In the Drink (18 page)

“Atta girl. We'll talk again soon.” He kissed his hand and then blew it toward me on the screen.

I started to act as if I was catching it, but pulled back at the last second for reasons I didn't quite understand. Instead, all I did was say, “Be careful.” Then I reached over and closed the lid on the laptop.

I indulged in a few moments of self-pity, then I straightened my shoulders, unplugged Cora's laptop, tucked it under my arm, and headed back out to the bar. The rest of the group was nowhere in sight, and when I looked over at Billy, who was in his usual place behind the bar, he nodded toward the upstairs.

I made my way there and found the group in the Capone Club room along with Tiny, Tad, Dr. T, Sam, Holly, and Carter. Alicia was there, too, having abandoned her post near Billy for once, and Tyrese had migrated up from his earlier seat at the bar.

“Hey, Mack,” Carter said as I walked in and handed Cora her laptop. “Mal was just filling us in on your day.”

“I'm afraid it wasn't very productive,” I said.

“Did anyone stand out at all?” he asked.

I shrugged and thought back to the day's encounters. “I think Lonnie Carlisle is scared of something, though I don't know what. I think it's more than just a fear of coming under suspicion again, but if he's unwilling to talk to us I don't how we can pursue that angle. Erik Hermann didn't want to talk to us at all either, and I didn't get to spend enough time with him to get a feel for what might be going on with him. His wife said she'd try to convince him to reconsider, but I don't hold out much hope for that.” I then told them that William Schneider seemed the most likely candidate at this point, and why. Then I let Sam know that I would like to go back to see the man again and take him along to evaluate his psychological state.

“I'd be happy to,” Sam said. “He sounds like a fascinating case. In fact, if he's willing to work with me, I might use him as a subject for my thesis.”

“We still have the plumber to talk to,” I said. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was almost six in the evening. “Maybe I should try to do that tonight while I have Tyrese to come along.”

“I'm game,” Tyrese said.

“I'd like to come along, too,” Mal said.

“T'anks for doing dis, you guys,” Tiny said. “Even if nuttin' comes of it, it's good to know dat we tried.”

“I had an idea,” Dr. T said. “I know someone who works in the ME's office here, a guy named Todd Bannerman who went to med school with me. I was thinking I might ask him if he could get me a copy of the autopsy reports on the two girls. Wisconsin has open records policies for stuff like that, so it shouldn't be a problem to get them.”

I started to say that we already had a lot of the information, but then I remembered my promise to Tyrese to remain mum about it. Besides, I figured an actual autopsy report might offer more specific details than what was in the summary info Tyrese had.

“That would be great,” Carter said to Dr. T, looking excited. “It might help us solve the case and it would be invaluable info for my book. Maybe we could even get Lewis's report at some point.”

Everyone nodded their agreement, everyone that is, except Tiny, who looked troubled.

“Tiny, are you okay with this?” I said.

He blushed. “I'm okay wid it if it helps,” he said. “But I don't want to see da report on my sister.”

“Understandable,” Sam said. “It's bound to be very blunt and graphic, and I can't say I'd want to see an autopsy report on someone I cared about.”

“We'll let you know before we discuss it so you can step out,” Carter said. “Will that help?”

Tiny nodded but he still looked glum and I had a feeling there was something he was holding back.

“Okay, then,” Tyrese said, getting up from his chair. “Mal and Mack, are you ready to go see TJ the plumber?”

Cora let out a laugh and we all looked at her. “Mal and Mack,” she said. “M and M. From now on, that's what I'm calling you.”

“I like it,” Carter said, nodding his approval. Others were smiling and nodding, too. I kind of liked the nickname myself, but then I remembered that Mal and I weren't really a couple, which meant M and M would soon come to an end. The thought made me sad. My feelings for Mal were definitely jumbled at the moment, as were my feelings for Duncan.

Tyrese headed for the door and said, “Come on, M and M. Let's hit the road.”

