Pennies for the Ferryman - 01 (17 page)

Well, I wanted it bad enough too. That thousand dollar reward I’d scored in Roanoke gave me just a taste of a better life – one that didn’t involve shopping at second hand stores and where bills could be paid on time instead of playing end of the month roulette.

I was looking for my big score. I hadn’t found it yet, but not for lack of trying. At the suggestion of the editor at the supermarket rag that had published Jenny’s story, I took a few bus rides to Fort Marcy Park and Rock Creek Park looking to crack some of the unexplained deaths that Washington was famous for. So I went searching for un-living celebrities, namely Vincent Foster and Chandra Levy, who the paper’s editor hoped might be hanging around with a scandalous story or two to tell. Needless to say, they weren’t – hanging around that was. Odds were that if they actually were ghosts, they’d be where their remains were interred.

Since I wasn’t financially equipped for a trip to Arkansas, much less California, those were two cases that would continue to remain unsolved, but that didn’t stop me. I became a reader of the Metro section of the Washington Post. One might say that I was a bit ghoulish, looking for a way to profit off of people’s deaths, trying to collect on outstanding rewards for solving their deaths or disappearances, but I took a more pragmatic approach – either way they were still going to be dead and
I
needed the money.

It wasn’t exactly your typical win-win situation as evidenced by my failure to win anything. Classes at Montgomery College were out for the Thanksgiving holiday. Rather than join my mom on her annual quest to get the greatest “Black Friday” shopping deal ever, I was standing in a cemetery, trying to talk sense into a dead guy. Sure, it wasn’t my idea of a good time, but neither was being poor.

“I don’t quite understand why you don’t want to talk about it. I’m just trying to help,” I said.

I know that sounded lame, but whoever heard of a ghost that didn’t want help?

The stocky man in his mid-forties glared at me.
“For the last time, let it be. I didn’t see who killed me. I’m not sure I’ll ever know! Now, just go and leave me alone,”
the ghost exclaimed.

“Kevin, listen, I feel for you, but I’ll be brutally honest. There’s a ten thousand dollar reward for information leading to an arrest in your murder. That might have been chump change for a successful orthodontist like you, but I’m just a broken-down vet trying to get by. I want to solve your case. That kind of money would make a big difference in my life. Your family wouldn’t have offered the reward if they didn’t want your case solved. What do you say? Let’s work together and give them some closure, eh?”

“No! I don’t know anything! Get the hell out of here!”

All puns aside, it was like pulling teeth!

When Kevin McNeil was alive, he was an orthodontist with a thriving practice in Bowie. He disappeared three months ago and recently, his body washed up on the shores of Maryland near Deale. There was no real explanation why an overpaid tooth straightener and father of three from Bowie would end up dumped in the Chesapeake Bay with signs that his wrists had been bound with what the police suspected was bailing wire with a dash of blunt-force trauma to the head.

He was lying. I knew it. He knew I knew it, but still we’d been playing this game for hours. McNeil hadn’t moved on, which is what most decent people do when they die, so he was waiting to do
something
. Was it apologizing to someone, or needing something done on his behalf? So far he wouldn’t own up to anything except being miserable.

At the moment, that made two of us. It was very tempting to pull that pipe wrench off of my belt and see if I could beat some sense into him. He couldn’t get any more dead unless I ran him through with Colonel Vincent’s saber, which was sounding more and more tempting.

“I’ll come back next Saturday and see if you’re in the mood to talk then.”

“Don’t bother,”
he answered, flicking my hand away.

Walking out of the graveyard towards the bus stop with the MARTA bus schedule in hand, I was plotting both my return trip home and my next move. Torturing a ghost for answers just sounded wrong and I’ll freely admit that I wasn’t much in the “subtle” department. I needed someone who wasn’t threatening, someone who he’d open up to.

In short, I needed my dear friend, Elsbeth.

“No, Mike. I’m not doing it!”
She said petulantly.

Obviously, the only person in this life or the next Elsbeth could stand up to was yours truly.

“Look, I’m not asking you to sleep with him or anything. No, don’t even bother telling me. I don’t want to know. I just want you to chat him up a bit. Just kind of wander over into his graveyard and talk to him for awhile. Tell him your story and try to get him talking about how he died,” I pleaded.

“Have Silas talk with him,”
Elsbeth said resolutely.

I’d brought the old man by to speak with both Elsbeth and “Grandma Meg.” The three of them had a grand old time. I was forced to play translator and didn’t have nearly as much fun as they did, given the shocking pain I endured to talk to the dead, but the roast beef and the apple pie the elderly woman made for dinner helped to alleviate my complaints.

It wasn’t a bad idea, but my way sounded more effective than standing in the graveyard while my blind, paranormally enhanced comrade wore down Mr. McNeil’s resistance with his witty observations on the human condition. The down side was that I’d have to be there, playing medium for the duration. Under my perfectly fine plan, Elsbeth would wander in, charm him, listen to his sob story and summarize the details for me. Yes, I admit that I was being sneaky, but the Army taught me that I should always be on the lookout for ways to effectively utilize my time.

“What can I do to convince you to help me? I already do your grandmother’s grocery shopping and pick up her prescriptions!”

