Which left just one person. I called, got an answering machine, left a message, and was promptly taken back to my cell.
Where I waited.
* * * *
Sometime a couple of hours and a lifetime later, a young cop came by, carrying a tray.
"Dinner,” he said. “Hungry?"
"Yeah, I am,” I said, getting off the bed. “What do you have?"
He said, “What I got is what you're getting."
He slid the tray under an opening through the bars. “When you're done, put the tray back out. You leave a mess ... well, you won't like what breakfast is going to be."
I picked up the tray. Cold cheeseburger wrapped in wax paper, complete with mustard, ketchup, and onions. I hate onions, and mustard is only for hot dogs, but I managed to scrape the offending stuff off before chewing and swallowing it. Bag of chips. Lukewarm cup of cola. I finished what they gave me, washed my hands, and gently slid the neat tray back out into the hallway.
Now suddenly tired of it all, I stretched out on the hard foam mattress and pulled a wool blanket over me. It smelled of harsh detergent. I closed my eyes, but sleep just wouldn't come, so I thought again and again about the events of the day, what I had seen, what I had heard. Things ... things were not right, and I spent most of the night thinking, again and again, and when I wasn't thinking, well, I felt sorry for myself and cried a couple of times.
* * * *
Morning. And the only way I could tell it was morning was that the lights, dimmed during the night, came back on. Another young cop came in and said, “You've got a visitor. You want breakfast first or the visitor?"
"The visitor. Please. Breakfast can wait."
"Sure.” He left and a minute later, Paula Quinn from the Chronicle, the woman who had warned me to stay away from her beat, walked in, carrying a folding chair. She opened the chair and sat down. She was wearing jeans, black sneakers, and a gray TYLER BEACH sweatshirt.
"Hi,” I said.
She folded her hands around one of her knees. “You know, we get interns like you three times a year. Fall, spring, and summer. Three years ago, we had an intern who didn't drive and didn't want to get a driver's license. So she took a bicycle around to do all her stories. Last year, we had an intern who subsidized his income by selling marijuana to out-of-towners at the beach. So we're used to odd interns. But, Jenny, congratulations, you're the oddest."
I leaned into the bars, held onto them with my hand. “Look, the detective, she wanted to look at my notes, my pictures, she wanted to—"
Paula raised her hand. “Oh please. What did you expect her to do? She's investigating an untimely death, she's looking to find out the truth of what happened out there, and she's looking for help from you. And what did you do? Pull out your Journalism 101 copy of the First Amendment and wave it around."
"And what else should I have done? Roll over? Cooperate?"
She leaned forward a bit in her chair. “And why the hell not? You stay with her, you let her glance through your notes, ask a few questions, and then flip through your digital pics. Bing, bang, boom, you're done in under an hour, and you've put a fair number of chits in the favor bank."
Now I felt tired and just a bit overwhelmed. “What ... what kind of reporter are you anyway?"
"A damn good one,” she snapped back. “A good one at finding out the news and reporting the news. For God's sake, Jenny, if I acted like you all the time, do you know what I'd get? A weekly press release from the police department, giving me the bare essentials of burglaries, car accidents, and other events. That's it. And because I'm not like you, you know what I get?"
I just motioned with my hands, too tired to continue. She said, “What I get is good stories. Like last month. Detective Woods got a tip that a couple of young lads from Connecticut had set up an amateur pharmacy clinic in their motel room for the summer. Because I had favors in the chit bank, Diane let me go in on the raid. Got great photos, great story about what it looked like busting in on them, complete with descriptions of the room and the young morons. You know what the other newspapers got around here? A four-sentence press release announcing the arrest. That's it."
"Sounds like bribery to me,” I said.
A vigorous shake of the head. “No, it's called being smart, it's called knowing who you are and where you're going. It's called community reporting, that's what it's called. So, Jenny. It's Saturday morning. You can wait until Monday to be bailed out and let this whole circus continue, so that Rollie knows, the entire town knows, hell, other newspapers know. Brave, crusading intern reporter."
