Telemurdering: Chapter 15 - 16

Telemurdering

                                                                                       

Chapter 15

      Near the front window, in the living room, Richard bounced happily in his baby walker. Laughing and gurgling, he issued a steady stream of baby talk as his mother attempted to ignore him, lost in her dreams of stardom.
    Giselle sucked on the glass pipe contentedly, dreaming of appearing on the silver screen. If Marilyn Chambers could make the leap from porno’s to supporting roles in legitimate films she figured she could do it too. After all, she still had her looks, and remained relatively young. Besides, she knew her advanced casting couch techniques would land her a great deal of steady work, both on and off the screen in Tinseltown.
    She came home early because Sally hadn’t been feeling well due to the cramps she experienced prior to her period. Giselle didn’t mind. She didn't feel up to dealing with the slobbering fools whose money she took at the Jade Pillow.
    Tiring of the baby’s incessant babbling, she put the pipe down and went to the kitchen to prepare a nice bottle of apple juice. Reaching up into a cabinet, she asked, “Which would you prefer tonight, baby? Bourbon or Whiskey?”
    Richard looked up and squealed, his fat little hands slapping the white, rounded sides of his rolling support system, while his chubby legs, not yet strong enough to carry his full weight, propelled him jerkily across the floor towards his mother.
    “All right, you.” Giselle exclaimed, bending down and picking him up after she prepared his bottle. “Let’s go have a nice bottle of juice and then go nighty night.” Richard didn’t like the sound of that. He knew what “nighty night” meant, and he immediately began to squirm and fuss. He wanted to get back into his walker and roam around. His fussing escalated into a full-blown tantrum as Giselle laid him down in his bed. As he wailed, big tears of disapproval rolled down his fat little cheeks.
    “That’s enough of that shit,” Giselle said, poking the bottle into Richard’s mouth and holding it until he began to suckle. He reached up with both hands to take control of the bottle, which brought a smile to his mother’s face. “That’s my little man. All you need is your liquor. And all I need,” she pulled her lighter out of her shirt pocket, “is my cocaine.” She went back out to the kitchen, picked up her pipe, which she had laid on the counter while she fixed Richard’s “special” bottle of Juice.
    Returning to the baby’s room, she watched her son as she blew out a long stream of smoke. Leaning against the wall next to Richard’s bed she closed her eyes and imagined attending the 76th Motion Picture Academy Awards ceremony. She conjured up the image of Ben Affleck on the stage, presenting the award for best performance by an actress in a leading role. 
      “And the nominees are, Jessica Lange for…”
      Before Ben could get to her name, a knock on the door interrupted her dream. Hastily she laid the still-smoldering pipe down in the baby’s bed and went to the living room, where she ever-so-slightly parted the mini-blinds to peer between the white blades.
    Giselle's eyes grew wide with fear as she spied a man with a thick mustache, wearing a cowboy hat and a business suit. Her heart beginning to race, she closed the blinds as the man turned his head towards the window.     
      She went to the kitchen and pulled a wicked looking butcher knife out of the wooden block that held her cutlery. She held it in her left hand while she ran to her bedroom and grabbed her purse and the keys to the car she had borrowed from one of her girlfriends at the Jade Pillow. For a split second she wondered what the son-of-a-bitch wanted, but it didn’t matter, it couldn’t be good. His story at the Jade Pillow had been full of shit. She could expect the same this time, as well. Maybe he had come to arrest her. He said he wasn’t a cop, but that could've been a load of crap, too.
      She went back to the window, parting the blinds just enough to see…he was gone! No, wait, there he was on the sidewalk, pacing back and forth. Without thinking about going back to take a quick peek at Richard, Giselle opened the sliding glass door that led from her bedroom out onto a patio where Paul kept his hibachi. Doing her best to minimize the amount of noise she made, she opened the gate and began to walk briskly towards the back of the old, brick complex where the residents parked. She glanced over her shoulder before she went around the corner and saw the cowboy coming around the front corner of the apartment.
    “Fuck!” she shouted, and broke into a run for the car. Sam broke into a run, in hot pursuit.
    “Giselle! Giselle, slow down, God-damn it! There ain’t no reason to run!” Sam never expected her to be home this early. He wanted to speak to Sally again and maybe some of the neighbors about whether they recently saw a red Toyota Camry with personalized plates saying, “GO HOGS.” He wanted to know if anyone had seen Paul or Giselle unloading a trailer, and he wanted to inquire as to what kind of people came and went from their apartment. Hell, there were a ton of questions he wanted answers to, but right now he had to stop Giselle and try to scare her into admitting they had robbed Nathan Piper and that her husband had killed Jim Patton. He would have to convince her that if she came clean and turned Paul in, she stood a good chance of receiving a probated sentence.
    By now, Giselle had reached a little blue Mazda with white racing stripes. She slid in, fired it up, and started backing out of her parking slot. After scraping the car parked next to her when she cut the wheel too hard, too soon, she mashed her foot down on the accelerator. She caught a glimpse in the rear view mirror of another car's driver shooting her the bird, and still further back, a man in a gray business suit, standing in the middle of the asphalt driveway, waving a cowboy hat. As she turned right, onto the busy street, she turned her head to the left in time to see the word, Peterbilt, on the shining grill of a speeding 18 wheeler.
