by J.R. Rain
“Hell of a thing to be fired over.”
“Uh huh.”
“Papers say he was a hell of a coach,” said Sanchez.
“Three CIF championships.”
“Why do you think he popped himself?”
“Hard to say,” I said. “Detective Hanson tells me the man was divorced earlier in the year. They say divorced men are the highest risk for suicide.”
“Thank you for that useless bit of fucking trivia.”
I ignored him, and continued.
“Add to that your best athlete being accused of a heinous murder, and compound it with losing your job....”
I shrugged again.
“You shrug a lot for a detective,” said Sanchez.
“I know. It’s part of the job description.”
We moved over to the squat rack. We slammed on as many forty-fives as we could find, then some thirty-fives.
“You know,” said Sanchez, “people here think we’re freaks. Maybe we should go to a real gym.”
“I like it here,” I said, hunkering down under the bar and placing my feet exactly the width of my shoulders. “Besides, it’s open twenty-four hours.”
Sanchez shook his head.
Chapter Twelve
He was watching me knowingly with those nondescript eyes. Nondescript only in color, that is. Everything else about them was, well, very non-nondescript.
He knows what you’re thinking.
The words flashed across my mind, along with the popular Christmas tune, and a chill went through me.
I was having another Big Mac. Or three. He was drinking another coffee. Lukewarm and black. Just like I like my women. Kidding.
“So have you told anyone about me?” he asked.
“That I speak to God in a McDonald’s?”
“Yes.”
“Everyone I know. Hell, even people I don’t know. In fact, I just told the sixteen-year-old gal working behind the counter that I was meeting with God in a few minutes and could she hurry.”
“And what did she say?”
“Said she was going to call the cops.”
Jack shook his head and sipped some more of his coffee. I noticed he still had the same streaks of dirt along his forehead.
“So your answer is no,” he said.
“Of course it’s no, and if you were God you would know that.”
He said nothing; I said nothing. A very old man had sat in a booth next to us. The old man smiled at Jack, and Jack smiled back. The man leaned over and spoke to us.
“I’m coming home soon,” he said.
“Yes,” said Jack. “You are.”
“I’m ready,” said the old man, and sat back in his seat and proceeded to consume a gooey cinnamon roll.
“What was that about?” I asked Jack, not bothering to lower my voice. Hell, the man was as old as the hills, no way he could overhear us.
“He’s going to die tonight,” said Jack, rather nonchalantly, I thought.
“Well,” I said after a moment, “his heart could only take so many cinnamon rolls.”
Jack looked at me and sipped his coffee carefully, cradling the paper cup in both hands. He said nothing.
“Why do you drink with both hands?” I finally asked.
“I enjoy the feel of the warm cup.”
“And why do you look at me so closely?”
“I enjoy soaking in the details of a moment.”
We had gone over this before.
“Live in the moment,” I repeated. “And all that other bullshit.”
“Yes,” he said. “And all that other bullshit.”
“There is no past and there is no future,” I continued, on a holy roll.
“Exactly.”
“Only the moment,” I said.
“You’re getting it, Jim. Good.”
“No, I’m not, actually. You see, Jack, I know for a fact that there is a past because a young girl got slaughtered outside her house. In the past.”
“You have taken a personal interest in the case, I see.”
“And now someone has killed themselves. A coach at the same high school—but, of course, you know all of this.”
Jack sat unmovingly, watching me closely.
“I saw his brains on the wall and I saw the hole in his head,” I continued. “Damn straight this case has gotten personal.”
We were silent. I could hear myself breathing, my breath running ragged in my throat. I had gotten worked up.
“You know, it’s damn hard having a conversation with someone who claims to know everything,” I said, concluding.
“I never claimed to know everything. You assume I know everything.”
“Well, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, fuck me. There you go.”
“But you’re forgetting something,” said Jack patiently. He was always patient, whoever the hell he was.
“No,” I said. “Don’t tell me.”
“Yes,” he said, telling me anyway. “You, too, know everything.”
We had gone over this before, dozens of times.
“The answers are always within you,” he said.
“Would have been nice to know during algebra tests.”
“You knew the answers then, just as you know them now.”
“Bullshit.”
He smiled serenely.
“If you say so,” he said.
“Fine,” I said, “So how is it that I know everything, when, in fact, I don’t feel like I know shit?”
“First of all, you know everything because you are a part of me,” he said.
“Part of a bum?”
“Sure,” he said. “We are all one. You, me and everyone you see.”
“So I know the answers because you know the answers,” I said.
“Something like that,” he said. “Mostly, you know the answers because the answers have already been revealed to you. Would you like an example?”
“Please.”
“What’s the Atomic symbol for gold?”
“Wait, I know this one.” I rubbed my head. “Fuck. I don’t remember. Wait, I’ll take a stab at it: G-O?”
“No, it’s A-U.”
“At least I was close.”
“What’s the Atomic symbol for gold?” he asked again.
