It Had to be Me

The crumpled computer paper was up to her ankles. “I quit!” Maryann shouted. “The only killer is this mystery is me, killing trees.” She stormed out of the room.

The ceiling fan was whirring on the highest speed, causing the balls of computer paper below to rustle across the floor like inner-city tumbleweeds. One ball rolled from under the desk to the opposite wall. The black and while tuxedo cat, Hemmingway, bounced it between its paws, and then, hearing the can opener, scampered out to the kitchen. A man in his mid-thirties emerged and stretched.

There was a shuffling of paper, and a second figure emerged from the pile, a woman in her forties, dressed to the nines. A third rose its head over the overflowing trashcan and called in a curt British accent, “Come over here young man and help me out of this wastebasket.” He complied and assisted the woman, who he guessed was in her sixties, from the receptacle.

A fourth character, a young man, barely twenty, sprinted from the monitor on a skateboard. They stood in a circle around the office. All were about 12 inches.

“I wish she would make up her mind,” the British woman, Geneva, snapped. Although I doubt that she could write anything as stellar as my great-aunt Agatha.”

“I don’t know why she’s even trying to write a murder mystery,” said the stylish Annabelle.”

“Her book publisher insisted on it,” the hardboiled detective, Mark, said.”

“Do people even read print books anymore?” asked the youngster, Chet.

“Of course they do,” protested Geneva. “Although one should stick to their own genre. What is her genre, by the way?”

“Chick lit,” said Annabelle.

“Never heard of it,” said Geneva.

“Just a fancy term for romance,” Mark said. “Why are you here?” he asked Chet.

“Dunno. All of a sudden, she began writing it as a YA novel.”

“I’m guessing a modern-day Hardy Boys,” said Annabelle, putting a cigarette to her lips.

“Hardy who?” Chet asked. “Hey, can we smoke in here?”

“Absolutely not!” scolded Geneva.

“With all this paper all over the floor?” Mark snapped.

“Chill dude,” it was just a question,” Chet said. “What about her?”

“Oh please,” said Annabelle,” It isn’t even lit. It’s just for dramatic effect.”

The keyboard started to click, and words appeared on the monitor.

“Not again,” quipped Geneva. “She has got to make her mind up on who the investigator is going to be. She simply cannot move forward with this mystery until she does. This is so frustrating.

Chet giggled, “Chill out, It’s just a book!”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Mark said, moving toward Chet. You’ve been changing the characters when she finishes each day. She opens the file, sees the new name, and thinks she has dreamed up a new detective—literally dreamed it.”

“Me?” Chet huffed. You’re just mad because she changed the gum shoe guy to a woman. Why do you even have gum on your shoe? It’s gross.”

Annabelle said, “None of you are making any sense. She writes for women in my generation and social status. Her fans will want to read this mystery where I solve the crime, and fashionably, I might add.”

“You are being preposterous,” said Geneve. “She needs to expand her reading audience. She should take a more traditional approach to murder mysteries.”

Maryann reentered the office. She gathered up the balled-up, discarded pages and began stuffing them into a large trash bag, ignoring Hemingway's protest. The four detectives were scooped up in the sweep, and buried further down in the bag as the contents of the trash can her shook out on top of them.

Maryann sat down at the computer, intent on sending her agent an email that she was not going to write a mystery. If the publisher dropped her, so be it. She pushed a letter on her keyboard and the monitor lit up. She stared at it, unable to believe what she saw in front of her. She printed out the pages, to ensure what she was real and read:

The big box warehouse across the street was experimenting with drone deliveries. I thought the damn thing had got off course when a box in plain brown wrapping was plopped in front of my front door. I pulled myself out of my desk chair; it was time to open anyway. I unlocked the door and scooped up the package without looking for a sender or recipient. I figured I’d take it back across the street—if I remembered. I had a lot on my mind.

My mother, Marjorie Likely gave birth to me on April 1, 1993. When she contacted my father, he agreed to pay child support, but only if he could name me. She agreed and that is how I got my name Scam—Scam Likely.

I only met my father, a member of a KISS tribute band, once, when I was six years old. He was in town to sign a contract with a club for a New Year’s Eve gig, the New Year’s Eve of Y2K. Soon after that, the group received a cease-and-desist letter from Gene Simmons’s attorney along with an invoice for several thousands of dollars in royalty fees plus interest. Of course he ignored it, but when he showed up to play the big show, constables had been sent to seize their equipment, and on top of the growing debt to KISS Enterprises, the club sued his group for failure to honor their contract. The child support checks stopped coming after that.

My mother died in 2018 of cervical Cancer at the age of forty-five. I had pretty much been a slacker ever since junior high school, which were the perfect qualifications for my current profession—private investigator. I had an office in a small strip shopping center south of downtown. The other tenants included a Mexican Restaurant, a tattoo parlor, and a thrift store. I got most of my business from a couple of bails bondsmen to track down clients who were no shows for their court dates.

The man who entered my office looked like one of the guys who smoked cigarettes over by the bus stop. He was tall and lanky with thinning gray hair, and beard stubble. His faded blue jeans hung low on his hips and it was impossible to read the writing on his sleeveless faded t-shirt. I guessed his age to be somewhere between sixty-five and ancient. His teeth and fingers revealed he was a smoker.

