The Real

by James Cole

  Tavalin bided his time until midway into their fourth game, when he delved in again. “Why do they think you did it? What happened to the cops’ random killer theory?”

  “I guess that was my theory, not theirs. They found some hair and skin stuck in the window of my lab. They think she was thrown out my window into the dumpster. If that is true, then whoever did it must have had a key to my lab.”

  “What about your alibi? You and I were together all night. There’s no way you could have done it.”

  “That’s not how the cops see it,” replied Jeremy as he circled the table. “Corner pocket,” he announced, and with the subsequent slam of the eight ball impacting the back of the called pocket, won another game. “That’s three to one,” he jabbed. “Loser pays.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” complained Tavalin. “We need more quarters.”

  “Grab another pitcher while you’re at it.”

  “Another pitcher and I’ll lose what little game I’ve got.”

  Understandably, Tavalin’s speech sounded a wee bit garbled. This would be their third shared pitcher on empty stomachs. Jeremy watched with amusement as Tavalin crept slowly back from the bar like a wannabe acrobat on a tightrope, trying not to spill the full-to-the-rim pitcher. In spite of his best efforts the beer sloshed out with every step, soaking his hands and leaving a wet trail across the floor.

  “Hey man, don’t waste it,” Jeremy ribbed.

  Tavalin stopped and spitefully sucked a couple of gulps straight from the spout while more of the golden liquid dribbled from his chin and hit the floor. “Oops,” he said disingenuously.

  “That’s disgusting,” Jeremy chided.

  “Don’t worry. The alcohol will kill the germs.”

  Jeremy inserted the quarters into the slots of the slip-slide mechanism of the pool table. After some fumbling he succeeded in unlocking the balls and used the triangle rack to set the balls for the next game.

  “You were saying?” prompted Tavalin.

  “The cops might be trying to discredit my alibi,” said Jeremy. “They think that maybe you are covering for me.” Jeremy didn’t state the other obvious possibility but Tavalin came up with it on his own.

  “Or that we both are guilty?” Tavalin was livid. “Did they mention that possibility as well?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “If they try to pin this on you, it will only be a matter of time before they try to tie me into it too,” whined Tavalin. “I’ve already told them that we were together all night.”

  “You’re right.”

  “What are we going to do?” asked Tavalin pitifully.

  “Hopefully the cops will find someone else to harass, someone else who has a key to my lab,” Jeremy replied. “Shoot.”

  “You won, it’s your break,” Tavalin said.

  “I don’t care. You go ahead.”

  Jeremy took his turn sitting down and refilled his mug with more beer. Tavalin carefully lined up his shot but to no avail. He miscued, launching the cue ball, which flew off the table and hit the floor with a loud thump. Its momentum ran out at the boot of a local yokel with a steely-eyed glare and a skinhead haircut.

  “He’s gonna kick your butt,” Jeremy called out as Tavalin made his way over to retrieve the ball.

  “Sorry,” Tavalin implored the man.

  On his return Tavalin scolded Jeremy, “I’m pretty sure he heard you. If you don’t watch out, somebody’s gonna kick both our butts.”

  “He knows I was just kidding around.”

  “He wasn’t laughing.”

  “You’re the one hitting home runs. This ain’t no baseball game, you know.” Jeremy knew proper English but didn’t always choose to use it.

  “Are you hungry?” Tavalin asked.

  “Getting there.”

  “Let’s get some chicken at the Chevron.”

  “Alright,” agreed Jeremy. “But we’ve got to finish off this beer first.”

  “I think I’ve had enough beer. Let’s take off.”

  “You’re just scared of ole baldy over there.”

  “Shhhh.” Tavalin shushed his friend.

  *****

  “If it really was an inside job, who might the killer be?” asked Tavalin, as he and Jeremy began the trek to the Chevron station. They wisely decided against driving after all the beer they had just drunk.

  “Dr. Sloan and Dr. Cain have keys, but if I were a betting man, I’d put my money on Grady.”

