White Birch Graffiti

by Jeff Van Valer

  “Which means,” Maddox said, “Ted had precisely forty minutes to shower, get ready for work, talk to his wife about his dead friend from Michigan…”

  “Get his already-hired assassin in place…”

  “And in time to wear his wife’s brains so he could get away with murder…”

  “Most citizens of Blue River would buy that version,” Frank said. Pressing his phone against his ear, he made a sudden, you-gotta-be-kidding-me face. “Funeral home let the machine answer already. You believe that? Five after nine. How dare they?” Frank left an urgent message and pocketed his phone. “Dammit.”

  “What?” Maddox asked.

  “What’s Ted’s hotel out there again?”

  CHAPTER 21

  “Hotel doesn’t know anything,” Frank said. “They called his room. No answer.”

  “Did you ever think he did it?” Maddox asked.

  “No. But I never really believed he was the target before tonight.”

  “So who wants to kill everybody’s favorite doctor?”

  Frank shook his head.

  “You almost want the prosecutor to be the target.”

  The comment made Frank cough. “Damn, Todd.”

  “I mean… since she’s the one who got killed anyway. Least we’d have a list of suspects to deal with. But Ted? I don’t know. Nurse Joni’s ex moved out of state, and he hasn’t been back any time in the last couple years. Doesn’t sound like he cares enough to kill anybody. Past that, I can’t even imagine who’s on the list of wannabe Ted-killers.”

  Frank was silent for a moment. Put to the task of figuring why anyone would want to kill Ted, he stared into the grass from the bottom of the driveway. “I don’t know,” he said, wincing.

  “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “That face you made.”

  “What face?”

  “You made a face.”

  Frank thought a second and decided to indulge his partner. “You know how a rabbit looks when you shoot it?”

  “Sure.”

  “And it’s still alive when you come up on it? The way it just… looks, everything inside it saying run away, but it can’t?”

  “Uh… I guess,” Maddox said before whispering, “Frank?”

  “’S what Ted looked like,” Frank said, pointing at the grass. “Covered in his own wife’s blood and guts. Worst damn thing I ever saw. Her head was like a crushed melon, but bloody.”

  “Eww,” Maddox said.

  “And matted hair.”

  “Dang, Frank.”

  Frank whispered with an open-mouthed frown, “All her brains were gone.”

  Pause.

  “You okay, Frank?”

  “I’m telling you. It was as gruesome as they come. And Ted was out of his mind afraid.”

  “I don’t s’pose I’d blame him.”

  “Me neither. He was scared of me when I showed up.” Frank shuddered.

  “What was that?” Maddox asked. “That shake you just did? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I told you.”

  Maddox sniffed deeply and wiped his nose. Frank stepped slowly toward the garage.

  As Maddox followed, he said, “Somethin’s buggin’ you, Frank. Why don’t you tell me?”

  Not sure how much he wanted to tell his partner, Frank said, “I guess I hitched up my pants or something when I saw Ted. Lying there. And my jacket flopped open. Ted’s eyes trained on my weapon—in its holster—and oh, my God.”

  “What?”

  “I think he thought I was gonna kill him. I really do.”

  Maddox shrugged and put his hands on his hips. “You didn’t, though. That’s the main thing.”

  A car slowed at the yellow crime scene tape. Maddox flipped open his jacket and shined a light on his badge. He pointed down Lakeview Drive with his flashlight beam, and the gawking driver moved on.

  “The man hates my guts,” Frank blurted.

  “Who? Ted?”

  “Always has.”

  “Why?” Maddox asked.

  Frank shifted his balance and put his hands in his coat pockets. He lowered his head.

  “Okay,” he said, ushering Maddox into the garage. “Let’s get out of this cold wind.” Maddox followed. Frank flipped on the overhead lights in the garage. “I’m gonna tell you something. Not sure too many people know this. Or if anybody cares at this point, but Ted and I have a past, and it’s not a good one. It’s one I regret very much.”

  Frank expected Maddox to say something dry, like This gonna be a long story is it, Frank? or Wait. Gimme a minute to buy some Twizzlers and pour myself a Coke. But he didn’t.

