Authors: Neal Goldy
Idaho’s
hands were behind his back so Lincoln couldn’t see, but nobody needed to look
to know they were balled up and shaking. He did it so many times that it became
a routine – any longer and the rest would probably use it as a base for their
new drinking game to pass the time. Thinking about it, Lincoln wondered why
Idaho bothered about him and the couch. If people can make up drinking and
betting games, shouldn’t he be allowed to lie down for a little bit? People
could be so pushy when they really wanted to.
“There
is something here and we will find it,” Idaho declared. “And you know what,
Deed?”
Lincoln
didn’t want to answer, but Idaho went with it anyway.
“You
know what? We’re going to find it without you!”
For
a second time, Lincoln laughed. “You know you’re sounding like the nerd in high
school who keeps his best grades like a cheesecake poster inside his locker.”
Idaho
would have been outraged causing a mini brawl to begin between the two of them
if it weren’t for Big Hands. He kept his usual posture of a back straight as a
ruler that must have been pressed onto it until God knew when. Big Hands’ eyes
were looking into something, and that unfortunately was Lincoln.
“Officer
Deed,” said Big Hands. “I need you.”
Lincoln
tugged at his collar. “Uh, couldn’t you get someone else instead? I’m kinda of
busy right now.”
“Busy?
Doing what, you’re on a couch!”
“About
that . . .”
Big
Hands didn’t want to hear it. “Come with me, now. There’s a call for you.”
“Who’s
it from?”
He
was already leaving. “You know who.”
*****
D.
never really remembered when and why he had ever found crime investigation
fascinating. It wasn’t like the hardboiled detective fiction that sold for less
than a dollar; if he had thought about it before, D. could’ve garnished
thousands of dollars from sales. That he never did made D. all the more sullen.
Throughout the cases he witnessed, D. had seen blood, limbs, rape, torture – a
complete summary of the raw life of the city’s underbelly. The life of crime never
intrigued him like it had kids who dressed up as their favorite private eyes,
but it was the only way to get paid at the time. In the city, detectives got
paid well, for some reason. He guessed lots of crime was expected where large
populations were concerned.
He
didn’t use his car when he went to the police station. Chief Advert of the
police force had called him a few days earlier regarding the case of the
missing man who went by the name McDermott. Apparently he belonged to a wealthy
family of the McDermott surname, though D. (and countless others) never heard
of them. They must be one of those private in wealth.
According
to Chief Advert, who probably stuffed cotton balls in his cheeks when he spoke
to him, the Case of the Missing McDermott had a sort of marathon streak about
five years. When D. asked what that meant, he learned that the case
surprisingly had been going through search after search for the past five
years. Police had gone through dozens of background searches as personal as
McDermott’s possible trafficking service, but hadn’t found anything to help
them figure out why he had disappeared to begin with. Years passed as the police
uncovered more information that ended up useless. From what Advert said, the
original name of the case had been the Case of the Missing McDermott, but
officers had nicknamed it the Case of the Endless Maze to the point where they
were suggesting a change to the original case name. The nickname had originated
with the private investigator Darren Will who was the last investigator to go
through the case. The case boxed Investigator Will inside his office until the
day his wife found the door open. She thought he solved the case going through
years of documents, but she found the man sprawled on a desk filled with notes
and nonsense. The held a funeral a week later.
Advert
wanted D. now for the case. Despite the death of what D. considered to be the
greatest investigator in the city (and far older than he), the chief needed
him. That alone spread a disease of a thousand different suggestions and
opinions.
“So
why did you call?” D. had asked the chief. “Wouldn’t it have been better if you
simply had me come over to your office?”
“That’s
the problem, detective. It’s not possible to talk in my office. Many things could
happen.”
“Things
like what?”
“Well,
things . . .” Adverts voice trembled over the line.
“Isn’t
this line tapped? You should have thought of that before calling about
information like this.”
“Detective,
this case is so public that just about everyone knows what it’s about. The
McDermott family is furious because they want it to stay private and not show them
off like fools usually do when they have lots of money. They proclaim that
their son is officially the black sheep of the family legacy. Besides, I have
no choice but to use the phone. Like I said, my office isn’t a safe rendezvous
place. They’ll find me if they do.”
“Who
are they? Are you in your office now?”
“I-I
have to go now. Meet me in my office.”
D.
rattled the phone as if that would bring him answers. “What do you mean your
office? You just said –”
“I know what
I said. But you need to go there anyway.”
After
that he had hung up, providing more questions than D. could have come up with
before he even had the case. When it came to family relationships, D. was a
lonely branch in a sea of woods. Any connections with aunts, uncles,
grandparents were erased from his memory. If anyone asked why he never visited
his family, he kindly replied, “Because sometimes I need alone time.” The same
response went for friends or colleagues. D. wiped them off cleanly as simple as
using a diner napkin from the dispenser. Why would someone go calling for me D.
thought. I don’t get it.
D.
didn’t understand lots of things. This was one of them. The Chandler Police
Department was in a lonely brick structure with the nearest buildings in a
5-mile radius. Spirits never captured the heart of the force, but D. suspected
that years of accused innocents and deadly murderers and such had provided an
almost holy place in which to signify crime at its worst in the city. Well, at
least it signified the lower half of the city. Two guards sat at the front desk
when D. entered, and they showed him the way to where Chief Advert's office was
located.
