Dead Lemons

by Finn Bell

  “It is evidence then,” says Pruitt.

  “Evidence?” I ask.

  “Yes. You said it yourself; if it was something you knew they would have come for you. But they thought you weren’t here and came looking anyway. Hence, the having of the thing was more important than the knowing of the thing. They came here to take it away from you. To them, the thing itself is dangerous, because it proves something. Evidence, see?”

  “Only problem is, I don’t have anything. This whole business has all come from old newspapers and talking to people. I don’t have anything in there,” I say as I point back to the house.

  “Well it—” Pruitt begins, but is then silenced by his phone ringing.

  “Bailey,” he answers as he steps off the porch.

  “What do you think, Tai?” I ask as we watch Pruitt pace back and forth, clearly unhappy with the gist of his conversation.

  Tai is quiet for some time before he answers. “There’s badness here, Finn. I think this place has seen too much tragedy, too much blood, which is why you’re coming to stay with us. And I think you shouldn’t just jump back into this. And be careful with Pruitt. He still carries this close to himself. He comes across all hard but it wasn’t just Emily, it changed him, too. It was his family it happened to. Did you know he lost his first wife over his obsession with all this? Almost lost the paper, too. You sure you want to pull him back into it?”

  I don’t know what to say so I just shrug. As usual, I’ve not been thinking about other people. Maybe it’s the therapy or all the change of the recent months, but it’s like I’m constantly being confronted with how selfish I am.

  It’s an underwhelming experience.

  And whether it’s my life or the Zoyls, I’m short on answers. All I’ve got are uncomfortable questions.

  “Well, it’s not good news,” says Pruitt as he comes back up the porch, slipping his phone back in his pocket as he sits down heavily.

  “That was Neville, my junior reporter. The police have been out to the Zoyl farm, and they’re not going to make any arrests. Neville says they’ll wait on the results from forensics, but if they don’t find any prints or anything from the scene investigation here, then that’s it, really.”

  “But how can that be? I saw them, I heard them, right here!” I say in disbelief, my voice rising in frustration.

  “I know, Finn, steady on. It’s the law. At this stage it is one person’s word against three. And for now, there’s no physical evidence that they were here. They also have an alibi that’s checked out,” he continues.

  “An alibi! So there are actually people helping them, lying for the Zoyls?!” I say as I feel myself getting angrier. First my cats, now this, and they’re just going to walk away? I imagine how many times worse this must have felt for James and Emily. Then I belatedly realise that it must feel pretty bad for Pruitt as well, like he’s going through it all again.

  And he’s the one trying to calm me down.

  So I take a deep breath before continuing in a calmer tone, “Who’s the alibi?”

  “It’s some of the Maihis” Pruitt says as he looks past me at Tai.

  “Teka!” Tai says as if it’s a swear word, looking down and shaking his head.

  “Who are the Maihis?” I ask.

  “They are a family of, shall we say, lesser renown. Many of them have made the paper over the years. Mostly small things. Petty theft, domestic violence, growing dope, that kind of thing. And some of them now conveniently claim that they were out at Zoyl farm last night, gambling till early this morning,” Pruitt answers.

  “And if the Zoyls bothered to get an alibi, then we can be pretty sure they’re not too worried that they left any fingerprints behind,” I say. How come doing the wrong thing is so easy and proving it is so hard?

  “What about dogs? Police dogs? They could pick up the scent here or something,” I continue, but my heart isn’t in it anymore.

  “No, at best it would give you place, but not time. All you’d be able to do then is try for a trespassing charge, and even that would be dubious, as you are neighbours. You don’t have any signs up warning people away, and you’ve actually already been on their land by your own report as well. There would be no point, Finn,” Pruitt says, the resignation in his voice echoing how I feel.

  We’re all wrestling our own thoughts for a bit when Tai suddenly breaks the silence speaking Māori.

  I’ve been so lost in thought it takes me a moment to realise he’s actually on the phone. He sounds quite upbeat, if a little tired.

  Funny how you can tell how people feel in any language.

  When he hangs up he nods to himself in a satisfied manner, then looks down at us with a happy grin. But given Tai’s size, he always looks down at anyone else also sitting down.

  “All this has got you thinking all backwards. You’re missing the point,” he says.

  “Well?” I say, hoping he’s figured something out that we missed.

  “You’re going to thank me later,” Tai says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I’ve figured out just what you need, bro. That was Patricia. It took some doing, but I got you a date,” he says as he winks at me.

  A date? Now? I can’t go on a date. I mean, true, she did look good in that ambulance uniform, even though I may have still been slightly concussed from the Murderball tournament at the time. But I’m a man with issues in my life, and a wheelchair, and Zoyls, I think.

  I don’t even know if my dick works.

  “Hey, bro?” Tai says as he nudges me in the side, interrupting my inner argument. Unfortunately, I already know what my answer is going to have to be.

  “Thanks, Tai,” I say, sighing.

  “You’re welcome, bro,” he says happily.

  CHAPTER 22

  March 12, THREE MONTHS AGO . . .

