Fred never forgot the sting of that unpleasant experience. And now, many years later, he was looking at a goddamn tiny, squarish, stainless steel contraption containing several crevices of inconceivable purposes, with barely visible wires extending from all parts of its core like a newborn octopus flinging out its tentacles seeking to feel its first grasp and understanding of life.
Fred remembered that his father once told him about a TV quiz show that took place during the mid 50’s. Celebrity contestants were asked to identify the functions of objects of various sizes, colors, composites, and shapes. The key was that the physical appearances of those objects provided absolutely no hint as to their functionality so it made them virtually impossible to identify. Since the home audience was notified of the object’s purpose on the TV screen, viewers enjoyed, from their vantage position of superior knowledge, watching the mindless verbal meanderings of the “experts” as they unsuccessfully attempted to unearth the right answer. The success rate of the celebrities, his dad said, was no higher than ten percent, which made the show even more appealing to the audience. They loved to see the “experts” fail.
Fred figured no one would even begin to reach that threshold if they looked at his monolith, trying to sort out its purpose. Hell, he suddenly realized that, in his mind he was calling it his monolith; but the last thing he wanted to do was to claim ownership. For the moment he wanted its ownership rights to remain in limbo until he made a decision what the hell to do with it. He was just its temporary and transitional steward, nothing more.
The longer Fred stared at the thing the greater his vacillation grew, and Fred hated to be indecisive. Fred’s former boss had often made caustic remarks about Fred’s inability to conclude his cases, to put that declarative period at the end of his sentences. However, Fred felt that in his job ethics were everything; and letting the innocent go free was infinitely more important than apprehending someone who just might be guilty. So Fred never felt any internal uneasiness when he took an exceedingly long time in solving his cases. But when Fred picked out a pair of new socks he didn’t give a damn if they were ten percent cotton and ninety percent wool or vice versa—even color didn’t matter, he just picked the first available socks he found in the sock aisle which matched his size, regardless of the myriad choices open to him. Fred often abandoned deep decision making in other parts of his personal life as well.
So now, looking at the damn thing, he couldn’t decide what to do with it. He weighed his options—giving it up to the proper agency, destroying it, or having it medically used again. The last alternative made him visibly tremble when he pondered about it. His inability to decide forced him to continue with the unacceptable prolonged decision to do nothing. So for four years it had remained as a haunting presence on his dresser—the goddamn thing.
Chapter 4
Maureen and Fred were sitting across from each other at their aging maple kitchen table. Scars of past cigarette burns decorated Fred’s edge of the table, a constant reminder of the time when he had been heavily dependent on the weed to get through his initial trying days at the police academy. During both the celebrated and melancholy periods of their time together, the table had become their symbolic place to unite and cope with life’s joys, fears and sorrows. From the countless times they had extended their arms across the table to comfort and encourage each other during their worst and best days, its shiny lacquer had gradually eroded.
The wood beneath had become a magnet for the absorption of spilled food and drink. Fred recalled one time in particular, when the table had served as a material catharsis as they verbally volleyed across the table, based on an uncomfortable encounter they had experienced in the courtroom. He remembered that day so clearly….
That particular morning, as Fred departed for work, Maureen yelled out from the open kitchen window that she had to tell him something important. Fred yelled back, “Whatever it is can wait; tell me this evening.”
That day Fred was scheduled to testify against an attempted murderer. As the investigating detective, Fred certified that he had found both the suspect’s fingerprints and DNA sample at the scene of the crime. Fred succinctly directed his responses to the jury, clearly laying out an array of facts that he had uncovered as to the suspect’s motive and opportunity.
As he exited from the witness stand he glanced at the jury; numerous members were nodding positively in his direction. This is locked, he thought; I’ve finally got the bastard.
When the defense called their first witness, an attractive tall redhead in the back of the courtroom slowly rose from her seat and proceeded methodically toward the witness chair.
Fred was shocked. It was his wife Maureen. Fred thought, what the hell is she doing here?
The defense offered an exhibit supporting Maureen’s extensive background as a successful clinical psychologist. The prosecution issued no challenge.
The defense asked some preliminary questions which served to stress Maureen’s experience in the evaluation of dysfunctional patients. Then Maureen was asked, “Did you conduct a thorough examination of the defendant?”
“Yes –it was a very thorough examination.”
“Did you find any neurological issues associated with the defendant as a result of your examination?”
Maureen offered that the defendant had a physical imbalance condition that she referred to as porphyria. When asked by the defense what porphyria was, she explained that it was a genetic defect which produces a severe mental disorder. She claimed that the defect makes it impossible for the body to metabolize porphyrin in the hemoglobin of the blood. She explained, “As a result porphyrin accumulates in the blood and produces a severe mental dysfunction. The defendant has that medical condition which made it impossible for him to control his actions.”
