Destinations Unknown Read online

  Another shadow, this one bulkier than the last, moved in the periphery of my vision. I stomped to the doorway and looked in every direction but saw no further movement.

  “Fred? Goddammit, c’mon, this isn’t funny.”

  No answer. No sound.

  Checking my watch, I saw that Dobbs had been gone only three minutes. It felt like I’d been alone in here for hours.

  Ever had one of those “I-Know-This-Isn’t-A-Good-Idea-But” moments?

  The smart thing to do was leave the room and not look at anything else.

  The smart thing to do was leave.

  Once more, with feeling: Smart Thing = Leaving.

  So of course I turned back, picked up the top file, and sat down in the desk chair to look at it.

  It was a record of traffic deaths.

  The first several pages consisted of hand-written columns noting dates, locations, number and makes of cars, fatalities, and the names of everyone involved. Next to each line of information was a number written in blue, silver, or gold ink. The rest of the file contained newspaper clippings, arranged by date, containing details (and sometimes photos) about the accidents catalogued in the first batch of pages.

  Closing the file and setting it back atop the stack, I looked around the bedroom once more.

  How goddamn lonely, bitter, angry, and morbid would someone have to be to make this their hobby? I mean, it was bad enough she’d spent so much time collecting and organizing this information, but to drop thousands of dollars on custom-made HO track and accessories to recreate the accidents in the privacy of her home…can I get an Eeeewwww!?

  And to top it all off, she hadn’t even gotten the last accident right; five people, not seven, had died as a result of the I-71 crash.

  I stood, pulling my wallet from my back pocket and riffling through its contents until I found my lawyer’s business card. I wanted out of this. If it meant some jail time instead of community service, so be it. I was so creeped out that even the threat of incarceration seemed preferable to spending one more minute in this apartment. Brennert would understand. I wouldn’t lose my job over this. He was that kind of guy. (And I had serious doubts that the judge would actually put me in jail; I’d probably end up washing dishes at the Open Shelter or something like that.)

  I spotted the phone among the stuff on the cluttered nightstand, walked over, picked up the receiver, and only then allowed myself to look down at Miss Driscoll’s body.

  She might have been the same woman in the photo hanging in the foyer, but I couldn’t be certain; at least fifty years separated the face in the picture from the one I was looking at now.

  Staring down at her still form that looked more asleep than dead, I couldn’t help but wonder how she came to this, what led from point A to point B (and so on) to her cutting herself off from the rest of the world with only this grotesque hobby to fill her days.

  Is that why you cried some nights? I wondered. Did you know or suspect that your life had become something ghoulish and ugly? Did you feel so powerless and alone and afraid that you couldn’t talk to someone about it? Did it hurt that much, knowing what you had become?

  “Lady,” I whispered, “what the hell happened to you?”

  I reached down with a shaking hand to punch in my lawyer’s phone number and accidentally hit the Redial button, freezing just long enough for the seven digits to complete their rapid-fire dialing and hear a voice on the other end say: “Cedar Hill Police Department, how may I direct your call?”

  “Sorry, misdialed.” I hung up with too much force, just about tipping over the mostly empty glass of water next to the phone. Steadying the glass, I managed to knock one of the prescription containers from the nightstand. Sometimes I’m so graceful it’s a wonder I didn’t pursue a career in ballet.

  Counting the one I’d knocked to the floor, there were seven empty prescription containers on the nightstand: painkillers, sedatives, blood pressure medication, muscle relaxants, anti-depressants, and two different kinds of sleeping pills. There was also a good-sized bowl with remnants of chocolate pudding clinging to its rim and to the spoon lying inside (having consumed more than my fair share of chocolate pudding and knowing how it looks when you fail to rinse out the bowl in a timely manner, I recognized this immediately, perceptive and clever fellow—not to mention tidy housekeeper—that I am). Mixed in with these remnants was a not-so-fine powdery substance.