  “Did you know,” Frank started, “back in nineteen sixty-nine, sometime in the fall, Ted’s mom got killed?”

  “Heard something about it, yeah.”

  “A couple other kids and I were with him at Lafayette Street Park when it happened.”

  “Okay.”

  “We heard a car crash and rode our bikes down to Twenty-fifth and Washington, where it all happened. Ted’s mom and her car were smashed almost beyond recognition. He didn’t even know it was her at first. Like his mind refused to take him there. Just after you could tell he realized it, the car caught fire. Gawd, it was awful.”

  “Yuck.”

  “Couple weeks later, I’m down at the park, picking on a couple little kids.”

  “What? What for?”

  “I was a freshman in high school. That’s just kind of what I did back then. I picked on smaller kids. I hate it, but that was what I did.”

  “Doesn’t seem like you.”

  “Good.”

  High, leafless branches rocked in the wind. Frank hit the button in his pocket and shut the garage door.

  “But anyway,” Frank said. “I’m picking on these kids in the park, and all of a sudden, Ted comes flying across the street on his bike.”

  “So far, so good.”

  “What do I do when Ted comes up?”

  Maddox shook his head.

  “I start heckling Ted. Try to bait him into a fight.”

  “How come?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I wanted a piece of a bigger kid. Maybe I didn’t like Ted’s pretty face. Maybe I was just plain stupid.”

  “Maybe all three.”

  “I remember telling Ted… if he didn’t want to fight, his mom would die of shame.”

  “Frank. Really?”

  Frank took a deep breath and blew it all out. “I told him his mom couldn’t die of shame, because she was already dead.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “I know it. I think about that a lot.”

  “What did Ted do?”

  Frank chuckled, contrite. “He changed his mind about fighting and took off running at me.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Sixth grade.”

  “Oh, man.” Maddox scratched his head. “And you were a freshman? What’d you… is that why he hates you?”

  Feeling suddenly warm, Frank took his jacket off and tossed it onto a stack of lawn chairs in front of the safe. “Let’s put it this way. Have you ever heard of somebody getting the sense knocked into him?”

  “Frank. Did you… I mean really… hurt him?”

  Frank shook his head. “No, Todd, you don’t get it. Ted gave me the beating of my life. Worse than my dad ever did. I was almost three years older than him, and what he did to me? I’ve seen kids hospitalized for less.”

  “No foolin’?”

  “You know my mustache.”

  “We all do, Frank.”

  “It covers a scar on my lip, which Ted split down to the teeth. The mustache hides it. I tell you, that kid beat the holy shit out of me. Broke my nose, split my face open. The concussion almost seemed to knock some sense into my skull. I think about it sometimes.”

  “You’re not making this up?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “Just makin’ sure.”

  Frank hiked up his pants.
<
br />   Maddox said, “I can honestly say I never heard that story.”

  “Not many have.”

  “You ever talk to Ted about it?”

  “Nope. I spent the next year being afraid of him, to be honest. I’ve always… respected Ted since then.” Frank took a look to either side of him, as though someone else might be in the garage, listening. “A small part of me actually wants to thank him.”

  Frank expected some ribbing from his partner, but Maddox said something else.

  “Maybe you should.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “Enough of me and Ted,” Frank said. “Anything turn up from the garage while I was in Ohio?”

  “No.” Maddox pointed to a corner on the other side of the safe. “We gave that filing cabinet a good going-over. Got all the financial and life insurance stuff we needed to see.”

  The cabinet had been disinterred from behind a few coolers, a lawn mower, a wheelbarrow, and some gasoline cans, all of which had been moved in front of the safe.

  Frank waved at the safe and said, “You s’pose the murder weapon’s in there?”

  Maddox guffawed. “I wish.”

  “Be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  Maddox froze. “You hear something?”

  “What?”

  “You hear something beep?”

  “No.”

  “The boys listened to the answering machine before,” Maddox said. “Sounds like the Gables household got another call.”

  Beep.

