7

This was much later than I'd hoped, but here it is. A new character gets introduced and I hope you like him. Again, any comments are more than welcome. If something is anachronistic (in the wrong time period), I'd love to know.
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Inspector Johnston, if nothing else, is an honest man; and so I believed him when he said I was going to remain in the cell until he’d sorted out the murder of Agnes Wolfe. Fortunately for me, I managed to get a phone call placed to Marion and quickly told her that ol’ Leon was up to his old tricks again, and I was going to be at what I call my “summer home” for a couple of days. Marion, God love her, rang up the Priest, and he came on down to visit me. One of the privileges of the clergy, I suppose, is that no one really wants to risk eternal hellfire by fighting with you. So, a few hours after I first arrived at my summer home, I heard the very familiar voice - laden with expletives and tinged with the last remnants of an Irish accent - echoing down the stone hall leading to my cell. I just smiled and lay as I was on my bed, hands behind my head, looking up at the ceiling. The Priest was here to spring me, yet again.

Sean Patrick Fitzgerald was born and raised here in Milwaukee, but his parents were born in Ireland. So, his accent isn’t really his, but is one he inherited from his family. He wears the collar of a priest - and he earned that collar by taking the Holy Orders from the Catholic church in Rome. Not that he’s ever been to Rome. Hell, I’m not even sure he knows where exactly on a map Rome is; he just refers to “Mother Rome,” from time to time, and people just nod reverently. People always nod reverently around Priest; to avoid the aforementioned hellfire, but also because there is a pretty decent chance they’ll get thumped on the forehead with a hard knuckle and asked about the state of their eternal soul that they would refuse to listen to a man of the cloth.

I stayed on my bed until I heard the metallic tapping of a ring against the bars of my cell, closely followed by a loud, “Are you going to layabout, my son? Faith, sloth is one of the deadly sins, you know. Have some care for your eternal soul, to be sure.”

“My eternal soul? Well, I don’t know much about that sort of thing, Priest. All I know is that my eternal soul’s earthly body and mind would very much like out of this box,” I replied wryly, sitting and then standing up. “So, unless you know a prayer to get a man our of a metal cage, maybe you’d like to see if your dear and fluffy lord can work me a miracle.”

A big toothy grin broke out on Priest’s face and he said, “That is His forte, after all. Maybe it will be like Saint Paul and Silas in prison. Earthquake, and the door swings open!”

I just rolled my eyes.

Priest walked away, but was gone only for a moment, returning with a different officer than the one who put me here. “My son,” he said to me, “this is officer Earthquake.” And then Priest laughed. His laugh sounds like an avalanche of mirth; it starts quiet, as though it was far off in the distance. But it isn’t at all, it’s just building momentum until he’s guffawing loudly, head tilted back, mouth wide open, whole body spasming with the effort of it all.

I just rolled my eyes.

The officer, perhaps worried that there was some sort of exorcism about to take place, hurriedly opened up the door and beat a path down the hallway. The iron bar door creaked noisily and clanged when it struck the barred wall, a sound which I believe roused Priest from his giddy laughing fit. “Oh, you’re an absolute card,” I said drily, “Mass with you must be a laugh riot. How did you get him to open the door, anyway?”

“Few people want to risk excommunication, my son,” Priest began, “and fewer still want to risk my left hook. No one ever sees it coming, but it often makes very profound arguments. Now, let’s get going. I may minister to those who are in chains and prisons, but that doesn’t mean I feel like spending my night here, to be sure.”

The thing about Sean Patrick Fitzgerald is that, for all his talk about one’s
eternal soul, he’s just as likely to call you a damned fool as he is to pray for you. He’ll hear your confession, but if he sees you doing that very thing later in the day, he is not above shaking you by your shoulders until your head hurts and you cease whatever sin you’re in the process of committing. He spends most of his day not in the church building, but seemingly wandering around the neighbourhood; dispensing wisdom at Nick’s, haggling over fish, playing baseball in the street with children, and even pummelling wouldbe purse-snatchers with the bat he was just using for baseball. Whatever kind of priest he actually is, it’s a fair bet Rome has no idea just what they signed up for when they gave him his collar. More’s the pity, too. A priest like that could make a man want to stop in at a church and see what sort of hellion from below he does battle with when he’s actually in the office. I have nothing bad to say about religion; it does for many people. Me, I have faith of my own. And right now, I was feeling pretty convicted that I hadn’t spent any time with Pastors Jack and Daniels.

