So Weeps the Willow - 16. Discovery - Chapter 6

Discovery 6

Stephanie tried to keep the boys in sight, but Kyle in particular, liked to ride his bike faster than his brother. Little Greg’s legs would pedal as fast as he could, but his big brother raced ahead of them both. At least, she reminded herself, along this stretch of Minnehaha Parkway, it was familiar to her sons. They rode this pathway a couple of times a week when the weather was nice on their way to the park. Paragon Park was the boys favorite. It had monkey bars, which were hard to find, given the proclivity of young children to fall and break things, like bones. Yet, kids loved them, enjoyed the thrill, and she liked seeing them so excited.

The bike trail was a blessing to their neighborhood. In ten blocks, they could travel beneath a couple of highway overpasses along the Minnehaha Creek which snaked through the area. Lush trees and bushes lined the pathway with houses near, masked by the foliage. It was a sleek, lovely ribbon of parkland, tucked in the middle of the city, sandwiched between rows of houses and giving residents a kiss of nature below the wheels of traffic on the bridges. It was surprisingly quiet and serene down here.

Steph and Dennis had pondered the existence of the unique park strung through the southern part of the city. She thought the stream’s spring floods had made the land perfect for a hiking and biking trail. Her husband thought the line of expensive houses fronting the waterway prevented further development. Regardless, they loved the little trail and taste of nature in the middle of civilization.

She saw her oldest had biked around a corner and now she couldn’t see him. A brief flash of annoyance passed through her. He could be such a pill sometimes. She picked up the pace, moving faster now, but still not overtaking her other son. Greg had a set to his little shoulders that suggested he was determined to catch up to Kyle. It was cute, because that very set of shoulders and muscles in his neck strained and flushed red, were a matching set to her husband’s, though on a larger frame.

While Kyle favored her features, the boy seemed to have his father’s taciturn manners, except when it came to competition. Then he was fierce and vocal, exuberant in his mannerisms. Greg looked like a miniature version of her husband, Dennis, but he was more laidback about most other things. The little boy loved his art class and had started piano lessons. Their fridge was adorned with his watercolor pictures and Kyle’s soccer ribbons. It made her smile as they rounded the corner and saw her older son had stopped.

The ten-year-old was standing astride his bike, looking at something in his hand. It was a scrap of colorful cloth. There was a puzzled look on his tanned face. Stephanie wondered what it was. She hoped it wasn’t anything too disgusting. Her boys seemed to find the filthiest objects a park had to offer. More than once, Greg found a used condom or Kyle had discovered a dead bird with its eyes pecked out. The boys seemed to delight in making their squeamish mother gag with such ‘treasures’.

In a few more yards as she approached, Stephanie could make out shape and color of the object. It was a handkerchief of some sorts, with stripes like a flag. The stripes were black, blue, and white. As she neared, she saw there was something red on it. “What did you find?” she asked, trying not to sound freaked out, at least not too much. She could be such a drama queen, and knew it.

“It’s a little flag I think. It’s really sticky though.” Her son lifted his hand, and his palm was smudged red. It had the little red heart, positioned in the corner like the stars on the American flag, and the color had started running from the cloth. Maybe the moisture of the morning dew, had wet the dye.

“Mom, this stinks,” Kyle said, dropping the cloth.

Stephanie climbed off her bike, and leaned it onto the kick-stand. She bent over the object and peered at it. The little cloth was a flag, of sorts, and now lay flat on the path, she could see it was stained. Glancing over at her son, she saw he was rubbing his hands on his pale blue shirt and tan shorts. They were leaving streaks of dark red.

“I need to wash my hands,” Kyle said, rubbing even harder. Now she could smell it. There was a rotting smell to the cloth. It was blood, she realized. “Step back,” she ordered, trying to control her breathing and stop her gag reflex. Both sons, did, Kyle still rubbing the dark red liquid on his shorts. Greg started to cry, seeing his mother clutch at her throat in panic.

***

“What did they find?” the reporter asked, standing behind the yellow crime tape stretched between orange cones positioned around the path. Behind the barrier, two police cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck were parked on the concrete. There were two men in the bucket of the loader, raised up to the bridge above them. Between the undercarriage of the bridge and the piers holding it up, was the pier cap on which the girders holding the roadway sat, there was a gap, a dark space and the two men in the cherry picker were leaning into that space.

“Not sure. I know my neighbor called 911 when a kid started howling. They found something with dried blood all over it. At first the police thought it was just a rag, but a flock of birds flew out of that space when the sirens on the firetruck spooked them. One of them dropped another item, an earring or something and it had blood on it as well.”

