Paul Cleave - The Laughterhouse

“Brad was, well, he was a great accountant,” John says, “and will be hard to replace. You heard about Edward Hunter?”

Edward Hunter was an accountant whose family was killed, and who wasn’t happy to let the police find justice for him. Instead he found it himself, and now he’s in jail for it. He’s the man Brad’s wife mentioned earlier.

“I’ve met him,” I say.

“Nice guy. Really nice guy,” he says, “but you know, crazy people often are when they know how to hide the crazy.”

That’s as good a way of putting it as I’ve ever heard.

“There was always something. . something odd about him, I suppose,” Morgan says.

“It was Edward’s workload that Brad had taken on?”

“Not all of it. We split it up, but Brad certainly had a share of it.”

“So he was working extra hours.”

“We all are,” he says.

“Was Brad, to your knowledge, seeing anybody at the firm?”

“Seeing? He saw people every day.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

For two seconds he looks confused, and then he slowly shakes his head, surprised at how slow he was to get my point. “You mean was he sleeping with anybody?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“He work late tonight?”

“Yeah. We all did. We left at the same time.”

“When was that?”

“Probably around ten thirty.”

“He give anybody a lift home?”

“No, we were the last two to leave.”

“When you hired him, you were aware he was having problems where he last worked?”

He blows at his coffee, then sips at it slowly, taking a few seconds to think about his answer. “I heard about it,” he says. “But nothing was proven, and Brad was a great accountant and didn’t deserve to be judged on rumor. In his time with us he’s never put a foot out of line. I’ve been doing this for a long time now, Detective, and people in the workplace are always making shit up to get other colleagues into trouble. It’s nothing new. What I do know is nobody at our firm has made any kind of allegation like that.”

“What else can-”

“Is it true, the way they say it happened?” he asks, leaning forward as if ready to receive a secret. “That somebody just knocked on his door and killed him in front of his wife?”

“I can’t discuss any of the facts at this stage,” I tell him.

“Jesus, I mean. . Jesus,” he says. “Tomorrow we’re going to be. .” He shakes his head. “How can he be dead?” he asks. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“It never does,” I say, but that’s not true. Sometimes it makes perfect sense. “What else can you tell me about him? Was he happy at work? He have lots of friends? Was he well liked, hated, did he steal stationary and take long smoke breaks?”

John Morgan leans back into his chair, and for the next thirty minutes we talk about Brad Hayward, and most of what he says sounds like a eulogy, only good things making it into the final cut of John’s summation. I don’t doubt any of it. I also don’t doubt that somebody out there will say all the opposite things about Brad Hayward. I listen close and take notes and try to figure out how or if Hayward’s cheating ways made an impact on what happened to him tonight.

When we’re done he leads me to the door.

“Are you going to find the man that did this?”

“Yes.”

“Is it related to the Gran Reaper?”

“Possibly,” I tell him, wondering if the media already knows.

“And I heard on the radio before you got here that there’s been another one. That’s four already,” he says. “What in the hell is going on?”

I don’t have an answer for him.

I head back to the car, the people in this street tucked into their safe little world. The temperature has stabilized around a crisp forty-seven or forty-eight degrees. The nights will stay that way for a few more weeks until getting down to thirty, then below thirty over the winter. Either way this will be over by then-either we’ll have this guy in custody or he’ll have run out of people to kill. I pull out my cell phone and call Schroder and tell him I’m done with Morgan and he rewards me by telling me there haven’t been any further homicides-at least that we know of. I lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes, then just as quickly open them in case they stay closed for six or seven hours. I wipe my face with the hand not clamping my cell phone to my ear and the stubble scratches at my palm. A quick look in the mirror and I notice I’m looking like shit. That happens to me a lot these days.

“I got something for you,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Breakfast. If I don’t eat something I’m not gonna last much longer. Meet me at Froggies.”

I drive into town, glancing at the cell phone on the passenger seat, waiting for it to ring, waiting for Schroder to tell me there’s a change of plan because victims numbers five and six have just showed up. I reach town without the call coming, and reach Froggies Diner on Hereford Street about two blocks down from the police station.

Froggies Diner has only been around for five years but feels like it’s been here forever. Within days of it being built it became a second home to every cop on the force, most of us spending at least five hours a week there. The hours between seven and nine in the morning you’re sometimes lucky to find a seat. It’s styled on a clichéd roadside diner, a long Formica counter with bar stools, red vinyl booths running along a length of windows, posters of old New York hanging up on the walls. There’s a jukebox in the corner that plays CDs and MP3s, the early morning sunlight coming through on a low angle and reflecting a full spectrum of colors off the plastic and glass casing. The door swings open into a bell that dings when I walk in. I’m thinking at six in the morning Schroder is going to be the only one inside when I get there, but he’s not-the diner is about a quarter full of tired cops who all look just as bad as Schroder, who looks about as bad as me. Detective Kent is sitting in a booth nursing a coffee and staring out the window while talking animatedly on a phone. I watch her for a few seconds and she turns and catches me, then smiles. I smile back, hold her look for two more seconds, then walk over to Schroder who is at the counter.

There’s a plate of bacon and eggs and mushrooms in front of him, next to him a plate with the same thing waiting for me. I haven’t stepped in here in three years. There’s a coffee for him and a coffee for me, both of which are steaming hot, and it’s the temperature that’s stopping me from knocking them both back. I sit down next to him. There’s a short-order cook out the back working away at his own breakfast. One waitress is carrying out an order while another is wiping down the counter. The waitress carrying the order has a tight T-shirt that fits her extremely well, it has 5×5=25 on it, and beneath that it says Good times. She catches me staring and she isn’t sure whether I’m doing the addition or looking at her breasts, wondering what those good times are. She turns around. On the back her T-shirt says 4x4=15 and then Bad times.

“What did you get from Morgan?” Schroder asks.

“Hayward was a model employee. He left work alone at around ten thirty. That time of night it’s a fifteen- to twenty-minute drive home tops. Wife called the police at eleven thirty-two. She guesses he’d been home ten minutes before she went to check on him. That gives him a good thirty unaccounted minutes.”

“Maybe not that unaccounted,” Schroder says, his words softened by the mouthful of bacon. “I’ve just spoken to the ME. I told her your theory. She’s given the body a preliminary look and found traces of lipstick on the victim’s penis.”