    The heat from the fire left Sam, the driver of the 18-wheeler, and the driver who expressed his opinion with the one-fingered peace gesture, standing helplessly on the side of the road. The Mazda burned fiercely, completely engulfed in flames for about ten to fifteen minutes before a fire truck arrived and began to douse it with foam.
    As the wind picked up, Sam held his Stetson on with one hand while stuffing the other into his pocket, where his fingers met with the rubbery texture of the thin, latex gloves that experience had taught him to carry around. Hanging onto his hat as the flashing lights of the ambulance faded in the distance, carrying away what was left of Giselle, he walked back up the driveway, towards Paul and Giselle’s apartment, hoping to find some evidence that would link Paul to Jim Patton’s disappearance. The gate to the porch was wide open when Sam reached it. Caught by a stiff breeze, it closed with such force, the latch failed to fall into place, allowing the gate to bounce back and swing open once again. Sam stepped in and closed the gate behind him, making sure the latch was in place. After noticing the sliding glass door had been left slightly open, he pulled the pair of latex gloves from his pants pocket, glad that he had remembered to bring them, slipped them on, and went in to take a quick look around.
    In the master bedroom and bathroom he found a plethora of pills, pot and cocaine, but nothing that seemed related to what he was searching for. Nothing, that is, until he came to the baby’s room, where the distinct aroma of crack lingered in the air as Sam looked down on the still sleeping child. Next to the baby’s head lay a crack pipe, and the half consumed bottle of apple juice laced with bourbon. On top of the dresser was a burgundy, leather bound daily journal with the name Jim Patton embossed in gold on the front. Sam opened it and found the three copies of the corrective action termination notice Jim had filled out. One of them had been torn in half and taped back together. Sam’s eyes widened, as he read the entry in the journal from the day that Jim had failed to come home.
    “Terminated Paul Grand. Paul threatened me, saying, “Don’t make me do something I don’t want to do.” I’m just writing it down here, in case anything should happen. I don’t really think he would do anything. He can make more money selling drugs than he can working here, and I explained that he could keep his benefits for eighteen months.”
      After pulling his tiny “spy camera,” out of his pocket, and snapping pictures of the termination notice and the incriminating entry in the journal, Sam smiled and sighed forlornly. He closed the journal and laid it back on the dresser where he had found it.
    “Thank you Jim,” he said, patting the journal. “That pretty much ties up all the loose ends. God bless you, my friend.” He had taken the pictures, not because he didn’t trust the boys of the HPD, they were as competent as any large city’s police force, but because he didn’t trust anybody, anywhere. Using the tiny camera always made him feel like he was some kind of special agent in a Hollywood spy movie. As he slipped the camera back into his jacket he chuckled, “Yeah, but knowin’ my luck, my Pussy Galore would probably have crabs, the clap, or worse,” he figured.
    Looking down at Richard, who had rolled over onto his tummy and in his drunken sleep was sucking peacefully on the thumb of his left hand, Sam contemplated removing the crack pipe from the bed, but knew the Child Welfare Department needed to see what had been going on here. He reached for the phone in his jacket and dialed Child Protective Services. He told them the address and explained that the mother had just been killed in an automobile accident. He'd be stuck there for a while. He might have just gone upstairs to see if Sally would watch the baby, but he feared she might try to get rid of the drugs, and who knows what else, before the authorities arrived. When he called HPD’s homicide division, he was told that Lt. Bill Velasquez was heading up the investigation on Jim Patton and his call was transferred to the Lieutenant’s voice mail.
    “Lieutenant, this is Sam Stetson. I’m a private investigator and retired homicide detective from Richburg. I’ve been working on the Jim Patton disappearance and I believe I’ve stumbled across something you’ll be very interested in.” He left a detailed message explaining why he had suspected Paul and Giselle, and under what circumstances he had found the daily journal that detailed the motive for the suspected murder. “Still no body and no murder weapon,” Sam said in closing, “but we’re a lot further along than we were.” He left his cell phone number and added, “Give me a call if you have any questions, Lieutenant.” Sam closed the phone, looked down at the baby again, and patted him on the back.
    Once Child Protective Services arrived, Sam walked out the front door, holding his hat securely on his head with his left hand to keep it from blowing away in the increasingly stiff northwesterly wind. In the distance he heard the sound of approaching sirens and figured the homicide division would be there within the next two or three minutes. Before pulling away in Methuselah, Sam looked back one last time at the apartment, wondering if the little tyke would be able to overcome the disadvantages of being born with the genetic predispositions of a prostitute for a mother and a murdering thief for a father. He didn’t believe breeding always determined the life paths that would be chosen, but he had to admit it happened more often than he cared to remember. He sincerely hoped someone with a kind, loving heart would welcome the tot into their home. “Good luck kid,” he whispered, “you’re gonna need it.”   

