An Unusual Occupation Page 7

  “Sounds like the best option.” They went into their office to wait on the results from the lab.

  14

  A Slow Song

  October 6, 2006

  I must confess to a certain degree of concern. Who am I to do anything for people? Part of me knows I’m the last person who should try something like this, but it feels right ...

  ... It just feels right.

  Bob arrived at the Taylor home and learned, as he’d suspected, that David had decided to enter the talent show. That’s one for the God theory. David seemed to ooze excitement the moment he opened the door, but he refused to allow Bob in.

  “I suppose that means I’ve lost my second job,” Bob said about his tutoring.

  David hung his head at the remark.

  “I say that with pride,” Bob said and put a hand on David’s shoulder. “Truth is: you don’t need any extra help. I think you’re as ready for your AIMS as anyone else is, if not more so.”

  The AIMS, or Arizona’s Instrument to Measure Standards, were the standardized tests all high school students in the state needed to pass in order to graduate.

  “Well, I was hoping you could still help me—with the talent show, I mean,” David said.

  “I think I could manage that,” Bob said with a smile. Although I’m not sure I could do it from the porch.

  David smiled and opened the door. Inside, where the living room used to be, was a homemade stage. David had built the setup as soon as he got home.

  “Grandpa helped,” David said with a smile.

  “I’m sure he did,” Bob said. He regarded Nick with a smile, and Nick raised two fingers in an informal salute. No, my friend, this is because of you.

  David used two dark-blue sheets to cover a homemade wooden platform. Nick drilled two hooks into the ceiling and hung red sheets on them. The sheets hung almost all the way down to the floor. David neatly tucked his guitar amp’s chord through the blue sheets on the stage and plugged the amp into an extension underneath.

  “I wasn’t exactly happy to find a stage where my coffee table should be when I got home,” Cheryl said in mock anger. “But since it’s a special occasion, I think I can make an exception.”

  “So are we going to compliment the craftsmanship, or do we get to hear a performance?” Nick asked.

  Mike and Cheryl applauded. Bob pulled out a lighter, ignited it, and waved the flame over his head. David stared at his teacher for a few moments. His eyes seemed to communicate how strange Bob’s gesture was more than words could. Bob chuckled to himself and put the lighter back in his pocket.

  For the next three or four minutes, David plucked and strummed his guitar. Each of the rhythms and series of notes were pleasant to listen to, but Bob thought they were more of a scattered series of complicated gestures than a single performance.

  David ended the performance with an impressive staccato solo and a final strum. He let the last chord ring for a moment before he used his left hand to silence the strings and put the guitar down.

  “What’d ya think?” he asked a bit bashfully.

  Drew immediately stood up and headed out his doggy door to the backyard.

  “Everyone’s a critic,” David said with a smile. Bob thought the smile hid a sudden rise in second thoughts.

  “He’s just not a fan of indie rock,” Nick said with a chuckle.

  “I thought you were great,” Cheryl said.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Nick retorted. Cheryl laughed and slapped her father on the shoulder.

  Someone had to really know Nick to understand his sense of humor. The comment was a joke, but David wasn’t in a joking mood.

  “What would you like me to critique?” Bob asked.

  “What do you mean?” David asked.

  “I heard a very nice series of notes that told me you know how to play guitar,” Bob answered. “If you ask me to judge any one of those, I’d give you a passing grade. If you ask me to judge the performance as a whole, I’m afraid you wouldn’t do so well.”

  “They didn’t go together,” David admitted.

  “Perhaps you should choose your favorite melody from the ones you played and write a song,” Bob suggested.

  “But then I’d have to sing, and I’m no good at that,” David said.

  “Neither could Hendrix,” Nick chuckled. “But no one cared.”

  “I think any one of those as a song would work,” Mike said. “You’ve got our vote to win.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” David said, a bit discouraged.

  “If I didn’t like it, I’d tell you,” Nick said.

