12.
The Smithsons lived all the way out in Ocean Neighbors, of the newer neighborhoods close to the beach for people who are loaded but not quite rich enough to own waterfront property. They say that the reason for putting all those high-dollar houses up on stilts was because of the floodwaters that came in from the tidal marsh, but it didn’t hurt one bit that these uppity white doctors and lawyers also gained the privilege of looking down on all the poor coloreds in their shanties and mobile homes.
The Islanders tend to segregate themselves economically, which makes for some interesting race relations between the subdivisions and the shantytowns next door. One summer night a few years back this terrified housewife called 911 to report a tough looking black teenager who’d been riding his bike up and down her street, possibly casing the neighborhood for burglaries. You can imagine her surprise when fat black Dookie Wilson showed up instead of the white knight she’d been expecting. Dookie took one look at the kid, waved, and said, “Lady, say hello to yo’ neighbor.”
By the time I made it out to Ocean Neighbors, traffic was getting pretty thick. It looked like Wednesday afternoon was the popular day for all the Islanders to cut out of work early butt thankfully, I was only a mile or two from my apartment and it wouldn’t be long before I’d be joining them. As I pulled up to the Smithson house, I looked forward to an easy interview where I asked a couple quick questions, made a few empty promises, and finished it up for the day. The house itself was as unremarkable as the case itself, except of course for its size. It was one of the smallest in the neighborhood, but that wasn’t saying much. It still had a two-car garage and a classy white vinyl picket fence running around the lot, and I’d wager I could probably fit my whole apartment on the wraparound front porch.
Alicia Smithson walked outside before I’d even made it up the driveway. I got the impression that she’d been looking out the window for a long while, probably waiting for bad news to come calling. The woman was in her mid-forties and if she’d ever been easy on the eyes, she sure wasn’t any more. Her hair was a tangled mess and she had a matching pair of dark bags under her eyes. Typical, I thought. See, it’s been my experience that one of the most common reasons why middle-aged men run away is when their wives just let themselves go. It’s a sad situation, really.
She shook my hand and ushered me into the house, where we sat down across the dining room table. She slapped a full box of Kleenex down in front of her, as if she was preparing for the worst possible news. It looked like Mrs. Smithson was on the verge of tears, and I suddenly regretted not conducting the interview by phone. I can’t stand dealing with crying women, even if it means that I get to go home early.
“Mrs. Smithson, please rest assured, this is just a routine follow-up.”
Her shoulders slumped as she let out a huge breath, and it occurred to me that she might have thought I was there to tell her that her husband was dead. I had to hold myself back from slapping my forehead in front of her and thought, Yeah, I definitely should’ve called first. “I wanted to ask if you’ve had any recent contact from your husband, James.”
Alicia sniffled a few times. “No, nothing at all.” She choked back some tears as her face puffed up into a bright shade of red. The polite thing to do would have been for me to reach over and offer her a Kleenex, but I was afraid that might just encourage her to have a good cry so instead I stood firm as an awkward silence descended. Yeah, the worst part about working missing persons cases was when you came across the occasional person who was actually missing.
“I was just recently assigned to investigate missing persons, so James’ case was transferred to me.”
She nodded, but continued to stare down at the tabletop.
“I believe that you were previously working with Detective Benson. Is that correct?”
She paused for a moment, clearly trying to remember. “I’m really not sure. I called the police the same night James didn’t come home from work, and a patrol officer came by the house.” She snorted, as if the memory angered her. “The officer told me that a missing person case was usually a low priority unless the subject was in danger somehow.”
I nodded and reminded myself to double-check on who had taken the original incident report, since a smart cop like that can save detectives a lot of work. On the other hand, I didn’t want the rookie to end up getting any kind of rudeness complaint from some pissed-off wife, so I smoothed it over with one of my classic lines. “No case is a low priority, ma’am, but we’re always challenged by limited resources. Most of our detectives’ time is spent investigating violent crimes.”
The tension seemed to drain from her face as she calmed down. I’d given her one of my best soundbites and she’d swallowed it whole. “It’s just so frustrating, first not hearing from James and then never hearing back from the police.”
“Detective Benson didn’t contact you?”
“I left messages for him at least once a week. He never returned any of them.”
I shook my head in disgust. That sounded just like Benson.
Alicia noticed my response, and she must have thought I was sympathizing with her. “I only actually got a hold of Detective Benson one time, and that was because I begged your dispatcher to patch me through to his cell phone. He was driving and didn’t have his files with him at the time, but promised to call me back after he got out of class. He said he was on his way to take a big final exam.”
I choked back a laugh. The only exam Benson would’ve been taking was a polygraph, if he hadn’t managed to sneak his retirement papers in just before the axe dropped. That dude was probably headed out of state when she called, so I scribbled a few doodles in my notebook to make it seem like I took Mrs. Smithson’s concerns seriously before getting right back to business: “So, you say James just didn’t come home from work one night in … January?”
