** Brandt Dodson: Daniel's Den, Harvest House, $14.99. New Orleans investment advisor Daniel Borden, finding evidence of money laundering when auditing the accounts of a recently deceased colleague, makes the mistakeof reporting it to his boss. In the frameand on the run, he joins forces with a widow and her nine-year-old son, a precocious news and history junkie. After aslow start (excessive back story as each character is introduced), this turns into a fairly effective thriller, its religious connection in the spiritual life of the characters rather than the background or subject matter. While soul-saving doesn't crowd out action and suspense most of the way, the inspirational denouement goes over the top.
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Fiction: IDENTITY THEFT by Jon L. Breen
Back for a third case, here's Jon Breen's cop team Berwanger and Foley, who spend as much of their time doing public-relations speaking as they do on the beat. The first Berwanger/Foley tale appeared in EQMM in December of 2007, the second in the MWA anthology The Blue Religion. A fourth will appear in EQMM later this year. Mr. Breen is, of course, the longtime author of our highly esteemed Jury Box review column.
Detectives Berwanger and Foley made their way up the front steps of the city's main public library, not to investigate murder in the stacks but to make one of their frequent and much in demand community appearances in the cause of departmental public relations. Foley, who compulsively kept track of such things, said to his partner, “Do you realize we now spend nearly half our on-duty time filling speaking engagements?"
"Really?” Berwanger said.
"Yeah. I figured it out last night."
"How long did that take you?"
"I don't know. An hour, maybe."
"You should get a life."
Foley shrugged. “I like statistics."
"Okay. Just so it's nearly half and not over half. Staying working cops is vital to our credibility."
"You think we have credibility?"
Berwanger didn't dignify that with an answer. They walked though the main doors and turned left toward the office of the deputy chief librarian, Melissa Foxglove, who had arranged their visit. The door was unlocked, but she wasn't there. Berwanger looked at his watch. It was six-thirty, the agreed upon time, and their appearance was scheduled for seven.
"Where is she?” Berwanger said.
"Hey, not everybody's as clock-driven as cops. She'll be here.” They entered the office and waited.
At a quarter of, Melissa arrived, full of apologies and obviously frazzled.
"Everything okay, Ms. Foxglove?” Foley inquired.
For a moment, it appeared she would unburden herself, but instead she shook her head and said, “It's nothing. I'm just having a tough day. Why should I bother you guys with my problems?"
"Because that's our job,” said Berwanger. “To protect and serve the public."
"Besides,” chimed in Foley, “we're detectives. We can't be presented with a mystery without trying to solve it."
"It'll be a distraction. We'll spend all evening wondering what's bothering you."
"It'll ruin our presentation."
"Still, we don't mean to be nosy. You don't have to tell us."
"I mean, it's not like you're a victim of a crime or anything. Is it?"
"Well, actually,” Melissa said, “I am the victim of a crime. But—"
"That's it,” said Foley. “Now you have to tell us."
So she told them, pouring out the circumstances in a fast-paced five-minute monologue. When she was finished, the two detectives looked at each other.
"We can't help you,” Berwanger said, shaking his head sadly.
"You've done everything right, it sounds like,” Foley said.
"It's been helpful just being able to tell you about it,” Melissa said.
"It can help others, too,” Berwanger said. “And it can help us figure out what we're going to do tonight. You know what I'm thinking, Foley?"
"I think so."
After Berwanger told Melissa what he wanted her to do, she led them along the hall to the library's community meeting room, already full. As Berwanger had expected, their library appearance had drawn a wide demographic from pre-teens (have to keep it G-rated) to senior citizens (have to keep ‘em awake). The librarian's introduction was cheerful and generous, and the two cops had received a rousing ovation before they uttered a word.
As usual, Berwanger spoke first. He thanked Melissa, then turned to his partner and said, “I never know what to expect from a library crowd."
"They're some of the best ones,” Foley said.
