Bad Karma

by Dave Zeltserman

  Chapter 3

  Susan’s face was flushed as she told Shannon about her day so far. Back in Massachusetts, she had worked as a secretary in a Boston law firm, a job that was mostly miserable for her. Since moving to Colorado, Susan studied homeopathy for three years and now had a small but growing practice. At five foot two and barely a hundred pounds soaking wet, she was exceptionally beautiful with mesmerizing soft gray eyes and long black hair that flowed past her thin shoulders. Shannon knew she loved working as a homeopath and it brought an ache to his chest to see her face lit up the way it was.

  “My nine o’clock was a pure Medhorrinum,” Susan continued between bites of Aloo Mutter, an Indian dish made up mostly of potatoes, peas and spices. “I recognized his remedy type pretty quickly. Medhorrinum fit him so perfectly. It explained his sinus infections and his…” She stopped to give Shannon a cross-eyed look. “What are you grinning at?” she demanded.

  “Nothing,” Shannon said, grinning widely. “I just love watching you after you meet with clients, that’s all.”

  “You think this is all silly, don’t you?”

  “You’re asking me that? Someone who’s been studying for five years how to have lucid dreams? Who’s been trying to learn how to leave his body?” Shannon stopped to take a bite of his Vegetable Korma. At one point he had been a steak and potatoes guy, but after all the gore Charlie Winters had visited on him the thought of eating meat repulsed him so much that he became a strict vegetarian. He had read that slaughterhouse workers often become vegetarians for the same reason. Susan also switched to being mostly vegetarian, except for occasionally eating fish.

  “I think it’s great that you’re so passionate about what you’re doing,” Shannon added.

  She gave him a wary eye. “Why do I think you’re not taking me seriously, and that you’re only sitting there grinning like an idiot because you think I’m cute?”

  Shannon’s grin grew wider. “Well, you are damn cute, but of course I take you seriously. Even though I only understand a third of what you’re saying when you talk about homeopathy.”

  Susan laughed at that. She broke off a piece of naan and took a healthy bite of it. As she looked at Shannon, her flush deepened to a darker shade of red. “Hon, my eleven o’clock appointment was amazing. I think I could write a paper about him for one of the homeopathic journals. He works as a psychic with police departments around the country. If he’s given an article of clothing from a dead person, he can locate the body. Sometimes he can locate them while they’re still alive. Just last year he saved a girl who had fallen into a hole. The way he described it to me, there are two worlds—the one we’re used to and the other one. He lives in both of them. When that girl started to enter into the other world, he was able to see her. “

  “I remember reading about that. Wasn’t that in Oklahoma...?” Shannon broke off his question, perceiving the alarm in Susan’s eyes. She could discuss her cases in detail, but ethically she was not allowed to mention the identities of her patients, and if Shannon was able to guess who this man was, she would’ve betrayed her practitioner-patient confidentiality which was something Shannon knew she took seriously. He casually waved the whole thing away. “I think I’m confusing that with a book I read,” Shannon said. “But that’s quite a gift he has.”

  Gratitude shone in Susan’s eyes for Shannon not pushing it and remembering the psychic’s name. “He pays a price for it,” she said, still heated with excitement but choosing her words more carefully. “When I shook hands with him, it was like shaking hands with a corpse. But, Bill, I might’ve saved his life.” She edged closer, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper. “He came to see me because his physician gave him only a few weeks to live. Almost every system in his body is badly diseased. But I am positive his remedy type is Stramonium, and I think there’s a chance I can reverse his diseased systems.”

  “I hope it works.”

  “I hope so too. I gave him a dose of Stramonium, and he’s going to call me after his next doctor’s appointment.”

  There was a hot intensity burning in her eyes and on her skin. She was so jazzed from her work that it brought a lump to Shannon’s throat. He reached across the table with his damaged hand so he could feel the warmth of her cheek against his palm.

  “You’re so damn beautiful,” he said, his tone the same hushed whisper that she had used. As she took hold of his hand and felt the stumps where his fingers should’ve been, her smile weakened and became something fragile.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Here I am only talking about me, and I don’t even ask you what’s going on with you.”

  “It didn’t sound to me like you were talking about yourself. It sounded more like how you’re helping other people. I’m so damn proud of you, babe.”

  She kissed his damaged hand. “Are you doing okay today without your glove?”

  “I really am doing okay. I haven’t felt self-conscious, and it hasn’t bothered me when I catch people staring.” He removed his hand from Susan’s so he could rub the joints around his knuckles with his good hand. After five years and a half years, he still occasionally suffered phantom pains from where his missing fingers had been. “It’s funny, I think more people stared when I wore the glove, like I was some sort of Michael Jackson wannabe.”

  “Eli thinks you’ve rid yourself of him also?”

  “He does.”

  A tear started to roll down Susan’s cheek. She dabbed at it quickly with her napkin and looked down at her food. “Both our lunches are getting cold,” she said. “We really should eat.”