When it came time for the cross examination, the recently appointed assistant prosecutor pressed the issue forgetting the lawyer’s creed that if you don’t know in advance what the answer will be to your question, then for God’s sake don’t ask it.
“How can you possibly make that exact a medical prognosis?” he asked.
“Because,” Maureen testified, “Excess porphyrin feeds into the body’s fluids and produces an unmistakable red wine color in the urine. I have in the past diagnosed several cases with the same malady.”
The prosecution attempted to recover. “I understand, but can you give any example of how a person so affected would react abnormally?”
Maureen’s response was swift. “Yes and it deals with the American Revolution.”
Now I have her, the attorney thought. She had gone overboard in her assertion; I will reduce her credibility to shreds. “What on earth do you mean, Mrs. Harris?”
“It deals with King George the 3rd. His behavior was so hostile and inflexible that our colonists felt they could no longer negotiate with England. As a direct result, our nation
entered the American Revolution. And by the way, his lunacy was without question produced by excessive porphyrin in his system. So you see, had his condition been treated properly, his behavior would have returned to normal; and we would most likely still be a colony of Great Britain.”
Fred, now sitting in the visitors’ sector of the courthouse, could detect from the soured expression of the jury members as they glanced at him that his battle to put the criminal behind bars was lost.
Fred believed that the heated discussion he had with Maureen that night arguing the case across the kitchen table by pulling each other’s hands back and forth to emphasize their contrasting positions was the final step in erosion of the table’s shiny luster. He hoped that it didn’t symbolize the erosion of the luster of their marriage as well. Somehow their feelings about their contrasting political beliefs had muted over the years; but now stronger clashing values had surfaced. Both feared that their differing orientation toward life might be too much for the marriage to survive. But, somehow, they reached an armed truce on the subject and each gradually gained some resp
ect for the other’s position. Many more arguments of lesser intensity would take place across that table. And as ugly as the table had devolved to over the years, neither could think about parting with it, its symbolism of the endurance of their marriage having long ago replaced its limited residual cosmetic worth.
As Fred’s thoughts about the table had wandered back, he had forced down his morning’s cup of coffee. He was still recovering from that experience as he gobbled down a compensating sugar-saturated blueberry donut, hoping the neutralizing sweetness would return his palate to near normal. Ever since he could remember, Fred had detested the bitter taste of coffee. But since he had met the love of his life seven years ago at a Barney’s coffee shop, he never let on that, in his mind, it was the most putrid liquid ever conceived by man. Not just Barney’s coffee—but any damn coffee produced and served anywhere on earth.
It doesn’t matter, he mused, even if it took on another form—Cappuccino, Cafe Latte, Café Breva, Café Macchiato— they’re all the same—rotten, foul liquid.
He wished Juan Valdez had never started to make his living by picking those goddamn brown beans; if he had only picked macadamia nuts or bananas instead, or had become a damn Colombian train conductor, Fred reflected, my life would be so much easier.
He had never revealed to Maureen about his disdain for the liquid because he was still caught in the vortex of a fairy tale, living with a creature of unbelievable beauty and intelligence. Since their meeting over coffee was the start of their bond, he didn’t want anything to alter the ingredients of the magical connective tissue that kept it together.
Normally their working hours were separate; he usually didn’t have breakfast with Maureen; and as a benefit he didn’t have to drink the bitter brew she lovingly made for him. But this day, both had the day off so he was compelled to drink it in her presence and bury his instinctive reaction under curled up lips. Maybe I should have been an actor rather than a police detective, he thought.
As he finished the last of his donut, he looked over at Maureen who was glancing at the local paper’s headlines. The concerned expression on her face conveyed it all. She said, “Can you imagine all the corruption and mismanagement going on in this country? And can you even begin to conceive of what this wing nut is doing to this state? Soon we will be functioning like a third world country; most likely we will have to carry our own water in from the streams because they don’t want to have us pay for any social services.”
Maureen was a liberal, Fred an uncompromising conservative. Their political differences were so extreme that each was forced to purchase separate, same size TVs to watch opposing news broadcasts, with each enveloped in their respective commentator’s political discourse of their liking. Maureen had a PhD in clinical psychology; Fred was a respected lieutenant in the Sarasota police force. Fred’s day to day exposure to the worst elements of society contaminated his window’s view of the world. Maureen had witnessed and personally contributed to significant improvements in the return of several individuals, most haunted over a lifetime by abnormal personalities, to a near normal state. As a result she had a glowing, steady brew of optimism about the human spirit. Whenever she witnessed the slightest functional improvement in one of her patients, her spirits soared. Contrastingly, each new criminal that Fred apprehended made his respect for humanity disintegrate a little bit more.
