The Enigmatologist (6 page)

The refrigerator door’s fake wood paneling had cracked, a
disguise peeling. Magnets decorated with pictures of half-naked women and beer
logos had fallen on the floor. John opened the fridge door. The refrigerator
was filled, crisper to fridge light, with bananas.

The pantry continued the single-item theme. It was stocked
with bags of bread.

Peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

The guy’s obsession with Elvis extended to his diet.

One more room, the bedroom. An accordion door separated it
from the rest of the trailer. Age and lack of maintenance dulled the magnet
lock. Screws stripped the holes holding door to frame. John jerked on the
handle and the door came out of the wall.

The bedroom looked like the aftermath of a manmade
disaster. Clothes were piled on the unmade bed. Fast food bags, junk food
wrappers, plastic cologne bottles, tiger-striped bikini briefs,
internet-purchased male enhancement pills, tubes of hair dye, and bubble wrap
carpeted the floor. John had seen trailers like this working for Rooftop,
recognized the debris of a cheating husband. He half expected to see used
condoms everywhere, but there weren’t any.

On the other side of the bed, a built-in dresser and
closet completed the furnishings. The dresser’s drawers hung half-exposed in
various stages of evacuation.

John pulled on the closet door but it stuck, the cracked
mirror rattling. The plastic hook on the top left corner had broken off and
only three hooks attached the mirror to the door. He put his hand on the loose
corner and jerked the door, popping the magnetic latch. John shined the
flashlight inside and was blinded by light reflecting back in his face. He
moved the flashlight off to the side, away from the reflective surface, hoping
to get a better look.

And there it was.

Hanging in the closet.

The uniform so closely associated with Elvis that when
someone mentioned his name you saw him wearing it, on stage, sweating, the
lights reflecting off it and into the eyes of a nostalgic crowd in a Las Vegas
theater.

A white sequined jumpsuit.

“No way!” John whispered in the dark. He removed the
jumpsuit to get a closer look. It had a high, stiff collar covered in shiny,
gold stars. A giant, red, white, and blue eagle made of fake jewels, framed by
gold stars, bedecked the back. John didn’t count the stars, but he was sure
there were fifty. The same pattern adorned the front of the jumpsuit, except
the eagle was split by the slit that divided the suit’s chest. Smaller eagles
were perched on the shoulders, with several gold stars showering the sleeves,
like the eagles were pooping freedom. Similar eagles flittered down the
outsides of the suit’s legs, ending in large flairs. A belt, easily a foot
wide, decorative gold chains dangling from it, eagles flying around it, hung
around the suit’s waist. A giant, gold eagle glittered on the white belt
buckle. The jumpsuit was the flashiest thing he’d ever seen. The flash and
glitz of the Vegas Strip on polyester.

Black patent leather boots, freshly polished, rested on
the closet floor.

John examined the suit reverentially, checking everything,
the fabric, the sequins. It appealed to his art student aesthetics. It was old,
flashy, distracting, popular. American. It was everything he was supposed to
love and hate, making it the best thing he’d ever seen. He took several
pictures with his phone, sent them to friends, and to Rooftop.

From the photo, John had expected the man to be the kind
of person he’d become familiar with working for Rooftop, another slob
cherishing and despising his own indecency. After seeing the jumpsuit, the
photos tacked to the wall, John figured the man fit into two categories, an
Elvis impersonator, or a fan obsessed with the speculative side of Elvis.

John hung the jumpsuit back in the closet and heard the
flutter and shuffle of falling paper. He shined his light on the closet floor.
A yellow piece of paper, folded over three times. He lifted it and illuminated
the image of a naked woman eating a double bacon cheeseburger on a take-out
menu from a strip club on the interstate, with a Truth or Consequences mailing
address. Evidence connecting the guy in the picture to the reporter.

John took a step back, crushing an open bag of potato
chips. Holding the menu, he felt flattened by its implications, that the guy in
the photo had lured the reporter away from town with the promise of a story,
meat loaf, and shaved bush, then killed him. John shivered. He spun around and
looked over his shoulder, terrified by the realization that he was in a
murderer’s home. If he’d learned anything from his Survey of
Slasher
Films, 1978 to 1986, was that being alone in the
killer’s house never went well for anyone.

