by E. Z. Rinsky
“Yakitori?”
I roll my eyes.
“Forget it.”
Courtney leans his head back.
“So far we’ve gotten some pretty unreliable eyewitness accounts . . . Everyone seems to have some skin in this game—” Courtney immediately winces at his poor choice of words. “But there are one or two other people who have talked to Oliver, who we haven’t spoken to yet.”
“Who?”
“The people from the restaurant in Colorado Springs where he called the police on himself.”
“That was twenty years ago . . .”
“Yeah,” says Courtney, “but it sounds like he was kind of a regular there. Maybe we track down some people who used to work there and interact with him. Especially that waitress. Maybe she can help us understand who this guy is . . . his motivation.”
He types a few things into his phone.
“It’s about seventy minutes south of here. We can be there by three.”
I raise a skeptical eyebrow.
“That’s a time suck. We only have two more days before Sampson drops the hammer on us. Think it’s worth it?”
Courtney clicks his tongue.
“I don’t like how little we know.”
I nod. Every case or job has elements of uncertainty. You learn to live with not knowing all the answers, maybe even long after the job is done. If you let yourself get frustrated and caught up in the myriad pieces that seem like they’re not even made of the same material as the rest of the puzzle, then you’ll never get anywhere. You develop an intuition that tells you which threads to follow; which ones will eventually lead you to the end, and which lead nowhere.
This feels different though. Even though I’ve been off the job a few years, I don’t think I feel this way because I’m out of practice. Rather . . . it’s not like a hard backgammon position, where you’re simply not smart or practiced enough to solve it . . . more like being shown a position of a board game from some alien planet. Can’t even tell which bits are the pieces, which bits are the board, or if it’s even a board game at all.
“Ninety-nine percent of murders, no matter how gruesome they are, or how mentally ill the criminal is, are motivated by one of three very simple emotions,” Courtney says. “Love, fear or shame.”
“What about hate?” I ask. “What about greed?”
“Ah.” Courtney smiles knowingly. “Common misconceptions. Hate and greed are secondary emotions that develop as a result of one of the other three. You hate someone because you love them and can’t have them, or because you’re scared of them, or they’ve made you feel ashamed. But you don’t just hate. And greed is usually motivated by shame. You want something because you feel inadequate.”
I mull this. Love, fear, shame.
“So which one are we dealing with here?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Courtney says. “That’s the problem. We don’t understand why he did what he did, so we don’t understand what or who we’re looking for. We don’t understand the books, and we certainly don’t understand the man who created them. So let’s go see the place where this started. Where Oliver Vicks sat and started writing. One thing we do know: The man is intimately attuned to his physical surroundings. If he chose this place to begin the execution of a twenty-year plan, he probably had a very good reason.”
Architecturally, the Rocky Mountain Bar and Grill is about as unimpressive as it gets. Squat one-story building that looks like someone just stirred some generic building materials together and poured them into giant cookie-cutter mold. Only the green lettering and little mountain logo out front tells you it’s not a chain restaurant like IHOP or Ruby Tuesday. We’re one of three cars in a parking lot that could fit forty. It’s midafternoon, not exactly peak hours, but still I’d be shocked if this place ever fills up.
We leave the windows down—the small-town vibe makes you feel like you can do that—and trot over the hot pavement to the entrance. In addition to steps, they have a ramp for wheelchairs leading up to the front door.
Maybe they have a lot of elderly customers?
There’s a little rug to wipe your feet on, and the rest of the floor is white tile that perhaps sparkled sometime in the early seventies, but has been worn brown by years of repeated muddying and subsequent cleaning cycles. There’s a long bar, and maybe fifteen empty bar stools with green upholstery in varying states of ruin. The vibe they’re going for is family-friendly. They have some bottles of booze behind the bar, but I get the sense they’re rarely used. Smells like fried food and Windex.
There’s a man behind the bar whose broad tie-dye-clad back is to us. Doesn’t seem to have heard us come in. We stand in the entrance waiting for him to turn around and seat us. I clear my throat. Nothing. Courtney says:
“Excuse me? Sir?”
We’re answered by a round, tired-looking woman emerging from two saloon-style swinging doors on the far side of the restaurant.
“Kitchen’s closed till five, sweeties,” she says. “Sorry.”
The man looks back at her, still apparently unaware we’re here. She makes an elaborate hand gesture to him. He turns and sees us for the first time, points apologetically to his ear.
Deaf.
Courtney responds by signing something to him, and a broad grin instantly spreads over the man’s scruffy face. Beaming, he then turns back to the woman and paints some words in the air.
“If you two want to stay for coffee though, you’re welcome. On the house,” she says. “Not too often my husband finds someone new to chat with.”
Courtney and I oblige, sitting down at the bar. Him and the now-giddy barman already appear deep in manual conversation.
“Two coffees?” she asks. “Milk and sugar?”
“Actually,” Courtney says, turning to her, “Could I trouble you for a tea?” His face is creased, horribly apologetic, like he’s demanding she name her first son after him.
“Of course.”