Priest and I walked out of the Police Station and paused under the overhang which covers the stairs. “One more thing,” he began, “you owe me $3 for the cab ride over here. You can pay me in four visits to Mass, or live the rest of your life knowing you owe a man something.” He wore that smug grin he gets whenever he knows he has you, and he knows you know. Thunder suddenly rolled from above - a sign from On High, perhaps - and muted my bitten off curse.

“I’ll tell you what, Priest,” I replied with a grin, “If this rain doesn’t stop by the time I get this case solved, I’ll see you at Mass for a month. See if God will punish a whole city just to get one lapsed soul into His house.”

“Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God,” Priest quoted at me, just before we headed out into the rain once more. Just when I thought I might be dry. Fortunately, Fargo was waiting where I had left her, and she started just the same as she did when I parked her there.

I dropped Priest off at Nick’s - perhaps there was some wisdom that needed dispensing - and headed back to my office. Since the only time I’d ever seen Agnes was in my office, it was the only place I had to begin. I did the backstroke from the now-invisible curb to my office building door and headed upstairs. Once inside my office, I hung my drenched coat on the tree and looked around. The police, while thorough, were not apparently much for leaving a place as they found it. My papers were everywhere, my drawers had been emptied onto my desk’s top, the chairs were upended and scattered, and my closet looked like someone had decided that everything inside needed to be aired out for spring. And, on top of all of that, they had decided to leave my window open.

I cleaned up a little, corrected my chairs, and then sat down at my desk to collect my thoughts. As it happens by beautiful coincidence, I collect my thoughts best when there’s a glass of scotch in which to catch them. I was also going to need a few belts of scotch in me to write a properly enraged letter to the Milwaukee Police Department regarding the shoddy work they did in cleaning up my office. Ransack it if you need to, but courtesy is courtesy.

Unfortunately for me, I had precious little time to collect my thoughts, enjoy my scotch, or write my angry letter. My pen was out and at the ready when my phone rang. I could tell I needed the drink because I was so startled I proceeded to spill half of it on my wrist. A private eye shouldn’t jump at a phone ringing, that’s just not natural.

I answered the phone and all I heard was, “Lakefront. One hour,” before the line went dead. The operator was no help in tracing the call, either. Just one more angry letter I needed to write. But not now. If I didn’t hurry, all of Milwaukee was going to be Lakefront property, the way the rain was coming down. I half-hoped Priest was building an ark; not that I thought I would be one of the very righteous who would be saved, but I figured watching that crazy man build a gigantic boat out of gopher wood might distract me from the miserable rain.

6

I wish this had been written a long time ago. I have no excuse, but hope you'll read and enjoy. One thing that I have changed is that Ben fell asleep for more than just a moment before the phone woke him - it's now very early in the morning.
My plan is to update this thing again by Wednesday. I'll see if that happens.
Once again, your thoughts are welcome and invited.
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The police station is an old brick building that looks as severe on the outside as it tends to be on the inside. The dark grey brick has an austere appearance, one that is not helped even a little by iron bars over the windows, not to mention the brigade of officers in the near-black navy blue of the Milwaukee Police Department uniforms. A more humourless group of people you would probably be hard-pressed to find at a funeral, and in the rain that continued to pound the city, everyone was in an even worse mood that they usually were. Not that anyone should fault them for being in a perpetually bad mood; spending time with people like Inspector Johnston would sour even the cheeriest of dispositions.

