Chapters One through Three,

Chapter One

I held Brenda’s nametag in my hands.  Gingerly. 

I hated cutting myself and the plastic’s broken edges were ragged and sharp.  It had been split in a diagonal line from top left to bottom right. I was careful of the back too.  Just as hazardous was that awkward needle pin lock contraption used to attach the nametag to the chest of former close friends.   

Close friends.  Back twenty-five years ago when we all graduated from high school many of us had been close friends.  Well, not Brenda.  She wasn’t one of our group. 

I looked at the faded picture reproduced from the yearbook.  It was Brenda all right.  She had been a big girl back then.  She didn’t look so huge now stretched out on a gurney.  Must have lost a lot of weight.  I trusted she no longer was wearing her stupid self-effacing smile either.  Though with someone’s jacket wrapped around her head and a towel draped over her face how could I be sure?  I had hated that smile.  

Her last name on the nametag was partially blotted out with a bloodstain.  It had splattered and run.  I didn’t know if the pattern was significant.  In my fifteen years as an attorney, I had certainly seen my share of blood evidence, but I wasn’t an expert.  No.  Not by any means an expert.  

I remembered Brenda’s last name anyway.  Dickey.  We used to have fun with her name too.  I had hated how dipped her shoulders and lowered her head when we laughed at her.  And that self-effacing irritating half-smile. As if she didn’t realize we were joking about her.  It had seemed strange to me that such imperfect creatures were allowed to exist. Shouldn’t they have been culled somehow?  I never said such things out loud.  Not in front of my clients certainly.  Or potential clients.  Or anyone really. But one wondered.

“Too bad about Brenda.”  Tammy J.  was standing next to me.  Tammy Jacobsen.  We had shortened her name for her to “Tammy J.”  She liked the moniker.  Made her unique.  As I remembered, her nickname wasn’t the only thing unique about her.  She had other talents. One in particular.

“Yes.  I wonder what happened?” 

I knew what happened.  I didn’t quite understand why.  I mean I probably knew why in the cosmic sense.  On a universal scale such a flawed being as Brenda needed to be winnowed out.  And she had been.  But more down to earth, more on the personal level, I was wondering why she had been killed tonight of all nights.  And why the ax?

Tammy J. understood what I really meant by my question.  “It might have been her ex-boyfriend,” she said.  “I heard they had a nasty break up.  Maybe she got a lot of money.  Maybe she was hateful about it.”

“She had a boyfriend?” It just popped out.  I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.  Impudent. Snooty.  I moved the conversation on.  “Well, a murder certainly puts a damper on our class reunion.”

Tammy J. didn’t reply immediately.  She watched as the paramedics packed up their gear and Brenda’s body was wheeled toward the brightly painted van.   Red on the bottom, the top white, blue lettering.  Patriotic colors.  The rescue people left a lot of litter behind; paper bandages, little plastic round objects that had been at the center of rolls of tape, and discarded strips of gauze, some stained red, others yellowish.  

Brenda had to be dead.  I wasn’t an expert on head wounds either, though in preparing for trials I had studied pictures of quite a few, but I just couldn’t see how anyone could survive having their forehead split open with an ax.  The paramedics slid her gurney in the back of the ambulance with ease.  She really had lost weight.  You had to give her that.  Good for good ole’ Brenda.

“I guess she’s dead,” I said.

“Yeah, most likely,” Tammy J. said.   “How sad.” 

After a respectful pause, maybe three seconds, enough time to take a swallow from the glass she was holding, Tammy J. continued, “Listen, Nick, bunch of us going to stick around, you know, after things settle down a little.  There’s all that good food left.  And Ray paid lots of money for an open bar.”  

Good ole’ Ray was a big spender.  He had made a lot of money since graduation.  Most illegally.  There was little doubt about the sources of his prosperity.  He was a crook.  Gambling, narcotics, stolen cars, fraud, his portfolio was diverse. But he wasn’t that smooth.  Being a criminal made him nervous.  He lived in constant fear he would at any moment be found out and arrested.  It was something he expected.  Knew it would eventually happen.  He, therefore, liked to spend his money while he could.   Our reunion was a perfect excuse for liberally spending some of his ill-gotten gains.