I sit there with a stupid, uncomfortable smirk on my face while Courtney and the deaf barman commune.
“What’s he saying? And how do you know sign language?” I ask. Courtney waves me off and doesn’t answer.
“Fine,” I say. Pick up a menu next to me on the counter to keep myself occupied. Pretty standard American fare: grilled meats and fried starches. Only outstanding feature of the laminated menus is that they have each item written out in Braille beneath the English. Wheelchair ramp, Braille, guess because he’s deaf they’re sensitive to disabilities here. I think of the raised Braille-like writing in the books.
Wonder if Oliver was inspired by this?
“Courtney,” I say, “check it out.”
My partner holds up an apologetic index finger to the barman and turns to me.
“Frank, make yourself useful. I’ll speak to him, you speak to her. And try to look around.”
The matronly waitress returns with two mugs, both emblazoned with the same green mountain logo.
“Just let me know if you want refills.”
“Thanks.” I smile.
“Pleasure,” she says. She’s probably late fifties, face creased. Her arms and hands are thick and strong. Beneath her green, standard-issue canvas waitress skirt, I see bulbous calves, terminating in a pair of expensive running shoes. I guess if there’s one thing worth investing in as a waitress, it’s shoes. The skin on her face is splotchy and uneven.
“Ma’am,” I say, as she’s turning back to the kitchen, Courtney still occupied with her husband. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you been working here?”
She smiles sadly.
“Since the start, dear. It’s a family business. We own it.”
I proceed as if conducting verbal surgery.
“So then . . . you were here around twenty years ago?”
Her face darkens suddenly. She realizes what this is about.
“I was.”
“So the two of us, we’re private investigators. Would you mind if I asked y
ou a few questions about Oliver Vicks?”
Her face goes rigid, and she snaps her fingers to get her husband’s attention. They have a furious exchange; it’s like their hands are playing some incredibly complex invisible musical instruments. By reading their body language and guessing, she isn’t super enthusiastic about answering any questions, while he’s a little more laid-back, maybe asking her what harm it will do.
Courtney intervenes with a raised hand and silently chimes in. Whatever he says seems to have quite an effect on both of them. They both nod, wide-eyed while he gesticulates. Finally she says to me:
“It’s true? He just walked right out the front of the prison?”
I glance at Courtney, who shoots me a look like I had to. I get it. Sometimes to get people to confide in you, you have to make the first concession.
“Yes,” I answer, leading her to a booth where we can talk without Courtney and her husband. Who knows how fluent Courtney’s sign language is—I want to get as much as I can from her in good old English. To my great relief, she sits down across from me.
“So he’s going to hurt more people, you think?” she asks me, voice surprisingly tender for someone whose exterior looks so well worn. A decaying jar filled with fresh honey.
“He already has, I’m afraid.”
“Dios mío . . .” Her head hangs mournfully. “Well. I doubt I can help you. But I’m happy to try.”
“You were here sometimes, when he was here?” I ask.
She nods.
“What was he like? How did he behave when he was here?”
She sits back in the booth.
“Pretty quiet. Just sat here, in that booth there—” She points to a booth closer to the kitchen. “Five hours every evening. During Becky’s shift. Started at five on the dot, ended at ten. Ate something first, usually steak and French fries. He loved French fries. Then he drew in his notebooks. He was very exact. He arranged all his tools carefully before he started working. He didn’t talk to me much. Didn’t have much interest. But he talked to the girl, you know. Becky.”
“What did they talk about?”
“It was mostly him doing the talking, to be honest. Weird stuff, the bits I overheard. I always thought he was trying to impress her by sounding smart or something. But I guess it worked.”
“She was impressed by him?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Did they ever meet outside of here you think?”
She looks at her nails.
“I don’t think so.”
This woman has a lot to say, but needs to be asked the right questions.
“Who started coming here first? Oliver or Becky?”
Elaine thinks for a moment.
“Oliver, I think.”
“So what did he do before Becky had shifts here? He still came at the same time? Or that started only once Becky was hired?”
Elaine rubs her wrist.
“I can’t be sure, but . . . I think maybe he only started coming a lot once Becky was hired.”
“And the drawing? He did that all along? Or only once he met Becky?”
Elaine frowns. She’s never been asked this before.
“You know . . .” She exhales. “Yeah. I remember I waited on him a few times. And so that must have been before Becky came. And he wasn’t working. You’re right. He started this stuff once I hired Becky. It’s all my fault, in a way. If I’d never hired her, you know . . .”
Her eyes mist over and she makes a steeple with her rough hands.
“So just to confirm,” I say softly, “he started coming a lot, daily, only once Becky started having daily shifts?”
Elaine nods uncertainly.
“Pretty sure.”
“What does he look like?” I ask, realizing the only picture we have is the grainy photo that was in the paper, and a mug shot when he was processed.
“Average height, dark hair, thin . . . the thing I remember most is his eyes. The centers seemed too dark, and the whites too white.” She shudders. “It’s like they were made of bright plastic. You couldn’t miss those eyes.”
