Chapter 1
Sharon’s Family Diner; 12:09 a.m.; December 12th, 1988
Stuart gulped down his coffee as the night got darker. He didn’t make any more noise other than that, except for the occasional movement in his seat as he tried to make the red leather seats comfortable, only resulting in an even worse position.
It was an endless cycle, each and every night, it was coffee and red leather for Stuart.
The coffee was one of the only things that helped relax him, and calm his nerves. And kept him on edge, and aware of everything, so he didn’t stress as much about his next morning out in town where he was going to have to be the savior of lives, even though he lost only about twenty percent of the time. It hurt to lose, so coffee would drown it out like it was Peru. At the municipals building they had coffee, but it was a small foam cup with no cream or sugar. But at Sharon’s, everything about it was perfect. The cream to sugar ratio, the size of his mug, even just the blackness of the bean blended into it. It almost made him completely forget about the real world at times, and he would be at peace. And then when he was five coffees in, he would be transparent to everybody in the world. Most of the time he spent at Sharon’s was usually late at night when rush hour had passed, and it was during the time that everybody was either sleeping at home or in an alleyway buying anything that wasn’t purchasable at Walmart.
He did feel bad about staying late, there was no lie there. It kept the stress as negative feedback for his body, until he took a sip of coffee. Then it left for a minute, until maybe a minute had passed. The people working late at the diner didn’t mind it, since they had to stay until five o’clock in the morning anyways, but it still made Stuart feel sick to his stomach. Like he had just lost a case against a little kid, and had to break the news to him himself.
They especially didn’t mind either because of the gracious tips he left.
Every night Stuart stopped in for about an hour or two, leaving his fifty dollar tip, and dipping back home to iron his suit and get ready for the next morning. It was sickening, but he kept at it. And at it. And at it.
He felt like he was going crazy from either sleep deprivation, or pure stress overdosing. Over the past month his cases had been filled up, from murder cases to just traffic violations, filling up his calender completely. He hadn’t been out on a date in over two years, his friends were off somewhere and he had no time to go on vacation. It was all stress and death for him.
Stuart took another sip of his coffee, and sat the mug back down. The table slightly rattled, as it always did. Some of the other mugs shook with it, making a slight rattle, but he was already zoned out to the point where a gun could fire and it would just sound like someone dropping their keys.
His head fell back, making the tinted light bulbs above him shine right through his eyelids and scanning the frontal lobe of his brain like an MRI machine. Not even the coffee could help with that, in fact, it made it a little worse. His hormones were off the wall, making him think and act like a crazed maniac in a suit. He thought of the main character in Taxi Driver as a good comparison, a movie he had only seen in theaters, on one of his first dates. Whatever happened to Penny Hitch? He thought to himself.
“Hey Stuart?”
He craned his neck back down, already being hit with a sharp pain on his upper spine when he came down, to be met with Vance, the waiter for the night.
“You want me to refill that coffee for you? For like the fiftieth time?” Vance chuckled at his own joke, but Stuart only smiled. It wasn’t his fault, he just felt like absolute shit from the day he had at work. Vance could feel that, and just tipped the glass into his cup, giving Stuart another buck fifty refill of life. It was going on his tab.
“You don’t look like you’re doing so hot buddy? Another rough case?”
The undone tie and messy lapel should’ve been enough evidence for that, but Stuart responded with, “You know me to well V. The answer is yes, it’s been a tiresome day. It was only one case too. I had to help defend a guy who was caught killing his wife in bed. And because the court is such a mature place, we had a surprise witness, his brother that is. He was the one that was having an affair with the wife, thus the murder, but he testified for the brother, based on the basis that his wife was blackmailing both of them in the process of fucking one, going to work, and fucking the other. It was just a big mess of nonsense and terrible paperwork done by the other side. And sitting through that, damn, it is hell man.” Stuart chuckled, and started pulling out a pack of Red Apple’s and his lighter.
The glass tipped up as the coffee reached the rim, “Just another day for you though. Huh?”
“Basically, except I think I usually win. Sorry, lose.”
Vance chuckled, “Oh ho ho, don’t get too down on yourself Mr. Business Man.”
“Mr. Business Man was my father Vance, just call me Stuart like a normal person would my man.” Stuart laughed out. The cigarette stuck itself between his lips, and let out smoke from the corners of his mouth. He threw the pack and lighter next to his pile of coffee creamer.
“Will do. Now call if you need anything more buddy. Trust me, I’ll be able to hear you.” He motioned to the rest of the diner, making Stuart laugh even more as Vance made his way back to the kitchen behind the shiny and chrome counter top, leaving him alone once more in the only establishment on the way home from the court, sitting right on the edge of the I-90 on it’s way to Wyattville. If ever on the road, it would be impossible not to see it. The place lit up most of the road with it’s neon sign, and bright lights echoing out of the giant windows wrapping around most of the entire building. It was almost as if Tony Stark, during one of his drunk moments in the comics, had built it.
With shake of sugar and pour of creamer, Stuart was right back in the same place as he watched the clock change slowly.
Winona Police Crime Scene; 6:34 a.m.; December 12th, 1988
The snow started falling lightly while the small Buick drove down the I-90, up to the small area up the road covered in yellow tape, and lit up only by the faint light of the dawn sun behind it. The traffic was slowly building up along the interstate, with the occasional officer getting immediate clearance to pass, while the rest of the early working birds had to wait for the say so every few minutes. It was the weekend, so there wasn’t as much backup as there could’ve been. And for all the people knew, it was just the occasional accident that was keeping them locked in place while winter was slowly caking their tires into the concrete. Either way it was a long stay for everyone.
Frank was almost one of them, but he had the privilege of being a detective.
It was early in the morning, around four, when he got the phone call. It took two calls to get him up and about, just to answer it, but only about five minutes to get out the door. It wasn’t a pretty sight, with him having a fun night of riding the white stallion and drinking like his name was Andre. The local bar, Yorktown Shire, was closing so he wanted to have one last good memory with it. Instead, he just woke up alone with a scorching headache. Once the phone call woke him up though, he was more awake than he should’ve been. Hangovers usually kick you in the ass, and feel like the flu, until at least you take half a bottle of Acetaminophen and a few shots of strong espresso. It was how his father did it, and it was how he did it.
