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THE LONG STEPS

 Twenty-four steps, it’s always twenty-four steps up to the second floor office I’ve worked out of for the last 32 years and every year these damn steps just seem to get longer and steeper.

This rat hole of an office should have been condemned years ago, files stacked up everywhere, cases I’ve worked on some closed some still unsolved. I don’t have the guts or intelligence to stop working on a case even when it’s been open for years.

 The problem is that I hate a puzzle that is not solved. I think most people are like that, they need to know  where a thing ends, how does this question in my mind and the little voices tell me I’m at an end.

 Last night I closed a case that was nothing more than a dirty divorce case, a game of “she did and said vs. he did and said”.                                       This case was nothing more than a money maker for me, just cash to pay the rent.

 After returning to my shit hole office I started to go over what was said in the course of the hearing and something crept into my head something the husband said during his deposition. He mentioned the name “Susan Lindstrom” I swear I heard once in the past, it had to do with  a murder case that has never been solved to my satisfaction even thou the cops believed they had it closed with a man sitting in the pen for the rest of his life.

 That name just kept nagging at me even after a three solid shots of Scotch taken neat. (It’s a true crime to poison Scotch with ice).  This Susan’s name came up as a witness to the murder yet no one ever saw or met her and the defendant   swore she was the person whom had been responsible for the death of a lawyer named Frank Wright, not that the loss of any lawyer should be considered a crime, more likely         A service to humanity, wasn’t it Shakespeare who wrote “First we kill all the lawyers.”                                                                                                             I received a call in the middle of the night, 3:00 am to be exact. The caller spoke in hushed tones, just above a whisper, but I could still detect a smooth sultriness in her voice that drew me into that mysterious sound, my soul yearning to merge with the invisible yet tangible voice resonating and traveling to meet me through the wires uniting us.                                        She never identified herself, only told of the murder of Frank Wright, how she hid in a closet in the adjoining room of his office and peered through a sliver of a crack in the door trying to decipher the image before her eyes in the blackness of the night.

 Frank sitting at his desk staring out the window at snowflakes gently falling against the backdrop of an indigo sky, illuminated by the yellowish street lamps below, deep in thought , about what she didn't know, when an arm came into view enveloped in a charcoal gray wool overcoat, the hand encased in black leather driving gloves, in it's hand a heavy brass paperweight, lifting it high into the air and slamming into his skull , bludgeoning him to death, leaving his body slumped over the papers atop his mahogany desk, a thick stream of bright red blood pouring from the insolent gaping gash and pooling around his lifeless head.

She also never said what business brought her to that room that life changing night. The line went dead, taking a part of my heart with it. I frantically scrambled to trace the call; she stayed on the line long enough for me to trace the call to a one Susan Lindstrom, at the upscale address of 911 Warrington Place, a detail she neglected to consider. The only problem being that she seemed to have vanished into thin air.

I am very good at what I do and after exhausting all possibilities could not seem to locate her anywhere upon the face of the earth. What I did find out was, she was the youngest child in a family of four girls, her father a factory worker and mother a waitress. She left home at the age of 16, fleeing the constant bickering between her mother and father, her sisters and herself. She found some waitress work at a diner in the next town, sleeping on the couch in the apartment of a fellow waitress until she saved enough money to get her own place.

That never happened as she was quickly noticed by the wealthy owner of a modeling agency who liked to coffee at the diner. He was immediately taken in by her long slender form and striking bone structure of her exquisite delicate but powerful face, who made her “his girl”, while building what was to become an extremely successful modeling career, one might say an empire.

One couldn’t walk down a street without seeing her image plastered across giant towering billboards and the covers of magazines. The public was obsessed with her and the mysterious qualities that emanated from her icy blue eyes. Something about her hypnotically drew you to explore the curve of her face that gracefully flowed downward to her neck, caressing her with your eyes making a lump form in your throat, fantasizing about the idyllic life one might have with a creature as magnificent as she.       

 My search for her began to feel like the trek up the stairs to my office, more insurmountable with each forward step. Feeling rooted to the spot, even traveling backwards, a quicksand like feeling, sinking when I should be forging ahead. Feeling stumped, I wracked my brains as to what step to take next, letting a glass of scotch help ease me along and out of the dead end path I longed to be rid of.

The scotch made me sleepy, but I was not yet ready to retire for the night, instead choosing to visit the diner Susan started her career at. I grabbed my keys, black wool overcoat and Scandinavian blue wool knit scarf, a present from a girlfriend, donning them as I passed the threshold of my doorway into the awaiting frozen air, walking briskly to my black mustang, wincing as I sat in its frigid seats and touched the icy steering wheel, cursing the fact that I’d forgotten my gloves.