Mal pushed out of his chair, walked over to me, and offered his arm, something that was becoming a characteristic trait of his. “It's destiny,” he said with a wink. “We were meant to be together.”

Timothy “TJ” Johnson lived in the south end of the city in a working-class neighborhood filled with starter sized homes, postage stamp lawns, and lots of used cars. I expected something a little pricier knowing what plumbers charge, but the reason for TJ being in this neighborhood became clear not long into our visit. His house was made of clapboard that had at one time been painted blue but was now faded to white on the south side and covered with green moss on the north side. The yard had a number of bare spots, spots that would soon be hidden by the snow that was coming. I could taste it and smell it in the air, and the low-hanging clouds that had moved in were pregnant with cold promise.

Compared to the other houses on the street, which were simple but appeared lovingly cared for, TJ's looked neglected. And when TJ answered the door, it was easy to see why. TJ himself was neglected. He was dressed in old blue jeans, a stained wife-beater T-shirt, and his face—at least the part of it that could be seen around the heavy mass of ratty beard he had—was laced with wrinkles and tiny burst blood vessels. The stench of alcohol emanated from his pores and from the house. Issues with alcohol seemed to be our theme for the day.

“What do you want?” he snarled when he answered our knock, making no attempt at pleasantries. His bloodshot eyes looked mean.

Mal handled the introductions this time, something we had agreed to along the way, and he gave TJ the standard book spiel that we'd used on everyone else.

TJ eyed us suspiciously, his gaze fleeting over Mal and me, and settling on Tyrese. “You're a cop, ain't ya?” he said to Tyrese, spitting out the word
cop
as if it tasted bad.

“I am,” Tyrese admitted after a moment's hesitation. “But I'm not on duty. I'm simply helping out some friends.”

“Bullshit,” TJ said, wavering in the doorway and bouncing off the frame. “I knew you was a cop. I can smell 'em a mile away. And I ain't talking to no cops, on duty or off. So if you two want to come in, that's fine. But he ain't setting foot in my house.”

We all looked at one another, unsure of what to do. I was trying to think of a way to ask Tyrese if he would mind waiting in the car when he made the suggestion himself. “I'm fine with that,” he said. Then he spun on his heel and headed back to the car.

Mal and I entered the house, which was dark, dingy, and musty smelling beneath the alcohol fumes. The living room looked as if it hadn't been dusted or vacuumed in months, maybe years, and there were cigarette butts piled high in two different ashtrays. A fine layer of ash covered the surface of the scarred, wooden coffee table, which was marred by a dozen or more bottle rings and some sort of gelatinous spills that had dried. The furnishings were old and worn—probably gleaned from other people's castaways that were left out for curbside trash pickups—and there were giant gray cobwebs hanging from the ceiling in the corners. Empty beer bottles were strewn everywhere and a garbage can overflowing with them sat at one end of the couch.

My synesthesia was having a heyday in the place. The smells, the sights, the very taste of the air was triggering all kinds of manifestations. I struggled to filter them and quiet that part of my brain down so that I could focus on TJ and what he said, but it was a struggle.

“You can sit if you want,” TJ said, gesturing toward the couch.

I didn't want, but I didn't want to offend the man either, so I held my breath and perched on the edge of one cushion as gently as I could so as to avoid stirring up whatever might be embedded in it. Mal perched similarly beside me and TJ grabbed a metal folding chair from the card table in the dining room and set it down on the opposite side of the coffee table.

“You want a beer?” he asked us.

We both declined.

“Well, I'm gonna have me one,” he said, disappearing into what I assumed was the kitchen. We heard the sound of a refrigerator door opening and closing, and the hiss of escaping carbonation when he opened the beer bottle. He returned to the living room, drinking as he walked, and plopped down into the folding chair.

“What is it you want to know?” he asked after he had drained nearly half the bottle dry.

Mal said, “We're interested in hearing anything you might remember about the murders of those two girls, Lori Gruber and Anna Hermann. We understand that you visited Lori Gruber's house the day before the girls disappeared, so we're particularly interested in knowing if you saw anything or heard anything that might give us a clue about what happened to her after.”

