Sand City Murders

by MK Alexander

“Adams or Allen? I can never tell them apart.” I gave Joey a smile.

  “Well, one of them is nice and the other is a son-of-a-bitch.”

  “That I know… I just forget which one is which.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Joey grinned.

  “So?”

  “Oh… bolt cutters and a crowbar, found at the scene. Never made it inside. Some guy in a hoody ran off... got away though.”

  “Thanks for the update.”

  Eleanor called out to us. “Well, since I have both my reporters here in one place, we should have an ad hoc editorial meeting.”

  Both Joey and I turned to face her.

  “What’s on tap for this week?” she asked and lit a cigarette.

  “I’m guessing Doc Samuels will be our lead?”

  Eleanor nodded. “What about the school budget vote?”

  “That’s tomorrow. Supposedly it’s going to be a million dollars less than last year,” Joey replied.

  “Well, that is news… a million dollar surplus?”

  “Um, no, they just lowered it by that much.”

  “How did that happen?” Eleanor started to probe.

  “Let’s see…” Joey consulted his notebook. “Three retiring teachers… that’s pretty much an accounting trick… their pensions get struck off the books. And, there’s the unpaid leave thing.”

  “Unpaid leave thing? That sounds rather vague.”

  Joey’s grin started to fade. “It’s just a lot of rumors right now. Nothing definite.”

  “And don’t you think that’s worth investigating?”

  “I could do profiles on the retiring teachers,” Joey offered.

  “Fine,” Eleanor said as usual and there was an awkward pause.

  “We have the Brand Wars hearing, the shopping plaza conversion to a food court,” I filled the silence.

  “Who’s taking that?”

  Joey and I looked at each other.

  “Might be postponed again,” Joey cautioned.

  “Well, the developer on record is Chamblis Enterprises,” I said. “Thought maybe it’s best if Joey takes it. You know, me and Charles aren’t on the best of terms.”

  “Charles and I,” she corrected me without thinking. “What about Asian East?” she asked.

  “They’re on a lease. I guess they’d have to move.”

  “And the alternate development plans?”

  “A community center, a gym, or a kids’ science room, one of those hands-on museums. Dinosaurs maybe.”

  “How about just a plain old supermarket?” Eleanor asked. “It seems to me, Sand City would benefit most if they just re-opened the old place.”

  That was hard to disagree with. As of now, the only game in town was Lema’s. It called itself a gourmet market but it felt more like a decrepit bodega. Most people in Sand City drove to Shop ’n Wait in Oldham, or the Stars Market in Garysville.

  “Sounds like a busy week ahead.”

  “There’s also a decision coming down from the county court on Saint Alban’s… It could be any day now.”

  “We’ll have to wait and see then.” Eleanor looked at me over the top of her glasses.

  “There’s another follow-up on Baxter Estates, the Woodlands… the z-board preliminary proceedings… maybe water runoff, and the traffic impact study. Nothing back from the EPA yet.”

  “Who’s on that?”

  “Evan.”

  “Where is Evan?”

  “Haven’t seen him in a while.” I glanced over at Eleanor’s desk. Her air freshening machine was still there, humming away, but the picture of her daughter was now gone.

  “Joey, what else do you have this week?” Eleanor asked.

  “I’m finishing up the DPW Heroes, you know, those profiles... there’s the Easter Parade photo montage…”

  “Hmm… the heroes may have to wait another week.” Eleanor snubbed out her cigarette. “What about this fellow?” She tossed a flier into my lap. “The Quiet Gardener?” I asked and handed it off to Joey.

  “In my neck of the woods, there is a Village noise ordinance: no operating machinery until eight a.m. By eight oh five however, the engines of destruction are fully alive throughout the neighborhood. It’s downright annoying. I can hardly hear myself think, let alone enjoy a nice cup of coffee. Those damn leaf blowers...” Eleanor looked at us both over the top of her glasses. “And I imagine it will only get worse once the warm weather arrives.”

  “Maybe it’s the cicadas?” Joey offered.

  “It’s rather early for them, I believe.” Eleanor gave Joey her look.

  “Not sure I’m getting this,” I said.

  Joey read from the flier: Absolutely no gas powered leaf blowers, no loud hedge trimmers. Only cane rakes, manual shears, push cutters, and one virtually silent eco-friendly electric mower.

  “Okay, well, it’s certainly a novel idea.”

  “I agree,” Eleanor said. “I’m going to give him a try at least.”

  “Maybe a good story for Evan?”

  “Evan?”

  “He’s been dying to do a feature…”

  “Fine.” She lit another cigarette. “And how is the Treasure Hunt coming along?”

  “Good. Joey and I have had a couple of meetings on it already…” I glanced over to my partner and his grin remained intact. “It’s starting to gel, right Joey?”

  “That’s good to hear,” Eleanor said and cast a dubious eye in his direction.

  Joey took me aside a bit later and asked about Saint Alban’s.