  Oh, shit.

  I take in pill form a drug called Imitrex for my migraine headaches. The stuff works wonders most of the time, except on those nights I forget to carry some on me and end up at the ER getting a shot of Demerol so I can be arrested for DUI on my way home and be assigned community service that will lead me to be standing over the dead body of a seriously weird old lady, but I digress. If I do not take the Imitrex with food or milk, I will be vomiting within half an hour. Since it takes two pills to tackle one of my migraines, I break them up into several pieces and mix them in with applesauce or—drum-roll please—pudding.

  I stared at the bowl, the empty prescription containers, and knew.

  Miss Driscoll had committed suicide.

  Now before you shake your head and let fly with one of those long, low-pitched, boy-has-he-lost-it whistles, consider: 1) This was an isolated and terribly lonely old woman who, 2) had a morbid hobby, 3) possessed enough prescription medications to kill herself three times over if she took them all at once, and whose, 4) last phone call had been to the non-emergency number of the police department.

  It would have been simple enough; wait until you feel yourself starting to drift toward sleep, then make the call: I’m sorry, this isn’t an emergency, it’s probably nothing, but I live over at The Maples on—oh, you know where that is? I was wondering if you could send some officers over to apartment 716 sometime tonight around, oh, 8:30 or 9? There’s a young man who’s been coming to my door at that time for the last couple of nights—I think he might be trying to sell something—and he will not leave me alone. He’s been very insistent, and he’s starting to frighten me a little. I was hoping the officers might have a word with him?

  She’d probably invented a better reason, but my guess was it had been something along similar lines, some vague, borderline silly, old-lady reason to have a couple of officers drop by, nothing urgent, mind you, but allowing for enough time between the call and their visit to make sure she’d be dead when the police arrived.

  I can’t say that I was pleased about realizing this—consider the circumstances—because if it was true, then it raised more questions than it answered: why was there no record of this downstairs? The police would have checked in with whoever worked the front desk. The door to the apartment hadn’t been forcibly opened; it had been unlocked by someone with a passkey (presumably the building manager or one of the security guards). How did the mayor come to be involved? And why would the coroner file a false report of “Natural Causes” when it must have been obvious to him that Miss Driscoll had taken her own life? (C’mon; if I could figure it out based on an almost-empty pudding bowl, someone with the coroner’s medical knowledge must have known it the moment he saw the body.)

  Two things stopped me from deciding that I was full of shit and just letting my anxiety get the better of me; the first was something Dobbs had said on the way over here: “…this whole to-do was supposed to be handled by the book, but there ain’t been nothing about this has gone like it’s supposed to.”

  The second thing was what I saw when I finally worked up enough nerve to test my theory and picked up the bowl: pieces of pills mixed in with the remaining glops of pudding.

  Now what was I supposed to do?

  First thing: put down the bowl.

  The second thing was what I should have done in the first place—get the hell out of the room. I’d put in my CS time today, go home, and call my lawyer this evening. Whatever was going on here was out of my hands and none of my business.

  Hell, yes, I felt bad for Miss Driscoll—yo
u’d have to be a monster not to—but none of this was my responsibility. A lonely old lady offs herself and some city officials decide for whatever reason to cover it up. Fine. I was just here to transport her body so she could get some kind of decent burial. And like Dobbs had said, ultimately this wasn’t her; it was just something she used to walk around in. Wherever she was now (assuming there was a Wherever), she had better things to concern herself with.

  “I see you’ve located the body,” said Dobbs from the doorway.

  I looked over just in time to be half-blinded by the sudden flash of his camera.

  “Oh, man, you ought to see the expression on your face.” He started over, working his way around the tracks. “Take a gander.” He turned the camera’s display window toward me.

  “All I can see right now are spots.”

  “Oh, sorry about that. I couldn’t resist.”

  If I was going to say anything about this, now was my chance. I pointed at the cluttered bedside table. “You notice anything odd?”