Chief
Advert's weight hadn’t lived up to his hopes; for forty years he had been over
his usual poundage, although nobody called him names like they did during
school. Now, pushing those thoughts aside, he focused on the main matter: the
Case of the Endless Maze. Earlier today, he heard some officers calling it the
Mystery Maze now, so that was proof that this would keep going until this man
solved it. All of it, the case and everything involved with it, was formulated
like a Sudoku puzzle with words: interconnected layers that in the end made no
meaning. Of course, there was also the problem of what Officer Adams had found
. . . but he didn’t want to think about that right now.
He
heard short rapping on his office door the same minute he lit his lighter to a
fresh new cigarette. “Come in.”
One
of the police officers – more like security guard – entered. He recognized him
as Dale from the abstract haircut he had these recent days. Next to him was an
old man moving through the tiny space between Dale and the edge of the office
door. He pulled through, nearly knocking over one of the two chairs sitting on
the opposite side of Adverts desk. Dale lingered for a second or two before
leaving. The old man, whom he called earlier, opened up a pocketbook that came
from the wrong time period; probably near the 1800s in England, not America.
The old man also wore a long black coat that, if you were far enough away,
could be mistaken for a witch’s cloak. Unlike Investigator
Will
, this one didn’t hold a pipe. At least he wasn’t
having it now, because most kept it at the corners of their mouths without ever
taking them off, not even when sleeping, Advert concluded.
“You
don’t dress like a detective,” said Advert. He just forgot to say hello.
“A
pleasure to see you, too,” said the old man.
Advert
frowned. “I apologize for forgetting, detective. It’s good to see you, really.”
“It
doesn’t matter.” The old man shut his pocketbook. “Not all detectives have to
wear trench coats, smoke pipes, and sport English deerstalker caps.”
“I
guess not.” Advert puffed smoke from his cigar. He picked out another one and
held it up so the old man could see. “Smoke?”
Wordlessly,
the old detective snatched the cigar from Adverts hands. He provided a match
from his inside pocket and lit it up.
“How
long have you been working in this . . . business?” Advert asked.
“About
as long as you were working as a police chief,” answered the old man without
the smile that carried the sign to make the opposite laugh.
“I
want real answers,” Advert warned, “not games! Are you trying to act like the
psychopath here? Or is it you terrorizing the force?”
“Terrorizing
what? This is the first time I’ve been here on account for solving a case.
Usually clients come to me with their problems, give me payment, and I solve
it. Once I’m done, they pay me the cash and we go our separate ways.”
Advert snapped and stood. The chair he sat in jerked back with
screeches and pulls. Finally it rattled to the floor like a coin releasing its
last spin. “No smart talk! If you want the job, you follow my rules.” He was
serious, but his eyes pled.
“All
right, all right,” the old man said, motioning Advert to sit back down. “What’s
the point of having to have me come over?”
Advert
took a deep breath. Besides his apartment, his office was the last place he
could think of to meet. His eyes flickered to each and every camera that eyed
them as if alive. The darkened spots of each were like real eyes, pupils of
omnipresence.
“Here,
take this.” Advert held up a cream-colored folder with documents pointing in
many directions, disorganized. “All you need to do and know is in there.” He
slid it onto the other side of the desk.
The
old man took it, examining its contents. “Is that all?”
“Yes.”
Laying
it down, the old man said: “Chief, what’s the point of this?”
“Pardon?”
said Advert.
“This
folder, what’s the point of it? You tell me to come all the way here so you can
give me a two-inch thick folder? Why not mail this to me instead? You could
have saved time for both me and yourself.”
“Some
things happen for a reason.”
“Stop
being cryptic,” said the old man. “Be blunt. All of this nonsense is making the
case more mysterious than it should be. Is that why Investigator Darren Will committed
suicide while on the case? Was it because of you?”
“Enough,”
Advert
growled. “Take the folder and go.”
“I
hate to slow things down, but isn’t there supposed to be payment before work
starts? It seems you forgot that part.”
Fuming,
Advert opened a drawer and separated the wads of bills he stored in there. He
came up with about 500 dollars. “Here’s 500,” he said. “I’ll give you another
500 when you finish the job.”
The
old man wasn’t taking the money. “I’ll need more than 500.”
“700?”
“How
about 850?” the old detective suggested.
Advert
laughed. “You’re out of your mind. Take 750, then.”
The
old man thought about it. “750,” he mused. “Fair enough, deal.” Chief Advert
brought up the desired amount and placed it into the wrinkled, almost
spider-like hand of the detective. “I’ll take the other half when I finish the
case and everything is in order.”
“Half?”
cried out the chief. “You mean . . . you mean 1500 in total?”
The
old man nodded. “If it means that much to you . . .”
“You
can have it,” said the chief. “Just find out who took McDermott.”
*****
The
locker room section of the police department had water filling the floor up to
D.’s ankles. He came out of the bathroom and found himself wherever he was. He
noticed even fewer people in here, but since nobody was around to bring him
back to the entrance and get on with his business, he took a better look.
Moreover, the web of strings at the end of the hall hypnotized him, fate and
destiny pulling together in a force of malevolent trickery to bring him to
things he wasn’t supposed to see.