He crammed the menu into his pocket and wiped everything
he had touched with one of his hoodie sleeves. He leapt over piles of dirty
clothes and closed the accordion door, putting the frame’s screws back in their
holes. In the kitchen and living room, he scrubbed every handle and surface
where he might have deposited his fingerprints, and left the trailer, trying
not to knock anything over. The cluttered mobile home embodied the consequences
of unpaid credit card debt, but John still didn’t want anyone to know he’d been
there. If the man returned home, saw that someone had been in his house, he’d
run, or come after John.

Outside, John shut the door, leaving it unlocked. He heard
the neighbors snoring and quickly scanned the lot and street, making sure that
it was empty, that even the street lamps were sleeping.

He drove back to
The
Sagittarius Inn
,
careful not to turn on the headlights until he
was beyond the trailer park. He thought about driving all the way back to
Denver, calling the local police once he’d crossed into Colorado and telling
them about the reporter and the trailer, but the reporter was killed doing what
he loved. And all John could think was that if he were killed for one of his
puzzles, he’d want someone to find out who did it.

John parked a few doors down from his room. The motel was
empty except for a few bikers passing through. John crawled under the cotton
comforter and thin blanket. The parking lot lights leaked through curtain
cracks, highlighting peeling wallpaper.

As soon as he got comfortable, someone knocked on his
door. John reached for his gun, thinking that the guy from the photo saw him
sneaking from his trailer and followed him, but John remembered checking his
rearview mirror, the reflection of the deserted street, no headlights, and set
his gun on the table. He put his eye to the peephole. It was black. Not black
like the night, but black like oblivion, like nothing existed outside his door.

John left the chain on the door, and opened it slowly,
carefully.

“Yeah,” he said.

It was the only word he said. The person on the other side
of the door kicked it in. The door hit John on the head, throwing him across
the room.

John’s
eyes fluttered like a bird shaking water from its wings. He licked his lips and
his mouth tasted metallic. Dried blood had crusted under his nose and on his
chin. His face was tight and he stretched it, opened his mouth, and the dried
blood cracked. His favorite t-shirt was beaded with umber muck. Fortunately,
there was a boutique in Boulder where he could get another one, managed by a
friend who had majored in Faux-Vintage Silk Screening.

As consciousness slowly returned, John heard voices. He
tried to speak, but could only mumble.

“I think he’s coming to, sir,” a cold, emotionless voice
said.

“Hello?” another voice said. “Are you still with us?”

A hand lightly slapped John’s face. He shook his head,
fully waking to a world of blurry figures, their forms’ strict boundaries made
lenient by poor eyesight. He suddenly became conscious that he was sitting in a
chair, his hands bound behind his back. Cold, metal handcuffs dug into his
wrists, cutting him every time he moved.

“My glasses,” John said.

“Oh, yes,” the second person said, a slight Southern twang
coloring his voice. “I’m so sorry. This must be disorienting for you. Sergeant,
would you please?”

A man walked toward John, holding something in his hand.
John flinched as the man reached for him, but relaxed as his glasses were
placed on his face. The man didn’t put them on all the way and they were
tilted, the frame halfway covering his left eye. John instinctively moved to
adjust them, but the restraints cut him. He grunted in pain and annoyance.

John looked around the room. He was still in the motel,
sitting next to a table. Two heavily armed soldiers stood next to him, dressed
in black. It was the first time John had been this close to soldiers that
hadn’t been in video games. He’d seen several in Denver, but they weren’t
young. They were the career types, officers whose responsibilities, the lives
of young men, had aged them.

An older man with white hair, wearing a blue Air Force
uniform, sat on the bed. His jacket and hat lay on the bed with him, next to
John’s wallet, phone, and gun.

“I don’t really know what’s going on here,” John said.
“But I’m pretty sure there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Colonel Alvin P. Hollister, United States Air Force,” the
man said, a programmed formality. “You and I are going to have a conversation
about your nocturnal activities.”

