Bad Karma

by Dave Zeltserman

  “I’m investigating Taylor’s murder,” Shannon said. From behind he could hear Buttercup growl.

  “Are you a cop?”

  “I’m a private detective. You’re his brother, Randall, aren’t you?” Almost as if his head were attached to some invisible string, the kid nodded. “I’d like to talk to you also,” Shannon said. “Is your mom home?”

  “Let me see.” Randall stuck his head into the house and yelled, “Ma, there’s a guy here wants to talk to you!”

  A woman’s voice yelled back, “What about?”

  “Taylor. He’s some sort of private eye.”

  There was a silence within the house. Then, “Tell him I’m busy!”

  Randall turned to Shannon and smiled, revealing teeth that were the color of chewing tobacco. “My ma’s too busy to talk with you,” he said. “And so am I.”

  “That’s too bad. I would’ve thought the two of you would want to help find the person who murdered your brother. This won’t look good when your lawsuit goes to court.”

  “How do you know about ma’s lawsuit?”

  “I’d like to tell you, but you’re too busy to talk now.” Shannon turned and started towards his car, making sure to give Buttercup a wide berth. Randall stuck his head back in the door, yelled, “He says you not talking won’t look good with the lawsuit!”

  “How does he know about that?”

  “He won’t say!”

  “Goddamn it!” There was a long silence that was broken only by Buttercup’s growling, then, “Tell him I’ll talk.”

  Randall yelled out to Shannon, “Ma says she’ll talk!”

  Shannon turned from his car and headed back towards the house. Buttercup stood with her head pushed forward as she watched Shannon, all the while growling disapprovingly. Randall, his face locked in a sullen stare, led Shannon into a small room that served as a combination living room and dining room. The same perspiration and rotten cheese smell that came off of Randall permeated the house. Shannon’s ordeal with Charlie Winters and his horrific stench of decay had left him hypersensitive to certain sickly-sweet odors. Over five years later, odors like the one in this house still physically affected him. This one brought a dull throbbing to the back of his head. Shannon tried breathing in only through his mouth to avoid the smell but it didn’t help much.

  As Shannon looked around, he was surprised at what he saw. While the room was dirty, it had newer and more expensive furniture than Shannon would’ve expected, including a large plasma TV set that covered a good part of one wall. Off to the side was a small kitchen where Eunice Carver sat at a three foot square oak table, a cigarette between two fingers and a cup of coffee to her right. As Shannon entered the kitchen, he noticed that a new stove and microwave had been installed.

  “Buttercup’s some name for a pit bull,” he said.

  “She’s a sweetheart of a dog, and only part pit bull.” Eunice Carver peered up at Shannon with glazed eyes, then looked away. “You wanted to talk?” she said.

  Shannon took a chair to her left. Like her son, Randall, she had long stringy hair that needed washing and eyes that were too small and set too close together. Her face was bonier than Randall’s and had a yellowish, unhealthy pall to it giving her the general appearance of someone who was worn out. Shannon couldn’t imagine her being attractive at any age and decided whatever good looks Taylor had, he’d gotten from his father.

  “Yes ma’am, I’m investigating your son’s murder, and am hoping that you and Randall can answer a few questions for me.”

  She inhaled deeply on her cigarette and let the smoke blow out her nostrils. When she turned to face Shannon, her eyes didn’t seem able to properly focus on him, almost as if she were looking past him to someone behind him. “Why do you care about Taylor?” she asked. “Who hired you?”

  “People magazine,” Shannon said straight-faced. He didn’t like the idea of lying to her, but he knew he would’ve wasted the trip if he told her the truth and, as he had learned long ago when he was on the force, if you’re going to lie, lie big. There were times he was able to convince perps he had satellite pictures of them committing their crimes and was able to get full confessions out of them. They always seemed disappointed when they found out later there were no photos coming from Washington.

