MISSING

MISSING, BUT NOT MISSED

A Bo Fexler Short Story

Clair Dickson

Clair Dickson is a bitter, cynical Alternative High School Teacher with a dark sense of humor, a weakness for word play, and a love of Crime Noir and Hardboiled detectives. The best part of her job is that she gets to teach fun courses like Movies vs. Books and read Raymond Chandler! Her Bo Fexler stories have appeared in Muzzle Flash, Sons of Spade, Yellow Mama, Mysterical-E, and New Mystery Reader.

"The last time I saw her was when she decided to run off with that boy," Marie reported almost levelly. The last word, however, bore the full weight of her disgust and resentment. On paper it would have been underlined several angry times.

She tapped the ash from the end of her cigarette and looked at me.

With the smoke of her next drag, she asked, "Who even sent you looking for Jess anyway?"

"Abby."

"Hmph," was Marie's reply at the mention of her not-missing daughter. "She's paying you for this."

I nodded.

"Jess ain't worth finding. Abby's wasting her money."

"Helps with the unemployment rate."

"Huh?"

"If I wasn't doing this, I probably wouldn't have a job."

She didn't smile.

I thought it was funny.

"So. Who was the boy?"

She hissed the name, "Alan Stihles."

"And what was so bad about him?"

"The drugs. Heroin. He never would keep a job for long 'cause he'd get so wasted so often. Not sure how he even got the money to buy what he used either." She tipped her head, forehead creased. Looked to me like she wanted me to give an answer.

"Probably by selling it to others who don't know how else to get any."

She humphed.

I asked, "Do you know where Jess and Alan moved to?"

"No. Jess wouldn't tell me."

"What did she say when you asked?"

She narrowed her eyes.

"We didn't say much when all that was going on. I gotta get dinner ready."

"Just one last thing," I put in quickly. "Does his family live around here?"

"Yeah. That trailer park by the expressway."

"East or west side?"

"I don't know that. The one with the real trailers, not the new kind that look like houses."

"Thanks."

The torn screen door slammed shut as Marie retreated into her tiny home. I went back to my car and looked up Alan Stihles. My phone disc showed no local listings. Expanding my search to the whole state got me twice that number. In another search, I found the local address for Alex and Raina Stihles in the trailer park east of the expressway.

Driving there, I realized that the Stihles trailer was backed-up right against US-23.

The whoosh-roar of the e-way traffic overwhelmed all other sounds, and most of the thoughts in my blond head. I was surprised my knock at the door could be heard inside.

Raina filled the doorway, feet planted on trunk-like legs.

"Yeah?"

"Bo Fexler. I'm a private eye. I'm looking for Alan."

"That all?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ma'am?" She chuckled and shook her head. "Alan moved to Cadillac. He got a job at this little motel. Handyman, I think."

"Could I get his address?"

"Nope. Don't have it. I don't much write letters. And I don't travel."

"Ah. Well, which hotel does he work at?"

"Motel. Bear Wood Motel. Right off 115."

"Thanks."

"I guess I should tell you I haven't heard from him in a while," she said slowly, this strange smile on half her face.

"Gee, thanks. How long is a while?"

"Couple months. Maybe three."

"Any idea why?"

She shrugged.

"He gets himself into trouble sometimes. Maybe he had a problem with the girlfriend?"

"With Jess?"

"You're as slow in the head as you are talking," she chuckled at me. "Yeah, with Jess. Girl he had before that got a restraining order against him."

"Why?"

"Cause he didn't like her dumping him."

"Ah."

"Huccome you can't talk right?"

I ignored the question-- I don't often acknowledge my speech impairment-- and handed her my business card.

"If you hear anything about Alan or Jess, give me a call."

"I won't." She flicked the card back into my face with a laugh.

"Fuck you, too, ma'am."

She slammed the door. I lit up a cigarette. I might have also lit up a bridge I'd want to cross again later.

Regardless, I pointed my car northwest.

* * * * *

The Bear Woods Motel was about ten miles beyond Cadillac. The tall pine trees were threatening to reclaim the land that the little row of cabin-rooms stood on. Two cabins were already receding into the woods. The paths to them were overgrown, the lawn no longer mowed.