  “Hmm… Saint Alban’s … It’s kind of complicated. Right now it’s in legal limbo. But everybody has a plan on what to do with it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like… a nursing home, a multi-use senior center, a community college, university extension… And if Chamblis gets his way, a hotel, a casino, and a golf course…”

  “All three?” Joey asked, meaning the final items on the list.

  “He gets a little greedy sometimes. Just have to wait and see, Joey.” I looked at him. “Why, you want this story?”

  “Not really.”

  ***

  “Hey Miriam, darling, question for you…”

  She looked up from her reception desk expectantly, but something hard also crossed her expression.

  “Do you remember anybody going up to the morgue last month?”

  “Joey’s up and down the stairs ten times a day.”

  “Well, not Joey… and I’m talking about the last couple of weeks.”

  “Hmm, I think I saw Mel go up.”

  “Nobody else? Frank, Jason, Pagor?”

  “Pagor?” Miriam laughed at the idea.

  “No strangers, right?”

  “Strangers? Like who?”

  “Tall guy, white beard? Or, like anybody...”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Thanks.”

  ***

  Detecting skills aside, Fynn was messing with my head, and at the time I thought it was quite deliberate. One of our more distressing conversations took place when we walked along the swamp trail— that’s the Sunken Swamp Trail. It’s on the map, he pointed out. He was right and I could hardly refuse his request. The swamp trail was perhaps one of the spookiest places on earth. Not exactly a favorite tourist haunt: a wooden boardwalk that snaked through the twisted trees growing up from the marshlands. At the wrong time, you’d be eaten alive by mosquitos or harassed by sand flies, the biting kind. Early spring days, the colder the better, you’d make it through fine, though those kind of days just added to its creepiness. Glowing lichen, water-soaked tree roots, gnarled, scrubby pines, tufts of dune grass, fetid, stagnant water, bright spongy moss, and a boardwalk that looked like it was built by trolls. I sometimes wondered what this place would be like at night, but never really cared that much to find out. The inspector and I took the tour on a chilly spring day, overcast, a bit misty, but not raining yet.

  I parked the car and we started our descent from the small parking lot. All ar
ound us were what could loosely be called moors, though they were really just dunes with a veneer of scrub growing on top. The path led downhill, into the sunken swamp itself, a place where the water didn’t drain away. We walked in silence for a couple of hundred yards till the boardwalk started and we were suddenly surrounded by stunted, menacing trees. Atlantic white cedars, red maples... most of them sick and dying it seemed, though it was still too early in the spring to be absolutely sure. Talk about death and decay… rotting wood, stumps, fallen saplings.

  The sound of our footfalls against the old planks sent a feeling of unease through me. It was the opposite to what I normally felt. Usually, the musical footfalls sounded like a dance across some infinite but muted wooden xylophone. Most times I found it soothing. Not today. Maybe I started to chatter:

  “…well, I just figured since you’ve been around so long, so to speak, you might have some interesting things to say about humanity… our society, civilization, history, the human condition…”

  “Not really. Nor am I half as amusing as Mel Brooks.”

  I wasn’t at all sure who he meant, but resisted the urge to grab my cell phone and look him up on IMDB or Wiki. I pressed further, “Come on, you must have some kind of insight after two thousand years.”

  “My two thousand years of history might be quite different from yours.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “You are good at history?”

  “Very good.”

  “A simple question then. Who invented the telephone?”

  “Elisha Gray.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.”

  “Not a man called Alexander Graham Bell?”

  “No, it was Gray.”

  Fynn stopped dead in his tracks, pretending to admire some mushrooms growing along a moss covered root. He smiled, obviously bemused, then turned to me again. “The light bulb?”

  “Nikola Tesla.”

  “Not Thomas Edison?”

  “No.”

  “And World War Two? How did it end?”

  “That’s complicated.”

  “Did it not end with an invasion called D-Day?”

  “No, it was nineteen forty-four with the assassination of Hitler.”

  “Hmm. And in the east, in Japan. How did that end?”

  “Curtis LeMay… low altitude bombing with napalm. A firestorm engulfed most of Tokyo and killed Emperor Hirohito.”

  “Not Hiroshima and Nagasaki?”

  “Who?”

  “The atomic bomb?”

  “No.”

  “Interesting...”

  “That’s all you can say?”

  “Well, the result is more or less the same. We have telephones that ring, lights that glow, the big war is over, the world moves on.”

  “How can you say this? What you alluded to seems very different than what history records.”

  “I suppose so, from your perspective. But to me, these are minor details.”

  “Minor details?”

  “I understand this is probably upsetting to you.” The inspector patted me gently on the shoulder. “It is a temporary state of affairs. I doubt any of your events compared to mine will drastically alter the future.”

  I was definitely confused. “What about the present?”

  “What about it?”

  “Isn’t it different? Shouldn’t I be in another timeline or something… you know, without President LeMay or someone.”

  “Do you mean Eisenhower?”

  “Who?”

  “Ah, I have no answer for you. I am here and you are here. We share this very moment. That’s all I can say.” The inspector paused. “Perhaps the most difficult concept to explain is the distance between realities.”

  “Between timelines?”

