by Matt Witten
The Toyota was in a good mood and I managed to get home by 4:44. Nevertheless, that shower was not meant to be. There were two cops standing outside my front door. One of them was my old nemesis, Chief Walsh. Uh oh. As I pulled into the driveway, Walsh and the other cop, Lieutenant Foxwell, eyed me grimly.
I walked up to them with fake jauntiness and said, "Hi, what's up? You get a lead on who shot at me?"
"May we come in?" Walsh asked, with exaggerated pleasantness.
"Look, I was about to take a shower, and my kids are coming home any minute. What is it you want to talk about?"
Walsh gave me an incongruous wink. "We think you know."
The smug bastard. I was pretty sure I did know.
The cops must have found Zzyp's body. And they must have found out somehow that I was there at the scene of the crime.
I kept my cool as best I could. "If you want to come in, be my guests," I said, unlocking the door. "But I better call my friend and ask her not to bring my kids home until you're already gone. For some reason, my kids don't like being around cops. And they seem to have a special loathing for you," I added, turning to Chief Walsh. "I wonder why."
He stroked his chin, as if giving the matter thought. "Who knows?" he said. "Kids are funny."
"True. I mean, just because somebody once tried to pin a false murder rap on your daddy, that's no reason to hold a grudge. Won't you sit down?"
Walsh and Foxwell gave each other a look and sat down. I went into the computer room to get the portable phone. The window that had been shot through was still boarded up; I made a mental note to get the thing fixed as soon as I had time. The way things were going, that might not be until October. Then the phone rang, before I got a chance to make my call. I picked up. "Hello?"
"Burns, where's my goddamn fax?"
What? I needed some serious aspirin. Who was calling me, and why? "Fax?"
"Don't play games with me. Your deadline was this morning," said the man whose voice I was now able to place. Jeremy Wartheimer. "You don't get me my fax by five p.m.—that's fifteen minutes, scuzzbag—and I walk right across the hall to the head of the English Department. Bet Andrea will be real pleased with you when she finds out, won't she?"
I looked over at the answering machine. There were too many blinks to count, meaning I had a lot of messages. What were they? Was one of them from my wife, announcing that she'd succeeded in her top-secret assignment and returned Susan Tamarack's portfolio? Or would her message say that her AAA card had let us down and the mission was aborted?
I'd give anything to be able to hit the "play" button on that machine. But how could I listen to Andrea's message about attempted breaking and entering when my two least favorite cops were sitting in the next room? Their lucky day: they had just placed me at the scene of a murder. No doubt they'd enjoy harassing me about breaking and entering, too.
"You hear me, you dickweed?" Wartheimer said.
Hell, you only live once. I decided to have faith in Andrea and AAA and take a chance. "Listen, Jeremy, there's been a misunderstanding—"
"Yeah? Then misunderstand this—"
"I never took anyone's portfolio." I was careful not to say "Susan Tamarack's portfolio" in case the cops were eavesdropping.
"What, you're gonna try to deny it?" Wartheimer said incredulously. "You admitted Saturday on the phone that you took it!"
"I admitted nothing of the sort. You were talking so fast I couldn't get a word in edgewise."
"You are so full of—"
"You must have misplaced it."
"I didn't misplace anything and you know it—"
"Have you checked? Where are the portfolios, anyway?"
"Right here on my desk, and Susan Tamarack's portfolio is not one of them—"
There was a sudden silence on the phone. Then I heard Wartheimer saying two words that pleased me no end: "Shit! Fuck!"
Yes! "What happened? Did you find it?"
"You put it back on my desk, you—"
"Don't be silly. How could I put it back? I haven't been to the campus today."
"Then Andrea did it."
"Yeah, right. You think if I stole someone's portfolio, I'd tell Andrea? Forget it. Look, seriously, don't feel bad, Jeremy. I'm always misplacing stuff and thinking someone must have taken it."
Wartheimer sputtered, "You—you—"
"Hey, I gotta go. Good luck with your screenplay. Sorry I couldn't help."
