City Problems

by Steve Goble

  We intercepted Buzz, and his face clouded when his chest ran into my hand. He popped the tiny speakers out of his ears. “What the fuck, law and order dude?”

  “That girl we’re looking for? We found her.”

  Shelly gave me a sidewise glance, silently reminding me I was supposed to keep my cool and let her lead. That was the price of staying on the case.

  “Well, good,” Buzz said. “But I don’t know her and don’t give a shit.”

  “We found her dead, Buzz.”

  He stared at us, his eyes darting between mine and Shelly’s. “Well, that’s sad,” he finally said. “Still, only marginally interested here. I didn’t know her.”

  “You sure?” I stepped toward him. “Rock star wannabe goes to the big city, plays a gig, drinks a little, lots of girls there, drinking too, everybody’s partying and happy, you mixed it up with some girls, right?”

  “Not her, though. I saw the picture, remember?”

  “Weird though, Buzz, because now she’s dead miles and miles from where she was last seen, but not very damned far at all from where you and the rest of your Deep Purple band practice your songs.”

  Buzz scoffed, indignant. “Deep Purple? How fucking old are you?”

  Shelly glared at me and tried to keep the conversation from going any further off the rails. “Look, Buzz, you were there, she was there, and now she is dead, and we found her right down there.” She pointed toward Black Powder Creek. “And we have a witness who claims to have seen the girl, near here, just the other day. So it is looking pretty bad for you, and I am going to highly recommend you lose the attitude right this second.”

  Buzz looked at his ratty shoes, then back toward the trailer he’d exited. “Jesus.” He looked at Shelly. “Honest, I never seen her before.”

  Shelly wore a perfect poker face. “If you know anything, and I mean anything, you had better remember it right now. You might have seen something, or heard something, that would help us. It might not have seemed important to you at the time, it might even seem insignificant to you now, but a girl is dead and a family is grieving and we want to give them answers. And we want to find the person or persons responsible. She was killed, Buzz. Murdered. And if you know something and are keeping quiet to protect someone, you will be in deep, deep smelly shit when we find out. And we will find out.”

  Buzz’s head was flinging back and forth and his eyes were on the ground. “I got nothing to do with it. Nothing. And I got enough people in this town thinking I’m Satan’s fucking rented luggage boy as it is.” His head came up, and his eyes were wet and blazing. “I don’t need you bringing me this shit; I don’t need you trying to tie me to it.”

  He ran a hand roughly through his thick black hair, as though he would tear it out, and knocked the yellow scarf to the ground. “Just fucking leave me out of this shit, OK?”

  Shelly started to answer, but Buzz was off and running.

  “Fuck,” I said, spinning around and looking for Buzz’s bandmates.

  Shelly stepped in front of me, and she looked a bit pissed. “Do you think you could have eased into the accusations just a little bit slower there, Ed?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You made it hostile right away, and his guard was up,” she said. “If we’d gone a bit slower, a bit less rough, he might have talked more and told us something useful.”

  “I wanted to rattle him.”

  “You looked like you wanted to throttle him.”

  I stared at her. She was right. I had wanted to throttle him. “Fine. You do the interrogations.”

  “I will. Thanks. That’s how it was supposed to be, remember? That’s what you promised.”

  “Yeah. I just really want to nail this one.”

  “We will. But you gotta smarten up.”

  “OK.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Yes.” I looked around. “I don’t see our fucking drummer or bass player.”

  “We can track them down.”

  “Yeah. I know where we can find Jeff Cotton right now, though.” I started strolling toward her car. “Football practice.” I could see the glow of the football field lights in the distance.

  “You think him before the bandmates?”

  “His dad’s fortress on Breakneck Hill isn’t that far away from the recovery scene, either. And he was there at the party that night, too. Plus, we know right where he is right now.”

  “OK.”

  We drove to Hollis High in silence.

