To Find a Killer

by Charlie Vogel

  Why did I dislike this man? Did it start when he didn’t want Eileen to marry me? Or five years later when he sneered his hatred for my middle-class family? He actually hired a security agency to pry into my background when I wouldn’t satisfy his demanding questions. He found my past dull, uneventful, ordinary.

  I forced my attention back to the present and his grief-filled eyes. I had held back my own tears for most of the ceremony, determined to nurture my pain my own way. However, my choked words gave more than I wanted to him. “Henry, I will never forgive myself for letting her die.”

  His mouth moved as he tried to form a suitable sentence. He turned to his chauffeur, almost as if reaching for some support. Then his back stiffened and he swung back, his face controlled. “Robert, she had been my little girl for forty years. I have lost everything precious to me. Money will not bring her back. I know that. But, at least I can make your future miserable here in Pecatonica.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Why-why did you take her to a-a convenience store? And, of all places, in a lower class neighborhood?”

  Heat rose into my face. An involuntary surge of tears slipped down my cheeks. “Damn you, Henry! I did not kill her. You can’t blame the shooting itself on me! Whatever you do with your goddamn money, you will never make me more miserable than I am right now!”

  “Robert, calm . . . down. I didn’t say you killed her. But you can’t deny you placed her outside her environment, in a store more suited to-to people like . . . servants.” He trembled with the effort to control himself.

  Servants, huh? People like me? A barely tolerated Robert. He couldn’t call me Bob, like everyone else did. Bob. A simple name, spelled the same forward and backward. No, here he stands forcing himself to be polite, even when he’s being an asshole.

  “Henry, I don’t know exactly what happened, but you can bank on this . . . I’m going to find out the reason she died.”

  My father-in-law’s pointed chin rose. “Charles, please bring my car around.”

  Chucky stepped away in military fashion before Henry deigned to speak to me again. “Although it may be uncomfortable for both of us, I do hope we see each other more often. Why? For the sake of Eileen’s . . . memory. It is sad that it took the death . . . of my daughter to bring us here, to stand side by side and . . . converse even this limited amount. The last time was when you arrived at my door twenty some years ago, I believe.

  “I remember at my beloved Veronica’s funeral that I first met her aunt, a woman born into the family out of wedlock. Now, we get together at least twice a year. Maybe funerals are meant to bring the living closer together. Do you think so, Robert?”

  I barely heard him. My mind began working on a startling observation. Eileen had not looked anything like her mother or this man before me. Actually, her features had resembled . . . Chucky’s.

  “Robert?”

  “I . . . guess you could say that. If you don’t mind, would you leave me with Eileen for a few minutes?”

  “Of course. We can talk later at the luncheon. Speaking of which, why did you decide to have it in a church basement? My home would have been more adequate.”

  I only shrugged in reply. He cocked an indignant eyebrow at my rudeness then walked stiffly toward his limousine, alone. I waited until the door closed on him before sitting on one of the grave side chairs. The flower-strewn casket filled my senses. Eileen had always liked plenty of room, whether it was in her large cars or our spacious home. Now, she had been shoved into a small box, an expensive shell, a confined space she probably hated.

  A gentle hand on my shoulder brought me to my feet. My brother Donald led me away. As I walked I felt like I had forgotten something. I had to go back and tell Eileen something. My blurred vision forced me to lower my chin onto my chest. I didn’t want anybody to see me cry.

  Donald opened the door to his family station wagon. His wife and two teenaged daughters had left with an aunt from who knew where. Everyone was to meet at the church for all that family exchange of feelings and memories. I asked Donald to take me home.

  I walked past the Ferrari, still in front of the closed garage doors. I hadn’t called about Eileen’s Cadillac. As I unlocked the front door, I thought of selling it and the Ferrari, too, simply because I never wanted to drive either car again. Why not sell everything, the furniture, the house, anything that reminded me of Eileen? I dropped into a living room chair, my head tilted back as I pondered that cloudy future.

