J Rain: The Mummy Case

I reread the legend for the dozenth time. Sylvester had been found in the California desert, near Rawhide, now known as the Rawhide Ghost Town. Historians had found no evidence as to who he was or why he was killed. After his discovery, Sylvester had been passed from museum to museum, paraded around until this day. The only justification as to why he was not given a proper burial was that he was a mummy, and therefore of interest to science and history.

Now he was just of interest to Jones’s pocketbook.

I stepped up next to the case, my face just inches from Sly’s own. I stared at him, soaking in the details of his dried-out face, his half-open eyes, and his shriveled remains of a nose. I stared at him, and we played the blinking game for a half a minute. He won, although he might have flinched.

I put my hand on the case.

Well, buddy, I think you are more than a freak show curiosity. I think you were once a person, a person who died a hell of a shitty death. I care that you suffered so much. I care that you bled to death. I care that you never got that last drink of water you so desperately craved. Of course, you didn’t leave me much to go on, but that’s never stopped me before. But first I have to look into the death of a young historian, who may or may not have died accidentally. Maybe you know him. I hear he was a good kid. His name is Willie Clarke.

“There’s no touching the display,” said the voice of the employee behind me. “Now that we serve ice cream here, I’m always cleaning off sticky fingerprints. It’s a pain in my ass. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” I said, and left.

The University of Irvine police sub-station was a single story wooden structure located on the outskirts of campus. A female officer in her twenties was working the front desk. She had on a cop uniform from the waist up, and cop shorts from the waist down. Her legs were thick and well muscled. Nothing says sexy like cop shorts.

She asked if I was here to pay a parking ticket. I showed her my P.I. license and told her who I was and what I was doing here. Without looking at the license, she told me to wait. I snapped my wallet shut. Her loss; she missed a hell of a picture. She disappeared through a back door.

I struck a jaunty pose at the counter and waited, ankles crossed, weight on one elbow. Surveyed the room. Wasn’t much to survey. Typical campus sub-station was designed mostly to accept payments for parking tickets, which, I think, funded much of UCI’s scientific research. Behind the counter were a few empty desks, the occupants probably out giving more parking tickets.

Soon enough I was sitting at a small desk watching a small cop eating a bowl of Oriental noodles. Judging by the way that he recklessly slurped, he seemed irritated that I disturbed his meal. His name was Officer Baker.

“Caught me on a lunch break,” he said, wiping his mouth carefully with a folded napkin.

“I hadn’t realized.”

“Professor Darwin said you might come by, and if you did, to fill you in with what’s going on.”

“She knows I worry.”

“Quite frankly, I’m a little worried, too.”

In my lap, I realized I had balled my hands into fists. My knuckles were showing white, crisscrossed with puffy scars from too many fights everywhere. Grade school, high school, college. Just last week. My fists were wide, a hell of a knuckle sandwich.

“Any leads?” I asked.

“None.”

“Any other professors targeted?”

He shook his head. “No. Just Professor Darwin.”

“Did the surveillance cameras catch anything?”

He briefly eyeballed his noodles. “No.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Again, no.”

I inhaled, wondering what, if anything, had been done about this.

“How about protection for Professor Darwin?”

“We offered to escort her across campus, but she declined. She said she has pepper spray and wasn’t afraid to use it. And that you had taught her self-defense.” He was a really small man, made smaller by the fact that he had yet to do anything for Cindy. He sat forward in his desk. “I know you are concerned. But I am personally looking into this. We patrol Professor Darwin’s office, her lecture hall, and her car regularly. I assure you, sooner rather than later, we will find this creep.”

“You have any objections if I come by a few nights a week and poke around?”

He looked at me. “You the same Knighthorse who played for UCLA?”

“One and only.”

“Then I have no objections,” he said.

I left his office. Sometimes it’s good to be me.

Cindy and I finished our Saturday morning jog at the beach, ending up at my place. To conserve water, we showered together. Zowie! Cindy scrubbed the blue gunk off her face, and then tried her best to scrub me off her. She succeeded with the former but not the latter. Now we were at the Huntington Beach Brew Pub, surrounded by a lot of beer in huge stainless steel vats. A lot of beer.

A waitress came by carrying three sloshing ice-encrusted mugs in one hand by their ice-encrusted handles to a nearby table. I watched her carefully. Or, more accurately, the beer carefully.

“I hope it’s okay that we’re here,” Cindy said.

“I’ll be fine.”

“But you’ve been doing so well lately. I hate to tempt you like this.”

“Actually, not as well as you think.” I looked her in the eye, took a deep breath. “And you probably shouldn’t feel very proud.”

She was in the act of raising her glass of water to her lips. It stopped about halfway. “You’ve been drinking again.”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Not as much.”

She set the glass back down. Perhaps a little too loudly. Our waitress picked that moment to come by, asked if we were ready to order. I shook my head and said no, keeping my eyes on Cindy.

When the waitress was gone, Cindy said, “Jim, you promised you would quit.”

“I quit for nearly three months. A record for me.”

“So what happened?”

“Turns out the more I look into my mother’s murder, the more I want to drink.”

Her mouth was tight. She kept her hands still on the table. She took a deep breath, looked down at her hands. She was thinking, coming to some sort of decision. “And you said you haven’t been drinking as much as before.”

“That’s true.”

“At least that’s something.”

“Yes.”

“And you have been able to control the drinking?”

“More so than before.”

“Do you need help?”

“Probably.”

“But you don’t want it.”

“Not yet.”

The waitress came by again. This time she saw us talking and didn’t bother to stop.

“You have a problem,” Cindy said.

“I know.”

“How long have you been drinking?”

“A few weeks now.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

I shrugged. “Should have told you sooner.”

“But you told me. I know it’s not easy. I don’t want you to hide it from me.”

“It’s not something I’m proud of.”

“I know. So what are you going to do about it?”

“For now, nothing.”

“So you’ll keep drinking?”

“Yes.”

“But not as much?” she asked.

“No, not as much.”

She thought about that for nearly a minute. “Maybe that’s all we can ask,” she finally said, then added, “at least while you are looking into your mother’s murder.”

“Yes,” I said.

The waitress came by again, and I waved her over. She looked relieved. She took our orders with a smile. I ordered a burger and a Diet Coke.

“Did you want to order a beer?” asked Cindy when the waitress left.