Deception (8 page)

I sat in front of the computer. They’d removed the hard drive and taken the keyboard for computer forensics, but the monitor was still there.

“Something’s wrong. Didn’t think about it last night. The professor was just a couple inches shorter than me, wasn’t he? This chair’s way too high. If they want to use the keyboard, tall people lower the seat and short people raise it, right? Sit in this chair.”

Clarence looked ridiculous, the keyboard way too low.

“How tall would someone be who’d put a chair at this setting?” I asked.

“Five foot? A woman?”

“Or a fourth grader? A jockey?” I knelt, looking at the metal rod on the chair adjustment. “See the marks? That’s the normal position, the professor’s setting. What does that tell you?”

“Someone else used it.”

“Palatine was grading. Played solitaire. Then someone adjusted the chair. You don’t do that unless you’re sitting a while. If it’s just a minute, why bother? I say they did it to type the confession.”

“Then wouldn’t their prints show up on the keyboard?”

“We’ll see when tests come back.” I walked toward the fireplace.

“Look at the photos on the mantel,” I said. “What do you see?”

Clarence moved in for a closer look. “Mediocre quality pictures in cheap stand-up frames.”

“How many?”

“Nine.”

“Four on one side and five on the other,” I said. “Now, look at all the picture groupings on the wall. Everything’s balanced, symmetrical. So why the imbalance on the mantel?”

I stepped up onto the hearth to get a closer look. “Yeah. The dust tells the tale.”

“What tale?” Clarence got on his tiptoes and could see the top without climbing.

“The four pictures on this side … they’ve been moved to equal spacing. But there were five pictures, just like on the other side. One picture’s been taken. Someone didn’t want us to notice, so he filled in the spaces.”

“Why?”

“Because he thought if we noticed a photo was missing, it might incriminate him.”

“How?”

“Don’t know. But if it wouldn’t, why cover it up? Why not just snatch the picture and forget it? He took that photo for a reason—it was important to him. But it was also important to him that we didn’t notice.”

“So far you’ve got him carrying away a wine bottle and a five-by-seven picture frame.”

“There’s a reason for every action. This brings us one step closer to the killer.”

“Anybody home?”

Brandon Phillips is that ageless sort who looked old in his twenties when I met him and now in his forties looks young. He was a Golden Gloves boxer, rugged, leathery face like a mountain climber. Broad shoulders, big chest. And fit? I could see him offering his water to Sherpas climbing Everest as he passed them.

I introduced Phillips to Clarence and said, “I humbly request your observations on my crime scene. And thanks for not dropping by uninvited, like Suda did last night.”

Phillips cleared his throat. Though we were standing right in front of the mantel, with me leaning against the brick, he walked immediately to the other end of the room. “Lots of books. Computer’s nice. Wide-screen. Flat. He buys over the Internet.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s a Dell. I’ve seen that model on the website. You can only get it online. It’s not available in stores … not in Portland anyway.”

“See?” I said to Clarence. “You never know what you’ll get from a detective.”

Phillips walked around making other observations. Nothing particularly helpful.

“What about at this end? What do you see?” I pointed toward the mantel and the photos.

“Lots of pictures.” Phillips coughed. He cleared his throat and rubbed his face.

“You okay?”

“I need the bathroom.” He walked quickly around the corner and I heard the door shut.

“What’s with him?” Clarence asked.

I shrugged. He came back five minutes later.

“Anything wrong?” I asked.

“Allergies. I’m fine.”

“So, what do you see on this mantel?”

“He’s no photographer.”

“Yeah, but proud of his work. Nine photos up there, huh?” I pointed to the mantel.

“Hang on. I have to call Cimma.” Phillips stepped into the other room, and I heard his muffled voice. A minute later he reappeared. “Cimma needs me.”

“I didn’t think Cimma needed anybody.”

“One more witness on our case. Cimma wants me to see if I can catch him before lunch. Sorry.”

Fifteen seconds later Phillips was gone. I looked at Clarence and shrugged.

I swung by detective division at eleven to drop off case notes for Mitzie to type. I was fortunate to find one of the precious few police only parking spaces on Second Street, just south of Madison, a stone’s throw from the Justice Center. I was back in my car ten minutes later because though Lou’s Diner is only five blocks away, the midday sky was dark, threatening rain. It looked like it had been rubbed hard with gray finger paint. It made me thirsty.