We pulled up along the submerged curb in front of the wide stone steps to the wrought-iron front doors and sprinted from Fargo up the steps to the cover of the building. I decided that any time that the rain wanted to stop would be perfectly fine with me. I half expected mermaids to greet us everywhere we went. I probably could have made a break for freedom if I'd wanted to, since I don't think anyone would have tried to stop me aside from Inspector Johnston, but the truth is that I wanted to figure this whole thing out. Even though the good Inspector regularly accuses me of some sort of misdeed, it never made another incident less interesting; the hazards of being a snoop for money, I guess. There may not be any mermaids, but a good mystery is like a siren’s song to me, and I’ll crash on the rocks to figure it out. Splashing our way up the stairs, I listened to Inspector Johnston mutter a few colourful phrases under his breath about the weather just before we slipped inside. For some reason, that made the rain seem a little less oppressive to me.

"This way, Benjamin," the Inspector said to me as we got inside, taking hold of my left elbow in a grip that, while not uncomfortable, let me know in no uncertain terms that he was going to make sure I didn't slip away. He guided me toward the interview room and I smirked as I said, "I appreciate the tour, Inspector, but I know the way. If I'd wanted to sneak off, I could have done so already. Mind laying off on the grip? I'd hate for some of your colleagues to think I was under arrest or in trouble or something. That sort of rumour can really hurt a guy’s reputation."

The inspector didn't relent on the grip. He just said in a tone that suggested he was looking at something particularly unpleasant, "They already know you're trouble, Benjamin. My making certain you don't duck out on what we've got to do is no surprise to them."

"Gee, Inspector... Do you think perhaps they also won't be surprised when I solve the case for you and you take the credit? That is, after all, the way things have gone in the past."

Johnston opened the door to the interview room and pushed me inside. Wearing a derisive smile, he said condescendingly, "You're not under arrest, Benjamin. I just have a few questions about a dead body I need you to answer. And you're going to answer my questions, too."

I looked around the room and let out a long breath. Interview Room 1 is about as charming a place as it sounds. To describe it as "spartan" is to suggest that the Spartans were in the business of boring rooms, hot lights, and dingy green paint. The room is not big enough for more than four people, really, and there was no doubt where I was going to be; the rickety wooden chair tucked in on one side of a table with more initials carved in it than a shady tree in the most beautiful picnic spot in the world. No hearts dug into this wood, though there was a very witty limerick about dear Inspector Johnston. I was surprised he hadn't had the table replaced, but was glad each time I saw it; Marion would have been crushed to learn all the work we had done trying to rhyme "incompetent" was for naught.

“Alright then, Inspector,” I said, folding my hands neatly over the punchline of that limerick, “let’s talk about this dead body. I assume that you’ve already sent it to the morgue, since you usually need someone else to tell you that someone’s actually dead and not just asleep. You suggested I killed this person on the phone.”

“Oh, laugh it up, Benjamin,” Inspector Johnston said with an irritated tone and a frown to match, “but I’ve got a corpse in a white dress with your business card in her purse. Pretty thing, too. Well, she was, until someone decided to kill her. Now, I like you for that particular job. I figure you made some sort of attempt at getting to know her, she slapped the taste out of your mouth as any lady would, and you lost your temper. One thing led to another, and she winds up dead. If that’s what happened, we can work with that, you know. You might not get the chair.”

I knew the moment he mentioned a white dress that he was talking about Agnes. I rarely forget a face like hers, and never a body like hers. The white dress just sealed it for me. I started to reply our conversation over in my mind - all the talk about someone following her, and her fear of someone hurting her, the tears and all of the rest came flooding back - but I couldn’t come up with any good explanation as to who had done anything. I just hadn’t had enough time to sort that part out. Damn, was it really just last night that I’d had that conversation? It suddenly felt like weeks ago.

Inspector Johnston’s patience was especially short today. Rudely, he derailed my train of thought by slamming his open palm on the surface of the desk and saying in a loud voice, “Dammit, Benjamin! Don’t go off daydreaming now! Didn’t you hear me? A woman is dead, and she has your business card with her! Now, tell me what you know about it!”

I wanted to hit the Inspector. Specifically, I wanted to punch him in the mouth so that it could close and I could have a moment’s peace with my thoughts. I just looked at him and said in a really quiet tone, “If you’ll give me a second, Inspector, I’ll tell you what I know. Maybe if you did less shouting and more thinking, you’d solve more cases and wouldn’t need to drag me down here in the rain.” He didn’t like that response, to be sure, but he did stop talking. That was good enough for me.

