by Tom Rich
“Look…ahh, Melvin. Shit. Mel? I know.”
Weeks looked up. “Know what?” He winced at the sympathy in his friend’s eyes. “Oh. That. How?”
Franz spoke quietly. “It’s not like I was digging to find out. Don’t forget I sit on the board at Humana Hospital. The topic of a radical new cancer treatment came up at a meeting. The trivetazine. A candidate was described, anonymously, of course. It’s not difficult for a man with my connections to… I think I was more trying to confirm it wasn’t you. That’s what I thought you wanted to talk about this morning.”
“Kurtwood Franz flaunting the rules as always.” Weeks grabbed his yolk-stained plate and began turning it.
“Mel, I’m sor—”
“Don’t, please.” Weeks lifted his hands from the plate. “Look, it’s not the dying so much. It’s the thought of leaving Diane alone that’s the worst. I’ve got the club, all those kids. But back when she found out she couldn’t have children a part of her retreated. She made me her entire world.”
“She’s taken care of, Mel. She’ll never want for anything.”
“I appreciate that, Kurt. But the force takes care of its own. With my pension, Social Security, what we have saved. And the other wives will rally around.”
“Doesn’t have to be money. A job. Anything to occupy herself. Even if all she wants is a volunteer position.”
“Looks like I’m going to be indebted to you well beyond the grave.”
“Mel, you don’t owe me. If you hadn’t drilled me… Yeah, we’ve been through that.” After another silence, “I’m bothered you never told me. Who else knows?”
“No one. Diane. The doctors. And this one guy on the force. Name of Jones Pelfry. I let it slip in a weak moment. Kid’s got a real way about him. He’s flighty as hell on the surface, always saying the wrong thing at the worst time. But there’s something going on beneath it all. Intuition, I guess you’d call it. Whatever, it’s shaping him into one helluva investigator. It’s like the guy knows how to get inside people in ways the rest of us don’t. He’s got all these new millennium kind of things going on. Always spouting some theory when we have breakfast together. Sometimes I think the only reason I indulge him is because he always gives me his toast. Man, does he pull some weird shit out of the air. Sometimes it works. This one case he noticed a victim’s cat went up a tree every time a certain car passed the house. No one else would’ve thought of that. He won’t say what made him sit and watch all those hours. Another time he said he recognized what he called a controlled hypo-mania exhibited by a suspect. The rest of us cleared the guy. But Pelfry dogged the man at his local dive. Said he worked the guy until bringing him to the brink of a bi-polar plunge. Suspect supposedly confessed just to keep from going into a major depression. And you remember Sweet Daddy Sol, all his TV commercials?”
“Solar panel manufacturer,” said Franz. “Everyone thought a jealous husband gunned him down, he was named in so many divorce suits.”
“Not Pelfry. Claimed a war was lining up between New Age forces and the established superstructure that’s destroying the planet. I had to laugh. But I let him fashion his own course of investigation. And it produced results.”
“Sounds like a guy the tabloids would be interested in.”
“Yeah. The kid really loves that kind of thing. Not as an indulgence. Says he gets ideas about criminal archetypes from what those people come up with.”
“Archetypes? Tabloids? Sounds like he’s straddling two worlds.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” A sudden weariness overtook Weeks. “Look, Kurt, I appreciate you letting me go on talking about something other than myself. And I especially appreciate your not blowing sunshine up my ass about miracle cures and such.”
Franz lightly touched the tipped salt shaker. “I did see the medical reports.”
“Yeah, you said.”
“But anything new comes up, anywhere in the world, I’ll take you there myself.”
“I know you would, Kurt. And I just might take you up on it.”
“Look, Mel—and this isn’t just sunshine—but you’re going to be around long enough to see Antony Phillips make the pros.”
“I don’t want him making it just because you buy the Pacers.”
“Nah. You and me are going to get him there together. The right way.”
Weeks lifted his plate by its edges. He appeared about to snap it in half. “I’ll tell you what I damn sure want to see before I go, and that’s that child killer brought in.”