  Jeff Cotton was easy to spot. He was the bulldozer shoving a big fullback ten yards in reverse before driving him into the turf. A chorus of cursing followed, and a coach rushed out to see if the ball carrier was OK. The runner got up on his own, waved the coach off, and then high-fived Jeff.

  We stopped on the sideline next to the head coach, Doug Rimmel. “Coach, I am Detective Ed Runyon, Mifflin County Sheriff’s Office. This is Detective Michelle Beckworth, Columbus Police Department. We need to talk to Jeff Cotton.”

  Rimmel spat a brown tobacco wad onto the grass. “We got a big game tomorrow night,” he said quietly.

  “We got a big murder to solve,” I said.

  Rimmel’s gray eyes doubled in size, and his bald pate glistened with moisture I had not noticed a moment earlier. “The girl in the river?”

  “We think Jeff can help us,” Shelly said.

  “Is he in trouble?”

  “Don’t know,” Shelly said. “Maybe, maybe not. But he may know something that will help us in our investigation. We talked to him once, but we have some follow-up questions. And it can’t wait.”

  “OK,” Rimmel said reluctantly. He blew a whistle with a sound that cut the air like a laser. “Cotton! You’re out! Brant, go in at middle linebacker. Hustle now! Slowpokes lose games!”

  Jeff Cotton rushed to the sideline with impressive speed. Sweat soaked his jersey. He removed his helmet, and his hair was a wild jungle. But he wasn’t breathing hard at all. “I wasn’t trying to hurt Donnie, Coach.”

  “I know, I know,” Rimmel said. “And he’s a big boy, he can take a hit. Still, though, just tag him next time, OK? We need him as much as we need you.”

  “Yeah, Coach, OK.”

  “These cops hope you can help them out.”

  Jeff looked at us as though we were Jehovah’s Witnesses walking toward his front door. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Everything OK?” Coach Rimmel looked at Jeff, looked at me, stared at Shelly, looked at Jeff again.

  “Yeah, Coach, it’s cool. I know what they want, it’s cool.”

  “Fine, go talk to them, head to the showers. Brant could use some practice time anyway, and I know you are game ready.”

  “Thanks, Coach.” Cotton headed toward the school building. Shelly and I caught up with him, me on his right, Shelly on his left. We all walked at an easy pace.

  “Jeff, we found the girl we were looking for.” Shelly said it very simply, without a hint of accusation.

  “In the river, dead,” Jeff said. “Yeah, it was all over Insta today. Look, I am sorry I kinda blew you guys off last time, OK?”

  Shelly nodded. “Are you sure you don’t recall seeing her, or talking to her, at that party?”

  “I am very sure.”

  “Are you sure you went to that party alone?” I tried to keep accusation out of my voice. I am not sure I succeeded.

  “Yeah, just me.”

  I grabbed his bicep. It was like grabbing a brick. Still, he stopped, and I looked him in the eye.

  “We think there were other Hollis kids there that night. Did you see any, other than Buzz and his band?”

  “No,” Jeff said.

  “We’re going to find out who else was there,” I said. “If we find out they hung out with you there, it’s going to look really bad considering how we found that girl dead right here in Mifflin County and you’ve been lying to us.”

  “Whatever, cop,” Jeff said. “I told you I went alone, I told you I didn’t see any classmates
there, I told you I didn’t see this girl. I am sorry she is dead. That’s a sad, bad thing. But I don’t have anything to do with it and I don’t know anything that’ll help you out. If you will excuse me, I gotta go wash sweat and turf off my hide.”

  Cotton took off running at a pace neither Shelly nor I were eager to duplicate.

  Shelly drew in a deep breath. “Well?”

  “I’m wondering why Buzz didn’t seem to know anything about the girl being found, while Jeff says it was all over the internet.”

  “I’m wondering about that, too.”

  I called dispatch and got Debbie. “Any noise complaints?”

  “Um, yeah, that Jodyville band again. You psychic?”

  “Yep. Reading your filthy mind right now.”

  “Fuck you, Ed. Oh, thanks for shoving that fatass at the heroin thing. He deserved it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Victim is alive, I hear.”

