Mr. Scary Smart: Part 3

May 2, 2009

 

 A Joe Downing Mystery

The following is fiction:  

 

   
 

     
 

Part Three: The United States of Anytime    

 

I knocked on the door of Tom’s townhouse. Sounds of merriment came from within. His son, Mike, in his early 40’s, answered the door.

 

“Joe! Hi! How ya doin’? It’s great to see you!…..Wow! What happened?! You look like you got in a fight!” Stepping in slowly and carefully, I feigned a joviality I didn’t feel:    

 

“I’m okay, Mike; I just happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d bounce over for the revelry.”      

 

“Hey – come on in!” He waved me on in with mock high seriousness. Mike’s ten year-old son came by to size me up, but he didn’t speak. ‘What happened to you’ was on his face. Tom appeared.

 

“Joe!!! Hey! Thanks for stopping by, babe! I didn’t think you’d have time for us little people.” Tom was toasted, big surprise there.      

 

“Have a beer?” he asked.    

 

“Absolutely. And a shot of Jack, too, if possible.”    

 

“It’s not only possible, it’s probable, Joseph, my man. Sit down, genius.” He motioned to a couch full of people. He snapped his fingers sharply and whistled at Mike to fill my order. The shot came first, burning and soothing. Soon I didn’t feel as sore. The beer I sipped slowly. I washed-up in the bathroom, and then talked with Tom’s daughter Heidi about her two children, who were 7 and 11, and were now attending Soleado grammar school on the peninsula, and learning tennis.      

 

“Maybe you could hit with them sometime, Joe.”      

 

“Sure, it’ll give me a break from your dad.” She laughed. I needed to talk about the case with Tom. I needed to be patient. The room positively swirled with Christmas lights, alcohol, excited people, children racing around, Christmas music, sparkling packages (wrapped and not-so-wrapped), a ramped-up, glistening Christmas tree presiding in the corner, and food, OMG, the food: honey-baked ham, turkey, potato salad, macaroni salad, green salad, mashed potatoes, vegetables, pies, rolls, apple cider, candy-canes, ice cream, on and on and on, who knows. I lost count at infinity. For a macho guy, Tom is surprisingly Martha-Stewart.      

 

Celine Dion and Shania Twain were on TV with a joint Christmas special. (Tom is totally in love with Celine.) Tom’s new girlfriend Lorraine chatted with me, too — she was about 45-50, and was very gracious and sweet, like all of Tom’s girlfriends.      

 

“Tom thinks the world of you, Joe.”      

 

Through the somber mood I felt, one thing made me laugh – when I first came in, loitering alone in the kitchen briefly, an older man I didn’t know shuffled over to me, stooped, making eye-contact like it was the last day of Earth. Must be one of Tom’s golf buddies, I thought. (But how this guy could’ve gotten through even nine holes was a mystery in itself.) He pointed a crooked finger at a small calendar on the kitchen wall beside the refrigerator, above the microwave.      

 

“Is that a clock?” he inquired very politely. I saw that it was only a calendar, so I just said very simply and evenly,      

 

“No, that’s not a clock.”      

 

“It’s nine o’clock?!”      

 

“…..well…..yes, it is nine o’clock, but I was just saying: ‘That’s…..not…..a…..clock.’”      

 

“That’s nine o’clock?!” he repeated immediately. (…..I was just…..forget it.) Eventually the party wound down. Tom’s kids and grandkids left. They would all visit the other side of the family tomorrow. When it was just me, Tom, and Lorraine, I finally could ask Tom,      

 

“Can we go to Hal’s?”  

 

   
 

*************************************

 

 

The two of us drove in the Corvette down the hill to the restaurant, taking Portuguese Hills Drive. We were still in Rancho. We pulled into the parking lot, overlooking the ocean, and went in: Hal’s 24/7 Burger Teepee. We settled into a booth and ordered: I got the Bigger, Badass Breakfast (served all day): 6 eggs, 6 slices of bacon, 6 links of sausage, 6 English muffins, 6 slices of toast, 6 pancakes, hash browns, milk, juice, coffee, and a Badass Biker Burger, all for just $2.99 (…..uh, Hal? got a minute, sport?). Tom got just coffee and two crackers. That was $3.99. I related the facts of the case to him.      

 

“So, what do you make of this guy?” I asked.      

 

“Well, he’s not very nice, obviously, and he’s probably an Internet predator and he’s probably extremely dangerous. Killing that dog was just what he needed to do to get through the moment. You’re next, big boy. You’re in for a world of trouble with this one.”      

 

“I know that. What’s his psychological profile?”      

 

“Probably a loner. A computer junkie, I would guess. That’s probably how he encountered this Chelsea girl. Maybe he developed a May-September crush on her, maybe he saw her picture on MySpace, or Facebook, or on a blog of hers – somehow. If so, it’s possible he’s fixated upon her as a digital image – she represents a perfect virtual world for him, the world as it should be, but can’t be. Dopamine courses through the prefrontal cortex of his brain upon viewing his beloved, and he gets a physical sensation of pleasure from seeing the digital image. He’s probably obsessive. Now he’s possibly attempting to apprehend that digitized image in real life, and experience it at the source, in the non-virtual world.”      