  In between bites of her Aloo Mutter, she commented on how she didn’t need to ask whether he took on the double-murder investigation. “I caught you a few times with that far-away, introspective look you always have when you take a case,” she said. “Eli’s not going to be happy when he hears about it.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he will.” Shannon chewed a mouthful of his Vegetable Korma, and signaled the waiter to refill his mango lassi. “But the Yankees have been teaching their fans the last couple of years how to live with disappointment. I think he’ll be okay”

  “How’s the case look?”

  “Too early to tell. Okay if I take the car this afternoon? I’ll probably be needing it a lot the next week or so, but I can always rent a car if you’re going to need it.”

  “I’m fine without it. It gives me an excuse to ride my bike more.”

  “Ah Lord, the chiropractors in Boulder are going to be having a field day treating all these guys getting whiplash trying to catch you riding past in those spandex bicycle shorts of yours!”

  Susan laughed heartily at that. They didn’t say much after that—they didn’t have to as they ate the rest of their lunch in comfortable silence.

  ***

  The desk sergeant put his paper down to look at Shannon. “Yeah?” he asked.

  “I’d like to see Lieutenant Mark Daniels.”

  “What about?”

  “The Carver-Gibson murders.”

  The desk sergeant’s expression shifted from annoyance to suspicion. “You a reporter?” he asked.

  “No. I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to look into these murders.”

  “Jesus Christ. That’s all we fucking need.” He gave Shannon a long stare before holding out his hand, palm up. “Let me see some identification.”

  Shannon took his investigator’s license from his wallet and handed it to him. The desk sergeant shook his head as he looked it over, then handed the license back to Shannon. “Take a seat over there,” he said with his thumb pointed towards a wooden bench on the other side of the room. Shannon smiled pleasantly and asked the desk sergeant if he was from New Jersey.

  “So you can tell from my accent I’m from Jersey. Big deal.”

  With a dry smile Shannon told him it wasn’t just from his accent. “People around here at least make an effort to be civil,” he added. “Even if they’re thinking ‘fuck you’ behind their s
miles.”

  Shannon sat on the bench and watched as the desk sergeant got on the phone, all the while maintaining a hard glare in his direction. When he hung up the phone, he kept his glare going for another minute or so before turning back to his paper. A couple of minutes later, a man about fifty wearing khaki-colored cargo shorts, a polo shirt, and loafers with no socks entered from the squad room, walked over to Shannon and introduced himself as Mark Daniels. He was mostly square in shape with a thick neck, hard, flat face and gray hair that was cut close to his scalp. Except for the way he was dressed, he reminded Shannon of his ex-partner, Joe DiGrazia.

  “I’d like to see your license.” Daniels’ tone was soft and easy, but his face had the cold, dispassionate look of a slab of granite. Shannon showed him the same investigator’s license he had shown the desk sergeant. Daniels peered at it indifferently, then looked away. “Let’s talk someplace private,” he said. Shannon followed him through the squad room to a small interrogation room. Daniels indicated to Shannon to take a seat while he leaned against the table, arms folded across his chest.

  “It’s Bill, right?” Daniels said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Bill, let me get this straight, you do have a client?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Bill, that could be why you’re here, but the thought did occur to me that you might be freelancing. You know, trying to use these murders to get your name in the papers. It’s not something like that, is it, Bill?”

  “I have a client.”

  “You do, huh? Well, Bill, maybe you can tell me why someone would hire you—excuse me, Bill, am I saying something amusing?”

  “No, not really—just the way you’ve been overusing my first name. It’s a good technique, and if used properly, can really unnerve the hell out of a suspect. When I was on the force I used it frequently during interrogations, except maybe with a little more subtlety.”

  “You were on the force?”

  “Ten years. The last six as a detective.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Cambridge, Massachusetts.”

  “You handled homicide cases?”

  “I worked my share of them.”

  Daniels scratched his jaw as he considered this. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m afraid you wasted a trip here,” he said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I can’t discuss this investigation with you or anyone else.” Daniels breathed in deeply as he filled his lungs, then slowly let the air out through his nose. His square face seemed to deflate with his chest. “As you probably know, we’re getting the hell beat out of us by the media. I’ve got to go strictly by the books. I can’t jeopardize this investigation by losing evidence due to any procedural problems.”

  Shannon understood the rules of evidence as well as any cop, and the idea of jeopardizing evidence by discussing the case with Shannon sounded close to paranoia. At this point, all forensic evidence must’ve been collected and tagged months ago. Still, Shannon could see the stress built up in Daniels’ face and in the muscles bunched up along his neck. He could appreciate the pressure the man was under. It was also very likely the police were withholding information that could damage their investigation if it got leaked to the public. For one thing, there had been no mention of the murder weapon in the newspaper reports, and Shannon had to think that the police knew what it was. He also strongly suspected they knew whether there was a drug angle involved. But as he looked at the vein beating like a rabbit’s heart on the side of Daniels’ neck, Shannon realized there was no point in asking about any of that.

  “My main reason for coming here was I wanted to give you the professional courtesy of letting you know I’ll be privately investigating these murders. Also, I’d like to enter the victims’ condo.”

  “I appreciate the professional courtesy. I can’t let you into that condo, though.”

  “It’s been three months.”

