Shutterbug

by Laurence Gough

  Willows said, ‘He’s wearing his watch on his left wrist, so he must be right-handed, correct?’

  Parker nodded her agreement.

  ‘So why did he tie off his right arm?’

  Popeye snorted. His definition of a detective was a guy who was smart enough to put both his feet up on his desk. Homicide evidence was meaningless, outside a medical context. The M.E. firmly believed that 99 per cent of a detective’s work was done for him, while he slept, by highly trained followers of Hippocrates, fellows much like Popeye himself. He snapped shut his black leather bag and started for the door.

  Popeye was single, unattached. A lonely guy. His habit was to linger at crime scenes. Willows said, ‘You’re leaving already?’

  ‘There’s two more of these unlucky fellows three blocks away, and another over by Commercial Drive. It’s going to be a long and busy night, Jack. We’ll all be glad when it’s over.’

  Willows found Lester’s wallet in the right-side back pocket of his pants. More evidence that Lester was a righty. The wallet was stuffed with cash. Willows counted five hundred dollars in crisp new twenties with consecutive serial numbers. He held a bill up to the light. It looked authentic to him - but then, he was no expert. Lester owned no credit cards. He had a social-security card, and government-issue picture ID, but that was it. The wallet yielded a condom in a shiny Mylar wrapper, indicating that Lester was an optimist; though it was impossible to determine whether he’d hoped for sex, or drugs.

  Willows’ groping fingers stumbled across a small black-and-white photograph with piecrust edges. The picture was of a boy about five or six years old. He was sitting behind the wheel of a split-windshield Ford. A’52, Willows believed. The boy had both hands on the wheel and his smile was a mile wide. Could that be Lester, in happier days? Definitely. Willows slipped the photo back into the wallet.

  Parker was over by the window, looking out at the night. A patrol car was parked on the far side of the street, the cop behind the wheel punching buttons on his computer, his face lit up by the washed-out, pale grey glow of the screen.

  The bone-china cup rattled against the saucer, as the cop by the door lit a cigarette. Willows glared at him. Trailing a cloud of smoke, the cop backed into the hallway.

  Parker turned away from the window. Lester Rules was well known to the police. He was a street-level dealer, and had a record long as an orangutan’s arm. Lester, like many of the city’s career addicts, sold dope so he could afford dope. Given his background, his sudden lack of future was entirely predictable.

  Parker had conducted a desultory search of the small room, but now, spurred on by Willows’ observation that Lester Rules was wearing his watch on the wrong wrist, she started in all over again. Aside from the clothes he was wearing, Lester owned three shirts and four pairs of socks and three pairs of underpants and two pairs of pants.

  Parker found a paring knife under the mattress. She didn’t blame Lester for taking precautions to defend himself. There was no telephone in the apartment, and in this neighbourhood, no matter how loudly you screamed, there was no guarantee anyone would bother to hear you.

  Parker found an envelope taped to the back of one of the bureau drawers. The envelope contained three five-dollar bills. She pulled the bureau away from the wall. Dust.

  Willows was in the bathroom, poking around.

  Parker checked inside the refrigerator. Lester had been a light eater, apparently. She looked inside the oven, and discovered that Lester was sharing his apartment with an extended family of cockroaches.

  It had taken them only a few minutes to search the apartment, and they had done a thorough job. There were no signs of a struggle, or any other indications - other than the shoelace on the wrong arm - that there was anything amiss.

  Parker said, ‘What d’you think?’

  Willows took one last look around. He said, ‘I think Lester overdosed, and died.’

  ‘What about the watch?’ said Parker.

  Willows shrugged. The watch bothered him. But not that much. He put away his notebook.

  Parker said, ‘That cop must’ve finished his tea, by now. Why don’t we take Marjorie’s cup back to her.’

  ‘See if we can fiddle a cookie’ said Willows.

  Parker decided not to say anything about the cockroaches.