Once the heater took the edge off the chill in the car, the ride became a well needed diversion and relaxed my ragged nerves. Loose ends have a way of slowly driving me mad, my compulsive need for closure taking hold digging its sharp claws into my mind relentlessly robbing me of the tranquility I so sorely craved.

My eyes took in the street before me, the motion of the car comfortably lulling me, cradling me in its arms as I continued in my insatiable quest to find Susan. I scanned the neat small working class houses that lined the lonely streets, a scattering of businesses dark and dreary in the night, neon signs prostituting themselves in their windows, the droning blinking of lights in the blind deafness of the night.       

 The lights of the diner screamed out of its windows repelling all darkness in its path, opening its loins and welcoming those who entered its doors with cheap promises and hollow expectations. Parking my car in its lot, I let the warmth it offered melt through the cold that clung to my garments and seep through my pores. Hanging my coat and scarf on a brass hook by the door, I sat myself down on the red padded vinyl swivel seat at the counter, amazed at the comfort I derived from this whore of a place that never said no.    

I loved the white ceramic cup and saucer that held the black liquid within and wrapped my hands around its warmth, inhaling the aromatic vapors as they escaped into the air, not caring that I was badly in need of a fresh pot, finding comfort in its murkiness. 

 An old tired waitress leaned against the counter smoking a cigarette, eyes following the smoke plumes as they swirled through the air thinking, counting the hours minute by minute until the end of her shift.  I decided to put her out of her misery by striking up a conversation, asking in detail all about her and how she came to working at this particular diner, which kind of surprised her as no one ever seemed to consider her and her wretched situation in life.                                                                           

It surprised me too, for this was the waitress that had opened her couch to Susan so many years before. It was obvious that she had felt shortchanged in life, after all she had once been quite a looker herself. She sadly resigned herself to the harsh realities she had been forced to encounter, the bright eyed hopeful child, lost forever in a sea of broken dreams.

A young couple strode in the door giggling, clutching each other tightly against the cold, and sat themselves in the red vinyl of a window booth a faded gray pattern embedded in the tables Formica surface.        

  The waitress Agnes, as her name tag declared, broke her conversation with me to attend to their needs, handing them menus, standing poised and at the ready with her pen pressed to the small order book. They ordered coffee, French toast, eggs, hash browns and sausage, gazing into one anther's eyes with wide smiles as they waited for the food to appear.

It was a nice thing to watch, young love always is, something I never seem to tire of.                                  It made me think of Dana and how things were for us in the beginning of our relationship and how we to have diverted from our friendship and forgetting how to get onto that road again.                     

                 A tear formed at the corner of my eye and my throat started to constrict. I looked at Agnes, feeling glad that it wasn’t me behind that counter looking tired and worn out and terribly, terribly bored.         Asking for my check, and paying my bill I left a substantial tip and big smile in my wake, feeling a bit sad that I couldn’t do more to help the plight of Agnes and so many more like her out there in an often cruel and uncaring world.     I was out the door and heading where? I wasn’t quite sure.

 Leaving my car behind I decided to walk the streets to hopefully clear my head and gain some perspective as to my next step involving my case.     As I walked down the pavement strewn with the litter of neglect I came upon a newspaper kiosk still open at this late hour, the owner either had no better place to go or was desperate for any cash he could drum up.                        As I passed, my eyes fell onto a magazine with a photo of Susan on the cover, it must be fate I thought to myself or just bad karma.      

     Even with a low grade photo on the cover it struck me that this was a woman who just oozed sex appeal, my god she was breathtaking what must it be like to meet her in person? How could a man or woman for that matter not be enraptured with her presence?     

          She looked out at you as if you were the only person in the world that mattered. Thinking on my own relationship with Dana I stopped to ponder what had gone wrong these last few months, had we just grown apart or had we just used up our passion, you know that passion one feels when embarking into uncharted territory or starting a new hobby?                              I wondered if my relationship with Dana was a fling, a hobby just killing time till I found something better something more real?

 As I look back upon the start of my time with Dana I recall how exciting those first days had been, at the start it was a few quiet lunches then some long walks, starting to get to know one another until that first time many long weeks into our friendship that we first made love.  

Heading back to her place after a long lazy dinner and an even longer walk along the lake, watching the waves and stealing glances at the young lovers making out along the beach or on the park benches. It always amazes me the rush, the fear, the awe of undressing someone for the first time, someone allowing themselves to be exposed to your gaze.         

