Here Be Monsters (Tyler Cunningham)

by Sheffield, Jamie

  “Frank, nothing you've said is wrong, and nothing you've said is illegal or immoral; so if you're going somewhere with this... get there quicker.” I was trying to balance nonchalance and slightly pissed, but it felt as though a hefty percentage of scared was leaking through into my delivery.

  “Sorry Tyler, no offense intended, I'm working my way around to it sorta slow-like, because it's fourteen kinds of awkward for me. You're a friend of Meg's, but you and me, we're not really friends. I'm an officer of the law, and I'm not convinced that some of your favors don't break the law sometimes, which, even in a good cause, for a good reason, is still breaking the law. I find myself in the odd position of wanting to ask you for a favor, but I can't pay you or buy a painting of a sunset on a lake or loan you my hunting lodge. If you say no, we can head back in, and I'll never bring it up again.” It was getting dark in the backyard, with the tall screen blocking the setting sun, but it looked as though he was blushing a bit.

  “Just ask, Frank, and we'll see what I say.” I was starting to get significantly less nervous about leaving here in cuffs; this seemed an overly roundabout approach to wringing a murder confession out of me.

  “I've been connecting the dots on and off for a week... you and the Hostetler girl, drugs, crime, George Roebuck, the backcountry, a fire at the sub-shop, and way too much goddamn money.” Frank took his beer down to half, and licked some foam off of his upper lip this time.

  “Um... I must do dots differently... can you explain a bit, and get to the part that includes me... and a favor?” I asked.

  “I'm getting there, give me a sec... You might have heard about a fire at the sub shop in town, belongs to George Roebuck... might not have though, if you were camping. It wasn't a huge deal, cosmetic more than structural... the fire department is about 300 yards away, and they got it out quick and easy, nobody hurt.”

  “Good news. How'd it start? Kitchen fire, electrical, vandals, dumbassery?” I felt as though I had to ask.

  “The official report's not in yet, but it seems like multiple ignition points, so maybe vandals, but let me get back to that in a minute. When the firemen were tearing out a wall to make sure that they'd killed the fire... that it wasn't back behind the drywall and smoldering up to the office spaces on the next floor… they found a bunch of vacuum-sealed bricks of cash money.”

  “No shit? How much?” Cynthia's research had indicated that he'd be pulling in ridiculous amounts of money, but not knowing his expenses and overhead, it was hard to know how much would end up laundered back through the sub shop, and how much would have to be hidden; not to mention where he'd end up hiding it. I couldn't help asking, but it didn't seem as though it would be an unusual question.

  “The short answer is a fuck-load... excuse my French, Tyler. I was gonna say a crap-ton, but it's considerably more than that. Once they found it, and the fire guys were sure nothing was gonna burn down, we had to freeze the scene until we could get a pair of Staties over from Raybrook to watch our guys watching the fire guys pulling it out, and then moving it all into the van, and then moving it over to the secure storage facility in Raybrook. The pile was just a bit smaller than the box my big-ass TV up in the house came in, and until we hear back from the bean-counters, the best we could do was count and weigh the bundles... 16 bundles weighing a total of 241 pounds. They looked to be mostly $20 bills, but I saw some $100s and some $10 in two of the packets... best guess by the department geek is...” He paused dramatically, looking at me with eyebrows raised, a question and challenge implicit.

  “A bit over 2-million, probably not more than 2.5... 454 new bills in a pound, times 241 pounds, times $20 average bill value, less a bit for greasy bills and plastic wrap, comes in around 2-million, probably a little better. Does Saranac Lake get to keep it?”

  “Ha! That's awesome... no, we do not get to keep it, although we sure could use it... nope, it'll go down to Albany, and vanish into the system, some here, some in DC... who knows. But a bunch of us stood up in our best work uniforms for a photo-op today with the money spread out on a table. I won't make that much working my whole life, and that earwig has it in the walls of his shitty sandwich shop.”

  “Cheap though, and pretty fast, if you time it right.” I added. “The subs, I mean.”

