Trueman Bradley - Aspie Detective

Alexei Maxim Russell

Jessica Kingsley
Publishers

London and Philadelphia

First published in 2012

by Jessica Kingsley Publishers

116 Pentonville Road

London N1 9JB, UK

and

400 Market Street, Suite 400

Philadelphia, PA 19106, USA

www.jkp.com

Copyright © Alexei Maxim Russell 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form (including photocopying or storing it in any medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or incidentally to some other use of this publication) without the written permission of the copyright owner except in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 or under the terms of a licence issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency Ltd, Saffron House, 6–10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS. Applications for the copyright owner’s written permission to reproduce any part of this publication should be addressed to the publisher.

Warning: The doing of an unauthorized act in relation to a copyright work may result in both a civil claim for damages and criminal prosecution.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Russell, Alexei Maxim.

Trueman Bradley, aspie detective / Alexei Maxim Russell.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-84905-262-7 (alk. paper)

1. Asperger’s syndrome--Fiction. 2. Private investigators--New York

(State)--New York--Fiction. I. Title.

PR9199.4.R857T78 2012

813’.6--dc23

2011025727

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 84905 262 7

eISBN 978 0 85700 547 2

Converted to eBook by
EasyEPUB

I’ve always hated the sound of cars honking. In my new office on Reade Street, the traffic was loud and hurt my ears. I began to wonder if I had made a mistake by moving to New York City. It was much noisier here than I had expected.

Someone knocked at the door of my room and I opened it. A short, round man in a mover’s uniform was standing there.

“You 201 Reade Street?” he asked.

“Am I what?” I asked. “No, I’m Trueman Bradley.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about, here,” he said. “Mr. Trueman Bradley at 201 Reade Street, it says. I’m the guy what moved your furniture, right? I got the bill here. Now, we’ll take off 10 percent if you pay cash, see? So, how about it?”

The mover was wearing a blue uniform with yellow stripes down the sides. He was unshaven. He had a lot of small burns on his trousers. I recognized the burns as the kind made by cigarette ashes. He smelled like smoke, and I could recognize the smell as being from Chesterfield brand cigarettes. The grease on the front of his shirt was recognizable as the kind of stains caused by French fries. I had read medical books and had learned to recognize the signs of many medical problems. I could recognize all the symptoms that would indicate he suffered from the medical problem known as “high blood pressure.”

I could see all these details about him, but I had no idea what he was saying to me. He spoke with a New York City accent. He was obviously speaking English, but his accent made it difficult to interpret. He wore a name tag that read “Ernie.”

“Ernie?” I asked. “I don’t understand your question.”

“You serious?” asked Ernie. “It’s pretty straightforward, pal. I just asked if you want to shell out now or do credit.”

“Shell out?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the green stuff!” said Ernie. “You got any?”

“I don’t have any green shells,” I said.

“Are you stupid?” asked Ernie. “I mean this stuff!”

Ernie pulled out a ten dollar bill and waved it in front of my face. He leaned closer and his strong smell of cigarettes made me dizzy. He had suddenly become aggressive and I didn’t understand why. I started to feel tension in my stomach.

“I don’t understand you!” I said. “I need to go!”

I closed the door to my room and locked it. Listening at the door, I could hear Ernie yelling. My heart beat fast as I listened to his aggressive words. They were incredibly ugly to me and made my head hurt. I fell down to the floor and covered my ears. I started doing math equations in my head.

“What on earth are you doing, Trueman?”

I was so affected by this confrontation with Ernie that I forgot that Mrs. Levi, my landlady, was visiting me. She was looking at me as if I was insane.

“I’m doing math,” I said, getting up.

“Doing math, are you?” she said. “Well, of course you are. My question is, how come you’re doing math on the floor?”

“I do math because it’s comforting to me,” I said.

“Oh?” she asked. “So you like math then? That’s alright, dear. There’s nothing in our lease about not doing math, but do you have to do it on the floor? You’ve got a perfectly good chair in here! Why use the floor?”

I patted the dust off my knees. I could feel my face burning with embarrassment. I remembered my childhood habit of falling to the floor when I got nervous or over-excited, but I hadn’t done this for a long time. Usually, I could resist the urge to fall and would try my best to act as if nothing was wrong. Although my breath became rapid and I’d start to feel dizzy, I was always able to maintain my dignity. But this encounter with Ernie was so unexpected I had not been allowed any time to prepare myself for it. I was ashamed to think that Mrs. Levi had seen me falling down, like a frightened child.