One of the soldiers whispered in Colonel Hollister’s ear,
handed him John’s driver’s license and business card.

“Seriously,” John said, “I think you got the wrong room or
something.”

“That’s interesting. But you’re more interesting, aren’t
you?” Colonel Hollister said, reading John’s ID. “John Abernathy, Private
Investigator.”

John scooted against the motel chair, seeing the age
hidden in Colonel Hollister’s eyes. Not wrinkles or crow’s feet, but the
exhaustion of a true believer.

“Just let me know what you want,” John said. “I’m more
than happy to help out.”

“That depends,” Colonel Hollister said, “on what you were
doing at that trailer tonight.”

“That’s what this is about? the guy in the trailer? I
don’t know him, don’t know anything about him. I was just hired to…”

Colonel Hollister nodded once to the soldier next to John.
The soldier punched John, knocking off his glasses again. His jaw felt like it
had been crushed by a cinderblock and his mouth filled with metallic tasting
blood.

“What the fuck?” John said, spitting blood on the floor.
“You asked me a question, remember? I’m just trying to give you an answer.”

“Now, what were you…” Colonel Hollister stopped. He
examined John closely, visually dissecting him. “When I walked in, I could have
sworn you had a broken nose. Sergeant, I thought you said you broke his nose
when you kicked open the door.”

“I did, sir.” The sergeant leaned in, inspected John. As
he got closer, his features came into focus, his straight jaw, close-cropped
hair, the abandoned look in his eye.

“John,” Colonel Hollister asked, “were you ever sick as a
child? Ever have any broken bones?”

“I thought you wanted to know about the trailer.”

“Why do you wear glasses?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I wonder what happens when you leave your glasses off for
a while.” Colonel Hollister tilted his head like he was pondering John’s poor
vision.

“Look, you want to know about the trailer, let’s talk
about it. The guy’s a slob. You
shoulda
seen the
place, shit everywhere. Can I just have my glasses back? I get headaches
without them.”

“Well, we don’t want that.” Colonel Hollister leaned over,
picked up John’s glasses, and placed them on his head. “I normally don’t
conduct interrogations. I’m a scientist. I prefer the lab. Research doesn’t
lie. Not like people. People think they’re clever. I don’t have the patience
for clever. Now, about the trailer…”

Colonel Hollister motioned to the man standing next to
John. He pulled an
iPad
out of one of the many
pockets on his vest. He held the screen in front of John. It showed John’s car
from the rear, John crossing the street, going into the trailer park.

“Yeah, that’s me, going to the guy’s trailer. We
established this.”

“Fast forward,” Colonel Hollister said.

The man fast-forwarded the video. John is running from the
trailer park. He removes his hood, and unintentionally looks up, into the
hidden camera. The man paused the video, zoomed in on John’s face.

“You remember the trailer now?” the colonel said, his
voice sounding hollow.

“You obviously know I do. I don’t know how many times I
have to tell you this, I’m on a case.”

“I’ll tell you what you were doing there. You were looking
for this man.” He held up a copy of Mrs. Morris’s picture, a printout John kept
in his bag. “Why are you looking for him?”

“Yeah, I told you that.
The National Enquirer
hired
me to find him. But when I went to the trailer, the guy wasn’t there.”

“Then you’re of no use to me. Kill him,” he said,
gesturing to his men.

“Wait. What the fuck? Hey…Hey, just give me a chance to
explain. There’s been some kind of mistake.”

“Leave his body here. It’ll send a better message.” The
two soldiers grabbed John’s shoulders, slammed him back into the chair, tried
to hold him steady.

“To who? the guy in the trailer?” John asked, struggling
against them. “Who is he? Who are you looking for?”

“Keep it quiet, but messy,” Colonel Hollister said to the
soldier standing next to John. He put the
iPad
away
and pulled out a large knife. He grabbed a handful of John’s hair, pulled his
head back, exposing his neck.

“He has pictures of you,” John blurted out. “Pictures of
you and Elvis.”

The colonel held up his hand. The sergeant released John’s
hair, pushed him forward. He sheathed his knife.

“You didn’t know he had pictures of you?” John sat back,
panting. His mind began to move laterally, skirting around obvious questions to
something more obscure. “Or that he was following you? What does he have on
you?”