  I wake up and realise I’m lying in the Zoyl farm’s long, rusted shed. It’s dark, but I can still make out the skinned bodies hanging from big meat hooks all along above me. The floor feels too warm and too sticky and I can’t move and I can’t breathe, because Darrell Zoyl is sitting on my chest. His head bent close down to mine, he’s whispering random numbers to me as if he’s sharing the keys to a conspiracy. Thick ropes of drool hanging from his mouth trail warm across my face.

  Then, I’m thankfully pulled from my nightmare and realise that my brain had mixed my fears with reality because the weight on my chest is Mihi.

  Mihi Rangi is two, and the youngest daughter of a set of five that belong to Tai and his wife, Becks. To the continued consternation of the local school, rugby clubs, and every other sports fan, Tai, a hundred thirty nine kilograms of good-natured, giant-sized muscle, has sired no sons.

  I’ve been staying at Tai’s for four days now and Mihi—demonstrating poor judgment in men early on in life—has taken an uncommon liking to me.

  This is not the first time she’s ponderously clambered up onto me to then quietly wait for me to wake up.

  She has an expectant look on her face so I follow the routine we’ve established and say, “Hi.”

  A statement Mihi then considers carefully while studying me in that frank, clinical way babies do while she carefully explores the lines on my face with both hands before coming to her own conclusions. Then she pulls her hands away from my face to respond with a serious sounding, “Hi.”

  Job done, she then makes her way off me and the couch and toddles back out of the living room to get on with whatever two-year-old girls have on the agenda in the very, very early morning.

  Tai says thus far “Hi” is her first and only word, but that when she says it she really means it.

  Staying with Tai and his family has been a complete opposite to my life.

  Here everything is bright and loud and busy, with a near constant rhythmic symphony of singing, playing, laughing, gossiping, and arguing in changing combinations as shifts of Rangis come and go. Aided throughout the day by various generations of the extended family dropping by
to add to the mix.

  The house feels more than crowded; the Rangis aren’t a family, they are a process, ongoing and alive, and you can’t really just “stay over.” It’s more like being drafted involuntarily for a few days.

  Even though I feel like I’ve been making progress with myself towards again becoming a real person, living here reminds me of how far I have to go.

  Because here I see a side of Tai I don’t know if I’ll ever have.

  He’s a constant source of caring and support to the entire family, close and extended. He remembers every story, asks all the right questions, laughs from his belly, and actually seems to get real happiness from spending time with everyone. Even though he sees most of them every day, everywhere.

  I wouldn’t be able to fake being him even for a day. How do you genuinely like people as much as he does?

  I also realise then that we don’t have a good friendship; in truth, I’m just a glum bastard who’s lucky enough to be friends with a really good man. All the good stuff is coming from him.

  I realise now why Tai’s been trying to get me to step away from this Zoyl stuff and why he fixed me up on a date with Patricia.

  I think he’s trying to help me get to what he has.

  Truly happy people are like that.

  I think that’s why the very few of them out there stand out so obviously from the rest of us.

  They can’t help but try to convert you; I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it.

  Anna was the same, kept trying to share all her joy with me because she didn’t know how to stop doing it. Honestly, why should she have?

  And of course I got so tired of disappointing her that instead of staying honest, I just started to fake it.

  It’s been a long time now. I like to think I’m not the same person anymore.

  And I think soon, not yet, but soon, I may be ready to try and follow him.

  Maybe not to something like this heaving mass of a family home but something good, something real. I can feel the shape of how to be happy slowly being cleared of all the bullshit I had filled it up with these past years.

  I don’t know if Patricia will be part of this, but like Tai said to me last night, “Bro, of course you feel shit—it’s not because you’re crazy, it because you’re still sane. You don’t have anything to feel good about in your life, you just have empty space. You messed things up. Your wife left you. And I’m like you’re only friend, bro. No people, no love, no family. You’re not crazy, bro, what you’re feeling just proves your common sense still works. There’s no getting happy on your own.”

  And it’s with that thought in mind that I’ve decided not to try and get myself out of this date. In fact, I’m planning to call Patricia and ask her out myself, do it right.

  It’s when I’m about to do so that the phone rings in my hand.

  “Finn. Pruitt. Got a minute?”

  “Sure,” I say, although a part of me, surrounded by all this living, is reluctant to go back there.

  “There’s a guy we need to go see, Bob Ress, used to be a cop. They brought him out here on the case back when Alice went missing. Smart bugger, until he got holy,” Pruitt finishes.

  “Why him?” I ask.

  “I’ve been up all night going over things again and I still can’t see why you’ve managed to spook the Zoyls now, but Bob, he’s just got a knack, a way of thinking. I think it’s worth it if we talk to him,” Pruitt answers.

  It’s the “we” in Pruitt’s suggestions that starts the slow trickle of guilt. Maybe Tai is right and I’ve pulled Pruitt back into something that’s not helping him. The past doesn’t always stay where you put it. But I don’t know how to tell Pruitt he should back away after what he’s lost. Especially when I’m still committed after losing so much less.

  “So where is he?” I ask instead.

  “First Church of Dunedin,” Pruitt replies. “Like I said, he got holy. Left the force and became a priest. We can be there and back today if we leave early.”

