2 Grand Delusion

by Matt Witten

  Then he laughed. "Yo, didn't your mama never teach you no manners? Here I invite you into my home, give you something to wet your lips, and now you gonna go and accuse me of murder? Shame on you," he said, wagging a finger at me. "Shame on you."

  Usually I like to have the last line. But his line was so nicely done, I didn't think I could improve on it. Especially since being in the same room with a guy I thought was a murderer kind of interfered with my powers of speech.

  So I just picked up my videotape and my busted microcassette recorder and walked out.

  14

  But now what? How could I get solid evidence against Zapper?

  Or was I jumping to conclusions too quickly, just like the cops did? Might the murderer be someone else Pop had extorted money from, someone like . . .

  Dennis O'Keefe?

  My heart skipped a beat. Was Zapper right about Pop getting grease from Arcturus? And if so, could my old hippie friend have killed Pop?

  No, impossible; homicide wasn't one of the Twelve Steps.

  And yet . . .

  Maybe killing a crooked cop would appeal to Dennis's "Challenge Authority" philosophy, especially if that crooked cop was shaking Dennis down for money he didn't have. And especially if that crooked cop was popping him hard enough to make him scream that horrific scream I'd heard, and he grabbed the gun in self-defense.

  As I walked back home from 107,1 stopped in my backyard. I closed my eyes and tried to hear that scream again. It had been high-pitched, like a woman's or a child's shriek. But as I'd seen in my recent tête-à-tête with Zapper, when you're scared silly your voice does funny tricks. Also, I was half asleep when I heard the scream, and my aural memory was blurry. The scream could easily have come from Dennis.

  It suddenly struck me that I had taken little Tony to a possible murderer's house for safety. Not the most brilliant of moves. Maybe I should go there now and confront Dennis, and move Tony elsewhere.

  Or maybe I should go right over to Cole's house and show him the incriminating tape. That way I could blackmail him into helping me with the investigation. I'd get the cops to actually do their job for a change.

  My thoughts were interrupted when I somehow got the sense I was being watched. I turned. It was true. Zapper was eyeing me malevolently through the busted slats in his Venetian blinds. I waved. He withdrew from the window and disappeared.

  I could theorize about Dennis all I wanted, but I'd bet my credit card limit that Zapper was the killer. After all, Pop died only fifteen feet from Zapper's house, and like they say, location, location, location.

  The major reason to doubt Zapper's guilt was that he was a musclebound, cowardly punk. But hey, even a cowardly punk can kill, if he's pushed to the wall. And Pop pushed people, no question; look what he'd done to me that night. Turned me into a stark raving lunatic.

  Some words got stuck in my brain—"if he's pushed to the wall." That was exactly what I was doing to Zapper right now. What if he sold himself some crack tonight and filled up with pharmaceutical courage? He wouldn't suddenly take it into his head to kill me . . . would he?

  I stood under my grape arbor, gazing through the busted slats of Zapper's blinds as if that would help me understand the busted slats of Zapper's mind, when my six year old ran out of the house. Or, as he would immediately correct me, my six and one-quarter year old. He jumped into my arms, calling out "Daddy! Daddy!"

  I kissed him. "Hi, Raphael."

  He threw me an exasperated look. "No! I'm Leonardo!"

  "Sorry, I keep getting it mixed up."

  "That's because we never see you." Ow! Stab in the heart. "You can tell I'm Leonardo because I'm wearing blue. And you know what Splinter says?"

  "Hey, Leonardo, why don't we go inside? Then you can tell me all about Splinter."

  And that's what we did. I decided that spiriting Tony away from Dennis's house could wait until tomorrow, especially since I couldn't think of a safe place to take him to tonight. God knows my own house didn't feel real safe these days.

  So I took Leonardo inside, double locked all the doors, closed all the curtains and windowshades, and put the kid on my lap. By the end of the night I hadn't gotten any further in my hunt for the murderer, but I did learn everything there is to know about Splinter, who, for those of you not in the Ninja Turtle loop, is a big rat. But not just any big rat: He's a true spiritual leader, the wise old guru of the sewers.