  Jeremy aired his theories to his friend, the same theories he had refrained from revealing to Lieutenant Sykes. Were it not for the lubricating effects of the beer, he might have abstained from telling Tavalin as well.

  “Who?” asked Tavalin.

  “Grady.”

  “Who’s Grady?”

  “The janitor.”

  “The one with the dark sunglasses?” asked Tavalin.

  “Yes, him.”

  “What makes you think he might be involved?”

  Jeremy recounted the details of the day he met Grady broken down on the side of the road, how he cooked the meal for the two of them, and finally how he warned Jeremy to never go past the break in the road, “Or people might get hurt.”

  “That’s it?” asked Tavalin skeptically. “You think he killed June just because you disregarded the Keep Out sign?”

  “No, there’s more to it than that,” replied Jeremy defensively. “He said some other things that didn’t exactly make sense.”

  Such as…?” Tavalin performed an out-with-it, rolling-wheel motion with his hand.

  “He told me the old hippie queen ghost story,” said Jeremy, “only his version was a little different from the one I had heard before. It’s funny how that story seems to follow me around. Anyway, soon after that, he started working at the Facility.”

  “And you think he did that on account of you?”

  “It seems too big a coincidence to think otherwise,” replied Jeremy.

  “What could he hope to accomplish by working in the same building as you?”

  “That, I don’t know for sure,” Jeremy said. “But he is always giving me all this lofty-sounding advice and popping up in strange places, like he’s watching me.”

  “He is odd,” agreed Tavalin, “what with those dark, wrap-around sunglasses he wears 24-7.”

  “You know why he wears them?” asked Jeremy.

  “Nope.” Tavalin gave his friend a querulous look. “Why?”

  “It’s to hide – get this – his ultra-blue eyes.”

  “Blue eyes?” asked Tavalin. “You don’t see that every day with a person of his coloring.”

  “I am aware. He also said it was very important that I didn’t tell anyone.”

  As soon as the words escaped Jeremy’s mouth, he felt bad for telling. He always strived to keep his word, even for something as trivial as this. Even though it shouldn’t matter that people learned of Grady’s blue eyes, Grady seemed to think it very important that no one find out. Regardless, Jeremy had promised not to tell.

  “You know it’s curious that his eyes are blue,” began Tavalin, “but why go to all that trouble to conceal them?”

  “That I don’t know,” replied Jeremy, “but it is another example, I think, of his unconventional behavior.”

  The Chevron station sat on a prominent corner in the small town. Instead of walking the extra half-block to the crosswalk at the light, they choose instead to jaywalk. As they began a quick sprint to the other side Jeremy’s feet got tangled and he fell down in the middle of the street, directly in front of traffic that was forced to stop while he struggled to his feet and hustled to the other side.

  “You know it’s not that funny,” Jeremy complained as Tavalin burst out laughing.

  After making a pit stop in the bathroom, they went inside and ordered. They sat at one of the booths in the back of the store and quickly got to work on their fried chickens-on-sticks and potato logs.

  As Tavalin was chewing the last of several humungous bites, h
e revived the subject of the murder. “But why would he kill June?” he asked.

  “I have no idea why anybody would want to kill June. All I know is that of the very few people that have access to my lab, Grady strikes me as the weird agent of the bunch. If he really is crazy, we might never understand why he would do such a thing. He did say that if I crossed over the break in the road-”

  “People could get hurt.” Tavalin finished Jeremy’s sentence for him. “And June got hurt.”

  They sat in silence for a minute or so, digesting the Grady-as-a-suspect theory as well as the food.

  “Did he ever mention me?” asked Tavalin. “I’ve been past the Keep Out sign a time or two myself, you know.”

  “Hey, that’s right. And,” Jeremy added ominously, “if you remember, you are the one who took me out there in the first place. If anyone should be next on Grady’s hit list, it’s you.”

  “Oh, shut up. I’m not scared of that man.”

  “So you don’t think Grady could have killed June?” asked Jeremy.

  “I didn’t say that,” replied Tavalin. “What did the cops say when you told them?”

  “I didn’t tell them anything,” replied Jeremy. “I figure they can find their own suspects.”