  “Good.”

  “Sheriff’s pissed.”

  “Not surprised.”

  It took only a few minutes to get to the trailer park. I had Willie Nelson singing “Red-Headed Stranger” in my head, sort of an inoculation against whatever shit Buzz and his friends might be playing when we arrived.

  We rolled up, and heard Buzz screaming Rumpelstiltskin, or some damn thing, against a machine-gun rhythm of drums and bass, but with at least four chords this time. I jumped out of the Mazda, rounded the trailer, flashed my badge, and approached swiftly. They stopped. Shelly stood beside me as Buzz, Johnny Burke, and Gage Thomas stared at us. Buzz had replaced his yellow bandanna with a red one.

  “Jesus,” Buzz said. “You guys planning to just crawl up my ass and move in? What now?”

  “Wanted to talk to Johnny and Gage, too,” Shelly said, before I could make things more hostile, which I really wanted to do. Then I remembered who was in charge and clamped my mouth shut.

  “It’s a murder case, guys,” Shelly continued. “Serious business. If you saw or heard anything that night she disappeared, we need to know.”

  “We were on the stage,” Johnny said. “Bright-colored lights on us, all that. We couldn’t even see the fucking audience.”

  “You took breaks, though, right? And mingled, and partied a little?” Shelly’s tone and voice made it clear she knew there was no way such hot young guys didn’t mix with the girls at their show, and Gage, at least, bought it.

  “Well, yeah,” he said, sheepishly. “I got some, and the other guys got some—”

  “Gage—” Johnny glowered at him.

  “But none of us got her, I swear,” Gage Thomas finished. “I saw the picture, OK? You don’t forget a girl like that. If I had seen her, I’d have tried to nail her.”

  “I would have nailed her,” Burke said.

  “And if I had nailed that, I would totally not forget,” Gage added.

  “Did you see any other Hollis kids there? Or local faces, for that matter, grown-ups, even?”

  “No,” Buzz said. “No,” said Gage and Johnny, a split-second later.

  “None at all?”

  “I told you guys about Cotton. That’s all I know. Look, lady, we were busy playing, you know?” Buzz spat. “We saw Jeff, we told you that. Heard some shouts in the crowd, go Big Green, shit like that, so there probably were other people from Hollis there, but we didn’t see them.”

  “We’ll find out if you are lying,” I said.

  “You’ll make shit up if you have to,” Buzz said. “Gotta pin it on someone, right?”

  “You on Twitter, or Snapchat?”

  Buzz looked at me as though I had asked him if he fucked puppies. “What?”

  “I want to follow. I’m a fan.”

  Buzz stared at me. “Social media is for morons, the lowest common denominator, the lizard brain, the cesspool of so-called humanity.” He spread his arms wide. “No, I am not on fucking Twitter, or fucking Snapchat, or fucking Facebook, or fucking Instagram. I am too goddamned smart for that shit.”

  “C’mon.” I led Shelly away, while the band fired up some ungodly riff behind us.

  “I am starting to hate this case,” Shelly said.

  “Welcome to the club.”

  Shelly aimed the Mazda toward Tuck’s. “I got a thing tonight,” she said. “Anyone else we can talk to before I head south?”

  “No,” I said. “I can see who else was there on my own and get back to you.”

  “OK,” she said.

  She dropped me off at the bar. “A little less Clint Eastwood tomorrow, OK?”

  “I’ll give that a try,” I said. I turned toward the door and wondered if Tuck still had bourbon.

  Linda put a beer in my hand as soon as I walked through the door.

  “You stole my damned bourbon,” I said.

  “Yep,” she said. “I like you better minus bourbon.”

  “Bitch,” I said, taking a swig of the Commodore Perry.

  “Come sit,” she said. She led me to a corner table. Jay-Z was playing on the jukebox. I considered shooting the damned thing, but Tuck was trying to run a nice business and I had caused enough problems for one day.

  Linda and I stared at each other across the small, square table.

