Detective D. Case

by Neal Goldy

  D. fell asleep long before the trunk door opened, so the members of, in D.’s mind, the gang had presumed the old man still unconscious from the drowning sequence. Two of the younger members pulled him from the trunk, splattering their newest prisoner on the rain-filled pavement. The moment he was slapped on the wet pavement, the detective snapped his brain awake. He coughed up water and saliva, punching the pavement with one fist. Like a dream, the members inspected D. like an extinct species that out of nowhere had sprung another form of itself. None of them spoke until D. finished coughing.

  “They call you D.,” said the nastier one. “What do you call yourself, besides that?”

  “Nothing,” the old man said. “Just D., that’s all.”

  The members crossed their arms, still watching.

  “You have family?” one of them asked.

  “I used to.”

  One of them snorted. “You don’t seem to answer in very long sentences, do you?” When D. got a clear look at him, he saw buck teeth sprouting from the rest like a rabbit or horse. Freckles were sprinkled across his face like orange polka dots. The younger one of the group, D. thought him a new recruit.

  “I can answer very well, thank you.” He coughed. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?”

  “We don’t know each other,” the new recruit spat. “So back off, will you?”

  D. had something to back himself up, but never got it out. Loud footsteps conquered all the sounds in the empty night of those few people taking down a lonesome old man trying to survive at his one job. The night was stark, so nobody could see where the leading man was walking, but the loud footsteps never were mistaken. D. of course stood as the exception, but even he knew that the loud, gargantuan noise those feet communicated were splitting cracks for miles.

  The loudness ended, and everyone sealed up quiet. Silence was a thing to get used to from D.’s perspective.

  “Speak,” the man that came from the darkness bellowed. He barked as if he were speaking to a pet.

  D. got to his feet – well, to his knees, really. “I-I am D.,” he pronounced.

  The man’s eyes didn’t change. Neither did his expression. “Is this supposed to be a joke?”

  “No it’s not.” D. shook his head in case the man didn’t think he told the truth.

  “I’ve heard, through various sources, that you are an independent criminal investigator?”

  D. nodded. “Yes I am.”

  The man came through the darkness and revealed himself. His appearance hadn’t matched the voice since he was dressed as a businessman, wore horn-rimmed glasses, and had curly hair. He had the shape of a high school nerd when you got close enough. When they got a few inches too close, the man kneeled close and pushed his glasses up his nose. He smirked. “No bosses, no partners during the scene?”

  “I have none of those in the slightest. My office is in a curved corner in my tiny apartment filled with paperwork, and I take calls in the same place without caring if it is early morning or late at night.”

  The young nerdy man held out a hand. “Call me Oliver Henry.”

  They shook hands.

  “These are my men,” Oliver Henry said, waving arms around the various young men who seemed to enjoy beating old men and women. “I am sure you’ve seen them before?”

  “Yes, I have. They were very polite when they shoved me into a small car trunk.”

  “Hmm . . . So I see.” He stroked his chin and scratched behind his neck. “I apologize for the rough treatment given you.”

  One of the men spoke up. “Hold on a second – weren’t we supposed to nearly drown the man and now you’re saying that we need to be more careful? What kind of bullshit is this?”

  Oliver Henry didn’t say anything. “I heard you are on the case of the missing man Paul McDermott.”

  “That is true.”

  “That case, you know, has been going on for about five years?”

  “I know that, Oliver. We were searching through his apartment, looking through anything the police had overlooked, when the apartment was abolished.”

  Oliver Henry was confused. “What happened, exactly?” An edge to his voice egged him on, wanting to know more.

  “We were in the apartment of McDermott, searching for any leads. Officer Lincoln Deed and me. I suspect we had found some letters leading to something, but we were ambushed of sorts.”

  Oliver Henry’s eyes shot up; so did his eyebrows. “An ambush, you say? What kind?”

  “An ambush involving fire, explosions, and dead policemen was the kind we witnessed. I’m not even sure I should say “we” because most of the men with me died or leaped off the building. For all I know – and this is because of my limited point-of-view here – I may be the only one who survived. I won’t start on how I did.”

  The smile on Oliver Henry’s lips widened more and more. “That is quite a lot to say for a not-yet-retired investigator going on his eighties.”

  “Seventies,” D. corrected.

  “Oh. I apologize for that.”

  No, D. was thinking, this wasn’t correcting anything about the events that happened. This Oliver Henry man smiled too much for him to gain trust, while his intimidating men walked like junior grim reapers. Their stares made his nerves go cold, his blackened pupils so pitched they went on endlessly. His breath went low, far more often than he pleased, so there was no going anywhere at this stage. At least, with what little he had, D. straightened and stood on both feet. At his highest, D. reached above Oliver Henry more than five inches, despite the age difference. Even so, height doesn’t matter too much, since it seemed that Oliver Henry had a quiet, yet opening, mind. All the words that came out of his mouth were limited, which also applied to his other cloaked, almost mythical characteristics.

  Oliver Henry was already moving. “We better be moving.”

  “Where would we go?”

