Before Another Dies

by Alton L. Gansky

  “I’m a reasonably intelligent man, and I enjoy a challenge. I’m just thinking out loud.”

  “I see more differences than similarities,” I said. “Different location. Lopez drove a beat-up AMC Gremlin, is Hispanic, and younger than Jim Fritz by a couple of decades. Lopez was estranged from his family; Jim was a candidate for perfect husband.”

  Jerry didn’t speak at first. He stared out at the moon-painted waves. “It’s good to look at things that way, but it’s also good to look for other connections. Everything is connected. Take the ocean. It’s easy to see the connection between it and wind and the shore, but it’s not so easy to see its connection to the moon. Every grade-school kid knows the sun and moon influence the tides. The moon is 240,000 miles away but it will have an impact on all the oceans of the world, including that little strip we’re watching now.”

  “So you’re saying that there may be other connections we’re not seeing?”

  “Yes, and I know it’s not our job to see the connections. That’s up to Detective West and his pals. Still, it is intriguing.”

  I chewed on that like I was chewing on the brownie. “Give me an example.”

  “Okay.” He repositioned himself in the chair as if he expected it to take off and fly around for a while. “When I was in med school and doing my rotations, I spent some time in the emergency room. I worked with a Dr. Mendelssohn. The guy was a genius at emergency medicine. The paramedics would roll in and say, ‘Auto accident, adult male, thirty-nine years of age, head trauma,’ then spout off a list of vitals. Mendelssohn sucked the information in like a sponge but also asked questions. ‘Was he alone in the car? Drugs and alcohol involved? Did the car have air bags? What type of collision was it?’ It all meant something to him. Air bags indicated one type of injury. No air bags made him think of chest problems. He would examine for these things anyway, but the more information he had the better he liked it, the better judgments he made.” Jerry chortled. “He used to say, ‘The problem with the obvious is that it is obvious.’ It took me awhile to figure that out. What he meant was—”

  “The obvious keeps us from seeing everything,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s it. If a man walks into the hospital with an arrow sticking out of his forehead, I’m pretty sure I know why he’s there. Of course, I would treat the problem, but I wouldn’t be a very good doctor if I didn’t start asking questions. How does a man get an arrow in the forehead? Accident? Foolishness? Maybe he has other wounds. Did he fall when struck? You get the idea.”

  “So you’re saying I should be looking for other connections?”

  “This is only a mental exercise. You should stay out of the investigation. My point is this: When you started listing differences I kept hearing similarities. That’s the way I’m trained to think.”

  “Like what?” I reached for the hot chocolate. Jerry had my interest.

  “You noted that they were men of different age, my brain heard that they were both men. You said that one drove a beat-up car and the other was found dead in an airplane; my brain heard that both were in vehicles of transportation—both parked, I might add—”

  “And when I said that one was estranged from his family while the other was a perfect husband?”

  “I heard both have wives.”

  “I still don’t see any meaningful connections,” I admitted.

  “There may not be, but it would be a mistake not to look. Was there anything else unusual about the guy in the Gremlin?”

  I thought for a moment. “He was listening to the radio. Floyd figured out from the estimated time of death and the radio station that Lopez was listening to . . . that UFO, parapsychology guy.”

  “Robby Hood? Interesting.”

  “I didn’t know you went in for that kind of thing.”

  He smiled. “I don’t. Occasionally, I get called into the hospital late at night. I’ve heard his program while driving. He’s provocative. I don’t suppose Jim Fritz was listening to the show.”

  “I don’t know. I think you’re stretching.”

  “That, my dear, is how you reach things. Want some more hot chocolate?”

  “No, I ate too much and too fast. I feel a food coma coming on.”

  He rose, picked up the plates, and took them to the kitchen. I gathered up the cups and followed. “I’ll get these in the morning,” I said, then kissed him on the check. “Thanks for dinner and conversation.” I was saying good night.

  He knew it. “Next time, I’ll make waffles.”

  “For dinner?”

