by Eric Wilson
“Mr. Black, I understand you’ve been under a great deal of stress.” Detective Meade rose from his seat and made a quarter turn to adjust a framed photo of his wife on the wall. He was establishing authority, while softening its confrontational aspects. When his coal black eyes reached mine, he showed no fear or hesitation or prejudice—a man I’d rather have on my side than not.
“Stress? Yeah, you could say that.”
“But,” Meade said, “you must maintain your objectivity, even as I must.”
“I’m just a cranky man who’s had a very long week. Sorry. Don’t mean to take it out on you.”
“My mother used to say, ‘If you’re truly sorry, Son, you’ll change your ways.’ ”
I rocked my neck to the left, to the right. Heard it pop.
“And,” he continued, “I’m willing to change mine. For reasons I’m sure you can understand, I’m not presently free to discuss the record of Parole Officer Leroy Parker. I am, however, open to being wrong. In fact, I think it’s an attribute of any detective worth his salt.”
I looked past his shoulder at the photo of his family in front of the Parthenon.
“You’re a good dad, I bet.”
“Do my best.” He rapped his knuckles on his desk. “Okay, Aramis, let’s have you take a look at that video. There’s no mistaking Frederick Chipps in the footage, but you might pick up something we missed.”
I followed his upright stride into a small, darkened room.
“The tape’s been touched up by our digital department,” he told me as footage of the brownstone’s parking lot filled the monitor on the table. “Still not the greatest, but we can play it over if need be.”
Freddy C was a primary suspect in the Rasputin Rapist case. If he’d planted the hair specimen in my mother’s ebony box, I guessed it would have been to frame me. I doubt he would have known the value of the handkerchief.
Where was the handkerchief now? Was it another one of his trophies?
The thought of his salty hands on it made me queasy.
“Detective, wait.” I jerked upright in my seat. “Pause it right there. Yeah. Now zoom in to the left.”
“What do you see?”
I stabbed my finger at the screen. “That car, the one Freddy’s climbing out of—that’s not his. I don’t think he even has a driver’s license.”
“Maybe he was sleeping in it, staying warm.”
“It’s a white Camry,” I said. “Same car Leroy Parker drives.”
“Drove,” Meade corrected me.
“So what was it doing in our lot?”
Detective Meade zoomed in, creating a large image of the car’s rear bumper. Together, he and I read the license plate aloud.
“BHT 588.”
THIRTY-SIX
Despite the concerns of his court-appointed attorney, Freddy C agreed to speak to me. He claimed I was a friend. I stiffened at the word, no longer trusting its cozy sound.
He shuffled in, bearded and scraggly. The small opening in the glass partition flattened and filtered our voices, but it couldn’t alter visual impressions. He didn’t look well, and the way his eyes avoided mine reminded me of my encounter with Tina in the park this morning: Hiding and waiting, ceaselessly baiting.
Ten minutes. That’s all we were allowed. No time for small talk.
“Freddy C.”
“Artemis,” he said.
“You don’t look so hot. Is it true you were on Brianne’s property?”
With no hesitation, he nodded his head up and down.
“Why? What were you doing with scissors?”
“Not what they think.” He smoothed his beard. “Not what they think at all.”
“If you don’t tell me, they can think whatever they want and put you away for a long time. Do you understand me … Frederick Chipps?”
His chin bobbed as he mumbled something, and I told him to repeat himself.
He said, “They told you, didn’t they? About Chicago.”
“You were acquitted. What’s there to tell?”
“Wasn’t me, no sir. But no one believed me. No believers. The news, the reporters—they made me into a criminal.”
“Are you?”
“What?”
“A criminal. Is that what the C stands for? Chipps the Criminal?”
Freddy bumped his forehead into the partition, disturbing his swept-back strands of hair. He bumped it again, and a voice crackled through an overhead speaker with instructions not to touch the glass.
“You are my friend,” he said. “My friend. I need your trust, need your help.”
