Cerebral Light
By
Monday. May 01, 3:04 AM
Chapter seven: the shortage of clues leads one cop back to his home.

The Liberty Square Internet Café was empty when the two detectives arrived, save for a large and unkempt owner who identified himself as Lester Woodland. As Pedro discussed with him his business practices and procedures, Joe wondered around the brightly lit room. The one striking feature of the place, in Joe’s eyes, was that there was much more “internet” than “café”: 20 computers on two long tables occupying the majority of the room. Coffee and tea were available, but only through the ancient looking vending machine that stood on the far wall; notices for the next door Dunkin Donuts seeming to be a much more nutritious attraction.

As a despondent Pedro turned away from the kiosk and walked to join Joe, he was again forced to be the bearer of bad news.

“This place doesn’t open until nine in the morning,” he said.

“But wasn’t that e-mail sent at 7:30?”

“That’s what it said. Either the sender is much more converse with computers than I am, or there has been a mistake somewhere.”

“Is there a way to delay the sending of an e-mail?”

“I think, so yeah… something to do with putting back the processor clock on the PC or something.”

“Well, does the owner at least have a list of people who have used this place in the last day?”

“That’s the strange thing. Only one person came in this morning: he filled in the registration forms and paid in cash. It isn’t really a tight ship here, though. And the guy used a false name to registers”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because the name used to register was a Mr. Joe Francis.”

Raising his eyes to the ceiling and muttering something illegible under his breath, Joe turned on his heels and marched to the kiosk, interrupting Lester who was busing himself with a king size Twix.

“Were you working here when this man came in this morning?”

“Yup,” Lester replied, taking his time.

“What did he look like?”

“Don’t remember. Brown hair, I think. Covered his face with a scarf: said he had a skin condition.”

“How tall was he?”

“About as tall as you, buddy.”

“Can I see the registration form?”

“Sure,” Lester said, shuffling slowly into a small room attached to the rear of the kiosk. Returning three minutes later, he shoved a grubby looking scrap of paper into the detective’s hand.

“Is this it?” said Joe, looking down at the slip with distain.

“That’s it,” replied Lester, wiping chocolate crumbs from the edges of his fat lips. “He paid his five dollars for one hour, then soon as he had registered he used the computer for about 10 minutes or so. I can’t be precise cuz I had to use the facilities.” A wave of his hand pointed in the direction of an unsanitary looking bathroom, on which the owners had had the foresight to write “men and women” on the solitary door.

No further information was gleaned from Lester during their stay on the premises. After it was established that the man had used the end computer on the second row, Pedro logged on and checked the internet history to find that the only pages viewed were Yahoo registration pages (which were now unavailable for perusal) and Yahoo mail pages (which told that the user name was shirley.abbotsfield, but required a password to further enter the mailbox). Again, it appeared that they had come up against a brick wall, and again the two men were out of ideas.

“We are going to have to go back to the precinct, sit down, and talk this all the way through,” Joe told Pedro on their way to the car. “There is something that we are missing: something that we have forgotten to do.”

In C-12, the two returned to their whiteboards. Scrubbing out the previously left comments, Joe wrote all of the details that they currently held about their murderer.

The man has brown hair. This was confirmed by Wilmont and by Lester.

The man has local knowledge. This is evident by his disablement of Wilmont.

The man knows Joe, or knows something about Joe. The message on the answer machine and the use of Mrs. Abbotsfield’s name are evidence enough.

The man is leaving clues. Three is three and four is four.

The man has technical knowledge. He uses the internet to leave clues.

The man is a cool and calculated killer. He stabbed Susan once, cleanly, through the heart.

Next to this list Joe wrote a second: of things that they must still investigate.

The knife. Where did it come from, who makes it, who sells it?

The woolen threads on the knife. From where did they come? Are there any witnesses to the phone booth call? What were Charles’s exact movements on the night of the murder? Who wanted Susan dead?

“So where do we go from here?” asked Pedro.

“To the Captain. He wanted this case closed quickly; we are going to need help following up some of these leads. If he wants this man behind bars, then he’d better be prepared to sign the overtime sheets.”

Homicide cases in Liberty Square were solved in one of two ways. Either the detectives assigned to the case rushed in with all guns blazing and got their man before the body was cold, or an investigation team, headed by the two initial policemen, would continue a more thorough search of any leads that would come their way. The latter is a laborious task, but still necessary sometimes and would need to be conducted at the moment that the heading pair realized that they were running low on immediate leads.

