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."

Flow it. Show it. Long as God can grow it.

Adjusting to a new city is without its trials. It hasn't been the big things, because we thought about the big things when we were planning the move. We got an apartment, she got a job and I got into law school. We looked into neighborhoods and thought about where we wanted to go to get groceries, whether there woud be good restaraunts and we thought about what our commutes would be like. But we did not think of every little thing.

For instance, I didn't think about haircuts. As you may remember, I love getting a good haircut. It is one of the things I enjoy a lot. However, getting a haircut here has been something of an adventure. It was partially my fault. I had been seeing a great barber on Roscoe, just 4 or 5 blocks from my house. We'd started out with a little rockiness, but had really found our rhythem. He had started to remember me and what it is I wanted. It was good. And, of course, I didn't see him before I left. Instead, I thought it would be easy to find a barber here in St. Paul.

So, after a week or so of being here, I was in need of a haircut. I looked around on the internet with two simple criteria. I wanted to pay the same or less as I did in Chicago. And I wanted it to be close. It seemed simple enough.

So, one weekday morning, around 9, I searched around for places close to my new apartment. The closest I found was a salon about a block from my house, so I gave a call. They cost twice as much as I had been paying, so they were out. Then I called a barber shop that is three blocks from here. They cost the same, so I was in. On the phone, I asked if I needed an appointment and the woman said, "No. The barber will be in around noon, so just come after that."

So, I set out around 11:55 and got there a bit after noon. It was a small shop that was split down the middle. One side was a woman's salon and the other was the barber shop. The lady I was on the phone with was busy cutting a customer's hair, but took a moment to greet me. Apparently the barber hadn't made it in yet. It would be another 15-20 minutes. That's cool. One of the bonuses of being unemployed is that I don't have to rush anywhere and I can be a little more patient. So, I sat down with a three month old Entertainment Weekly and waited.

About 25 minutes went by and I heard the woman talking on the phone. "Well, there's a customer here and you better get here." Pause. "Uh-huh." Pause. "Sitting there. Waiting for you." Pause. "Uh-huh."

She let another 5 minutes go by before coming to tell me the barber was not going to make it in for another 45 minutes or an hour. Now, I know I don't have to be anywhere, but I'm not gonna sit around and wait for that long. So, I walk out and decide to try one of the other barbershops I saw, but didn't call.

I get there in 10 minutes and see that I am the only white guy there. This was one reason I didn't call the place when I saw it on the internet listing. I knew it was a barber shop that catered to black clients. That sounds racist, but I know there is some difference between black hair and white hair. And they get cut differently. So, Iwasn't really sure the barber would be used to cutting hair like mine. But, I put that all aside thinking I was being ignorant, and probably racist. And besides, the place is close to my apartment and costs the same I was paying in Chicago. So, I walk in and everyone does a double take. I notice right away that there are pictures of people and their haircuts on the wall and none of these men on the wall are white. This is probably not a great sign, I think, but I walk in. The barber asks if I'd like a cut and I say yes. It'll be about 20 minutes.

So, I pick up a local neighborhood newspaper and wait. It takes about 20 minutes, but he gets to me. The cut goes pretty uneventfully. He uses the scissors on me and it takes about twenty minutes. And it looks okay. I can tell by the way the barber was doing everything that he hasn't done a lot of white hair. But, Ias I was looking at it, I think he did okay. I pay him and give him a good tip. And I walk out pretty happy.

A week or two go by, however, and it doesn't hold up. Like it just doesn't grow out well. Normally, I can make a haircut last 4-6 weeks. This one lasts about 2 before I really feel like I am looking shaggy. I push it to 3 before I'm back to the drawing board.

In that interim, I found out my brother-in-law gets his hair cut at the Hair Cuttery. And I decide that's just fine. There's one that's not too far from me. It's not walking distance, though, so I will have to ride my bike. So, one Monday morning, around 8, I get my bike out and start to bike down Summit Ave. only to fine that my back tire is flat. Luckily, this is one of the little things Dinah and I had already looked into, so I walk my bike to the bike shop. Except, shit. It does not open until noon. So. I walk the bike back to my apartment. Hang out. Eat lunch and head back to the bike shop. It takes them 20 minutes to replace my tire and I'm back out on the hunt for a good haircut.

I arrive without incident and lock my bike to the fence outside. I get in and talk to a woman who enters me into a computer. She tells me, "After your haircut, I'll make notes about what we did and then you'll get the same thing if you want it." Sounds good to me. I wait 20 minutes and I'm in the chair.

