House of the Rose - 1. Part I

"Benim Ruhani Askim” (Turkish for ‘my spiritual lover”)

for The Beloved

“… I fell into the valley of my wound,
a gift to me from my beloved
and I am swimming in an ocean of its blood,
the bitter, salted waters of life…”

___***___

(Ankara, Turkey)

I

A light breeze teased Tony Barret’s hair in the small cooling of late afternoon – while he felt a bit out of place but stimulated with interest as his dark-brown eyes traveled around the restaurant patio: ‘Just why did you fly me all the way from Los Angeles to Ankara, Henry?’ he asked.

He’d been born and raised in Tulsa, Oklahoma, was slender of body and just under medium height. At twenty-seven, his angular, already-weathered face and the tangle of his almost-black hair looked suitable for a native of the wind-strewn plains as he waited for an answer.

‘I offer you respite from the scholarly mummification of working on your doctoral dissertatin for the summer, to say nothing of some time beyond, and you ask why?’ said his older friend, who – despite a decided hint of unconventionality – evinced a graceful dignity with pale-blue eyes setting off a pleasantly attractive face and a medium-brown, lightly-frosted beard.

Throughout his lifetime of their acquaintance, Tony had never deciphered when Henry Konkel was joking, when not, and now still wasn’t sure until Henry tempered his tone of voice: ‘I thought you’d enjoy a vacation at my expense. Too, there’s nothing like late-spring nights in Ankara. Smell the air and the catalpa blossoms, young man,’ – and Henry pointed at an overhanging catalpa tree in blossom beside their table next to the patio’s perimeter.

Tony inhaled: `Yeah, that’s mighty refreshing oxygen compared with the mockery thereof hovering over L. A., and sitting under this tree is rather like being in a perfume boutique.’

‘Yes, and nights in Ankara at this time of year remind me of southeast Nebraska, which as you know, is my home territory. The air here is so soft, as it is there, like finely atomized velvet,’ – and though Tony didn’t know why, he sensed that his friend wasn’t so much occupied with childhood as he was with a much greater past.

Henry lit a cigar as he was stubbing-out the previous one in an ashtray: ‘Too, wait until you see the moon. A crescent version of it is on the Turkish flag, the moon having been a male not a female symbol in ancient Turkic culture, though I prefer it as a lady.’

‘And I’ve come here to meet her? By the way, I am grateful for a break from desk -computer -and -library-slavery at U. C. L. A., thanks to you. But there is more?’ – and Tony’s eyes this time penetrated those across the table at the Gulhanase Cafe-Bar on Yuksel Street near Ankara’s center.

‘There’s no escape from the intellectual inquisition of the Barret mind!’ Henry chuckled. ‘So, yes, I came to Turkey a bit more than a year ago to visit Ephesus or Efes in the western part of the country, because tradition in the Eastern Christian church says that Mary Magdalene and Mother Mary lived there with John The Beloved to escape persecution in the Palestine of New Testament times. Beyond that, Turkey was the homeland of the Persian poet Rumi who fascinates me.’

Henry paused: ‘As you know, Anthony, my parents are dead, I’m an only child and have no wife or children. I’m in good health but not young anymore. Most importantly, there’s something I need to tell you before it’s too late. Once it is, what I need – no, must say – won’t have any ears to hear it.’

‘But why in Turkey?’

Henry briefly averted his eyes: ‘I was being followed for a few weeks before I left Falls City.’

‘Am I supposed to believe that someone was following you in a little town in the lower right-hand corner of Nebraska?’

‘Don’t be presumptuous, Anthony,’ – there was a sigh in Henry’s voice. After another pause he continued, ‘No, I don’t expect you to believe me, not yet. Like it or not, though, truth refuses to recognize what we do or don’t believe.’

‘I’m sorry, Henry. Sometimes I become consumed with the curse of mundane practicality without meaning to be cynical. But you’ve piqued my interest,’ Tony said.

‘Fine, though explaining why I was followed won’t mean anything until I tell you everything that’s involved, and that’ll take a while.’

‘No matter. First, let me get some coffee. I need something to rattle my bones awake. I’m lucky if I manage to even get out of bed before five in the evening when I’m not toiling in the research mine,’ Tony said.

‘They don’t serve coffee here,’ Henry informed him, ‘I’m drinking tea which will do just fine, and I have a special flavoring for yours.’

‘What’s that?’

Henry said nothing, turning toward a nearby waiter with a enigmatic look on his face: ‘Efendim, Burak, bir tane chai, alta tane sheker (excuse me, Burak, one cup of tea, six sugars). The best I remember, Anthony, you use six teaspoons of’….

‘… tamam (okay),’ the waiter interrupted, moving toward the cafe’s interior as Tony remarked, ‘You know Turkish, Henry.’

‘Enough to survive’…

… ‘but not likely that wrapping your tongue around the language will help solve the mystery of you being followed, if there is one.’

‘Yes, though patience. Turkish chai (tea) contains enough caffeine to gird your loins for the task at hand… ah, here it comes, unusually rapid service,’ – and Henry took an ornately decorated bottle out of the book bag slung over the back of his chair.

He removed its cap as Tony said, ‘I’m curious to see what’s in that, something along the line of hashish?’

‘Despite this as the land of Rumi, the love-poet, the Turks have a hard time falling in love with this drink I invented, and that because they never use enough sugar with it – which means you should be in love with it in minutes. So take your mind off hashish, put the sugar in your tea and stir until it dissolves,’ Henry gave instructions which Tony followed.

‘Okay, the sugar has joined spirits with the tea ready for whatever you have,’ Tony said, and Henry reached across to pour a bright-pink powder into his tea: ‘Stir that in.’

Tony did, with the small spoon he’d been served, a look of pleasure crossing his face as he watched the drink’s color turn to a royal-red.

‘Wow! – most assuredly not hash. What is that stuff?’ he asked.

‘In leaf form, it’s known as rose hip tea States-side. Here, it’s hibiscus-flavored kushburnu – ‘kush’ being Turkish for bird and ‘burn’ for nose, in other words, rose hips shaped like bird noses.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Look at the sign over the door.’

Tony turned in his seat.

‘Do you know what it says?’

‘No.’

‘Gulhanase means ‘house of the rose’,’ Henry told him.

‘Is this coincidence, or a special ritual for you to drink kushburnu and tea at the house of the rose?’ Tony asked.

‘I always have kushburnu with me wherever I am. Take a little taste, slowly,’ Henry answered.

Tony raised the drink for a tentative sampling: ‘Um-m-m! – delicious!’ – and he buried his nose in porcelain for more liquid ravishment before lowering the cup: ‘Where did you learn about kushburnu, Henry?’

‘I first drank it at a cafe on Bayindir Street nine months ago,’ – and a distant look appeared in Henry’s eyes as he continued, ‘Quaff this cup, and I swear you’ll see god and the Magdalen!’

‘I don’t know about god, the Magdalen wouldn’t be a problem. But my loins already feel girded. So, where do we start with the tale of Falls City – first, why you want me to hear it?’ Tony said.

‘Sometimes I don’t understand my own mind these days. It took me a little over a year to think of you. But your doctoral thesis is on Medieval history – correct?’

‘Yes, with an emphasis on the bohemian culture of that period, an interest I picked up because you and dad were best friends and literature majors’….

… ‘at Peru College sixty-five miles north of Falls City up the Missouri River,’ Henry finished Tony’s sentence. ‘Ah, the good old seventies days of college life at Peru still influenced by the Beat Poets and hippies! After an academic steeping in literature, whatever possessed your father to start a business in office supplies leaning so heavily toward computers and software, nowadays?’

‘Now, Henry! You could ask yourself a similar question. I wouldn’t say you’ve necessarily lived a double life, but you are a puzzle of contradictions. You taught literature at your alma mater after graduation, and while you might’ve toked on water bongs, written beat poetry and worn tie-dye t-shirts, bandannas and tattered jeans at poetry readings, you were a professor in regular ties, dress shirts and suits the rest of the time, weren’t you?’

‘I asked about your father, Anthony,’ Henry replied, the wisp of a smile playing about his face, ‘He’s a businessman with a bohemian soul who still writes beat poetry.’

‘Survival, pure survival, Henry, since he seduced mom into marrying him by reading her one of his four-line poems, only four lines….’

‘… and I used to be able to quote them, not anymore; I forgot a lot after I almost died with the West Nile Virus four years ago,’ Henry said. ‘As for your father?’

‘The idea of him seducing mom into marriage with a four-line poem partly is a legend of his, since I’m sure there were other reasons, and I have considered her surrender as over-compensation for being the personification of practicality and business sense born into a wealthy family. She’s a financial genius, could plant ragweed seeds and reap monster pumpkins when it comes to money. Closet bohemian or not, though, dad has a golden pen and a golden tongue, one reason he’s such a good salesman.’

‘I’m sure you’re right – and your mother, Meghan, is a lovely woman,’ Henry said, ‘Too, for thirty-one years your father has kept the faith as the best friend I’ve ever had, with you following in his footsteps.’

‘And why you chose me to tell something?’ Tony inquired.

‘Partly, and partly because you already are a scholar of those periods in European history and have studied the Grail Legends, haven’t you?’

‘Troubadours and minstrels were sources of the Grail Legends, the best examples of bohemian culture still extant in the literature of those times,’ Tony responded, watching smoke spiraling lazily upward from his friend’s cigar.

‘Yes, I know. Before I go on, though, all the information related to what I’ll tell you is in two safe deposit boxes in the Falls City National Bank, because, for one thing, my memory hasn’t been entirely reliable since I was ill. For example, I can’t remember the name of one of the most important Visigoth Kings… but let me ask you a question, Anthony. Did you enjoy the childhood summers you spent with me on the farm north of Falls City I inherited from my parents?’ Henry asked, his eyes piercing Tony’s.

‘Couldn’t have been better, except the girls of my age living the closest were what? – across at least two county sections of fields swarming with the tallest corn I’ve ever seen! But I still remember the summer night air and the moon,’ Tony replied.

‘Thanks for allowing me a chance to hear that,’ Henry softly said. ‘I’ve always liked thinking the moon helped persuade your father to attend summer courses like I did,’ – and Henry stopped for another pause: ‘As for being followed and all that entails’….

‘… wait, I need more tea,’ Tony interjected, ‘And I’ll have more of the powdered Rose Lady, too’…

___ ***___

… he quickly drained his cup, handing it to Burak who nodded in recognition of Henry ordering more of the drink for both men, the waiter this time being a little slower serving it.

But he’d remembered six sugar cubes; Tony stirred them in and looked expectantly at Henry who, after a hint of teasing hesitation, reached across the table with more kushburnu.

Tony stirred and lightly tasted the mixture before lounging back: ‘Uh-m-m-m, this elixir is good. But, okay, I’m ready for what you have to tell me. Shoot from the hip.’

‘Good gracious! Rose hip tea and shoot from the hip? What a loose but atrocious pun! I’ll disregard it! - but care for a mini-cigar, a menthol one?’

‘Oh, now, Henry, you know I rarely smoke.’

‘And why you expended all of that energy trying to dry wild marijuana leaves on the farm those long summers ago?’

‘The sins of youth are to be washed away in rivers of forgotten memories, well, not entirely forgotten – besides, I swear I could smell marijuana when it was in blossom, kind of like seduction by lotus flowers. But, come to think of it, go ahead and give me one of those things. I have a feeling I’ll be needing a double girding of caffeine and nicotine before all’s said and done,’ – and Henry placed a cigar between the young scholar’s lips, lighting it before Tony realized what was happening.

He inhaled a couple of times: ‘Not bad, for cigars.’

‘No, and I had an entertaining time smuggling one hundred packs of them into Turkey because I wasn’t sure I could find them here.’

‘But not really contraband?’

‘I had fun pretending,’ Henry replied.

‘You’ve always been good with that sort of thing. But my vacation time is precious, even if you’re paying for it – so for starters, is your fascination with Rumi connected to what you’re going to tell me?’ Tony asked with a mischievous look which Henry ignored as he said, ‘It’s related – you do know about Rumi, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Some literary theories place origins of the Grail Legends in ancient Persia. I’ve done a lot of study looking for any clue about bohemian-like characters in literature, even back then in the Middle East – don’t know a lot about Rumi, but some,’ Tony answered.

‘Yes, well, he was born in 1207 in the Persian city of Balkh that lay within today’s Afghanistan. To escape religious persecution following the Mongol invasion of the area, Rumi’s father settled his family in the city of Konya about two-hundred miles south and a little west of here. At the time, Konya was the capital of the Seljuk, not the Ottoman Empire, and Rumi was appointed court teacher of Islamic learning when he was twenty-five. Even at that age, he was a highly respected scholar.’

‘At some point, he met a mysterious older man, Shams from the city of Tebriz also in Persia. Immediately, there was a connection of spirit between the two who came to treasure each other dearly, although they didn’t make love physically. They were spiritual lovers, or ‘ruhani ashkiler’ in Turkish. They spent hours together alone, maybe as much as a day or two. Rumi’s other disciples complained that Sham’s was too old, even too dirty to be worthy of Rumi, which, of course, was nothing but a cover for envy.’

‘Shams finally decided it’d be better for everyone if he disappeared – in the middle of the night without forewarning. Rumi was smitten with grief and sent one of his sons looking for Shams. The son found him in a Damascus bazaar and persuaded him to return. But it was while Shams was gone that some of the world’s greatest love poetry – from one man to another – was written by Rumi for Shams.’

‘They were together the second time for I don’t know how long. The story says that one night Shams and Rumi were making love heart-to-heart when Shams answered a knock on the door and was never seen again. Some Turks still think he was murdered by Rumi’s disciples, even worse, by one of his sons – which I find preposterous since that wouldn’t have been much better than murdering his mother. You have to remember the two men were lovers of the soul, and except for his wife and children, Shams was more precious to Rumi than anyone in the world. I think Shams simply disappeared for a second time – a wonderfully romantic story, really,’ – and Henry stopped for a swallow of tea before lighting another cigar.

Tony searched the older man’s face for several seconds before speaking: ‘That’s an interesting story but not all there is to it, is there?’

‘No… because I have a lover of my own,’ Henry replied, his eyes never wavering.

‘Why, Henry, you little devil! I didn’t know you had a boyfriend!’ Tony exclaimed with impish delight.

‘No, Anthony, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s ‘benim ruhani askim’, my spiritual lover,’ Henry replied.

‘Well, okay. But who is he?’

‘You’ll meet him later tonight. His name’s Onur, and we’re flying to the states tomorrow for the start of a trip wherever he wants to go the day after tomorrow,’ Henry said..

‘Wow! Okay, but how old is he?’

This time, it was Henry’s turn to register impish delight: ‘Twenty.’

‘You’re what, fifty-five, and have a boyfriend – I mean, a spiritual lover of only twenty?’ Tony asked in astonishment.

Henry simply shrugged, with merriment dancing in his eyes.

‘Good lord! Is there magic in kushburnu – and is he good-looking? ‘

‘Quite,’ Henry replied.

‘What does he do?’

‘He majors in Ottoman literature as a freshman at Bilkent University here in Ankara. He speaks good English, as you’ll see, since that’s what all classes there are taught in.’

Tony’s attitude became more gentle: `You really love him, don’t you?’

‘Very much.’

‘I can tell. But let me get things straight in my head: The two of you love each other but don’t have sex?’

‘Onur and I obviously aren’t sufis like Rumi and Shams – though spiritual love is a concept difficult for many Westerners to grasp, something buried deep within the Turkish cultural mind, possibly as a remnant of shamanism, an idea also imbedded in the culture of the ancient Greeks who believed in profound friendship as love. That’s why Alexander and his lover, Hephaestion, might not have had sex. My friend, Professor Kaan Okay, is one of the world’s top experts in Turkish folklore and head of the budding department in that area at Bilkent. The best way I know to explain the concept is what he told me: There’s an interpretation of ‘dost’, or friends, in Turkish tradition that respects heterosexual men having a romance not only of the heart, but of their very existence sometimes expressed in poetry for one another.’

‘I’ve had a lot of sex in my time, relatively easy for attractive people involved with the hippies in Peru. Now, at my age, I don’t care about sex. All I care about is the simplicity of simply loving someone, Anthony.’

‘I can’t say I fully understand what you’re saying. But it sounds nice. What do the Turks think about you and Onur?’ Tony inquired.

‘Not all of them really acquainted with the tradition, though it’s amazing to see the peaceful glow of reverence on their faces when I talk about us. One time, I was telling Sakina and her boyfriend Mehmet about Onur. They looked the same way. And Sakina finally said, `You’ve seen the face of god in your love for each other, haven’t you?’

‘I just stared at her before I asked, `How’d you know’? She simply smiled and shrugged, and what she said was one of the most astonishing things I’ve ever heard. It’s been the most wonderful experience of my life, Anthony!’

‘How did you meet Onur?’ Tony wanted to know.

‘That goes back to college. You’ve probably heard your father mention The Blues Garage not far from campus in Peru?

‘Of course.’

`I spent many a time dancing the blues into the wee morning hours there’…

‘… and still haven’t gotten that out of your system?’

‘Speaking of contradictions, a lot of Turks think I’m just a stuff-shirt ex-professor until they see me cutting the rug on the dance floor. They’ve never seen anything like it, at first hardly know what to think, especially about someone my age doing it. But without boasting, I can say I’ve started any number of near-dance-riots, with the young folk going crazy!’

‘They like the blues?’

‘Oh, yes, many of them do, and know the words, too,’ Henry replied.

‘Really? So, how do the blues relate to Onur, and where did you meet him?’

‘Here, one Friday night three months ago when Hound Dog Blue, Turkey’s premiere blues band, was performing and Onur suddenly appeared out the crowd to dance with me. And we’ve been together heart-in-heart ever since,’ Henry said.

‘That is quite romantic,’ Tony remarked. `But drinking rose hip tea at the House of the Rose is only part of an over-all connection. It sounds as though you like returning to the place where the two of you met – right?’

‘Yes, and so does Onur.’

‘Intriguing. This restaurant is kind of sacred, like a temple of love for you. So, what does Rumi – actually, what do you and Onur have to do with all of what you’re going to tell me?’ Tony said.

‘There’s a great deal more to it. But you might say our love is my Holy Grail’…

___ ***___

‘… and my name is Henry Konkel, of course – officially, that is. However, check the documents in the bank safe deposit boxes and you’ll find a another name: Hans Gunkl,’ Henry continued. ‘Of course, Konkle is an Americanization of Gunkl to help with cultural assimilation for my early immigrant ancestors. But dig yet deeper into the papers in the safety deposit boxes and you’ll find a third name: Pharamond Merovian.’

‘Why the need for three names? – though j-u-u-s-t a second! Some people think of Pharamond as the first King of France. Another thing: Certain letters in Merovian need to be rearranged and more added, don’t they?’ Tony interrupted.

‘And you ask why I want you to hear me! You’re right.’

‘Are you saying you’re descended from the Merovingian Kings of Medieval France?’ Tony asked.

‘Yes,’ – there was an elegant simplicity in Henry’s reply

‘I thought the line died with King Dagobert II,’ Tony said.

‘The line of primogeniture did, with Dagobert’s son at age three, though a minor branch of the Merovingian family remained the nominal kings of France for seventy-five years after Dagobert’s assassination with approval from the pope.’

‘However, my ancestors of the time were three kinship-steps from the crown. Considering that I’m partly of a non-royal lineage, in fact, you could say I’m descended from Merovingian bastardy, though the family did live at court in Cologne, Germany. Of course, what I mean by bastardy is that the long-haired kings of Medieval France practiced polygamy. They believed that marriage to even the most common wives wouldn’t weaken royal blood, as I’m sure you know.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ Tony said.

‘Okay, and in terms of the bastard line, my direct ancestors from Dagobert’s generation were Edelbert, who’s mother was a commoner, and Gwenelda, Edelbert’s third commoner wife. They had two sons – another Pharamond – and Harobald.’

‘Dagobert, of course, was murdered by the palace mayor founders of the usurper Carolingians, whom Edelbert and Gwenelda didn’t trust despite peaceful relations with them. They felt the time would eventually but surely come when the Carolingians and the Vatican would try rooting out every vistage of the Merovingians, even the bastards. Edelbert paid well for some thugs to kidnap his sons for ransom when Pharamond was nineteen and Harobald seventeen – actually, a fabrication to fool the Carolingians. In truth, Harobald and Pharamond were disguised as beggars, with clothing and food packed in rucksacks when they left one night on a walking journey to Bohemia.’

‘That was gutsy, nineteen -and -seventeen-year-old kids walking alone all that way,’ Tony said.

‘Desperate measures for desperate times. Even children back then were more tempered by hardship than the majority of Westerners today, and most of us modern Americans are softies by comparison. Back to what I was saying, though: Edelbert was fortunate because the Carolingian court believed his story about the kidnapping and that Edelbert’s sons had been killed.’

‘At a young age, however, the boys had memorized their genealogy going a long way back, as you’ll see. They could recite it by heart. Edelbert and Gwenelda had instructed them to use that to establish their legitimacy when contacting Merovingians in Bohemia. The hope was they’d be safer there since Bohemia was farther from the seat of royal power in Cologne. Harabold and Pharamond unfortunately lost their way, falling ill with small pox they likely contracted while holding children when asking for food in gypsy camps. Pharamond died by the road not far from today’s border between Hungary and the Czech Republic. Harobald was found, taken in, and restored to health by a Hungarian farm couple without any children of their own.’

‘Edelbert might’ve been lucky, but certainly not Pharamond,’ Tony said, his mind incited to begin imagining what Henry was telling him: King Dagobert’s murder, Edelbert’s fear for his sons, and Pharamond’s death along the road while making a long journey on foot with his younger brother. He supposed that’d happened during the spring or summer when it was warm, and Tony could almost feel the shadow of leaves on his thoughts wandering haunted pathways of the past.

‘Are you still with me?’ Henry inquired, seeing the distant look in the young man’s eyes.

‘Yeah,’ Tony said.

‘For a moment there, I thought you were as lost as the boys on their way to Bohemia!’ Henry went on. ‘Do you want another of my cigars?’

‘Okay, sure,’ Tony agreed, surprised by how much he liked them, accepting another one again lit by Henry as the older man continued: ‘You were right about Pharamond being unlucky. For Harobald, small pox was a blessing in disguise. His fever had been high enough to impair his memory so that he couldn’t remember who he was for quite some time. That didn’t matter to his adoptive parents, feeling as they did that God had blessed them with a man-child of their own. They named him Jakob. He went on pretending to not know who he was and that he was uneducated, though he was good with languages, learning Hungarian quickly. The couple gave him the best schooling they could, which wasn’t much for commoners of the time. But that allowed him access to writing materials and, once his memory returned he kept our genealogy hidden after recording it on paper when he was alone.’

‘Harobald, or Jakob, never left and continued working on the farm, out of gratitude for his new parents saving his life and because he’d become wary of and uncertain about finding any Merovingians in the area. It was enough that he was alive and had details of the family lineage on paper.’

