Suburban Dicks

by Fabian Nicieza

  She called Kenny. “We have the conspiracy on video.”

  38

  KENNY was at Andrea’s house by four that afternoon. Sathwika had arranged for them to be at Sunita Gupta’s house to meet Jimmy by five, and they had to start a stakeout by seven. They also had to plan their trip to Vermont to see Jennifer Guilfoyle and politely ask if maybe she was responsible for Cleon Singleton getting killed fifty years ago. But their immediate concern was getting eyes and ears on the meeting at the Patriots Rifle Range.

  “Can we ask Rossi or Garmin to go?” offered Kenny.

  “Not if Chief Dobeck is there,” she replied.

  “I can try to sneak in, take pictures, maybe,” he said. “The community park butts up against the rifle range and it’s surrounded by woods.”

  “You know anyone in TV news or sound engineering that might have the right equipment? Boom mikes or a dish?” she asked.

  “No, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want to share the story with them at this point.”

  “Okay, at least we can shoot for video surveillance,” she said.

  “You don’t want to call the Hispanic Hunk for help? Maybe he can set something up?”

  “Not enough time,” she said. “Even if we don’t get audio evidence, the video provides enough ammo to get the conspirators to break.”

  She remembered Bennett Dobeck’s lunch date. “Oh, yeah, before I forget . . .” She showed Kenny the picture on her phone.

  “Thomas Robertson,” said Kenny. “He’s a—”

  “West Windsor administrator,” she finished for him. “Hillary Eversham’s boss. They’re the current township employees who are involved in the cover-up. Another connection we needed. Okay, then, Vermont. Are we good for tomorrow?”

  “If I don’t get killed in a few hours, yes,” he said.

  “I can be at your place by six thirty,” she said.

  “Are you sure you’re not going to have your baby on the New York State Thruway?” Kenny asked. “Because that would be tacky.”

  “If my water breaks, you’ll be the second to know,” she said.

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  AFTER THEIR TALK at Chuck E. Cheese, Sathwika had called her friend who’d had her pool permit rejected. Andrea was certain they’d find a piece of Cleon’s remains on the property. As tasteless as it sounded, having the skull would make for a very compelling visual. Much to Andrea’s chagrin, the late afternoon meeting at Sunita Gupta’s house turned into something of an impromptu party. Sunita’s children knew Ruth and Eli from school and Sathwika’s kids jumped right in.

  Sunita had “whipped up” two platters of food on the deck for everyone to nosh on, samosas and tandoori chicken nuggets for the kids. Despite her annoyance that her criminal investigation was turning into a Krishna Janmashtami celebration, the food smelled delicious, and Andrea couldn’t help but grab a samosa. Or two. Okay, three.

  When Jimmy arrived, Kenny greeted him and explained that the house rested on what used to be Bear Brook Farm, owned by the Wright family. Andrea wanted a plan for clearing the kids out of the yard if her suspicions proved accurate. Though she presented herself calmly, Sunita was livid after learning why her pool permit had been denied.

  “Think how the dead guy must feel,” said Sathwika.

  “They treat us like we’re imbeciles,” Sunita said through pursed lips. “Telling us how complicated everything is and how we don’t understand how things work here.”

  After Jimmy devoured several samosas and nuggets, he swept his cable locator across her backyard. The kids kicked a soccer ball around him.

  “We understand just fine,” Sunita continued. “It works the same way as it does everywhere.”

  “When is Arjun going to be home?” asked Sathwika.

  “Not until later,” Sunita said.

  “What does he do?” Andrea asked.

  “He is the senior sales representative for a marble distributor,” she replied.

  “I saw the inside of your house,” Andrea said. “It’s . . .”

  Sunita tsked her. “You think it’s too much marble.”

  “It is too much,” laughed Sathwika. “It’s always too much.”

  “We all have too much of something,” said Andrea. “And we all judge the choices other cultures make. Ultimately, we usually like what we’re raised to like and that’s the way it is.”

  Sathwika and Sunita nodded.