The face of the elderly proprietor was in a similar state when he came to the front desk. He looked like he could have been the original owner of the Bear Woods Motel. Back before the Interstate highway system diverted most travelers from the quaint little stops along the US highways.

"Hello there, little lady. What can I do for you?"

"Look, I'm not little, and I'm not a lady," I answered. I stood my full five-foot ten and a half inches to show the former. "I am, however, a private eye, and I'm told Alan Stihles works for you."

He bent his head, then after a moment, confirmed, "He did."

"What happened?"

"He missed a couple days in a row. I called him to tell him that if he didn't show up he was out of a job. His girl answered and said something about him not caring. Though, she sounded like she was drunk or something and hung up real quick. That was about three weeks ago. I wanted Alan to help get the place spruced up since we get more travelers in the summer."

"Do you have his address?"

"Well, probably. Lemme check." He shuffled into the rear of the building. After several minutes of shuffling through papers, he returned. "You were looking for Alan, right? Dark haired boy?"

I nodded slowly.

"Yeah. He worked for you."

"Right, right. I don't remember as good as I used to. Well, here's the address for you, little lady. Anything else I can do for you?"

I folded the paper several times. "How long has Alan been working for you?"

"Oh, couple weeks now. We're getting ready for the summer season. Get more travelers in the summer."

"How many guests do you think you got last summer?"

"Oh, I don't know. Back in the fifties, I used to have this place booked full every night."

"Do you think Alan would know how many people you got last summer?"

"Oh, he might. You'd have to ask him."

"Where can I find him?"

"He's not in today. He was supposed to come in and help spruce the place up. Since we don't get a lot of guests in the winter, I don't have much money for hired help."

"When's Alan supposed to be in next?"

"Let me check the schedule." He leaned over the desk to read the calendar. His forehead crinkled up, but when he straightened he was smiling. "Well, now, he's supposed to be in tomorrow, but he's been out the last week. Out sick," he added. Probably because it fit with the information he was piecing together on the fly.

I felt sorry for him. And desperately hoped that my mind wouldn't deteriorate like a sandcastle in the rain.

"Oh. Well, I have his address. I'll pay him a visit."

"I was gonna say, if you needed his address, I could give it to you."

"You already did. Thank you. Can I get your name?"

"Lou. Lou Trellentia. I've owned this place for fifty five years. Bought it with a friend of mine right out of high school."

"Yeah."

I nodded a farewell. I didn't see any other cars as I drove the few minutes to the address. I could barely make out the driveway on approach and ended up driving past it. There weren't any driveways nearby-- or any traffic-- so I made a quick U-turn.

Pulling into the driveway, the first thought I had was that the trailer had been skinned. Metal sheeting had peeled off the blue and white and rusting trailer. An old green pick up truck was parked less than two feet from the front steps. A breeze whispered through the pine needles as I stepped onto hard packed dirt.

This place was about as well-maintained as the Bear Wood Motel. Perhaps an indicator of the quality of handyman work Alan did. Paint flakes stuck to my knuckles when I knocked on the door.

The only sound was the breeze. Then, a car tires hummed by on the road behind me.

After a third knock, I leaned off the porch to peer into the window. Inside was dark. And trashed. It looked more like someone had wrecked the place, rather than someone had a habit of never picking up after oneself. I cupped my hand around my face to see better.

Giving up on the view from that window, I tromped around the trailer, looking for another or a better view inside. There was a small deck on the rear, complete with overturned charcoal kettle grill. I stepped over the fallen lid and looked inside. I thought I saw a leg. I squinted into the dark, then banged on the window.

The leg didn't move. I took out my cell phone, but there was no signal. I banged on the window again.

The back door was locked. So was the front. I circled back around to the deck, having noticed that the door was loose in its frame. I jiggled the handle. Sticking the blade of my pocket knife into the unusually large gap between door and frame allowed me to go in to the trailer.

The smell stopped me in my tracks.