  “Yeah, way quicker than McD's around lunchtime... anyway, I've gone off target... but that much money is pretty cool to see all in one place... I got a back-ache from toting it around last night and today... imagine that... a back-ache from money.”

  “Ok, so what is on target?” I prompted, hoping that I'd already figured it at least partway out, and trying not to release my newly minted #19 smile (shit-eating, wow have I been lucky, I'm getting away with murder... in this case literally) while he continued.

  “Nobody makes that kind of money with a sub shop, or even 100 of 'em... George has been making money selling drugs, but not around here... at least not on that scale. You're gonna have to take my word on that, but his slice off the small-time action in the Tri-Lakes wouldn't do more than inflate his shops' income figures a bit which is exactly what our forensic accountants think is the case.” Frank paused for a second here to look at me; I nodded him on, indicating that I knew about forensic accounting. He brought the beer in his mug down to within an inch of its life and went on.

  “That much money gives us PC (probable cause, I nodded at him to continue) to bring in George for a talk, and maybe even search his house, but when we get over to his place, George is gone. One of the volunteer firemen called him when they got the call about the sub shop, but if George made it to the scene, nobody saw him. His cell phone pings off the towers in a way that places it in, or near, his house. I think he's gone... taken off with the rest of his money.” I had to work hard not to dazzle Frank with my #19... this was perfect!

  “More than that, I have an idea about how he made all of that money, and I'd like you to help me prove it.” He added.

  “How could I do that Frank, as you've pointed out before, I'm not a cop. I don't...”

  “Stop it,” Frank interrupted, “I think we can both agree that while I don't know exactly what you are, we can also agree that you've got a brain that works differently than mine and other cops. You know the country around here, and seem to have a knack for doing the right thing to help good people. What I want is your help in finding out where...”

  “George's production facilities are.” I interrupted. “It stands to reason that he's making... or growing” I added quickly, not wanting to show my hand/knowledge too much, or too quickly, “drugs here in the park, in the backcountry, since that's what we have plenty of around here.”

  “If he's not selling in the area, he must be selling outside of the park... to the dealers, or more likely to the regional managers of the drug trade around here, because the people in charge in Syracuse and Albany wouldn't let George take this kind of money out of their cities from dealing on the street level; so he must be supplying them at a wholesale level.” Frank observed.

  “Astrometry” I muttered.

  “Gesundheit!” said Frank, and smiled a bit. “What did you say?”

  “Deductive Astrometry. It's how astronomers find hard, or impossible, to see items in deep space.”

  Frank looked at me as though I was speaking Dutch, but the smile stayed on his face as it dawned on him that I was doing my 'brain that works differently' thing.

  “Astronomers watch the things that they can see, and note irregularities in the way that they move or behave. From irregularities in a star's movements, they can figure out the sizes and orbital paths of planets, or other objects, that they can't see; and they locate black holes in a similar way.” He looked as though he sort of understood what I was talking about, but not quite.

  “Come on inside, and I'll show you before dinner.” He started to speak, and I cut him off, “Your beer's warm, my coke is gone, the dogs are scratching at the door, and I'll help you find where George is making his drugs... now come inside so I c
an show you what I'm talking about... grab me a big unfitted sheet, a marble, 2 heavy fridge magnets, a cup of laundry soap, and 8 thumbtacks. Then meet me in the living room.”

  He grabbed his empty mug, and now equally empty growler, and headed inside for the items I'd assigned him; my happiness and relief and excitement was hard to contain, and I stopped trying as he turned away from me.