  “But it’s still an absurd amount of marble,” Andrea said with a smile.

  The two Indian women laughed loud enough to draw Kenny’s attention. Then the laughter stopped when Jimmy stopped. His locator had pinged. He looked at Kenny. They both looked back to the women.

  Sathwika immediately said, “Children, there is sweet rice pudding for dessert.”

  The kids all scrambled toward the house, rushing past Jimmy and Kenny.

  “We’ll need shovels,” said Andrea. “Honestly, why I don’t have six in my trunk at this point is beyond me.”

  “I got mine in the trunk,” said Kenny. “At least one of us came prepared.”

  Ten minutes later, the skull of Cleon Singleton’s severed head stared up at them.

  Andrea took several pictures of it with her phone.

  She bent down as best she could and plucked the skull up in her bare hands. They had identified the victim, so there was no need to be delicate. She looked carefully at the hole that had been punched through Cleon’s parietal bone. Even fifty years later, she could make out the distinctive shape in the depression. She felt the impact, the unexpected suddenness of it.

  “They used a hammer or a pickax,” she said. “The fucking bastards hit Cleon from behind.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  TWO HOURS LATER, still drenched in sweat from digging, Jimmy and Kenny left their car near the dog park at the West Windsor Community Park and walked into the woods adjoining the rifle range. The only thing that was worse than the humidity were the bugs. Kenny was despondent. Jimmy was casual. He really was enjoying all this.

  After hearing their concerns about the meeting at the rifle range, Jimmy offered them the ultrasonic leak detector he had in his van. It would allow them to pick up the conversation from several yards away. It wasn’t a foolproof plan because they still had to get pretty close—Kenny would have to record it on his phone through the locator’s headset, and then Jimmy would have to run the recording through the sound board he had for the band he never formed to pull out the voices—but it was better than what they had earlier.

  Andrea was happy not to trudge through the woods, and Jimmy had been more than happy to do so. Now Kenny lagged several feet behind Jimmy as they burrowed their way through the thick brush close to the rifle range clubhouse.

  Kenny checked his phone. It was 7:34. They had just enough time to set up. They had to make their way over a mound of trees that had been clear-cut and stacked in a pile ten feet high and thirty yards wide.

  “Where the hell did this come from?” asked Kenny.

  “The township took down all the trees that had those Asian bore beetles. They haven’t shredded them yet,” said Jimmy as he started to climb over the pile.

  Reluctantly, Kenny followed.

  Over the pile, Jimmy saw the rifle range clubhouse through the wood line. He put a finger to his lips, then moved forward slowly. He repositioned the straps that ran diagonally across his chest with one hand so that the equipment he was carrying would stay secure, while reaching around his back with the other to hold the locator and prevent it from jostling.

  Kenny followed Jimmy as he wound his way around several trees and through a thicket of bushes. Jimmy stopped, looking for the best path through the growth. The rifle range clubhouse was twenty yards past the bushes. He found his egress, bent low, and slid his way through the passage.

 
; Kenny was immediately tangled in thorns. They tugged at his polo shirt, then scratched his arm as he tried to push them out of the way. “I’m bleeding!” he hissed.

  “Quiet,” snapped Jimmy.

  Jimmy set up the leak detector base on a bed of high grass at the edge of the brush line. He plugged his audio cord into the jack and put on the headset. He plugged the parabolic disk into the tubular extension and plugged that into the transmitter. He waved the disk in the direction of the clubhouse.

  “Someone is inside, moving around, but it’s muffled,” Jimmy said.

  “We don’t have a good angle on the entrance drive,” said Kenny. “I need pictures of who shows up. We can’t rely on voice recordings alone.”

  The gravel drive led from the clubhouse and a dirt parking lot to Route 571. To the east of the clubhouse was the indoor shooting range, a one-story concrete building twenty-five meters long and painted puke yellow. To the west was the outdoor shooting range with the large dirt berms built within sight of Andrea’s house. Always a good idea to build residential housing in direct line of sight of old white men with guns.

