The Bullet Catch

by John Gaspard

  “Of course,” I said. “That does seem prudent. To talk to Howard Washburn. I would have done the same thing.”

  “But you know as well as I do the DA’s office does not comment on open cases, not even to our ex-husbands. Especially to our ex-husbands.”

  “I know,” I said, trying my best to sound contrite. “But I thought it was worth a shot. I’ll let you get back to work.” I got up and headed toward the door.

  “And Eli?”

  I stopped in the doorway and turned back to her. “Yes?”

  “Spend less time canoodling with the widow and more time reassessing and regrouping with that Megan, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  She gave me a quick ‘thumbs up’ and I returned it and doubled it, using both hands and both thumbs. And then I hustled out of her office, racking my brain, trying to figure out who in the world my pal Howard Washburn was and how to get in touch with him.

  After digging out my old school yearbooks, I discovered that, amazingly, I had gone to school with Howard Washburn for twelve out of twelve years. Neither one of us ever really rose to the top of the pecking order and I don’t remember our paths ever crossing. I looked long and hard at his graduation photo and could say with a clear conscience his face didn’t ring a bell.

  Once I knew who he was, I then turned to the more pressing question of where he was. I once again turned to the Internet, this time opening my rarely-used Facebook account. After much clicking and searching and scrolling, I was able to track him down. Howard Washburn’s smiling face beamed back at me from his Facebook page. He still looked like his graduation photo, only now with the addition of several pounds and a few gray hairs. The “About” section on his page said he was the owner of Washburn International Shipping and Delivery, and moments later I had him on the phone.

  “Eli Marks,” he said with enthusiasm once I introduced myself. “Wow. That’s a blast from the past. Fifteen years, huh? Where did it go?”

  “Where did it go indeed,” I agreed.

  “I’m surprised I didn’t see you at the reunion,” he said, diving into the conversation like we were old pals who hadn’t spoken in a week.

  “Oh, I was there,” I said. “We must have missed each other.”

  “Looks like it. My wife and I spent most of the night out on that Observation Deck. Hell of a view, don’t you think?”

  “That’s what they tell me,” I said. “I’m sorry I missed you.”

  “Me too, buddy. Me too. What are you up to these days?”

  I was really being thrown off by his chummy attitude. I couldn’t pick the guy out of a line-up and he was acting like we had been frat brothers.

  “Oh, still doing the magician thing,” I said.

  “Really, you’re still at it? Well, good for you. I remember taking some classes with you at that magic store back in like fourth grade or something—wasn’t it owned by your uncle or something?”

  “That’s right. He’s still at it.” This was starting to drive me crazy. He’s saying he took some magic classes with me and I don’t have a single memory of the guy.

  “Good for him, good for him,” he said. “So what can I do for you, Eli?” his tone becoming a tad more businesslike.

  “Well, Howard, I was calling because the police came and talked to me about Dylan Lasalle the other day.”

  “Yeah, they talked to me, too,” he said. “Helluva deal, huh?”

  “Yeah, it was very surprising,” I said.

  “Oh, not all that surprising,” he continued. “The way that guy operated, something bad was bound to happen to him some day. It was just a matter of time.”

  “So you had dealings with him other than the scuffle at the reunion?”

  “Oh, that was nothing,” he laughed. “He’d had too much to drink or snort or something and he started getting handsy with my wife. I told him to back off and he exploded. He does that all the time.”

  “So, what was your relationship with Dylan?”

  “The same one he had with anyone who’d made some cash after high school. He came to me with a business venture, a wild-assed idea. He hit up everybody who had disposable income. He must have hit you up once or twice.”

  “Not that I remember,” I said, suddenly feeling a tad invisible myself. Apparently my post-high school success had not put me in a tax bracket that would make me of any interest to Dylan Lasalle.

  “Well, the first time he came by, I gotta tell you I was sort of thrilled,” Howard went on. “I mean, back in high school, he was a pretty big deal, whereas I don’t think I made much of an impression outside of a select group of people. You know how you can tend to disappear in high school.”

  “Yes, I do. So did you ever end up working with him?”

  This produced a pause from his end of the phone. I waited a few moments, and then said, “Howard, you still there?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Eli, can I ask why you want to know?”

  Now it was my turn to take a pause. “I’m looking into this for his wife,” I lied. “Turns out, she didn’t really know what he was into, and I’m trying to help her find some answers.”

  “Well, that’s a decent thing to do. You see, Eli,” he said, his voice getting quieter, “The police wanted to know the same thing. I was less inclined to talk to them, but since we go way back…and since you’re doing this for his wife…I think we can talk. I don’t feel comfortable doing it on the phone. Do you mind coming down to the office?”

  I said that wasn’t a problem and jotted down the address he gave me.

  “It will be great to see you again, man,” he said and I almost responded with, “It will feel like the first time for me,” but he had already hung up.

  Traffic getting into downtown was light, but something must have been going on somewhere, because the first two parking ramps I drove by had their red neon FULL signs flashing. I finally pulled into what I’ve always called the Dayton’s Ramp, even though Dayton’s department store had been closed for years and years. But in my mind, the ramp’s name had never changed.

