Authors: Edward Lee
Shifters (14 page)
“I don’t know, eight beers, ten. I wasn’t driving or anything.”
“Always drink that much?”
Locke frowned. “No,” he said. “Why?”
“Just curious. I guess all poets drink.”
What was he getting at? “You called me down here to ask me how many beers I had?”
Cordesman sucked smoke. “I’m just trying to determine how accurate your sense of observation was last night. How come you didn’t have a bar tab?”
“Huh?”
“A bar tab, you didn’t have one. We checked.”
Why would they check that? Locke hadn’t done anything wrong. “A friend of mine paid.”
“Lehrling. The novelist.”
“Yeah.”
“But he didn’t see the guy kill himself?”
“No, he’d already left.”
Cordesman nodded and tapped an ash. A Glenfiddich ashtray on the desk sat clogged with butts. “How well did you know Roderick Byers?”
“Who?”
“The guy, you know. The guy who killed himself.”
White Shirt,
Locke associated. “I never knew his name. Never saw him before.”
Locke associated. “I never knew his name. Never saw him before.”
“So you were just walking out of the lot and you happened to look and see this guy do it? At night? No lights in the lot?”
Locke was beginning to dislike the sound of this. “The streetlights were on. Didn’t you check that too? And, no, I didn’t just happen to notice the guy. He called me over.”
“Called you over? To his car? But you just said you’d never seen him before. Didn’t you say that? Just now?”
Why is this guy grilling me?
Locke wondered.
Locke wondered.
“You nervous, Mr. Locke? You’re sweating.”
Was he? Yes, suddenly he felt icky, stuck in his own heat. “I’m hung over, like I said,” Locke excused. “And I’m a little shaken up.”
Cordesman tittered without smiling. “Understandable. Who wouldn’t be, I mean, after
seeing a friend commit suicide?”
seeing a friend commit suicide?”
“He wasn’t a friend. And when I said I hadn’t seen him before, I meant I hadn’t seen him before last night.”
“Ah.” Cordesman crushed out the Camel and fired up another. He pushed strings of his long brown hair off his brow. “Just tell me everything that happened.”
It felt grueling to replay the scene to himself. He told Cordesman how he’d noticed White Shirt and the girl arguing in the parking lot, and later how White Shirt had told him that the girl broke off their engagement. “So after the bar closes, I’m walking across the lot to go home, and he calls me over to his car. That’s when he killed himself.”
“That’s all, Mr. Locke?”
“He said some weird things. And at first he was holding the gun on me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“He try to rob you?”
“No.”
“Then why did he hold the gun on you?”
“I don’t know!” Locke shouted.
A clock was ticking. Cordesman laxed back in his chair, smoking, looking at Locke. In the window behind him, clouds engulfed the sun. “Relax, Mr. Locke. I’m not interrogating you, I’m just—”
“I know. Trying to determine the accuracy of my state of observation. Sounds like interrogation to me.”
“What ‘weird things’?”
“I don’t know. He was drunk.” But what
did
Locke remember, like exactly? White Shirt had said…
Transposition, man. Metamorphosis.
What could he have meant?
did
Locke remember, like exactly? White Shirt had said…
Transposition, man. Metamorphosis.
What could he have meant?
You still love her, don’t you?
White Shirt had asked.
White Shirt had asked.
It must’ve been his imagination. “He said something about portents, warnings. He was drunk, and I don’t remember it all too well. I was drunk too.”
“Portents. Warnings.” Cordesman seemed to fix something to that. “What kind of gun did he have?”
Locke rolled his eyes. “Look, Captain, I’m a poet, not a gunsmith. All I know is it was a gun. And it looked big, bigger than the ones in the movies.”
“It was big, all right,” Cordesman explained. “A Webley .455, an antique. The British manufactured them for their officers in the Boer War, they wanted a sidearm that could take out a drug-crazed native with one shot. Fires a bullet half an inch wide.”
“I’m edified in knowing that,” Locke said.
Cordesman then laughed mirthlessly. “I guess if you’re going to kill yourself, that’s the piece of hardware for the job.”
Locke felt cruxed, irritated. Sweat trickled at his armpits.
“Parity,” Cordesman said. “Do you know what parity means?”
Locke eyed him. “It’s a connotative noun that means equivalence or resemblance, in status, nature, amounts, things like that.”
“Exactly. Similitude, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, there’s a parity here, Mr. Locke, a
similitude
. There often is when a violent death is involved. And I think you’re aware of this parity, but you’re not mentioning it for some reason.”
similitude
. There often is when a violent death is involved. And I think you’re aware of this parity, but you’re not mentioning it for some reason.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Captain,” Locke said.
“Byers was a poet.”
Byers.
Locke still had trouble with the association. His name wasn’t Byers to Locke, it was White Shirt. But—
Locke still had trouble with the association. His name wasn’t Byers to Locke, it was White Shirt. But—
A poet?
“I didn’t know that,” Locke eventually said.
“No?” Cordesman lit yet another Camel. If he didn’t get to the point shortly, he’d die of lung cancer right here in the office. “He was a professor of English at Evergreen State. Had several dozen books of poetry published. Hardbacks.”
Locke kind of crinkled his nose.
Probably just little college hardcover house, and small-press publishers.
Probably just little college hardcover house, and small-press publishers.
