Gumshoe continues

It's like I didn't forget about this.  Sorry for the delay.  It's been busy.
http://desmoinesgumshoe.blogspot.com/

I am not a number. I am a free man.

I move that we stop calling grades in law school "grades".  It's a term that is technically correct, but what is important about them--their essence--is how they translate into numbers.  And as such we should just call them that--"numbers".  Not to sound synical or bitter, because I'm actually happy with my numbers. 

It's just that now we've entered the beginning of the On Campus Interview ("OCI") part of the law school process.  For those not familiar, the OCI is where law firms come on campus and interview students (mostly 2L's) and hire them for the following summer.  The students and the firms use that summer to sort of get a feel for each other and if both sides feel like it's a match, they are in a good position for employment after the third year of law school.  Both sides win.  But at the beginning of the process (right now for me), it is very daunting.  And it feels like one of the biggest factors in getting an interview with any firm is your numbers--your GPA, class rank, and whether you're in the top 10%, 20%, 25%, or what-have-you-%.  And it's hard to not think that a lot of the grading process is there to put people in order of most likely to be hired to least likely. 

Maybe that's a synical way to think of things, but that's how it feels sometimes.  But there is more to me than my numbers.  I hope I can make that pretty clear from my resume and cover letter.  We'll see, I guess. 

The sad truth of it is that I should get used to it.  If I get hired to a firm, I will likely have to account for my time through billable hours, which will go a long way in determining whether I get a bonus, whether I'm on track to become a partner, and probably other things that I'm not thinking about at the moment.  And if I don't go the firm route, there's still caseload requirements and other numbers that account for your productivity and success in cases.  So, it's not like this is a law firm "problem".

What's going to be key for me is not letting the numbers mean more than they should. 

****

Speaking of numbers, can we talk about what sabermetrics has done to the game of softball? 

I play in a softball league on Tuesday nights.  This league is sponsored by the Bar Association, so it's played mostly be attorneys and folks who work in the legal field.  Many of these players are young and like sports.  In other words, young people who work in an industry that closely examines rules and procedures and figure out the most advantageous way to work within those rules and proceudures.  Introduce sabermetrics and its appreciation of the value of a walk and you have chaos.  People saying things like, "Walks as good as a hit."  I mean, yes, that's true, but a walk isn't as fun as a hit.  And it's way less sporting when you're playing people who aren't professional ballplayers. 

Look, I'm a por-sabermetrics guy.  I love me some WAR and ERA+, and the many other numbers they've come up with to measure the effectiveness of professional baseball players.  But, seriously, walks have no place in a recreational game of softball.  Get up there and swing people.

Unless they're really bad pitches...which happens, I guess. 

****

I've continued posting the gumshoe stories at this blog.  I'm up through what was part X.  Thanks if you have been re-reading these, or reading them for the first time.  I really do appreciate it.
****

Strikes and Gutters man.

It has been a while since I've given a substantive update, but honestly there's probably not a lot to catch you up on. 
Gumshoe #3 and #4 are both up at the new blog.  The editing of the old story is going pretty well.  I'm not changing much of the story, just some things I find that don't quite fit or don't work.  Mostly, I'm adding material now that I know exactly where I'm heading.  I really liked the way I did it the first time, because at some points I would just decide to go a different way and make a sudden change.  That kept it interesting for me, but it may have come at the price of not being as coherent and understandable as I would've hoped for.  Anyway, I think I'm fixing a lot of that now.  AND, I'm working on the second story now.  I'm writing it up in much the same way as I did the first, but without subjecting the reader to the less coherent part.  The second story will likely be smaller than the first, but I'm liking the way it's reading and the story I think I'm telling.  We'll see.
****
I did not make law review, which I am surprised and disappointed by.  I really thought I wrote a great note and I did the best I could with the citations, which are admittedly not my favorite thing in the world.  It turns out it wasn't good enough.  That's been tough to accept. 
This 1L year has been a real test for me in a lot of ways, as I'm sure you could surmise from reading any number of posts here.  My confidence in my ability to write, to think, to learn, to communicate, and to belong all felt as though they were under attack at different points of the year.  Some days I felt certain I knew what I was doing and where I was going, but many more days I felt like I had no idea if I could do what was expected of me.  I worried about keeping my scholarship, of making friends, of not looking like a fool or a gunner, and mostly of failing.  See, for a long time I worked in an office doing stuff I knew I could do--stuff I didn't have to try that hard to stay on top of.  But law school, and being an attorney, it's different.  I think I can do this.  I think I can even do this well.  But, I don't know that for sure.  And every day in law school felt like I had to tell myself that I could do it, even when most days I didn't quite believe that.  By the end I was tired and, while I never questioned whether this is where I want to be, I did wonder if I would be able to get charged up for next year.
But now that the grades are in and this law review test is over, it's done.  The 1L year is completely over.  And while I consider it a positive experience, I'm happy it's over.  I'm ready to start working on the things I came to law school for.  And the first thing on that list is my student certification.*  I talked to the people at school and found out they are sending my materials to the Minnesota Supreme Court to get approval, which I'm hoping happens in 8 days or less (you know to avoid the state shutdown).  My clerkship has been a really interesting time, but one of the biggest plusses it has going for it is the ability to work as a certified student attorney.  Now, that doesn't mean my doubts go away, of course.  I'm not naive enough to think that just because I am called a 2L instead of a 1L means I have settled all the doubts this past year raised and magnified.
But something did change.  I made it through a year of this.  I can do it.  And I think after getting some hands-on experience this summer, I feel like I can do this well.  It's not quite like knowing I can do it, because there's always going to be a challenge to this.  There's always going to be another test in one form or another.  But that's exactly why I'm here. 
My batteries aren't quite recharged and ready for another year, but I know for sure they will be.
I know expressing self-satisfaction on the internet is a dangerous thing and it opens you up to mockery, but I have to say, I'm really proud of myself.  I took on a challenge here and I've given it a really good effort.  And I have done better than I would've guessed (which isn't always better than I expect, oddly enough). 
****
Family.  Ugh.  Father's Day had not been a fun time of year for me since my dad decided to leave my mom a few years back.  Honestly, it's been enough years that I really should be over this, but I am not.  It doesn't help that my dad and I cannot talk about the way things went down.  It seems that part of my agreeing not to be estranged was agreeing that we would act as if nothing happened.  Which is uncomofortable.
And which really hiders our relationship from being anything more than a facade.  Mostly I think it's better than not talking to him, or openly arguing with him.  But more than that, I just wish we could have a good relationship.  It would be nice. 
I remember right after my parents split up, I went to a psychiatrist.  And after Father's Day of that year, I went in for our scheduled appointment and complained about the crappiness between my father and I.  I think I said something about how it seemed like everyone got to have a good relationship and I got this.  And he just asked me what I thought he'd been hearing from the rest of his patients all day. 
Yeah.  Perpective is a nice thing.
****

*Note 1.  For those who might not be familiar, a lot of states, Minnesota included, allow law students who have certain minimum standard grades and credits to work under the supervision of licensed attorneys.  This means the students can appear in front of a court, draft and sign breifs to the court, and such. 

Second Installment of the Gumshoe is up...

And here's the link to prove it.

Gumshoe Blog is up!

That's right, as I mentioned last post, I've got a new blog devoted to the Gumshoe stories. I will continue to post links here and I'll put them on facebook.
The first posts will be the original story that is still available here, BUT with more content--and better grammar and spelling! Can't beat that deal.

Just a couple thoughts....an announcment (that's not terribly exciting) and some pondering

I didn't mean to go so long without posting, but it's been a busy time. But when I've gone this long without posting, you know what that means--mega-post.

All right, first. I joined facebook. I know, I know. Everyone's first reaction is, what does that mean for everything here at wheresthetrashcan? Well, it means nothing, really. I intend to keep blogging, because while I've enjoyed my first few days of facebook, I think it's not going to allow me the comfort to express myself as fully as I've enjoyed here.

And in case you thought joining facebook would mean less blogging, I'm here to say I think it might mean more blogging. In fact, I'm going to start working on a new blog just for my Gumshoe stories. And I'm going to link that blog to facebook (somehow) so it can reach a wider audience (maybe). I will continue to post Gumshoe stories (or possibly just links to the other blog) here.

Immediately, there won't be any new stories, as I am going to work on re-editing the completed story and putting it up on the new blog. I don't think I'll make any big changes, but it seems like a good time to make the story a little stronger and hopefully enjoyable for anyone who might want to read it for a second time.

****

School ended, and I didn't say much about it. This was partly because I didn't want to think about it right after and partly because I didn't know how to sum it all up. Still not sure I've got a handle on what that year meant. But oddly enough, working on law review has helped put the first year in perspective. Obviously, I would've had fits if I tried to do this a year ago. But more than just giving me the tools to do this, I have found myself enjoying it. Well, not at first. At first I was overwhelmed and overmatched. But after taking a breath and looking over the helpful material they gave us again, I developed a plan. I don't know if I'll get on, as it is really competitive, but I have a good feeling. Either way, at least I'm liking what I'm writing.

Staying on the topic of school, I won't get my grades until about halfway through June. At the earliest. In theory, I should be a little irked about this, but in practice, I do not want to think about my grades. I have been thinking about the curve and where I fit in with it for a very long time. Now, it's all out of my hands and while I am curious bout how I did, at this point it's a detached curiousity. I'm sure as the date of their release draws closer, my detachment will leave me, but now I get to enjoy just being done.

