Chapter 18

Bellingham, Washington

Saturday, February 29, 2020

Cop shows on TV are all high-speed chases, sirens, and shoot-outs. The reality is far less exciting, and to that end I spent

the remainder of Saturday reading. This time, with Ron Wang’s comments in mind, I made a note of each file number wherever

a history of domestic violence surfaced in the case transcript. None of those rose to the level of an obvious connection,

but it seemed to me that at least seven of them merited further investigation, and I intended to ask Yolanda if she would

try putting me in touch with members of those individual families.

While I sat with my nose buried in my iPad, Mel announced that she was going to make chicken curry for dinner. She and I eat a good deal of Thai food takeout, so that seemed like a reasonable idea. Our kitchen is more or less for show—high on looks and low on function. After locating a recipe online, she made an extensive shopping list of all necessary ingredients that we didn’t have in stock and headed for the store.

For the remainder of the day, I kept on reading while she was busy in the kitchen. Meanwhile Kyle spent most of the day out

in the garage with the heater on, hammering away on his drums. Over the years I had heard the term “garage band” tossed around.

For the first time ever, those words were now part of my reality.

When he came into the house later, he presented me with an open brown manila envelope that was addressed to him. “I picked

up the mail from the street,” he announced. “It’s the cigarette butts from Rick.”

The Ziploc bag inside held a total of twenty or so cigarette butts, most of them with a smear of lipstick on them. For our

purposes, the presence of lipstick was a good sign.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll drop these off at FedEx first thing on Monday.”

By the time Mel announced dinner was ready, I was surprised to see that we would be eating at the dining room table. We generally

eat at the island in the kitchen, but in this case, every flat surface in the kitchen, including the island, was littered

with some kind of food prep debris. Looking at the mess, I didn’t envy Kyle his evening KP duties.

The curry wasn’t exactly a roaring success. The sauce was so hot—spicy hot—that when I took my first bite, tears actually

shot out of my eyes and dripped onto my napkin. Through the course of the meal, I think each of us went through two or three

glasses of milk. As for the chicken itself? It was, as Gordon Ramsay would say, “RAW!” We had to zap our individual servings

in the microwave for five minutes or so to cook the chicken enough that we didn’t risk food poisoning.

But Mel had made the effort, after all, and both Kyle and I manned up and ate without complaint.

“I ran into our neighbor, Mr. Mitchell, while Sarah and I were out walking,” he said casually, partway through the meal.

I was grateful for that bit of polite conversation for two very different reasons. For one, it wasn’t a commentary on the

quality of the food, which would have been problematic regardless of what he said. For another, the fact that he had referred

to Hank Mitchell as “our” neighbor made me feel as though Kyle was starting to feel at home.

“I’m not sure about that little dog of his, but Hank seems like a nice guy,” Kyle observed.

Wait , I thought. Mr. Mitchell had already morphed into Hank?

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “And Mr. Bean may grow on you. He has on me.”

“Did you know Hank used to be a drummer?”

“I believe he may have mentioned that somewhere along the way.”

Kyle took a bite of curry, washed it down with another swallow of milk, and added, “Did you ever hear of a guy named Gene

Krupa?”

I nodded. “He was an old-time drummer and bandleader. My mom was a big fan. His band played in Seattle once when I was a kid.

My mother actually hired a babysitter to look after me so she could go see him. It was a big deal for her. She hung on to

the program from that night. I found it when I was cleaning out her place after she died.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And did you know Gene Krupa is the guy who actually invented the original drum set, like the one I have in the garage?”

“That’s news to me,” I said, and Mel nodded in agreement.

“Hank actually has one of Krupa’s original sets,” Kyle continued. “He also has a record—a seventy-something... of Gene Krupa’s band.”

“A seventy-eight maybe?” I inserted.

That’s when it occurred to me that Kyle had most likely never seen a vinyl record of any kind, thirty-three-and-a-thirds and

forty-fives included, to say nothing of a record player.

“That’s it,” Kyle said. “A seventy-eight. He said if I drop by their house sometime, he’ll play it for me.”

