In Absentia: Tinkering Part 7

This is a companion piece to Titty Show and the forthcoming Tinkering 8



2014

Dodge selected a lounge near the far end of the lot, where young Latinos in checked polos rag-dried three lanes of Infinitis and Beemers and Teslas and Enclaves.

He reasoned the Honda would be down the list, and tugged the iPhone free. His post-retirement Facebook “Friends” were a hodge-podge of former associates, ag writers and broadcasters, community acquaintances, his few moderate/left-tilting Palm Shadows neighbors, and the “ghosts” – those he’d long abandoned along the path but who’d recently been resurrected on a virtual plane.

“Sir?”

Dodge swiveled. A tall, gaunt figure was haloed in the afternoon sun, and even as Dodge squinted to define features, the silhouette failed to budge.

“Wonder could I have a minute or two of your time?”

The Haloed Man turned back. Dodge dug into his shorts.

“Oh, no, not wanting anything from you. Not a blessed thing.”

Dodge tensed.

“Fact, I want to give you something. People will turn away from the truth, they will grow weary of the plain gospel of Christ, they will be greedy of fables, and take pleasure in them,” the Haloed Man suggested. “People do so when they will not endure that preaching which is searching, plain, and to the purpose.”

“Sure,” Dodge responded.

**

The FastFill hummed in the mid-afternoon lull, and Dodge savored a blast of stale, chill air and wiener fumes as he pushed inside. Dodge’s would-be savior remained on the curb with the propane tanks.

A graying man with an advanced case of helmet hair and a grimy utility patch on his grimy twill workshirt pumped a Vesuvius of hot cheese on a pile of tortilla chips with grim focus. The stocky Latina at the counter glanced up and regarded Dodge with neither animation nor animus. He nodded a greeting, then located a 16-ounce can of baked beans, brown sugar and “real” bacon, roughly thrice the price of retail beans at the Fry’s across Val Vista. Dodge hefted the costly beans and moved toward the soda cases.

He halted as he caught a scrawny reflection in the glass at the end of the aisle, framed among the Red Bulls and Rockstars. A thatch of badly domesticated white hair, a creased and dour face, a pair of storklike legs projecting from rumpled hiking shorts – one calf tattooed with a long, coagulated scar, and pallid, opaque eyes staring dispassionately, Dodge calculated, at Dodge.

The reflection’s gnomish owner remained hidden behind an end cap of Lay’s new “million-dollar flavor” chips, and Dodge pivoted back down the aisle, brown sugar-and-baconbeans to his chest, regret over leaving the coveted trial-sized Grilled Cheese Bread chips behind.

He drew up again as he approached the register. Reynolds, the douchebag who lived by the pool, was transacting for a stack of diGiorno’s pizzas and a 12-pack of Tecate. Reluctant to be drawn into another survey on dogshit or shrub species, Dodge bee-lined for the snack aisle.

**

"So?" Jesus inquired, neatly sidestepping a semi-powdered spray of Flamin' Cheetos and the tech snapping away at the congealing pool just beyond Chester Cheetah's blood-spattered, WTF visage. ”Let’s hear some of that intelligence-led policing.” The Gilbert PD's public mantra was shot through with such verbiage.

Yu massaged his razorcut scalp as he glanced at the pile of dead guy smeared across the snack aisle. "The fuck, man? That a KNIFE wound? Gang beef?"

Jesus shrugged. More likely drugs. Dirty tan cargo shorts poised mid-crack, black logo tee faded and crackled beyond trademark recognition, once-brown hoodie now frayed and bleached Sedona rust. Snarled ginger hair, thin dry lips peeled to reveal a row of yellow chiclets. No ID, no wallet, couple crumpled ones.

"Single wound, no blast pattern or scorching, so yes, I guess I'd say stabbing." Jesus glanced up. "A single wound. One."

Yu crouched delicately to examine what was now obviously a blast pattern of nacho-cheesy powder and extruded shrapnel. "Bag just exploded in his hand. Dude just walked right up, jammed it in, and fucking dropped him before he could even drop his munchies."

Jesus nodded. "A hit? But I'm going to say this was not Doble Mesa or Project Bloods. I don't see any Nazi/supremacist ink. The Caucasian rights folks, they love to fly their freak flag."