He answered the phone, just as the headache was at it’s peak until he heard his Chief Officer say the word, “Murder.” Sending his head right back to where it was when he was running the sting operation, and at his highest working capacity. He quickly grabbed his khakis, dress shirt, and anything else that would make him look more normal than he was feeling. As he finished up grabbing his Colt and badge, he walked out the door keys in hand, not even bothering to make up his hair with gel, or shave the grizzly beard he was slowly creating over the nights of boozing out and flaunting his detective skills to the girl’s panties.
It never seemed to work.
Frank drove down the interstate, running along the right shoulder and blaring his sirens to get past, right to the road block, and then turned up back onto the asphalt with the mixtape of Iron Maiden still blaring under the bumpiness that followed. Over his past decade or so of working under the title of ‘detective’ he had only worked on two other murder cases while completely hungover, and both were solved within two weeks. The rest were all done just as perfectly, except for his black sheep case of the career, the Ulysses Family Murder. It was during his second year, and was never solved, with the only clue they had leading them to a man who had been in a coma the day of the murder. He was feeling the same transparent and deadly vibes wafting off of this one as he drove closer up the road.
Only a minute on the road brought him to the crime scene, being noticed by him, only under a minute of yawning and trying to grasp reality once again. About three or four other cars were already there, resting on the gravel right before the parking lot, pointing right at the huge busted window already covered in caution tape. Tables were set up, but no evidence was collected yet. They still had more work to be done. Must’ve been why they called the guy fresh off the whiskey boat.
The Chief was sitting on the edge of the first line of police, and waved Frank down. He pulled the Buick up into the gravel, right next to a standard cruiser, and shifted the car into park before going dark, shutting off the Iron Maiden, and sending him back into the fabric of his seat to take a quick breath. Another sip of coffee, and he started sitting back up. It did nothing, and he fell back, just giving the place of interest another look before exiting into the snow and running the usual diagnostic he was always called down for. The huge sign was still lit up, with the last word the only thing being out, and read, SHARON’S FAMILY DINER.
The lack of a snappy line underneath surprised him.
Frank picked up the Peet’s to-go cup from his cup holder, and opened up the door, already getting hit by the cold air, feeling it pierce his trench coat pretty quick. It helped him wake up, but continued his feeling of feeling shitty.
By the time his door was closed, an officer was already running over to him. In his head, Frank was ready to drop the motherfucker like a bag of rocks, but he had no energy to treat the rookie a lesson that you don’t mess with a tired detective, or else you’re dick is his. He recognized him as Jacob Hopkins. He came from Boston, so it almost made sense, but it still wasn’t right.
“Detective Frank Valarie?” He asked.
He took a sip of his coffee and responded, “Walk the fuck away sunny, I talk to the chief first to get briefed. Not you.” His feet kept walking out of the rocks and onto the more solid parking lot, while it held only three cars. Two were in the back next to the dumpsters, and the other one was parked gently, parallel to the others only a few spots away.
“I was told to brief you by the Chief himself detective.” Jacob responded.
“Well I’m glad to tell you that you are free of those duties as of now.” Frank replied, taking another hot sip of pure black espresso. Jacob continued on his trail while he crossed under the tape with his eyes set on the Chief of Police, Oscar Pollock, while he debriefed a few forensic specialists. They had begun dusting around the inside for anything that could lead to a perpetrator. Their only clue at the moment had been a dead cook, going by the name of Ben Grossman, with a .347 lodged in between both of his lungs. No shell, no anything. They had dusted for fingerprints around the door handles, and there wasn’t anything. Not even residue gunpowder from the revolver it was fired from.
“Hey chief.” Frank said.
He turned his head slightly, pushing the snow off of his shoulders and making him smile a bit. “Frank, good thing you’re here. Did my officer debrief you?”
Frank turned to look at him while he waited patiently behind, in proper form it seemed, to get his ass whooped at least for being too damn pointed during a crime scene. “No sir, I didn’t give him the satisfaction sadly.” He said briefly smiling under tired eyes.
“Dammit Frank, this is time sensitive and you sure as hell know that.” The chief’s small belly jiggled as he said it.
“Sorry sir, you know my internal police policy.”
The chief laughed and replied, “Is it to be a huge pain in my ass? Because damn, if so, you need a promotion boy.” The chief was only about a decade older physically, and three decades mentally, older than Frank. His appearance showed it completely, with time hitting him in the face like a hammer. Even his thin hair was almost outdoing the unkempt rug on Frank’s head.
“Just tell me what’s up Oscar.”
There was a small moment of silence where all could be heard was Oscar’s sighs, and the work happening the background of their little debacle right in the middle of the middle ground between civilization and a monument of the terrible things that people could do.
“Alright. Hopkins?”
The officer ran up around Frank, sending a wave off seething drunken paranoia into the air around him, while he got ready to speak. It was mostly the hangover, and another part Frank just hating having to talk to the other people in the department that thought they were hot shit for being top of their class at the academy. Something that Hopkins was notorious for. “As of last night, at approximately zero hundred hours, one man was shot dead in the kitchen of Sharon’s Family Diner while two others were taken to an unknown location. Cameras around the diner caught no sign of his face, but did give us a good clue on the vehicle he was driving as he parked at it right outside during his initial attack. The only camera that seemed to work was the one on the outside, but even those eventually went out. The two missing are a Vance Adams and a Stuart Moffet. Their—”
“Wait, the lawyer?”
“Yes sir detective, do you know him?” Hopkins asked. Frank turned to see the Chief was in a conversation with another officer, and said, “A little bit. He helped defend my brother during a vandalism charge when he spray painted the huge picture of Lenin on the water tower. But continue officer.” He rubbed his eyes while the officer continued, and continued washing out everything terrible with espresso.
He did. “Their families have been notified, and we have an APB out for both of them, as well as for a beige Cadillac with the license plate 787-HAD. Citizens will be notified soon to be on the lookout, but as of now, we have no leads in this except for the type of bullet used to kill a Mr. Bob Grossman. It was seen to be a .347 round, possibly military issued.”
