When I got the call, I looked at the incoming number and thought about the way jail bunks straighten out my back. I thought about bidding on spades and the ketchup on fried bologna Wonder bread, with a Jell-O chaser. I thought about not picking up the call at all. Then, I thought about how broke I was and hit answer.
"Crawford?"
"Yes?"
"You’re the last goddamned person I’d ring, but I’m out of life lines. Need a job?"
I said "Okay."
After the Captain hung up, I stepped outside for a smoke. The way the still 1am air held my exhale reminded me to quit smoking— again. A slow train let itself be known with a lonely drawl some ways away, while the echo of a chained-up dog seemed to run with the desperate need it felt for freedom. Down the streets forever. And then, I went back to bed, dreaming of trains taking people far, far away.
As I headed down to headquarters, a few stray leaves blew around like street kids hitting you up for change and cigarettes. I took a deep breath before pulling open the medieval doors, saluting security and sending my keys and belt down that long perp walk, through the X-ray machine. Then, I went to get talked at and down to by my favorite person in the world, Captain Henley. He waddled from cubicle to cubicle, barking nonsense at nonsense cops, walrus mustache quivering like a trapped gerbil, before finally settling down behind his desk. His office was about as charming as the man himself. The chair was the shade of faded orange that had once had a cocaine problem in the seventies, but was now content to live out its days in Central Precinct—absorbing mild civic abuse and the occasional spilled coffee. The walls were decorated with various photos of the Captain with various civic leaders—not a wife or kid in sight. The desk was bigger than a Supreme Court Judge would need for a high-profile murder case. He stared at me with the same love I felt for him. I leaned back, gave him my best toothy smile and said, "How’s the fam, Cap?"
He sighed and somewhere deep down in his soul, an ulcer started to develop.
"Crawford, I’m in a bind. "Blind" would be more like it. I’ve been sitting on these three thorns in my ass for a month, and none of the monkeys around here have come up with anything, except that everyone agrees they’re related. I haven’t heard anything from the streets about you freelancing around lately, so I figured you could use a little entertainment. Want some?"
"Sure"
He slid three folders across the vast tundra of his desk, caribou loping along out of the way. "Three bodies—a young girl and two young guys. They showed up at Belvedere Station within three days of each other. All three pale as pearls and bled out. Coroner’s stumped and frankly uninterested. Everything we got is in those folders."
He pulled open a drawer and tossed an aluminum badge at me.
"That’s good for two months."
I opened my mouth.
"Shut up, Crawford. I want a check-in call once a day on your progress. You’re sharp enough to know that a man like me won’t let a man like you off leash for long. That’s all for now... Deputy."
I saluted the guard again on my way out, and he was probably just a statue.
When I got home, I slipped on the moss of the top step again and the key stuck in the lock as it always did. I jingled it until the deadbolt gave way and pushed my way inside, three yellow card stock folders growing damp between my teeth, shoulder bag sliding off my shoulder and giving me that lean to the left that meant I was back at work.
I dumped it all on the bureau desk, flicked on the lights and made my way to the kitchen, where I pushed the remains of a turkey sandwich into my mouth and washed it down with half a beer. I looked at the pile of work on the desk. I looked away. I looked again. I grabbed the three yellow folders, each embellished with a wet, orange outline of my mouth, like lipstick traces on a cigarette slowly burning itself out. I went downstairs, into the basement, pulling the beaded cord to a bare bulb that cast shadows on my way down.
It was a warm evening and I opened the basement windows, their latches just above head level. A blue jay yelled itself into the bush outside, flapping its wings, before settling into a rhythmic caw that only blue jays understand.
It was talking to itself. Blue jays are insane.
I knew the bottle was mostly full before I pulled it out of the desk.
I sat for a good while knowing that.
I got up and walked in a circle. I bounced a tennis ball off the wall with my toe three times. I smoked a cigarette and I still knew it. Finally, I pulled the bottle out, unscrewed the cap and filled a rocks glass to the better part of reasonable. It went down just fine.
Glass in hand, I sat down on the chair in front of my Panasonic keyboard, pushed the power button and listened to the click-and-buzz from the amp for a few seconds. I picked out a key—a black one this time—took a long pull from the glass and pushed it down with my index finger, holding it there and listening to the drone of the single note.
I listened to the sound of it, as it drew on and on. I pictured the full steps, half steps and quarter steps that hung above and below it, the matrix of tones that reverberated in harmony and lived with this single note. All of the melodies it could sing with. Sweet trills and sad solos, hopeful peaks and grim breakdowns. All of the musical galaxies that this note was a part of, all of the potential worlds that it shared. They were all there with this note, even if unheard. They waited for a player’s hand to make them sing, waited to let their place in this web of music be known alongside this singularity that stretched, uninterrupted, like a thin beam of light the fragile color of a robin’s egg, soft as it shone on and on and on, carrying with it both the mystery and answer of itself, for as long as the batteries to the keyboard held out.
I lifted my finger from the key and silence played its own song, while the blue jay continued being a blue jay.
Three unknowns. I leaned back in my chair and thought about that. In the last year, the department took my badge, some asshole broke into my house and stole my last six pack, and early on a Sunday morning, Jean had left half a cold cup of coffee in the grease ringed sink, half a burning cigarette in the billowing ash tray and walked herself out in polished shoes that were too nice for those stairs with all she could carry, somehow keeping her footing on that fucking top step. Good year for the roses, though.
I looked back at the folders, lit a cigarette and poured a more reasonable glass. Two Johns and a Jane, all Does—all part of the same family, somehow. Each a single note was printed on the same sheet, written in blood that didn’t smell right.