Several customers in the diner turned their heads.
Franz stared at each one until they looked away, then said, “I can see that. How close are you?”
Weeks composed himself. “We have damn near nothing. Two counterfeit cells, both set for incoming only.”
Franz shook his head. “I never wanted to be the kind to say this, but what’s the world coming to?”
“You can’t afford to be that kind. The rest of us can’t afford for you to be. It’s guys like you gotta change the world.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I know that tone. Now there’s something you aren’t telling me.”
Franz ran a finger and cleared a diagonal path through the spilt salt. “We’ve known each other too long.”
“Naw, man, I’m that good a detective. Just don’t make me bring out the rubber hose is all.”
“Okay, here’s the deal.” Franz cupped a hand and shaped one pile of salt into a half moon. “Thing is. There’s something else about you worrying me.”
“Dammit, Kurt! Now you know I let you take me in just then. And you know I went in willingly because that’s how you let yourself be drawn out. And we both know all of that. But then you break the rules of how we’re always playing each other and this isn’t how it’s supposed to be because this isn’t all about me and my—”
“Melvin!”
Heads turned.
Weeks leaned back in his seat.
Franz glared at a man at the nearest table. He turned away. By the time Franz finished scanning the room all eyes were back to their own business. He cupped the other half of the salt into a second half moon facing the first. “It’s your faith, Melvin. I know that you’re losing your faith.”
Weeks’ half-startled-half-angry look gave way to a sarcastic grin. He shook his head. “Yeah? You’re that good a detective?”
“I’m not talking about reading a slump in your shoulders, or noticing the absence of a beatific glow. Or even bugging your bedroom to hear you skipping your prayers at night. None of that.”
“What ever else could there be?”
Franz formed the salt into a full moon cut by the diagonal line. “Numbers, Melvin. Numbers.”
“Don’t get mysterious on me.”
“No mystery. Numbers. Economy. Kent St. Baptist.”
“Now I know—”
“It’s been two months since you last tied a subtle hint to a brick and threw it through my window. ‘Kurt, you should see how bad the lady’s room is. I gotta stand outside the men’s and guard the door while Diane powders her nose.’ Or, ‘Kurt, there’s no heat and the faithful got nothing for the plate but old cufflinks and used batteries.’”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I wasn’t checking on you. I only called Reverend Kent to see why he hadn’t cashed a check I sent. Then he asked why you hadn’t—”
“Because what kind of god abandons the children?” Melvin kept this low but urgent. He had both hands on his plate, squeezing it hard.
“Yeah.” Franz leaned closer, lowered his voice. “Yeah, I can see that being a deal breaker. But you’ve been drifting longer—”
“Those dead boys only put wind into sails that were already up. And where do you get off questioning me about God?”
“I told you I tried asking Him into my heart,” said Franz.
“One time. Your famous Guatemalan cave story.”
“So, He’s not my god. But you’re abandoning your guy when y
ou need Him most. Isn’t His biggest job helping you through—” Franz lifted his hand from the table.
Weeks looked at the Z drawn in the salt. After twenty seconds he raised his eyes. “You start doodling that everywhere, people gonna be calling you Zorro.”
Franz eased his hand back to the table. “I’m thinking Omega Moon.”
“You think that trivializing my loss of—”
“All right, I hear you.” Franz erased his salt emblem. “This isn’t the time to talk about it.”
“This is not the time to talk about it.”
“All right then.”
“All right.”
Both men retreated into private thoughts.
Several minutes later Ila dropped the check. “You kids and your salt,” she said. She righted the shaker and took away the plates.
Franz scooped the check. Weeks put up no fight. As usual, he would match the amount with a cash donation to Helping Handz.
“You know,” said Franz, “I do have something to confess.”
“Oh?” Weeks stood. He thrust an arm through his coat.
Franz rose. “That first time we came here. I never told you in all these years, but I bought your fries with some kid’s lunch money I stole.”
Weeks zipped his coat. “I know. Mike Spooner. I took the blame.”