Then I hung up the phone, feeling exultant. But when I looked up, I got an unpleasant surprise: Chief Walsh's blue Nazi eyes were gleaming at me. He'd slipped into the computer room without my noticing. "What's this about stealing someone's portfolio?" he asked.
"It's nothing. The guy's delusional," I said airily. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to call my friend."
Luckily I reached Janet before she left her house, and she agreed to keep Derek and Bernie until six. "They're no trouble at all," she reassured me. "They've been playing with my kids on the computer ever since they got here."
Great. Whatever happened to playing in the backyard?
But now was no time to get caught up in computer phobia. Taking a deep breath, I went back into the living room and faced the dreaded cop duo. "Okay, I'm all yours. What did you want to see me about?"
"Where were you yesterday?" the chief began.
"This is excellent," I said, beaming and rubbing my hands. "Now I get to see how the real pros do an interrogation."
"I'll do it any way I damn please," said the chief. "You don't like it, I'll book you on suspicion of murder."
I feigned puzzlement. "What, now you think I killed the Hack?"
Turning to Foxwell, the chief pointed a disdainful finger at me. "Isn't he pathetic?"
"No question," Foxwell agreed.
"You boys mind clueing me in on why I'm pathetic?"
"Not at all," Chief Walsh said pleasantly. "You're pathetic because you're trying to act like you weren't at Zzypowski's office this morning, messing around with his corpse. Whereas we have the janitor's description of a guy with black curly hair and a big nose, which fits you to a tee—"
"Hey, there's lots of us big-nosed, curly-haired guys running around," I said flippantly. "It's an epidemic."
"But they don't all have your fingerprints." I gave a quick start—how could I have been so dumb? The chief gave a nasty grin. "That's right. We did a computer match of prints that were all over the scene—the cabinets, the drawers, even Zzyp's wallet—to some prints of yours that we just happen to have on file. And guess what? Perfect match. What do you think of that?"
"What can I say? I'm delighted to hear that a small-time, birdbrain cop like yourself could figure out how to use computers. By God, if you can do it, anyone can. You give hope to the rest of us."
"Hope is not what I'm giving you."
"Okay, I'll bite. What are you giving me? What's your theory?"
"Nothing complex. You went in his office yesterday, pulled a gun, and shot him. Then you trashed his computer. But after you got home, you realized you left something behind. So today you came back looking for it."
"And why, pray tell, did I kill this man?"
"Maybe as a favor for your pal Will."
"For Will? Why?"
"Because Zzypowski specialized in opposition research. He knew things. Maybe he knew things about Will." The chief stretched his legs out comfortably and crossed his ankles. "Or maybe you just killed him because you've had writer's block for God knows how long, and you were looking for a new thrill."
"I've got a wife, two kids, and a minivan. I doubt I fit the personality profile for thrill killers."
"You'd be surprised."
"You never cease to amaze me, Chief. Whose butt did you kiss to get this job, anyway? Or did you pay some politician a 'finder's fee'?"
"This is all very enjoyable, Burns, and personally I'd love nothing better than to sit all day with you and chew the fat. But I do have this pesky murder investigation to run. So listen up.
It's like this." He leaned forward and, in the same mock-friendly voice, continued, "Either you give me everything—now—or I bust you as a material witness and drop you off in City Jail. Judge Klausner takes Tuesdays off ever since his operation, so you'll be down there till at least Wednesday. Sound like fun?"
Actually, no. I once had the privilege of spending a night in that jail, and it was an Unforgettable Experience. The putrid smells, the abusive guards, the crazed drunk chanting "Hare Krishna" all night long . . .
So I decided to spill my guts out to Chief Walsh. After all, we were on the same side, right? Much as I despised the man, we both wanted to nail whoever was running around shooting people.
I didn't spill everything, though. I kept mum about Susan's unusual sex life. I told myself it probably wasn't relevant to Zzyp's death, so why mention it? And staying quiet—for now—about Susan's affair with Hack Sr. gave me more leverage to use on both of them.
Also, I must confess there was some kind of . . . call it prudishness, maybe, or that hard-to-kill sensitive artiste in me . . . which made me want to keep their affair hidden.