Nigella Flecks knew a good story when she smelled a juicy one. Finding a dead body under a bridge was a wonderful way to pick up some extra clicks. That’s what everyone measured their work by. The more clicks you got, the better office you had at the station. She was good at finding the stories people couldn’t resist and a master at giving them the kinds of headlines that made them forward it. That generated more clicks.

It didn’t matter if it was true or not. Today, the story was just that, a story, and “Bridge is Tomb for Dead Hooker” or Stabbed Man Found on Bridge to Nowhere”. She could already see the counters spin as people on Facebook and Twitter posted her hot story with even more sensational titles. Everyone delivered the news for free nowadays. In the old days, boys on bikes brought your morning paper in the wee hours. Now you could just check your phone.

Now, your Aunt Jean or a coworker forwarded you ‘news’ items twenty-four/seven.

Nigella pulled out her phone hitting a quick dial number. “Denny? How are you? Good. Say, do you have a minute to talk?”

She paused.

“Okay, what can you tell me about the scene on Minnehaha Parkway and Girard?”

An hour later, the following story began to make a splash on computer screens, smart phones, and iPads throughout the Twin Cities.

“Young Gay Man Bashed and Stashed in Cement Bunker in Park.”

It spread like a prairie fire, burning retinas throughout the region and eventually the nation. Very little of it was actually true.

***

One thing Rush wasn't looking forward to, was explaining his wild-eyed theory of how Jake Ogden couldn't have died from an accident because now there were suspects. Suspects of what? He could hear Naomi ask that question. What exactly did they do? Break into his home in the middle of the night, without waking him, bust the heater’s safety switch and sneak out without anyone seeing them?

His nose itched as it always did when he had a strong hunch and nothing to go by.

“Ms. Naomi will see you now,” a tall, ebony slim woman with high cheekbones and a gracious smile said. She was dressed in a mid-thigh charcoal wool skirt and a silky top, pale yellow and accented with a dark navy-blue scarf. She waited patiently as the detective got out of his chair and picked up his briefcase and computer bag.

“Right this way,” she gestured down a hall, and he followed her shapely form, very female, but like a model, her hips swaying unconsciously as she walked.

Rush wondered what her deal was, because everyone had one -- a deal that is. Jake Ogden had a deal, it was his Peter Pan syndrome, drinking and fearing responsibility. Rush could feel Jake’s anxiety over being an adult in the words of his blog. The young dead man had been scared shitless he'd never become something. That was common in young people whose sense of worth was measured by their success in life.

Rush knew his own ‘deal’ was his absent father whose ghostlike presence kept him always wondering who he was. He'd probably never really know, not entirely. It kept him constantly worrying if he was missing something important.

Clay's deal was much like the detective's ‘deal’. But, Clay had something Rush never did. The teenager had Rush and Ben looking out for him, helping him figure out ‘who’ he was. Every time Rush saw Clay struggle to be, well, Clay, he’d be there. That’s all the boy really needed, or so Rush hoped.

And then, there’s Ben. Ben’s deal was pleasing others. His own sense of worth was tied into a series of good deeds, positive results, tasks performed that created success. It was the core of him and, Rush loved that about him. The man’s inner goodness and faith in doing the right thing, was like a warm comforter at night and a strong cup of coffee during the day. It was probably bullshit, but in the end, he loved the goofy nerd for exactly that.

Ben and he had figured out a strategy to tell the client. That’s what he was about to do now. Ben and Rush Romer were absolutely convinced Jake had been murdered. It wasn't an accident.

It was an ‘on-purpose.’ He was sure of it and yet didn't know how that could be. He didn’t have any real facts to prove to his client, or to Naomi, that Jake Ogden’s case was actually a homicide. It just couldn’t have been an accident, of that both he and Ben were positive. If you collect what they knew thus far, it couldn’t be bad luck and fate. There were too many variables that don’t work in accidents.

He’d interviewed a drunk mother who didn't know anything except that she wanted a big payout.

He'd interviewed a friend who wasn't exactly forthcoming, but a person Rush seemed to know from reading the journal.

He’d interviewed an ex who believed the victim and he were going to get back together, except that wasn’t what it sounded like in the journal. Jake had feelings but it sounded like their rapprochement was as brittle as glass and as stable as an earthquake.

He needed to communicate a sense of progress even though there wasn't any. Suddenly, he stopped, his attention coming back to the law firm office.

The woman escorting him to the conference room had stopped and the detective almost barreled into her.

“Sorry,” he apologized automatically. “I guess I was thinking about the case and wasn't watching close enough.”

“Yes,” she said. A wry smile curved her lips and she slit her eyes. “I guess so.”