‘His new parents had also taken in a gypsy milkmaid, an abandoned orphan they’d found much like they had Harobald. And it’ll likely arouse your interest to hear that her name was Ruze, meaning rose.’

‘An amazing coincidence that’d send dad into a poem-writing frenzy!’ Tony replied.

‘Yes, well, there are times that doesn’t take much!’ Henry chuckled.

‘True,’ Tony said.

Henry went on: ‘Naturally, care about Ruze’s origins had to be used by her adoptive parents. But following their deaths, she and Harobald inherited the farm and did well, that is, after they married. They had three daughters and two sons, Joszef or Joska, and Karoly. Joska was my paternal ancestor of that generation. He married and had three sons.’

‘Joska’s third son, Salamon, being third in line from head of the family, wasn’t content to stay on the farm. He felt that greater economic opportunities lay to the northwest. Much like Pharamond and Harobald, he was eighteen when he started a walking journey into the Bohemian region of today’s Czech Republic, where he settled and married. Of course, our genealogy on paper had been passed on to all sons of the family, and Salamon had a copy. He went into the wool business, starting as an apprentice spinner.’

‘Perhaps it was a matter of symbolical revenge; by then Salamon had changed his name to Rostislav, Czech for `usurped glory’. And perhaps it was the gypsy in our blood. But Salamon’s eldest son, Simecek, continued the migration into Bavaria where he took the name Florenz Gunkl because he worked in the wool business, as well. Gunkl is German for ‘distaff’ which was the spindle on wool-spinning apparatuses. ‘

‘Florenz apprenticed his second son, Berndt, as a glass-maker. That trade stayed in my branch of the family moving on to eventually live in the Hessian state of today’s Germany. Johann Gunkl married a Jewish woman, Anna Elizabeth Steinberger, in the late seventeen-hundreds.’

‘Interesting. European Christians weren’t always so pleased with Jews during that period,’ Tony said.

‘In general, you’re right, although Germany wasn’t quite as anti-Semitic as some other countries. Beyond that, Anna’s family converted to the Lutheran faith while keeping their Jewish surname. Johann was a glass-maker, too. He and Anna lived in the charming city of Gelnhausen, not far from Frankfurt. His grandson, Willem or William, volunteered as a Hessian mercenary in the British army during the American Revolution which he survived, becoming a successful farmer in the Pennsylvania Dutch county of Lancaster in southeastern Pennsylvania. ‘

‘As it had for centuries of our family, however, unrelenting ambition drove his fourth son, Albert, westward. He settled on a farm near Columbia, Missouri, where his only child, John, was born and married Cecilia.’

‘His marriage is one of the most intriguing but disappointing aspects of the story: Cecilia’s father’s last name was Davidson, also Jewish. Her mother was a New Orleans belle of Cajun descent. My father always felt frustrated that he never knew Davidson’s first name or either of wife’s names – and he hired a professional genealogist who unsuccessfully researched them, too.’

‘Naturally, my father was aware of and a bit defiant about the reason for the absence of names. It’s not much of an exaggeration to say that his father, John, was a rabid atheist’…

‘… because Catholicism betrayed his ancestors?’ Tony inquired.

‘Keep filling the blanks in it and I won’t have a story to tell!’ Henry answered with mock exasperation. ‘But, yes, John had a copy of our genealogical records and was quite knowledgeable about what you might call the ‘Merovingian Problem’. And few things invoked his wrath more than betrayal. But that wasn’t all, a particular reason he hated Judaism.’

‘Such as what?’ Tony interjected.

‘Patience!’ Henry replied. ‘First, I presume you know that Cajun is a linguistic corruption of Arcadian?’

‘Can’t say that I do.’

‘Okay. Cecilia Davidson’s mother was descended from French Arcadians who emigrated to Louisiana after the British expelled them from Canada.’

‘And Missouri’s connection with New Orleans?’

‘Davidson, his wife, and the one thing grandfather John approved of. He had abolitionist sympathies after the fact and admired Davidson for joining the Union army during the Civil War. Davidson went south with General Grant’s military offensive, was captured by the Southern army and married his Cajun belle wife in New Orleans after his release as a prisoner
of war. She was reputed to have been quite a beauty.’

‘Now I know why Onur likes you, with your handsome-devil looks you inherited from your great-great- grandmother!’ Tony grinned..

‘A handsome-devil face for a royal devil of a story!’ Henry calmly retorted, ‘back to which, Cecilia’s mother was Catholic. Davidson was Jewish, compounding a felony with indecency as far as my grandfather, Davidson’s son-in-law was concerned. And Davidson’s part in the Civil War, his last name and that her mother was a Cajun belle were the only things John ever allowed her to tell my father and his brother.’

‘Sorry, but I still don’t get why this part of the story is so intriguing,’ Tony said.

‘Never put the cart of history or narrative before their horses. You see, great-grandmother Cecilia outlived John, two more husbands, a live-in boyfriend and died wealthy at ninety-six. My father sold his inherited share of her farm and bought two-thousand acres of the world’s best soil north of Falls City, along with another eight-hundred acres southeast of the town of Red Cloud. As you know, my father’s name was Harold, loosely harking back to Harobald.’

‘And mad as a hatter about what happened to his Medieval ancestors?’

`Please, some compassion with a little class! Mad as a hatter? Anthony!’ Henry scolded. `There were any number of mad hatter Merovingians, but not my father – who nonetheless was sometimes angry about the Vatican’s violation of its agreement with the Merovingian King Clovis. He was a good man and father, Anthony, brooded more than anything. There were times when I was a child it seemed melancholy seeped into his very bones; in fact, I’ve written some blues poetry about that. But it’d be only a matter of time until clouds of the past would vanish and he’d be as cheerful as anyone.’

`How about your mother? She knew about all of this, didn’t she?’ Tony said.

`Oh, my father never would’ve kept our family’s history a secret from her – for the most part, she kept her own counsel about the matter,’ Henry answered.

Tony’s face took on a thoughtfully hesitant look: `And you…. how did you find out?’

‘You might say that the family crest of my father’s heart was embellished with romantic flourishes – not surprising, given his Bohemian-gypsy heritage. And, as you know, King Dagobert II was assassinated during a stag-hunt in the forest near Stenay-sur-Meuse in France on December 23, 679. As well, Merovingian princes were considered to naturally be kings at age twelve.’

‘The afternoon of December 23rd. when I was twelve, my father took me to the woods on our farm. I wouldn’t accuse him of cruelty; he simply wanted what he thought was an appropriate stage to play out his part of a family drama. The primary thing keeping me from being more impressed by what he told me was the cold, with about eight inches of snow on the ground. What alerted my senses, however, was him forbidding me to talk about what he revealed regarding our family. His ethics were such that I knew he’d never tell me to stay quiet about something so fantastic without good reason, and that alone let me know he’d told the truth.’

`Yeah, but what did it feel like to be descended from royalty?’ Tony asked, in a tone of teasing jocularity.

Henry gave him piercing look: `Even at twelve, not nearly as much fun as you might think. What I needed was more time with what I’d heard. My father left me alone to assimilate it – gave me access to our genealogical documents and books he had on that period of European history. Rather oddly, sometimes feeling like I was living in a Medieval fairytale didn’t start vanishing until three months after that afternoon in the woods, when I began informing myself about what I’d heard. The more I read and thought, the more I was bolstered to embrace the family truth by the whisper of a still voice inside.’

‘Yes, but I thought you already realized your dad hadn’t been lying. Why was it so long before you completely believed him?’ Tony wanted to know.

‘The problem was and is too often not listening to that voice, Anthony’ Henry said, ‘and I was only twelve. At that age, it was much easier to play Robin Hood and his men fighting the Sheriff of Nottingham and his evil minions than living with something I knew I wasn’t to take lightly.

‘What finally convinced you?’ Tony gently asked, intuitively realizing that’d be a sensitive question.

Henry hesitated: ‘My father’s death on December 23rd. a year after he unveiled the family secret. Like I said, King Dagobert was assassinated while on a stag-hunt on that date. I wanted to be alone to think, going back to those same woods during a light snowstorm the day after my father died. I was sitting on a fallen log, lost in my thoughts, when I heard a soft noise. I raised my head and peered through the trees and snow to see a male deer with horns, a stag, looking at me from about one-hundred feet away before he disappeared into a white-out of invisibility – and my grief dissolved into a cascade of tears such as I’d never experienced. As you know, Anthony, I’m an agnostic of mystic persuasion, you might say. I don’t accept the standardized god of any organized religion, otherwise thinking there might be a Great Spirit of some kind out there, a Universal Oneness – though maybe god simply is the essence of an enormous gamble. It doesn’t matter, because what I’ve always liked calling ‘the sign of the stag’ spoke louder to me than that inner voice. If there is such a thing as royalty, I knew of a certainty that it was my birthright to take the crown of truth by the time I’d stopped crying.’

‘That’s amazing, Henry! – a stag?’ Tony exclaimed. ‘So, you might say your dad passed on the crown of truth about your family the day after his death, and on Christmas Eve, by the way.’

‘Yes, it was amazing,’ Henry replied, ‘Symbolically, you could say that’s what he did, and I’ve never been the same since.’

‘I’d imagine not. But have you ever broken your promise not to talk about your family’s history?’

‘Not until now. Besides, most people would never believe me, much less care. And mother always said the best way to honor our family was in memory since, ultimately, ‘the triumph and tragedy of families and history, even the beauty of gravestones are best kept as memorials of the heart’. That’s what she said, Anthony, ‘the beauty of gravestones’. So, no, I’ve never told anyone, including your father.’

‘Not to make light of this, it sounds like your family’s had some great good luck on the one hand, and a lot of bastard-bad luck on the other. And some of the bad is, it seems someone wants to cap your luck with a gravestone,’ Tony said. ‘Is that why you finally broke silence, because somebody was following you in Falls City?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why, simply because you’re descended from Merovingian royalty?’

‘There’s much more to it, since that’s only one candle on what you might call a four-branched menorah, though real menorahs have seven, of course. But wait, it’s time for beer. Do you want one?’ Henry asked.

‘Beer as a chaser for tea and kushburnu? Sounds a touch depraved but intriguing. Okay, I’ll have one.’

This time, Henry waved another waiter over: `Iki tane buyuk bira, Vehbi (two large beers, Vehbi).’

‘Iki tane birami (two beers)?’

‘Evet (yes),’ Henry said, as the waiter removed the teacups from the table before turning away to handle the order.

The friends remained silent while waiting.

With another look around, Tony could see that Gulhanase’s customers consisted of business people and other professionals among a large majority of university students, as he realized from the book bags carried by the young people.

Captivated, he listened to the inflection of a strange language, suddenly struck by a thought: ‘It sounds like prayer around me… something of a damn obscenity since George Bush’s violent hobby of the Iraqi war isn’t a lot more than a thousand mile from here! How strange! – drinking tea, kushburnu and beer while listening to the strangest story I’ve ever heard while Iraqi men, women and kids are dying so close!’ – and Tony felt a sharp need to dull the painful thought with the beverage Vehbi set before him.

Henry saw the look on his face: `Are you all right?’

‘Yeah, just thinking about the Mad Bushman’s war in Iraq.’

‘An absolutely heinous crime, not only against the Iraqis, but humanity, Anthony! I’ve been so embarrassed by America that I’ve scarcely missed it!’ Henry passionately said.

‘Yeah, but you’ve got me hooked. Go on with your story since there’s nothing either of us can do about the Axis of Evil, the other one on the other side of the Atlantic,’ Tony told him.

‘True enough. But look,’ Henry said, standing and motioning for Tony to look past the overhead awning.

He pointed: ‘There she is, riding high despite evil of any kind – Our Lady of the Rose.’

Tony looked up at the moon radiantly bathing the sky and memories of childhood summers on his friend’s farm washed over him: ‘You’re right – just like the Nebraska moon, Henry.’

The two of them stood wrapped in silent thought for a moment before Tony looked at Henry and said, ‘Why did you call it ‘our lady of the rose’?’

‘Throughout the centuries, the moon’s been esoterically associated with goddesses and goddess-figures like Mother Mary and Mary Magdalene and has been revered as ‘the rose’ or ’silver rose’ especially when the it’s full – and, no, Mary Magdalene wasn’t a whore, Anthony. You see, one thing I revere about Onur’s and my love is that it speaks to me of a balance between the masculine and feminine that the ancient Greeks believed is in all of us. One of the amazing things about Alexander the Great was his respect for women. And one of the most dastardly things about the mass crime occurring in Iraq is that the current administration in the States has lost touch with the goddess, considerably less reverent of the feminine principle in life than Alexander was more than two-thousand years ago.’

‘Yes, I suspect you’re right, in fact, am sure of it. Mom and dad live in an almost constant state of fury about what’s going on,’ Tony replied.

‘Thank the goddess somebody does!’ Henry exclaimed.

For another several seconds the men looked at the moon before Tony said, ‘What comes next, you know, what you were telling me?’

‘Well, Davidson was as Jewish as his name, and what would you have if you drew lines between the points of a six-pointed star with one point removed?’

`Why, a pentagram, if it’s equal-sided, ‘ Tony responded.

`Exactly. And what I’ll next tell you isn’t connected to the occult in the usual sense, but still a symbol of evil for some people, having them ready to commit violence for another reason,’ Henry said, with a look of foreboding perhaps after-shadowing events far away – across the Atlantic.

___***___

II

(Fall City, Nebraska, 5:45 a. m., same day)

Good and bad, the lovely and ugly can happen anywhere, including parking lots along the meanest alleys of small-town America the Beautiful – except this wasn’t a mean neighborhood, though in a small town. Tax assessors and real estate professionals rated it as a small-business and residential area just under middle class. Most of its houses were older, but nice and in good repair. Gnarled with beauty marks of time, broad-girthed silver maples, elms, cottonwoods and an occasional oak guarded unspoken secrets along its wide streets unmarred by potholes. In their foliage, mourning doves and other birds were awakening for a day of cooing and twittering song to the yipping accompaniment of a dog from a yard in the distance.

‘Probably a tattered rag of a terrier or a Mexican chihuahua. Shut him up and it’d really be quiet around here,’Lt. Prettyboy Anderson mused as he listened through the cracked-open driver’s window of his cruiser and blew smoke rings toward its ceiling. `Hell, why didn’t I take out a mortgage on a house in these parts instead of so close to the grain elevators across town? Getting any sleep during the day over there is the shits.’

He once more assaulted his lungs with the earthy flavor provided by one of his most deeply-embedded habits while turning to look at Officer Hal Berringer walking over from his vehicle.

Anderson’s eyes narrowed as he sensed the other man’s reluctance to begin the task at hand: ‘Can’t say I entirely blame him – hasn’t been a cop all that long,’he thought.

But he believed that cops losing themselves in work was the only thing that helped them deal with the unpalatable aspects of their jobs, while sympathy never did despite a kindly look of camaraderie he fixed on Berringer’s drawn face: ‘Who reported the incident?’ – Anderson already knew, but wanted to refine his fellow-officer’s focus by making sure that he did, as well.

‘Some guy called it in on a cell phone, didn’t give a name,’ Berringer said.

‘Okay, but at least Conner’ll have a record of his number so we can talk to him – you know, what they call an interview instead of an interrogation, these days. Not that we’re likely to get much out of him except he just happened on to the body. You know, I’ve never heard of a small-town perp contacting the police about his own crime. That’s for the smart-aleck serial killer-types in big cities wanting to impress the cops with their hard work,’ – and Prettyboy gave Berringer a sardonic grin.

`Yeah, suppose so,’ the other officer glumly replied.

Anderson looked sharply at him before tossing a still-lit cigarette butt away with his left hand after he’d gotten out of his car and shut its door with his right one.

`You shouldn’t litter like that,’ Berringer plaintively said.

`Well, my brother, no matter; it’s time for a look-see at what we’ve got,’ – and Prettyboy started walking across the parking lot, with Berringer a step or two behind.

They’d almost covered the distance when practiced instinct started feathering the button of Anderson’s alarm bells.

‘Jeezus! – most of the guy’s face blown off! Somebody didn’t like somebody else a whole lot! Helluva thing!’ he said as he trained his flashlight downward at the short and gray-haired body lying in grass and weeds bordering the parking lot behind Van Buren’s Publishing, Printshop And Bookstore on Fall City’s near-westside.

There was a moment of edgy silence before Berringer petulantly said, ‘Yeah, enough to turn your stomach, and that pretty face of yours pea-green.’

‘Why’ya always talking about my face? Jealous, are you?’ Anderson countered with another crooked grin.

‘Yeah, right! But how in god’s name can you so much as crack a smile with something like this staring at you?’ asked Berringer, who’d been a policeman for only two and a half years and still wasn’t entirely accustomed to encountering violence.

‘I’ll tell you how, if you’ll tell me why you’re always talking about my face,’ Anderson said.

‘You first,’ Berringer came back, his pride stung despite the close presence of death.

‘No, you.’ Anderson retorted.

‘Aw-w-w, cut the crap! We’ve got work to do!’ Berringer spat the words.

‘That’s for sure! Looks like an execution-style killing. Body face-down, back of the head fractured probably by one bullet buried in the dirt under it I’ll bet – and I’d say from a revolver nowhere in sight,’ Anderson replied, looking around. `But it’s obviously not an execution-style suicide,’ – and he glanced sideways to see how his colleague would take his sally of wit.

Berringer said nothing.

Rising to the heat of investigation, the lieutenant ignored his fellow-officer’s silence: ‘Okay, yeah, so how’d the victim die of a gunshot without somebody hearing it? And how long’s it been, you reckon?’

‘Why are you asking me? You’re the great detective around here,’ Berringer sullenly rejoined.

Anderson shone the flashlight in his face: ‘Listen, Hal, getting sore at me won’t cut it! Besides, it’s time you started doing some real detective work, since it’s not like this is the last time you’ll have to do this sort of thing! Hell, the department doesn’t exactly have guys coming out the ass to handle any case, and you know what to do, so cut the melodrama and get on with it!’

Berringer returned Anderson’s glare with unmistakable resentment – but the lieutenant was in charge.

Berringer finally crouched with closed eyes for a moment of clearing his mind and trying to overcome the oozy roiling in his belly.

Twenty-six years old and a touch under six feet tall, with pale-green eyes, a stubble of medium-brown hair and an everyman’s everyday face, his slender build made Berringer look as though lacking the heft of personality needed to handle capital crime cases, which were as “rare as hen’s teeth” in Falls City, as Lt. Waylin Conner, the dispatcher and duty officer on the graveyard shift was wont to say. With only seventeen men on the department roster (including Chief Helton and Dom Ledbetter, the scientific investigator), Berringer normally was assigned to a variety of things, from traffic patrol to working burglary and drug details. But he did have three months of homicide training accrued at law enforcement seminars upon Anderson’s urging, and had assisted with a few of the department’s sparse murder investigations. He’d hated that, how it made him feel less than human to be engrossed with the bloodless sinews of cold facts that’d nonetheless carried him through the cases he had helped with, since facts at least didn’t make him sick at the stomach.

He had thought about getting another job, the problem being a Southeastern Nebraska employment market as sleepy as Falls City on Sunday night. In fact, the Sabbath streets were quite a bit livelier with Sunday night drunks than the area was with jobs. And finding another one would mean starting anew in a larger place like Nebraska City, if not Lincoln or Omaha. Berringer’s wife, Ella, had family in Falls City, and he knew it’d be a long journey into hellfire eternity if he tried relocating her and their two young kids.

‘Concentrate,’ he now told himself, stricken by thankfully quickly-passing revulsion as – with flashlight in hand – he looked at the garish wound in the back of the victim’s head.

Another sickening wave clutched at his stomach before the need to survive commandeered his mind into the relief of sterile quietude: ‘The blood appears to still be congealing, and I’d say the temperature out here is around fifty-five degrees, maybe a little lower. I’m guessing at death no more than an hour ago.’

‘Sounds reasonable,’ Anderson replied.

His real name was Warren:- At six-feet three inches tall and an eternal-seemingly youthful forty, he was known for his blond, curly-haired good looks and a sizable string of sexy college girlfriends, followed by three wives, three divorces and a current girlfriend over the seventeen years since his time on campus. All of that had garnered him another nickname: Fast-Track Anderson.

‘That’s fast-tracking, all right!’ his cousin Ernie liked to tease. ‘Hell, more like burning rubber from the church to divorce court and back!’

‘Oh, now, Ernie! You know I’ve never been in a church just to get hitched, and why should I when you can plug and unplug marriage at the courthouse?’ Prettyboy would counter. ‘Besides, that saves time and money.’

‘Then, why ain’t ya’ living at the courthouse instead of that lah-tee-dah shack of yours in the fancy part of town?’ his mother would ask, and Prettyboy would rejoin, ‘One block from the grain elevators is the fancy part of town? Shucks, that’s really stretching it! Where in hell do you get such ideas, ma?’

She’d laugh and never answer :- A handsome-faced woman (or broad, as she sometimes called herself), with a thicket of the blackest of black hair and eyes almost violet in color, Myrna stood only five inches shorter than her son and only child. Most strikingly, she looked as though she’d been a major construction project at birth, her brawny, large-boned body somehow seeming as if in a constant brawl with the lurking unknown, though not necessarily life itself, and her eyes would twinkle above soft rumbles of mirth: ‘I ain’t enough of a philosopher to shoot crap about life; besides, I got a helluva a lot better – or worse, things to do!’

‘And by god, how ya’ ever became a cop beats the doggone hell outta’ me, Warren, because ya’ ain’t done nothin’ but break the law of nature since you were born. Pretty babies are supposed to grow up uglier than mud by fifteen, ya’ know. But you were pretty when I dropped ya’, and you’re still pretty,’ she’d tell her son, reaching up to ruffle his curls.

‘Stop it, ma!’ he’d protest.

Nonetheless, a kindly person who’d never married and escaped to Falls City from the stifling ordinariness of Wahoo – her hometown up north and west – Myrna was the longest-term employee at The Buffalo Chips Steakhouse, its most popular waitress.

Truckers, in particular, couldn’t get enough of her, or Myrna of them – with her heart of gold and lusts of a whore. In fact, she seemed proud to admit to her rutting waywardness, especially of youth: ‘Heck, I had Warren at seventeen when I was too young and dumb to know the difference between whelpin’ and fuckin’ – always makes me laugh when I hear people talkin’ about sex education and birth control. Sex education would’ve been a damn perversion and rubbers would’ve been an outright sin in the little town where I grew up. Lucky your grandma was stubborner than a mule and not particularly high on religion, to say nothin’ of bein’ a mighty damn fine driver with the warped mind of a Nascar bum, because I’d have popped you out in the backseat of her car instead of the hospital if she wasn’t, Warren. Bet ya’ like hearing that, don’t ya’?’

‘Why would I like that?’ he’d inquire, trying to hide his amusement, since his luck always seemed to be visiting Myrna at her postage stamp-sized cottage on the lower east side on the two or three nights weekly she hosted card-parties for women-friends living to the right on the spectrum of family values – and with Prettyboy never being sure how they tolerated her ribald, off-beat humor. Yet, he felt it’d be the better part of valorous discretion not to be too obvious as to how it took his fancy, instead shaking his head, walking out and driving away with a grin into the rear view mirror of his maroon 2003 Subaru.