Gumshoe Epilogue to Case #1

Yeah, I wasn't sure I was done with case 1 either. I mean, I wrapped up most of the actual case, but there were some issues I wanted to deal with and some things I wanted to set in motion. So. Here is an epilogue. Hope you enjoy.
It had been a week since Andrew Grassley had been aprehended in a cemetary on the outskirts of Des Moines, Iowa. I had gone back to the boring insurance claims work that I'd been working on before an actor named James Troop walked into my office pretending to be someone named Simon Fletterling, and basically careened my life way off it's normal, boring course.
I hadn't seen Trooop since that night. I also hadn't seen Detective Edna Muldoon, who was my former partner and the investigator who officially arrested Andrew Grassley for the murders of Jane Hernandez, Selma Fletterling and Chance Greer. He'd killed them, apparently, because years ago another killer, Aaron Masters, had taken a woman named Edna Portis away from him. Portis wanted to be Grassley's mother and was in the process of adopting him when she was killed. From what I could gather, Grassley blames the loss of his would-be mother on me, because I didn't catch Masters before he could kill her. It's convoluted logic, I tell myself as I sip from my bottle of Millstream Iowa Ale. But I know Grassley has a point. I was supposed to stop Masters and I didn't. Instead I ran away to Chicago and joined a cult. It doesn't speak well for my mental toughness or my professionalism, not to mention the fact that people died while I was trying to get my head together.
A couple times during the past week, I thought about calling Edna or James, but I hadn't really any idea why. I guess I could consider Edna a friend, even with all that had passed between us. It would be awkward to interact with her outside of a case now, but it could happen. James, though. I'd known him for only a couple days. And during those days, we were either fighting for our lives or ducking for cover. It can be a bonding experience, for sure, but part of me felt like it would be odd to try and turn that into a friendship. I tell myself, Grassley would want me to feel guilty. That I should feel good, or at least okay, just to spite him, but it falls on deaf ears.
And that's why I sit alone in the dark drinking the good beer I save for celebrations.
*********************
Something tears my dream from in front of me and replaces it with reality. I blink trying to figure it out for a second, before the phone rings again. I put my hand to my head and try to remember if my phone has always been this shrill or if I have a hangover. The empty six beer sitting at my feet, give me all the evidence I need. I used to be able to put away a six pack without much trouble, but now...
I run my hand through my graying beard and try not to think about the rest of that sentence. But the damned phone shrieks at me again. I get up from my arm chair and make my way over to it and rip it from it's cradle. "What?"
"[Gumshoe]?" It's Edna.
"Yes." I say, ever so cleverly.
"Can you come down here? We're running into a problem with Grassley."
After I throw-up, shower and dress, I'm in the car and at the station. It all takes half an hour, which I find sort of impressive. It's not that rallying from a hangover should be an Olympic sport or anything, but if it were, I'd be world class. Well there's something to be proud of, I suppose.
"You like like shit." Edna says to me as I make my way to her desk.
"Genetics," I say quietly. I took some asprin, but I still feel the dull ache of my head begging for me not to drink like that again.
"So," Edna starts. Before she can continue, though, she's interrupted by a man walking from the interview room. I've never set eyes on him before, but something about him--maybe it's the glasses, or the soft, brown sweater he's wearing, the notepad, perhaps--tells me he's a psychologist. The door next to the one he's just exited opens and the psychologist is joined by another man. This man's holding a briefcase, has an expensive haircut and a suit I would describe as slick. "District Attorney." Edna tells me quietly.
"Insanity?"
"That's the rumor." I watch these two men talking. Right now they're deciding whether to try Grassley in a criminal court or whether to have him committed. The cop in me feels a little insulted. I was the one who followed this guy. I punched him in the crotch. I tackled his ass and brought him down. I take one look at Edna and I know she's thinking the same thing. And that's why she brought me here. We both know the District Attorney likes to have the cops on his side, so sometimes you can pressure him or her by standing there and looking angry. I'm guessing that this case, partially because of Chance's involvement, is something the DMPD brass does not want to have a public trial about. And they've probably already tried the 'look angry' trick.
"So, you have a plan?"
She stands from her desk and we both walk toward the two men. "Excuse me?" Both men look up at her. "What'd you find?"
The psychologist looks at the district attorney, as if to say it's his call. "Detectives," he says to both of us, and I feel a twinge of pride in my stomach at being addressed as a cop again. It goes away quickly, as I remember all of the things that brought me here now. "It's not like he's going to go free. He'll be committed to an institute that's not quite as bad as prison, but it's not the Hilton."
"So, you've decided to forgo a trial?" Edna says calmly.
"It'll save the tax payers a great deal of time and money." He starts to walk away, trying to signal he doesn't want to talk about this anymore.
"What if he's not crazy?" I say, thinking I see Edna's play. It's been a long time since we were partners, but there's still a residual rapport. And if nothing else, I'm stringing this conversation out a little more.
The psychologist steps forward, "I assure you. He's quite crazy. He seems unable to communicate outside of song lyrics." That catches us off guard and th epsychologist continues. "It takes quite an effort to be able to sustain that kind of neurosis if one were to fake it."
"Look, I'm sorry, but you can understand why it's better for this case to just go away." The DA looks at us sympathetically. "But like I said, he's not going somewhere nice. He'll probably still get raped, if that comforts you." Edna and I exchange glances. I guess we were supposed to laugh.
The two men stand for a second waiting for our blessing, but when niether Edna or I say anything they start to move away. "At the graveyard he wasn't doing that." I say as they're about ten feet away. They turn and look at me. The DA opens his file and starts calmly looking through it.
"He didn't give a statement," he says closing the file. "Look, I would hate to think you guys are so invested in this that you might be tempted to change stories now, but let me assure you--this is a done deal."
I look into his eyes, feeling a burning in my head that I'm sure is no longer hangover related. "Before that. You know while he still had a gun and was just like any other criminal. I was yelling at him. I said something like he'd wasted a lot of bullets on me. And was it worth it. He said, 'it only takes one.'"
The DA opens his file again and looks through it, stops and looks at me again and then turns toward the psychologist as if to ask for help. The man adjusts his sweater and starts, "Yes, well. It's quite possible--"
"He's faking it." Edna finishes it for him. "He's faking it and I think if [Gumshoe] goes in there, he can shake it out of him." So, that's the plan. I look at he and I can't tell if this was her plan since she called me or if she just thought it up. I take a step back. I don't know if I really want to look at this guy again. I'd been tempted to visit Aaron Masters through the years, but I could never bring myself to do it. He'd killed someone I'd cared about and I had wanted to look in his eyes and get a sense for what kind of man could be so dark, so cruel. But I could never bring myself to actually do it. I was always worried that after the way things had ended with Mindy James, not to mention how I'd behaved afterwards, well, I was worried I would find something familiar in his eyes.
"I don't think that would be good for the patient." The psychologist says quietly. I looked at him, suddenly filled with anger. The patient. Wouldn't be good for the patient. The words echoed in my head as no one said anything. This is a done deal. Isn't that what the attorney had said? Eventually the two men turned and began to walk away from Edna and I.
"Ten minutes," I say heading toward the door to the interview room. "You guys watch and record the whole thing."
"Detective, please," the psychologist says, sounding suddenly weary.
I turn. "What's the worst that can happen? I make him more crazy?" When no one says anything, I grab the door knob.
"[Gumshoe], give me a couple minutes to get the video recording." I see a twinkle in her eye. She really thinks I can do this. I'm not so sure. I'm also not so sure that Grassley isn't crazy.
"Detective. This is by the book, you understand? You don't touch him. You don't do anything that could even possibly be construed as a violation of his rights."
I smile and nod as they all head in. I slowly turn the knob, taking a deep breath as I do. "Sure would hate to violate his rights," I mutter as I let the air out of my lungs and enter the room. And there he sits. Andrew Grassley. He looks up as I enter the room and I see his something in his eyes flinch. I give him a big smile.
"Andy," I say as if he were a cousin I hadn't seen in a long time. "How are you?"
He's says nothing. He just folds his arms and looks away from me.
"What? Couldn't think of Lionel Ritchie? 'Hello, is it me you're looking for?'" I say with a chuckle. He stays quiet. "Isn't that what you're doing? Quoting song lyrics?" I give him a minute, but he knows I'm baiting him. But this is the guy who turned my life upsidedown. Who knows how long he planned it? Who knows how long he nursed his grudge? He wants to play with me. He wants to beat me. "Did you use up all your good songs already? It's okay, I listen to Nickelback, so I can slum a little." I take a seat across from him. "Don't want to talk?"
"Baby, we could talk all night, but that ain't getting us nowhere." And there it is. Of course it's Meatloaf. He couldn't give me some Heart? Just a little switch.
"Oooh," I say leaning in really closely and giving him a look of disbelief. "Are you trying to tell me Meatloaf did it?"
His eyes narrow and I can almost feel how much he wants to hit me. "I mean, I know Mr. Loaf had his troubles, but you can't really expect me to buy that he's into something like this. Still. I can have some guys look into this if that's your story."
After a minute of solid silence, I start again. "Jesus, man. At least tell us why you did it." His face spasms just for a second as he doesn't know what to believe. "What was it? Someone broke your iPod? Hey, that might make some of these killings justifiable. Help us help you, here." For a second, I think I've got him. But he knows I know. It won't work to keep pushing that, but it was a nice try. And he may be a bit off balanced now. We sat there in silence as he looked at me. Finally, I put my feet up on the table by his hands. "Seriously Andy. Dazzle me. Give me some Talking Heads or something." I reached into my pocket and pulled out a quarter. Holding it out to him, I said, "I'll give you this quarter if you sing a little bit of Psycho Killer."
He balled his fist up and looked away. He was biting his lower lip. I flipped the quarter and it landed on the desk in front of him. He stared down at it as if he could drill a hole through it. "Huh. It's like you don't know that many lyrics." I looked at the window. "Almost like someone really wants this case to go away to save someone some face. I don't know Andy. That what you're thinking now?"
More silence.
"That's okay Andy, I don't expect you to have an opinion on office politics. In fact, it was rude of me to bring you into that." I pull me feet down and lean over the desk, putting my hand on his and looking him in the eye. "I'm sorry for that," my voice is full of sympathy and understanding.
He sits there for a second trying to make sense of what's going on, but quickly pulls his hand back. "Oh baby, I'm a hunter in the dark of the forest. I've been stalking you and tracking you down." He spits the lyrics at me from behind eyes filled with flames.
"And I've been dancing on the ceiling, Andy." I give a pause. "Oh, what a feeling."
He lurches over the desk at me. "I'm gonna fucking kill you you mother fucker."
I grab him by the collar of his shirt and slam him on the table and then pick him up and slam him against the wall. He stops resisting and it takes me a second to realize, I have him lifted off the ground. I set him down and let out a deep breath I didn't realize I'd been holding in. "Huh. That could've been Motorhead, I guess," I say with a smirk. The door opens and Edna looks in at us. Behind her the attorney and psychologist are looking more than a little disturbed.
"Lionel Ritchie," I say barely able to hold in my amusement. "It's alway Lionel Ritchie that sends 'em over the edge."
*******************
I stand before the door waiting for my courage. Finally, I suck it up and knock. It takes a couple moments, but soon enough, James Troop has answered the door. He stares at me for a second.
"Hey." It's a pretty reasonable starter.
"Hey," I say, because it's a pretty reasonable response. Another second passes and as I tell myself to just start. "So. I just wanted to talk to you, if I could."
"Uh. Yeah." He says, but doesn't offer to invite me in. Okay, I tell myself.
"So. Yeah. You fight pretty well. Tai Kwon Do?"
"No. Stage fighting."
"Stage fighting? You kicked me ass with fake fighting?"
"Yeah," he says with a chuckle. "I guess I did." He pauses. "Look, I don't know if you came for this, but I'm sorry I..."
"No. That's not...It's...." I run my hand through my hair. "I just was thinking. You seem to have good instincts. And you can handle yourself all right. You wouldn't want to get into Private Investigating would you?"
"I'm an actor." He says giving me a look of confusion.
"No. I know. You were in Rent. I know. I just thought if you had extra time, or could use extra cash." God, I feel like a fucking idiot. "I could use the...you know...help."
"Yeah. Well. Let me think about it."
"Cool." It's the only thing I could think to say. I nodded and turned to walk away.
"Hey," he said and I turned to face him. "You want to come in for a beer? I was gonna watch some crappy 80's movie. Footloose or--" I cut him off.
"There's nothing crappy about Footloose," I say walking to the door.
"Well, it's a little dated."
"Oh, yeah. But not crappy. If anything, that story speaks more to modern America than it did when it was made. Small town fanaticism against urban sensibilities."
"You feel passionately about this, don't you?"
"I do. I really do." I said as the door shut.

