The Cleopatra Murders

by Mic Palmer

  “Glad I could be of service,” smiled Jack.

  “Funny.”

  “So are you completely over it?”

  “It still comes and goes, but it’s different now, mostly I think because I know it’s not going to last. When the depression first hits you, you think, ‘this is it, this is going to be my life,’ which makes you feel even worse. So it kind of feeds upon itself. Now though, being an old pro, I can kind of see it for what it is.”

  Having barely moved during the last few minutes, Jack uncrossed his legs. “Well I’m glad to hear it. To tell you the truth one of the reasons I’m here, aside from just wanting to meet you, was to get a grip on the family medical history.”

  “That’s funny. The first and only time I heard back from the adoption agency was for the same reason. As a matter of fact I authorized them to release my name and contact information, just in case your parents wanted to get in touch with me. I guess I was hoping to get a peek at you, but it’s lucky they never followed up. I was going through a bad time at that point. Who knows what kind of trouble I might have caused.”

  Jack assumed a coy expression. “They never gave you their name?”

  “Your family? No, but it was probably for the best.”

  “So when was it that you were contacted?”

  “Oh, many years ago. I’d say you were maybe seven or eight.”

  “Did they tell you anything?”

  “Apparently you were having some kind of problem with not being able to sleep.”

  Jack rubbed his eyes, pretending not to be particularly interested. “Did it have anything to do with sleep walking?”

  “Of course. That’s right. Apparently your doctor recommended that you go to some sort of clinic to check it out.”

  “Really? Did you ever learn of how long I was there?”

  “It was a long time ago, but my understanding was that it was just for a night or two. I don’t think it was a big deal. They just wanted to know if I knew of any sort of genetic predisposition and while I was at it anything else you might someday find useful.”

  Jack was shocked. “So that’s it?”

  “I believe so, but again it was years ago. I hope everything’s ok?”

  “I’m fine, but every now and then – very rarely mind you – I find myself waking up in strange places.”

  “Even now?”

  “It’s nothing, but still I’d like to know what to expect.”

  “Unfortunately, I have nothing to tell you, and I checked on both sides.”

  “I almost forgot, but as long as you bring it up…”

  “Of course. What was I thinking? You’d like to know about your father.”

  “The thought has crossed my mind.”

  “You know you look a lot like him, especially around the eyes, but as far as the hair and complexion, you’re all Corcoran.”

  “Corcoran? I thought it was Christine.”

  “Actually it’s Vincent, but that’s my married name. My maiden name was Corcoran. I just used Christine for the adoption. Why I chose that name, I can’t tell you. Christina Christine, kind of stupid, huh?”

  Jack chuckled. “What was my father’s name?”

  “Joseph, Joseph Bastone.”

  “Hmmm,” uttered Jack, thoughtfully.

  Christina was perplexed. “What?”

  “Nothing, it just sounds like the same mix as my adoptive parents.”

  “That’s how they used to do it.”

  “So I’m not from royalty?”

  “You actually seem disappointed.”

  “Sometimes you just want to shake things up, you know?”

  “Are things really that bad?”

  Jack tried to slough it off. “I’m just kidding.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what can you tell me – I mean about my father.’

  “Well you’re an adult,” went on Mrs. Vincent. “The truth is I didn’t know him very well.”

  Jack was prepared for the worst. “Oh oh. Here we go.”

  “No, it’s not bad. We met at a Doors concert in 1969, while he was back from Vietnam.”

  “He was a solder?”

  “Yes, a marine, and I’m still embarrassed over the way I treated him – like he was some kind of war criminal. Eventually though he won me over and for the next couple of days we were inseparable, until he had to go back that is.”

  “And that was it?”

  “I’m afraid so. Even then, as young as we were, we knew it couldn’t last. He was truly a nice guy, but very ordered, very definite about things, and that just wasn’t my way.”

  “I’m not sure who I take after,” Jack chuckled.

  “About three months later I learned that he had died.”

  “How?”

  “Something about being overrun. To tell you the truth it was never clear to me.”

  “Maybe I can find a website.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. I believe he won a Bronze Star or some kind of medal. You can see his name on the war memorial.”

  “The wall?”

  “Yes. Have you been?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You know initially I thought it was kind of silly, especially as an artist, but after I went to see it, I was absolutely bowled over, especially being that I knew your father. My goodness, all of those names, row after row – I couldn’t stop crying, but what really got me were all of the families and friends. Watching them as they searched for a name or taped up a photo, or left flowers, you could just sense their loss. ‘Here he is,’ you’d hear them saying, as if he were standing right there. It was really something.”

  Having learned of his biological father Jack suddenly felt more confident, more capable, even heroic. “Do you have any information on his family? I’d like to meet them some time.”

  “No I don’t. All I can tell you is that he was from Connecticut, Harford I think.”

