White Birch Graffiti (White Birch Village Book 2)

by Jeff Van Valer

  “Knock-knock,” Betty said outside the curtain in a kind of bored, sing-song voice that seemed unique to the field of medicine. “Serum eth-an-ollll, hot off the pres-ses.”

  Frank handed the paper to Joni without trying to look at it. Joni grabbed the paper and thanked Betty. She held up the sheet surreptitiously behind the patient’s head so Ted could see the alcohol level. He finished a stitch and took a gander.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Stupe,” Ted said. “Three-twenty-one.” It meant three hundred twenty-one milligrams per deciliter. Frank Bruska would translate the number to zero-point-three-two-one percent. Four times the legal alcohol limit.

  “Whoa. I wouldn’t have guessed that high.”

  “Proud of that number, are you?”

  “No.”

  Joni threw Ted a hidden, what the hell are you doing? look. Even Frank noticed. Ted shut up only for her sake. The smashed Chevy Corvair appeared in his mind, his Schwinn’s handlebars in the foreground.

  That Friday afternoon was an Indian summer type of day. Ted and a friend had just ridden home from school to Lafayette Street Park. Not much later, Frank showed up with a fight to pick with Ted’s buddy. Ted put himself in the middle just before they heard a crash and a whole bunch of sirens. They all ditched the fight and took off on their bikes to see what had happened.

  Sweat beaded on Ted’s forehead as he drew the next suture. His work was quick and handy. It looked perfect. The scar would look a lot better than the one from 1969.

  Ted breezed past a good opportunity to keep his mouth shut.

  “So. Mr. Stupe.”

  “How’s it look, Doc?”

  “You still drive that El Camino?”

  “Naw… it got—how do you know about that?”

  “Just a guess,” Ted said, standing up and taking off his gloves. He floated Frank some air quotes. “He’s alert and oriented, Detective. Have at him.”

  After a glance at Ted’s nametag, what little color remained in Carl Stupe’s face drained away. Ted asked Joni to clean and dress the wound.

  “Thanks for bringing him, Frank,” Ted said as he left the room. The detective’s eyes widened, and his face turned a light shade of pink. The antagonism in Frank’s face hadn’t changed since they were kids. Frank puffed out his mustache and swallowed hard.

  “I didn’t bring him, Ted. I just heard from the department he was a suspect in a hold-up.”

  Ted thought for a moment he might just be paranoid, as he was prone to be from time to time. But then, he decided Frank was, indeed, a chicken-shit, lying bastard. He was sure Frank had arranged for Stupe to be taken to Blue County for treatment.

  Ted stalked through the department, back into his sleep room, and shut the door. The ER was quiet.

  CHAPTER 6

  ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN

  January 20, 2000

  Thursday evening

  “Hurry up, man,” Lewis said.

  “I’m comin’, I’m comin’.”

  Mr. Gray hopped into the passenger side, tucking the clean, plastic bundle between his feet.

  Lewis knew his partner only as Mr. Gray. They’d worked together before and had been clean and efficient. They remained distant from each other—and the jobs they were paid to do—by design. Although curiosity did intrude, it usually caused trouble. It was best just to do the work and not wonder about anything else.

  “One down, five to go,” he said.

  “That’s what I said,” Mr. Gray said as he shut the door.

  “You must be a damn genius.”

  Mr. Gray sipped from his insulated Scooby-Doo travel mug. “I gotta tell you, man. That sucked.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it did.”

  “Eloquent.”

  They drove in silence for a few minutes. The windshield wiper motor hummed a rhythm as the blades kept ice off the glass. Lewis navigated downtown Ann Arbor and headed toward the interstate.

  Mr. Gray pulled the satellite phone from his pocket and hit the CALL button before putting it up to his ear.

  “Did you ‘obtain’ his wallet?” Lewis asked. Obtain was the word their contact, Mr. Green, had used. The reason behind taking the wallet was to make the hits look petty and unprofessional. Thefts. Muggings gone wrong. Druggie violence. That kind of thing. Lewis thought the deceptive practice was a waste of time. It made him wonder who Mr. Green was and why the man cared.