  “You need to learn to live on the edge.” He kissed me on the forehead and left.

  chapter 14

  It was Jerry’s fault. I lay in bed staring at the red numerals of my alarm clock, watching 12:15 become 12:16. Normally, I fall asleep quickly—the benefit of a clear conscience. Tonight was different. For the last hour I told myself I was teetering on the edge of sleep. If I would just remain still, nature would take its course and wing me to the land of slumber. I could lie to myself for only so long. I teetered as long as I was going to teeter. I wanted to blame the chocolate for keeping me awake, but I knew the truth. Jerry had kick-started my brain. Were there other similarities between Jose Lopez and Jim Fritz? I had been focusing on the differences: different age, ethnicity, social class, family relations, but there were some commonalities. Certainly dying by broken neck was the foremost.

  I thought of the radio station that had still been playing when the police opened Lopez’s car. Why not? I was losing sleep already; a few more minutes wouldn’t matter. I reached for the clock radio and punched the sleep button. I set it for thirty minutes and hoped that the quiet conversation would lull me to sleep. Then I flipped a switch from FM to AM and dialed in . . . It took a moment for my sleep-deprived mind to recall Floyd’s words. They came to me. I set the dial at 620.

  The radio immediately came to life, and I was met with a commercial. Another spot followed, then another, and I was beginning to wonder if I had remembered the wrong dial position. Perhaps I had stumbled onto the only all-commercial-all-the-time radio. Then came the voice—deep, smooth, like distant thunder. “The darkness has fallen, but the light of truth shines in each of us. You’re listening to Robby Hood, and we’ll be back to stretch your minds after this.” Another set of commercials oozed from the speakers. I considered switching off the radio and picking up a book. I was good at falling asleep with a book in my hand, but I persisted.

  After a series of thirty-second pitches for gold investments, human-growth hormones, solar-powered radios, and vitamins from the sea, Robby Hood returned to the air on the heels of a New Age– sounding instrumental.

  “Welcome back, this is Robby Hood, your guide into the night and into the places the timid dare not go. This is open-call night so get on the phone and make your opinion known, share an experience, ask a question.” He gave an 800 number. “Tomorrow we will have mind-control expert Daniel Pat with us and you will be amazed at what the government—your government—has been up to now. It has to do with the coffee you drink. So be careful the next time you order a double latte. More about that tomorrow. Now let’s hear from you.”

  At least he didn’t pick on hot chocolate. There was the briefest pause, then “You are on the air with Robby Hood, who’s this?”

  “Um, Robby?”

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “Are we on the air?”

  I was bone tired, but I laughed. Maybe this was the entertainment value of the show, listening to confused people call in.

  “Yeah,” Robby said, “that’s what I meant when I said, ‘You’re on the air with Robby Hood.’”

  “Oh . . . good . . . I’ve . . . I’ve been trying to get on for a long . . . time—”

  “Turn off your radio, friend,” Robby said.

  He sounded tired. I imagine he said that a lot.

  “What?”

  “Turn-your-radio-off. There’s a ten-second delay.”

  “Oh, okay.”
<
br />   I heard the caller set the phone down. The book I was contemplating was looking better.

  “Okay, folks,” Robby said. “Let’s cover the ground rules again. When you call, turn your radio down—better yet, just turn it off. I know it’s fun to hear yourself, but you’ll go nuts trying to talk and then hearing the same words coming at you ten seconds later. So please, squelch them radios.”

  Squelch?

  “I’m back. Sorry.” The caller was male, sounded under thirty and a little confused.

  “You’re not the first. You won’t be the last. Tell me your first name—no last name.”

  “My name is Bob Rec—”

  The radio went silent for a few seconds, then Robby was back on. “That’s it for him. I tried folks, I tried. We’ll let him consider the sins of his ways off the air. Let’s try this again.” Pause. “Hi, welcome to the Robby Hood show.”

  “Let’s talk chemtrails, Robby. This is Ted in Santa Barbara.”

  “You mean those contrails we see in the sky every few days.” Robby stressed contrail and followed it with a laugh. Apparently it was an inside joke. That was last night’s topic, pal.”