  I wish I'd had some of Splinter's wisdom myself that night. Maybe then I would have foreseen what was about to happen in just a few hours. Maybe I could even have stopped it from happening.

  That's a thought that will stay with me until I die.

  I was awakened by the sound of a car backfiring.

  But it didn't take me long to remember what that sound really meant the last time I heard it. Hot prickles raced up and down my spine. Andrea, annoyingly true to form, was still asleep. I jumped out of bed, opened the curtains, and peered out the window.

  Nothing but darkness and déjà vu.

  Someone could be bleeding to death outside. I had to go and help them. I might be able to save their life.

  But there was a teensy little downside to going out there and doing the Good Samaritan thing: I might get busted for murder again.

  What would you have done? Been a hero or covered your ass?

  Me, I stayed inside and dialed 9-1-1. What can I say?

  "There's been a shooting at 107 Elm Street," I spoke into the phone.

  "Who's calling, please?" a woman asked. I hung up and waited in my house for the cops to come, wondering who had been shot and if they were still alive or dead. In my mind's eye, I saw someone's life's blood flowing out as they lay there helpless and alone because I was too scared to get involved.

  I felt full of self-loathing. Youthful Idealism meets Middle-Age Cowardice. And Middle-Age Cowardice kicks butt.

  Maybe I'm being unfair to myself. The thought of getting jailed again and leaving my children fatherless was just too painful to deal with. So is that cowardice, or love?

  I wish all the moral choices were simple again, like when I was younger and you were either for the Vietnam War or against it. When we were always right and our parents were always wrong.

  Fortunately for my conscience, the cops came pretty quickly with their blaring sirens and squealing tires. Through our front window I saw my new pals Manny Cole and Lieutenant Foxwell, along with about four other cops I recognized from my recent misadventures. I noted with disappointment that Dave was nowhere to be seen. Well, he probably wouldn't be any help to me anyway; he was too busy covering his ass with the chief.

  The sirens finally woke Andrea, and she stood beside me at the window. "What's going on out there?" she asked.

  "Let's go find out."

  "We can't leave the kids."

  "Okay, you stay here. I'll be right back—"

  "No." Andrea shoved me backward, practically throwing me onto the bed. "You're not going anywhere. I'll go."

  "But—"

  In the other bedroom Raphael started wailing, then his older brother joined in. "Get in there now," Andrea ordered. "Your kids need you."

  So I went to their room and lay in bed with them.

  And that's how I missed seeing Zapper keeled over in his open doorway with his head blown off.

  From Andrea's description, and from the vomit odor she emitted when she returned home, I gathered that the dead man was not a pretty sight. In a way, I was relieved that he was so emphatically dead. It meant that even if I'd dashed outside the moment I heard the gunshot, there's no way I could have saved his life.

  But that still didn't stop me from feeling guilty. Because I had a strong suspicion that the hustle I pulled on Zapper was somehow the reason behind his head getting blown off.

  Not that I harbored any special love for the man, but still. We'd drunk Coke together. Classic Coke, no less.

  I didn't feel inclined to share this information with the cops, who rang our front doorbell ten
minutes later. By now Andrea, the kids, and I were all cuddling in our queen-sized bed, while I told them a story about the Ninja Turtles helping the Red Sox win the World Series. Obvious fiction, of course. Even if Ninja Turtles really do exist, the Red Sox will never win the World Series.

  I ignored the doorbell at first, since I knew it was cops. But when they rang a second time, and a third, and the kids started getting upset, I threw on some clothes and opened the front door.

  "We'd like to ask you some questions," Lieutenant Foxwell began, as Cole stood beside him glowering at me with pure hatred. Judging by his expression, he wouldn't be content to just gouge at my eyes this time. Instead he'd scoop them out of my face and eat them raw for a midnight snack.

  Why was Cole so enraged at me? Was it because he thought I was a cop killer, or was something else going on here, too?

  Wait a minute. How much did Cole know? Had Zapper for some reason told him about my incriminating videotape?

  I gasped inwardly. What if Cole learned about the videotape, figured it was on its way to the D.A., and got scared Zapper might cut a deal to save his own skin.