  All Kenny knew was that the ramshackle gun club would make the perfect backdrop for the video of the conspirators marching out of their cars and walking into their meeting. A suburban Scorsese moment. In his mind, he laid some Rolling Stones on the soundtrack. It would kill on the documentary.

  “Over there?” Kenny asked, pointing to a spot behind three large tree trunks and a thatch of bull thistle weeds. “I can see the driveway better.”

  “But if they go inside the clubhouse, which they probably will, I need to be here to have any chance of picking up their conversation,” said Jimmy.

  “Okay, I’ll go over there, you stay here,” Kenny said.

  Kenny made his way over to the bull thistle to find a comfortable position so that he could take pictures. He played with the zoom on his camera and felt he had as good an angle as he was going to get. Minutes later, a car turned at the dirt drive and pulled into the parking lot.

  Even though he recognized the car, he took a picture of the license plate. It was Steve Appelhans’s Honda Civic. Steve Appelhans, Bradley Dobeck, and Karl Halloway got out. Someone who had been inside the clubhouse came out the front door. Kenny didn’t have a good angle, seeing only the man’s back as he walked toward the group. He extended his hand, shaking with each of the men. When the man finally turned, Kenny saw it was Bill Mueller.

  He zoomed in as close as he could and took several pictures of their faces.

  He felt a moment of frustration as they left his field of vision and entered the clubhouse. He hoped he’d gotten enough clean shots. Then he was glad they’d left, as his phone vibrated loud enough that they would have heard it if they’d stayed outside.

  He checked the text message, from Andrea: Molly says Eversham is on her way.

  And within two minutes, a silver Lexus ES arrived, carrying Hillary Eversham and Thomas Robertson. They looked around nervously and ducked into the clubhouse.

  Kenny turned to Jimmy and gave him a thumbs-up.

  Jimmy trained the disk toward the back wall of the structure. He adjusted the control dials and fiddled with his headphones. He frowned. Kenny looked confused and Jimmy shook his head. He pointed to himself and then to the structure.

  Kenny shook his head.

  Jimmy then waved for Kenny to come over to him.

  Kenny shook his head more vigorously.

  Jimmy waved his hand more vigorously.

  Kenny relented. He moved over to Jimmy, who took his phone. He turned on the audio-recording app and shoved the phone under his right earpiece. Then, carrying all the equipment, Jimmy rushed over to the clubhouse before Kenny could stop him. He crouched beneath a small window along the back wall, using a large propane tank for cover. He leaned into it so he could get a better angle to the window.

  Holding the wand that the disk was attached to, Jimmy raised it just under the windowsill. With his left hand, he fiddled with the dials on the transmitter. He cocked his head for a moment, then he looked to Kenny and gave a thumbs-up.

  Within thirty seconds, Jimmy’s mouth exploded into a giant grin and he grabbed his crotch in triumph. Kenny took that to mean either Jimmy was happy with what he was recording or his friend just wanted to spank the monkey in the woods.

  Kenny smiled. They had them. They had them all.

  PART THREE

  Stretch Marks the Spot

  39

  THE next morning, Andrea dropped Jeff off at the train station in time for the 6:03. She hadn’t told her husband that she was going to Vermont and planned to spring it on him via text while he was at work. She dropped off the kids, who were not so groggy that they couldn’t complain the entire time, at Brianne’s house. By 6:35 she was pounding on Kenny’s door after he hadn’t come out to meet her or answered his phone.

  Finally, the door slowly opened.

  She screamed. “What the hell happened to your face?”

  Kenny’s head had swollen to a degree that nearly matched her pregnancy. His eyes were swollen shut and his normally licorice-whip lips were doughy thick. His neck looked like it belonged to an NFL offensive lineman.

  “Uh dding uh ggudd bidd buh dumtind in duh woods,” he blubbered.

  It took her a moment: I think I got bit by something in the woods.

  “You can’t come to Vermont,” she stated as much as asked.

  “I can still go,” he tried to say.

