by MK Alexander
“Alright... I did. Maybe now you can start to believe me?”
“You’re not delusional? Crazy, I mean.”
“No.”
“Am I?”
“No.”
“Okay, I believe you, I think. Now what?”
“Now we solve this crime.”
“Which crime?
“What do you mean?” Fynn asked somewhat confused.
“The night you left… Two girls, killed in the animal shelter… And the day after that, another girl found dead, barefoot.”
“What?”
“Alyson and Emma were killed at the kennel. God, it’s the most brutal thing you could imagine...” The picture of the crime scene came flooding back to mind; I had trouble continuing. “...Some psycho broke into the shelter and started killing the dogs… The two girls tried to save them… and they were murdered.”
Fynn was speechless for a moment, deep in thought. “You must tell me everything, if you can.”
I sighed and tried to keep a firm grip on the wheel. “It was horrible.”
“You were there? What did you see?”
“Blood, blood everywhere… dead dogs…” I paused. “And I saw the same shoe prints, and the red mark of a cane. It meant nothing to Durbin though.”
“No sign of Roxy?”
“No.” I looked over at Fynn. “This is Mortimer?”
“His cruelty is unmatched. I am forced to think yes. What of this other girl?”
“Dumped in the middle of a salt marsh… Sunday.”
“Like the others?”
“Pretty much.”
“What was different?”
“A pair of red shoes, women’s high heels were found at the scene.”
“Were they her shoes?”
“No, that’s the weird thing… wrong size, Durbin said.”
“What else?”
“Well, I knew this girl.”
“Who is she?”
“Lucinda… she works at the Chronicle... or maybe she did.”
“You’re not making much sense, Patrick.”
“It’s a timeline thing… I mean, I know her, she’s really familiar... but she shouldn’t be here.”
“Why not””
“It’s hard to explain. It’s like she replaced someone else.”
“Yes, I remember you saying this at the bar. It’s most curious…” Fynn paused. “And how do other people view this murder?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is she another mysterious corpse dropped from the sky, or do your colleagues mourn her loss?”
“Oh… the latter.”
“When did she first appear?”
“End of March sometime?”
“What did this girl look like? Blond, pretty?”
“No… a brunette, not pretty at all.”
“Hmm…This murder is somehow different, not like the others. This is not Mortimer out for revenge. Perhaps it is a personal matter for him.”
“A personal matter?”
“Yes, he may have had to kill her for another reason, a reason we do not understand.”
“It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I agree.”
“You didn’t do this, right?”
“What are you saying? That I murdered this poor girl?”
“I mean you were gone for three days… you show up again and she’s dead.”
“Patrick!”
“I’m not saying you did. I’m just telling the truth; it crossed my mind and that’s the end of it.”
“How can you think I had anything to do with this?”
“I’m just saying…” All my doubts returned. My suspicions, my fears that he was mentally ill. I reminded myself that I had seen him disappear before my very eyes.
“Fair enough, at least you are being honest with me,” Fynn said with calming effect. “I must speak with Detective Durbin as soon as I can.”
“Do you want to call him?” I offered Fynn my cell. “He’ll want to know where you were all this time.”
“Pardon?”
“You’ve been gone awhile. I think he’s pissed.”
“Pissed?” Fynn didn’t take my meaning.
“Angry. He’s going to ask about this.”
“I was meeting a colleague of mine from Amsterdam... I may have to return...”
“Really?”
“It sounds fairly reasonable.”
“What if he checks?”
“I doubt I’m a suspect.” Fynn smiled easily.
“Where did you really go?”
“I went forward for a time. Quite unexpected. It was something of a trial though…”
“A bad jump?”
“To the contrary. This was one of my more successful jumps. I merely went ahead for two days and waited for you to catch up. Rather easy.”
“Why the bus ride then?”
“It was a good jump in time, not so much in distance. I ended up in the state of Pennsylvania. I landed in some deep woods… It was difficult to return, geographically speaking.”
“But by bus?”
“Ah, your nation seems to lack proper trains.”
“Never really thought about it.”
“Did you know there are bears in Pennsylvania?” the inspector asked.
“I heard that, yeah, Jersey and New York too.”
“This was a surprise to me at least.”
“Why not just slip back to my present?”
“To when, to where? To before we met? Before I leapt off the barstool?” Fynn smiled. “That would have done no good at all.”
“Right.” I said, actually understanding what he meant. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Jump off to the future the other night.”
“I thought it would be indisputable proof.”
“It was, it is…”
“Well, I must make choices like everyone else, decisions that I think will bring Lorraine and my daughter Anika back to me. This is one of them. Without your help, I am nowhere. And I would not have such, unless I could prove that I am exactly who I say. So I took the risk.”
“That’s one helluva risk.”
“Yes well, I prefer to travel outdoors, not from inside a bar room.”
I dialed Durbin and handed Fynn my phone. My attention wavered and I slipped into a daze, eyes on the road, speeding down the pavement. I’m not sure how much time passed but Fynn was handing my phone back before I realized it.