  The only thing Lewis knew about Mr. Green was that Mr. Gray’s satellite phone called him. The phone had two buttons. One to call or receive calls from Mr. Green, the other to hang up. Serious, cryptic, cloak-and-dagger shit. Lewis had to admit he respected it. But he didn’t much like being controlled.

  After each job, to keep Mr. Green apprised, Mr. Gray was to call, let the phone ring once, then hang up. And that was just what he did.

  “No,” Mr. Gray said. “I didn’t obtain his wallet.”

  “But Mr. Greeeeen told us we need to obtain their wallets.”

  “I know. Next time.”

  “I say don’t bother. What’s he gonna do if we just cap these guys and say fuck the accidental-death routine?”

  “Hell if I know, but I guess he’s our boss.”

  “Boss, my ass. He’s our client. And as such, he needs to grant us a little artistic leeway. I, for one, am glad you didn’t obtain the professor’s wallet.”

  “Why?”

  “The absence of forensic evidence’ll be enough to let the cops know this was a professional hit and not some damn mugging.”

  “Professional? Why, thank you.”

  Lewis shook his head.

  “Artistic license,” Mr. Gray said, slurping at his coffee. Scooby’s face radiated unwavering happiness. “It’s still gonna look a hell of a lot more like a mugging gone wrong than an assassination. Assassins use bullets from a distance. This was up close and messy. Low-rent.”

  “So why didn’t you take his wallet?”

  Mr. Gray scowled at Lewis. “Fuck do you care?”

  “I don’t. Just asking.”

  “All right. I guess it just didn’t feel right.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. In this case? It just seemed… undignified somehow.”

  “Undignified? We’re poppin’ motherfuckers. Who cares about dign—”

  “Guy was a brother, man. A professor. You see his face?”

  “He was a brother? What the hell. You’re here to kill him, not… bond with him.”

  “I said, ‘Did you see his face?’”

  “No.”

  “Then you wouldn’t get it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re white.”

  “Maybe you only give a shit about black people.”

  “Now that’s just stupid.”

  “Why’s it stu—”

  “And you know it.”

  “So tell me. Why was it undignified.”

  Mr. Gray put down his cup. “Okay. I know it was dark. But I saw his face. You could tell the dude was busy. Phone was ringing, just bought a cake, trying to get in his car and not fall on the ice. Poor bastard had enough to worry about already.”

  Lewis rolled his eyes. “So?”

  “The guy looked like he wanted to help me.”

  “You showed him.”

  “Shut up, man. I woulda been pissed if some asshole wanted to ask me a question when I was doin’ all that.”

  Lewis made a cold, questioning face and kept his eyes on the road. “Don’t get soft.”

  “I’m not gettin’ soft. I’m just sayin’ this one was harder than the other ones are gonna be.”

  “Pfftt,” Lewis said. “They’re all the same, man. They’re all just the same.”

  Mr. Gray cackled. “Bull shit.”

  “No?”

  “I have to do the professor, and you get dibs on the creepy albino preacher in Nebraska? They are not the same.”

  Lewis turned up one corner of his mouth. “You might have a point on that one.”r />
  “Damn right,” Mr. Gray said. “The professor’s daughter has a birthday comin’ up. You remember reading about that.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “I bet that was her cake.”

  “Knock it off. You’re startin’ to sound like the one who got stabbed.”

  “Party’s tonight, I’ll betcha. Just imagine what that girl’s gonna think.”

  “Listen. The guy was a law professor. He’s not just a lawyer, he’s a lawyer who trains more lawyers. Who needs that? Think of what you did as a public service.”

  Lewis checked all three mirrors, then his blind spot. He clicked on his turn signal and accelerated up the interstate ramp.

  Mr. Gray finally seemed to shut up, until he said, “I don’t know why we need to make these look like muggings. This is six guys in six different states.”

  “Now you’re startin’ to make a little sense. Just do the work, collect the money, and don’t worry about the rest.”