“I’m sure Brenda wouldn’t want to be the cause of spoiling a party,” Tammy J. said.  “She was always a friendly girl, you know?”

“She was”, I said.  I then added, “I remember she smiled a lot,” Tammy J. took no notice of my caustic wit.

“Sure.  Yeah.  There you go.  She wouldn’t want us to mope around.  Let’s give it an hour.   How about a drink?  We could wait in the bar.  There’s champagne!” she announced happily. 

I was remembering Tammy J.’s special talent.  And I was remembering a little alcohol had once been a reliable means of encouraging her to an encore performance.  “Well, that settles it,” I ruled.  Rather judicially I thought.

We turned to walk inside.  As we did so I tossed the damaged nametag in the big yellow and blue trashcan just outside the front door.  Our school colors.  The good ole “Blue and Gold.”

Chapter Two

It was turning out to be a jolly evening despite Brenda’s murder.  I had whispered a suggestion in Tammy J.’s ear.  She didn’t answer, but she had smiled.  Promising.  She said she needed to use the powder room and would be right back.  

Our bunch was comfortably draped against the bar.  Chatting.  Bragging.  Having a few laughs.  We were at ease. Just like back in high school.  For a few hours it was as if nothing much had ever changed.  Well, except for Brenda’s murder, of course. 

There was no band.  However, in the background familiar tunes could be heard from someone’s computer playlist.  No doubt a member of the Reunion committee had made the selections.  Probably one of those school spirited souls whose names were listed down one side of the Reunion invitation.  

He/she had put together a pretty good mix.  Sixties music.   Some Beach Boys, some Rolling Stones, no Beatles, some early soul stuff from the Fifties. There had been no Blacks in our school.  Hadn’t known too many since high school either.  Well, there had been the Service.  But there were no foxholes in the Air Force.  We (and they) mostly kept our distance.  Liked the music though.  The old stuff anyway.

The majority of the music playing had once been good to slow dance and make out, or “neck” as my mother used to say. A few couples danced.  I was glad the selections were weighted toward the slow side.  Unless it was a slow dance, my fellow alumni on the dance floor seemed a little ridiculous.  Everybody out there was fat.  Varying degrees of fat, but all of them were jiggling and overweight. Most of our group, on the other hand, had stayed reasonably fit.  Maybe a bulge here, a sag there, but by in large we looked pretty good.  One reason we held back and resisted mixing with the rest of them.  They didn’t look near as good as we did.   Just like high school.

“It’s a nasty way to die.”  The comment came from Ray, our generous benefactor. He had supplied the free alcohol we had been imbibing since sneaking away from the crime scene and the nasty mess the paramedics left behind.  We all had a nice buzz going.  We had arrived at the perfect plateau, between sobriety and drunkenness.   I thought it might be a good time to re-invite Tammy J. to leave the premises for a while.  She would, no doubt, want to come back to the party.  It was her way.  It made her very efficient in the parking lot.

“Nick, you’re a lawyer.  Ever see anything like that?”

I didn’t immediately reply.  I hadn’t expected such a question.  Jimmy Joe (another nickname), answered for me.  He did that a lot for a lot of people.  

“Used to happen all the time over in the jungle,” Jimmy Joe said.  “Saw it on a T.V. special.  The “Cong.”  Mercenaries. That’s how they fight.  Axes and needles.”

We hadn’t had any “Cong” at our high school either.  I had no idea how Jimmy Joe, a golf pro at a country club, would know such a thing.  I had no way of knowing if maybe Jimmy Joe knew what he was talking about.  Since nobody was looking at me as if they expected me to answer, I kept silent.  

I looked around for Tammy J.  She had been gone a while.  Made me wonder if she slipped out with one of the others.  I counted heads among our group.  Don was missing.  Big Donnie Babcock.  Big man in the community now. Basketball star a long time ago.  Made some pretty good money with his Dad’s car dealerships after a couple of years at junior college.  I bet she went with Big Donnie.  The bastard!  The little bitch!