I got to Lou’s early enough to think through the case before Jake and Clarence arrived. And have a couple of beers. Lou’s is “The Diner Time Forgot.” The jukebox was playing “Surfin’ USA.” Archie, Betty, and Veronica could have been sitting in the next booth. I’d be Jughead, since I play his part, downing the cheeseburgers.

I love old diners, but nothing compares to this one. Lou’s son Rory keeps the place sparkling, unlike Ralph’s Diner on Ankeny, where you need a crowbar to remove syrup bottles from the lazy Susan.

Three years ago, Jake, Clarence, and I started meeting at Lou’s on Thursdays for lunch. We all work downtown, so we rarely miss, and work in a second lunch during the week whenever we can. We shoot the breeze about lots of things, but sometimes Jake gets us talking about … well, spiritual stuff. Once they tried to get me to read something called
The Purpose-Driven Life
. I told them I already had a purpose-driven life. Justice—hunting down criminals in a Clint Eastwood, Chuck Norris, Jack Bauer sort of way. I don’t see religion as a solution, but a problem. My job is to hunt down the bad guys God lets get away. Jake said maybe I’m serving God’s ends and He’s using me to get the bad guys. Whatever.

We can hardly have lunch without the afterlife intruding into the conversation. But I don’t want to die trusting that God will make things okay. I want to make them okay right here, right now. Is that so much to ask? If I can make things right, I do. So if God can make things right, why doesn’t He?

These are not popular questions to ask Christians. Jake and Clarence listen and nod and say they understand my questions, that they too once struggled with such things. But I must have faith, I must trust, I must believe, and all will be better. Well, sorry, but I just
don’t
. And most of the time, frankly, I don’t want to.

Sometimes these guys are stubborn and opinionated. I feel like they’re taking the moral high ground, like the rest of us aren’t good enough for them. I guess I’m saying ours is a complicated friendship.

I looked at my watch. 11:52. I waved to Rory and pulled out my wallet. “This is for my beers.”

“I can just put it on your bill,” he said.

“Jake’s turn to buy. And take my bottles and the glass, would you?”

“I brewed your dark Italian roast extra bold. You’ll love it.”

“You’re a good man, Rory. If you ever get murdered, I’ll go after the guy. That’s a promise.”

“Grazie
, Mr. Ollie.”

Okay, I feel guilty for what I said about Jake and Clarence. Because there’s another side, and I guess it’s why I keep meeting them for lunch. The conversations sometimes bug me, but they make me think. Occasionally they’re downright interesting. And yes, Jake asked my permission, and I’ve agreed to talk about the Bible now and then. These guys aren’t total morons, and they have hope. I admit that it seems a naive and baseless hope. And yet … there’s a certain comfort in being around people who really believe—deep in their gut—that one day things will be better than they are now.

It seems like if you become a Christian, everything’s supposed to be great, right? You live happily ever after because you go to heaven, and that makes up for life’s miseries. Never mind that people—like my Sharon—suffer and die, and murderers get away. After all, there’s pie in the sky by and by.

Sorry, but I’d rather have my pie here and now. Speaking of which, I’d noticed that huckleberry was Lou’s pie of the day.

My phone rang. Manny again.

“You need to listen to the 911 call about the professor.”

“Who called? A neighbor?”

“Didn’t identify himself. Came from a cell phone, but wasn’t traceable. It was an old one without GPS. Dispatch sent us an audio file.”

“I’m going back to the scene after lunch. Then I’ll swing by the office and listen to the call.”

Jake appeared that moment, smiled broadly, shook my hand with a vise grip, and sat down. We traded small talk, exchanging theories on the Seahawks. Pretty soon we were laughing.

Clarence arrived and sat next to Jake. It’s a big booth, but their side was suddenly full.

Nobody had to look at the menu. Rory came over and asked, “The usual?” Everyone nodded. Lou’s serves a mean cheeseburger.

“Okay,” Jake said. “Last week we said we’d read the first eight chapters of the book of John. How’d we do?”

“I had a busy week,” I said. “Couldn’t squeeze it in.”

“Five minutes a day or one reading of half an hour? Come on. That’s just a sitcom.”