Gumshoe #15

Edna Portis was the one piece of information we were missing. The one key piece that made all the others fall into line. It didn't take long to put an address to Edna Portis and the family that survived her brutal murder. It took a little longer to see how she connected to Andrew Grassley, though. We were driving to the address we were given on the outskirts of Des Moines before we found out how the two knew each other. According to one of the detectives Edna had at her disposal, Andrew Grassley was living with Ms. Portis at the time of her death. Apparently he was a foster child who had just been placed with Portis and her two kids. Portis was a teacher in her late thirties who had not married, so that when she died, the child placed with her was sent back into the system. Portis's sister moved in and took care of her children. The family still lived there. So us and a patrol car were on the way there to secure the house and question the family. Because this night had not been all the fun I had wanted.
"That's all well and good," Edna said after she shut her cell phone. "We know how he's connected to the original killings. If he's not at that house, then none of this shit matters."
"If he's not there, then he has been. There's no way he goes through all this and doesn't visit the house or talk to someone there." I said quietly. "This is a lead. A solid lead."
We'd taken the county road back toward the city and just before we hit Southridge Mall and it's ever-dimming lights, we swung right onto Indianola Ave. Out here there's a lot of space between houses, which makes for a lot of privacy. Which can be really bad in situations like this, so we took it slow. It felt like it took five minutes for us to get to the house and it was only the fifth or sixth one in.
Pulling up to the house, everything looked normal. It was a nice home. One of those white two-story numbers you picture when you think of living in the country. Nice sized porch and big windows in the front to let in all the light that isn't being blocked out by the mamoth apartment buildings that aren't just across the street. Big yard with the kind of grass you can picture kids running and falling and rolling around in, even if it was underneath a light coat of snow. This place even had a big shade tree with a tire swing, I kid you not. How could anything bad ever happen here? I could feel this place lulling me into a pleasant sleepy haze. Which is I suppose why people move out here.
We were just getting out of the car when we saw the patrol car pull in behind us and I prayed it was no one who'd seen me spouting off earlier that night. And then I took a deep breath--that was just hours ago. Before the officers even got out of their car, Edna started giving orders. "Troop, you stay with him," she said pointing to the one of the officers. "You," pointing at the other, "you're with us." She quickly turned back toward the house and it was all business.
"You want me to watch the back?" the young officer asked.
"No. We stick together. [Gumshoe], I do the talking, okay?"
I gave her a nod. She found the doorbell with her finger and gave it a polite, but urgent ring. And we sat. "No one's home?" The young officer said after a couple minutes.
"It's late. They might be heavy sleepers." I said as I pushed the button for a good minute. Maybe a minute and a half. It was late and I was really starting to feel cranky.
"Alright, already," Edna said slapping my finger off the button. "We want them happy and talkative."
Looking at my watch, I yawned and turned away from the door. "No one's happy and talkative this late at night." I looked out at the country night. We weren't so far from the city, hell there's a gas station at the end of the block, but it felt like night was heavier out here. Thicker somehow. Denser, maybe. Like it would take a stronger light to shine on the activities out here. Or maybe I was just tired.
It was then I noticed James and the otehr officer. James was pointing at something across the street. I followed his finger into the Elm Grove Cemetary. I walked off the porch and over to them. "What's up?"
James spoke up. "I saw someone moving run into the grave yard."
"Was it him?" I said feeling the adrenaline hit me again.
"I--" He wasn't sure. I could see it in the contortions of his face. He wanted to be sure, but he wasn't.
"Could it have been him?" I said not waiting for him to get his answer together.
"I think so."
By this time Edna and the other cop was there with us. "What?" Edna said with that edge in her voice.
"James saw someone run into the graveyard. Could've been Grassley." I said.
"Of course. He would run into a fucking graveyard." She pulled her gun and her flashlight. "You two stay here and call it in. You two," meaning myself and the officer who had been on the porch, "we're going to have a peak."
As we crossed over Indianola Ave and into the graveyard, I felt some relief to see that this was a small cemetary and with the fresh snow on the ground, we could see the tracks of anyone who came in. It only took a second for us to see that someone had jumped the fence and had made their way up the hill. I pulled my gun and lit my flashlight as I felt the dim streetlights already fading as I pulled myself over the fence.
We followed the tracks slowly and spread out. There was no way to see what was coming as we made our way around the tombstones and up the incline. We were crouched and ready, fuling understanding that Grassley could be waiting there for us at any moment. I took a deep breath trying to keep myself calm and collected.
I saw the movement ahead before I saw the gun blast. A great flash of light lit up the night for a second and then the deafening erruption. I told myself to dive, but not quickly enough. Luckily the shot hit the tombstone infront of me. Unluckily, it sprayed rock up at me, cutting my cheek and neck as I finally dove. I could feel the blood beginning to seep from my wounds. I pulled a dirty kleenex from my pocket and pressed it over what felt like the biggest. I sat there for what may have been an enternity before I realized I was not dying right then.
"Still time." I whispered to myself trying to get myself to focus. The shot had come from ahead on the right. The officer and Edna had been closer to him. So either he didn't see them, or he really wanted me dead. Which didn't make me feel really good, but that's how it looked.
I took a deep breath, not sure what I was doing this for, but I yelled, "You missed me Andrew." He was quiet. I took another breath hoping he wasn't too patient. "What's that? 8 bullets you've missed me with tonight?"
I could hear foot steps moving through the snow, but I couldn't make out exactly where they were coming from. I pressed my back against the tombstone and made sure the safety was off on my gun. "Bullets are expensive, Andrew? You sure I'm worth it?"
"It only takes one." It came out as a hiss, but it was enough. He'd circled counter clockwise heading away from the others and toward me. Couldn't be more than a row ahead. I pushed my feet underneath me and turned, charging to my left. Into my third step, I saw him stand and raise his gun at me. The dramatic thing would've been to jump in the air. Hurtle my body at him, maybe yelling, 'nooo', like you see in all those movies. Of course he probably would have shot the holy living shit out of me.
So, as I saw his gun raise toward my head, something from little league flicked on and I was suddenly sliding. His first shot went over my head and as he was adjusting to me, I kicked my right leg and popped up just enough to punch him right in the crotch. Hard.
He doubled over and sucked in the cold night air and dropped his gun. I scrambled to my feet and grabbed him by the arm, bending it behind him and using my other arm to hold him to me in a half-nelson. He wriggled and kicked and grunted, but I had him.
The others were to us in a less than a second and in another second, Andrew Grassley was in handcuffs. It was over and I caught the guy. Wow. Didn't I feel so much better?
***********
In the downtown station, I sat with Edna as she was typing up her report. I'd finished giving my statement. It had taken a long time to recount the whole night again. She stopped and looked up at me.
"Yes?" I said hoarsley.
"So?" She said. I shrugged at her. "You punched him in the crotch."
I smiled a big smile. First smile I'd had in a long time. "I did."
"That's not really sporting is it?"
"I'm all for a fair fight, but....you know..." God, I wish I could be glib.
She smiled and chuckled. "Still quick on your feet, I see."
"I got it where it counts," I said.
"You need a ride home?"
"Nah. I called Clarence a while ago. He's sending someone." There was a silence. "Do you think we ever stop paying?"
"For then?"
I nodded with a weariness that came from more than the night's troubles and the all of the things I'd seen on this case. I felt the weariness of years suddenly sitting on my shoulders.
"No." She said quietly. "Not when there's someone who is still hurt."
I nodded at her and we sat quietly. It was a comforting quiet. The kind that exists like a third person in the room. Calming and easy. I took a deep breath and let it out, enjoying the fact that someone wanted me dead, but I still drew breath.
"Where did you go anyway?"
"Then?"
"Yeah. When you left the force back then?" Her voice was quiet, but firm. It was full of curiousity and concern.
"Chicago."
"What's in Chicago?"
"Not much when I went." I sat up in my chair, suddenly realizing I should tell this right. "It was just gonna be a weekend. I was gonna clear my head and come back. But there I was, sitting in downtown Chicago and I realized I had nothing to go back to Des Moines for."
"Me?" She paused. "Not like that, but partners. You know, that meant a lot to me."
"Yeah. But I'd shot that to shit. I should've done it all differently."
"Yeah." We sat for a while longer.
"So, why'd you stay?"
Well, that's another story...