  "Why don't you come with us to the station," Foxwell said flatly. It was an order, not a question.

  But I couldn't tear my eyes away from Cole's furious scowl. What would this bad seed do if he thought he was facing jail time? Would he kill Zapper to shut him up?

  It made sense. And there was something else scratching away at my brain, too. What was it?

  I tried to track it down, but Foxwell was saying, "Mr. Burns," and firmly taking my arm.

  I yanked it away. "You got questions, ask 'em right here and now."

  "You can come with us voluntarily," said Foxwell, "or we can arrest you."

  "Hey, let's bust the shithead anyway," Cole threw in.

  "Your call," Foxwell told me, his face expressionless, a mask. "Which way you want to go?"

  I stared fearfully at Foxwell's blank face. Did he know that Cole was a crook? Were they in on this together?

  Would they kill me on our way to the police station, and say I was resisting arrest?

  Or was I ascending new heights of paranoia?

  "Don't hurt my Daddy!" Raphael screamed from the top of the stairs. I looked up; my family was looking down at me and the cops in horror.

  Leonardo shouted at the cops, "If you hurt him, you're dead meat!"

  I gritted my teeth, then forced myself to laugh. "Don't worry, kids," I said, "these are good policemen, not bad ones. I'm going with them for a little while to help them out. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

  "Can you finish the story about the Red Sox first?" Leonardo asked.

  I eyed Foxwell. He shook his head no.

  "Ask Mommy to finish it," I said, and walked out the door. I'd have gone upstairs to kiss the kids good-bye, but I was afraid I'd break into tears.

  I walked over to the cop car with my head down, avoiding the eyes of Lorenzo and my other neighbors who were watching from their porches. But I did look over toward the front steps of 107, where I saw Dale, Zapper's crimie.

  He was sitting on the steps with his head between his knees, distraught. A policewoman had her arm around him, trying to calm him down. I briefly entertained the idea that he might have shot Zapper in some drug dispute—hadn't Tony mentioned that Dale had a gun?—but his grief seemed too genuine.

  I looked away from him and searched the sidewalks and porches for Dave. I didn't see him, though. Where was he?

  I got hit by a new dread: Now that Zapper had been killed, Dave might feel compelled to come forward and say he saw me holding a knife on Zapper yesterday. Then I'd be in deep swamp goo for sure.

  I got in the backseat, as Foxwell and Cole got in front. Cole turned and threw me a nasty grin—

  And finally my wayward mental synapses hooked up, and I found the source of that insistent scratching in my brain.

  It was something Dave said to me yesterday . . . or rather, something he didn't say. When I asked him who he believed had killed Pop, and he suddenly made like a clam.

  Now I was pretty sure I understood why. Dave had been too loyal to his fellow cops, or too scared of retribution from the chief, to say out loud what he suspected.

  Which was that Pop was killed by another cop. Some cop who wanted a piece of his lucrative extortion scam.

  Some cop like Manny Cole.

  15

  "So we meet again," Chief Walsh greeted me cheerfully, as Foxwell escorted me into his office. Though it was the middle of the night and he must have just gotten out of bed, the chief's silver hair was perfectly coifed and his pinstripe suit was immaculate. "Have a seat. Coffee?"

  I stayed standing. "What's this I hear on TV about me making a confession, you lying piece of shit? I'm speaking to my lawyer about bringing a libel suit against you."

  The chief gave me a rich, manly laugh. "Mr. Burns, I always get special pleasure from interrogating a suspect with money and privilege. Makes it more of a challenge. You sure you wouldn't like coffee?"

  I gave him a rich, manly sneer, and tried out a theory of mine on him to see how he'd react. "Chief, you knew about Pop extorting protection money from drug dealers and prostitutes, but you didn't lift a pinkie finger to stop it. I wonder why. How big a percentage did you get?"

  But I didn't get a rise from him. He just nodded in his usual pleasant way and said, "Very interesting." Then he turned to Foxwell. "Mr. Burns certainly does have a deep seated hatred of police officers, doesn't he? Verging on pathological."