“I like sitcoms better.”

“John 8 relates to your work as a detective.”

“How’s that?”

Jake opened his Bible, full of underlines. “Jesus says, ‘If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.’ He says the truth will set us free from lies.”

“Whose truth we talkin’ about?”

“
The
truth. He says we’re slaves, but ‘if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.’ He’s talking about freedom from deception.”

“Every day I sift through the lies people tell,” I said. “I dig for the truth all the time.”

“I’m grateful you do, Ollie. We all benefit from your work. Now check out what Jesus says about Satan in the next verse: ‘He was a murderer from the beginning, not holding to the truth, for there is no truth in him. When he lies, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies.’ So Satan is a murderer, and he lies to cover up his murders. That should interest a homicide detective.”

“The devil must be a good liar,” I said.

“The best,” Jake said. “Lying is his native language.”

“The truth challenges our assumptions,” Clarence said. “It’s more comfortable just to believe the lies. We fall for lies because we’re wired that way.”

“In my work, deception is fatal.”

“Jesus said the truth sets us free,” Jake said. “In an investigation, once you see through the lies, when you discover the truth, don’t you feel free?”

“It’s an adrenaline rush. Nothing like it.”

“Well, then, we’ll pray that God will help you see the truth. To see through the lies.”

“What do you mean?”

“In your investigation. The Palatine case.”

“Okay. I guess your prayers can’t hurt.”

“Who knows?” Jake said with a cocky smile. “Since it’s the God of all truth and the Enemy of all deception that we’re praying to, our prayers may even help.”

“Fine,” I said. “Fine” is what Jack Bauer and Chloe say whenever they don’t like a situation, such as having to cooperate with terrorists.

I escaped by going over to the jukebox, a vintage Rock-Ola straight from the sixties boasting “Stereo” in ostentatious letters, like they’d split the atom. Three songs for a quarter, just like the old days. Rory told me he’d added new selections. I spotted one and selected C3: “Bridge over Troubled Water.”

“Wow,” Jake said. “Takes me back to Nam.”

I nodded. As we listened, Jake and I relived memories half a world away and almost a lifetime ago. Clarence was probably thinking of his brother who died in Nam. I found myself sitting in the Mekong Delta with Neal Crane, a Mississippi farm boy, and listening to Simon and Garfunkel in the evening, when it cooled down to the midnineties.

I heard Neal’s twang as he said, “What’s up, bro?” and backslapped me with his big right arm. Neal and I would talk about friendlies and hostiles, about Old Miss football, about our dreams after the war, maybe living near each other and raising our families. Two months later Neal stepped on a land mine. He was gone.

Rory waded into our sea of Garfunkel-induced melancholy to bring us burgers and onion rings. That quickly we were back at Lou’s, jibing and laughing again.

Jake and Clarence turned down dessert, but it didn’t keep them from hefty bites of my huckleberry pie with French vanilla ice cream. Clarence took some extra insulin. I sipped my coffee. The pot Rory brewed for me was nice and dark, which is why I always go over the top and give him a 10 percent tip.

“Okay if I talk about the investigation?” I asked, noting the closest people were sitting three booths away. “Off the record?”

They nodded. I got up and put quarters in the jukebox to get cover from the Four Seasons, Turtles, and Monkees. There’s a speaker over our booth that projects into the room but allows us to hear each other.

I told Jake about the solitaire game and the ace of spades.

“At first I thought it proved he was interrupted. He was about to play the ace, but something happened—phone rang, somebody came to the door, he heard a noise outside, whatever. But now I don’t buy it. Interrupted before you turn it over? Sure. But after you see the ace? Nah. Phone rings, teakettle whistles, someone comes to the door, maybe you stop turning cards. But once you turn up an ace, you play it instantly, before anything else.”

“You make it sound like a science,” Clarence said.

“I was testing it last night. You see an ace, you play it, in a heartbeat.”

“Yet there it sat,” Clarence said. “So what’s your point?”

“Somebody else placed it, not Palatine. Probably the murderer. Pulled it out of the deck after he killed the professor.”

“You’re sure?”

“Somebody sat down in front of the cards and messed with them … and maybe turned to type that stuff on the computer too. And why the ace of spades? Random? I don’t think so.”