  “It doesn’t matter, it’s still the crime scene for an ongoing investigation.” Daniels held both palms up in an apologetic gesture. “It probably looks like I’m stonewalling you simply for the hell of it, but I’ve really got no choice. Put yourself in my shoes. I’m sure at some point you’ve been where I am now.”

  Shannon thought briefly about arguing that after three months the case was cold enough that a second pair of eyes looking things over couldn’t hurt, but instead held out his hand to Daniels. “When I was on the job I never had to worry about a private citizen gumming up one of my cases. I can appreciate your concerns.”

  Daniels took his hand and gave Shannon a half-hearted smile. “I don’t want to appear like a prick, especially since it probably looks like I’m going out of my way not to help you, but do you mind telling me who your client is?”

  “The owner of the condo is being sued by Taylor Carver’s mother. I was hired by his lawyer, Paul Devens.”

  That ignited a spark of interest in Daniels’ eyes. “Eunice Carver brought a suit against the landlord, huh? Any idea why she thinks he’s responsible?”

  “A deadbolt lock was rusted.”

  The spark faded as Daniels shook his head. “That lock might’ve needed a few drops of oil, but it was functional.” He lowered his voice into a conspiratorial tone. “Now don’t get excited, I’m not going to be discussing this case, only giving you my opinion of Eunice Carver. I know I should be more understanding, especially after what she’s been through, but she’s a piece of work. So’s her other son, Randall. You’ll see.” Daniels looked away from Shannon. “Linda’s family’s no bargain either.”

  Almost as if he were watching a movie in slow motion, Shannon could see the change in Daniels’ expression as if a thought had just occurred to him. As he turned back to face Shannon, a soft, easy smile showed, but it was edged with violence. “You’re not trying to dig up dirt on these two kids, and make it look like they got what they deserved?”

  “No. What I was hired for, and the only thing I’m willing to do, is find out who killed them. Whatever else I might find out along the way is staying with me.”

  “How’s that going to help your client?”

  “I don’t know if it will. But it might show that a rusted lock had nothing to do with the murders.”

  Daniels nodded as he thought it over. “Well,” he said. “I’ve got work to do, as I’m sure you do also. Let me walk you out of here.” Neither of them talked as Daniels led the way through the squad room and to the street. Once outside, Daniels asked Shannon if he had any ideas.

  “Not many. I guess first thing I’ll do is look into whether this was drug-related.”

  Daniels shielded his eyes against the sun. “If I wasn’t worried about someday having a defense attorney grill me on whether I ever had any inappropriate discussions about this case, I’d probably tell you we’ve found nothing to suggest the victims were involved with drugs.” His gray eyes narrowed as he met Shannon’s stare. “At least I’d probably tell you something like that,” he said.

  “If you did, then I’d probably have to thank you and admit I have no good ideas at the moment.”

  “Welcome to the club,” Daniels said.

  Chapter 4

  When Shannon had first moved to Boulder, he drove a few times through Loveland for skiing and would see nothing but open prairie once he got past Longmont’s city limits. That was five years ago. Now it seemed as if Longmont had been stretched out with more and more subdivisions erasing miles of prairie. Once he got onto US 287 there was some open space, but it was peppered with new construction—mostly McMansions, four thousand plus square foot homes loaded with cathedral ceilings and bay windows. This trend continued well into Loveland proper, but eventually Shannon got to a part of town where the houses were older and more modest. Past a trailer park, he found Eunice Carver’s address. The house was barely a shack, probably no more than four rooms. A chain link fence surrounded the property, the yard mostly dirt mixed with a few weeds. Tires, a stove fr
om the fifties, and a worn-out looking sofa were sitting in the front yard. As Shannon made his way up the walk to the door, a yellow and white pit bull mix charged out from under the sofa. When the dog got close to Shannon, it threw itself at him, but a chain around the neck snapped it back. The dog let out a yelp, then was back on its feet, frothing at the mouth and nearly airborne as it tried to get at Shannon’s throat.

  Shannon eyed the dog cautiously and edged away from it. The front door opened and a kid, maybe eighteen, wearing a stained sleeveless muscle shirt and shorts that fell past his knees stepped out. He was thin and had a squirrelly look about him, with long greasy blond hair, bad skin and eyes that were too small and set too close together. His sleeveless shirt showed off greenish-colored tattoos on his pale and nearly skeleton-thin arms. Even though he had none of Taylor Carver’s good looks, Shannon could tell that they were brothers.

  Randall Carver gave Shannon a quick look, then focused on the dog, yelling at it to shut up. “Buttercup, shut the fuck up!” he warned a second time. To Shannon’s surprise, especially given the frenzy the dog had worked herself into, she listened to him, cocking her head to one side as she paid full attention to the kid. Randall looked back at Shannon. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name’s Bill Shannon. I’d like to talk to Eunice Carver. Is she home?”

  “What do you want to talk to my ma about?”

  Shannon walked towards the front door, stopping when he got a few feet from Randall. Up close, the younger Carver smelled like a mix of sweat and bad cheese. The kid’s eyes darted from left to right as if he were trying to make up his mind whether to stand his ground or flee.