Reed Coleman: Little Easter

Oh yeah, I still hadn’t summoned up the will to call the cops. For all I knew, the dead man was still out there rotting in the barren field. I make no excuses for my procrastination. I didn’t want to stir things up or rattle anyone’s cage. Sleeping dogs were going to lie right where they were. For all my confidence in MacClough, I wasn’t taking any chances. And in spite of Barnum’s printed silence, I guess part of me could still hear her chanting Johnny’s name.

I was busy renewing my amazement with truly white snow when my tiresome phone chirped me out of my trance.

“Yeah.” I could be such a charmer.

“Detective Sergeant Mickelson, Suffolk County Police. Is Mr. Klein at home?”

“Speaking,” I wondered if the bored detective could hear my intestines twisting into knots. “What can I do for you?”

“We have your sweater back from the lab,” Mickelson yawned into his mouthpiece. “The tests came out negative, like we figured.”

“Good thing,” I laughed nervously. “My travel agent was havin’ a tough time bookin’ me a first-class room in Rio.”

He greeted my weak levity with a long dose of silence. Then: “You can pick the garment up at this address during normal business hours.”

“Thank you, detective. I’ll probably be down today,” I offered too cheerfully.

“Ain’t that grand. Maybe we should put the Christmas lights back up,” Mickelson chided. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Klein, since you’re coming in, why don’t ya stop by my office for a few minutes. See ya, let’s say, within the hour.”

The click and dial tone told me I would have to save my witty repartee until we spoke in person. I threw on my collection of silver zippers, suede laces and black leather that the world called a motorcycle jacket. I didn’t have the pierced ear and Harley to complete the image. Christ, I didn’t even own a Schwinn.

It wasn’t much of an office, really. More like an appliance box with the top missing. Mickelson wasn’t at his desk. I imagine that was intentional. He was giving me time to sweat and my pores were putting the minutes to good use. Sweat was good. Nerves were good. Years ago, MacClough had schooled me on that:

“Most people can’t help actin’ nervous and guilty around cops. Even fuckin’ priests and house pets get the jitters in the presence of guns and badges. Cops are used to people being uncomfortable around ’em. The perps are the cool ones. They’ve usually been through it all before. The cool ones; those are the ones we didn’t trust. Not that we trusted anybody.”

When Mickelson came in I was wiping my palms off on my own black jeans.

“You giving the bunt sign or starting a fire?” the thick necked detective asked rhetorically.

He pressed down on my shoulder with a big meaty paw when I tried standing to meet him. I recognized his face as one of those I’d told my story to on the night of the railroad execution. The face had registered, but so had a lot of others.

“Here,” he reached into a drawer, pulled out Johnny’s old bar sweater and tossed it to me.

The weathered wool wasn’t any worse for wear, not that it could get much worse. I folded the old soldier up and tucked it under my arm. The detective just sort of sat there, saying nothing, watching me.

“Will that be all?” I asked after reaching my discomfort threshold.

“Mostly, yeah,” Mickelson grunted. “You can go.”

“Then why did you drag-” my voice was in midcrescendo when he cut me off.

“Don’t get indignant, Mr. Klein,” he waved me and my voice back down. “I guess I wanted to let you know we’re not as stupid as you might think. Do you really imagine that we swallowed that line of shit you fed us on the night of the murder? Come on. We’re human. We wanted to go home for the holiday. But now all the gifts are open and the turkey’s all finished.”

“What’s this all about, Mickelson,” I challenged.

“You tell me, Klein. Your story had some gaps in it. Details were missing. That’s pretty clear. We just can’t figure out why, exactly. My gut tells me you’re protecting someone. And my gut,” he rubbed his Buddha belly, “is seldom wrong.”

His belly wasn’t wrong, but something else most definitely was. If MacClough had been in and talked it all out, why was I here? That night at the Rusty Scupper, MacClough had clearly stated that everything was taken care of. Maybe I hadn’t listened closely enough or maybe I was just drunk. There was a third possibility. Maybe Johnny was lying.

“Detective Mickelson, did you ever talk to John MacClough?” I questioned straight out.

“The ex-cop bar owner?” he yawned back. “Sure. Don’t fret, Klein, he vouched for you. Seemed like a good guy, for a city cop.”

“That’s all he did?” I blurted out, regretting the question as soon as it left my lips.

“What did you want him to do?” The heavyset detective leaned forward with sudden interest.

“Nothin’,” I feigned indifference and stood to go.

“So long, Mr. Klein. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll figure it out. And when I get to the bottom of it, I hope you’re not there. Why don’t you tell me who you’re covering for and be done with it?”

I ignored that and asked a question of my own. “Any word on who the dead woman was?”

“Why?” His face showed little real interest, but his raised eyebrows said different.

“I don’t know. Curious, I guess. I was the last one to see her alive.” That was amongst the ten stupidest things I’ve ever said and I’ve said a lot of stupid things.

“Not unless you killed her you weren’t. Now get out of here before I put you back on the suspect list.” Mickelson pointed to the door and began punching up a phone number.

“Well. .” I waited.

“You still here?” he looked properly annoyed. “What? What?”

“About the dead woman.”

“She died a Jane Doe. She’s still a Jane Doe. And my gut tells me. .”

I was out of the appliance box before he could finish the sentence. I’d heard enough about his belly for one day. The witch’s curse was back and haunting me again. In the car I ran through a list of excuses and maybes that might account for the discrepancy between Mickelson’s telling and MacClough’s.

“That’s it!” I slapped the wheel and screamed to no one but me. Johnny had spoken to another detective Mickelson was probably in charge of one part of the investigation and there was another detective, maybe ten other detectives, handling different aspects of the case. Lord knows, there were enough cops at the Scupper that night to divide the case a hundred ways and still have leftovers.

The Scupper was chilly and empty of paying customers. MacClough stood behind the bar sipping a long Bush-mills, staring glassy-eyed through the front window across Main Street at Stan Long’s desolate self-service pumps. Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” was just finishing its twirl on the Wurlitzer. That was odd. Johnny hated that song. He’d reset the jukebox every time it came on and claim the record was too scratchy. Maybe his last patron had played it. No matter.

The red golf sweater I’d gifted him for Christmas was busy being broken in. I liked him better in the old one. I’d left the old one in my car. Johnny couldn’t know I had it yet. That would be tipping my hand.

Just as I hitched my heel onto the bar rail, “Crazy” came on again.

“Hey!” I snapped my fingers at MacClough.

There was moisture-tears, I thought-in Johnny’s eyes as he turned in my direction. But before the salt water could roll out onto his ruddy cheeks, the barman rubbed them away.

“Goddamn air’s too dry in here. Irritates my eyes,” he offered nonchalantly and rubbed some more. “I’ll get a humidifier and fix that right up.”