by Nick Pirog
“Deal. You have a fax?”
I rattled off my fax number and Charles said, “I’m sending you the information packet and autopsy reports the Bangor Police Department forwarded me from the first two murders.”
Sure he was. I would get about a fifth of what the Bangor Police Department sent the FBI. The Feds are an odd bunch. They recruit you to help them out, then go to great lengths to ensure you don’t know jack squat. I’d always hated when the suits came in and stripped a case from me and I inquired, “Who had the baton before it was passed to you idiots?”
He laughed again. Wow, three for three. If only my dates went as well. Charles said, “I talked with the Bangor medical examiner, some lady named Dodds. She was understandably upset when she found out we were stripping the case. We could use a feminine eye and her forensic background will be incomparable, so we decided to keep her on as part of the task force. Part of our new image.”
New image, my ass. I cut to the chase, literally. “When does my flight leave?”
It was raining and my doorman, an old black gent named Hale, and I huddled under the apartment building’s long balustrade. Ten minutes later, Hale had successfully hailed me a cab. I can just picture Hale’s reaction to the results of his job aptitude test when they told him his occupational dreams were limited to doorman or weatherman. Nevertheless, Hale threw my bag in the trunk and wished me a safe trip.
The cabby delivered me to Philadelphia International in less than ten minutes and I rewarded him with a crisp fifty. He seemed quite appreciative and I was wished a safe trip, yet again. The woman at the American Airline’s desk asked to see my driver’s license, handed me a ticket, and I was wished a safe trip for a third time. I checked my back for a sign that read, Going on Unsafe Trip, but it must have fallen off.
I walked to the terminal and handed my ticket to a computer with light brown hair and a large mainframe. The computer directed me through black curtains to a nicely cushioned window seat. Holy fucking hand baskets, the Federal boys shelled out for first-class. If it wasn’t an off day in my rotation, I would have shit my pants.
I’d flown first-class on one other occasion and I remember noticing they kept the best looking flight attendants up here and the gargoyles and gays back in coach. A twenty-something knockout, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes, appeared from thin air and asked if I would enjoy a preflight cocktail.
A preflight cocktail? I never knew such a thing existed. I ordered a whiskey sour and my flight attendant theory placated, I extracted the fax documents from my attaché case.
My drink came and I flirted shamelessly with the stewardess (her name was August but she was born in November, talk about irony), until she broke away to do the preflight announcements. A few minutes later we were in the air and Manhattan was just a postage stamp on a postcard. August jumped on the intercom and informed us we were cruising at an altitude of 31,000 feet. I was going to apprise her I was cruising at 31,000 feet, 8 ½ inches, but I didn’t feel like getting sent to coach.
The flight was only about an hour and fifteen minutes and I needed to get cracking if I were going to know my one-fifth backwards and forwards. I read all twenty fax pages and noticed the autopsy photos were mysteriously MIA. I’d been on the case for all of one hour and twelve minutes and the Feds were already flaking out on me. They probably figured sending me first-class would cancel out their lack of geniality. Dickheads.
The gist of the reports was as follows: two women had been raped, beaten, turned into jigsaw puzzles, and their eyes taken as door prizes. The most intriguing nugget was the first victim, Ingrid Grayer, had been pregnant, and the DNA showed the father was the brother, Tristen Grayer. Tristen was the prime suspect, whom of which the New York Times had dubbed, “The Mainiac.” There was a small write-up on him, which would have been more poignant had it read, “We have no information at this time.”
The plane landed and I walked out into the Bangor International Jetport corridor, realizing I’d left the fax documents in the seat pocket in front of me. Whoops, looks like someone had their leisure reading for the next flight.
There wasn’t much I could do at this juncture, so I bought a book by Michael Crichton called Timeline I’d heard had been made into a bad movie. I found the airport bar, ArrivAle’s, and retreated to a far corner. Fortunately, the bar’s service was better than the bar’s name, and within ninety seconds I had an Irish coffee in front of me and a club sandwich on the way. I read about fifteen pages of the Crichton novel, which I didn’t understand because I was one of the few people on the planet without a Ph.D. in quantum physics, and polished off the club.
