Sand City Murders (32 page)

This was obviously some sort of trick. I thought for a moment what to do. Choose the same paper? I knew what was written on it. Or choose the other? He probably wrote Gray’s name on it, or maybe Bell is on both, or maybe he wrote some outrageous name just to be a prankster. My hand hesitated, hovering over each scrap, then it dove to the familiar one. I picked up the piece of paper I had moments ago.

“Unfold it and read it please.”

“Elisha Gray. That’s impossible. What’s this, a magic trick, sleight of hand?”

“Have you an encyclopedia?”

“What?”

“I want to look something up,” Fynn said and smiled slightly.

“There’s Wiki.” I grabbed my laptop and did a quick search for the inventor of the telephone. I clicked on the link and it brought me to a long biographical page on Elisha Gray, inventor of the telephone. I sat back in my chair. I was in utter shock. My world was shattered.

“This may seem like a surprise to you, but it is only because of your own extraordinary memory… We all zig zag between different versions of history, various presents, and yet I will assure you, there is only one timeline.”

“Well which one is it— Gray or Bell?”

“Only the one you are aware of.”

“I seem to be aware of both now.”

“Exactly, you have lived through them both, so this is your one timeline.”

“All that happened way before I was born.”

“As you say.”

“Doesn’t that mean something?”

“If the past were fixed, I would say yes.”

“Fixed? As in repaired?”

“No, as in constant, never changing.”

“It
is
like that already. The past never changes.”

“I think I’ve shown otherwise… though, I will agree for most people the past seems immutable. Yet, this is completely dependent on memory and awareness.”

“I probably drank too much. Did we just travel in time?”

“Not at all. You merely changed your own awareness for a moment.”

I was pretty much speechless. Finally I mustered a question, “So which timeline am I living in?”

“I will say again, only the one you experience. Your memory may shift, and you might call this a kind of traveling, but it’s more like a sidestep. As you can plainly see, timeline is a woefully inadequate word. It is an unresolvable paradox. It seems clear enough that whoever invented the telephone had no effect on your life personally.”

I tried to take this all in. “Okay, if there’s only one timeline, then maybe there’s more than one me.”

“That’s preposterous,” Fynn said, almost with a tinge of anger.

“Maybe it’s not different timelines, maybe it’s different me’s... in different places.”

“I do not like this idea at all. If this were so, then how do the different you’s talk to each other? How is there any awareness that things have changed?”

“No idea…” I took a sip from my glass and finished it. “Maybe they’re entangled, the various me’s.”

Fynn laughed. He poured us both another glass. I had the feeling this was going to be a long night.

***

A few days later I got a courtesy call from Inspector Fynn to inform me that Durbin had made an arrest. Forensics had finished their work-up on the bicycle and found two sets of prints: the victim’s, when she apparently clutched the handlebars for dear life, and a set belonging to Hector Diaz on the underside of the chrome bumpers. Hector Diaz, itinerant fisherman, regular at Partners, age 49… and now a murder suspect.

He was easily found and brought in for questioning, “a thorough interrogation,” were Fynn’s exact words. It didn’t seem right to me and I jumped in my car and drove directly to the station. Somebody had to speak up for this poor old guy. Durbin got pretty pissed off.

“No, Jardel, it’s completely off the record. You can’t print this yet.”

“You’re arresting this guy for murder and I can’t print it?”

“We’re not arresting. He’s a person of interest right now.”

“Hector Diaz, are you kidding?”

“So far, he’s admitted it’s his bike. His prints were found. The girl’s prints... It’s a slam dunk. As soon as we match the trace from under her fingernails, the DNA, I’ll file charges.”

“C’mon, Hector? He’s a harmless old drunk.”

“Well I guess he just turned nasty.”

“Inspector? What do you say?”

“I have to bow to my colleague on this matter.”

“What about Garret?”

“Who?”

“Garret at the bike shop.”

“What about him?”

“What he said about chrome and steel, and how a bike like that couldn’t possibly look so new.”

“Yeah, well maybe he kept it in a garage or something, and polished it up every year.” Durbin paused. “I’m not buying Diaz’s story… stolen forty years ago when he was a kid… and he’s never seen it since? C’mon, nobody’s believing that.”