  Shannon’s answer had an effect on both mother and son. An uncertainty clouded Eunice’s face, and Randall, who had been standing off to the side slouching against a wall, straightened up and combed his fingers through his hair.

  Eunice noticed that the cigarette had burnt close to her fingers. She stubbed it out on a plate she used as an ashtray, then tapped a fresh cigarette out of the pack and lit it.

  “How’d you know about my lawsuit?” she asked

  “Court documents are open to the public,” Shannon said.

  She nodded to herself as she thought that over, then licking her lips, peered at Shannon with a glint in her eyes. “People magazine willing to pay for my side of the story?”

  “What’s your side?”

  She sucked on her cigarette and held the smoke in before letting it out the corner of her mouth. “About how hard it is losing your eldest son,” she said, her small dark eyes challenging Shannon to argue with her. She looked away, sniffed, and rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. “Especially what was done to my boy. The funeral home couldn’t do anything for Taylor. We had to have a closed casket.”

  “I’m sorry,” Shannon said. He reached a hand toward her shoulder and she pulled back as if he were going to strike her, then sat rigid, accepting the gesture. Randall snickered from behind. “Hey Mr. Private Eye,” he said, “you’re missing some fingers. Buttercup do that?” Eunice Carver noticed the missing fingers and smiled. Shannon pulled his hand back showing only a subtle change in his expression.

  Eunice, with the smile dropping from her face, asked, “What do you think? Will People magazine pay me for my story?”

  “I’ll ask them,” Shannon said. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

  She thought about it, shrugged. “Don’t matter to me.”

  Shannon took a miniature tape recorder from his pocket, placed it on the table between them and hit record. “July 19th, 2005.” Shannon checked his watch. “Three thirty-five, afternoon. I’m talking to Eunice Carver and her son, Randall.” Then to the mother, “Did Taylor have any problems that you knew about?”

  Eunice’s eyes went dull as she stared at the tape recorder. She looked away and blew more cigarette smoke out of the side of her mouth. “Taylor didn’t talk to me about things like that.”

  “Things going well at school?”

  “He never said otherwise.”

  “Any recent disagreements or fights?”

  She flicked cigarette ash onto the plate, then looked out a window into the backyard. Her gaze seemed transfixed on an old refrigerator and other junk that had been stacked out there. “If he had any, he didn’t tell me about them,” she said.

  Shannon turned to Randall, who simply shrugged.

  “How’d you get along with your brother?” Shannon asked.

  “We got along good.”

  “He talk to you about stuff?”

  Randall’s mouth screwed up into a tight circle as he shook his head. “Not too much,” he said.

  “Why was that?”

  “I dunno, he just didn’t.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “At his funeral, but as Ma said it was a closed casket, so I guess I really didn’t see him then.”

  “I meant when he was alive.”

  Randall’s face went blank as he thought about that. “Maybe last Christmas,” he said.

  “How about the last time you talked on the phone?”

  “I dunno. We didn’t do that much. Maybe before Christmas.”

  “Any idea why your brother was killed?”

  “Because his landlord was too cheap to keep that door lock working right,” Eunice volunteered, her face rigid wit
h anger. Randall nodded in agreement, all the while staring down at the floor and kicking at it with his toe.

  “Anything more you can tell me that could help?”

  Randall shrugged, his expression distant and sullen. “I don’t think so.”

  Shannon turned back to the mother. “Do you have any ideas?”

  Eunice nodded. “Yeah, I know what happened. Some drugged-out maniac broke into my son’s apartment and beat him to death with a baseball bat. All because that landlord couldn’t be bothered to fix a lock.”

  “How do you know a baseball bat was used?”

  “Police asked me about it. They wanted to know if Taylor owned one. I told them Taylor was never much into sports.”

  “They say anything else about it?”

  She shook her head.

  Shannon considered her for a long moment, trying to get a feel for whether she carelessly leaked the information about the bat or had some ulterior motive. He knew damned well she would’ve been warned repeatedly by Daniels and any other cop questioning her not to mention that bat to anyone. After a while he decided it was a coin flip either way.