  “I know. I tried to get through but the lines were all jammed. Gimme a break.”

  “Okay, Ted, never let it be said that Robby Hood doesn’t love his listeners. What about them?”

  “Well, I used to be a pilot. Flew for the navy in Nam in the late sixties, so I’ve logged a lot of airtime. I know contrails. I’ve left a few in my day, but what I saw out my window this morning weren’t no contrail. Contrails disappear soon after they’re laid down, but these babies hung around for hours.”

  “That’s what they do. The question is, what are they?”

  “Well, there are lots of theories,” Ted in Santa Barbara said. “You had a guest—”

  “Edward T. Hart,” Robby interjected. He was nothing if not enthusiastic. “He was on last month. We may have him on again.”

  “Yeah, that’s the guy. He said that the chemtrails is the government’s way of inoculating the population against biological terrorist, but I think it’s something else.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “You know the planes lay them down in a pattern, right? I think they’re used to calibrate spy satellites or maybe some kinda Star Wars weapon satellites like Reagan wanted when he was president.”

  “Calibration?”

  “Yeah, calibration. I mean, wouldn’t the optics or radar or whatever they use up there in space have to be calibrated from time to time? If a plane flies at a certain altitude, a known altitude, say 35,000 feet or something, and that information is fed into the satellite’s computer, then maybe it could compare an image of the ground with an image of the chemtrail and somehow adjust its cameras.”

  “Hmm,” Robby said. “Are you sure you’re not some government operative pushing a little disinformation on ol’ Robby?”

  “Hey, I wouldn’t do that. I’m just a truck driver these days.”

  “Yeah, but I bet you have some history or some secrets you could share.”

  The caller laughed. “Not me, Robby, I’m just an ordinary guy.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s the ordinary people who scare me. Thanks for the call. Now remember, my merry men and women, you can visit my Web site and see some of the latest pictures of chemtrails, UFOs, and more. You can also order my latest book, To the Brink of San-ity: How to Remain Sane in an Insane World. Robby Hood’s mother will thank you. Now this.”

  Music rose and ten seconds later another string of commercials rolled out of my radio. I wondered how many sponsors the man had. I rose from bed, walked downstairs, and poured myself a glass of milk. I looked out the window. The moon had moved along its path but it still bejeweled the rolling ocean. I stared at the sky. Chemtrails, eh? I chastised myself, then dragged my body and the glass of milk back to the bedroom. I arrived in time to hear the end of a conversation about what really went on in Iraq, followed by a woman who was certain JFK was still alive and living in the Florida everglades.

  I sipped my milk and listened with greater fascination than I would have guessed. Some of the callers were whacky, but others seemed intelligent, educated, and well spoken. One thing was certain: the program wasn’t dull. Thirty minutes after I turned on the radio, the timer turned it off. I finished the last sip of my milk, lay down, pulled up the covers, then set the radio to play another half hour.

  Finally, I drifted off. Sleep closed my ears.

  chapter 15

  Regardless of what hour I go to bed I like to rise at the same time. Routine is my best friend. This morning, however, I didn’t crawl out of bed until six. I went into the bathroom and did what needed to be done, which included dousing my face with cold water. The interrupted night’s sleep Monday and the late bedtime last night—or maybe I should say, early this morning—made my eyes feel like sandpits. I slipped into some cotton shorts and a light T-shirt and embraced my weekday torture of forty-five minutes on the treadmill. Some days are easier than others. Today wasn’t one of them. I’m new to the Christian faith, so I’m filled with questions. Most are doctrinal or questions about things I read in the Bible; others are frivolous, such as why isn’t ice cream health food, and why doesn’t exercise get easier with age?

  Fifteen minutes into my walk I had my speed up to three-point-five miles per hour, and it felt like thirty, but I was awake. The blood was flowing, my lungs were working like bellows, and my heart had fallen into its rhythmic thumping. My mind began to clear.