As they walked toward the Captain’s office, they both knew that the time was upon them. Too many niggling leads; things that would most probably turn up nothing but which had to be investigated nonetheless; not enough time. The morning editions of Liberty Square Daily had carried the story of the murder in the park – or the “slaying among the shrubbery” as they had so delicately put it – and rumor had it that a reporter from the Channel 9 news team was on her way in search of a soundbite for the seven o’clock bulletin. Much as Joe detested the press for their glee in profiting from tragedy – on many occasions he has had to evict them from the front lawn of victim’s families as they looked to offer their condolences in full view of the masses – he realized that they were an invaluable tool. The more people that watched the news, or read the newspapers, the more chance that somebody who may know something might come forward and tell all. It was often a source of some considerable amusement to Joe that somebody could watch a man run naked through the streets, covered in blood and holding a tainted knife, and think nothing of it until they saw on the television that somebody had been attacked.

Mike Pierce, too, had been under pressure as a result of the Gilbert case. The Assistant DA had met with him for the majority of the morning, eager to pursue the indictment and secure a conviction before the official posting for a better job within the department. If it were up to him, Mike told the detectives, Wilmont would be on remand and supplied with the most incompetent legal representation that the state could afford by now.

As it turned out, he was himself on his way to see the men to offer the full resources that were available. As they told him of their current situation and asked him for help, Mike listened intently and nodded his head with a look of thoughtfulness and with feeling of admiration. If Mike had to single out one reason alone for his liking of this pair, then it was the way in which they always knew when to give up exclusive investigational rights and share the case with others. Too many detectives, Yetman and Brewer rising to the top of this particular list, would fight the losing battle alone for far too long and wrestle with the leads before even considering calling for assistance, seeing it as an indication of their inadequacies rather than a realization that the case in point simply required more than the four eyes that they could supply. Telling them that they could expect a crowd to arrive in C-12 in the next half hour, Mike thanked them for their honesty and promised them both that he would personally deal with the press.

“It sounds like this guy has you both running in circles?” he asked them.

“Seems that way,” replied Joe. “He’s all for leaving clues around the place, we just have to work out what they mean and where we find the next one.”

“Well, you know that I have absolute confidence that you two will get to the bottom of this. You two really are the best couple of detectives that I have had the pleasure of working with.”

“Thanks Cap,” replied the pair in embarrassed unison.

“You go on now. We’ll be in soon.”

As they made their way back along the corridor toward C-12, both men looked at each other with puzzlement etched on their faces. Pedro broke the deadlock, using slightly less tact than perhaps may have been called for.

“What the fuck is wrong with him? I thought he was going to hug us both for a minute!”

“He’s stressed, I guess. It isn’t easy being a Captain when you have to deal with DAs and the press.”

As Pedro prepared C-12 for visitors, bringing in extra chairs from the supply store, Joe tidied the whiteboard in an attempt to make the scribbling easier for a newcomer to understand. By the time Mike entered the room 25 minutes after he had last talked to the duo, the room was ready.

“They are ready when you are,” he told them, stifling a smirk as he talked.

“Who do we have?”

“Four uniforms, Petersen and Kennen, and Edwards and Hood.”

“Is that it?”

“No, I threw in a couple of detectives too,” Mike added as he turned to walk out of the door.

Captain Mike Pierce had been wise to exit before too many questions were answered. As the doors opened again and Yetman and Brewer walked in, Pedro and Joe realized why the Captain found the experience to be so amusing. Taking their seats at the rear of the room, they appeared to be as happy to be present as the lead detectives were to see them: glaring at the two as they nervously went about their preparations. Presently they were also joined by Petersen and Kennen, who up until this time had been on traffic patrol, and Edwards and Hood who were seconded from Vice. Each of the men chose to be seated next to their partners, and taking notebooks out of their pockets waited for further instructions.

After explaining the case to his audience, Joe began the task of assigning chores to his team. Yetman and Brewer were given the knife, told to find out who makes it, who sells it, and who has anything like it. Petersen and Kennen were asked to question the bartender, the other patrons of the sports bar, and those living in the proximity of the bar and park. Edwards and Hood had the task of further questioning those in the area of the public phone booth, and those around the internet café. All were told to keep in regular contact with Joe and Pedro.

“And what are you two going to be doing, may I ask?” inquired Brewer.

“Firstly, we will be going up to Maine to speak with the parents of the victim,” replied Joe, shooting the detective a belittling look. “We are going to leave this afternoon and probably stay the night up there.”

“Do you want me to book you a room in a hotel?” Yetman asked. “A double, is it?”

“Just get out there and find out about that knife,” Joe said. “Leave the accommodation arrangements to me.”

As the pairings left the room, Pedro asked if there was any need for the both of them to travel to Maine for what was presumably going to be a simple meet and greet. More important things could be achieved here, he reasoned, without leaving the case with Yetman and Brewer while they were out of state.

“Scared I’ll take advantage of you?” Joe asked with only the slightest hint of irony.

“It’s not that, Joe… c’mon now. I just don’t know if it’s going to be a valuable use of our time.”

“Well… I don’t really want to be driving up there by myself, and there is a wonderful Thai restaurant in the area that I’m sure you’ll love.”