"Sure, but you never know what you're going to get. Any of you folks writers?” A few hands went up. “For a roomful of writers, we gotta be ready with little details of who's got jurisdiction and how you protect evidence and when you Mirandize the suspect, stuff they can use to give the illusion they know what they're writing about, but that's going to bore the rest of you. You want war stories, right?” There were murmurs of assent. “Now, if we were visiting a grade school, we'd gross you out with a creepy story and sneak in a subtle little moral. But I have to disappoint you kids. No fart jokes. It offends your parents and grandparents. And you jaded high-school kids, you're really a tough audience. If we were at your school, we'd get you every time with jokes about the principal, but that won't play here. Now you retirees are a great audience. You like to hear about classic cases and the changes in police work since you were young. But that won't mean a thing to the rest of this crowd. That's the thing about appearances at libraries, you draw from every category, and it's hard to know what will work."
"Shall we just go home?” Foley said, taking a few steps toward the door.
"I don't think so. The chief wouldn't like it."
"Just have to play it by ear then,” Foley said. “I got your back, partner."
Berwanger looked out at the group, pursed his lips as though pondering what he would say next, and finally asked, “How many of you folks have been victims of a crime? Come on. Just put your hand up. I'm curious."
"What is this, jury duty?” Foley cracked, and Berwanger gave him a pained look.
As expected, several hands went up at once, and by the time the timid ones had decided it was safe, most of the hands were up.
"Who'd like to tell us about your experiences?” Most hands went down quickly. “A few of you, just as examples. You, sir?"
"Home burglary,” said a middle-aged man at a corner of the front door. “Years ago now, but it puzzles me to this day. Hardly anything stolen, and the burglar put a record on the stereo. It was the cast album of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying."
"At least he was trying to improve himself,” Berwanger said. “You, sir?"
"My car was stolen last year,” said a thirtyish man in a pizza-delivery uniform. “Don't know why. It was a wreck. Guy did me a favor."
Several others chimed in with burglaries and car thefts. Some of the kids had had books or magazines or cell phones stolen from them at school. Only one person who spoke up had been a victim of violent crime, a street-corner mugging. Berwanger and Foley knew that statistically there must be rape or robbery victims in the room, or kids who had encountered school bullies who sold protection, but they were understandably not eager to share. Finally Berwanger called on Melissa Foxglove, standing at the back of the room.
"I was the victim of identity theft,” she said with fresh outrage. “Somebody got ahold of my Social Security and credit-card numbers and ran up a bunch of charges. It's taken me months to straighten it all out, and just when I think it's finished, something else pops up."
"Overdue library books?” Foley suggested.
"Even worse than that, and that's serious,” she replied.
"A distinctly contemporary crime,” Berwanger said. “And it's on the rise. Was your computer involved, Ms. Foxglove?"
"Not my computer,” she said disgustedly. “It was my son's computer, and my husband was using it at the time. It had nothing to
do with me, apart from cleaning the mess up.” She got some sympathetic murmurs from women in the audience.
A youth in the front row provided the perfect lead-in. “Did you guys ever have a case involving identity theft?"
Foley looked at Berwanger. “Well, there was that one case."
"Oh, you mean—?"
"Yeah, that one."
"And did that have something to do with somebody's computer use, too?” Melissa wanted to know.
"In a way,” Berwanger said.
"Yeah, kind of,” Foley said.
A “pre-published” mystery writer the police team recognized from other speaking engagements put up his hand and said, “Folks, I've heard these guys before, and we're not getting all we could out of them. They're at their best talking about murder. That's where it's at. I'm a writer, and there's only so much you can do fictionally with identity theft. So tell us this, Detectives, what's the strangest motive for murder you ever encountered?"
Berwanger and Foley glanced at each other, both thinking the same thing. The guy wasn't an audience plant, but he couldn't have served them better if he'd been briefed ahead of time.
"What do you know?” said Foley, “I think that same case qualifies, don't you, Berwanger?"
"Technically, it was even more a murder case than an identity-theft case,” Berwanger agreed.
Naturally, the whole audience, from middle-schoolers to senior-center habitues, clamored to hear about it.
