by DL Cook
Before she left, Libertad asked the guards a few questions. As expected, none had noticed that the painting was missing. All agreed that it was a good job, which paid well above the industry average. None of their colleagues had left for other work or otherwise quit in the last few years.
“One last question,” Libby popped her head into Godfrey's office. “Is this place a nonprofit? I mean, do you get donations and stuff?”
“It's actually a for profit corporation,” the curator said.
Libby thought about asking to see the books. But that didn't seem relevant. “Thanks,” she said instead. “Call us if you remember something.”
Don shuffled into the creaky witness chair after swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help him God.
“State your name for the record.”
“Donald Norman Mettler-Klump, but you can call me Don. Hi Leslie.”
“Hi Don,” the prosecutor said. “Can you please tell the court what happened on the night you arrested defendant David “Duey” McCaliker?”
Don recounted his heroic struggle against a knife wielding maniac. “I was able to wrestle him to the ground and subdue him until backup arrived. That's him right there,” he pointed at the defendant.
“Thank you, Commissioner” said Leslie Hall. “I have no further questions for this witness.”
Norman Mettler jumped out of his seat next to Duey. “So tell me, Commissioner, have you been drinking?”
“Objection, irrelevant,” the prosecutor said.
“Goes to credibility of the testimony, your honor,” Norman leaned against the wooden railing, smiling at the jurors.
“Overruled. Go ahead, counsel.”
“Have you been drinking, Don?”
“When?”
“Isn't it true that you're drunk right now.”
“It depends, really.”
“Let the record show that the witness does not deny it. Also that his speech is slurred.”
“So what if I am drunk?” Don teetered on his chair. “So's half the jury.”
Norman raised his eyebrows. Good point there. “But did you drink at the court bar like the rest of us? I remind you that you are under oath.”
“No. I drank at the museum.”
A gasp escaped from the jury box. The reporter in the gallery scribbled furiously. Don imagined tomorrow's front page: “Commish Boozing at the Museum.”
“I was there with the wife,” Don added quickly. “What could I do?”
The jurors nodded with understanding.
“Plus we are investigating the disappearance of a very expensive painting.”
Norman switched to a different track. “Did you identify yourself as a police officer when you entered Mr. McCaliker's home?”
Don couldn't remember. “I must have.”
“Isn't it true that you did not?”
“I don't recall.”
“Tell me something,” Norman took up a conversational tone. “If some strange man poked around in your house at night, in the dark, what would you do? Would you not attack him with a knife? You're lucky my client didn't have a gun. You could've been shot, and he'd have every right to.”
Don shook his head, which started to hurt. “He didn't have a gun because he disposed of both murder weapons earlier that day.”
“Objection.”
“No need to shout, Mr. Mettler. I am but three feet away from you,” said Judge Hand. “Jury will disregard the witness's last statement.
“It's the truth!” Don fumed.
“Order, order in this courtroom.” Judge Hand pounded the gavel.
“Isn't it true that you were there to harass my client for no other reason than because he has tattoos and is vegetarian?”
“No,” said Don, although that was partly the reason.
“Isn't it true that you made derogatory statements against vegetarians?”
“I was just agreeing with something you said, dad.”
“Let the record show—”
“I was there to arrest him, it being made known to me that he discarded a rifle, which he used to kill—”
“Objection.”
“Don, you cannot discuss your reason for being there,” the judge instructed.
“What? Why not?”
The judge bent toward him and lowered his voice. “As I'm sure the prosecutor explained to you, certain evidence was ruled inadmissible. I am inclined to agree with defense counsel that that includes any mention of why you were at the residence. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“Resume your questioning, Mr. Mettler.”
“Thank you, your honor.” Norman brushed his comb-over into place. “Tell me, why were you at Mr. McCaliker's residence if not to harass him?”
“Because he disposed—”
“Objection.”
“I'm warning you,” the judge pounded the gavel.
“But he's asking me. He's the one bringing the evidence in,” Don nearly fell out of his chair.
“Don't quote the law to me,” Hand sneered.
Don sat in silence.
“There you have it,” Norman waved his arms dramatically. “A policeman who likes to drink at museums, comes in the middle of the night to harass my client, and he does not even have the decency to tell us why.”
The prosecutor shrugged apologetically at Don and then avoided his withering glare.
Don waited outside the courtroom while the jury deliberated. Norman joined him on the bench. “What, you no longer say hello to your father?”
“Hi dad.”
“What's new?”
“Nothing much.”
“What do you mean nothing much? You just got trounced in court.”
“You were there for that, dad.”
“Just making sure you're paying attention. You know that 'Duey'? He's the owner of a diner now. One he got from his brother. He's a millionaire. What have you been doing with your life besides this police nonsense? Your Libby is a fine cook. Why didn't you open a diner? You could have been swimming in money. Then you'd be a free person, able to do whatever you want. Even be a policeman if you want. Or you could've been a lawyer. For the life of me boy, I don't understand you. You have everything you need, but you threw it away. Got the degree and everything. From a prestigious school. Do you know where I'd be if I had your brain and your education? You will agree with me some day, I hope for your sake sooner rather than later. Be a lawyer. You will roll in the dough.” He rubbed his temples.
