Breaking Point

by Jon Demartino

  I realized I was hungry and went back to the kitchen. I didn't remember eating lunch, just the sugar cookies at Iris Wilson's house. I put a pot of water on to boil for pasta and got out my two staple items, extra virgin olive oil and fresh garlic. I chopped three of the biggest cloves I had and added them to a skillet where a good sized dollop of the olive oil was heating. When the pot of water boiled, I poured in half a box of rigatoni pasta along with a dose of salt. When the garlic was lightly browned, a crucial point when any more heat will burn it, I tossed in a handful of fresh spinach leaves from the fridge and covered the pan. The cold spinach would reduce the heat in the pan, so the garlic wouldn't burn. I drained the pasta, and dumped it right into the frying pan on top of the garlicky spinach, shaking the pan to mix it all together. It smelled terrific and, with some shredded Asiago cheese on top, would taste even better.

  Look out Emeril. Here comes Rudy. Bam!

  Setting a heaping plate of pasta and a cold Coors on the footlocker, I relaxed on the couch and watched the evening news, the local variety. All the national news shows carried pieces that were depressing in both content and the fact that there was nothing I could do about any of it. So I'd stopped watching them. The local Cedar Rapids edition is more to my liking and occasionally, there are news stories that I can relate to and even find uplifting.

  After dinner, I read for a while in my old recliner. I was rereading a C. S. Lewis favorite, "Right and Wrong as Clues to the Meaning of the Universe." According to Maxine, I was a 'seeker', but I was never certain if she thought that was a compliment or an insult. I didn't know if it was true, either, but I was intrigued by Lewis' logic. I doubted if anyone could really know if God existed, but I enjoyed reading Lewis and maybe he'd convince me at some point. Or God would, if He existed.

  If I did find out He existed, I was certainly going to ask Him about Caroline and why He took her from me.

  Chapter 4

  The phone rang at 9 o'clock Wednesday morning. It was my sister.

  "Rudy. Have you found out anything yet?"

  "Uh, no Max," I hesitated. It was true that I hadn't found out anything but that was only because I hadn't made even the most basic of attempts. I wasn't certain that I wanted to look into the situation at all and was mulling over the consequences of my intervention in my sister's marriage. And I really wasn't sure what I should do with the information if I did find out that my brother-in-law was having an affair. I knew I wanted the facts, at least for myself. What I didn't know was what I should do after I found out. I could beat him up, I supposed, but would that help my sister? Probably not, although it would make me feel really good. I didn't see any reason to get into my own angst with Max, though. I decided to buy some time.

  "Listen, Sis, I'm going to need a few more days on this. How about giving me 'til next week and I'll have a full report by then."

  "Have you found out anything at all?

  "Nope. He's clean as a whistle so far," I lied. In truth, I didn't know anything at all about his guilt, innocence, or the cleanliness of his whistle. If my brother-in-law was cheating though, a few more days weren't going to make any difference to Maxine. She'd make his life a hell on earth for one offense or several, I was pretty sure.

  We signed off with me telling her to relax and think positive thoughts and to let me do the investigating.

  I took my time eating breakfast, toasting an English muffin and after it had turned the perfect shade of brown, applying a layer of low fat peanut butter to it. I was hungry and ate the whole thing before I had a chance to appreciate all the nooks and crannies. The coffee was good, some Columbian blend I'd picked up at the Hy-Vee down on the Coralville Strip. It was hard for me to believe that some people would only drink certain brands of coffee and supposedly could tell the difference. I'd bet that if you poured some cheap coffee into an empty can of their brand, they'd brew it, drink it and still be extolling its virtues. As for me, I bought whatever was on sale. I did like real cream in it, though.

  It had turned colder overnight and according to the radio station, was only about nine degrees outside with a wind chill that felt like minus twenty. I was in no hurry to move around outside just yet, so I carried my second cup of coffee back to the old "Incoming Mail" room, which was now my workshop. I'd rigged up a work bench and occasionally relaxed in here, just fiddling around without ever really producing anything of import. I spent an hour or so sorting a box of various sized nails, then screwed a barrel bolt lock to the inside of the back door. When I was done tinkering, I went back to the kitchen to wash up.