~      ~      ~

   
      Twenty five miles away, the sound of approaching police sirens did nothing to loosen Nathan’s grip on Paul’s throat. Uncle Bob had dialed 9-1-1 and Richburg’s boys in blue were responding in hopes of stopping and apprehending the intruder at the Piper residence.
    Paul and Nathan had resumed their life and death struggle on the front porch when Nathan regained his senses and demanded that Jerry and Little Joe allow him the personal satisfaction of killing his brother’s murderer with his own bare hands, without interference.
    As Paul lay helpless on the porch, screaming, his mind filled with the horror of having his flesh ripped from his body by a pack of squealing, grunting pigs. Nathan removed the knife and pistol from the killer’s pockets and tossed them to his fellow Marines, believing his eyes were playing tricks on him when the weapons just sailed right through Little Joe’s chest. Little Joe shrugged and said, “Hey, man, we’re good at mind games, but not so good at interacting with solids. We can make you think you see, or feel something, but when it comes to us and reality, what you see has no more substance than a cloud.”
    Finally Paul stopped screaming as his mind cleared and the last hungry hog faded away. Panting, he rose up on one elbow, attempting to come to grips with what was happening. Standing in front of him, he saw Nathan Piper and the two luminescent shadows. Paul reached into his pocket. Finding it empty, he shouted, “G-Go ahead! K-Kill me! It’s three against one. I d-d-don’t know what those things are, b-but I know what they d-did to my mind. You t-t-took my g-gun and knife, so kill me already!”
    “I will kill you,” Nathan sneered, “but not with anyone's help.”
    Paul leapt from the porch over a short hedge and began to run for his car, but Nathan was on him in a flash. He tackled him from behind and dragged him down. Frantically, Paul scratched and clawed at Nathan’s face as he felt powerful fingers tighten on his throat again, cutting off his breath. As he became groggy, the force of his blows against Nathan’s arms and face became weaker, while his vision became clouded; distorted by tiny black dots as his brain begged for oxygenated blood.
    “This is for Jeff!” Nathan screamed, increasing the pressure of his vise like grip on Paul’s throat. “This is for Jeff and for Lindy, and Aunt Nellie, and Uncle Bob, and for Jim Patton!” Nathan punctuated each name, lifting Paul by the neck and then slamming him back down against the ground. Shaking Paul like a dog with an old sock, Nathan continued to scream, “For Little Joe, and Jerry, and Mickey, and Gorilla, and Alvin, and Lieutenant Jenson!” Paul’s arms and legs no longer flailed or kicked in an attempt to defend himself. Athough open, his eyes no longer saw. Still Nathan continued to choke his brother’s killer as he cried out, “And for me, you son of a bitch, for me, because my life will never be the same . . . never!” he slammed Paul’s head to the ground two more times in unison with his cries of, “never, never!”
    It took three policemen to drag Nathan off of Paul’s lifeless body. They threw him on the ground, face down, restrained him with handcuffs, and dragged him to a waiting squad car while Uncle Bob tried to explain what had happened.
    Nathan twisted and turned wildly, trying to escape. The Viet Cong, who paid little attention to the guidelines of the Geneva Convention when it came to the humane treatment of prisoners of war, had captured him. In his tortured mind he figured he would probably be better off dead.
    “Little Joe, Jerry, Help me!” he cried out. “Contact artillery, get arti on the phone!”
    The police pushed him down so he wouldn’t hit his head as they shoved him into the patrol car. The slamming of the door silenced his anguished cries. A paramedic walked up to the officer Uncle Bob spoke to and said, “The other one is dead. You oughtta see the bruises on his throat! Do you want us to hold off on moving him?”
    The officer turned and said, “Yeah, wait until forensics gets here, takes a few pics, and does the things they feel like they have to do.” They both turned and looked at Nathan, his face a portrait of pain, pressed flat against the rolled up window of the squad car. Inside, Marine Private Nathan Piper awaited interrogation in a small cell. Bruised by the Viet Cong during his capture, his face felt good against the cold stone wall while he waited in isolation for whatever would happen next. Whatever did happen, he would only give his name, rank, and serial number. The enemy would gain no useable information from him.
    “I don’t think he knows where he is,” the paramedic said, shaking his head sympathetically, “no idea at all.”
 
