Rainy Nights: Three Mysteries

by J. R. Rain

  “Who? Whitey?”

  I raised my hand. “That would be me.”

  Derrick’s father owned lots of real estate across southern California, and Derrick himself had grown up filthy rich. He was about as far from the ghetto as you could get. Yet here he was, sounding as if he had lived the mean streets all his life. As if he had grown up in poverty, rather than experiencing the best Orange County had to offer, which is considerable. I suspected here in prison he was in survival mode, where being a wealthy black kid is as bad as being a wealthy white kid. Except that he had the jargon wrong and a few years out of date, and he still sounded upper class, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

  “My name’s Jim Knighthorse.”

  “Hey, I know you, man!”

  “Who doesn’t?” I said. “And those who don’t, should.”

  He smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “How’s your leg? Saw you bust it up against Miami. Hell, I wanted to throw up.”

  “I did throw up. You play?”

  “Yeah. Running back.”

  “You any good?” I asked.

  “School is full of whities, what do you think?”

  I shrugged. “Some whities can run.”

  He grinned again. “Yeah, no shit. You could run, bro. Dad says wasn’t for your leg you’d be in the pros.”

  “Still might.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “What about the leg?” he asked.

  “We’ll see about the leg,” I said.

  We were silent. Derrick was losing the ghetto speak. His eyes had brightened considerably with the football talk. We looked at each other. Down to business.

  “You do her, Derrick?”

  “Do her?”

  “He means kill her, Derrick,” said Cho. “He’s asking if you killed Amanda Peterson.”

  “Thank you, assistant Cho,” I said, smiling at her. She looked away quickly. Clearly she didn’t trust herself around me. I looked back at Derrick. “You kill her, Derrick?”

  “Hell, no.”

  His arms flexed. Bulbous veins stood out against his forearms, disappearing up the short sleeves of his white prison attire. I could see those arms carrying a football.

  “Why should anyone believe you?” I asked.

  “Give a fuck what anyone believes.”

  “They found the knife in your car, Derrick. Her blood was on the knife. It adds up.”

  He was trying for hostile bad-ass, but he was just a kid, and eventually his emotions won out. They rippled across his expressive face, brief glimpses into his psyche: disbelief, rage, frustration. But most of all I saw sorrow. Deep sorrow.

  “Because... ” He stopped, swallowed, looked away. “Because we were going to get married.”

  “Married?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “How old was she?”

  “The same.”

  “Anyone know about the marriage?” I asked.

  He laughed hollowly. “Hell, no. Her dad hates me, and I’m sure he doesn’t think much of me now.”

  “I wouldn’t imagine he does,” I said. “You have any theories who might have killed her?”

  He hesitated. “No.”

  “Was she seeing anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “You were exclusive?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She loved me.”

  “Did you love her?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer immediately. The silence that followed was palpable. The ticking of the clock behind us accentuated the silence and gave it depth and profundity. I listened to him breathe through his mouth. The corners of his mouth were flecked with dried spittle.

  “Yeah, I loved her,” he said finally. He swiped his sleeve across his face, using a shrugging motion to compensate for his cuffed wrists. The sleeve was streaked with tears.

  “That will be enough, Mr. Knighthorse,” said Cho. “Thank you, Derrick.”

  She got up and went to the door. She knocked on the window and the two wardens entered and led the shuffling Derrick out of the room. He didn’t look back. I got up and stood by the door with Cho.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I think you’re secretly in love with me,” I said.

  “I think you’re secretly in love with yourself.”

  “It’s no secret,” I said.

  We left the conference room and moved down the purposefully bare-walled hallway. Perhaps colorful paintings would have given the accused false hope.

  “The kid didn’t do her,” I said. “No one’s that good an actor.”

  She nodded. “We know. He’s going to need your help.”

  “He’s going to need a lot of help,” I said.

  “Let me guess: and you’re the man to do it?”

  “Took the words right out of my mouth.”

  Chapter Five

  On Beach Blvd., not too far from my crime-fighting headquarters, there is a McDonald’s fast food restaurant. McDonald’s is a fairly well-known establishment here in Huntington Beach, California, although I can’t vouch for the rest of the country since I don’t get out much. This McDonald’s features an epic two- or three-story plastic playground, an ATM and DVD rentals.

  Oh, and it also features God.

  Yes, God. The Creator. The Lord Of All That Which Is And Is Not. The God of the Earth below and the sky above. The God of the Moon and the stars and Cher.

  No, I’m not high. At least, not at the moment.

  Oh, and he doesn’t like me calling him God. He prefers Jack. Yes, Jack.

  Again, I’m not high.

  Let me explain: Not too long ago, while enjoying a Big Mac or three at this very McDonald’s, a homeless man dressed in rags and smelling of an overripe dumpster sat across from me. He introduced himself as God, and later, by my third Big Mac, I almost believed him.

  God or not, he offered some pretty damn good advice that day, and I have been coming back ever since.

