Hollow Tree Page 4

  “I’d like to see Jeff Polar,” I said. She continued to look at me as if I was expected to continue. When I didn’t, she asked for my name.

  “Jack Norman.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked like a professional boxer sending out a jab and following up with a left cross. “Is he expecting you?”

  “No,” I said, already growing weary of the exchange.

  “Who are you with?”

  “Newspaper.”

  “What is this in relation to?” I leaned my forehead against the window that divided her personal space from mine.

  “This is in relation to me wanting to talk with him,” I said. “I’m a reporter and he’s in public relations. I’m paid to ask questions and he’s paid to answer.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, with a look bordering on disgust, she buzzed me in. I peeled my forehead off the window and opened the heavy metal door, then walked past her into the police department’s administrative office.

  “You know,” she said over her shoulder, not looking at me, “it would help us if you would make an appointment in the future.”

  Ignoring her, I snatched up from her desk what I imagined was her coffee cup. It displayed a variety of playful kittens. I walked around a corner and held it up in salute as someone walked by. A few feet from Polar’s office I dropped the cup in a trash bucket and walked into his office.

  “Jack, what are you doing here?” he asked, looking up from his computer in surprise.

  “Waiting for a phone call,” I said. “Actually, I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in and ask a quick question or two about vigilante birds with a penchant for violence.”

  Roadkill

  Jeff Polar motioned for me to come into his office.

  “Close the door behind you and have a seat,” he said.

  I stepped in and closed the door, looking at the battered metal foldout chair in front of his desk. It seemed to have my name on it. It felt like I’d spent years sitting in crappy chairs. Polar’s windowless office was an office in name only. It looked like a converted janitor’s closet. His desk was obviously thirdhand and carried a small stack of papers and an ancient computer. The computer was positively huge and made my own look like a supercomputer from some far-flung future where people fly around with jet packs.

  Polar had the look of an aging college student, with a young face, balding temples, and stress lines around his eyes and mouth. His nose and cheeks seemed perpetually sunburned. He carried himself with a natural athleticism that was surprising, like someone who spent years playing a sport like soccer or rugby.

  Working to make myself comfortable on the metal chair, I gave up, and gave him a crooked smile.

  “So what’s with barging in my office and asking questions about vigilantes?” he asked in a lighthearted way. “You think I’m The Raven?”

  “It was really more of a meandering into your office— and no, The Raven has to be at least three feet taller than you are, but we’re getting warmer.”

  “You didn’t really come here to talk about capes did you?”

  “Did I ever tell you what a nice office you have?” I said.

  “I don’t deal with capes, just cops,” he said. “Capes work outside the law. You should see Calhoun’s office, it’s much nicer—he’s just down the hall if you want to talk to him instead.”

  “You’re the one who clearly knows what the heck is going on around here. Vigilantism is illegal, correct?” I asked.

  He looked tired. “What exactly are you getting at, Jack?”

  “Just trying to figure out why the MCPD feels inclined not to enforce its own vigilante laws,” I said.

  He squinted at me across his desk.

  “This is all off the record,” I added. “I’m just here because I have a couple of questions.”

  Jeff was a good guy, and I had no intention of putting him in a difficult spot unless, of course, it was absolutely necessary.

  “Questions about capes?”

  “Capes,” I said. He nodded, seeming to relent, and relaxed back into his chair. I tried to do the same, without success.

  “Capes have a pseudo-official immunity to the vigilante laws of the city,” he said. “This immunity isn’t recognized by state or federal laws—but they’ve never been enforced.”

  “This immunity, it’s for all vigilantes, or just capes?” I asked, playing dumb.

  “Jack, they’re immune to the laws because there’s nothing we can do to a man who can stop bullets and toss a bus through the air.”

  Municipal City was unique in that superheroes didn’t seem to operate anywhere else in the country. There were, of course, rumors that others existed, but they had all the credibility of a Bigfoot sighting in a trailer park.

  “How closely does the department work with superheroes?”

  “They work outside the law. We may look the other way if they bag a criminal or two, but that’s it,” he said.

  “If a cape caught a criminal in the act of committing a crime and left them with you guys—then where’s the evidence to build a charge?” I asked.

  Jeff laughed. “They so rarely bring anyone in, Jack. A lot of it is just hype. They have their own PR department.”

  That I figured, but it didn’t mean they never caught anyone.

  “It’s not all hype,” I said.

  “On the off chance they actually do our jobs for us, they have some liaison who works as an intermediary with the department,” he said. “I’m not a lawyer, but this has been an acceptable practice for at least thirty years.”

  I wasn’t going to be able to get any further down this road, and he knew it too. So I changed gears and got to why I was really there.

  “I have reason to believe The Raven has taken into his possession a surveillance tape,” I said, preparing to drop a bomb. I looked at him to read his reaction. “The tape was of the street near this morning’s crime scene. The proprietor owns the pizza joint. He said the cops already knew The Raven had it.”

  Jeff Polar shook his head like someone who’d bit into a piece of three-day-old roadkill.