So that's the end of the first case. I hope everyone enjoyed it. I'm hopeful I will be able to keep some of this up for a bit here, but once law school starts, all bets are off.

I Write Like...and Dennis Lehane

I'm assuming everyone else has already seen this site, but today I came across it for the first time. I Write Like is a website that purports to tell you what famous author you write like. I know, it's probably dubious, but it's the kind of thing that I am always curious about. So...I cut and pasted all the sections of the Gumshoe that I've published so far and the name that came up most often was Raymond Chandler.

Which is awesome.
I mean, clearly, Raymond Chandler is, along with Dashiell Hammett the apex for noire writing and any idea that I may resemble his writing, no matter how superficially is a signal that I'm at least partially getting done what I want with Gumshoe. Also clearly, I don't mean to invite any real direct comparisons to Chandler. He draws a much better picture. His use of language is more engaging and interesting. In short, I know he is better writer than I. Still, I take this as a signal that I'm at least playing in the same big sandbox as one of the greats. Even if he's made grand castles and I'm just digging a moat.

*******************

Speaking of writers. I just finished Dennis Lehane's latest book, The Given Day. Good book, definitely worth a read. I recommend it to anyone looking for something to read. It's 700 pages, but they went by fast.

The book is a departure from the rest of Lehane's work in a way, but it's also not. The book is less suspsense and thriller than most of his other books. Instead it is more historical novel, but I still had trouble putting this down. And what I think of as Lehane's biggest theme--the price someone pays to do the right thing--is still there. I'm going to think more about this book before I say anything too much about it.

It's been a while since I've read a book that required me to think about it like this one does. But I'm gonna try to give some thoughts on this. Forgive me if they aren't fully formed or all that interesting. So, yeah, spoilers below (you can skip to the end of this section at which point, I will spoil no more).

A lot of the book centers around the labor movement in Boston, a lot specifically with the Boston Police Department. And one of the things I found striking* about this novel is how much of the things I assume police officers could take for granted were things that had to be fought for.** Things like sanitary sleeping conditions. Or less than 80 hour work weeks. Or uniforms and supplies that they didn't have to pay for. Or for workers' compensation when injured in the line of duty. Or to be paid above poverty levels. I should know better than to assume that everyone appreciates what police officers do and is willing to give them what they need to live at least somewhat comfortably on it. And certainly, I know now that our priorties are all messed up and that the police get shafted many times because of it. But, wow. There were no good old days. That comes across so clearly as characters repeatedly say how the problems of worker against employer (and the problems of face agains race, father against son, brother against brother, husband against wife, society's needs against society's desires, the mob against everyone) are the same as they ever were. And that this is how they will always be. This book drives home that point especially well during the riots that occurred during the policeman's strike.

As, I said, a lot of his books discuss the price someone has to pay for doing what they think is right. In this book we see the main character lose so much--family, his body, friends--to try and get what he considers to be a fair shake. The main character isn't beset by one person in this book, as is often the case in the private detective novels. There's no serial killer with an axe to grind. Instead, the hero's antagonist seems to be the political system with all of it's players and entanglements, and to some extent, the society that allows that system to stay in place. It's not really one person who makes the hero suffer or defeats him. It's all of them in concert, though with no real mastermind.

And related to what the hero of the book loses is how and why society elevates others to hero-status. Lehane examines this most obviously through the use of Babe Ruth, who is shown as a child-like alcoholic and womanizer. He has some affinity for the working man and has his own frustrations with his working conditions. He, however, has a lot more bargaining power than most the other workers in the book. And when he makes demands, they are met, though not happily. And there are no reprecussions for this action really. I mean, yes, Ruth gets traded to the Yankees, but no one seems to think of it as punishment.

Anyway, these were some thoughts.

*********************

And speaking of Lehane....I see he's working on another detective novel featuring Gennaro and Kenzie. And it's coming out in late November. Note to Dinah. My birthday is a week after this. And Christmas not long after that. And with Christmas break coming up, I will have time to read this book that I covet, especially after reading the description. So, this would make a great gift. For me.

Why be subtle?

*Note 1. Pun!

**Note 2. I know it's generally not a great idea to hang your argument on the details of an historical novel as being more historical than novel. After looking over the books that served as reference to this novel and seeing some comments made about the book, I am willing to be made a fool of if these details turn out to be changed a bit for dramatic purposes.

Gumshoe #14

It's not that long of a drive to the Indianola watertower. From downtown Des Moines, it's maybe 45 minutes with traffic. Maybe. But time can stretch when you're sitting in the back seat of a cop car. This was an unmarked car without the cage, yes. But the principle still applies. Detective Edna Muldoon was driving and she asked for James Troop to sit in the front seat next to her. I assume this is so I am not allowed to mess with the radio, but I'm making this assumption based in part on past history and largely due to the fact that I don't want to consider what else this might signal. The fact that everyone in the car was dead silent, didn't help this car ride seem short either. The only sound was the occasional chatter from the police radio. No one said a word from the time we got in the car until we reached the outskirts of Des Moines' south side. I watched through the flurries out the back window as South Ridge Mall disappeared from view taking the bright city lights with it. As we entered the unincorporated countryside where the space between streetlights stretches wide in a dark abyss, I finally said, "This is a bad idea."

Edna shot me a look in the rearview mirror. "You don't want to go to the watertower now?"

"No, that's probably not gonna lead to much, but it's worth checking out." I took a deep breath. "Not listening to the radio is a mistake."

Edna chuckled, though I could tell she didn't want to. "Don't change much do you, [gumshoe]?"

I took another deep breath and let the car fall back into silence figuring silence was better than saying what I really wanted to say. It was a harmless comment, I knew, but something about it rankled me. Anything I said back would be insulting, I knew. So instead, I looked out the window as the snow started coming down in earnest on the dark, rolling hills of Iowa. There was enough light to see the road, but beyond them, on the land, where the fields stood waiting to be used next spring there was only darkness. The streets stood lined with the light of the living, I thought, but who knew what was beyond them? The unkown always conjures up the worst in people's imaginations. Few of us think of the unlimited possibility and see the possibility for good things to be out there. The next job. The next love. The next amazing moment. Instead we think only of the evil that must be lurking in the darkness. Beyond the reach of the light. And as much as I knew logically that Andrew Grassely would not, could not be at the watertower, I still had this sickness in my stomach that told me he would be there.

Edna pulled off the highway and shut off the car. We were maybe 200 yards from the watertower and it was dark. Edna reached into her glove box and pulled out a flashlight and handed it over the seat to me. She pulled another out for herself. "You picked up your gun, I assume?"