I took a swig of Scotch from my glass and pouted.  The Scotch, not surprisingly, was of good quality.  Ray knew how to live.  And he lived large.  He figured he was going to end up in prison anyway or with his throat cut.  He might as well have the best as he squeezed out a few good times before the inevitable bad end he knew was coming.  I agreed with his philosophy.

There was a commotion over by the bathrooms.  Back in school that usually meant a fight.  Surely not now, I thought; a brawl would be ridiculous at our age.  And very embarrassing.  

“What’s all that?”  Though Jimmy Joe knew many things about “Cong,” he evidently didn’t know what was causing the scrum.  I saw Tammy J.  She stood just on the periphery of the gathering crowd.  Her hand was lightly resting on her stomach as she looked at something floor level.  She leaned over and upchucked.  That wasn’t good.  She had never done that before.  Though there were a few times she certainly had reason.

“Well, I’ll be dammed.  Somebody else just got nailed.”

I listened to the conversation around me.

“Huh?”

“I think it was Brenda’s husband.”

“Huh?”

“Nailed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nailed.  Literally.  A nail gun.  Right through the forehead.”

“Oh, shit.”  

“My God!”  

“Is there any more champagne?”

Chapter Three

The sirens were screaming in the distance.  The cops, paramedics, sheriff’s deputies, all were returning.  I figured they must be pissed.  They had just finished processing one crime scene, got back to the station, poured a cup of Joe, sat down to write their reports and here comes another call of a dead body, from a nail gun no less, at the same damn place they just left.  No.  They couldn’t be happy.  I had been to a few crime scenes in my day and while I couldn’t be sure, I just couldn’t imagine they were happy about coming back and starting all over.

I was standing on the sidewalk outside the building.  Tammy J. was beside me.  Though she had cleaned up a little there was still a slight odor of vomit coming from her.  She had a drink in a highball glass and was sipping at it, and swishing it in her mouth before swallowing.  Big Donnie Babcock was over on the grass under the memorial tree talking to the Mayor and the police chief.  Donnie’s money made him a big shot in our little community.  He gave generous donations to the car repairmen, shoe salesmen, and postmen who typically ran for local office; city council, school board and the like.  It made him an acknowledged leader in civic affairs.  The recipients of his largesse listened attentively whenever he expressed an opinion no matter how inane.

No one had turned off the playlist and with the doors open, the soft strains, the summer sounds of the Beach Boys added a party like background to the festivities.  We had all hurriedly crowded back up to the bar and got drinks before the returning cops arrived. We knew from the previous murder (we were now sort of crime scene experts) we would be shooed outside when they arrived.  The constables soon came and as predicted began herding us toward the side door.  On the way outside, the ever-resourceful Ray had grabbed a couple of bottles, one Scotch, one Bourbon, and some extra glasses and joined us. He had paid for the stuff after all.  And life was short. And you never knew when a deputy sheriff might be coming around the corner with a warrant.

I sipped my drink and looked Tammy J. over.  There was a big wet stain on the front of her frilly summer dress where she had frantically washed something off.  I doubted she was still in the mood.  Frankly, I wasn’t either.  Behind her I noticed Big Donnie, the Mayor and the police chief were walking purposely our way.  I glanced around me to see whom they might be coming to see or maybe where they were going. When I looked back, they were standing right in front of me.  Tammy J. had stepped to my side and was watching curiously, sipping and swishing her Champaign like mouthwash.

“Gentlemen,” I said by way of greeting. 

“Nick, we need to talk to you.”  It was the Mayor speaking.  He had graduated a few years after us and, therefore, had not been invited to our soiree.  Had he been, I’m sure he would have worn his hairpiece.

I didn’t like the tone of his greeting.  It was too officious.  I took a quaff of Scotch and didn’t reply.  I didn’t even deign to acknowledge his statement by looking at him.  I was feeling snippy at the start and stop rhythm the evening had taken.  I couldn’t see how we were ever going to get the party going again after a second murder.  Everyone with the exceptions of Ray and now Tammy J. looked like they were preparing to sober up.  There was no need to worry about sobriety concerning Ray and Tammy J, what with him drinking straight shots and her supplementing the throwbacks with her sipping and swishing Champaign.  They both appeared tipsy.  Ready to continue with the party.  Neither looked too steady on their feet.