  “I am a grown-up,” I said. “I get to decide what I drink, and how much.”

  She sighed. “Ed, when you first came here you were pretty damned messed up, remember? You never really told me about it, at least not all of it, but you told me enough, and I don’t want to dredge shit up, but I know that missing girl case back then messed you up pretty bad. And here you are with a new missing girl case, and she’s been found dead, too, and Tuck told me about the OD thing at the store … and … damn it, I am allowed to care about you. I don’t want you going back where you were, mentally, when you came here.”

  “I am not going to.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Good. Bourbon was your crutch back then, remember?”

  I stared at her, but said nothing.

  “Remember?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “So I took it. Sue me. I care about you, mister.”

  I swigged the beer. “It’s OK. I can get drunk on this.”

  She sighed. “Yeah, don’t I know. But it won’t be the same drunk, the depths-of-despair drunk, the Poe-on-a-bender drunk. Still, I think you should slow down on the IPA, too.”

  “You want to do all my thinking for me? That’ll save me some time and fuss.”

  “Damn it, Ed.” She fumbled around in her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

  “When did you take up those again?”

  “Right after I decided I needed to steal your fucking bourbon,” she said. She lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  I shrugged philosophically. “OK, so we all have our crutches.”

  “I guess,” she said. “And you are going to have to realize I am a better crutch for you than bourbon.”

  “You are more fun than bourbon,” I said, watching her drag on the cigarette.

  “Goddamn it, Ed, I am not talking about being your little sex toy. I care about you, whether you realize it or not and whether you like it or not. You have people who care about you. I care. Tuck cares. Nancy cares—that’s why she is always trying to drag you to church.”

  “I know.”

  She took another drag. “I know how it is. You want to live in a universe where pretty young girls don’t end up dead. We all want that, but the rest of us can separate ourselves a bit from harsh reality. But you can’t. Most of us, the rest of us who are not cops, that is, if we don’t know the girl anyway, can read about the case in the paper, tear up a bit, feel sad, toss some thoughts and prayers out on Facebook, make a charitable donation or two, and then get on with life. But not you. You are in a job where you can’t ignore the fact that bad things happen. You have to face it, head-on, and do something about it. And the realities of the universe collide with your image of how the universe ought to
behave every fucking day.”

  “You been reading Buddhist scriptures?”

  She smiled. “Yes, actually, and meditating every goddamned day. You should, too.”

  “Who has the time?” I drained my glass.

  “Make time,” she said. “But don’t wallow. Don’t beat yourself up because you can’t make everything fucking perfect. OK? You do good work. You tilt the scales toward the side of justice. You make the world a slightly better place. But you can’t make it a perfect place, OK? It ain’t ever going to be perfect. We can only nudge it a little closer to perfect. That is the best any of us can do.”

  I raised my glass and waved at Tuck, realizing I had already surrendered to Linda’s arguments and decided to bypass the bourbon. I looked into her eyes as I waited for my next beer. “I feel a lot of rage, Linda. A lot of rage.”

  “I know.” She sipped her beer and lowered her eyes.

  “I want to find whoever did this shit and tear them apart. I want to cut them, and shoot them, and break them, and …”

  “I know.”

  “Who could do that? Who could take a girl like that, and … and …”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t know. You’re like a fucking hippie angel or something,” I said. “You don’t know that kind of anger, that kind of rage. You don’t picture yourself with a gun to their heads, drilling bullets into their brains, gutting them …”

  “Hey …”

  “Ripping them …”

  “Hey …”

  Tuck set the beers down, and I caught the brief meeting of glances between him and Linda. He wondered if he should take the beers away, and she told him no, though neither of them said a word.

  “Baby, I know you hurt,” Linda said, after Tuck headed back to the bar. “I know the world isn’t what you think it should be, and I know you think you are supposed to be some kind of goddamned Superman …”

  “Batman,” I said.

  She laughed. “Batman, then. But you don’t have a Batcave, or an Alfred, or a Batmobile, or a Batplane, or a … a …”