  “The suspects are you and, by extension, me,” Tavalin said.

  “One problem is that we both dropped by the Facility the night of the murder.”

  “As did Grady,” added Tavalin.

  “And don’t forget I saw Dr. Cain and Dr. Sloan loitering around the back parking lot as well. Everyone who has a key to my lab was there that night.”

  “I guess we’re lucky the killer took the time to mutilate the body,” said Tavalin. “Neither of us were in the building long enough to carve on her and remove her heart.”

  Tavalin’s callousness angered Jeremy. It didn’t feel right to refer to June’s mutilation as lucky for anyone. He hoped with all his heart that hers was a painless death and all those other atrocities came after.

  “In the meantime, we need to account for as much time as we can on the night of the murder. We need proof that we quickly returned to your condo. Did you tell the cops we saw your downstairs neighbor?” asked Tavalin.

  “I don’t remember seeing any of my neighbors that night,” replied Jeremy.

  “I did,” said Tavalin. “I talked to the guy who lives on the ground floor – Glen, I think – briefly while I was downstairs waiting on the pizza.”

  “That’s good. That should help to verify our alibi. Do you think he’ll remember talking to you?” asked Jeremy.

  “He ought to. All I had on were my boxers.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right,” said Jeremy. “And Jinni came by around the same time. She can vouch for us.”

  “The pizza delivery guy should vouch for us too. I gave him a generous tip.”

  “What did you give him, a whole dollar?” quipped Jeremy.

  “I gave him a five.”

  “You sure the pizza delivery guy wasn’t a hot chick? I’ve been a witness to your tipping and it is never generous. It only rises to the level of barely sufficient when a pretty waitress is involved.”

  “No, no it was a guy,” countered Tavalin. “And he will remember.”

  “You must have still been drunk – that’s the only explanation.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” replied Tavalin derisively.

  Once outside, meaning to take quick leave of his friend, Jeremy said, “I’m going home now.”

  “You aren’t going back to Cooter’s?” asked Tavalin. “What about your car?”

  “My car is safely parked back at my apartment. I walked to the pool hall before.”

  “I didn’t know I was going to have to hike all the way back to Cooter’s by myself,” complained Tavalin. “What will I do if that skinhead dude is waiting for me?”

  Jeremy laughed. “I guess you’ll find out when you get there.”

  “Thanks a lot, Jeremy. I guess you screwed me again.”

  “I’m too tired to spar with you or the skinhead dude.” Jeremy held his hand up in a parting gesture and turned toward home.

  From behind, Tavalin’s voice: “Keep me informed!”

  Jeremy waited at the intersection for the light to change. He had learned his lesson: No more jaywalking. He looked back over his shoulder just in time to see Tavalin re-enter the Chevron station. What was he up to now? Jeremy felt guilty for implicating Grady, even if it had only been to Tavalin. The light turned, but Jeremy was already headed back toward the Chevron station. He needed to make sure Tavalin kept all this to himself.

  Jeremy had just drawn even with the farthermost bank of gas pumps as his friend exited the front door of the station. Tavalin had a drumstick in one hand and his mobile phone in the other. Preoccupied as he was with his chicken and his conversation, he did not notice Jeremy right off. When he did look up, his expression showed his surprise.

  An over-sized SUV, driven by the tiniest of girls, eased by and briefly eclipsed Jeremy’s view of his friend. When he could see Tavalin’s face again, the phone had disappeared from his ear.

  “I thought you were going home,” Tavalin said.

  “I thought you were headed back to Cooter’s,” countered Jeremy.

  “I decided to get some dessert,” replied Tavalin. “This chicken is delicious.”

  “Who were you talking to?” asked Jeremy pointedly.

  “When?” asked Tavalin dumbly.

  “Just now, on the phone.” Jeremy pointed at Tavalin’s right hand. “And I must say I’ve never seen anybody holding fried chicken and their cell phone in the same greasy hand.”

  “Oh, right,” replied Tavalin sheepishly. “I guess I wasn’t thinking.” Tavalin held the chicken leg between his teeth while he wiped his phone with the tail of his shirt.