“Listen, I have a favor to ask of you. Are you listening to me boy? Look at me when I talk to you. Are you muttering under your breath?”
“No.”
“Look at me. Son, I need a favor. One of my clients refuses to pay me for services rendered. Robert Powell. You've met him. I get him out of trouble, and what does he do? Says check's in the mail. He's lying.”
“So what do you want me to do about it?”
“Use that brain of yours, stupid boy. I want you to go scare him a little. Let him know the police take it seriously.”
“I'm not your bill collector, dad. I can't rough people up or threaten them just for the hell of it.”
“Doesn't even help his own father,” Norman shook his head. “I have to go confer with my client. Give your pop a hug. There, that's better. Your mom wants you and Libby over for lunch. I told her you're coming this afternoon.”
“Dad, you can't do that. I have plans.”
“Oh, come on. When will you grow up and be a normal person? I'll see you later, boy.” Norman trotted off. Don watched his old man disappear around the corner.
Libby arrived in time to accompany Don into the courtroom to hear the verdict. Duey was found guilty of misdemeanor resisting arrest, and the judge set him free for time served.
“Sorry, hoss,” old Robert Powell told Don. “The evidence just warn't there.”
Don chased Duey into the parking lot and pinned him against the wall. “I'll be watching y
ou, scumbag,” he fumbled with the man's shirt collar and nearly poked his own eyes when he did the “watching you” motion.
Duey sneered. He adjusted his shirt with a snort and walked away like a thug in a rap video.
“We'll get him for something else,” Libby reassured Don. She kissed his stubbly cheek. “Let's go to the diner. I'll buy you a burger.”
“It's open?”
“Yeah. Under new management.”
“That was quick,” Don raised his eyebrows.
“Duey practically gave it away, I heard.” Libby filled her husband in on what she learned about the missing painting when he was in court. “You know how the museum stays in business?”
Don shrugged and almost ran over an old lady crossing the street. “Come on! Watch where you're going.”
Libby patted his head to comfort him. “They have weddings for hardcore people.”
“Duey's people.”
“Yep.”
“I know they multiply like rats, but is that really enough?”
It was Libby's turn to shrug.
“Maybe Peggy can do some digging.”
“Don't we need a warrant for that sort of thing?”
Don snorted. “How are we supposed to do solid police work with all these limitations? We can't even spy on people, for God sakes. How are we to protect the public? Did you ask to see the museum's books?”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I didn't think—”
“You didn't think,” Don sighed and glared at her as they got out of the car.
“You don't have to be mean about it.”
“I'm not!”
“You're yelling at me.”
Don rolled his eyes. “No I'm not.”
“You're being just like your father.”
“Whatever.”
Libby hated it when Don got cranky. But she decided to let it go. Don had every right to be angry. She just wished he wouldn't take it out on her.
The place was so crowded with tattooed ruffians that Libby had to order their veggie burgers to go. As they pulled out for the station Libby spotted Duey's celebratory group in one of the back booths.
They ate at the conference table at the police station. Arthur the janitor scuttled around them, throwing up dust with his broom. Don grumbled while Libby showed him a photograph of the missing painting.
“The blank space on the wall was an improvement,” Don flicked at the lettuce stuck on Libby's cheek.
“That's Dan Flemming.”
“The walrus looking guy here?” Don left a mustard stain on the postcard.
“No. That's his doggy. Isn't it cute? That's Daniel Flemming there.”
Don couldn't see it. “It's not upside down by any chance?”
“No.”
“I hate modern art.”
“I know honey. Anyway, my bro's asking Dan questions. He should call soon.”
“You sent Tom to question him?”
“Yeah, why?”
Don scoffed. “Speak of the devil.”
“Get in there,” Tom pushed a handcuffed man into the interrogation room.
“That's why,” Don sighed.
“Don't be mean to my brother,” Libby scolded.
“I assume you didn't ask him any questions?” Don glared.
“No,” Tom lifted his hunter's cap to scratch at his head. Cheese and crumbs from his lunch had collected in the corners of his mouth.
“Did this man break the law?”
“I don't think so.”
“So why'd you arrest him?”
“Sorry, Mettler. I forgot.”
Don sighed and joined Libby in the interrogation room. “Thanks for coming down Mr. Flemming.” They uncuffed the man.
“No problem,” the middle aged man regained his composure. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“Oh, no. We just have a few questions for you. Our deputy gave you a courtesy ride to the station.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Don't mention it,” Tom said from the hall.
Don went in search of his klews folder. Libby closed the door behind him. “So how are you today Mr. Flemming?”
“Fine thanks. What's this all about? For a minute there I thought I had unpaid parking tickets or something.”
Libby made a mental note to check Flemming's driving record. “No sir. We asked you here today to help us with a missing painting. As you may be aware, there is a painting missing from the museum. It may have been stolen.”
“I heard something about that.”