“You said he was drawing?” I ask. “Did you ever catch a glimpse?”
“Couple times I looked as I walked past. Just looked like lines and colors. I knew something was wrong just from that,” she says seriously. “Who just sits there every day and draws lines?”
I force a smile and nod that I hope engender empathy.
“You were here that night?” I ask.
She nods reluctantly.
“So then you must be . . .” I consult my notepad. “Elaine Rodriguez?” When she flinches, I try to reassure her: “I read the Gazette article you were quoted in.”
She crosses her arms as if it’s cold in here. But in fact the AC is doing little to counteract the greenhouse effect from the big glass windows.
“Yes. That’s me.”
“So . . . that night?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m pleading.
“I already told everything to the cops,” she says. “He asked for Becky. I went back outside where she was and told her not to go talk to him. I could feel something nasty in the air. But I guess it wouldn’t have made much of a difference anyways . . .” She looks out the window, over my shoulder, like to avoid eye contact while she talks. “I didn’t hear everything he said. But he showed that screwdriver and said he, you know, told her what he’d done . . . After that I don’t remember a whole lot. The sirens and lights. They took him away.”
“What about Becky?” I ask. “Did she keep working here?”
Elaine shakes her head adamantly.
“Oh no no. Once it was time to talk about that, she said she couldn’t come back to this place again. And I understood, of course.”
“Do you think Oliver wanted Becky? You know, sexually?” I ask.
Elaine shrugs.
“Probably. She was a beautiful girl. I figure to myself, you know, that’s probably why he killed them. Some sick try to get her attention, you know? These head-cases think stuff like that will work.”
“Did he ever say anything like that though? Did you ever see him really proposition her? Maybe she rejected him and he was upset or something?”
“No . . . nothing like that really . . .” Elaine says.
“Then why do you think that was his motivation? If you never saw any evidence?” I’m badgering her a little. It’s a risky maneuver, could make her clam up, but gotta break some eggs . . .
“I . . . Well, I can’t be sure, but there was one thing he said I think. I can’t remember when it was. That night or not, or if I just made it up . . . he said something about her being his queen.”
“His queen?” I ask.
Elaine nods.
“Yes.”
I bite my lip.
“Anything else you might remember?”
“He said . . .” She squints, like the cloudy memory is hovering in front of her face. “Well, she was always curious about what he was drawing in his books too. And I think he said that night . . . he said she’d be his queen and he’d show her what was in the books.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“So, when would this happen? When would she be his ‘queen’ and he’d show her what was in the books?”
Important not to feed her the answer and tamper with her memory . . . Want her to say it.
Elaine frowns, like she’s confused herself.
“I guess . . . Well I guess he meant after prison. Because he knew the police were coming then.”
Although this was the answer I was expecting, it also makes my head feel light.
But surely he knew that he’d be getting a life sentence, for multiple premeditated homicides. Which means that, if she’s remembering correctly, he’d already planned his escape from prison. Sixteen years before.
I lower my head into my palms.
“How is that possible?” I groan loud enough to distract Courtney from his own silent conversation. He looks over at me from his bar stool like, everythin
g okay? I wave him off: Don’t interrupt this.
“Elaine,” I say, massaging my temples. “This might sound like an insensitive question, in light of everything, but I’m only asking it because I want to understand the situation. You said before that you warned Becky not to speak to Oliver, but she did anyway. Do you think the attraction was mutual? Do you think she also liked him?”
Elaine rubs her bare bicep with a worn hand.
“Could be. She was young, you know.”
“I ask,” I say delicately, “because it’s now sounding pretty likely that Oliver sought her out after leaving prison. That he did exactly what he said he would do. And maybe, just maybe, Becky wouldn’t have told anybody that she saw him. She might have even helped him.”
Elaine’s face melts into disgust. She shakes her head.
“No. No.”
“Elaine.” I try to make my face look as kind as I can, but lean in a little to apply the emotional pressure. “When was the last time you spoke to Becky? Do you two keep in touch? Maybe you know how we could reach her?”
She blanches.
“I . . . I don’t know. . . I . . .”
“Think about it, we could be helping her.”
Instead of responding, she waves her hand in the air to get her husband’s attention. He breaks off from his conversation with Courtney and they flash a series of impossibly elaborate signals to each other. She points to me once or twice, and I catch a gesture that looks like an inmate clinging to cell bars which I imagine is the sign for prison. They only talk half a minute—I consider that maybe sign language is more efficient than speaking.
When Elaine turns back to me her face is steel.
“She moved and changed her last name. She didn’t want people knowing she was that girl. Last I heard she lives in Pueblo.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, assuming Elaine did a little curiosity stalking, but trying to keep any accusation out of my voice.
“She came here to the diner a few years back,” Elaine says, grimacing. “Asking me for money. She was definitely in a bad place. She talked about how much everything messed her up you know. Couldn’t keep a job or anything. Then she emailed me a bunch after that, for a few months, to ask for more.”
“Did you give her money?” Courtney asks, from his bar stool perch.