   

Chapter 16

    Most of the people attending the funeral were associated with Piper Pipes and Drilling. Jeff’s body had been found by one of the Richburg police officers not long after Paul’s had been taken away to the county morgue. Officer Kevin Kerekes was simply looking up and down Old South drive in the vicinity of the Piper residence for the vehicle that Paul Grand might have been driving. After running a check on the car registered to Paul Grand it had almost been too easy. Parked slightly less than a block away, on the side of the road, was the white Mustang and when the trunk was opened the number of vacancies at the Fort Bend County morgue dwindled by yet another drawer.
    According to the crime lab reports Jeff had been stabbed five times, twice in the back, two more times in his right arm, as he had evidently turned and raised it in an attempt to defend himself, and then once more in the chest. The county coroner had opined that the damage caused by the deep penetration of the first two wounds was sufficient to cause death and that the final blow had merely hastened the victim’s inevitable expiration.
    Delusional at the time of his apprehension, Nathan had since received his prescribed dosages of medication and had returned to what most people would consider to be normal behavior. Looking down at his brother, who resembled one of the wax figures at Madame Tussaud’s in Las Vegas’s Venetian Hotel, Nathan knew he should be experiencing far more emotional distress, but the medicine was doing its job, controlling his brain’s chemical reactions and keeping him from becoming overwrought.
    Uncle Bob’s hand rested on Nathan’s shoulder as they both stood by the casket before the start of the memorial service. “Are you okay, Nathan?” Uncle Bob asked.
    Nathan shook his head, “No, Uncle Bob, I’m not,” he said. “Oh, I don’t feel like I’m back in Vietnam or anything like that, but I’m definitely not okay. Jeff was all the family I had left, other than you and Aunt Nellie, and I’m going to have to stand trial for killing the man that murdered my brother. I should be feeling unbearable pain and outrage, wouldn’t you think?”
    “Well, yes son, of course,” Uncle Bob agreed. “That would certainly be very understandable.”
    “Yeah, well I just feel numb and that’s not okay. That’s not okay at all, Uncle Bob.” Nathan turned away from his brother’s body and went to sit down in the front row of the church, next to Aunt Nellie. He looked down at his wrist and saw that his watch was gone. Jeff had been right about the watch. It had evidently never existed except in his mind. But, what about Jerry and Little Joe? The way they had herded Paul Grand back onto the porch and the things that Paul had said were proof that they were more than just a hallucination, or had he just imagined all of that as well? No, he couldn’t have. He whispered to Uncle Bob, “Did you come outside while I was fighting with Jeff’s killer?”
    Uncle Bob shook his head, no, and said, “I was inside, trying to take care of your Aunt Nellie. She was pretty shook up.”
    If only someone else could corroborate what he had heard and seen, but Uncle Bob would have been the only one, unless…”Hey, Aunt Nellie,” Nathan whispered, leaning over and reaching past Uncle Bob, touching her on the shoulder, “when your legs gave out in the hallway, did you see anything that might have made you pass out?”
    Aunt Nellie dashed his hopes, saying, “No honey, it was that knife poking me in the back that scared the wits out of me. I just couldn’t take it anymore. Why?” She asked.
    “Oh, nothing,” he answered, obviously dejected, “Never mind.”
    The funerary music changed now, as the preacher, the same one Lindy had threatened, years earlier, came forward and began the service amidst what seemed to be a soundtrack of sniffling and blowing noses. Nathan found it impossible to focus on the endless progression of trite words spoken in a monotone, “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust . . .”