But I did inform the chief about plenty of other entertaining stuff, like Linda Medwick's hijinks, and Zzyp's final phone call to the widow's house, and my suspicion that Zzyp had dirt on both Pierce and Ducky. "Incidentally, if Ducky hits you with an alibi, I'd advise you to check it thoroughly," I said, and described my encounter with the bartender.
I was pretty proud of myself for finding the hole in Ducky's alibi. But I got the disturbing impression that whenever I talked about Ducky, the chiefs eyes glazed over. Finally I called him on it. "Look," I said, annoyed, "you have to admit, Ducky had strong motives to kill both men. The Hack, because he was fucking his wife. And Zzyp, because—"
The chief yawned loudly at me. "Face it, Burns, your friend Shmuckler is the fool who killed the Hack. And when the smoke clears on this new murder, we're gonna find out he popped Zzypowski too—assuming you didn't do it for him."
"How intriguing. What incredible insights," I said, clapping my hands together. "And according to your brilliant theory, who was it that took those pot shots at me and the kids? Was that Will, also?"
The chief didn't deign to answer. He stood up, and so did his lieutenant. "Thanks for your time," he said. "Don't leave the jurisdiction. We'll be back."
"Chief Walsh, may I remind you of something," I said politely, then lowered my voice as deep as it would go. I'm not saying I hit bass, but I came close. "Last time you messed with me, I almost got your ass fired. This time, there might not be any 'almost' about it."
All of the chief's pretenses at civility disappeared. "You shithead," he exploded, and before I could react he was shoving me up against the living room wall. "One more word out of you, and I will throw your sorry ass in jail and I will enjoy it. You got that?"
Behind the chief, his lieutenant watched silently. I didn't say anything myself, just stood there burning up. Then the two of them walked out.
15
I cussed and screamed in my empty house until I calmed down enough to be fit for human contact. Then I called Judy Demarest at the Daily Saratogian.
"Hey, Jude," I said when she came on the line, "you better print up an extra ten thousand copies of your paper tomorrow."
"Why on earth should I do that?"
"Because I'm about to feed you a major scoop," I said, and proceeded to tell her everything I'd just told Chief Walsh. Judy practically salivated over the phone as she promised to set aside the whole top half of tomorrow's page one.
The 22nd District Congressional race was about to take yet another bizarre twist. The scandal about Pierce taking an envelope of cash would seriously damage—if not cripple—his campaign. Meanwhile Zzyp's phone call to Susan Tamarack's house would muddy her up, too.
Yes, things were definitely looking up for Will Shmuckler.
Furthermore, all this publicity would turn up the heat on Chief Walsh. I smiled at that. If he thought he could scare me off by throwing his weight around a little, he had another think coming.
I took two aspirins and my long-awaited hot shower, and began to feel like an approximation of my old self. As the H20 poured over my body, it occurred to me that in the seven hours since stumbling over Zzyp's corpse, I had harangued Susan Tamarack, Robert Pierce, both Medwicks... in other words, all of my major suspects but one. The father-in-law.
Except he wasn't just a father-in-law—he was also a father. Would the man go so far as to kill his own son?
I was toweling off when the doorbell rang, so I jumped into my jeans and headed downstairs. I started to open the door, then got a sudden fear that whoever was standing on my front porch might be about to shoot me in the head.
But I got lucky. It was Derek and Bernie, jumping up and down with excitement at seeing me. "Daddy! Daddy!" they shouted in unison, as I gathered them into my arms. I called out thanks and a good-bye to Janet, who was still in the car—"I'm on my way to Boy Scouts," she explained as she drove off—and brought the kids inside.
Bernie looked searchingly into my eyes. "Daddy, did anyone shoot at you today?"
Good grief. "No, honey," I said.
" 'Cause they said on TV, somebody got killed at the mall."
While I was trying to figure out a kid-friendly way to respond, Derek interrupted. "Hey, Daddy!" he chortled. "I made up a joke! The guy who shot at our window was a real pain! Get it?"
I must have been distracted or something, because the pun slipped right by me. "Get what?"
Derek's little brother jumped in. "It could be 'pain,' like if you're hurting—"
"No!" Derek shrieked. "I want to tell it!"