  For the 7th time in my life, I was aware of a genuine smile creasing my face. I was, to some degree, responsible for Cynthia's death through my stalling when she needed my help with George. I wanted to find, or perform, some form of penance for my neglect. I had removed the man ultimately responsible for her death, and his minions who had actually done the dirty work, but, while this would seem a fitting revenge for her murder, revenge is not my thing; it's a waste of time and energy. I had killed George and Barry and Justin to protect my life and my self-interests, I wasn't capable of the self-deception necessary to fool myself into thinking that it had been for Cynthia. Cynthia was dead... irrevocably... nothing I could do would bring her back or make her happy (or sad, for that matter) or undo my failure to aid and/or protect her; but I could finish what she had started. By dismantling George's methamphetamine enterprise, I could complete the journey that she had started but been unable to finish. She had begun her own war on drugs in our corner of the Adirondacks, for her own reasons, and I would do what I could to finish it, for my own reasons; the fact that I would be helping Frank just legitimized my tidying up the leftovers of Cynthia's war on George.

  Meg and Frank's Living Room, 6:38p.m.. 9/10/2012

  We were standing in the living room facing four kitchen chairs in a rectangular formation with a sheet stretched tightly between them tacked to the chairs at the corners of the sheet; Meg and Frank did not to have a marble anywhere in the house, so I stole the most spherical cherry tomato that I could find out of Meg's salad, with a promise not to stain their sheet.

  “OK class, George and I were talking about applying a technique astronomers use for locating unseen heavenly bodies, to locate unseen things here on Earth… So, Deductive Astrometry 101, in five minutes.” I promised.

  “More like seven.” Meg answered, holding a kitchen timer that was counting down the seconds until we could take the lasagna out.

  “Better still.” I said (thinking 'because seven is a Double Mersenne Prime', but not saying that for fear they might chuck me out before I could eat some of Meg's lasagna). Partly this show was because I love sharing nerdery with people willing to listen and learn, and the other part was to help push George into asking for my help in dismantling George's drug business.

  “The sheet represents a distant star system, suspected of having some planets; or based on my talk with Frank, it's a system that we don't understand. The cherry tomato represents a star in the first case, and a known quantity or person in the second case. When we drop it into the sheet, where will it go?”

  Dorothy raised her hand, blushed, and then said, “Right in the center.”

  “Why?” I quizzed.

  “Because, it'll be pulled down by gravity and settle at the lowest/easiest point, which is in the middle.”

  “Good. That's right, because objects with mass tend to react the same way every time to the gravitation of a nearby massive object. In this case, the Earth pulling on the tomato towards the lowest point in the sheet. For the distant star system, the object with mass is a star all by itself in its system; in the unknown system here on Earth, it's a known quantity or person doing what we expect. OK Dorothy, drop it... gently... onto the sheet.” I handed Dorothy the tomato, and let her place it on the sheet, where it rolled down and into the center.

  “Now Meg, scoot under the sheet and mark it with a spot of detergent on your finger.”

  She crawled under the sheet that was suspended like a child’s fort, a yard or so above the floor, and the dogs went too, all three having fun, mostly because they knew it would be a short lecture; Meg marked the tomato's position with a dot of laundry soap.

  “Now everyone close your eyes, don't open them until I tell you to, and when I do, try to figure out what is different and why.” I reached and placed one of the two white fridge magnets (those satisfyingly solid metal disks that can hold a calendar on the fridge door) a bit off center and toward the back of the sheet, then crawled underneath and put the second one near enough that their attraction took over and they locked together.

  “Open your eyes, watch where the tomato ends up, and tell me why.” I let the tomato go from about the same spot as Dorothy, and it rolled (happily for my little lesson) to a spot a few inches behind the initial soap spot, and roughly halfway between the marked spot and the magnet.

  Frank got it, “It was affected by the weight of the magnets, and the system adjusts to compensate.”

  “Bravo, you get to mark this one Frank.” He crawled under, again with the dogs accompanying, and marked the sheet in the spot where the tomato stopped this time.

  “Last time, and then lasagna, followed by my grandmother's 'Tiramisu Fantastique' for anyone who still has room... close your eyes.” I quietly put a few books under each of the legs of one of the chairs.

  “For six bonus points! Open your eyes, watch where the tomato ends up, and tell me why.” I let the tomato go from about the same spot as the last time, and it rolled to a spot a few inches behind the last soap spot and away from the raised chair.

