Gates of Power

by Peter O'Mahoney

  But that was Packman’s intention.

  Packman flipped the bird again and this time held it right in the man’s face, while glaring at him with real venom and menace.

  For a second, I thought it might spill over into violence, that Packman was about to punch the man, but perhaps mindful of the people watching, and the nearby video cameras, he went no further. Ripping the ticket from the windshield, he scrunched it up, got in his car and threw the ticket in the back.

  The engine fired up with an ear-splitting rev, and he tore off down the street, tires squealing as he went.

  The third incident was the worst according to what I heard about from Casey. We’d switched duties to minimize our chances of being spotted: she took over the tail, I headed back to the office to follow up on other lines of inquiry.

  After a few hours of her following him, we met up to swap places again, this time outside a shooting range. Being Sunday, Packman had time on his hands and had headed down for a bit of recreational target practice.

  “How was he?” I asked Casey, when meeting her in the car lot outside.

  “In a word: nuts,” she said, shaking her head. “He got into a crazy argument with some old grandma in a wheelchair before he went inside, after he pulled up in a disabled parking spot without a permit. The old girl, who had her placard and plate on display, arrived moments earlier in the only other disabled spot next to him, and when she spotted Packman without any permit or disability, she gave it to him with both barrels—figuratively speaking, you understand, since we’re at a gun range, and all.”

  I laughed.

  “She might have looked all meek and sweet, but wow, that girl had spirit,” continued Casey with a smile, ever the supporter of the underdog. “Down came her wheelchair ramp and over she rolled, practically squaring up to Packman for a fight, who by this stage was standing next to his car. She wasn’t taking any nonsense and went straight for him, lecturing him on how he was preventing her from accessing essential services in the form of her second amendment rights to bear arms as part of a well-regulated militia.”

  “Beautiful!” I said, bummed to have missed that one.

  “She kept calling him ‘sonny boy’ too.”

  “Nice touch.”

  “Yeah, I thought so,” said Casey, “That really got him mad. The two of them went at it for five minutes straight, yelling back and forth, neither of them backing down. I think Packman got increasingly agitated that he wasn’t intimidating her.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “The manager finally came out to see what all the commotion was about. At which point Packman acts all innocent; like it’s an honest mistake, and claims he’s been civil and polite in the face of unwarranted abuse from her.”

  “What, like he’s the victim?”

  “You got it!”

  “What a piece of work.”

  “Yeah, he clearly didn’t want to get blacklisted from the club, so he does an about-face and moves his car, while the old girl rolls on inside, muttering abuse under her breath—only that wasn’t the end of it.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Packman waits in his car for a while until the dust has settled, then goes to his trunk, rummages around and retrieves a 6-inch nail. He then slinks over to her car, gives a furtive glance around to see if anyone or any cameras are watching, then wedges the nail behind her rear right tire and the concrete, so when she reverses… Bang!”

  “You’re joking?”

  Casey glanced towards the woman’s vehicle with a “take a look for yourself” expression.

  And there, sure enough, was the nail wedged up against her tire at a 45-degree angle.

  “I’m kind of tempted to go inside and tell her, in the hope that she takes it upon herself to administer some on the spot justice, in the form of a bullet to Packman’s head,” said Casey with a little nod of approval.

  “Take it easy there, partner. Let’s see if we can pin Gates’ murder on the scumbag first.”

  “I hear you,” replied Casey. “He’s certainly got the temperament for it.”

  To be honest, that Packman had proved himself to be such a complete and utter lowlife was a surprise. Not that I ever thought he might be a nice guy, you understand, only that his level of anger was unexpected.

  Still, often when following targets their true personality leaks out in front of you, a little here and a little there, but with Packman it wasn’t so much leaking as flooding. He was thoroughly obnoxious and frequently angry—not the sort of person you want to see with a firearm in his hands. But it was time for me to take over and follow him inside, and I was curious to see if he was a good shot.

  Before bidding Casey goodbye and heading into the shooting range, I swiped the nail from under the car’s tire.

  “Find a safe place for this,” I said to Casey with a nod towards Packman’s car.

  I found Packman at the far end of the firing lanes, practicing with a Glock pistol, shooting at paper targets with pictures of zombies on them, one of several unconventional target options offered at the booth inside. To his credit, the guy was a fair shot, not exceptional, but certainly above average.

  I’d signed up for a bit of practice myself, as no matter how accurate someone else is, watching them endlessly shoot and reload is hardly a stimulating way to spend your time. As I went to my firing lane, I spotted the woman in the wheelchair two lanes down, decked out in a shoulder sling to help her better brace and stabilize the beast of a semi-automatic she had cocked, locked and ready to rock, in her hands.

  She let it rip with a short burst, every one hitting home in the center of the target.

  Not bad, I mused.

  I took aim and then fired at my own target—this time a conventional, circular, numbered one—and was pleased to see that I was still a good shot. I hadn’t fired my piece in anger for a long time, but I was a hunter, after all, and in that game, you have to be sharp.