He’d never stopped to consider: Perhaps despite, or maybe because of such a merrily vernacular upbringing, Prettyboy had graduated seventh in a class of forty-three at the Lincoln Police Academy – that is, after Jan Morgensen, one of his teachers, had noticed his gift for logical deduction when Prettyboy had been a business management major and starting point guard at Southeastern Community College on a scholarship.

‘Following the bouncing ball is iffy, at best. You have a mind for it, so why not try something in the legal profession or law enforcement, maybe detective work?’ Morgensen had suggested.

Prettyboy had consequently huddled with basketball Coach Brenner and realized that his professional hoop dreams lay quite outside the three-point line, even farther from a slam-dunk, and had taken Morgensen’s advice. A rapid return to Falls City had followed the academy because an opening with the police department there had been all that was available at the time:- ‘Yeah, and besides, how would I get along without ma’s wisecracking wisdom if I hadn’t come back?’ he’d sometimes say.

‘Wisdom? Is that what it is?’ Sgt. Bert Linden would snort, particularly when feeling irritated by the casual-seeming aptitude with which Prettyboy did his work, including his having volunteered to help investigate – successfully – the first murder that’d occurred once he’d become a Falls City officer.

Linden was older and nearly always in riper-aged funk since he seemed a lightning rod of discontent at a six-feet seven inches tall as lean as a seven-year drought, with sunken, gray-skinned cheeks looking as if they’d been excavated by a lifetime of disgruntlement. Though a solid policeman, he was an uninspired thinker, considering Prettyboy to be an arrogant smart-aleck. Luckily for him, the other officers allowed him slack in terms of his contempt for Anderson’s diligence in looking for details even though that appeared to require little more than off-hand skill. Anderson, after all, was known in the department for something other than good looks, his wives and divorces: He had a way of ferreting out the wicked, whether by dint of seemingly diffident effort, deductive reasoning, or intuition – the latter to the point that he and the other officers frequently gambled on his resplendent array of hunches.

Chief Lou Helton had succeeded only in restricting them to paying for bets with off-duty glasses and bottles of beer, which nonetheless did nothing to salve Linden’s grudge against the lieutenant.

‘Fuck, it’s a wonder the asshole fart can even stagger in here on the tail of all his boozy winnings!’ he, in fact, had groused on the present occasion.

‘Well, maybe a head-full of beer fumes is what makes Warren so good!’ Conner had retorted. ‘Why don’t you stop griping about him and get to work? Christ, a possible homicide was just called in!’…

… and with Anderson, at the moment, considering the time of homicide death: ‘Okay, the shot was fired an hour ago, maybe a little later when most people in the neighborhood were probably still asleep and should’ve been waked up, but weren’t. Hell, even our cruisers’ flashing lights haven’t brought anybody on the trot for a curiosity-thrill.’

‘Maybe because the suspect used a silencer?’ Berringer responded.

‘Good observation, ‘ the lieutenant said.

‘Thanks,’ Berringer ventured.

He took handkerchief out and after wrapping his hand in it, reached into the victim’s hip pocket, removing and opening a wallet and shining his flashlight on it: ‘Paul Van Buren, aged sixty-three – and look, there’s still a twenty in here.’

‘Never let the green stuff get in the way of murder, though filthy lucre apparently wasn’t the motive,’ Anderson said.

‘Looks that way,’ Berringer said.

‘And the victim apparently owned this place. But what was he doing here at somewhere around five in the morning?’ Anderson queried.

‘Well – maybe he had janitor work to do before opening up for a day of business.’

‘Yeah, maybe came here early because he had insomnia, or drank too much coffee while he was watching TV last night,’ Anderson went on. ‘But, you notice something else strange?’

‘What’s that?’ Berringer asked, replacing the wallet in the victim’s pocket.

‘No car here in the parking lot, and I’ll bet one isn’t out on the street, either.’

‘Van Buren could’ve taken a taxi,’ Berringer ventured.

‘Shucks, nobody takes taxis in Falls City,’ Anderson countered.

‘Okay, then, the logical alternative is that Van Buren lived within walking distance,’ his colleague said as he stood.

‘Good thinking,’ the lieutenant complimented him.

‘You’re welcome,’ Berringer replied, feeling calmer and beginning to derive pleasure from working well with his superior.

‘Okay, Van Buren was on foot when he showed up at his publishing house, print shop or what-have-you, maybe planning to clean the place up before opening up for business. But something’s still off-kilter,’ Anderson said.

‘Like what?’

‘Forget the suspect using a silencer. When’s the last time you remember an execution-style killing in this town?’ Anderson asked.

‘You’d know better than me.’

‘Never, in my recollection, ‘ Anderson continued.

‘Meaning what?’ Berringer wanted to know.

‘It’s just that execution-style murder seems a bit elaborate for the criminal hoodlums in a town of this size, that’s all.’

‘That’s an interesting theory.’

‘I wonder how interesting Dom Ledbetter would find it?’ – and Prettyboy pressed the transmission button of his two-way: ‘Where’s the mobile lab unit, Conner?’

‘I phoned Dom at his home; he’ll be there any minute now, Warren,’ the duty officer replied. `I’m keeping Bert here because we have clerical work to clear up. But Abrams will be there after he finishes at the scene of an accident on the highway to Brownsville – a semi-truck jackknifed on the road, in case you haven’t heard.’

‘Can’t the state troopers or sheriffs help with that?’ Anderson inquired.

‘They already are. Thing is, the accident’s within city limits and we have to have our fingers in the kitty, like it or not, you know, Warren.’

‘Well, okay. Chief doesn’t happen to be in his office, does he?’ Anderson ventured.

‘Come, now! It’s barely six in the morning!’ Conner chided. ‘Besides, he called about three hours ago and said he’d be in late – something about having to stay all night at the hospital with his kid.’

‘Well, shit! – nothing like batting under .500! Just get Dom here as soon as you can!’

‘Jeez, Warren, you know he’s as conscientious and punctual as a goose is loose!’ Conner came back.

‘Hell, some sense of humor for this time of morning!’ the lieutenant said before muttering, ‘You little fuck!’

‘Ledbetter’s on the way,’ he then told Berringer before starting toward the print shop’s back door.

Berringer followed while both officers drew their weapons, with Berringer taking up a position on the hinge-side of the door – unlocked – as Anderson opened it, the glare of his flashlight following his gun’s thrust into the darkness beyond.

The print shop was empty and Prettyboy flipped on a light switch. He gestured toward the bookstore on the other side of the print shop. It too was empty, and Anderson turned the store lights on as well.

A palpable silence trembled in the air while the men looked around, seeing nothing but unbroken windows, a locked front door and a neatly organized sales area with chairs at three small tables surrounded by bookshelves, all of them replete with books.

‘Looks like it went down real quiet,’ Berringer remarked.

‘Yeah, and I’m burping up a pre-breakfast hunch that we won’t find fingerprints on the light switches because the perp was wearing gloves when he turned the lights off after he shot the victim – besides which, I’m pretty sure of what you’ll find when you check the cash register,’ Anderson said.

Berringer turned: ‘It’s locked,’ – and he bent down: ‘I don’t see any signs of the suspect trying to force the drawer, either.’

‘I’m betting the same for the safe, if there is one and we only knew where it is,’ the lieutenant replied.

‘In Van Buren’s office, probably in the printing area?’ Berringer suggested, with Anderson following him into the backroom.

Berringer peered around: `There’s the office, over in the corner.’

He tested its dim interior with his weapon, until satisfied that nobody lurked in it and switched on fluorescent lights luridly blinking to electrical life.

‘Bingo – safe’s under the desk,’ the lieutenant said, watching through the door.

Berringer crouched, his flashlight showing him what he needed: ‘I don’t see anything saying the suspect tried to open the safe, lieutenant.’

‘What’s new?’ Anderson replied. ‘Looks like the perp was looking down his nose at money, leaving us without a motive, at least for now. And there isn’t a drop of blood anywhere, either. The backdoor was unlocked; so how much you betting on Van Buren having his back to it when the suspect slipped in behind him?’ – and the lieutenant stepped into the parking lot with Berringer: ‘He put a gun to Van Buren’s head, forced the poor guy out here, ordered him to lie on his stomach in the weeds over there, and bam, shot him in the back of the head.’

‘That’s what I see,’ Berringer agreed. ‘Except you can’t forget he might’ve been killed somewhere else and left here.’

‘Nope.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I’m sure the bullet kissed the dirt right under Van Buren’s face. And do you know another reason the murder didn’t take place somewhere else?’ Anderson said.

‘What’s that?”

‘One of two things that get a lot of criminals caught: Laziness and stupidity. If the suspect killed Van Buren somewhere else, he would’ve transferred the body to where it is now, from a vehicle parked as close as possible. And in my experience, it isn’t likely he was ambitious or solicitous enough to actually carry the body from the back of a truck or trunk of a car parked even that close. That means he would’ve dragged the body. Van Buren’s still wearing shoes and there aren’t any marks showing they were dragged through the parking lot gravel. Shine your flashlight on the ground,’ the lieutenant replied.

Berringer obliged: ‘You’re right. No heel marks, no blood. Shit, other than knowing Van Buren was killed here, we haven’t hit a dead-end, have we?’

‘Be careful about saying dead or end, even when you’re investigating the dead,’ Anderson answered, with another of his grins. ‘Let’s keep looking for anything that might tell us something until Dom gets here. We’ll leave the fine-assed work for him – after all, the fucker needs to do something to earn his keep.’

He’d just begun an eye-scanning of the area around the body when he looked up and said, `There he is – about time.’

A devout worshiper of efficiency, Dom Ledbetter had his investigative kit on the seat beside him, already wearing surgical gloves as he slid from behind the wheel of the crime lab van and approached the two officers. ‘How’s it hanging, guys?’

‘Considering it’s not even breakfast time, you’re worse than Conner with your gallows humor, heck, even worse than the smell of napalm in the morning!’ Prettyboy snorted.

‘You sure are preoccupied with breakfast,’ Berringer told Anderson as Ledbetter ignored the lieutenant’s critique of his wit by asking, ‘Wha’do we have, gentlemen?’

Fifty-one years old, tall, thin, with straight black hair – and because he had a gaunt, dark face – a lot of people didn’t realize Ledbetter had a sense of humor, particularly because they thought he was a coroner. He wasn’t. Though medically schooled as required for certification as a forensics technician, he left the coroner’s duties to Dr. Kaye Waegner, the first woman to work in that capacity in Richardson County’s history. Ledbetter handled the primarily scientific aspects of crime. The rest of the time he taught history, math, science and coached football at the high school. Otherwise, Ledbetter was eight years divorced, lived alone and bemoaned every second of lost sleep when called upon for dark-hours use of his knowledge.

‘It’s a good thing I was just about to get out of bed when Conner called,’ he told Anderson and Berringer as he lowered himself to one knee beside the body, not wanting to crouch due to encroaching arthritis.

‘What the fuck!’ he then exclaimed, suddenly jerking upward and feeling the weeds and grass below him before holding his hand to his nose: `That’s piss! Shit! Somebody took a leak here, on the body, too! Look, there’s a spot on his shirt! Jeezus christ almighty! – and what’re you laughing at?’ he glared at Anderson poorly suppressing an amused look.

‘Who’s laughing? Heck, I’m just trying empathy on for size!’ the lieutenant said.

‘Yeah, right!’ Ledbetter growled, opening his kit from which he took a sponge and bottle of alcohol.

He squirted the liquid on the sponge he firmly rubbed over his urine-moistened knee while Berringer remarked, ‘A dog wouldn’t know the difference between lifting a leg on a body or anything else, Dom.’

‘Even a stray alley dog wouldn’t stoop low enough to piss on a dead human. It was the frigging perp! Shit, man!’ Ledbetter replied.

‘You’re kidding? – the suspect?’ Berringer asked.

‘No, I’m not kidding, though I will be right back,’ Ledbetter said, standing and walking to his van where he removed something from its glove compartment.

‘Christ, it’d take one sick motherfucker to piss on someone he just killed!’ Berringer said.

‘It takes all kinds, even among killers,’ Ledbetter responded, then walking back past Anderson sniffing the air.

‘What’s that odor? You just doped yourself with perfume?’ the lieutenant chortled.

‘And it’s worse than the smell of napalm in the morning, too – huh?’ Ledbetter shot back before this time crouching beside body and slowly giving it a look-over.

Lieutenant Conner had told the truth. Dom was conscientious and, to help orient his efforts, asked to briefly hear what the other officers had to say before he started working: `Give me a sound-bite run-down of this affair, guys.’

‘Okay: – One Paul Van Buren, aged sixty-three, apparent owner of this place and killed face-down,’ Anderson said, giving Hal and Ledbetter a wary look of mischief before he continued: ‘Berringer, here, and I are sure Van Buren didn’t knock himself off with execution-style suicide, too – no weapon the suspect a.k.a. victim could’ve used on himself anywhere in evidence. And it further appears the Van Buren was in the print shop with his back to the unlocked back door when the suspect snuck up behind him and forced him out here at gun-point. No sign of a struggle inside.’

Prettyboy thought he saw cautious amusement in Ledbetter’s eyes when Dom looked up and said, `That was hardly a sound-bite… you haven’t found a weapon, correct?’

‘Yup,’ Anderson replied.

‘Have you seen anything pointing toward a motive?”

‘Nada, neither apparent nor obvious as yet, including money.’

‘Okay, good enough for now,’ Ledbetter said, taking a pair of tweezers out of his kit box.

He slowly rotated the victim’s head toward him.

‘Y-e-e-a-a-h, a killing about as vicious as any I’ve seen in a while,’ he breathed, reaching toward the soil under the shattered face before holding the tweezers up. He carefully studied the item in its grip, then, ‘There’s the bullet, and I’d say from a .38 Special, until or unless I’m contradicted by the lab at NBI (Nebraska Bureau of Investigations)..’

‘What about time of death?’ Anderson asked, `I don’t see any reason to argue with Hal thinking it was about an hour ago, maybe less.’

‘An approximate hour seems a good guess from what I see, though Kaye can tell us better. Can you get the ambulance guys here right away to transport the body to the morgue before it cools too much?’ Ledbetter answered.

Anderson spoke into his walkie-talkie: `Hear that, Conner?’

`Hear what?’

‘We need an ambulance ASAP or PDQ, whichever comes day before yesterday,’ Prettyboy told him.

‘I’ve alerted the EMT’s, and Abrams is on the way, too,’ Conner said

‘Whew, nifty!’ the lieutenant once more grinned, then asked Ledbetter, `The suspect using a silencer seems on the money – right?’

‘The only explanation, ‘ the technician agreed. He raised the body’s left side enough to feel in Van Buren’s front trouser pocket from which he took a ring of keys: `I’ll dust these for prints. You’ll need them. They’re likely for Van Buren’s business and his car and house.’

‘Okay. Already, I can tell you aren’t going to get anything from fingerprinting inside the shop and bookstore. But especially be sure to do the computer in Van Buren’s office, anyway,’ Anderson said. `Some one will need to take a finger-stroll through it; the way things are shaping up, it might be the only thing giving us a clue about motive or anything else.’

‘True enough,’ Dom replied, as he prepared to lift fingerprints from the victim while Berringer alerted Prettyboy with an elbow-jab while gesturing toward a man in the alley: ‘Look.’

‘Finally, someone to maybe cough up some information. Reel him in before he gets away, Hal. Abrams will be here any minute to help you canvas the neighborhood, ‘ Anderson said. `By the way, you’re looking better.’

‘Thanks, just a matter of putting the proverbial nose to the proverbial grindstone, I guess,’ Berringer said.

‘That’ll work; get on with questioning people.’

‘Okay,’ – and Berringer felt quite light-hearted, gratified by the metamorphoses of psychological enhancement that Anderson’s firmness had wrought, and he hummed a little as he took his notepad out of his shirt pocket while walking over to the alley-onlooker, who was white-haired, of medium height, of slender build and wearing pajamas along with house slippers.

‘Hello, sir. Did you see or hear anything unusual earlier this morning?’ Berringer questioned.

‘What happened?’

‘For now, I can only say that the print-shop owner’s been killed.’

‘Oh, no! How?’

‘Sir, I need to ask you some questions.’

‘Wel-l-l… okay… but how did you say it happened?’ the man inquired again.

‘Sir, your name?’

‘Why, Gerald Waltham.’

‘And you live where?’

‘Right over there, next door to the shop,’ Waltham replied..

‘Your address?’

‘Three-o-five West 19th.’

Berringer recorded all of that information: ‘And you say you didn’t see or hear anything out of the way, no screaming, yelling, anything that sounded like fighting?’

‘No, but I got up only ten minutes ago, didn’t know anything was even going on until I saw the cruiser lights flashing on the kitchen walls.’

‘Did you know Van Buren very well?’

‘Not really. He was the quiet type, liked his privacy, you know,’

‘Christ, here we are not getting anywhere for a lack of information!’ Berringer thought, as he saw Sgt. Mike Abrams drive into the parking lot and get out of his car.

‘Yo, Hal, how ya’ doing?’ Abrams cheerfully called as he waved.

‘Not bad, most things taken into account,’ Berringer answered.

‘Good to hear, and I’ll talk at you later; gotta’ check in with Anderson,’ Abrams said.

‘Okay,’ Berringer replied and, while watching the light-brown-haired, thirty-one-year-old sergeant waking up to the lieutenant, he thought of something as his mind flashed back to the earlier exchange between Anderson and him about Anderson’s face: With Abrams’s height nudging just past six feet, his slenderness lacked Prettyboy’s chiseled stud-heft, while he otherwise was very attractive, his perfectly trimmed handlebar mustache being his prized treasure.

And Berringer, privately, had never denied scrambling through occasional thorn patches of envy, though he grinned now as he mused, ‘Considering my luck with Waltham, let’s see if Mike’s good looks work magic in charming some answers out of at least a few people around here – like that old lady.’
She, the black-haired old lady in question, had just walked out of her backyard gate in curlers, a bathrobe and was standing in the middle of the alley not far from Berringer. He sensed she was captivated by her questioner’s masculinity, to be sure – but not wearing her hearing aid and too deaf to hear a word Abrams was saying.

‘Shit!’ Berringer thought, ‘Guess murder doesn’t give crap about good looks! – or Mike’s mustache and Prettyboy’s face would already’ve solved this one in ten minutes flat! Damn!’

___***___

Chief Helton walked into the police station with a dull ache it felt as though had been bred in his bones from time immemorial. He took his cell phone from the inside vest pocket of his dress jacket and checked the time, wincing with wry satisfaction when he saw that it was only nine-twenty.

He looked around the duty room: Desk Sgt. Jack Hoffner had taken over for Waylin Conner on dispatch and Linden had yielded his desk to Sgt. Maynard Dorn before going off-duty. Cal Harden, Dave Alberts and Len Kronstadt apparently were on traffic patrol.

Having heard bits and pieces about the murder over his car radio while on the way to the station, Helton decided to temporarily conserve energy by later saying ‘good morning’ to his men and inquiring more about the case – especially since the officers seemed occupied – and he entered his office just to the left of the station’s front door.

Its location had always struck people as seeming too exposed for the captain’s office, and Janet Amberly, an elderly librarian, was always squawking, ‘Chief, the time’s coming when a disgruntled criminal’s going to shoot you through the front window of your office straightway from the sidewalk.’

She’d been born and raised in England, wasn’t entirely Americanized – and perhaps to quiet her scratchy voice, Helton would answer, ‘Most criminals are disgruntled to begin with, aren’t they? Besides, my office is situated to show my closeness to the public, a community relations sort of thing. Don’t worry, ‘madam’, – and why everyone in town habitually called her ‘madam’ was as mysterious as the proximity of his office to the unwashed public of criminality, in her view of things.

However, Helton’s thoughts were elsewhere as he draped his jacket over the back of his chair. He set his briefcase on the floor to the right of his desk upon which he laid his laptop, then sat down and brushed his fingertips through walnut-colored hair beginning to thin and display the snow of life’s winters – fifty-four of them.

‘Lord forgive me for being almost too tired to worry about Jeremy,’ he thought, while though he didn’t hold religious sensibilities, he found it appropriate to invoke divine compassion before telling himself, ‘I’ll never stop worrying about the boy until I’m long dead, and maybe not even then, what kids’ll do to you. I’m beat.’

Attempting to bring his frayed ends together, he stood, moving over to his office door. `Is there any coffee, Dorn?’ he asked.

Dorn returned his superior a flinty look and gruffly answered, `Who the hell was your servant this time last year?’

Thirty-three years old, with deep-brown hair and a dead-on six-feet tall, he carried only a few extra ounces on his stocky body, with its power adding a formidable look to his black eyes, though something not intimidating Helton staring back in disbelief with piercing gray eyes before he approached the officer’s desk and placed both hands palms-down on it.

His voice was soft but raspy: ‘Listen, you do work here and are my subordinate – for god’s sake, what’s got into you, Dorn? I’ve just spent the entire night with my son at the hospital and all I want is coffee! Is that too much to ask?’

Dorn said nothing, with a look of resentment on his face as he finally stood and walked over to the beverage table.

Helton watched him, then turned toward Hoffner: ‘Jack, what do you have on the murder?’ – and he glanced sternly back at Dorn.

‘Not a whole lot, yet,’ Hoffner replied.

‘I’ll be in my office,’ Helton said.

He returned to his desk, took his laptop out of its case and opened, then turned it on as Dorn came in, setting a large cup in front of him: ‘You like your coffee with three teaspoons of sugar and three creamers – right?’

Helton looked up without answering, Dorn evenly meeting his gaze without embarrassment until he said, `What’s a guy to do when his girlfriend comes unglued over his marriage proposal, and that before he finds out she’s gone through their joint bank account with a bulldozer?’

‘First, I didn’t deserve what I got out there. And you can’t bring a disruptive attitude in here, ‘ Helton responded, taking a sip of coffee.

‘Chief, I’m going to have trouble making this month’s house payment, real trouble! Last night when I popped the question, Rita got all bent out of shape about how she just wasn’t ready to be a wife and a mother and started an argument blowing up into screaming match until she just up and left. I didn’t want to use my credit card when I went out trying to drown all the shit in beer – stopped at an ATM for cash and saw that the bitch had beat me to the punch by leaving a grand total of three-hundred and thirty-two jeezus-frigging dollars in the account! That won’t cover a house payment with enough left over for me to live on until my next check! It was like fucking revenge just for asking her to marry me! What the hell am I going to do, chief?’

‘Where’s she now?’

‘Probably down in Hiawatha with her mom and dad. They’ve always treated her like little princess,’ Dorn bitterly replied.

‘And you’ve tried talking to her?’ Helton asked.

‘Oh, yeah. They’ve all got cell phones and know who’s calling, won’t
answer.’

‘Maybe you can refinance’…

‘… excuse me,’ Hoffner interrupted, as he squeezed past Dorn into Helton’s office. ‘Abram’s just finished giving the murder victim’s house a once-over. You think he should put it under police seal?’