  “What can you tell me about Taylor’s dad?”

  She took a long puff on her cigarette. “Last I heard he was screwing some whore in Alabama. That was fifteen years ago.”

  “He never kept in touch with his sons?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Shannon turned to Randall, who just shook his head. He then looked back at Eunice and asked her what she could tell him about Linda Gibson.

  “You mean that whore that was shacking up with my son?”

  Shannon was taken aback by that. “I take it you didn’t think too much of her.”

  “Her family’s trash.” Eunice’s mouth screwed up as if she were going to spit on the table. “They couldn’t even be bothered to go to Taylor’s funeral. So I didn’t bother going to that whore’s.”

  “Why was she a whore?”

  Eunice looked dumbfounded as she stared at Shannon. “She was living in sin, wasn’t she? What else do you call someone like that?”

  “Outside of her living in sin, what can you tell me about her?”

  As she stared at him, her look changed from dumbfounded to incredulous. “Why would you think I’d be able to tell you anything else about her?”

  “Didn’t you ever meet or talk with her?”

  “Why would I’ve done something like that?”

  He sighed, shook his head. He felt a twinge where his missing finger should’ve been and resisted the urge to rub his damaged hand. “Anything else either of you can tell me to help me find out who did this to Taylor?” he asked.

  “Not a thing,” Eunice muttered. “Besides, what’s the point?”

  “Maybe to bring some closure to you and Randall and anyone else affected by Taylor’s death. And bring your son some justice.”

  “It’s too late for that.” She inhaled deeply on her cigarette. Her expression remained phlegmatic as she looked in Shannon’s direction, her eyes still unable to focus on him.

  “Why’s it too late?”

  “Because Taylor’s beyond justice.” Her cigarette had burnt down to mostly ash. She tossed what was left onto the plate. “Only justice left is making that landlord pay for what happened. When me and Randall collect our five million dollars, that will be justice.”

  Shannon felt a dull throbbing in the back of his head, partly from his conversation with Eunice and Randall Carver and partly from the stench filling the house. Even though he was breathing in through his mouth, it seemed as if he could taste the sweetly rancid smell in the back of his throat. More perfunctory than anything else since he would’ve bet his last dollar against ever getting a call from either of them, he left Eunice his business card and asked that she call him if she thought of anything that might help. He turned off the tape recorder and was pushing himself out of his chair when he again noticed the new stove and microwave.

  “You’ve made some recent purchases,” he said.

  Eunice didn’t bother to respond.

  “New stove, microwave.” Shannon waved his damaged hand in the direction of the combination living room/dining room. “Plasma TV, sofa, stereo system,” he continued to list.

  “So?”

  “Did you come into some money recently?”

  “Taylor bought me all that. Before he got killed.”

  Shannon’s gaze narrowed as he met Eunice’s small dark eyes. “How’d a college student get the money to buy stuff like that?”

  She shrugged. “Wasn’t my place to ask him.”

  “Was he working?”

  She stared at him blankly before shrugging again.

  Shannon looked over at Randall and realized he wasn’t going to get a better answer from him. He simply thanked the two of them for their time and left the room. Neither mother nor son bothered to move as he let himself out of the house. Buttercup was waiting for him, though, head thrust forward, eyes intently following him. When he got into his car, he smelled his shirt, then both his arms. Cigarette smoke and the cheese-perspiration smell had saturated his shirt and skin. After opening both front windows of his late model Chevy Corsica for ventilation, he drove fast to get the hell out of there.

  Chapter 5

  When Shannon arrived back at his apartment, Susan tried intercepting him for a kiss, but wrinkled her nose when he got within a few feet of her.

  “You don’t smell too good, hon,” she said.

  “I know. I visited Carver’s mom and this is what her house smelled like. I’m going straight into the shower, scrub myself raw—and if that doesn’t work, buy some industrial-sized drums of tomato juice. And I’ll probably have to burn my clothing.”