When I didn’t reply, the Mayor continued.  “Nick, we think we need to hire you. Uh, retain you, I believe it’s called.”

“It’s called that.  But what are you talking about?  Retain for what?  The city has their own attorney.”

“Yeah, Nick.  They do,” It was Big Donnie speaking again.  The police chief wasn’t talking at all.  Comparatively speaking he was new to town, having only moved here a decade ago.  He looked as sullen as I felt.  What with the prospect of resuming the party becoming more remote by the minute. 

“You see, Nick,” the Mayor was speaking again.  “The only prosecuting attorney we have is our city attorney.  But he’s just a kid.  Been out of school for about two years.  Only took the job to pay the household bills until he can get his practice going.  Like you already got, Nick.  You have a nice practice.”

I thought his comment presumptuous.  

“I do well enough.  But I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”  Tammy J. had nudged closer to me and actually taken my arm.  Take that Big Donnie Babcock, I thought.  Who’s important now?

Big Donnie spoke.  And to my surprise his tone was differential and contained a modicum of respect.  

“That’s just it.  We have two murders.  The Chief here thinks he has a suspect.  His guys are working on it right now.  Figure we will have an arrest made any moment.” 

I felt Tammy J.’s fingers tighten on my arm.  I was proud I had kept up the work in the weight room.  I flexed my triceps just a might.

“So? What criminal law I do is defense work.  A little, you know, to keep the lights on, but most of my practice is civil.  A sprinkling of probate, wills, trusts, a few business incorporations, a bankruptcy now and then.  I do pretty good.  But I can’t afford to defend this kind of case, takes too much time, it would break me.”

“No.  That’s not what we are talking about.  We want to retain you as a special prosecutor.  To take our side of the case.” 

I wondered at the use of the word “our.” Who would that be?

I evaded. “I really don’t know,” I said.  Tammy J. pressed closer.  I could feel her breast pressing into my arm.  I no longer smelled the vomit.  Her Champagne mouthwash seemed to have done the job.  I always thought she would have to have had a strong constitution.  Maybe this evening would work out after all.

“Listen.  We can authorize the going rate. You will make money on this.”  

Coming from Big Donnie Babcock, that meant something. 

Big Donnie had a reputation for making money.  His evaluations of financial matters were generally irrefutable.  He knew his numbers and his bottom line.  

I might very well have to accept the offer.  

As I thought about it, I could see how their proposal would enhance my income for a couple of years.  I could pay all my usual expenses with the steady funds from the government.  And the rest of the fees from my practice would come in all free and clear.  Didn’t sound like a bad deal at all.  I trusted that the Scotch or Tammy J. pressing her breast on my arm wasn’t clouding my thinking.  Nope.  Reality check.  They were.  My judgment was clouded, but I was going to do it anyway.

“Okay.  Guess you have yourself a Special Prosecutor.”

The Police Chief, Fry, I remembered his name was Fry, spoke up for the first time.  “What do you want us to do when we get the arrest done?” 

“Nothing,” I said.  My tone was more forceful than I meant it to be, but that felt good.  I felt grand.  In fact, I felt capital, like any drunk who thought he was taking charge of the situation.    

“Hold him.  Don’t tell anyone.  Call me or come get me.  I want to talk to him first.”  

I thought I sounded impressive. 

The Police Chief nodded in acknowledgement of my instructions and the three of them moved away talking quietly among themselves.  The keys and other accouterments on the Chief’s duty belt made a jingling noise.  I thought of reindeer. 

Tammy J. was hanging on my arm.  Ray was sitting on the sidewalk drinking bourbon whiskey straight out of the bottle. Tammy J. went up on her tiptoes to whisper something in my ear.  

“Well, well,” I thought to myself, “hell of a reunion. And my prospects for the remainder of the evening are good.  Real good.”