  Up and up I went, passing FULL signs at each level. Finally, the spiral drive spit me out on the roof deck, which seemed to be the repository of all the empty stalls in the entire ramp. I pulled into one, stepped out of the car and froze.

  In my effort to find a parking spot, I hadn’t remembered the top of the ramp was wide open and put me ten stories above the sidewalk. The only thing between me and a ten-story fall—or jump—was a short retaining wall. The openness of the upper deck, the nearness of the short wall, and the glimpse I had of the height I had driven to all combined to make my head spin. I considered climbing back in the car and driving back down. I mean, I seriously considered it. It really seemed like my best option.

  But, after several sessions with Dr. Bakke, I felt like the only way to get over this was to get through it. So rather than climb back into the relative safety of the car (because, I mean, really, what would keep me from driving straight through that wimpy retaining wall?), I did the more mature thing.

  I ran from my car to the elevator like I was being chased by rabid weasels.

  On the ride down in the elevator, I was able to catch my breath as the panic finally began to subside. I had stopped trembling but was still perspiring and would not have been surprised if passersby had commented on the loud racket my thumping heart was making. The suddenness of the attack had really taken me by surprise, and as I walked the short distance to the office building where Howard Washburn’s company was located, I began to realize the impact these attacks were starting to have on my day-to-day life. I made a mental note to talk to Dr. Bakke about ratcheting up the therapy, while at the same time I made another note to find a better way of describing it.

  Washburn International Shipping and Delivery turned out to be a small office on the fourth floor of one of the older buildings in d
owntown Minneapolis. Once upon a time it had been a Masonic Temple, but for dozens of years it housed an eclectic mix of arts organizations, non-profits and small oddball businesses that somehow defied the ups and downs of the economy.

  The company name was stenciled on the glass of the office door. I turned the wobbly doorknob and would not have been surprised if it had come off in my hand. It didn’t, and I stepped into the reception area for Washburn International Shipping and Delivery. “Reception area” might be overstating the case. The cramped room included a faded, saggy-looking couch, an old wooden desk, and stacks and stacks of cardboard boxes with foreign stamps and instructions scrawled across most of them.

  “Hello?” My voice cracked a bit, so I said it again, louder this time. There was no response. A door at the far end of the room led either into a closet or another office. There was a light coming from that room, so I figure it must be an office.

  “Howard? It’s Eli,” I said as I crossed the room. The office door was ajar, so I gave it a slight push and peered into the office, getting what turned out to be my first and last look at Howard Washburn. Finally seeing him here in person, I did have to admit I sort of recognized him. He did look a tad familiar. Everything, of course, except for the bullet hole in his right temple.

  “Hey, Marks, you must have Homicide on your speed dial by now,” said Homicide Detective Fred Hutton’s partner, Homicide Detective Miles Wright. Then he smirked at his own line as if Don Rickles himself had said it on a Dean Martin Celebrity Roast.

  “Detective Wright, you are a funny, funny little man,” I said dryly. I was seated on a folding chair someone had found and set out in the hall outside the offices of Washburn International Shipping and Delivery. Wright had made several trips in and out of the office, along with a number of people who I assumed were part of the Homicide investigation unit.

  I’d used my cell phone to report the body and the response had been swift: Uniformed cops followed by the Homicide detectives followed by a representative from the District Attorney’s office. That representative was my ex-wife. She’d only made a cursory remark to me on her way into the office, but I had been told to please wait, as she wanted to speak to me before I left.

  And so I sat. And I thought.

  I thought about Howard Washburn. I thought about how his body looked so still, slumped in his chair, his head tilted back at an odd angle, his face lit by the cool glow from his computer monitor. For some reason, he had been wearing gloves, gloves that would have been perfect for keeping your hands warm on a blustery winter day. But in early summer, they would more likely been stifling and uncomfortable.

  While waiting for the police, I had carefully stepped around his desk to see what was on his computer screen. It was clear one of his last actions had been to open a new, blank Word document. The final words he had typed glowed out at me from the monitor: “Im sorry.”

  The computer program had thoughtfully underlined the first word in red, letting him know he’d made one final spelling error. I shook my head when I read it, making a silent promise. If I ever choose to end it all, I will make sure the second-to-last thing I did on this Earth would be to proof my suicide note. Because, I mean, come on.

  Deirdre came out of the office, conferring with her husband, Homicide Detective Fred Hutton. She had hyphenated her married name with his, something she hadn’t done with me, giving her the mouthful name and title of Assistant District Attorney Deirdre Sutton-Hutton. I once asked her if she did it for comic effect; the language with which she replied suggested otherwise.

  “So, we’re not calling it suicide, we’re not calling it murder,” he was saying in a low voice as they stepped into the hall.

  “For the time being, until we get the reports back, I’d prefer we don’t call it anything but a suspicious death,” she said, not bothering to mimic his quiet tone. “And the less said to anyone about it—and I’m talking about the press here—the better.”