  “Bullshit,” he said.

  Getting up from the damned chair, I nodded. “So I take it that’s not a traditional practice?”

  “Of course not; it doesn’t happen,” he said. “Ours is a practice of tolerance, not collaboration.”

  “Well, something’s off,” I said.

  “There’s not enough there to write a story.”

  “Unless your department does actually have this missing tape and the guy’s sorely confused—then yeah, I think there is,” I said, opening the door.

  “Jack, give me some time to look into this,” he said, sounding concerned. PR flacks were sometimes loyal to their employers to a fault. But I guess it is unwise to bite the hand that feeds you. Jeff was a good source in the department. Plus, he was the only person who worked for the MCPD I didn’t have a special loathing for.

  “I can hold off a little while,” I said, leaving with the knowledge I’d just set fire to a hornet’s nest.

  From Bad to Worse

  Under a darkening sky, I made like a refugee and headed back to the Daily Municipal. I wandered around back to the employee parking lot and climbed into my rust-colored reporter-mobile—once again glad I’d had my tetanus shot.

  The lot was nearly empty. Several years ago I used to have to scramble, cajole, and threaten my way into a parking space. Then the economy went bad, the newsroom was plagued with layoffs, and parking spots opened up.

  I made the drive back to my apartment building and bounded up the flight of stairs to my floor. On my door was taped a single white envelope. I yanked it off, assuming it was notice that my rent check had bounced. Inside was a small folded letter in immaculate script, which read:

  Jan 3, 1998—The Daily Municipal

  I looked up and around the hallway. It was empty. And yet it felt like I was being watched. Playing casual, I stuffed the
letter into my pocket and opened my apartment, went inside, and shut the door behind me. I flicked on the lights and waited as they sputtered for a moment, threatening to go out—not that my apartment was much to look at in the light. A worn leather sofa in the corner was really all I had in the way of furniture. I had several pictures on the walls of cheap art prints, and a hanging fern from the previous tenant I had just managed to keep alive for years. A feat that I was proud of—until I discovered it was fake.

  I poured myself three fingers of whiskey and sank down into the sofa, looking at the letter again. It would have been easy to discard the message, because I get all sorts of pseudo mysterious messages from the public—but never plastered to the door of my unlisted apartment.

  Murder Maker

  Large snowflakes drifted down onto the sidewalk quietly, blanketing a man who was no more alive than the nearby trash cans. His skin, eyes, and lips all held the same pale-blue hue. The corpse’s battered leather jacket provided the only real variety of color.

  The thing about a death like this was nobody was in any kind of a hurry to deal with it. It wasn’t particularly gruesome, and the streets were clogged with snow. I stood outside, wishing my shoes were waterproof, as a single patrolman waited for the cavalry to arrive. The whole scene looked like it belonged in a macabre snow globe.

  I got an early jump on the call from my secondhand police scanner—that and the fact the death had occurred only a few blocks away from my apartment made my trip quick.

  When the call came in, I’d been contemplating all my varied choices for breakfast, with the old condiments, expired milk, and baking soda that populated my fridge. I heard the report of a possible murder bark out into the room from the scanner lying underneath my coat.

  Gathering my jacket, I swept from my apartment like a giant, underpaid bird of prey, then half jogged, half slipped my way to the area of the murder. I knew it would take forever to get my car started.

  The beat cop was already waiting, bundled up like some kind of blue mummy. If there was a human beneath those official-looking layers, I couldn’t make it out.

  “You’re with the paper, right?” His question came out muffled. I grunted in the affirmative, having already told him as much moments before.

  “Okay.” He nodded and continued to try and look vigilant. A seasoned pro would have had me stay on the other side of the street so as not to chance me messing with any of the evidence. It was a good practice, and one he should have followed, because as soon as he turned his back to try to listen to the chatter on his radio, I crept up to the body for a closer look.

  The man had a single bullet hole in the center of his forehead. It was like the full stop at the end of a sentence. A circular pool of frozen blood surrounded his head like a black halo. It was the second murder I’d been to in two days. At least no one could drag their feet on a cause of death for this one. But the reason for death—that would be a different story.

  The man held a small revolver in his right hand—but only an idiot would call this a suicide. No one shoots himself in the middle of the forehead when trying to punch his own ticket unless he holds the grip of his murder maker in reverse and pulls the trigger with his thumb. The man was holding the gun in the traditional way. I looked closer. The wrist looked swollen and damaged. Had someone forced the gun back on him and pulled the trigger?

  There were powder burns on his forehead, which meant the shot had been fired at near point-blank.

  I knew I only had a few more seconds of alone time with the body, so I glanced carefully at the whole picture, trying to take it all in. I got down close to the gun and, without touching it, looked at its cylinder and saw one of the six bullets missing. I had a pretty good guess where the other one ended up.

  I thought about checking his pockets but figured that might be pushing my luck a bit. I eased back to the curb and waited for the rest of the cops to arrive, then thought better of it. I had a much better working relationship with the Adams PD than with the city proper. I’d just give them a call at the office, plus I had the sneaking suspicion that my toes were freezing together.