  Neither of them spoke for a half hour. Eventually, Lewis veered into an interstate rest area. They picked a spot and made sure they were alone. Lewis didn’t see any cameras and figured it wouldn’t matter if he did. Mr. Gray dropped his neat little bundle into a garbage can affixed to a light post. Both men entered the little building. Lewis didn’t have to go, but on camera, if a van pulled up, dropped a bundle of trash, and drove off without anybody even using the pisser, it might look funny.

  When they sped down the ramp back to the interstate, Lewis said, “Six guys in six different states. Why do you suppose they matter? And what’s with the deadline?”

  “Search me.”

  “You’re the one with the sat phone to Mister Greeeeeen,” Lewis said. “I figured you might know a little something.”

  “Did you not just say, ‘Do the work, collect the money, and don’t worr—’”

  “Kiss my ass. I know what I said.”

  Lewis leaned his head back and relaxed. Six guys in six different states. He knew good and well it wasn’t safe to wonder. But curiosity, at times, did intrude.

  CHAPTER 7

  Blue County Hospital

  Blue River, Indiana

  January 21, 2000

  7:30 a.m.

  Ted wondered if he would bother his dad or Kathryn about Carl Stupe. After the night he’d had, he was in no shape to care. Because either way, Carl Stupe would still have been to the ER, and Ted would still have sewn him up. It made no sense burdening anyone important with it. Let them be oblivious and happy, he figured.

  Ted’s dad and step-mom of twenty-some years, Suzanne, were wintering, as they usually did, in Gulf Shores, Alabama. Just the day before, Ted spoke to the Honorable Roy Gables. A dutifully reformed smoker for going on ten years, the elder statesman had been coughing for a few weeks. After Ted heard about the night sweats and modest weight loss, he harassed his dad into making an appointment.

  Even though Roy Gables minimized the symptoms, Ted heard a splinter of worry in his dad’s voice. Very little can validate your own fears like an indication of that same fear in your own dad.

  Don’t let it be something horrible like TB. Or cancer.

  After the conversation, the elder Gables put the cherry on top of Ted’s concern by calling him Buddy Boy.

  After Carl Stupe, Ted craved his dad’s strong handshake. He gathered his things to head out to the garage and go home. Something strong inside him said not to mention Stupe to his dad.

  It’d make him sick. Give him cancer if he doesn’t have it already.