  Dobbs looked at the table. “She was a bit messy.”

  “Is that all?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. What am I supposed to be seeing?”

  “Humor me. Take a good look at what’s on this table.”

  Dobbs sighed, then leaned down to examine everything. He picked up the pudding bowl, stared at its contents, and made the Stroke Face again, so I knew he was concentrating.

  After several seconds, he said: “Gimme the clipboard.”

  I handed it over and he flipped through the official paperwork.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  He looked down at Miss Driscoll, then at me. “You first.”

  I shook my head. “Oh, no. No. Sorry but…no. I don’t want to get myself in any more trouble than I already am.”

  Dobbs stared at me, blinked, then nodded. “She died of natural causes like my ass chews gum.”

  “So…what do we do about it?”

  Dobbs looked back at Miss Driscoll’s body, then rubbed his eyes. “Nothing, that’s what. We don’t do a goddamn thing about it. If the doc falsified the report, I’m guessing it’s because the mayor told him to.”

  “But aren’t you curious to know why?”

  “Shit, yes—but I’m also…” He shook his head. “Look, we say anything about this to the doc or the mayor or anyone official, there’s going to be a lot of questions, then some kind of investigation, and all sorts of nasty shit for us to deal with. Maybe it don’t make any difference to you, you’re only here temporary, but me, I gotta think about my job, you understand? If a city employee makes any kind of an accusation against a city official, then they’d better have some goddamn proof or else they’re gonna be out on their unemployed ass in a hurry. You got any medical background? I sure as hell don’t. Who do you think people would believe, anyway—the County Coroner or a couple of schleps who drive the meat wagon?”

  “You could take a picture of the table, we could show that to someone, and—”

  “—and how would we prove that we didn’t just put all this stuff here to make it look like she offed herself? You know as well as I do that someone would think that.”

  “We call the Columbus police department, get them to send over someone from their lab, they could—”

  “Are you listening to yourself? First of all, that kind of call would have to come from the mayor, the sheriff, the chief of police, or the coroner. Second, even if you and me did call and somehow managed to get them to come, we’d have to sit here with the body until they arrived—and I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like babysitting a corpse for however long it’d take them to get here. And third, how do you suppose they’d react once they dusted this place and found our fingerprints—” He pointed to the pudding bowl. “—on what is probably the central piece of evidence?”

  As soon as he pointed at the pudding bowl, something occurred to me. “Why is this stuff still here?”

  “Say what?”

  I nodded at everything on the bedside table. “If the doc and the mayor have decided to cover this up, at least on paper, then why not get rid of the evidence, as well? Why leave all of this stuff out in plain view and risk someone being able to figure it out?”

  “They couldn’t be sure that somebody would, maybe?”

  I shook my head. “No—c’mon, Fred. I figured it out. If it’d been you up here instead of me, you would’ve noticed something, too. It’s almost like…”

  “Like what?”

  I looked back up at him. “It’s like somebody wanted you and me to figure it out.”

  “But why?”

  I shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.”

  “There you go, then,” said Dobbs. “Maybe there’s something to what you’re saying, okay? Maybe. But if you’re right, if they did leave all this shit out hoping that we’d put two and two together, how’re they gonna know unless we say something? If we don’t do anything, if we don’t say anything, just come in here and haul her body away like we’re supposed to, then there’s no way anyone’ll ever know. As long as we keep this to ourselves, it’s fine.”

  “We can’t just do nothing.”

  “The hell we can’t! Listen to me, the next time we go on a call like this, you don’t touch nothing besides the front door, the gurney, and the body, got it? We find anything weird like this again and I invite you to take a look around, just hit me, okay? I’m not that far away from collecting my pension, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna have it fucked up for me by a CS temp! So from now on, you don’t touch nothing unless I say so.”

  There wasn’t going to be a next time for me, so I nodded my head and muttered apologies.

