Mike Faricy - Bite Me

It was a good forty minute drive, mostly on four lane freeway after rush hour, before I got to Minnetonka where all the swells lived. The shades were still drawn on Doctor Death’s second floor and I pulled in and parked in the circular drive. It looked like the light might still be on in the corner room, but I couldn’t really be sure in the mid-day sun. Now there were three newspapers at the front door, the past three days of the Minneapolis Star. There was a sticker on what looked like one of the living room widows. The sticker matched the little alarm system sign in the front garden. Through the window I could see a fireplace, two, nice off-white couches on either side, a large oriental rug, a couple of end tables with lamps, some sort of large flat screen above the fireplace mantel. It looked like pretty nice digs.

I pushed open the mail slot next to the front door it was crammed with circulars and a few envelopes. I grabbed the envelopes, then walked calmly to my car and drove off as if I rifled people’s mailboxes everyday. I pulled into a grocery store parking lot and fanned through the envelopes. One was addressed to resident, one was a credit card offer from Citibank addressed to Carroll Kevork. The third envelope held a form letter from Wells Fargo Bank explaining new policies and charges for direct debit cards. Basically worthless except it suggested he had at least one account at Wells Fargo.

There was a pay phone alongside the grocery store. I phoned Doctor Death’s office at the U, listened to his pain in the ass recording then got the message that told me his mail box was full. I pressed zero to schedule an appointment. A nice lady came on after two rings.

“Department center, how may I direct your call?”

“I’d like to make an appointment with Doctor Carroll Kevork.”

“One moment please, I’ll transfer your call.”

She dumped me back into Doctor Death’s message. So much for higher education, I punched zero again.

“Department center, how may I direct your call?”

“I would like to make an appointment with Doctor Carroll Kevork, his voice mail is full. It seems I can’t leave a message.”

If the nice lady remembered who I was from twenty seconds earlier she gave no indication.

“One moment please, I’ll transfer your call.”

I was dumped into some recorded message that asked me to input the first three letters of the last name of the individual I was trying to reach. I did that. The next recording instructed me to press one upon hearing the name of the person I was trying to reach. Doctor Death was the fifth or sixth name I listened to, I was becoming numb. I pressed one. The recording instructed me to press one to leave a call back number, two to leave a message or zero to return to the switch board. I pressed two. The recording instructed me to wait for the tone before leaving a message. I waited for what seemed an interminably long time. Finally I heard the tone.

“Doctor Kevork,” I said in an asshole, rich guy accent, “this is Mister Myles Wesley at Wells Fargo Bank. I’m calling today to alert you to an accounting error, in your favor for the amount of one-hundred-and-forty-nine dollars. Would you please call me and let me know where you would like these funds deposited or should you prefer, we can issue a check made out to you. My direct dial number is,” and I left the pay-as-you-go cell number.

The three newspapers and the mail box had me wondering if Doctor Death had fled the scene once Kiki visited him the other day. Or, was he just lazy, never checked his mail and had just stopped reading all the bad news in the newspaper.

I drove to my office and called my new best friend, Nelson Tornvold, and left a message. I took it as remotely positive that his mail box wasn’t full. I phoned Louie’s office number, “Mister Laufen will return your call just as soon as he’s able.” Some things don’t change.

Nelson phoned me toward the end of the day, he sounded about twelve years old, but a diligent twelve.

“Yeah, Mister Haskell. This is Nelson Tornvold, I’m returning your call.”

“Nelson, thanks for calling back. I was checking to see if you received anything from Louie Laufen. He had some files…”

“Yes sir, um, Mister Laufen gave me these notes, a couple of pages, told me to verify names and dates. I think they’re from his interrogation with you. Then I’m to formalize them, write a cover letter for him. The information I have is that this is all going in a packet directed to a Detective Manning, at Saint Paul, homicide. I’ve got a case file number to reference, B-A-R seven-four-seven-seven?” He waited for an answer.

“I have to take your word on the file number, can you repeat that to me?”

He did and I wrote it down.

“So, that will be going over to Manning, at homicide, yet today?”

“It should, I’ll have it ready for Mister Laufen’s signature shortly, then as soon as he signs it we’ll messenger it over.”

“You can’t just send an email?”

“No sir, paper trail and all that sort of thing,” he said earnestly.

I was guessing ‘all that sort of thing’ covered a multitude of sins, but I didn’t want to go there.

“Has everything checked out?”

“Yes sir. I mean the records and dates were all verifiable, I’m sure someone on the other end will be doing the same thing I did, verifying. But it all checks out.”

“Nelson, thanks, don’t let me hold you up from getting Louie Laufen’s signature and sending that stuff over to Manning.”

“Yes sir.”

I felt like recommending young Nelson for Louie’s job.

My monitor call came through at nine-fifty that evening. It had been dark for almost forty minutes and mercifully there was a slight breeze, surprisingly pleasant weather. As soon as I hung up I got in the car and drove out to Doctor Death’s house. I cruised past twice, then headed for home. I could see the newspapers were still piled at the front door and the same second floor bedroom light was on. I was pretty sure the good Doctor wasn’t home.

Another monitor call came in at six-twenty the following morning. I was convinced it was that fatty Muriel, getting back at me because I had the temerity to request a review of my schedule arrangement. I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I lay in bed for forty minutes before I finally got up.

I was parked in my usual space in the far corner of the KRAZ parking lot. By this point I was able to recognize some of the litter that had been there for a while. I tuned to seven-forty on the radio dial, the Blast of Freedom as they referred to themselves, listening as Farrell ponderously read from a script that made no sense to me at all. He lost me somewhere between Pilgrim’s Rights and the Sword of Damocles, then the plea to make a stand for as little as a twenty dollar cash donation, followed by the cautionary reminder not to send checks lest the Communists and Anarchists in Washington monitor your active financial support of freedom. Farrell actually stammered over the word anarchists. Who could be stupid enough to listen to this drivel day in and day out? Present company excepted.

I was clearly in the world’s dullest parking lot, not a thing happening. I drove back out to Doctor Death’s house, just to see if he’d picked up his newspapers yet. There were four of them at the front door, newspapers. I pulled into the circular drive, got out and rang the doorbell. I didn’t expect anyone to answer and I wasn’t disappointed.

I forced my way through some trimmed hedge affair at the side of the house and clomped through a garden around to the back. I walked down a set of terraced stone steps that led to a broad back lawn running a good hundred feet out to the shore of Lake Minnetonka. There were colored flowers, impatiens, on either side of the shady steps. Along the lake the back lot had close to seventy-five feet of shore line. Two large oaks, close to where I guessed the property lines ran shaded a good portion of the back. One of the oaks had a heavy limb running out toward the water, a rope and tire swing hung from the limb, both looked relatively new.