“Durbin, you know he’s not good for it.”

“I agree,” the inspector spoke up. “My instinct says this man is innocent.”

“Not you too,” Durbin shot back at Fynn.

“There are certain inconsistencies that bother me.”

“Like?”

“He seems to have an alibi, firstly.”

“Drinking at Partners? Ha, that’s no alibi. Who’s in Partners at ten a.m., drinking?”

“You’d be surprised,” I said under my breath. “Even Suzy says she saw him there.”

“Suzy saw him the night before. She doesn’t open up in the morning.”

“So who saw him then?”

“Old man Diego, but he isn’t really sure what he saw. And his drinking buddies? What’s their names, Cecil and Peppy? Are you kidding? If he was really there, they’d have seen two Hectors each.”

There was an awkward silence. Durbin’s joke fell flat.

“What about the whole corpsicle thing?” I asked.

“I don’t know how that ties in yet.”

“Am I the one who’s going to have to say this?”

“Say what, Jardel?”

“The season’s coming… everybody wants this over… you’re under pressure to wrap it up… but you can’t railroad this guy on a murder charge. It’s just not right.”

“Okay Patrick, you made your point… And yeah, I am under a lot of pressure… But if he’s not the perp, who the fuck is?” Durbin seemed to be losing a little steam.

“I think it’s highly doubtful that a man like Hector Diaz could have dragged the body up to Sunset Park in the first place,” Fynn commented. “You found no such indications at the scene, yes?”

“Yes, I mean, no.”

“And there are the shoes…”

“The shoes?”

“Perhaps I should say, the lack of shoes… on the victim, and the shoe print we found in the mud.”

“He’s got a point, Durbin,” I jumped in. “Can you even imagine Hector wearing Italian shoes?”

“Who says they’re Italian?” Durbin rubbed his brow and gave off a loud sigh. “Okay, you’re right. Hector only has one pair of boots and a pair of flip flops. We checked.”

“And the victim’s shoes?”

“Well, nothing yet… but Hector is good for this, I’m telling you,” Durbin said, but there was certainly some doubt in his tone. “I’m going to hold him for now.”

“What about Samuels?”

“No alibi for that either. Says he was sleeping.”

“Why would he hurt Samuels?”

“Money? An argument that got out of hand? Who knows?”

“So these two killings are related?”

“I didn’t say that,” Durbin replied defensively.

“The shoe prints seem to match at both crime scenes,” Fynn pointed out from his chair.

“Okay, so Hector suddenly decides to go on a killing spree?” I was less calm. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“So far he hasn’t said much. I’m going to give him a couple of days to sober up.”

“You haven’t even identified the Jane Doe at Sunset Park. Who did he kill?”

“He’s gonna tell us… eventually.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“What?”

“Just a couple of questions.”

“Like an interview? No way, Jardel.”

“Well, what can I print then? My deadline is tomorrow.”

“I’ll let you know...”

***

I was back at the office fifteen minutes later. Melissa walked in, Madison in tow. The latter was her daughter, the cutest five year old you could ever hope to meet. The former had a scowl on her face. I don’t think I ever saw Melissa look like this. She took Eleanor aside and whispered something in her ear. She turned to me and managed her perfect smile. “Patrick, could you watch Madison for like five minutes? I have to talk to Eleanor— thanks.”

She didn’t leave me much room to maneuver. Eleanor was already on her way to the ad office and Madison was standing right in front of me, just staring up, smiling expectantly. I grinned back. I heard the door close. “Well, hey cutie-pie… How are you today, Madison?”

“Thirsty.”

“Thirsty? Well, follow me… what do you like to drink?” I asked and led her to the break room fridge.

“Soda.”

“Are you allowed to drink soda?”

“No.”

“How about a juice box?”

“Always a juice box… fine.” Madison sighed dramatically.

We went back to the office and I set her up in a cubicle of her own. I supplied paper and colored markers but she looked at me strangely. “What’s this for?”

“Drawing.”

“I only draw on my tablet.”

“This is the old fashioned way… paper and, well, I don’t have any crayons...”

“Yes you do.”

“I do?”

“In that drawer, from the restaurant,” Madison told me.

I was wondering how she could possibly know that. I searched, and sure enough there was a small box of complimentary crayons from the Clam Shack.