  *

  Marjorie Berg was in her eighties, thin and spry, as bright-eyed as a kitten. Her breath smelled of brandy. She wore a bulky wool sweater and tartan pants, sensible shoes. Her clothes were a size too large for her, but the sweater was clean, her pants were pressed. Her apartment was no larger than Lester’s but it was as spotlessly clean as a surgery. The walls and ceiling were white, and had been recently painted. There were several framed pictures of family and friends. The floor was carpeted, and the heavy oak furniture, though it dated from the thirties, had been lovingly cared for. A clay pot of miniature daffodils stood on the table, next to an open book.

  Marjorie clapped her hands lightly together and asked her two guests if they’d like a nice cup of tea. Her voice was slurred, and she was a little unsteady on her feet.

  It wasn’t just the daffodils that were potted, observed Parker.

  Willows hesitated, and was lost, swept away by Marjorie’s obvious desire to play the good hostess, despite the hour. The kettle had just boiled. It was no trouble, really…

  Marjorie made the tea. She offered them a wee medicinal drop of brandy, and was not the least put out when they declined. She poured a staggeringly generous shot into her own teacup. The oven door was opened on a fresh batch of chocolate-chip cookies.

  They sat at the table. Marjorie volunteered that her husband had been a logger. His name was Bill, and he’d died fifteen years ago. She pointed out several pictures. Parker acknowledged that Bill was a handsome fellow. Marjorie had been a receptionist. She benefitted from a minuscule pension, and somehow always managed to make ends meet.

  Between her second and third cookies, as Marjorie poured her a fresh cup of tea, Parker asked her how well she’d known Lester Rules.

  Not at all, as it turned out. Lester was the secretive type, though you couldn't say he kept to himself, because his friends were always coming around, at all hours of the day and night. Marjorie didn't know any of them by name.

  She hadn’t heard a struggle, or anything like a cry for help. She’d had no idea Lester was a drug addict or that he was a small-time dealer. She’d noticed, passing his open door, that his apartment was always a mess. Men! Especially bachelors! The building was old, and infested with cockroaches. Lester didn’t seem to mind. She’d seen a huge, shiny bug in the hallway, right outside his door… By now, Marjorie was a long way past a little bit tipsy. Her words increasingly slurred, she said she wanted to attend Lester’s funeral, if there was a service.

  Parker promised to let her know.

  Marjorie fumbled half a dozen warm cookies into a paper napkin and pressed them into Parker’s hand. She looked up at Parker with her clear blue eyes and said if she’d ever had a daughter, she would have wanted her to turn out just like Claire.

  Parker thanked her, and gave her a quick hug.

  Driving back to 312 Main to do the paperwork, Willows and Parker agreed that, despite a few minor discrepancies in the crime scene, Lester Rules had almost certainly died as a consequence of an accidental overdose.

  They couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Chapter 11

  April wore a black lace push-up bra, a black leather mini-skirt, a heavy black leather Harley-Davidson motorcycle jacket, and the jaunty black leather cap Wayne had bought her for her last birthday. The cap was an exact replica of the one Marlon Brando had worn in the classic movie, The Wild One. Wayne owned the video. April couldn’t even begin to count the number of times he’d watched it - and she didn’t mean just the exciting parts, either. He always watched the whole thing, from beginning to end, right through the credits. And it was in black and white! There was just no accounting for some people’s tast
es. She had to admit that Marlon was pretty cool, though. The guy had been a hunk, fifty or sixty years ago.

  April stuck her fingers deep into her second king-size martini, and fished around for the last of the olives. She speared the olive on an artificial fingernail, and carried it dripping to her mouth, licked away the last few drops of booze. She pretended to be unaware that Lewis was watching her closely as she popped the olive into her mouth, and chewed noisily.

  Lewis said, ‘Good?’

  ‘Yummy!’

  Lewis wore Wayne’s terrycloth bathrobe, the one with the petit-point Harley on the back. Wayne had paid an elderly woman eleven hundred dollars to stitch the motorcycle on the back of the robe, and if you asked him, he’d tell you it was worth every penny, and mean it. And he was right, in a sense, because the woman’s hourly wage had worked out to considerably less than she’d have earned flipping burgers at McDonald’s.