  As I reloaded and fired again, I mulled over my plan. When Packman had finished shooting and was once again outside, I was going to approach and talk to him man to man, to tell him up front who I was and what I wanted to know. Sometimes it’s best to play it straight and use direct confrontation.

  I wanted to use Packman’s innate temper against him, in much the same way a probing lawyer would incite a volatile witness on the stand, in the hope that their anger would get the better of them and they’d either blurt out the truth or at least useful information that the lawyer could then use to his or her advantage.

  But would he talk to me? If he had nothing to hide, then he’d have nothing to fear.

  But if he did have something to hide, then not talking to me would make him seem guiltier. So, I figured, he’d talk to me either way—at least that’s what I hoped.

  Time dragged by, but eventually, after much spent ammo, he packed up, handed in his equipment, and headed outside to the parking lot.

  When he reached his car and was just about to get his keys out, I made my move.

  “Mr. Packman,” I said with authority. “I’d like a moment of your time.”

  He turned towards me, confusion on his face.

  “My name is Jack Valentine, I’m a private investigator working on the death of Brian Gates, can I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “What, on a weekend, are you kidding me? I’m a busy man. I haven’t got time for someone like you.”

  “I appreciate that Mr. Packman, but your close working relationship with Brian Gates puts you in a unique position to shed some light on—”

  “—I got nothing to say, man!” he cut in. “They already got the guy who did it—Alfie Rose.”

  He shook his head dismissively, paused for a moment and then reacted as if a cartoon light bulb had pinged into existence above his head.

  “Of course! That’s who you’re working for, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Give it up Mr. Valentine, that kid is guilty and going down for it too: big publ
ic feud between him and ‘The Gates,’ admits he was present at the scene, even had Gates’ blood on him, for heaven’s sake!”

  “I’m familiar with the details of the case, Mr. Packman. But of course, he wasn’t the only one present at the scene, you attended the charity event yourself.”

  “Yeah, I was there, but that doesn’t mean squat.”

  “Who was it you attended the event with that night?”

  “I ain’t speaking to you, hundreds of people attended, what does it matter who I was there with?”

  “Hundreds did attend, but they didn’t all argue with the deceased hours before his death.”

  “Say what?”

  “I have solid information that you and Gates had a heated argument at the charity event. Is that true?”

  “That is the biggest steaming pile of BS I’ve ever heard. Brian Gates and I were like brothers.”

  “Brothers who hated each other, you mean. Come on Mr. Packman, don’t play the innocent with me, it was widely known that on a personal level you two couldn’t stand each other.”

  “Not so.”

  “I think you knew he was planning to cut you off as his producer, and that’s what the argument was about.”

  It was deer in the headlights time; Packman stood rooted to the spot, unable to prevent the flash of panic in his eyes. He was clearly taken aback that I knew this crucial detail.

  I decided to take advantage: “That sort of betrayal must have cut deep, especially after all those years together, working as a team through it all. Even after your wife left you for him. I wouldn’t blame you for wanting him six feet under.”

  Packman took the bait and exploded.

  “Alright, you want me to tell you that I hated him? Well I did,” he yelled. “You want me to tell you that I’m glad that no-good, double-crossing, scumbag is dead? Well I am. After everything I did for him, he deserved to die. Did you know it was me who gave him his big break on national television? He’d have been nothing without me. I made Brian Gates, not the other way around, and he stabbed me in the back. But, so what Mr. PI? You ain’t got nothing on me, not a shred of evidence. So why don’t you back the hell off, you hear me?!”

  And with that, he got into his car, slammed the door, fired up the ignition, and hit the gas…

  Bang!

  His tire blew out, rendering it a limp, useless, flapping piece of rubber.

  He jumped on the brakes and got out in a rage to survey the damage. I decided to leave him to it.

  Getting in my own vehicle, I drove off past him with a wave, pondering the encounter and the man himself. That he had a temper was unquestionable.

  He was impulsive, abusive and quick to anger—just the sort of person who could have lashed out and struck Brian Gates.

  And by all accounts, he had reason to, and then some.

  Packman was right about one thing though: as it stood, I didn’t have anything on him, at least not solid evidence, and that’s what counted.

  I wasn’t sure what my next move would be, but one thing was clear: I hadn’t finished with Packman yet.

  Not by a long shot.

  Chapter 12

  Winston, my golden retriever, ran fast to my right, hair flowing in the breeze, such delight splashed across his face.

  He ran with a seemingly wide grin, tongue flapping out of his mouth, chasing the stick like it was the prize he had worked his entire life for. I was jealous of him—to be that free, that open, is something I’ll never experience; I’ve seen too much pain in my past, too much agony.

  Not that Winston hadn’t experienced pain—he adored Claire even more than I did. He didn’t know what happened to her, he couldn’t comprehend the hurt she experienced; he only knew that she was no longer there. Ignorance is bliss, so it would seem.

  He did whimper for weeks after Claire’s funeral, and I did everything I could to try and get rid of him. I didn’t want a dog, especially one that reminded me of my deceased wife, but my friends didn’t want him, Claire’s family said no, and the pound was overfilled.