  “We need to investigate McDermott. In case you didn’t know, I have been friends with him ever since college. We’re business partners.”

  D. stepped back, bumping into one of Oliver Henry’s goons. “How am I supposed to believe that?”

  Oliver Henry narrowed his eyes. “You’re saying you don’t believe me?”

  What was he supposed to say?

  D.’s ears began to block up from fear – or maybe it was just the blood pumping through his brain spilling everywhere. Suddenly, Oliver Henry’s dialogue was stripped, cut out from the slushing blood. He needed to keep his balance and stay calm; otherwise he’d slump back down--probably worse this time, like a collapsed horse . . .

  “D., what in God’s name . . . ? Is there something the matter?”

  “It’s nothing,” he breathed. Sharp pain made him wheeze out.

  Despite the weak support of his lie, Oliver Henry went with it. “All right . . . so, you sound like you don’t believe what I’m saying.”

  “I do,” he lied. “It’s just . . .”

  “Just what?” he wondered.

  Without an answer, D. pushed his way forward, making out through the thickness of the black figures, the men who in his thoughts seized no souls. His wish half-succeeded; the men grabbed for him, pulling his black coat to reel him in. Through the corner of D.’s eye, he noticed Oliver Henry not doing anything – he stood there watching. How the hell was that supposed to help in getting his prisoner back? A mysterious man, Oliver Henry was.

  D. grudged and groaned as he tried to get rid of his coat by the sleeves. He tugged at them until they came off and he tripped onto the wet road, sliding onto a similar, yet wetter, ice rink. Since there weren’t any signs of being stopped, D. kept gliding further with his hands, almost rowing them, like people do with oars in boats. However, some of the men caught up quickly, slipping then running after him. One hasty glance at the men holding rifles, revolvers, and machine guns made D. go faster. The road didn’t end yet.

  Oliver Henry hadn’t shouted things like “After him!” or “Faster, faster!” and instead he kept
his distance. The night grew starker, and the dwarfed version of the nerdy young man glistened in the shadows when he revealed himself. Wasting no time, D. brought his legs back up and ran off. Both hands were brittle with frost, his breath fogging up like steam. How he yearned for licks of flame and warmth, people surrounding him like old friends he never knew but was grateful for in any case. He even imagined a year when that time would come: 2002. The numbers, when spoken all at once, clicked together wonderfully like sweet beans.

  Flashing white lights came up ahead. The body of a car then came into view, illuminated by the same source. Ice began morphing from the slightly wet road from the rain. Sharp voices rose, yelling precautions, but D. didn’t hear them. His ears were shaken up like broken door locks. He surfed to the left where his hands groped a metal safety guard. He slowed a little but the speed mingled with the safety guard knifed his hands in wide cuts. The blood felt the air and reddened like old wine.

  After that, D. tumbled with multiple somersaults and other things he couldn’t even name. Along the way, he fingered another hand that was not his own, but it didn’t last more than a second or two. Long after the car accident, he still felt the hand wanting.

  *****

  Frederick Davidson always told the truth and every now and then told himself the same thing in a way that reassured his confidence. It kind of placed him on a higher pedestal than the last time he mentioned it. Although nobody knew of this strategy, he thought it good to keep hidden. Not even his wife knew about it. His inner critic, whom he sometimes nicknamed Terrance, brought up quite a disturbing thought while he sipped blueberry tea reading an English translation of Extremhögern. He found it really interesting from a political viewpoint, but all of that was swiped off clean when Terrance the Critic came marching up.

  To his dismay, Terrance was loud when he yelled. This time wasn’t an exception. “Filthy liar!”

  Davidson dropped Extremhögern; it in turn shattered the tea cup to the floor. Large chunks lay in tatters. Davidson stared at it without any intention of picking up the broken pieces or cleaning the spilled tea that stained the wooden boards that made up the floor. He knew Terrance could act like this some of the time, but never did he scream so much that it made his master drop what he was reading in a literal way.

  “Have you the slightest idea . . .?”

  “Yes, I do, actually,” spoke Terrance. To Davidson it sounded grim and highly sarcastic with butter spreads of irony toping it off, but everyone else would probably think Terrance sounded just like Davidson – no difference, but maybe nastier. “It’s got to do with you.”

  “I thought we were done last time we talked.”

  “Oh, it’s not about that.” Davidson could feel the sneer on Terrance’s mouse-like face. “Not that at all. I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Davidson.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s your faith in yourself. You’ve broken it.”

  Davidson grabbed Extremhögern from the ground and placed it on the coffee table. “And what do you mean by that? It’s not what I think you mean, is it?”

  Terrance laughed, always typical Terrance. “You know better than I.”

  His whole stomach sunken in fright. “It’s the truth.”

  “And the truth is you’re a liar.” Terrance sputtered in more laughter. It came out as hilarious on its own, but spewed into venom when it came to Davidson. “You think that by telling yourself every now and then that you’re an honest man, more honest than any angelic child could ever be, you’re telling the truth? Hell no! I’ve been thinking and I’ve noticed that what you’re doing right now, and always have been, is just some ploy to trick yourself into thinking you speak the truth. All this time you’ve been lying to every one of your family, even to your own dead son!”