I wiped at my face. God, I needed a shower. “And my other option?"
"You tell me you want to see Detective Woods. She looks through your notes, through your digital pics. And then everything's dismissed. No paper trail, no record, nothing. Free to go home."
Home. My ratty little one-room apartment that seemed so cozy and homey right about then.
I wiped at my face again. So tired.
"Deal. Under one condition."
That made her smile. “Not sure if you're in any position to ask for a condition, but go ahead."
"This is my story, and I want access to Detective Woods. I want to be able to call her and talk to her, any time I want."
Paula stood up. “That's two conditions, but I think they're doable. Stay right here."
I went back and sat down on the hard mattress. “Not like I'm going anywhere now, right?"
* * * *
Sunday morning. In my little apartment. Woke and stretched and I should have felt good, but I didn't. Yesterday, after getting out of the cell and retrieving my notes and digital camera from my car, I spent a few minutes with Detective Woods, answering her questions, and then that was that. Went home and showered and ate and went to bed, cried a bit, and slept through the night.
But still I thought of Friday. About that trip out.
* * * *
I got dressed and drove the fifteen minutes to the Tyler police station, and surprise of surprises, when I asked the dispatcher for Detective Woods, I got in her office in just under a minute.
Maybe there was something to this whole chit business.
"Yes?” she asked, sitting behind her gunmetal gray desk piled high with manila folders. She looked tired.
On the way over, I had batted around what I was going to say, so I decided to get right to it.
"I think it was a scam, a setup."
"You do?"
"Yeah, I do,” I said.
"Why?"
I said, “Because I don't think he fell over. I think the sound I heard, that thump, was the sound of the forward bulkhead door slamming shut. I think Bert smeared some of his blood on the bow of the boat—easy enough to use a knife out there—and then ducked in through the forward bulkhead. Hid there for the whole day. Doesn't make sense that right after hearing that noise, we didn't see him floating. Bodies can't possibly sink that fast, can they? Besides ... Jack, he seemed upset. But upset to a point, like he was acting. So I think it was a scam, Diane."
"For what purpose?” she asked evenly.
"Insurance fraud. I bet as an employee of Jack's, Bert had insurance. Jack told me he had no family ... and I bet he had a policy where Jack was the beneficiary."
She smiled and lifted a folder, opened it up. “Very good, Jenny. Very good. The fact is, Bert did have a policy, for one million dollars, and Jack was in fact his beneficiary. Very good."
I smiled back. Felt good. Felt like I wasn't screwing up.
Said feeling lasted about ten seconds.
Diane put the folder back on the desk. “A nice little theory, Jenny. Except Bert's body was recovered about two hours ago, by another fishing boat from Falconer. Injury to his head, initial cause of death: drowning."
* * * *
So back home I went. Sunday early afternoon. Tomorrow morning I would have to write a story for Rollie about this whole disaster, and as I looked through my notes and my digital photos, I just co
uldn't do it. My little laptop sat patiently on my homemade desk—a plank of wood sitting on four plastic milk crates—and I just couldn't bear to touch the keyboard.
Even my notes seemed silly, like they had been written by a perky little girl who knew nothing about life or death. Every little detail written down, from the moment I arrived at that dock, to...
Every little detail.
I went back to my notes again. And then the digital photos.
"Damn,” I whispered, and for the second time that day, I drove back to the Tyler police station, and this time I stayed for about an hour, until the good detective practically threw me out.
* * * *
That Sunday night, I drove up to a small ranch house in Tyler, painted a light yellow, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. On the side of the house was a collection of rope, anchors, old nets, and other bric-a-brac. I rang the bell again and a woman answered: Helen Houlihan, looking cautious, cigarette in hand, wearing a black turtleneck and jeans.
"Yes?” she asked, and I told her who I was and that I wanted to see her husband. In a minute or two I was in their living room, the television set now muted, and they sat on a couch and I sat in an easy chair that didn't feel particularly easy. There was a fake fireplace on one side of the room, the mantelpiece stuffed with family pictures.