There is always a look of hope mixed with lust in the other person’s eyes. Then it became their turn to expose you to their sight, will they like what they see, are you the same as the image in that person’s mind as to the reality standing before them now? 

 I know at some point I will have to interview Susan, this is a task I dread, if just looking at her photo turns my brain to mush how can I hope to create an atmosphere just right to conduct a proper in depth interview that will allow me to sort fact from fiction.       

         Frank Morgan died for some reason that up till now no one has been able to fathom. Oh, there had been a lot of speculation from everyone who had a stake in his life or his money, everyone had their own pet ideas and suspicions. The real trick for any investigator is to sort out the bullshit and find that one nugget of fact that sends you in the right direction, forces you to look at all the facts and assemble a working hypothesis.

 How many times did I believe I was on the right track when some minuscule item, some nothing tidbit sent me in an entirely new direction allowing me to solve the riddle. There was the time a small nail had been found under the body of a woman whom had been found below-deck on a yacht, no one even looked twice at it, just some crap left behind with no bearing on the case at hand.

When I saw it I was struck by the fact that this nail was made of iron, you don’t put iron nails into the construction of any boat, they rust and stain the teak wood, you use stainless steel or brass nails. And the style of nail was wrong for the marine industry.  

It turned out to be a very specialized nail used only by saddle makers, and there was only one suspect on my very short list of suspects who had an involvement in the horse racing world, he is now serving twenty-five to thirty years for manslaughter.         

      That is why I was more then curious to know the nature of the paperwork strewn under Frank’s very dead body and if the brass paperweight that was used to bludgeon his head held more significance than a conveniently available murder weapon.      

Was it meant to be a telling message as well and a signature left blatantly, defiantly by the murderer? It was time to talk to my friends at the police station and see if I could gather more information about the paperwork and the brass paperweight.

The air was crisp with the smell of burning wood from many of the homes fireplaces.                                     I turned the collar of my coat upward in a futile effort to repel its chill.              I made my way down the cracked concrete streets to the train station while I fantasizing that I was sitting in front of my fireplace, snuggled in a thick wool blanket drinking a steaming cup of tea without the weight of the world or that of dead murdered bodies pressing down upon my shoulders. I descended the stairs impatiently taking two at a time, upsetting the sensibilities of those ascending by the swiftness and nearness of my motions.   

 A very talented jazz clarinetist with dread locks garbed in worn jeans and a torn red down jacket played “The Thrill is Gone” on the platform below, a hat at his feet collecting coins and bills along with a couple of rocks to keep it from blowing away in the wind.      

       Marveling at his extraordinary musical ability, it surprised me how many people looked blankly at the tracks before them or were mesmerized by their cell phone screens, seemingly oblivious to his immense talent. . The graffiti covered train came into view, as it screeched to a halt, its doors clanking opening. Passengers streamed through the doors onto the platform rarely making eye contact with the other people in their orbit, preoccupied with the destinations before them, everyone in a rush.       

I entered its worn dirty interior, quickly grabbing an available window seat. A newspaper lay on the next seat, the front page headline screaming to those who cared to listen about the cities fiscal crisis. Grabbing it off the seat I began to flip through its pages for lack of something else to pass the time. A haggard looking woman with two shopping bags full of her life’s possessions threw herself into the seat across the aisle, a hacking cough racking her large frame.                           She let the heavy bags rest next to her, a defeated look veiled her features.

 I sat there looking at my fellow passengers wondering as I always do while riding on the train what are their lives like, where are they going, what awaits them at the end of their trek? I could imagine many headed home to loved ones after a day’s separation, forced by the work ethic or just the need for money.  

       What would it be like to be one of the masses, forced to go to an office every day? As I sat in my seat I noticed the haggard looking woman across from me sort through her bag pulling out one item after another and arranging them on the seat next to her, in an order only she could fathom. 

At once I was jolted into mental alertness when she removed from her bag a brass paper weight, the same style that was used in the killing of Frank Morgan! “Holy shit”, I thought the one I saw in the office of the victim was the only one I had ever seen of its kind and no one who saw it had any idea what it was or if it was one of a kind, let alone what it represented, even the cops were at a loss. I had to find out; so many answers could be uncovered with this one tidbit of info.

 Leaning across the aisle I endeavored to begin a conversation with this woman. Trying to make small talk with a stranger while you had burning questions is at best agonizing, all that I really wanted was to know the origin of this brass object.      