"Okay,” Berwanger said. “Detective Foley and I will play a little scene for you now. Picture an interrogation room at the police station. Not much furniture, just a table and a couple of chairs. Earlier that day, a man had been pulled over on a traffic violation, going fifty-five in a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone, the sort of thing that would normally just get him a ticket. But the officer who pulled him over found something he thought suspicious enough to bring the man to the station for questioning. I was on duty that night. Foley here was out sick with a cold or something—"
"Flu symptoms,” said Foley. “I was out with flu symptoms."
"Let's just say he had some lame excuse for a night off. Anyway, he wasn't there, so—"
"I hate missing work, but I could have infected the whole station house. You're making it sound like I was malingering or something. I felt terrible, but I would have come to work if I hadn't been so contagious."
"These folks don't want to hear about police personnel problems—"
"I'm not a personnel problem. I hardly ever miss work."
"All right, all right. Because my partner was at death's door, I got the job of interviewing this guy by myself. Okay? But I told Foley all about it later, so for purposes of our interrogation demonstration, I will play myself, and my partner will take on the role of the suspect. He was a middle-aged man."
"I can do middle-aged,” Foley said confidently.
"Not at all dangerous looking. Well-dressed, looked like a solid citizen. Can you manage that, Foley?"
"Obviously, yes."
"Going a little bit bald, a little bit fat, kind of soft."
"It's a stretch, but I can bring it off,” Foley said.
"Normally mild-mannered, you might think, but sitting in the interrogation room for the better part of an hour had made him a bit edgy and disgruntled."
Foley turned his back, rotated his shoulders, contorted his face.
"Get on with it,” Berwanger said. “My partner the method actor."
Foley finally turned around to face the group in the character of an outraged citizen, holding in his anger by force of will.
Berwanger said, “You say your name is Ignatz Teitlebaum."
"That is correct."
"And you are currently registered at the Holly Arms Hotel downtown?"
"That is correct, yes."
"And you are the driver of a beige 1994 Camry wagon that was pulled over earlier this evening by Officer Dawes?"
"I believe that was his name."
"And he gave you a ticket for speeding?"
"He did. He claimed I was driving ten miles an hour over the speed limit."
"And were you?"
"Probably. I don't plan to dispute it, and I gave the officer perfect cooperation. I have to say, though, that it seems excessive zeal on the part of the patrolman with all the more serious crime that presumably goes on in this city. I was moving the same speed as the other traffic, and I feel certain my speed was safe. Still, Officer Dawes was fully within his rights to give me a ticket, and I am prepared to pay whatever fine is levied. What was your name, Officer?"
"Detective Berwanger, sir."
"Detective Berwanger, I am a stranger to your city. I don't know how you do things here. Do you know how long I've been sitting here?"
"I'm sorry, sir. We're a little shorthanded today. My partner is out sick."
"Well, I wish he were here. He's probably a fine officer."
"Yes, sir, he is."
"In fact, you probably rely on him. I'd venture to say he probably carries you most of the time, doesn't he?"
"I wouldn't go that far."
"Maybe if he were here, you'd be proceeding in a more orthodox way."
"What strikes you as unorthodox, Mr. Teitlebaum?"
"Well, now let me see. A visitor to your city is pulled over on a minor speeding infraction."
"You think speeding is a minor infraction, sir?"
"Certainly, it is. I wasn't driving unsafely. I wasn't drunk. I didn't offer any resistance to the officer who stopped me. I am ready and willing to pay whatever fine is levied for my egregious offense. And yet I have been brought to your police station, been placed in this dingy little room to cool my heels for—” a glance at his watch—"nearly two hours. Then I have been confronted by a policeman with the exalted title of Detective who presumably should have more important things to do. Is this your department's usual procedure on a traffic violation?"
"Mr. Teitlebaum, I'm sure you realize there is a bit more to it than that. Now, before we go any further, you've been advised of your rights. You know you have the right to an attorney and you have waived that right, correct?"
"Yes, yes, no need for a lawyer."
"Let me congratulate you on your driver's license."
"Why? The picture isn't at all flattering."
"It's one of the finest forgeries I've ever seen. Perhaps you can tell us where you got it."
Outrage was registered. “I got it from the Department of Motor Vehicles, Detective! It is not a forgery."