  The Carl Stupe issue wouldn’t change a thing, past or present. Neither would the Lloyd issue. A little more of Ted’s heart turned to cold granite that morning. He knew he could keep Carl Stupe to himself. He was good at burying secrets.

  ~~~

  A little after seven thirty, Ted left the department and headed to the open parking garage. The space seemed inappropriately big for the hospital. It was sparsely lit and quiet, save for the occasional squeal of tires on smooth concrete. A rare January sun spilled its first light into the eastern sky. A wintry gust sliced through the garage and stung his face. Only three vehicles occupied Ted’s view. His truck and Joni’s Jeep Wrangler sat close to the door. Off in a far corner sat a light gray minivan. Ted absently thought if generic had a color, that van’s paint would be it. An energetic Joni popped into the garage through the same stairwell door, fifteen seconds behind him.

  The rush for eight o’clock shifts hadn’t begun, and Ted was happy he could sneak out before then.

  “Dr. Gables?” Joni said.

  Ted fished in his coat pocket as he turned to face her. She had changed out of her scrubs and back into her jeans, a low-cut sweater, and a small denim jacket that barely reached the bottom of her ribcage. Her cute little ponytail bounced like it was part of a Vidal Sassoon commercial.

  “May I ask you a question?” she asked.

  “You bet.” He took a quick look to see if anyone was watching. It wouldn’t do for the morning rush to start with the two of them standing close.

  “Are you okay? You seemed upset back there.”

  “It’s nothing. I mean, nothing you did at all, if that’s what—”

  “No. Not that. You just looked like you were about to get sick, sewing up the drunk guy. And the deal with that cop. You seemed a little lost.”

  Joni never struck Ted as the nosy type. He must’ve done something to spark her concern. It was nice of her to ask, and he didn’t mind. They’d known each other for long enough. He could see well past her pure, girl-next-door carnality. At her core, she was plain and simply a good egg.

  “Okay,” he said. “Since you asked. But this doesn’t need to get into the gossip mill. You know we don’t like drunk drivers much, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “A drunk driver killed my mom when I was a kid.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, lifting a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, T—Dr. Gables.”

  “You can call me Ted. It’s okay.” Outside the ER.

  “I honestly didn’t mean to pry. I hope you have a good d—”

  “Carl Stupe is the one who killed my mom.”

  Both hands covered her mouth. “Omigod-that’s-nunna-my-business.”

  “Nah. I just made it your business. And the Frank thing? He and I go way back, and it’s not very pretty.”

  She reached and squeezed his hand. He let her, but he worried she might try to hug him. Then she hugged him. The stairwell door opened. A hospital custodian stepped into the garage, and Joni backed quickly away from Ted, checking to see who was there.

  The custodian did a double take before appearing to mind his own business.

  Dammit.

  Ted fished in his coat pocket again. No keys. “How ’bout that. Looks like I left my keys back in the sleep room.”

  Joni dropped her chin. “You poor guy. Promise to get some sleep today.” Joni walked to her Wrangler, less bouncy than before. She waved sadly and said, “See you tonight.”

  The cap she put on the end of their conversation made it feel like the end of a date. Ted went to get his keys. When he returned, the eight o’clockers had shown up in force. Joni’s Wrangler was gone. So was the gray minivan.

  CHAPTER 8

  That afternoon, Ted dreamed about Joni. The two of them were in his ER doctor’s quarters. He stood in the little bathroom, splashing water on his face. When he emerged, Joni, in red satin bikini undergarments, lay on the crappy, plaid couch. On her side, facing him, she propped her head on one hand. The tight, shiny fabric reflected curved blades of light that moved when she breathed. Her hair was down, and she mimicked a kiss for him.

  Even during the dream itself, the brooding infidelity made him anxious, but he was powerless to stop it. Also, on some academic level, Ted wanted to touch the fabric, to see if it was as smooth as it looked. Against all of his judgment, he inched toward her and knelt down. Just when he reached her, she closed her eyes. Her mouth fell open in a gentle gasp, but he didn’t feel an
ything.

  When he heard the screech of tires on the pavement, he jerked awake and sat up.

  It didn’t make any sense. No one drove very quickly on his street. The neighbors were moving, selling their waterfront lot. Moving men arrived that morning when he got home from the hospital, and their voices, still in mid-afternoon, wafted gently into earshot. Nothing screeched at all. Ted knew then the sound was from the dream, maybe from Carl Stupe’s El Camino, just before impact.

  He stood and stretched.

  On a forensic pathology rotation in medical school, Ted was nearly sick in front of a burned car crash victim. Lying face-up on the stainless steel table, the guy’s hair had burned away, and his clothes had melted onto him. Nothing but a bald-looking silhouette of a human remained. The tightening eschar of skin had drawn him into a childlike, bunny-hop position. His eyelid remnants were half open, and his mouth was an oval sneer with dull, light-brown teeth. Tectonic plates of black char seemed to float on the body’s surface, separated by fault-lines of oozing redness. The chilly room smelled like gasoline and pork barbecue.

  The pathology technician sliced open the burn victim’s dissected trachea, pointed to the soot inside it, and said, Yep, this crispy critter was alive when the car burned. Ted hoped the impact had killed his mom. But he could never shake the idea of her breathing fire between screams.

  That moment, Ted’s trapdoor spider dragged him to White Birch Camp to tell him Lloyd would have looked that way, too, only worse. Those magnificent, scintillating coals burned away the spine-deep neck wound, along with all the flesh in the area. When the investigators found Lloyd’s body, they’d’ve seen over-done meat on his back and brittle, fractured, exposed bone in front. There wouldn’t be enough trachea left to check for soot. Not that it mattered. Ted had been there. He saw the whole thing. His camp counselor gargled his own blood before collapsing into the fire.