  “Well I got his name. That and the city might be enough.”

  “You can probably call the Veteran’s Administration.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Wow,” she exclaimed. “This has been quite the trip down memory lane.”

  “I’m sorry, but just to follow up, before I forget, are there any medical conditions I should know about, cancer, heart disease… mental illness?”

  “You never got the information from your father?”

  “No, just your name.”

  “Well there’s the depression of course, but other than that not much. The only thing I can think of is a grandmother with a heart condition and an uncle who died of colon cancer. As a matter of fact, you might want to keep an eye on that; I think Joe’s father died of the same thing.”

  “I have it on both sides, wonderful.”

  “Well look on the bright side. My parents lived until their late eighties. Hopefully you took after them.”

  Jack chuckled. “So the only psychological issue you know about is the depression?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  Jack smiled. “Did anyone else in your family suffer from it?”

  “Not that I know of. What about you; are you ok?”

  For a moment he considered pouring out his heart, but quickly reconsidered. “Fine,” he told her.

  “Are you sure?

  Jack’s voice became husky. “I have my moments, but who doesn’t, right?”

  Christina was concerned. “Black moments, anxious moments?”

  “Oh I don’t know, but either way I’ve never really let it get to me.”

  “That’s wonderful, because it tells me that you’re probably alright. If you really suffered from clinical depression, I don’t think you’d say that.”

  Jack looked into her eyes. “Do you ever feel like you’re about to explode, like there’s something wrong, something urgently pressing, but you don’t know what it is?”

  Christina understood. “And your body feels wrapped so tight that a part of you feels lik
e it’s trying to escape.”

  “Yes,” added Jack, “like you’re floating off somewhere!”

  “Sure,” responded Christina, “but the good news is that it’s nothing to be overly concerned about. After years of therapy all that sounds like to me is anxiety.”

  Jack grinned. “Whatever it is, it’s not pleasant. Sometimes I feel like I’m about to snap.”

  “What helped me is to keep in mind that whatever I’m experiencing is just a feeling and therefore transient.”

  “You make it sound so simple, but when it’s happening the brain kind of shuts down.”

  “I know, believe me, but that’s how it’s supposed to be. What you have to understand is that anxiety was meant to make us feel bad, so that we’d run or take some sort of action, but if you can just manage to step outside of yourself and look upon it as a kind of emotional breeze temporarily brushing against your body, you’ll be surprised at how much of a difference it can make.”

  “Sounds like you’ve given it a lot of thought.”

  “Breaking it down and thinking about it helps.”

  “I already feel a little better. To tell you the truth, before I got here, I was a bit worried.”

  “I don’t blame you. At the time the agency reached out to me I was in quite a state. I probably made it sound as though I had serious problems.”

  “Well I’m glad to see you’re alright.”

  “Enough about me! What about you? Are you married, do you have children?

  Jack averted his eyes. “No. I never really got around to it.”

  “That’s fine. You’re young. You have plenty of time. What do you do for a living, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Well to tell you the truth things have been a bit rough as of late. For the last few years I worked as an insurance investigator, but last week I had a falling out with my boss, and… well… suffice it to say I’ve been checking the want ads.”

  “It happens. Are you looking to work in the same field?”

  “Probably, but we’ll see.”

  “Well that sounds interesting, being a private eye. I bet you have a lot of good stories.”

  “You would think so,” offered Jack, with a shrug of the shoulders. “Oops,” he uttered. Having knocked over a pillow, he bent down to pick it up, causing his cap to fall off.

  “You look good with a shaved head,” commented Mrs. Vincent.

  Jack could feel her eyes on the welt. “I got tired of trying to maintain it.”

  Christina chuckled. Then as is so often the case when one is distracted, she had an insight, even if she wasn’t as of yet sure of what it was.

  “I’m thinking maybe I’ll take a trip,” Jack awkwardly proceeded, while repositioning the cap, “I mean once I start working again who knows when I’ll have the time.”

  Suddenly all of the color drained from her face. She appeared shaky, panicked, trapped.

  The police sketch she had seen the night before depicted a narrow faced man with a shaved head and a large purple welt above his left ear, and while it bore only a slight resemblance to Jack, the fact remained that the killer had been described as a failed artist who had recently been fired from his job as an investigator. This combined with the fact that Jack had clearly reached a crossroads left little doubt in her mind as to his true identity.

  “Are you alright?”

  Mrs. Vincent forced out a phony looking smile. “I’ve got to go,” she said while standing up. “I forgot about an appointment. I’m sorry. But why don’t we get together next week.”

  Racing her to the door, Jack pulled it shut. “Don’t worry,” he calmly told her. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not true.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just have to be somewhere.”

  For a moment Jack was angry, even indignant, as if she owed him something, but then he thought better of it. His first thought was to rip the phone cord out of the wall and tie her up. Instead, however, he unplugged it and shoved it in his pocket. “Obviously, you’ve seen me on the news.”

