Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels)

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Authors: Harry Shannon

Table of Contents
MEMORIAL DAY

 

A Mick Callahan Mystery

 

By

 

Harry Shannon
This is for my wife Wendy, and my daughter Paige Emerson

 

© 2010 Harry Shannon
"All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for a good man to do nothing."
—Sir Edmund Burke
Prologue

 

Beverly Hills, California

 

"
He doesn't mean to hurt me," Bonnie said. She fingered the blue swelling near her eye. "He's always sorry afterwards. He starts crying like a baby and tells me how much he loves me." Downcast eyes and flushed cheeks indicated the presence of healthy shame. Bonnie clearly knew she was rationalizing.
The young therapist didn't respond. He seemed exhausted and preoccupied. He needed a shave, and his gray Armani suit was wrinkled. Bonnie thought him better looking in person; on television his face seemed thicker, the broken nose less attractive. She blushed again, but he didn't seem to notice.
"Walt is a good man, really. He had a terrible childhood. His mother had a bunch of affairs. Could that have really messed him up?"
"It's possible," the therapist said. He spoke with a slight twang.
It was a beautiful office; thick carpeting, rows of books stacked high on polished wooden shelves, an amazing view of the city. You'd have to work long hours to afford a place like this, Bonnie thought. She'd noticed alcohol on his breath when they met at the door, but this was an emergency session and he wasn't her regular therapist. Hell, he'd probably come straight from a cocktail party. "I feel better just having talked about it," she said, brightly. "I'm okay, now. I can wait for Dr. Dorio to get back."
The therapist frowned. "I'd rather you didn't."
"Huh?"
"I said I'd rather you didn't. In fact, I think you should check into a domestic violence shelter."
"Well, if it happens again . . ."
"I mean tonight."
Bonnie sat up straight. She laughed, but the tone was a bit too shrill. "That's ridiculous," she said. "Walt has a temper, but . . ."
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "I'm going by the book, Bonnie. The violence has been escalating recently, and you've given me no reason to think that won't continue."
"But . . ."
"But nothing. Now, let me give you some phone numbers." He scribbled on an embossed business card, slid it across the antique coffee table.
It came to rest at her fingertips. Bonnie wanted to argue. There had to be some other answer. "Hey, I probably just made it sound worse than it is. Walt says I get melodramatic."
"Put that card in your purse, Bonnie." Something feral flashed behind those dark eyes; his tone had an edge like cold, blue steel.
Bonnie obeyed instantly.
The therapist sat back in his chair as if nothing had happened. "The first number is for a shelter, and the second is an attorney. She will take you on for next to nothing. You need to get a restraining order against your boyfriend."
"That will just piss him off even more, won't it?"
"It's the only other weapon we have at our disposal. That bottom number is my private line. I'll be taping my show tonight. If you need me, the service will track me down."
"I don't know . . ."
"I'm sorry," he said. "Our time is up. I have to get to the studio."
"Oh. I love your show, by the way. You're funny."
"Thank you." His mind was already elsewhere. He stared down at the multi-colored lights of the city, then rose, took Bonnie by the elbow, and walked her to the door. He put his hand on her shoulder. "Don't go home," he said, softly. "Call the shelter."
She smelled his breath. He had definitely been drinking. "But I have to feed my dog!"
"Send a friend."
"Look, you're scaring me."
"I mean to. Remember, call if you need me. I'll get right back to you."
"You promise?"
"You have my word." He glanced at the clock on the bookshelf as if growing impatient, but now she didn't want to leave.
"So I should just never speak to him again?"
"You don't have any obligation to take my advice." He led her to the hallway. "But I hope you do. Nice meeting you."
"You too," she said, but the solid oak door was already closing. Bonnie walked down the hall and entered the elevator thinking: He doesn't know Walt! Screw him and his fancy fucking office building. An old Disney song was playing on the Muzak. Bonnie punched P1.
And who was he to tell her she couldn't go home? He was half smashed, for Chrissakes. He wasn't her regular therapist. He didn't know her whole life story. Jesus, he's really just some kind of a glorified television celebrity . . .
The lobby, then the stairs. As Bonnie left the building, a light rain began to tap dance on the awning. It was dark. Icy cobwebs of fear tightened along her skin as she crossed the nearly empty parking lot, heading for her car. But what if he's right? she thought. The last time Walt went crazy he broke your jaw and sent you to the hospital.
Maybe you do need to run, Bonnie.
But what if Walt agreed to try and work things out, finally go to therapy? She pulled over, opened her little red cell phone and called the shrink. He wasn't there. She assumed he was in make-up or already rehearsing. She left a message.
Bonnie drove aimlessly for a couple of hours, then stopped at a filthy gas station, dialed the shelter and arranged to meet someone who would take her to a safe house. She called the shrink again. She didn't feel comfortable leaving personal stuff with an answering service; just her name and cell number. She said it was important.
There was one last thing to do and she'd be free.
The tiny Maltese terrier started yipping the second he heard her pull into the driveway. Macho knew the sound of her engine. Bonnie looked carefully in every direction; got out of her car. She moved briskly up to the side door, peered inside. The living room was empty; everything exactly as she had left it. She stepped in, closed and latched the screen door. She gave Macho some food.
Bonnie turned the television on and began packing. The therapist's show started. He stood on a small black stage, in front of a live studio audience. He was wearing a dark jacket that complimented his hair, a silk shirt with an open collar, and cowboy boots. He opened with a brief monologue about the evening's subject: "Make no attempt to adjust your television set," he said with that slight drawl. "We now control what you will see and hear." The audience laughed. He grinned. "Seriously, ladies and gentlemen. That is the message the members of this cult received."
They cut to some footage made with a hidden camera. It showed the therapist, disguised as cult member, sitting in a state of meditation. Now Bonnie had a major crush on him. He was cute, in a rough sort of way. She watched the set out of the corner of her eye until she had a small bag and a bathroom kit packed.
Was that the back gate?
Something was outside in the night, moving.
Her heart jumped into her throat. She grabbed the regular phone but the line was dead. Bonnie fumbled through her purse for the therapist's card; dialed him again on her cell phone. She started pacing. Macho sensed something, whined.
"Did he get my messages? It's been hours, now. I really need to speak with him."
Bonnie dropped the phone in her purse. She grabbed the bags and put the dog under her arm and started for the front door. But something made another rustling noise, out in the yard. Jesus, I'm scared, she thought. Bonnie decided to call 911. She ran into the kitchen, put her purse down and reached inside for the cell phone.
WHAAAM!
The screen door folded into a V and fell off its hinges. Walt blew through it like it wasn't there. He slapped the cell phone out of her hand and punched her in the stomach. Bonnie fell to her knees, gagging, while Macho barked and nipped at Walt's ankle. Walt kicked him across the room. He shuddered and lay still.
"Please don't hurt the dog," she mumbled.
Walt was shrieking he was fed up with her fooling around. He'd been smoking crack. He was punching the wall, throwing things, really out of his mind. When he brought his clenched fist down on the top of her skull, Bonnie saw clear, crystal fireworks. She collapsed and curled up on the kitchen floor, waiting him out. After a minute or two, she dissociated, watched from a distance; saw her flesh cringing and coloring as if this were happening somewhere else, to someone else. The pain wasn't bad; she was past all that. She was just numb, exhausted, and so in shock she found the yellow checkered pattern in the filthy linoleum fascinating.
"Bitch!"
The toe of his boot broke something deep in her chest, near her spine. Her breathing became ragged and it HURT. What if he went through with it this time? She focused on the little red cell phone lying a few inches away. She wished she had followed directions, or tried a little sooner to reach out for help. She prayed for one last chance, grabbed for the phone. She had the correct number all dialed in. She just didn't have enough strength to push "send."
Forensics said the blow that fractured her skull was the one that killed her. From all accounts, it was a mercy.