Not even the scents of alcohol, trash, rot or mold that also permeated the small trailer could compete with the smell of death. I coughed, almost gagged. I put the cigarette in my mouth and had the flame to it before I realized that might be damaging a crime scene. I tucked the cigarette over my ear and proceeded very slowly onto the swirl-patterned green, orange, and brown carpet. I wasn't sure how much was manufactured pattern and how much was aftermarket.

I rounded the corner to find what remained of a young man lying across the narrow hallway to the bedroom and bathroom. Something was clenched in his hand. I pulled my shirt over my mouth and nose as I bent to see if I could identify the paper. It looked like a pizza brochure. Swallowing to keep my lunch in place, I noticed that the expiration dates for the coupons were from just last week.

I poked around the rest of the trailer before stepping over Alan's body to the bedroom. My feet planted roots in the doorway.

I had found Jess.

The belt and syringe lay on the bed next to her, as if she had just finished. Several moments passed before I could pull myself away from the tragic scene. I stepped back over Alan and exited the trailer. The smell of pine, and of cigarette smoke, was a welcome change. After burning the cigarette down to the filter, I walked to the road, cell phone in hand like some sort of tricorder. Finally, a few yards down the road, I spontaneously came into a strong cell phone signal, which I used to call the police and report my findings. I told them I was in the house. In order to make that true, I returned to the trailer.

One of the first things I noticed was the puddle of blood around Alan's head. There wasn't enough blood on the carpet to be the cause of his death, but it might be a contributing factor. I pushed his head with the end of the TV remote, but that only caused his flesh to bend in unnatural ways. My whole body shuddered, I dropped the remote, and turned away to look for any blunt objects-turned weapon.

I was in the kitchen, looking carefully around the sink when I heard the sound of car doors slamming outside the thin walls. I poked at the sponge, then tipped it up with a dirty spoon. The underside was very red. Ether tomato sauce or blood red. They both appear similar in an old yellow scrubbie sponge left on the edge of the sink.

Amongst several other dishes in a drying rack, there was a heavy cast iron pan. It was well worn and too heavy to show any marks. But it would have made a fine weapon. Turning toward the door, I noticed the thick line of dirt around the fridge. The middle of the floor had been washed clean, while the edges were neither washed nor even swept. I'm all for efficiency, but sweeping usually comes before mopping.

I hurried to the front door just as the officers outside rapped on it. I opened the front door to unhappy faces.

"Who are you?" the first officer, a dark haired man with mustache and sideburns. Every hair was very dark, and his eyes were like coal.

"Bo Fexler. I'm a licensed private investigator," I answered.

"Not from around here, are you?" the second man asked. His partner headed for Alan's body. The second man's nametag read Balten. He smiled at me under a sand colored mustache.

"No."

"What brought you here?"

"The dead girl in the bedroom." The other officer looked at me, then went looking for Jess. He radioed the information in as I explained, "I didn't know she was dead. Looks like maybe she overdosed."

"What about the smell?" Balten asked. I arched one eyebrow. "Almost knocked me off my feet when we came in here. You been in here with it, poking around."

"Still work to be done, smell or not."

"Well," he said, as if he didn't want to say 'wow.' He attempted to suppress a smile. When that didn't work, he asked, "Did you find anything?"

I took him to the kitchen to explain what I found. As I finished, the second officer stepped into the room. I was able to read that his name was Liputt.

"That doesn't mean anything," he denounced over the end of my observation.

"Perhaps not," I answered.

Liputt asked Balten, "You got a statement from her?"

"Yeah."

"Then," Liputt addressed me, "you don't need to be here."

"That's fine. I can find other people to talk to. Jess and Alan don't say much."

Balten smiled crookedly at my joke, then hid it again when Liputt's scowl moved from me to Balten. I offered a card and a hand to Balten, but only a nod to Liputt. Back outside, I drew in a long clean breath. In my gentle search of the trailer, I'd found paycheck stubs from a local grocery store in Jess's name.

* * * * *

Coworkers Dave, Lee, Jackie, and Sam didn't have much to offer on the woman they'd worked with. Lee was able to tell me that she knew Jess used heroin. Jess's manager, Kate, confirmed that Jess had pretty good attendance for her twenty-hour a week position.