  “Did I bring this on you? If I did, I’m sorry.”

  His first impulse was to tell her everything, to unload, to look for sympathy, but then he saw that she was shaking and decided that the best thing for him to do was leave.

  “It’s not true,” he told her, as he walked toward the door.” Taking pleasure in the fact that she’d soon see that he was telling the truth, he informed her that he’d return once he was cleared, at which point they’d both have a good laugh.

  “Now I’m going to tie the door shut to give me time to get away. But I assure there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll call the authorities after I’m safely away. Toss me your cell phone. I’ll leave it outside.”

  Reaching into her pant pocket, his biological mother complied.

  “Thanks,” said Jack. “This may sound strange at this point, but I’m really happy that we met.”

  Christina began to move her lips, but nothing came out.

  “My real name, by the way, is Jack Lorenz, but then again I guess you already knew that.”

  Looking away, she prayed that he would leave. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Closing the door behind him, he wrapped one end of the phone cord around the knob and the other around a nearby column. Before he left, however, he noticed the portrait of his sister and niece and for some reason had to have it, not permanently mind you, but just until the smoke cleared. Nevertheless, he left $200 by the cash register as kind of a rental fee. After all, he didn’t want his biological mother thinking he was some kind of thief.

  Walking out of the gallery, he momentarily removed his cap to wipe his scalp with a handkerchief. The sun was bright and the air crisp. Holding up the painting to the light, he took a quick look at it, and suddenly he knew. Pelletier was not what he claimed to be.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Having anonymously called the police to attend to his mother, Jack pulled down his cap and walked into yet another pharmacy.

  “This is getting to be a real pain in the ass,” he wearily reflected. Nevertheless, he had already decided to ditch the false eyelashes and brows in favor of something a bit less garish.

  “How many times can I reinvent myself?” he wondered.

  Having purchased a set of chestnut brown contact lenses, he entered his car and put them in. His eyes appeared more somber, even melancholy. Suddenly he let out a sardonic chuckle. “What a freak she must think I am.”

  Nevertheless, he took solace in the fact that his genes didn’t appear to be any worse than anyone else’s, at least in terms of criminal pathology. What really registered with him though was how methodical his biological mother had become, how philosophical.

  “I’m really adopted,” he reflected. “I can’t believe it.”

  The idea first came to at about fifteen, when for some reason he decided to figure out how old his mother was when she gave birth to him. His calculations led him to conclude that she was forty nine, which at first didn’t strike him as particularly odd. Later on, however, he went to the library and learned of just how rare that really was. “It’s like a miracle,” he ambiguously reflected.

  At about the same time, however, he began thinking about why his eyes where blue, while his parents’ were brown. So again he again hit the books, the result of which was a heartfelt sigh of relief. What he found was that light eyes were recessive, meaning that his particular situation was not at all that uncommon. Nevertheless, he still had his doubts.

  Turning down Greenwich Street, Jack suddenly recalled a ninth grade classmate of his named Jennifer Mankowski. Even while the details of her face were a bit fuzzy, he could still picture her platinum grey eyes, which could be as scornful as they were inviting. Having decided to ask her out at about the same time that he was researching his parentage, he thought it natural to discuss with her what he had learned, the import of which was that their children were sure to have light colored eyes. Her response, however
, wasn’t exactly what he expected.

  Flushing somewhat, she appeared not only insulted by his presumptuousness, but repulsed by the idea of having a child with him. Worse yet, she overturned one of his most prized assumptions. “Have you even seen Shaun Cassidy?” she snidely remarked. “That’s what I’m looking for.” And before him, apparently, it was Davey Jones. Either way Jack was shocked to learn that someone – no less this recessive beauty – actually had a preference for those possessing the more dominant form of the gene.

  While examining the painting of his sister and nephew, both of whom had purely recessive alleles, the whole disconcerting episode came back to him. More importantly, he recalled what he had learned about the genetics of eye color.

  “Moron!” he uttered.

  Pelletier and his wife had blue eyes, while his son’s eyes were not only brown, but nearly black. That much he remembered. Had his brain been able to make a few lousy connections, he might have might have spared himself a good deal of trouble. On the other hand, he realized he had nothing concrete.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” he adamantly told himself, but it was too late. His mind had again taken to conjuring.

  At first he considered the possibility that the boy was kidnapped, but quickly he thought better of it. Would Pelletier be so brazen as to display a photograph of someone he had abducted?

  Having already determined that the child looked just like his mother, Jack was fairly certain that he hadn’t been adopted, and so the prospect of an affair entered the picture. The only question was whether Pelletier knew.

  “How could he not?” thought Jack. “The kid looked nothing like him.” Denial, however, was a powerful force. Could it be that he was fooling himself?