  The sound of Drew waddling back into the house stole the family’s attention. He more-or-less jumped onto the stage and sat next to David’s amp.

  “See, even Drew’s willing to give you a second chance,” Nick said. The family laughed. Drew seemed to always have a way to get his opinion noticed. Bob walked over to the dog, who licked the human’s face.

  “Don’t thank me,” Bob said. “I didn’t do anything.”

  They spent the remainder of the evening listening to David play. Each member of the family voted on his or her favorite melody.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re leaving something out?” Bob said.

  “What do you mean?” David asked.

  “I mean, you’re holding out on us.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know, but you are. Why haven’t you played the one you always play right after our tutoring sessions?”

  Bob made a special effort to listen to David’s practice during conversations with Nick. Sometimes, the two would choose to leave the radio off and listen to David while they shared drinks out back.

  “It’s not fast,” David said.

  “What’s that matter?” Bob asked.

  “People like music they can dance to.”

  “And if you were playing for a prom, I might agree with you.”

  “I don’t want to lose because I played a slow song.”

  “I think you should focus on playing what you want and let the judges decide if you should lose and why.”

  “Maybe you should play it and let us vote?” Cheryl suggested.

  David sighed and fiddled with a series of pedals connected to his amp. He walked over to the machine to adjust a few settings. He took another moment to pet Drew, who snorted his approval.

  David took another deep breath and started a strange combination of strumming and finger-picking. The music had a unique strum-pluck-pluck-pluck rhythm. From scale to scale, David slid his hand from one octave to another, but he maintained the same pattern.

  After the pattern repeated a few times, David stomped the petal and slammed his audience with a wall of heavy chords. Just as the chords reached a peak, David slid his left hand down the neck of his guitar as his right plucked at the strings.

  Bob had to admit the song wasn’t fast. Still, to Bob, the waves of chords just worked with the quickly plucked individual notes. David finished his rough performance with a flourish.

  “I vote for that one,” Bob said. Drew barked his agreement, much to the amusement of the Taylor family.

  David opened his mouth as if to argue.

  “Drew said you’re using that one,” Nick said in a mock shout.

  “Can’t argue with that,” Cheryl laughed.

  “He has more say in what goes on around here than I do,” Mike agreed.

  “Will you help me write lyrics?” David asked his teacher.

  “Of course,” Bob answered.

  15

  Sweet Agony

  He wasn’t Death. It didn’t matter what people called him. The man bleeding out in his bathtub called him God moments ago. He wasn’t that, either. It frustrated him. Death, the real Death, could determine when, where, and how a person’s life ended. The one people called by so many names, the man so many, many people feared, couldn’t so much as determine how.

  He was forced to sit and watch as the man bled. H
e couldn’t be God, not if he was forced to live in hell. The blood flowed from the man’s wrists, down the white, fiberglass oval into the warm, soapy water. The man some called Death liked to watch the patterns the blood made.

  He had all the time in the world. He couldn’t determine anything about the actual death, but he could enjoy the agony of the man’s suffering. If only it were a woman. A part of him, the part that was once closer to Death, and somehow farther away from it, could remember watching, could remember doing so much more than watching. They called him Death then as well, and they were more accurate in that lifetime.

  He watched the man rot and idly dipped his hands in the water to swirl the blood so the tub looked filled with it. A pale, white body, eyes wide with shock, immersed in a tub full of red. It was beautiful ... so beautiful.

  There was an art to savoring a rotting person, especially those who’d committed suicide. They tended not to suffer in dying, but a person rotted all the same. True, he couldn’t relish the man’s screams, but he could still create a masterpiece. He could still watch the body rot and sour. But it really would have been better if it were a woman. He loved watching women die.