Yeah, and thanks to the Maryland lottery and 7-11, I get
paid
for these services, but I wasn’t intending to be a professional “gofer” for the next few years and I wasn’t exactly living large on the chump change Elsbeth found behind the counter.

“
Fine, I’ll help you,”
Elsbeth said,
“but you’re going to use some of that reward money to send my grandmother to Hawaii.”

“Come again?”

“She’s always wanted to see the islands and she’s never been able to afford it. I think it’d be a nice way to put this whole mess with Charlie behind us.”

I considered telling the lady ghost who was sitting primly on the couch, petting her equally dead husky, Sheba, to quite literally go to hell, but I’d scored already – she’d agreed to help. The reward money was just inches away from being in my pocket. Or not – we’d have to see.

“Fine, Hawaii it is. Once we get the money, I’ll look around for the best price.”

She reached out and touched me again
. “That reminds me, Detective Wycheck was by to speak with Grandmother. He wants you to come down to the station.”

I didn’t want to argue why Meg rates a personal visit while I get to hump my ass down to the Police Department. My problem wasn’t with either of these two women. They weren’t the reason I didn’t like Wycheck – he was.

Monday afternoon found me in a meeting room at the Police Department. The assistant district attorney wanted to meet with me and discuss my upcoming testimony. It sounded as pleasant as a trip to a dentist chair.

For a change, I wasn’t the shortest guy in the room. The prosecutor was a pudgy and diminutive fellow named George Robbins. He liked me just about as much as Wycheck.

“So, let me get this straight. You’re a psychic. You talk to dead people. This woman’s dead daughter tells you Snowden’s going to off her! That’s what I’m going to hear when I put you on the stand isn’t it?”

I nodded while Wycheck scowls.

“Jesus Christ! The defense is going to eat you alive! I’ll be lucky if the judge doesn’t laugh me out of the courtroom!”

That wasn’t really my problem. “Police use psychics during investigations all the time.” I stated calmly.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only short and temperamental person in the room either. “I’ll tell you what the problem is you little smart ass! Cases are built around evidence. I’ve got a decent amount of evidence, but most of it is linked back to you, and you are going to be presented as a nut job!”

“Would it help if I had a track record?”

“Like what?”

“Like helping Roanoke County solve a missing persons case back in October. I even have a letter of appreciation for it.”

That calmed him down a little. “Okay, we can build off of that, but I’m telling you that Snowden’s attorney is going to come after you like there’s no tomorrow. You’re a war vet right? Still recovering from a head injury right? Your story is told in a supermarket tabloid right? These are all the things the defense is going to toss out there to undermine your credibility and you better be ready for it! That means you don’t lose your cool on the stand!”

“I’ll be fine.”

That draws a snort from Wycheck, “Yeah right, punk.”

I calmly roll my eyes at the dark haired man in his worn brown suit. “See, if an asshat like him can’t wind me up, I’ll be just fine on the stand.”

After thinking about it over the weekend, I’d come to the conclusion that the best way to piss Detective Wycheck off would be to trivialize him. It was actually rather fun.

“You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously, Ross.”

“I’m taking this very seriously,
Dee-tective
. You weren’t the one getting choked by Snowden. The only thing I’m not taking seriously here is you.” Oh, that got under his skin, nicely.

The attorney interrupted our pissing match before it could really get started. “Enough. Look I don’t really care what twisted, sordid passion is going on between the two of you. I get it, Detective, you think Ross is a punkass and you, Ross, you’re ticked off that you reported this to the Detective beforehand and he didn’t do diddly-squat about it. The two of you don’t
have
to be buddies. The only thing you need to do is deliver testimony in an assault and attempted murder case. Am I making myself clear?”

Yanking Wycheck’s chain could be set aside for the good of the judicial process, so I nodded. We went through the sequence of events again for clarity and then the attorney excused himself. The two of us were left alone.

The detective looked at me harshly, “You lose this case for us and I will personally make your life a living hell.”

I wondered if it would be worth the rest of the McNeil reward to have Elsbeth try to make Wycheck’s life miserable. Knowing her, she’d refuse on some lofty principle. Making friends with more violent ghosts just to annoy him seemed a bit of a dicey proposition, so I let it slide. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to get a bit of professional advice on my latest “case”.

I called to him as he was headed to the door. “Hey Wycheck, suppose you had a crime committed and the victim doesn’t want to help you. Why do you think a guy wouldn’t cooperate?”

Wycheck grunted. “He’s got something to hide. It’s the same old story, happens all the time. Why are you asking?”

“Ghost stuff, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about it.”

“For a change, I actually agree with you.”

As you can see, we were the best of friends. Who couldn’t feel the love in the air as I made my way out of the police station and returned home. Mom and I shared a quick dinner. She actually had a night off, for a change, and one of the Assistant Mangers at Pizza Hut had bucked up the courage to ask her out to a movie. I wasn’t one of those sons who felt the need to cross examine any male interested in my mom.

She’s always had a sensible head on her shoulders, so who was I to say that this person was wrong for her? Jimmy Wilkes meddled in his single dad’s dating life when we were back in high school. The woman he managed to drive off won the Lottery, so my worldly wisdom was grounded in lessons of “Instant Karma.”