The Burnt Remains

by Alex P. Berg

  Dean lifted an eyebrow at that last part. “Ignoring the blackmail, you do realize it’s illegal to produce pornographic material for sale or distribution, don’t you?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a sexist law, but that’s besides the point. You can’t honestly think Bumblefoot is behind this?”

  “We have no evidence to suggest he is,” said Dean. “I suppose it’s possible, though. If he’s behind the photos, he could be trying to extract money from Vernon before releasing them to the press, but that seems like an incredibly high risk strategy for anyone, much less a public figure like Bumblefoot. And yet… here we are.”

  Dean gave me a bit of a smile, one I couldn’t quite decipher. “Don’t look at me. You’re the one who chose to come here.”

  Dean snorted. “I was trying to nudge you into figuring out why we made the trip. Apparently I was too subtle.”

  “Oh.” I chewed on my lip as I looked back at the building. “Well, I suppose it could be in the name of thoroughness. Follow every lead, cross every t, dot every i.”

  Dean’s lower lip jutted out a touch, and he nodded. “Could be.”

  He didn’t seem convinced, so I tried again. “Or could be that the blackmailer is working multiple angles. They might be demanding money from Vernon while simultaneously shopping the photos to his opponent. I mean, it’s incredibly scummy, but we’re talking about a blackmailer who took pornographic photos of a drugged woman who likely didn’t even know what was happening.”

  Dean’s smile reappeared, this time a little wider. “Not bad.”

  The smile looked good on him. “Thanks. But is that really why we’re here?”

  Dean chortled. “You’ve got to trust your instincts, Phair. Believe in yourself. In fact…” He pointed at the building. “I want you to take the lead on this round of questions.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. “What? Me?”

  “No, the magically shrunken version of Detective Justice you stashed in your pocket. Of course you.”

  I might’ve been more appreciative of Dean’s attempts at humor if I wasn’t feeling an oncoming butterfly hurricane in my stomach. “You know what I mean. You want me to take point on interviewing a legislator of all people?”

  “Why not?” said Dean. “As I said, your deductive instincts are in the right place, you just need experience. Searching crime scenes, questioning witnesses, piecing together evidence. I know you’re new, but this is a great learning opportunity. Why waste it?”

  I didn’t know Dean well enough to know if he had any tells, but it felt to me as if there was something he wasn’t saying. “Are you planning on leaving?”

  He cocked his head. “Leaving where?”

  “Us. It feels like you’re grooming me. Like you’ve got another position lined up and you need a replacement, quick.”

  Dean snorted and shook his head. “Dang. You are good.”

  “You are leaving?”

  “No. I’m not going anywhere. I just…” Dean hesitated. “The department isn’t a meritocracy. There are always people jostling for position, fighting for jobs. You may not have noticed, but there are people who aren’t happy you got placed on our team. A rookie who didn’t finish her year on patrol before being reassigned? It’s not normal.”

  “If this is a pep talk, it’s not working.”

  “Motivational speaking isn’t my strongest suit,” said Dean. “But I want to be frank with you. I think you deserve your spot here. Certainly, you deserve a shot to prove it. Not everyone else believes the same.”

  I thought back to when I was called away the day before. “You’re talking about Captain Ellison. About what he said to me yesterday.”

  Dean shook his head. “I wasn’t there.”

  “No, but you must’ve guessed part of the reason he wanted to see me. He’s the one who approved my hire. And he didn’t do it because he believes in my ability, but because he wanted to use me against you.”

  “Use you?” said Dean.

  “He didn’t use those exact words,” I said. “But he made it clear that if I wanted to stick around, I needed to be on his side, not your side. You knew, didn’t you?”

  Dean held up a finger. “I suspected. There’s a difference.”

  I felt as if a weight had been placed across my shoulders. “So what am I supposed to do? Tiptoe the line between doing exactly as the captain says, not making any enemies, and yet progressing as an investigator at an unprecedented pace? As a rookie?”