"Check." I said quietly. I had the gun laying on the seat next to me and I picked it up and showed it to her as I looked to make sure the safety was off.

"All right. We do this my way, everyone understand?" She waited for head nods before continuing. "All right. Troop, you're a civilian, so you stay here. [Gumshoe]--"

"No." Troop said quietly but firmly. "I'm not staying here. I've been shot at tonight and if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to be around someone who can shoot back if something happens again."

"I can't take you out there if there's a possibility of--"

"Kid's got a point, Edna. And Grassley's not likely to be here anyway." I said feeling my voice quiver. "But if he is, and he gets dead while we're looking at a watertower, that's not good."

"Okay James, but you're sticking with me, okay? You're right behind me. You don't get more than 2 feet away from me and you don't ever get ahead of me. You got it?"

"Thank you." James said, now realizing that going with Edna wasn't a cake walk either.

"And you," she said turning her attention to me. "You stay right fucking next to me. You see something, you tell me. You don't shoot unless you're shot at or I tell you to shoot. You don't run in ahead and get yourself shot. Got it?"

"I do." I said as I reached for the door.

"I'm serious [Gumshoe]. No cowboy shit."

"Don't worry, I'm all out of cowboy tonight." I looked at her and I could see from her reaction she was a little surprised. She expected some sort of verbal joust from me, but I didn't have it in me. Not with the growing feeling I was getting. He was here. This man who wanted to kill me was waiting just beyond me view in the cold embrace of the night.

Everyone got out of the car, James quickly making his way behind Edna. We advanced on the water tower slowly. It didn't take too long until our eyes adjusted to the darkness. The watertower stands on the edge of Indianola, a small town not far from Des Moines whose main attractions were Simpson College, the National Hot Air Ballooning Hall of Fame and a killer A&W restaraunt. Indianola officials used to light the water tower, but apparently had stopped. My best guess was because of cost. As I stood there in the darkness, my gun raised as I looked around the tower for any sign of life, or movement, or trouble, I would've paid quite a bit of money to have the tower lit up. Our flashlights cut through the heavy darkness well enough, but I got the feeling Edna and James would've pitched in some money too.

The only sound in the darkness was the sound of our breathing, heavy not from the roughness of the terrain, but the stress of the situation. We were about 25 yards from the tower when we heard it.

A car behind us and just over a hill from where we'd park, peeled out and headed back in the direction of Des Moines. I felt the adrenaline hit me again, awaking all my senses. James hit the ground, covering his head. Edna spun and started running toward the car. "Come on!" I turned to take a quick look at the tower and let out the breath of air I didn't realize I'd been holding.

As I reached to James to give him a hand up, I yelled, "It's not him Edna."

She stopped and looked back at me quizzically. I showed my flashlight on the ground next to the tower. I saw her eyes follow the beam and she started laughing as she reached the end. James's looked over quickly and exhaled loudly taking my hand and pulling himself up.

"Two half drank beers and a box of condoms. Ahh teenage romance." I said.

"It's too cold for that shit," James said with a chuckle.

I knelt by the area to take a closer look. "They had a blanket. Maybe a sleeping bag. A couple condoms missing, so--"

"Maybe you should turn your detective skills to the relevant questions, like was Grassley here? Is there some clue as to where he might be? You know, things like this." But I didn't move. I'd come all this way in the night sure I'd find the killer, a man named Andrew Grassley, sitting here. Waiting. I was sure tonight held another shoot out for me. I never thought I'd find this. Another love interrupted.

I stood there for a second. "Seriously, [gumshoe], you're not even looking. This was your fucking--"

"What do people do when love ends?" I said. As soon as I heard it I knew I sounded like a fucking idiot.

"The fuck?" was all Edna could muster in response.

"I mean. That's it. That's how Chance met this guy. I'd bet hard money on it." I could feel myself getting excited.

"What are you talking about?"

"A support group. For people who lost someone. It's all fitting into place. Grassley lost someone. Probably Geoffrey Franks, which is why he keeps playing that murder out again and again."

"I've had people looking at Franks and Grassley for a while. We can't find any connection to Franks. But hey, once we find this guy, why don't you ask him." The frustration in her voice was palpable. "That's right. We can't find him. And you're not fucking helping." She went back to looking around.

I took a deep breath, feeling the excitement letting go of me. She was right. I mean, I was right too, I could feel it. But it didn't help us. "Fine. There's no connection to Franks," I said calmly. "So, if you're reliving or redoing the last murder over and over...and you're hunting down one of the investigating cops...one who wasn't even around for that one. Or the case before."

"It's a mystery." Edna said.

"Who was the case before?" James said quietly.

Edna stammered. "What does it matter?"

"Edna Portis." I said quietly. "Why?"

"So you weren't on that case either?"

"No. I wasn't." Something was glimmering.

"Maybe--"

"he's connected to her." We finished the sentence together.

And there it was.

Gumshoe #13

Thanks to those who let me know they're reading the Gumshoe stuff. Like I said, I'm gonna keep writing these, but I was a little curious about whether people were really reading these or not. I know it's a little self-indulgent. Anyhoo. I think I'll be wrapping this case up in a couple or three posts.

James Troop was an actor I had lured to the Ingersol Dinner Theater with a story about him being perfect for a production that would revive the now-defunct theater. He was also the man who had walked into my office not that long ago and convinced me to take a case that turned out to be bullshit. Bullshit that gets me pulled into a murder investigation and gets me shot at. Throw in my lousy luck with women, not to mention their lousy luck with me and, yeah, this has been a pretty average couple weeks for me. Or so I was telling myself.

For James though, this had not been an average couple of weeks. As we sat in the police car, having just been told by my former partner, Edna Muldoon, that we were free to go, I could see tonight's events were taking their toll on him.

"You think the man who shot at us followed me here?" His eyes were wide and while he'd broken a sweat fighting me, now it seemed like he couldn't stop, despite the fact that we were sitting still. In fact, he was probably sitting too still. It was almost like he thought that if he moved another gun would go off. I needed to get him out of here if I was going to get anything more about Andrew Grassley and the why's and wherefor's of this case.

"I do." I said rising from the car. "Why don't we get out of here." I pulled him up and we began to walk toward my newly aerated car and the cops who were lingering around it. Pulling the keys from my pocket, I said, "Are you guys just about done here? My friend and I were really hoping to catch the last showing of the Twilight movie tonight."

Edna looked up from the conversation she was having. "I can't let you drive this car out of here. We're impounding it."

"Impounding it? You said I could go."

"Well, the car is evidence. But you're free to leave." She spoke with a grin, but her voice was firm. She'd thought about this and she was a step ahead of me.

"Take pictures of the car and that can be evidence. I need to get going."

"No can do. This is physical evidence and as such will need to be studied by analysts. Unfortunately," she said looking at her watch, "they're working on another case and should be here in a bit. If you need to be somewhere, I'd be happy to have an escort take you home. As you may know, the Des Moines Police Department values your safety and wishes greatly to solve this crime..."

I stopped listening. I should have seen this coming. Edna knew I had information and that my investigation wasn't aiding hers. It was probably making hers a lot more messy. So, while she couldn't force me to stop investigating, without incurring the wrath of my lawyers, she could take my car. And that would slow me down either by having to take cabs or busses, which in Des Moines aren't all that plentiful or helpful, or by having someone looking over my shoulder, no doubt reporting back to her. On the one hand I was a little pissed. I liked having a free hand to work. I'm a professional. On the other, it had been a really long time since I had been shot at and while I was putting up a good front about it, the thought of having someone who had been to a shooting range in the last five years and who, you know, wouldn't leave their gun in the car like a doofus, didn't sound all that bad to me.

"Fine." I said, cutting Edna off in the middle of her still-ongoing lecture about the greatness of the Des Moines Police Department.

"Fine what?" She said, I could tell I'd caught her off-guard, which made my decision a little more worth it.

"I will take an escort. But the last cop I hung around with ended up being dirty, so, I'm gonna be a bit choosy this time." Saying a cop is dirty--even a dead cop--even a dead cop who was dirty, really and truly dirty--around a group of cops is a bad idea. I could feel the tension hit the air as soon as I said it. The uniforms were now openly staring at me and I think they were looking for a reason to give me a punch. I couldn't blame them. They're cops and they have to have pride in what they're doing and why they're doing it. Otherwise, we'd end up with a force of lazy incompents, most of whom would be dirty. Still. It was a fact. "What?" I said seeing a cop take a step toward me. "It's a fact. I am sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. Take it up with someone who gives a shit."

"You don't make personell decisions," Edna said. I could tell from the way she was looking over the cops assembled here that she could see how my comments had affected everyone. I also got the sense that she knew I was probably going to continue to spout off if I didn't get what I wanted. "If you're waiting for an escort, you wait. Now get the fuck back to the car before I let one of these officers show you to the car."

And with that James and I walked slowly back to the car. "Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What?" I said not looking at James.

"Hey, I was nearly killed tonight too, but I'm not trying to take on the whole DMPD for some bullshit."

"Yeah. Well. I was nearly killed by a dirty cop and your man, Andy. So, I'm a little sensitive. Also, if this is going the way I think it is, I need a good cop watching my back. I can't just take whomever they give me."

"So, that was thought out back there?" He said in a voice of disbelief.