  I wanted to drive out to the dam and have a look at the scene where Charlie Wilson had died. Outside my front windows, particles of snow swirled madly in the blustery wind. Tossing a heavy wool scarf twice around my neck, I pulled on my winter jacket and went out the front door.

  With no hills or mountains to block it, the wind out here could mount to thirty miles an hour at the drop of a hat. Even on the nice fall days we'd seen earlier in November, the wind could feel like a cold knife sliding between your ribs. I hoped never to be in a position to make a valid comparison, but it was how I imagined that blade would feel.

  This morning, with the sun just a grey disk behind the heavy clouds, it felt even colder than the newscaster had said. At the dam, with the cold water all around, it would be worse.

  I took Dubuque Street south to the Coralville Dam turn-off and followed the blacktop, initially passing some of the new cul-de-sacs where the rich folks were building, and finally going by the entrances to the walking trails and campgrounds that were closer to the dam. Circumventing the camping spots and the beach area, I went through the parking lot that bordered the Devonian Fossil Gorge to my right. It looked like a good place to investigate and I made a mental note to come back in warmer weather.

  According to the newspaper article, Charlie Wilson had fallen into the concrete conduit at the base of the Coralville Dam. So I swung past the picnic area and over to the lot below the dam. There are several gates in the east end of the huge earthen dam which are used by the Army Corps of Engineers to control the flow of water from the Iowa River as it flows down to Iowa City and points south. The released water explodes from the gates into a wide concrete trough, or conduit, at the foot of the dam.

  After heavy rains, when the lake is high, the water rushes out with a roar, swirling and sending waves above the trough. It was into this maddened outpouring of water that Charlie Wilson was dispatched last April nineteenth, during the rainy season.

  The tires made slushing sounds on the thin layer of snow that covered the empty parking lot. From the warmth of the car's interior, I looked up at the dam, rising a hundred feet in the air. It's really just a big pile of dirt with chunks of gravel covering the south slope. The other side, on the north, was mostly under water and formed the edge of Coralville Lake. On the slope above me a few spidery grasses had clawed their way through the thick layers of stone and packed soil, and now stood stiffly in the icy wind.

  I walked over to the chain link fence that overlooked the conduit. Fine, icy pellets were swirling around in the air, pecking my cheeks and forming a frosty ridge along the thick pipe that topped the fence. The dam loomed above my left shoulder and I tried not to think about a sudden crack in its surface. Any sounds that may have been present were obliterated by the deafening roar of the water escaping through the outlet. I felt strangely alone here, desolate. On a warmer day there would have been fishermen trying their luck in the waters beyond the conduit gates. Some came up as near to the dam as this parking lot, throwing a line in from here and leaning their elbows on the top rail of the fence. Others stayed farther south, wading into the stream where it widened, as the waters relaxed and accepted their presence.

  This day, though, there was only the pounding tail water for company, spewing its icy mist into my eyes. Leaning into the fence, I gauged its height and rigidity. It was a just little over three feet, I figured, maybe three and a half, no impediment at all for a man w
ho wanted to crawl over it. It was possible that Charlie could have climbed up there and straddled the top rail, lamenting his failed marriage, and then tumbled in, either by accident or intent. There was a narrow strip of soil on the other side of the fence where he could have stood after climbing over. Maybe he just slipped and went in.

  I walked south along the fence for a couple of hundred feet, looking for clues; maybe a gun or a knife or a neon confession sign. My ears had long since passed numbness and were well on their way to cracking off my head. I trotted back to the protection of my car and drove home.

  It was after noon, when I got back so I made myself a sandwich, poured another cup of the morning's coffee, and slid three sugar cookies out from under the plastic wrap. Reading through Charlie's sales book, I compared the telephone numbers with the ones in his personal address book. I made a list of all the names and numbers that were in both books, in case he had some relationship other than business with anyone.

