by Meg Lelvis
Within ten minutes Jack was settled in his leather recliner wearing shabby sweats and a faded t-shirt. Boone lay beside him chewing a new rawhide bone.
“Let’s turn on the BBC News. Highlight of the day.” Jack took a swig of Guinness.
Half an hour later, he nuked the last slab of Baumgartner’s meat loaf, drank a second beer, then hopped in the shower. Afterward he put on a white cotton shirt, maroon tie, and gray pants. Figured he should look professional for meeting Roger Kaplan. ‘Gotta exude authority while maintaining a down-to-earth persona. Let ‘em know you’re human,’ and all that crap he’d heard years ago from jerks who were dumber than he, but made more money.
He arrived at the Arbour on I-59, not far from the Olive Garden. The hotel was faux English estate minus the horses, carriages, and lush acreage. Jack parked near the entrance in a slot with plenty of room. Less chance of some asshole denting the Beemer’s doors.
Jack walked through the heavy wood door between two white pillars and into a spacious lobby with red walls, red carpet, and red-shirted receptionists. Huge gilded framed ‘masterpieces’ of English royalty from the 17th and 18th centuries attempted to create a dignified ambience. He glanced around and headed toward the bar and lounge area. Jack was ten minutes early, so he sat in a black leather chair by the far wall. The décor tried to resemble a hunting lodge where men gathered after a day of riding to hounds. Large framed ersatz paintings displayed the aristocracy enjoying the art of hunting small creatures. American culture at its highest, Jack thought. At least the jazz background music was soft.
A young Asian waiter approached him and asked if he needed anything. He decided to be polite and wait for Kaplan to arrive. He hoped the guy wouldn’t ask about autopsy results. Could hardly tell a father someone wanted to cut his son’s balls off.
Chapter 8
Jack recognized the man the minute he entered the lounge. Roger Kaplan’s eyes darted here and there, his body language tentative. Average in height and weight, he looked like Jack had imagined.
He wore a purple LSU T-shirt and denim jeans faded at the knees; his once-white tennis shoes had seen better days. Collages of snakes and dragons adorned both arms, reinforcing Jack’s opinion of the guy’s socio-economic status.
Jack rose from his chair. “Mr. Kaplan?” As if he didn’t know. “I’m Jack Bailey.” He held out his hand.
Kaplan gave a decent shake. “Roger. Please. Good to meet you.” His tired eyes took in Jack’s shirt and tie. “Sorry, I didn’t dress up.”
“Don’t be. I have to follow regulations. Rather be in jeans.” Jack wanted the guy to relax.
Kaplan’s hair was dark like Jack’s, but more gray. Crows feet framed pale blue eyes, and more wrinkles etched their way around his mouth and chin. Despite his weathered, Clint Eastwood look, Jack could tell Todd’s father had once been a handsome man. In fact, he noted a strong resemblance between Kaplan and his son, judging from a picture provided by Todd’s boss.
“Let’s sit over here.” Jack indicated a table by the wall that would afford privacy. He was glad the place was almost empty. “Would you like a soft drink or beer?” The men sat down.
“Sure. What are you having?” The guy’s voice raspy. Must be a heavy smoker.
Jack could have used a shot of Jamesons, but decided on beer. Wanted Kaplan to feel at home.
“My usual brew, but feel free to have whatever.”
Kaplan seemed to like that idea. “Beer sounds good. I’ll have a Pabst.”
That figures, Jack thought. “Be right back.” He was too impatient to wait for service, and besides, he wanted to order his Samuel Adams on tap without Kaplan around. Didn’t want the guy to perceive Jack as uppity.
He returned to the table and said, “Waiter will be right here with the drinks.” Kaplan nodded and fiddled with a napkin. His fingernails were black underneath, and yellow blotches discolored his index finger.
“First off, Roger, my team and I are very sorry for your loss. I know it’s difficult.” God, he hated these platitudes, but he was stuck with them.