  With an exasperated wave of her hand, she turned around and left.

  She didn’t want to risk the fourteen-hour round-trip drive on her own, but she didn’t want to postpone it, either. She scrolled through her contact list and made a call.

  Thirty minutes later, which was thirty minutes later than Andrea had planned to leave, Sathwika Duvvuri sat in the passenger’s seat with a shit-eating grin on her face. “You’re sorry for asking me? Are you kidding? A day without the kids, a road trip in search of a murderer, and the absolute possibility that I might deliver your baby somewhere on the New York State Thruway? Sounds like a dream come true.”

  “I have to be honest, I’m reconsidering the preconceived notions I had about Asian extended families and having your mother-in-law living with you,” said Andrea.

  “Having an emergency babysitter for the kids can be great,” Sathwika replied. “But trust me, if you knew my in-laws, you’d reconsider it every single day.” After a pause, she smiled and said, “How fast can an Odyssey go?”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  THEY WERE ON I-287 North for an hour and headed for the thruway when Andrea asked Sathwika to access the recording Kenny had sent her of the surveillance at the rifle range. Though Andrea couldn’t identify some of the individual voices, she knew it was Steve Appelhans, Hillary Eversham, Thomas Robertson, Bill Mueller, Karl Halloway, and Bradley Dobeck.

  APPELHANS: Can either of you explain what is going on?

  EVERSHAM: I’ve had two different people poking their noses into old records. Some pregnant woman—

  ROBERTSON: And also, that asshole reporter.

  MUELLER: Kenny Lee. He made a formal records request for pool permit rejections dating back fifty years.

  ROBERTSON: That’s crazy. The pregnant woman was pretending to be writing a book about—what was it, Hillary?

  EVERSHAM: Ancient Indian burial grounds.

  APPELHANS: So, what do they know?

  DOBECK: They don’t know shit.

  MUELLER: No, they do. At least Lee does. He felt confident enough to call me out in the middle of my office in the middle of the day.

  DOBECK: My son arrested the woman.

  EVERSHAM: What? She’s pregnant like a house.

  DOBECK: Who gives a shit? We threaten her baby if we have to.

  MUELLER: Is she under
arrest now?

  DOBECK: No, they had to let her go. Fucking civil liberties fairies.

  APPELHANS: Maybe it was enough to scare her off? You think?

  EVERSHAM: That seems like a mistake to me.

  ROBERTSON: And what about the Indian community? They’re not going to let the murder of that kid just drop.

  DOBECK: We don’t have to worry about the Indians.

  MUELLER: I don’t want to hear a thing about that.

  DOBECK: There’s nothing to get your titties squeezed about, okay? Shit, son, if you had half of your old man’s balls, you’d still be short four balls.

  EVERSHAM: The woman and the reporter are working together. Who is she? Why would she be involved in this?

  DOBECK: Some bored housewife who wants to play Nancy Drew.

  EVERSHAM: I think it’s more than that.

  DOBECK: She’s a pregnant mother of four. Her husband is on probation. You know how easy it will be to squeeze her?

  EVERSHAM: What if it’s not, Bradley? What if she blows the lid on this?

  DOBECK: They can find out something happened, but they don’t know what. They don’t know why, and they sure as fuck don’t know who.

  “Listen to what’s coming up,” Andrea interrupted. “First time he’s going to talk. Karl Halloway. He was a West Windsor county administrator for over thirty years. Basically, Robertson and Eversham both worked for him before he retired.”

  Sathwika started the recording again:

  HALLOWAY: The only way they’re going to find out the truth is if the people in this room talk, and we have no reason to talk. Some of you do this to protect your parents or your family. Some of us do it to protect our children. Some do it to protect ourselves. No matter the reason, if you don’t talk, their truth is a lie. It is that simple.

  There was silence on the tape for several seconds.

  DOBECK: You hear that? All of you? That fucking simple. Okay? I’ll talk to Ben about the pregnant bitch and the reporter. He can handle them, and if he can’t, well, we can.