Rush waited for her to open the door, and when she finally did, he entered the room. Naomi wasn't alone. She had two other people with her. A man dressed in a brown suit, stylish with a green tie and startlingly white shirt, so white it looked new. His hair was iron gray, longish, and combed back in a style more 1970s than a modern look. His shoulders were slumped, and he looked defeated, somehow.

Rush quickly assessed the other person, an older woman in a plain blue dress suit with a pink shirt. Her hair was long and flowed freely past her shoulders. Her makeup was all angles and striking colors. The lipstick was blood red while her eyes were heavily lined with black. Her forehead was wrinkled with concern, and she patted the man’s hand.

“Rush,” Naomi began as she stood. “I'd like you to meet our client, Sawyer Bailey. Sawyer, this is our secret weapon, Rush Romer.”

Rush shook the man’s hand; it was firm but clammy. Then he looked to the other woman next to Naomi. He’d expected to see Jessie Oakland, the woman he’d met originally. It wasn’t her.

She offered a hand with long, red nails that seemed to match her lipstick. The color made her hands resemble claws dripping in blood. Her smile and greeting were easy and calm.

“I'm Susan Ballard, another of the managing partners here. We were getting Sawyer up to speed on the case. We're hoping you have some good news for us.”

Rush tried not to wince, but he could tell by Naomi's reaction and the man’s further slumping into the chair, they knew what he had to say.

“Please sit,” Ballard said.

“Have you found anything yet?”

Rush dug in his bag, pulled out his laptop, and tried to stall for time.

“Did the mother or friends know about the switch?” the man asked, his voice strained.

Rush opened the computer and shook his head once, looking at him, then Naomi. “The mother wasn't any help. She is hellbent on revenge.”

The man flinched. He didn't say anything though. Rush was about to read notes from Notepad saved on his laptop. Rush blushed a little, thinking how Ben laughed at his use of such an archaic program. Then, he continued his report.

“The woman who found him, who worked with him, didn't seem to know much about it except to say when she turned the heater off. She remembered some dial on it was cracked. She also claims she'd never seen the heater before.”

“What about the last person to see the victim?” Naomi's boss asked.

“The guy is the victim’s ex-boyfriend. He’d never seen the heater either. Seemed quite surprised actually.”

The client bit his bottom lip and scowled. “I guess that’s it then.”

“If we call plaintiff’s counsel, perhaps we can get this settled this afternoon.” That was Naomi’s boss, and her advice wasn’t received well.

Baileys face flushed red. He turned to his attorney and said, “This will ruin me, you know that right? Once news of a settlement gets out, my switch will become a joke in the marketplace. No company will use it ever again. That design worked and just because someone wrecked it, now I’ll lose it all.”

Rush stopped fiddling with the computer and pushed it to the side. “I'm unclear what you mean.” He was surprised at the man’s vehemence.

Sawyer Bailey began to talk, explaining how he'd invented this carbon monoxide switch that shut down any kind of heater when the silent, deadly gas, carbon monoxide was present. His invention was state-of-the-art for use on all kinds of heaters that used some form of gas. The switch he designed had tripped over three hundred times in real life in the past year alone. It had worked, as he characterized it, ‘saving lives’. As he spoke he became more excited, more animated. This little switch was like one of his children or something. He was passionate about it. He ended his spiel with the following impassioned plea:

“If we say it doesn’t work, what of all the lives that could be lost?”

“But, how would a settlement really affect your business? This one was broken, it wasn't that it didn't work, right?” Naomi recoiled at her boss’s question.

Bailey sat back and laced his fingers over his broad chest. “When people in the industry hear ‘settlement’, they assume it failed because if it was broken, I wouldn't be liable. Since we're paying out, the heater companies will stop buying it and using it. The switch isn’t expensive, but it does cost them money.

“I have over a hundred and twenty employees here and they will all be out of good paying jobs, just because we can't prove it was broken by someone or something else. My switch didn't fail, but everyone will assume it did if I settle.”

Rush was more confused than ever. His world was dictated and directed by evidence, logic, behaviors that had reasons, and rationales that drove actions. It was a world fixed on a plane that promised innocence until a jury of peers decreed guilt. So he asked a very serious question, which in his mind made all the sense in the world.

“Why not settle, show your customers how this wasn’t your fault, and do some damage control? I’m sure the people buying the safety switches would understand. After all, litigation in business is simply part of ‘doing business’. I’m sure most of your clients have paid settlements to protect their good name and keep bad publicity at bay. They’d understand.”

Sawyer Bailey sighed, again, and slowly shook his head, squinting up at the ceiling. He rubbed his eyes, but the glassiness didn’t go away. The teariness betrayed him.