“Yeah, well, it was a blow, all right.” Kaplan swept his shaggy hair behind his ear. Needed to find a barber. “Hadn’t seen Todd for about a year. Didn’t visit much once he come over here.”
The Asian waiter arrived and placed the beers on the table. He added a basket of tortilla chips and a small clay bowl of salsa. The guy left to check on another customer.
“Did Todd have brothers or sisters?”
“Yeah, I got two other boys and a girl. They’re all grown and outta state now. Don’t see much of them neither.” The man had a Willie Loman look about him, beaten down by life. Jack felt more than sympathy for his loss; an actual sorrow for the man himself.
“Roger, I want you to know we’re doing everything we can to find the person who’s responsible for Todd’s death.” More banalities. “I’m sorry to ask this, but can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Todd?”
“No, can’t think a’ no one who’d do that. Todd was a pretty normal kid. I mean, he got into the usual shit—oh, sorry, I mean stuff kids get into, but never landed in jail or nothin’.” He took a chip, dipped it in the salsa, bit a piece off, and dipped again. No more salsa for me, Jack thought. Shades of George Castanza.
“They said earlier that the roommate’s not suspected, but I never met him—don’t know him a’tall.”
Jack was struck by the guy’s lack of shock and emotion, not the reaction he expected from a father whose son had just been murdered. Maybe he wasn’t that shocked. Maybe impassive by nature.
“Yeah, we cleared Derek Walls from the start. He has an alibi, but figured from his behavior he probably wasn’t the guy.”
“Right.” Kaplan’s voice gravely. “What about the gun?”
Jack cleared his throat. “Hasn’t been recovered yet, but probably a small caliber.”
“They know that by the bullet, right?” Kaplan seemed proud of his knowledge. “I watch them TV shows.”
“Right. So you say Todd had a pretty normal childhood, just the usual scuffles most kids get into?”
The man almost choked on his chips. His eyes darted from side to side. Jack knew he’d hit a nerve. Kaplan chuckled nervously. “Well, Mr. Bailey—“
“Jack.”
“Okay, Jack. I wouldn’t say Todd had a normal upbringing, whatever that is.”
“Look, Roger, I don’t want to pry into your personal life, but the more I know about Todd, the better chance we have to get his killer.” He leaned toward Kaplan. “Besides, lots of people have problems. I’m not here to judge, just get information.”
Kaplan seemed to relax. “Yeah, well, my kids didn’t have a good mother figure, or whatever they call it these days.” He munched, double dipped, and gulped. “The wife, she was a real slut. Pardon my French. She slept around right an’ left. Even with a buddy of mine. Then she started drinkin’ more after the kids was born, and partied till all hours. My ma was gonna call CPS when she saw the kids dirty and raggedy but never did.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Then later on she did some weed and coke. Older boys got into it a couple times when they found her stash.”
Kaplan gulped his beer. “Man, I haven’t talked about that bitch fer a long time.” He held up his empty bottle. “I sure could use another one. Hope you don’t mind.”
Jack figured one more; wanted to keep things in control. He held up his hand to the waiter, and indicated another round.
“So what happened with Todd’s mom?” Jack asked.
“Took off for good when he was fourteen. He was second youngest.” Kaplan glanced toward the waiter.
“Must’ve
been tough on you.” No shit.
“Yeah, my ma moved in for a few years. Had a hard time keepin’ up with everything.”
“So that’s when Todd got into some trouble?”
“Yeah, he snuck booze, did some pot and stuff. Nothin’ too bad though. Like I said, the kid never got arrested.”
“What about friends or girlfriends when he was in high school or later?” Jack asked. The waiter approached with fresh drinks and cleared away the empty mugs.
“Need more chips?”
“No thanks, we’re good,” Jack said. Now get the hell away.
Kaplan started to take a swig from the bottle, then remembered the mug. He poured his beer in the frosty glass and drank.
“His friends, either gone or have a wife and kids. Girlfriends? Never had much luck there.” He snorted and took another drink.
“Meaning what?”