  Jeremy waited until his friend removed the drum stick from his mouth, and again asked, “Who were you talking to?”

  “My mother,” replied Tavalin. “I was talking to my mother.”

  “About what?” asked Jeremy.

  “You don’t want to know,” answered Tavalin in that same exasperated tone he always used when the subject of his mom came up.

  “I don’t care, as long as you don’t mention what I said about the janitor to anyone.”

  “Why not?” asked Tavalin. “What’s the big deal?”

  “I’ll feel guilty if the police target him because of something I said. Grady might not have the resources to defend himself properly, and one vague threat does not a murder suspect make. We should just let the police do their own thing, at least for now.”

  Tavalin said, “Better for them to target him than you – or me.”

  “We’ll be fine – we didn’t kill June. If Grady had something to do with it, the police can figure it out by themselves. For all we know, my illustrious boss, Skippy Sloan, might be the culprit, not Grady. Just don’t mention what I said to anybody. Okay?”

  “I heard you the first time,” grumbled Tavalin.

  “And please don’t mention his blue eyes to anyone,” added Jeremy. “I promised not to tell.”

  *****

  As Jeremy trudged home, the excessiveness of the evening weighed heavily. Too much beer, fried food and tongue-wagging only served to add a splitting headache, indigestion and guilt to his list of woes. The headache and the indigestion would fade but Jeremy knew that words, once released, cannot be rescinded and tend to roam.

  Though he singled out Grady as the prime suspect, in reality Jeremy had no idea who might have killed June. Four persons had access to the lab – Grady, Dr. Sloan, Dr. Cain and himself. Lacking other evidence, all Jeremy had to go on was each person’s prior behavior and his very subjective impression of each individual’s personality. Why pick on Grady? On the surface, Grady was at least as good a man as the others on that list. He was certainly not pretentious and petty like Dr. Sloan, and he had never laid his hands on Jeremy in anger as Dr. Cain had the other night. Furthermore, as far as
Jeremy knew, Grady didn’t slam pitchers of beer at pool halls and unjustly accuse others of murder in an attempt to save his own skin. Jeremy cringed to think that perhaps he had picked on Grady because he was an easy target.

  So what? asked a voice in Jeremy’s head. It was the voice of self-preservation. So what if the police learn a little about Grady’s weirdness?

  The voice of his conscience countered: It’s okay if you think Grady is weird but, without hard evidence, you shouldn’t say anything to anybody.

  Would you rather I go to jail for a crime I didn’t commit?

  It would be easier for you to live in jail than for you to live with the knowledge that you had a hand in an innocent man’s demise.

  But I don’t know Grady is innocent.

  But neither do you know he is guilty. You don’t know who is innocent or who is guilty. That’s the whole point and that’s why you should just keep your mouth shut!

  Both of you, shut up! screamed a third voice that approximated Jeremy’s regular mental voice.

  About that time, Jeremy arrived at the front stoop of his condo. He wondered if it were normal for the voices in one’s head to argue among themselves.

  Having arrived back in the sanctuary of his home, Jeremy engaged his tortured mind with his laptop, starting with his email. Lying in wait was a message sent earlier in the day by Quintin Gordy, the art collector. One week had passed since Jeremy met the collector. As Jeremy had promised, he sent Quintin the pictures he took of Sticks River, including those of The Devil’s Crotch rapids.

  Quintin’s reply was written more like a formal letter than a typical email:

  Dear Jeremy:

  It was my bona fide pleasure to make the acquaintances of you and your lovely friend, Jinni. Many thanks for the pictures you sent. I was thrilled to see for the first time the setting of my Claire Wales’ “Wicked Water” painting. Were it not for you, I would never have made the connection between her title and The Devil’s Crotch. Your information is much appreciated and I owe my new-found enlightenment all to you!

  I thought you might be interested to know that, true to form, there will be a Claire Wales’ painting for sale at the annual art extravaganza, otherwise known as the Destiny Flea Market. I ask that you don’t broadcast this information since I, of course, plan on placing a bid on it.