TJ narrowed his eyes at us, nodding slowly for several seconds. “You know them cops questioned me about them girls,” he said. “Acted like they thought I mighta had something to do with them going missing.”

We both nodded and Mal said, “Why was that? What put you on their radar?”

“How the hell should I know?” TJ hollered, raising his arms and sloshing a bit of beer out of his bottle. “Just because I was at the one girl's house the day before and they found some magazines in my house.” He lunged forward, slamming his bottle down on the table and making me jump. “Lookin' at pictures doesn't mean I did nothin', ya know? But those damned cops seemed to think that having them magazines made me some kind of homicidal pre-vert or somethin'.” He shook his head, picked up the beer, and took another long swig. “They ruined everything for me. My wife left me, my kids don't speak to me, my business dried up. . . .” He took another long drink, draining the bottle. Then he set it on the table and smiled at us, revealing several broken and missing teeth. “That's kinda funny, ain't it, a plumber whose business dries up?” He laughed uproariously at his own joke, and to humor him and keep him talking, I smiled and nodded.

“So you had nothing to do with what happened to those girls?” Mal said.

TJ's smile disappeared faster than the last half of his bottled beer. “Of course not,” he said, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the table and tapping one out.

As he lit it, Mal said, “But you were in the Gruber house the day before the girls went missing, right?”

TJ sucked in a drag and blew out a plume of smoke. He at least had the decency to turn his head to the side when he exhaled, not that it made any real difference. The entire place was filled with stale smoke. “Yeah, I was there. I was on a job. They had a bathtub upstairs with a leak in the faucet and a drain that was so slow it took hours to empty after a shower. That drain had the biggest damned hair and slime clog I'd seen in a long time. It was like pulling a rotting carcass outa there. I ended up having to replace both the drain pipe and the faucet.”

“Did you see the girl while you were there? Lori?” I asked.

“Sure I did,” he said, exhaling another cloud of smoke. “The access panel for the plumbing was in her bedroom so I had to go in there to get to it. It was weirdly warm that year and it was hot as Hades in that house, so I took off my outer shirt while I was working 'cause I was sweating like a pig. Kept the undershirt on, but when I left the house, I forgot the shirt I took off in the girl's room. Apparently, to the cops that was a sure sign of guilt.”

“Was Lori there when you were working on the tub?” I asked.

He nodded, blowing more smoke. “She was. Nice enough kid. Typical teenager. She was yacking on the phone most of the time with one of her friends.”

“Did you hear any of what she said?” Mal asked.

“Some,” TJ said with a shrug and another cloud of smoke. He leaned over and stubbed out the cigarette. “It wasn't anything special, just some gossip about a couple of girls, some mooning over some boys, some talk about going back to school, that sort of stuff.”

“Did you hear her make any plans, or talk about meeting anyone?” Mal asked.

TJ shook his head.

Thus far, TJ's voice and mannerisms had been consistent. His voice, which was a bit raspy—no doubt from all the cigarettes—tasted like bacon. There was a hint of smokiness to the flavor, but I wasn't sure if that was part of the manifestation or a literal taste I experienced simply from breathing the air inside TJ's house. I wanted TJ to lie to me, to see what would happen with the flavor of his voice. But first I wanted to hear him deny his involvement.

“Mr. Johnson, did you see the girls, either of them, or have any interactions with them after the day you were at the house working on the tub?”

“I already told you no,” he said brusquely, reaching for the cigarette pack again.

“Did you have any one-on-one interactions of any sort with Lori Gruber during the time you were in her house?”

He lit his cigarette and blew the smoke out in an irritated puff, this time not bothering to turn his head to the side.

“I never spoke to the kid,” he said, his jaw tight. The flavor of his voice didn't change.

“How many beers have you had today, Mr. Johnson?” I asked.

The sudden change of subject threw him. It apparently threw Mal, too, because he shot me a sideways glance, his brow furrowed.