“Any shell or residue?” Frank asked.
Hopkins raised his shoulders, “Not that I know of detective. We have found that the man involved may have passed the town of Wyattville however, and we have an officer down there checking out our lead.”
“Good. Um, why don’t you get a lead on the last few people Stuart Moffet may have defended. Track his last few locations if you can, and do the same for Vance Adams. Get a warrant for their houses and get into their vehicles to see if we can get anything. More likely than not, this is a matter of personal relations from one of them to this person. It isn’t anything random, this seems more lovey dovey than some random kidnapping. Try and round up Officers Anders and Fry if you can, they’re experts at this kind of shit. Get back to me when you’re making progress, you copy?”
“Copy Detective.” Hopkins said while already making his way towards the swarm of officers sitting around the evidence table, going over all they could.
Frank jut sighed, and finished his coffee while walking up the steps inside the hole where two giant doors used to be, crunching the glass and letting his breath lead the way for him. The forensic specialists were already inside, dusting for fingerprints along the jukebox, and around the counters for anything. A few were already outside molding the ground for tire tracks, trying to double back on some tire purchases maybe. Frank knew it wouldn’t get them anywhere for maybe two weeks, and by then, they would’ve already found them either sitting in a ditch with their blue hands tied behind their back, or they would be in a house covered in torn newspapers and dirty clothes. It didn’t take a genius to know that it would only be an example of something they did, to make it seem like they were getting somewhere. Any episode of Columbo or just something from those Thomas Harris books could’ve told you the same thing.
The cop force to Frank, almost seemed like a joke. Especially in Winona, the smallest of small towns he knew of. It was where he grew up too, so there wasn’t exactly anything big to compare it to, so he knew it wasn’t something giant or significant to the country. If it was out of the loop, and completely washed out of the states, nothing would’ve changed. Their force consisted of maybe a dozen officers, from uniformed to highway patrol; there was Chief Oscar, the king of the building; two detectives, including Frank Valarie himself; the Sheriff Hank Warden, who was only around maybe half the week; and then there was the handful of forensic specialists. That was the whole team to Frank, even if there were more, he just never saw them. Nothing happened in Winona, so it just didn’t seem worth it. Their evidence room and gun lockers were the only two rooms that had strong padlocks to keep them secure, and that was about it.
Frank never trusted his gun to be there anyways, either of them.
He took a whiff of the freshly washed uniforms of everyone inside, under the aroma of snow and the Christmas season, and walked over the glass into his next pile of paperwork.
Sharon’s Family Diner; 12:15a.m.; December 12th, 1988
The bell rang to the front door, just as Stuart took another large sip to his bean water. It was loud and sharp, almost piercing his ears like knives. It was probably the first time he had ever heard it from a position besides underneath it. He didn’t give the new customer the light of day, and instead went back to acting dramatic and drinking away his stress without the sweet embrace of Whiskey to compliment it. It didn’t take enough time for it take his attention away though, as he made sure that the customer wasn’t somebody coming in to talk business with him. A lot of his coworkers usually brought it upon themselves to do that sort of thing at his alone, ringing the doorbell at around midnight, and shoving a stack of filled manila folders in his face. But when he looked up, he could automatically tell it wasn’t one of his fellow law men. In fact, he didn’t even look like somebody from Minnesota.
His back was hunched, with his face completely covered by a solid black hoodie. Bleached jeans, torn up sneakers, it was the whole ideal of a terrible teenager in the movies. He almost looked like one of the bullies from Stand By Me. Probably more Keifer Sutherland, except he wasn’t sporting a switchblade. As far as he could tell. The look of death was there. Stuart couldn’t even see his eyes, but he didn’t like the way he was looking at everything. A quick glance that someone would give to the menu, lasted about five minutes for him, but without movement. His head didn’t scan, it stayed still, locked on one thing.
He took another sip of coffee and kept watching, as Vance walked out of the kitchen.
There was still that friendly voice from him, but it slowly left, “Hello sir, would you like a counter or booth seat?”
No answer.
“Sir?” The man just stay still staring into his soul. Stuart started feeling worried, and began undoing his briefcase beside him, as quietly as possible. He had a .347 in there, for cases just like this. Many people liked to hassle lawyers in deadly ways, so it always seemed safe. He had never used it in his years of working the pen, but things change, he thought to himself. The man continued staying still, just like a statue. Not a shift from breathing.
“Uh, sir are you okay? Do you need me to call a doctor?” Vance asked one more time, and still just silence. They shot each other a glance, and the the briefcase came undone right next to Stuart. There was a click, and the light hit the barrel of the revolver. Vance gave him a look of confusion, and terror, and just everything in between. The grip was in his hand now, and he slid it out, the barrel dragging across the recent scandal he had to death with over a man cutting another man’s hedges. The bullets were shaking slowly, and Stuart’s eyes didn’t leave the man once.
“I’ll take a booth.”
He finally spoke, and both men still stayed quiet for a second until Vance said, “Um, yeah, yeah, right this way.” His voice was shaking along with his hands. It was surprisingly to be honest. Vance had been the starting linebacker for the Winona Senior High School, playing the championships and everything. He was a beefy guy, sitting at 6ft 2in and 250 pounds. The man was a god, and a man in a hoodie made him shake like a chihuahua.
Stuart let the revolver fall back down onto the surface of his briefcase, covering up the manila folders and numerous amounts of evidence he’d picked up from the courthouse earlier that afternoon. His eyes stayed wide open, and stuck on the back of the man’s head.
Vance seated him at the table on the other side of the door, with the back of the hood shooting him right in the face. After filling a coffee cup for him, Vance shakingly said, “Just call when you’re ready to order sir.”
Another glance was shot between the two men, and he walked back to the kitchen door to talk to Bob, and maybe tell him to be cautious. That’s sure as hell what Stuart would’ve done. The gun’s safety clicked back on, and the case stayed open next to him, right under the stack of coffee creamer cups.