“Tell me about the pictures.”

“You were friends, weren’t you? you and Elvis? That’s what
the pictures show. The two of you.”

Colonel Hollister stood. He walked to the window and drew
the curtains back.

“We were friends. Not many people can say that,” Colonel
Hollister said, putting his left hand on the window. He didn’t drop his head,
look to the place where the carpet joined the wall. Instead, he looked at the
black parking lot, the barely lit street. At something in the darkness.

“In the pictures, he seemed happy, comfortable, like he
enjoyed talking to you.”

“There’s never enough time to…” Colonel Hollister took his
hand from the window and held it behind his back.

“He knows you’re watching him, doesn’t he? That’s why you
haven’t gone in the trailer. He’s smart. Sneaky. Knows where you have your
cameras. That camera angle,” John said, motioning to the soldier with the
tablet, “it’s not from the gas station. I’m guessing it’s from a lamppost or
telephone pole, maybe a junction box. I bet you even have a satellite over it
right now. He probably knows about that, too, and knows how to avoid them both.
That’s why you haven’t found him yet. Who is this guy? Why are you looking for
him?”

“An old acquaintance,” Colonel Hollister said. “Someone I
need to talk to.”

“He has something you need? information? I can find him
for you.”

“I thought you already had a client,” Colonel Hollister
said.

“
The Enquirer
? They don’t care about finding this
guy.”

“You’re just a kid.” He looked down at John.

“And that’s a bad thing? I can go places you can’t, talk
to people you can’t.”

“And I imagine this will cost me?”

“Right now,” John said, thinking about how Rooftop would
negotiate with someone who had handcuffed and punched him, “my client’s paying
me two thousand dollars a day.”

“Two thousand dollars a day?” Colonel Hollister said,
startled by the expense.

“Take the cuffs off and we can negotiate.”

Colonel Hollister nodded. The sergeant
uncuffed
John. The handcuffs had cut off the circulation to John’s wrists and left them
white with red and raw rings around them. John rubbed his wrists and fresh
blood flooded them, waking them. He flexed his fingers.

“My fee,” John said, “fifteen hundred a day, plus
expenses.”

“One thousand,” Colonel Hollister countered.

“And my five thousand dollar retainer. Up front, of
course.”

“Your confidentiality does have a price, doesn’t it?”
Colonel Hollister picked his jacket up off the bed. He pulled a money pouch out
of his pocket, unzipped it, and removed a stack of cash, all hundreds. The
colonel counted out fifty, left them on the bed, and slipped the pouch back in
his jacket.

He picked up John’s business card, wrote on the back.
“This is my number.”

“I’ll contact you when I find something,” John said.

Colonel Hollister motioned his men out.

“You know,” he said, stopping at the door, “I’m usually
pretty good at anticipating the unforeseen, but, I must say, I did not expect
you.”

“What, a P.I.?”

“No, an Abernathy.” And he walked out.

John ran to the door, tried to catch him, find out what he
meant.

“Wait! Wait!” John shouted, running into the parking lot
as the colonel was pulling away from the motel, his taillights already down the
road.

John chased them down Grand Avenue, heedless of the loose
pebbles and broken glass that were scattered across the street, gouging his
bare feet. He lost sight of them when they turned onto East University, heading
to the interstate.

Standing in the middle of the road, the stomach pains from
earlier returned and John clutched his bloodstained shirt. A breeze picked up,
blowing dirt across the road, a desert visitor. The air was fragrant, not the
normal smells of trash, diesel exhaust, dead skunks, the slow decay of a small
town, but with something that made John remember his childhood, sitting in the
park reading comic books with his mother. It sedated him, made him feel
content.

He walked back to the motel, holding his stomach, the pain
dwindling as he approached his room.

In the motel bathroom, John rinsed caked blood from his
face and blew blood clots from his nostrils. He calmly went to bed, knowing the
Air Force wouldn’t return. They might return some night, waiting in the room
for him again, but not tonight. Tonight, John fell asleep, unaware of the eyes
peeking just above the bottom of his window.