“What should I draw?”

“Anything you like.”

“I like horses and dinosaurs, houses and the beach.”

“Any one of those would be great.”

“Are you going to put it in the paper?”

“Hmm, you haven’t even started yet.” I winked.

Madison set to work. It was way more than five minutes. I could hear Melissa and Eleanor talking in the next room but couldn’t make out a word they said. Madison returned to my cubicle holding her new drawing rather proudly. It was a little hard to understand what it was.

“Wow, Madison, this is very cool. What is it?”

“My family…” she said and put the paper on my desk. “That’s me, riding a dinosaur on the beach… that’s mommy when she’s at work... and that’s daddy when he’s a pirate.”

“Why is he a pirate?”

“He has a peg leg, an eyepatch, and a parrot on his shoulder.”

“Cool…” I looked at the drawing. “What’s this?” I asked, pointing to something I couldn’t hope to recognize.

“The dog on a stick, silly,” Madison replied as if it were obvious.

Melissa and Eleanor stepped out of the ad office. They both had rather grim looks. Melissa gave me a pained smile and came over to give Madison a big hug. “What’cha doing, sweetie?”

“Drawing a picture for Mr Patrick. He’s going to put it in the paper.”

Melissa glanced up at me and I smiled.

“Family portrait,” I said, and Madison filled in the details.

“Oh yeah, that stupid bird. Pooping all over the house…” Melissa whispered to me, hoping Madison didn’t hear.

Later, Eleanor took me aside. “I had lunch with Chamblis some weeks ago,” she said straight away. I could tell she was uncomfortable.

“What’s that about?”

“It was a business lunch.”

“And what do you make of him?”

“I don’t care for the man at all.”

“He’s a slippery fish, that one.”

Eleanor stared at me and I couldn’t tell if she agreed with my assessment.

“Does he have a cane?” I asked.

“Not that I saw.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Patrick, surely you’ve met the man.”

“I thought so… but apparently I never have, close up, except that once… and my memory is a little hazy. I’ve only seen him from afar, so to speak.”

“Well, he’s a tall man, though everyone seems that way to me.” Eleanor let go a raspy laugh. “Well groomed and— He wants to buy the
Chronicle
,” she blurted.

“And you’re thinking of selling?”

“Oh Patrick, I don’t know what to do…”

“Eleanor, you
are
the
Chronicle
. You can’t leave.”

“I have to… I’m just too old for this now. I’m too tired.”

I took her hand gently and tried to smile. “Okay, so what’s next then?”

“Well, Chamblis wants Melissa to run things.”

“Melissa?” I was almost angry at the idea. “She’s damn good at her job, selling ads, but she can’t run a paper.”

“I have some doubts too. She might be willing to make you assistant editor.”

“Oh boy, I’m going to have to think about this. Me, working for Chamblis? That’s just not in the cards.”

“I’ll understand if you say no.”

chapter 21

open mic

Sunday morning I was happy enough to wake up in my own bed, and to find my cat Zachary, who seemed to be the same one from the night before… well, at least, not Schrödinger’s cat. I was firmly convinced that my timeline was constantly shifting. Nothing was sure. My reality had more than frayed. It was inside out and upside down. I felt a certain dread. Somehow this was all Inspector Fynn’s fault.

I really freaked on Monday. Donald Pagor came up to me and whispered, “good morning.” This was just impossible. Not a bellow, not a yell, not even a normal tone of voice… a hoarse whisper. He handed me a slip of paper. It read:
laryngitis
. At least his suit is still big and shiny, his persona intact, though I swear those are blood stains on his lapel… wait, probably just ketchup.

Cub reporter Joey seemed the same, ever smiling and ever eager. Jason was still more or less a ghost, relegated to his basement domain. Again, not so strange. I glimpsed him heading down to the cellar on Tuesday and caught up with him on the stairs. “Hey Jason, long time…”

“What’s up, Mr Jardel?”

“I’m having some trouble with my email.”

“What kind of trouble?” he asked sullenly.

“Emails aren’t going through.”

“Not going out or not coming in?”

“Both.”

“Maybe a server problem,” Jason considered and pushed on his gold framed glasses. “I can change the settings… make a whitelist and a blacklist.”