I was sleeping on the folders and watching last night’s dreams hoist the sails as I blinked myself awake. I didn’t look at the bottle. I had drooled a little and the folders felt the damage. Cursing myself, I stood up, stumbled upstairs and started coffee. Then I stumbled back downstairs and picked up my three new orphans, searching for names and reasons.
Jane stood out. In her photos, the hair was always a little off—always three strands that refused to cooperate. Eyebrows that would sneak out the window in the middle of the night and floor the accelerator of an ‘84 Volvo, just to feel the wind. Eyes that made young men jump out of the back of Toyota pickups.
Her nail polish was pretty spotless.
Her bracelet looked expensive, maybe even diamonds. They were strung together with five-star charms arranged in a pattern. She must have come from money, or had learned how to grow it.
After I got some coffee in me and inhaled half a cigarette, I figured I might as well head to the morgue. It’s pretty swell having a two month badge. I drank for free at the local, before making my way to the vaults of the dead. Dan, the lab tech, was enthusiastically unhelpful. He looked at me, looked at the badge, pulled open the drawer and went to go drink tea or some shit.
I snapped on blue gloves, pulled on a face mask and got to looking. The bracelet was still there and was indeed made of bits of compressed carbon. I patted myself on the back.
She looked more peaceful than the photos. Her hair was brushed straight and even. Her nails were done up in a French manicure and crossed on her chest. She was just about ready for an open casket, which was strange, because Jane Does spend the afterlife in deep freeze until someone figures out who they are, which meant someone had paid for all this. I found Dan in his office, puzzling over the latest textbook on the dead. "I don’t know. Sometimes the guys, this job, it gets to you. Sometimes you have to do something nice every once in a while. Ya know, to feel human." He did a flourish with his hands as if to say "Eyy, come on, they’re dead."
"Necrophilia. I get it, we all have our moments," I said.
He glared at me and went back to his studies and I went back to my new girlfriend. I pried her hands apart to get a closer look. It didn’t take long. Her left forearm was scabbed from surface piercings, five of them. In the shape of the big dipper pointing at the north star. This Jane was all about stars, and she reminded me of a time long ago.
I left the morgue and went to go see a guy about a thing.
My ears perked and I got that ol’ tingle in the fingers, when I pushed open the door and heard the crack of pool balls. None of the tough guys at the bar turned around—they were too busy being angry at their whiskeys and old ladies. Cobwebs draped a stuffed deer head on the wall and some delta blues music groaned out slow-cooked anger from somewhere in the back. I remembered I had to hop some old kegs to get out the rear door, checked my holster on the right hip and unbuttoned the knife sheath on my left. The Last Pony was the friendliest joint in town. I knew Jimmy Mojo would be at his usual spot down at the end, rolling quarters down his fingers and making ‘em disappear and reappear. Real magic man this guy. I pulled up next to him and he looked at me with bloodshot eyes and patched stubble on his thin face, nothing but chest hair and tattoos under his club leathers. A skull winked out from under a chain maille bracelet on his left hand, in the faded blue of prison ink.
"Fuck you, Crawford. If you ain’t got something for me, I ain’t got nothing for you.
"I pursed my lips.
"You know what would happen if one o’ ‘dem over there even saw me talking to you? I’d have to get some exercise."
An impressive looking hunting knife flipped out of nowhere, thunking straight down on the bar and standing upright, like a prize fighter puffing out his chest. Back in the midnight part of my brain, there are things I wish I could forget. Shit that knows when you can’t sleep, laughing as it crawls in the window. I eyed that blade wavering on the teak bar just above his coaster and straightened my back.
"You were always good with your hands Mojo," I said.
He pulled the knife from the bar and started cleaning his nails with it and sucking his teeth. I pulled out the eight ball of cocaine I kept around for special occasions like this and tossed it to him. He looked at it and downed his shot of whiskey. Then he waved his hand over the bag, wiggled his fingers, and it was gone.
"So, what is it?" he asked.
"I want to know about your time in Alaska. What kind of games you were up to, maybe talking to pretty girls?
"He looked like he was about to keel over laughing."
You...you know there’s this thing called the Fifth Amendment, right Detective?"
"You know me, Jimmy. I ain’t exactly straight and I ain’t exactly on the payroll. I’m just trying to catch some leads, get to know how the route works up there."
"I’ma need another drink then," he said, raising an eyebrow at me. I ordered him a double, neat.
"Well, as usual, we get ‘em started at the clubs, some of the less scrupulous guys get ‘em hooked on dope, to make the job easier. Me, I’m the honest, hard-working type. I simply explain the financial benefits. If times get dry, I would try the runaway shelters and play on the desperation angle. I know, I know...but, hey, times be tough. If you’re huntin’ someone, I’d start with the clubs. Oh, and if you’re going up there this time of year, bring some sunglasses. And, bring me back a coffee mug.
"On the walk home, a blue jay hopped from tree to tree talking to me. We discussed the case. "Caw!"
"Ya, I know, right? Better make some phone calls."
When I got home, that’s what I did. I rang up six different runaway shelters, and finally a social worker in a small town outside of the Kenai Peninsula recognized the description.
"Can’t recall her name, she was only here for a minute, before going back out into the weather. Didn’t even get a chance to get any paperwork on her. Is she okay?"
"She’s in a good place," I said and hung up. I booked a plane on the department’s dime, that was still good for about a month and thirty days, and went to find some mini bottles for my carry on.