I took a breath. “You heard that they found Bert's body?” I asked, feeling a bit constricted in my clothes.
"Yeah,” Jack said, sitting slumped on the couch. “I heard that."
"Do you have any information about funeral arrangements?"
"Nope, I don't."
I had my reporter's notebook in my hand. “I ... I'd like to get your reaction, if I can."
"My what?” Jack asked, a bit sharply.
"Your reaction. For the newspaper. About Bert's body being recovered."
He looked to Helen and she violently shook her head. “No,” he said. “It's ... it's been too much. We don't have anything to say."
I looked at my notebook with its blank page, and I said, “I guess, then, I should leave. Look, before I go, think I could bum a smoke?"
Again, the shared look, and then Helen went out to the kitchen and came back, tossed a pack of Winstons on the coffee table. I looked up and said, “Oh, thanks anyway. I find I don't like those ... Jack, do you think I could bum some from you?"
He shook his head. “Sorry. I don't smoke. Wish I could convince her to give it up."
"Yeah,” she muttered, sitting down. “You wish."
I got up and said, “Well ... I guess I won't waste your time. Thanks."
More quiet nods from the both of them, and then I left.
And I drove right to the police station.
* * * *
In Detective Woods's office, she stood there while I lifted up my blouse, so she could gently take off the microphone and wire. “Did you get it?” I asked.
"Oh yes, we got it all right."
I said, “Still not sure what it meant for you."
"It meant we have him on tape, denying he smokes. We have you, saying you smelled fresh tobacco smoke in his truck the morning you went out. Which means it's highly likely Mrs. Houlihan accompanied him that morning. A nice little bit of information. And we also have this."
She went to her desk, picked up two photo printouts, taken on the deck of the Helen H. this past Friday. Among the dozens and dozens of photos I had taken were two of the open toolbox in the aft section of the boat. In the first photo, the open toolbox contained a long, heavy wrench. In the second photo, taken after Bert went missing, the wrench was gone. Something cool seemed to tickle at the back of my throat. I had started out on this particular quest as a journalist; I wasn't sure what in hell I was ending up as.
"Nice catch on your part,” she said, “noticing the missing wrench. And speaking of missing ... Just so you know, a more thorough examination of Mr. Comstock's body showed abrasions around his left shin. Like something had been tied there. Probably a length of rope and a weight of some sort."
I folded my arms, suppressed a shiver. “It was the wife, then. She was hidden up forward, and when Jack adjusted the engine speed, it was his signal to her to come out and whack Bert. Tie off an anchor line. Drop him and the wrench into the ocean. Go back into the boat. Sneak out when the people started climbing aboard after we docked. And her hubby made sure I took an antimotion-sickness pill beforehand, so I'd doze off."
Diane went to her desk. “No real evidence yet, but we'll break her. Get here in here, talk to her long enough, she'll flip. I don't care how much she loves her man, if it's a choice between life in prison or flipping, she'll testify against him."
"Nice,” I said, my voice low.
"Oh yeah, a real nice pair.” Diane looked up and smiled at me, the first real genuine smile the detective had ever given me. “It's Sunday night. I guess you're going to write one hell of a story tomorrow."
I rubbed at my bare arms. “I ... I don't know. I mean, I know I will ... and if you told me a week ago, that I'd be doing a story about a homicide, I would have thought I had won the lottery. But now, it seems ... silly."
Diane said, her voice softer, “Rethinking a career in journalism?"
"Rethinking a lot of things."
Another smile. “Well, if you decide to go elsewhere, you might find a home here."
I stopped rubbing my arms. “As a cop?"
"Sure. We're hiring part-time officers for the rest of the summer season, and women always get a good look because the department is short of them. You know how to talk to people, you know how to ask questions, and you've got a sharp mind. Not a bad combination."
I stood for a moment, not saying anything, and Diane said, “Well?"
"I guess ... I guess being outside of a jail cell, looking in, is better than being in, looking out."
She laughed. “Always is. Think about it. Give me a ring next week, I can set you up."