“Friends tell the truth, Freddy.”
“No one believes, not even you. But I fight it. I do. Fight it my own way.”
“Fight what?”
“Crime,” he said. “I fight crime.”
“Freddy.”
“You must believe, Artemis. This is why I chose you to help. He is not much of a man, but he is very bad. He does bad things. I saw him. Saw him in the park and at the Alumni Lawn.”
I checked the clock.
“I followed him,” Freddy went on. “Hid and waited in the shadows where he could not see, but I saw. A true man would be strong and in control, isn’t that so?” His eyes met mine for the first time, waiting for verification.
“Sure. A true man.”
“He was weak. Used a Taser to bring ’em down.”
“What’re you saying? The rapist used a Taser? You watched this happen?”
Freddy’s eyes lit up. “Yes. I baited him. He kept his things in his car, in a padded case, always ready. But I took one of them.”
“One of what?”
“The hair. Her hair.”
“Jessica Tyner’s? You took the hair from his case and put it in my room?”
“You, Artemis. They will believe you.”
“You broke into my house.”
“No one home. The bathroom window was open.”
“That was wrong. You can’t do that sorta thing.”
He nodded. “But you wouldn’t believe. No one believes me. Not after Chicago. I gave it to you so they can catch this man who isn’t a man. Not really, is he?”
“And this hair was supposed to clue me in?”
“An anonymous note. I left it to explain.”
“I didn’t see any note. I saw a stinkin’ clump of hair. Even if this is all true, you had no right to take my mom’s handkerchief.”
He shook his head. “Silky and white? I saw it, but I didn’t touch. Freddy C does not steal from friends. Never from a friend. I left a note. This bad man was watching you too, Artemis. Following. And I was worried. We have to catch him. I wanted the police to see, so I took his scissors.”
“From the case in his car? A white Camry, am I right?”
“Yes, yes. They can match his scissors. We got ourselves a problem, gotta solve it quick. I’ve seen him outside her place.”
“Brianne’s?”
“From your shop, yes. He’s followed her home. Not a safe man.”
I lifted my hand and leaned close to the glass. “Listen. He’s dead, Freddy. We caught him in Brianne’s condo last night, and he must’ve gotten himself a new pair of scissors. He was shot. He’s gone for good.”
Our time had almost expired. Freddy was chewing on his upper lip, contemplating this recent turn of events.
“Gotta go,” I said. “I’ll try to help you get outta here, okay?”
“Artemis.” He looked up. “Thank you. You’re a friend, and friends trust.”
“Yes, we’re friends. Me and Freddy C.” I pressed my fist to the glass. “C for Chipps.”
“No.” His eyes swung up. “C for Crime-fighter.”
Detective Meade leaned against a stone pillar, his tongue working at his cheek from the inside. Although his face was its usual mask of apathy, the lines of exhaustion cutting at the corners of his eyes and lips attested to his pledge of making the world a better place for his family.
Every boy, in his
desire to be the dragon-slaying hero, looks for a role model. A mentor. Athletes, actors, rock stars. The challenge is finding a man who can show you how to navigate the daily struggles—with less adventure and smaller paychecks.
As I approached the detective, I had a glimpse of such a man. I realized I hadn’t perceived my father in such a light for more than twenty years.
“You’re looking mighty pensive, Aramis.”
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
“You realize, don’t you, that anything you tell me about your visit in there is hearsay? Inadmissible in court, off the record, and not to be repeated.”
“Thanks for bringing me to see him.”
“How’s Freddy looking?”
“Like he could use a shower and some sleep. Pretty much like you and me.”
Meade raised one eyebrow to study me, before letting that comment slide.
“One question for you, Detective.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I know that during an investigation it’s normal to withhold facts about a serial rapist or murderer. To weed out prank callers and false leads, right? So tell me. Did the Rasputin Rapist use a Taser at all? To subdue his victims? Was that part of his MO?”