    As the funeral dragged on, he contemplated the one question that plagued him, which he now deemed more important than anything else in his life. What were Jerry and Little Joe; figments of his imagination, products of an injured and improperly medicated brain, or spirits of departed friends acting as guardians? He had been sure he knew the answer a few days earlier, but if they were spirits he was certain they would be here now to support him at this difficult time. As the service continued, Nathan turned and looked back at those in attendance. He recognized a number of Jeff’s associates from work, but did not see either Little Joe or Jerry. As the casket was closed and the pall bearers prepared to carry it to the waiting hearse, Nathan had begun, finally, to accept the fact that he couldn’t trust anything that he saw, heard, felt, smelled, or tasted when he wasn’t properly medicated. He stood up with Uncle Bob and Aunt Nellie at the appropriate time and walked lethargically to the limousine that would transport them to the cemetery.
    The procession to the cemetery, escorted by a number of policemen on motorcycles, was relatively short, lasting roughly fifteen to twenty minutes, and after a few more well chosen words from the reverend, whose ass Lindy had wanted to kick, the coffin was lowered into the waiting grave. Remembering a little boy that loved to play with toy gliders and a loving brother that hugged him in the Sisters of Mercy hospital and urged him to come home soon to play baseball with him, Nathan tossed in the first handful of dirt and said his final goodbye.
    When it was all over and all of the mourners had seemingly gone, Nathan sat in one of the wooden graveside chairs, feeling quite naturally like he had lost the last friend that he could count on.
    “Aren’t you ready to go, Nathan?” Uncle Bob asked. It was easy to see by the look on his eighty year old face that he was tired, emotionally spent, and prepared to leave.
    Nathan turned to his Uncle, and said, “I’m sorry, Uncle Bob, here I am wrapped up in my own thoughts, completely forgetting about you and Aunt Nellie. You’ve been so good to me and so understanding.” Nathan stood up and hugged his Aunt and Uncle, saying, “God bless you both. If you hadn’t posted bail for me, I might have missed my own brother’s funeral. I’ll be ready in just a minute, so you guys go on back to the limo and tell the driver I won’t be long, okay?” 
    Aunt Nellie asked, “Are you sure you’ll be alright, Nathan?”
    He nodded yes, hugged her again, and watched as they walked back to the limo. When he saw them close the door, he began to walk across the cemetery, stopping after a hundred yards or so by an old oak tree, where a solitary gravesite was adorned with a modest headstone. On it was the inscription, “Faithful, and loving wife,” and the name, Lindy Lee Piper, with the dates, 1948-1981.
      He knelt in front of the grave and asked, “What am I gonna do, Lindy? First I lost Mom and Dad. Then you got cancer, and I couldn’t get into Houston everyday to see you at the hospital, because I couldn’t drive. You never complained, sweetheart, but I know you could’a beat it if I could’a been there to help you fight it more often. Then, towards the end, I would get so upset, I think I just made you sicker when I came to see you. That’s why I think you left me, because you saw it was hurting me so bad, and so you just gave up. I wasn’t as strong as I should have been for you, honey. And now what am I gonna do? I don’t have anyone that cares about me. I’m all alone and they’re gonna prosecute me for killing Jeff’s murderer. I don’t care if they find me guilty, I’m just scared because I don’t have Mom and Dad, or you, or Jeff. I’m all alone. All alone,” he whispered.
      Nathan drew in a deep breath and exhaled in a heavy sigh, bowing his head in total surrender. Against the seemingly insurmountable odds that pressed down upon him he no longer felt as if he possessed the strength or the will to fight back. He reached out with his right hand and grasped the top of the cold, gray headstone, desperately seeking the warmth, love, and support that had at one time poured forth from Lindy like the never ending rush of water over Niagara Falls, but failing to feel anything other than the texture of cold, insensitive stone, as if his soul needed to purge itself of the poisonous words, he cried out one final time, “All alone.”