For the first time since Kyle had been with us, he sounded excited about something. That did my heart good, but the idea that

the poor kid was having to pal around with a pair of old geezers was still a bit heart-wrenching.

Although neither Kyle nor I had said anything bad about the meal Mel had prepared, she was under no illusions about the quality

of what had been served. After dinner, she opted for some time in her soaking tub. Mel holds herself to very high standards

in everything she does, and it didn’t surprise me at all that she needed some alone time to suds off her disappointment.

In the meantime, the kitchen was such a mess that I took pity on Kyle and helped with the cleanup. I was working away on scrubbing

the stovetop where something had boiled over when I asked, “Have you heard anything from your folks?”

Yes, it was a nosy question, but it was also a conversation starter.

“Mom called,” he answered. “She wanted to know how school was. I told her it was fine. I guess Dad can’t be bothered. I’m

sure he’s got other things on his mind.”

I heard the depth of betrayal in his voice, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. “I guess that’s about par for the

course,” I suggested.

“I guess it is.”

A bit of time passed before he spoke again. “Care to see a movie tonight?”

At first, I thought he was asking if I wanted to go to a movie. Two years of working at the Bagdad Theater in Ballard while

I was in high school pretty much cured me of going to movies and of all things related to either popcorn or bubble gum. On

those occasions when I do venture out to a movie, instead of paying attention to what’s on the screen, I’m always worrying

about what’s on the sticky floors.

“I’m not much of a movie buff,” I admitted.

“Have you ever seen The Martian ?”

I instantly had visions of some kind of animated Disney movie filled with little green men. “Not that I remember,” I said.

“It’s an old movie, sci-fi, and one of my favorites,” Kyle explained. “I brought my DVDs with me. If you’re interested, we

could watch it together on the TV in the family room.”

An “old movie” for me would be something like Gone with the Wind , and I’m not big on sci-fi, either. But Kyle and I weren’t just on opposite sides of a generation gap—it was more like a

generation chasm—and this unexpected offer of social interaction with my grandson was one I could hardly refuse.

“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

As far as the movie goes, I ended up being pleasantly surprised. There wasn’t a little green man in sight. It was a gripping

story about an astronaut who is inadvertently left behind on Mars and of his struggle to survive long enough for someone to

come back to get him. I enjoyed every minute of it.

Mel emerged from the bathroom shortly after the movie started. Wrapped in a bathrobe and with her hair smelling of something flowery, she poured her evening glass of merlot and curled up beside me on the couch.

“What’s this?” she asked, nodding toward the screen.

“It’s called The Martian ,” I explained. “It’s one of Kyle’s favorites.”

The three of us watched the film together. It felt comfortable and surprisingly normal, almost as though we were an ordinary

family. Considering the circumstances, that was the best any of us could have hoped for.

It was only after the movie ended and we were getting ready for bed that Mel asked if I was making any progress on either

of my current cases. I told her about the arrival of Caroline’s cigarette butts and then recounted my conversation with Ron

Wang as it related to Darius Jackson’s case and to one of Yolanda Aguirre’s as well.

“A vigilante?” she mused thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s possible, but it’s also pretty worrisome. If Spaulding died within

days of being let out on parole, how did his killer know he was back on the streets almost as soon as it happened?”

“Good question.”

“Makes it sound as though there might be some kind of law enforcement component to all this,” she added. “What if you’re looking

for a cop who’s gone rogue and decided to take the law into his or her own hands?”

What if indeed?

That was certainly a disturbing possibility. And since all three cases had connections to Seattle, what if said rogue cop

ended up being someone connected to Seattle PD? That wouldn’t be the best way for this newly minted private investigator to

win friends and influence people at my old department. I’d end up being permanently labeled persona non grata among my old cohorts, and it wouldn’t do my son, Scotty, any favors, either, as far as his departmental reputation was concerned.

Mel went to sleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. I didn’t, because now I had something other than Kyle and Kelly

to worry about. There was a good chance that by solving Benjamin Weston’s problem, I’d be inadvertently creating a whole new

set of issues for my son. Which reminds me of an old adage that all too often turns out to be true—the one that says no good

deed goes unpunished.