Detective Meade’s head whipped toward me. Okay, it didn’t whip. It turned. By the Meade standard, though, it was worth noting.
He said, “That was three questions, Aramis, and the answer is yes. If anyone asks, I never specified which one.”
I made two quick calls, including one for dinner reservations at Layl’a Rul. The restaurant splashed onto the scene in 2005 and continues to be one of Nashville’s premier dining experiences, serving Moroccan food with whimsy and panache.
I broke the news as soon as I entered my shop.
“Dinner’s on me,” I told Johnny Ray and Brianne. “You two have saved my backside, and I owe you big time.”
Johnny folded his arms. “Lemme guess. Hardee’s?”
“Hey. I do like their burgers.”
“The Monster Thickburger is disgusting—”
“Disgustingly good.”
“You’re a lost cause, kid.”
Head down, Brianne was wiping the mahogany with meticulous care. “I don’t know. Anyplace sounds good after the day we’ve had.”
Her glance at my brother told me I wasn’t included in the sentiment.
“Can anyone spell Layl’a Rul?”
“The Moroccan place?”
“That’s the one. Have you ever been there, Brianne?”
“Only dreamed about it.”
“Like I said, it’s on me.”
Johnny tipped his hat. “The man’s got the shovel in hand.”
“And he’s starting to dig his way out,” Brianne said with a grin.
We tackled the closing procedures as a team so we’d be ready to leave minutes after locking the door. It was only as I went back to the freezer to stow the last items that Brianne warmed up to me. This time, she initiated the kiss.
THIRTY-SEVEN
If I had a teddy bear and a penchant for thumbsucking—which I don’t, just so we’re clear on that—I couldn’t have slept any better that night. No dreams. No flashback sequences darting through my head. And with the shop closed on Sundays, no need for my alarm.
I did have a faint warmth still playing along my lips.
Or maybe it was the late-morning sun now prying at my window blinds.
I’d been running on all cylinders, propelled by sugar and caffeine and a need to understand the mysteries unfolding around me. In a span of forty-eight hours, most of these issues had been resolved.
Lying on my side, cradled by a sag in the mattress, I refused to risk this transcendent period of rest with any movement. I kept my eyes closed and went over the facts again.
1. Darrell Michaels’s killer was sitting in the county jail—no more mochas with whip for you, pal.
2. Freddy C was also in a cell—but you’ll be out soon; just hang in there.
3. Leroy Parker was dead—so much for your string of sexual assaults and manipulations.
True, there was an ICV thug still at large. But my time with the anarchists had revealed, ironically, that most of them have no direction without some leadership. He’d probably tucked his tail and run back to Oregon.
Mom’s handkerchief was the unresolved item on my list.
With the filming of The Best of Evil in nine days, I’d confront Uncle Wyatt in person and find out why he thought he had the right to steal it.
“Aramis?”
“Uhhh.”
“You awake?” It was my dad’s voice.
My eyelids peeled open, blinking twice before I registered the time. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stayed in bed past noon.
“One second.”
I thrust aside the covers and hobbled to my dresser.
“Aramis?”
“Coming.”
I pushed stiff legs into jeans, then got my bandaged hand tangled in my T-shirt as I pulled it over my head. I slipped a striped button-down shirt over my shoulders and scooped up my laundry basket.
I opened the door. “S’up? I was gonna do a load of clothes.”
“Musta been tired, boy.”
“A little.” I edged past him.
“You don’t fool me. Plain as day, you just rolled outta bed.”
“What?”
“Your T-shirt,” he said. “Must be one of them new styles, huh?”
“Yeah.”
I didn’t check until I was standing in front of our laundry closet, but I’d put the silly thing on inside out and backward. Real convincing. And what was I trying to prove anyway? Hadn’t I wasted enough years in that fruitless endeavor?
“You really wear ’em like that nowadays?” Dad was standing at my side. “Never can figure you kids and your clothes.”