  April lit a Marlboro. She offered the pack to Lewis, sparked her lighter for him.

  They sat there at the table, April starting her third vodka martini and Lewis with his very first beer. Lewis was a little high now, but not too bad, nowhere near nodding off, April hoped.

  She said, ‘How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Okay.’ Lewis thought it over for a while. Or maybe he was thinking about something else. ‘Not bad,’ he amended.

  ‘You look good.’

  Lewis absorbed that one without flinching.

  April tried again. ‘Handsome.’

  Lewis pulled hard on his Marlboro. The smoke went deep into his body. Half a minute later, he exhaled.

  ‘So tell me more about your family,’ said April. ‘Got any brothers?’

  Lewis shook his head in a lateral plane.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Too bad. Sisters?’

  Lewis frowned.

  April said, ‘Got any sisters, Lewis?

  He held up three fingers. After a long while he said, ‘Three.’

  April was fairly sure that he’d already claimed to be an only child, but let it slide. Maybe he’d been afraid of what she might do to them, kidnap them or whatever, and now he was starting to trust her. She said, ‘Are they pretty?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  April, burning with jealousy, drank an inch of martini. ‘What’re their names?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Hey! Wake up!’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Yes you do!’ April was on her feet, her leather jackets chromed zippers and buckles flashing bright as her eyes. ‘Don’t you bullshit me, Lewis!’

  ‘Kathy. Elizabeth… ‘ You only had to glance at Lewis to see how hard he was thinking.

  April impatiently stomped her pretty foot.

  ‘And Veronica,’ said Lewis heavily. He took another long pull on his cigarette, noticed the beer, sipped.

  ‘Veronica?’

  Something in April’s voice roused him. ‘What about her?’ he said belligerently.

  April wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she was angry, and she didn’t know why, which made her even madder. Veronica was a stupid, stupid name. It was so old-fashioned. Until now, the only Veronica she’d ever heard of was the rich one in the Archie comics, although now she came to think of it she believed Veronica had her own comic book, or at least shared one with Betty.

  Come to think of it, Betty was short for Elizabeth. Lewis had said one of his sisters was named Elizabeth. Betty.

  Was he fucking around with her?

  April grabbed the jar of olives and unscrewed the lid and tossed it aside. She jabbed viciously down with her index finger, impaling an olive. Her fingernail had pierced right through it and was sticking out the other side. If the olive had been a migrating salmon, she’d have killed it. Not that she cared for fish. She put her finger in her mouth and pursed her lips and withdrew her finger, leaving the olive behind. She studied her fingers as she chewed on the olive. The nails were sharp as knives. If she leapt across the table she’d take Lewis completely by surprise. If she wanted to, she could rip his stupid eyes out before he had time to blink.

  April speared another olive, and then another, and another. Olives were sinfully full of calories. She ate another, and another, until she’d started to loathe herself for her lack of self-control.

  Now she was okay. She wasn’t angry at Lewis any more. For now, he was safe.

  She said, ‘What’s she look like?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘All of them, but especially Veronica.’ April drained her glass and picked up the sterling shaker and poured herself a refill. ‘Tell me about Veronica.’

  ‘She’s… the oldest.’

  ‘Good. How old is she?’

  Lewis mulled that one over for a while. Finally he said, ‘Twenty-nine.’

  ‘That’s pretty old, Lewis. She married?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What’s her husband’s name?’

  ‘Ron.’

  ‘What’s he do?’

  ‘Accountant.’ Lewis dropped the stub of his cigarette hissing into his beer.

  ‘Any kids?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘How come?’

  Shrug.

  ‘They live in the city?’

  ‘Saskatoon.’

  ‘Too bad,’ said April enigmatically. ‘So tell me, what’s she look like? Is she a blonde like me?’

  Lewis said, ‘Yeah, I think so… ‘

  April grilled him like a steak, until she’d learned more about his trio of sisters than he’d known he could tell. Then she made a fresh batch of lovely martinis, got Lewis another Budweiser from the fridge, fired up Marlboros for both of them, settled back down in her chair and started to tell him all about her own dysfunctional, totally screwed-up family. She had just finished describing her straight-from-hell mother when the front doorbell chimed the opening bars of ‘Hotel California.’