  "Go ahead, twist my words, I've got your ass. You want the word to get out about widespread police corruption on the West Side? S.O.S. will have you fired before you can finish blow drying your hair."

  "Libel suits can go in both directions, my friend." He lifted a speculative eyebrow. "Unless you have some kind of proof?"

  I knew exactly how to wipe that silly smirk off his face. "As a matter of fact, I do have proof. I have a—"

  A videotape, I was about to say, but stopped.

  "A what?" the chief asked, his eyes flashing greedily.

  Should I tell him? There was no way that tape could be used against me . . . was there?

  I was eager to tell him. But the chief was a master at this game—he sure beat me the last time we played. I better watch myself.

  Once again, it was Mister Discretion versus Macho Man.

  "I'm not saying another word until I speak to my lawyer," I said, and instantly felt very wise, very discreet . . . and very old. Maybe I was doing the right thing, but still. If this was middle age, I didn't like it much.

  "If you have any information about police corruption, I'd like to hear it. Who knows, it might even help your murder case."

  "So who do you think will win the World Series?"

  The chief held out open palms. "Look, I'm not your enemy, you know. If you really didn't kill Pop, I want to know who did. Pop was one of my men."

  "He was my man . . . but I done him wrong," I sang. The chief and the lieutenant looked at me like I was a bad sardine. "That's from Frankie and Johnny," I told them.

  "When's the last time you saw Waldo Alexander?" the chief barked at me.

  "Waldo who?" I asked, genuinely baffled.

  "Don't get cute with me. He was your next door neighbor—before you killed him." Waldo? No wonder he called himself Zapper. "Were you trying to get him to testify for you and he said no? Is that why you did him?"

  "No, I just didn't like his hairdo. Too short on top."

  Foxwell stepped in. "You didn't really mean to kill him, did you, Mr. Burns? You just brought your gun over there to intimidate him a little, right?"

  I felt panic seizing hold of me. How much did they know about my attempts at intimidation? Were they just playing with me? Had Dave already told them about that little episode with the knife?

  Sensing my fear, Chief Walsh stepped around his desk and stooped down so his face was right in front of mine. His breath smelled like Colgate. The lieutenant crowded me
from behind. I felt like a very thin slab of meat stuck in the middle of a very large sandwich.

  I turned my head to the side to avoid the chief's eyes. He spoke softly in my ear, "Waldo pulled his knife on you, didn't he? We found it in his hand. So you had to shoot him. You had to. It wasn't your fault. It was just self-defense."

  The way he said it, it sounded so logical I almost believed it myself. My throat was so tight, I could barely whisper, "I want my lawyer."

  "Here's the deal," the chief whispered back, seductively. "You give us this one, and we'll drop the charges about Pop."

  Suddenly he clapped me on the shoulder, throwing me a broad wink. "Screw Pop anyway. Like you say, he was a crooked cop. Could've been a million people wanted to kill him. Hell, I wanted to kill him." He leaned forward, confidential. "So here's what I'll do for you, Jake. You cop to this drug dealer shithead, all we'll hit you for is involuntary manslaughter, that's it. Two years max. And hey, you plead self-defense, considering the guy was a convicted felon with a hunting knife in his hand, and you got the resources to buy Barry Scheck if you want, you'll probably do no time at all. Which sure beats hell out of facing the electric chair for killing a cop."

  He leaned back and rubbed his hands together, ready to close the deal. "So what do you say? You gonna be smart about this?"

  "You got this offer on videotape?" I asked.

  The chief and the lieutenant gave each other a happy look. "Yes, we do. My offer to you for involuntary manslaughter is right there on tape. So you can be confident the offer is for real. I'll even give you a copy, if you want."

  "Good. I would like a copy."

  "No problem, you got it. So now why don't you tell us what really happened with that scumbag Waldo—"

  "Of course," I interrupted, "this so-called 'offer' of yours isn't worth a bucket of piss, because as any idiot knows from watching Court TV, cops are allowed to lie while interrogating suspects. But what you're not allowed to do is continue interrogating someone after he's already asked for a lawyer. Twice. You two clowns are stone busted on that. So yes, I would like a copy of the tape, thank you very much."