Detective D. Case (13 page)

          “And why do people keep taking pictures of us?” Obviously
that was the big question.

          Her mother was abrupt.

          “Mother, you stopped speaking.”

          “Oh, did I?” She was trying to hide it. “I’m sorry,
dear, I was just thinking. See, we are a private family, one who takes publicity
seriously. Of course, all of you know this.”

          Winnie did.

          “But those people . . . I don’t know why they do it.
None of it makes any rational sense except for the purpose of making money. If that
was their pure motive – and I’m certain that might be it – then you know as well
as I that the world is purified in the sickness of greed—it’s like being addicted
to honey. They want money,
we
have money, and there’s a tragic story for
their papers, which is why they do it. Worst thing about it is that people, regular
people, buy these magazines and newspapers, digging up all the tender details. And
why should they? What, they don’t realize we, like them, are regular people too?
The one difference I can think of between people and us is that, for once, we actually
took our time in doing what we wanted, actually perspired doing what we wanted.
And they . . . most of them… slack off into a hamster wheel-like routine, never
seeking ends to making their lives happier. It also appears to me that they can
criticize us all they want, but never can they look in the mirror in the early morning
and see themselves. See who they really are. You know what I mean? The way they
treat this family and many others is like animals in a zoo. They can laugh and make
fun of us never thinking they’ll be caught.”

          “Like an aquarium,” Winnie said.

          “Yeah,” her mother said. “It’s kind of like that, actually.”
A dream . . . it must have been a dream.

*****

          D. lay back in the reclining chair. In one hand he had
the remote, and with that, complete control of all its features. Each function the
old detective favored like the juicy ingredients of gourmet food. He pressed none
of them though. The psychiatrist under the name of Richard Fiend took notes and
kept the old detective tucked under his thumb. For a man almost as old as he was,
Fiend had good eyes that liked to know what you were doing, when you were doing
it, and why you were doing it. And he promised his patients (well, at least to D.)
that he never liked stalking people.

          “Relax, please.” He never addressed him with his real
name. Business was business, and he didn’t want the sentiment of people’s personal
lives mixed in with it. All those savory details go in the conversation only when
he treated them, and only then. He tore open a fresh page from his notebook
that was bound in the finest leather; he claimed he bought it in an underground
bookshop in the southern parts of Hungary. D. had no way of figuring out if he spoke
the truth. “Tell me, now, what troubles you?”

          “That girl,” D. said. “She was there . . .”

          Fiend wasn’t getting it. “Who was? I do not understand.”

          “The young nurse, she came in to check on me and her
behavior was quite unusual.”

          “Unusual in what way?” inquired the psychiatrist.

          “Well, she seemed fond of me,” D. said. “She works in
a small building housing ‘GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS.’ Have you heard of it?”

          The psychiatrist stroked his chin, avoiding the question.
“She was fond as in what, like what a lover?”

          The old detective swallowed. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Sort
of like that.”

          “Where do you suppose she is now?”

          “I don’t know. That’s what happened. We slept together
–”

          Fiend raised his eyebrows. “You did?”

          “I know it sounds terrible, but what choice did I have?
It was like she wanted to do it with me.” Then the old detective began wailing,
his voice pleading. “Please, don’t tell anyone, but I had no choice.” Quiet sobbing
came after. “And then, in the morning, something happened. I woke up from some kind
of bad dream.”

          “A bad dream – what are you trying say?”

          “The next day, I woke up and she was gone. On that same
day, the doctor I was assigned to – he was accompanied by nurses – had told me that
I was better and ready to go back to where I had to go. He never specified where,
but I think we both knew what it was. Odd thing is it that the young nurse from
before told me crucial information that no one else would say? Please tell me if
I was dreaming or not, for I fear I’ve gone mad!”

          “Mad, you say? Come on, that sounds ridiculous, D.”

          D. stood back up, something patients should never do
until they are done with their treatment. “Is it? Does it sound that ridiculous
from the pay I’ve given you?”

          The old detective had indeed paid well. “Come to think
of it,” Fiend said, rubbing his fingers together, “it sounds pretty serious.”

          “Is it serious enough for you to cure it?”

          “Well, let me see . . . are you busy tonight?”

          “Yes. I’m on a case looking for who took the McDermott
son. Have you heard about it, because it seems like everyone else has.”

          Fiend cracked open a smile. “You must be joking, D.!”
he exclaimed. “Of course I know about it! Do you know how many issues and editions
I own of the event? There’s dozens, of course!”

          “I see you’re a fan.”

          “Not just a fan!” said Fiend. “It’s way more than that,
to be sure. Can you imagine such tragedy in a family so wealthy? And they’ve never
announced their wealth to anyone! Selfish people who deserve all the sins they could
get.”

          “So you’re saying they should have told everyone about
their money?”

          “Who wouldn’t? If I were them, I would have told everyone,
shove it to their faces and let them see that I’ve really done something that the
lazy no-good idiots could never do in a thousand lives!”

          “It seems like I’m learning more about you than you
are of me.”

          Gotcha, thought D. The psychiatrist should keep his
words more private next time, but the detective said none of it. Let the man think
for himself for once. “So, shall we continue on to my dilemma?”

          “Of course, of course, you are right. I’m sure we can
get something for you.” He ruffled through some papers that, when inspected, had
no more insightful meaning or coherence in regard to the old detective’s dilemma
than using a magnifying glass to find the problem. “How about this: make a rendezvous
with one of the family members in… what was the name?”