  I recognized the finality of her tone and apparently so did Homicide Detective Fred Hutton, for he turned and went back into the office without another word. Deirdre glanced over at me and then pulled a compact from her stylish but efficient purse. She made a quick check of her hair and makeup, returned the compact to the purse and turned her attention to me.

  “Eli. So here we are again.”

  “Yes, here we are.” I stood up. I sensed where she was headed and decided the best offense might be a strong defense. “Look, I can’t possibly be in any trouble. I found the body, I reported it. End of story.”

  Deirdre gave up smoking years ago, but I could tell by her body language she would not have had turned down a proffered cigarette at this moment, assuming I had one to proffer. Which I didn’t. I dug into my pocket and found a pack of gum. I offered it to her and she waved it away and began walking toward the elevator. I followed.

  “As you know,” she said, “I’m not one for gossip, but I have to tell you that for the ex-husband of the Assistant District Attorney to continually find himself at crime scenes...”

  “After the crime has been committed,” I offered in my defense.

  “Yes, your timing is appreciated,” she said. “Not helpful, but appreciated.” She pressed the call button for the elevator. “But be that as it may, your continued appearance at crime scenes is ‘setting tongues to wagging,’ as I believe your dear Aunt Alice used to say.”

  She had nailed Aunt Alice’s phrase and we both couldn’t help but smile. Aunt Alice never had an unkind word for anyone. I remember when the subject of Hitler had come up when I was a kid, the worst she could say about him was ‘that man was bad news.’

  “Well,” I said as the elevator door slid open, “It’s not as if I’m doing this on purpose.” I held the door for Deirdre and pressed the button for the lobby.

  “My question is, why are you doing it at all? What exactly brought you to the office of Howard Washburn this afternoon?”

  I thought it best not to tell her she was the one who had steered me toward Howard Washburn. So instead I told as much of the truth as would keep me in her relatively good graces. “The same reason your husband went to talk to him—to find out about what was going on with Dylan Lasalle.”

  “And did you find out anything?”

  I was surprised by the question. “Why would you think I might?”

  “Because I’ve found oftentimes people will tell their friends things they won’t tell the police.”

  “Actually, when I talked to him on the phone, he said there was something about Dylan he wanted to tell me.”

  “What was it?”

  “He didn’t want to tell me on the phone. And by the time I got here, he had become considerably less talkative. As you may have noticed.”

  We stepped out of the elevator and made our way through the cramped lobby. I held the massive glass door open for her and we moved out onto the humid air and traffic sounds of Hennepin Avenue.

  “Where are you parked?” I asked.

  “Dayton’s ramp,” she said, gesturing down the block. It was nice to see I wasn’t the only one who hung onto that old name.

  “I’ve gotta tell you,” I said. “When I spoke to him on the phone, he didn’t seem in the least bit sorry. Gabby, but not sorry.”

  She glared at me. “Did you read what was on his computer?”

  “I was waiting for the police and there was no other reading material in the office.”

  We walked quietly for a few moments. Finally, she sighed and said, “Okay, so what does your gut tell you?”

  I suppressed a smile, glad to see that in her own way she was acknowledging that I could be helpful, if only on occasion. “Well, if it wasn’t a suicide, it certainly was made to look like a suicide.”

  “Yes, I think it was supposed to look very much like a suicide. But some parts don’t fit.” We stood on the corner and waited for the light to chang
e. “Why, for instance, was he wearing gloves when he shot himself? Explain that.”

  “Probably for the same reason the assistant was dressed like a clown in Morrit’s famous Donkey Disappearance illusion.”

  Deirdre looked over at me like I had started speaking another language. “Say what?”

  “It’s this really old trick some of the smarter people in the magic community were trying to reverse-engineer,” I explained. “Because there are written descriptions of the effect, but nothing on how it was done. And one of the guys—I think it was Alan Wakeling—pointed out the effect required an assistant dressed as a clown. And, he concluded, the only reason you would dress him like a clown would be because you needed to switch him with someone else, also dressed like a clown.”

  “And this applies to my question how?”

  “The only reason he was wearing gloves was because someone else was wearing gloves. That is, assuming it wasn’t a suicide.”

  She stopped in her tracks. Thankfully, we had made it across the street, so no cars ran into us, but several other pedestrians gave us dirty looks as they were forced to suddenly maneuver around us.

  “So, someone else shot him while wearing the gloves,” she mused. “Then they took off the gloves and put them on Howard Washburn, because the gloves would show traces of a recently-fired gun. Traces which would not have been found on his bare hands, if he hadn’t pulled the trigger himself.”

  “It’s a theory, but for that matter, so is the idea of the second clown.”

  “There might be traces of DNA on the inside of the gloves.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe, but anyone smart enough to switch the gloves was probably also smart enough to wear thin plastic gloves under the gloves.” She nodded in agreement and we continued walking.

  “This is a very frustrating case,” she finally said. Her tone had lost all of its official harshness, leaving only her normal, everyday level of harshness. “We were right on the edge with this Dylan Lasalle, and then he goes and gets himself killed.”