"Until recently," Kate added. She led me back to the little smoking break room tucked into the rear corner of the store. "The first day she missed was last Tuesday. She usually called when she wasn't going to be in. Course, between us, when she'd call in, half the time, she sounded wasted."

"Makes sense."

"Oh?"

"She was a heroin user."

"Oh." Kate lit up her cigarette, took a short drag, then rolled the end in the ashtray. "I never really had any problems with her. I don't always get the best workers, you know. Not at the money we pay. Shoot, a kid like Jess could go down the road and get a job at McDonald's for more than we pay. And usually more hours. Most of the kids around here at least go into Cadillac for jobs."

I leaned back in my chair and offered a small nod and a smaller smile for her to continue.

After another drag, she did.

"So. I didn't hear anything about her using any drugs or anything. She didn't say anything to me. She did what she was supposed to. Wasn't the fastest worker, but she did the job. I'm not sure what you want to know about her."

I tipped the hand I had resting on the table in an approximation of the open-handed whatever gesture.

"Well. Let me think." Kate drew on the cigarette, tapped the ash, drew again, then continued. "She was living with her boyfriend. Said they'd moved up here. Said it was cheaper to live here than anywhere they could have found closer to home."

"Yeah."

"I only met him once. He looked sick. Had a nasty scar running up his forearm. I mean, nasty. Huge scar. Sometimes, when I'd work with Jess, I'd try to talk to her. Asked her about him. Asked if they, you know, had any plans for marriage. Or if they had any plans for their future at all. I remember she got real quiet. She said she didn't think there was much future with him. But she knew she couldn't go back home. I asked if she wanted to leave him. She-- I don't think she answered."

"Did she think that her family would prevent her from going back home or her boyfriend?"

"I don't think he beat her or anything like that," Kate responded quickly.

"No?"

"No. I never saw anything. And she didn't act like . . . like a battered woman. I've had a few work her over the years. A couple who needed the job because they'd just gotten out. One who was still getting beat. My point is, Jess didn't seem that way. She didn't seem scared. She didn't seem to, to be down on herself."

"Did she speak of any friends around here?"

"No."

"I haven't found anyone working here who was terribly close to her."

Kate shook her head. "No. She didn't really talk to anyone. Kept to herself." She snuffed her cigarette in the ashtray, but continued to roll it between thumb and forefinger.

"Did you call her at home or anything when she didn't show up for work?"

Kate frowned, shook her head. "Don't usually do that around here. People come and go. No one hardly ever gives their two week notice in retail. And I didn't really have a personal relationship with Jess like I've had with others."

"Thanks. If you hear anything else, give me a call," I requested with a card.

I wound my way back to the sales floor, found a pop cooler and purchased a cold bottle of diet Pepsi.

* * * * *

I figured correctly that the police would still be working at Jess and Alan's trailer. The bodies had been removed to a pair of waiting ambulances, but not driven away. I found Balten and asked to see Alan.

Balten pulled open the ambulance door for me to climb in. He handed me a pair of gloves. Putting one glove on, I turned Alan's forearm. Seeing nothing, I reached across and checked the other arm.

Balten kept pressing me for answers, but I just fed him "I don't know." He followed me to the road where I could get a signal again, and stood by me while I dialed up Mrs. Raina Stihles.

She was out of breath when she finally answered on the fourth ring. I heard an answering machine click on and beep off as Raina wheezed, "Hello?"

"This is Bo, the private eye from earlier."

"What do you want now?" she snarled.

"Does Alan have a scar on his arm?"

"Alan? No. His brother David does though."

"Where could I find David?"

"Hell if I know. He disappears on me. Just comes home to get beer or money or spend the night."

"How long has he been gone this time?"

"I dunno. Since last Monday, maybe. Coulda been Sunday."

"Did David get along with Alan?"

"Yeah. I guess so."

"What about Jess?"

"Yeah. He liked her."

There was a voice in the background that preceded Raina putting a hand over the phone and partaking in a muffled conversation. Then, she reported, "Guess David said Alan shoulda treated Jess better. Or something like that. She didn't have to stay with him."

"You said he had trouble with a girl breaking up with him."