  He tried to sidestep her, but Susan moved quickly, got on her toes and kissed him hard on the mouth.

  “Must be true love to get anywhere near me smelling the way I do,” Shannon said.

  “You do worse for me,” Susan said. “Every morning you kiss me passionately no matter how bad my morning breath is.”

  “What are you talking about? Your breath always smells like sweet petunias. Especially in the morning.”

  Susan laughed at that. “One of these days I’m going to find out where you got that ‘sweet petunia’ expression from. And besides, I don’t think petunias even have a smell.”

  “Of course they do. A wonderful smell. Exactly like your breath.”

  Shannon gave her shoulder a little squeeze as he made his way by her and into the bathroom. Once in the shower, he put the water on as hot as he could stand it and scrubbed himself until all traces of the rancid cheese-sweat smell were gone.

  When he finished, he dressed quickly, then sent an email to Professor Lester White, introducing himself and asking for information about Taylor Carver. After that he called Chris Jackson. Jackson confirmed what Paul Devens had told him earlier—that he knew nothing about his tenants or any problems they might’ve had, that a management company handled his rental properties for him and that he himself had no involvement with his apartments. He thanked Shannon for his thoroughness in calling him. He also told Shannon that he was counting on him to pull his ass out of the fire with this thing. “I feel awful, of course, with what happened to those two kids, but what could I’ve done? If I knew there was a rusty deadbolt I would’ve gone over there myself and squirted a couple of drops of oil on it. This has just been a hell of a thing to go through.” Shannon couldn’t disagree with him.

  Before leaving the apartment, he found Susan in the living room. She had her reading glasses on as she sat cross-legged on a pillow, chewing on the end of a pen while going over pages of handwritten notes. Shannon felt his pulse quicken as he watched her. There were times like this when he was completely stunned at how beautiful she was and, no matter what else had happened in his life, couldn’t believe his good fortune that they were together. She sensed him standing there, looked up and smiled at him. “I’m going over some homeopathy notes for one of my pat
ients,” she said. “So what’s next on your agenda?”

  “I called Eli on my way back from Loveland. We’re meeting at the Center at five. After that I’m going to see if I can talk to Taylor Carver and Linda Gibson’s neighbors.” Shannon hesitated, showing a slight smile. “I’m also thinking of heading over to Coors Field later and catching the Sox. It will be my first chance to see them play since I left Massachusetts. Care to join me?”

  Susan showed a disappointed look. “I’d like to but these notes are for a client who’s coming over at eight. Maybe Eli will go with you?”

  “Nah, he’s afraid he’d have to pay money just to watch the Sox win, especially with how the Rockies are playing now.”

  “Well, you should go to the game anyway. And root for Nomar for me!”

  “The Sox traded him last year.”

  “Nomah’s not on the team?” She exaggerated the Boston accent with Nomah, as Jimmy Fallon and Rachel Dratch used to do on Saturday Night Live. “Jeeze, what’s this world coming to? Then root for Pedro Martinez for me!”

  “Pedro’s not on the team anymore either.”

  Susan shook her head. “I’m out of names then. But even though they got rid of the only two players I knew, you should go to the game and have fun.”

  “Maybe, I haven’t decided yet. But I’ll give you a call before your eight o’clock appointment and let you know what I’m doing.”

  Shannon glanced at his watch and saw he only had ten minutes before he was supposed to meet Eli. He reached down, gave her a quick kiss, and realized if he was going to meet his friend on time he’d better leave while he still could.

  ***

  Shannon found Eli Rosen in his office thumbing through a book on chakra meditation. Raising his heavy eyelids, Eli looked up when Shannon knocked on the open door.

  “Fascinating stuff,” Eli said, referring to the book. “This author has documented Tibetan monks who’ve sat naked in minus twenty degree weather and kept themselves warm simply by meditating on their Manipura, or solar plexus, chakra.”