  There was a brief silence. Lewis glanced worriedly at April. She put her finger to her eternally pouting lips, shushing him. He heard the scratch of metal on metal, key on lock.

  Now somebody was pounding on the door with his fist. The sound of the blows, and April’s shouted name, rattled through the house.

  Lewis said, ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Wayne.’

  The name was vaguely familiar. Lewis frowned, got it. ‘Your boyfriend?’

  April shrugged with feigned carelessness.

  ‘Why don’t you let him in?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  Wayne had traded in his fists for his boots. He was apparently determined to kick the door to splinters. The thunderous crash of boot on door was not much short of apocalyptic.

  Lewis helped himself to a Marlboro. He said, ‘Maybe you should get dressed.’

  ‘I am dressed.’

  ‘Well then, maybe I should get dressed.’

  April’s reply was lost to history, for in that moment the door crashed open and there was the sound of a large body hitting the floor at speed, and then a torrent of foul oaths, and then a silence more dreadful than everything that had gone before.

  Heavy footsteps stomped towards them.

  April’s pointy, diamond-studded tongue lightly touched her lips. Her sharp nails dug into her thigh. She flushed, and began to hyperventilate.

  Wayne burst into the kitchen. He was so enormously large that it was as if the room had been inhabited by an eclipse. He took in the situation at a glance. Ignoring Lewis, he scooped up April in his arms and kissed her passionately.

  ‘How’s my baby?’

  April tugged at her skirt. ‘Put me down.’

  ‘Glad to see me?’

  ‘Put me down!’

  ‘Who’s the twerp?’

  ‘Lewis, meet Wayne.’ April had held on tight to her martini glass. She sipped and sighed. ‘Wayne, meet Lewis.’

  Wayne sat down at the table. He hauled April onto his lap. He wore black leather Harley-Davidson gloves, a black
leather Harley-Davidson jacket and matching Harley-Davidson chaps, a black T-shirt emblazoned with a large Harley-Davidson logo, heavy black motorcycle boots, a devil-black ‘shorty’ motorcycle helmet, and aviator-style Harley-Davidson sunglasses. He shucked the gloves and jacket and reached across the table, helping himself to Lewis’s Budweiser.

  A pair of tattooed Harleys, authentic in every detail, graced Wayne’s thick left and right arms. He wore several heavy gold biker rings, and a Harley-Davidson wristwatch.

  Lewis furtively checked for Harley earrings. No dice.

  ‘What the hell you lookin’ at!’

  Wayne’s natural tone of voice was similar to that of a mortally distraught warthog. At full bellow, he should have required a noise-pollution permit. Lewis quailed. He looked like a man who’d been shot dead half an hour earlier, and just that moment figured out what had happened to him. He sank low in his chair. His eyes skittered around the room, finally settling on April.

  Wayne shouted, ‘Don’t look at her, punk!’

  Lewis squeezed his eyes shut and then covered them with his hands. He began to cry, his body shaking uncontrollably, tears of anguish leaking between his palsied fingers.

  April screamed, ‘Now look what you’ve done!’

  Wayne was instantly contrite. ‘I’m sorry, honey. It’s just that… who in hell is this guy, anyway?’

  ‘None of your business!’ snapped April. She lit a cigarette, and exhaled into Wayne’s face. The pale blue smoke clung to his beard as early morning mist clings to a heavily treed mountaintop. She said, ‘He’s the guy I told you I was going to get for you.’

  ‘The fall guy?’

  April’s tone was caustic. ‘That’s not exactly how I’d refer to him in his presence.’

  Chastised, Wayne stomped over to the fridge and yanked open the door and scooped up three cans of Budweiser. His gold rings flashed as he made a fist and brutally punched the refrigerator door shut. He popped open a beer and quickly emptied it. The second can met an identical fate. He opened the third can, and paused to wipe a tideline of foam from his beard.