"Drugs then. Three-fifteen on a Wednesday, middle of Gilbert in a minimart full of cameras. Which we're gonna go through when the owner gets in from Glendale."

Yu's head twitched toward the plate-glass storefront. "What about her?"

Jesus glanced toward the blocky, blue-aproned Latina leaning serenely against the propane tank exchange center sucking on a soda size of a recycling bin. "Why don't you take the clerk, OK? She's sorta family.”

Yu analyzed the stolid young woman. “So, what you think? Ninety-what today? Cuz prolly left the backroom door open to get some airflow going. Assailant came in, did the deed, and left by the back door."

"Yeah. This way." Jesus detoured through an aisle of Spam, condoms, and aromatic cardboard Christmas trees, leading Yu past the beverage cases and through an open door placarded "Private." The adjoining space was stacked with empty calories, jugs of power drink and wiper fluid, and cured, peppered meat. Yu finally spotted the battered side door, barricaded behind a pallet of shrink-wrapped magazines.

"Mm," Yu said. "Intelligence-led policing."

**

"Michael Dodge?"

The witness perked, brows arching above a pair of retro tortoiseshell shades. The prescription glasses -- high-end hinges, wings, and hardware – were at odds with the baggy gray Old Navy tee and faded red cargo shorts that mumbled Target clearance and scuffed lower-end Lunarglides. The witness was paunchy, slightly jowly, and Jesus guessed they were for orthopedic use.

The old academic type was sitting on a bench by the fountain that trumpeted the Gilbert corporate limits. The construction guy was copping a smoke by the air station. All were under casual uniform surveillance. Dodge was watching the car jockeys.

Jesus smiled. “So, Mr. Dodge, you were the first one saw the body. You want to walk me through it?” The cop mentally recorded Dodge’s narrative. “You know the victim, by any chance? Ever see him before?”

“Mm,” Dodge apologized. “Live about four blocks down, but I’m not a regular. Just stopped in cause, you know, I was waiting for my car.”

“The other customers?”

“Reynolds. He lives in my complex. Palm Shadows?”

“Nice place.” Modest, clean, green, budget snowbirds from the Midwest or Seattle, few working folks.

 “Guy by the tire pump, no. Mr. Cross, now, he also lives in the complex.”

Jesus paused. “Which one is Mr. Cross?”

“Kinda desert rat-looking guy, white hair, beard? Don’t tell him I said that. I saw him back by the beer – the case on the back wall.”

“You speak to him?” Dodge shrugged. “You see him leave?”

Dodge frowned. “I didn’t want to get into a conversation. He kinda creeps me. So I headed for the checkout. Then I remembered I wanted some chips, and I didn’t want to screw with Walmart, so I thought I could grab a couple bags before Cross spotted me. That’s when I saw the body.”

Jesus leaned back. “This is the first we’re hearing about any Mr. Cross. You three were the only customers present, so it sounds like your Mr. Cross would had to have left the store between the time you got your beans and the point you found the victim.”

“Uh, I’m not a big fan of Reynolds, either, so I kinda thought I’d hide out in the potato chips. They’ve got one of those electronic chimes on the door when somebody comes or goes, and I was listening for him to, ah, leave. No chime. You know, though, Cross just killing some guy? I mean, he’s probably, what, 137? And maybe 90 pounds, tops.”

“And yet, we seem to be missing Mr. Cross.” The killer’d had the element of surprise, and while the death blow was practically surgical, it required little strength, especially if the victim had been under the influence.

 “Maybe he ducked out the back door,” Dodge suggested.

“Ah,” Jesus nodded.

**

“Hey. Yu!” The tech in the minimart door sounded like Mick Jagger, but Jesus scanned the landscape for his partner. Yu quickly signaled Jesus.

“Pardon,” Jesus told Dodge. Yu held the door as he slipped past the M.E. gurney.

“Hernandez!” Yu called. “Show him.”

The stocky young CSU displayed a sealed evidence bag straining to hold a large utilitarian-looking pistol with a narrow wooden grip.

“Lifted the body, fell out his left pants leg,” Hernandez explained.

“Prob’ly stuck it his waistband, it slipped down, he tried to, you know, extricate it. Before what, robbing the place?”