  There were three names that popped up in both books. The first was Matt Barr, who was listed under Hawkeye Lens & Scope in the sales book and alphabetically under Barr in the other one. Second was Melanie Goodwin, whose name appeared as 'manager' under 'Frank's Outdoor Outlet' and also in his personal book. Last was Donald Petrick, listed as 'mayor, West Fork' under 'Community Sponsor' and also in the personal book under just his name. Each of the three entries had listings in both books, and included both business and home numbers.

  I looked up the address for Hawkeye Lens & Scope. It was on Highway Six, along the Coralville Strip. That was only a five minute drive from here. I'd stop down one day this week and have a talk with Matt Barr.

  Frank's Outdoor Outlet was located on Route 218, south of Iowa City, in the small town of Keokuk. It was a lot farther than the Coralville strip and too long a drive to take without knowing if Melanie would be there. I dialed the number. Melanie Goodwin answered the phone herself and I told her I was a private investigator looking into Charlie Wilson's fatal mishap and that I'd like to talk with her. She agreed to meet me after work, at the Eagle Bar and Grill near Keokuk. She gave me directions and we set an eight o'clock meeting.

  Mayor Petrick was out of town, his secretary informed me, and would be back the day after tomorrow. He was at a convention in Sioux City. As seemed to be typical of the Iowans I'd encountered, she was pleasant and very willing to help. She offered to put me down for a nine o'clock appointment on Friday, the first day he'd be back. We chatted for a few minutes and I found out that Regis Optics had donated money to supply the needs of West Fork's youth soccer teams.

  I was thinking that maybe I was going to need one of those schedule books myself, with all the appointments coming up. Usually I just had little stick-em notes all over my desk, but with Caroline, Maxine, and Iris Wilson each taking up parts of my day, I might need the added help.

  Planning to grab some dinner at the Eagle Bar and Grill when I met with Melanie Goodwin, I set off for the Community Center to walk and think.

  I walked longer than my usual thirty minutes on the indoor track. When I finished, I was no closer to deciding what to do about either of my personal problems than I was when I started. Caroline and Maxine were both occupying a large part of my mind, and neither of them was paying me a cent. I got my coat and went home.

  I decided to both shower and shave before meeting MS Melanie Goodwin. Charlie hadn't noted in either entry whether she was single or married, but then marital status didn't seem to be a big issue with him. This was almost like a "date", in the loosest sense of the word. If Maxine knew, she'd be thrilled, but there would be a lecture attached to her good wishes. My big sister thought I'd spent more than enough time and energy on Caroline Bennett, as well as on more recent relationships that had not ended in marriage. To Maxine, marriage was the only proper culmination to any pairing that had gone beyond three dates.

  I was setting a new personal record with my cheap blue plastic razor; six weeks and still doing the job. It proved reliable once more and I managed to complete my shave with no dried blood or specks of toilet paper to decorate my chin.

  At the mirror, I stared for a moment at the most familiar sight in the world to me. The square jaw had arrived at puberty along with the five o'clock shadow that appeared twice every day. I figured my square face matched my equally square body. I'd tried a moustache only once. It had seemed to cut my face in half and made me look even more block-headed than I already did. My hair was still a mousy shade of brown and hadn't started to thin yet, so maybe I would go on into middle age with a full count of functional follicles. I'd kept a hairstyle that was comfortable for me, kind of a modified crew cut, with a little bit of extra in the front that I pushed over to one side. Max was right, though. I was getting shaggy over the ears and needed a haircut

  It was six o'clock. Now to drive down to Keokuk and find the Eagle Bar and Grill.

  Chapter 5

  Keokuk is about a hundred miles south of Iowa City, on State Route 218. The drive would take me a little under two hours I figured. I'd been planning to drive down in January to see the bald eagles that are said to winter over in the area, so this would be a good chance to time the trip and check out the region. According to the tourist information, there are sometimes hundreds of bald eagles fishing near the dams and locks along the Mississippi River, which defines Iowa's eastern border. The river runs along both the east and south sides of Keokuk, which is situated right on the bend. The town has a festival in January, with special observation points and guides and some sort of activities. I was pretty sure that the eagles didn't leave when the celebration was over, so I could go looking any time this winter, but I was curious about the festivities.