  16

  A Pointless Conversation

  Detective Kyle LeShea watched a simple, blue sedan pull into a parking lot at the address of the converted townhouse of the only suspect he and Richard could find. Kyle made it a point to park in the guy’s spot, but the plain-looking man didn’t seem to mind as he pulled up next to him. Kyle noticed the guy was shocked at the sight of the siren on Richard’s car. He’s guilty of something, Kyle told himself.

  He noticed Richard start to approach the suspect and sighed. Richard always thought with his courage. They were supposed to have the guy come to them, but good ‘ol Richard was a damn dog with a bone sometimes. Kyle quickly caught up so they’d approach the man together. Better to be beside Richard if he was wrong than to ever appear as if he were against him.

  The suspect, Robert Drifter, stepped out of his car, and Kyle’s mind went to work. He really was the most average man Kyle had ever seen, but that never mattered. Kyle had seen the man and never forgot a face. He never forgot anything. As average and harmless as Drifter looked, Kyle noted the man’s brown eyes. They looked old, like a man who’d seen things that others hadn’t. Kyle expected the suspect’s eyes to be hard, but they weren’t.

  The interior of the man’s car was spotless. A pair of books lay on the passenger seat. Drifter closed the door before Kyle could get a better look. He would have killed to have just one more instant to look at the car, but small chances were still chances.

  Oddly, the suspect took one look at Kyle and never looked away. Richard was halfway through a question before the suspect turned to acknowledge him.

  “Sir, I asked if you were Robert Drifter,” Richard said.

  “Did you know you have mustard on your jacket?” Drifter asked. He didn’t say it with any sort of malice; he just pointed it out. Unfortunately, Richard’s face reddened in anger. He wiped at the stain. Kyle tried to mentally will him not to, but Richard didn’t think. He scrubbed at it, causing it to spread. Damn it, Richard, Kyle thought, why do you always try a little too hard?

  The suspect tried to hide a smile. That was the wrong choice. Kyle walked right in front of Drifter and barked, “My partner asked you a question.”

  “Partner?” Drifter asked. He looked a little startled by Kyle. Good, he thought, no one laughs at my partner. “I’m sorry, yes, I’m Bob Drifter, but I’m at a loss. You haven’t introduced yourselves, and if I’m not being rude, I’d like to point out that it’s you two who are parked in front of my home.”

  Drifter started staring at Kyle again. It was like the suspect couldn’t see anything but him. “You swing the wrong way?” Kyle asked, a bit angry.

  “Um, I don’t have a swing,” Drifter said. He sounded confused.

  “Why are you staring at me so hard?”

  “You are right in front of me, Mr. ... um ... ?”

  Kyle took a step back. Drifter actually had to make an effort to rip his eyes away, and that thought bothered Kyle for some reason. He nearly chuckled when he noticed Richard practically jam his badge in Drifter’s face. It was as if Drifter had no idea how much trouble he was in.

  “Sergeant Richard Hertly,” Richard said, introducing himself. “This is my partner, Detective Kyle LeShea.”

  “Kyle,” Drifter echoed. He smiled when he said the name. The guy was creepy.

  “Only my friends call me Kyle! You call me Detective.”

  “Well, officers,” Drifter said. “I must admit I’m a little off guard talking on my lawn. Can we move this into my home?”

  Kyle knew the man was worried. His eyes shifted. His posture was stiff, like a man trying to look calm, but calm people aren’t stiff; they’re loose. Every effort the man made to look natural made him look guilty. Maybe Richard was right about the guy. That was the weird thing about Richard. He could follow a dropped cigarette butt to Jack the Ripper. All he ever needed was a single shred of evidence.

  Kyle had found that shred. The flowers on Rojas’s bed had two sets of prints, just like Kyle said they’d find. One belonged to that old nurse who yapped at Richard. She looked so horrified to hear she’d inadvertently tampered with evidence, but Richard eased her mind. He shouldn’t have. Only idiots touch anything at a crime scene, but that was Richard’s way, always wanting things to be just right.