Libby slid the postcard across the table, like a TV detective slides a murder photo. It caught on something sticky, however, and bent out of shape. Nevertheless, Libby was confident that she produced the intended effect. Flemming gulped.
“Is there something about this picture that makes you nervous,” she asked in her most authoritarian voice. It did not come easily. She hated bullying people. Perhaps she was in the wrong line of work.
“It's just that it brings back some painful memories.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I sat for Oakley. It came out terrible. I refused to pay for it. So he tried to blackmail me. He said he'd sell it to the museum for all to see, unless I paid double his original price. So I said, 'fine, take it to the museum,' figuring no one would be dumb enough to buy it. I was wrong. Godfrey Leser, that idiot. I guess I should have checked the museum first. Anyway, he bought the painting. My lawyer Flannagan sued to get an injunction. But he did a terrible job. Don't know if he was paid off or what, but I lost the case. Guess I can't hire him again even if I wanted to. So anyway, I hate that painting, is what I'm trying to say.”
Libby regarded the man with her best poker face, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head slightly.
“I didn't take it,” Flemming shouted. “I see the way you're looking at me. It's not true.”
Libertad thought otherwise, though she wasn't sure how Flemming knew her feelings.
“No one ever goes to the museum. After I lost the lawsuit I decided to go there and stand in front of the painting so no one else would see it and know my shame. But it was empty. The curator himself told me no one ever goes there. He blamed the town's sophomoric interests, but I think it's the other way around.”
Don, who'd been monitoring the interview behind the mirror, burst in. “The way I see it, Flemming,” he echoed his wife's thoughts, “you stole the painting after you lost the lawsuit. You had the motive. You had the opportunity—you yourself admitted to going to the museum.”
“Why I, um...” Flemming was too flabbergasted to say anything coherent.
“I thought so.” Don stuck his head out the door. “Klump! Get in here and guard this man while we get a warrant to search his house.”
“Okay! I admit it. I took it. You don't have to go anywhere. Let me sign a paper to that effect, whatever you need,” a stream of sweat ran down his face and the sides of his neck. “There's no painting though. I threw it out.”
Don shook his head and wagged his finger. “Oh, you won't trick us so easily. I know what you're doing. You're trying to get the $50 reward. Not gonna happen, buddy. Now you sit tight or this big man here,” he patted a smiling Tom, “will clobber you. Come on Libby.”
Learning from experience, they knocked on the door to the judge's chambers. Hand called after a moment for them to come in.
“Oh, Commissioner Mettler-Klump. What can I do for you and your lovely wife? I was just sitting here with Norman talking about the stock market.”
“Hi Judge. Hi dad.”
Norman cast his drink aside, then hugged Libby and kissed her cheek. “My dear girl. How are you feeling? It has been so long since I last saw you. We are so excited about having you over for lunch this afternoon.”
Libby looked like a confused bird for a second, then shot Don a look. “I'm quite well, Mr. Mettler. How are you?”
“I won't complain,” Norman said.
“We've come for a warra
nt, judge,” Don returned everyone to the business at hand.
“Not one of my clients, I hope,” Norman sat back down.
“Dad, maybe you should leave the room?”
“My son, the lawyer,” Norman mixed pride with sarcasm. He stepped out of the carpeted room.
“As you may know, a painting has gone missing from the museum.”
“Indeed,” said the judge. “It was in the afternoon edition. Front page.”
“Well, we have a suspect. He all but confessed,” Don said.
“We need a warrant to search his house,” Libby added.
“Absolutely,” Hand took Libby's form. “The address is missing.”
“Oh, sorry about that. One forty two Meadow.”
“Wait a minute. Is this Dan Flemming's house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He's been a contributor to my reelection campaign. I have appearances to worry about, you must understand.”
“Of course.”
The judge crossed out Don's chicken scratch and wrote a very specific instructions. “I want you to follow the Fourth Amendment to the letter on this one, you hear? Only search in places where the painting may be. No looking through drawers or under couch cushions. Just the two of you. Understand? I don't want you making a mess. And be quick about it. Don't make me regret giving you this warrant.”
Don and Libby arrived at Flemming's residence a short time later. They opened the door with Flemming's spare key. Don scanned along the walls while Libertad checked in the refrigerator. She didn't expect to find the painting there (though one never knew). Libby was always curious what other people ate. It was empty.
“What are all of these baggies?” Don pointed at the table.
“Looks like powdered sugar,” Libby said.
“Is Flemming a baker?”
“I don't know.”
Don stuck a finger in one of the piles and put in his mouth. “Ewww. Imusespoil. Makingmanum.”
“What?”
Don swallowed. The sugar reminded him of sore throat spray. “I said it's making my tongue numb. It must be spoiled.”
“Hmm.” Libby tried some too. “Yriyt.”
“What? You have to eeee-nun-see-ate.”
“I'm emunciating! I said you're right.”
“Damn straight. I was going to say, if he needs so much sugar, it'd be cheaper wholesale. But I kind of understand all the small packs, 'cause it's spoiled. Didn't know sugar spoiled.” Don played with a small electronic scale for a bit before heading upstairs.
No paintings there. Libby reported the all clear from the basement.