Helton considered while taking another swallow of his drink: ‘No, there’s no point in getting the neighbors excited… what’s the victim’s name?’

‘Van Buren.’

‘How’d the murder happen?’ Helton asked.

‘Anderson can fill you in with more, but Van Buren was shot around five, this morning,’ Hoffner said.

‘We don’t have a motive?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘I presume Abrams canvassed people in the neighborhood of the crime scene before he searched Van Burens’s house?’

‘I believe so,’ Hoffner said.

‘Tell him to hook up with Harden on the way in to file his report so that he can give him the keys to Van Buren’s house. I need Harden to do a more thorough search. Nardo, put Van Buren’s name through the system,’ Helton went on, using Dorn’s nickname.

With his mind on other things, Dorn absent-mindedly was about to turn out through the door when the chief said, ‘Keep in mind what I just told you, and talk to me sometime when we aren’t so busy. I’m not sure I can suggest anything other than refinancing your house or getting a personal loan. But good luck in clearing things up,’ – Helton saw a degree of relief in Dorn’s eyes as the sergeant nodded, then asked, ‘How’s the kid?’

‘Well, Jeremy seemed to be getting better after a week of what the doctor said is walking pneumonia – real tough on a eight-year-old, you know, especially since it suddenly flared up last night and we had to take him to the hospital. It was touch and go until they got his temperature down around four-thirty this morning. He was sleeping well when I left.’

‘That’s good to hear; I’ll get back to you with what I turn up on Van Buren,’ – and Dorn went to his desk.

It was then Helton realized with exasperation that he’d already finished his cup of coffee.

He walked out to the beverage table, seeing an empty pot and asking, ‘Do you know if we have more coffee, Jack?’

‘I doubt it, but there might be some tea-bags in that little tin can next to the brew machine. You could drink two of them in one cup since tea has more caffeine than coffee if you’re looking for a way to stay awake, captain.’

‘Excellent idea,’ Helton said, rinsing and filling the coffee pot in the small sink next the coffee maker.

By the time heat bubbles had begun rising in the water, his mind had temporarily set aside Van Buren’s murder, beginning to mull over the statistics report he had to give city council in two weeks.

He poured a cupful of hot water and dropped in two of the tea-bags, a spoon tinkling inside the cup as he went back to reseat himself in front of his laptop and began typing after a moment of thought:
2006 incidence rate of burglary, down .43%:
2006 incidence rate of property crimes, down .5%:
2006 incidence rate of reported domestic violence, up .3%….

With the tea more and more restoring him, Police Chief Captain Lou Helton steeped himself in one of things he was best at: Understanding the convolution of untoward behavior in his jurisdiction involving all its variants. Unlike Prettyboy, he lacked scintillating intuition, while like Anderson he had a blue-tick bloodhound tenacity in pursuing leads.

His had been a doggedly steady, not head-turning rise in rank over nineteen years with the Omaha police force and nine as Falls City’s chief. He was a well-trained organizer with a reverence for procedure – and while not harsh with discipline, knew where both feet were when it was time to put one of them down. His officers – other than Linden – liked him, and Bert broke ranks in that regard because he’d been with the department longer than Helton and thought he’d deserved promotion to the top. Prettyboy didn’t empathize with that: ‘Aw, just sit on his durn head,’ he’d advise, suggesting that Helton, being six-feet two inches tall, broad-shouldered and strongly built, was big enough to stifle Linden’s sulky dissent.

‘Don’t tempt me!’ Helton would sometimes reply, as he’d screw up a face which, while not unattractive, wasn’t remarkable. In most respects, he seemed as though born to his job and the manner in which he did it.

‘I married you for your ordinariness, Lou; being different is dangerous,’ Helen, his wife, liked saying. She’d resented every second of his time with the Omaha Police Department, her neurotic anxiety having been one reason they’d agreed upon delaying to have Jeremy until eight years earlier.

But the hospital duty nurse had promised to call if Jeremy’s condition worsened. And other than to occasionally wonder how the boy was, Helton submerged himself in compiling his report, until he heard Dorn through the open office door: `The victim’s full name was Paul Emmanuel Van Buren – lived at eight-o-seven West 19th., and DMV has an emerald green, 2005 Honda Accord registered to him. He was sixty-three and the bureau of statistics records show that he was married to a Victoria. She was sixty years old when she died of cancer three years ago.’

‘Any kids?’ Helton asked.

‘Two daughters, Felcia and Alvea, though I wasn’t able to find any marriage certificates, current addresses or telephone numbers for them. As for Van Buren, his only priors were, like, three or four tickets for running red lights in recent years, maybe because his mind was going – I just can’t see him dying because he was one of the bad guys, chief.’

‘Keep digging,’ Helton replied.

‘Oh, I’ll go on seeing what kind of murdering vermin crawls out from under what rocks,’ Nardo said, almost bumping into Anderson and Berringer as he turned to leave the captain’s office.

‘Good morning, chief. How are things, like with your kid?’ Anderson said.

‘Better, after they brought his fever down. He was sleeping when I left the hospital.’

‘What about you? You look like you need touching up around the edges. Did you get any sleep?’ Anderson went on.

‘A couple of hours or so, in a chair in Jeremy’s room,’ Helton said. ‘But I’ll survive. Berringer, get your report into the computer and go home. Anderson, give me what you have on this case.’

‘Okay – oh, before I forget, here are the keys to Van Buren’s print shop. Ledbetter dusted them for fingerprints earlier; Abrams has the ones for Van Buren’s house and car. Anyway, some guy on a cell phone reported the body lying next to the parking lot behind the print shop, also a publishing house and bookstore. Ledbetter says the shooting was done with one .38 bullet around five this morning. Berringer thinks Van Buren was there so early because he planned to do janitor work before opening up for the day, which makes sense. There’s no sign of a struggle inside, no blood and nothing to show that the suspect messed with the cash register drawer or safe. Everything we saw says that Van Buren left the backdoor unlocked and that the perp slipped in behind him and forced him outside at gunpoint. I’m not much hoping we’ll identify the weapon, either; for one thing, unregistered guns have been floating around southern Missouri since long before the idea of gun control was a gleam in a legislative eye – not to lay a knock on the Missourians; Cornhuskers have enough illegal weapons to make an angel jittery.’

‘Okay. Did Abrams and Berringer get any information from people in the neighborhood?’ Helton wanted to know.

‘Nope, the perp obviously used a silencer and nobody realized that anything had happened.’

‘Has anyone talked to the guy who reported the body?’

‘Me, or I tried to, without an answer. Can Dorn or Hoffner call him again? – even if my intestinal precognition says that all he’ll say is he happened to see the body while he was walking down the alley,’ Anderson said.

‘Maybe. But contacting him still is something we have to cover,’ Helton said.

‘Yeah, and you should see these,’ Anderson said, handing two books to his chief.

‘ “Is God A Woman?” and “The Pseudo-Crucifixion of Christ”,’ Helton read their titles. `From Van Buren’s store?’

‘Yup. And since we don’t have a motive yet, including money, do you think somebody was nutso enough to knock Van Buren off just because of the books he sold?’

‘Maybe, an extremist on the fringe edges of Christian fundamentalism,’ Helton replied.

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Go on,’ – Helton sensed that Prettyboy had more.

‘Well, the murder looks execution-style because Van Buren was shot face-down and’…

‘… face-down?’

‘Yeah, and I keep thinking: Why didn’t the suspect just shoot Van Buren without going to all that trouble? But there’s more. Someone peed on the body, too, and Ledbetter says it was the suspect.’

‘That’s twisted!” Helton exclaimed. ‘Any theories about the case?’

‘Yeah. First of all, Falls City’s never had a murder like this that I can remember in all my time with the department. Second, I have a hunch that Van Buren was killed out of revenge, pure and simple, though I can’t say revenge for what,’ Anderson continued.

‘Okay, let’s operate on the idea that it was some kind of religious revenge until we know better,’ Helton said as Abrams walked in and echoed: ‘Religious revenge? – that’s an interesting label for motive.’

‘Think about it, Mike. Van Buren was shot face-down as though executed. Doesn’t that strike you as unusual for around here?’ Anderson asked.

‘Yeah, I’d have to say it does,’ Abrams agreed..

‘Not only that, but somebody took a pee on Van Buren after he died.’

‘You can’t be serious?’ – Abrams looked incredulous.

‘Oh, yes, and Ledbetter says it was the suspect doing the peeing. I’m sure you can read all about his toilet habits in Dom’s report,’ Anderson said.

‘That “you have to go when you have to go” doesn’t quite cut it in this case, does it? Whoa! I hadn’t heard about anyone relieving their bladder on Van Buren following his demise!’

‘Look at these,’ Helton interjected, handing the confiscated books to Abrams, who let out a whistle when he saw their titles: ‘Curiouser and curiouser: Execution-style murder committed by a killer pissing on his dead victim, and books about weird-ass theories of Christianity. What the devil in hell’s behind door Number 3, boss?’

‘Well, I agree with Anderson that this looks like a revenge-killing based on religion-oriented hatred,’ Helton responded. ‘For the moment, the question is, do we know anybody matching that criteria?’

‘Nope,’ Andserson said.

‘Not off the top of my head… oh, j-u-u-s-t a second, I think there’s somebody who might know!’ Abrams exclaimed.

‘Who?’ Prettyboy asked.

‘My sister Amy. She’s a New-Ager all revved-up about alternate religion, spirituality or whatever they call it. I just remembered her talking several times about a bookstore of Van Buren's kind and there’s no way in the world it isn’t the same one,’ Abrams said.

‘Is she available?’ the captain inquired.

‘She’s probably asleep since she works nights at the downtown 7-11. But I’ll give the little hussy a call, anyway,’ Abrams said, stepping out of Helton’s office.

‘What a thing to call your sister! Jeez!’ Anderson snorted, directing a scowl at Abrams turning on his cell phone and smiling while leaning against the wall on the far side of the station’s front door: ‘Yo, babe,’ he said. `Huh?… this is your brother Mike’…..
… ‘How are you?’…
… ‘Sorry I woke you up’…
… ‘Huh? Yeah, but I need your help with a case. First, some bad
news. I’m sorry to say that Paul Van Buren was killed this morning’…
… ‘Yes, Paul Van Buren, the guy that owned the bookstore where you
like going’…
… ‘How?’…
… ‘He was shot, murdered’…
… ‘Yeah, a damn terrible thing’…
… ‘I’m really sorry to wake you up this way, sis’…
… ‘What? Yeah, I know it’s a real shock, but… but can I ask you a
few questions?’…
… ‘Okay. Did Van Buren ever mention anybody who might want him
dead?’ (there was a long pause).
… ‘Are you sure about that?’…
… ‘Van Buren discussed this guy with you?’…
… ‘Okay, okay. Can you come to the station and give us a statement?’…
… ‘Absolutely. Between four and four-thirty this afternoon would be fine’…
… ‘Again, I’m sorry, Amy. But listen, you might’ve given us our first break’…
… ‘Yeah, I know this isn’t a happy thing to hear. But thanks a bunch, sis’…
… ‘Love you, too. Kissy-kisses and I’ll see you later’…
… ‘Okay. Bye-bye.’

‘Heck, guess a guy can call his sister anything if he says goodbye to her like that. Kissy-kisses, Mike?’ Anderson teased, as Abrams came back into Helton’s office.

‘Sure, as long as she stays away from you, Prettyboy!’ Abrams retorted. `Listen up,’ – and he looked at the chief, `Amy says there were several times Van Buren talked with her about this guy, Fanny Fay Vice. He owns River Valley Farm Equipment on the north side. She says he’s a hardcore white supremicist Christian who hates feminists, tree-huggers, lesbians, abortion rights, gays, minorities, labor rights, liberals in general and any interpretation of the Bible that’s not literal. About two years ago, he bought up all the quote unquote more blasphemous books Van Buren had on his shelves, though Amy says she doesn’t know what he did with them. But a little over a year ago, Vice bought even more books and burned them on the parking lot of his business place.’

‘An old-fashioned book burning?’ Helton said.

‘Looks that way, and Amy says she could feel something else Van Buren wasn’t saying about Vice. What a name: Fanny Fay Vice, man!’

Helton turned, rapped on the window between his office and the duty room, waved Dorn in and told Abrams to repeat his briefing.

‘Okay, Nardo,’ Helton continued when Abrams was finished, `Check that information with the database before you drive up to the farm equipment store and question’…

‘…excuse me, chief,’ Abrams interrupted, `You know I’ve always wanted to take over for Prettyboy as detective as soon as he’s too rickety to stand up, which probably won’t be until he retires, damn his ass. So, do you mind if I question the earthly incarnation of vice-apparent in his realm of evil?’

‘That’s a great idea! You know me, preferring to rot safely in front of a computer, which is what Rita, my marriage-hating girlfriend seems to want for me – in hell!’ Dorn said, his voice touched with venom.

Helton gave him a thoughtful look: ‘All right, Dorn, Jack has the number for the guy who reported the murder. Get it and give him another call. You, Abrams, run Vice through the computer before you pay him a visit, that is, unless the computer gives you something alarming. Even if it doesn’t, he could be armed and dangerous – okay’

‘Sure thing,’ – and Abrams was whistling as he walked out of the office.

In nine years, the chief of course had become accustomed to the unpredictable thrust-angles of Anderson’s tongue-in-cheek. But he was taken off-guard when Anderson grinned: ‘His wit isn’t as sharp as mine, chief. But Mike’s a good boy and probably will make a darn decent detective someday, but only when I say so,’ – and Prettyboy stood in preparation for returning to his desk to complete and file his report in the electronic database.

‘I thought the say-so is mine!’ Helton countered, feeling energetic enough for the first time that day to smile, at Prettyboy’s back disappearing through the door.

‘Darn, I should have more of that tea!’ he thought, walking out to the beverage table.

And soon, he again was smiling, feeling fortunate to have found a couple more tea-bags.

___***___

Abrams wasn’t the mean-spirited sort. But he had an impish sense of humor and relished irony, thinking that the suspect’s name was funny, with a roguish smile sitting on his face as he strode into River Valley Farm Equipment.

A mid-thirties man of medium height, with straight, thin, medium-dark-brown hair, stood behind the counter stabbing his finger at a hand-held calculator with an attitude as emaciated of functional enthusiasm as he and his body were of substance – or so it seemed to Abrams inquiring, ‘Good morning. Is Fanny Fay Vice around?’

‘Maybe, maybe not, depending on who’s asking,’ – the clerk spat a wad of chewing tobacco into a waste basket at his feet.

‘Well, now, this is neither a maybe nor a maybe not, just in case you don’t recognize my uniform and think my business is ambiguous,’ Abrams replied, thrusting his badge under the clerk’s nose.

The man’s only response was to act as though the badge was an interference, until the policeman withdrew it, whereupon the clerk resumed aggressive use of the calculator as a target for finger-punches. Abrams in fact wondered if the man wasn’t about to mix-in a flurry of roundhouses as he asked, ‘Okay, again – is Vice here?’

‘Don’t think so, but why ya’ want to know?’

‘I’ll give you the police chief’s personal number and you can ask him,’ Abrams replied.

The clerk said nothing in return.

‘S-o-o-o, where’s Mr. Vice?’ Abrams reiterated the question.

‘Dunno.’

‘Hum-m-m – you have no idea?

‘No.’

‘When was the last time he was here?’ Abrams continued.

‘Jake?’ the clerk said, looking at a squat, nearly bald, overweight and also middle-aged man showing a lawn tractor to a prospective customer on the sales floor.

‘Yeah?’ said Jake.

‘When was the last time Fanny Fay was here?’ the clerk asked.

‘Last week, probably.’

‘What day?’ Abrams wanted to know.

‘Monday, maybe Tuesday.’

‘Do you know where he is?’ Abrams asked.

‘No… should I?’ – and while Jake could be understood, his voice somehow seemed a smudge, a smear of sound.

‘Strange -Vice owns this business, but hasn’t been here since some day last week, not called and you don’t have any idea where he is?’ the policeman challenged in disbelief.

There was a circularity to the motion of Jake’s legs reminding Abrams of the pistons of small engines as the salesman rolled over in front of the officer, peering up with small eyes looking like sun-dried -and -hardened raisins that’d been shoved into a shapeless mass of dough with finger-thrusts much like the clerk’s still obstinately assaulting the calculator.

‘Listen, buster, me and Glen run this place just fine without Fanny Fay babystitting us, in person or over the phone. Now, I suggest you get out of here,’ Jake advised in a hiss.

‘I have a better suggestion. How about I get a warrant to seize all of your paperwork that’d provide your names and other info I could use to tickle the computer? Do you think it’d find anything to chuckle about if I did?’

‘Why don’t you find out?’ Glen grunted, with a dour glare.

‘Oh, I can and will! You sweet boys stay put; I’ll be back!’ Abrams replied, turning toward the door.

‘Motherfucker! ‘ Jake muttered.

The sergeant paused long enough to say over his shoulder: ‘Who? Your mother? Huh-uh, don’t think so. She’s too ugly. Fanny Fay, now? He might like her!’ – and Abrams was gone before dark looks could evaporate from Jake’s and Glen’s faces like a fog of disgruntlement in a winter of discontent.

It perhaps was due to the fine morning, perhaps the enlivening exchange with the men – Abrams was whistling again as he drove back to the station.
___* * *___

‘He wasn’t overly-communicative, captain,’ – Dorn had returned to Helton’s office: `What he said was that his name is Trevor Johnson and that he was taking a shortcut through the alley on the way to an morning prep-shift at McDonald’s when he heard a noise – looked over and saw a white cat sniffing around Van Buren. Christ, this case came to us by way of frigging meow, if you can believe that!’

‘That was the extent of his information? ‘ the chief inquired.

‘Yeah, except that he lives in Room 206 at The Showboat Hotel. Then he turned his phone off. Hopefully he wasn’t prepping food while he was talking to me, because it sounded like finding a dead body still was about to have him puking’…

‘… quite a moving experience, eh?’ Abrams cheerfully interjected, as he walked in. `You’re talking about the guy who called the murder in?’

‘Yeah, and you have the compassion of a boa frigging constrictor! ‘ Dorn exclaimed.

‘Thanks!’ Abrams grinned, followed by Dorn asking, `Should we pull Johnson in for more questioning, chief?’

‘We’ll leave him hanging for now – we seem to have a better lead,’ Helton replied, giving Abrams a stern look: ‘Why didn’t you report to me about the computer records on Vice before you left? I need to know what my men are getting into before they go off joyriding on behalf of the department, Abrams.’

‘Sorry, chief, I was in a hurry and forgot.’

‘That’s no excuse!… well?’ Helton continued.

‘Well,’ Abrams said, ‘River Valley Farm Equipment doesn’t give us much other than a couple of guys running it for Fanny Fay whom they say hasn’t called or been at the store since sometime last week. They don’t know where he is, don’t seem to care, either.’

‘What are your feelings about them?’ – Helton’s attitude relented.

‘That they’re the co-pontiffs of infallible idiocy. I doubt they could pull-off a murder if you gave them a how-to handbook, a weapon and pointed their victim out, chief. Vice, now, I have a feeling he could be involved – not that the database was terribly enlightening, except to say he’s fifty-eight, unmarried, childless, lives in the upscale subdivision on the far-westside and owns a gray, 2006 Hummer. As for more blatant criminality, he’s been hit with four citations for firing a gun within city limits’…

… ’so he owns one?’ Helton broke in.

‘A registered shotgun according to the records, not a .38 Special, chief.’

‘I see. Okay, I’ll have Jack radio Alberts or Kronstadt to go see if Vice is home to talk to, and Nardo, we might as well up the ante. Put out an APB on Vice as wanted for questioning in connection with murder,’ – and an impish gleam entered Helton’s eyes: ‘Abrams, you enlighten the computer with a report of your activities and get out of here.’

`Yes, boss,’ Abrams replied, preceding Dorn out of the office.

‘Good cops, though getting a report ready wouldn’t be so bad if everyone would leave me alone!’Helton ruminated, watching them leave….

… not that he was allowed any respite. He’d just begun concentrating on his report once more when Hoffner came in, a manila folder in hand.

‘Yes?’ – Helton gave him a questioning look.

‘Well, chief, I checked on what paper we have for Van Buren. Look at this.’

Helton scanned the file: ‘This is strange, just a piece of paper with handwritten notes saying: `Theft complaint, Van Buren; 2 CD’s, missing, 3 computer files, deleted’.’

‘I know. Even worse, the date is almost blotted out with what looks like old white-out that’s flaked off a little. If you look close, you can see the date was 5 / 29 / ‘06. Not only that, the report isn’t signed with anything but U. G. K. Who’s U. G. K.?’ Hoffner wanted to know.

Helton looked thoughtful: ‘Ulrich Georg Kramer. U. G. K. stands for Lt. Ulrich Georg Kramer. Ulrich and Georg are German names and hard for us to remember, so we called him George or’…

… ‘why, of course! He retired, what? – a month ago, though he seems to like dropping by the station two or three times a week, maybe because he’s one of your best friends, right?’ Hoffner said.

‘My oldest in Falls City,’ Helton replied, ‘But this file isn’t at all like him. He was one of the most meticulous fuss-buckets for detail and procedure I’ve ever known. He never would’ve taken a theft complaint on anything but a regulation form, besides which, he signed all documents with his full name because he was proud of it.’

‘What about the whited-out date?’ Hoffner asked.

Helton hesitated as he stood up from his desk: ‘I don’t know what to say about that. Is this report in the computer?’

‘There isn’t a word of it anywhere in the database,’ Hoffner said.

‘Okay, I’ll get the computer expert down from the Nebraska City Police Department to retrieve Van Buren’s deleted computer files,’ – and Helton walked over to look out the window on to the street, while Hoffner could see darkness deepening on his face.

‘What is it, chief?’

It was several seconds before Helton turned troubled eyes toward the sergeant: `I just remembered that Kramer belongs to a Baptist church… attends services twice on Sunday and prayer meeting every Thursday night, not at an ordinary southern Baptist church but one that’s a stricter offshoot. Not only that, his parents were German first-generation immigrants and his dad was a member of a pro-German organization during World War II.’

‘He actually talked about that?’ Hoffner asked.

‘He mentioned it a few times off-hand.’

‘Shit! I don’t like the sound of this!’ Hoffner softly exclaimed. `Do you think he’s connected to Fanny Fay Vice?’

‘We can ask. Call Kramer and tell him I need to question him about an urgent matter.’

‘Sure, keeping my fingers crossed for the best,’ – and Hoffner walked out of the office.

‘Yeah,’ Helton repled, a distant tone in his voice as he fixed aggrieved eyes of foreboding out the window again and began thinking : ‘I can’t remember Kramer ever railing against feminists and the like. But he wasn’t shy about bemoaning the deterioration of morality in America,’– especially at times such as when Hannah, his unmarried, twenty-three year-old daughter, had stopped attending her father’s church and had an abortion. Kramer had never admitted it, though a mutual friend had told Helton about Kramer disowning her, and how she’d never again darkened the doors of her childhood home – not once in the last twenty-two years.

