Брендан Дюбуа - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2006

Jason

I cant defend you any more with your stepfather and that phone call was an insult to me to. Yes you are 21 now and Gary says alright if you want to be on your own for good don’t bother to apologize its too late. God why are you so bad. Gary says if the tuition check hadn’t cleared he would have put a stop payment but at least nothing more now so thats it I agree. No more for rent or food or beer or girls. Or next semester tuition. Try your father. Ha. Ha. And keep quiet to the Lindners or I won’t speak to you anymore either. I’m very mad.

“Explains things some, doesn’t it?” Liz Clarke said quietly as soon as I looked up.

“Uh-huh. Except... I don’t know. How does hard luck translate into car fires? You know him — I’m taking the view that he’s still around, you see. What kind of a guy is he, except maybe a smart-ass and a loser?”

She frowned but only said, “Breakfast first.” We sat at a table and dug into big slabs of a cinnamon coffee cake, and after a minute she asked, “You play basketball over at Lawrence?”

“Yep. On the J.V. team this year, but next year I’ll start on Varsity, knock on wood. Everyone over six three is graduating. You really teach preschool? Do you like it?”

“Yep — excepting the pay. Four years at UW — Green Bay and now eight-fifty an hour. What’s your major?”

“Oh — chronic indecision, more or less. Do you know Jason’s major, by chance?”

“Psychology, I think.”

“That figures. Screwed-up types are always psych majors. What else about Jason?”

“He’s a nice guy, first of all. I wish you wouldn’t say things like ‘screwed up,’ even if they’re true, okay? Not that I knew him that well. Last fall he was this big, sad puppy-dog type who wanted everyone to like him. But some people — this is observation, not experience — they’re never happy unless they’re on the outs emotionally. Preschool psychology.

“So what are you going to do now, Steve?”

“Head back to the dorm, I guess. I wish I knew if there really was a body in that car.”

She glanced up at a wall clock that read 9:58. “You know, there’s local news on WAPL at ten, I think. Maybe we can hear something.”

She hurried to turn on a radio, and after some commercials a voice announced: “The Appleton News Break — all local, all important. Hi, I’m Bob Borowsky. The big story of the last twenty-four hours in Appleton has been the discovery by firemen of the charred remains of an unidentified male body in a car set ablaze late last night on Orchard Road. Police are trying today to trace the owner of the vehicle and... just a minute, please. My producer Jan Harms has just handed me a fresh briefing from Appleton Police Headquarters. Let’s see. The... uh... all right, here we are: The body found in the vehicle, it says, quote, ‘though burned beyond recognition, had a large construction nail driven into its head.’...My God! (A pause.) Well, that’s how the briefing reads, ladies and gentlemen. So, uh, please stay tuned to WAPL-FM for future developments.”

Liz Clarke switched off the radio, then turned to stare at me. I may have looked as green as I felt, but I decided not to mention the stud gun to her.

“That doesn’t sound good,” she said. “I mean, it sounds really... bad.”

“To me, it sounds pretty much like suicide or murder, to be honest, and Jason really is dead or he’s in for it. He didn’t hold a grudge for any guys that you know about, did he?”

She shook her head, looking stunned.

“Well, in any case, I think I’d better go.” I slipped back into the sitting room for my coat and saw the door to the bedroom cracked open again with the kitten peeking out curiously.

“Why, that stupid cat!” Liz exclaimed as she pushed past me to close the door. “The latch sticks sometimes, but how can that little thing make it come open?”

“Maybe it’s the ghost of Jason Harnisch,” I said half under my breath.

“Jason is — or was — a nice guy, Steve. Honestly. Things must have just gotten to him.”

“I’d say definitely. Well — good-bye.”

When I got out by the street, I stood for a few seconds to reorient while I put on my hat and gloves. The snowfall had stopped, but the walks were still ice packed, and the only thing Liz’s coffee cake had done was whet my appetite. I finally started off, but I hadn’t gone ten steps when a car slid past me to a slippery stop and sounded its horn. I kept on moving because I didn’t think the driver could possibly want my attention, but a few seconds later I heard a voice yell, “Mr. Carr? Is that you?”

When I turned I caught sight of — stumbling through the snow after me — was what I hadn’t seen in Liz Clarke’s apartment: a girl who looked genuinely sick with worry.

“Gosh! You’re not—”

We stared at each other for a moment. The view from my side showed a cute girl with long hair the color of dark honey. She seemed about ready to cry, never mind the fact that she smelled like cigarettes from five feet off.

“Are you Kirsten?” I asked.

“Who?” She came even closer. “You’re not Mr. Carr. I see that. All right. Are you — that is, R. J. Carr, the detective — are you his son?”

“Well, yeah.” I was probably staring. “We look sort of alike, but how—? Are you his client on the Jason Harnisch case?”

“Me? I would be if I–I’m Jason’s cousin and...” She started crying all at once there on the sidewalk, and I said, “Don’t! It’s not all bad, I don’t think. Or not necessarily.” Lying, probably. “And Dad’s coming this afternoon.”

I took a look back at the building I’d just left, then said, “You don’t want to go in there, though. Maybe we should sit in your car, or find some food or something.”

Five minutes later I was pretty much gagging in the smoky interior of Cathy Lindner’s Cherokee as we drove off looking for a real breakfast, but at least we’d undone some confusion. She told me what she knew and why she’d gotten up at four thirty this morning to drive to Appleton, and I explained a few things and held a few others back in order not to worry her even more. Not, at least, until I’d checked in with Dad.

It’s a mistake to theorize on insufficient data — Rule Number One of the Master. And I didn’t have much data that morning. If I had anything, it was a hunch.

GINNY CARR:

At twenty minutes to four that Saturday afternoon I left R. J.’s Chevy parked in front of 1722 Martin and traversed ice, snow, and then shoveled cement walk to the entrance of the building, a former rooming house enlarged and converted into cheap apartments. The late afternoon sky overhead was heavy with lowering clouds, but the bleak-looking vestibule inside the building seemed even darker as I entered, lit by a single 40-watt bulb high on a wall.

In its dim glow, nevertheless, I was able to find the name Kirsten Postlewaite listed on a large hand-printed card. Then I pressed the bell button for apartment twelve. While I waited with neither hope nor expectation that the young woman might be home at that hour, I reviewed the events and revelations of what had been a rather grim day.

First, R. J.’s failed in-person confrontation with a manager at Berkham Truck Rentals over the subject of Jason Harnisch’s summary dismissal from employment. Next, our drive north from Elm Grove, slowed by heavy traffic in Milwaukee and occasional snow from south of Fond du Lac into Appleton, punctuated as well by a horrible fast-food lunch near Osh Kosh. Then our arrival at our son Steve’s dormitory and the multiple revelations, beginning with the surprise presence at his side of Jason’s cousin, Cathy Lindner; continuing by way of Steve’s account of the bizarrely staged and advertised car fire; and concluding in the young woman’s temporary absence, with a more detailed report of what Steve had actually found out — facts, events, opinions, and personalities — during his morning interview with the third young woman in the affair, Liz Clarke.