  Stuffing my hands deeper into my pockets than ever before, hoping somehow they’d become warmer, I made for my car and the terrible procedure it would take to get it running again. I had a full agenda and needed to get started as soon as possible.

  The day had started with a death—and before it was over there would be one more. I was going to have my work cut out for me.

  January 3, 1998

  Battling through the snowdrifts, I avoided wayward drivers and plows on my way to the newspaper. I lodged my car in the parking lot snowbank, taking up what I assumed were two spaces, and hurried inside.

  The crowded elevator took me to the thirtieth floor. Nodding at Sal as I passed him coming out of the break room, I paused and asked, “Did you hear about the murder on 80th and Rollister in Adams?”

  “Christ, are you kidding me?” he said to no one in particular as he stormed off to get his camera. “Why doesn’t anyone tell me anything?”

  I watched him go and walked into the break room to find the coffee pot empty. Should have figured; on snow days no one bothers braving the streets to support their local coffee shop. The pot was so empty, it looked like it had been licked clean.

  I made my way to my desk and decided to check my messages. Eddie Lamb was already at his. He looked overjoyed with himself.

  “Morning, buddy,” he said. I looked at him and saw he had at least found himself a cup of joe.

  I took a seat and turned on my computer.

  “Guess what I’m working on?” he said, looking at me between stacks of paper.

  “I flunked divination in school, why don’t you just tell me?” I asked looking at the blinking message lights on my phone.

  “A news story about—The Raven,” he said.

  I stopped everything and looked at him. “The Raven?”

  “Yeah, I guess he wants to do a profile with us or something,” he said, acting as nonchalant as he could manage, but looking instead like a stroke victim.

  I couldn’t remember any time a cape had been interested in doing a story.

  “I’m gonna meet with him later this afternoon at a secret location,” he said, turning back to his computer.

  “A secret location?” I asked, shaking my head. How the hell does a guy like Eddie Lamb score a story of this caliber?

  “They know a quality reporter when they see one.”

  “Right, so how’d they find out about you?”

  He pretended not to hear and picked up his phone, making a fake phone call.

  The Raven, there was that name was again. It reminded me of my conversation with Jeff Polar, and I picked up my phone to check my messages.

  I only had two. One was from a nonprofit dog shelter preparing to have a grand re-opening and the other from Polar.

  “Jack, this is Jeff over at MCPD. I got ahold of that tape. It turns out we had it all along; no capes were ever involved. You’re welcome to drop by the department this afternoon, around 1 p.m., and check it out if you want.”

  I deleted the message, hung up the phone, and got to work rubbing my temples. So the pizza guy had been wrong? The police had the tapes from the beginning? This had the potential to become very embarrassing for me. Again. I called the Adams PIO and left a message, requesting the identity of the gunshot victim from earlier. I stood up to take off my coat when I heard the crunching of paper. It was the tip that had been taped to my door last night. The script was unfamiliar.

  I decided to make a quick trip to the basement and check out our newspaper’s morgue.

  The morgue held hard copies of every newspaper printed by the Daily Municipal for the last 150 years. It was a stretch—but I needed any excuse to walk off my need to beat Eddie Lamb over the head with my computer monitor.

  The paper’s morgue acted more as a rest home for the newspapers of yesteryear. It was where articles went to be forgotten and finally die
of old age.

  The newspaper leased a large carpeted room in the basement of our building. The room was full of large industrial-sized bookshelves with bound black books that held newspapers by the year they were published.

  I hadn’t spent a lot of time down there and was only remotely familiar with its location. After my third attempt to find it I struck pay dirt and wandered in. Trying to get the lay of the land, I walked around the morgue clockwise until I got my bearings and found the date I was looking for. Dragging the large volume out of its resting place, I laid it down on a nearby table, cracked it open, and started flipping through the yellowed pages.

  It was full of news about dot-coms, presidential transgressions, and old astronauts going back into space. I stopped when I got to the newspaper edition in question. The lead article was about a corporate buyout. Hoping I hadn’t just wasted my time, I started carefully paging through and reading the headlines. Eventually, I stopped again.

  I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up and my mouth go dry. “Man Found Mutilated in Alley.” The article read almost like the one I had written myself the day before. An unidentified man was found with a crushed skull and missing hands in a particularly seedy part of the city.

  A two-column black-and-white photograph showed police gathered near an alley. In the picture a younger and thinner Calhoun, still a detective, could be seen looking away from the camera.

  This had all happened before. I went through the next day’s paper and the next until the man was at last identified as Sam Keegan, a World War II veteran, with no known relatives. The cause of death: murder; motive—nothing was ever disclosed.

  Conspiracy

  I felt the edges of my mouth curling up at the corners as the full implication of my discovery settled in the pit of my stomach. The word “conspiracy” immediately came to mind. Conspiracy was a good word. One that first implied a con, then directly followed it with the sound of a dozen unearthed snakes. Conspiracy.