Whenever Maureen started reading the headlines, Fred worried that it meant she was getting worked up over some cause that he knew in advance that he would not share. Fred abruptly attempted to shift the subject area to neutral ground. “Maureen this is the day you wanted to see Leslie the Great at the Van Wezel, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Fred, and I don’t want to be late. You know I’ve loved magic tricks since I was a kid; and in my book Leslie is without equal. Evan a modern-day Houdini would have a hard time competing with him.”
Maureen was highly perceptive; she discerned immediately that Fred was attempting to take her mind off how the damn conservatives were destroying the country. But for the moment the more important thing in her life was to watch Leslie and see if she and Fred couldn’t be challenged to mentally dismantle some of his elaborate tricks.
It was an early afternoon show, which Fred calculated should be over long before dark. Fred hoped that, after the show, he could go to the station for a couple of hours of necessary work. Maureen reluctantly agreed; she felt that Fred recently was working too many days, as well as too many hours each day.
In Fred’s mind the show was going to be a respite more for Maureen than him. Besides his long hours at work, he spent one evening each week playing poker with his friends. On Monday nights they would all watch the National Football League games at a local bar, or college basketball during what he considered the off-season. The fact was that he had little free time with Maureen. Going with her to attend a show that he knew in advance that he would not enjoy represented only fractional payback.
They had just pulled out of their driveway when they witnessed a brutal hit and run. The accident wasn’t associated with a person but with a small brown floppy-eared terrier that had been struck in his back right leg and violently tossed on to the cement sidewalk from the impact. The driver continued on without attempting to even slow down.
Fred shouted, “Damn you!”
Maureen knew immediately what Fred was contemplating, “Fred, you realize we’re already running late, don’t you?”
“I know but I have to help him; you know perfectly well that I really have no choice.”
Fred knew that any injured animal acted instinctively and that instinct was usually aggression. Fred got on his knees down to the small dog’s level. Fortunately, the dog was fully conscious. It stared at him for a long second trying to determine if he was friend or foe; and having made its decision, it limped up next to him, its tail cautiously wagging. Upon inspection Fred determined that the dog had no tag; and based on its matted hair, Fred assumed he was a stray or the pet of an indifferent owner.
Fred carefully picked up the dog and gently deposited him on a tattered blanket residing in the back seat of Maureen’s car. He next took a five block out-of-the-way detour to an emergency vet. Fred rushed in saying, “Take care of my dog; here’s my name and phone number, I will pay whatever it takes.”
The vet asked “What’s his name?”
Fred said, “Who knows?”
* * *
They made it to the show about ten minutes after it started. Maureen was not upset by the delay; that’s just Fred being his normal compassionate self, she reflected.
Sitting in a front row seat, Maureen was spellbound by Leslie’s tricks; Fred was plainly bored. The next to last event of the show was Leslie’s trademark disappearing woman trick. Or as he billed it in all of his ads, a wondrous transition into the mist. Leslie’s scantily clad assistant was dressed in a bright red bra with matching panties, each piece covered with yellow sequins which seemed to be independently illuminated as they reflected the high intensity stage lights above. In a moment she was securely padlocked into a steel container about the size of a small closet. The contraption, from the limited perspective of the distant audience, seemed to have only a single entry and exit door. Leslie asked if someone from the audience would please come up on stage and help him with the trick. Maureen volunteered a highly reluctant Fred.
When Fred reached the stage, Leslie asked, “What’s your profession, sir?”
“I’m a police detective.”
“So you’re a detective?”
“Yes, that’s what I said, can I go now?”
Leslie could see that the random selection he had made from an overflowing audience with numerous potentially more cooperative candidates had been a huge mistake.
“So, if you’re a detective, do you think you can detect how I perform this trick?’
Fred thought for a second, “I see no reason why I couldn’t.”
“Well, sir, I’m going to give you a rare opportunity. I want
you to thoroughly examine this box and see if you can find any hidden exit. You are a good detective, are you not?”
“My wife considers me the best; I will check out your apparatus thoroughly; but don’t blame me when the entire world discovers how you do this trick.” Fred’s comment received specks of laughter from the audience.
Fred entered the shadowy box looking for a release lever or handle, any moving piece –nothing. Then, to the audience’s delight, he exited the box, got down on his hands and knees and proceeded to look under the slightly elevated contraption. Fred was amazed that even the bottom of the unit appeared to be securely attached by large metal bolts. He asked Leslie for a stepladder; again the audience reacted with laughter.
Leslie said, “Is your last name, by any chance, Monk? I believe I saw you recently on a TV rerun.”
More laughter rose from the audience. Fred ascended the ladder and observed carefully the configuration of its top. More steel bolts, all securely tightened. He examined the composition of the bolts—no question about their functionality; they were all manufactured from high strength steel, nothing that would break away under slight pressure.
Leslie said, “I’ve only reserved the theater for a total of three hours. At the rate you’re going, we’ll probably extend into the evening’s show time. Will you help me pay the additional auditorium rental bill?” The audience chuckled.
The Monolith Murders Page 2