  Melanie had described the Eagle Bar and Grill as a rustic little place set back off Iowa's Route 61, a few miles outside of town. I was singing along to the car's radio and almost drove right by it, but saw the lights in time to swing into the gravel lot. I maneuvered the Grand Am over to a parking space along the left side of the building. They seemed to be doing a brisk business. The lot was pretty full.

  From the outside, the place looked decent enough. The siding had the look of fresh paint and gleamed in the headlights. The gravel ended about a hundred feet beyond the back of the building, where a row of identical one room cottages stood like a fence at the far edge of the gravel. A barely illuminated sign leaned off to one side of a metal pole in front of them, with 'Eagle Motel' printed in red on the dirty glass. I walked around to the front of the restaurant and stepped through the front door and into a dim foyer.

  The Eagle Bar and Grill was even more dimly lit inside, with dark wood everywhere I looked. A long bar started at the door and extended back along the right side of the room. The opposite wall held six wooden booths. The space between was filled with round tables and chairs, maybe twelve tables. Most of the seats were occupied. There seemed to be an older crowd here, at least older than the college kids who frequented such establishments up in Iowa City. I could vaguely make out a juke box and a small dance floor along the back wall.

  A dark haired woman, seated at a table near the door, was sipping what looked like scotch and staring at me. A brown wool jacket was draped over the back of her chair. At her feet, partially in the aisle, was a red gym bag. I smiled and she waved me over.

  "Miss Goodwin?"

  "Yes." She motioned me to a seat. "You must be Rudy Murdock."

  "Right. Have you eaten, because I am really hungry? Could we get some menus?"

  She had a soft, velvety laugh. "No, I haven't and yes, let's get menus."

  We ordered- salads and a sandwich for each of us. She had a Turkey Club and I opted for the Italian Hot Sausage. While we waited, I sipped a Miller Light and used my detecting skills to glean information from her.

  "Do you always carry a gym bag to dinner?"

  "No, not even usually," she smiled. "Tonight's one of my work-out nights. I just left the store a little early and stopped at the gym before I got here. I have a bunch of
papers in there and my wallet and stuff, so I just dragged it on in. She swallowed a healthy gulp of her drink. "A girl's got to keep in shape, you know."

  She was curious about my profession and asked why I decided to go into the "private dick" business, which was her term and not mine. I tried to explain a career choice in what some people considered a rather dubious profession, at least until they needed my services.

  "Well," I began, wiping the back of one hand across my upper lip to remove the ridge of cold foam. "It's kind of tied into another story." I gave her the condensed version of my dad's murder, leaving out the parts about my own feelings of guilt and focusing instead on my attempt to find his killers.

  "The police tried their best, I guess, given their limited manpower and the number of murder and manslaughter cases they have on their slate every year. After six months, the case was still unsolved and I was tired of waiting. So I used some of the insurance money from my dad's death and hired a local private investigator, a guy named Ira Grant. Ira was from New York City, originally and was a skinny little guy, as tenacious as a rat terrier. He hounded the local police and got copies of all their files. Ira talked to everyone who had been within shouting distance of Pittsburgh that night, I think, and he didn't stop until he'd found the two kids who had done it."

  "What happened to them?"

  "Prison," I replied. "Life sentences for both of them."

  "How long did it take Ira to find them?" Melanie was a relaxed listener. She leaned one elbow back over the captain's style chair and sipped her Scotch.

  "Several months. I spent a lot of time at Ira's office downtown and asked him a million questions." I smiled at the memory. "His place was on the second floor, over a wiener and kielbasa luncheonette, right on Liberty Avenue. Of course, you wouldn't know what that means, but it was in the middle of a lot of activity. I remember the smell of hot dogs and sauerkraut was always there in his office. I'd walk up those dark wooden stairs almost every day, either on my way to the garage or after work, just to bug poor old Ira and see what he'd found out."