  Today, by my second Big Mac and third re-fill of Coke, he showed up, ambling up to the restaurant from somewhere on Beach Blvd. Where he came from, I don’t know. Where he goes, I still didn’t know. Maybe Heaven. Maybe a dumpster. Maybe both.

  As he cut across the parking lot, heading to the side entrance, I noted that his dirty jeans appeared particularly torn on this day. Perhaps he had had a fight with the Devil earlier.

  Jack went through the door, walked up to the cashier, ordered a coffee.

  “Hi, Jim,” he said, after he had gotten his coffee. He carefully lifted the lid with very dirty fingers and blew on the steaming coffee.

  “God doesn’t like his coffee too hot?” I asked. I had been curious about this, as he always blew on his coffee.

  “No,” he said simply. God, or Jack, was an average-sized man, with average features: His hair was of average color and length (neutral brown, hanging just above his ears), his eyes of average color (brownish, although they could have been green), and his skin was of average tone (perhaps Caucasian, although he could have passed for Hispanic). In short, the man was completely nondescript and nearly invisible to the world at large. He would make a hell of a P.I., actually.

  Jack finally looked up from his coffee and studied me with his neutrally-colored eyes, squinting a little. I felt again that he was looking deep within me, into my heart and soul. While he was reading my aura, or whatever the hell it was he was doing, I looked down at his coffee: It was no longer steaming.

  “How’s your day going, Jim?” he finally asked me, sipping from the cup, using both hands, cradling the thing carefully, as if it were the Cup of Life.

  He always asked me that, and I always said, which I did now: “Fine, Jack. How’s it hanging?”

  “Some would be offended to hear you speak to God in such an irreverent, disrespectful manner.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Hell, I’m even
offended. Can’t you tell?”

  He laughed softly.

  “As they say, I broke the mold with you, Jim. And they’re hanging to the left. They’re always hanging to the left. Isn’t there anything else you want to ask God?”

  “Sure,” I said. “For starters, how do I know you’re God?”

  We were mostly alone at the back of the seating area. Behind me, kids played in the massive two-story jungle gym. Such jungle gyms didn’t exist when I was kid. Lucky bastards.

  “You have faith, Jim. That’s how,” he said. He always said that to me.

  “How about for a lark you perform a miracle.”

  “You’re alive and breathing,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Isn’t that miracle enough?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s not, dammit.” I was used to these kinds of double-talk answers. Jack seemed particularly efficient at this. “Make a million dollars appear. I don’t even have to keep it. Just make it appear.”

  “And that would prove to you that I’m God?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is it God you seek, or a genie?”

  “Genie would be nice, too.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “Thanks.”

  We were quiet. Jack silently sipped his coffee. Not even a slurp.

  “You haven’t been around for a while,” he said.

  “Have you missed me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have been waiting for me?” I asked, mildly shocked. It had been, perhaps, four months since I’d last visited with him.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “How did you know I was here today?” I asked.

  He grinned.

  “There’s something to be said for being omniscient, Jim.”

  “I bet,” I said. “Anyway, I haven’t worked on a case in a while. That is, a real case.”

  “You only come when you’re working on a case?”

  “Something like that,” I said. “You would prefer I came more often?”

  He looked at me from over his non-steaming cup of coffee.

  “Yes,” he said simply, and I found his answer oddly touching. “So am I to assume you are working on a case now?”

  “You are God,” I said. “You can assume anything you want.”

  “So is that a yes?”

  I sighed.

  “I’m working on a case, yes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Don’t you already know?” I asked. “Hell, don’t you already know who killed the girl?”

  He looked at me long and hard, unblinking, his face impassive. There was dirt in the corner of his eyes, and along the border of his scalp, where his roots met his forehead. He stank of something unknown and rotten and definitely foul.

  You’re insane, I told myself for the hundredth time. Utterly insane to even remotely entertain the idea that this might be—

  “Yes,” he said. “I do know who killed the girl.”

  My breath caught in my throat.

  “Then tell me.”

  “You already know, my son.”

  We had discussed such matters before. Jack seemed to think I knew things that I didn’t really know. He also seemed to think that time meant nothing to me and that I could sort of shift back and forth through it as I wished. I kindly let Jack know that I thought it all sounded like bullshit.

  For now, I said, “I can assure you, Jack, that I most certainly do not know who killed her—and I most certainly do not want to get into that time-is-an-illusion horseshit, either. It makes my fucking head hurt, and you know it. Do you want to make my fucking head hurt, Jack?”

  “Are you quite done?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, sitting back, taking a swig from my fourth or maybe fifth Coke.

  He watched me quietly while I drank, then said, “Although you do know who killed the girl, but choose to deny the basic laws that govern your existence—in particular, time—I will give you the answer now if you so desire.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Really.”

  “You know who killed Amanda Peterson?” I wasn’t sure what my tone was: disbelief, curious, awe, maybe even a little fear. There are no secrets with God.

  “Indeed,” said Jack.

  “But I haven’t even discussed the case with you.”

  “I know.”

  “So why did you ask me to discuss the case with you?”