“A-U,” I said without thinking. “Wait, I only know that because you just told me.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, I didn’t know a few seconds ago.”
“Are you living now, or are you living a few seconds ago?”
“I’m living now, of course, but if I didn’t have you here to give me the answer—and by the way, I’m not convinced A-U is the right answer—I still wouldn’t know the answer.”
“Shall we try another example?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “but this time don’t give me the freakin’ answer.”
“What’s the Atomic symbol for Mercury?”
“No idea,” I said.
“None?”
“Nope. M-E?”
“No.”
“See, told you I didn’t know the answer.”
“You were right,” he said. “And I was wrong, apparently.”
“Fuck. I’m going to go look it up tonight on the internet, aren’t I?”
He shrugged.
“And then when I do, I’ll have the answer.”
He took a sip from his coffee.
“But I still don’t have the answer now, but I will soon,” I said.
He yawned a little.
“And since time doesn’t exist, that means I always had the answer.”
He shrugged again and drank the rest of his coffee.
“I’m still not buying any of this shit,” I said.
Chapter Thirteen
According to homicide investigators, Amanda Peterson had been returning home from a high school party on the night of her murder.
Returning home at 7:30 p.m.
Isn’t that about the time most parties get st
arted? Perhaps she was going home to fetch something she had forgotten. Perhaps not. Either way, I sniffed a clue here.
Thanks to Mrs. Williams, vice principal extraordinaire, I now had a small list of Amanda Peterson’s known friends from high school. To help facilitate my investigation, Mrs. Williams gave me the home addresses to the three names on the list. I thought that was a hell of a nice gesture on her part, and reminded myself to repay her with one of my most winning smiles.
The first house on the list was a massive colonial with a pitched roof, numerous gables and a wide portico. I pulled into the wrap-around driveway.
The doorbell was answered by a cute teenage girl wearing matching sweatshirt and sweatpants that said UCLA. A girl after my own heart. She was blond, pretty, and quite small, no more than five foot two. Her big blue eyes were filled with intelligence.
“Can I speak with Rebecca Garner?” I asked.
“You got her.”
“My name’s Jim Knighthorse and I’m a private investigator.”
She smiled broadly, and her eyes widened with pleasure. I turned around to see who the hell she was smiling at. Turns out it was me.
“A real private investigator,” she said, clapping.
“In the flesh.”
She turned somber on a dime. “You’re here about Amanda.”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Williams called and asked if it was okay to give out our address. So I knew you’d be coming by.”
“Are your parents home?”
“No, I’m alone, so maybe we should talk out here.” She stepped through the doorway and shut the door behind her. “My parents said it would be okay for me to talk to you.”
She led me to a wooden rocking bench facing the street. Rebecca, utilizing the full use of the bench, rocked us back and forth. A minute later, I was feeling seasick. I stopped the rocking.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m just a little nervous. I’ve never talked to a real live detective before.”
“Well, you’re doing a great job of it so far.” I pointed at the UCLA logo. “Obviously you’re highly intelligent and wise for your age if you intend to go there.”
She looked down. “My dad went there.”
“He must be highly intelligent and wise himself.”
“He’s a doctor. Intelligent, but I don’t know about wise. Anyway, he’s never home, so I really wouldn’t know.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You’re a junior?”
“Yes.”
We were silent. She started rocking again, and I put my foot out to stop it again. She ducked her head and said, “Oops.”
“Were you with Amanda on the last day she was alive?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about the party.”
“We got there around seven. Amanda and I went together because Derrick was working out at the gym, as usual. He’s so boring. He never likes to party. All he ever did was work out, play sports and hang out with Amanda.”
“Did he love Amanda?”
She shifted her weight. The bench creaked slightly. I kept my foot firmly planted. No more swinging today. Rebecca looked away, brushing aside a blond strand that had stuck to her shiny lip gloss.
“Oh, yeah. He loved her a lot.”
“You think he killed her?”
“No.”
“You say that pretty quick.”
“He loved her so much. He would have done anything for her.”
“Was Amanda seeing someone else?”
“No. But at the time, there was another guy who wouldn’t leave her alone.”
“Who?”
“Chris, the guy who threw the party. He’s always liked her.”
“Did she fool around with Chris?”
“No. She never cheated on Derrick. They really did love each other. It was sweet watching the two of them together. They were always together and holding each other and kissing.”
“Tell me about Chris.”
“He’s a senior. Used to play football, but got kicked off the team because he’s an asshole. You like football?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I don’t understand it. Just a bunch of boys jumping on each other.”
“That about sums it up.”
“They kicked him off the team because he was a partier and did drugs and probably never showed up for practice.”
“That’ll do it.”
“He always had it pretty bad for Amanda. I mean, you’ve seen her picture. She is—was—so pretty. A lot of guys at school liked her.”
“Especially Chris.”
“Especially Chris. He hated Derrick. Hated him.”
“Why?”