  Davidson stood. “No, you’re lying!” The coffee table rattled.

  “Dear?” came his wife’s voice from another room. “Is there something wrong?”

  Alarmed, he began picking up the pieces of the tea cup. He rushed into them and split his finger. Blood seeped out of the cut. “No, I’m fine, honey! Nothing to worry about! Just . . . just a little spill of tea is all!”

  “All right . . .” Her voice faded away with those last two words.

  Outside somebody was knocking on his door. Davidson froze, hoping the person would leave. Already he was on his way to delivering the broken tea cup shards into their desired place.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  He threw the pieces out and went to the door. Opening it, he saw a man whose face paled so white in the sunlight that he might have been a vampire asking for sugar from one of his lovely neighbors. What made it different (for now) was that he wore a police uniform. The man’s eyes were blotted with red cracks like lightning branches. His pupils had no light in them, leaving a cold black throttled inside.

  “Hello,” said the pale officer. “I am officer Lincoln Deed.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Davidson, shaking the officer’s hand. He shook hands with an ice bucket was more like it. “Tell me, what brings you to my home at this time?”

  The pale officer was balanced on the balls of his feet. “Oh, nothing much, really . . . I’m just wondering if I could come in and explain something important to you.”

  “How important do you think it is?”

  “Strictly important,” said the officer. “I need your help, of some sort.”

  “Well then, come in, come in!” Davidson opened the door wider so he could let the pale officer in. He was the only one who knocked on his door, so it seemed odd that there weren’t any more officers like they usually have during a questioning at someone’s home.

  “Please, sit down.” Lincoln did as he was told. He moved left and right in his chair until it seemed okay. After that he brought up a notepad and pen and began to speak.

  “Do you, uh, remember the night when you’re son disappeared?”

  Davidson went whiter than Officer Lincoln himself. He made a short chuckle, pushing it aside. “We don’t talk about that nowadays . . .”

  “Anything personal doesn’t matter at this point. I need you to cooperate and tell me what happened that day when you learned your son had disappeared. It’s very important that I know this.”

  He took a deep breath, swiveled his hands together. Just what he needed now was a police officer letting himself in and asking about Hubert. Five years ago didn’t seem like a long time according to a monthly calendar, but it was two days since the tragedy in Davidson’s mind. If he were to blink, he would be transported back to that day where dreams and nightmares merged, wishes and curses were the same, and his son had left him. His only son, Hubert, was pronounced dead without a body. Everywhere he went, people were on the line of uncertainty about a thing this ambiguous: was he dead or missing?

  “Well, we knew Hubert was coming back from university from abroad. It had been years since we saw him, but now it’s been a lot more than that.”

  The cold voice of Lincoln spoke. “Go on.”

  “Doesn’t it matter to you that my son – my son! – has been dead these past five years?”

  Officer Lincoln took a deep breath. “Yes, it does matter quite greatly, which is why I need you to go on and give me all the details.”

  So Davidson continued. He recounted the darkly distasteful day when he had been writing an article for a magazine for work. His wife had been out getting ready for Hubert’s arrival, and the house had been left alone to Davidson. All that he did that day wasn’t anything entirely new: he had written his articles, made lunch, and watched television. Never did it come to mind that his son would arrive dead instead of a congratulated return.

  His first alarm was the phone call--that stark phone call of that day. When he heard the first ring, he finished up his lunch and strolled over to the phone. He had answered on the second ring, giving out one of the laziest hellos he could muster. What charged him back was the sound of his wife’s hard breathing. She had been crying
, too. Her sniffling had pinched his heart.

  “Frederick?” his wife had said. “Frederick, please tell me your there!”

  “Yes, I am!” he’d told her. “What happened?”

  Her sniffling had broken most of what she said, but Davidson knew she was speaking about Hubert. His wife’s tears smeared the words she had been trying to say, but he had made out something about a message. Hubert had sent a message and never called back until his strange disappearance occurred. He wasn’t in the crowd of passengers in the airport, and he hadn’t answered his phone, either.

  Officer Lincoln wrote this all down, flipping over to continue on extra pages. “And you never found out what happened to Hubert?”

  “Five years, officer,” said Davidson, “and still no answers. Now tell me, what is this for?”

  “Well, I – I mean we – have found something rather”—he coughed and cleared his throat before speaking again—“rather interesting.”

  “And what was it?” Davidson demanded.

  “We found another case involving the case of a wealthy family under the surname McDermott. They lost their only son, too.”

  “What a coincidence.”

  Officer Lincoln shook his head. “That’s what I kind of thought, too, until I realized that this may not be so. We’re starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, this case you’re holding is a fake.”

  Davidson stayed calm. He was doing his job.

  Officer Lincoln was doing his job.

  An officer’s job for the police, that’s all.

  No he wasn’t.

  “Are you out of your goddam, shriveled up mind?” he screamed. He didn’t care if his wife heard him. Davidson promised to calm himself down after the last breakdown, but not anymore. “Get the hell out of my house, now!”