I’d just started over on page one when two guys appeared over my left shoulder. They were both clad in dark suits with black ties and I had the eerie feeling I was on the set of Men in Black III.
If I had two words to describe each of the people before me they would be: short & pretty and tall & black. I’d actually worked with tall & black on a couple cases prior to this one, and we hadn’t hated each other, which is a rarity with me. I can be a touch annoying.
I stood up and extended my hand, “How’s it going Glease? Been what, a year and a half?”
Wade Gleason smiled, revealing teeth almost too white, and said, “How can I forget. You lost a hundred dollars to me in a game of one-on-one. My wife wanted to thank you personally for a lovely night on the town. Speaking of which, you and that Jennifer girl ever get hitched?”
“Nope. She left me for a Dalmatian two weeks before the big day.” A lie, but not far off.
It appeared as though Wade had no intention of introducing me to short & pretty and I asked, “Who’s your caddie?”
Wade did a poor job of suppressing a smile and introduced the two of us. Todd Gregory was no taller than five-three and would probably get carded when he tried to vote come this November. I shook Todd’s petite and presumably freshly manicured hand and said, “What’d you do, slip the bouncer a fifty?”
His smile muscles were clearly atrophied, as he made no reaction to my jest and said dryly, “You’re funny, I heard you were funny.”
I looked at Glease and threw him my best “You’ve got to be shitting me, is this guy for real look,” and said, “You’ve got to be shitting me, is this guy for real?”
The three of us settled into a black Caprice, which are only driven by mobsters and FBI agents, and I was disappointed when the driver said his name was Tim and not Fagioli.
I was trying to get a feel for how much involvement I would have in this case and said, “So let me get this chain of command straight. It goes Director Mangrove, then you.” I pointed at Gleason in the front seat. “Then me.” I pointed to myself. “Then Fagioli.” I pointed at the driver. “Then that guy.” I pointed to a bum sleeping on an airport bench. “Then his babysitter.” I pointed at Gregory to my right.
Gregory didn’t laugh and I was beginning to wonder if he was hearing impaired. Gleason said, “Actually it goes him, then me, then you.”
Gregory stared out the window, letting the implications of the news sink in. It was difficult to talk with my black Armani dress shoes touching my tonsils, but I somehow managed, “You mean to tell me this little shit is Special Agent-in-Charge?”
“It’s part of our new image.”
“I can’t believe this sack is SAC. Glease, you’ve been the Denzel of the suits for twenty years and now they got you working for Michael J. Fox’s little brother. How in the hell are you okay with that?”
Gregory turned his gaze from the window and said, “If Wade is Denzel Washington and I’m Michael J. Fox. Then who exactly does that make you?”
I wanted to say, “I’m Brad Pitt you fucking idiot,” but I wasn’t that big of a badass, so I said, “I’m Stephen Baldwin.”
Glease couldn’t contain himself and erupted in laughter. I added to my buddy Todd, “And I said you were Michael J. Fox’s little brother, not Michael J. Fox.”
I spent the next hour and twenty minutes ogling the
continuous landscape called Maine. Red firs, yellow maples, green spruces, orange—you name it. It made every snapshot my eyes had taken in the past seem black and white. When God painted the world, Maine would be the area where he dabbed his brush to rid the excess paint. Layers of greens, swimming with yellows, sleeping on reds, hiding from oranges.
Another thing I noticed was as you move north along the coast, it was as if you were traveling into the past, America circa 1960. (It appears the state of Maine was a couple decades behind its 49 counterparts, well 47, I imagine the Dakotas are much the same.) Electrical cables ran for miles along the country highway and I had the quiet feeling the car was racing the current, and possibly time.
We stopped at what appeared to be a station of sorts and after reflecting back on my conversation with Director Mangrove, “Campobello is Canadian territory,” I deduced it was a border crossing.
See that, one part cocky bastard, two parts astute detective.