Over the years of working the court room, seeing the mismatched jury, and just dealing with straight up idiots in cases that he never would’ve chosen if given the choice, he always had a sixth sense towards people that were up to no good. Ever since he was a kid he had been able to tell the good eggs from the bad eggs, whether it was metaphorical or legit. His first case back in the late 70s put that little sense into motion when he was able to find out that the lawyer that he was going against, didn’t seem right. Mentally at least. About a week into the case, he was arrested for possession of child pornography. It won Stuart the case, and helped him know that he wasn’t entirely crazy. And when that bell rang, he got the same vibe. Not the child porn vibe, but the vibe that he who entered, wasn’t a good man. The same feeling that all of his worst clients had surrounding them when he had to sit next to them at a small wooden table in front of a big man with a small hammer.
A man in his payment would be smelling like a rotten fish.
This man had the scent of a garbage dump, wafting off rotting fabric and years worth of wasted food. There was no solace for what this man could’ve been mentally or physically. There was something completely wrong with him. Stuart could almost taste the blood of somebody that that man had killed in cold blood. Maybe it was a man that had slept with his wife, so he slit his throat while he was at work, and left like another mailman that was working on the same floor that night. Maybe he had just killed a pitbull for mauling his own little buddy. But blood stank. And it was coming from him.
Stuart wasn’t even touching the coffee anymore, he couldn’t taste anything but copper. That and the remains of the cigarette he hadn’t puffed in almost five minutes.
And then he quietly rose from his seat, and stood straight ahead. Stuart’s hand immediately went running for the open case, but he stopped right as it was hovering above like a hummingbird. No noise, and just waiting for the right moment in case something was up. The .347 was his bible in the hands of a righteous man going against a demon from hell.
Slowly, the man walked out from the booth, his sneakers rubbing into the linoleum floor, almost sounding wet. Still no movement, other than his legs. They barely walked like actual legs, but they were trying the best that they could. A wobble took over every half step, and never seemed to recover. Nothing seemed to remotely work, but they kept moving with his back straight up and his head held high. The urge to grab the revolver was growing stronger by the minute.
But then he stopped. Right in front of the jukebox machine, sitting next to the spinning pie trolley, he stopped dead in his tracks.
For the first time, Stuart’s heart finally started beating faster. Keeping calm was one of his fortes, even if he did get overly stressed. He was always able to keep a clear head, and keep his heart as still as possible. As normal as it should be. But something about him was worse.
The sound of a quarter jingling in the machine filled the air, just after the sound of his sneakers. Pure dead silence would follow afterwords. His hand exited his pocket, making Stuart get more ready than ever. His fingers twitched, sweat was beading down his palm, he was as ready as the next Sheriff about to get in a mexican standoff.
And as the smoke cleared, “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” by Starship started playing over the small speakers spread out around the jukebox. The man stayed still while it played, and just let the lyrics run while acting like his favorite sculpture.
And then he finally turned around, giving a full view of the man in the mirror.
Over the years, you see people you can’t ever forget. At least that was the bullshit metaphor Stuart liked to tell himself to make anything he said sound some what inspirational, but it would just come out snarky and very asshole like. It helped him seem like he was doing more than he was, or maybe it was so he could make his first wedding sound even more intense than it had actually been, so that the divorce wouldn’t have made people seem sorry for him, because he was okay with the memory. But that was the case when he saw that man. Not just because he looked normal, but because he looked mad. Not angry, but the kind of mad you associate people in an asylum to be.
That was when Stuart finally grabbed the gun, and the blue lights turned on outside.
Winona Police Crime Scene; 8:51 a.m.; December 12th, 1988
The first two hours were nothing for Frank.
As the forensic specialists were finishing up, doing the job he usually did as his title actually implied, he just sat on the small jutting ledge of the window on the inside of the diner, and smoked a cigarette. It always made him a little upset that he never exactly did anything on the scene. When he thought about it, working the actual crime scene and gathering evidence was the one thing he was super excited for back in 76, when he was first trying out in the academy to even get on the force. And yet his position, he barely did anything. He was more of a ‘field detective’, whatever the fuck that means, according to the Chief. So he just got to sit back and relax. It was a relaxing session that was always resulting in him getting pissed that he couldn’t do anything but listen to Peter Gabriel and Izzy Pop on the radio they had up in the evidence area of the scene, and drink, and smoke like a stack. The snow sure didn’t help set the stage for his cigarette to perform it’s little show, but it sure didn’t mind doing it anyway.
At around half past eight, he just started working anyways. The inside was almost entirely picked clean, except for the back freezer, a place that was locked shut and they were currently welding open using extreme measures, and the small area by the cars as the warrants still hadn’t come through yet. At the time, only the warrant for Vance Adams’ place had come through, but it was picked clean by he himself. The man lived light, and there wasn’t anything there, besides papers from school and his previous life as a star football player, and a few Burt Reynolds movies on VHS stacked next to his TV. The cops had started fanning out across the fields surrounding the place, with about half a dozen chasing the lead given by the woman working at the gas station along the I-90, right next to Wyattville, that had seen him head up about half a mile before circling back and going toward the Holland Family Ranch about a mile inland, through some of the farms and dirt roads that led to nowhere but there. None had reached there yet, as it sat about an hour outside of town, but they had been driving for some type, so word should’ve got back soon. Frank wasn’t listening in on that like Hopkins, but he was waiting to get something so that he could actually go out and possibly do some actual police work that didn’t involve having his thumb up his ass.
He was at his last Red Apple cigarette, when his walkie went off, coming from one of the officers out at the ranch. It scratched from it’s years of hard liquor and espresso abuse, but came out clear, with a young rookie stating, “This is Officer Jameson, coming from the Holland Ranch, does anyone copy? Over.”
Frank spat back, “This is Detective Frank Valarie, I hear you loud and clear. Over.”
The voice chuckled and replied, “We could really use a detective over here actually Frank, over.”
“Yeah well I’d love to be there doing something, than being here doing nothing. Now what is it you need officer? Over.” Frank jokingly replied, lighting the last candlestick in his box of paper.
“Just checking in is all. We’ve got a single lead coming from the father of the family, a Richard Holland, who saw the car we saw in the footage, and said it headed off further into the woods. We have a few officers driving out along the tracks, but nothing specifically. We’re running dry here as of now. Over.”