She looked at me as if I were the beach idiot. “Because Derrick had his girl, and because Derrick was black. He was always making comments to Amanda.”
“Racially insensitive comments?” I offered.
“Yes,” she said. “Those kinds of comments. Everywhere she went, he let her know it. It was horrible.”
“Then why go to Chris’s party?”
She shrugged. “It’s high school, it was the only party being thrown that night. Plus Amanda said that Chris personally invited her and had apologized for being such a jerk.”
“So what happened at the party?”
“Chris was drunk when we got there. He was being a real dick. Usual Chris, you know.”
“Oh, I know.”
“You know him?”
“No, I’m just being supportive.”
She smiled and shook her head. “You’re kind of funny.”
“Kind of.”
“So anyway, we get to the party and almost immediately Chris hits on Amanda. You know, puts his arm around her and tries to kiss her, just being an asshole.”
“What did Amanda do?”
“She pushed him away.”
“How did Chris react?”
“Same old shit. Put her down, put Derrick down.” She grinned. “Derrick’s already kicked Chris’s ass once for giving Amanda a hard time.”
“Sounds like Chris needs another ass kicking.”
“Hard to do that from jail.”
I nodded. “So what happened next?”
“Amanda was pretty upset and left the party. I offered to go with her, but she refused, saying she wanted to be alone.”
I didn’t add that if Rebecca had been with Amanda, that Amanda stood a better chance of being alive today. Then again, there might be two dead teenage girls instead of one.
“That was the last time you saw her?”
She was looking away, blinking hard. “Yes.”
“After Amanda left, what did Chris do?”
“I don’t know. He took off in his car.”
Oh?
“Did you tell the police this?” I asked.
“The police never came by.”
“The police assume Derrick did the killing,” I said.
“I don’t blame them,” she said. “But I think someone set Derrick up.”
“I do too.”
“Someone who doesn’t like him very much,” she said.
“I agree. Where does Chris live?”
She told me, and I gave her my card.
“Nice picture,” she said.
“Like I said, you are obviously a bright and intelligent young lady.”
I left her rocking alone on the bench swing.
Chapter Fourteen
According to Rebecca, Chris’s house was three streets down. Look for the broken garage door and red mailbox. Turns out the house was seven streets down. She was close. Okay, not really.
There was no one home, so I waited in my car, which really was my home away from home. I had wasted more time sitting in it than I care to dwell on. One of these days I was going to wise up and keep an emergency novel in the glove box for just such an occasion. I turned on the radio and listened to various sports radio programs. There had once been a time when I was the subject of spo
rts radio. At least locally. Maybe again someday. I looked at my watch. An hour of my life had passed. I turned off the radio and put my seat back. The police hadn’t investigated Amanda’s murder very thoroughly. That much was obvious. They were confident the killer was Derrick. They had no reason to believe otherwise, and they did not look for a reason. Looking for a reason made their job harder than it had to be, especially when a kid with a knife was looking them straight in the face. According to the homicide report, an anonymous caller had tipped the police that the knife was in the backseat of Derrick’s car. Convenient.
Two hours later, after a fitful nap, a silver Corvette squealed around the corner and bounded into the driveway. A lanky kid hopped out and stared at me.
More than ready for a little action, I leapt out of my car and, perhaps a little too eagerly, approached him. The kid backed up a step.
“Chris Randall?” I asked.
He was about an inch shorter than me, about half the width of me, and certainly not as good looking. Not everyone can be me.
“Who are you?” he asked.
I told him.
“You have a badge or something?” he asked. There was mild humor in his voice, and a whole lot of cockiness. I’ve been told the same.
“Or something.” I showed him my investigator’s license. “Can I talk to you about Amanda Peterson?”
His shoulders bunched at the mention of her name. He recovered and walked around to the Vette’s trunk and popped it open with the push of a button on his keychain. He reached inside and pulled out a ratty backpack. His hands were shaking. When he spoke again, the humor was gone from his voice, although there was still an underlying tone of arrogance. My question had unsettled him. “Sure. Go ahead.”
“She was last seen leaving your party.”
He slung the pack over a bony shoulder. “Probably should have stayed, huh?”
“Probably. You were also seen leaving the party shortly thereafter.”
“Yeah, so.”
I smiled broadly, just your friendly neighborhood detective. “So where’d you go?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Have you talked to the police yet?”
“No.”
“Then they would be interested to know that prior to Amanda leaving the party that you had verbally abused her and made racially insensitive remarks about her boyfriend Derrick.”
He looked at me some more, then shrugged. “I went on a beer run.”
“Where?”
“Corner of Eighth and Turner.” He leaned a hip against the Vette’s fender. The mild amusement was back. His eyes almost twinkled. “You think I killed her?”
I shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
“They found the knife in Derrick’s car.”
“Knives can be planted,” I said.
“Why would I kill her?”
“You tell me.”
“I wouldn’t,” he said. “I liked her a lot.”