  They stepped inside the back door, into the kitchen. The machine’s red light blinked. Beep, it said again.

  Maddox pressed the button, and the aging machine issued another, longer beep. Its cassette tape whirred inside.

  “Hi, Ted and Kathryn,” a solemn voice said. “It’s Zeke. Hey. I just hoped to coordinate our arrivals for Neil’s service. Betsy and I’ll try to”—

  “Ted say anything about a Zeke?” Frank asked.

  “Nope.”

  —“… look forward to seeing you two, but… I wish the circumstances were different. Just give me a call whenever you can.”

  Zeke, whoever he was, gave an area code and a phone number. Frank patted himself down for a pen and paper as he saw Maddox already writing.

  “Wow,” Maddox said. “Ted has two funerals to choose from tomorrow. What a day.”

  “Two homicides. What a day, indeed.”

  ~~~

  The Saloon carried a warmth, even without the funeral home’s pictures of mountain vistas and smelly flowers. It had enough people and enough distraction for Ted. Chinese lanterns hung over the bar and around the little hallway leading to the restrooms. B.B. King’s voice flowed out of the jukebox. A couple people exited just before a man walked in alone.

  Ted sat at the empty bar. A giant, hand-carved hunk of wood framed an old mirror. A good-looking, youngish barmaid who looked like she had better places to be worked quickly, filling orders. Behind her stood a three-tier, city skyline of shapely and colorful liquor bottles, lit from underneath. A fifty-something couple, still-together high-school sweethearts, perhaps, sat close at a table near the window.

  “How ’bout a beer,” the barmaid said. For that one moment, her business-like air melted away, and a certain, disarming tenderness took its place. Ted thought she might put a hand on his face and say, I don’t know what’s bothering you, but tell me all about it. The displays of sympathy seemed instant. It was uncanny. Joni. The receptionist at the hotel. The bank teller from that morning when he withdrew his cash. How do they know?

  Ted pointed to a tap.

  She grabbed a mug and poured the beer carefully down the inside of the glass. Her face said, Come with me; I can help. But she asked, “You in from out of town?”

  Ted nodded and asked for a bowl of peanuts. She obliged and got back to work. Ted’s back was to the man who’d entered facing the bar, but the mirror revealed the image. The man put a newspaper on a back table and faced the front. Ted dodged his gaze. He thought the guy might be appreciating the construction of the ancient woodwork or the color-spectrum of the liquor cityscape. Or hell, maybe the dude was gawking at the barmaid. Who could blame him?

  The man was maybe the same age as the barmaid and lean. Not-an-extra-ounce-of-fat lean. My-body’s-my-temple, Ironman triathlete lean. A competitor. Ted, on the other hand, after slogging through that half-Ironman race up in Muncie, was just a smug, T-shirt-wearing finisher. He liked to ride his bike. Running was okay. Every time he swam laps, he wanted to swim like Neil, but instead, he sank like he always had.

  He faced his beer mug but studied Ironman’s reflection. The man seemed to be watching the television off to the left. There’s a guy who looks like he doesn’t belong in a bar. Ted glanced up to see what was on the TV.

  ~~~

  “All right,” Frank said, hitting the garage door button. “I’m gonna go talk to Judge Gables, if he’s available.”

  “I heard he’s in the hospital.”

  “Me, too. But I’ll call. If he says no, he says no.”

  “Think he knows who this guy Zeke is?”

  Frank pressed the wall-mounted garage door button. “I figure Zeke’s one of Ted’s old friends, like the U-of-M professor. Maybe the judge knows something, maybe not.”