          “The McDermotts,” answered D.

          “Yes, use one of them – preferably one of the males
– and get them to talk. At the same time, go the place ‘GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS,’ and
find out if the young nurse who was locked in with you really exists. Not only will
it answer your problems, you will also destroy any sexual desires you have!”

          “By doing what, making things worse?”

          “No, it’s nothing like that! Just – just do what I say,
all right? I assure you it will help.”

          D. glared at him. “Are you sure you’re a psychiatrist?”

          “If I wasn’t, then why do I have a certificate?”

          “Just because they give you a piece of paper and a sticker
doesn’t mean you know what you’re doing.”

          “True,” Fiend said, watching the detective leave. Wait
a minute . . . what was that supposed to mean?

*****

Surprised that the place blinked an OPEN sign in a cheap purple,
old detective D. went inside. He made sure to bring a hat so no one would figure
out his identity. The main point was not the service provided in the building, it
was the meeting. D. wanted to get in and get out without going noticed. Before he
came here, he contacted one of the McDermott children, the brother of the missing
one, Higgins. So many surprises occurred during the stay at “GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS,”
most of which D. didn’t want to remember.

          When you entered, nothing spoke of things extraordinary.
You would go into a dingy room – or should we say cube – with too much light to
blind you. On the right sat a small desk and a perky woman you probably want to
avoid. D. went over to this lady. She had frizzy orange hair as if burned from an
incident and she wore rectangular glasses. “Hi! My name is Perky!”

          “No
kidding,” said D.

          “What, is there something wrong?” said Perky. “I hope
I wasn’t being too rude.”

          D. held up a hand to stop her. “No, there’s nothing
wrong,” he said. “Please don’t take it the wrong way.”

          “But I –”

          “Don’t
take it the wrong way. I’m looking for
a man named Higgins McDermott. Is he here?”

          “Yes, he is. Apparently he isn’t very happy with the
accommodations you provided him with.”

          Did he have a choice? “Where can I find him?”

          “He can be found on the second floor,” said Perky. “It’s
the one that has the ‘From Russia with Love’ style. Are you looking to stay here
tonight?”

          “Uh, no, I’m not really interested at the moment.”

          “That’s okay! Just call me when you do. We have a wide
variety of women here.”

          D. lowered the brim of his hat. “That doesn’t include
you, does it?”

          Perky gushed. “Oh, mister, please, I couldn’t  . . .”
But then, relenting: “But with the right price, I’m on the last floor. Wanna meet
me there?”

          “No thanks. I’ll be on my way.” D. began to leave to
go to the dark hallway on the left. An old sign on the top held the words ENTER
HERE. He went through.

          “Are you sure you won’t stop by?” hollered Perky.

          D. turned. “You know what, lady? I’ll stop by after
I’m done.”

          “Okay!” Her dewed eyes followed him when he left. Crazy
woman, he thought before getting into the elevator box. He soon found out the elevator
didn’t go up: the front desk was on the top floor. The only way to go was down. 

D. clicked the button with
2 on it and stood patiently as the elevator took its course. When the door opened
he went out. If the place had been any different he would have taken second guesses
and warnings, sometimes looking back at the floor button number just to make sure.
Now he pushed it all away like a newly sober man. 

Perky had lied. Or maybe
she didn’t. Long hallway – not even a floor  – with bare metal walls tracked down
as far as D. could see. Like the walls was the material of the doors lined up in
long rows: pure metal. None of them had doorknobs. How was this From Russia with
Love? A bare, dirty floor that went on and on didn’t serve as a Russian theme. He
bent down, looked close enough. Cockroaches scuttling the floor in a never-ending
search for food, life, and prosperity – but that’s giving insects too much credit.

A long line of women came
through the other end of the hallway. All of them wore tight-fitting dresses
and they were carrying plastic objects. He did not want to know what they were for.
D. lowered the brim of his hat until it covered his face. He might have gone to
sleep standing up like that. Feeling his way through, he kept his eyes on where
Higgins might be. Any involvement with other women was not to occur, except with
the young nurse whose name she did not reveal. Thinking this, it was not be a surprise
when he knocked over one woman.      

“Oh! Sorry,” she said.

          D. said nothing. Did the voice sound familiar? The woman
had left by the time he turned back to check.

D. pushed one door. It didn’t
open. Same thing happened when he pulled it from the small gaps. Sometimes his fingers
were not small enough to get a grasp. At the end of the hallway, though, D. saw
a particular door opened. Tilting his head, he could see falling snow coming from
above. Who knew from where the source came. Linen furs hung against the wall in
racks. With a plush bed on the right, D. could see what the room’s purpose served.

A sole man sat on the lone
bench in the room, his body shrunken in an uncomfortable manner. He supposed it
was Higgins. He looked like he was going to hurl over; his back was bent that much.
Going over, D. shook hands with the frightened man. 

          “Hello. Are you Higgins?”

          The man looked up. “Yes, I am,” he said. “You’re the
detective?”

          D. nodded. “I know this doesn’t sound like the most
apt place to meet, but I needed to meet someone here.”

          “Like who?” wondered Higgins.

          “One of these women met me before while I was in a hospital
bed. Next day she never existed. I need to make sure whether she was a dream or
not.”

          “Why were you in the hospital?” Higgins asked.