Frank sighed, and threw ash to the wind, “Damn, well keep us posted. If the tracks lead to the forest, or if they lead to a damn strip club off in the mountains, I wanna know officer. Over.”
“Sure thing. Over and out detective.”
The static was followed by another exhale of smoke, and exhale of disappointment from Frank. He just needed to do something. Just one thing that could make his job at least sort of interesting. It had been over a decade, and he had only fired his gun twice in the line of duty. That Magnum P.I. shit was all he asked for at this point in his career, just so that he didn’t become exactly like his old man in the force. A drunk that would neglect his kids and occasionally cheat on his wife with one of the jury members prosecuting a man that had killed maybe a dozen people using a strand of rope. He could feel that life slowly washing in like a black wave of just pure and utter shitty thoughts.
Even though, deep down, he knew it wouldn’t do anything. His mind would still be that same cluttered night stand drawer, full of baseball cards and empty lighters.
He took another sip from the espresso that Hopkins had given him. It wasn’t as strong, but it sure as hell helped with the barrage of snow still coming down, and almost completely ruining the tire tracks running out from the place. They had luckily already gotten the Polaroids down, and loaded them up, before the first wave of crystal rain hit.
“Hey Frank!”
He turned his head to the voice, and saw the Chief walking his way while waving him down, holding a folder in one hand and a coffee in the other. Just like every other person there.
“What’s up Oscar? Am I finally on duty?”
The small man laughed, making his entire body jiggle, and he just gave him the same look a dad would when his son finally said a good dad joke. Frank couldn’t help but get caught up in the same fit of laughter, until Oscar was finally over next to him, standing in the small spot where there was no snow thanks to the jutting roof above it.
“Yes my good friend. We may have a good lead, and you are finally on the case.” He replied, having the folder out right in front of him.
“Well I mean I’ve technically been on the case since about six this morning, you’re just finally letting me do the job that I could’ve started right then and there.”
Oscar pulled it back, “Don’t get snarky with me Franky boy. I could easily hand this over to Detective Blake if it comes to that.”
The sarcastic laugh from Frank echoed across the flat plains surrounding them. “You’d rather assign Blake the Flake, then me, over a joke Oscar?”
He smiled, “If it meant fucking you over, sure pal.”
They both glared silently before both bursting out in laughter. “Just give me the damn folder Chief.” He let it hang out in the air, before Frank grabbed it and dropped the cigarette into the snow below him, using the free hand to start shifting through the few pages of notes.
“We have a very, very, good reason to believe that this was committed by a Mr. Thomas Leary.”
Frank continued flipping and listening. He was getting the whole story just from reading the first page, and understanding what he was saying.
“He was a client of Stuart’s, being defended by him for a case of arson when he lit his ex-wife’s car on fire. Pretty good right, I would’ve personally gone for the garage entirely.”
Frank laughed, and replied, “Of course.”
“Well, the thing is, Stuart apparently kind of was completely out of helping him in the case, and basically sabotaged him in the long run. In his transcript with Leary, he said that his vibe made him very untrustworthy. Something about his feeling around him. Anyways, Leary ended up getting about five years for the situation, and that was that for awhile. He stayed over at the Winona Penitentiary, until he was released last week on good behavior.”
Frank looked up from the file and asked, “And the car?”
“You know that place off on Sarnia street, Zack and Levi’s Used Car Lot?” Oscar asked him, taking a sip of his hazelnut coffee.
Frank nodded.
“Well, apparently on the tenth, Leary stopped buy. He stayed for a little bit, browsing, but ended up just buying a beige Cadillac.” Oscar ended his little story with a big wide smile, connecting both ears.
At that time, Frank had just finished reading the transcript to the court meeting with the two men in the room at the same time. It was during the spring back in ’85, when everything was going fine for both of them. Stuart being a pretty decent lawyer, making huge bank throughout the year, and Leary had just become the manager of his own bank over in western Winona, near the more busy district. The case ran smoothly until the small intermission, when the plantiff started winning by the long shot. Bringing out evidence that no one had scene at all yet, including security footage of the exact incident happening at her car, and a long history of recorded threats that he had made towards her. It was almost a miracle that she made it out alive, and the he was losing, or it would’ve just made things much much worse for her. Each thing he said was just more spiteful and spit filled then most things Frank would say on a normal basis.
“We have a warrant for his place yet?” Frank asked.
“No yet, but I sent out a request to get signed. We should have a response soon, Hopkins is waiting for a response.” Oscar replied, he took another sip of his bean water.
“Good. Do we have any places that he was last seen at? A shooting range maybe, clothes store, hospitals?”
“Zip, nada. As of now, we’ve only got one confirmed sighting, which was the car lot. We’re looking into it more now.” He replied.
“And what do you need old Detective Valarie for old buddy?” He asked him. Oscar chuckled and replied, “We need someone to head over to his brother’s house. Over near the university, on your way to the lot. The info is in the folder, but you need to head over soon, he goes over to work at about noon, according to his boss.”
Frank shut the folder closed, sending a few papers out willy nilly, but they stayed contained in the tan confines of the folder in his hands. The cold kept his hands a bit stiff, but the hair on his hands helped a little bit with it, along with the huge trench coat he had wrapped around his shoulders.
“I’ll just head over now.” Frank sighed out. It was refreshing to finally work, but the chances of it being a dead end where very high.
As their small conversation had ended, the padlock to the freezer was clinking to the ground and letting the artificial cold out into the open of the already freezing air. Only two officers were on the scene of the huge titanium door finally being able to come open. The conversations had already ran about the place, on why the freezer was locked during everything that happened. The diner was still open, they hadn’t closed up, so it should’ve been opened. The officers Aaron and Xavier Creed, brothers off from Stockton, had been joking about it the whole time while using the blow torch to their advantage. Their protective gear kind of blocked off the jokes from everyone else, bu they understood it themselves. Aaron was the first to open up the walk-in freezer, while Xavier was just moving the torch out of the way so they could walk in.
The fluorescent lights shot on, shaking slightly, and coming in and out from the bad wattage of the place.
And as they all came on, and the rows of vegetables and fruits stacking along the side of the room, with the meat sitting at the bottom of every shelf, sending a rotting smell into the air, hitting Aaron like a truck. He jumped back quickly, already gagging from the smell.