  Dobbs stared at me for a few more seconds, his features softening. “I don’t mean to yell at you, I’m sorry. But it’s a done deal at this point, all the paperwork’s been filed, and the best thing that you and me can do is just…what we came here to do.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah. She’s gone, nothing we do is going to change that, and I’d rather not be the one responsible for you losing your pension.”

  He reached over and gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “There’s a good fellah. Me and you, we won’t talk about this again, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Or mention it to anybody else?”

  “Or mention it to anybody else.”

  He looked around at the tracks and computer. “Still, you gotta wonder what the hell she was doing in here, all by herself, with this crap.”

  I pointed toward his digital camera. “Did you get enough pictures?”

  He nodded. “I pretty much got the whole place before I came in here. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me banging around out there.”

  “I was, uh…” I looked at Miss Driscoll’s bedside table. “…a little preoccupied.”

  “I heard that.” He looked at me and smiled. “C’mon. Let’s go clear a path so we can get the gurney in here.”

  It took us over half an hour to move the tracks, and even then it was a tight squeeze, but somehow we managed. We lifted Miss Driscoll’s body from the bed (she didn’t weigh very much, I could have done it alone), put her inside the bag, and zipped it closed. There was a cold finality in that sound that, for a moment, put me back inside the Leonard house.

  Christ, I didn’t want to be here.

  Dobbs took the lead. We’d gotten the gurney almost all the way to the foyer when one of the wheels on his end locked up.

  “Son-of-a…hold on a second, will you?”

  “Sure thing.” I let go of my end, stood there for a moment, and then noticed something. “Hey, Fred, do you have the clipboard?”

  “No,” he said from somewhere below the gurney. “What’d we do, leave it in the bedroom?”

  “Looks like.”

  His head came around the far right wheel leg. “Well?”

  I looked at him.

  He l
ooked back at me, then sighed. “Hey, here’s a question—when you were going to school, did you ride there on a long bus or the short one?”

  “So you’re saying I should go back and get it.”

  “Whatta you think?”

  “I think I’ll go back and get it.”

  His head disappeared behind the gurney leg once more. “I’m so proud right now.”

  Back in the bedroom, I found the clipboard lying on the floor in front of the bedside table. I retrieved it and started making my way out of the room when I gave into a sudden impulse, turned back, and removed one of the numerous star-covered maps from the wall. Folding it up and slipping it into one of my back pockets, I went back to help Dobbs move the gurney out into the foyer.

  “You doing okay?” he asked once we were back in the hall.

  “I guess.”

  Dobbs pulled the door to 716 closed, checking to make sure it locked behind him, then said, “You look kinda upset to me.”

  “This hasn’t been the best morning. Could we just go, please?”

  We began moving the gurney toward the end of the hall. Dobbs asked, “So…think you’re gonna have the stomach for this?”

  “I haven’t urped on your shoes yet, have I?”

  “Just checking. Usually with CS helpers, this is about the time most of them decide they’d rather risk roadside trash pickup, dishwashing, or jail. But all things considered, you held your own real good here this morning.”

  “Thanks.” And I meant it. Dobbs didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who was in the habit of handing out compliments like business cards at a convention, so knowing that I’d earned his seal of approval actually made me feel kind of proud of myself.

  “I have decided,” said Dobbs, “that you aren’t okay, that you’re just trying to put up a good front for me. I have decided that this kind of stiff-upper-lip behavior deserves rewarding. I have decided that you need cheering up.”

  “Oh, you have, have you?”

  “Yes, and since I’m in charge, you’re getting cheered up. Besides, I’m hungry.”

  We were just turning the corner at the end of the hall when I chanced a look back at Miss Driscoll’s apartment and saw a bulky shadow closing the door from inside. A second later, the deadbolt was engaged. I started to say something to Dobbs, then changed my mind; after all, we didn’t see anything suspicious, did we?