  A few minutes later, Donald placed a steaming “Old Fart” mug of coffee on the glass table before me. I stared a moment. Eileen would never allow anyone to drink or eat over the white furniture and carpet in that room.

  Carefully I picked up the mug and rose with “Let’s go out on the patio.”

  He nodded his bald head, being just as careful with his mug. One finger nervously toyed with his mustache. “I’ll be right there after I make a phone call.”

  “Don’t spill anything on the carpet and tell Bonnie to put a double fudge brownie in a doggy bag for me.”

  “Will do,” he replied with a grunt.

  The sliding glass doors opened soundlessly. I walked across the flagstones, my heels clicking too loudly. A discarded towel, rained on twice in the past week, allowed me to wipe dust from a lounge chair. I savored Donald’s coffee then leaned back. My older brother always seemed to know how to be the friend I needed, not too nosy, not too judgmental, just there. He stayed in Chicago after college and even raised a family in the same house we had grown up in.

  By the time I drained my mug, Donald had joined me. Immediately he removed his dark jacket and loosened his tie. His gaze swept the tiled pool and landscaped grounds as he lit up a cigarette. “Want one?”

  “Nope.”

  “More coffee?”

  “Nope.”

  Finally, he sat down and studied me. “So . . . how’s teaching?”

  “About as boring as sitting in an office selling imports from China.”

  “Well, little brother, my import business brings in a good income. It helped you get through school and it’s going to get my kids through college, too. I’m not tired of it, but you sound tired.”

  “Yup. I’m calling the school tomorrow and quitting.”

  “Bullshit! You can’t give up your career!”

  “Why? I’m financially set. I don’t owe money on one damn thing. I’ll sell all this and get a smaller place. I’ll even get a car like one of yours, only not as big. Maybe something like an Escort.”

  “Oh, right. Why do you want to give up teaching?”

  “You said it. I’m tired of teaching art. It takes up too much time. I . . . I want to be creative, to produce something of my own. I want to return to painting. Yeah, painting. Kids don’t appreciate the feeling of creativity. They take the class thinking it’s an easy course and they need the credits. But . . . most important, Eileen wanted me to quit teaching.”

  “Ah.” He drew on his cigarette, concentrating on the exhaled smoke. “For what it’s worth, I think you are going through a phase of adjustment. With Eileen gone, you’re giving up. You need a little rest. Get away to a cabin. Do some fishing. But don’t—” He stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe. “Give up your career and your home. You spent a lot of time and money on what you have here.”

  “What money? I didn’t spend one dime for any of this. It’s all Eileen’s. And what the hell is time? Time isn’t something I value. Time is such an abstraction in life.” I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, my hands clenched. “Look . . . How can I explain this? Eileen was all I had. Now that she’s gone, I have only one thing, one purpose. I will have the man who killed her.” I clenched my jaw. “Since time has no importance, I can hunt for him quietly.”

  “You-You’re talking nonsense. Let the police handle this. They don’t need you butting in. Dammit, I don’t want you meddling. I remember that time in high school you didn’t think the principal cared who stole your
coat. You shot off your mouth at the school board meeting and almost got the man fired!”

  “He deserved it. I never got my goddamn coat back, did I? But you know this is different, Donald. This was Eileen’s life. It deserves to be avenged. There has to be a way to find this murderer. This city isn’t half the size of Chicago. If I roam around down by the tracks, I might find something. I know there’s a lot of criminals types living around the downtown area and the railroad—”

  Donald held up a hand. “Wait a minute! How do you know where the crooks live? Have you ever been in that section of town?”

  “I’ve driven through there several times in twenty-five years of living here. I’ve seen the shoddy bars and hotels. I’m sure that’s where the scum would hang out.”

  “Bob, listen! Stay out of places you don’t belong! Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you, brother, but I’m not listening! I’ve made up my mind. I will live like scum . . . if that’s what it takes. I will search every crack in this city until I find the killer. No one . . . not you . . . not my illustrious father-in-law . . . not the police . . . will stop me. I’ve thought it out. In the morning I’m going to visit Harry at the Stop-and-Go. He gets a lot of characters in his store. I have a feeling he can point me in the right direction.”

