Chapter 2 #2
Can you imagine? You had to go out and try to get laid with bad teeth, bad skin and a bad smell. Definitely not for me. Yes, I like the occasional sedative. But my skin is flawless.
“Is there a big meth problem around here?”
“Big enough.”
“How much money did they get, do you think?”
“I can’t give out that information,” he replied.
“So, none,” I guessed.
He narrowed his eyes at me, inadvertently telling me I was right.
“If they didn’t get any money, why are you so sure it was a—” I stopped.
There was a reason he thought it was a robbery.
And that a meth head had done it. Something must have been left at the scene.
Paraphernalia? A glassine envelope? A pipe of some kind?
But why? Why would you try to burgle a church and when you didn’t get any money leave some of your gear behind. That didn’t make sense.
“It was someone physically strong, wasn’t it?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Reverend Hessel was beaten to a pulp.”
“He wasn’t… He was struck in the head with a blunt object. Three times.”
Now we were getting somewhere. Unfortunately, he added, “That was in the newspaper.”
“Oh,” I said, a blush jumping into my cheeks. “I guess I missed that. What kind of blunt object?”
“A blunt one.”
“Something that the killer brought? Or was it something that was there in the office?”
“We don’t know what it is, so we can’t figure that out.”
I chewed on my lip as I concentrated. If this were CSI the shape of the wound would tell us it was ballpeen hammer, possibly a particular brand. So, if the wound wasn’t telling them anything, it was just, well… flat?
“What about physical evidence? Fingerprints? DNA?”
“Of course we found fingerprints. Lots of fingerprints. Problem is, the list of people who’d been in and out of that office is about two pages long.
We could spend a couple of weeks eliminating prints to see what we’re left with, but the remaining prints wouldn’t be useful if that person isn’t in the state police database.
Generally, you need to be a criminal in order to be in there. ”
“What about DNA?” I asked.
“DNA requires bodily fluids, fingernail scrapings, hair… and, once again, if the DNA isn’t in the FBI database it’s not going to do us any good. Until we have a suspect.”
That was not helpful.
“So, do you have a suspect?”
“Look, just because you got lucky with the Sammy Hart murder doesn’t mean you know anything about investigating crimes. Tell your grandmother we’re working on this and expect to have more information in a couple of days.”
“And you’ll call her to let her know?”
“It will be in the newspaper.”
Technically, I was not supposed to leave Nana Cole alone—something her doctor had insisted I must not do—really, did he think I’m completely irresponsible?
I’d been able to go to the sheriff’s office because her physical therapist was scheduled to come by at one.
Nana Cole had hustled me out of there at ten-of.
After I visited the sheriff’s office, I went to Benson’s Country Store and picked up a few things.
Well, more than a few things. My grandmother had given me a long list.
So, at nearly three, I walked through the back door juggling four plastic bags. Nana Cole sat at the table with an old guy around forty. He was certainly not my idea of a physical therapist, but whatever. Each to his own.
I shoved the bags of groceries onto the counter, and said, “Hi, I’m Mrs. Cole’s grandson. I thought you’d be finished by now.”
“Henry, this is Jasper Kaine,” Nana Cole said. I remembered the name. He was my grandmother’s neighbor who leased her cherry orchards.
“Oh, sorry, I thought you were the physical therapist.”
“No, she’s long gone,” Nana Cole said. “You’re going to need to call tomorrow and have them send someone else.”
I couldn’t deal with that—seriously, she could use the telephone herself.
I was trying to get a good look at Jasper Kaine.
I’d only ever seen him from a distance. He was husky and dark with flinty eyes.
I’d noticed that he didn’t bring a casserole when Nana had her stroke.
I mentioned it to her once and she’d said, “Well, he’s a man. Men don’t do those things.”
I have to admit, I’d been relieved that I’d never have to make a casserole for anyone’s trauma.
Jasper stood up and shook my hand, saying, “Nice to meet you, Henry.”
Then he sat down again. He looked like he had a lot of muscles underneath his Polo shirt. I tried to focus on a spot above his eyebrows. Truth be told, he was exactly the sort of guy I used to let buy me drinks at Revolver. Sometimes I’d let them do more than that.
“You can call me Mooch,” I suggested. It had been my nickname since high school.
“Why would I do that?”
“Jasper is catching me up on the cherries,” Nana Cole said. “He says the Rainiers have come in strong this year.”
He nodded, saying, “It should be a good crop.”
I had no clue what a Rainier was. Obviously, it was some sort of cherry, but that was as far as I got.
“After you pick them, you’ll sell them on the side of the road?” I guessed. There were fruit stands here and there around the county. They were already selling rhubarb and asparagus. Though, how anyone made a living doing that, I had no clue.