“How the hell should I know?” he said. “I don't count them.”

I gestured toward the overflowing trash can. “It looks like you drink a lot.”

He dismissed my observation with a wave of his hand and a
pfft
. “I just don't empty that thing all that often.”

“Do you think you have a drinking problem?” I asked, trying to keep my tone as nonjudgmental as I could.

He opened his mouth and I anticipated a vehement denial. But something made him pause and after a few seconds he hung his head and said, “Yeah, I suppose I do. But it's the only way I can cope anymore.”

I cursed under my breath. I was hoping for that denial. The vast majority of people with drinking problems deny it to others, but deep down inside they know they have a problem. Had TJ denied his drinking issues, it would have been the same as lying and I wanted to see if it affected the flavor of his voice at all. I decided to try a different tack.

“TJ, what day is it today?”

His brow furrowed in thought. “I don't know . . . Saturday?”

I sighed with frustration. “Actually, it's Sunday.”

“Whatever. One day is like the next for me. Don't matter what day it is so there ain't no need to keep track.”

I feared his indifferent attitude would interfere with my test—I intended to ask him to lie to me about what day it was—so I decided to take a more direct approach.

“Mr. Johnson, I need you to tell me a lie.”

He stubbed out his cigarette, eyeing me like I was crazy. “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”

“Please, just indulge me.”

He stared at me as the seconds ticked by. Then he licked his lips and said, “I need another beer. And I think it's time you folks went on your way. You can see yourselves out.” With that, he got up, muttered something about crazy damned people, and headed for the kitchen.

Mal and I got up and left.

The air outside was growing colder by the minute. I inhaled a huge breath of it, filling my lungs with clean air and relishing the stinging freshness of it in the back of my throat.

“Gads, it was awful in there,” Mal said.

Tyrese was sitting behind the wheel of his car and as we got in he looked over at us and said, “Well?”

“Well nothing,” I said, shutting my door.

“What was all that stuff about the days of the week and his drinking?” Mal said, settling into his seat and shutting his door. We both went about fastening our seat belts and when we were done, I looked up at Tyrese. His eyes were huge and his face was contorted into a grimace. “Damn!” he said, waving a hand in the air. “Nothing personal, but you guys reek.”

“I know. You should be glad he wouldn't let you come in. That place was horrible. I really want to get out of these clothes and take a shower. Can you head back to the bar please?”

“Sure.” Tyrese started the car, lowered all the windows a crack, cranked the heat up, and pulled out. “So how did it go? Did he say anything useful?”

“I don't know. Maybe,” I said. “We talked about his contact with Lori, the time he spent at the house, and his issue with the porn that the cops found. Not once during all of that did his voice change for me. But it's obvious that he's drinking a ton. I'd bet his blood alcohol is typically four times the legal limit, maybe even higher. And I don't know how that might affect his brain, or his conscience. I tried to get him to lie to me on purpose to see if his voice would change, but he wouldn't do it. As drunk as he is, I'm not sure it would have worked even if he had.”

“So we can't rule him in, or rule him out,” Tyrese said.

“Pretty much,” I agreed. “We've talked to all the suspects at this point and we have nothing. Maybe it's time to think about digging up some other suspects.”

“Correction,” Tyrese said. “We really haven't talked to Erik Hermann.”

“True,” I said. “I do want to take another run at him but I want to do it myself this time. I think I might have better luck getting him to talk if he doesn't feel quite so ambushed and outnumbered.”

“I don't know if that's wise, Mack,” Tyrese said.

“I'll see if he'll meet me somewhere public,” I suggested. “That way it will be safe.”

“But what if he says something that could be used as evidence?” Tyrese said.

“Can you outfit her with one of those wires?” Mal asked. “That way we can hear everything that's said and kind of keep an eye on her.”

Tyrese considered this and then nodded slowly. “That's not a bad idea,” he said. “I just have to figure out how to get ahold of a wire setup without going through official channels.”