“Jesus fucking Christ! It smells like a dumpster fire in there.” He coughed out.
Xavier took a peek in, cutting into the spot that Aaron had backed out from, and caught eye of something at the very back. It was larger than any food, and almost looked like it was moving. The first thing that hit him was something from Night Shift, his wife’s favorite book, and the thought that it was some giant ass rat that had been burrowing in the food.
But it wasn’t that.
“Aaron, go get the Chief. Now!” He yelled back. Still gagging, he turned back to him and coughed out, “Why?”
“There’s a fucking guy in that freezer, that’s what! Now move your ass!”
No more questions were asked, and he hauled it back through the kitchen yelling for the chief, like every responsible police officer should do when they get a huge lead in a case apparently. Xavier quickly started moving, getting help from the other officers on moving on to the man sitting under his coat in the freezer. Two sat guard, while Xavier and another officer moved in on his position, waiting for the chief, before they even did anything.
Sharon’s Family Diner; 12:26 a.m.; December 12th, 1988
The .347 was sitting in Stuart’s hand comfortably, when the man first looked at him. It was cold to say the least, sitting in his noninsulated briefcase for over half a decade, without ever being used, and with the hilt still not even being padded, it was like touching a flagpole at dawn. He could feel his nerves slowly building up to react just as crazily as his heart was at the moment. But he stayed calm, and had it staying in his palm, until something happened.
That something didn’t come from him.
The man however, he saw for only one second beforehand, before everything went to shit. It didn’t take much for Stuart to recognize him as an old client. His receding hairline, the hunched back, and the crooked ass legs. They all were from Thomas Leary. A man that was so high on meth that he accidentally lit his wife’s car on fire, and only got off with arson charges. Stuart had him up in the list of clients that felt ‘off’ and this guy was one of the worst ones he ever had. In a way though, he still felt bad for the trial. Much of the evidence was last minute, because he had hired another detective to go in and help him, and bribed many people for more and more evidence against the guy, due to his background. He beat his wife on the regular, and was a run of the mill cunt, according to the journalist covering the case, Justin Carpenter of Winona.
He had just gotten out, so it made sense. That man was there for him. He never got there, but he was there for Stuart. Maybe to put a bullet in his skull, or just to have a friendly chat, and then shank him in the gullet with one of the pieces of silverware. Either way it wasn’t going to end well, especially if he knew what he had done. It wasn’t right legally, but it was morally right, and Stuart stuck to that moral high ground despite what anybody would say to him.
Leary stayed still, and stared at him, smiling like the joker, with his new prison yellow teeth. He remembered sitting next to him that entire case, and remembering that his teeth only had a slight tan color to them from the drugs. Not anything too much, overall to be honest, they seemed to be dentist approved. It almost looked like he actually tried to make his teeth unworthy of looking into a mirror. Or, unworthy of looking at the lawyer he trusted greatly.
That was a huge mistake on his part.
“Stuart fucking Moffet.” He gritted out.
Stuart stayed still, waiting for a reason to pull out the revolver, and let out all six shots into his chest cavity. His eyes stuck on the one hand of his still in the hoodie, while his nose was more fancied with the smell of a pool. Chlorine maybe. He never knew the smell, just that it meant his heart wasn’t pumping normal, adrenaline was running, and that Leary was probably holding a small pawn shop pistol in the pouch to his dollar store sweatshirt.
Stuart was about to respond, until he heard a loud click, and a loud bright blue light came shining in through every single window. There were no words of the police outside, asking those inside to please step outside with their hands raised. There was no single bit of the atmosphere showing through the lights to let them know that somebody was just shining a dozen flashlights at them. It was only blue. Stuart was finally gripping the revolver up near his chest now, but it wasn’t mentally aimed at Leary anymore. And for Leary, his dinky .22 pistol was hanging by his side, but his eyes stayed on the outside, trying to just decipher what was happening.
“Is this part of your make believe revenge story Leary?” Stuart asked.
He stayed quiet, jaw open, and eyes glued to the sight.
Vance came running out, his football skills coming to good use, with Bob loosely following him, with a dirty apron and hairnet still showing his occupation. Both of them still staring just as intently as the other two.
“What the hell is going on?” Bob asked. His voice was still groggily from the grill smoke and the cancer stick that he had been inhaling only a few minutes previously.
“I. . . I don’t know.” Stuart whispered out.
Under the breath of everybody’s paranoia, the next song started playing on the jukebox. It was “Your Love” by The Outfield, and it seemed more fitting than anything. Nobody in the room noticed all of that though, under the noise of the humming. The light had it’s own little soundtrack it seemed, and it was getting a little louder by the second. Stuart’s grip tightened, as it continued overpowering the music.
“Somebody should go out!” Vance yelled out. Stuart looked over, and his face looked even more terrified than a half hour previously. But no one could make that quarterback want to go through that door.
“Bull-fucking-shit we’re going out! This could be a drug raid, or who even knows, it could be an alien invasion! You seen them Spielberg movies?” Leary yelled back, his gun now hanging just barely. The intent to shoot it was still left in the air for him, wondering if he should unload on Stuart or the close encounter outside.
“Leary, what is this shit!” Stuart yelled.
“How the fuck would I know Moffet!? I didn’t plan this shit.” He yelled back, and then both guns went up. The rise in tension didn’t make that too surprising, but both were shocked at the thought that they still had no clue what to do. Stuart was clear, he knew it was something to do with him. It had to be. A man that had been screwed over by his lawyer, spends five years in prison, and then gets out with vengeance on his mind. And it just so happens that the night he plans to fire his metal shell, something else is going down. No way.
The revolver was pointed right at his throat, for two reasons. To make him shut up for the first time in his life, and to make sure that he didn’t get brain all over the leather. He knew that some unlucky soul, maybe the Creed brothers from the station, would have to clean it up. He thought to himself, the bullet would just go right through the trachea, splintering off through the thyroid cartilage and sternohyiod muscle. Something that will do damage without a doubt.
Leary only thought, I’m gonna send one right behind his mouth.