  Dean put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about Ellison. He’s tough and a bit of a megalomaniac, but push comes to shove, he’s fair. Work hard, learn the job, and he won’t be able to get rid of you.”

  I sighed. So all I had to do was make myself indispensable before the captain realized I wasn’t his stool pigeon? Easy as pie.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I stood in a spacious front office that was as refined as it was bland. It had all the traditional trappings of luxury—a white marble floor with grains of grey that swept through the stone as if from a drunken painter’s brush, wainscoting along every wall, a fireplace with logs that had never been lit carefully stacked in the firebox—but it lacked even a hint of anything personal. No photographs graced the desk. No artwork adorned the walls. No curios joined the leather-bound spines of the books stacked on the bookcases. The only effects that even came close to personal were a wilting shrub in the corner and the framed picture of Congressman Bumblefoot that hung above the desk.

  The intercom buzzed, and a static-tinged voice punched through. “Send them in, Moira.”

  The middle-aged woman who sat at the desk gave us a nod. “Go ahead. He’s ready for you.”

  Dean waved toward the door at the far side of the room. As I pushed it open, I found myself in an office that was nearly a clone of the first, except the desk was bigger and there was actually a view, a snippet of the leafy elms that lined 1st. A pear-shaped guy with more hair sprouting from his cheeks than remained on the top of his head sat behind the desk, the smoldering stub of a cigar clenched in his right hand.

  He smashed the cigar into an ashtray already overflowing with remains before standing and rounding the desk. “Sorry to keep you waiting, officers. Congressman Maximillian Bumblefoot, at your service.” He stuck out his hand.

  Bumblefoot’s musky scent of sweet tobacco nearly bowled me over, ten times stronger than the worst whiff I’d ever gotten off Dean, but I could forgive his cigar addiction. His handshake was another matter. While some men approached a handshake as a test of their manhood and tried to crush your metacarpals into dust, Bumblefoot took the opposite approach. His hand was limp and clammy as he grasped my own, and I had to force myself not to grimace as he shook it.

  “Officer Phair, sir.” It felt odd to take the lead on the introductions, but Dean had insisted. “This is Detective Alton Dean. We’re with the Fifth Street precinct.”

  Either Dean didn’t mind the cool, invertebrate handshake, or he hid his displeasure masterfully. “Pleasure to meet you, Congressman.”

  Bumblefoot smiled as he clasped his hands before him, a practiced political grin that wasn’t reflected in his eyes. “Can Moira fetch you anything? Water? Coffee?”

  I glanced at Dean, but he gave his head a shake. “No thank you, Congressman.”

  “Well then, please, have a seat.” He waved to the chairs in front of his desk as he wove back around to his. “Tell me what brings you to my office. Is it the upcoming appropriations bill? Because I assure you I’m working to ensure city funding gets increased by at least four percent and to have language included in the bill that mandates the police department receives that same minimum. There won’t be any bureaucrats rerouting those funds into parks and recreation this year, I assure you.”

  I shook my head. “We’re not here because of any legislation, sir. We’re conducting an investigation.”

  “Into my tireless pursuit of lower taxes for the citizens of New Welwic?” Bumblefoot flashed his unctuous grin agai
n. “You’ve got me, Officer. Guilty as charged.”

  As oily as he was, I was surprised the man hadn’t slipped and fallen off his chair. “No, sir. We’re investigating an incident of blackmail.” A homicide, too, I thought, but there was no reason to reveal that yet.

  The congressman’s grin disappeared, and his eyes flashed toward Dean. “You are?”

  Dean nodded. “We are.”

  “But… not me, obviously,” said Bumblefoot. “If I was being blackmailed, I think I’d know. Assuming the blackmailer wasn’t a bumbling incompetent.”

  I’d thought interviewing Bumblefoot on my own would be intimidating. The man was a congressman, after all, but his unpleasant nature made it easy for me to go on the offensive. To ask the tough questions without worrying about his reactions.