It was the promise of Thai food that swayed Pedro’s mind. He had developed a taste for the food during an investigation in Salem, MA, and due to a lack of suitable facilities in the Liberty Square area he jumped at any chance to visit any Thai establishment. Joe was of course well aware of this fact, and hoped silently that the eatery was still open following the health scare of two years ago.

Joe himself needed no reason to go. Maine had been his happy childhood home, and many of his school friends still lived and worked there. It was his intention to move back after his notice period had been served, so he was glad of the opportunity to check out the house prices and job availabilities while working and getting paid. Coming up to his 30th birthday, Joe had found that his longing for the Pine State was growing. The rolling countryside with its places to get away from civilization and its friendly inhabitants seeming to him to be the perfect environment when compared to the busy and hustled surroundings of Liberty Square. While in his formative years he had spent long and idyllic summer evenings playing among the hay fields, later as a young teenager helping the farmers with the bailing. The family had lived in Fryeburg and occupied a large house with four acres of land: ample room for Joe and his three older sisters to grow into. The happiest days of his childhood had been spent during the first week of every October, when the state fair was held and the Francis’ front yard was converted into a temporary parking lot for car loads of happy fair goers, each splendid to part with the one dollar parking fee which would go toward the children’s Christmas spending money.

He did not exactly excelled at school, but was further from the bottom of the class than the top and had a particular talent for the humanitarian studies. His father was a teacher at the same establishment, a fact that caused Joe considerable teenage anguish. But thanks to a sympathetic coordinator, they were able to avoid each other during the day save for an occasional wave from a proud father to his embarrassed son.

His youthful developments were interrupted when, at the age of 13, his father was forced into an early retirement through ill health. Parkinson’s Disease had befallen him at the tragically young age of 39, and deterioration was depressingly swift. Forced to sell the family home, more of a psychological wrench for a once proud and supporting father than had been expected, they moved to Augusta, ME and occupied a much smaller house. With three diminutive bedrooms, Joe’s sisters were forced to share a room, adding daily to the increased arguments in what had become a disheartened family. With Joe’s father unable to continue the creative upbringing of his son, Joe rebelled in typical fashion. Petty thefts were accompanied with experimentations in drug abuse, a withdrawn attitude to anything positive was coupled with a strong desire for self destruction.

It was only when, as a 17 year-old, he had been walking through a park close to his house on the way to buy drugs from a young entrepreneur that he heard the violent thrashings of a struggle with water. Reaching the lake, he discovered an adolescent man with feet tied to a heavy concrete block, laboring against the gravitational pull. Diving in to save the wretched boy, Joe pulled him to his safety and offered him a drink from the hip flask that had been stolen from his father some months previously. After talking to the teenager and counseling him with interest, he learned that suicide had been his goal, but that the cold waters had proven to be somewhat of a wakeup call. The victim of a harsh childhood, young Timmy Parkins had himself drifted in a downward spiral, heading in the same direction as Joe but following slightly different paths. Over the coming months, both met frequently, talking and laughing together, pulling each other up and restoring self-confidence and pride. With recoveries complete, both went their separate ways, with the understanding that they should conclude their relationship at that point. Better to leave the past where it lay, Joe reasoned.

As Joe and Pedro checked themselves into the Bridgestone Lodge, a modest but comfortable motel situated just three miles from the home of Susan’s parents, they unpacked their few clothes and gathered their bearings. The place had changed in Joes mind, possibly the result of development, possibly because Joe himself had kept himself away from the area for a number of years. As he watched the setting September sun cast an orange glow over the skyline, he waited for Pedro to finish in the shared bathroom. On completion, he drove his friend to the Wild Orchard restaurant, where after a short wait they were seated at the back of the room with a view of the kitchens.

“Nice place,” said Pedro, interrupting the silence that had followed them since leaving Liberty Square.

“I like it,” replied Joe, his attention devoted to the menu. “The yellow curry is always good.”

“Are you alright?” asked Pedro, conscious of Joe’s uncomfortable mood. “You seem a bit distant.”

“I’m just thinking. I really have no idea what to do with myself.”

As Joe talked, Pedro ate and listened. Joe told him about his worries, about his doubts, and about his apprehensions.

“There are too many people in jail serving time for crimes that they did not commit,” Joe said, picking at his teeth with the corner of a Tootsie roll wrapper.

“Are you turning into a lefty on me, Joe? I thought you were all about cleaning the streets!”

“What I mean is that because of all the plea-bargains and politics that happens nowadays, almost everyone inside is there for no reason. The man that kills the elderly woman is sent away for manslaughter just to avoid the court time. It’s fucking crazy, Pedro… and I don’t like it one bit.”

“You’re still going to leave, then?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know what to do with my life anymore. This case has hooked me, but I can’t go back to the daily grind of it. I think I’ll see this one out and then leave.”

Jeremy Crossland

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