Though what Helton felt wasn’t connected to the task at hand, he finally returned to working on his report with creases of regret crowning his brow… while he was startled when he realized that the next crime category he had to address was premeditated murder…

… and the movements of his fingers across the keyboard were hesitant, halting…
___***___

III

(Ankara, Turkey, original night)

Vendors had begun coloring Yuksel Street with hawking calls punctuating the comforting assault of voices rising from strolling throngs – and as if it’d drifted downward from the moon, full and balmy, catalpa-cooled night lay around Tony Barret and Henry Konkel unaware of the small decrease in temperature and eastward-coming clouds; Tony was watching his friend getting up from his chair: ‘Where are you going?’

‘To the little boys’ room.’

‘Your bladder is beginning to play devil’s advocate with your beer, is it?’

‘It’d seem so, though no matter. Fortunately for my narrative skills, my talent for intoxication rarely ventures beyond the ambiguous realm of tipsiness; besides, never let alcohol bedevil a good story without the story rightfully bedeviling you… oh, and don’t forget to hold up two fingers and point at our beer glasses if Vehbi or Burak come anywhere near our table while I’m gone – okay?’

‘Sure,’ said Tony, his mind starting to return to bittersweet moments of childhood bedevilment when Lorenzo, his dad, who along with Meghan, his mother, hadn’t believed that leaving their child with babysitters was good for the boy. Both worked at Prairie Office Supply, the business they owned, which they closed at seven on weeknights. And Tony had liked school well enough, but could still feel the weight of books in his carrier bag when the school bus driver had let him off in front of the store every afternoon during the school year.

He’d been allowed thirty minutes of recreation thereafter, having played imaginary games since there’d been no other kids in the neighborhood and he’d preferred exercises of mind to games on the computer in the store’s office. He’d slain many a dragon in homage to countless, ravishing ladies in waiting, and no nobler knight had ever ranged the Oklahoma plains.

Tony’s realm-fantastic would end at four-fifteen; he’d start homework on one corner of the office desk, most often while his mom did the business’s accounting and other paperwork on the computer.

And Bertha Birdwing, the Apache cook, would have supper ready when the family arrived at home after store closing. Then – perhaps to make up for lost time with his son during business hours – Lorenzo would sit Tony next to him on the couch and regale him with spontaneously modernized versions of ancient myths and legends.

Tony couldn’t comprehend the need he’d had, a craving, and only vaguely could sense the melancholy that’d mist his father’s eyes when he’d look into them and ask, `Are these stories true, dad?’

Lorenzo would hesitate before answering: ‘The important thing is the truth in all stories, truth beyond the mere, moldering skeletons of facts, son. Just remember that ‘man doth not live by bread alone’, but by the living breath of mystery. The human spirit dies without it, Tony, the truth of mystery in myths, legends and history, because as scientifically precise with facts as it might be, history ends with story – begins with it, too, son.’

Even as boy, a part of Tony had understood, another part possessed by a quietly yawning ache.

Usually, Lorenzo would kiss the top of his head, and stories finished for the night, would take Tony into his study and let him sit in his lap while he wrote poems. Sometimes he’d read them aloud, without Tony understanding them, yet sensing something ephemeral but inescapable beyond – until he’d fall asleep, his dad putting him to bed, and the last thing he’d remember being his mother making sure he was tucked in, kissing the tip of his nose before she left his room.

Now, on the Gulhanase Café-Bar patio, paradox still burned within, the present unfurling the past as Henry returned to the table and observed, ‘Devil’s advocate or not, my bladder’s temporarily unburdened itself of alcoholic sin…. and I take it that Burak and Doyush haven’t passed by, have they? Anthony, are you there?’

‘Oh, sorry. No, I didn’t see hide or hair of either,’ Tony responded, returning to the moment with a start.

‘Ah, the waiters, we’ll get their attention; the hour of imbibing is far from over.’

‘Hopefully. By the way, sobriety is forgiveness for alcoholic sin, I take it,’ Tony asked.

‘Sobriety forgives nothing, Anthony. Burak! Burak! Burada iki tane daha buyuk bira, luften (two more large beers here, please),’ Henry accosted the waiter, ‘and some of the worst sins are committed in stone-chilly sobriety. Evil is most hideous when coldly, soberly staring one in the eye while cursing Lucifer for finally falling to his senses, you might say. Sweet, holy madness was the price he paid for enough clarity of mind to tumble out of heaven, out of sorts with a god spilling blood while drunk on nothing but psychopathic ice-cold delight coursing through his veins’…

‘… how insanely poetic!’ Tony grinned. ‘And I presume all of that is because of not worshiping the pentagram you mentioned earlier, that is, if you’d go on haunting this witching hour with your tale.’

‘I would, and no, you can’t exorcise sobriety, though returning to what I was talking about: Both hexagrams and pentagrams have had occult usage.'

‘Interesting.’

‘Yes, particularly since the pentagram actually can refer to Solomon’s Seal like the six -pointed star can – meaning I’ll illuminate the next part of my story with the second candle of the four-branched menorah I mentioned a bit ago: I’m sure you know the *Merovingians were known as Magician-Kings.'

___

* Perhaps partly due to not a lot being known about them, the Merovingian Kings of Medieval France carry a mythic aura of mystery even at present. Their founder was the ducal Merovee/Meroweg/Merovich who was portrayed as have been sired by a human father and a mysterious sea creature, The Quinotaur. Their monarchial and cultural origins are unknown to scholars of standard history, though it has been said their law was influenced by Jewish culture. The 300-year-some dynasty's kings also considered themselves to be priest-kings wearing tassels attached to their robe-fringes, wore long, red/blond hair, and were said to have the powers of healing/seeing into the future. Their most famous King Clovis made an agreement whereby the Vatican swore to recognize the Merovingians as France's rightful rulers forever in exchange for Clovis' help in converting Europe to orthodox Christianity – despite which Dagobert II, the dynasty's last true king, was assassinated with the Vatican's approval. Wallace-Hadrell, author of 'Long-Haired Kings' states that the French aristocracy realized the Vatican had 'betrayed the Merovingians in a particular shocking way', while no one knows the behind-the-scenes nature of its agreement with King Clovis, especially since the dynasty's later kings were off-standish toward the Vatican and didn't practice orthodox Christianity.

 

__

'Yes,' Tony said.

'Okay, and they played fast and loose with orthodox Christianity by practicing pagan spirituality, blending use of crystal balls and reverence for bulls with an unusual, now-unknown brand of Christianity – and that was even after the Vatican’s agreement to recognize the Merovingians as France’s rightful kings in perpetuity in exchange for King Clovis’ help in converting Europe to Christian orthodoxy.

'Also, as I said, the Merovingians were polygamists long after the Catholic church persuaded members of the non-royal aristocracy to discontinue the practice. Have you ever wondered why the papacy allowed them to get away with all that and what it was that Clovis held over the Vatican?’

‘I don’t know of a Medieval historian who hasn’t,’ Tony said.

‘Yes, well, the agreement’s circumstances are telling, considering that Merovingian monarchs after Clovis weren’t even Christians in the sense of which he promised to convert Europe. And in terms of my family, that has to do with Harobald and Pharamond memorizing a long genealogy, starting in the time of David and Solomon.

'You see, archaeological evidence shows that the aboriginal Hebrews weren't an exotic peoples, but simply Canaanites living in northern and southern areas of central Palestine. The southern area was hilly, making trade with other nations difficult, and its soil was poor; the southerners were the least-cultivated people in Biblical Palestine’.. .

‘… like southern hillbillies? ‘

‘A parallel could be drawn. By contrast, the northern area’s terrain was trade-friendly, its soil was richer. And during the period concurrent with David, the northern King Omri established the most cultured and powerful nation in the region. Of course, Omri was the grandfather of the ‘bad’ King Ahab whose wife was the supposedly wicked Jezebel, though there was a particular reason that she and King Ahab were demonized,’ Henry said.

‘She wasn’t an evil witch after all?’

‘You’ve read the Bible’s Old Testament, Anthony?’ Henry inquired.

‘Yeah. Dad said it was one of the best sources of poetic symbolism in literature – an odd book, I’ll say,’ Tony replied.

‘But at least you’ll be able to follow me delving into it a bit,’ – and Henry lit cigars for Tony and himself during a pause for thought, then: ‘There really weren’t twelve tribes of Israel at the time I’m talking about. Still, I’ll refer to tribes for convenience, because of an Old Testament story about friction between the tribes of Dan and Benjamin and the ten others.'

'The tribal confederation of ten denounced the Benjaminites, and especially the Danites, as idolatrous worshipers of bulls, among other things. Interestingly, excavations in the northern area of today’s Israel have indeed uncovered a gold statue of a bull in the city of Dan. And the Danite Samson of course wore his hair long, a tradition followed by the Merovingian kings’…

‘… excuse me, but you aren’t going to tell me you’re descended from Jesus, are you?’ Tony interrupted, trying not to grin too broadly.

‘Where’d that idea come from?’ Henry chuckled, ‘Though I certainly am not going to tout myself as descended from Yeshua! In fact, a holy bloodline simply doesn’t'…

‘… why are you referring to Jesus as Yeshua?’

‘Because his Hebrew name was Yeshua or Yehoshua and he had nothing to do with the mockery of him concocted by St. Paul as Jesus Christ. Truth is, Paul wasn’t a true apostle, but Yeshuism’s best-known corruptor.’

‘Ouch! – good thing I’m not a Christian or that’d hurt!’ Tony exclaimed.

‘Truth so often hurts, Anthony, though back to the story: The feud between the Danites and the tribal group of ten eventually became so bitter that the Danites left Palestine for the city of Tyre in the area of today’s Lebanon before moving on to the area of today’s Turkey.’

‘Just a second, Henry, the Merovingians were the royal family of the Franks who believed they were descended from Paris of Troy – right?’

‘Yes, though I’ll get into that more later.’

‘Okay, but I think I already see a number of things dawning out of the mist of long ago,’ Tony said.

‘Well, whether long ago or not, it is good to remember that the mist of reality sometimes blurs the line between myth and history, like the symbolism of the Merovingians’ most brilliant legend which, in a way, actually wasn’t a legend. You know what that was relating to King Merovee - right?’ Henry asked.

‘Of course, that he had two fathers, a human one and a mysterious creature, the Quinotaurus, that impregnated his mother while she was swimming in the Mediterranean Sea,’ Tony said.

‘And the ‘quin’ in Quinotaurus comes from the Latin word ‘quinque’ meaning what?’

‘Five,’ Tony replied.

‘Precisely. Taurus, of course, is a Latin word, too. And odd as it might seem, in astrology Taurus is considered a feminine earth sign ruled by Venus. But what does ‘taurus’ mean?’

Furrows knitted Tony’s brow: ‘W-h-y-y-y, good lord, it’s Latin for bull! – interesting, the five and the bull in Quinotaurus!

‘The story seems to be starting to bedevil you, Anthony!’ Henry said, a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth, ‘Which means we both need the benevolent bedevilment of more beer! Vehbi! Vehbi! Iki tane daha bira, lutfen (Vehbi, Vehbi, two large beers, here, please) 'And the story's starting to bedevil you particularly since you’re about to enter into the myth of reality at the heart of one Western European history’s most enduring mysteries’…

___***___

‘... of course, one of life’s most astonishing mirror-tricks is duality. On the one hand, myth can have roots in fact, as well as rise the first-born child of truth buried deep in our collective consciousness - or it can be based on non-factual deception on the other hand. But myths aren’t necessarily false because they’re the products of non-tangibility... oh, and how do you like Efes beer?’ Henry said.

‘A bit on the thin and vengeful side, but not a bad brew,’ Tony answered. `Why?’

Henry gave his friend a bemused look: ‘Actually, part of this story is connected to the mythological Father of All Brewers, though I’ll explain that in a bit. Let me ask, first, if you think The Old Testament is a myth of tangible factuality, Anthony?’

‘Hardly’…

‘… and something that’s particularly true of its earlier books,’ Henry went on. ‘There’s evidence that everything from Genesis to Abraham is nothing more than a mythical fabrication, at best, and that everything from Abraham to the good king Josiah is nothing but legend. The Old Testament from Josiah onward is at least partly historical, though more reliable historicity didn’t happen until after the Jews’ return from Babylonian captivity – and that because non-Biblical, third-party documents survived to give us some idea about the Mid-East of the times. Even then, the Post-Return Old Testament suffers from deceptions of omission at the least. But what’s one of the more important things about Yeshua’s genealogy as given in The New Testament?’

‘That he was descended from king David, I’d say,’ Tony answered.

‘True, yet factually untrue in a complete sense, inasmuch as David and Solomon weren’t kings as claimed by scripture.’

‘Why?’ Tony wanted to know.

‘Because they belonged to the group of poor, uncultivated Hebraic southerners, and excavations of the period-strata have revealed no weapons of war in that area. Too, the southerners were neither centrally organized nor powerful enough to have supported the wars of a mighty king David – beyond which, Jerusalem of the times was the city-state Urusalem ruled by King Abdi-Hebu. There was no Davidic conquest, no unified kingdom of Solomon,’ Henry continued.

‘Why not, beyond what you’ve just told me?’

‘Because early books of The Old Testament were written by southerners. And the southern King Josiah, in his time, wanted to unify the northerners and southerners as Solomon never had, and needed the inspiration of culture-embellishing ’scripture’ as inspiration for his subjects to embrace the war that unification would’ve meant. War always requires propaganda and the southerners not surprisingly would’ve been readier to attack people they believed to be religiously inferior, in this case, the Omride northerners. The Bible’s not nearly as old as most people think and there’s evidence that it’s authorship didn’t arise or compilation begin until King Josiah’s time. So it was that the southern Bible writers’ thrust was condemning the northern Danites as idolaters, demonizing Ahab and Jezebel as impossibly wicked and falsely attributing Omride architectural, diplomatic and military achievements to the southern David and Solomon’…

‘… in other words, they compensated for their sense of cultural inferiority with a gigantic bag of political-religious hot air – right?’ Tony asked.

‘Vested in robes of the vernacular, yes,’ Henry said.

‘Jeez! Things aren’t looking good for Christianity! ‘

‘Oh, it only gets worse!’ Henry went on. `First, the Omride Kingdom thrived from the 9th. to the 7th. century B. C. when it was conquered by the Assyrians – meaning that before starting to compile and write The Old Testament, the southern Hebrews had roughly one-hundred years to learn the art of writing from Omrides, or Danites, fleeing southward from the destruction of their kingdom. Too, the Omrides had flourished under the influence of Egyptian culture like Jewish culture influenced the Salic Law of the Franks as that pertains to the Merovingians.’

‘Right,’ Tony confirmed.

‘Then, there were the traditions of Merovingian monarchs considering themselves to be Priest-Kings wearing tassels on their robe-fringes, and their sons becoming kings at twelve. Do you have any idea about the origins of the latter?’ Henry asked.

‘No.’

‘If you recall what the Old Testament says, King Josiah found a copy of Torah in the temple and read it to the people when he was twelve, a bit of propaganda based on Egyptian culture passed on to the Bible’s southern authors from the Omrides. Beyond that, have you ever wondered why the Franks believed they were descended from Noah but not Abraham and considered themselves to be the ‘People of the New Covenant’ centuries before the Christians thought of themselves the same way?’ Henry questioned.

‘I’ve never given it any thought,’ Tony answered.

‘Well, it wasn’t so much a new, but a superior covenant of God making a promise to Noah to never again destroy the entire world, while the promise he made to Abraham principally concerned Abraham’s progeny. By the way, Noah was the world’s first wine-maker or brewer of alcohol according to the story about him supposedly landing safe and sound on Mt. Aaarat, here in eastern Turkey, as a matter of fact.’

‘So, he was responsible for this stuff that makes my head swim,’ Tony said.

‘According to myth, like Abraham as the father of what’s now known as the Jews, a name particularly applicable to the southern Judahites like David’…

… ‘who never existed?’

‘He existed, to be sure; archaeologists have found a monumental stylus attesting to that. The problem is factuality. Comparing their lives with those of people in the Omridean kingdom, you see, the southerner Bible writers tried bridging the cultural gap by creating self-inflating propaganda, embellishments like the Exodus, the conquest of Canaan, David’s military exploits and Solomon’s magnificent united kingdom. In truth, David and Solomon were nothing more than tribal chieftains’…

‘… something Christians wouldn’t be in love with hearing,’ Tony observed.

‘Indeed, and they’re lucky that Omride historical documents were destroyed during the war with the Assyrians.’

‘However, there are other interesting matters, like taurus, a feminine earth symbol ruled by Venus in astrology, as I said. Make no mistake, the male-sexist Bible writers were knowledgable about astrology – and not at all happy that a male, the bull, was in service to Venus, the Queen of Heaven symbolizing women revered as birth-giving fountains of life and therefore as goddesses.'

'It’s important to remember there was a time when women were considered to be incarnations of the divine, too. But that idea was anathema to leaders of organized religion – one of the most glaring examples being The Old Testament authors insisting that God’s glory could never rest on his people unless bull -and -goddess-worship were eradicated. The problem wasn’t entirely a matter of the people merely straying from Jehovah, but worshiping the goddess and revering a symbol associated with femininity.’

‘In numerous ways, that’s still being played out by some Christian evangelicals who believe that the Merovingians will be the ancestral family of the Antichrist, another earth and bull symbol cooperating with, if not directly in service to the Great Whore of Babylon. And notice the denigration of a woman as a whore, as Mary Magdalene came to be.’

‘Returning to the Danites, though, it’s no coincidence The Old Testament says that religious disagreement forced their migration to Tyre. On the one hand, that was the southern Bible-writers justifying their scriptural but non-historical obliteration of the northern kingdom’s glory, while that deception, on the other, resulted in the betrayal of modern scholars not knowing the Merovingians’ monarchical origins. Truth is, the Old Testament obscured the fact that Danite Merovingians were among those escaping the downfall of the Omride kingdom…’

‘… care to run that past me again?’ Tony said, looking astounded.

‘Those with ears to hear should listen – carefully!’ Henry replied while smiling. ‘You see, the Merovingians’ ancient ancestors, or the Proto-Merovingians, were members of a minor, less-visible branch of the Omride royalty.’

‘Are you going to tell me you’ve solved the puzzle of the Merovingians’ origins?’ Tony asked, his mouth half open.

‘No, simply because that’s a secret that’s been handed down, first by oral transmission, then genealogical records, through generations of my family ever since the Danite, or more precisely, Omride Proto-Merovingians dressed like commoners while fleeing the fall of their nation. And I say a ‘minor, less-visible branch’ of the royal house because their commoner fellow-refugees might otherwise have recognized them, blamed them for the kingdom’s destruction and killed them. Too, the Proto-Merovingians orally transmitted their identity, history and traditions to successive generations of the family during their migration to Tyre, then Troy where they intermarried with Trojan descendants, followed by settling in the northwestern shore area of the Black Sea, and finally, northwestern Germany.'

'Of course, they lived with other peoples who had their own leaders at every step of their migration. As a result, the Merovingians waited for the right time to assert their royal prerogative, which happened with King Merovee. He was handsome and charismatic, even at only fifteen understanding human nature and the power of myth. By the way, Proto-Merovingian intermarriage with descendants of the Trojans was why the Franks believed that Paris was one of their ancestors,’ Henry continued.

Tony said, ‘Wow! I’m starting to see a pattern. Let me try putting it together, going back to the ‘pent’ in pentagram coming from the Greek word for five as the equivalent of ‘quin’ in Quinotaurus. And a pentagram equals the Star of David minus one point, symbolizing the Franks’ rejection of Abraham as their ancestor – right?’

‘Correct, since the five in Quinotaurus was also celebrated by the Merovingians as a protest against and defiance of their betrayal by the Judahite authors of The Old Testament honored by Christians in their time,’ Henry added. ‘As well, the Merovingians’ reverence for bulls harked back to Omride or Danite religious practices, and their use of crystal balls was a descendant influence of Egyptian culture, also by way of the Omrides. Beyond that, the Vatican’s approval of King Dagobert II’s assassination and genocide of the Albegensians partly were further attempts to eradicate goddess worship.’

‘No wonder your granddad John was so pissed off!’ Tony grinned. 'And all of this is what King Clovis held over the Vatican?’

‘Yes, and it’d have brought up more questions than could be answered had the Vatican tried discounting him, who could and did recite the names of his ancestors going back to Omri disguised as David in The Old Testament.’

‘That must have made the pope boil,’ Tony said. ‘It’s a wonder he didn’t have Clovis’s head lopped off simply because he was a relative – a distant one – of Ahab and Jezebel!’

‘Oh, it was painful for the pope to have Clovis take him to school about Yeshua not being descended from David and Solomon as mighty kings, to be sure! The thing, though, was an impasse, the Roman Church not being strong enough to yet impose itself upon the Merovingians or the Merovingians on the church which bided its time until Merovingian power passed into the hands of the palace mayors. However, the Clovis had something else to hold over the Bishop of Rome.’

‘Oh, the poor guy!’ Tony exclaimed.

‘Yes, well, Clovis strongly hinted at `something across the sea’; linguistically, Merovee is associated with the sea which is associated with the Hebrew name Miriam or Mary. However, the Merovingians were not, and I repeat, were not descended from Yeshua and Mary Magdalene, while there was a reason for the Vatican to think’…

… ‘another non-factual myth?’ Tony interjected.

… ‘but no worse than the one denying King Omri and the Merovingians their properly full place in history. Before I tell you about that, however, I want to show you something. Come,’ Henry said.

‘Uhru-u-u-u-uh!’ Tony groaned, starting to stand.

‘Are you drunk?’ Henry mirthfully asked.

‘No, it’s just that it’s more pleasant to stay sitting down,’ Tony replied, finally gaining his feet.

‘Oh, now, come, come!’ – and Henry led the young man out onto the sidewalk.

‘Our Lady of the Rose isn’t ashamed of herself. It’s just that she can’t always live in the public eye and sometimes retires to her chamber of heaven beyond the clouds,’ Henry said, pointing upward.

‘I didn’t notice it’d started raining,’ Tony said.

‘Lightly. Feel that,’ – and Henry stretched his hands out.

‘Feel what, that it’s raining?’ Tony inquired.

‘No, that you aren’t getting wet.’

Tony held his hands out, too: ‘Well, I’ll be! You’re right! Why aren’t I feeling wet?

‘Who knows – The Lady’s magic?’

‘Yes, magic! – truly a night of magic!’ Tony exclaimed, and it was with a sense of joy not created by the ambrosia of Noah that he threw back his head, for a face-full of heaven’s tears.

___***___

IV

(Falls City, Nebraska, original day)

Considering the wet spring it’d been, it seemed out of character with the natural scheme of things for a whirling stanza of wind to pirouette a pall of dust down the sidewalk outside Helton’s office, except that he didn’t notice, being absorbed in his work until he heard a voice: ‘When are you going home, chief?’