  “The blackmailer isn’t coming after you, Congressman,” I said. “They’ve targeted your political opponent. They’re smearing JT Vernon.”

  Bumblefoot snorted, and a look of disdain twisted his face. “Vernon. He doesn’t need a blackmailer’s help. That man smears himself.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

  Bumblefoot waved his hand. “Nothing. A poor attempt at toilet humor. My point is Vernon doesn’t need a blackmailer airing his dirty laundry to make him look like a buffoon. He does that on his own. The man’s all bluster. He’s a charlatan more than a showman, and he’s certainly not a politician. He sticks his foot in his mouth as often as he opens it.”

  It seemed to me someone who was a charlatan and a showman would make the perfect politician, but I kept that to myself. “Nonetheless, someone has been blackmailing him for the past month with embarrassing photographs. Photographs Vernon believes would hurt his campaign and that the blackmailer has threatened to release to the press.”

  Bumblefoot shrugged. “I’m sure that would be terrible for him.”

  “Vernon believes you’re behind them,” I said.

  Bumblefoot laughed, but his eyes remained void of emotion. “Are you serious? Is that why you’re here? You think I’m blackmailing Vernon?”

  “Vernon believes it,” I clarified. “We’re simply here to take your statement.”

  Bumblefoot’s eyes narrowed. “Well then let me state plainly for the record: I’m not blackmailing JT Vernon. I didn’t take or obtain salacious photographs of the man, nor do I know about the existence of any. More importantly, I have no need to blackmail him. As I’ve already told you, the man’s an incompetent clown. I’m going to beat him like a drum come election time, same as I have many other challengers over the years.”

  “That’s not what the polls suggest,” said Dean.

  Bumblefoot turned his ireful gaze onto the detective. “Polls are worth less than the paper they’re printed on. What matters are votes, and I guarantee you when the citizens of New Welwic step into their voting booths in two months time, only two things will be on their minds: my name, which carries more weight than a shameless self-promoter’s like Vernon, and the long, illustrious record I have of making their lives healthier, safer, and more profitable. My history of helping them. Vernon, on the other hand, can’t even help his own employees—or he chooses not to.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you said you had no need to smear Vernon.”

  Bumblefoot held up a finger, and his smile turned devilish. “It’s not a smear when it’s true. I’ve done my opposition research. Vernon has a long history of shady behavior. He underpays his employees. Subjects them to poor working conditions and refuses to offer them the barest of benefits. Heck, I’ve heard tell of his carnies passing out in broad daylight from dehydration. And that’s before we get into the unsanitary conditions in the snack carts inside his circus or the inhumane treatment of the animals in his care. Tell me, how is someone who can’t be trusted to take care of his own be entrusted with the care of hundreds of thousands?”

  Dean smirked. “It seems to me there’s a fine line between blackmail and opposition research, Congressman.”

  This time Bumblefoot’s smile was genuine. “The difference, Detective, beyond the information being damaging but not salacious, is that I’m not demanding payment in exchange for my silence. On the contrary, I plan to bring up all the above and more when Vernon and I debate before a live audience in a month’s time.”

  And right there, Bumblefoot admitted it. The same thing I’d said to Dean—that if he had dirt on Vernon, he’d be happy to lay it in the open for others to gaze upon. I didn’t put it above the man to use pornographic photos of his opponent’s wife to win a campaign, but if he had them, he wouldn’t be hiding them.

  Still, there were a few questions yet to be answered. “So for the record, you have no knowledge of any blackmail attempts against JT Vernon?”

  Bumblefoot’s brow furrowed, and some of the disdain returned. “I already stated I don’t.”

  “You haven’t been approached by a third party looking to sell you blackmail on Vernon?”

  The furrows deepened. “Absolutely not.”

  “And I don’t suppose you know anything about the movements of Stella Vernon two nights ago?”

  “Stella Vernon?” said Bumblefoot. “Vernon’s wife? Why on earth would I?”