“Leary, lower the fucking gun!” Stuart yelled. He cocked back, making Leary jump back slightly, sending his feet off balance from the stance. Shoulder length apart Leary, he thought to himself.
“I’ll lower it when the fat lady sings you lying fuck! You ruined my life!” He yelled, the light was getting brighter.
“Screw you, I did the world a favor putting a meth addicted, wife beating, sorry son of a bitch to jail like any normal and thought worthy citizen would do!”
Leary cocked his gun in response, and could feel a tear running down his cheek. Second thoughts were coming back, and he was as quick to suppress them as Stuart was to jump to conclusions about what was happening outside.
“That whore had it coming! And I didn’t deserve five fucking years for it! You were my lawyer, you were supposed to help me!”
The light got brighter.
Vance and Bob sat in the back, watching everything unfold. Their eyes as big as melons, while the light took up the space taken up by white. There mind wasn’t on the two men getting ready to blow each other’s head’s off. It was resting comfortably, watching the color get brighter, and the noise get louder as the music continued playing.
“I did the world a damn favor! Now Leary, so god help me, I will put a three-forty-seven right through your god damn head without another thought if you don’t lower the FUCKING GUN!”
“Eat shit Stuart!” His voice was barely audible.
And then the windows caved in, shattering across the diner, and sending everybody flying back.
Winona Health; Intensive Care; Room 221; 9:05 p.m.; December 12th, 1988
Frank sat outside the room, getting more high on the smells of bleach and sterilized garments, than the cigarette that he was already forced to put out.
The halls weren’t too full, being a very low key day. That was a good thing it seemed, but it still seemed unnatural. He had only seen hospitals mostly in TV shows, with the occasional visit for his family member or for an officer that had been shot down in the line of duty, or just as bad.
This time he was only waiting for probably the only witness, in this quote unquote case. There was nothing to it really. They were going to find Vance and Leary somewhere up in Wisconsin, trying to trade in his beige Cadillac for a small Pontiac Bandit, maybe even just removing the license plate entirely, thinking it will make him more unnoticeable when the headlights hit the back of his little getaway vehicle. And then while he’s cruising all the way down to Green Bay, someone will hear the screams from the trunk.
It always ended up like that, with the exponential amount of paperwork along with it.
The hours of manila folders and recently developed photographs of the crime scene, and then the bullet casing that honestly tells them nothing more than what they had already found out from basic common knowledge.
Frank let his leg shake while he thought about what to have for dinner, when he had run out of finding answers to his one question on the situation. It started lingering almost as soon as they found out it was Stuart that they had found in that freezer. His hair matted and frozen to his bloody forehead, the stiff overcoat, and the empty .347 in his hand.
Why hadn’t Leary killed him, and why was Stuart so scared?
(a burger from the McDonald’s down on the road from that taco joint.)
It hurt to think about it. During the summer of ’84, when he had defended his brother in court, that man was as sharp as a tack, and as crisp as a drink of water straight from the waterfall. All of his suits, pressed and straight as an arrow. His hair was always slicked back. And his eyes, kept that same calm and cool reasoning that Frank liked to think that he had. Just when you saw him, there was a sense of relief that he would be able to help you, that he had it all under control. And he did, that man was probably the best damn lawyer he’d ever had the pleasure of seeing. He reminded him a little bit of that cool cracker from 12 Angry Men, he could never remember names. Was it Henry Ford? He had no clue, only that it was the spitting image of the man sitting in the room, only afterwords. Only if in the movie, the kid really was that killer, and that man felt terrible, and scared. That look behind his eyes was gone, and he was just another victim in a case, that Frank had the god forsaken honor of dealing with. His pen got to fill the boxes, and his coffee got to get cold.
No one else’s.
He stopped shaking his leg when he heard the padded memory foam shoes making their way down the hall, on their way to tell Frank that his only witness would be catatonic for the next five months. It was how one of his cases went, who said it couldn’t happen again.
The nurse walked to him, clipboard in hand. “Are you a. . .” A quick glance to the board. “. . .Detective Frank Valarie?”
He nodded.
“Our patient isn’t currently in the most stable state, his blood pressure is very low, and he is at the moment in a state of septic shock, as well as dealing with a bad case of pneumonia. Even if he was able to talk to you officer, it would be nonsense.” She said.
“How could he have gone into shock?” Frank asked.
“We’re still working this out, but you guys know more than us on the why.” She responded.
“Has he said anything at all yet?”
She shook her head.
“Alright, alright.” Frank said under his breath, while she quietly waited. He wiped sweat from his face and looked back at her. “How has he, well been, just health wise?”
“Well, besides his blood pressure, he has been having a relatively fast heart rate, something very abnormal and being checked on the regular. Those have been the basics, just dealing with pneumonia and shock. Currently, his scar has been flaring up every few hours—”
“Wait, scar?” Frank asked puzzled.
“Across his sternum, we found a very large scar, spanning from the top of his chest to the middle of his abdomen. It was a straight and precise cut from what we could see, and is pretty new.”
“Fuck. Oh, sorry. Could it have happened within the last day possibly?”
She nodded, “The wound was fresh, so sometime within the past few days is most likely the case. But along with that, it’s just your basic pneumonia patient. He should make a full recovery within the next few days.” She said, ending with a smile.
What had happened there? Frank thought to himself. If it had been Leary, it would have been jagged, the man’s hands had a problem of always shaking no matter what. When he saw him, he anticipated that it had maybe been arthritis, but he never seemed to be in pain during such moments. Was that what caused the shock? If it wasn’t Leary, then who was it, or what.
He sighed quietly, and reached for his wallet from the inner jacket pocket. Without looking, he opened it up and took out a small card with his name printed on it in the cheapest font at the Xerox place.
“I’m not gonna be one of those cops that asks you to call nine-one-one, when you want to contact me. As soon as he is able to say a single word, even if it’s just ‘a’ dial me up and I’ll be here in fifteen.” She took the card and stuck it under her clipboard, giving him a small smile that brought out the lack of sleep she was trying to hide.
“It may be some time, but I will make sure to Detective. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am currently behind on my rounds, so I’ll be needing you to leave please.”