“January third. It was his first day back to work after Christmas break.” I jotted this down while she rambled on. “I called the school just in case he had stayed late, but the principal said that he hadn’t even shown up to work that morning!” Her lower lip started to quiver.
“James …” I almost used the word ‘was’, but caught myself. “… is a teacher?”
Alicia just nodded and went right on with her sob story: “He headed out the door just like any other day, and even kissed me goodbye! Why would he lie to me like that?”
I shook my head and tried to look sympathetic as I held back my natural instinct, which was to tell Mrs. Smithson to get a grip.
“We were married for twelve years, and James was a teacher for fifteen…but...”
I saw her eyes start to tear up and I knew the waterworks couldn’t be far off.
“… he just threw it all away!”
I jumped in, trying to regain control of the conversation before she completely lost it. “So, James worked as a teacher. What did he teach?”
Another pause, followed by a choke. “History. He also ran the dr–drama club. And he absolutely loved working with the kids.” Alicia sobbed some more, so I let my gaze wander around the room in order to avoid making eye contact. The dining room walls were bare, without any family photos or artwork for me to focus on, so I settled for studying the woodwork. The crown molding ran around the room at chair rail height, painted a semi-gloss shade of white which complemented the pale green paint on the walls. The whole room seemed to be set up in a tasteful, upper-middle class sort of way, and I found myself wondering just how much money your average teacher takes in.
I paused for what seemed to be a respectful amount of time, then said, “Mrs. Smithson, please understand that in order to do my job, sometimes I have to ask some difficult questions.”
Alicia kept her head down as she nodded once more. When she finally looked back up at me, I saw that her eyes were severely swollen. I dove right into my interview then, hoping to get things over with before the pipes burst.
“Did James have any other problems that weren’t lis
ted in the report?” She didn’t answer immediately, so I had to prompt her. “Maybe he was seeing another woman? Or addicted to illegal drugs, perhaps?”
Alicia stared at me for a long moment before she let out a shriek of absolute horror. Whatever dam had been holding back those waterworks busted wide open, and she buried her face in her arms, wailing away. I definitely should’ve reached over to pass her a Kleenex at that point, but when I reached for the box I noticed they were the kind of tissues with lotion mixed in. My skin can get pretty sensitive sometimes and I didn’t want to risk getting a rash, so I sat on my hands and studied the chair rail some more. The pieces of wood came together almost perfectly in the corners of the room, which is a very hard thing to accomplish. The builder must have used a pretty nice crosscut saw to be able to pull off a snug fit like that.
I let her go on for a few more minutes before stealing a quick look at my watch. Unless I wanted to get stuck in traffic on the way home, I needed to wrap things up as quickly as possible. “Mrs. Smithson? Is there anything else I should know?”
She honked her nose into a tissue. “Not that I know of.”
It’s been my experience that when someone comes right out and says, “No,” they simply mean “No,” but when someone takes the trouble to say “Not that I know of,” they really mean, “Yes, but I don’t want to tell you about it.” I scribbled another quick note reminding me to dump this case back in the file cabinet with all the other runaway drug addicts.
Alicia sniffled and looked me in the eye. “Right after Christmas, before he … well, James just seemed so distant. I thought that it was something about the holidays that might have gotten him down. He seemed to need a little more time to himself, so I tried to give him some space.”
I jotted the words “clingy wife” as another note for my files. “Did James have any medical conditions?”
“Not that I know of,” she said again, blotting her face with a tissue. Out of politeness, I did my best to keep from noticing how badly her makeup was smearing. “James had gone to his annual physical only a few weeks before, and he was in great shape. He jogged three miles every evening, rain or shine.”
I closed my notebook while mentally closing the case at the same time. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my time, it’s that you can’t trust someone who exercises. I mean, if someone’s willing to bust their ass to run three miles for no reason whatsoever, there’s got to be something mentally wrong with them. Joggers are nothing more than people who haven’t yet evolved up to driving a car. Sometimes on the weekends I’d see those idiots out there running in the breakdown lane on the James Island Connector, knowing full well they’re just going to have to turn around and come right back at the other end. I swear, runners are morons.
I stood up to leave, but remembered one last thing. “Mrs. Smithson, do you have any photos of James that I can pass around at the station? I’d like to make sure that our patrol officers are on the lookout for him.” It takes a certain kind of flair to make passing work off to other people seem like dedication, but I’ve had my share of practice.
She sniffled and said, “I’ll have to dig them out from the attic. I packed them all away last month because I just couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. Not after the way he just … he just ….”
Her lower lip started to quiver and it looked like the dam was about to break again, so I told her to drop off a photo at the Department whenever she had the time and I got the hell out of there.
Maybe James was away on a long drug binge, or maybe he was shacking up with some hooker downtown. There was really no way of knowing and by that point, I honestly didn’t care. It wasn’t my job to beat the bushes hunting for runaway husbands, and I sure wasn’t going to waste my time chasing down someone who obviously didn’t want to be found. I’d probably go ahead and print up a few fliers for the patrol cops, but that was all the effort I was willing to put out for James Smithson. Really, even that was more than he deserved.