“Damn, Melvin.” Franz pulled on his coat. “And you’re always saying you owe me.”
6: Executive Committee
No diplomas grace the walls of Melvin Weeks’ office. Nor are there any of his many citations, or pictures of Weeks accepting awards from the city of Indianapolis and the state of Indiana. Instead, on the wall behind his desk, hang the official portraits of the United States Presidents. The portraits arrived via Weeks’ book club, along with their corresponding biographies. Weeks’ wife, Diane, an avid hobbyist, skillfully matted the pictures and fitted them with glass covers and thin black frames. In addition to the presidents, and for reasons known only to Melvin Weeks, hangs the official portrait of a vice president who never moved up to the presidency: Dan Quayle.
Weeks, his elbows spread wide on his desk, squeezed his temples as if withstanding a barrage of advice from all the members of his Executive Committee at once. His shoes smelled of sandy, loamy Indiana soil, and there was the fresh scent of pine underneath one thumbnail from scratching the thin bark of a sapling.
The office door swept open and carried in Detective Jones Pelfry. Startled, Weeks looked up. Pelfry froze with one hand on the knob. The eyes of the two men met.
Pelfry let go of the knob and gave the door three soft raps.
All the noise in Weeks’ head raised by the question, What sins have we committed are so great that God would punish our children? dissipated. He started to straighten his tie, decided not to bother. “You familiar with Jez’ebel?”
Pelfry put two fingers on the door and pushed it closed. “Uhh, Whore of Babylon, right? Got spanked pretty hard in Revelations?”
“Never mind.” Weeks nodded to the chair opposite his desk. “Give me something good, Jones. I been out there tossing the dice all day and keep crapping out. Tell me we got something new.”
Pelfry took a seat opposite his boss. He fumbled with the notepad on his lap, but left it unopened. “What we have are two knock-off cells, two boys—neither sexually assaulted—with water in their lungs from the wells they were found, after-school activities in half the county cancelled, and big yellow buses running nearly empty as people get to work late and leave early. And I have yet to find anyone who can tell us something about the acoustics at the second site in reference to the frogs. Nothing new, Melvin.”
“Damn. What about those cross references?”
“We’ll keep pushing everyone involved. But at this point we have dozens of names from both families of any adult who knew the kids since birth and not one match.”
“What about friends? Maybe both kids were loners. Make it easier for abduction.”
“Got a substantial list from both families. Both look normal in that department.”
“So how’s he snatch them?” asked Weeks. “How’s he cull them from the flock?”
“Nine and eight? Seems too old for the candy routine. I’m sticking with our assumption he lures them with phones.”
“Most parents don’t get cells for their kids until what age statistically? Does the killer know that cutoff?”
“I’ll check the phone companies to see if there’s a number for that.”
“What else, my man? Give me some angles. Anything. You’re the outsidest-the-box guy there is in this business. You should’ve come up with that phone statistics idea days ago.”
“There’s nothing more inside the box than reducing it all to numbers. Numbers have a way of abbreviating intuition. Any benefits gained from such categorization are invariably outweighed by the politics of opportunism.”
“Yeah, right. Sometimes…” Weeks moved a finger on his desk as if scribbling a note. “That’s…” He brushed away his message. “I’ll get someone else on that. You just do what you gotta do.”
“Damn, Melvin, don’t tell me you’re finally condoning my hippy-dippy, new-age crime fighting techniques.”
“I’m not saying I condone or don’t condone anything that gets us somewhere in these killings. Condoning got nothing to do with anything. Just don’t be bringing some bearded, chanting goo-roo into the station. Keep that stuff at home. But if that’s what it takes to give you insight, I want to hear what you come up with.”
“No swamis currently on the speed dial, Mel. But I do hear you, loud and clear.”
Weeks shook his head, recalled Pelfry’s first collar soon after joining the force. During his first observation of an on-camera interview, Pelfry had noticed something telling about a suspect in the murder of a small-time bookie. Adelphus Barnes’ evenly detailed alibi, and the unwavering pace of his delivery, satisfied the veteran members in the department of his non-involvement. Only Pelfry remained doubtful.