 

“So you’re saying that he doesn’t distinguish between the two worlds, virtual and non, as being actually separate from one another?” I replied.      

 

“Well, we don’t want to go too far: we don’t want to exaggerate here. I would just venture that he certainly has shown he can navigate between the two worlds, and that he can separate the two – but the real point here is his desires, Joe: he doesn’t want to acknowledge a difference between the two worlds, even though he knows there is indeed a difference.” Tom paused to take a sip of coffee. Why he was drinking coffee at this time of night, I can’t say. He continued:      

 

“Perhaps he unconsciously attempts to draw certain elements of the non-virtual world into his perfect virtual world. Perhaps this Chelsea gal is a rare part of the real world that he approves of, and so now he wishes to bring that element, so to speak, into his cocoon of virtuality. The nerve centers in the brain that consider the self-interest and the feelings of others have been suppressed in him. He’s just given himself over to computers too much – he can’t feel anything anymore, he doesn’t care about right and wrong.”      

 

“Sounds pretty common, really.” I said, stupidly.      

 

“It can’t work, of course, but he’s in denial, and he’s in flight from reality. He’s in very deep, too, if he’s kidnapping and killing. What he did to that dog he’ll do to you, too, Joe. And without remorse. Like an animal killing an enemy. You watch yourself good, mister. I’m not kiddin’.“
He wagged his index finger at me.      

 

“This boy is most likely an atomic whack-job,” he summed-up.      

 

“Oh, you got that right,” I agreed. We stared out at the water, which was too dark to see, too obscure. There was a feeling of dread at knowing Chelsea was in the custody of this man, this altered form-of-man. Tom broke the pause:    

 

“I’ve got a question, Joe.”    

 

“Go ahead.”    

 

“About the dog: you said it was barking and running around, right? That was when you first came into the backyard?”    

 

“Yeah.”    

 

“But did it bark before that? Did Mrs. Johansen mention that it was barking before you and Johansen got there from your office?”    

 

“No,” I shook my head, “she said nothing about any barking. She just said she was cooking and Chelsea was watching TV and then Chelsea was gone, without a sound. That was all. No barking.”    

 

“Curious that the dog wouldn’t protect Chelsea and make some noise if they went right past it, presumably struggling.”    

 

“Yeah – I definitely gotta check that out with Mrs. Johansen tomorrow. It could lead to some deeper stuff. But how do you think this guy makes a living? Dealing?”    

 

“Could be, but unlikely. If he’s a transient, since no one in the family or neighborhood has ever seen him before this case, he probably doesn’t deal. He probably doesn’t use, either. Those both take time to develop contacts, a settled presence in an area. But maybe he’s got a cache in his car. That’s possible, too. But I would say he probably gets money doing something you can do anywhere, no matter how new you are in the area.”    

 

“Such as?”    

 

“Well, some sort of computer crime, some hacking, maybe. For example, maybe he writes malicious macros or viruses or worms or malicious software, or he sends infected e-mail attachments, whatever – all to the purpose of disabling some database so as to move in on it, when security is disabled, and steal the files. Then he can sell the info.”    

 

“It’s possible. And he could do that from anywhere, even from a motel room.” I responded.    

 

“Yeah, that’s right. Computer crime can be committed without getting off your tush,” Tom declared.    

 

“Well,” I said, “the next step for me is to take a look at that slope tomorrow morning at the Johansen’s, and ask about the dog, and hopefully this guy will contact them somehow…..but maybe he just wants to keep Chelsea. No ransom desired.”    

 

“Could be,” Tom concurred, “but that’ll make things harder for you — you’ll need him to make some mistake up there on the big chessboard that way.” We paid our bill and left, saying ‘Merry Christmas’ to our waitress and to the cashier, both of them looking at us in amazement, having witnessed our brooding conversation. Traffic suddenly slowed to a complete halt on the drive back up the hill to Tom’s townhouse. Lots of cars out, even now, well past midnight: it was now Christmas. Must be an accident, I thought.    

 

“Damn!” Tom breathed. “A sobriety checkpoint!”    

 

“Shit!” I hissed in return. Tom looked at me.    

 

“How much did you have?” he asked.    

 

“Two beers and one shot,” I announced summarily.    

 

“Starting when?”    

 

“At nine.”    

 

“Well, you should be okay – it’s been over three hours since you started and at least one since you stopped.”    

 

“I guess.”    

 

“You guess that the hunter has now become the hunted?” he laughed.    

 

“What?” I said irritably.    

 

“You’re tracking this kidnapper guy, and now the cops are tracking you: the hunter becomes the hunted. It’s perfect.” He rocked his head back in laughter. I couldn’t believe it. I snapped:    

 

“Look, I don’t need any of that right now, A-hole.”    

 

“Don’t call me any of your goddamn names, sonny-boy, or
I’ll kick your ass!”    