“It’s an antistyle.”
“Reason I woke ya is ’cause I’ll be headin’ out soon, back to Bowling Green.”
“Thanks for coming, Dad.”
“About what I said. You know, the other night?”
It was pitiful watching him squirm, and I turned to the chore of detergent and washer settings. My expression remained blank.
“I didn’t do ya right in them years afterwards.”
“After Mom died.” I’d say it if he wouldn’t.
“I wanna tell ya, before I go.”
“You already told me. I was special to her, so I was a curse to you. She died, so you made me pay. You hurt inside, so you turned that outward against the smallest one in the house. Does that cover it? Yep, that about does it.”
“Aramis.” He clamped a hand on my shoulder and turned me toward him. “I’m sorry for them things that happened.”
“They didn’t happen. You did them.”
“And now your old man’s doin’ different. Tryin’ anyhow.”
“A little late, Dad. But thanks.” I turned on the washing machine.
He pulled me back around, and for a moment I thought I was going to level him in our hallway, the same way I had Uncle Wyatt. My elbow bumped against something firm.
“What’s that?”
He held the object to his chest. “A book.”
“A new hobby? Good for you.”
“Years ago I found it in your mother’s things, and I been thinkin’ you might appreciate it. Somethin’ to read on the plane when ya go out west for that show.”
I tilted my head to read the spine. The Three Musketeers.
“Ever read it?”
“No.”
“When she was a teenager, she got this from … a friend of hers. Was one of her favorite books, the way I hear it told. Aramis, I know it used to bug ya how your name was the odd one out. Shoulda told ya earlier, but … Well, here, maybe this’ll help ya understand.”
He pressed the hardcover book against my chest, and I took hold of it.
“How’s this gonna help?”
“Your namesake—he’s one of them musketeers.
He was your mother’s favorite, so she named you after him.”
I felt my throat tighten. I wanted to thank the man for this gesture, but my voice had switched off. I threw out a stiff handshake. My father reached out, noticed the thin medicated wrap, then carefully took hold of my wrist instead.
“You have a safe flight out there,” he said.
“You too.” I shook my head. “I mean, driving back to Bowling Green.”
“Chew gum, boy. Helps with your ears. That’s what they say.”
“Gum. Got it.” I cleared my throat. “So, see you next time.”
“Next time?”
“Just … you know, Dad. Next time you come to stay with us.”
I needed time by myself. With a small pack on my back and only one good hand for steering, I rode my mountain bike to Radnor Lake. There are few bike paths in this area—it’s nothing like Portland—but I’m used to that by now.
I turned on Twelfth Avenue and followed it until it became Granny White Pike.
In Nashville, if you follow any road long enough, it’ll change names. My theory is that it was a Civil War strategy to confuse the Union troops, and experience tells me it would’ve been an effective one. Even though I’m from Oregon, I’m still considered a Northerner.
I’ve been lost here more than once.
Radnor Lake State Natural Area is surrounded by some of the highest hills in the Nashville Basin. The natural habitat covers 1,125 acres and is home to geese and heron, turtles, frogs, snakes, and other mammals. One time Johnny Ray and I saw an eight-point buck twenty feet off the South Cove Trail. He stood stone still, and I almost missed him among the foliage. Then he loped off with three does and a fawn trailing.
I locked up my bike at the visitor center. Dropped a donation in the box. Paying to keep it beautiful, to keep the developers away.
I took the Lake Trail, nodding at passersby, then hiked up along the Ganier Ridge Trail, the road less traveled. I wanted to be alone. Didn’t feel like spouting off niceties.
And I wanted to look through my book.
I settled down on a bench and took in the view of the lake where it peeked between the trees. The leaves were rich with yellows and reds, covering the ground in a flaming blanket that deadened footsteps with a soft whisper. Late October is a perfect time to enjoy the scenery here, and I sat for a few minutes in silent awe.