He shook his head. “Our main client is a company outside of Detroit. They pit the cherries, bleach them, dye them and soak them in sugar to turn them into maraschinos. After that they’re either bottled or covered in chocolate and boxed.”
Hmmmm. I have to be honest. Growing up my experience of cherries was a bit scant. I would have them in Shirley Temples when my mother took me to singles bars in the afternoon—only when she was between boyfriends. I don’t remember it being a regular thing. I mean, I don’t remember everything—
And of course, my mother didn’t cook. We either went out to eat or had take-out. There were cherries in the cans of fruit cocktail she sometimes bought me. I loved cherry cough drops and was always happy when I got sick enough to ask for them.
The thing is, I don’t remember ever having a real live actual cherry like the ones my grandmother grew. I had no idea what they really tasted like.
I wanted to go upstairs to my room. I needed an Oxy to get me through the long boring afternoon.
I have to say, it had been lovely while my grandmother was in the rehabilitation center.
I’d go see her for a couple hours in the morning and then I was free to do whatever in the afternoon.
Whatever was usually one or two 10s. Well, not usually.
Every other day, maybe. I mean, I didn’t keep a chart or anything.
I just didn’t do it every day. Addicts do drugs every day.
I just like to have fun. Cue Cyndi Lauper.
My grandmother had introduced me to Dr. Blinski, who was an absolute treasure.
All I had to do was show up every two weeks, pay him sixty dollars for an office visit, complain that my ankle was just not getting any better, and he’d write me a new prescription for thirty ten-milligram Oxycontin. Then I’d be off on my merry way.
“You also have two acres of Sweetheart cherries,” Jasper said directly to me.
That got my attention. “They’re not my acres. They belong to my nana.”
He looked a little confused, like he knew something I didn’t. But—come on, there was no way my mother would keep the farm. She’d probably just give it to some guy she was dating. It was never coming to me.
Besides, what would I do with it?
“Well, things are looking good,” he continued. “We got through the frosts reasonably well. We’ve got a shot at a good harvest.”
“Let’s hope,” Nana said.
They both seemed nervous, but I didn’t get what the suspense was about. You plant trees, they sprout fruit, you pick it. Didn’t sound like rocket science to me.
Jasper stood up, making a scrapping noise with the chair. He reached out his hand to shake mine—again. I shook his hand, feeling the heft of it, the dry callouses. It was a man’s hand through and through.
“It was nice to meet you, Henry.”
“Yeah, you said that already.”
“Henry,” Nana Cole chided.
“Well, he did.”
This all made him chuckle in a way I didn’t quite get. Fortunately, he was out the door a moment later, leaving me alone with my grandmother.
“So, I went and talked to Detective Lehmann,” I said, leaving it dangling there in the air.
“And?”
“He didn’t want to tell me much, but this is what I found out. He thinks Reverend Hessel was killed by a meth addict with a blunt instrument during a burglary attempt.”
“That makes sense, doesn’t it?” She seemed very pleased.
“I’m pretty sure there wasn’t any money taken, though. Detective Lehmann wouldn’t say, but I think if there were money taken, he would have.”
“Why does that matter?”
“I don’t think a meth addict would forget the money. They’d be desperate. I mean, even if all they got was whatever was in the reverend’s pockets. They’d still have taken it.”
“A drug addict is probably not very smart.”
There was a bit of sting in that. If I were a drug addict I might have been offended.
“He didn’t want to tell me whether the blunt instrument was something already in Reverend Hessel’s office or something the killer brought with him.”
“What difference would that make?”
“Well, if the killer brought the blunt instrument with them, then they planned to kill Reverend Hessel. Which does imply it was someone who knew him. If they used something in his office, then it was likely spontaneous. Which might still be someone who knew him or—”
“Yes, but you said it was a burglar. They didn’t expect Reverend Hessel to be there. So it had to have been… spontaneous.”
I wanted to say, ‘In that case what did they use and where is it?’ Instead, I said, “That’s probably right.”
Pleased with herself, Nana Cole smiled and said, “It’s tourist season. It was probably someone from out of town.”
“So, you’re thinking it’s someone who came up planning to hike and buy fudge and go boating, but at the last minute decided to add ‘kill a reverend’ to their itinerary?”
She gave me a withering look. Seriously, I felt my roots die.
“Is that all you found out?”
“He didn’t really want to tell me anything.”
“Well, that’s not worth a thousand dollars.”
“You’re going to welch on the deal, aren’t you?”
“It’s just not a lot of information.”
“I asked him to call you when he found out more.”
“And is he going to?”
“Absolutely.”