  “Meet you at the paper in half an hour?” I ask, not even hesitating anymore.

  “All good, see you there,” Pruitt responds, and clicks off without a further word.

  Okay, I tell myself, so here’s another thread. And while there’s a thread, it’s okay to keep pulling on it. Anybody would. If the thread runs out, then that’s it, and I get on with my life, because, hey, there’s no more thread. Because I’m not obsessed, I’m just a normal guy.

  Yip, indeed.

  CHAPTER 23

  March 12, THREE MONTHS AGO . . .

  It’s a dark, stormy day and the car is pushed and pulled across the road by winds and battered in bouts of heavy rain, making the trip up to Dunedin take about four hours.

  There’s not much conversation between Pruitt and myself. Small talk kind of withers in the context of what we’re busy with.

  But we’re almost there, actually meeting Bob Ress, or Father Ress, I should say, at the church itself, when Pruitt pulls over at a gas station.

  “We have to get flowers. It’s just this thing Bobby has,” Pruitt says by way of explanation as he gets out of the car.

  Appropriately flowered up, we head over to the First Church of Dunedin.

  Pruitt told me that I’d know it when I saw it, and he’s right.

  Even in the blustery weather conditions, the church stands out against the city as a strange outpost from another age, all gothic spires and crenulations. Think gargoyles and vampires, and then add an extra scoop of creepy.

  It’s a slow business getting my wheelchair out of Pruitt’s old Ford Cortina, and by the time we’re knocking on the massive wooden doors of the church, we’re both drenched.

  Father Ress turns out to be a trim, fit looking, smaller man with a friendly face and kind eyes. He looks more bake sale judge than criminal profiler as he delightedly sniffs the bouquet of flowers we got him.

  “Ah, lilies and poinsettias, my favourites. You remembered, Pruitt. Come, come. We’ll get you through to the rectory. I’ve got the fire on,” Father Ress says in a soft, musical voice as he bustles us through.

  Once we’re drying by the fire, Father Ress busies himself making tea, chatting away all the while.

  “And what do you think of our church, Mr Bell? Rather severe, isn’t it?” he asks, smiling over his shoulder at us.

  “Well, it’s quite a place, certainly,” I say as I eye the heavy stonework and lead-lined windows.

  “Yes, I’m afraid the architect got carried away with it. Got into trouble with the cardinal back in the 1800s. Not a good look apparently. Too flashy for God’s taste back then” he says, giving us a wink.

  “But it comes in handy now. We get a steady stream of tourists through the old place and occasionally I can still snag an unsuspecting one and convert them before they know it.”

  “So, you’re here about the Cotter case?” he asks pleasantly. “Crumpet?” he adds, as he offers me a plate.

  It kind of weirds me out that he can go from talking about poinsettias to murder without any change in tone. Takes all kinds, I guess.

  “Some things have happened, Bob,” says Pruitt, and then tells Father Ress about what’s occurred, with me filling in a few gaps along the way. Pruitt doesn’t hide the fact that we both suspect the Zoyls either.

  Father Ress listens politely to it all but doesn’t ask any questions until we have him caught up to the present.

  “So we thought we’d come out and see what you make of it,” finishes Pruitt.

  “Hmm, all right. Let’s see. Let’s start with the usual disclaimer: Firstly, I will tell you what I know is most likely true, then what could also be true but not likely. As long as you remember that actually none of it is true. Okay?” he says, smiling as we nod to him.

  “There was never much to go on. The only evidence being the pubic bone and remains of the uterus being found with the pig semen inside,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone as he dunks his crumpet in his tea.

  Okay,
maybe he does have the makings of a hardened detective after all.

  “From this evidence, and the timing of the discovery, we can infer several things about the perpetrator at that time: We’re looking for a male, likely younger and well-educated, of above-average intelligence. He’d be of neat appearance and calm and controlled in his social interactions, with a good sense of humour. He’s definitely egosyntonic,” Father Ress says, nodding to himself, then explains further when he sees my confused frown.

  “Egosyntonic means his behaviours, values, and feelings are in harmony with the needs and goals of his ego—simply put, he likes what he’s done to Alice, and wouldn’t feel any guilt or remorse. For several weeks after the event he would seem noticeably more happy and relaxed than the norm. He’d be a very self-confident person and highly manipulative, with the ability to easily persuade others to his point of view or to spend time doing what he wants. He did well in school both academically and in sport. He would also have been involved in some kind of leadership position as a child, and would likely have been fairly popular in his youth. But after puberty he would start to socially withdraw of his own accord and end up choosing a career with a technical base, where he mostly works alone, with machines and things instead of people. He has less than five close, stable personal relationships, all of them spanning several years, most likely with family members or friends he’s had since childhood. He will have genetically related close family members that display various forms of mental illness, most likely psychotic or mood disorders, which would be recurring across generations. He’s physically attractive, likely uncommonly so, and has had—local culture and population permitting—several sexual partners at the point that he takes Alice. He’s also highly successful in attracting new sexual partners, but does not retain them for long,” he continues.