"Well, he'd get pretty mad for a while. I don't think he would really hurt anyone."

"All right. Thank you." I didn't know what else to say, so I just hung up.

"Well?" Balten prompted.

"That's not Alan. It's his brother David."

"Well, then maybe the girl didn't kill the boyfriend."

"Probably not."

"You thinking Alan did it."

"Yeah."

"Me too. So. Then where's Alan?"

"Good question. Did you check on the truck?"

"Registered in Jess's name."

"Any vehicles registered under Alan's name?"

"Didn't check."

"Check David's while you're at it."

"Oh?" he smiled at my instruction, amused bordering on patronizing.

"Did the man have any ID on him?"

"No. We didn't find any ID for him inside anywhere, either. Her purse was there, though," he added. "No money in it. You look like your thinking something."

I blinked, focused my sight on him, then shook my head.

"Nothing that I could currently articulate."

He lifted his eyebrows. "Wow. That's not what I expected you to say."

"I can't much help that. If you don't need anything from me, I'm gonna go."

He nodded, shook his head, then verbalized, "Go 'head." Wetting his lips, he hesitantly asked, "Maybe we could meet up for dinner, though?"

"I have to work tonight."

"Oh. Right. Maybe another time."

He missed the obvious-- I was in town to work on the very case that he should be investigating. I didn't fault him for being distracted by the pretty investigator. I just gave him a little wave before backing down the driveway and driving away.

All I was hired to do was find Jess. And I had done that. But it was like walking away from a puzzle without putting the last dozen pieces into their places in the center. Especially since I had a hunch as to where Alan would be staying.

I drove down the road, parked under a towering pine tree, and walked up to the door. When I knocked, I heard scuffling and hurried movement. Then, nothing.

I knocked again.

"Alan!"

He pretended he couldn't hear me.

"Alan, let me in. I know you're in there. I also know what happened to Jess and David."

Only the pines answered.

"Don't make me draw Lou into this. You know what he's done for you, whether he realizes it or not."

I smoked a cigarette to give him a measured amount of time before heading off to talk to Lou.

"Hey, me again," I said with a big, friendly grin.

"Oh. How are you today?"

"Good, good. Look, I need the key for the end cabin. Just for a few minutes."

"Oh. Problem out there?"

"Yeah. Alan needed some help with something."

"Alan? Is he here today? He didn't sign in," Lou added.

"I'll remind him to do that."

Lou nodded.

"The key?"

"Oh, sure." The old man handed me the key and smiled.

"You look prettier everyday," he added.

I felt a jolt of guilt. It's a lot easier on the conscience to manipulate those who have done wrong. But, key in hand, I jogged back to the end cabin.

For a moment, I thought Alan might have made a break for it, and picked up my pace. Lungs damaged from smoking cut that little run short and I wheezed the rest of the way. Should have maintained the jog. I slid the key into the lock, turned, and opened surprisingly quiet hinges.

Alan turned to me, then sat on the bed, hands in his lap.

I shut the door behind me, hooked my thumbs on my jeans pocket, and looked at him. Alan's shoulders were bent, hiding much of his thin, creased face from me.

I was going to ask him what happened to Jess and David, but Alan spoke first. His words were raspy, almost as if his voice had been overused recently.

"I didn't kill her. I know it looks that way. And, yeah, I did buy her H, but I didn't kill her. Why would I?"

"Because she was going to leave."

"What? She never said anything to me. The only thing she said to me is that sometimes, she wished she could give up the drugs. She didn't think she had a future."

"Certainly not with you."

His forehead lowered, darkening his eyes.

"Who are you?"

"Bo Fexler. I'm a private investigator."

"What?"

"Abby hired me."

"Jess's sister?"

"Yes."

"Didn't think anybody cared about us," Alan whispered.

"I'm not sure they do."

"Thanks!"

I had enough sympathy to shrug one shoulder.

"What about David?" I asked.

"I don't know."

"Oh really."

"Look, I came home Monday night and--"

"Came home from where?"

He looked away, but honestly reported, "From buying H."

"Okay. You got home and...?"