“What did he say?”
“Detective Durbin? Well, he failed to mention Sunday’s killing, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No way. He didn’t say anything?”
“Very little… nor is there much to say. Aside from the red high heels, the crime scene seems to be utterly devoid of clues.” Fynn paused. “I presume you took photographs?”
“I did… they’re in my bag if you want a look.” I reached into the backseat and handed Fynn my satchel.
***
The inspector seemed most eager to visit the crime scene at Doctor Samuels’ animal kingdom. Pissed or not, we got permission from Durbin. For now the whole place was closed up for the season. It was hard to go back, for me at least. It dragged up all those fresh memories. When we got out of the car, Fynn made a bee-line towards the animal hospital. I stopped him in his tracks.
“Inspector, the kennels, the shelter, it’s over there…”
“Yes, Patrick but I’m not at all interested in this.”
“How can you say that?” I could feel my anger rising.
“I’m sorry, I realize it was a painful experience for you, but honestly, I am confident in Durbin’s assessment of what occurred. And you found the bloody cane mark and the shoe print. This is most important.” He paused to look at me. “Of course, the two girls showed extraordinary courage. That is beyond question, and tragic, yes, but for the moment, irrelevant.”
“You’ve got to fix this, Fynn.”
“I do, I agree,
but my information is still incomplete.”
Fynn went directly to Doctor Samuels’ office. The room was a mess and behind crime scene tape. Anything that could be overturned was. There were papers scattered on the floor. The kitschy little animals were scattered throughout, but most of them dumped on the carpet. “Still looking for Roxy’s collar?” I asked.
“What’s important here are the two things that have not changed,” Fynn said, staring around at the virtual destruction of Samuels’ office.
“Changed, as in timelines?”
“No, as in evidence.”
“You mean since the first time that we were here?”
“Yes.”
I looked around again and thought about the data storage museum. The armoire door was open and everything had fallen on the floor. I looked down the basement stairs. It was dark. The light was off. “I’m looking for what’s the same but all I can see are the differences.”
“Ah, how often we fail to look up,” Fynn said.
“Look up?”
“For clues… we always forget.” His eyes went to the ceiling.
Mine followed. All I saw was the old fashioned alabaster chandelier. It was just a decorative stone bowl suspended by three brass chains. I looked over at Fynn. He was standing by the wall near the light switch. He flipped it on and looked up again. I could now see the shadow of something in the bowl, maybe something like a snake. I jumped up on Samuels’ desk, then reached in. Luckily it didn’t bite back. Sure enough, it was Roxy’s collar. I looked over at Fynn. He was smiling.
“If I had to guess, I would say, the good doctor hid it there, perhaps at the last possible moment.”
“Last possible moment?” I asked and slipped the collar into my back pocket unthinkingly.
“Before he was killed.” He gave me a grave look. “Though this is secondary. There is something else the same.” Fynn went to the basement door and closed it. In the corner was a round wicker basket full of walking sticks. Of all the things in the room, it remained undisturbed. It was still upright.
“That’s the same?”
“Only one cane is missing.”
“Mortimer’s?”
“I cannot say for certain… I have seen him only once before with such a thing. A curious thing, the head of an animal, a jackal perhaps.” Fynn paused. “I’ve come to believe that Mortimer is trapped here in this time and place. Or at least he was for a while.”
“What makes you say that?”
“His actions seem rather reckless to me.”
“Such as?”
“All these killings in the present,” Fynn said and considered further. “Why kill in the present when he could easily travel to the past and change everything?”
“What, you think this cane makes him travel?”
Fynn turned and eyed me. “That is not something I’ve considered at all, yet… you may be onto something.”
“So if the cane is gone, he’s not stranded anymore?”
“You may well be correct in this, unfortunately.”
***
I dropped Fynn back to his hotel. Room 309. That was right at least, well sort of. I made my way to Middle Cove. It was hot, unseasonably so, close to ninety degrees. A good time to hit the beach. Despite the traumas of the last few days, the Chronicle had to continue, we had all agreed, and that meant finishing the Summer Preview Issue. I had three stops to make, integral to the Night Life Guide, and started in the north at the Beachcomber. Each club has a slightly different character and presumably drew in a different crowd. It seemed that from year to year or season to season, one club would be in vogue and the other two would suffer. Still, on the weekends they were all packed to capacity. All three nightclubs worked very hard to out-gimmick each other. All three also had something else in common: tiki torches and citronella.
The Beachcomber, Shorties and Sneaky Pete’s… I wondered what it would be like to slip back in time to the disco era… a frightening thought really… Still, it might make a good piece to look at these clubs from an almost historical perspective. They all had different names in the past, funny, weird names: Zardoz, Sandy’s, Disco-a-Go-Go… Dead in the Water… Margaritaville… the Blue Lagoon… Tupelo Honey… Tiki Tina’s… Yabadaba-Do. I’d have to follow up with Kevin on this.