After finding out that she was 50 years old a single mother of three who worked as a maid for the Archdiocese of this city for the last 30 years.                                                            Following the same day to day routine up at 6 am, fix herself up and ride the train to the closest bus that would take her within half a mile of her work. After starting work at 9 am, working a twelve hour shift only to return via the same route. Upon  the return trip she entered her home only to be greeted by an empty house.                                                         A house that her kids had left one by one, two now attending collage that she has been paying for out of her savings. Until she was the only life left in a house that used to be a home.

 However, the biggest bombshell she dropped upon me that night was that the object of my curiosity was a gift given to only a select few, a gift given personally by the “Archbishop”. To those rare individuals whose work had a profound impact upon the Church, as to why she had received this gift she remained stubbornly tight lipped refusing to answer any further questions about her own deed that led her to be granted this boon, she did say that she knew of only six other people had received this item in the last twenty years.

 The next morning, I went hunting on the internet for more information about this award. Two hours later and around five million pages of archived newspaper articles I at least found out the name of this award “The Bishops Gift of Peace” and she was also right that it had only been given out six time in the past twenty years. As my internet search widened I was able to extract the name of three more recipients of this honor.

 As soon as I started to search out more information on these people a chill ran down my spine and then back up again, each had died in a rather odd and gruesome way.                          One was killed in a mugging gone badly yet nothing appeared to have been taken from the victim. The next was thought to have been a suicide, suicide by shotgun whose muzzle was at least ten feet away. Yet there was no way anyone could have done it other than the victim himself, He was in an upper floor loft with all the doors bolted from the inside fifteen floors up and there being no way for even a circus tightrope walker to access.      

 The doors were locked using what is known as a “New York Deadbolt” this consisted of a solid brass or steel block mounted to the very center of the door with a key lock that when engaged was bracing a four-foot-long steel bar that wedged itself into the floor around three feet behind the door at a forty-five-degree angle even the cops using a battering ram had spent ten minutes hammering  away at the steel door before it finally gave way.  

 Could the victim, a rappers natural reflexes have thrown the gun far enough away from himself when the impact from the bullet entering into his skull partnered with the recoil from the gunshot caused his body to send the gun flying?                                 Suicide or murder, was the location of the gun caused by a reflex or staged? Something meant to throw off those who found his body? My speculation was a mere shot in the dark, I realized, but this case was really starting to get under my skin and I would not rest until I sorted this sordid mess out completely.

The third victim, a judge, was found fully clothed in a navy suit and tie, found face down in a bathtub full of water, blood coloring the surrounding water as it oozed from the gash wound in his head, the paper weight thrown to the floor with such force that the white ceramic tiles shattered beneath it.

And that woman on the train, was the paperweight awarded to her, stolen, or an object pulled randomly from some filthy dumpster in a dark, sordid alley? Each murder, each victim was so different one from another the only commonality being the murder weapon the “award”.                                How this “Gift of Peace” seemed to create nothing but chaos. I made an appointment to meet with the Archbishop at the diocese for 12:30 the following day, after morning mass.

  In the meantime, I stopped off at Dana’s apartment to satisfy my need for a drastic diversion from this case.  She had just emerged from the shower, sparkling clean, nose and cheeks pink and glowing. Quite fetching in a thick white terry cloth robe, hair wrapped up in a white towel, a few wet strands escaping at the sides of her face.  

  With a fresh mug of coffee in hand, its aromatic steam filling the air of the small, cozy apartment. Our lips met, slightly parted in a long overdue, well needed kiss. I embracing her tightly, the towel falling off her head and onto the carpet beneath our feet. Breathing in the fresh scent of her hair I allowed my lips to explore her neck, slowly making a path from her earlobe to the sumptuous crevice formed at her collarbone.   

We fell onto the couch and spent the rest of the afternoon entangled in one anther's arms, bodies caressing, losing ourselves in the fire of our bodies and the strength of their union as we sought to quench the hunger we shared.
We lingered lazily sipping wine, Dana massaging all of the tension from my neck and back that had been building up for so long as I relaxed completely beneath her nimble, knowing fingers. We deciding to watch a movie and searched net flicks and found a vintage black and white spy thriller starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall set in Rome. Watching the movie, I felt some of the pieces of the paperweight murder puzzle start to fall into pace.

I really couldn’t put a finger on exactly how, but things started to take shape in my mind in a very vague, mysterious form. Still, there remained so many unanswered questions, so many loose ends in need of tying.