“I understand your argument, Detective Romer. I actually agree with you to some extent. The problem is, we don’t live in that world any longer. The world where you are listened to rationally and are considered as doing the right thing, has passed us by. We live in a social media world now. This is now a place where accusations are enough to convict, and the public will find you guilty due to the number of likes. Once you are the subject of Facebook and Twitter memes, your reputation is destroyed.”

Rush’s mouth dropped open. All he could remember was what he now called, “The Barbed Wire Heart case.” It was his final one with the BCA and in that firestorm, social media, the people who are behind political causes, and ordinary people making snap judgments had almost destroyed a man’s life. The poor guy had almost had his life taken from him.

Brody Sullivan had been accused of murder. A neighbor had died and he’d been the one to find the body the next morning. As the maintenance man, he had keys to all the doors, and that had been enough. Without an immediate alibi and given a circumstantial case against him, Sullivan had been presumed guilty by first the police and then by his work which spread to social media. Sullivan was fired from his job and subject to a smear campaign.

The young man was lucky. Brody had allies who were brave enough to fight for him. There was the old man, Lloyd, who fought for him. He had a new boyfriend who stood up for him. In spite of the firestorm of public opinion, a bunch of elderly people convinced Rush the Sullivan man was innocent. Brody was a good guy, and they stood up to the horde.

Who would stand up for a company like Bailey Safety Systems? Who would acknowledge there was a corporation created by a person who invented a device to save lives that deserved defending? No one. There was no ‘Lloyd’ standing up to the mob rule which now burned through social media.

“What you’re saying is the fallout would ruin your business, your invention?” Rush said, looking Bailey squarely in the face. “No one would believe you and no one would stand up and say, ‘wait a minute, let’s consider the evidence’.”

“Yes. No. I just don’t know, and that frightens me,” the gray-haired man was now resigned. He’d given up the fight, which made Rush, writhe in fury. He could feel his blood boil at the injustice of it all.

In the back of his mind, he listened to Naomi begin to detail their position. Her boss, Ballard, explained how much the insurance company had approved to get rid of the case, to pay a settlement essentially admitting guilt. Rush also listened to the sadness in the man’s tone. At one point, he heard the businessman stop and gulp before he spoke. His words were halting. The detective realized he was listening to the tone of a man, who if not dead on the inside, was dying in spirit.

“Can I show you something?” Rush said, more loudly than he’d intended.

The words in the background stopped, almost immediately. He had their attention. Rush was crossing a line, perhaps in the sand, maybe because he had to. As he found the link, he clicked on it and opened the file he’d preserved. Rush scrolled through the pages, and then continued.

“I did find out something interesting from the ex. Apparently, the victim had been keeping a blog about personal matters.” Rush stopped, then added, “He was trying to quit drinking and so he had written some journal-like entries online. They are interesting, and might not help, but I have an inkling they could.”

Rush felt the oxygen sucked from the room as he waited. First Naomi, then Bailey, and finally the managing partner looked at him. The businessman spoke first.

“Did he talk about the heater at all?”

“No, but there are things in here which bring up questions about testimony and witness statements.”

“Rush, what did you find?” Naomi asked. She sounded excited.

“Nothing, not really.” The detective backtracked quickly. He then looked at Bailey. “We have some questions to pursue, if you want to. For example, the last person to speak with him told me he went to Jake’s apartment, but according to the blog, he never showed.”

“But, if he—“

Ballard interrupted her client, “What else?”

“Jake’s ‘best friend’ and he weren’t speaking. They were in some kind of fight. Then, she shows up the next morning and finds the body. It’s a little weird, I’d say.”

Naomi asked the final question, the one that sealed the deal, at least, that’s what Rush figured.

“What about the mother? You said she wasn’t a sympathetic witness.”

“No,” Rush answered slowly. “She cut off ties with her son, according to Jake’s blog entries. I think she was sponging off him, and he finally stopped helping her pay her bills.”

When he looked up from the document, he could see Naomi was lost in thought. Ballard was mulling things over, her lovely face twitching as she processed things. But the look on Bailey’s face was magical. He was hopeful. For the first time since he’d met the man, his features softened and morphed into someone who looked alive again.

“Can I call you Rush?” the client asked excitedly.

The detective nodded and smiled at the businessman now leaning closer to him.

“You can call me Sawyer, okay? I think this is exactly the lead we need.”

Rush shook his hand. Carefully weighing his words, he said, “These are only lines of inquiry. Let’s face it. There isn’t anything resembling evidence, and to top that off, what happened? Just because Jake had some rocky relations with his ex, his best friend and his mother, doesn’t mean it would lead to anything to do with this case. I’m just saying.”

“No, but perhaps there is more to this situation than what’s evident. I’m not sure what we should do next. Rush, ideas?”

Rush began airing his thoughts. They listened intently.