  “It’s called small talk, Jim. Try it sometime.” And Jack winked at me.

  I took in some air. These conversations were always like this. Circular. Infuriating. Often illuminating. Sometimes silly. But more often than not, just plain insane.

  “Fine,” I said, “write it down and I’ll keep it in my wallet.”

  “Until?”

  “Until the case is over. We’ll see if we came to the same conclusions.”

  “Oh, we will.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Always.”

  I often keep a pen above my ear, and as luck would have it, there was one there now. Jack tore off a piece of my tray liner, wrote something down on it, folded it up neatly and handed pen and paper to me. I deftly slipped the pen back over my ear, was briefly tempted to unfold the paper, but promptly shoved it in my wallet, behind an old condom.

  “So how is Amanda?” I asked. Amanda being the murdered girl on my case, of course.

  “She is happy.”

  “But she was slaughtered just a few weeks ago.”

  “Yes, but she is with me now.”

  “This is fucking weird,” I said.

  “It’s as weird as you want it to be,” said the bum in front of me. I saw that his coffee was nearly gone.

  “Want another coffee?”

  “Heavens, no. It’ll keep me up all night.”

  “I thought God never sleeps.”

  He looked up at me and grinned, showing a row of coffee stained teeth.

  “Why, whoever told you that?”

  “I’ll be back,” I said. “And it won’t be four months this time.”

  And as I left, sipping from my large plastic cup, I noticed for the first time the Monopoly guy on the side of the cup, holding in his fist a single million dollar bill.

  I looked over at Jack, but he had gotten up and was currently talking with someone else, oblivious to me.

  Chapter Six

  Fresh from my conversation with God, I parked in front of a single story home with a copper roof, copper garage door and copper front door. I was sensing a pattern here. The front yard was immaculate and obviously professionally maintained. Roses were perfectly pruned under the front bay windows. Thick bushes separated the house from its distant neighbor. The bushes were pruned into massive green balls.

  In the center of the lawn was a pile of roses. Mixed with the roses were teddy bears and cards and a massive poster with many signatures on it. The poster had photographs stapled to it. It was a sort of shrine to Amanda Peterson, marking the spot where she had been found murdered just forty-three days ago. The flowers themselves were in different stages of dying, and the grass around the shrine was trampled to death.

  A lot of dying going on around here.

  I let my car idle and studied the crime scene. The large round bushes could conceal anyone, an easy ambush point. There was only one street light in this cul-de-sac, and it was four houses down. Although upscale, the neighborhood had no apparent security. Anyone could have been waiting for her.

  Anyone.

  But probably not Derrick.

  Then again, I’ve been wrong before.

  According to the police report, a neighbor had been the first to discover the body. The first to call the cops. The first questioned. The neighbor claimed to have heard nothing, even while Amanda was being mutilated directly across the street. I wanted to talk to that neighbor.

  I yanked a u-turn and parked across the street in front of a powder blue house. The house was huge and sprawling. And silent.

  I rang the doorbel
l and waited. While doing so, I examined the distance from where Amanda was murdered to here. My internal judge of distance told me this: it wasn’t that far.

  No one answered. I utilized my backup plan and tried the doorbell again.

  Nothing.

  Plan C.

  I strolled around the side of the house, reached over the side gate, unlatched the lock and walked into the backyard. As if I owned the place. Done with enough chutzpah and self-assurance that even the nosiest neighbor will hesitate to call the police. I was also fairly certain there was no dog, unless it was trained not to bark at the doorbell. Which few were.

  In the backyard, pruning roses, was an older lady. She was dressed much younger and hipper than she probably was. She wore white Capri pants, a tank top, shades and tennis shoes. Her arms were tanned, the skin hanging loose. In Huntington Beach no one ages; or, rather, no one concedes to aging. Because she was armed with shearing knives, I kept my distance.

  “Mrs. Dartmouth?” I asked pleasantly.

  No response. More pruning.

  I said her name louder and took a step closer. I was beginning to see how a murder could indeed happen across the street without her knowledge.

  But then she finally turned and caught me out of the corner of her eye. She gasped and whipped the shearing knives around, ready to shear the hell out of me. Although thirty feet away, I stepped back, holding up my wallet and showing my private investigator license. A hell of a picture, I might add.

  “Jim Knighthorse,” I said. “Private investigator.”

  “Good Christ, you shouldn’t sneak up on people around here, especially after what’s happened.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I represent Carson and Deploma. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  She stood. “You’re representing the boy?” she asked, her voice rising an octave. Not representing the young man. But the boy. She also sounded surprised, as if I were an idiot to do so.

  “Yes.”

  She thought about that. She seemed to be struggling with something internally. Finally she shrugged.

  “Would you like some iced tea?” she asked.

  “Oh, would I.”

  At her patio table, she served it up with a mint sprig and a lemon wedge, and I suspected a dash or two of sugar. We were shaded by a green umbrella, and as Mrs. Dartmouth sat opposite me, I noticed the shears didn’t stray far from her hand. Didn’t blame her.