“First off, I didn’t kill that woman. Her name is Agnes Wolfe. She came into my office and asked me to follow her around for a little while, starting today, actually. She seemed to think someone was after her, and wanted me to see if I could figure out who. That she’s dead tells me she was right, and that the person or persons got a little jumpy when they saw her talking to me.”

Inspector Johnston looked at me, got real pensive for a moment, and then said, “Interesting tale. Tell me, Benjamin, you carry a gun, right?”

“You know I do,” I replied with a nod. That sort of thing isn’t exactly hard for the Police Department to find out, especially since they issue my detective’s license, and they like to know which PI is packing heat.

“A... .38, as I recall,” the Inspector continued. I didn’t like his tone. It was the sound of a man who knew more than he was letting on, but wanted the person he was talking to twist in the wind a little, maybe reveal something that can be used as a noose.

“Cut to the chase, Inspector,” I said, irritated. I wanted to figure out Agnes’ death more far more than I wanted to be sitting here being interrogated.

“Fine,” Inspector Johnston said, “I’ll cut to the chase.” He moved around from the other side of the table from me, to stand at my right side. He leaned in on the table until he was about eight inches from my face. Looking hard into my eyes, he said, “You have a .38 registered to you. We figure she was killed by a .38. You were the last one we know who saw her alive. This doesn’t take a genius to sort out. So, we’re going to go looking through your office and your apartment until we find that .38. You had better hope we find it. Now, I know yours is not the only .38 in the city... but I like you for this, Benjamin. I really do.”

Funny, I thought, I’m having a hard time liking you at all, Inspector. Instead, I just said, “Listen, feel free to go through my place and my apartment. You should find the gun in my desk at work, top drawer, left side.”

“You don’t carry it with you? That seems a little strange, especially for a man who has made as many enemies as you have, Benjamin. I would have thought you would give that some consideration. Walking around without your piece can be hazardous to your health.”

“Maybe, Inspector. But it seems to me that, at this moment, you’re the only one who isn’t locked up and who sees me as an enemy. And we both know that I wouldn’t be long for the world if I used my .38 on you.”

Inspector Johnston just nodded slowly, still leaning in far too close for my preference. He continued to stare at me for a long moment before stepping away and opening the door. Calling in the officer, he said, “Take him to a cell. Lock him up until we sort this out,” and then he left.

I shook my head and rose slowly. With a smirk, I asked the officer, “Can I at least get my usual cell? Third on the right, I believe. It’s set up just the way I like it.” The uniformed young man looked at me, no doubt confused as to what I could possibly mean, since all of the cells are exactly the same. He just took my elbow and all but dragged me off. At least he gave me the cell I wanted. It was a lot like a third home....

5

Awfully sorry that this has taken so long. I've been on vacation and watched a lot of television. I think that watching television might actually sap creativity. At any rate, here is the newest installment. Questions and comments are more than welcome.
Someone asked me how long this was going to be, and so I'll say that this is not going to be a book. But probably a short story. Maybe, if this first one doesn't suck out loud, more than one will be written.
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I dropped Marion off at her apartment building and watched her sprint the three yards from the curb head up the short flight of stone steps to her building’s door. Inside, she waved at me and I pulled back into traffic and headed to my own apartment. Fargo rumbled down the drenched and flooding streets with ease, leaving a couple of waterlogged drivers - in new cars, I might add - on the sides of the road, literally in her wake. I took a moment and smiled in appreciation of my trusty steel steed. A couple of years ago, I worked a case for a little, twitchy fellow who wanted me to catch his wife running around like he suspected. I caught her alright, with his brother, the mailman, and... well, sufficed to say, she was definitely not staying true to her vows - unless her vows included rampant infidelity, in which case the husband really had no business hiring me in the first place. He took everything they owned, set fire to it on the front lawn and then the house, and told her he was divorcing her. As payment - the crazy bastard burned all of their cash, too - he gave me what he called, “the one thing that’s been faithful,” in his life; Fargo. I almost told him to keep it, since the thing looked about ready to die, but he insisted and so I took it. I was on my way to sell it to the scrapyard the next day, but a cold snap had swept through town and it was there to stay. I got into Fargo and she started up without a hesitation. She continued to do so all week long. Nothing else was starting, just Fargo and I. That’s when I named her Fargo - after the North Dakota city I got stuck in once in the middle of an ungodly cold streak. I thought it was about time to redeem my feelings about the name. Ever since, Fargo’s never been stuck in the snow, never failed to start in bad weather, never stalled, nor ever needed any real repairs; which is good, since I can barely afford a shave, these days.