“I don’t usually fall to the floor like that…” I said, trying to hide my embarrassment. “It was just because, this time, I didn’t have time to find a chair. I was surprised because a mover came to my door and yelled at me for no reason.”

“Oh? You mean Ernie?” she asked.

“Yes, Ernie,” I said.

“Well, I’m surprised at that!” she said. “Ernie’s a nice guy! What did he say to you, dear? What was he yelling about?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He wanted to know about green shells, and when I said I didn’t have any, he became angry.”

“Green shells?” she asked. “Strange thing for a guy like Ernie to be talking about. I didn’t even know he liked shells! But never mind, dear, are you planning to tidy up a bit?”

“Yes. I’m going to unpack,” I said.

“Okay, dear,” she said. “Well, maybe I should get out of your hair, then. I really should be getting home for lunch.”

I touched my hair.

“My hair?” I asked. “What are you going to do to my hair?”

“No, I didn’t mean that, dear!” she said. “Bless you! It’s just an expression! ‘Out of your hair’ means I’ll go off and leave you alone. Don’t tell me you never heard it before?”

“Oh, I see,” I said. “Of course I heard of it before. I just didn’t immediately realize you were using an expression. I don’t understand why you need to talk about my hair if you are actually talking about leaving me alone. Next time, can you please just tell me that you are going to leave me alone? I prefer for you to speak with me using clear language, Mrs. Levi. Expressions and idiom are confusing to me sometimes.”

“Oh, so this is some kind of symptom?” she asked. “Part of your condition, am I right? What’s it called again, dear?”

“Asperger’s Syndrome.”

“Asperger’s, right,” she said. “So you’re not joking, then, are you? I’m so sorry to hear you’ve got this condition, dear.”

She looked at me with pity in her eyes, as if I was cursed. I felt as if she thought I was somehow abnormal, and I was embarrassed. She began speaking to me as if I was a child.

“Well, are you sure you can manage unpacking by yourself?” she asked. “I’ll give you a hand. Oh, I’m sorry! I just used another expression, didn’t I? I didn’t mean I’d actually give you one of my hands, you understand? What I meant is, I’ll help you unpack some of these things.”

She opened a box and pulled out a book.

“Is this a ‘Slam Bradley’ comic book?” she asked. “Slam Bradley, the tough and cunning private detective! It’s a classic. Why, I haven’t seen one of these in years!”

I ran to grab the book from her hands.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked. “I was just helping you organize your stuff, dear! Why so grabby?”

I examined the comic, to be sure she hadn’t damaged it.

“These are organized by issue number,” I said. “You might disarrange them out of order. These are my most important possessions. I can’t do my job without them.”

I hugged the comic to my chest, lovingly, as if it were my child. For the second time, she looked at me like I was insane.

“Oh?” she asked. “What are you, a comic book dealer?”

“No, I’m a detective,” I said. “Like Slam Bradley.”

“You’re joking!” she said. “You? You don’t even know what ‘out of your hair’ means, and you’re saying you solve crimes? You’re pulling my leg! Criminals would eat you alive, dear!”

I couldn’t understand her expressions, but I could recognize the ridicule in her voice. She was implying I couldn’t succeed as a detective, just because I have Asperger’s. Since I left home I’d had to deal with a lot of this kind of prejudice and it made me so angry, my cheeks would turn red.

“Who ever gave you the idea you could be a detective?” she asked. “Do you even know how much hard work that involves?”

“I’m not a child!” I said. “Please don’t treat me like one. My granddad was a retired policeman and he taught me a lot about detective work. I have a very exceptional memory and I haven’t forgotten anything he taught me. I’d like you to talk to me respectfully in the future, and don’t yell at me.”

She was quiet for a minute.

“Alright, dear,” she said. “Whatever you say. It’s not like I meant anything bad by it, you know! I was just concerned for you, that’s all. I mean, you’re not like the rest of us, are you? I don’t want someone taking advantage of your… your condition.”

“Taking what?” I asked.

“Oh, I used another one of those expressions!” she said. “I never even know when I’m using them, half the time. What I meant is, I don’t want someone out there to victimize you, because they think you’re weaker than them.”

“Why would I be weaker?” I asked.

“Because of your problem!” she said. “Asperger’s!”

“Asperger’s is not a problem,” I said. “It just means I think in a different way from you. It doesn’t mean I can’t be like Slam Bradley. I’ll become a great detective and you’ll see that it’s not a problem. This has been my dream, since I was a child and first saw Granddad’s comic book collection.”

“Oh, is that where you got these from?” she asked. “I thought you were a little young to be a Slam Bradley fan. So, that’s what this is all about? You’re trying to be like that comic book detective, Slam Bradley?”