"More or less." I said quickly as I saw Edna making her way over to us. The way she was walking made me pretty sure she was going to punch me in the face when she got to us.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Edna said in a whisper that told me that whether or not she was going to punch me in the face was still up for debate in her mind.

"Been getting that a lot tonight Edna." I said.

"Keep up with that and you'll get some sort of permanant condition that will make people only feel comfortable asking each other what's wrong with you."

"Always a snappy comeback, Edna."

"[Gumshoe], just tell me what you want."

"You should escort us."

She laughed. "No fucking way."

"Then I need my car."

"Also, no fucking way."

"Gotta be one or the other."

"Or what? You'll keep spouting shit until these guys batter your pretty little face in? That's fine with me." She began to walk away.

"Or," I called after her, "I could give you all the information I have. Including the name of the man who sent someone into my office claiming to be Simon Flettering."

She turned and stepped toward us. "Arnold Grassley?" Clearly, she was a step ahead of me too. "Didn't you think it was odd I didn't interview your friend here when I arrived at the scene?" Now that she mentioned it... "I got that name a couple days ago. And I have his last known address, which we checked yesterday. Nothing. You got anything else you think I don't know?"

Turning to James, I said, "You know, if you talked ot the cops before about this, you may have wanted to let me know about it, instead of letting me look stupid."

"He didn't talk to us. We were actually watching him to see if Grassley would make contact with him again. But it's good you blew that lead for us."

"Blew it? I think he made contact tonight. Or he would've if his aim were better."

"Yeah. Very helpful." She said walking away.

"Edna. Have you checked the watertower yet?"

She stopped and I swear I saw a shiver crawl up her back. The watertower in Indianola was where the last pychopath with a penchant for scrawling music lyrics on the wall had been captured. It was a bit of a Hail Mary of me to bring this up now, but I didn't really have too much left in my arsenal. "He's probably not there, but I'll bet he visited."

Half an hour later, as Edna, James and I were heading to the Indianola water tower, I sighed. I had a feeling that one way or the other. This was going to be over before too long.

Gumshoe #12

If anyone is reading these, could they let me know. I mean, I'm gonna keep writing them, because I enjoy it, but I'm just curious to see who (if anyone) reads this. And feel free to let me know with an anonymous comment.

James Troop sat with his back to the car, still breathing heavily from the little tussle we'd had.
"I need the name of whoever sent you to my office, because odds are good that whoever that fucker is, he's the guy who killed three people." I repeated myself in case he was getting second thoughts about telling me what I needed to know.
"His name is Andrew Grassley." He said hoarsely. "He works at my agency. Secretary, I think." He was taking his time as if trying to piece it all together.
"What do you know about," was all the investigating I got to do before I heard gunshots. Pop. Pop. I heard the bullets land in the car above me and I felt the adrenaline surge into my system. I took a deep breath trying to keep my head. Another Pop. Pop. I pushed trooop around the front of the car so we could use it as a barrier. If the bullets were hitting the car above me that meant the shooter was shooting from either inside the Ingersol or on top of it. As soon as I had us both around the camino, I gave a quick survey of the theater. I couldn't see anything.
"You hit?" I said without looking at him.
"No." He said with what little breath he could summon. "I don't think so."
The night was already being torn open by the loud sirens of the Des Moines Police Department, who were no doubt on their way here. I pressed my back against the car debating about going for my gun in the car and just waiting for the police. I didn't make up my mind when I saw the first police cruiser turn carefully into the alley. It pulled forward quietly as one of the officers used the spotlight to split into the dark alley infront of them. A moment later, another cruiser entered the alley from the opposite end.
"What do we do?" James said looking at me with desparation.
"Well, I'm pretty sure whoever was shooting at us is gone. But I'm gonna give it another minute before I stand up really, really slowly and make sure that I am not surprising any of these officers."
"Good plan." He said, taking
I felt myself slump against the car. It didn't make me happy to feel how relieved I was to see the police here. Originally, they had suspected me of being the murderer and truthfully, I wasn't really sure how innocent they thought I was. Especially since I'm showing up at the scene of a shooting. But I had to admit, I was feeling very happy to not have to get in a shoot out with anyone. I'm not a big fan of guns. In my line of work they come in handy, but I'd rather punch someone in the face than shoot them. It's way more satisfying for one. And there's a lot less of a todo made about it for two.
I could hear the police moving around, their leather shoes kicking through the gravel on the ground.
"All right." I said to James as I started to raise my hands above my head. "Officers!" I yelled. "Officers, my friend and I were --"
"Hands up." I heard a voice on the other side of the car.
"There are two of us officer. We are unarmed." The trick here is to be calm. These officers are trained to be calm, but it's human nature to not be calm. If they see you following their instructions and doing so calmly, it puts them at ease. At least that's how I remember it. Hopefully things hadn't changed that much since I left the force.
"Stand up. Slowly. Really slowly." We started to stand. "Slowly. That's good. Keep those hands where I can see them." When we got to our feet he told us to turn around and I could see there were indeed four young cops here. There were two who had surrounded us, the one who was talking to us from beyond the car and another who was looking around to make sure there was no one else in the alley with us.
"You boys just out for a stroll?" This came from the officer to my right.
"No officer. My name is [gumshoe], I'm a private investigator. This man is James Troop and I was interviewing Mr. Troop regarding a case I am working on when we were fired upon. I believe those shots came from either inside the theater or possibly on top of the roof." Either I figured just giving a statement at this point was going to make things go easier, or I was just so relieved they were here I was gonna spill. Sometimes I can't tell if I'm putting thought into things or not.
The police stepped slowly closer to us. "Are either of you armed?"
"No." James said quickly. Maybe too quickly. He was nervous. Understandably, but still. With the cops, it's always better to show them you have nothing to be nervous about.
"I have a gun in the glove compartment of the car." I said, quickly adding. "And the registration for that gun is in my wallet, along with my Private Investigator's License."
"Pat him." The officer across the car said, and I felt hands groping my body. Arms, armpits, back, crotch, legs. Pretty thorough. I could see from the side of my eye that James was getting the same treatment. I felt the hand remove my wallet from my back pocket.
"He checks," I heard the voice say from behind me.
"This one too." The voice behind James said and the guns got holstered.
"Wait in the car," we were instructed.
"Officer," I said quietly. "I beleive Detective Edna Muldoon will want to be informed of this incident as the case I'm working on has a lot to do with a case she is working."
James and I sat in the back of the police car, with the door left open. The red and blue lights cast the look of tragedy and excitement all over the alley and I could see people crowding around the yellow tape the police had put up. After the violence, there's only the show left.
Edna made her way through the crowd, stoppedto talk to the officers who responded to the scene and then headed directly toward us. I could tell she was less than thrilled to see me.
"You are going to end up dead soon, aren't you?" She said running a hand through her hair.
"If there's an office pool, I might get a date before Christmas," I said with a smile. "Sorry to interrupt your night."
"What are you doing here, [gumshoe]?"
"Interviewing a witness who--"
"And this is about the murders?" Her voice was angry.
"Of course." I said with a shrug. "Someone targets me, I don't wait for them to come get me."
"No, you run right at them with your arms flailing, yelling, 'shoot me.'" I smiled and shrugged. She let out a sigh and leaned against the car. "Are you getting anywhere?"
"Maybe. I'm not sure what I've got." I said. "I guess I was followed here and the killer saw a chance to take a shot at me."
"That's your statement?" She said.
"In addition to what I told the officers, yes. Should I give Clarence a call, or?"
"That won't be necessary," she said. "I won't get anything better from you. You just be fucking carefull." She let out a long breath and walked away. "You're free to go, for now."
"You really think the shooter followed you here?"
"Oh." I said almost forgetting that Troop was listening. "No. He followed you. where can I find this Andrew Grassley?"

Gumshoe #11

I keep thinking I'm drawing this to a close, but now I'm not so sure. In case anyone is wondering about the plans I have for this, I do have a plan. I have a sketch in my mind about where this is going, but I'm indulging myself enough to take some detours and explore other things. I know this may make it seem scattered and perhaps uneven, but the goal of this was never really to re-make The Maltese Falcon or The Big Sleep. I just wanted to write and see where I could go. So, I apologize if this doesn't make for entertaining blog. But. It is my blog, so. You know. Enjoy. Also, this one is bonus-long. If you consider that a bonus.

James Troop had maintained his residence in Des Moines, despite being on tour with a traveling production of Rent for the past couple months. Didn't take long to track him down and I didn't even need to run it through Bruce. This guy has a website and contact info for an agency, in case anyone wanted to book him. I didn't want to book him so much, but I put in a call anyway.

"I'm interested in auditioning James Troop for a local production." I said to the young woman who had answered the phone.

"Hold." She said abruptly and suddenly Prince's voice came on. Thrills and pills and daffodils will kill ya. Hang tough children. Say what you want about Prince, but that man gets it. And he gets it in a way I was way to young to fathom when his music first came to my attention. First time I heard it, I didn't even think about the possibility that Prince was talking about making the choice to be a good person. To do better. I just liked the idea of going crazy. I liked the intro, but I had no idea what he was talking about when he said, and if the de-elevator tries to bring you down. Go crazy--punch a higher floor. I didn't for one moment thing Prince was trying to tell us to take more positive approach to our world. To try and choose the high-road when life is gouging your eyes. Take a look around you, at least you got friends.