The haircut is going well. She uses the clippers on the back and is shaping my hair nicely. She pulls out the clippers and starts doing something worrisome. She pulls the comb through my hair, pulling it straight, then starts clipping with the scissors quickly, bringing the scissors in as she's clipping. It goes without incident until she gets to the front of my head. This time, as she's coming in, she moves in with the clipper too quickly and slashes through the first layer of my skin scratching me. I react as you would expect. I pretend it didn't happen--an act she's all too happy to go along with. I think, it's just an accident and the rest of the cut is going well.

When she finishes up, I am really happy with it. She tells me she used the three and six clippers. Aside from the scratch, which is not as noticable as I thought it would be, this is a good haircut. I can run my hand through my hair. It's short, but not too short. I'm so happy I tip her big and bike home confident that I will get this cut again and again.

Fast forward to a couple weeks ago. It's the week before my ten year college reunion and it's been about 5 weeks since the magic cut. I head back to the Hair Cuttery and I am happy to see the same woman is there. I give her my name, but there's no entry for me in the computer. This doesn't bother me much because I know this woman cut my hair before, I can say the same thing to her and mention the clipper numbers and I'll get mostly the same cut. Right?

Yeah. Not so much. I tell her the clipper numbers and say, "just trim it up". She starts at the top with the clippers and after the first cut, I can tell this is not going to be the same cut. This is going to be short. Too short. But now there's nothing I can do. She finishes her butchering of my hair and I pay and tip her and I'm off. It's not so bad. It's okay even, but it's not the cut I wanted. *Sigh*

It's been a couple weeks since I got this cut and my plan is to let this grow a bit. I have a wedding in Detroit in a couple weeks, so I will probably have to get it trimmed before then. And I'm leaning toward heading back to the Hair Cuttery, but I guess I will see.

Anyway. Thanks for reading this long, stupid post about my hair.

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.

Reunions

This weekend was my tenth college reunion.

Yeah. I am old.

I was really looking forward to spending time with everyone. Ever since our move from Chicago, I have been feeling more than a little bit lonely. See, about six months after I graduated from Grinnell, I moved to Chicago. It was where a lot of my college friends moved. And despite not having a job, it was where i wanted to go. In the last three or four years, a lot of my friends moved away from Chicago and, as you no doubt know, I moved away.

And I'm loving St. Paul and the many possibilities I think are ahead of me now. But, I'm also missing the hell out of my friends. I don't think I realized how much until I was on campus and seeing everyone again. I used to see everyone almost every week, and often more than that. And now, I'm waiting for classes to start. (10 weeks to go!) And waiting isn't so bad, but it's not really a good way to get involved and meet people or make new friends. And related to the waiting is the fact that I haven't gotten myself into any sort of productive rhythem. Sometimes without that pressure to do things, I find myself unable to motivate myself. But something about this weekend really charged my batteries and made me so much more excited about getting to work again.

Another thing I reallly liked about reunion was how many people who are also going back to school. See, I know going back to school is what I have to do for myself and for my wife and (future) family. I know this is what I have to do to be happy and to have a chance at feeling like I have a fulfiling job. But. I have also been nursing this feeling that I am something of a failure for not realizing sooner, or acting sooner, to make things happen sooner. I mean, I know that this is my path. This is how I went, and I don't really have any regrets. But, I know too that things would've been easier if I had figured it out sooner. Of course, easy isn't that easy. But I found it reassuring that there were others in my class who were also heading back to school.

Being back at Grinnell and seeing my old friends also reminded me of how far I have come from where I was at 10 years ago. I have a lot more confidence right now and I feel more at ease about a lot of things. No doubt this is due to my wife's influence on me and the fact that I'm excited about law school. Whatever the reasons though, I am (mostly) happy now. And that's a big difference.

The only dissappointment was that some great people couldn't go. They were sorely missed.

Anyway. I can't wait until the next time my friends and I can get together. I'm hoping to see most everyone before the year is out. Perhaps a New Year's get-together?

****

A general note on reunions. My father's family often has a reunion in August. This year it lands on the weekend before I start law school. Everyone gets together in South Dakota and it's generally a nice time. I have not gone in 6 or 7 years, because of the problems I've been having with my father. This year my father is really excited that I should go and I'm a little leary. Paritially because I know the situation with my father is still uncomfortable, but more because I just want to relax the weekend before law school starts. And while I have a fine time at these reunions, I know I'm not going to feel the same recharge as the one I felt after the Grinnell reunion.