  The second set of prints belonged to the man across from him. They scoured his records. Kyle lost the silver dollar he and his partner always used to cover bets. Bob Drifter really was the guy’s name. They took the address and drove up with only a minute to talk strategy before the suspect pulled in. Now Kyle would get to look around the house. He’d watch everything. He knew he only needed to catch one small detail that would help Richard figure it out. If Drifter was guilty, Richard would catch him. Richard could catch anyone.

  “That’s nice of you, Bob,” Richard said. They walked to the front door. Drifter’s hand didn’t shake when he put his key in the lock. He was at least calm enough for that.

  Entering his house made the guy look a little more at ease. Kyle passed over the room with his eyes and memorized everything in an instant. The living room felt warm. Pictures of kids in a classroom sat on the TV, which was next to the fireplace just beside the large window, which looked into the front yard. A circular ladder coiled up into the second floor. Everything was neat. A plain, leather book was on the coffee table. The curtains, blue with curved patterns cut at the top, were open, letting a shaft of light streak into the townhouse.

  “Nice place you got here,” Richard said.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Drifter said, and he looked like he meant it. “Can I offer you or the detective something to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” Richard replied. They all sat down. Bob took a seat on a sun-bleached, brown-leather recliner, and the two detectives sat to Bob’s left on a thin, woven, eggshell-white sofa in front of the window.

  “I’ll have water,” Kyle said just as Bob sat down.

  “Of course,” Drifter said. He looked frustrated. Good.

  Drifter moved to his kitchen and got a glass of water for his guest. He brought it back and took a seat.

  “Perhaps now we can discuss what brings you here?” Drifter asked.

  “Do you know a Miguel Rojas?” Richard asked. Bob’s eyes glanced at the photos on his TV.

  “Yes,” Drifter said. “He died just a few days ago.”

  “So you admit that you were the last man to see him alive,” Richard said. Kyle made an effort not to shake his head. The comment oozed accusation.

  “Not at all,” Drifter said. Did his voice shake? Kyle wondered. “I saw him the day he died, but I honestly don’t know if I was the last person to see him alive.”

  “We have a witness that places you in Rojas’s room just before he died,” Kyle spat.

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”


  “Someone turned off his heart monitor,” Richard said. They fell into their plan. They intended to hit him from both sides, hard. Kyle figured it was the best way to get him in an uncomfortable spot. “The hospital might have saved him if they’d gotten to him in time.”

  “Might have?” Drifter asked. He let the comment hang in the air. “You think I turned it off?”

  “We have your fingerprints on the flowers, Bob,” Kyle said.

  “Which look nothing like a heart monitor, I’m sure,” Drifter replied.

  “You’re saying someone came into the room right after you and turned off the machine?” Richard asked. The best part about what the other officers called “The LeShea/Hertly Psychic Link” was how uncomfortable it made suspects during questioning. Drifter looked like his head was spinning as he tried to figure out which cop said what.

  “I don’t have a clue as to when it was turned off,” Drifter said. “I just know I didn’t do it.”

  “Why were you visiting Rojas?” Kyle asked.

  “Did you two script this before you arrived so it looked like you’re linked or something?” Drifter asked. He sounded so flustered that Kyle nearly laughed out loud.

  “Just answer the question,” Richard said. Sometimes even Kyle thought Richard could read his mind.

  “He and I have a history of sorts,” Bob said.

  “Well, that’s just not true.” Richard stood up. He was always so worried about his weight or height, but when the man wanted to look intimidating, he could. “Our witness knows Rojas very well. His wife visits on Wednesday, and his children and grandchild are out of town.”

  “They live out of town, Sergeant,” Drifter said. Kyle and Richard shot each other a look that read, “What?”

  “If you have my fingerprints, then you know I’m a substitute teacher,” Drifter said. That was true enough. “Miguel’s grandson is named Javier.” Drifter walked over to his TV and pulled a photo off the top of the frame. He handed it to Richard.