As I sat thinking about the profound meaning of Let's Go Crazy, it faded away and was replaced by some Johnny Cash. As I walked out on the streets of Laredo, as I walked out on Laredo one day...

Another great song. Odd that they would be paired together, I thought. But still you can't argue with good music. Get 6 jolly cowboys to carry my coffin. 6 dancehall maidens to bear up my pall. Throw bunches of roses all over my coffin. Roses to deaden the clods as they fall.

Then beat the drum slowly. Play the fife lowly. Play the dead march as you carry me along. Take me to the green valley lay the sod o'er me. I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong. Listening to this song always makes me think about my father's funeral. We didn't get along, my dad and I. The short story is he had a temper and didn't treat my mother very well. And I hated him for the last couple years of his life. Not a roaring-fire of rage, but a covered boil that you couldn't tell was there unless you removed the lid. And neither of us removed the lid. We just avoided talking about things and pretended that everything was fine. And it was this act that made me hate him more. He'd call me and we'd talk about the Cardinals, or his garden or some other innocuous thing andI would hang up the phone and be so angry. Not because he thought Pujols should bat fourth (which is ridiculous, but whatever) or that he was putting wagon wheels in his garden (which again is ridiculous), but because we both knew the things we needed to talk about. But we didn't. I told myself that I couldn't bring the problems up because he wouldn't talk about it, not in any satisfying way. Or that he'd just get mad. I needed that relationship with my father, even if it was imperfect. It made me feel so weak. And angry.

"Yes." I'd almost forgotten I was on the phone.

"I have a local production that I'm casting," I said after taking a second to get myself together, " and I'm interested in casting James Troop. I believe your agency represents him?"

"Indeed," started a smooth sounding voice. This was the voice of someone who had smoked for years. I could recognize the rockiness it gave to his voice, though it was not enough to overtake the silky, musical quality of his voice. "We do represent Mr. Troop. And as you may know, he is in high demand. High demand right now. His performance in Rent has earned rave reviews. Just rave reviews."

"Yes, it was these reviews that got my attention. Especially the one in the Kansas City paper that said, 'The understudy for the role of Benny was solid.'" I said with a smile. I love it when my research comes in handy.

"Well, they couldn't say he was the next Taye Diggs, for obvious reasons," the voice glossed, "but to mentioned like that. Very impressive. Impressive indeed."

"Oh certainly," I said trying to sound impressed. "But, here's my problem. We are getting together a production of A Man of No Importance, but we've lost our Alfie. He got picked up for the new production of Les Mis in Chicago." Did I mention I did a lot of research?

"A Man of No Importance? That's pretty modern." I can hear the interest in his voice. I almost have him.

"It is, but if you're gonna bring back the Ingersol Theater, you've got to do something big."

"Bring back the--"

"Don't say dinner theater. Please." I say as dramatically as I can muster. "We're going to bring it back as a theater. No dinner. Just pretzels and cookies served at the bar with wine and high-end beer. And we're trying to do this big time."

"When does the production start?"

"Another problem. We figure the construction will be done in two months, meaning I need to get a new Alfie soon or there's no way we can get this done. I want to see your man tonight if possible."

"What about the understudy?" Fuck. This is what happens when you think of all the goddamned details and forget the rest of the situation. Nice job [gumshoe]. I am a fucking idiot.

"Well." I stammer. "He's a fine kid, but we're looking for a star. We want someone that we can point to later and say, 'that guy played here.' And be proud of it." Look at that recovery. I may be a fucking genius.

"Sure. I think I can talk to him about this. I am sure he will be interested." Yep. Genius.

"Cool. Can he meet me at the Ingersol? Around 9?"

"The construction isn't a problem?"

"Nope, they're working on the entryway. Finished the stage last week. I will need him to come in through the alley in the back though. I'm sure your man will do aces tonight and then we can talk about the money tomorrow."

"Right. I've got this down. My boy will be there."

As we hung up the phone, I felt a smile cross my face. I was gonna see Simon Flettering in person once again. The thought of punching him almost made me giddy enough to forget about calling Bruce about the information he was getting me on Chase's connections.

I dialed Bruce's number, let it ring twice and hung up. Then I dialed again and waited for Bruce to pick up, which he did after the customary five rings. Bruce didn't say, 'hi' though. No, he waits there silently for you to say something. And if it's not the right thing, he hangs up. This is why I started our conversation by saying, "Pickles are not on the grocery list. Do you want me to add them?"

Silence.

"I said. Pickles are not on the grocery list. Do you want me to add them?"

"That is the old passphrase [gumshoe]," Bruce answered after another moment of silence.

"Well, you never told me the new one." I love Bruce. Great guy. But his paranoia is too time-consuming for me to appreciate it.

"I did. I told you at lunch yesterday, but you probably weren't listening. You were staring at some schmuck at the counter behind me."

"That was a big break in my case, Bruce."

"I thought it was a big break in your heterosexuality the way you were staring at that guy."

"Don't get jealous, Bruce. You know you're the only man who could tempt me." I said with a smile.

"Keep that dream alive." He said with a chuckle. "So, if you didn't get that nice man's number, what did you get from all the staring?"

"I got an idea. See, the back of the newspaper had an advertisement for the touring group of Avenue Q."

"Your big break was a musical with puppets?"

"Yes. It was. See, it got me to thinking. What if the guy who was in my office claiming to be Simon Flettering was not the guy who had done the killings. What if he was just an actor."

"Sounds thin." Bruce, always a skeptic.

"Oh, it was thin all right. Thinner than, you know, a thin supermodel who...is bulimic." I said. There is not much to this job. You follow your gut and you make good banter, preferably with clever metaphors and sometimes even similes. I was good at the first part, really good. The second part, however, had always eluded me. It's a work in progress. I just wish I were good enough at the first part that I didn't get bothered about sucking at the second part.

"Still got it, [gumshoe]." Bruce said trying to suppress his laughter.

"Yeah. Well. It was thin. But. And this is the important part. It payed off. I searched through some material at the Des Moines Playhouse--"

"Oh, they're playing Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat right now."

"Yeah. Good show. The guy playing Joseph made some really interesting choices. But, I found some old playbills and it turns out our man was there. Played in Godspell amoung others. So, yeah. It turned out this thin model was a porker."

"That doesn't make up for the earlier comment. But I'm glad that payed off, because the shit you gave me leads nowhere. None of these guys looks good for this. No unusual activity. No weird bank accounts. Not so much as a bad parking ticket on any of these guys. Doesn't mean one of them isn't your guy, but."

"Yeah. With this guy, there'd be something," I say not sure why I believe this exactly. "How is Chase connected to this guy?"

"Don't know, [gumshoe]."

"All right Bruce. I gotta meet my guy and make sure he gives me something I can use." As I hung up the phone I wasn't feeling quite as good as I had before. I had thought of this detour into the underbelly of the Des Moines theater crowd as a nice little bit of revenge for myself. Sure, there was the possibility that I might learn something, but I was not counting on it. Now, if this didn't pay off, I was back at square one.

I looked at my watch. 8:25. Time to head over to the Ingersol. I got in the Camino, which started up with a rumble that let me know it probably was not going to make it through the coming winter. Not without daily jumps and a lot of work.

I was able to maneuver through traffic and got there at 8:55. As I pulled into the alley behind the theater, I saw a car had already arrived. I pulled up along side it to see the driver was still inside. And it was James Troop. He looked at me a little embarrassed and started getting out of his car. I put the camino in park, put the rumbling beast to sleep and started to get out of my car. I hadn't put my second foot to the ground when he was around the camino and saying, "I'm sorry. So sorry. I was just getting warmed up in my car. I wanted to be ready. I mean, you are the casting agent, right?"

I stood out of the car, resisted the urge to grab him by the neck and offered my hand for a shake instead. "I am. And you're James Troop. My goodness, it's so good to see you."

He took my hand and shook it firmly. He's bigger than I remember. Taller and more muscular. Not at all the timid man I remembered meeting that day in my office. Maybe this kid could act. Of course as I was thinking this, he recognized me. "Hey. You're that guy. From the office. How are you--"

Using the hand I was still shaking, I whipped him into the camino and pulled him into a nice hammer-lock. I know violence is not a solution to all the world's ills, but sometimes it just feels a little too good to do something like this. "I am indeed the guy from the office."

"Oww. Man, I didn't mean to piss you off, why don't you let me go?" He said.

"I need you to answer some questions," I said pushing his arm up higher. As I did this, he suddenly ducked and twisted, freeing his arm from me. Suddenly, he was standing next to me and as soon as I realized this, he buried his fist into my ear. I recoiled from his punch and turned toward him, quickly getting myself ready for the fight that had started about 10 seconds ago. He threw another punch, which I ducked, instead hitting him in the gut. Troop took this pretty well and caught me with an uppercut on my chin, knocking me to the ground.

This kid was light on his feet. He'd studied something. Judo or kung-fu--something. And judging from the way he was handling himself, I knew I needed a new strategy. I ran headlong into him, tackling him to the ground. I caught a knee in my groin for my trouble, but I still managed to get my hands on his arms and wrestle him to a subdued position.

"Listen to me James," I said, a little hoarsely thanks to the way he'd pelted my nuts a moment ago. "I don't think you meant to get me caught up in this. I don't think you knew. But now people are dead. And I need you to tell me what you know."