Yu breathed. “But got a shiv in the ribs before he got up the balls? You think one of the witnesses took him out preemptively? And everybody alibied him?”

“Without getting a spot of blood on his clothes or shoes?” Jesus requested. “You find any blood trail anywhere else?”

Hernandez shook his head. “Partial right shoe impression at the edge of the pool under the kid. Looks like a cheap shallow tread like, oh shit, you know, old dude boat shoes. That fit any your witnesses?”

“Nah.”

“No hay pedo,” the tech hailed cheerfully. “You’ll work it out.”

Palm Shadows

Unit 68

Jesus and Yu detected the stilted prose of Los Angeles Rampart Division Officers Pete Malloy and Jim Reed beyond Cross’ wrought-iron security screen door. Yu depressed the doorbell embedded into the stucco beside the door. A bulbous, creased head appeared abruptly behind the screen.

“Yes.” It was a statement.

“Theron Cross?” Jesus inquired, displaying his badge. The door swung open, and a gnome in a Walgreen’s sweat shirt and jeans gestured the detectives in with a flick of the light switch. Yu inhaled sharply as he made eye contact with a gourd-shaped creature with protuberant, extraterrestrial eyes and a hooked beak, perched above the TV. A glass case dividing the front room from Cross’ dining nook was cramped with hundreds of breech-clothed figures of indeterminate species, brandishing weapons, tools. Jesus had seen a more extensive display of katsina only at the Heard Museum in Phoenix. 

“Yes.” Cross silenced Adam 12 with an absent punch of the remote.

“Have you been out today, sir?” Jesus asked.

“Had a turkey sandwich, I believe round noon, did a few laps in the pool for my RA,” the gnome supplied. ”Found a western on Channel 13, Jimmy Stewart, and then just waited for the 5:30 news.”

“We’re investigating an incident down the street, and one of our witnesses may have seen you at the scene,” Yu smiled. Cross blinked back.

“Mistaken. This ‘scene’ was where?”

“The FastFill at Baseline and Val Vista. Two-thirty, three.”

“Liberty Valance. The Stewart movie. Over at 3:30. Incident, huh? Somebody dead?”

“Kid may have been trying to rob the place.”

“And you think I killed him?” No anger or amusement.

“We wonder if maybe you could have seen someone else at the minimart our witnesses didn’t spot.”

“Liberty Valance. Oh, and by the way,” Cross murmured, nudging a flat black slab toward the pair across the coffee table, “I conducted some very extensive e-mail communications with my daughter and an old Stanford friend. Time stamps should verify my whereabouts.”

Jesus collected the iPad. He found the Gmail app, scanned the indeed lengthy, criss-crossing threads between Cross and hcross34@aol.com and the old man and klederer@humsci.stanford.edu. He nodded. “Our witness seemed fairly certain, Mr. Cross. Just one more thing...”

“Yes,” Cross said.

“Your shoes? Mind if I look?”

Cross pulled his boat shoes from his feet and extended them. Jesus displayed their scuffed but spotless soles to Yu, silently.

“Thanks for your patience, Mr. Cross,” Jesus concluded.

“Yes,” Cross replied.

**

“Fuck,” Dodge yelped. He felt what he later called the ripple – it was nearly intangible, vaguely disorienting, like a centrifugal pull.

As he collected himself, Dodge spied what he assumed to be the source of the ripple. Attempting to process what appeared to be a massive void melon-balled from the south wall of Unit 68, he fumbled his iPhone from a cargo pocket.

He’d seen the spooky old bastard only this morning, when he took a tumble at the curb. Cross eyed him oddly with mumbled thanks as Dodge helped the murderer (?) to his feet and helped staunch the blood It was the same dead gaze he’d given Dodge three days earlier.

Now, what had the crazy old dick done?    

**

“OK, this is some shit.” Hernandez glanced up. Jesus and Yu perched on the opposite rim of what remained of Theron Cross’ now-floodlit living room.

“No blood, no viscera, no trace of any kind, what I can see,” the tech continued. “And I know it’s over my pay grade, but you see anything resembles a blast pattern?”

Yu pivoted, scanned Cross’ katsinas, intact, erect, staring blankly from behind Windexed panes. To the other side of the chasm, the buttery suede of the couch appeared untouched.