“Random House,” Cordesman added. “For a poet, this guy Byers was a big gun. No pun intended. Big reviews in the
New York Times,
the
Post’s Bookworld,
all that. Gotta $50,000 advance for his last book. Sounds like pretty good money to me. You get that kind of money for your poetry, Mr. Locke?”
New York Times,
the
Post’s Bookworld,
all that. Gotta $50,000 advance for his last book. Sounds like pretty good money to me. You get that kind of money for your poetry, Mr. Locke?”
Locke crinkled his nose some more. “No.”
Cordesman nodded. “Strange, though, isn’t it? The guy’s a big-name poet, and you’ve never even heard of him.”
“What’s a big name? Poetry is poetry.” Locke couldn’t help but add, “And $50,000 advances for poetry books are very atypical.”
“Still, it’s weird. You didn’t know him, yet he called you to the car to tell you something. How do you account for that?”
“I can’t account for it.”
“It’s almost like he waited for you. He waited for you
specifically.
To tell you ‘weird things.’ My question is this, Mr. Locke. Why? Why you?”
specifically.
To tell you ‘weird things.’ My question is this, Mr. Locke. Why? Why you?”
“I told you, I don’t know. And what’s this got to do with parity?”
“Byers was a poet. You’re a poet. Byers’ girlfriend recently broke up with him. Didn’t your girlfriend recently break up with you?”
Locke stared at him.
“I’m an investigator,” Cordesman replied to Locke’s stare. “I investigate death, and any potential detail surrounding death. It’s my job, Mr. Locke. I ask around.”
Locke, at once, felt trespassed upon, molested.
“Clare something, right?” the policeman continued. “A paralegal?”
“What’s my private life got to do with the suicide?”
“Parity, remember?”
Locke continued to stare.
“You and Byers have a lot in common.”
“So what?”
Cordesman gave a shrug. His crumpled tie had an embroidered halfmoon on it, flecked with ashes. He smiled crookedly. “I don’t know, I just have this feeling that Byers was specifically drawn to you, via similitude. Kind of weird, huh?”
“Yeah, kind of weird.”
Similitude,
the thought returned to Locke’s mind. His mind felt clogged, like the ashtray. Now Cordesman seemed to be looking at him in some sort of precision. “Two poets. Two jilted lovers.” The cop held up a small photo of White Shirt. “Hell, you two guys even look alike.”
Similitude,
the thought returned to Locke’s mind. His mind felt clogged, like the ashtray. Now Cordesman seemed to be looking at him in some sort of precision. “Two poets. Two jilted lovers.” The cop held up a small photo of White Shirt. “Hell, you two guys even look alike.”
Did they?
Bullshit,
Locke thought, and even if they did, what was the big deal? “I don’t know what you’re grabbing at.”
Bullshit,
Locke thought, and even if they did, what was the big deal? “I don’t know what you’re grabbing at.”
Cordesman’s lips pursed, as if sucking on something, a thought, perhaps. Or a conjecture. He got up, walked around behind Locke, closed the office door, and returned to the desk. A sheet of blank paper had been pinned to a cork board beside the window. The policeman lit another cigarette and returned his gaze to Locke.
“You know the old phrase. Opposites attract? Well, in my business, that’s almost never true. In my business—”
“Parities attract,” Locke guessed.
“Yes, and why? I think people, and their interactions, are sort of…magnetic. In lots of ways. About ninety percent of the homicides in this country are committed by perpetrators who have things in common with the victim. Same for rape. Same for most violent crimes.”
“Is there a point to this?”
“Oh, there’s a point,” Cordesman continued without pause. “There’s something in the human psyche, I think, that has a mutual effect. If you’d been investigating murders for as long as I have, you’d probably know what I was talking about.”
“This wasn’t a murder. It was suicide.”
“Well, suicide is murder. The murder of oneself. It’s still a crime. And what is crime really about? It’s about the failure of personal interactions, isn’t it?”
“If you say so.”
“I think that people are
called
to commit crimes. Does that sound absurd? I think people are s
ummoned
.”
called
to commit crimes. Does that sound absurd? I think people are s
ummoned
.”
Locke’s throat felt parched. Hadn’t White Shirt said something about a calling, a summons?
“Why did you do it?” Cordesman asked.
“If you’re accusing me of murder, I think I better call a lawyer.”
“No, no, I’m sorry. Byers killed himself. We n/a/a’d his hands last night, our TSD people. We’ve proved that he killed himself.”
“Then why did you ask me why I did it?”
Smoke gushed
out of Cordesman’s smile. “I meant why did you write that word on the inside of Byers’ windshield?”
out of Cordesman’s smile. “I meant why did you write that word on the inside of Byers’ windshield?”
“What word?”
“Come on, Mr. Locke. There was writing on the inside of the windshield, in blood. In
Byers’ blood.
”
Byers’ blood.
”
“Well, I didn’t write it.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“He must’ve written it himself.”
Cordesman laughed. “What? After he shot himself?”
“Why not? He could’ve written it before he died.”
“That would be clinically impossible,” Cordesman countered. “Death was instantaneous. The Webley slug created what forensic people call a counter-cou-vacuum. It sucked his entire brain out the opposite side of his head. Byers
couldn’t have
written it. He was dead.”
couldn’t have
written it. He was dead.”
“Someone else must have, then. Between the time he killed himself and when the ambulance arrived.”
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