The Beachcomber boasted three walls of mirrors, probably the classiest place of the bunch. This only added to the legend of how crowded the club could actually get. It always looked twice as big as it was, and had twice as many people dancing, though half of them were mere reflections. Still, it had a huge indoor dance floor, replete with disco balls and an outdoor bar. The manager was nowhere to be found but I got some help from the staff. They were all friendly and very sorry to hear about the Policeman’s Ball being cancelled. Someone handed me a schedule of the upcoming shows. It included some B-List bands, a couple of formerly famous solo acts, stand-up comics and even a magic show. I read down the list. “Wow is this right?” I asked somebody on staff.
“What?”
“White Keys and Black Stripes? Isn’t that backwards?”
“Don’t think so.”
Next was Shorties, about a ten minute walk down the beach. There was a crew of electricians working on the dance floor, installing extra strobe lights I was told. Indeed the whole sound system was new this season. It promised to generally kick ass. Shorties was the most shack-like of the clubs, pretty much open on three sides. The dance floor was a low patio right on the beach. Nothing was covered, no roof at all— if it rained, the place was empty. Otherwise you were dancing with the stars, well under them. Only the assistant manager was around and she seemed a bit preoccupied with all the renovations.
“Karaoke three nights a week?” I asked her.
“Yeah, so? It’s very popular, especially with the tourists.”
“Oh, and an open mic night— Thursday’s, really?”
A Ska night was also scheduled, skinny ties optional; and a Metal weekend, headlining The Day of the Beast. Shorties was also trying something new this year: a Zydeco brunch every Monday.
Another fifteen minute walk down the beach and I reached my final stop: Sneaky Pete’s. I met with Sneaky Pete himself, aka Francis Peters, an older guy in his sixties, balding with the rest of his hair in a pony tail, and a real impresario. He owned the place too, an odd L-shaped building, open to the east and the south. There was no dance floor at all. It was just a vast sandy arena, about the size of half a football field, but covered with a canvas ceiling. Part of me wanted to ask about the back page. I still remembered that Jo-Anne had sold him a twelve week, full color run. I thought better of the idea and maybe I could find out from Pagor or Melissa. Sneaky Pete gave me a list of upcoming shows.
“Well, that’s a pretty impressive line up for the season... two A-list bands, three B-list bands, an exclusive reunion, and a famous rocker has-been.” One in particular blues artist on the list caught my attention. “I thought he was in a coma or something.”
“Don’t think so, I talked to him on the phone last week, well, his agent at least. No, he’s still kicking, still playing the blues… ”
He slid two tickets across the table.
“What’s this?”
“A couple of comps for the first show… Let me know if you need more.”
“Hey, thanks…” I continued down the schedule. There were a bunch of bands I’d never heard of, like Chrome Alliance, and the Pointy Scanners.”
“Kind of like a hipster wanna-be band. They’re very big on Spotify. And the Scanners have a huge following on Radio Reddit.”
“Wow, the Furs are re-uniting? No way. I thought most of them were dead already.”
“Most of them are… You gotta read the fine print… it says re-formed. They sound just like the real thing.”
“So, no original members?”
“The sax player might be, I think.”
“So more like a brand name than an actual band name?”
“I guess…”
“What was this club called before you bought it?”
“I’ve owned this place for like thirty years,” Pete said, seeming a bit prickly.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that… I thought it might be a good story, all the clubs, all the weird names in the past…”
“Oh, okay, I see where your going…” Sneaky Pete smiled. “It used to be called—”
His sentence was cut short by a voice from the shadows. “It was called the Yabadaba-Do— I believe they ran into some serious licensing problems however.”
We both turned to see a figure back-lit against the bright blue sky. He was standing outside on the beach near the dance arena, but quickly stepped in.
“Fynn, what the hell? How are you?” Pete said and rose.
“Francis, how are things?” Fynn walked forward with an outstretched hand. “I hope you’re being kind to my friend here.”
Pete glanced over at me. “You’re friends with this guy?”
“I am.”
“Oh, and here I was thinking he was just a hack.” Pete started laughing.
It seemed apparent that Fynn and Sneaky Pete knew each other pretty well. I wondered from which time, or which timeline. Francis treated us both to lunch.
***
Inspector Fynn’s trousers seemed a bit formal for the day, a hot summer-like day. Once he stripped off his socks and shoes, and rolled up his cuffs though, he could’ve passed for a beach bum. It was probably the first time I’d seen him in short sleeves. I should talk, I was wearing a Hawaiian shirt with the sleeves entirely cut off. He was now appropriately dressed for the hot weather and it was then I noticed a strange scar on his forearm. It was about the size of a dime, I’d say, and had an odd crescent shape to it.
“What happened to your arm?”
“Hmm?”
“That scar.”
“Oh, an injury occurred when I was a child. A nasty gash. My grandmother fixed me up, but back then, she cauterized the wound with a hot poker. It’s been with me ever since.”
“Before your first jump?”
Fynn had to think about that, and cast his memory quite far. “I believe so, yes. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember.” He glanced at me. “It seems to be very much like yours.”