“No shredding, scorching, melting; no sign of an accelerant, and it sure as hell ain’t a gas leak. It’s all just… gone.”

**

“A lot of people confuse the First Law of Thermodynamics with the Law of Conservation of Mass,” Dodge began.

 “Hah?” Yu frowned as a ruby-throated hummer buzzed his temple, then settled on the rung of the Dodges’ patio feeder. Jesus sipped his horchata.

“The First Law of Thermodynamics states energy can’t be created or destroyed. You can convert mechanical energy into heat or electricity, you can transfer energy from one thing or process to another, but you can’t just wipe it out of existence.

“The Law of Conservation of Mass, which, full disclosure, I actually had confused with the First Law of Thermodynamics, says there’s a finite amount of mass in an isolated system, like, for instance, the universe. I know I shouldn’t have,” Dodge confessed, “but I took a peek inside Cross’ place. It’s all just gone, right? Cross, the wall, the floor. Poof. But nothing is gone, not really, not ever. It’s the law. So what if it wasn’t the other day?”

“What if what wasn’t the other day?” Yu asked.

“Earlier today, I remembered a detail about Cross at the minimart. He had an ugly scar on his leg. Pretty recent-looking. Given the…unorthodox circumstances that day, I forgot about it.”

“Okaayyy,” Yu muttered.

“It happened when he fell in front of his house. This morning.”

“You mean you remembered all this this morning?”

“No, Cross fell and gashed his right leg this morning. It was the same scabbed-over gash I saw at the FastFill three days ago.”

The hummingbird buzzed Yu again. The cop batted at it, eyes still on Dodge.

Dodge sighed. “What if the kid -- Kyle Whitson? -- wasn’t murdered until, I dunno, an hour or so ago? Right before Cross disappeared along with a chunk of his living room. What if Cross didn’t murder Whitson until today?”

“Say what?”

“There appeared to be no clear motive for Whitson’s murder. How about he was killed to prevent him from robbing the FastFill, or using the robbery to cover a hit? Nobody in the store appears to be his killer, and the news says the security cams picked the time of the murder, or a few minutes before that, to go out. Your guys figure out what interfered with the video? What if it was some other energy source? Or a sudden introduction of energy?”

“What kind of energy?” Jesus asked.

Dodge took a long drag on his cold Folger’s. “Maybe…temporal energy? Go back to our First Law of Thermodynamics. Energy can’t be created nor destroyed, right? At least inside a closed system. But what if new energy comes in from outside the system? Like the energy of transporting Theron Cross back in time?

“What if Whitson actually robbed the FastFill, and in the process, somebody got shot? Or somebodies.”

“And according to this theory of yours…?”

“More like spitballing – your partner already thinks I’m a lunatic. But in the absence of any logical motive or means for Cross killing Whitson, let’s say he killed the kid for what he’d already done. Or, I guess, more accurately, to prevent what Whitson was about to do. What if, for the past week, you’ve been investigating a robbery/murder instead of Whitson’s death?”

Jesus templed his fingers. “And whose murder would this be?”

“If it was a hit instead of a robbery, how could he have known his target would be in the minimart if he was? Unless he followed him…”

“The Maricopa Power guy, Blackwood, was off his normal route, first time at that FastFill,” Jesus noted calmly. “Traffic video at Baseline and Val Vista showed Whitson him coming from the north on foot, likely from the 60 ramp. Blackwood came east down Baseline. Reynolds came north up Val Vista, and he assured me the FastFill stop was incidental, not a regular habit.”

“The cashier—?“

“Juanita Feliz. No criminal or gang connections.” A grinning Jesus began to add something, and Dodge leaned forward. “What about yourself? You got any enemies?”

Dodge chortled. “The victim was collateral damage. But not to Cross. He took on an armed robber maybe a third his age, not to mention crossing the time continuum. I don’t think Cross even knew my name. Blackwood was pretty much just there. Reynolds was the most likely victim – he’s always over at Cross’s, and they seem to be science buds. It’s the most likely connection.

“I get how it all sounds. But if it fits that mess – or lack of mess – at Cross’s, there may be a larger issue. If whatever energy Cross harnessed took him and a cross-section of his condo out of existence, THIS existence, then according to our Law of Thermodynamics, what the hell took its place?”