“Hell, I dunno. Never had a girl fer very long. Don’t know why. Never asked.” Kaplan shrugged. Red sauce dribbled down his chin which he wiped off with his hand. Guess he doesn’t like napkins.
Jack wanted to end the interview; doubted Kaplan had further information of interest.
“I think it’s about time to call it a night, Roger.” Jack glanced at his watch and signaled for the waiter, who scurried over. “Check, please,” Jack said.
“Yeah, Jack, it was real nice of you to wanna meet here, and thanks a lot for the beers.”
Jack drained his mug. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”
“Goin’ to the funeral home. Gotta find out about takin’ Todd back to Lake Charles. My people are buried there. Your secretary said the home’s purdy near the station house.”
“Right, Community Rest on Preston. They’ve been around a long time.” The waiter came with the check and Jack paid with cash. “Don’t need change.”
The waiter grinned. “Thank you, sir. Ya’ll have an awesome night.” Jack cringed.
They entered the lobby where the bright lights gave Kaplan’s skin a yellowish cast. “Guess I’ll head up to my room.” He brushed several crumbs from his purple shirt.
Jack shook the man’s hand. “Rest well, and call if you have any questions. Again, our condolences.” He regarded the man’s weary eyes. Poor bastard; stuck with lousy luck, but tried hard, only to fade into the woodwork. He hoped Chet Cease at Community would give the guy a price break on handling Todd’s remains. Yes, a mortician named Cease. He once told Jack his father owned Cease Funeral Home in some small Minnesota town. Seems Richmond folks didn’t care for the name.
Jack watched Kaplan trudge toward the elevator, shoulders slumped.
Chapter 9
On the drive home Jack thought about what he learned from Kaplan besides how to double dip. His lack of emotion continued to puzzle Jack. Was it stiff upper lip stoicism or was the guy by nature dispassionate? He almost appeared resigned to his son’s death. Maybe he’d been expecting it. He and Todd hadn’t seemed close, but no animosity between them was evident. The kid’s childhood might prove revealing in some way. Abandoned by a drug addicted mother must’ve had some effect.
Kaplan no doubt left out a lot of details in that story.
Jack exited off the interstate, drove along Avenue H, and soon reached his neighborhood.
The night was quiet until the mournful whistle of a train penetrated the silence. As he turned onto Oak Street, his porch and garage lights pierced the blackness. Jack heard Boone’s resonating howls as the garage door went up. Who needed an alarm system with him around?
Boone greeted Jack as usual, jumping up and yipping. “Easy boy, I’m home for the night.”
The dog ran into the yard and relieved himself under his favorite sago palm. He scampered back to Jack and followed him through the kitchen and into the bedroom.
“Let’s turn in, big guy. I’m beat.”
Boone barked once in response and jumped on the bed.
. . . . .
Hours later during his hours of slumber, Jack abruptly awakened with Boone whimpering in his ear.
“No, God, no, no,” Jack moaned. The dog licked his face, and Jack sat up, panting, wiping sweat from his brow. Deep breaths, he told himself, deep breaths. “Shit, not again.”
He reached for the lamp on the nightstand and turned it on. Boone gazed at him with doleful brown eyes, and Jack petted the dog’s large head. “Still miss them too, buddy, do you?” Jack held his head in his hands. Forbidden memories nudged the corners of his brain. No, can’t let ‘em in, can’t.
Fractured visions continued to penetrate the fortress of Jack’s mind, he couldn’t keep them away. Karen’s voice. Oh, Jack, let’s go. What a wonderful trip it’ll be, to Ireland to see where your family came from, to show Elizabeth. We’ll have a great time, honey. Boone can stay with Mom and Dad.
“No. No,” Jack moaned. He rose from the bed, went into the bathroom, and splashed cold water on his face. In the mirror, a tormented, furrowed man stared back. “Oh God, can’t do this.” Jack took several deep breaths, popped an Ambien, and stumbled back to bed. Lying on the covers, Boone rested his head on his huge paws. His sorrowful dark eyes watched Jack as he turned off the lamp.