I navigated the near-canals back to my apartment building and pulled a U-turn to park along the curb. With a resigned sigh, I opened the door and back into the monsoon, trying to make it across the street without being swept away. I swear I saw a couple of Rainbow Trout swim by, likely heading for the Pacific to see the sights. Drenched again, I muttered under my breath and fumbled with my keys before heading into my building. Up the rickety stairs quietly lest I give away my presence to my landlady - I still owed rent from last month, and she was starting to give me the Evil Eye and make all sorts of wicked-looking gestures at my back - and into my apartment, I breathed a sigh of relief. Made it through another day without getting shot at, evicted, or stabbed by a woman you’ve looked at the wrong way, Ben. Good work, I thought. I tossed my coat onto the coatrack, hung my wet hat on the hook, tossed my keys and my wallet onto my small table and headed over to see about a drink. No food, of course, but a bottle of scotch should get me through. I loosened my tie and undid the top button on my shirt as I picked up the bottle with just a little of my drink remaining. Shaking my head slowly, I made a mental note to spend some of the money Agnes was paying me on more scotch. Oh, and maybe some apples. Bottle in hand, I moved over to my favourite chair - it’s only one of two in the whole place - and sat down. Damp weather is no friend to my bum knee, so it was nice to just relax, bottle resting on my thigh.

I almost fell asleep, I guess, because the ringing phone caused me to jump, which caused my bottle to fall to the hard floor, and the impact caused it to shatter with that sound that only breaking glass - and the breaking of my heart at the waste of good scotch - makes. I snatched up the receiver angrily and said, “What? What do you want?” So much for people skills.

“Benjamin? That you?” The voice said. I knew that voice all too well. Inspector Leon Johnston, Milwaukee Police Department.

“Yeah, yeah. What is it, Inspector? You’re calling awfully late to check on my well-being, though I appreciate your care.”

“Can it, Benjamin. This isn’t a social call. This is just a call to let you know that you’ve stepped in it deep, this time. Don’t go doing anything stupid like leaving your apartment, we’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

“So you bothered the operator and made me spill my scotch just to gloat? Come, come, Inspector. That’s not very neighbourly of you. Surely you’ll at least do the right thing and offer to buy me a new bottle to replace the one that you caused to be taken from me.” It was worth a shot. I figured the odds were better that he would show up in a ballerina’s tutu with a bear on a chain in tow, but something had to go right this evening.

He laughed. Of course he would laugh. The man couldn’t appreciate good scotch to save his badge. “You’re dreaming, Benjamin. Not only do I think you’re just looking for free hootch, I don’t tend to buy drinks for murderers.”

That focussed my thoughts in a hurry. Things suddenly got real serious, real fast. “Now wait just a minute there, Inspector. You’ve got some crazy idea. I think all the rain has gotten into your head and shorted out your brain.”

Inspector Johnston was serious as well. I could just picture his brow furrowed and his beady black eyes looking hard at the wall as he spoke to me. “You just save your wisecracks, Benjamin. I’ll be there in 20 minutes and we can sort it out in person. You just make sure you don’t go and do something stupid, like... leave town.”

“Oh don’t worry, Inspector. I’ll be here,” I said, just after he hung up on me.

I sat down in my chair, once more, but this time there was no thought of sleeping or drinking. Murder, he said. Sure, there have been people I wouldn’t miss if they got whacked or met with an unfortunate accident, but to actually go out and do the deed myself? That’s not my style. I shook my head a couple of times and then waved my hand in the air as though dismissing the whole incident as if it was a fly buzzing around my head. No, this was just another incident that ol’ Leon was going to try to pin on yours truly because I was the most convenient person for him. Still, this was a puzzle that was going to take some figuring.