Helton looked up at Prettyboy standing in his office door. He felt surprised, as he sometimes was, by how much space the man occupied, not only in terms of height but sheer bulk: ‘I wouldn’t want to be a criminal with that behemoth breathing down my neck!’ he thought before he said, ‘I’m going to try stiffing it out until six. Helen, my wife, is Judge Hoenecker’s legal assistant, you know, and she’ll get home late because a trial is running over today. So, I’ll have to eat dinner out, then visit Jeremy at the hospital. But six is my target-time for leaving. How about you? – have your clerical work cleared up?’

‘Yup, my report is on my desk. But the four quick cups of virgin coffee I had on the way here from the crime scene aren’t doing the trick anymore’…

… `virgin coffee?’ – Helton arched his eyebrows.

‘Without cream or sugar, boss. At the moment, The Flapperjack Hut’s varnish remover is losing its magic and I’m starting to fade real fast. I’m on graveyard again tomorrow; I’ll see you two days from now when I’ll be back on nights for three days. Bless Conner’s hide and everything about him – guess he knows what he’s doing assigning shifts. But it can rag on you, going back and forth between time-slots like that.’

‘He’s doing his best; give him more officers and you’d see a big change – which reminds me to remind you that the city fathers are still yapping at our heels looking for any excuse to cut funding for the department, one reason we need to solve this case, Anderson, and soon,’ Helton said.

‘Hell, I’ll solve it just for kicks! Wouldn’t that leave the good city fathers red in the face!’ Anderson said.

‘Don’t count on it. By the way, is Berringer gone?’

‘He booked out of here about fifteen minutes ago. Anyway, I need to be moving my ass down the pike. I’ll see you when I’m back on nights. Have a good one – oh, say `hi’ to the tyke for me,’ Anderson said.

`Thanks, I will. Jeremy thinks you’re the greatest.’

`Really? Well, I’d stop in to visit him on my way home if I wasn’t so tired, but I’ll try tomorrow. Later, chief.

`You, too. Say, is there really a restaurant called The Flapperjack Hut?’ Helton inquired.

`Opened only two weeks ago; you should give it a try,’ – and the lieutenant was out the door before the captain could respond.

‘The Flapperjack Hut’? What’s this town coming to, giving home to restaurants with names like that?’ Helton thought, returning to typing until he heard a knock: `Chief Helton?’

`Yes?’ he acknowledged, raising his eyes toward a dark-blond man in the doorway who looked as though in his mid-thirties and a little over six feet tall, with a tight muscularity of body that made Helton think of an athlete, an effect somewhat altered by a long, hooked noise suggesting its owner as academic.

‘I’m Chad Lawrence, the electronics tech with the Nebraska City Police Department,’ the man said.

`Oh, hi. Pleased to meet you. How are you?’ – and Helton stood, moving
over to shake hands.

`I’m fine. The drive down here was lovely. Not only is Southeastern Nebraska one of the most fertile, but beautiful places in the country at this time of year, why they called it the Fruit Basket of the state back before unions lost their charm for farmers,’ the technician replied.

`I wasn’t aware that farmers were charmed by unions, but a bit of a historian, are you? Please, take a seat,’ Helton said.

`Actually, my granddad had experience with unionized labor because he owned a fruit farm south of town – and now I make my livelihood as an electronics voyeur,’ Lawrence wryly smiled.

`Well, I’d say you’re more than that.’

`Thanks – what kind of case do you have needing my file-recovery skills?’ Lawrence wanted to know.

`Paul Van Buren, the owner of a print shop on the near-westside, was shot this morning, and there’s evidence that three of his computer files have been deleted. We don’t have a firm motive,as yet, and recovering them might give us one. In fact, check all files for anything that could help us.’

‘Of course; I’ll give you print-outs of what I find.’

‘Excellent. I plan to be here until six. Here are the keys and the address for the print shop,’ Helton said, jotting that information down on a piece of paper.

‘Okay. I’ll get the print-outs to you before you leave. But I’d better be heading out. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, and I’ll see you later,’ Lawrence said..

‘Thanks for coming down, and I’ll see you later, too,’ Helton answered, shaking hands across his desk before the technician walked out.

Then noticing that his cup was empty, Helton left his office for the beverage table; Abrams was at his desk, and the captain asked, `Are you still here, Mike?’

`Yeah, not quite ready to sign-out for the day. Look, here’s Vice’s mugshot on his driver’s license,’ – and the sergeant pointed at a photo on his computer screen.

The captain eyed it critically, seeing a middle-aged white man with pale-blue eyes, very short, light-brown haie and a broad face emphasized by a blunt, fleshy nose.

‘Doesn’t look much like a criminal,’ Abrams remarked.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone who does,’ Helton said before stepping over to the coffee maker, and since the other men had used the last of the tea, he asked, ‘Would you make a run to the grocery store down the street and buy me the largest box of teabags they have before you go home, Mike?’ – and he walked over to Abrams’ desk. ‘Here’s five dollars. We’re out of coffee, tea, too, and I need something to keep me awake.’

‘Sure, boss. Give me about fifteen minutes. I haven’t got everything wrapped up yet – okay?’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

‘By the way, Kronstadt just called in and said that nobody’s home at Vice’s house, no vehicles in the driveway or his garage; in fact Kronstadt said it looks like he doesn’t even own a cat or dog,’ Hoffner then told the chief, `But where the dickens is Kramer? I called him at least twenty minutes ago and he should be here by now.’

Helton started to reply: `Speaking of’…

… and the former lieutenant interrupted by breezing in.

With thin, nearly-white hair receding along the corridors of time from his forehead, Ulrich Georg Kramer had a forceful face, eyes pale-blue-glinting as of steel, a long, nobly-arched nose, and was still fit at sixty-five.

‘Lou, great to see you! How are you doing, these days?’ he cheerfully called out.

‘I spent last night at the hospital with Jeremy until his temperature dropped and he starting sleeping well. Beyond that, I have life by the scruff of the neck. How are things with you?’

‘First, I’m glad to hear your son’s doing better. And I’m good, considering how deadly boring retirement can be.’

‘And Sara?’

‘Oh, you know, the wife has her usual problems with her respiratory system, which I don’t understood since she’s never smoked and always taken care of herself. In fact, Sara’s at the doctor’s right now. Anyway, what’s going on?’ Kramer asked.

Helton held a finger up: ‘Just a second,’ – then gave Hoffner a knowing look while asking, ‘Where’s that file, Jack?’

Hoffner appeared confused, then guessed what Helton wanted, following the other men after the chief had invited Kramer into his office.

Kramer sat down; Hoffner pointed at the desk: `There’s the file, boss,’ – and casually he began leaning his blocky, but six-foot frame against the wall next to the door in an attempt to seem inconspicuous.

‘Oh, right, it’s still here,’ Helton said, sitting down and tipping his fingers together while collecting his thoughts.

He handed the file to Kramer: ‘Do you remember this?’

Kramer frowned: ‘No,’ – then brought the file closer to his eyes: ‘Vaguely. Why?’

‘First, it wasn’t taken on a regulation form.’

‘Well, I can’t remember for sure, but best I recall, Van,’ – and Kramer squinted: `Van… Buren didn’t act very concerned about whatever he said was stolen… um-m-m, yes, some CD’s, captain.’

‘How’d you know they were stolen?’

Kramer hesitated, peering closely at the file again: ‘It says ‘theft complaint’, chief.’

‘Okay, but why is it signed with only your initials?’ Helton continued.

‘Like I said, the matter didn’t seem important.’

Helton’s eyes never left Kramer’s: `Then, can you tell me why this was never recorded in the database?’

‘I.. I… guess because I was busy, in a hurry and forgot… say, what’s this all about?’ – Kramer looked warily at his former boss.

Helton slowly turned his eyes away before he fixed them on the ex-lieutenant again and softly said, ‘When was the last time you were too busy or in too much of a hurry to follow procedure? I can’t ever remember you screwing-up like this, George. You were a proud officer, took pride in your work, took pride in your name, Kramer.’

‘But why would I screw-up, Lou? – other than that everybody’s entitled to a few mistakes,’ Kramer protested, whereupon Helton asked with quiet urgency, ‘Was trying to white-out the report’s date a mistake?’

Helton didn’t want to see, though Hoffner noticed Kramer’s hands starting a slight tremble – ‘Wel-l-l, originally I probably had the wrong date.’

Hoffner could sense even more regret in the captain’s eyes as he said, ‘Then, why didn’t you scratch-out the incorrect date and replace it with the correct one? Why leave the wrong one and try to cover it up with white-out, lieutenant?’ – and instinct told the daytime dispatcher that Helton was using Kramer’s former title to appeal to his honor.

‘Why, I don’t know, probably because I forgot,’ Kramer replied, ‘For God’s sake, Lou, are you accusing me of something?’

‘I’m not accusing you of anything, George,’ Helton said, again averting his eyes and hesitating: `After all, accusing you isn’t going to tell us why Paul Van Buren’s dead. He was the owner of a print-shop on West 19th., lieutenant.’

‘What?’ – Kramer couldn’t restrain the anxiety in his voice.

‘Yeah, this morning.’

‘No! – how?’ the former lieutenant asked.

‘He was shot stomach-down behind his business place.’

‘No! I – I mean, do – do you know who did it?’ – there was the husk of unraveling in the tone of Kramer’s voice.

‘We have a possible suspect, Fanny Fay Vice,’ Helton said, finally looking at his former colleague.

‘I… see. But… do you somehow think there’s… a link between this report and the murder? It was murder, wasn’t it?’

Helton stood and stepped around his desk: ‘No, I doubt there’s a connection between Van Buren’s death and this report. Sara needs you, so why don’t you go home? You can always call us – or stop by – if you think of anything else.’

‘Wel-l-l, okay, sorry I couldn’t tell you more,’ Kramer said.

‘You can’t tell us more than you know. But thanks for coming in,’ Helton replied.

‘Sure, and let me know if I can be of any more help,’ Kramer said, shaking the captain’s hand.

‘I’ll do that. Say ‘hello’ to Sara and have a good day,’ Helton said.

‘You, too,’ – and it seemed Kramer was weighed beneath an invisible shadow as he left the office.

‘That was brilliant, coaxing him out of here before he could catch himself and cough up more excuses like hairballs!’ Hoffner exclaimed, as the chief walked over to look out the window.

Helton remained silent for a moment: ‘What do you think, Jack?’

‘Kramer wasn’t telling us everything, was he, boss? – including that he knows Van Buren.’

Once more Helton didn’t speak until he’d turned: `Only time will tell, sergeant.’

‘I just hope that doesn’t take too long.’

‘Yeah,’ Helton said.

‘Again, I’m sorry, chief,’ Hoffner commiserated.

‘Me, too, though it’s time to get back to what we were doing,’ Helton replied.

‘Yeah, guess so,’ Hoffner said, as Abrams came in from the street.

‘Here’s the tea you wanted, the biggest box of it they have at the store,’ Abrams said. ‘How about I keep the change as a delivery fee?’ he teased.

The captain didn’t respond.

‘Boss, is everything okay?’ Abrams asked, seeing the distant look in Helton’s eyes.

Hoffner handed the theft complaint to his fellow-sergeant: ‘Look at this – the second-worst thing about it being that ex-lieutenant Kramer tried to white-out the date on it, while the real problem is he couldn’t answer the captain anything straight about it if his life depended on it.’

Abrams looked the file over while holding it close to his eyes: ‘Old George, huh? Yeah, looks like he tried to white-out the date, all right. But what does he have to do with Van Buren’s murder except screwing around with this complaint?’

‘Hard to say at the moment. There’s no way the judge would let us wiretap Kramer’s phone without more evidence. But shall we put a tail on him, chief?’ Hoffner wanted to know.

‘He’s not going anywhere; his sense of rectitude won’t let him. Trust me, Kramer would much rather we prove he’s guilty and arrest him than admit to anything by slinking off like a whipped dog,’ Helton said. ‘But go ahead and tell Alberts or Kronstadt to keep an eye on his house when they can. It’d be interesting to know who if the wrong people show up to talk to him.’

‘You got it,’ Hoffner said, returning to the duty room.

Helton looked at Abrams: ‘You’ve had a long night and should be going home, Mike. By the way, thanks for getting the tea.’

‘No problem. I’m about finished, here, but have something for you, captain. I talked to Agent Morrison at NBI. He says they can’t prove it yet, but suspect Fanny Fay Vice of torching a number of abortion clinics around the Midwest – Des Moines, Minneapolis, Omaha, Denver, you get the picture,’ Abrams responded, while walking to his desk with Helton so the captain could fix another a cup of tea.

‘Okay. We don’t have enough to hold him, though Vice doesn’t need to know that. Jack, revise the APB for Vice to wanted for premeditated murder and we’ll see what shakes loose,’ Helton ordered. ‘Also, tell Alberts to come in for a change into civilian clothes and an unmarked car so that he can begin surveilling Vice’s house.’

‘Coming right up,’ Hoffner said.

‘Now we’re getting somewhere!’ Abrams exclaimed.

While grim, a little smile regarding the sergeant’s enthusiasm crossed Helton’s face, and once he had a cupful of tea, he went back to his office.

Again, he stood looking out the window, his thoughts ranging over the years of good, comradely work with Kramer, even more the times of drinking wine with his closest friend. He’d never known another Nebraska man who liked the drink; most of them much preferred beer or hard liquor. Helton had come to appreciate someone with class, with such good tastes as Kramer… and the images parading through his mind were painful, becoming more so as he walked around his desk, his eyes coming to rest on the laptop screen to see: Murder, in the first degree.

The words seared themselves into Helton’s mind begging to linger in the past, though he had a report to finish and he sat down – heavily…

___***___

… the morning pulsed around him as coolly cheerful and feathery light as the bird songs not penetrating his awareness, nor did he notice that his wife’s car still wasn’t parked in front of the house. And humidity had warped its wood until it hung at a recalcitrant angle too slight to notice; the hinges of the backdoor to his home uttered a soft shriek as he slowly opened it.

‘Sara?’ – the kitchen was empty, taunting his one-word inquiry pleading for something that wasn’t there. As though to support himself, he laid his hand on the old-fashioned, white-and-green-plaid oil cloth covering the table before he passed into the living room.

It, too, was empty.

Being almost six feet two inches tall, his frame and body were strong, a power of sinew and bone seemingly of little consequence as he sank into the armchair across from the TV.

To him, it wasn’t as if the walls, but a paralyzing silence was closing in upon him; while not seeing the television, he looked at it and quietly-disturbing visions far beyond.

It was a good thing his wife was gone; she’d never seen his face so drawn and pale.

Physically, Kramer appeared as proud as always, but consumed – for how could he reject a fear of a God of fear, or what he’d been taught since before he could remember? After all, his deity was sculpted in an unrelenting graven image of narrowness which he’d obeyed, while he felt as though about to tumble head-first into a yawning maw of the inferno he’d always dreaded, and at his very feet.

Finally, he looked about until he saw the TV channel changer on the floor beside his chair and picked it up. Long habit guided his finger to the button for Nebraska City Channel 5.

As though by precognition, he flinched: The image of the attractive Sandra Manning, the daytime news anchor, took possession of the screen… and an interior storm began scouring his inner recesses as her voice began an unsettling croon: ‘We have breaking news: The body of a man was found behind a printing business on the near-westside of Falls City this morning. The police aren’t releasing the victim’s name or other details of the case, except to say they’ve launched a murder investigation. Stay tuned; we’ll keep you updated as the story develops. In other news’…

Kramer turned the television off, his eyes not leaving the shallow vacuity of its face while it seemed every second of time was careening over a precipice.

In a few minutes, he fumbled a pack of Marlboro Light 100’s out of his shirt pocket and a cigarette into his left hand, the other one holding a lighter missing the cigarette-end until he managed to focus on tipping it with flame. Deeply, an unrealized desperation drove him to devour its earthy bitterness, though Sara had persuaded him to smoke outside eleven years ago, always in the backyard… and now… she… wasn’t there.

Kramer finished his first cigarette, then another and another.

‘Father in heaven help me; it seems I have sinned, though I thought I’ve always done your will,’ – his lips formed the words as he he took his cell phone out of its belt holder and opened it.

Again, his fingers began their tremor as they hovered above the buttons he pressed at last. He didn’t count, though there perhaps were a dozen rings before a voice spoke: ‘Yeah?’

‘They know’…

… ‘who’s this?’

A bit taken back, Kramer hesitated, then: ‘The Sword of Gideon.’

‘And who am I?’ the voice inquired.

‘The Wrath of the Lord.’

‘Okay, Sword, what’s bugging your ass and why’re you bothering me with it?’ The Wrath asked.

‘They know about us, the police,’ Kramer stated.

‘What?’ – while not loud, the word struck Kramer’s senses like an explosion.

‘What do you mean they know, you little rat-fink?’ The Wrath continued.

‘They found the theft complaint I took from Van Buren.’

‘Why’n hell did you take it in the first place?’

‘It’d have looked strange to the other officers if I hadn’t,’ Kramer replied.

‘Fuck! Was your gray matter collected from a cow pasture, because did you forget or were you just too dumb to destroy the report?’

Kramer’s eyelids fell: ‘I meant to – later.’

‘What a crap-brained fool!’…

… ‘Van Buren’s dead,’ Kramer interrupted.

‘So what?’

‘You said nobody would get hurt.’

‘That’s none of your damn business, cunt! What you ought to be doing is looking over your shoulder every second of every day, hoping, just hoping I’m not going to hunt you down and bash your head in! Shit, what a fuck-up you are! Gawddam shit!!’ fumed The Wrath.

‘What shall I do, now?’ Kramer asked.

‘What the fuck! – you have to ask? Well, take this up the ass: Stay low; don’t say a word if they arrest you – and I’m not paying for your lawyer if you land in the slammer!’

‘Yes, sir… I–I-I’m sorry,’ Kramer said.

‘Fuck you, loser!’ – and there was a contemptuous sound of spitting before the other telephone went ominously silent…

… for Ulrich Georg Kramer, once a lieutenant of the Falls City Police Department, eternity had begun…

___***___

Helton took the last two gulps of tea, cringing when he swallowed some of its grounds. He eyed the teabags, realizing he’d punctured one of them with his spoon – and he allowed his mind to stray, idly wondering if he could read his life in the grounds, deciding he’d rather not know if his life was the same color as they.

A swell of relief nonetheless swept his senses as he scanned the statistics report to see that all he had left to complete were three relatively short paragraphs and a summary.

‘Good god, I’m finally about to slay this dragon!’ he thought.

He stood. He returned to the beverage table and prepared himself another cup of tea and went back to his office, suddenly catching a whiff of the drink for the first time in his life that he could remember. He tried to decide what it smelled like, but quickly gave up since he found that too elusive to determine.

He stretched, lowered himself into his chair and had just begun to work again with renewed vigor when his cell phone rang. He peered around, confused as to where it was until he remembered leaving it on the other side of his laptop.

He reached around for the device and turned it on: ‘Chief Helton.’

‘Yeah, boss, Cal, here. I just finished searching Van Buren’s house high and low – went through his car, too, checked the glove compartment, looked under the seats and rummaged through the trunk’…

… ‘find anything?’ Helton asked.

‘Nothing interesting – some letters in the house, including two luckily still in their original envelopes. It looks like they’re from Van Buren’s daughters, one definitely, because it’s signed ‘your daughter, Felicia’ and the other one simply says, ‘love, Alvea’.’

‘Okay, it seems nothing more will turn up there. Bring those envelopes and letters and come back to the station – oh, Van Buren didn’t have have a computer at the house, did he?’

‘No, captain,’ Harden replied.

‘Okay, come in with that material and return to traffic patrol,’ Helton said.

‘I’ll see you in a few,’ Harden replied.

Helton turned off his telephone – and now that his concentration had been disrupted, he decided upon a break.

Yawning, he stretched again as he strolled into the duty room.

‘I’m about to blow this joint, captain. Are you still sore at me for not telling you what the database said about Fanny Fay Vice before I went to talk to him?’ Abrams asked as the chief was passing his desk.

‘Staying sore at you won’t save your life, Mike,’ Helton answered. ‘There’s a reason for department policy. Remember that in the future.’

Abrams grinned without answering as he stood, put on his light jacket and pointed: ‘It’s filed in the database, but my written report’s hiding-out among the stuff in my desk inbox. See you tomorrow, chief.’

‘Have a good afternoon and night, sergeant,’ Helton said.

‘I’m not giving them a chance for anything else – and wishing you the same, captain,’ Abrams replied, before disappearing out the door.

Helton stood in reflection for a bit, then looked at Hoffner: ‘Have you heard anything from Alberts?’

‘He’s been calling every thirty minutes, which he just did five minutes ago and said that Vice hasn’t shown at his house yet. I just hope Alberts stays inconspicuous. Vice sounds exactly like his name, boss.’

‘Dave’ll be okay; he’s had experience with conducting surveillance. Oh, Ledbetter dropped off his report and the crime scene photos, didn’t he?’

‘Yeah, and left them on Prettyboy’s desk, though the pix aren’t quite as inspirational as some other of Dom’s masterpieces. Want to have a look at them?’

‘I’ll pass for the moment,’ Helton said, returning to his office.

___***___

 

Chad Lawrence was smiling as he collected the tools of his trade and locked the door of Van Buren’s print shop behind him.

‘Chief?’ he said, walking into Helton’s office ten minutes later.

‘You’re back,’ the captain responded as he looked up. ‘How’d it?’…

… ‘what you’re looking for starts on page 163 of this first print-out and page 26 of the second one. There’s photo with the third print-out,’ Lawrence informed him. ‘None of the other files I breached showed anything out of the ordinary. There are no records of large outgoing or incoming sums of money suggesting that Van Buren might’ve been blackmailed or blackmailing someone. And I presume he worked alone because I didn’t find any payroll accounts. Here’s a log summarizing everything I found in all but the files that were deleted. And here are the print shop keys. Unfortunately, I have to get to a 5:30 meeting in Nebraska City, captain. But let me know if you ever need me again.’

‘Absolutely. And thanks for your work this time, Lawrence,’ Helton said, standing to shake hands.

‘You’re welcome, and maybe I’ll see you sometime soon. Of course, it’s a ways off, but the Nebraska City Police Department always has a big July 4th. picnic and I’m sure you’re welcome to join us. Anyway, have a good afternoon,’ the computer tech replied and was out the door.

Helton watched him go before he lifted the cover page Lawrence had stapled over the first document, frowning as he read the unfamiliar name of it’s author which was the same as the one given with the photo. He dialed Directory Assistance, only to be told that the so-named person wasn’t listed.

He ruefully looked over the top of his cell phone for a second, then closed it and began reading the relevant page of the second print-out which was of Van Buren’s private journal…

… and he too started smiling as he muttered, ‘Maybe, j-u-u-s-t maybe I’ve got’cha!’

He then went into the duty room and gave the name of the first document’s writer to Dorn for a database check against DMV records. The computer soon gave the captain the information he was seeking: Henry Konkel, Rt. 6, Cnty. Rd. 5, North.

The chief gave instructions to Dorn who left to carry them out – while it was then, with a satisfying sense of accomplishment that Helton returned to his office and finished his statistics report…

… the smile had possessed his eyes.