 

One

 

Three Years Later
Friday Night, 11:42 PM

 

From high on the bony ridge above it, the tiny town of Dry Wells looked like a scattered set of building blocks draped in faded khaki. During the day, harsh Nevada sunshine splintered on the corrugated tin roofs and vanished into black tar shingles. Several of the cracked, dusty windows had been taped over with tinfoil to deflect the smothering heat. It was closing in on midnight. I had been on the air live for hours and was fast approaching burnout.
Here I was, broadcasting my hard-earned wisdom to the fringes of society for chump change, loitering around booted Neanderthals with maybe twenty teeth between them and trying not to relapse on watery beer.
It was good to be home.
At the far end of town, where the high metal tower sprouted, I sat hunched over the aging console of the little radio station. I'd spent most of the night staring at a small fish tank and praying for another caller. The multi-line telephone remained silent: six hollow dice, discolored and lifeless. I leaned over the microphone, voice oozing sarcasm, playing it FM to the max.
"People of the high desert, how many chances do you get to talk to a real, live media shrink?" I repeated the telephone number for the station, stifled a yawn. "Call me, just call me. We are live this Memorial Day weekend on KNVD, the Loner McDowell show, from right here in Dry Wells, Nevada, second only to Roswell, New Mexico in purported UFO sightings. Old Loner will be back tomorrow, promising to take you seriously, whereas I know we're all nuts. I'm your guest host tonight. My name is Mick Callahan, I'm a professional therapist, and I will be right back after this brief message."
My fingers pushed the cassette in, killed the mike, and hit play before the chair squeaked backwards. So far, two redneck morons who thought lust was a sin, one housewife with a weight problem, and some couple thinking about divorce for the fourteenth time. Yuck. The commercial, a badly recorded song praising a used car dealer down Elko way, ran for over sixty seconds. Line four lit up.

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