  Dorothy clapped and raised her hand, “This time the whole system was altered, and the balance point was shifted away from the change-agent.”

  “Nicely done young lady! So what have we learned about how scientists use deductive astrometry to study and explain and predict the characteristics of distant star, and possibly planetary, systems?” I asked.

  Frank started, “Items with sufficient mass change the balance of a system. So… scientists can tell how big the item is, and where it is, even if they can't see or study it directly, by seeing the effect that it has on what can be seen—the observable object, or objects, in the system.”

  Meg picked up from there, “Also... an entire system can be affected by some force acting upon it, and even if that force can't be seen or studied directly, the force can be analyzed in terms of origin and magnitude by measuring the effect that it has on the observable objects in the system.”

  “OK…” Frank said nodding, obviously putting the pieces together to apply to his own current puzzle. Slowly he looked up at me with the intense stare of someone who has just fit the last piece into a complex puzzle, when the picture becomes clear. “So, to find an unknown system or operation, look for evidence that the system has adjusted or compensated for the new variable in the mix… if we look at the known system, the Park, we should be able to note changes in the way things are working that will allow us, you/me/others, to find out what George has been doing and where he has been doing it for the last few years.”

  “A+, Frank… for all of you, you've all earned ginormous servings of both lasagna and tiramisu for dinner.” Frank gave me a 'you may not be a worthless cupcake after all' look, and mouthed 'after supper' in a way that made me feel reasonably confident that I'd be hunting down George's drug factories not only with Frank's blessing, but possibly with his support.

  It was a great lasagna, and Grandma's Tiramisu was the best (first) I'd ever had!

  Dorothy's Driveway, 9:34p.m., 9/10/2012

  Dinner was entirely taken up with chewing and completely non-threatening talk about camping and dogs and hunting and dogs and dessert (Frank asked Meg to ask for the recipe), and more talk about dogs. The Gibson family dog, who was getting stiff with arthritis, and the visitor dog Toby, who we all agreed was young and obnoxious, seemed to be good for each other. We all thought that young dogs keep old dogs going for a variety of reasons that we couldn't agree upon.

  After dinner, we adjourned to the living room where they all had coffee, and I grabbed a last coke out of the cooler that Meg had set up for me; it wasn't Canadian, and I believed
that I could taste the fake sugar, but the intense cold and slightly salty tang on the rim and can was a nice change from what I'd been dealing with for much of the past week. At about 9p.m., I unconsciously reached for the bottle of pills that had been my constant companion, which reminded me that I was hurting; Dorothy saw the move and made noises about having to check in on a sick dog on her way home, to get us moving towards the door.

  While Meg hustled the last remnants of dinner into the kitchen, and Dorothy played with Toby by the front door (hosing him down with a few minutes of training and love), I pulled Frank aside for a minute. We stepped into the narrow hallway that ran between the entryway and the living room, and talked briefly about the astrometry demonstration, and how it might relate to George and his drug production.

  I kicked things off to start and steer them in the best possible direction, “If you think George has taken off to avoid issues about the money you found in the sub-shop, then he must have had more money stored someplace. If he is out of the way, now is a great time for me to do some poking for his production facilities, if they're still in operation.”

  “I think that they're making too much money for anyone left in his 'management team' to walk away from it... my bet is that someone will try and take it over and keep things going, at least for a while.” Frank opined.

  “Agreed, and as the saying goes, 'nature hates a vacuum'. The great thing about that truism is that most vacuums are imperfect, and collapse over time.” He looked at me as though I was speaking Navajo (something I had actually tried out on him once, while learning about code-talkers), so I continued, “Whatever nature uses to fill the void left by George probably won't do it as well as he did, and will leave more and bigger openings for you boys in blue to exploit, if I can point you in the right direction. Point of order, though, what if George's absence is because he's on vacation to Vegas or pursuing his lifelong dream of seeing Graceland?” I had to probe this avenue carefully, to see how committed Frank, and I assumed the rest of the law enforcement community, were to George being a bad guy on the lamb.