  “You mean the wrong direction. Wait, before you say anything more . . . how are you going to handle the estate you will leave behind?”

  “You have that little faith in me, huh? Well, smart ass, another call I’m making tomorrow is to my attorney so I can put you in charge of everything. You will sell it all, pay whatever bills come and bank the remainder in an interest-baring checking account. I’ll live off that interest. Low-rent housing, a few crumby clothes, my paints and canvas, an occasional meal . . . I’ll survive nicely . . . until I find the bastard.”

  We stared into one another’s eyes until determination overcame reluctance. Donald shook his head and stood with his hand extended. I clasped it warmly. It felt good. “You do that, Bob. Yes, sir. You do that. I have to pick up Bonnie and the kids. That four hundred and fifty mile drive home will be a long one.”

  “Today? You’re driving to Chicago right away?”

  “We’ll probably stop in Des Moines for the night. What’s the problem?”

  “But we have work to do. I thought you would stay long enough to get things started tomorrow.”

  “Well, you thought wrong. Maybe you can react spontaneously, little brother, but I have a business to run. I’m not doing all your goddamn work while you lay around a shit hole and play cop. You forgot how the family calls me ‘the responsible one.’ As soon as you get your affairs ready, have your attorney call me. I’ll oversee the damn bank account so you don’t starve . . . but that’s all I’m going to do for you.”

  Chapter 3

  The piercing ring of the phone bounced around the dead cells of my brain. I knew I had screwed up when I switched to Scotch after drinking only beer for several hours. Reaching over the sheet covering my face, I felt for the curved plastic of the receiver and finally found it near the end of the sofa. The cotton shield slid away and the blinding sun hit my burning eyes. “Hello!” I loudly cleared my scratchy throat.

  “Mr. Norris?”

  “Yeah, you found me.”

  “This is Maggie Holmes at Bison Insurance. Your late wife’s secretary?”

  The memory neurons slowly clicked into place. I coughed and attempted some dignity. “Oh, yes, Maggie. You were at the funeral. I-I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk to you. I was sort of . . . pre-occupied.”

  “Yes, Mr. Norris, I understand. But there is something important I have to tell you. Very important. May we meet for lunch today? Or tomorrow . . . at the latest.”

  I tried to think through the items on my own all-important agenda. “What time is it anyway?”

  “Oh! Oh, I must have awakened you. I’m so sorry. It’s nine o’clock.”

  Sitting up with the sheet bunched across my lap, I felt a chunk of acid bile traveling up my throat. Hm, the Italian sausage I washed down with the Scotch? The image of lunch made me swallow several times without success. “How about dinner? Tonight at seven. Carlo’s. No! I-I had Italian last night.” The sausage spiraled up further. “Any quick suggestion?”

  “How about seven at Merrill’s? They have steaks. I could make reservations—”

  “Great. Thanks. Tonight.” I fumbled the receiver and dashed for the bathroom.

  Several long minutes later, I sucked a piece of strawberry hard candy to camouflage the taste of reprocessed stomach contents. The cold, wet cloth I held to my forehead helped my headache just enough for me to think.

  With a couple of ice cubes nestled in the washcloth, I spent the next hour on the phone with Winters, my attorney. Henry paid the man a monthly salary. Assumed the man still represented the entire family, I didn’t mention a bill. Anyway, he never brought up payment for his services. In fact, his voice sounded almost bored with my list of directives. Papers rustled in the background just before he crisply informed me a well-qualified financial advisor and a reputable real estate company would be notified. Of course, I would have legal papers to sign before finalizing any transactions. His office could notify me or I would have to call from time to time. His lack of enthusiasm made me think of Henry. I told him I would be in touch on a regular basis and enjoyed slamming the phone in his arrogant ear.