I opened the car door and realized how darkly tinted the windows had been. The sky was not overcast, but a perfect cobalt blue. Glease grabbed his attaché case from the trunk and the two of us made our way to the small group congregating near a sign reading, “Roosevelt Bridge.”
There were three people in the group. A short, fat, balding man who’d obviously gotten the short end of the stick. Todd Gregory, who had a stick up his ass. And a blonde bombshell, who looked in desperate need of a stick.
Glease and I nudged our way into the circle and it turned out the bald man was not George Costanza, but a Canadian Mountie named Francis. Francis was wearing a neatly pressed red suit a couple sizes too small and the three hairs left on his scalp had somehow formed themselves into a cowlick. We shook hands and he didn’t say, “Eh,” or “Hoser,” and I was skeptical if he was really Canadian.
The blonde bombshell was more like a blond nuclear bombshell. She was gorgeous, her eyes the same cobalt blue as the sky, set in a soft, angelic face. She had on a white V-neck blouse, a tan blazer, a matching knee length skirt, and black stilettos. She looked like she’d just stepped off Wall Street and I was shocked to learn she was the Fed’s contact at the Bangor Police Department. The delectable Dr. Caitlin Dodds.
We were all introduced and I was hoping Dr. Caitlin was thinking, Dr. Caitlin Prescott, not bad, not bad at all, but she looked more like the type to make me adopt her last name.
There wasn’t much for small talk and after each of us signed a form, we broke huddle and headed back to the cars. I hesitated for a couple seconds, gazing across the Atlantic trying to make out where the thin bridge ended and this so-called island began. There was an ulterior motive for my hesitation, which paid off when I fell into stride behind the good doctor. To say the view was spectacular would be an understatement; her professional skirt unable to shroud the well-maintained, grade-A caboose, housed beneath the fabric.
Thomas Dodds, I could deal with that.
No one was allowed at the crime scene until the Feds arrived, which is a terribly stupid policy and everyone was pissed off. Well except the Feds. And me. And Francis, the quasi-Canadian Mountie, didn’t seem all that upset. So, I guess that left Caitlin. Dr. Caitlin Dodds was pissed off.
I made a point to get in the same car as Dr. Dodds who greeted me with a grunt when I had her slide over in the backseat. No one else filed in, and within ten seconds it was clear why; Dr. Caitlin Dodds was a monstrous bitch.
The car started onto the bridge and after staring at me for a couple awkward seconds, the doctress barked, “What? Your suit get lost at the cleaners?”
I’ve always had the uncanny ability to give off the impression I’m lying whenever I’m telling the truth, and vice versa, so I said, “I’m not FBI.”
“Yeah right, you’re not FBI like I’m not on my fricking period.” She rummaged through her purse and extracted what I can only assume was a tampon.
I attempted to roll out of the car and plunge myself into the Atlantic, but my door wouldn’t open. Blasted federal perks. I turned around and saw what I’d thought was a tampon was in actuality a pack of Mentos. Now, there would be a good commercial—The Freshmaker.
After popping a Mentos—she neglected to offer me one—Dr. Dodds unbuttoned her blazer and revealed she’d been concealing three deadly weapons. While all were respective thirty-eights and all were equally special, only one was a Smith & Wesson.
I made my way up the eighteen inches to her eyes and she said, “Sorry, I’ll try to de-bitch. I’m just a little wound up right now. I thought these killings were over, then this morning I get word they found another woman. Then to top it off, they tell me I’m not allowed to do anything because she was found in Canada and the case was being turned over to you imbeciles.”
I liked this girl, she hated the Feds almost as much as I did. I cocked my head at the car speeding alongside ours and said, “You mean those imbeciles.”
Caitlin sat quietly, no doubt trying to get a read on the asshole, with the lavender shirt and tan tweed jacket sitting beside her. Finally she asked, “What are you?”
I repositioned myself on the black leather, “I’m the government’s idea of a safety net.”
“Safety net? Please explain.”