___***___
V

(Ankara, same night)

Gulhanase’s patio was more crowded than ever, though that neither distracted Tony nor had beer lured him from wanting to hear more of his friend’s story as he watched Vehbi bemusedly asking Henry: ‘Birinci bira, simdi chai (first beer, now tea)?’

‘Evet,’ – Henry gave the waiter an steady look of teasing challenge.

Vehbi smiled: ‘Tamam,’ – and he turned from the table, Henry’s empty beer mug in hand.

‘That’s not far from perverse!’ Tony exclaimed with a withering look warming to a grin, ‘Tea right before and after beer? Are you sober enough to know what you’re doing?’

‘Come, now!’ Henry calmly replied, lighting another cigar, ‘Beer purports, and sometimes manages, to entertain the animal senses; tea restores the soul, especially with kushburnu in it. And we are engaged in a journey of spirits, are we not?’

‘Okay, some of them as ancient as dust, while it seems somebody doesn’t give crap about your spirit and wants your body – dead,’ Tony said.

‘Indeed,’ – and they sat without talking until Henry looked up at Vehbi placing a cup of tea in front of him: ‘Sagol, benim arkadas (thanks, my friend).’

‘Problem yok (no problem),’ Vehbi said, leaving the table to service three, male college students sitting at a nearby table.

Henry added kushburnu to his drink while Tony asked. ‘So, what’s the next stage of the story? – and another cigar, please?’

Henry gave him one which he lighted while replying: ‘Everyone would be well-served to remember that every story is but a stage preceded and followed by countless others – but enough of that. You’ve heard of the legend that arose in the 4th. century about Mary Magdalene living in southeast France?’

‘Yes, and read the immediate sources of it after I was charged the family jewels and my soul for an English translation of them by a friend of mine,’ Tony replied.

‘Why was he so cruel and greedy?’ Henry wanted to know, an impish look toying with his lips.

‘He? – oh, my friend was a little she-devil!’ Tony grinned back, ‘But on with the story, Henry.’

‘Right. With the matter of the friendly she-devil cleared up: The intrinsic source of the Magdalen-in-France legend was rooted in the customs of Jews adhering to Gnostic Yeshuism which didn’t accept a Jesus Christ as divine. In fact, some Gnostics believed that the resurrection was metaphorical, not literal’…

‘… how sinful,’ Tony interjected.

‘To orthodoxy, yes, and something else nearly as sinful was the prominence allowed women in the Gnostic communtiy, like Mary Magdalene who was known as ‘the Apostle to the Apostles’.’

‘That was related to a tradition of honorary titles for noteworthy women in the community; for example, a woman with a reputation for wisdom might’ve had the real name of Anna and the title of ‘Sophia’. After Mary Magdalene died, her name was enshrined as a title for other women known for understanding the ‘mysteries of the Kingdom’ as she had.’

‘But that custom wasn’t clear to the Arian Visigoths when Gnostics resettled in southeast France about the time of Mary Magdalene supposedly crossing the Mediterranean with a daughter, in a rudderless boat according to some versions of the story. Of course, the Arians Visigoths didn’t accept Yeshua as god, either. And shared beliefs played a role in the marriage of a Gnostic woman – with a Magdalen title – to the Visigoth King whose name I can’t remember. In fact, she wasn’t descended from the actual Mary Magdalene, while there were those who believed she was – particularly since Yeshua’s marriage was an idea buried in the collective subconsciousness of European Christianity. By way of his Gnostic queen beyond that, the Visigoth King enhanced his sons’ status by letting his court believe that his offspring were descendants of a Magdalenian-Yeshuan union.’

‘All of that resulted in the 4th.-century legend about the actual Magdalen purportedly gracing French shores and a belief about a Magdalene-descendant union in Visigoth royalty – an idea on to include the Visigoth Princess Arlotta who married Pharamond, King Merovee’s grandfather.’

‘I think King Clovis suspected it as only a legend that a descendant of the real Magdalene married into Visigoth royalty. But he understood the power of myth like Merovee before him. And much as they say in the legal profession, never ask a question you can’t answer. Trying to disprove Clovis was an answer the Vatican couldn’t give and a gamble they couldn’t afford, especially since Clovis could demonstrate that Yeshua wasn’t ‘of the branch of’ an illustrious king David.’

‘The supposedly ‘do-nothing kings’ later in the Merovingian dynasty eventually lost governance of their realm partly because of a preoccupation with trying to reconnect to their heritage of using crystal balls, revering bulls – or Omridian spirituality – and practicing their brand of Gnosticism combined with other types of paganism. The more visible finale of all that was Dagobert II’s murder with the pope’s appoval’…

‘… just a second; Clovis threw the fast curve ball of a double-whammy at the Vatican in terms of the marriage legend possibly being true, and Jesus’…

… ‘no, Anthony, Yeshua’….

… ‘okay, in terms of Yeshua not being a chip off the old block of anything more than a deuce of tribal overlords – right?’ Tony said.

Henry couldn’t help smiling: ‘In accordance with your vernacular style, yes, that’s the deuce of legend and fact Clovis pitched the Vatican.’

‘No wonder Edelbert and Genoweth were suspicious of the Carolingians, ‘ Tony said. ‘Sounds like it was a good thing they weren’t prominent members of the family and that you’re descended from bastards!’

Henry chuckled: ‘Blessings sometimes do masquerade as curses.’

‘Yeah, and myth and legend apparently are two personalities of a ghost masquerading as history.’

‘Only partly, Anthony,’ Henry said. ‘Accurate history is a matter of fact, though you have to remember that myth and legend are a kind of truth, rising as they do from the very primordal sea of human nature.’

‘God, that’s poetic, Henry! You really do have a golden tongue like dad!’

‘Thanks, on behalf of your father and me; maybe I inherited a golden tongue from the Quinotaur!’ Henry said with twinkling eyes before he hesitated for a swallow of his drink, then continued: ‘While Charlemagne probably didn’t know if the legend about the Magdelen-Visigoth marriage was true or not, it’s likely he was aware of it, because Godfrey de Boullion was, though how is lost to standard history – and it seems not only reasonable but probable that Charlemagne and Godfrey were linked as holders of that information. ‘

‘But Godfrey wasn’t descended from, or interested in restoring the Merovingians to the French throne like some people think. However, there were unorthodox rumblings in his area of France – beyond which, Godfrey wanted to better protect his and the interests of the landed nobility by finding a way to check the ever-growing power of the church without abandoning his faith. As you’ll see, those needs were nicely entwined by way of religious homage through a crusade to the Holy Land.’

‘Supposedly, according to the records, the original members of the Knights Templar were charged with protecting the roads of the Holy Land for pilgrims – which must’ve stretched their capabilities since there were only nine of them to oversee something like two-hundred miles of thoroughfares left by the Romans.’

‘Despite the likely-hood of Roman soldiers not missing any gold coins, however, they might’ve overlooked something else during their sack of the temple in Jerusalem – in other words, the target of the Knights Templar’s search when they excavated the stable under it upon Godfrey’s orders. The Templars hoped to find genealogical records showing that Yeshua was a husband and father, but came up empty. Still, Mideastern magis showed them how to age parchment so that the Templars could forge a document of the apparently right time-vintage. When the European kingdom of Jerusalem fell, the then-larger Order returned to France and blackmailed the Vatican into giving them a sizable amount of money and a promise to give the Templars a free hand in exchange for the Order’s silence about the genealogy.’

‘It was another stage of an old story: Because of Clovis, the Vatican already knew David and Solomon weren’t the mighty kings of The Old Testament, and now was confronted with a record of Yeshua’s marriage and fatherhood. The Vatican destroyed the original given it by the Order which, of course, had a copy. All the Templars would’ve had to do was show it to the right people, and there’d have been plenty of noblemen to rise up in defiance, a risk, again, not worthy of taking for the Roman Church. You see – as in Clovis’ time – the power of the Templar’s forgery lay in the threat of diminishing orthodoxy’s Jesus. Fixing him in the mundane realm of husband -and -fatherhood would’ve been a belittling desecration of his divinity in the Church’s eyes. The church’s power would’ve been immensely reduced had its Jesus been publicly subjected to that, while the Templars had dealt the Vatican a blow with ramifications lasting for centuries.’

‘What happened to Jesus’s – I mean, Yeshua’s forged genealogy?’ Tony queried.

‘Have you heard of the old Cathar parfeits who rappelled down from the fort atop *Montsegur with a treasure?’ Henry replied.

‘I’ve read about them, yeah. But how’d the Cathars end up with the genealogy?’ Tony wanted to know.

‘With their Gnostic leanings, the Cathars didn’t have any ruck with a divine Christ, either. And the Order gave the genealogy to them as the worthiest repository with the greatest motivation for taking care of it.’

‘And that was the end of it?’

‘Of the parchment? – yes. It was destroyed toward the end of the Albigensian Crusade never to be seen again. But that wasn’t the end of its effects, though the Knights Templar didn’t resurface as Rosicrucians or Masons specifically as some people think. But you do know one of the Masonic Lodge’s reasons for revering Solomon as its founder, particularly because of the lodge’s antipathy toward the Church of Rome?’

‘Because Solomom was a great – no, that’s wrong. The Omrides of northern Israel were the great builders – right?’ Tony said.

‘Correct, because the truth about Merovingians ancient Omridean lineage had come down the years to the Masons. The matter was kind of a double entendre, you might say. Yes, the Masons revered Solomon as their founder, while you can well believe they took great delight in thumbing their noses at the Roman Church by also using Solomon as a satirical symbol to celebrate the real architectural geniuses of Old Testament times.’

‘Fascinating,’ Tony breathed….

‘Yes, and the Knights Templar had a final symbol of scorn for the Vatican,’ Henry went on. ‘Have you heard of their reverence for the severed head of a woman with black hair, Anthony? ‘

‘Yes’…

‘… but don’t know what that represented? ‘

‘Right. ‘

‘Well, if you remember, The Old Testament says that Jezebel’s dismembered body was thrown out of an upper-floor window of the palace for dogs to eat – in other words, you could say that Jacques de Molay mocked his enemies with a curse of Jezebel because the Templars honored her as a Merovingian ancestor through reverence for the black-haired woman. And the Templars also spat on the cross, not so much out of contempt for the resurrection but as a symbol of Jesus’s less-than-resplendent heritage. As well, they rejected Jesus and accepted John The Baptist as the messiah to protest Jezebel’s and the Merovingian’s betrayal by The Old Testament and Christianity.’

‘Explosive stuff – not that a lot of people would care, unless there are inside sources,’ Tony replied.

‘Don’t be so sure sources don’t exist, because you might say that the curse of Jezebel and Dagobert has always been in effect. Having changed their names and blended with common society, minor branches of the Merovingians watched all this unfold from the sidelines and kept a record. In fact, you can see my copy of it among the papers in the safe deposit boxes.’

‘Wow! – but not before I follow your perversity!’ Tony replied, seeing Vehbi two tables away and motioning him over. ‘Bir chai (one tea) ,’ he ordered, looking at Henry: ‘Is that good Turkish?’

‘It’ll work,’ Henry answered, with Vehbi saying, ‘Tamam,’ – and holding up the young scholar’s mug for Tony to drink an inch or so of beer in it.

The men then idly watched the waiter leaving the table before Tony gave Henry an impish look: ‘Is there a way we could use this stuff to blackmail the Vatican into giving us a nice nest-egg?’

Henry chuckled: ‘One reason I think King Clovis was wary of the Magdalenian-Yeshuan ancestor legend is my family’s documents saying so little about it – besides, the Roman Church would send their legend-busters after us for the simple pleasure of spoiling our fun.’

‘Yeah, but the legend about the titular Mary Magdalene wasn’t any worse than all the mythological crap foisted upon the world by the The Old Testament,’ Tony responded.

‘You might want to be careful about judgmental vulgarity, Anthony. I’ve suffered ambivalence myself. Sometimes I’m sickened by all the dangerous sleight-of-hand with which we humans have abused ourselves for millenniums. And later, I’ll more explain what I mean when I say things would be different if the so-called saint Paul hadn’t used The Old Testament to cobble-up the myth of his theology. But then, I remember that all of us create our own myths and legends, like your father saying he convinced your mother to marry him by reading her a four-line poem. I’m sure you were right in saying there was more to it than that.’

‘Oh, yeah – though in lots of ways, it’s like history itself is the self-fulfilling prophecy of myth at one time, haunted by mirrors of more myth at another. You’d think humanity would’ve learned better than to play all those tricks on itself,’ Tony mused.

‘I’m not sure we can help ourselves, since imperfection possibly threads across the infinite universe like an umbilical cord rooted in the mother-womb of cosmic sorrow. You know, Anthony, humanity’s the only species on earth with the intelligence to create pure mental constructs of perfection, yet isn’t intelligent enough not to beat itself over the head because it can’t achieve ideals that are nothing but abstractions to begin with. But thinking that we can is one way we mythologize ourselves - while even, for all we know, there are at least a few malfunctioning black holes out there, among the millions spinning legends of their own…. not that it matters. There’s Onur,’ – and Henry stood, waving his hands to attract his lover’s attention.

Tony was so occupied with his friend’s philosophical ruminations as to only vaguely assimilate what Henry had just said, until he looked up at one of the best-looking young men and the most beautiful olive-velvet eyes he’d ever seen.

A Rumi-apparition arose in Tony’s mind, to be replaced by the sight of Henry embracing and tenderly kissing his love on both cheeks: ‘You’ve come!’

‘Of course. How are you?’

‘Good – or better, now you’re here. How are you?’

‘Fine,’ Onur confirmed.

‘I’ m glad to hear that – and this is my friend, Anthony, from the Untied States,’ Henry said, gesturing across the table.

‘Nice to meet you,’ Onur said.

‘No… no, the privilege is all mine, if you don’t mind,’ Tony responded, standing to shake hands with the young man whose face flooded with pleasure as the four men took seats with Henry’s arm over Onur’s shoulder.

‘Are you ready for your trip to the States?’ Tony asked Onur after a moment of silence.

‘Very nearly.’

‘Are you looking forward to it?’

‘Of course. I’m excited,’ Onur said.

‘Where’d you like to go?’ Tony wanted to know.

‘Anywhere and everywhere Henry wants,’ Onur answered, taking out a cigarette and lighting it.

‘Yosemite Park, Niagara Falls, Yellowstone, New York City, there are lots of exciting places to see. It’ll be Henry’s gift for you to cherish since he’s so proud of you,’ Tony went on, with Onur turning toward Henry and Tony sensing young eyes lost in others that’d seen so many years, before Onur said, ‘Thanks,’ – then looked at Tony: ‘Ah, yes, but Henry, as we say, is ‘guzel fakat bir az chatluk’.’

‘What does that mean?’

Henry chuckled: ‘That means my friend thinks I’m a little cracked’!…

‘… yes, and Henry’s trying to bridge’…

‘… you mean repair?’ Henry asked.

‘Yes. Henry’s trying to repair the crack by living, even breathing kushburnu and tea, always kushburnu and tea!’ – Onur’s face glowed with mirth.

‘Drink! ‘ Henry retorted, raising his cup of the beverage for a sip by Onur, his face distorted with distaste.

‘Too sweet!’ he said, ‘But are you enjoying tea and kusburnu, too, Anthony?’

‘Call me Tony, but yes – guess I’m a little cracked!’

A wistful shadow softened Onur’s face, a light in his eyes while he paused as if in sudden thought: ‘No, Anthony. Have you heard of Mevlana?’

‘He means Rumi,’ Henry clarified.

‘Yes, I’ve heard about him.’

‘Okay, because Mevlana is – oh, how do I say it in English?’ Onur continued, looking for help from Henry who considered for a moment: ‘Do you mean spinning?’

‘That’s it. Never mind your drink, Anthony, because it’s god’s drink and Mevlana’s always spinning on the wings of kushburnu and tea. But enough about spinning; I must go home to collect my luggage for tomorrow’s trip. I’ll be back in an hour and a half,’ Onur said as he stood. ‘It was nice meeting you, Tony,’ – and he then gently placed his hand on Henry’s cheek.

Strangely, Tony felt as though the rising wings of yearning within Hernry were his for a fleeting second, while they watched Onur disappearing through the crush of the patio crowd.

‘He seems like a great kid, Henry,’ Tony said after a few seconds of silence.

Henry didn’t reply as he looked at place where he’d last seen Onur…

… while in the sweet regret of the moment, Tony sensed that an hour and a half would seem a long time for his older friend – and the sorrow of waiting never more precious…

___***___

 

VI

(Falls City, same day)

It was with reluctance that Cheif Helton took the phone book out of his desk drawer and turned to its ecumenical pages – though Sword of the Word Citadel Fellowship of Baptists, the name of Kramer’s church, was unusual enough that he felt sure he’d remember and quickly find it, both of which he did.

Unfortunately, the Rev. Pastor Edward Donaldson was able to say only that while ‘he was gratified that Kramer faithfully consorted with the Lord’s flock, he’, Donaldson, ‘had a twenty-nine- year, name-basis relationship with every man, woman and child in his congregation and had never heard of Fanny Fay Vice – could assure the captain that Vice and Kramer couldn’t know each other through attendance at his church and was sorry he couldn’t be of more help.’

‘Thanks anyway for the information you did give me, reverend,’ Helton
said.

‘You’re welcome and God bless; we need more men of sterling character like you to help stem the overwhelming tide of our country’s moral decay, chief,’ the pastor crooned with solicitous piety before hanging up.

‘Why am I not surprised by that little tete-a-tete?’ thought the chief with a sardonic smile of mind as he turned his cell off, his attention then being caught by Dom Ledbetter’s crime scene photos out of the corner of his eye.

Hoffner had earlier dropped them on top of papers threatening to overflow his desk inbox – and while he realized they were unlikely to show him anything he didn’t know, he carefully studied them before setting them aside and beginning to read the scientific officer’s report.

‘Fingerprints taken from crime scene don’t match anyone with a felony criminal record in the database/seems certain that suspect used a silencer and most likely a .38 Special, as well as wore surgical gloves while inside Van Buren’ place of buisness.’

Helton took another sip of tea while thinking, ‘Fingerprints aren’t going to take us anywhere,’ – and he then realized he’d forgotten to collect Anderson’s, Berringer’s and Abram’s written reports from their desks.

While he continually tried impressing on his men about the value of computers as data processing, storing and retrieval systems, the department of course kept paper files of all records,

And though he could’ve read the reports stored in the department’s database, he preferred the touch of paper-skin between his fingers. That made him feel connected, beyond admonishment from James Caron, one of his teachers at the police academy: ‘No matter how far you go up the chain of command, Helton, never lose your connection to people, good or bad. That’s the neural pathway that solves crimes and always will – never forget.’

Helton could hear his instructor’s voice as he stood from his desk and went to retrieve his officers’ paperwork from the duty room almost feeling suspended in arrested time – with Hoffner opining: ‘Nothing’s moving on this case, not even a cricket chirping, boss.’

‘Well, then, keep an eye out for the cricket and an ear to the ground.’ Helton said, with a kindly look at his officer.

‘Y-e-e-a-a-h, ‘ Hoffner sighed, absently watching the chief disappear into his office.

‘Even crickets need two legs to chirp,’ Helton told himself, ‘And this case has at least four them. Knowing whose and where is the trick.’

And since Anderson had lead on the case, Helton next read his report.

Finished, he leaned back with hands clasped behind his head while forming a mental time-line of events. It began coming together and to further clarify things for himself, he opened a new Word Processing file on his laptop to create a synoptic outline of everything he knew:
‘Case No: 7243, Date 5 / 27 / ‘07 Type of crime: Suspected first- degree murder
Victim’s name/age/sex/ address/marital status: Paul
Emmanuel Van Buren, 63, M, 807 W. 19th. Street, widower
Victim’s employment/business: Owner of Van Buren’s Publishing, Printing and
Bookstore; appeared to concentrate on printing/publication/sales of
books about alternative theories of Christianity.
Mode of death: One 38. Special bullet (?) to back of head while victim was
lying face-down… ”

He’d just paused while trying to decide what next needed to be listed when Harden came in the station’s front door.

‘Here are those letters from Van Buren’s daughters, chief,’ he said.

‘Give them to Jack. Ask him to check the names with Directory Assistance and let me know when he has the phone numbers,’ Helton told him.

‘Sure, chief,’ Harden replied, progressing into the duty room.

‘Suspect’s name/age/sex/ address/marital status,’ Helton went back to
typing, ‘Fanny Fay Vice, 58, M, 3666 Driftwood Ln, single. Oral evidence has been given that suspect is a right-winged fundamentalist. ..’ – Helton deleted the latter part of the sentence because Amy, Abrams’ sister, hadn’t yet provided a statement. And there were any number of reasons why she might change her mind, though further consideration of the matter was interrupted by Hoffner.

‘Can’t find anything but an unlisted telephone number for Van Buren’s daughter, Alvea; Felicia isn’t answering hers.’

‘Transfer her to me when she does,’ Helton instructed. ‘I’ll notify her of her father’s death.’

‘Okay,’ – and Hoffner stood in front of Helton’s desk for momentary reflection: ‘Yeah, you know, I’ve never had to go through anything like that, myself, and I hope I don’t for a long time, chief,’ he remarked as Dorn came in from the street and echoed, ‘A long time? Well, folks, ‘long’ seems to be the operative word in this investigation.’

‘Sounds like you ran into long odds of finding anything at Konkel’s farm,’ Helton asked.

‘What we ran into was zilch, captain, Konkel’s house locked up tighter than a frog’s puss… well, I probably should say something like tighter than that funky writer’s Digital Fortress. There was damn near less than nobody around,’ Dorn replied.

‘That’s strange. There should’ve been someone working the fields at this time of year.’

‘There wasn’t ghost in sight, boss. Hell, even all the farm equipment was locked in a shed except a cultivator. But like you wanted, I took Ambercrombie from the sheriff’s department along in case Vice was playing peekieboo from the bushes, though Ambercrombie noticed something’ – and Dorn was interrupted by the ringing of Helton’s cell phone.

He answered it, a puzzled look crossing his face: ‘Anderson, why’re you calling?’

‘Well, I went to bed like a good chap, but woke up and can’t get back to sleep, thought that calling for an update on the Van Buren case would be better than counting sheep. Anything new?’ Anderson asked.

‘The electronics tech from the Nebraska City Police Department gave us two print-outs of material he retrieved from deleted files on Van Buren’s computer. And one of them had the name Henry Konkel’…

‘… spare me detailed details for now, chief, though I’m betting Konkel lives in the Falls City area. You had one of the guys check to see if he was home and found that he wasn’t, right?’ Anderson said.

‘Dorn just got back from his farm north of town. But how’d you know?’ the captain inquired.

‘Oh, it’s just that I’m awake because an ornery, little bird’s sitting on my shoulder and twittering crap in my ear,’ Prettyboy chuckled. ‘So, I’m also betting Konkel’s house was like a scared clam shell, screwed down lock, stock and barrel.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Were all the curtains closed, boss?’ Anderson responded.