  The casual old jeans felt comfortable, but not as right as the “Grateful Dead” T-shirt I slipped on. My gaze settled on the box in the bottom of the closet containing the Nike’s Eileen had hated, so I had never worn. I jerked the shoes on, deciding a run would clear my head. Exercise was good for a hang-over, at least for any hang-over I ever had. And I had to get my thoughts in order, to gain perspective and plan.

  Jogging in the direction of Harry’s distant Stop-and-Go, I realized it had been a year or more since I last ran. Within one block, stiff leg muscles protested. Once upon a time six miles had been nothing. Now, two miles looked questionable. I should have called to see if Harry was even at the store. But he always seems to be there. There? I almost stumbled. Why was I going back to where Eileen died? To make myself suffer? No, I have to talk to Harry. Something about Harry is important.

  I passed Judge Jerry Williams working in his lawn. Everyone in the neighborhood hired a lawn service, except a guy who could most afford it. Retired from the bench for ten years, he still enjoyed landscape gardening in that yard.

  Out of breath, I stopped. Sausage and booze mingled in my involuntary belch. Maybe the old guy wouldn’t notice. “Hi, Jerry! How’s it going?”

  Williams looked up then shifted and awkwardly rose from his knees. A piece of sod dropped from one wrinkled hand as he cocked his head to look at me. His eyes squinted then adjusted behind his thick trifocals. A smile of recognition parted his sun-dried lips. “Well, Bob! How are you doing? Ah, you look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I’m just not . . . used to jogging. Thought I’d start up again.”

  “That’s nice. A young man like you should be in good shape. Can’t wallow in sorrow . . . I mean, I am sorry about your wife. Wished I had met her before . . . Ah, she did look beautiful at the funeral. Of course, they always do . . . Bob, are you sure you aren’t getting sick? Maybe it’s the sun. Would you like a glass of water?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Jerry. I think I’ll take you up on the offer.”

  “Come on up to the patio. It’s shady and much cooler. The sun gets to me too, you know.”

  I leaned back into his ornate metal lawn chair, eyes closed, trying to control my body and my thoughts. The old man returned with two tall glasses of lemonade. He settled in a chair across the table, studying me with a smile. “You put away a lot of snake bite last night, eh?”

  The lemonade went down wrong. I coughed. “How did you guess?”

  “Did the same thing when my wife died a few years back. I spent three days drowning myself in the bott
om of cheap wine bottles. I can smell it sweating out of you. There’s something in that glass that should make you feel better.”

  “Lemonade?”

  “And a little gin. Not enough to make things worse, just enough to relax . . . ah, those shaky muscles of yours. We used to add a little gin to the punch when I was young, just enough to relax the girls or, rather, weaken their resistance.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded with an understanding smile of my own, “I can see how that would help.” A large gulp of the biting sweetness slid down easily. The soothing effects settled in my stomach and soon radiated into my body. By the end of the lemonade, I was feeling much better. I didn’t notice the pitcher on the table until the judge refilled my glass.

  “Thanks, Jerry, but this has to be my last. I-I didn’t stop by to commiserate . . . exactly. I want to sort of ask a favor.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Do you still have those emergency keys to my house?”

  “Yes. Do you want them back?”

  “No-No. On that ring is an extra key for the Ferrari. It’s been parked in my drive since . . . Would you mind putting it in the garage and kind of keeping an eye on the house for me?”

  “No problem.” He settled back in his chair, frowning, his fingers tapping his glass. “Are you leaving?”

  “For a bit, but I will keep in touch, ah, call you to check on things. Which reminds me. Can I use your phone?”

  “Sure.” He pulled a cordless phone from inside his unfashionable bib overalls.

  I dialed the Stop-and-Go, hoping to hear a familiar voice.

  I wasn’t disappointed. “Hi, Harry. This is Bob Norris. If you’re going to be there for a bit, I need to talk to you.”

  “You caught me on my way out the door. I’m starting at a different place. I-I can’t work here. You know. I kinda hurt every time I even look at the spot where your wife . . . Well, I got transferred to a store closer to my apartment.”