  I looked to Dean for guidance, seeing as I didn’t know how far to take it. He kept his attention on Bumblefoot as he spoke. “We wouldn’t expect you to, Congressman, but seeing as she’s been murdered, we had to ask.”

  Bumblefoot’s eyes opened wide. “Murdered?”

  “Yes,” said Dean. “I’m a homicide detective. Did I fail to mention that?”

  Bumblefoot leaned back in his chair. His mouth hung open in shock, and he blinked a few times. “Murdered…”

  Dean stood. “We won’t take up any more of your time, Congressman. We appreciate your assistance with the investigation. Phair?” He gestured toward the exit.

  I took the hint and headed out. As we reached the hall, I gave Dean a prod. “Do you always do that?”

  “Do what?” he said.

  “Drop a bomb on people and walk out. That’s practically a war crime.”

  Dean snorted and smiled. “It’s called knowing how to make an exit. But in all seriousness, no. It was obvious from Bumblefoot’s reaction that the news caught him by surprise. Despite all the practice they get at lying, politicians aren’t any better at dealing with shock than anyone else. Given we have no reason to suspect his involvement with Stella’s murder, I didn’t think it was necessary to question him any further.”

  “Hopefully you don’t think I went too far,” I said. “Asking him about Stella Vernon, I mean.”

  “On the contrary,” said Dean. “I would’ve asked if you hadn’t. Her murder and the blackmail are likely intertwined. It only makes sense to investigate them together. Overall, you did great.”

  “Really?” If I was being honest, I felt as if I’d done a good job, but given my inexperience, I wasn’t the best judge of my own work.

  “Trust me, I would’ve stepped in if I felt like you were cocking up the investigation,” said Dean, “just as I would’ve spoken up if there was anything I thought you missed. If anything, you might’ve done too good of a job.”

  I knew when I was having smoke blown up my hind quarters, but I played along. “There is such a thing?”

  Dean’s smile spread. “Not really, but it means you might have to do it more often going forward. Hopefully that won’t be a problem.”

  I snorted and shook my head. As little as half an hour ago, it might’ve been, but now? The prospect didn’t seem particularly intimidating.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I strolled the Vernon and Daly Circus between the whitewashed fence and some of the painted green trailers that served as homes and storage for the carnies. We’d stopped by the circus on our way back from the offices of Maximillian Bumblefoot, in part to check that Stella Vernon’s car had been towed but mostly because Alton wanted to speak to the overseer again regarding some of the new revelations in the case. De
an told me I could tag along if I liked but that he’d lead the questioning this time seeing as he already had a rapport with the man.

  I’d opted out, choosing instead to take another look around to see if I could catch anything we’d missed the first time. I’d started at the northeast corner of the property because our drive-by of the parking lot from which Stella’s car had been towed reminded me of the hobo’s testimony. He’d told the officers who questioned him that he saw a naked woman run from the lot, cross the street, and scramble over the fence into the circus.

  Honestly, I didn’t know if the testimony could be believed. Even if it could be, there was no reason to think the naked woman had been Stella Vernon, and yet… might not it make sense for it to have been? Alongside Moss, I’d hypothesized that a friend of Stella’s had murdered her, stuffed her in the trunk of her car, driven her to a crematorium, and returned to the circus with her ashes. If Stella were in an intimate relationship with one of the carnies, it might provide a motive. Say, for example, that Stella had been romantically involved with one of Vernon’s employees. Given her drug use and depression, it wouldn’t be too hard to imagine. But Vernon was in the middle of a political campaign, and suddenly pornographic photos of his wife arrive in the mail. Stella might’ve claimed not to remember taking the photos, but what if she did and refused to admit as much to her husband? What if, after being threatened and berated by her husband, she told her paramour that she was ending the relationship, causing him to react poorly? After all, Stella may have been this man’s source of income, either as a sugar momma or via the blackmail. Perhaps upon informing her kept man that their relationship was over, he attacked her and she escaped, running naked into the night, after which the man caught up to her and murdered her.