  Once the garage door opened, the cold got to Frank, and he remembered the coat he’d tossed on the folded lawn chairs. He had to side-step a couple of red gas cans and a cooler to get to it. He leaned toward his coat and caught the smell of summertime grass clippings from the lawnmower. His coat sleeve had snaked its way around the safe’s ship’s-helm handle, and as Frank tried to pull the garment free, the door drifted open.

  ~~~

  More cable news filled the television screen. What a shocker. Presidential election crap. Ted watched for a minute, finding something interesting about the Missouri senator standing in front of a bank of microphones.

  When three young ladies sauntered into The Saloon, he watched them in the mirror. All right, fellas, their body language said. We’re here. High school friends, Ted thought. Ladies-night-out. Cutting loose a little. He respected that. The cable news cut to commercial. Ted shot a furtive gaze between two colorful liquor bottles. Ironman held his newspaper.

  “How’s that beer, handsome?” the raspy-voiced barmaid asked. Her cool, blue, tip-drawing eyes seemed to leaf through his inventory of troubles. Her skin, which a tad of age (and maybe cigarettes and a tanning bed) had thinned over time, was dark-complected and drew parentheses around her celebrity lips.

  Ted held up his half-empty mug as though to toast her. Something on the television seemed wrong. He watched the clip of the president’s early concession speech. The text crawling across the bottom of the screen said speculation of president resigning office. The screen cut to the new senator and someone else—familiar?—standing behind him.

  The spider slinked from beneath its trapdoor and slipped its spindly legs around Ted. But like most times after thirty years, the beast was too slow. Ted shrugged it off without any trouble. He drained his beer.

  The barmaid returned the instant his mug touched the bar. “You doin’ okay, hon?” she asked.

  “You bet.”

  “That’s what I want to hear.” She filled an icy glass with something bubbly and set it on the bar. The waitress popped by and took the glass. In the mirror, she delivered it to Ironman. “How ’bout another beer? You game?”

  “What was that you just poured?”

  “Ginger ale.”

  “How ’bout some of that?”

  She made an identical drink. Then, in what seemed like a quick afterthought, she dropped a couple of maraschino cherries into the glass. “Something extra to brighten your evening.” She patted his hand, coaxed a little eye contact out of him, and dashed away.

  Ted figured Ironman would be jealous. I got cherries in my ginger ale, Ironman, his inner pre-adolescent said, and you didn’t. Forty-two-year-old Ted hardly bothered to wonder: Who goes to a bar after nine to dri
nk soda pop?

  The new candidate appeared on the screen again and spoke into the microphones. He made a brief statement, at the end of which the television’s closed-captioning scrolled, “I’m Senator Denton McDaniel…”

  CHAPTER 23

  “…and I’m running for President of the United States.”

  “Uh-oh,” Max Blocker said to his empty office. “Somebody’s running for president again.” He blew a fart sound out from between his lips. Sitting at his desk and wiggling the mouse to wake up his monitor, Max let himself daydream. How horrible would it be to be president? Who would even want to? It always seemed to Max that power was the first motivator to seek head office, but that to receive it, notoriety was the price. And notoriety sucks.

  Fame. The Achilles heel of wealth. Being rich and famous is too costly. Rich and anonymous, on the other hand? That’s the way to be. Rich and anonymous added up to freedom itself. Sitting in his home office, he thought about the perpetually unused, second recliner in the living room. Rich and anonymous might mean loneliness, too.

  Maximilian Blocker, a.k.a. Max (and a.k.a. a lot of other things he didn’t want to remember) mostly ignored the television. He usually flipped on some news just to keep him company. But it was time to knock off for the night and walk through the office door into the living room. The brief stroll past the unused chair usually capped a day of doing nothing much useful. Sometimes, it made him want to arrange not to have any more days.

  But nothing was that dramatic in his life. Suicide was for his brothers, not him. He sometimes felt like a boat with a big sail in no wind. The potential to do something good sat like a round rock at the top of a smooth hill. Someone just needed to give it a little push. Max was sure he’d roll some day and make a difference.

  His private investigator business did well enough. Well enough, that is, for a single guy who fancied himself a thirty-something, even though he left the decade behind almost two years before. A former police officer, he’d shrugged the hierarchy of the force to open his own business. He now set his own hours. Earlier in the day, he snapped a few photos of a cheating husband. The day before, he tracked down an estranged daughter for some aging couple. His hard-earned inheritance multiplied somewhere he couldn’t see, and the P.I. job paid the bills. It kept him sitting on top of the hill, but it didn’t push.