The buzzer from downstairs dragged me kicking and screaming from my figuring and I headed down the stairs to open the door and admit Milwaukee’s Finest. Well, one of Milwaukee’s Finest, and Inspector Johnston. “Gentlemen,” I said with something resembling a smile, “give me a moment and I’ll grab my coat and hat. I assume that I’m going with you? I don’t have any thumbtacks or rubber hoses in my apartment, and I know how you have ways of making people talk.” The officer barked a very short laugh, but Inspector Johnston was wearing his usual mask of poor humour.

“Make it fast, Benjamin. I don’t have all night,” he ordered, and then gestured with a tilt of his head for the officer to accompany me back up to my place. We headed back up the stairs - I walking softly and the officer having no concern for getting the attention of my landlady and walking with heavy steps. She must have decided to drink herself into dreamland again because she didn’t stick her head out to shout at me. I hoped that wasn’t my one thing that was going to go my way, because it was a lot like winning ten cents in the lottery.

Inside my place, I set about gathering up my things. “What’s the Inspector’s beef, officer? Or has his normally abusive mood soured even further?”

The uniform smiled a little and replied, “Well, no one likes this rain. And no one likes working in this rain.”

“Tell me about it,” I replied in something just louder than a mutter. “I don’t suppose he’ll let me wait until my coat dries out? Can you think of something worse than putting on a wet coat?”

“Putting on wet underwear, for one. And no, I don’t think the Inspector is going to be willing to wait. Hell, I’m surprised he hasn’t -“

”What in the back room of hell is going on up there? Schultz, you get him down here on the double, I don’t care if he’s coatless and you drag him by the scruff of his worthless neck!” came the bellow from below.

I rolled my eyes and said to Office Schultz, “You were saying?” I picked up my hat and set it on my head. I stepped outside and headed down the stairs, saying with a wry smile to Inspector Johnston, “There we are; presentable as I’ll get. No need to be in such a rush, Inspector.”

“Yeah, you look real pretty. Wouldn’t be surprised if you’re the belle of the ball down at the death house. Which is where you’re going if I’m right,” the Inspector spat.

“Have some faith, Inspector. You’re almost never right,” I replied as we headed out into the rain once more. He grabbed my arm and pulled me to his car, opened the back door, and all but threw me inside. Officer Schultz sat down in the driver’s seat and, once the Inspector was all settled, turned the key. The car made all manner of sounds that indicated potential, but, like most of my romantic life, never got beyond that.

“Is there a problem, Inspector,” I asked, far too politely.

“Shut up, Benjamin. Schultz, what’s the problem now?”

“I think there’s too much water, Inspector. It won’t start,” Schultz said helplessly.

“Move over,” the Inspector ordered, and all but pushed the officer out into the rain to stand on the curb with the door open. Inspector Johnston tried to get the car started, but he had just as much success with that as I’m sure he has with women.

“Inspector,” I began from my place in the back seat, “I am no mechanic, but I think it won’t be starting any time soon. If you want to call for another car, we can use my phone. Or, we can use my car. I don’t mind.”

“Sir, I think that either of those would be a good idea,” piped in Schultz, who was now taking on a drowned rat appearance.

I could tell Inspector Johnson was not enamoured with either of those options, and I could also tell, even from my back seat view, that he was steaming behind his furrowed brow as he stared holes through the rain. “Fine,” he said, “we’ll take your car, Benjamin. But you’ll ride with me in the back. I don’t want you to get any funny ideas about bailing out.”

So, we sledged our way through the water to Fargo and piled in. The car smelled of wet hair and clothes and the windows began to fog almost immediately. Officer Schultz started Fargo without hesitation and soon we were off, heading through the night to the police station.

“Wipe the smile off your face, Benjamin,” Inspector Johnston ordered.

“Was I smiling, Inspector?” I responded. “I didn’t realise. Must be the irony of being taken in for questioning in my own car because the shiny new police cruiser wouldn’t start. I’ll stop smiling.”

Officer Schultz didn’t, though, all the way to the station.