"What?" He said. I could feel the fight leaving him.

"Look. I am going to let you go now. And we can talk about this like fucking adults. That's all I wanted." I let go of him and cautiously got off him. Last thing I needed was another kick in the nuts. Of course, I've said that a lot of times in my life and so far it has not warded off any of the future nut attacks.

James rolled over and sat against the car. He appeared calm and confused. I sat down next to him and let a moment pass. I was about to start questioning him when he said, "What people are dead?"

"Selma Flettering, the woman you said was your wife was the first. Which makes you look kind of bad," I say as a way of making sure he knows he should feel guilty. "Then there was Jane Hernandez, my ex-girlfriend, who, as far as I know did nothing wrong, but date me. Well, she also wouldn't replace the toilet paper on the roll, but I can't imagine anyone getting upset enough about it to chain her up and rip her insides out." Reminding him of the guilt. I'm kind of a one-trick pony when it comes to situations like this. "Then there's Chance Greer, the cop slash co-conspirator of these murders. Those are the ones we know about anyway."

"Fuck." He was clearly confused and dismayed. No way he was that good an actor. "So what do you need to know?"

"The million dollar question is who the fuck sent you to my fucking office. And I'm gonna follow that question up with, why the fuck did they send you to my fucking office."

Gumshoe #10

Oh my! Part 10 done and posted before months go by. Yup. Starting to use my time better. There were plenty of reasons I set this story in Des Moines. I hope it makes a good backdrop for everyone else.

After leaving Bruce, I headed downtown. I had a hunch. I decided to take Southwest Ninth instead of Fleur. Sure, Fleur would be quicker to where I am going, but I hate the reconstruction they've done to Fleur. Sure it's probably easier to get downtown, but it was just so unnecessary. Bruce and I ate a late lunch--Bruce had been trying to track down an Elvis sighting in Norwalk (sadly, it turned up nothing), so it was about time for school to get out. I have always loved driving past school when it's getting out. I don't know why, it's a cluster of teenage hormones and poor driving decisions. I think I find comfort in that somehow. I think I like being reminded of life when it was easy. When it seemed like the worst thing that could happen was a dent or not having nothing to do on a Friday night. That's how it seemed anyway. Things change so quickly, I say thinking about that night not that long after high school when all of my stupid decisions came back to haunt me.

I slowed for the curve where they put the new bus garage and started up the bridge. This is my favorite view of Des Moines. Looking up at the buildings that have been there since I was a kid. Solid. Unchanging. My Des Moines. So much work has been done on Des Moines in the last couple years. New bridges downtown. The Fleur project. The new Grays Lake. So many buildings being built and being changed. Which brings me to the Ingersoll Dinner Theater.

The Ingersoll Dinner Theater was a nice little Des Moines tradition. It probably wasn't in any of the tourist literature, but maybe it should have been. In some ways, it was what is great about this city. It was small and somewhat unknown, but it was entertaining. Sure, the talent was not the best, but it was fun. And, of course, like so many nice things, it had to go out of business. About 5 years ago, it closed for the last time. Now there's some talk about turning the building into a Cuban restaraunt or something. Which is good for the city, I guess. See, I'm not against change. I just miss things after they are gone. I miss doing the things I take for granted. And I have taken so much for granted. For one thing, I took for granted that the person who claimed to be Simon Flettering was telling the truth. And after I found out Simon Flettering wasn't a real person, I took for granted that anyone who would play the part of Simon would only do so if they were the person who planned this whole mess. I didn't think for once they'd be doing it because they were acting.

I get out of the camino I walk to the door. Papered up, so I can't see inside. Around back, there's another door with a window. I sit there for a second and weigh my options. It's the middle of the day, so I can't just break the window. And yet. I reach through the openning and unlock and open the door. I'm in the kitchen and it's quiet. It's been cleared and clean. Looks to me like they are going to go forward with the restaraunt soon and the odds of me finding what I need are not going to be good.

"Bad break," I say and climb into the camino. Luckily, the Des Moines playhouse is not that far away. This is my fault. I tried to take the easy look before going to the more likely. I thought Ingersoll would have a smaller data bank. Luckily, this playhouse is still functioning and openning up for tonight's show now. Also, luckily for me, I haven't seen a good production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat in a while and it looks like I'll have plenty of time before curtain to find what I have been looking for. And my luck holds. It only takes me five minutes to look through the past playbills upstairs to find the name I'm looking for. James Troop. James Troop is the name of the man who came into my office and pretended to be Simon Flettering.

Now, I just have to feed that name to Bruce, get his address and find out why. I'm looking forward to seeing what his answer may be.

Gumshoe #9

So, yeah. I did not forget about this.
"So, you're stopping?" Bruce was pretty upset. As we sat in the tenderloin place on Army Post Rd--the only place he eats other than his home--I could tell he was upset. We'd barely ordered when he started in on asking about the case. I hadn't really felt like talking about it. In the two days since I came to next to Chance's body--complete with a new body piercing in his chest--I had been pretty busy, but a lot of that busy was trying to not attract attention.
"I'm not stopping." I tried to calm him, but I knew it would not work. Bruce calls himself a "libratarian", but his interpretation of that way of thinking is--let's say--a lot more paranoid than others who might self-apply that label. One of the side effects of Bruce's brand of "libratarianism" is that he thinks that people are always out to get him. People with power. People with nothing better to do. People who don't rest. And if these people were out to get him, it only stood to reason that they were out to get everyone else as well.
"It's been two days," I said quietly as the waitress set down the tenderloins. I pegged her age at around 40, but it was hard to say because she was obviously someone who had lived pretty hard in her younger days. The kind of living that she probably regrets now. The kind of living I regret in my own experience.
"Two days. Might as well be two months," he said forcing the wad of french fries down his throat. "There's a killer out to get you."
"Yeah," I said with a shrug.
"So? What are you doing?"
"I'm keeping in contact with Edna and the cops. I was just down there today, but--"
"Yeah. The cops will surely get to this. It's not like they've been trying to pin all this on you."
"I think being found tied up in the room with the corpse of someone who was at-least and accomplice has cleared my name."
"That was the corpse of a cop. And they'll find a way to close that case one way or the other. If that means you go down..."
Bruce was probably right. I was probably still the best suspect the police had. Especially with the desperation to solve a case that comes in the killing of a cop--even one who was dirty--I couldn't count on the someone coming up with some ridiculous theory where I killed Chance and tied myself up. Or that I had a partner tie me up. Or that I was double-jointed and had three hands. Des Moines doesn't get as harsh a look as other cities when it comes to the honesty of our police force. And mostly that is for good reason. But there are secrets in this city that are hidden from the street light's glare.
"Bruce," I said interupting him, "what do you remember about that mess with that Princess from South of Grand back about 10 years ago?"
He shrugged. "This is what you want to talk about? Ancient history?"
"Mary Claire Parsons-Kitt. Iowa royalty, or as close as we come to it. Until she was murdered by her husband." I said quietly. "Didn't she have a kid. A boy?"
"Yeah. Maybe she did." He said with growing confusion.
I reached into the bag sitting beside me and pulled out a police personell file. "Yes. She did. His name was Chadwick G. Parsons. Seems as though he was a model kid. Did well in highschool and was prom king. Was halfway through college at Simpson College in Indianola, doing very well, when the whole mess with her murder went down. Seemed to throw his life off track until young Chadwick enrolled himself into the police academy and seemingly devoted himself to truth, justice and tracking down bad-guys. Of course, he'd changed his name to Chance Greer, probably to avoid the publicity of all that stuff."
Bruce smiled at me. "How do you know?"
"When I was down at the police station today, I thought I might use that opportunity to do a little research." I said smirking at him. "I appreciate the pep-talk, but I called you here more to see if you could run some names for me."
"What names?" He said, taking a thick sip from his strawberry shake.
"Well, I did a little digging. According to the gossip columns of the time, he didn't get along with his step-siblings, so he took his share of the estate and stayed in Indianola. So, I'm thinking, what does Indianola have to do with anything?"
"And?"
"And the key to this whole thing is the last victim. Whoever this guy is, he keeps refrencing the last murder in Aaron Master's career. The Meatloaf. The style of the killing. It's all about that last guy. Geoffrey Franks. A single father from Indianola."
"So you want me to?" As I looked at Bruce, I saw something out of the corner of my eye.
"Run down these names. Friends, family and business associates who might all be more than a little miffed at a cop who quit a case just before Mr. Franks was taken." There was a man sitting at the counter reading a newspaper. At first I didn't know what it was that caught my eye. The man was no one I recognized. Just another gu living on the South Side of Des Moines, coming in here to get a good bit of unhealthy food before he went out to his day.
"So, you think that's the motive?"
"That's my guess." The newspaper crinkled in his hand as he turned to the next section and that's when I saw something that made me smile.
"You got any front-runners?"
"No. I was thinking it would be Frank's kid, so I checked on that, but she's been in New York for the past 15 years living with an aunt. So. It's up in the air."
"Okay, then why the big smile?" Bruce said. "You aren't having a stroke are you?"
"No. I think I just found an old friend. An old friend who I'm going to go punch in the face." I dropped twenty bucks on the table to cover lunch and said good-bye to Bruce.