‘Interesting question; I’ll ask Dorn,’ – and Helton relayed the query, then: ‘Dorn took Ambercrombie from the sheriff’s department with him, and says Ambercrombie noticed the curtains were closed over the windows of what probably are Konkel’s bedroom and maybe his office, but not the living room or kitchen,’ Helton told Anderson. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Well, you see, people tend to close all of their curtains when they’re away from home for a long time, but leave curtains of more public areas like kitchens and living rooms open during temporary absences because it’s not such a big deal if other people see into them. So, it’d signal that Konkel’s gone for the long term if all the curtains are closed; it’d be harder to tell if they aren’t'…

‘… and?’…

‘… and only some of them closed means Konkel’s flown the coop because he knows somebody’s after him, but doesn’t want whoever to know he knows. I need to talk to him. Maybe he can tell us who’s the shadow over his shoulder and why’…

‘… those print-outs gave me a good idea,’ Helton interjected.

‘Just a second, boss. First, Dorn needs to contact the Omaha and Kansas City airports to see if there are records of Konkel taking a flight out and where to. If not, tell Nardo to widen the search until he’s covered every major airport in the country – okay, chief?’

‘Yes, sir!’ Helton replied in a joking tone of obeisance, ‘Now, get back to sleep. You might have a dream that’ll clear everything up!’

‘Righto, boss. See ya’ later,’ – and Anderson hung up as abruptly as he’d called.

‘How on earth did he know all of that?’ Helton shook his head in amazement as he turned his phone off and gave Dorn a pointed look: ‘He said for me to tell you to see if airport security has a record of Konkel flying out of Omaha or Kansas City, and if you don’t come up with anything to contact all the major airports in the country. Include Vice in your search, but get cracking before Anderson’s wrath descends once he wakes up with that little bird on his shoulder!’

‘Say what?’ Hoffner asked.

‘Never mind,’ Helton said.

‘So, our snot-nosed wonder-boy wants me to track Konkel down, does he? Well, big, tooting okay yes siree!’ Dorn quipped as he left the captain’s office.

Helton watched him go before turning toward Hoffner: ‘You might need’…

‘… are Prettyboy and Nardo going through an ugly divorce I don’t know about?’ Hoffner broke in with an amused look.

‘Dorn’s girlfriend turned down his marriage proposal, last night,’ Helton said.

‘Really? Low blow, real low!’ Hoffner said.

‘Not exactly fun for Nardo,’ the captain replied. ‘ Back to what I was saying, ask NBI to see what the Labor Department has for records on Alvea; maybe you can get her telephone number through them. Other than that, keep calling Felicia until she answers and put her through to me when she does. Oh, first fill out petitions for warrants to search Vice’s and Konkel’s houses. I’ll have Kronstadt run them over to Judge Hoeckner’s office for his signature.’

‘Is searching Konkel’s house necessary?’ Hoffner wanted to know.

‘I agree with Anderson. Konkel might have telling information. If we can’t locate him, searching his house might give us information pointing to someone who does know or something telling us where he is, maybe more.’

‘Like the name of a hotel where he’s staying?’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘All right, I’ll have the petitions for you in a few,’ Hoffner replied before he went back to his desk.

‘Suspect’s employment/business : Owner of River Valley Farm Equipment,’ Helton then returned to typing after picking up the thread of his thoughts: ‘Suspect’s whereabouts: Unknown
Murder weapon’s registration #: Unknown, weapon not recovered
Name/age/sex/ address/marital status of others associated with crime
(other suspects/victims): Henry Konkel, 56, No. 24, County. Rd. 5,
North., single, role in case, if any, unknown except as possible target of violence’…

Once again, Helton sat back to think about whether he’d forgotten anything: ‘I don’t think so,’ – and he started wondering how Jeremy was.

He called the boy’s hospital room, with no answer. ‘He must still be sleeping,’ the captain considered as Dorn came into his office.

‘No news about Vice,’ the sergeant informed him, ‘But the security people at the Omaha airport said that Konkel flew to Frankfurt, Germany, then Ankara, Turkey.’

‘When? ‘ Helton asked.

‘Three days more than a year ago today.’

‘That long ago? Huhm-m, well, if Anderson’s theory is correct, Konkel’s known somebody’s been after him for a while,’ Helton went on.

‘Come to think of it, yeah. But if Vice wants him dead, why didn’t he kill Konkel before he left the country?’ Dorn pondered.

‘Hard to say. Maybe Konkel can answer that,’ Helton said.

‘Does wonder-boy’s genius include mental telepathy? – but, hey, I might not have enough clout. So, what if I ask NBI to contact the American Embassy in Turkey to see if they’ll help find Konkel? I could call dozens of the most upscale hotel’s over there and the managers might not speak a word of English. Not only that, but who knows, Konkel might not even be staying at a hotel after this length of time.’

‘True. See what NBI says. My read is that finding Konkel is the most urgent part of this investigation, at the moment,’ Helton replied, accompanying Dorn to the duty room so that he could fix another cup of tea.

‘Yeah, and what was that about Anderson’s wrath?’ Dorn asked, with a sly side-glance at the chief while starting to scan for NBI’s phone number in his cell phone.

‘Are you quoting me?’ asked Helton, stepping over to the beverage table.

‘Who better?’ Dorn came back with a chuckle followed by the hiss of the boiling water with which the captain filled his cup.

He dropped a couple of teabags in and walked over to Hoffner: ‘Nothing on Vice, but Omaha airport just told Dorn that Konkel flew to Ankara, Turkey, a little more than a year ago.’

‘What’s he doing in Turkey?’ Hoffner inquired.

Helton gave the dispatcher a bemused look: ‘I don’t pretend to have’…

‘… oh, I know, that’s a brain-teaser for Anderson to solve,’ Hoffner said.

‘Yeah, maybe with help from that little bird,’ – and the chief was off toward his office before Hoffner could ask what he was talking about.

Helton once more read through his outline after re-seating himself in front of his laptop; it was as complete as possible with what he knew and he turned his attention to other paperwork.

By then, weariness had begun a renewed assault upon his mind despite all the caffeine he’d consumed, and it seemed the rest of the day passed as though silhouetted in a dim backlight.

Amy arrived to give Dorn a statement. Kronstadt took the warrant petitions to Judge Hoeckner’s office for him to sign during a trial-break. After finishing their reports, he, as well as Harden and Alberts, went home, as did Hoffner. Dorn assured NBI’s cooperation in contacting the American Embassy in Ankara, then left. The night dispatcher, Sgt. Jamie Conrad, Officers Larry Schaeffer, Harley Porter, Laythom Arnold and Del Roberts reported for duty.

It was too late in the day to obtain the services of a locksmith so warrants to search Vice’s and Konkel’s residences could be executed; that’d have to wait until the next morning. Helton, however, assigned Schaeffer to take over surveillance on Vice’s house after the captain had briefed his night officers about Van Buren’s murder: ‘It doesn’t seem likely our usual street sources will prove helpful,’ he ended. ‘But stay alert anyway – and careful. Vice is out there somewhere. He could be armed and dangerous and ready to kill any of you standing his way. Otherwise, that’s it, gentlemen. Have a good shift and I’ll see you all tomorrow.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll find the bastard,’ Roberts called after the chief returning to his office to collect his briefcase, laptop and jacket, while seeing that it was only 5:17.

‘Oh, well! – wonder if The Flapperjack Hut serves super-sized hamburgers,’ he thought as he walked to his car, feeling a resurgence of energy over the possibility that it might…

___***___

‘… we don’t have supersized hamburgers, chief. We serve large
ground beef sandwiches called Gutbusters... well, Trask, the owner of
this place, has a wierd sense of humor, ya’ know. But the
Gutbuster is big enough to choke a shark,’ said Brenda, the reddish-
brunette waitress, after Helton had taken a table at The Flapperjack
Hut.

‘That big, huh?’

‘Metaphorically speaking,’ Brenda giggled, ‘Whew, ain’t I using big
words?’

‘And doing it well,’ – Helton was surprised that she was at The Hut since she used to wait tables at The Buffalo Chips Steakhouse where he normally would’ve had dinner partly due to Myrna, Prettyboy’s mother. But he’d changed his mind on the way to his car at the station after happening to recall she worked days and that her shift was likely over.

Helton consequently was glad to see Brenda, a modestly pretty woman who appeared immortalized in her 40’s while seemingly inflicted with an existential perkiness despite a look of congenital exhaustion. The latter had always made the captain wonder how she survived the rigors of her work – especially now that, as far as he could tell, the said Trask had her as the only waitress taking care of the restaurant half full.

‘You want anything besides a Gutbuster, chief?’ she asked.

He checked the menu: ‘H-m-m-m, a salad with French dressing, a medium
order of fries and coffee with three creamers and three…’

‘… sugar’s right here on the table,’ Brenda said, pointing at a glass server of it.

‘Oh, okay, then make sure you drag the ground beef sandwich through the garden,’
Helton said.

‘Meaning ya’ want all the fixin’s without any garden dirt – right?’

‘That just about says it,’ the captain responded.

‘Okay, comin’ right at’cha. Of course, there’s more interesting crap
on the walls of the little boys’ corral than in today’s paper. But
it’s in that rack over there if you need something to put you to
sleep until I get back with your food,’ Brenda smiled, turning toward
the kitchen.

‘Thanks,’ Helton said.

He searched through the newspaper and felt relieved to find nothing about the Van Buren case, not being ready for Fanny Fay Vice to hear about the department’s response to his bloody handiwork beyond the limited item Anderson had given TV.

Otherwise, the most interesting article in the day’s news edition
detailed the legal and political woes of an Illinois company
petitioning for a permit to operate a riverboat out of Brownsville on
the Missouri, and not as a casino or touring boat, but a floating dance school.

‘Can you imagine? How strange!’ Helton thought, ‘What happens if
people get sea sick while they’re?’… and his thoughts were
interrupted by the waitress: ‘It’s my thinkin’ you want supper served
somewhere in Richardson County, and probably at this table, so could
you move your news rag a smidgen to give me some room?’

‘Oh, sure,’ – and Helteon swiveled the newspaper aside as his eyes fell on the next table and a tall, black-haired, late-middle-aged man whom the chief hadn’t previously noticed, though was now looking at him with an air of curiosity.

Helton had become accustomed to strangers staring at him for any
number of reasons since his initial days as police chief, and ignored
the man to watch Brenda placing a salad, platter of fries and a cup
of coffee on the table.

‘I’ll be right back with your sandwich, some of those little mayonnaise thingies and a bottle of ketchup,’ she said.

‘I’ll be waiting.’

Having stirred three creamers and three teaspoons of sugar into his
coffee, Helton had just finished reading the article when
Brenda returned with his Gutbuster.

‘Good lord! Now I know why you mentioned choking sharks!’ Helton
exclaimed, amazed by the sandwich’s size.

‘Already I can tell you’re going to like it,’ Brenda said, ‘And
speaking of sharks, I’d hang around to jack the jaw some more if I
wasn’t the only girl here to serve all them people looking at me with
hungry, beady little eyes like a posse of sharks.’

‘I wonder if the sharks could use some dance lessons?’ Helton said.

‘What’s that?’

‘Just a joke about an article in the paper saying a company from
Illinois wants to open a dance school on a riverboat,’ Helton replied.

‘I ain’t sure them Illinois folk are entirely normal, ’cause what
some people will do for money,’ Brenda grinned, walking away as she
looked over her shoulder: ‘Hey, now, have a good supper, chief.’

‘You bet,’ he said, and had just taken a bite of his Gutbuster
after adding mayonnaise and ketchup to it when he heard a
voice: ‘Excuse me, sir.’

‘Yes?’ Helton said, looking up and seeing that the man at the next table had
turned toward him in his chair.

‘I don’t mean to intrude. But you’re police chief Helton – correct?’

‘Yes – how’d you know?’

‘I’ve seen your photo in the newspaper, though I should apologize for
my manners. I’m Arthur Wallenstein, ‘ – and the man stood to shake the
captain’s hand. ‘I just wanted to say how sad I am about Paul’s
death.’

‘You mean, Paul Van Buren?’ Helton replied, giving Wallenstein a wary
look.

‘I’m sorry. Yes, I meant Van Buren, should’ve specified exactly
whom I was talking about.’

‘How’d you hear about his death?’ Helton inquired.

‘On the TV Channel 5 radio affiliate while I was on the way here from Omaha.’

‘And you knew they were talking about Van Buren because of where his body was found?’

‘That’s what I assumed.’

‘You were acquainted with him?’ Helton said.

‘Yes, quite,’ Wallenstein confirmed. ‘But let me backtrack a little.
I was born and raised in Falls City. My father passed on a few years
back, but my mother still lives here and I come to see her two or
three times a month. In fact, I’m in town tonight because she’s in
the hospital for some tests. I’ll be visiting her after I finish
freshening up with coffee’…

Helton considered whether he should dilvulge something that personal,
then decided Wallentsein was reliable and a possible source of
information: ‘That’s interesting, ‘ he broke in, ‘My son’s in the
hospital, too.’

‘That’s unfortunate to hear. I trust he’s doing well and on the
mend,’ Wallenstein commiserated.

‘Much better after they brought his temperature down, this morning,’
Helton said. ‘How did you become acquainted with Van Buren – friends,
I presume?’

‘Yes, and I’m a professor of religious studies at the University of Nebraska-Omaha, with an emphasis on ancient, Mideastern religions, Christianity at the time of Jesus in particular.’

‘I see,’ Helton said.

‘Yes, and one thing I always try impressing upon my students is that they can’t understand any religion unless they look at it in terms of its evolution. All religions change with the times, and the Christianity of Jesus’s era was quite different from the rock music-driven and often-politicized variety of it you’ll find at today’s mega-churches, for example. And one of my endeavors is always staying current with the latest views of Christianity’ …

‘… like in books titled ‘is god a woman’?’ Helton queried.

‘Precisely,’ Wallenstein said. ‘Paul dealt in that sort of thing. And I’ve stopped in at his store two or three times monthly for most of my teaching career to check on the latest of such books he had on hand.’

‘You knew him well?’

‘As well as that was possible. Paul was a quiet and private man, chief,’ Wallentsein said.

‘You knew his wife?’

‘I met her several times. She died of cancer three years ago, as you
likely know. Paul also had two daughters whom I met a few times, too, but can’t
remember their names. All I know is, they no longer live in town though I don’t know where,’ Wallenstein replied.

‘Okay. Do you know anybody who’d want Van Buren dead?’

‘That’s been nagging at my mind. Of all the people I know, Paul was
the least to deserve being murdered, because he was the most humane
and decent of men – why, I’m sure, he owned a bookstore like that,
wanting people to realize there’s more to religion than mere
dogma, chief.’

‘Did Van Buren ever say anything about a guy who bought most his more
unorthodox books and burned them a little over a year ago?’ Helton
questioned.

‘Yes, though he declined to say whom,’ – Wallenstein paused: ‘In
fact, it seemed Paul resented that man for reasons beyond
burning his books. May I ask if you know who that was?’

‘Of course I’ll need your discretion. But have you ever heard of
Fanny Fay Vice?’

‘No, I haven’t – your primary suspect?’

‘Like I said, I’ll need you to keep that under your hat,’ Helton
cautioned.

‘Of course,’ Wallenstein said.

‘What do you know about Van Buren’s employees?’

‘Only one – Paul’s business was small, you know.’

‘But he had one? How do you know that?’ Helton said.

‘Paul introduced me to him while we were having tea in his bookstore
around five, one evening.’

‘Did Van Buren mention his name?’ Helton asked.

‘Yes – Adam Evans.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Certainly, because the name itself serves as a memory cue. Adam was the world’s first man according to Biblical mythology. And the first three letters of Evans, or Eva, are related to Eve, the world’s first woman. So, yes, I remember his name very well,’ Wallentsein responded.

‘Can you recall what Evans looked like?’

Wallentsein knitted his eyebrows while narrowing his eyes as though
peering into the past: ‘His face and body were slender – in fact, he
appeared almost malnourished. He was of medium height; his hair was
short, of a dirty blond color and not well-combed, disheveled, you
know. His eyes were pale green, the best I recall. Speaking of dirty,
though, you might say that applied to the look on his face. He seemed
not only disgruntled but a very unhappy person.’

‘His age?’

‘Hm-m-m, I’d say in his early -to -mid-30’s,’ Wallenstein answered.

‘Do you remember when Evans worked for Van Buren?’

‘A year and four to six weeks ago, I’d say, or something very close to
that.’

‘Okay. You mentioned Van Buren introducing you to Evans around five
in the evening. Why do you remember that in particular?’
Helton wanted to know.

‘Paul told me that Evans wanted a four-hour night-shift as a janitor because he said he had a day-job at Lester’s Brake Shop, and he was about to start cleaning the print-shop when Paul introduced us around five. Oddly, Evans was on hand for only one night and never showed up again. The next day, Paul inquired about him at the brake shop and the manager said Evans wasn’t one of his employees and that he’d never heard of him.’

‘So, Evans was lying?’

‘It’d appear so, chief.’

‘Do you know if he owned a car?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Wallenstein said.

‘Uhm-m-m, okay. So, did Van Buren ever talk about some deleted computer files and CD’s that went missing around that time?’ Helton questioned.

‘Yes, he mentioned that a couple of weeks later but didn’t say anything about Evans in that regard.’

‘Do you know where Evans lived at the time, or does now?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Wallenstein said.

‘I see. But Van Buren published books about unorthodox theories
of Christianity – correct?’

‘That wasn’t the only kind he printed, published and sold, to make ends meet, you know. But, yes, he published books off the beaten path of organized religion, chief.’

‘Was there any mention of a Henry Konkel planning for Van Buren to
publish a book of that kind?’

‘No, Paul never said anything about him.’

‘Okay. In your opinion, is it possible that someone murdered Van
Buren because of his books, maybe a fanatic on the fringe of Christian fundamentalism? ‘ Helton asked.

‘Of course, that’s not my area of expertise. But from what I understand of the psychology, some people, in the most basic way, derive their sense of identity from their marriages, jobs and religious beliefs. They become enraged because they feel their sense of identity will be destroyed, in fact, that they themselves will be obliterated when they’re threatened by things like unorthodox views of their religion. Psychologically, they feel dead, with nothing to lose by annihilating those who threaten them, like rage killers. Fundamentalists who murder abortion providers fall into that category. So, yes, that’s possible, in my opinion. Do you think that’s why Paul was murdered?’

‘That seems to have been a strong motive.’

‘May I ask more specifically if your primary suspect fits what I just told you?’ Wallenstein inquired.

‘Our information points in that direction.’

‘So, trying to connect the dots, it’s reasonable that Evans was Vice’s inside confederate, and that the deletion and removal of Paul’s computer material was the opening salvo of Vice’s campaign to obliterate those he felt were threatening to obliterate him,’ Wallenstein mused out loud.

‘A plausible hypothesis. Could you give us a statement and help one of my men work up a sketch of Evans with our identikit software?’ Helton asked.

Wallenstein checked his wrist watch: ‘I can spare a little over an hour before I must get to the hospital. So, absolutely. I’m not gung-ho about the death penalty but hope Vice goes to prison for life if he’s guilty, chief.’

‘We’re giving it our best. Do you know where the police headquarters is?’

‘You have to remember I grew up in Falls City,’ Wallenstein
smiled. ‘Besides, you should go see your son instead of escorting me.’

‘I appreciate that, and here’s my card. Call me if you think
of anything else, professor,’ Helton said.

‘I certainly will, and you have a good night, chief.’

‘The same to you,’ the captain responded, as Wallenstein stood, approached the counter, paid his tab and left with a wave.

Helton then called the night dispatcher, Jamie Conrad, giving him a short run-down on Evans and letting him know that Wallenstein would be coming into the station to provide a statement about, and help with a sketch of the department’s third suspect.

Once he was finished with his meal, the chief considered that the lettuce and pickles had been a bit limp, as though they’d been hanging on a clothesline during a downpour prior to harvest. Other than that, his meal had been excellent for its price, the ground beef in his sandwich particularly flavorful.

‘You ought to keep an eye on the sharks or they just might take the chance of choking for a crack at those Gutbusters,’ he told Brenda when he’d walked up to the cash register.

‘And, here, I thought it was me with a way with words!’ she grinned. ‘You have a great night, now, chief.’

‘You, too.’

‘Hell, maybe I’ll suggest dancing lessons to the sharks!’ Brenda called after him, though the door was closed too far behind the captain for him to hear.

 

____***____

 

He decided not to waken him; Jeremy was sleeping when Helton entered the boy’s hospital room.

He quietly drew a chair next the bed and sat watching the steady rise and fall of his son’s chest. Color had returned to his cheeks; Jeremy’s condition had quickly and drastically improved… while feathers of exhaustion again had begun a darkly seductive caress of Helton’s senses by the time he stood and leaned down to kiss the boy’s forehead under a tangle of curly, blond hair.

‘I’m going to get him, I promise!’ he whispered, as though making a vow to a younger generation.

Jeremy’s eyes fluttered open: ‘Gonna’ get who? Oh, hi, dad.’

‘Never mind who. And hi, yourself. How’re you doing?’

‘Okay, just kind of tired, I guess,’ Jeremy replied.

‘You’ve been sleeping a lot. That’s good,’ Helton said.

‘Yeah, I guess; just tired of sleeping, man. It’s boring. Hey, did you catch any bad guys today, dad?’ Jeremy inquired.

‘No. Besides, most of my job is paperwork – you know that.’

‘B-o-o-o-r-r-r-ing! If I was a cop, I’d catch a whole lot of bad guys everyday!’ Jeremy exclaimed.

‘Yes, but police work isn’t just a game of cops and robbers, son.’

‘B-o-o-o-r-r-ring!'

‘Maybe,’ Helton smiled, ‘And I’m sure you’d be even better than your old dad if you were a cop… speaking of which, Prettyboy might visit you tomorrow, Jeremy.’

‘Cool, real cool. Now he’s a cop, man!’

‘Yeah, a good one. But I should go, now. I’ll call you tomorrow morning and afternoon and see you tomorrow night. Do what the nurses tell you, take your medicine and get lots of rest – all right?’

‘B-o-o-o-r-r-ring! – but okay, dad,’ Jeremy sighed, his head settling onto his left cheek as his eyes feathered shut.

Helton watched him a minute or two before raising and kissing his son’s hand, then left the room.

Helen wasn’t there when he arrived at home.

‘Guess she’s out with the girls after work,’ he wearily thought as he stripped and stepped into the shower.

She was a quiet woman, serious, but liked teasing him about his pajamas which he soon slipped into before sliding under the covers in bed.

In a dream, he became his son, playing cops and robbers.

Past and present joined hands, though even an ugly vision of Fanny Fay Vice rising before him couldn’t obscure the shining badge of endless youth: ‘I’m going to get you, I swear, I’ll get you!’ Police Chief Helton muttered as he tumbled deeper into the peaceful abyss.

As though charmed by his somnolent determination, the vision dimmed then vanished in a rattling storm of snores sounding remarkably like a child’s toy gun…

‘… got’cha!’ the captain triumphantly mumbled.

___***___