  So, I was stuck with the mutt.

  I heard once that you don’t know love until you’ve raised a dog, and dammit, after all these years, they might be right.

  Every day Winston finds his way into my heart just a little bit more.

  Watching him run in the dog park—past the slow dogs, around the little ones, and barking at the loud ones—I have to say, I’m proud of him, and I’m proud that he’s mine.

  As much as he was Claire’s, he’s my boy now too.

  Whenever we’re at the park, Winston takes on his athletic persona. If he was human, he’d be a linebacker—all grunt, muscle, and adrenaline. I love that. I played linebacker in high school and a couple of college scouts came sniffing around after hearing about my aggression on the field. Unfortunately, in the game when three scouts arrived, I lost control and ripped someone’s helmet off, before punching him into next week.

  The kid shouldn’t have said what he said about my mother, rest her soul, but I’ll admit it, it was an over-reaction from me. The school thought so too and suspended me for the third time.

  I had too much aggression, the scout’s reports said, and they were probably right.

  “Winston’s moving well. Better than you ever could.”

  It was Derrick Booth; former cop, now retired, former smartass, still active, and owner of Barclay, a fellow golden retriever.

  “At least I’m still moving, old man.”

  The bench at the east end of the fenced dog park was basically owned by Derrick Booth. After his wife passed away ten years ago, he’d sat on the park bench more than he had at home. He was in his late seventies, a little overweight, and had the sort of face that looked like it had melted over time. He would’ve been handsome once, perhaps half a century ago, but time had wearied him, as it does all of us.

  He was the centerpiece of this park, the social beacon, and I imagine that when his time came, someone would suggest that a plaque be placed on the bench in his honor.

  “Been down to see Claire lately, Valentine?”

  “She’s resting well, thanks.”

  I sat down next to him. He had a thing for Claire, and she would often tell me about the nice old man that she talked to at the dog park. At her funeral, I saw him crying his eyes out. I guess that was sweet.

  “Next time you’re down at the grave, tell her I said hi.” He grunted. “I’d get down there myself, but I can’t travel far these days.”

  “I’m starting to think you had a crush on Claire.”

  “She was a lot sweeter than you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And smarter.”

  “I get it.”

  “And so, so much better looking.”

  “No argument from me.”

  We sat next to each other on the bench for a moment of silence, taking in the sights. The park was almost empty with only two other dogs running around, along the grass that was patchy at best. The chain fence that surrounded the park wouldn’t hold many dogs back, if they really wanted to run through it, and the trees looked almost lifeless, as if they were ready to fall down any moment.

  “I saw you on the news, Valentine.”

  “I’m a popular guy.”

  “You working for the good guys yet?”

  “If it’s the good guys that want to find the truth, then sure. I’m working for Alfie Rose.”

  “Still the bad guys then.” He shook his head.

  “Girls love a bad boy.”

  “Maybe that’s why Claire married you instead of me. I was too much of a good guy.”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Give me the low down on the case, Valentine.”

  I could sense the excitement in his voice, as much as he tried to hide it. When you’ve spent the best part of forty years investigating crime, it’s hard to leave it behind. And there was certainly no shortage of crime around here.

  “I’ve got a kid who claims he’s innocent, and
a list of other potential killers as long as my arm. But there’s evidence to say that the kid did it, and he certainly had a motive. Not looking good in the eyes of the court.”

  “Forget the court. They let killers walk free all the time.” Spoken like a true cop. “Focus on what really happened, Valentine. Focus on the truth.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Want to know my opinion?”

  I shrugged. The real answer was ‘not really,’ but I listened to the old guy.

  “I had a bit to do with that television world, in the days long before the internet. Even then, you could tell it was trouble. Death, corruption, and fraud were commonplace. It was almost like the mafia—run by these guys at the top. Some people just had too much power and it went to their heads. There’s money in television, and that meant there’s danger.” He raised his finger. “If I had to put the house on a bet, I’d bet it was someone in the television industry.”

  “Doesn’t help me.”

  He grunted, as if he had delivered a truck load of golden advice and I’d rejected it.

  Derrick had helped me once before—I was struggling to crack a case of stolen milk, glamorous I know, and Claire begged me to take the file down to Derrick. I was hired by a supermarket who was missing a crate of milk every morning, and nobody could figure out how. They had installed cameras and the owner had spent nights on stakeouts, but still the milk was going missing. It was stumping me too, and I was starting to think that I should be taking the case to the X-Files instead of an old man on a park bench.

  But I went with Claire’s insistence and Derrick looked at the files, studied the photos for five minutes and pointed out that the supermarket was opposite a car yard. So what, I said. Cameras all down the street, he mentioned. Sure enough, he was right. And after getting the car yard to show us the footage, we saw that a group of grown men were entering a drain next to the car yard every night, and then exiting with a crate of milk. Turns out that the drain led to the underside of the cooler room in the back of the supermarket, and the men thought they could help themselves to whatever milk they wanted.

  Sometimes, being a private investigator is about the little jobs, the small wins.