      Behind him, he heard a voice, which startled him, and filled him with wonder.  “Semper Fi, Nathan, you’re not alone.”
    Who could it be? Nathan whirled around to see Sam Stetson walking towards him. “I’ll testify in your behalf, Nathan. You’re not alone. You did what any God fearin’ man would do and I’d be willin’ to bet there ain’t a jury in Texas that would put you behind bars for what you did.”
    Holding his hat in his left hand, Sam put out his right, which Nathan shook vigorously, saying, “You’ve already saved my life once, Sam, so why would you stick your neck out for me again?”
    “Because I wouldn’t be much of a Marine, if I didn’t, now would I?” Sam smiled that lopsided, unassuming smile, that was always half hidden behind his bushy mustache and put an arm around Nathan’s shoulder. “You’re a god damned hero, Nathan. Just because not too many folks know about the courage you displayed years ago in Vietnam, or the other day out there on your front lawn, doesn’t diminish the fact one damned bit. You’re one of the bravest men I have ever had the privilege of knowin’. After all, they don’t hand out the Silver Star to every Tom, Dick, and Harry, now do they?” Sam slapped Nathan on the back and said, “Now, go on, your Aunt and Uncle are waitin’ fer ya.”
    In spite of the medicine that fought to keep Nathan’s emotions under control, a smile began to form on his lips. It was the first one in what seemed like a long time, and it felt strange, strange, but good. Sam headed for his car, while Nathan began to head back towards the  limo, where Uncle Bob and Aunt Nellie waited. Once again, as he walked, he distinctly heard the words, “Semper Fi, Nathan,” but it didn’t sound like Sam. In fact, it sounded like two voices. When he turned around, he saw it couldn’t have been Sam that had said it. Sam was already too far away. So where had the words come from? He looked around, scanning the entire cemetery, from front to back, and left to right. Instinctively, he glanced upwards, into the trees, looking for anything or anyone, but no, there were no Marines, no teenaged Viet Cong snipers, and no, there were no monkeys. There was only a single crow, appropriately adorned for the solemn occasion, in black, eyeing him curiously from the branches of a venerable oak tree, which must have been over a hundred years old and had seen more than it’s share of grieving friends and relatives as they mourned the loss of someone important in their lives. Nathan concluded finally, that the words had come from those that had promised they would always be there, always faithful, if and when he ever really needed them. The smile on his face reappeared and spread as he walked, gaining confidence with each subsequent step.
    Sam was right. If he had been able to persevere through his own debilitating injury, the loss of his parents, his wife’s nightmarish ordeal with cancer and now his brother’s murder, then, by God, he had the courage to face the upcoming trial and whatever other hardships awaited him. He would carry on and live well, especially for his friends and loved ones who had not been given the opportunity to do so. Upon reaching the long, black limo, before he opened the door and got in, he turned back towards the cemetery one last time and looked out across row after row of headstones. Those that never served alongside other brave men, putting their lives on the line in defense of who they loved and what they believed in could never possibly understand the undying significance of those two words taken from a dead language.
    Squinting in the bright Texas sunshine, Nathan nodded and whispered, “Semper Fi, guys, Semper Fi.”

                                                                                              The End.

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