“Are you Scam Likely?” he said as he approached my gray metal desk. Most of my office was furnished from the thrift store a few doors over called Probably Junk. No probably about it.

“That’s me,” I said, not bothering to get up.

“That son of a bitch had a nasty sense of humor,” the man said.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Homer,” Marjorie fingered him as your father.

“That’s what she told me.”

“Probably because he was Gene.”

“Simmons?”

“Yeah, the gals all wanted to get it on with Gene. Maggie hung around a lot. We all got to know her, if you know what I mean.”

“You were with the group?”

“I was, until that infamous New Year’s Eve.”

“1999.”

“Yep.”

“Where’s Homer now?” I asked.

“Couldn’t tell ya if he’s alive or dead. We all kinda scattered. Me, believe it or not, I got hired as a roadie for a legitimate cover band.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they were a hell of a lot better than we ever were. I’m Howie by the way?”

“Well, what can I do for you Howie? Are you looking for somebody?”

“Well yes, well, I was. Looks like I found him. I was looking for you?”

“Me, why?”

He scanned my desk and his eyes settled on the mysterious package. “I see you got my package.”

“You sent this to me why? And how did it get here without any address?

           “Open it,” he said.

I tore off the brown lunch bag like paper and pulled out a plain white box. The logo

looked familiar, it was what I thought, it made no sense why he sent it to me.

Howie saw my confusion. “It’s one of them DNA test kits,” he said. You know, Marjorie, she was stoned a lot when she was around us. Well, we all were. I can see how she could be confused.”

“What are you implying about my mother?” I asked, bile rising in my throat.

“Well, It may be, very probably, actually, that I’m your dad, now Homer.”

I was ready to jump up, come around the desk, take the guy by the scruff of his neck and toss him out the door. Anger flashed in my eyes as I rose, placed my hands on the top of the desk to steady myself, and looked him in the eye. “Look, Mr.—”

“Howie, it’s Howie. Look son—,”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s just that, well. I’m sick. I need a kidney, and I thought if I could prove you’re my son, well—”

I released him. “You thought I would just give you a kidney. Why would you think that, Howie?” I said, easing back into my chair. “At least Homer tried, well in the beginning. He never denied it.”

“Is that what you think? Isn’t that why he named you Scam? He got a big laugh out of that.”

I tore a piece of paper off the end of a bill, scribbled something on it, folded it and passed it across the desk to Howie. He frowned and the scrap. I motioned with my chin for him to pick it up. He did, unfolded it, and gave me a puzzled look.

“Eighteen years of child support,” I said. “Doesn’t include two decades of interest. You want my kidney, that’s what you’ll have to pay for it.”

He wadded up the paper and threw it at me. “Doesn’t family mean anything to you, son?”

“It told you not to call me that,” I hissed. “I don’t believe you, and even if I did, I don’t owe you a goddamn thing, certainly not an organ.”

He reached over and picked up the box. “Just take the test,” he pleaded.

“No way. You know what happens when you take one of those tests? Your DNA goes into the system. The cops find you in the system, you’re screwed. I’m not giving up my DNA any more than I’m giving up a kidney. I’m sure your sperm got around out there on the road. Find another kid.”

Howie looked down at his feet and shook his head. He turned and left my office.

The white box remained on my desk for several weeks. I actually forgot about the box once it got covered with stacks of files and mail. I came across it one day as I was looking for a phone number I had written on a scrap of paper.

I had lied to Howie. As a PI, I had to submit my DNA to get a license. The guy had just pissed me off. Now, for reasons I could not begin to explain, I was having second thoughts. Howie didn’t seem like a bad guy. Marjorie never denied being a groupie. I was a private dic, but I didn’t need to be a dick. I decided to use my detective skills to find Howie.

I didn’t find him, but I did locate a daughter—an eighteen-year-old college freshman at the University of Nevada. She had heard from Howie, not for a kidney, but to let her know he was in hospice care. She told me he had died two weeks earlier. I thanked her for the information and ended the call. I picked up the white box. I was about to throw it away, instead I grabbed my keys, went out and locked the door. I went a few doors down to Probably Trash, figuring she could make a few bucks from the unopened kit.

Maryann looked around the room. She lived alone. “Who wrote this crap?” she said to Tuxedo. She balled each page in her fist, and threw each across the room, which sent Tuxedo running in several directions. “Scam Likely?” she scoffed. “That is so unoriginal. How many wannabes writers have seen scam likely on their phones and said, ‘That would be a good name for a character.’?”

One paper wad ended up next to the doorframe of the office. Maryann’s back was turned, and she did not see the man emerge, this one to a full six feet. He leaned against the doorframe. I tried to hep her, he thought, why is she so stubborn? I could help her become famous, maybe even get a streaming series. She doesn’t appreciate the genre, well I know what to do. He moved quietly behind her. She was obviously lost in thought. He pulled a string of piano wire from his pocket and quickly snapped it over her head and around her neck. He pulled until her body went limp.

Tuxedo began to meow. Scam squatted down and rubbed him behind his ear. “I know you have been as frustrated as I’ve been with her attempts. Well now we have a real murder mystery. He stood, removed the wire from around her neck, wound it up, and put it back in his pocket. Then he picked up Tuxedo, walked to the front door, and disappeared.