papers. Baffled, he gave them to his wife.
“Um, um. It could've been missing for a year and a h
alf,” Libby explained, “that's a lot of time. Have any of your employees changed since that time? I'd like to see your duty rosters.”
“Now hold on a second.” Don stroked his imaginary beard. “What's in it for us, investigating this?”
“We're the police.”
“I know that. But what's in it for us? How about you spice it up, what's your name again?”
“Godfrey.”
“Gadfreed. How about you add a cash reward? The painting's worth what, one, two dollars?”
“At least two hundred,” the curator said.
“Two hundred dollars?” Don shouted. “For this?” He pointed at the catalog photo. “Then the reward should be at least $50. A museum that can afford to buy such extravagant 'art' can afford a nice reward.”
The curator sighed. “Very well.”
“You're in excellent hands, Godfried. You have the entire police department investigating the case. As commissioner I will personally look into this matter.” Don stroked his chin. He wandered off in search of the bathroom as Libby gathered more information from the curator.
“Um, um, um. So how is it that this place stays in business, if you don't mind me asking,” Libby said. She had wondered about how the museum stayed open, and was able to afford such extravagant works of art, even though it had no visitors besides those Marcy dragged in.
“Ah. You are right that the art does not bring crowds. It is very unfortunate.” He explained that on the occasional weekend the museum hosted weddings. They played heavy music, served lots of booze, and used the finest plastic cutlery. “Not tacky at all,” there was no sarcasm in Godfrey's voice. “Would you like to see the kitchen?”
Libby did. She liked all things related to food. “Oh wow.”
“Indeed.”
The way Godfrey acted, Libby expected shiny and expensive equipment, Viking ranges, All Clad pots and pans, and so on. Instead he took her to a small cobwebbed room with a toaster oven.
They returned to the curator's office where he found the name and address of the subject of the painting, Dan Flemming. Libertad called her brother Tom to ask Flemming a few questions about the painting that depicted him. If she had to go to the museum on her day off, her brother could do a little work himself. “You got it sis,” Tom shouted over the video games in the background.