  I finished the walk, took a quick shower, chose a pantsuit over shaving my legs, and went into my home office. There I spent the next thirty minutes in Bible study. This was a new discipline, but one I had stuck to for the last six months. The day never felt complete without some study time. My Bible had a previous owner. Paul Shedd, owner of the Fish Kettle on the Santa Rita pier, gave me his just like he had given one to my husband.

  When finished, I slipped downstairs, poured a cup of coffee in a travel mug, grabbed a banana, and headed for work. My mind tossed ideas around like balls in a bingo machine. Today was going to be busy, and I needed to hit it running. I would follow my plan: be in my office before eight, read the paper, check my calendar, then immerse myself in the work I love.

  I marched into the building as if I had the best night’s rest ever. I wasn’t ready for the surprise that awaited me. I had come in through the front door and aimed myself for the reception area. Fritzy was sitting behind her desk.

  “What are you doing here?” My tone was a little sharper than I meant. “You don’t need to be at work today.”

  “I know, I know.” She raised her hands. She seemed frailer than yesterday. “I’m not staying. I just wanted to get a few letters together, and a few things organized for the temp girl. You are hiring a temp girl, right?”

  I smiled. “Why, you chauvinist. What makes you think it will be a woman?” I stepped to her and gave her a hug. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She was lying, but it was a polite lie.

  “Really? Did you sleep?”

  “Some.”

  I knew what that meant. “I’ve decided to call Celeste Truccoli to fill in for the rest of this week and next. The week after, too, if you want.”

  “Celeste will be good. She’s a smart girl.”

  Celeste Truccoli was the daughter of a former campaign worker. She lived with me for a short time when her mother was missing. It was a difficult time for both of us, but the furnace of anxiety forged a friendship. Our ages were far apart but sometimes that doesn’t matter.

  “What about her schooling?” Fritzy asked. Celeste was a sophomore at the University of Santa Barbara.

  “Her school starts their semester classes later than most. She still has a couple of weeks of winter break.” My dad, who teaches at USB, was gearing up for classes.

  “I feel like I’m leaving you in the lurch.”

  “Nonsense. You have this place so organized that it can run itself f
or a week or two. Celeste can fill in the gaps. Besides, it will give Floyd a thrill.” Floyd was enamored with Celeste, and to my surprise, she seemed smitten with him.

  She looked down at her desk. I knew what she was doing. She was looking for another anchor to see her through the storm. This place was a second home to her, the staff another family. “Reverend Grecian called last night. He came over and sat with me for a while. He was very nice, very kind.” Her voice trailed off.

  “Everyone calls him Pastor Lenny. He’s a good man. Did he help with the arrangements?”

  “Some. I have to go to the funeral home today and select a casket and . . . the other things.”

  There was a stroll through the shadowy land of heartache. I had been forced to do the same with Peter. I’d just as soon not have to repeat the process. “You’re not going alone, are you? You should have someone with you.”

  “Pastor Lenny is going to meet me there at nine. That’s why I came in. I get fidgety when I have to wait, and I woke up early so—”

  Woke up early? I doubt she slept. “Listen to Pastor Lenny. He’s helped a lot of people through difficult times, and you can trust him. Is he going to perform the service?”

  She nodded. “Thank you for sending him to me. I wasn’t sure what to do. We never were much on church. Jim worked six days a week. Sunday was his only time off.”

  “I understand.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “You know to call me if you need anything.”

  “I’m sorry about running off yesterday. I just needed to get out of the house. I needed . . .” Tears were percolating again.

  “No apology needed.” The office was starting to get busy. Secretaries, aides, other department employees were showing up for work. Each looked our way, casting sorrowful glances, eyes filled with genuine pity.

  “Pastor Lenny said he would ask the funeral home to inquire about when Jim’s . . . body might be released. I . . . I can’t imagine him on that cold autopsy table—”

  “You don’t need to, Fritzy. It doesn’t do any good.” I tried to watch an autopsy once. I pushed my mayoral weight around to get in. A friend of mine had died suspiciously and I wanted to know why. I was trying to be helpful. I didn’t last long. The image of my friend on the autopsy table lasted much longer. “There are happier memories. They will surface in time.”