Which leads me to think. Reunions are supposed to be about seeing people and reminding you of old times. But, I also think it's supposed to remind you of who you are. Because usually you only have a reunion with people or at places that mean something to you and who you think you are. I've known for a while that I didn't feel very familiar with my family (both sides, really). What I wasn't fully aware of was how much I really think of my friends as family. And I think that's what I need more of.

I'm on my way, I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way...

I'm quite contented. Of late, I really have felt that I am finally on the path I was meant to be on. I was meant to go to law school. I was meant to be in St. Paul. The dark years of my mid and late twenties seem to have given way to what now looks like a bright future.
There are plenty of things I do not know about my future. But I've really started to feel happy and oppromistic about the possibilities. And it's probably because I feel like there will be possibilities. Choices, I can make for myself. Places I can go that I didn't think I could go before.
This past weekend Dinah and I went to Washington D.C., because she had a work event Wednesday morning. We went early to see some of her family and to look around a bit. I had never been to the Supreme Court, so we decided to go Monday morning and try to be around for the handing down of decisions. Long story short, we missed that, but still went to the court. And it was great. It's a beautiful building and I found myself inspired. I wanted to see as much of the building and the people as I could. I wanted to take it all in. We sat down in the cafeteria for lunch and I situated us next to the employees only tables in the back, just so I could hear what these people were talking about. As you would expect, there is a great amount of secrecy regarding decisions and such, so there was nothing about that kind of talk*. There were two guys who were discussing how to get a powerpoint demonstration to work. And there were two women (who I think may have been clerks) who were talking about their plans for the weekend. I felt myself really comforted by this. I've been reading Jeffrey Toobin's The Nine, which I highly recommend, and in combination with this display, I decided I really want to clerk for a Supreme Court Justice.
Now, I know I'm a titanically long-long-shot for anything like that. I don't go to a school that any of the current Justices** went to, or one that is considered to be among the tip-top of academic schools. I am an older student, and therefor less likely to be able to take a year away from my life after law school. And, I have no idea how to apply. That's probably not a good sign. Not to mention it's, you know, kind of a highly sought after opportunity.
However. I think this would be an amazing opportunity. And one I think I would thrive in. I can't get it out of my mind. To be in that environment and to watch the great legal minds of our time make sense of the problems that come before them would be astounding.
But. Yeah. I keep trying to temper my desire with the knowledge that there are about 36 people who get this opportunity every year. Out of hundreds, possibly thousands of applications. And while I might apply to all nine justices--and I would accept the opportunity to clerk for any of them--I know my views on the law are probably enough to eliminate me from 3 of them out right. So, now I'm down to 24 slots that I might have a shot at. And I'd have to get a good clerkship the summer before as well.

But I somehow still think I could land one. I'm very dumb this way. But this is good news. Even if i don't make it (and the odds are certainly looking that way), I like that I now feel like I can. It's a nice difference.

**********

One of the things I really wanted to do at the Court was visit the Public Information Office, which gives out recent opinions from the court. That Monday, they were releasing the opinions they had handed down that day.

When we went to the court, I was wearing flip-flops and shorts and a polo. It was in the high-eighties and humid as hell in DC, so I was dressed appropriately for the weather and for being a tourist to the court. And in my opionion, I was dressed just fine to go ask for a couple of opinions I had been following on SCOTUS blog (a must for anyone interested in what the Supreme Court is up to). However, when I started down the hallway to the the office, a security guard at the door stopped Dinah, who in turn called ahead to me. The guard said there was nothing down ther and when I told him what I was looking for, he seemed taken aback and said, "yeah, that's down that way." And the woman who was working the office, seemed surprised as well, as no doubt any reporters who had been interested in those decisions had already come by. She, at first, thought I was lost as well. But I got the decisions I was looking for. And I've read them both and understood them, more or less.

I think in the past, I might have given up at the security guard's comment. Or that I would have been offended that I was being discounted because I was obviously just a tourist. But, the difference for me now is I'm not just a tourist. And I know that I can go get those decisions***. It's a big difference.

*Note 1. Which is good. It would definitely be bad if tourists from all over the country were privvy to the legal thinking of the Court.
**Note 2. Chief Justice Warren Burger was a William Mitchell graduate. Though, I have no idea if he had many clerks from Mitchell during his time on the court.

***Note 3. Anyone can. Completely open to the public.

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.