"All right, I will,” I said, and there was something inside of me, right then and there, that made me know that my journalism professors would be mighty disappointed in me next week, and I found I didn't care that much.
The power of a single story, I guess. And what do you know, I had ended up with one, after all.
Copyright (c) 2007 by Brendan DuBois
[Back to Table of Contents]
Department: UNSOLVED Logic Puzzle by Robert V. Kesling
Maurice Monteaux was the finest head chef in all New York City. Otherwise, Le Bon Vivant restaurant would not have tolerated his haughty, often sadistic outbursts. The kitchen staff operated in constant dread of his unreasonable demands and caustic criticism. As a result of his latest tirade, the dessert chef had quit on the spot. Under no circumstances would he return.
Hence, Le Bon Vivant advertised nationwide for a dessert chef to replace him. Many applied, and the field was finally narrowed to seven women, each from a different state. They included three brunettes, two blondes, and two redheads. Each was given free rein of the restaurant's kitchen facilities to prepare her best entry. The desserts were numbered one through seven and submitted to M. Monteaux for his rating and approval.
1. No two consecutively numbered entries were prepared by contestants with the same hair color.
2. Ms. Bakay (whose entry was not number 4) did not prepare the brownies; Ms. Carson did not bake the chiffon cake; Ms. Elgar did not bake the eclairs; and Ms. Gordi did not make the German chocolate cake.
3. Janice (whose entry was not number 4), the lady from Rhode Island (whose entry was not number 5), and the baker of the chiffon cake (who was not from Ohio) had last names of Anson, Bakay, and Carson (in some order). They included two blondes and one redhead.
4. The odd-numbered entries included those of Ms. Gordi (who was not from Utah), Helene, the lady from South Carolina, and the maker of the eclairs. Nadine had an even-numbered entry.
5. Ms. Folger, the contestant from Tennessee, and the one who made devil's food cake are all brunette. Their firs
t names are Laura, Maria (whose entry was not number 1), and Nadine (who did not enter the brownies).
6. Kathy (who isn't Ms. Gordi), the baker of the German chocolate cake, and the lady whose entry was number 6 do not include Ms. Carson. They are (in some order) from Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Virginia. They include two blondes and one brunette.
7. The apple strudel, brownies, and flan were prepared by Ms. Dawes (who isn't Idella), the lady from Pennsylvania (who isn't Kathy), and the contestant whose entry was number 3.
8. Neither the apple strudel nor the brownies were made by a red-haired contestant.
Just before M. Monteaux sampled the last two entries, he suddenly doubled in pain, gasped, and collapsed. Medical help was promptly summoned, but he was DOA at the hospital.
Obviously, the man had been poisoned. Detectives questioned the contestants without results. Then analysis by the medical examiner proved that the poison had been in the dessert prepared by Monteaux's red-haired ex-wife, who had entered the contest for the express purpose of revenge on her sadistic former husband.
Who poisoned the cantankerous, cruel, caustically critical head chef? In what dessert?
The solution will appear in next month's issue.
Copyright (c) 2007 by Robert V Kesling
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: THE LENGTH OF A STRAW by R.T. Lawton
My reception at the hunting camp just before dusk was not what I had expected. And if I had somehow been warned in advance that the rising of the next morning's sun would have me staring up into the dark muzzle of a rifle, I would have chosen to remain safely back in the Cossack village. But since these foresights are seldom granted to man, I soon found that my staying behind would surely have resulted in two unmarked graves beneath the lonely sand and grass of the wide-reaching steppes. For in this violent land it is a common saying among the hill tribes that a man's life is ofttimes so short it can be measured by the length of a single straw.
My long afternoon ride in the sunwarmth of early spring had been pleasant enough starting from the guard tower along the ice-clogged Terek River. Then the path led through a dense strip of forest and out across rolling high-grass plains. Here, pale drifts of dirt-encrusted snow still remained in small gullies and on shaded sides of hills taller than their neighbors. On slopes exposed to the south, scattered clumps of new green sprouts barely poked up through damp soil where sunlight had lingered longer upon the earth.
AHMM, March 2008 Page 7