When Barnes left the station, Pelfry followed him to a neighborhood bar where he observed Adelphus regale his fellow customers with a high-energy account of his adventures as a murder suspect. Pelfry returned to the bar several times over the next few weeks, often finding Barnes there, and finding the regulars increasingly bored with his same old story. Finally, after everyone else had turned a cold shoulder, Pelfry bought Barnes drinks while pouring out nonstop a fabricated story about life as an insurance salesman. Not letting him get a word in edgewise, Pelfry managed to bring Barnes off the high the focus of his story had given him. Recognizing the onset of paranoia as Barnes plummeted to the bottom of his mood swing, Pelfry gained his confidence by accurately describing the plunge. Pelfry then explained that the only way to avoid the months of abject depression that would surely follow would be to confess to the murder he was so obsessed with, which Barnes did.
The younger members of Indianapolis Homicide congratulated Pelfry for breaking new ground in the field of criminal psychology. The older members said Pelfry was lucky. When debriefing Pelfry about his methods, Captain Weeks stopped short of asking how Pelfry became such an expert on mood swings. Afterwards, Weeks couldn’t help but notice the high energy the young man exhibited whenever forming one of his bizarre ideas during an investigation, and the ashen, lost look Pelfry exhibited when the ideas didn’t come.
“Look, my man,” said Weeks, “I realize you been practically camped out at those sites. But I’d like you to go back. Go alone. Maybe the quiet—something—will put you in the killer’s mind.”
“Not a problem.” Pelfry fumbled with his notepad.
They returned to the awkward silence of Pelfry’s entrance.
“What else?” said the captain an air of resignation.
Pelfry tapped his notepad. “It’s something you’re not going to want to hear.”
Weeks sat back. “But I am going to hear it, aren’t I, Jones? That’s what our little endeavor here is all about, isn’t it? Bad news followed
by more bad news. And the only good news we ever get is that one set of bad news has been dealt with to the point where we can move on to the latest batch of bad news. Now, considering all this bad news we keep juggling, do you really think you have something that will upset me?”
“It’s just that this has personal imp…” Pelfry stopped tapping. “Okay. I think I have what we need to get the D. A. to move on Kurtwood Franz in the Xaman case.”
“Oh, did I forgot who I was talking to.” Weeks threw up his hands. “Why, Jones? Why are you so hot for Kurtwood Franz? The man has everything. Why would he risk it all to commit murder?”
“Just to add to his collection of Mayan artifacts?”
“Don’t embarrass the department by taking that to the D. A.”
“You really think I’m that stupid. His collection is only a front.”
“Not now, Jones. This is no time to test one another. If you got something tangible, tell me.”
“You tell me how tangible.” Pelfry flipped the notepad to the page he wanted. “I ran a check on the parolees in his Second Chanz program. Found something interesting about a Jeffery Paxton. Might sound familiar if you’ve ever ridden in Franz’s limo.”
“It doesn’t, I haven’t. Your point?”
Pelfry nodded. “It’s a story about a local boy who makes big. Paxton got his start as a drug dealer. Except he wasn’t a drug dealer because the drugs he sold were bogus. He found a mail order house that sold black incense in flat, thin sheets, which is how hashish often comes from its country of origin. He even rounded up Turkish newspapers to put between sheets to make his packages look authentic. Appropriated some hash oil to rub on samples, then sold the stuff to patsies by the kilo. Knocked down forty grand a pop. No repeat business, of course. But he raked it in with both fists, traveled the country first class, partied with rock stars. Only one day he sold his doctored incense to the wrong people. Should have been a dead man. But he’s a fast talker and found himself as an indentured servant to save his ass. Paxton speaks fluent Spanish, so he made the perfect drug courier for a group in Southern California dealing with the Colombians. He finally got popped, then did his full eleven years without giving up an ounce of information to shorten his stay.”