It was almost four-thirty by the time I finally pulled back onto Folly Road, heading for home. I’d hoped to time my departure so I could pull into my apartment right at closing time, but traffic was at a dead standstill. Ahead of me, a small fender bender in lane two had both directions slowed down and the drivers had gotten out of their cars to inspect the damage. I did my best to keep my head down as traffic inched by, but one of the drivers made my own car as an unmarked cruiser and waved for me to stop. There was no way I could have pretended that I hadn’t seen him, so I rolled my window down and coasted to a stop. The man walked out into the road, coming within two feet of my window before shouting, “Officer! Are you here for us?”
I rubbed my left ear, glanced at my watch again, and shouted back at him. “Is everyone okay?” I’ve found that answering somebody’s question with one of your own is the best way to avoid actually having to give an answer.
He took a step back. “No one’s hurt, thank God, but we will need to file an accident report.”
I grumbled as I snuck a glance at the cars. It looked as if the second vehicle, this flashy Lexus SUV, had rear-ended a Toyota Camry while it was stopped in traffic. The Lexus’ bumper was hanging loose and torn almost completely off, but there was only a small dent in the Camry’s trunk lid. Traffic accidents are easy enough to work if there’s only minor damage, since all you have to do is stand back and let the drivers work it out through their insurance companies. Per our policy, though, if the damage looks likes it’s over a thousand dollars’ worth, then you have to go through the hassle of writing out a full-page report. In this case, if the Lexus had been an average blue-collar car instead of an overpriced import, I would have been in the clear. I swear, some people just have too much money for their own good.
I tried to look like I was in a hurry so I shouted to him, “I can’t stop! I’m on my way to a domestic disturbance call. Pull the cars off into that parking lot and I’ll have a traffic officer come meet you!” The sucker’s eyes went wide and I couldn’t believe my luck. The guy actually looked excited, as if a domestic disturbance was some kind of urgent call instead of just two drunken trailer rats slapping each other around. The dude stepped back out of the roadway, then gave me a wave and a thumbs-up as I flipped on my emergency lights and yelped the siren a few times to make it look good. I stomped the pedal to the floor and gunned it down Folly Road, moving like I was on some kind of holy crusade for justice. Once I was out of sight, I cut off the blues and turned towards my apartment complex. I wasn’t about to get tied up working a traffic wreck on any day, but especially not that close to closing time.
Once inside the safety of my apartment, I grabbed myself a beer and settled down in front of the television just as Jive Five News began dissecting the Chief’s latest tirade. That morning’s quote about “black sons of bitches” wasn’t nearly as outrageous as the one time during Hurricane Hugo when Chief Greene ordered all the cops to beat any looters and leave them lying in the streets since there wasn’t any room in the city jail, but it still made for a good show. The reporters interviewed at least half a dozen outraged black women from down in the East Side and of course, every last one of them thought the Chief had been talking about their “dear lil’ granchirren.” I couldn’t help but smile since the Chief had been terrorizing the beat cops for years, and it was a pretty special moment to see him on the receiving end for once.
I slugged down my first can of beer in two cold gulps and got up to snatch another during the commercial break. It took some effort and a couple more drinks, but eventually I managed to forget about all the cases which would be waiting for me at work the next day. A lot of patrol cops think that becoming a detective is some kind of a big deal promotion, but it really doesn’t mean anything besides more responsibility. That week especially, the privilege of being a detective was nothing more than one big pain in the ass.
THURSDAY
Tempus fugit. Time flies from us all, and it is irretrievable. My own time is all but depleted now, as th
e grim shadow of Death beckons. I know that Death cannot be denied, yet I hope that he can at least be delayed. The Cruxion has done its duty, but its effects are temporary. Doctor Demming’s supply will only be enough to see me through the day. My head hangs in shame as I assume my place of waiting, directly before the Halls of Justice.
First I had hidden. That was shameful enough, but now I have stolen too. What kind of hero steals? Is this what I have become, a common thief? No, I remind myself, I am the kind of man who does his duty, and I know my task too well. Doctor Demming must be stopped. Leonard and Shawn have gone, and I will soon join them. I go to my grave as we all must but before I do, I swear the fiend will be stopped. I will stop him, or countless others will suffer as we have.
The quiet dawn gives me the chance to reflect as the sun rises above Metropolis. These drones, these good people of the city, they pass me by without notice. They stare straight ahead, their focus consumed by petty matters. It is a ridiculous thought to imagine that somehow their lives really matter, but I cannot be angry with them. They are but sheep, and I am their shepherd. I cannot afford to let anger cloud my vision as I seek to protect them from one creature: the wolf.
Demming.
My hands shake, still. My body is weak, my time short. A hero must be strong, I remind myself, but true strength of purpose comes from the mind. My body, weak though it may be, is just hired labor.
Burnout (Goosey Larsen Book 1) Page 12