With a tip of his hat, and the shake of a hand, he left, while she continued onward, marking down any abnormalities she could find within the patients. The halls were empty, making it easier for Frank to just think and not have to worry about hitting someone along the way, and giving them a second degree burn when his cigarette got stuck in their cheek.
Luckily he was a fanatic, and was too stuck up on the who and why then whether or not he should let the smoke fly above him again, or to go buy some more cancer sticks. He would eventually, but his mind was still working cleanly and it had to stay that way. Having a plaque free brain helped a lot in the early days of a case, especially kidnappings. Those didn’t stump him as much as this one though, as they usually had a pretty simple cause and effect, with a few pretty damn good pieces of evidence to help them get along with it, and finish within maybe the next Monday.
So far in this case he had three things down: Leary was involved, as he had driven down to the diner because he had a hit out for Stuart Moffet, and was getting ready to shoot him up and down; that his supposed getaway vehicle had been spotted a few miles East of the diner, closer to Wyattville; and that Bob Grossman had been shot and killed by a .347, the same type of gun that Stuart had been holding when he was found in his catatonic state. And with all of that, they had no specific proof on where anybody was, who did what, and just plainly what happened in that diner the night before. It was just a big ass game of Clue, but with no charm, and all Frank wanted to do was tie up the others until an answer came out. If it was for a case, roughing them up should be okay.
That’s how it is in baseball, so why not this?
A man in hockey can beat somebody down with bladed shoes, so that they can win a few million dollars, or whatever Canada uses, but a cop can’t bring out the brass knuckles and alcohol so that he can find out where a little girl is getting raped and tortured? It never made sense to him, being able to just sit back like a pedestrian, when that’s not at all what they are. The pedestrians are those that wait behind the caution tape, Frank is on the other side and he has to fix the problem. But, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t cut up his bruises to find anyone. Stuart was the only witness as of then, and he was almost brain dead. No leads, no case, no money, and no conclusion.
What made him go into shock?
Of course it was pneumonia, he thought to himself, but then there was the underlying question of why he was sitting in that freezer, and just how the padlock got seared to the outside while he was inside. Someone kept him there. It wasn’t Leary, because he would’ve just killed him. So who was it?
Frank walked by the front desk, a big lady was doing the New York Times Crossword puzzle, and drinking tea out of a Life is Good mug. He waved, and she stayed looking down.
The door opened into the cold air, with a drizzle of snow coming down and illuminating the dark background of the Minnesota landscape, and the small town that sat as the biggest little town on this side of the Mississippi River, which could only be the middle.
Could Leary have just gotten cold feet, and gone to kidnapping instead?
No that couldn’t be the case, Frank thought, that man was maniacal. He’d beat his wife and be able to eat a bowl of cereal within ten minutes, killing wasn’t too bad for him. He was just crazy enough to do it.
Frank’s feet hit the snow softly, and like a quiet memory, he walked on.
His thoughts ran like the man driving the beige Cadillac. The man everybody thought was Leary.
The snow went on, and Frank puffed his cigarette, thinking of one last thing.
Who locked Stuart in the freezer?
Sharon’s Family Diner; 1:04 a.m.; December 12th, 1988
Stuart couldn’t do anything anymore. He felt as useless as ever.
Just sitting in the freezer, doing nothing, the thought slowly crept up through his head, to let him know that nothing would be okay. No cops were going to get in there for a few hours, and by then, he’d probably be dead, or at least have a severe case of pneumonia. His coat may have been heavy, but it was also soaking wet. The blood made sure to seep itself deep enough into the wool, so that it would be as useful as a raw frozen pizza. It was that heavy crimson color that made it worse though.
I don’t want to remember, I don’t want to remember. Please don’t make me remember.
Tears started slowly streaming down his face, while the noises were finally coming to a standstill outside the steel box that he was stuck in. They lingered in the air, bouncing off the insulated walls full of meats and leftover fries, and shot into his ear. One after the other after the other after the other.
Constant, constant, constant.
It’s not real, it’s not real.
Stuart tried to think about something else, anything else, besides his death or the events leading to Bob’s death, and whatever happened with Leary, and Vance.
Everything happened faster than anything he’d seen. One second he was raising a gun at an old client, the next thing he knew, there was a man dead and he had been shoved in a freezer. He thought he was mad. Maybe all those years of living in Wyattville have finally made me go mentally insane, he thought to himself. Maybe there was no blue light, maybe Leary was just coming to make amends, and Stuart was the only one with a gun out. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t staring at the walls of his coffin. That the metal paneling wasn’t his last sight in this world.
Only, he knew it had to be.
Deep down, he knew that he was in his coffin, staring into the eyes of God himself, while he waited with a carton of Red Apple cigarettes and the lighter he had been carrying sine he was dropped down in Laos.
He was just in a box. And left with his thoughts, thoughts that would never be confirmed or realized by himself. He’d be dead before anything was found out from this. If it ever did. There’d be a case, without a doubt, and maybe he’d meet up with that Detective Frank Valarie, posthumously. His own corpse would be wrapped in cellophane, sitting on a cold aluminum table, while his chest cavity was ripped apart with the coroners trying to find the exact reason that he died from just stress and fear. They could never know, but he could give a clear picture. Maybe the .347 that was stuck in his hand would give them some clue, or the body of Bob Grossman outside on the linoleum floors would help, or maybe just even the disappearances of a Vance Adams and Thomas Leary.
And if he didn’t die, he’d be the one getting arrested.
No time to explain his self, there would just be nobody else to look at. He had the gun used, as the man who shot Bob looked to be sporting the same kind of Python, and there was history between him and Leary. He was at the scene of the crime, they probably have footage of him holding his gun at Leary. It was a done deal. After years of working that kind of shit, he knew it would be as open and as shut as the doors to the diner.
The cold started biting into Stuart’s shoulders and face. He was starting to go numb.
Thinking was just a solace at that point, it wouldn’t get him anywhere.
But while he wallowed in the blood of a friend, and waited for the cruel hand of fat chance to take him away, he thought about the man that came into the diner and took them. And the two things he knew for sure at the time.
Leary wasn’t involved in it.
And that those two might never be seen again.