"I found David on the floor and Jess in the bedroom. Both of them were dead."

"What did you figure had happened?"

"That David and Jess had a fight."

I stared levelly at him.

"They didn't get along real well. Not sure what they fought about. Too blitzed at the time." He offered a wry smile. "Since I've been hiding out here, this is the longest I've been sober."

"You know what the scene looks like? It looks like you killed David and Jess before hiding out here."

“I didn't kill her."

"She overdosed."

"Yeah."

"Used up the last of H before you got home with the new batch?"

He shifted, the weight of the lie making him physically uncomfortable.

"I guess."

"Why didn't you call the cops?"

"I was trashed."

"You got the heroin, drove home . . . trashed . . . to find your girlfriend and brother dead."

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Why's the trailer wrecked?"

"I don't know."

"Why should I believe anything you're telling me?"

"I'm sober. First time in a long time I've been really sober. I've been out here almost two weeks. It's been hell, but it's also given me a lot of time to think."

"So, then, what happened to the heroin you brought home Monday night?"

"Gone."

I shook my head. "Then how have you been clean for two weeks?"

He shifted again, unlaced his fingers so he could work the tension from them. "I didn't buy much. Used it that night."

"You're a liar. You know, I'm starting to understand why people don't miss you much."

He frowned over a clenched jaw.

"Really. They can all go to hell, and you right along with them."

He moved towards me, hands out.

I knocked one hand away and sidestepped his advance, but he managed to grab my sleeve. He used that tenuous hold to keep me near enough for him to seize my arm at the elbow. His fingers dug into the joint between bones.

I provided stiff resistance, turning with the movement every time he tried to twist my arm behind my back. Then, one of his hands clasped my throat, imperiling my air supply. He twisted my arm again and trying to pull away only got me choked. My shoulder twinged with the pain of tendon yanked too far. I bent, gritted my teeth, and was choked again. He released my neck so he could grab my other arm. With the leverage of the twisted right, he drove me towards the bed.

"Get on the bed," he rasped.

I knelt on it, facing the wall.

To remind me of the power he had, he wrenched my arm again. I grimaced.

There was a belt coiled atop the small chest of drawers. Alan used this to bind my hands. Then he had me lay face down on the mattress. The smell was rank-- dusty, moldy urine. And other odors of origins I didn't want to contemplate. I turned my head enough to watch him move in the small space. His feet were surprisingly quiet on the old wood floors.

"Why'd you do it?" I asked, voice muffled by the bedding.

"Do what?"

"Kill David?"

"You're so damn sure about that, aren't you?" he exploded. "I didn't kill him."

"Fine. Why was he there?"

"He's my brother."

"Oh, is that why he looks kind of like you. Never would have guessed that."

He backhanded the side of my head. "I don't think I like you."

"I think your high's wearing off."

That got me another slap.

"Why was he visiting you that particular evening?"

"Came up to see me. He said he was worried about me."

"Did he know you'd be out-- running errands?"

"I don't think so."

"So he thought you might be there when he arrived."

"Yeah."

"Where's David's car?"

Panic distorted his face, leaving his mouth agape.

"What?"

"Where's his car? It's not at your place anymore."

"I don't know."

"You moved it. Left it someplace, so people wouldn't realize that David was missing. I'd bet ten bucks that you have his wallet and ID. And you two look similar enough that you could pass yourself off as David. But only to people who didn't know about his scar. The problem here, Alan, is that you've done everything a murderer would do after knocking off his victims. It's far too planned. You took the wallet, moved the car, hid out here."

He licked his lips and his breathing got heavier.

"Jess saw no future in you. And you knew that. All she saw you as was a source of heroin. David didn't come by to see you; he came by to check on Jess. Maybe they were lovers. He was outraged when Jess died. She really did OD, didn't she?"

He swallowed hard.

"Just took too much. Cause of the tolerance a junkie gets. You and David fought over it. That's why the trailer's trashed. At least, in the living room. Neither of you wanted to go in to the bedroom, because that's where Jess was. I suspect that one of you tried to call a truce-- my money's on David. I think that's when he was going to order some pizza. The flyer was still in his hand. You hit him. Probably with the big cast iron pan. He bled a lot on the kitchen floor, which you did a real good half-assed job cleaning."