 

“All right! I’m sorry! But I’m stressed about this case. I’m worried about that girl and her parents.” Tom knew he had wide latitude with me. He has a melodious tenor voice, so when he speaks, you’re inclined to pay attention.

 

After about ten minutes, we drew close. Red brake lights ruled our world by now. One driver had been nabbed, and was off to the side with the San Pedro County Sheriff giving him a lot of attention. A young, efficient cop walked over to us when we were at the pole position.    

 

“Can I see your I.D.’s gentlemen?”    

 

“Both of us?” Tom leaned over. The cop took my license out of my hand and looked it over with a flashlight.    

 

“Joe Downing?!” He looked at me. “You’re Joe Downing? Oh, I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t recognize you – I apologize.” He looked in at Tom, who said,    

 

“I’m Tommy Wilkinson. I work with Joe.” (That was true enough.)    

 

“I realize that, sir. I recognize you both now. Detective McNulty has said a lot of good things about both of you. I don’t really need your I.D.’s now. I’m sorry to trouble you.” He paused, a little sheepishly, then roused himself and continued:    

 

“We’re looking for Chelsea Johansen.” He reached a flyer over to us with Chelsea’s picture on it. I know you’re working on the case, Mr. Downing, and McNulty is asking anyone who knows anything to come forward.”    

 

“Oh, we will officer. I’ll definitely keep McNulty in the loop,” I said, smiling a little disingenuously. Tom leaned over again and said,    

 

“Hey, did Vaughan say anything nice about us?” Tom laughed some more. The cop said,    

 

“Thank you, sirs, please move up.” He motioned us on. Tom had the flyer in his hands and then saw Chelsea for the first time as he looked it over.    

 

“Wow! Talk about dopamine messages! This girl is gorgeous, just flat-out beautiful.” Tom held the handbill which contained two photos of Chelsea, one of her face, another of her from head to foot. She was a teenager, of course, almost 18, with very short blonde hair, blue-jeans with old-fashioned bell-bottoms, black, high-top Converse Chucks with rainbow laces, and gold, thin, hoop earrings. She was very tall, about 5′7″, with a confident air, and a pristine, regal facial beauty. She had smooth, fair, flawless skin, and she was somewhat, but not overly haughty. She wore a short black leather jacket over a white top. She carried two bags, emblematic of her divided character: she was half-woman, half-girl. One bag was denim, the other Versace. She had a vaguely bohemian, avante garde aura, but still appeared healthy and hygienic as could be. She took pains with herself, she was perfectly groomed, she was proud of being a classic Scandinavian beauty.  

 

I left Tom with Lorraine finally, saying ‘Merry Christmas,’ and drove back to the office in Gorge to shower in the hallway bathroom. I sat at my desk in the silence, under a dim lamp. I was the only person in the old, broken-down building. I studied the scribbled, hurried notes I had taken during Tom’s discourse at Hal’s. Questions went through my mind: Why didn’t the dog bark during the abduction? Were Chelsea and this guy talking as if they knew each other? Was it all planned? What will I find on that slope at first light?  

 

I drove back to Rancho and parked at the curb by the Johansen place: I wanted to be the first one in the morning. Inside the Johansen’s, feeble lighting illuminated the curtains, and there was a movement of the lace. Johansen was looking out and had seen me. He let the curtain fall and looked away. He had it figured-out: I was gonna sleep in the car and get a jump on everyone. He was okay with it.  

 

I decided to get out and explore even then. I let myself into the backyard. I could see the mashed-down grass in the moonlight, the chair I had bumped my shin on, all the slippery, worn mud on the slope, suggesting struggle, and finally, the police tape. The sliding glass door opened behind me. It was Johansen. He approached.  

 

“Hear anything?” he asked.  

 

“No, I wish I had, David, but nothing yet.”  

 

“Yeah, the same with us. I would’ve called you immediately, of course, if we had been contacted. But we weren’t. The P.D. called, though, and said they were setting up an alert for Chelsea.”  

 

“Yeah, I was in it…..David…..this is gonna work. He can run but he can’t hide – and I don’t think he’ll hurt her. He’s probably in love with her, actually.”  

 

“In love with her?! God!” He shook his head in disgust. “Julie is about to crack with the worry…..” We stood there in uncomfortable silence: for ourselves, for Chelsea. After a bit he turned on his heel and went back inside wordlessly. I listened to the soft sound of his steps on the grass, then the long, slow sliding of the door. He paused before closing, though, and said,  

 

“Joe, we’ve got a spare bedroom – you can sleep there tonight if you want.”  

 

“Oh, that’s okay, David, I’ll be getting up early, so I better stay out in the car. I’ll be okay.” The intimacy of a grieving family was no place for me. He nodded. I was then left in the quiet of the crime scene: what had once been a family circle was now a picture of infamy. I went back out eventually and slept in the ‘Vette, waiting anxiously for dawn. I froze, of course, but I got some sleep somehow. It was 3:30am on Christmas Day.

 

  …..to be continued…..  

 

Tony Downing