"Your credit cards all look quite authentic, too. Very nice work."
"They are authentic! I am Ignatz Teitlebaum."
"No, you're not."
"I'm not?"
"The real Teitlebaum is a respected member of this community, and I know him well, at least by sight. You look nothing like him. You apparently have stolen his identity."
"What can I say to that? There must be another Ignatz Teitlebaum."
"Come now, sir, whatever your name is. Are you telling me there could be two people named Ignatz Teitlebaum?"
"I know it sounds unlikely, but here I sit to prove it. Detective, this can be easily cleared up. In my own city, I too am a respected member of my community. I'm a high-school teacher."
"What do you teach?"
"English, if that's relevant."
"It explains the way you talk."
"Thank you. I take pride in expressing myself with precision."
"You a good teacher? Do the kids relate to you?"
"I'm a very good teacher, yes. Earlier this year, I was recognized as teacher of the year in my district, a distinction of which I'm very proud. But what does that have to do with this nonsensical conversation we're having? I want to get out of this police station and get on with my life. I am prepared to write a check for my speeding violation tonight. I'm even willing to make an extra contribution to your policemen's benefit fund or to the charity of your choice."
"You offering me a bribe, sir?"
"Certainly not!"
"It sounded like it. Now what was your name again?"
"I have told you I am Ignatz Teitlebaum and I can prove it. A few phone calls can verify my identity."
"Maybe we can make those calls in the morning. Don't want to bother people this time of night."
"In the morning? Do you mean you intend to keep me here overnight?"
"I'm afraid we have no choice."
"Detective, this is absurd. I insist this whole thing be straightened out immediately. I do not find your city a friendly place, and I am becoming more and more anxious to leave."
"I'm sure you are, sir."
"Perhaps if you took me to this other Teitlebaum, we could straighten this all out."
"I think you know that's not possible, sir."
"How would I know such a thing?"
"Officer Dawes asked you to come to the station with him because your name made him suspicious. He thought he had a case of identity theft on his hands and maybe a murder suspect. Ignatz Teitlebaum is dead. Someone shot him to death in his home earlier today. Neighbors reported seeing an unfamiliar beige Camry wagon near his house. One of the neighbors took down the license number of that vehicle. Your license number. On the basis of this, we were able to procure a warrant to search your vehicle. We found your weapon in the trunk. Pending a ballistics report, we suspect it fired the bullet that killed Ignatz Teitlebaum. I don't know what your name is, but I suggest you killed Mr. Teitlebaum after stealing his identity. Who are you really?"
Deep sigh of resignation. Faint ironic smile. “My name is Ignatz Teitlebaum, and everything I've told you is true."
"But there's a lot you haven't told me."
"That is true, too."
"You don't have to say anything more. You have a right to a lawyer."
"Yes, yes, I know. But what's the use? I want to tell you everything. I want you to understand."
"Good. Enlighten me."
"All my life I have been interested in names. Probably more than I would have been if my name were John Jones. I have been especially curious about people who have the misfortune to share names, a situation I never expected to encounter personally. An English novelist built a fine reputation for herself using the name Elizabeth Taylor. Then another young person came along and became much more famous using the same name in quite another line of endeavor. How annoying that must have been to the original. Similar case with a radio personality out in California named Michael Jackson. Had the name long before that singer fellow. But once that Michael Jackson came into prominence, it was as if the other Michael Jackson had his name stolen out from under him. There's a Canadian writer, very good one, named Peter Sellers, like the motion-picture actor. Since this Sellers achieved prominence after that Sellers was dead, there's little danger of their being confused with one another, but still, it must be galling. Worse still, some unsuspecting babies are deliberately sentenced to live with famous names. Back in the Thirties there was an outstanding football player named Bill Shakespeare. No danger of being confused with the long-dead bard, but his parents clearly saddled him with a famous name deliberately, and I wonder how he liked it. Of course, there are non-celebrity examples, as when two children in the same class have the same name, leading to confusion and inconvenience. I once had two Jose Estradas at the same time. I dealt with it, but it was annoying."
EQMM, May 2009 Page 7