But Bernie kept right on going. "Or 'pane,' like window pane!"
"No fair!" Derek howled. "I wanted to tell it myself!"
"So did I!"
"Listen, guys," I said.
Derek burst into tears. "It was my joke!"
Bernie was wailing too. "No, it wasn't!"
My headache came back full force. "Please—"
"Yes, it was!"
"No, it wasn't!"
"Please be quiet!" I said loudly.
"But, Daddy—"
"Be quiet!" I yelled, loud enough for them to hear it in Albany.
This is not a technique they recommend in the parenting magazines, I know. But sometimes you have to go with your gut, and sometimes your gut says, scream.
In this case, it worked. The boys were stunned into silence, and I was stunned into thinking about why they were acting like pains. No doubt they were tense as hell and scared of getting shot at again, just like me.
"Listen, kids, let's start over. I haven't cooked dinner yet. Would you like frozen waffles?"
"Yay! Waffles!" they shouted, and everything was okay again.
Well, almost everything. "Daddy?" Bernie asked anxiously. "Can we go sleep at Grandma's again tonight?"
"Sure, that's the plan. Mommy's driving there straight from work. After we eat our waffles, we'll drive up there, too."
"Good," Derek said, "because I don't think the murderer knows where Grandma's house is."
"No, he probably doesn't," I said. Then, when both boys goggled at me with frightened eyes, I amended that to, "I'm sure he doesn't."
Derek, always the literalist, asked, "Why are you sure?"
"Well," I stuttered, and then came up with, "Because Grandma has a different last name from us."
Thank God, that seemed to satisfy them. Derek went off on a different tangent. "Hey, Daddy, guess what? We were on the computer at our friends' house—"
"I wanna tell it!" Bernie shouted. "I want to tell this one!"
I girded myself for another sibling battle. But amazingly, Derek just said, "Okay." I guess he didn't want to hear me scream again.
"We looked for stuff about Jack Tamarack in all these different search engines," Bernie said, and then stopped. "Search engine, that means—"
"It's okay, kiddo, I do know what a search engine is."
&
nbsp; "I wasn't sure. 'Cause with computers, you're kind of, like . . ."
"Yeah, I know what I'm like. So what did you find out about the Hack?"
"Nothing, but we found some cool stuff about his dad." He took a folded up printout from his jacket pocket. "Here."
I opened the printout and began reading. It was an article from the Schenectady Gazette, back in June. Some enterprising reporter had tracked down George Tamarack and asked him if he planned to vote for his son in the upcoming election. The reporter had caught wind of the fact that Hack Sr. used to run the Plumbers and Pipefitters Union local, and was still an active Democrat in South Glens Falls.
"I'll vote for the Democrat, of course," Hack Sr. was quoted as saying. "I don't know what the heck happened to Jack. I try to bring the kid up right, but he goes off to law school and turns Republican on me. Fights against the working man and hangs out with a bunch of downstaters wearing fancy suits. I hope he gets killed in the election."
I hope he gets killed in the election. Pretty eerie.
It sounded like Hack Sr. was trying to be funny. But knowing him like I did, I could feel the anger behind the humor. And telling a reporter—on the record—that you're voting against your own son . . . that's heavy stuff.
Not that Hack Sr. would kill Hack Jr. just for the crime of being Republican. But if he'd been wrought up about his son for years, and then found out his son was beating the woman he loved . . .
Yes, loved. No matter how kinky I may have found it, the truth was undeniable: Hack Sr. was madly in love with his daughter-in-law.
I was eager to interrogate the man in person, but I couldn't go off and leave my kids. "Boys," I said, "I need to make a quick phone call for a minute."
"A kid minute or a grownup minute?" Derek asked. My sons have discovered that when a kid says "a minute," it usually means a real minute; but when a grownup says "a minute," it can mean anywhere from a real minute to half an hour.
"I guess I mean a grownup minute," I admitted. "Why don't you go play on the computer?"
"I'm tired of the computer," Bernie said.
"Look, if you're scared of getting shot at again, we can move it into the dining room."