“Yes,” I said. “After my granddad died, I got an inheritance of 5.2 million dollars.”

“You’ve got 5.2 million bucks?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Before he died, my granddad told me to spend the 5.2 million dollars on whatever I’ve always dreamed of doing. So, I used some of it to move here to New York City to become a detective like Slam because that was my life-long dream. I’m sure you know, Slam Bradley was in New York City for most of his comic adventures. Although his adventures began in Cleveland. At first, I wasn’t sure if I should go to Cleveland first and then come here. But then I decided to just come here immediately because my favorite comic books were the ones that happened in New York City. And my grandfather once told me that New York City is a lot more interesting than Cleveland.”

“Well, he’s got that right!” she said. “But you’re not from here, then? Where are you from, dear? Originally, I mean.”

“Heartville, Illinois,” I said.

“Heartville?” she asked. “I never heard of it.”

“It’s just a small country town,” I said.

“And you’ve never been to New York City before?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I’ve lived all my life in Heartville. In fact, I spent most of my life at my granddad’s country house. He schooled me from home and I lived with him until his recent death. The only time I left home was to visit his workplace.”

Mrs. Levi sighed.

“Look, I don’t want to offend you,” she said. “But really, I’ve just got to say something here. This isn’t Heartville, dear! You understand? This is New York City and those are dangerous streets out there! There’s more crime than even the professional detectives can deal with, so what chance have you got? If you’ll take my advice, you’ll pack up and go back home. Play your detective games in Heartville, where it’s safer!”

“No, I can’t,” I said. “Slam didn’t live in Heartville.”

“Listen!” she said. “What’s it matter where Slam lived? The point is not to get yourself clobbered! You say you’ve hardly left your granddad’s side your whole life? Hardly left home or that dinky little town of yours? Why, you’ve been living a sheltered life out there! Too sheltered! You can’t make it in the big city! You have no idea how different it is. And I can’t just stand idly by and watch you put yourself in harm’s way. You’re a nice kid and I want to stop you before you get yourself hurt. Detectives have to be really tough! A country kid can’t do it! Especially with your… condition.”

She referred to my “condition” as if it were some horrible disease. I knew that she was referring to my Asperger’s and, once again, her prejudice made my cheeks turn red from anger.

“I mean, what are you gonna do?” she continued. “Seriously, if you can’t even understand expressions, how are you going to figure out mysteries and solve crimes? I mean, you just can’t!”

“Yes, I can!” I said. “Just because I don’t immediately understand some expressions doesn’t mean I don’t understand a lot of other things. I may be weak in a few areas like idioms but I’m strong in other subjects, like details, memory and seeing patterns. In fact, I’m better at these things than you or anyone else I know. I can notice details and memorize them better than you can!”

“Is that so?” she asked. “You don’t know what ‘out of your hair’ means and yet you’re telling me you’re Sherlock Holmes?”

She shook her head. I could recognize what that meant. She was doubting me; she didn’t believe me and didn’t think I was telling the truth. It may have even meant that she thought I was stupid and incapable of being a detective. This thought made me angry. I was determined to prove my powers to her.

I examined her face and clothing and tried to memorize every detail. I was born with such a mind for detail that I can concentrate on something or somebody for a few seconds, and remember every little detail of it for months.

“I can see that you eat a lot of baloney,” I said.

“What?” she asked.

“And you eat it while sitting in a chair,” I said. “The stains on the lap of your dress are the kind made by greasy meats. You’ve dropped baloney in your lap many times. The dress was washed many times, but washing doesn’t completely remove the oil stains. I’ve seen meat stains before and I remember how they look. I count twenty-one meat stains and your breath smells like baloney. Because all your stains are exactly the same diameter, they are probably all caused by the exact same kind of sliced meat. So, I can guess that you eat a lot of baloney, sitting in a chair, and drop it in your lap.”

Her eyes opened wide and she silently stared at me.

“I can recognize the amazement on your face,” I said. “Does that mean I’m right? Usually, if I’m wrong, people don’t look amazed like that. I must be right. Now do you see what kind of skills of perception I have? I could be a great detective.”

Mrs. Levi hid her face in her hands and moved quickly to the door. I was puzzled why she was leaving so suddenly. I had been speaking of baloney, so I thought perhaps my talk of greasy meats had made her hungry and she was going to eat.

“Enjoy your baloney!” I said.

Her eyes opened wider and her mouth opened. Tears formed in her eyes and she ran from my room.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, but she was gone.