  “As you say, yes.” He turned to me. “How is your quantum theory?”

  “Quantum theory? A little shaky, I guess.”

  “Do you understand how a packet of energy must have a threshold in order to change its state?”

  “I think so…”

  “Well then, you might look at history in the same way. Quantum History, if you will permit the term. History can change only in discrete amounts.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “It is at that. Perhaps there is some kind of structure underlying space and time that is unknown to us… and this hypothetical structure is a lattice for all events.”

  “A structure, like a shape?”

  “A shape… yes, why not? Envision a vast crystal growing organically. Not unlike a snowflake, I should say; not without a natural order… Every future, every possibility, every choice… always branching from one another. The future unfolds in this way, I believe.” Fynn had a gleam in his eye. “Though some presents are quite far from others. You might think of them as existing on a different branch entirely. Yet, some are very close, on the same arm of the snowflake, so to speak.”

  “Which timeline is real?”

  “But who can say which reality is correct? I cannot. I can only say some timelines are slightly different, or drastically different. I have observed such. Is one more valid than another? No. I believe the differences can be pictured as this growing crystal. They all have equal weight.”

  “What changes these timelines?”

  “Simply put: choice, the choices everyone makes in their lives.”

  “So each tiny choice changes the future? Are there an infinite amount of futures?”

  “I will say yes and no. Each choice may set us on a course— a different choice, a different course. But the future is not infinitely variable, not amorphous, it has a structure as well, as inscrutable as that might be.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “There are critical junctures, let us say… places where you have made big decisions, important choices that have altered your future. That should be quite apparent to anyone.” Fynn paused. “There are two perspectives however, the personal versus the historic, or the micro and the macro… Your own personal choices might add very little to historical trends, shall we call them. And what you might see as huge historical changes do not alter your personal future as much as you might believe.”

  “Whoa, micro and macro?”

  “This is all not so simple, eh?”

  “No.”

  We walked through the swamp in silence for a time.

  “Does it make a whit of difference what you ate for breakfast?” Fynn asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does it make a difference if you have a bagel, or croissant? I don’t think so. All these tiny fluctuations amount to very little, your daily decisions for example, hardly alter your present, or if they do, they are of no importance... I cannot even say it constitutes a different timeline... despite what chaos theorists may say. I believe the complexity hypothesis is overrated. The flapping of butterfly wings has little to do with anything.”

  I wasn’t quite following him, but he continued: “Yet certainly, there is a cumulative effect to all the seemingly unimportant choices we make in our daily lives.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s easy to see and obvious.” He turned to me. “If you eat a pound of bacon every morning for twenty years, you’ll probably blow up like a blimp and burst one day.”

  “Okay, I see what you’re saying…”

  “So, it follows that routine, and the habitual choices we make, add up to a routine and predictable life, yes?”

  “I guess.”

  “There is a quantum for change, a threshold, a point at which the changes you make do alter the timeline quite dramatically. This is the quantum of choice.”

  “So, some choices are more important than others?”

  “Of course. You must ask: Does this particular choice cross a threshold? Will it change your future?”

  “Like eating bagels?” I asked.

  “There are so many variables, so many vagaries… In the end no one can be the perfect traveler.” Fynn smiled
broadly. We walked on across my imagined xylophone. “This is my second rule of travel: Tread lightly. Change as little as possible.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Every journey fractures the timeline... I liken it to a piece of glass. First, a small splinter appears and then suddenly there are cracks everywhere, spreading, until the glass is shattered into pieces.”

  “Sounds scary.”

  “Not the word I would use… certainly unpredictable though.”

  “Why?”

  “Sometimes I wake up and look at the signs and I know something is very wrong.”

  “What signs?” I asked, thinking he was onto something quite mysterious.

  “Signs. There are signs everywhere you look.”

  “Do you mean subtle differences in each reality?”

  “No, I mean signs... by the side of the road, billboards, advertisements, that kind of thing.”

  “What do these signs tell you?” I asked, feeling slightly annoyed.

  “Ah, that is the problem. They tell me nothing because they are in a language I do not understand. Then, I know I have strayed very far from my usual present.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure if he was kidding or not.

  The spring rains had flooded out a bit of the wooden boardwalk; there was a small gap about two feet across. I leapt over without much thought, but stumbled slightly, landing further than I expected. Fynn was a bit more circumspect. He took his time, stepping over some roots and moss. He rejoined me on my imagined xylophone.

  “It is in the end a matter of awareness. Your present is in constant flux. It goes on no set course, and you are unaware of when and how it changes. So, in a very real sense, you cannot travel between two different presents. For example, the day you gave up playing guitar seriously... That set your life down a very different path. You did not become a fleeting rock star. You did not get addicted to heroin and live on the streets of Los Angeles, eating rubbish from a bin. You cannot access that person you may have become, because he is too far away. Too much has changed between that reality and the one you are living now.”

  “Wait a second— what?” I was completely surprised by his comment.

  “I’m sorry. This is too personal an example?”

  “Have you met this other guy?”

  “The other you? Yes, in a manner of speaking.”