“Sorry, guy. Let’s try and sleep.”
Boone whined and rolled over on his side.
Jack didn’t know how long he tossed and turned, but the irritating beeping of his alarm clock interrupted fragmented dreams of green hills, drunk party goers, and a shooting range.
Woozy, he shut off the alarm and muttered, “What the fuck kind of night was that?” He tried to chase away gripping fear of the nightmares that once haunted him. Maybe he shouldn’t drink at night anymore. Boone lay on the floor, half awake. Throwing off the covers, Jack tumbled out of bed, rubbed the dog’s belly with his foot, plodded into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.
. . . . .
An hour later, Jack was in his car heading for the station. Unrelenting, the heat and humidity pervaded his universe, even in early morning. How did people decades ago survive without air conditioning? Jack couldn’t answer that. He’d rather cope with Chicago’s icy winters than this inferno, but he was stuck here for now. He felt groggy and unsettled from last night’s ghastly dreams interrupting his sleep. No one better give him any crap today.
After Jack arrived at work and made his usual trek to the coffeemaker, he stopped at Jill’s desk to update her on his meeting with Roger Kaplan.
“Must’ve been some interview, Jack. You look like a wreck,” she said.
“Shows, huh? Didn’t sleep worth shit. Maybe it was the beer.”
Jill scoffed. “Since when does booze affect you?”
“First time for everything. Anyway, I have the same take on Kaplan you do. Stoic, no emotion, stuck with a lousy wife.” Jack relayed the rest of his interview, but skipped the double dipping part.
Jill said she’d check with Kaplan about his plans for returning to Lake Charles.
On the way to his office, Jack ran into Moose in the hallway.
“Morning, Jack. You look like shit.”
“So do you. Come on, I’m gonna call Hector and Tilford in for an update.” The two men continued toward Jack’s office.
“Late night or something?” Moose asked.
“For chrissake, let it go. Can’t look that bad.”
Jack opened his door, sat at his desk, and called Hector and Tilford to join them. Moose sat down and stretched his gangly legs alongside the desk out of the way.
“Murphy breathing down your neck yet?” Moose asked. He referred to Captain Andrew Murphy, whom Jack barely tolerated.
�
��Wants to talk this afternoon about ‘how the case is progressing’, even though I emailed him everything I know.” Murphy was an arrogant prick who expected the CID detectives to solve crimes yesterday, especially high profile cases like murder in a small town. Todd Kaplan’s death was on the front page of yesterday’s Fort Bend Herald, including his photo: a nice looking young white guy whose death remained a mystery. Didn’t set well with townsfolk nor the department brass. The squeeze was on, but Jack ignored it. Just part of the job.
Hector and Tilford arrived together and sat in the remaining chairs, coffee mugs in hand.
“You don’t look so good, Jack.” Tilford smiled widely. “You really should get more sleep.”
Jack stared at him, nodding his head. “And you’re gonna be out canvassing Todd’s neighborhood tonight. I’m expanding the search to ten square blocks.”
Tilford chuckled nervously. “You’re not serious.”
“Tell me again how I look.”
“Hey, you look great, Jack. I like your red tie.”
“Okay, guys, talked to Kaplan last night. Like Jill said, he’s unemotional about the whole situation. Maybe it’s his nature, who knows.” Jack reiterated his meeting with Kaplan. Moose and Hector jotted down notes. Tilford relied on his scientific brain to retain pertinent information.
“Bottom line, I think I may have an idea on a possible motive. The kid had a lousy mother, maybe hated her, could cause problems.” Jack finished his coffee. “I’m gonna give Hatfield a call. Pick his brain.”
Aaron Hatfield was a criminal psychologist who served the RPD as a consult. He lived in the area, and was the only shrink Jack liked and respected. He used to think forensic or criminal psychology, including profiling, was bullshit. He remembered a conference in Chicago where a so-called expert told his audience he could tell by the victim’s stab wounds that the perp had anger issues.