“If I break this case my name is never mentioned and the FBI gets another slot on the bedpost. However, if the case breaks them, my name shows up all over the place and I get slaughtered on the bedpost.”
She began buttoning her blazer and said, “It’s notch on the bedpost, not slot on the bedpost. Maybe you would have gotten it right if you hadn’t been using my tits as a teleprompter.”
I knew I’d stared at them one second too long. “Sorry, won’t happen again. But, you have to admit, it’s one hell of a teleprompter.”
She tried to look offended but it’s hard when the sides of your mouth are turned up in a grin. I guess she thought it was in her best interest to change the subject and said, “Why’d you agree to come up here if you knew this in the first place?”
Making a concerted effort not to let my eyes drift to her boobies, I said, “I could care less if they pin all the blame on me. Hell, I’d take the blame for the JFK assassination if it’d keep these FBI types from bringing it up after one Sex on the Beach. I’m here for one reason, and one reason only—I kill killers.”
I think the last three words hit deep because she turned her gaze to the window. A suffering thirty seconds passed, each rivet in the bridge rumbling louder than the last, when Caitlin turned and said, “Let me get this straight. You had drinks with an FBI guy and he ordered a Sex on the Beach. What a bunch of pansies.”
Be still my heart.
Chapter 4
I finished off the bottom third of a now warm beer and lifted my one hundred sixty pound frame from the captain’s chair. I still hadn’t regained the weight I’d lost and I could actually see the egg salad and bologna vying for position at the gates to my large intestine.
I cranked the steering wheel to the left as I approached the Bayside Harbor, making sure to stay clear of the large ten foot tires deviating the marina entrance. Funny story, about two months ago I’d taken to high seas, making sure to pack enough food and beer to last a week (just in case I repeated my Maine Catch disaster.) But you know what, sailing is boring. Let me rephrase that, sailing looks like a blast, not-sailing, the term I came up with for what I do on the water, is boring. Next thing I knew, a week’s supply of food and drink were gone, I was five pounds heavier, and drunk as a skunk.
When I woke up, I was naked except for a pair of socks, which still baffles me because I started the day in bare feet and sandals, and my boat was in the middle of a marsh swamp. Lucky for me, some acne-faced fifteen-year-old was fishing nearby and agreed to sail the boat back to the Bayside Harbor if I gave him a cool hundred up front. When we were about a hundred yards from the harbor, the little shit had the balls to ask me for another hundred. I told him to go jump off a bridge, whereby, he jumped off the boat.
Long story short, I cu
t a check for two grand to the owner of a 22-foot Whaler. After the quote, “Whaler incident,” it’d been common practice for the local kids to line up on the pier each Saturday waiting for my boat to enter the marina. The kids would dive in the water and try to be the first to climb aboard, thus receiving a crisp five dollar bill from the marina manager on the successful dockage of my vessel.
As I passed through the tire entrance roughly at three miles per hour, I made out close to fifteen kids meandering on the small wooden pier. There was one runt who I rooted for each time whose name was Kellon. He was a foot smaller than the other boys and looked like he still belonged on his momma’s tit.
Kellon was the only one to notice my boat penetrate the harbor and stealthily entered the water. He had about a twenty second head start before any of the other kids took notice and dove in. He was within ten feet, splashing up so much water he was hardly visible, when he was overtaken by a couple of the elder boys.
I ran to the edge of the boat and shouted, “Come on Kellon. Come on buddy. You can do it. Show these kids who owns this friggin’ town.”
The elders were pulling themselves over the side when they kept accidentally falling back in. When Kellon finally reached the hull, I leaned over the edge and snatched him from the surf. Then I stood him on the railing and whispered in his ear, “Tell the big kids who owns this town.”
He took a deep breath and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Kellon owes dis fwiggin’ town.”
Now, I didn’t like kids much, but if I said I wasn’t looking for a place to stow him, I’d be lying. He was about three beer bottles tall, with brown eyes the size of a half dollar, and missing his four front teeth. With him on the railing, I was only a couple inches taller than him and before I knew it, the guy was wrapped around my neck like a koala.