"So, tell me, since you got his figured out," Alan put in, making sure to add plenty of last ditch bravado, "why's David laying in the living room?"

"Because he crawled there. To get away from you? Or maybe to get to the phone. I'm not sure. I don't pretend to have all the answers."

Alan's hands were shaking dreadfully as he fussed with something on the dresser. He lit a candle. And started to cook up some heroin. I rolled onto my side, but upon hearing the squeak of bedsprings, Alan ordered me to lie back down.

"Or what?" I demanded, feeling a little safety in the distance between us. Not that my sense of self-preservation has ever been very good.

"I'm already going to kill you, but I don't have to mess you up before I do it." He gave me a sick smile that turned my blood cold. I had trouble swallowing.

"Oh. Well, with Jess and David, this would make three."

"I didn't kill her," he maintained. "Hell, I didn't even know she was dead! I thought she'd be okay. David told me she wasn't feeling well. That-- THAT!-- was why we stayed out of the bedroom. I didn't know she was dead!"

"Then why did you kill David?"

Alan concentrated for a moment on filling the syringe. He turned to me and explained, "Because he was going to try to take her away. Take her away from me. So she could get clean. Because, as he said, he didn't want her to die from something stupid like a heroin overdose."

I didn't ask the obvious. That was how he was planning to kill me. What I did ask was, "You were going to leave the trailer so it looked like Jess killed David. Perhaps thinking it was you. You were going to say you had gone to stay at the hotel after a fight. So, now you'll kill me and run again. Probably take my car, figuring no one will know to look for my body here."

"That's a good plan."

He took my upper arm and jabbed the needle into it as I struggled. But shock stopped me. Then, the drug started to kick in. Objects blurred into motions that didn't make sense before finally I just drifted off.

I woke with bright lights in my face that made it hard to open my eyes. Squinting against them, I recognized hospital colors, sounds, even smells. A nurse was nearby, so I whispered, "Am I gonna live?"

"Yeah. You were lucky. Your friend didn't make it," she explained.

Friend? Alan. I nodded.

When I was fully lucid, I made a call to my client.

"The police already called us about Jess," she explained. "I thought you would have."

"Hard to get a signal up here," I answered. "What else did they tell you?"

"They didn’t think Alan killed Jess. They're not sure, since he did try to kill you with heroin. At least he killed himself. Saves everyone a trial."

"If there was even enough evidence to go to trial."

"Well, the cops found David's car. The only prints on the steering wheel were Alan’s. They said that he must have driven it last. And they said that there was blood cleaned up in the kitchen. I think he said they tested a sponge to find that? I don't really know." She sighed. "I knew he would end up killing her somehow."

"At least now you don't have to worry about her."

"Yeah," she said absently. "Look, I gotta go. Mom's taking me and the kids to dinner."

"Don't forget to give a toast in memory of your sister."

"She did this to herself!"

"I suppose it was better than being a part of her own family. Have a nice dinner. I'll submit my report and invoice by the end of next week."

Then I called the PD, asking for Balten.

"Yeah?"

"It's Bo."

"Oh, hi. How're you feeling?"

"Irritated. How did I live when Alan didn't? I don't have any tolerance to heroin."

Balten explained, "I got there a few minutes after you. Figured out the same thing you knew. You could've told me-- you SHOULD have told me what you were up to."

"Anyway?"

"Anyway, I came in the door, spooked him I guess. He jabbed himself with the needle. He got more than a shot of heroin-- he got a bubble in his blood. It killed him. We got you to the hospital in time."

"I appreciate that. Can you do me a favor?"

"Sure. Well, depending on what it is."

"In Jess's bedroom, there was a photo on her dresser. Could I have it? I want to include it with my report."

"Sure. What's the photo?"

"It's a picture of Jess and her sister Abby. They've got their arms around each other's shoulders. Everything else in that place was broken or dirty or just trashed, but that picture in its little silver frame, was pristine. Perhaps the most important thing Jess owned. I think Abby should have it. Perhaps as a reminder."

The End